So the traveler,
borne on the breast of the swift-flowing river,
consoled himself with philosophical reflections
on the numberless meetings and partings going on in the world
– on death, the great parting, from which none returns.
But Ratan had no philosophy.
She was wandering about the post office in a flood of tears.
It may be that she had still a lurking hope in some corner of her heart
that her Dada would return,
and that is why she could not tear herself away.
Alas for our foolish human nature!
Its fond mistakes are persistent.
The dictates of reason take a long time to assert their own sway.
The surest proofs meanwhile are disbelieved.
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.
After that comes the misery of awakening,
and then once again the longing to get back into the maze of the same mistakes.
-concluding para from the short story “The Postmaster” by Nobel-laurate Tagore