Chapter 4
For they would no longer whittle down the man into the peasant, but find him full of the mystery and spirit of his age.
Even his poverty and pain would grow great, released from the shallow insult of the present, and the paltry things in his basket would acquire pathetic dignity.
18
With the morning he came out to walk a road shaded by a file of deodars, that coiled the hill round like importunate love.
He held the first letter from his newly wedded wife in their village home, begging him to come to her, and come soon.
The touch of an absent hand haunted him as he walked, and the air seemed to take up the cry of the letter: "Love, my love, my sky is brimming with tears!"
He asked himself in wonder, "How do I deserve this?"
The sun suddenly appeared over the rim of the blue hills, and four girls from a foreign shore came with swift strides, talking loud and followed by a barking dog.
The two elder turned away to conceal their amusement at something strange in his insignificance, and the younger ones pushed each other, laughed aloud, and ran off in exuberant mirth.
He stopped and his head sank. Then he suddenly felt his letter, opened and read it again.
19
The day came for the image from the temple to be drawn round the holy town in its chariot.
The Queen said to the King, "Let us go and attend the festival."
Only one man out of the whole household did not join in the pilgrimage. His work was to collect stalks of spear-grass to make brooms for the King's house.
The chief of the servants said in pity to him, "You may come with us."
He bowed his head, saying, "It cannot be."
The man dwelt by the road along which the King's followers had to pass. And when the Minister's elephant reached this spot, he called to him and said, "Come with us and see the God ride in his chariot!"
"I dare not seek God after the King's fashion," said the man.
"How should you ever have such luck again as to see the God in his chariot?" asked the Minister.
"When God himself comes to my door," answered the man.
The Minister laughed loud and said, "Fool! 'When God comes to your door!' yet a King must travel to see him!"
"Who except God visits the poor?" said the man.
20
Days were drawing out as the winter ended, and, in the sun, my dog played in his wild way with the pet deer.
The crowd going to the market gathered by the fence, and laughed to see the love of these playmates struggle with languages so dissimilar.
The spring was in the air, and the young leaves fluttered like flames. A gleam danced in the deer's dark eyes when she started, bent her neck at the movement of her own shadow, or raised her ears to listen to some whisper in the wind.
The message comes floating with the errant breeze, with the rustle and glimmer abroad in the April sky. It sings of the first ache of youth in the world, when the first flower broke from the bud, and love went forth seeking that which it knew not, leaving all it had known.
And one afternoon, when among the _amlak_ trees the shadow grew grave and sweet with the furtive caress of light, the deer set off to run like a meteor in love with death.
It grew dark, and lamps were lighted in the house; the stars came out and night was upon the fields, but the deer never came back.
My dog ran up to me whining, questioning me with his piteous eyes which seemed to say, "I do not understand!"
But who does ever understand?
21
Our Lane is tortuous, as if, ages ago, she started in quest of her goal, vacillated right and left, and remained bewildered for ever.
Above in the air, between her buildings, hangs like a ribbon a strip torn out of space: she calls it her sister of the blue town.
She sees the sun only for a few moments at mid-day, and asks herself in wise doubt, "Is it real?"
In June rain sometimes shades her band of daylight as with pencil hatchings. The path grows slippery with mud, and umbrellas collide. Sudden jets of water from spouts overhead splash on her startled pavement. In her dismay, she takes it for the jest of an unmannerly scheme of creation.
The spring breeze, gone astray in her coil of contortions, stumbles like a drunken vagabond against angle and corner, filling the dusty air with scraps of paper and rag. "What fury of foolishness! Are the Gods gone mad?" she exclaims in indignation.
But the daily refuse from the houses on both sides--scales of fish mixed with ashes, vegetable peelings, rotten fruit, and dead rats--never rouse her to question, "Why should these things be?"
She accepts every stone of her paving. But from between their chinks sometimes a blade of grass peeps up. That baffles her. How can solid facts permit such intrusion?
On a morning when at the touch of autumn light her houses wake up into beauty from their foul dreams, she whispers to herself, "There is a limitless wonder somewhere beyond these buildings."
But the hours pass on; the households are astir; the maid strolls back from the market, swinging her right arm and with the left clasping the basket of provisions to her side; the air grows thick with the smell and smoke of kitchens. It again becomes clear to our Lane that the real and normal consist solely of herself, her houses, and their muck-heaps.
22
The house, lingering on after its wealth has vanished, stands by the wayside like a madman with a patched rag over his back.
Day after day scars it with spiteful scratches, and rainy months leave their fantastic signatures on its bared bricks.
In a deserted upper room one of a pair of doors has fallen from rusty hinges; and the other, widowed, bangs day and night to the fitful gusts.
One night the sound of women wailing came from that house. They mourned the death of the last son of the family, a boy of eighteen, who earned his living by playing the part of the heroine in a travelling theatre.
A few days more and the house became silent, and all the doors were locked.
Only on the north side in the upper room that desolate door would neither drop off to its rest nor be shut, but swung to and fro in the wind like a self-torturing soul.
After a time children's voices echo once more through that house. Over the balcony-rail women's clothes are hung in the sun, a bird whistles from a covered cage, and a boy plays with his kite on the terrace.
A tenant has come to occupy a few rooms. He earns little and has many children. The tired mother beats them and they roll on the floor and shriek.
A maid-servant of forty drudges through the day, quarrels with her mistress, threatens to, but never leaves.
Every day some small repairs are done. Paper is pasted in place of missing panes; gaps in the railings are made good with split bamboo; an empty box keeps the boltless gate shut; old stains vaguely show through new whitewash on the walls.
The magnificence of wealth had found a fitting memorial in gaunt desolation; but, lacking sufficient means, they try to hide this with dubious devices, and its dignity is outraged.
They have overlooked the deserted room on the north side. And its forlorn door still bangs in the wind, like Despair beating her breast.
23
In the depths of the forest the ascetic practised penance with fast-closed eyes; he intended to deserve Paradise.
But the girl who gathered twigs brought him fruits in her skirt, and water from the stream in cups made of leaves.
The days went on, and his penance grew harsher till the fruits remained untasted, the water untouched: and the girl who gathered twigs was sad.
The Lord of Paradise heard that a man had dared to aspire to be as the Gods. Time after time he had fought the Titans, who were his peers, and kept them out of his kingdom; yet he feared a man whose power was that of suffering.
But he knew the ways of mortals, and he planned a temptation to decoy this creature of dust away from his adventure.
A breath from Paradise kissed the limbs of the girl who gathered twigs, and her youth ached with a sudden rapture of beauty, and her thoughts hummed like the bees of a rifled hive.
The time came when the ascetic should leave the forest for a mountain cave, to complete the rigour of his penance.
When he opened his eyes in order to start on this journey, the girl appeared to him like a verse familiar, yet forgotten, and which an added melody made strange. The ascetic rose from his seat and told her that it was time he left the forest.
"But why rob me of my chance to serve you?" she asked with tears in her eyes.
He sat down again, thought for long, and remained on where he was.
That night remorse kept the girl awake. She began to dread her power and hate her triumph, yet her mind tossed on the waves of turbulent delight.
In the morning she came and saluted the ascetic and asked his blessing, saying she must leave him.
He gazed on her face in silence, then said, "Go, and may your wish be fulfilled."
For years he sat alone till his penance was complete.
The Lord of the Immortals came down to tell him that he had won Paradise.
"I no longer need it," said he.
The God asked him what greater reward he desired.
"I want the girl who gathers twigs."
24
They said that Kabir, the weaver, was favoured of God, and the crowd flocked round him for medicine and miracles. But he was troubled; his low birth had hitherto endowed him with a most precious obscurity to sweeten with songs and with the presence of his God. He prayed that it might be restored.
Envious of the repute of this outcast, the priests leagued themselves with a harlot to disgrace him. Kabir came to the market to sell cloths from his loom; when the woman grasped his hand, blaming him for being faithless, and followed him to his house, saying she would not be forsaken, Kabir said to himself, "God answers prayers in his own way."
Soon the woman felt a shiver of fear and fell on her knees and cried, "Save me from my sin!" To which he said, "Open your life to God's light!"
Kabir worked at his loom and sang, and his songs washed the stains from that woman's heart, and by way of return found a home in her sweet voice.
One day the King, in a fit of caprice, sent a message to Kabir to come and sing before him. The weaver shook his head: but the messenger dared not leave his door till his master's errand was fulfilled.
The King and his courtiers started at the sight of Kabir when he entered the hall. For he was not alone, the woman followed him. Some smiled, some frowned, and the King's face darkened at the beggar's pride and shamelessness.
Kabir came back to his house disgraced, the woman fell at his feet crying, "Why accept such dishonour for my sake, master? Suffer me to go back to my infamy!"
Kabir said, "I dare not turn my God away when he comes branded with insult."
25
SOMAKA AND RITVIK
SOMAKA AND RITVIK
_The shade of_ KING SOMAKA, _faring to Heaven in a chariot, passes other shades by the roadside, among them that of_ RITVIK, _his former high-priest_.
A VOICE
Where would you go, King?
SOMAKA
Whose voice is that? This turbid air is like suffocation to the eyes; I cannot see.
THE VOICE
Come down, King! Come down from that chariot bound for Heaven.
SOMAKA
Who are you?
THE VOICE
I am Ritvik, who in my earthly life was your preceptor and the chief priest of your house.
SOMAKA
Master, all the tears of the world seem to have become vapour to create this realm of vagueness. What make you here?
SHADES
This hell lies hard by the road to Heaven, whence lights glimmer dimly, only to prove unapproachable. Day and night we listen to the heavenly chariot rumbling by with travellers for that region of bliss; it drives sleep from our eyes and forces them to watch in fruitless jealousy. Far below us earth's old forests rustle and her seas chant the primal hymn of creation: they sound like the wail of a memory that wanders void space in vain.
RITVIK
Come down, King!
SHADES
Stop a few moments among us. The earth's tears still cling about you, like dew on freshly culled flowers. You have brought with you the mingled odours of meadow and forest; reminiscence of children, women, and comrades; something too of the ineffable music of the seasons.
SOMAKA
Master, why are you doomed to live in this muffled stagnant world?
RITVIK
I offered up your son in the sacrificial fire: _that_ sin has lodged my soul in this obscurity.
SHADES
King, tell us the story, we implore you; the recital of crime can still bring life's fire into our torpor.
SOMAKA
I was named Somaka, the King of Videha. After sacrificing at innumerable shrines weary year on year, a son was born to my house in my old age, love for whom, like a sudden untimely flood, swept consideration for everything else from my life. He hid me completely, as a lotus hides its stem. The neglected duties of a king piled up in shame before my throne. One day, in my audience hall, I heard my child cry from his mother's room, and instantly rushed away, vacating my throne.
RITVIK
Just then, it chanced, I entered the hall to give him my daily benediction; in blind haste he brushed me aside and enkindled my anger. When later he came back, shame-faced, I asked him: "King, what desperate alarm could draw you at the busiest hour of the day to the women's apartments, so as to desert your dignity and duty--ambassadors come from friendly courts, the aggrieved who ask for justice, your ministers waiting to discuss matters of grave import? and even lead you to slight a Brahmin's blessing?"
SOMAKA
At first my heart flamed with anger; the next moment I trampled it down like the raised head of a snake and meekly replied: "Having only one child, I have lost my peace of mind. Forgive me this once, and I promise that in future the father's infatuation shall never usurp the King."
RITVIK
But my heart was bitter with resentment, and I said, "If you must be delivered from the curse of having only one child, I can show you the way. But so hard is it that I feel certain you will fail to follow it." This galled the King's pride and he stood up and exclaimed, "I swear, by all that is sacred, as a Kshatriya and a King, I will not shrink, but perform whatever you may ask, however hard." "Then listen," said I. "Light a sacrificial fire, offer up your son: the smoke that rises will bring you progeny, as the clouds bring rain." The King bowed his head upon his breast and remained silent: the courtiers shouted their horror, the Brahmins clapped their hands over their ears, crying, "Sin it is both to utter and listen to such words." After some moments of bewildered dismay the King calmly said, "I will abide by my promise." The day came, the fire was lit, the town was emptied of its people, the child was called for; but the attendants refused to obey, the soldiers rebelliously went off duty, throwing down their arms. Then I, who in my wisdom had soared far above all weakness of heart and to whom emotions were illusory, went myself to the apartment where, with their arms, women fenced the child like a flower surrounded by the menacing branches of a tree. He saw me and stretched out eager hands and struggled to come to me, for he longed to be free from the love that imprisoned him. Crying, "I am come to give you true deliverance," I snatched him by force from his fainting mother and his nurses wailing in despair. With quivering tongues the fire licked the sky and the King stood beside it, still and silent, like a tree struck dead by lightning. Fascinated by the godlike splendour of the blaze, the child babbled in glee and danced in my arms, impatient to seek an unknown nurse in the free glory of those flames.
SOMAKA
Stop, no more, I pray!
SHADES
Ritvik, your presence is a disgrace to hell itself!
THE CHARIOTEER
This is no place for you, King! nor have you deserved to be forced to listen to this recital of a deed which makes hell shudder in pity.
SOMAKA
Drive off in your chariot!--Brahmin, my place is by you in this hell. The Gods may forget my sin, but can I forget the last look of agonised surprise on my child's face when, for one terrible moment, he realised that his own father had betrayed his trust?
_Enter_ DHARMA, _the Judge of Departed Spirits_
DHARMA
King, Heaven waits for you.
SOMAKA
No, not for me. I killed my own child.
DHARMA
Your sin has been swept away in the fury of pain it caused you.
RITVIK
No, King, you must never go to Heaven alone, and thus create a second hell for me, to burn both with fire and with hatred of you! Stay here!
SOMAKA
I will stay.
SHADES
And crown the despair and inglorious suffering of hell with the triumph of a soul!
26
The man had no useful work, only vagaries of various kinds.
Therefore it surprised him to find himself in Paradise after a life spent perfecting trifles.
Now the guide had taken him by mistake to the wrong Paradise--one meant only for good, busy souls.
In this Paradise, our man saunters along the road only to obstruct the rush of business.
He stands aside from the path and is warned that he tramples on sown seed. Pushed, he starts up: hustled, he moves on.
A very busy girl comes to fetch water from the well. Her feet run on the pavement like rapid fingers over harp-strings. Hastily she ties a negligent knot with her hair, and loose locks on her forehead pry into the dark of her eyes.
The man says to her, "Would you lend me your pitcher?"
"My pitcher?" she asks, "to draw water?"
"No, to paint patterns on."
"I have no time to waste," the girl retorts in contempt.
Now a busy soul has no chance against one who is supremely idle.
Every day she meets him at the well, and every day he repeats the same request, till at last she yields.
Our man paints the pitcher with curious colours in a mysterious maze of lines.
The girl takes it up, turns it round and asks, "What does it mean?"
"It has no meaning," he answers.
The girl carries the pitcher home. She holds it up in different lights and tries to con its mystery.
At night she leaves her bed, lights a lamp, and gazes at it from all points of view.
This is the first time she has met with something without meaning.
On the next day the man is again near the well.
The girl asks, "What do you want?"
"To do more work for you."
"What work?" she enquires.
"Allow me to weave coloured strands into a ribbon to bind your hair."
"Is there any need?" she asks.
"None whatever," he allows.
The ribbon is made, and thence-forward she spends a great deal of time over her hair.
The even stretch of well-employed time in that Paradise begins to show irregular rents.
The elders are troubled; they meet in council.
The guide confesses his blunder, saying that he has brought the wrong man to the wrong place.
The wrong man is called. His turban, flaming with colour, shows plainly how great that blunder has been.
The chief of the elders says, "You must go back to the earth."
The man heaves a sigh of relief: "I am ready."
The girl with the ribbon round her hair chimes in: "I also!"
For the first time the chief of the elders is faced with a situation which has no sense in it.
27
It is said that in the forest, near the meeting of river and lake, certain fairies live in disguise who are only recognised as fairies after they have flown away.
A Prince went to this forest, and when he came where river met lake he saw a village girl sitting on the bank ruffling the water to make the lilies dance.
He asked her in a whisper, "Tell me, what fairy art thou?"
The girl laughed at the question and the hillsides echoed her mirth.
The Prince thought she was the laughing fairy of the waterfall.
News reached the King that the Prince had married a fairy: he sent horses and men and brought them to his house.
The Queen saw the bride and turned her face away in disgust, the Prince's sister flushed red with annoyance, and the maids asked if that was how fairies dressed.
The Prince whispered, "Hush! my fairy has come to our house in disguise."
On the day of the yearly festival the Queen said to her son, "Ask your bride not to shame us before our kinsfolk who are coming to see the fairy."
And the Prince said to his bride, "For my love's sake show thy true self to my people."
Long she sat silent, then nodded her promise while tears ran down her cheeks.
The full moon shone, the Prince, dressed in a wedding robe, entered his bride's room.
No one was there, nothing but a streak of moonlight from the window aslant the bed.
The kinsfolk crowded in with the King and the Queen, the Prince's sister stood by the door.
All asked, "Where is the fairy bride?"
The Prince answered, "She has vanished for ever to make herself known to you."
28
KARNA AND KUNTI
KARNA AND KUNTI
_The Pandava Queen Kunti before marriage had a son, Karna, who, in manhood, became the commander of the Kaurava host. To hide her shame she abandoned him at birth, and a charioteer, Adhiratha, brought him up as his son._
KARNA
I am Karna, the son of the charioteer, Adhiratha, and I sit here by the bank of holy Ganges to worship the setting sun. Tell me who you are.
KUNTI
I am the woman who first made you acquainted with that light you are worshipping.
KARNA
I do not understand: but your eyes melt my heart as the kiss of the morning sun melts the snow on a mountain-top, and your voice rouses a blind sadness within me of which the cause may well lie beyond the reach of my earliest memory. Tell me, strange woman, what mystery binds my birth to you?
KUNTI
Patience, my son. I will answer when the lids of darkness come down over the prying eyes of day. In the meanwhile, know that I am Kunti.
KARNA
Kunti! The mother of Arjuna?
KUNTI
Yes, indeed, the mother of Arjuna, your antagonist. But do not, therefore, hate me. I still remember the day of the trial of arms in Hastina when you, an unknown boy, boldly stepped into the arena, like the first ray of dawn among the stars of night. Ah! who was that unhappy woman whose eyes kissed your bare, slim body through tears that blessed you, where she sat among the women of the royal household behind the arras? Why, the mother of Arjuna! Then the Brahmin, master of arms, stepped forth and said, "No youth of mean birth may challenge Arjuna to a trial of strength." You stood speechless, like a thunder-cloud at sunset flashing with an agony of suppressed light. But who was the woman whose heart caught fire from your shame and anger, and flared up in silence? The mother of Arjuna! Praised be Duryodhana, who perceived your worth, and then and there crowned you King of Anga, thus winning the Kauravas a champion. Overwhelmed at this good fortune, Adhiratha, the charioteer, broke through the crowd; you instantly rushed to him and laid your crown at his feet amid the jeering laughter of the Pandavas and their friends. But there was one woman of the Pandava house whose heart glowed with joy at the heroic pride of such humility;--even the mother of Arjuna!
KARNA
But what brings you here alone, Mother of kings?
KUNTI
I have a boon to crave.
KARNA
Command me, and whatever manhood and my honour as a Kshatriya permit shall be offered at your feet.
KUNTI
I have come to take you.
KARNA
Where?
KUNTI
To my breast thirsting for your love, my son.
KARNA
Fortunate mother of five brave kings, where can you find place for me, a small chieftain of lowly descent?
KUNTI
Your place is before all my other sons.
KARNA
But what right have I to take it?
KUNTI
Your own God-given right to your mother's love.
KARNA