Kim by Rudyard Kipling (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📕
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Rudyard Kipling’s novel Kim, published in 1901, tells the story of Kimberly O’Hara (“Kim”), the orphaned son of an Anglo-Irish soldier, who grows up as a street-urchin on the streets of Lahore in India during the time of the British Raj. Knowing little of his parentage, he is as much a native as his companions, speaking Hindi and Urdu rather than English, cunning and street-wise.
At about the age of twelve, Kim encounters an old Tibetan lama on a pilgrimage in search of a holy river. He decides to fall in with the lama on his travels, and becomes in essence the old man’s disciple. Not long after, Kim is captured at an encampment of British soldiers under suspicion of being a thief. His parentage is discovered and the officers decide he must be raised as a “Sahib” (an Englishman) and sent off to school. The interest of the British officers in Kim is not entirely disinterested, however, as they see his potential for acting as a courier and spy as part of their “Great Game” of espionage against their bitter rivals the Russians, and ensure that he is trained accordingly.
Kim is a well-loved book, often being listed as one of the best English-language novels. Its depiction of the India of the time, its varied races, religions, customs and scenery is detailed, rich and sympathetic. And the manoeuverings of the players in the Great Game make for an entertaining adventure story.
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- Author: Rudyard Kipling
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The Ooryas laughed; the hillman sprang forward threateningly. The lama suddenly raised his head, bringing his huge tam-o’-shanter hat into the full light of Kim’s new-started fire.
“What is it?” said he.
The man halted as though struck to stone. “I—I—am saved from a great sin,” he stammered.
“The foreigner has found him a priest at last,” whispered one of the Ooryas.
“Hai! Why is that beggar-brat not well beaten?” the old woman cried.
The hillman drew back to the cart and whispered something to the curtain. There was dead silence, then a muttering.
“This goes well,” thought Kim, pretending neither to see nor hear.
“When—when—he has eaten”—the hillman fawned on Kim—“it—it is requested that the Holy One will do the honour to talk to one who would speak to him.”
“After he has eaten he will sleep,” Kim returned loftily. He could not quite see what new turn the game had taken, but stood resolute to profit by it. “Now I will get him his food.” The last sentence, spoken loudly, ended with a sigh as of faintness.
“I—I myself and the others of my people will look to that—if it is permitted.”
“It is permitted,” said Kim, more loftily than ever. “Holy One, these people will bring us food.”
“The land is good. All the country of the South is good—a great and a terrible world,” mumbled the lama drowsily.
“Let him sleep,” said Kim, “but look to it that we are well fed when he wakes. He is a very holy man.”
Again one of the Ooryas said something contemptuously.
“He is not a fakir. He is not a down-country beggar,” Kim went on severely, addressing the stars. “He is the most holy of holy men. He is above all castes. I am his chela.”
“Come here!” said the flat thin voice behind the curtain; and Kim came, conscious that eyes he could not see were staring at him. One skinny brown finger heavy with rings lay on the edge of the cart, and the talk went this way:
“Who is that one?”
“An exceedingly holy one. He comes from far off. He comes from Tibet.”
“Where in Tibet?”
“From behind the snows—from a very far place. He knows the stars; he makes horoscopes; he reads nativities. But he does not do this for money. He does it for kindness and great charity. I am his disciple. I am called also the Friend of the Stars.”
“Thou art no hillman.”
“Ask him. He will tell thee I was sent to him from the Stars to show him an end to his pilgrimage.”
“Humph! Consider, brat, that I am an old woman and not altogether a fool. Lamas I know, and to these I give reverence, but thou art no more a lawful chela than this my finger is the pole of this wagon. Thou art a casteless Hindu—a bold and unblushing beggar, attached, belike, to the Holy One for the sake of gain.”
“Do we not all work for gain?” Kim changed his tone promptly to match that altered voice. “I have heard”—this was a bow drawn at a venture—“I have heard—”
“What hast thou heard?” she snapped, rapping with the finger.
“Nothing that I well remember, but some talk in the bazaars, which is doubtless a lie, that even Rajahs—small Hill Rajahs—”
“But none the less of good Rajput blood.”
“Assuredly of good blood. That these even sell the more comely of their womenfolk for gain. Down south they sell them—to zemindars and such—all of Oudh.”
If there be one thing in the world that the small Hill Rajahs deny it is just this charge; but it happens to be one thing that the bazaars believe, when they discuss the mysterious slave-traffics of India. The old lady explained to Kim, in a tense, indignant whisper, precisely what manner and fashion of malignant liar he was. Had Kim hinted this when she was a girl, he would have been pummelled to death that same evening by an elephant. This was perfectly true.
“Ahai! I am only a beggar’s brat, as the Eye of Beauty has said,” he wailed in extravagant terror.
“Eye of Beauty, forsooth! Who am I that thou shouldst fling beggar-endearments at me?” And yet she laughed at the long-forgotten word. “Forty years ago that might have been said, and not without truth. Ay, thirty years ago. But it is the fault of this gadding up and down Hind that a king’s widow must jostle all the scum of the land, and be made a mock by beggars.”
“Great Queen,” said Kim promptly, for he heard her shaking with indignation, “I am even what the Great Queen says I am; but none the less is my master holy. He has not yet heard the Great Queen’s order that—”
“Order? I order a Holy One—a Teacher of the Law—to come and speak to a woman? Never!”
“Pity my stupidity. I thought it was given as an order—”
“It was not. It was a petition. Does this make all clear?”
A silver coin clicked on the edge of the cart. Kim took it and salaamed profoundly. The old lady recognized that, as the eyes and the ears of the lama, he was to be propitiated.
“I am but the Holy One’s disciple. When he has eaten perhaps he will come.”
“Oh, villain and shameless rogue!” The jewelled forefinger shook itself at him reprovingly; but he could hear the old lady’s chuckle.
“Nay, what is it?” he said, dropping into his most caressing and confidential tone—the one, he well knew, that few could resist. “Is—is there any need of a son in thy family? Speak freely, for we priests—” That last was a direct plagiarism from a fakir by the Taksali Gate.
“We priests! Thou art not yet old enough to—” She checked the joke with another laugh. “Believe me, now and again, we women, O priest, think of other matters than sons. Moreover, my daughter has borne her man-child.”
“Two arrows in the quiver are better than one; and three are better still.” Kim quoted the proverb with
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