myavr.info Fiction The Postmaster By Rabindranath Tagore Pdf

THE POSTMASTER BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE PDF

Friday, May 3, 2019


The Postmaster by Rabindranath Tagore The postmaster first took up his duties in the village of Ulapur. Though the village was a small one. The Project Gutenberg EBook of Stories from Tagore, by Rabindranath Tagore added from the original Bengali at the end of the story called "The Postmaster. Rabindranath Tagore's The Postmaster is a movmg story of the love of a simple rustic girl Ratan sits outside the postmaster's room waiting eagerly for his call.


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Free download or read online ✅Post Master bangla book from the category of Rabindranath Tagore. Portable Document Format (PDF) file size of Post Master is . Download Post Master By Rabindranath Tagore pdf ebook. Post Master is a Bengali book which is written by Rabindranath Tagore. We found a pdf file ebook of. Complete summary of Rabindranath Tagore's The Postmaster. eNotes plot summaries cover all the significant action of The Postmaster. print Print; document PDF. This Page Only · Entire Study Guide · list Cite; link Link. “The Postmaster,” a.

Ratan loses her hopes, and out of excruciating agonies, cries and, screams and runs away from the sight of the postmaster. The postmaster feels the pangs of the separation, but he has argument to console himself that meeting and parting are the ways of the world. Rattan has no argument; she suffers in obscurity, and has none to console.

Thus, the story has the beauty of a good short-story. The concentration of description achieved through apt uses of symbols, and the repetition of the moment of crisis through artistic handling of the plot and character gives the story a fine poetic touch of ambiguity.

It is really a very successful short-story ever been written by R. The Postmaster Uploaded by Mukul Bharti. Flag for inappropriate content.

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Baran Yeter. Sadaf Awan. Though the village was a small one, there was an indigo factory near by, and the proprietor, an Englishman, had managed to get a post office established. 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 an adept in the art of associating with others. Among strangers he appears either proud or ill at ease.

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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. That 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 macadamised road, hiding the clouds from view with 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: "Oh, let the kitchen fire be for awhile; light me my pipe first. 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 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 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.

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 felt 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 sights to see; and the postmaster was watching them and thinking to himself: "Oh, if only some kindred soul were near—just one loving human being whom I could hold near my heart!

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 his work. The postmaster sighed, and called out "Ratan. At the voice of her master, she ran up breathlessly, saying: "Were you calling me, Dada?

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 end. Canals, ditches, and hollows were all overflowing with water.

Day and night the patter of rain was heard, and the croaking of frogs. The village roads became impassable, and marketing had to be done in punts. One heavily clouded morning, the postmaster's little pupil had been long waiting outside the door for her call, but, not hearing it as usual, she took up her dog-eared book, and slowly entered the room.

She found her master stretched out on his bed, and, thinking that he was resting, she was about to retire on tip-toe, when she suddenly heard her name—"Ratan!

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Feel my head; is it very hot? He longed to remember the touch on the forehead of soft hands with tinkling bracelets, to imagine the presence of loving womanhood, the nearness of mother and sister.A small thatched house in haunted surroundings makes him feel ill at ease, and he has to struggle very hard to adjust himself to the new environment. Scanner nycs3. New Delhi: Sahitya Akademi, At one time he had an impulse to go back, and bring away along with him that lonesome waif, forsaken of the world.

This would give the postmaster an opportunity of conversing. False hope is clung to with all one's might and main, till a day comes when it has sucked the heart dry and it forcibly breaks through its bonds and departs. Scanningcenter nyc.

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