Preface - Page 2

native will brood over till a fitting
occasion: then native and English stare at each other hopelessly across
great gulfs of miscomprehension.

'And what,' said Gobind one Sunday evening, 'is your honoured craft, and
by what manner of means earn you your daily bread?'

'I am,' said I, 'a kerani--one who writes with a pen upon paper, not
being in the service of the Government.'

'Then what do you write?' said Gobind. 'Come nearer, for I cannot see
your countenance, and the light fails.'

'I write of all matters that lie within my understanding, and of many
that do not. But chiefly I write of Life and Death, and men and women,
and Love and Fate according to the measure of my ability, telling the
tale through the mouths of one, two, or more people. Then by the favour
of God the tales are sold and money accrues to me that I may keep
alive.'

'Even so,' said Gobind. 'That is the work of the bazar story-teller; but
he speaks straight to men and women and does not write anything at all.
Only when the tale has aroused expectation, and calamities are about to
befall the virtuous, he stops suddenly and demands payment ere he
continues the narration. Is it so in your craft, my son?'

'I have heard of such things when a tale is of great length, and is sold
as a cucumber, in small pieces.'

'Ay, I was once a famed teller of stories when I was begging on the road
between Koshin and Etra; before the last pilgrimage that ever I took to
Orissa. I told many tales and heard many more at the rest-houses in the
evening when we were merry at the end of the march. It is in my heart
that grown men are but as little children in the matter of tales, and
the oldest tale is the most beloved.'

'With your people that is truth,' said I. 'But in regard to our people
they desire new tales, and when all is written they rise up and declare
that the tale were better told in such and such a manner, and doubt
either the truth or the invention thereof.'

'But what folly is theirs!' said Gobind, throwing out his knotted hand.
'A tale that is told is a true tale as long as the telling lasts. And of
their talk upon it--you know how Bilas Khan, that was the prince of
tale-tellers, said to one who mocked him in the great rest-house on the
Jhelum road: "Go on, my brother, and finish that I have begun," and he
who mocked took up the tale, but having neither voice nor manner for the
task came to a standstill, and the pilgrims at supper made him eat abuse
and stick half that night.'

'Nay, but with our people, money having passed, it is their right; as we
should turn against a shoeseller in regard to shoes if those wore out.
If ever I make a book you shall see and judge.'

'And the