In Kali's Country.

by Emily Churchill Thompson Sheets.

I

Kalighat

"The five years will be up to-morrow. When the sun rises next upon the festival of Kali I shall have completed my vow."

Scarcely had the holy man been able to say his prayers or repeat his sacred texts the whole day long, for there had been constantly before his mind the knowledge that this was the last day of his self-imposed sacrifices and that the next day he would be free from all restraints to do--what? Over and over had the thought repeated itself in the man's mind until now, unconsciously, he had given utterance to it and the stout, sleek priest of Kali who chanced to be standing beside his shelter, looked down upon him in surprise.

"What vow, most holy one?" he courteously inquired. "For many years thou hast sat here at the ghat, the most honoured and revered of all the holy men this side the temple of our G.o.ddess Kali. Was this thy vow--to sit thus in ashes?"

The fakir started at the priest's voice, for his own remarks had been unconscious, and, looking up at his interrogator, he seemed slowly to comprehend that he had spoken aloud and that the priest had heard his words.

"Yes, Priest of Kali," he said, dropping his eyes and poking the little fire before him with his sacred tongs.

"Perhaps you of the holy priesthood can answer a question for me,"

he added slowly after a moment, without looking up.

The fat, half-naked priest, not loath to take advantage of any opportunity to do nothing, especially when at the same time he was being religious by talking with a holy man, dropped lazily to the pavement beside the fakir's rude shelter of a bit of thatch on four poles and, waving for a hookah from the rest-house across the narrow street, settled himself to listen in comfort.

But before the holy man propounded his question, for a few minutes he seemed to have forgotten about it. His keen, dark eyes, after turning thoughtfully from one side to the other of the small paved square in front of him, looked across the sluggish brown stream at the foot of the steps to the opposite bank where a few people were bathing in the water, and beyond to where were crowded close together the small mud houses of the native section of a great Indian city. While he gazed thus, the young priest took several puffs at the long pipe, leering lazily the while at two pretty girls who had come from the street into the square and, pausing before the fakir, timidly had placed a few pice on the dirty cloth spread out before him, but, seeing the leer of the priest, hastened to pull their saris over their faces and pa.s.s hurriedly down the steps to the sacred Ganges.

The holy man had not noticed the girls, nor did he seem to see the rest of the crowd of people who walked back and forth through the little square, having come to throw flowers upon the river or to bathe in its waters or, having bathed, to lie down and rest in Indian fashion in the roofed verandas charitably provided by rich and merit-seeking Hindus. He did not seem to see any of them, although so many of them brought their offerings of fruit and pice to him that his begging cloth was almost overflowing. Nor did he notice the presence of an American tourist who had stepped into the square and who, with a Murray under one arm and an umbrella under the other, was endeavouring to keep an immense sola, topi, from falling over on his nose while he took a picture of the "freak"; for how else could a globe-trotting American cla.s.sify a man who, naked all but for a small loin cloth, sat cross-legged upon a deer's skin, his long hair, matted with filth into ropes, wound in a scraggy knot upon his head and his body smeared with ashes from the small fire that burned before him, the marks of white upon his forehead, intelligible only to the Hindu, making his bearded face almost frightful.

Nor did the fakir heed the naked children who trotted across the pavement at the heels of their mothers, going to perform the sacred rites at the river and to secure their children from all harm by a dip in its holy waters. The old woman, too, who, scarcely able to hobble along, had placed a little bra.s.s bowl of the dirty, foul water beside him (for the piece of water near Kali's temple is only a slip of the Ganges itself and is, therefore, particularly filthy) received not her usual blessing in return and sank down near by to wait until the holy man should notice her.

"Yes, Priest of Kali," the holy one turned from his gazing, "I have a question that waits an answer. Listen to my story. I was once a wealthy man, trained in all the learning of Brahminism. I did only what our religion allowed; I did all that it required, in sacrifices to the G.o.ds, in presents to their priests, and even in pilgrimages.

But I was wretched within. I had no peace." As he spoke he laid his hand upon his heart and his eyes were heavy. "On the day of the great feast five years ago, on this very spot, after having made my offering to Jaganauth and to Haunamon and the other G.o.ds there," and he indicated with his dirty hand a little stone building at his left which contained a shrine to the legless, armless, hideous G.o.d, Jaganauth, and to the red, shapeless figure known as Haunamon, "I came to this spot to present my offering to the old man who had sat here ever since I could remember. But he was not here. He was gone.

They told me that they had found him that morning lying dead on the steps there with his feet in the Ganges and that already his body had been burnt in the burning-ghat near by. 'What a reward!' I thought, 'to have died by the side of Mother Gunga. Surely he must have found peace.'

"'Can I not find peace by following his example?' The thought came to me suddenly as I stood here gazing upon his empty shelter and his neglected fire. I determined at least to try, for, at any cost, I must find peace! In my zeal and eagerness at once I stripped off my clothing and smeared myself with ashes from the fire which the holy man had kindled but the day before. Leaving my clothes on the ground underneath this little roof near the heap of ashes, as a sign that the dead man's place had been taken, to warn off other possible devotees from the spot, immediately I pa.s.sed down the little street there between the stalls where are sold the articles needed in the worship of your G.o.ddess. At one I bought the little lamp; at another, garlands; at another, oil and a bra.s.s bowl; and at the street there I turned aside to buy, with my last annas, a black kid as a sacrifice for Kali.

"Through the narrow pa.s.sage between the houses that surround the temple of Kali I went in haste, drawing the bleating kid behind me by a rope. When I reached the little paved courtyard before that small but most sacred shrine where dwells the G.o.ddess herself I gave the animal over to the priest. Then I watched eagerly as he put the little creature's neck between the posts so that he could not get away, and, with but one blow of the knife, severed the head from the body, letting the blood pour forth. I hastened to catch the precious blood in my bra.s.s bowl. I daubed it upon my forehead. I touched the sacred slaughter posts with it. I gladly stepped where it had flowed upon the pavement and reddened my feet in the sacred flood. Then, as the priest carried the carca.s.s away and other sacrificers thronged in, I took my bowl and, mounting the steps of the holy place where no unclean foot has ever trod, I saw the door of the shrine open and before me stood the G.o.ddess Kali in her black majesty, with human skulls for a necklace and human arms for a girdle, her protruding tongue thirsting for blood. I poured my offering of blood upon her and with prayers and presentation of flowers and incense, I invoked her blessing upon me and declared to her a vow that for five years I would sit at the ghat day and night; that I would follow all the customs of the holy men:--wear no clothes but ashes, eat no food but fruit, drink no water but that of the sacred Ganges, and pray without ceasing; and that every anna that I received as alms I would give to her.

"Now, Priest of this most revered G.o.ddess, all this have I done. I have never left this spot since returning from offering my vow to her five years ago; I did not even go home to tell my family, who after several days traced me here; but I was so changed that they did not recognize me. Now they mourn me as dead. Here I have sat for five years upon this skin. See my legs, how withered they are! See my body; there is not a clean spot on it! See, I have drunk nothing but this water," and he held up the jar of muddy liquid which the old woman had set down at his side. "I eat nothing but fruit; I think of nothing but my beads and my sacred book; I give every pice to your temple. I have kept my vow. But I am not satisfied. I have not found peace. What shall I do? Priest of Kali! What can I do to find peace?"

The sad heart of the holy man was in his eyes as he looked at the priest and his voice was pleading. "If thou dost know, tell me!"

The priest, who had been dulled by his b.e.s.t.i.a.lity so that he was not able to comprehend the soul-longings of the man before him, had already become weary of the fakir's earnestness and importunity.

Lazily he pulled himself to his feet, after a last long suck at the pipe. "Come and be a priest of Kali," was his only answer as he turned down the lane towards the temple of his G.o.ddess, with l.u.s.tful eyes fixed upon a pretty woman, who, attracted by the unusual animation of the holy man, had been standing near by until the priest arose.

The fakir, worn out by the eagerness with which he had spoken and the unappreciativeness of his listener, turned wearily to his holy book and his prayers. He knew the priesthood of Kali; in his five years at the Kalighat he had heard and seen strange things which as a Hindu he could not condemn, but which he knew would not bring peace to him, even as a priest of Kali, for in his young manhood he had tried them and had not been at rest. "I was, indeed, foolish to have talked to the priest at all," he murmured.

"Pardon me, holy one," a voice interrupted his thoughts, the voice of a young man who had been standing for some time with an open book in his hand, not reading, but listening to the words of the fakir.

"I heard thy conversation. Hast thou ever tried the pursuit of wisdom? Study, learn, become the wisest of men and surely thou wilt become the most happy. I am a follower of that way."

The holy man, turning, looked fixedly for some time at the young man. "Son, what means the sad look in your eyes? Are you yourself happy? Tell me truly!"

The young man's intelligent but undeniably sad face was turned full towards the fakir. For a few moments he seemed to hesitate to reply.

At last he said, "No, holy man, I have not found peace yet. I have not found happiness yet, but I am only a student. I am seeking. I study and read at all times--but even while I read my heart is not at rest, I must confess." He turned as he finished speaking and with bowed head, unmindful of the noise and confusion of the square about him, went down the lane.

The fakir sighed. "Peace is not found in that way, poor youth! For I have tried it. I was a Hindu scholar of note before I became this,"

and he gazed at his dirty hands and body with evident loathing.

The old woman, who had waited all this time for her blessing, said timidly, holding out her hand towards him, "Holy man, most holy man!

Give me thy blessing, for my son is ill. Tell me how he can be healed, my only son."

Mechanically the holy man muttered a blessing, and taking a pinch of ashes from the fire before him, with a mumbled prayer, dropped them into her hand. "Put these upon his tongue. Bathe his head in the holy Gunga water and forget not to offer a kid to Kali."

"But I cannot offer a kid. I have no money! I have no money! My son will die! My son will die!" sobbed the woman.

The holy man looked at her fixedly for a full minute, realizing her grief and her need. Then with a quick glance about him he leaned forward. He swept up the pile of coins on the offering cloth before him and thrusting them into the woman's hands whispered: "Go and buy! Go and buy!"

The woman went quickly, wiping her eyes with her sari.

The fakir's face became radiant. "Surely that sweet feeling was peace! Blessed peace! Is this the end of my quest? Has my soul at last found rest?"

As suddenly his face darkened. "Yet, yet--I should have given that money to the G.o.ddess. I promised in my vow that every anna, above the cost of my fruit and of the wood for my fire, should be given to her."

He bowed his head upon his hands.

"I have broken my vow--on the last day of the five years I have broken my vow! I am unholy! I am unholy!"

After a few minutes he raised his bowed head and seemed to be thinking aloud. "Peace could not have come in cheating the G.o.ds.

That strange feeling when I gave to the woman to relieve her sorrow could not have been peace--but it was sweet, very sweet!" He paused with a half smile which soon, however, was overcast, for all the joy went out of his face again as he said, "It must be that I have not denied myself enough, have not made enough sacrifices. And I have been unholy! Surely there is peace for the truly holy. I will try again.--I will swear another vow. Take me to Kali!" He called the last sentence loudly, but ere the people in the square understood his wish, he remembered that he had no money, no offering to take; even he, a "holy man," could not go to Kali's temple to make a vow without an offering. He must wait until the people should fill his empty begging cloth.

"After all, it is best thus," he thought. It would have been useless for him to have gone to the temple without having planned what new form of self-torture he must add to his present life, in his search for peace. "I must plan my vow," he said.

In the meantime the sun had set and the people were leaving the ghat. Involuntarily the fakir pulled a cotton sheet around him and started to add a stick to his fire, for it was beginning to get chilly. But suddenly he stopped, dropped the stick from his hand and threw the cloth from his shoulders, proclaiming in a loud voice: "For the next five years I will have no fire at night, nor will I put more clothing about my body; but I will have a fire by day when the sun is hot. Moreover I will eat but once a day and but once a day will I drink water, no matter how parching the heat. And--and--I will hold my arms above my head all the night! Surely," his voice sank, "surely these sacrifices will bring me peace.

Surely--they--will--bring--me--peace. To-morrow will be the day to begin my new vow, but," he paused, "perchance I can gain my desire sooner if I begin now. Now, to-night, I will begin to keep my vow."

In haste the holy man beat out his fire with the sacred tongs; he threw his cotton sheet towards a beggar shivering on a step near by; and with his eyes turned towards the waters of the sacred Ganges, just visible in the dim twilight, he raised his arms high above his head.

II

Shama Sahai

A little company of pilgrims were trudging along the hot, dusty road. Where a large tree offered a resting place, there for a few minutes, squatting in the shade, the little company would stop while the mother, taking her naked baby from her hip, astride of which he had been carried during the journey, would let him stand beside her, and the father would take a fresh chew of pan, spitting out the red juice upon the roadside. But the young girl of the party would sit apparently unwearied, with bright, eager eyes fixed upon the road and with caressing fingers fondling the bracelets which adorned her arms.

It was an unusual thing for Shama Sahai to be clad in a gay sari, to have necklaces of beads about her neck, a gla.s.s-set stud in her nose, pretty, bra.s.s rings in her ears, bracelets upon her arms, metal circlets upon her fingers, large anklets upon her feet, and rings even on her toes. But most unusual was it for her to be leaving her village home of mud huts and with her parents-in-law and baby brother to be taking a journey; for from early childhood Shama Sahai had been but a despised and neglected widow in the home of her dead Hindu husband. She knew that they were going to some place afar off to worship the G.o.d Krishna and that some special blessing was coming to them for making this journey. She knew that her father and mother and she herself had worked hard in the fields that they might earn the money needed to pay the visit to the sacred city. She knew, too, that a large portion of this money had been spent upon her own adornment. So she felt very proud and very happy, but most of all very eager to reach the wonderful place to which they were going. Shama Sahai was young and strong, accustomed for many of her sixteen years to the heat of the noonday sun in the fields. To make greater haste she would offer to carry the baby and settling more comfortably the bundle which she carried upon her head, she would take the baby astride upon her hip and start off at an energetic pace.