"Well, Ratan," perhaps he would begin, "do you remember anything of your mother?" She was wandering about the post office in a flood of tears. And the exile was not disappointed. At times he tried his hand at writing a verse or two. She turned at once and asked: "Were you sleeping, Dada?" Relieved from her duties as nurse, Ratan again took up her old place outside the door. His office and living-room were in a dark thatched shed, not far from a green, slimy pond, surrounded on all sides by a dense growth. He felt like a fish out of water in this remote village. "I must be going to light the kitchen fire," would be the answer. While Ratan was awaiting her call, the postmaster was awaiting a reply to his application. "What an idea!" Postmaster by Rabindranath Tagore [Bangla] book free to read online. Kabiguru Rabindranath’s Amazing composition is Postmaster. “The Postmaster,” a story by Rabindranath Tagore, concerns an unnamed postmaster who is assigned to a remote post office in a small rural Indian village. After a while Ratan rose, and went off to the kitchen to prepare the meal; but she was not so quick about it as on other days. It’s a fulfilling ride through twentieth century Calcutta life and uncovers all of how people feel and behave across their everyday social affairs.
One noon, during a break in the rains, there was a cool soft breeze blowing; the smell of the damp grass and leaves in the hot sun felt like the warm breathing of the tired earth on one's body. For a long time neither of them spoke another word. Thus, as they talked, it would often get very late, and the postmaster would feel too lazy to do any cooking at all. The dictates of reason take a long time to assert their own sway. The surest proofs meanwhile are disbelieved. He is a little antisocial and finds it hard to form friendships The postmaster was dumbfounded. The postmaster heaved a sigh, took up his carpet bag, put his umbrella over his shoulder, and, accompanied by a man carrying his many-coloured tin trunk, he slowly made for the boat. Ratan was then sprawling beneath the guava-tree, busily engaged in eating unripe guavas. At last Ratan would enter, with puffed-out cheeks, vigorously blowing into a flame a live coal to light the tobacco. Ratan would then hastily light the fire, and toast some unleavened bread, which, with the cold remnants of the morning meal, was enough for their supper. Canals, ditches, and hollows were all overflowing with water. When in the evening the smoke began to curl up from the village cowsheds, and the cicalas chirped in every bush; when the mendicants of the Baül sect sang their shrill songs in their daily meeting-place, when any poet, who had attempted to watch the movement of the leaves in the dense bamboo thickets, would have felt a ghostly shiver run down his back, the postmaster would light his little lamp, and call out "Ratan." At any rate, the postmaster had but little company; nor had he much to do. “The Postmaster,” a story by Rabindranath Tagore, concerns an unnamed postmaster who is assigned to a remote post office in a small rural Indian village.