Kabulivala

kabuliwalah	Cabuliwallah
mi fembace da limi nen, Mini, anabla hayi na blabla. me vero raya, sa pan li hay le no lewo langfeya\) un minute sa xix. li mame cango mafanu we, e le tinga le blabla, a me no. vida Mini xixi, we aneki, e me no abla beyu we longo. e saba mi le su du loge panzamano hayi. sa koy sube, pa misal, sa me jungu babe desosem da mi novi sagobuke, mi lil Mini xixjina pa kamar, e sa loka li hande pa mi le, loga: “pape! Ramdayal mungarder nama “korwe”\) sa “gorwe”! le no jana ene, vero?” cena me abla sifa alsif da intera bax da yi dunia pa le, le feyi sa tezi haw da ali tem. “raya ke, pape? Bhola loga gaje zayu jungu megam, le hawa suy ca zi nos, e we saba barxe!” e badu, repo mula, sa me sida e yexo sana jawabe pa yi novi loge: “pape! ki guanxe esa mam’ sa te?” sa gabri muke, me tatiko loga: “gowa gema sa Bhola, Mini! me bizi!”	My five years' old daughter Mini cannot live without chattering. I really believe that in all her life she has not wasted a minute in silence. Her mother is often vexed at this, and would stop her prattle, but I would not. To see Mini quiet is unnatural, and I cannot bear it long. And so my own talk with her is always lively. One morning, for instance, when I was in the midst of the seventeenth chapter of my new novel, my little Mini stole into the room, and putting her hand into mine, said: "Father! Ramdayal the door-keeper calls a crow a krow! He doesn't know anything, does he?" Before I could explain to her the differences of language in this world, she was embarked on the full tide of another subject. "What do you think, Father? Bhola says there is an elephant in the clouds, blowing water out of his trunk, and that is why it rains!" And then, darting off anew, while I sat still making ready some reply to this last saying: "Father! what relation is Mother to you?" With a grave face I contrived to say: "Go and play with Bhola, Mini! I am busy!"
janel da mi kamar kana rute. bace lewo sida ze sa mi fute, karbo sa mi mez, e jentilo gema, tambura sa zi gute. me kara tezo sa mi babe desoseti, da su Prataph Singh, manvir, novo kapa Kanchanlata, femvir, sa li handoxake, e plana bega sa fem, transa ceng tini du janel da burge, sa sate Mini abruto\) tinga gema, e esprinta pa janel, krita: “kabuliwalah! kabuliwalah!” ameno, sa daw da sa nice, zaya kabuliwalah, lento pasa. le fuka laxi e darti fuke da li nas, sa gawi pagre; zaya sake sa ruke, e tena{~carry} sanduke da putaw sa hand.	The window of my room overlooks the road. The child had seated herself at my feet near my table, and was playing softly, drumming on her knees. I was hard at work on my seventeenth chapter, where Pratap Singh, the hero, had just caught Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms, and was about to escape with her by the third-story window of the castle, when all of a sudden Mini left her play, and ran to the window, crying: "A Cabuliwallah! a Cabuliwallah!" Sure enough in the street below was a Cabuliwallah, passing slowly along. He wore the loose, soiled clothing of his people, with a tall turban; there was a bag on his back, and he carried boxes of grapes in his hand.
anabla loga, ke si emose da mi bace ca rupa wi man, a le mula kelelo plisa man laya. “au!” me fikra, “man wil jina inde, e mi babe desoseti nolbano wil finu.” sa yi presisi sate kabuliwalah rotu, e kana bace. sa Mini vida ye, fulisu sa teror, le bega pa def da mame, e zayulu. le tena ankanabli xin da tema sa inde da sake da tenu day man, zaya ablo duli o tini ali bace ko ze. vender, sa dur, transa mi munkong, e salama me sa jentili{~smile} muke.	I cannot tell what were my daughter's feelings at the sight of this man, but she began to call him loudly. "Ah!" I thought, "he will come in, and my seventeenth chapter will never be finished!" At which exact moment the Cabuliwallah turned, and looked up at the child. When she saw this, overcome by terror, she fled to her mother's protection and disappeared. She had a blind belief that inside the bag, which the big man carried, there were perhaps two or three other children like herself. The pedlar meanwhile entered my doorway and greeted me with a smiling face.
hal da mi manvir e femvir hatari, da mi nombre un fikre esa tinga e xopa koye, sabu man lewo plisu laya. me fata koy lil xope, e unalologe mula, da tema Abdurrahman, rusi, engli, e kenar du {policy}. sa man plana cuta, le eska: “e lil jovanfem loku sa ke, onori ren?” e me, fikra Mini xudu anzayisa zi falsi fobia, jama le. le estasi karbo sa mi kurse, e kana kabuliwalah e li sake. man suja {nut} e ganputaw pa le, a le no tentu, mono {cling} maxo karbo pa me, sa pan li dute maxu. ye loli mite un.	So precarious was the position of my hero and my heroine, that my first impulse was to stop and buy something, since the man had been called. I made some small purchases, and a conversation began about Abdurrahman, the Russians, the English, and the Frontier Policy. As he was about to leave, he asked: "And where is the little girl, sir?" And I, thinking that Mini must get rid of her false fear, had her brought out. She stood by my chair, and looked at the Cabuliwallah and his bag. He offered her nuts and raisins, but she would not be tempted, and only clung the closer to me, with all her doubts increased. This was their first meeting.
lekino, sa koy sube, bada no pol den, sa me plana cuta dom, me surprisu eureka Mini, sidi sa bence da karbo sa mun, haha e loga, sa day kabuliwalah sa li fute. rupu, sa pan li hay mi lil fembace nolbano eureka samo xantodengi orer, cula li pape. e lewo gon da li lil sariy\) fulu sa badam e gani putaw, don da li viziter. “ke saba te dona lole pa le?” logu me, e waya pesdiske da bal anah\), dona le pa man. man okeya pes na anta, e loka pa li jebe.	One morning, however, not many days later, as I was leaving the house, I was startled to find Mini, seated on a bench near the door, laughing and talking, with the great Cabuliwallah at her feet. In all her life, it appeared, my small daughter had never found so patient a listener, save her father. And already the corner of her little sari was stuffed with almonds and raisins, the gift of her visitor. "Why did you give her those?" I said, and taking out an eight-anna bit, I handed it to him. The man accepted the money without demur, and slipped it into his pocket.
ay, sa me fuga da bada un hor, eureka da malzari pesdiske retra sa cirka safara! sabu kabuliwalah dona le pa Mini; e li mame, sa ~vida mingi cirki vute, agresa bace sa: “ke-cu te geta yi pesdiske da bali anah?” “kabuliwalah dona pa me,” logu Mini uryango. “kabuliwalah dona pa te!”, kritu li mame sa tezi xoke. “au, Mini! ko yango te abla okeya le ca man?” me, da jina sa yi sate, sekura le ca dengani harabia, e kontina pa fata mi malki gence.	Alas, on my return an hour later, I found the unfortunate coin had made twice its own worth of trouble! For the Cabuliwallah had given it to Mini; and her mother, catching sight of the bright round object, had pounced on the child with: "Where did you get that eight-anna bit?" "The Cabuliwallah gave it me," said Mini cheerfully. "The Cabuliwallah gave it you!" cried her mother much shocked. "O Mini! how could you take it from him?" I, entering at the moment, saved her from impending disaster, and proceeded to make my own inquiries.
ye no zaman un o zaman dul, me eureka, da su yi dule mita. kabuliwalah supra muli teror da bace sa sofi {bribery} da {nut} e badam, e yi dule day doste zayo. lole fata pol kawayo bizari joke, da dona poli ajabe pa lole. sida sa muki late da man, kana li day-day forme sa pan da zi minia du onor, Mini haha sa ~ondi muke, e mula: “au, kabuliwalah! kabuliwalah! te tena ke sa ti sake?” e le jawaba, sa nosi acente da xandomer: “gaje!” ablo no day sabe pa ure; a ko tezo mey da dule suku fan! e pa me, yi baci loge da sa adulti man panbano tena koye da bizaro fasini. sa bade, kabuliwalah, pa no restu sa ruke, kapa li ban: “loga, lil-te, sa ki zaman te wil gowa dom da marpape?”	It was not the first or second time, I found, that the two had met. The Cabuliwallah had overcome the child's first terror by a judicious bribery of nuts and almonds, and the two were now great friends. They had many quaint jokes, which afforded them much amusement. Seated in front of him, looking down on his gigantic frame in all her tiny dignity, Mini would ripple her face with laughter and begin: "O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah! what have you got in your bag?" And he would reply, in the nasal accents of the mountaineer: "An elephant!" Not much cause for merriment, perhaps; but how they both enjoyed the fun! And for me, this child's talk with a grown-up man had always in it something strangely fascinating. Then the Cabuliwallah, not to be behindhand, would take his turn: "Well, little one, and when are you going to the father-in-law's house?"
zayu, maxim da lil bangli anmari fem ca longi lewo auda ca dom da marpape; a mome, da lil novoyangi, hafiza yi xey ca momi bace, e ca yi eske, Mini xudu lil konfusi. a le no xowa ye, e jawaba sa redi xute: “te gowa we?” sa ren da darje da kabuliwalah, lekino, vero jani, da fraz dom da marpape, we dulmeni. we jentilologe pa prizonia, loke da su mome jawgu\), sa nol koste xartu ca mome. forti vender aha eske da momi bace sa yi mene. “oh”, le loga, e sisma li hande pa anvidubli poliser, “me wil darba mi marpape!” ca auda ye, e grafa sa fantaz wi miskini, winuti guanxe, Mini beyu keleli hahe, da su li fobisi doste samuni.	Now most small Bengali maidens have heard long ago about the father-in-law's house; but we, being a little new-fangled, had kept these things from our child, and Mini at this question must have been a trifle bewildered. But she would not show it, and with ready tact replied: "Are you going there?" Amongst men of the Cabuliwallah's class, however, it is well known that the words father-in-law's house have a double meaning. It is a euphemism for jail, the place where we are well cared for, at no expense to ourselves. In this sense would the sturdy pedlar take my daughter's question. "Ah," he would say, shaking his fist at an invisible policeman, "I will thrash my father-in-law!" Hearing this, and picturing the poor discomfited relative, Mini would go off into peals of laughter, in which her formidable friend would join.