THE TRIAL(play)
Rabindranath Tagore
ACT I
KHIRI the maid servant.
KHIRI।
Some people have the means to be good in gorgeous comfort and others like us groan under the burden of their goodness Their charity grows fat in their easy chairs, while we carry out their mission with the sweat of our brows. They reap undying fame and we early death.
(A voice from without: Khiri! Khiri!)
KHIRI।
There she calls! No time for poor me even to nurse my Grievance!
(Enters Rani KALYANI.)
KALYANI।
Sulky as usual!
KHIRI।
That proves I am made of flesh and blood.
KALYANI।
What is your latest grievance?
KHIRI।
That I made a wrong choice when I chose you for my mistress. Why should I come to a Rani's house, if I must serve a whole world of ragged riffraffs, cook for a needy neighbourhood bred in dirt, and wear out my fingers washing their dishes? And all this with nobody to help me!
KALYANI।
Help you could have enough if your tongue did not sting out all the servants I brought to my house.
KHIRI।
You are right. I have a sensitive mind, and cannot bear the least wrong around me. This fastidious delicacy of mine dooms me to solitude. The servants you had were pure-blooded robbers, blessed with a dangerously innocent look.
KALYANI।
And what about yourself?
KHIRI।
Holy Mother! I never claim to be an exception. I freely take all that I can lay my hands on. Yet I have but a single pair of them. The Creator made these to grab and to hold; therefore if you multiply hands about you, you divide your possessions.
KALYANI।
But your solitude seems to be bursting with a crowd of nephews and nieces and a miscellaneous brood of cousins.
Hasn't each of them a pair of hands for their share? You anger me and yet make me laugh.
KHIRI।
If only you laughed less and got angered more, possibly you could have changed my nature.
KALYANI।
Your nature change! Not even when you are dead.
KHIRI।
This is encouragingly true. It makes me hope that death will be cautious about claiming me. There! look at that lazy crowd waiting at your gate. Some of them have the story of a sick husband, who obligingly never dies, and some of an uncle, whose death remains for ever fresh with its endless claim to funeral rites. They bring their bags full of lies, to exchange them for solid silver. I never cease to wonder how certain people can have a special relish for being cheated.
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Tagore
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