Kim by Rudyard Kipling (best reads of all time .txt) 📖

It was splendid. The bottoms of their trousers were quite torn, and old Nahan Rajah, he thought they were European soldiers deserting.”

“Oh, the Russians? How long were they with thee?”

“One was a Frenchman. Oh, days and days and days! Now all the hill-people believe all Russians are all beggars. By Jove! they had not one dam’-thing that I did not get them. And I told the common people—oah, such tales and anecdotes!—I will tell you at old Lurgan’s when you come up. We will have—ah—a night out! It is feather in both our caps! Yess, and they gave me a certificate. That is creaming joke. You should have seen them at the Alliance Bank identifying themselves! And thank Almighty God you got their papers so well! You do not laugh verree much, but you shall laugh when you are well. Now I will go straight to the railway and get out. You shall have all sorts of credits for your game. When do you come along? We are very proud of you though you gave us great frights. And especially Mahbub.”

“Ay, Mahbub. And where is he?”

“Selling horses in this vi-cinity, of course.”

“Here! Why? Speak slowly. There is a thickness in my head still.”

The Babu looked shyly down his nose. “Well, you see, I am fearful man, and I do not like responsibility. You were sick, you see, and I did not know where deuce-an’-all the papers were, and if so, how many. So when I had come down here I slipped in private wire to Mahbub—he was at Meerut for races—and I tell him how case stands. He comes up with his men and he consorts with the lama, and then he calls me a fool, and is very rude—”

“But wherefore—wherefore?”

“That is what I ask. I only suggest that if anyone steals the papers I should like some good strong, brave men to rob them back again. You see, they are vitally important, and Mahbub Ali he did not know where you were.”

“Mahbub Ali to rob the Sahiba’s house? Thou art mad, Babu,” said Kim with indignation.

“I wanted the papers. Suppose she had stole them? It was only practical suggestion, I think. You are not pleased, eh?”

A native proverb—unquotable—showed the blackness of Kim’s disapproval.

“Well,”—Hurree shrugged his shoulders—“there is no accounting for thee taste. Mahbub was angry too. He has sold horses all about here, and he says old lady is pukka (thorough) old lady and would not condescend to such ungentlemanly things. I do not care. I have got the papers, and I was very glad of moral support from Mahbub. I tell you, I am fearful man, but, somehow or other, the more fearful I am the more dam’-tight places I get into. So I was glad you came with me to Chini, and I am glad Mahbub was close by. The old lady she is sometimes very rude to me and my beautiful pills.”

“Allah be merciful!” said Kim on his elbow, rejoicing. “What a beast of wonder is a Babu! And that man walked alone—if he did walk—with robbed and angry foreigners!”

“Oah, thatt was nothing, after they had done beating me; but if I lost the papers it was pretty-jolly serious. Mahbub he nearly beat me too, and he went and consorted with the lama no end. I shall stick to ethnological investigations henceforwards. Now good-bye, Mister O’Hara. I can catch 4.25 p.m. to Umballa if I am quick. It will be good times when we all tell thee tale up at Mr Lurgan’s. I shall report you offeecially better. Good-bye, my dear fallow, and when next you are under thee emotions please do not use the Mohammedan terms with the Tibetan dress.”

He shook hands twice—a Babu to his boot-heels—and opened the door. With the fall of the sunlight upon his still triumphant face he returned to the humble Dacca quack.

“He robbed them,” thought Kim, forgetting his own share in the game. “He tricked them. He lied to them like a Bengali. They give him a chit (a testimonial). He makes them a mock at the risk of his life—I never would have gone down to them after the pistol-shots—and then he says he is a fearful man ... And he is a fearful man. I must get into the world again.”

At first his legs bent like bad pipe-stems, and the flood and rush of the sunlit air dazzled him. He squatted by the white wall, the mind rummaging among the incidents of the long dooli journey, the lama’s weaknesses, and, now that the stimulus of talk was removed, his own self-pity, of which, like the sick, he had great store. The unnerved brain edged away from all the outside, as a raw horse, once rowelled, sidles from the spur. It was enough, amply enough, that the spoil of the kilta was away—off his hands—out of his possession. He tried to think of the lama—to wonder why he had tumbled into a brook—but the bigness of the world, seen between the forecourt gates, swept linked thought aside. Then he looked upon the trees and the broad fields, with the thatched huts hidden among crops—looked with strange eyes unable to take up the size and proportion and use of things—stared for a still half-hour. All that while he felt, though he could not put it into words, that his soul was out of gear with its surroundings—a cog-wheel unconnected with any machinery, just like the idle cog-wheel of a cheap Beheea sugar-crusher laid by in a corner. The breezes fanned over him, the parrots shrieked at him, the noises of the populated house behind—squabbles, orders, and reproofs—hit on dead ears.

“I am Kim. I am Kim. And what is Kim?” His soul repeated it again and again.

He did not want to cry—had never felt less like crying in his life—but of a sudden easy, stupid tears trickled down his nose, and with an almost audible click he felt the wheels of his being lock up anew on the world without. Things that rode meaningless on the eyeball an instant before slid into proper proportion. Roads were meant to be walked upon, houses to be lived in, cattle to be driven, fields to be tilled, and men and women to be talked to. They were all real and true—solidly planted upon the feet—perfectly comprehensible—clay of his clay, neither more nor less. He shook himself like a dog with a flea in his ear, and rambled out of the gate. Said the Sahiba, to whom watchful eyes reported this move: “Let him go. I have done my share. Mother Earth must do the rest. When the Holy One comes back from meditation, tell him.”

There stood an empty bullock-cart on a little knoll half a mile away, with a young banyan tree behind—a look-out, as it were, above some new-ploughed levels; and his eyelids, bathed in soft air, grew heavy as he neared it. The ground was good clean dust—no new herbage that, living, is half-way to death already, but the hopeful dust that holds the seeds of all life. He felt it between his toes, patted it with his palms, and joint by joint, sighing luxuriously, laid him down full length along in the shadow of the wooden-pinned cart. And Mother Earth was as faithful as the Sahiba. She breathed through him to restore the poise he had lost lying so long on a cot cut off from her good currents. His head lay powerless upon her breast, and his opened hands surrendered to her strength. The many-rooted tree above him, and even the dead manhandled wood beside, knew what he sought, as he himself did not know. Hour upon hour he lay deeper than sleep.

Towards evening, when the dust of returning kine made all the horizons smoke, came the lama and Mahbub Ali, both afoot, walking cautiously, for the house had told them where he had gone.

“Allah! What a fool’s trick to play in open country!” muttered the horse-dealer. “He could be shot a hundred times—but this is not the Border.”

“And,” said the lama, repeating a many-times-told tale, “never was such a chela. Temperate, kindly, wise, of ungrudging disposition, a merry heart upon the road, never forgetting, learned, truthful, courteous. Great is his reward!”

“I know the boy—as I have said.”

“And he was all those things?”

“Some of them—but I have not yet found a Red Hat’s charm for making him overly truthful. He has certainly been well nursed.”

“The Sahiba is a heart of gold,” said the lama earnestly. “She looks upon him as her son.”

“Hmph! Half Hind seems that way disposed. I only wished to see that the boy had come to no harm and was a free agent. As thou knowest, he and I were old friends in the first days of your pilgrimage together.”

“That is a bond between us.” The lama sat down. “We are at the end of the pilgrimage.”

“No thanks to thee thine was not cut off for good and all a week back. I heard what the Sahiba said to thee when we bore thee up on the cot.” Mahbub laughed, and tugged his newly dyed beard.

“I was meditating upon other matters that tide. It was the hakim from Dacca broke my meditations.”

“Otherwise”—this was in Pushtu for decency’s sake—“thou wouldst have ended thy meditations upon the sultry side of Hell—being an unbeliever and an idolater for all thy child’s simplicity. But now, Red Hat, what is to be done?”

“This very night,”—the words came slowly, vibrating with triumph—“this very night he will be as free as I am from all taint of sin—assured as I am, when he quits this body, of Freedom from the Wheel of Things. I have a sign”—he laid his hand above the torn chart in his bosom—“that my time is short; but I shall have safeguarded him throughout the years. Remember, I have reached Knowledge, as I told thee only three nights back.”

“It must be true, as the Tirah priest said when I stole his cousin’s wife, that I am a sufi (a free-thinker); for here I sit,” said Mahbub to himself, “drinking in blasphemy unthinkable ... I remember the tale. On that, then, he goes to Jannatu l’Adn (the Gardens of Eden). But how? Wilt thou slay him or drown him in that wonderful river from which the Babu dragged thee?”

“I was dragged from no river,” said the lama simply. “Thou hast forgotten what befell. I found it by Knowledge.”

“Oh, ay. True,” stammered Mahbub, divided between high indignation and enormous mirth. “I had forgotten the exact run of what happened. Thou didst find it knowingly.”

“And to say that I would take life is—not a sin, but a madness simple. My chela aided me to the River. It is his right to be cleansed from sin—with me.”

“Ay, he needs cleansing. But afterwards, old man—afterwards?”

“What matter under all the Heavens? He is sure of Nibban—enlightened—as I am.”

“Well said. I had a fear he might mount Mohammed’s Horse and fly away.”

“Nay—he must go forth as a teacher.”

“Aha! Now I see! That is the right gait for the colt. Certainly he must go forth as a teacher. He is somewhat urgently needed as a scribe by the State, for instance.”

“To that end he was prepared. I acquired merit in that I gave alms for his sake. A good deed does not die. He aided me in my Search. I aided him in his. Just is the Wheel, O horse-seller from the North. Let him be a teacher; let him be a scribe—what matter? He will have attained Freedom at the end. The rest is illusion.”

“What matter? When I must have him with me beyond Balkh in six months! I come up with ten lame horses and three strong-backed men—thanks to that chicken of a Babu—to break a sick boy by force out of an old trot’s house. It seems that I stand by while a young Sahib is hoisted into Allah knows what of an idolater’s Heaven by means of old Red Hat. And I am reckoned something of a player of the Game myself! But the madman is fond of the boy; and I must be very reasonably mad too.”

“What is the prayer?” said the lama, as the rough Pushtu rumbled into the red beard.

“No matter at all; but now I understand that the boy, sure of Paradise, can yet enter Government service, my mind is easier. I must get to my horses. It grows dark. Do not wake him. I have no wish to hear him call thee master.”

“But he is my disciple. What else?”

“He has told me.” Mahbub choked down his touch of spleen and rose laughing. “I am not altogether of thy faith, Red Hat—if so small a matter concern thee.”

“It is nothing,” said the lama.

“I thought not. Therefore it will not move thee, sinless, new-washed and three parts drowned to boot, when I call thee a