and after that the field of sugar cane, a high ridge along its side, and along the top of that ridge he keeps on advancing . . . night and day, all alone, he advances . . . crickets chirping in the fields . . . not a soul to be seen beside the river, just a long-billed snipe wandering there, swaying its tail . . . I see it all. The closer he approaches the more delighted I feel, inwardly.

Thakurda:My eyes are not so young, of course, but still, I can see this vision through your eyes.

Amal:Achchha, fakir, do you know the king who owns this post office?

Thakurda:Indeed I do. I go to him every day for alms, after all.

Amal:How wonderful! When I get well, I too shall go to him to beg for alms. Can’t I go to him?

Thakurda:Baba, you will have no need to beg for alms. He will grant you his gift unasked.

Amal:No, no, I shall stand by the wayside, before his door, and beg for alms, calling ‘Jai ho!’ I’ll dance to the rhythm of the tabor, my khanjani—that’ll be good, won’t it?

Thakurda:That will be very good. If I take you with me, I too shall receive my fill in royal bounty. What alms will you seek?

Amal:I’ll say, make me your postman. I’ll go like that, lantern in hand, from door to door, distributing your letters . . . Do you know, fakir? Someone has told me, when I get well he will teach me to beg. I can go with him wherever I like, to beg for alms.

Thakur:Who’s that, may I ask?

Amal:Chhidam.

Thakurda:Who is this Chhidam?

Amal:The one who’s lame, and blind in one eye. He comes to my window every day, pushed along in his cart by a boy just like me. I’ve told him that when I get well, I’ll push his cart as I go along.

Thakurda:That will be fun, I can see.

Amal:He’s the one who has promised to teach me how to beg. I urge Pishemoshai to give him alms, but he says the man is actually neither half-blind nor lame. Achchha, even if he isn’t really blind, it’s still true after all that he can’t see properly.

Thakurda:Quite right baba, the truth is simply that he can’t see properly—whether you call him blind or not. So, if he doesn’t receive any alms, why does he hobnob with you?

Amal:Because I tell him where things are. The poor man can’t see. I tell him all about the lands you describe to me. That airy land you told me about the other day, where nothing has any weight, where the tiniest bounce can help you leap over a mountain—he was delighted to hear of that lightweight land . . . Achchha fakir, how does one get to that land?

Thakurda:There is an inside route, but it might be hard to find.

Amal:But the poor man is blind; he may not see it at all—he’ll have to spend his days wandering in search of alms. He was grieving for that reason, but I told him: in searching for alms you get to wander far and wide. Not everyone can do that.

Thakurda:Baba, what is so miserable about remaining indoors either?

Amal:No, no, there’s nothing sad about it. At first when they kept me confined indoors, I felt as if my days would not pass. But now, ever since I saw the king’s post office, I feel cheerful every day . . . just sitting here in this room, I feel cheerful . . . just the thought that my letter will arrive one day makes it possible for me to wait patiently, in a cheerful mood . . . But I don’t know what the king’s letter will say.

Thakurda:So let it remain unknown.