# Broken Ties and other Stories/The Fugitive Gold

Translator attributed in Rabindranath Tagore: Selected Short Stories, tr. William Radice.
After his father’s death, Baidyanath settled down on the proceeds of the Government stock which had been left to him. It never even occurred to him to look for work. His manner of spending time was to cut off branches of trees, and with minute care and skill he would polish them into walking-sticks. The boys and young men of the neighbourhood were candidates for these, and his supply of them never fell short of the demand.
By the blessing of the God of Fruition, Baidyanath had two boys and one daughter who had been given in marriage at the proper time.
But his wife Sundari bore a grievance against her lot, because there was not the same surplus in the resources of her husband as in those of their cousin across the road. The dispensation of Providence struck her as unnecessarily imperfect, when she could not show the same glitter of gold ​in her house, and tilt her nose as superciliously as her neighbour.
The condition of her own house gave her continual annoyance, where things were not only inconvenient but humiliating. Her bedstead, she was sure, was not decent enough to carry a corpse, and even an orphan bat who for seven generations had been without relatives would have scorned to accept an invitation within such dilapidated walls; while as for the furniture, why, it would have brought tears to the eyes of the most hardened of ascetics. It is impossible for a cowardly sex like man to argue against suck palpable exaggerations, so Baidyanath merely retired on to his veranda, and worked with redoubled energy at polishing his walking-sticks.
But the rampart of silence is not the surest means of self-defence. Sometimes the wife would break upon her husband at his work, and, without looking at him, say: ‘Please tell the milkman to stop delivering milk.’
At which Baidyanath, after his first shock of speechlessness, might possibly stammer out: ‘Milk? How can you get on if you stop the supply? What will the children drink?’
To this his wife would answer: ‘Rice water.’
​On another day she would use quite the opposite method of attack, and, suddenly bursting into the room, would exclaim: ‘I give it up, you manage your own household.’
Baidyanath would mutter in despair: ‘What do you wish me to do?’
His wife would reply: ‘You do the marketing for this month,’ and then give him a list of materials sufficient for reckless orgies of feasting.
If Baidyanath could summon up courage to ask: ‘What is the necessity of so much?’ he would get the reply:
‘Indeed it will be cheaper for you to let the children die of starvation, and me also for that matter.’
One day after finishing his morning meal Baidyanath was sitting alone, preparing the thread for a kite, when he saw one of those wandering mendicants, who are reputed to know the secret of transmuting the baser metals into gold. In a moment there flashed to his mind the surest chance of unearned increment to his funds. He took the mendicant into his house, and was surprised at his own cleverness when he secured the consent of his guest to teach him the art of making gold.
​After having swallowed an alarming amount of nourishment, and a considerable portion of Baidyanath’s paternal inheritance, the ascetic at last encouraged Baidyanath and his wife with the hope that the next day they would see their dream realised.
That night no one had any sleep. The husband and wife, with astounding prodigality, began to build golden castles in the air and discuss the details of the architecture. Their conjugal harmony was so unusually perfect for that night that in spite of disagreements they were willing to allow compromises in their plans for each other’s sake.
Next day the magician had mysteriously disappeared, and with him the golden haze from the atmosphere in which they had been living. The sunlight itself appeared dark, and the house and its furniture seemed to its mistress to be four times more disgraceful than before.
Henceforth, if Baidyanath ventured even a truism on the most trifling of household matters, his wife would advise him with withering sarcasm to be careful of the last remnant of his intelligence after the reckless expenditure from which it had suffered.
Sundari in the meantime was showing her hand ​to every palmist that came her way, and also her horoscope. She was told that in the matter of children she would be fortunate, and that her house would soon be filled with sons and daughters. But such prospect of overgrowth of population in her house did not produce any exhilaration in her mind.
At last one day an astrologer came and said that if within a year her husband did not come upon some hidden treasure, then he would throw his science to the winds and go about begging. Hearing him speak with such desperate certainty, Sundari could not entertain a moment’s doubt as to the truth of his prophecy.
There are certain recognised methods for acquiring wealth, such as agriculture, service, trade, and the legal and illegal professions. But none of these points out the direction of hidden wealth. Therefore, while his wife spurred him on, it more and more perplexed him to decide upon the particular mound which he should excavate, or the part of the river-bed where he should send down a diver to search.
In the meantime the Poojah Festival was approaching. A week before the day, boats began to arrive at the village landing laden with passengers ​returning home with their purchases: baskets full of vegetables, tin trunks filled with new shoes, umbrellas and clothes for the children, scents and soap, the latest story-books, and perfumed oil for the wives.
The light of the autumn sun filled the cloudless sky with the gladness of festival, and the ripe paddy fields shimmered in the sun, while the cocoa-nut leaves washed by the rains rustled in the fresh cool breeze.
The children, getting up very early, went to see the image of the goddess which was being prepared in the courtyard of the neighbouring house. When it was their meal-time, the maid-servant had to come and drag them away by force. At that time Baidyanath was brooding over the futility of his own life, amidst this universal stir of merriment in the neighbourhood. Taking his two children from the servant, he drew them towards him, and asked the elder one: ‘ Well, Obu, tell me what do you want for a present this time?’
Obu replied without a moment's hesitation: ‘Give me a toy boat, father.’
The younger one, not wishing to be behindhand with his brother, said: ‘Oh, father, do give me a toy boat too.’
At this time an uncle of Sundari’s had come to his house from Benares, where he was working as an advocate, and Sundari spent a great part of her time going round to see him.
At last one day she said to her husband: ‘Look here, you will have to go to Benares.’
Baidyanath at once concluded that his wife had received from an astrologer a positive assurance of his impending death, and was anxious for him to die in that holy place, to secure better advantage in the next world.
Then he was told that at Benares there was a house in which rumour said there was some hidden treasure. Surely it was destined for him to buy that house and secure the treasure.
Baidyanath, in a fit of desperation, tried to assert his independence, and exclaimed. ‘Good heavens, I cannot go to Benares.’
Two days passed, during which Baidyanath was busily engaged in making toy boats. He fixed masts in them, and fastened sails, hoisted a red flag, and put in rudders and oars. He did not even forget steersmen and passengers to boot. It would have been difficult to find a boy, even in ​these modern times, cynical enough to despise such a gift. And when Baidyanath, the night before the festival, gave these boats to his boys, they became wild with delight.
On hearing their shouts Sundari came in, and at the sight of these gifts flew into a fury of rage, and, seizing the toys, threw them out of the window.
The younger child began to scream with disappointment, and his mother, giving him a resounding box on the ears, said: ‘Stop your silly noise.’
The elder boy, when he saw his father’s face, forgot his own disappointment, and with an appearance of cheerfulness said: ‘Never mind, father, I will go and fetch them first thing in the morning.’
Next day Baidyanath agreed to go to Benares, He took the children in his arms, and kissing them good-bye, left the house.
The house at Benares belonged to a client of his wife’s uncle, and for that reason perhaps the price was fairly high. Baidyanath took possession of it, and began to live there alone. It was situated right on the river-bank, and its walls were washed by the current.
​At night Baidyanath began to have an eerie feeling, and he drew his sheet over his head, but could not sleep. When in the depth of night all was still he was suddenly startled to hear a clanking sound from somewhere. It was faint but clear—as though in the nether regions the treasurer of the god Mammon was counting out his money.
Baidyanath was terrified, but with the fear there mingled curiosity and the hope of success. With trembling hand he carried the lamp from room to room, to discover the place where the sound had its origin, till in the morning it became inaudible among the other noises.
The next day at midnight the sound was heard again, and Baidyanath felt like a traveller in a desert, who can hear the gurgle of water without knowing from which direction it is coming, hesitating to move a step, for the fear of taking a wrong path and going farther away from the spring.
Many days passed in this anxious manner, until his face, usually so serenely content, became lined with anxiety and care. His eyes were sunk in their sockets, and had a hungry look, with a glow like that of the burning sand of the desert under the mid-day sun.
At last one night a happy thought came to him, ​and locking all the doors, he began to strike the floors of all the rooms with a crowbar. From the floor of one small room came a hollow sound. He began to dig. It was nearly dawn when the digging was completed.
Through the opening made Baidyanath saw that underneath there was a chamber, but in the darkness he had not the courage to take a jump into the unknown. He placed his bedstead over the entrance, and lay down. So morning came. That day, even in the day-time, the sound could be heard. Repeating the name of Durga, he dragged his bedstead away from the cavity in the floor. The splash of lapping water and the clank of metal became louder. Fearfully peeping through the hole into the darkness, he could see that the chamber was full of flowing water, which, when examined with a stick, was found to be about a couple of feet deep. Taking a box of matches and a lantern in his hand, he easily jumped into the shallow room. But lest in one moment all his hopes should collapse, his trembling hand found it difficult to light the lantern. After striking almost a whole box of matches, he at last succeeded.
He saw by its light a large copper cauldron, ​fastened to a thick iron chain. Every now and then, when the current came with a rush, the chain clanked against the side, and made the metallic sound which he had heard.
Baidyanath waded quickly through the water, and went up to this vessel, only to find that it was empty.
He could not believe his eyes, and with both hands he took the cauldron up and shook it furiously. He turned it upside down, but in vain. He saw that its mouth was broken, as though at one time this vessel had been closed and sealed, and some one had broken it open.
Baidyanath begat to grope about in the water. Something struck against his hand, which on lifting he found to be a skull. He held it up to his ear, and shook it violently—but it was empty. He threw it down.
He saw that on one side of the room towards the river the wall was broken. It was through this opening that the water entered, and he felt sure that it had been made by his unknown predecessor, who had a more reliable horoscope than his own.
At last, having lost all hope, he heaved a deep sigh, which seemed to mingle with the innumerable ​sighs of despair coming from some subterranean inferno of everlasting failures.
His whole body besmeared with mud, Baidyanath made his way up into the house. The world, full of its bustling population, seemed to him empty as that broken vessel and chained to a meaningless destiny.
Once more to pack his things, to buy his ticket, to get into the train, to return again to his home, to have to wrangle with his wife, and to endure the burden of his sordid days, all this seemed to him intolerably unreasonable. He wished that he could just slide into the water, as the broken-down bank of a river into the passing current.
Still he did pack his things, buy his ticket, get into the train, and one evening at the end of a winter day arrive at his home.
On entering the house, he sat like one dazed in the courtyard, not venturing to go into the inner apartments. The old maid-servant was the first to catch sight of him, and at her shout of surprise the children came running to see him with their glad laughter. Then his wife called him.
Baidyanath started up as if from sleep, and once more woke into the life which he had lived ​before. With sad face and wan smile, he took one of the boys in his arms and the other by the hand and entered the room. The lamps had just been lighted, and although it was not yet night, it was a cold evening, and everything was as quiet as if night had come.
Baidyanath remained silent for a little, and then in a soft voice said to his wife: ‘How are you?’
His wife, without making any reply, asked him: ‘What has happened?’
Baidyanath, without speaking, simply struck his forehead. At this Sundari’s face hardened. The children, feeling the shadow of a calamity, quietly slipped away, and going to the maidservant asked her to tell them a story.
Night fell, but neither husband nor wife spoke a word. The whole atmosphere of the house seemed to palpitate with silence, and gradually Sundari’s lips set hard like a miser’s purse. Then she got up, and leaving her husband went slowly into her bedroom, locking the door behind her. Baidyanath remained standing silently outside. The watchman’s call was heard as he passed. The tired world was sunk in deep sleep.
When it was quite late at night the elder boy, wakened from some dream, left his bed, ​and coming out on to the veranda whispered: ‘Father.’
But his father was not there. In a slightly raised voice he called from outside the closed door of his parents’ bedroom, ‘Father,’ but he got no answer. And in fear he went back to bed.
Next morning early the maid-servant, according to her custom, prepared her master’s tobacco, and went in search of him, but could find him nowhere.