Read the following passage from "The Cabuliwallah." 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 recollection; do not offer me money! You have a little girl; I too have one like her in my own home. I thought of my own and brought fruits 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 dirty piece of paper. With great care he unfolded this and smoothed it out with both hands on my table. It bore the impression of a little hand, not a photograph, not a drawing. The impression of an ink-smeared hand laid flat on the paper. This touch of his own little daughter had been always on 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 peddler, and that I was a customer, for a moment. I felt the love and longing of a father for his daughter, and I realized that we were not so different after all. This small, dirty piece of paper held more value to him than any amount of money I could offer. I thanked him, touched by his gesture, and promised to keep him in my thoughts. As he left, I watched him walk away, his large frame silhouetted against the setting sun, a father missing his own little girl, just like me.
