Kim by Rudyard Kipling (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📕

I saw even now, a follower of Sakyamuni, the Physician, whose altars are many in Bhotiyal. It is sufficient. We are together, and all things are as they were⁠—Friend of all the World⁠—Friend of the Stars⁠—my chela!”

Then they talked of matters secular; but it was noticeable that the lama never demanded any details of life at St. Xavier’s, nor showed the faintest curiosity as to the manners and customs of Sahibs. His mind moved all in the past, and he revived every step of their wonderful first journey together, rubbing his hands and chuckling, till it pleased him to curl himself up into the sudden sleep of old age.

Kim watched the last dusty sunshine fade out of the court, and played with his ghost-dagger and rosary. The clamour of Benares, oldest of all earth’s cities awake before the Gods, day and night, beat round the walls as the sea’s roar round a breakwater. Now and again, a Jain priest crossed the court, with some small offering to the images, and swept the path about him lest by chance he should take the life of a living thing. A lamp twinkled, and there followed the sound of a prayer. Kim watched the stars as they rose one after another in the still, sticky dark, till he fell asleep at the foot of the altar. That night he dreamed in Hindustani, with never an English word⁠ ⁠…

“Holy One, there is the child to whom we gave the medicine,” he said, about three o’clock in the morning, when the lama, also waking from dreams, would have fared forth on pilgrimage. “The Jat will be here at the light.”

“I am well answered. In my haste I would have done a wrong.” He sat down on the cushions and returned to his rosary. “Surely old folk are as children,” he said pathetically. “They desire a matter⁠—behold, it must be done at once, or they fret and weep! Many times when I was upon the Road I have been ready to stamp with my feet at the hindrance of an oxcart in the way, or a mere cloud of dust. It was not so when I was a man⁠—a long time ago. None the less it is wrongful⁠—”

“But thou art indeed old, Holy One.”

“The thing was done. A Cause was put out into the world, and, old or young, sick or sound, knowing or unknowing, who can rein in the effect of that Cause? Does the Wheel hang still if a child spin it⁠—or a drunkard? Chela, this is a great and a terrible world.”

“I think it good,” Kim yawned. “What is there to eat? I have not eaten since yesterday even.”

“I had forgotten thy need. Yonder is good Bhotiyal tea and cold rice.”

“We cannot walk far on such stuff.” Kim felt all the European’s lust for flesh-meat, which is not accessible in a Jain temple. Yet, instead of going out at once with the begging-bowl, he stayed his stomach on slabs of cold rice till the full dawn. It brought the farmer, voluble, stuttering with gratitude.

“In the night the fever broke and the sweat came,” he cried. “Feel here⁠—his skin is fresh and new! He esteemed the salt lozenges, and took milk with greed.” He drew the cloth from the child’s face, and it smiled sleepily at Kim. A little knot of Jain priests, silent but all-observant, gathered by the temple door. They knew, and Kim knew that they knew, how the old lama had met his disciple. Being courteous folk, they had not obtruded themselves overnight by presence, word, or gesture. Wherefore Kim repaid them as the sun rose.

“Thank the Gods of the Jains, brother,” he said, not knowing how those Gods were named. “The fever is indeed broken.”

“Look! See!” The lama beamed in the background upon his hosts of three years. “Was there ever such a chela? He follows our Lord the Healer.”

Now the Jains officially recognize all the Gods of the Hindu creed, as well as the Lingam and the Snake. They wear the Brahminical thread; they adhere to every claim of Hindu caste-law. But, because they knew and loved the lama, because he was an old man, because he sought the Way, because he was their guest, and because he collogued long of nights with the head-priest⁠—as freethinking a metaphysician as ever split one hair into seventy⁠—they murmured assent.

“Remember,”⁠—Kim bent over the child⁠—“this trouble may come again.”

“Not if thou hast the proper spell,” said the father.

“But in a little while we go away.”

“True,” said the lama to all the Jains. “We go now together upon the Search whereof I have often spoken. I waited till my chela was ripe. Behold him! We go North. Never again shall I look upon this place of my rest, O people of good will.”

“But I am not a beggar.” The cultivator rose to his feet, clutching the child.

“Be still. Do not trouble the Holy One,” a priest cried.

“Go,” Kim whispered. “Meet us again under the big railway bridge, and for the sake of all the Gods of our Punjab, bring food⁠—curry, pulse, cakes fried in fat, and sweetmeats. Specially sweetmeats. Be swift!”

The pallor of hunger suited Kim very well as he stood, tall and slim, in his sand-coloured, sweeping robes, one hand on his rosary and the other in the attitude of benediction, faithfully copied from the lama. An English observer might have said that he looked rather like the young saint of a stained-glass window, whereas he was but a growing lad faint with emptiness.

Long and formal were the farewells, thrice ended and thrice renewed. The Seeker⁠—he who had invited the lama to that haven from faraway Tibet, a silver-faced, hairless ascetic⁠—took no part in it, but meditated, as always, alone among the images. The others were very human; pressing small comforts upon the old man⁠—a betel-box, a fine new iron pencase, a food-bag, and suchlike⁠—warning him against the dangers of the world without, and prophesying a happy