Kim by Rudyard Kipling (best summer reads of all time TXT) 📖

Give the man who is not made To his trade Swords to fling and catch again, Coins to ring and snatch again, Men to harm and cure again, Snakes to charm and lure again - He’ll be hurt by his own blade, By his serpents disobeyed, By his clumsiness bewrayed,’ By the people mocked to scorn - So ‘tis not with juggler born! Pinch of dust or withered flower, Chance-flung fruit or borrowed staff, Serve his need and shore his power, Bind the spell, or loose the laugh! But a man who, etc.

The Juggler’s Song, op. 15

Followed a sudden natural reaction.

‘Now am I alone - all alone,’ he thought. ‘In all India is no one so alone as I! If I die today, who shall bring the news -and to whom? If I live and God is good, there will be a price upon my head, for I am a Son of the Charm - I, Kim.’

A very few white people, but many Asiatics, can throw themselves into a mazement as it were by repeating their own names over and over again to themselves, letting the mind go free upon speculation as to what is called personal identity. When one grows older, the power, usually, departs, but while it lasts it may descend upon a man at any moment.

‘Who is Kim - Kim - Kim?’

He squatted in a corner of the clanging waiting-room, rapt from all other thoughts; hands folded in lap, and pupils contracted to pin-points. In a minute - in another half-second - he felt he would arrive at the solution of the tremendous puzzle; but here, as always happens, his mind dropped away from those heights with a rush of a wounded bird, and passing his hand before his eyes, he shook his head.

A long-haired Hindu bairagi [holy man], who had just bought a ticket, halted before him at that moment and stared intently.

‘I also have lost it,’ he said sadly. ‘It is one of the Gates to the Way, but for me it has been shut many years.’

‘What is the talk?’ said Kim, abashed.

‘Thou wast wondering there in thy spirit what manner of thing thy soul might be. The seizure came of a sudden. I know. Who should know but I? Whither goest thou?’

‘Toward Kashi [Benares].’

‘There are no Gods there. I have proved them. I go to Prayag [Allahabad] for the fifth time - seeking the Road to Enlightenment. Of what faith art thou?’

‘I too am a Seeker,’ said Kim, using one of the lama’s pet words. ‘Though’- he forgot his Northern dress for the moment - ‘though Allah alone knoweth what I seek.’

The old fellow slipped the bairagi’s crutch under his armpit and sat down on a patch of ruddy leopard’s skin as Kim rose at the call for the Benares train.

‘Go in hope, little brother,’ he said. ‘It is a long road to the feet of the One; but thither do we all travel.’

Kim did not feel so lonely after this, and ere he had sat out twenty miles in the crowded compartment, was cheering his neighbours with a string of most wonderful yarns about his own and his master’s magical gifts.

Benares struck him as a peculiarly filthy city, though it was pleasant to find how his cloth was respected. At least one-third of the population prays eternally to some group or other of the many million deities, and so reveres every sort of holy man. Kim was guided to the Temple of the Tirthankars, about a mile outside the city, near Sarnath, by a chance-met Punjabi farmer - a Kamboh from Jullundur-way who had appealed in vain to every God of his homestead to cure his small son, and was trying Benares as a last resort.

‘Thou art from the North?’ he asked, shouldering through the press of the narrow, stinking streets much like his own pet bull at home.

‘Ay, I know the Punjab. My mother was a pahareen, but my father came from Amritzar - by Jandiala,’ said Kim, oiling his ready tongue for the needs of the Road.

‘Jandiala - Jullundur? Oho! Then we be neighbours in some sort, as it were.’ He nodded tenderly to the wailing child in his arms. ‘Whom dost thou serve?’

‘A most holy man at the Temple of the Tirthankers.’

‘They are all most holy and - most greedy,’ said the Jat with bitterness. ‘I have walked the pillars and trodden the temples till my feet are flayed, and the child is no whit better. And the mother being sick too … Hush, then, little one … We changed his name when the fever came. We put him into girl’s clothes. There was nothing we did not do, except - I said to his mother when she bundled me off to Benares -she should have come with me - I said Sakhi Sarwar Sultan would serve us best. We know His generosity, but these down-country Gods are strangers.’

The child turned on the cushion of the huge corded arms and looked at Kim through heavy eyelids.

‘And was it all worthless?’ Kim asked, with easy interest.

‘All worthless - all worthless,’ said the child, lips cracking with fever.

‘The Gods have given him a good mind, at least’ said the father proudly. ‘To think he should have listened so cleverly. Yonder is thy Temple. Now I am a poor man - many priests have dealt with me - but my son is my son, and if a gift to thy master can cure him - I am at my very wits’ end.’

Kim considered for a while, tingling with pride. Three years ago he would have made prompt profit on the situation and gone his way without a thought; but now, the very respect the Jat paid him proved that he was a man. Moreover, he had tasted fever once or twice already, and knew enough to recognize starvation when he saw it.

‘Call him forth and I will give him a bond on my best yoke, so that the child is cured.’

Kim halted at the carved outer door of the temple. A white-clad Oswal banker from Ajmir, his sins of usury new wiped out, asked him what he did.

‘I am chela to Teshoo Lama, an Holy One from Bhotiyal -within there. He bade me come. I wait. Tell him.’

‘Do not forget the child,’ cried the importunate Jat over his shoulder, and then bellowed in Punjabi; ‘O Holy One - O disciple of the Holy One - O Gods above all the Worlds -behold affliction sitting at the gate!’ That cry is so common in Benares that the passers never turned their heads.

The Oswal, at peace with mankind, carried the message into the darkness behind him, and the easy, uncounted Eastern minutes slid by; for the lama was asleep in his cell, and no priest would wake him. When the click of his rosary again broke the hush of the inner court where the calm images of the Arhats stand, a novice whispered, ‘Thy chela is here,’ and the old man strode forth, forgetting the end of that prayer.

Hardly had the tall figure shown in the doorway than the Jat ran before him, and, lifting up the child, cried: ‘Look upon this, Holy One; and if the Gods will, he lives - he lives!’

He fumbled in his waist-belt and drew out a small silver coin.

‘What is now?’ The lama’s eyes turned to Kim. It was noticeable he spoke far clearer Urdu than long ago, under ZamZammah; but father would allow no private talk.

‘It is no more than a fever,’ said Kim. ‘The child is not well fed.’

‘He sickens at everything, and his mother is not here.’

‘If it be permitted, I may cure, Holy One.’

‘What! Have they made thee a healer? Wait here,’ said the lama, and he sat down by the Jat upon the lowest step of the temple, while Kim, looking out of the corner of his eyes, slowly opened the little betel-box. He had dreamed dreams at school of returning to the lama as a Sahib - of chaffing the old man before he revealed himself - boy’s dreams all. There was more drama in this abstracted, brow-puckered search through the tabloid-bottles, with a pause here and there for thought and a muttered invocation between whiles. Quinine he had in tablets, and dark brown meat-lozenges - beef most probably, but that was not his business. The little thing would not eat, but it sucked at a lozenge greedily, and said it liked the salt taste.

‘Take then these six.’ Kim handed them to the man. ‘Praise the Gods, and boil three in milk; other three in water. After he has drunk the milk give him this’ (it was the half of a quinine pill), ‘and wrap him warm. Give him the water of the other three, and the other half of this white pill when he wakes. Meantime, here is another brown medicine that he may suck at on the way home.’

‘Gods, what wisdom!’ said the Kamboh, snatching.

It was as much as Kim could remember of his own treatment in a bout of autumn malaria - if you except the patter that he added to impress the lama.

‘Now go! Come again in the morning.’

‘But the price - the price,’ said the Jat, and threw back his sturdy shoulders. ‘My son is my son. Now that he will be whole again, how shall I go back to his mother and say I took help by the wayside and did not even give a bowl of curds in return?’

‘They are alike, these Jats,’ said Kim softly. ‘The Jat stood on his dunghill and the King’s elephants went by. “O driver,” said he, “what will you sell those little donkeys for?”’

The Jat burst into a roar of laughter, stifled with apologies to the lama. ‘It is the saying of my own country the very talk of it. So are we Jats all. I will come tomorrow with the child; and the blessing of the Gods of the Homesteads - who are good little Gods - be on you both … Now, son, we grow strong again. Do not