The Lost Child
ONE OF MY
FAVOURITE SHORT STORIES
By
VIKRAM KARVE
We do not realize the value of the things we have.
We take these things for granted.
It is only when we lose something that we
begin to realize its value.
Take the example of health.
As long as we are in
good health we do not appreciate the value of good health and take it for
granted – it is only when we fall ill that we realize the value of health.
It is
the same with persons and relationships too.
It is only when we lose someone or
a relationship breaks that we realize their importance and value in our lives.
This is the essence of the story THE LOST CHILD by Mulk Raj Anand.
Let’s read
the story first and then we will discuss it.
This story is freely available on
the internet and as usual I have given the link below and also pasted the story
for your convenience.
The Lost Child By Mulk Raj
Anand
It was the festival of spring. From
the wintry shades of narrow lanes and alleys emerged a gaily clad humanity. Some
walked, some rode on horses, others sat, being carried in bamboo and bullock
carts. One little boy ran between his father’s legs, brimming over with life and
laughter. “Come, child, come,” called his parents, as he lagged behind,
fascinated by the toys in the shops that lined the way.
He hurried towards his parents, his
feet obedient to their call, his eyes still lingering on the receding toys. As
he came to where they had stopped to wait for him, he could not suppress the
desire of his heart, even though he well knew the old, cold stare of refusal in
their eyes. “I want that toy,” he pleaded. His father looked at him red-eyed, in
his familiar tyrant’s way. His mother, melted by the free spirit of the day was
tender and, giving him her finger to hold, said, “Look, child, what is before
you!”
It was a flowering mustard-field,
pale like melting gold as it swept across miles and miles of even land. A group
of dragon-flies were bustling about on their gaudy purple wings, intercepting
the flight of a lone black bee or butterfly in search of sweetness from the
flowers. The child followed them in the air with his gaze, till one of them
would still its wings and rest, and he would try to catch it. But it would go
fluttering, flapping, up into the air, when he had almost caught it in his
hands. Then his mother gave a cautionary call: “Come, child, come, come on to
the footpath.”
He ran towards his parents gaily and
walked abreast of them for a while, being, however, soon left behind, attracted
by the little insects and worms along the footpath that were teeming out from
their hiding places to enjoy the sunshine.
“Come, child, come!” his parents
called from the shade of a grove where they had seated themselves on the edge of
a well. He ran towards them. A shower of young flowers fell upon the child as he
entered the grove, and, forgetting his parents, he began to gather the raining
petals in his hands. But lo! he heard the cooing of doves and ran towards his
parents, shouting, “The dove! The dove!” The raining petals dropped from his
forgotten hands.
“Come, child, come!” they called to
the child, who had now gone running in wild capers round the banyan tree, and
gathering him up they took the narrow, winding footpath which led to the fair
through the mustard fields. As they neared the village the child could see many
other footpaths full of throngs, converging to the whirlpool of the fair, and
felt at once repelled and fascinated by the confusion of the world he was
entering.
A sweetmeat seller hawked,
“gulab-jaman, rasagulla, burfi, jalebi,” at the corner of the entrance and a
crowd pressed round his counter at the foot of an architecture of many coloured
sweets, decorated with leaves of silver and gold. The child stared open-eyed and
his mouth watered for the burfi that was his favourite sweet. “I want that
burfi,” he slowly murmured. But he half knew as he begged that his plea would
not be heeded because his parents would say he was greedy. So without waiting
for an answer he moved on.
A flower-seller hawked, “A garland
of gulmohur, a garland of gulmohur !” The child seemed irresistibly drawn. He
went towards the basket where the flowers lay heaped and half murmured, “I want
that garland.” But he well knew his parents would refuse to buy him those
flowers because they would say that they were cheap. So, without waiting for an
answer, he moved on.
A man stood holding a pole with
yellow, red, green and purple balloons flying from it. The child was simply
carried away by the rainbow glory of their silken colours and he was filled with
an overwhelming desire to possess them all. But he well knew his parents would
never buy him the balloons because they would say he was too old to play with
such toys. So he walked on farther.
A snake-charmer stood playing a
flute to a snake which coiled itself in a basket, its head raised in a graceful
bend like the neck of a swan, while the music stole into its invisible ears like
the gentle rippling of an invisible waterfall. The child went towards the
snake-charmer. But, knowing his parents had forbidden him to hear such coarse
music as the snake- charmer played, he proceeded
farther.
There was a roundabout in full
swing. Men, women and children, carried away in a whirling motion, shrieked and
cried with dizzy laughter. The child watched them intently and then he made a
bold request: “I want to go on the roundabout, please, Father, Mother.” There
was no reply. He turned to look at his parents. They were not there, ahead of
him. He turned to look on either side. They were not there. He looked behind.
There was no sign of them.
A full, deep cry rose within his dry
throat and with a sudden jerk of his body he ran from where he stood, crying in
real fear, “Mother, Father.” Tears rolled down from his eyes, hot and fierce;
his flushed face was convulsed with fear. Panic-stricken, he ran to one side
first, then to the other, hither and thither in all directions, knowing not
where to go. “Mother, Father,” he wailed. His yellow turban came untied and his
clothes became muddy.
Having run to and fro in a rage of
running for a while, he stood defeated, his cries suppressed into sobs. At
little distances on the green grass he could see, through his filmy eyes, men
and women talking. He tried to look intently among the patches of bright yellow
clothes, but there was no sign of his father and mother among these people, who
seemed to laugh and talk just for the sake of laughing and
talking.
He ran quickly again, this time to a
shrine to which people seemed to be crowding. Every little inch of space here
was congested with men, but he ran through people’s legs, his little sob
lingering: “Mother, Father!” Near the entrance to the temple, however, the crowd
became very thick: men jostled each other, heavy men, with flashing, murderous
eyes and hefty shoulders. The poor child struggled to thrust a way between their
feet but, knocked to and fro by their brutal movements, he might have been
trampled underfoot, had he not shrieked at the highest pitch of his voice,
“Father, Mother!”
A man in the surging crowd heard his
cry and, stooping with great difficulty, lifted him up in his arms. “How did you
get here, child? Whose baby are you?” the man asked as he steered clear of the
mass. The child wept more bitterly than ever now and only cried, “I want my
mother, I want my father!”
The man tried to soothe him by
taking him to the roundabout. “Will you have a ride on the horse?” he gently
asked as he approached the ring. The child’s throat tore into a thousand shrill
sobs and he only shouted: “I want my mother, I want my
father!”
The man headed towards the place
where the snake- charmer still played on the flute to the swaying cobra. “Listen
to that nice music, child!” he pleaded. But the child shut his ears with his
fingers and shouted his double-pitched strain: “I want my mother, I want my
father!”
The man took him near the balloons,
thinking the bright colours of the balloons would distract the child’s attention
and quieten him. “Would you like a rainbow-coloured balloon?” he persuasively
asked. The child turned his eyes from the flying balloons and just sobbed, “I
want my mother, I want my father!”
The man, still trying to make the
child happy, bore him to the gate where the flower-seller sat. “Look! Can you
smell those nice flowers, child! Would you like a garland to put round your
neck?” The child turned his nose away from the basket and reiterated his sob: “I
want my mother, I want my father!”
Thinking to humour his disconsolate
charge by a gift of sweets, the man took him to the counter of the sweet shop.
“What sweets would you like, child?” he asked. The child turned his face from
the sweet shop and only sobbed, “I want my mother, I want my
father!”
A thrilled boy is going to a village fair with his
parents.
The child is full of joy and anticipation. In his exuberance the boy
demands all sorts of things from his parents – toys, sweets, flowers, balloons,
rides – but to his disappointment his parents pay no heed to the child’s
desires.
The
boy is quite frustrated as he is denied everything he wants and after some time
he stops asking his parents since he knows his requests will be refused.
Suddenly the boy sees a roundabout and he so desperately wants a ride that he
summons up courage to ask his father and mother and when he gets no reply he
turns around and does not see his parents.
The boy searches but cannot find his
parents and is panic stricken when he realizes that he is lost.
A kind man hears
the child’s desperate cries for his parents, takes pity on the child and tries
to console and comfort him. The man lifts the child in his arms and tries to
help him search for his parents.
As the boy is crying bitterly the man tries
to pacify him by offering
the boy all those things he desired a few moments ago but his parents had
refused to give him, but all these things lose significance for the child and
the child constantly goes on crying, ”I want my mother, I want my father.”
Till
now the boy had taken his parents for granted.
It is only when he loses them
that the child realizes the importance of his parents in his life and that they
are the most valuable thing he has in life. It is true isn't it - sometimes you realise the value of someone or something only when you lose that person or thing.
I
love this story – the way it is skilfully narrated, the way the atmosphere is
built up, and though breathtaking in its simplicity, the profound message the
story delivers and the aftertaste it leaves in the reader’s mind.
Bye for now, Dear Reader. I
will be back with my another of my favourite stories soon right here in my
blog.
Till then, Happy
Reading.
VIKRAM KARVE
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
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Well Narrated...
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