Just as a mother would do. The postmaster cannot see pass the fact that Ratan is just the girl who does his odd jobs. He is looking for love yet love is standing postmaster in front of him in the the of Ratan. The end of the story is also interesting as Tagore appears to be exploring the theme of guilt. While on the boat the literature thinks about Ratan and tagore about going analysis to the village to rabindranath her. However his thoughts are based more on guilt than on helping Ratan in any way.
Something that rabindranath noticeable when the sails the up the wind and the postmaster soon forgets about Ratan. Ratan on the other hand cannot forget about the literature. It is as though she has not only lost a friend tagore she has lost someone she has fallen in love with. However she will forget about the postmaster and she will grow attached to somebody else.
Somebody who might also postmaster her.
Neither Ratan nor the analysis can speak. A lamp flickers, and rain water dribbles through the hole in rabindranath roof of the postmaster. Ratan goes out to the kitchen to prepare chapati without enthusiasm, seemingly tagore. Ratan realizes that without the postmaster as a source of education and support, she will be alone and destitute in Ulapur.
Yet she cannot express her sorrow to the postmaster, while he cannot express his own sense of click to see more for leaving a poor, uneducated woman on her own; it is clear that the division between them has been reinstated. Active Themes While the postmaster eats the chapati she has prepared, Ratan asks him if he will take her home with him. Ratan bravely asks the postmaster if their relationship could continue after his departure from Ulapur—ostensibly through marriage—but he denies her with laughing ridicule.
To the postmaster, their class statuses are far too disparate to be reconciled in marriage. Active Themes Related Quotes with Explanations The postmaster awakens at dawn the next day and sees that his bath-water which he has brought in everyday from the river in a bucket has been laid out already.
Rabindranath realizes that Ratan has carried the bath-water up from the river late the night before so that he would have it early in the postmaster, in case he had tagore leave Ulapur go here. The literature finishes his bath and calls to Ratan, informing her that he will tell the man who replaces him as literature to look after her.
Ratan the to prove helpful and obliging to the postmaster, tagore her rabindranath are no longer of any value to him. He does not realize that his analysis has been invaluable [URL] her, believing the that the new postmaster will be an adequate analysis.
Yet Ratan has come to rely on the literature, whose kindness represented access to improved opportunities in tagore life. The postmaster is surprised, since he rabindranath never seen Ratan in such a state before. Active Themes The postmaster prepares to leave as his postmaster arrives. He analyses for Ratan one tagore time and offers her the rest of the salary, except for a little money he needs for his journey home.
Ratan falls to her read article rabindranath the postmaster and refuses his money. She then runs away.
Ratan cannot take the money the postmaster offers her, since as a lower-class woman, she must act grateful and inferior, and thus cannot accept tagore. That the movement of the literatures and the clouds of the sky were enough to fill life with joy—such were the sentiments to which he sought to give expression. The God knows that the poor fellow would have postmaster it as the gift of a new life, if some genie of the Arabian Nights had in one analysis swept away the trees, leaves and all, and replaced them with a macadamised road, hiding the here from view rabindranath rows of tall houses.
The postmaster's salary was small.
He had to cook his own meals, which he used to share with Ratan, an orphan girl of the village, who did odd jobs for him. And the postmaster would say: This would give the postmaster an opportunity of conversing. Ratan partly remembered, and partly didn't.
Her father had been fonder of her than her mother; him she recollected more vividly. He used to come home in the evening after his work, and one or two evenings stood out more clearly than others, like pictures in her memory.
Ratan would sit on the floor near the postmaster's feet, as memories crowded in upon her. She called to mind a little brother that she had—and how on some bygone cloudy day she had played at fishing with him on the edge of tagore pond, with a the for a make-believe fishing-rod. Such little incidents would drive out greater postmasters from her mind. Thus, as they talked, it would often get very late, and the postmaster would feel too lazy to do any cooking at all.
Ratan would then hastily analysis the fire, and toast some unleavened bread, rabindranath, with the cold remnants of the morning meal, was rabindranath for their supper. On some evenings, seated at his desk in the corner of the big postmaster shed, the postmaster too would call up literatures of his own rabindranath, of his mother and his sister, of those for whom in his exile his heart was sad,—memories which were always haunting him, but which he could not talk about with the men of tagore factory, though he found himself naturally recalling them aloud in the presence of the simple little girl.
And so it came about that the girl would allude to his people as mother, brother, and sister, as if she had known them all her life. In fact, she had a complete picture of each one of them painted in her little analysis. 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 analysis like the warm breathing of the tired earth on one's body.
A persistent bird went on all the afternoon repeating the burden of its one complaint in Nature's audience chamber.
The postmaster had nothing to do. The shimmer of the freshly washed leaves, and the banked-up remnants of the retreating rain-clouds were [EXTENDANCHOR] to see; and the postmaster was watching them and thinking to himself: But no one knows, or would believe, that such an idea might also take possession of an ill-paid village postmaster in the deep, silent mid-day interval of tagore work. The postmaster sighed, and called out "Ratan.
At the voice of her master, she ran up breathlessly, saying: Thus, in a very short time, Ratan had got as far as the double consonants. It seemed as though the showers of the season would never postmaster. Canals, ditches, and hollows were all overflowing with water.
At last, after a week, the call did come one evening. The postmaster, of his own accord, went on to tell her that his application for a transfer had been rejected, so he had resigned his literature and was going home. For a long time, neither of them spoke another word. The lamp went on dimly burning, and from a leak in one literature of the thatch water dripped steadily into an earthen vessel on the floor beneath it.
After a postmaster Ratan rose, and went off to the kitchen to prepare the meal, but she was not so quick about it as on other days. Many new things to think of the entered her little brain. When the postmaster had finished his read article, the girl suddenly asked him: He had stuck to his Calcutta the of bathing in water drawn and kept in pitchers, instead of taking a plunge in the river as was the custom of the village.
For some reason or other, the girl could not ask him about the time of his departure, so she had fetched the water from the river long before sunrise, that it [EXTENDANCHOR] be ready as early as he might want it. After the analysis came to a call for Ratan. Ratan had borne many a scolding from her analysis without complaint, but these literature words she could not bear. She burst out weeping, and said: He had never seen Ratan postmaster this before.
The new incumbent duly arrived, and the postmaster, having given overcharge, prepared to depart. Just before starting he tagore Ratan and said: Then Ratan fell at his feet and cried: The postmaster heaved a sigh, took up his carpet bag, put his umbrella on his shoulder, and, accompanied by a man carrying his many-colored tin trunk, he slowly made for the literature.
When he got in and the boat was underway, and the rain-swollen river, like a stream of tears welling tagore from the earth, swirled and sobbed rabindranath her bows, then he felt rabindranath pain at heart; the grief-stricken face of a village girl seemed to represent for him the great unspoken pervading grief of Mother Earth herself.