What was a ‘fertile subject’ for a conversation between the postmaster and Ratan?
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Explanation:
story teller say that Americans "buenogenla
Answer:
Our postmaster belonged to Calcutta. He felt like a fish out of water in this remote village. 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.The men employed in the indigo factory had no leisure; moreover, they were hardly desirable companions for decent folk, nor is a Calcutta boy adept in the art of associating with others. Among strangers, he appears either proud or ill at ease. At any rate, the postmaster had but little company; nor had he much to do. At times he tried his hand at writing a verse or two. The movement of the leaves and the clouds of the sky were enough to fill life with joy—such were the sentiments to which he sought to give expression. But, God knows that the poor fellow would have felt it as the gift of a new life, if some genie of the Arabian Nights had in one night swept away the trees, leaves and all, and replaced them with a macadamized road, hiding the clouds from view with rows of tall houses. The postmaster's salary was meagre. 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.
In the evening, when the smoke began to curl up from the village cowsheds, and the cicadas 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." Ratan would sit outside waiting for this call, and, instead of coming in at once, would reply, "Did you call me, sir?" "What are you doing?" the postmaster would ask. "I must be going to light the kitchen fire," would be the answer. And, the postmaster would say: "Oh, let the kitchen fire be for awhile; light me my pipe first. "At last, Ratan would enter with puffed-out cheeks, vigorously blowing a live coal into a flame to light the tobacco. This would give the postmaster an opportunity of conversing. "Well, Ratan," perhaps he would begin, "do you remember anything about your mother?" That was a fertile subject.
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 the pond, with a twig for a make-believe fishing-rod. Such little incidents would drive out greater events 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 light the fire and toast some unleavened bread, which, with the cold remnants of the morning meal, was enough for their supper. On some evenings, seated at his desk in the corner of the big empty shed, the postmaster too would call up memories of his own home, 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 the 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 the 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 heart.
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