Kim Rudyard Kipling (web ebook reader .TXT) 📖

end to the Search. Meantime Kim, lonelier than ever, squatted on the steps, and swore to himself in the language of St. Xavier’s.

“But it is my own fault,” he concluded. “With Mahbub, I ate Mahbub’s bread, or Lurgan Sahib’s. At St. Xavier’s, three meals a day. Here I must jolly-well look out for myself. Besides, I am not in good training. How I could eat a plate of beef now!⁠ ⁠… Is it finished, Holy One?”

The lama, both hands raised, intoned a final blessing in ornate Chinese. “I must lean on thy shoulder,” said he, as the temple gates closed. “We grow stiff, I think.”

The weight of a six-foot man is not light to steady through miles of crowded streets, and Kim, loaded down with bundles and packages for the way, was glad to reach the shadow of the railway bridge.

“Here we eat,” he said resolutely, as the Kamboh, blue-robed and smiling, hove in sight, a basket in one hand and the child in the other.

“Fall to, Holy Ones!” he cried from fifty yards. (They were by the shoal under the first bridge-span, out of sight of hungry priests.) “Rice and good curry, cakes all warm and well scented with hing,53 curds and sugar. King of my fields,”⁠—this to the small son⁠—“let us show these holy men that we Jats of Jullundur can pay a service⁠ ⁠… I had heard the Jains would eat nothing that they had not cooked, but truly”⁠—he looked away politely over the broad river⁠—“where there is no eye there is no caste.”

“And we,” said Kim, turning his back and heaping a leaf-platter for the lama, “are beyond all castes.”

They gorged themselves on the good food in silence. Nor till he had licked the last of the sticky sweet-stuff from his little finger did Kim note that the Kamboh too was girt for travel.

“If our roads lie together,” he said roughly, “I go with thee. One does not often find a worker of miracles, and the child is still weak. But I am not altogether a reed.” He picked up his lathi⁠—a five-foot male-bamboo ringed with bands of polished iron⁠—and flourished it in the air. “The Jats are called quarrelsome, but that is not true. Except when we are crossed, we are like our own buffaloes.”

“So be it,” said Kim. “A good stick is a good reason.”

The lama gazed placidly upstream, where in long, smudged perspective the ceaseless columns of smoke go up from the burning-ghats by the river. Now and again, despite all municipal regulations, the fragment of a half-burned body bobbed by on the full current.

“But for thee,” said the Kamboh to Kim, drawing the child into his hairy breast, “I might today have gone thither⁠—with this one. The priests tell us that Benares is holy⁠—which none doubt⁠—and desirable to die in. But I do not know their Gods, and they ask for money; and when one has done one worship a shaved-head vows it is of none effect except one do another. Wash here! Wash there! Pour, drink, lave, and scatter flowers⁠—but always pay the priests. No, the Punjab for me, and the soil of the Jullundur-doab for the best soil in it.”

“I have said many times⁠—in the Temple, I think⁠—that if need be, the River will open at our feet. We will therefore go North,” said the lama, rising. “I remember a pleasant place, set about with fruit-trees, where one can walk in meditation⁠—and the air is cooler there. It comes from the Hills and the snow of the Hills.”

“What is the name?” said Kim.

“How should I know? Didst thou not⁠—no, that was after the Army rose out of the earth and took thee away. I abode there in meditation in a room against the dovecot⁠—except when she talked eternally.”

“Oho! the woman from Kulu. That is by Saharunpore.” Kim laughed.

“How does the spirit move thy master? Does he go afoot, for the sake of past sins?” the Jat demanded cautiously. “It is a far cry to Delhi.”

“No,” said Kim. “I will beg a tikkut for the te-rain.” One does not own to the possession of money in India.

“Then, in the name of the Gods, let us take the fire-carriage. My son is best in his mother’s arms. The Government has brought on us many taxes, but it gives us one good thing⁠—the te-rain that joins friends and unites the anxious. A wonderful matter is the te-rain.”

They all piled into it a couple of hours later, and slept through the heat of the day. The Kamboh plied Kim with ten thousand questions as to the lama’s walk and work in life, and received some curious answers. Kim was content to be where he was, to look out upon the flat North-Western landscape, and to talk to the changing mob of fellow-passengers. Even today, tickets and ticket-clipping are dark oppression to Indian rustics. They do not understand why, when they have paid for a magic piece of paper, strangers should punch great pieces out of the charm. So, long and furious are the debates between travellers and Eurasian ticket-collectors. Kim assisted at two or three with grave advice, meant to darken counsel and to show off his wisdom before the lama and the admiring Kamboh. But at Somna Road the Fates sent him a matter to think upon. There tumbled into the compartment, as the train was moving off, a mean, lean little person⁠—a Mahratta, so far as Kim could judge by the cock of the tight turban. His face was cut, his muslin upper-garment was badly torn, and one leg was bandaged. He told them that a country-cart had upset and nearly slain him: he was going to Delhi, where his son lived. Kim watched him closely. If, as he asserted, he had been rolled over and over on the earth, there should have been signs of gravel-rash on the skin. But all his injuries seemed clean cuts, and a