Kim Rudyard Kipling (web ebook reader .TXT) 📖

immense and sumptuous ritual of avalanche-guarded cathedrals; of processions and devil-dances; of the changing of monks and nuns into swine; of holy cities fifteen thousand feet in the air; of intrigue between monastery and monastery; of voices among the hills, and of that mysterious mirage that dances on dry snow. He spoke even of Lhassa and of the Dalai Lama, whom he had seen and adored.

Each long, perfect day rose behind Kim for a barrier to cut him off from his race and his mother-tongue. He slipped back to thinking and dreaming in the vernacular, and mechanically followed the lama’s ceremonial observances at eating, drinking, and the like. The old man’s mind turned more and more to his monastery as his eyes turned to the steadfast snows. His River troubled him nothing. Now and again, indeed, he would gaze long and long at a tuft or a twig, expecting, he said, the earth to cleave and deliver its blessing; but he was content to be with his disciple, at ease in the temperate wind that comes down from the Doon. This was not Ceylon, nor Buddh Gaya, nor Bombay, nor some grass-tangled ruins that he seemed to have stumbled upon two years ago. He spoke of those places as a scholar removed from vanity, as a Seeker walking in humility, as an old man, wise and temperate, illumining knowledge with brilliant insight. Bit by bit, disconnectedly, each tale called up by some wayside thing, he spoke of all his wanderings up and down Hind; till Kim, who had loved him without reason, now loved him for fifty good reasons. So they enjoyed themselves in high felicity, abstaining, as the Rule demands, from evil words, covetous desires; not overeating, not lying on high beds, nor wearing rich clothes. Their stomachs told them the time, and the people brought them their food, as the saying is. They were lords of the villages of Aminabad, Sahaigunge, Akrola of the Ford, and little Phulesa, where Kim gave the soulless woman a blessing.

But news travels fast in India, and too soon shuffled across the crop-land, bearing a basket of fruits with a box of Kabul grapes and gilt oranges, a white-whiskered servitor⁠—a lean, dry Oorya⁠—begging them to bring the honour of their presence to his mistress, distressed in her mind that the lama had neglected her so long.

“Now do I remember”⁠—the lama spoke as though it were a wholly new proposition. “She is virtuous, but an inordinate talker.”

Kim was sitting on the edge of a cow’s manger, telling stories to a village smith’s children.

“She will only ask for another son for her daughter. I have not forgotten her,” he said. “Let her acquire merit. Send word that we will come.”

They covered eleven miles through the fields in two days, and were overwhelmed with attentions at the end; for the old lady held a fine tradition of hospitality, to which she forced her son-in-law, who was under the thumb of his women-folk and bought peace by borrowing of the moneylender. Age had not weakened her tongue or her memory, and from a discreetly barred upper window, in the hearing of not less than a dozen servants, she paid Kim compliments that would have flung European audiences into unclean dismay.

“But thou art still the shameless beggar-brat of the parao,” she shrilled. “I have not forgotten thee. Wash ye and eat. The father of my daughter’s son is gone away awhile. So we poor women are dumb and useless.”

For proof, she harangued the entire household unsparingly till food and drink were brought; and in the evening⁠—the smoke-scented evening, copper-dun and turquoise across the fields⁠—it pleased her to order her palanquin to be set down in the untidy forecourt by smoky torchlight; and there, behind not too closely drawn curtains, she gossiped.

“Had the Holy One come alone, I should have received him otherwise; but with this rogue, who can be too careful?”

“Maharanee,” said Kim, choosing as always the amplest title, “is it my fault that none other than a Sahib⁠—a polis-Sahib⁠—called the Maharanee whose face he⁠—”

“Chitt! That was on the pilgrimage. When we travel⁠—thou knowest the proverb.”

“Called the Maharanee a Breaker of Hearts and a Dispenser of Delights?”

“To remember that! It was true. So he did. That was in the time of the bloom of my beauty.” She chuckled like a contented parrot above the sugar lump. “Now tell me of thy goings and comings⁠—as much as may be without shame. How many maids, and whose wives, hang upon thine eyelashes? Ye hail from Benares? I would have gone there again this year, but my daughter⁠—we have only two sons. Phaii! Such is the effect of these low plains. Now in Kulu men are elephants. But I would ask thy Holy One⁠—stand aside, rogue⁠—a charm against most lamentable windy colics that in mango-time overtake my daughter’s eldest. Two years back he gave me a powerful spell.”

“Oh, Holy One!” said Kim, bubbling with mirth at the lama’s rueful face.

“It is true. I gave her one against wind.”

“Teeth⁠—teeth⁠—teeth,” snapped the old woman.

“ ‘Cure them if they are sick,’ ” Kim quoted relishingly, “ ‘but by no means work charms. Remember what befell the Mahratta.’ ”

“That was two Rains ago; she wearied me with her continual importunity.” The lama groaned as the Unjust Judge had groaned before him. “Thus it comes⁠—take note, my chela⁠—that even those who would follow the Way are thrust aside by idle women. Three days through, when the child was sick, she talked to me.”

“Arre! and to whom else should I talk? The boy’s mother knew nothing, and the father⁠—in the nights of the cold weather it was⁠—‘Pray to the Gods,’ said he, forsooth, and turning over, snored!”

“I gave her the charm. What is an old man to do?”

“ ‘To abstain from action is well⁠—except to acquire merit.’ ”

“Ah chela, if thou desertest me, I am all alone.”

“He found his milk-teeth easily at any rate,” said the old lady. “But all priests are alike.”

Kim coughed severely.