My five-year-old daughter, Mini, cannot live without chattering.
But to me the wedding feast was all the brighter for the thought that in a distant land a long-lost father had met again his only child.
Most touching lines:
I took them, and was going to pay him, but he caught my hand and said, “You are very kind, sir! Keep me in your memory. Do not offer me money! You have a little girl; I, too, have one like her in my own home. I think of her, and bring this fruit to your child-not to make a profit for myself.”
Saying this, he put his hand inside his big loose robe and brought out a small and dirty piece of paper. Unfolding it with great care, he smoothed it out with both hands on my table. It bore the impression of a little hand. Not a photograph. Not a drawing. Merely the impression of an ink-smeared hand laid flat on the paper. This touch of the hand of his own little daughter he had carried always next to his heart as he had come year after year to Calcutta to sell his wares in the streets.
Tears came to my eyes. I forgot that he was a poor Kabuli fruit-seller, while I was- But no, what was I more than he?
He also was a father.
Layman’s plot: Peddler befriends a Rich Little Girl. Something happened and they lost touch. Peddler seeks for Rich Little Girl on her wedding day, but she is not little anymore.
Verdict: One of the saddest short stories I have ever read. I love it.