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Commissioner, superintendent, diwan saheb, librarian – calling out such names one after the other in a practised manner, the clerk was flinging the letters rapidly.ĭuring that time, a playful voice called from inside: ‘Old coachman Ali!’ The old man sat up where he was, looked up at the sky fervently, moved forward, and placed a hand on the door. The clerk was reading out the English names on letters and tossing them towards the postman. The noises inside began to rise in intensity. Faith and affection were, in such cold weather, giving him warmth. The old man startled, but sat back down quietly again. ‘Police superintendent!’ A voice called from inside. There was no discernible sound from inside but he could hear some indistinct whispering as if some people were busy at work. The old man sat outside, on the verandah. The arch had the words ‘Post Office’ painted on an ancient signboard. As a devout person experiences a reverential joy on catching a glimpse of the destination of his pilgrimage, so did this old man feel happy upon spotting the wooden arch of the building.
Dhumketu gujarati books windows#
And lamplight was spilling from its closed windows and door. The wind pierced right through and the fine brilliance of the morning star, Venus, fell on earth like an icy flake of falling snow.Īt the very end, near the edge of the gardens, there was a beautiful building. Here, it was more chilly and the night was more velvety. On one side of the street was a row of trees, while the city gardens stood on the other. Shivering and tottering quietly, the old man exited the city’s gates to reach a straight path and, slowly-slowly, continued walking with the support of his old stick. Bearing the pleasing temperament of a man who can kill without uttering a word, the cold was spreading its tentacles all over, like a deadly weapon. People were snoring in sweet slumber and the night was more dense thanks to the cold of winter. The odd dog’s bark, some early riser’s footsteps heard from a distance, or some prematurely awakened bird’s tone – except for these, the city was entirely silent. At this time, the unrestrained, rhythmic sounds of mills grinding, along with the delicate voices of women, could be heard from many homes. Wrapping his old, tattered shirt tighter around his body to protect against the blasting wind, an old man was making his way through the centre of the city. “The hazy dawn sky was glittering with the previous night’s stars – big and small – like happy memories shimmering in a person’s life.
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The short story begins with the old man waiting at the post office, early in the morning, as the staff of the office sort out the mails. However, another lesser-known, yet equally talented short story writer, and a famous Gujarati literary figure - Gaurishankar Govardhanram Joshi, who is known by his penname Dhumaketu - has also made a significant contribution to the styles and techniques of modern Indian short stories in the 1900s.Ī recently published collection of Dhumketu’s short stories, titled Ratno Dholi, translated in English by Jenny Bhatt, gives the readers a glimpse into Dhumketu’s richly woven tales and depicts how Dhumketu contributed to the modern form of Gujarati Short Stories. In India, the landscape of short stories has been shaped by literary giants like Premchand, R.K Narayan, and Mulk Raj Anand. Often deemed as a difficult literary medium, and packed with heightened emotional intensity, short stories are also the most entertaining kind of literature. There are few in the league of Anton Chekov, Leo Tolstoy, Flannery’O Connor, O’Henry, or Rabindranath Tagore who can tell extraordinary stories about ordinary people, in limited words that short stories permit.