chap1

The Price of Flowers

IT was nearly one o’clock. I was feeling extremely hungry and wentto a vegetarian restaurant. Restaurants of this type are to be foundin various parts of London. During lunch hours in those days,London restaurants were not very crowded. There were about threeor four people in the room. I chose a corner table, seated myself, andopened the newspaper.

Soon the waitress came, tookmy order, and went away brisklyand noiselessly.

At that moment I noticed thata young English girl of aboutthirteen or fourteen years wasgazing at me. Her clothesbetrayed her poverty. Her eyeswere large and they had a sadexpression.

As she was going out sheasked the cashier in a low voice,“Is that gentleman an Indian?”

“I think so,” the cashieranswered. The girl looked at meonce more, with a startled air, andwent out.

It surprised me. Why? Whatwas the matter? Her interest in me aroused my interest in her. WhenI had finished my lunch I asked the waitress, “Do you know the girlwho was sitting over there?”

“No, sir. I notice she has lunch here on Saturdays. Saturday ispay-day. That is when she comes. She may not be able to affordlunch on other days. Perhaps she does not earn very much.”

I was moved by what she said. The curiosity I felt about the girlpersisted. Why had she enquired about me? Who was the mysteriouschild? I kept thinking of her poverty-stricken, sad, anxious figure.Could I help her in any way?

The week passed. Saturday came again. I went to the samevegetarian restaurant once more. As I entered I saw her sitting at the

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ENGLISH WITH A PURPOSE

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same table as before. She was eating. I went up to her and took thechair opposite hers, saying, “Good afternoon”.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she responded hesitantly. By making onebrief remark after another, I was able to start a conversation. Atlast she asked, “Are you an Indian?”

“Yes.”“Excuse me, are you a vegetarian?” she wanted to know.“Why do you ask that?”“I have heard that most Indians are vegetarian.”“Who told you that?” I asked.“My brother is in India. He is a soldier.”“I am not much of a vegetarian,” I answered her question, “but

I enjoy a vegetarian meal now and then.”I learned that she lived with her old widowed mother in Lambeth.“Do you hear from your brother?”“We have not had a letter from him for a long time. My mother

is very worried. People tell her that India is full of tigers and snakesand people get malaria and cholera. She is afraid something hashappened to him. Is it true, sir, that India is full of tigersand snakes?”

“No,” I smiled, “how could people live there if it were?”The girl sighed softly. “Mother says she would like to ask an

Indian about these things, if she can find an Indian.” The girl lookedat me with eyes full of pleading.

I understood how she felt. She wanted me to see her motherbut she did not have the courage to ask me to accompany herhome. A keen desire to meet this poor, anxious mother took hold ofme. I had not had the opportunity to visit an impoverished Englishhome. I wished to see how the poor live in England, to know whatthey think.

“Will you introduce me to your mother some time? Would youlike me to accompany you home? I can come some day.”

The girl’s eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you ever so much!”she said. “It is so kind of you! Can you come now?”

“With pleasure.”“Will it not interfere with anything else you have to do?”“No, no, not at all. This afternoon is entirely my own.”The girl was delighted. We finished our lunch and got

up together.As we walked I asked her, “May I know your name?”“My name is Alice Margaret Clifford.”“Oh! Are you the Alice of Alice in Wonderland?” I joked.

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She was nonplussed. I had imagined every English girl readthe incomparable book.

“That is the name of a nice book,” I explained. “Haven’t youread it?”

“No. I have not read it.”“If your mother permits me,” I said, “I shall make a present of it

to you.”We chatted pleasantly and soon reached a telegraph office.“Let’s wait for the Westminster bus here,” I said.“Would you mind walking?” she asked.“Not at all,” I answered, “if it is not difficult for you.”“No, I walk home everyday.”This gave me the opportunity of asking her where she worked.

I asked her, “Do you come this way often?”“Yes,” she answered. “I work as a typist in the Civil Service

stores. I come home this way every afternoon. Today is Saturday,so I am off early.”

“Let us walk along the Embankment. It will be less crowdedthan the Strand,” I said, and taking her by the arm, guided hercarefully across the street.

The street known as the Embankment runs along the northshore of the Thames. “Do you usually go this way?” I asked as wemade our way along it.

“No, it is less crowded, it is true, but the people are dirtier. I gohome by the Strand and Whitehall.”

This poor unsophisticated girl had defeated me. I admitted it.This was not the first time the English sense of beauty had disarmedme. We approached Westminster Bridge.

“Shall I call you Miss Clifford or Alice?”“I am not grown-up yet. You may call me what you like. I am

usually called Maggie,” she laughed.“Are you very anxious to grow up?”“Yes.”“Tell me why.”“When I grow up I shall be paid more for my work. My mother

is old,” she explained.“Is the work you do to your liking?”“No. The work is very mechanical. I want work that will make

me use my head, brain work—like the work of a secretary.” Wecrossed the bridge and arrived in Lambeth. It is a poorneighbourhood. “If I ever become a secretary,” Maggie said, “I shalltake my mother away from here.”

THE PRICE OF FLOWERS


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“Why are you called by your second name instead of your first?”I asked as we pushed through the crowd of ill-dressed people.

“My mother’s first name is also Alice so my father called me bymy second name, making it my nickname.”

“Did your father call you Maggie or Magsy?”“When he was very affectionate he called me Magsy. How did

you know?”“Yes, yes,” I answered, pretending to sound mysterious, “we

are Indians, you know. We know about the future and all kindsof magic.”

“That is what I have heard,” she said.“Indeed?” I was surprised. “What have you heard?”“I have heard that there are many people in India who have

magical powers. They are called yogis. But you are not a yogi.”“How do you know that I am not a yogi, Maggie?”“Yogis do not eat meat.”“Is that why you asked me in the beginning whether I am a

vegetarian or not?”She smiled without answering.We had reached a narrow doorway. Maggie took a thin latch

key out of her pocket and opened the door. She entered and said,“Please come in.”

When I was inside Maggie closed the door. She went to the footof the stairs and raising her voice a little, called, “Mother, whereare you?”

“I am in the kitchen, child,” the answer came from the basement.“Come down.”

Maggie looked at me questioningly, “Do you mind?”“Not in the least. Come on,” I said.Together we descended the stairs to the kitchen.“Mother,” said Maggie from the doorway, “an Indian gentleman

has come to see you.”“Where is he?” the old woman asked eagerly. With a smile I

stepped into the kitchen behind Maggie.She introduced us. “This is Mr Gupta, Mother,” she said,

“Mr Gupta, my mother.”“How do you do?” I said and held out my hand.“Excuse me. My hands...” she said, holding them out for me to

see. They were covered with flour. “Today is Saturday,” she explained,“I am making cakes. People will come to buy them this evening. They’llbe sold on the streets tonight. This is the way we make our living—lots of trouble!”

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Saturday night is a time of festivity in poor neighbourhoods. Allsorts of things are sold from countless lighted pushcarts.

The streets are more crowded than on any other day. Saturdayis the day the poor are able to spend a little, for they receive theirweekly wages.

Ingredients for cake-making—flour, sugar, fat, raisins, eggs, andso forth were set out in readiness upon the dresser. Several freshlybaked cakes in tins were also there.

“Sitting in such a poor kitchen will not be very pleasant for you,will it?” Mrs Clifford said. “I have almost finished my work. Maggie,take him into the sitting room. I’ll come in a minute.”

“No, no,” I protested, “I can sit here well enough. You makedelicious cakes, I must say.”

Mrs Clifford thanked me with a smile.“Mother makes good toffee also. Will you try some?”Maggie opened a cupboard and took out a tin. I ate several toffees

and praised them.“What kind of a country is India, sir?” asked Mrs Clifford as she

resumed her cooking.“A beautiful country.”“Safe to live in?”“Certainly. But not cold like this country. It is hot.”“Aren’t there too many snakes and tigers? Don’t they

kill people?”“Don’t believe that,” I laughed, “snakes and tigers keep to the

jungles. They get killed themselves if they come too close to placeswhere people live.”

“And fevers?”“In some places in India there is more illness than in others. It is

not the same everywhere nor is it the same all the year round.”“My son is in the Punjab. He is a soldier. What kind of a place is

the Punjab?”“The Punjab is a fine place. There is little fever there.”“I am glad to hear it,” Mrs Clifford said.She was finished with her baking. “Maggie,” she said, “take Mr

Gupta upstairs. I’ll wash my hands and bring tea.”Maggie showed me the way to their sitting room and I followed.

The furniture was cheap and there was not much of it. The carpetwas old and torn in places but everything was extremely clean.Maggie drew the curtains back and opened the windows.

There was a glass bookcase. I stood in front of it.



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Mrs Clifford came in carrying the tea tray a few minutes later. Alltrace of the kitchen had vanished from her person. As we drank teaI talked about India. Mrs Clifford showed me a photograph of herson. It had been taken before he left. His name was Francis or Frank.Maggie brought out a book of pictures he had sent her for herbirthday. There were many pictures of Shimla and the surroundingmountain country. On the inside page was written, ‘To Maggie, onher birthday, from her loving brother Frank’.

“Maggie,” said Mrs Clifford, “show Mr Gupta the ring.”“Has your brother sent you a ring?” I asked her. “Let me see

what kind of a ring it is.”“It is a magic ring,” Maggie explained. “A yogi gave it to Frank.”She brought it and asked, “Can you see the past and future

in it?”I had heard a lot about crystal gazing. A crystal was set in the

ring. I took it up and examined it.“When Frank sent the ring,” Mrs Clifford said, “he wrote that if

you concentrate on a distant person as you gaze into it you will beable to see him and what he is doing. The yogi told Frank that.Maggie and I have concentrated upon it again and again becausewe have not had any news from Frank for a long time. But we havenot been able to see anything. Why don’t you try? You are an Indian.You may be able to do it.”

I realised that superstition was not confined to India. I did nothave the heart to tell the mother and daughter that the ring wasnothing much— brass with a piece of ordinary glass stuck into it.They believed their Frank had sent them a new and miraculousthing from a distant land, from a dream world. How could I shattertheir faith?

Urged by Mrs Clifford and Maggie I took the ring in my handand stared at it intensely for a long time. “I cannot see anything,”I exclaimed at last, giving up.

Mother and daughter were disappointed. To change the subject,I said, “Here is a violin. It is yours, isn’t it, Maggie?”

“Yes,” Mrs Clifford answered. “Maggie plays quite well. Maggie,please play something for us.”

“Oh, Mother!” Maggie looked at her protesting.“Maggie,” I pleaded, “please play something! I am very fond of

the violin. I have a sister at home about your age. She used to playfor me.”

“The way I play is not at all worth listening to,” Maggie said.

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After some persuasion she played a folk tune and then a minorclassic. We became good friends. I took Maggie and her mother tothe theatre. We saw The Merchant of Venice.

Three months passed. I visited Maggie and her mother severaltimes at their home and took Maggie once to see the zoo. She rodethe elephant, Indian Rajah, like all the other boys and girls. Howdelighted she was!

But no news had come from her brother. Urged by Mrs Clifford Iwent to India House one day and made inquiries. I was told theregiment to which Frank belonged was fighting on the North-WestFrontier. Mrs Clifford became extremely worried when sheheard it.

One day I received a postcard from Maggie. She wrote:

Dear Mr Gupta,

My mother is very ill. I have not been able to go to work for aweek. We shall be extremely grateful if you take the troubleto come to see us.

Maggie

I had told the family with whom I lived about Maggie and hermother. I spoke of the letter at breakfast.

My hostess said, “When you go take some money with you. Thegirl has not been able to go to work for a week. She has not receivedany pay. It is probable that they are hard up.”

After breakfast I took some money and set out for Lambeth. Iknocked at the door. Maggie opened it.

She was looking very pale. Her eyes were hollow and ringed. “Oh,thank you, Mr Gupta!” she exclaimed when she saw me. “It is sokind of you.”

“How is your mother, Maggie?” I asked.“She is sleeping now. Her condition is very serious. The doctor

says it is aggravated by her anxiety for Frank. There is no news fromhim yet. She may not live.”

I tried to console Maggie. Maggie controlled herself with an effortand said, “I have a request to make to you, Mr Gupta.”

“What is it, Maggie?” I asked.“Come into the sitting room and I’ll tell you,” she answered.We tiptoed carefully into the sitting room lest the sound of our

footsteps should disturb the sick woman. I turned when I reachedthe centre of the room and remained standing there. “What is it,Maggie?” I repeated my question.



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Maggie gazed up into my face with pleading eyes. I waited. Thenshe covered her face with her hands and wept silently.

I was in a fix. What could I say to console this child? Her brotherwas fighting on the Frontier. Only God knew whether he was alive ordead. Her mother was the only person she had on earth. If she losther what would happen? Where in London could this girl, on thethreshold of adolescence, go?

I pulled her hands away from her face. “Maggie, tell me what youwish me to do. If there is anything I can do to help you I shallnot hesitate.”

“Mr Gupta,” the girl said, “I do not know what you will think ofthe request I am going to make. Please forgive me if it is very,very wrong.”

“What is it? Tell me please.”“All day yesterday, Mother kept saying that if Mr Gupta would

come and gaze into the crystal he might learn something about Frank.‘If only he would come,’ she said. That is why I wrote to you.”

“If you want me to try once more, go and bring me the ring,Maggie. Of course I’ll do it.”

“But if you don’t see anything again this time?”I understood what Maggie meant. I was silent.“Mr Gupta, I have read in books that Indians love truth. If you

could bring yourself to tell Mother only once, after looking into thecrystal, that Frank is all right, that he is alive— will it be too much ofa lie? Will it be very, very wrong?” As she spoke tears streamed fromher eyes.

I thought it over and decided to do it. “Please, Maggie, don’t cry.Where is the ring? Let me take a good look at it this time. If I do notsee anything I shall do as you suggest.”

Maggie brought me the ring. I took it and said, “See if yourmother is awake”.

She said, “I have told her you are here.”“May I see her now?”“Please come.”I approached the mother’s bedside. The ring was in my hand.

Wishing her a good morning I said, “Mrs Clifford, your son is alive.He is well.”

The old woman raised her head a little off the pillow.“Did you see that in the crystal?” she asked.“Yes, Mrs Clifford,” I answered without any hesitation, “I have

seen it.”

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Her head dropped back. Tears of happiness welled from her eyes.She whispered faintly, “God bless you! God bless you!”

Mrs Clifford recovered.It was almost time for me to return to India. I wished to go to

Lambeth to say goodbye to Maggie and her mother. But the familywas in mourning. Frank had been killed in the fighting on the Frontier.A month before, Maggie had sent me a card with a black border. Icalculated from the date and found that Frank had been dead somedays when I told his mother he was alive and well. I felt ashamed toface Mrs Clifford. So I wrote a letter to them, announcing my departure,and bidding them goodbye.

The morning of my last day in London dawned. I was to leavethat night. As I was breakfasting with the family there was a knockat the door. A minute or two later the maid came in and announced,“Please Mr Gupta, Miss Clifford has come to see you.”

My breakfast was unfinished. Maggie had come to say goodbye.Lest she should be late for office because of me, I took permission ofmy hostess and got up from the table. Maggie was standing in thehall. She was wearing black.

I took her into the adjoining library and made her sit down.“Are you leaving today?” she asked.“Yes, Maggie, today is the day of my departure.”“How long will it take you to reach your country?”“A little more than two weeks.”“In what part of the country do you live?” she wanted to know.“I have entered the Punjab Civil Service. I shall not know exactly

where I am posted until I arrive there.”“Is the Frontier very far from there?”“No, not very.”“Frank is buried at Fort Monroe near Dera-Ghazi-Khan.”The girl’s eyes filled with tears as she spoke.“When I go to that part of the country I shall visit your brother’s

grave and write to you.”“Won’t it be troublesome for you, or inconvenient?” Maggie asked.“Why should it be? Dera-Ghazi-Khan is not very far from where

I shall be. It will certainly be possible for me to go there some day. I’llwrite and tell you about it.”

Maggie’s face filled with gratitude. As she thanked me her voicechoked. She took a shilling out of her pocket and put it down on thetable in front of me, saying, “Please buy flowers with this shillingwhen you go, and lay them on my brother’s grave for me.”



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Overwhelmed, I lowered my eyes. The child had earned theshilling with so much toil! I felt like returning it to her, explainingthat in our country flowers grow in great profusion.

But I reconsidered. Why should I deprive her of the joy thissacrifice would give her? All that this shilling could have given her,she was foregoing for love of her brother. The joy of doing it wasbeyond all price. The grief in her heart would be eased a little.What good would it do to deprive her of it? I picked up the shilling.

Maggie stood up. “How can I ever thank you!” she said. “Now itis time for me to go to work. Goodbye. Remember to write.”

I got up and took her hand in mine. “Goodbye, Maggie. Godbless you,” I said and pressed her hand to my lips. Maggie left.I wiped a tear or two from my eyes and went upstairs to packmy bags.

PRABHAT KUMAR MUKHOPADHYAY

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Prabhat Kumar Mukhopadhyay (1873–1932) was bornin Bengal. In 1895 he graduated from CalcuttaUniversity and left for England in 1901 to return toIndia as Barrister-at-Law. Right from his early youthhe contributed poems to Bengali journals. Inspired byRabindranath Tagore he became one of the foremostwriters of short stories and novels.

GLOSSARY

nonplussed: puzzledunsophisticated: simple and naturaldisarm: make it difficult for somebody to feel anger/suspicion/doubtprofusion: abundance

Comprehension

I. Answer the following questions in one or two sentences each.

1. The girl’s mother had some fear in her mind because shehad not heard for quite some time about her son. What wasthe fear that haunted the girl’s mother?

2. The story shows that there are some myths about India inthe minds of the western people. What are they?

3. Why did Mr Gupta want to visit the girl’s house?4. Why was the girl nonplussed when Mr Gupta mentioned

Alice in Wonderland?5. What made Mr Gupta conclude that Maggie’s family was poor?6. What did Mrs Clifford say to Mr Gupta about her son?7. What did Mrs Clifford believe about the ring?8. Why did Mr Gupta go to India House?9. Why did the girl ask Mr Gupta to gaze into the crystal?

10. Why did the girl write a postcard to Mr Gupta?

II. Answer the following questions in about 100–150 words each.

1. When Mr Gupta went to a restaurant, he saw a young girlthere. Both of them were curious about each other. Whywere they curious?

2. Describe the conversation between Mr Gupta and MrsClifford when he visited her house for the first time.

3. After learning about the death of her brother, Maggie wentto see Mr Gupta. What did she want to know from him?

4. Maggie gave a shilling to Mr Gupta. Why did she do so andwhat did Mr Gupta think while accepting the shilling?

5. Justify the title of the story.



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Words and Usage

Derive new words from each of the following and use them insentences of your own.

Example : festive — derivatives: festival; festivity(i) mystery(ii) anxious(iii) extreme(iv) betray(v) interfere(vi) interest(vii) grateful

Group Discussion

Empathy knows no boundaries of age or race.

Writing a Notice

A notice is a displayed sheet or a placard giving news orinformation.While writing a notice, the following points should be kept inmind.• Adhere to the specified word limit.• Give an appropriate heading.• Mention date, venue, and time.• Mention whom to contact.• Give name and designation.• Write the notice in a box.

1. Suppose you are a member of a blood bank society. You havebeen asked by the President of the society to organise a blooddonation camp. Write a notice in 50 words urging the people tocome in large numbers for this noble cause. Mention date, timeand venue.

2. Imagine you are a librarian of a public library. The followingdecisions have been taken. The library will remain open onSundays and closed on Mondays. The working hours will befrom 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. instead of 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. The period forwhich the books can be borrowed has been reduced from threeweeks to two weeks. Now write a notice in 50 words informingthe members and the public about these decisions.

Activity

Divide your class into groups. Each group will write one story anda member of the group will read it out to the class. Discuss thestories and write comments on those stories in the light of thecharacteristics of a short story.

GLOSSARY

bulk : a large massoak : a large tree with tough hard wood, common in many parts of

the worldsere : withered

Exercises

I. Answer the following questions in one or two sentences each.

1. What is the age of an oak tree? What is its ultimate fate?2. Why is the lily called fairer in May? What is the fate of a lily?3. Why does the poet call the lily a flower of Light?4. What does the poet want to convey by “beauty in small

proportions”?5. How can we make our lives perfect?6. The poet has used the words ‘dry’, ‘bald’ and ‘sere’ for the

log. What does he suggest by associating these words withthe log?

The Noble Nature

It is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make Man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:

A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night —It was the plant and flower of Light.In small proportions we just beauties see:And in short measures life may perfect be.

BEN JONSON

Ben Jonson (1572 –1637), an English playwright andpoet, is best known for his comedy of humours. Hisfamous plays are Everyman in His Humour, Volponeand The Alchemist. The lyrics scattered through hisplays are the brightest features of his works.


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7. The poet speaks of the beauty of the lily in the second stanza.What does the poet want to convey by using the word‘although’ in the third line of this stanza. ?

II. Answer the following questions in about 100 words each.

1. In the second stanza, the poet compares man’s life with alily. How does he use this comparison to suggest his beliefthat a short but meaningful life is what we should aspirefor?

2. We live in deeds not in years. Elucidate.

III. Explain the following expressions briefly.

(i) growing like a tree(ii) standing long an oak(iii) to fall a log at last(iv) fairer far in May(v) in short measures life may perfect be

Activity (not for evaluation)

Compare the following lines of the poem ‘To Blossoms’ with thepoem ‘The Noble Nature’.

To Blossoms

Fair pledges of a fruitful treeWhy do you fall so fast?Your date is not so past,

But you may stay here awhileTo blush and gently smile

And go at last.ROBERT HERRICK

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