The Necklace

The Home Coming-A Short Story by Rabindranath Tagore,India(1861-1941)

Rabindranath Tagore was an educator, social reformer, poet, playwright, novelist and short story writer. His poetical collection Gitanjali was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Home Coming is the tale of a 14 year old boy who was a nuisance to his mother, was sent away for studying and died there unloved, longing for his home.

Phatik Chakravarthi was a fourteen year old Bengali boy whose father died very early. He grew up lazy, wild and disobedient. His younger brother Makhan Chakravarthi was quiet, good and fond of reading. Phatik thought about doing new mischiefs each day. One day he and his retinue of boys pushed into the river a wooden log meant to be shaped as the mast of a boat. Makhan, objecting to this and sitting firmly on the log, was thrown to water along with the log. At home, when he was questioned about this, he beat not only his brother, but his mother also. It was then that his uncle from the far Calcutta City arrived. He agreed to take the boy along with him to Calcutta to be educated there. The boy was only glad to leave, but the mother was only half- relieved and half- sad.

Phatik's uncle had three sons of his own and his aunt did not like the new addition to the family. A fourteen year old boy will have his own problems too. He was fast growing up. He was neither a child nor a man. He had missed the meadow, mountain and river of his native village. Therefore it was no wonder he became a failure at school. He answered no questions, was beaten badly daily at school and ridiculed by all including his cousins. He grew impatient about returning to home and began asking always, when the holidays would come.

One day Phatik lost his lesson book and was scolded and abused much by his aunt. It was the last hurt to break him. On a rainy afternoon after school, feeling fever and headache, he sought shelter somewhere and did not return home. He did not want to trouble his aunt any more. Police help was sought the next day. They brought him home, shivering and fallen into a delirious state. He talked about things in his native village, asked his mother not to beat him anymore and called out fathom- marks which the steamer- sailors in his native village river did. He moved restlessly, his hands beating up and down. His condition seemed critical to the doctor and his mother in the village was sent for. When his mother arrived moaning and crying, and calling his names, he was nearing his eternal home which is Heaven. His last words were: Mother, the holidays have come.

The question is, how we treat our children. Children are the flowers of humanity. Yet, we do not see the grief in those tiny hearts. Upto four years, a child is said to be in the hands of the God, but since then they are the World's. A bit of love, a soft touch of solace or a tiny word of comfort would be enough for them, but we do not spare them. Millions of children are worn out for want of care, nursing, assistance. Tagore's was one of the first glances into the grief and sorrow of a little mind. Another of it's kind is Coventry Patmore's poem, Toys.