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      Luckhinarain, the Idiot

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      LUCKHINARAIN, THE IDIOT

      THERE once lived a Brahmin, respected as both learned and well-to-do. He was blessed with a wife and a young son, named Luckhinarain. Unfortunately, however, the latter in time grew into a young man so thick-headed that the like of him had never been seen before. But in spite of this his mother had a very high opinion of his intelligence, and she often quarrelled with her husband, who, knowing his son only too well, never gave him credit for even the least spark of common sense.

The Brahmin one day desired to give a feast to his neighbours, and in the morning he set out to invite them, instructing his wife meanwhile to prepare the food. Believing her son to be a clever bargainer, though he had never purchased anything in his life, she gave him a rupee and told him to fetch some live fish worth eight annas and some tari-tarkari (green vegetables) at the same price. He went to the Bazar, and bought some twenty fish with half a rupee; and then the question how to send them home puzzled his brain. He would not hire a coolie, for that would entail on his mother an additional expense. He rejected the idea of carrying them home himself, for that would not look well for one of his position. What was to be done with them? His prolific brain soon solved the difficulty. There was a canal flowing between the market and his house, and whispering to the fishes where the latter was, he threw them into the canal with orders that they should stop at the ghat close to his house ​and remain there till he came to take them up. The reader need not be told how far he was obeyed. Successful in his first purchase, he was about to make the second when it struck him that he did not know what tari-tarkari meant, and that he should have asked his mother what it was. But he was soon relieved of this trouble when a potter came to the Bazar to sell a basketful of kalkays.^[1] He danced with delight at the thought that the tari-tarkari he sought was at hand, and bought as many of the kalkays as could be had for eight annas. With them he went homewards, and reaching the ghat looked for the fishes, and not finding them, rent the air with abuse. He then entered the house and made a display of his purchases. When asked about the fish, he related what had happened. His parents were dumbfounded. At length the father's temper rose, and he cursed his son, which roused his wife's wrath. The feast had to be put off, for it was now midday, and no fish, essential to a Bengali meal, was available. What could the Brahmin do, but go back to the invited guests, and, relating the unpleasant circumstances, ask them to excuse him for the mishap. He arranged with them, however, another day for their entertainment.

      On the evening that immediately preceded the day fixed, the Brahmin visited his prospective guests, and again invited them to dine at his house. Next day he was too tired to go to the milkman's to order dahi (curd) without which no dinner is complete. He wanted to send his servant for the purpose, but the man had been commissioned by his wife on some other errand, so either the Brahmin had to go himself, or send his son. Remembering what had happened previously he was loath to depute the fool, so giving up all thoughts of rest, he was placing his chadar on his shoulders in order to set out, when his wife came in, and, in great sympathy for his weariness, recommended that Luckhinarain be entrusted with the mission. This her husband strongly opposed, reminding her how her dear son had spoiled ​everything on the former occasion. But the mother, unreasonably prepossessed in the young man's favour, would not listen to contradiction, and at last persuaded the Brahmin to accept her proposal. The young hopeful, being told what was wanted of him, bragged a good deal of his own efficiency, and with the eight-anna bit his mother gave him as earnest money for the dahi, he started off for the milkman's house. But fate had destined that he should not get there. On the way he met the elephant belonging to the rajah of the place, which was being led to the river for its bath. And as he had never mounted an elephant, though he had always pictured it as his ideal of happiness, he could not resist the temptation of obtaining a ride by paying the mahout the money he had with him. While seated on the back of the animal, he assumed a ludicrous gravity of countenance, which made him the laughing-stock of the crowd that soon assembled around him, and some of the urchins who knew him bawled out, "There goes Luckhinarain, the Brahmin, on the rajah's elephant," and threw handfuls of dust at him.

      Having enjoyed himself to his heart's content, he returned home, quite unconcerned at his neglect of duty. With a bold face he told his mother that the earnest money had been paid to the milkman, and that the requisite quantity of dahi would be brought the next morning at nine o'clock. The poor woman believed him, though his father had great doubts as to the truth of his assertion. The morning came, and it was ascertained by the sun's position that it was nine o'clock, but no supply of dahi had come. In great anxiety Luckhi's mother asked him what the delay meant, and was peremptorily told to wait. Two hours passed, to the great uneasiness of his parents, and yet the milkman did not appear. The old Brahmin was on the tenter-hooks of suspense, and his wife in no better condition, when Luckhi, with sombre looks, went unknown to them into the pantry, took out some tamarind, entered the goshala, and made the cows eat the tamarind. In a quarter of an hour he visited the cows again with a karay, ​an earthen pot used to contain milk, and began to squeeze their teats, in the hope that the tamarind had congealed the milk in them into curd. The reader can well imagine what success he had. His mother coming into the cowshed and seeing how he was engaged, asked him to explain himself. Without deigning to reply he said, "What wonder! the gods, I see, are against me. The course of nature seems to be altered. A thousand times have I witnessed that a little tamarind has caused a large quantity of milk to set, but now I find that a seer of this sour substance has failed to answer my purpose."

      "Wretched idiot, what are you saying?" his mother exclaimed. "Explain yourself. It is almost time for the guests to come. Go, run to the milkman for the curd."

      "Don't call me wretched. You, your father, your mother, and your cows are wretched. I never went to the milkman with your orders. Why should I do so, when I knew it was superfluous? Many a time you have curdled milk with tamarind, and I thought that I would do the same in the present case. You can't blame me."

      This was said in so loud a voice, that Luckhi's father was drawn to the spot, and hearing the last few words of his son's speech, he was quite beside himself with rage. Both parents, after pouring execrations on their son's head, asked him what he had done with the pice given him, to which he petulantly replied, "What have I done with the money? With it I gained such honours as neither you nor your ancestors to the fourteenth generation have achieved. I rode on the rajah's elephant, to the admiration and awe of the whole neighbourhood. And you should rejoice at the good fortune of your son."

      The father's indignation was beyond bounds. Curd was something that could not be had off-hand, and without it no meal would be complete. He deeply felt his awkward position. Thinking, however, that a dinner wanting a particular dish was better than none, he awaited his guests. ​But he could not bear the presence of his son in the house, and so, in spite of his wife's intercession, he turned him out, saying that the house should never receive him again. What his after-career was, Bhabaghuray has not yet informed us, so we must take leave of him here for the present.

      1 ↑ The bowl for holding the tobacco in a hooka.