Not that all of them wear red saris, though . . . But baba, you must have gone there for an outing sometime.

Amal:Truly, Dahiwala, I haven’t been there even once. The day the Kobiraj allows me out, will you take me to your village?

Dahiwala:Indeed I will baba, I’ll certainly take you there.

Amal:Teach me how to sell dahi like you. Like that, with the bankh on my shoulder . . . travelling down faraway roads, just like you.

Dahiwala:Good grief! Why should you take to selling dahi, baba! You’ll read a great many books, and become a learned pundit.

Amal:No, no, I shall never become a pundit. From the cowherds’ colony beside your red-earth path beneath your ancient banyan tree, I shall fetch dahi and go about selling it in far-off places, from village to village. The way you call out: ‘Dahi, dahi, dahi—delicious dahi!’—please teach me that tune.

Dahiwala:Hai! Is that a tune worth learning?

Amal:No, no, I love hearing it. Just as I grow wistful when I hear birds call from the far corners of the sky . . . so when your call reached my ears from beyond that bend in the road, through that row of trees, I felt . . . I wonder what I felt!

Dahiwala:Baba, here’s a small earthen pot of dahi for you to taste.

Amal:But I have no money.

Dahiwala:No, no, no, no—don’t talk of money. If you taste a bit of my dahi how happy I shall feel!

Amal:Are you getting very late?

Dahiwala:I’m not late at all, baba; I’ve suffered no losses. I have learned from you the joy of selling dahi.

Exit

Amal(in a sing-song voice): Dahi, dahi, dahi, delicious dahi! Dahi from the cowherds’ home beneath that faraway five-peak mountain, on the edge of river Shamoli. At dawn they milk the cows beneath the trees, and at dusk the women set the dahi. That’s the dahi I sell . . . . Dahi, dahi-i-i delicious dahi! Here’s the Prahari marching up and down the street. Prahari! O watchman, come and listen to me just once!

Enter Prahari

Prahari:Why do you call out so loudly? Aren’t you scared of me?

Amal:Why? Why should I be scared of you?

Prahari:What if I catch you and take you away?

Amal:Where would you take me if you took me captive? Somewhere very far away? Beyond that mountain?

Prahari:What if I take you straight to the king?

Amal:To the king? Please take me there. But the Kobiraj has forbidden me to go out. Nobody can capture me and take me away—here I must remain, day and night, in this very place.

Prahari:The Kobiraj has forbidden you? Aha, true indeed, poor boy—your face looks pale. There are shadows under your eyes. The veins on your hands can be seen.

Amal:Prahari, won’t you ring the bell?

Prahari:It is not yet time.

Amal:Some say ‘time is flying,’ others say ‘it is not yet time’. Achchha, you just have to ring the bell and it will be time, won’t it?

Prahari:How is that possible! I ring the bell only when it is time.

Amal:I rather like your bell—I love the sound of it. In the afternoon, after everyone has eaten, Pishemoshai goes out somewhere to work, Pishima nods off while reading the Ramayana, and our little puppy, face tucked into its tail, goes to sleep in the shade at that corner of the courtyard. Then that bell of yours begins to ring—ding-dong ding-dong ding-dong. Why does your bell ring?

Prahari:The bell announces to everyone that time does not stand still; time is always moving on.

Amal:Where is it going? To which land?

Prahari:Nobody knows.

Amal:Has no one visited that land? I really wish I could go along with time—to that far-off land no one knows about.

Prahari:Everyone must go to that land, baba.

Amal:Me too?

Prahari:Yes, indeed.

Amal:But Kobiraj has forbidden me to go out.

Prahari:Someday the Kobiraj himself might lead you there by the hand.

Amal:No no, you don’t know him. He only keeps people confined.

Prahari:There is an even better Kobiraj. He comes to set people free.

Amal:When will that better Kobiraj come for me? I don’t enjoy sitting idle any more.

Prahari:You mustn’t say such things, baba!

Amal:No . . . I’m still sitting here—I haven’t stepped out of the place where they have made me sit—but when that bell of yours rings, ding-dong ding-dong, I feel a yearning in my heart. Achchha, Prahari, tell me!

Prahari:What is it, baba?

Amal:Achchha, that big building across the road where they’ve hung up a sign, where all the people are constantly coming and going—what’s happening there?

Prahari:They have opened a new post office there.

Amal:Post office? Whose post office?

Prahari:Who else would own a post office? It’s the king’s post office . . . . This boy is very entertaining.

Amal:Does the king’s post office receive lots of letters from the king?

Prahari:Yes, indeed. Wait and see, one day there will be a letter in your name, too.

Amal:A letter in my name, too? But I’m very tiny, after all.

Prahari:The king writes tiny little letters to tiny people.

Amal:That will be nice.