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

the steps of a mosque in faraway Roum⁠—where it disturbed a pious man at prayers.

The lama made his in ample form near the dewy bougainvillea-trellis near the platform, cheered by the clear sunshine and the presence of his disciple. “We will put these things behind us,” he said, indicating the brazen engine and the gleaming track. “The jolting of the te-rain⁠—though a wonderful thing⁠—has turned my bones to water. We will use clean air henceforward.”

“Let us go to the Kulu woman’s house” said Kim, and stepped forth cheerily under the bundles. Early morning Saharunpore-way is clean and well scented. He thought of the other mornings at St. Xavier’s, and it topped his already thrice-heaped contentment.

“Where is this new haste born from? Wise men do not run about like chickens in the sun. We have come hundreds upon hundreds of kos already, and, till now, I have scarcely been alone with thee an instant. How canst thou receive instruction all jostled of crowds? How can I, whelmed by a flux of talk, meditate upon the Way?”

“Her tongue grows no shorter with the years, then?” the disciple smiled.

“Nor her desire for charms. I remember once when I spoke of the Wheel of Life”⁠—the lama fumbled in his bosom for his latest copy⁠—“she was only curious about the devils that besiege children. She shall acquire merit by entertaining us⁠—in a little while⁠—at an after-occasion⁠—softly, softly. Now we will wander loose-foot, waiting upon the Chain of Things. The Search is sure.”

So they travelled very easily across and among the broad bloomful fruit-gardens⁠—by way of Aminabad, Sahaigunge, Akrola of the Ford, and little Phulesa⁠—the line of the Siwaliks always to the north, and behind them again the snows. After long, sweet sleep under the dry stars came the lordly, leisurely passage through a waking village⁠—begging-bowl held forth in silence, but eyes roving in defiance of the Law from sky’s edge to sky’s edge. Then would Kim return soft-footed through the soft dust to his master under the shadow of a mango-tree or the thinner shade of a white Doon siris, to eat and drink at ease. At midday, after talk and a little wayfaring, they slept; meeting the world refreshed when the air was cooler. Night found them adventuring into new territory⁠—some chosen village spied three hours before across the fat land, and much discussed upon the road.

There they told their tale⁠—a new one each evening so far as Kim was concerned⁠—and there were they made welcome, either by priest or headman, after the custom of the kindly East.

When the shadows shortened and the lama leaned more heavily upon Kim, there was always the Wheel of Life to draw forth, to hold flat under wiped stones, and with a long straw to expound cycle by cycle. Here sat the Gods on high⁠—and they were dreams of dreams. Here was our Heaven and the world of the demigods⁠—horsemen fighting among the hills. Here were the agonies done upon the beasts, souls ascending or descending the ladder and therefore not to be interfered with. Here were the Hells, hot and cold, and the abodes of tormented ghosts. Let the chela study the troubles that come from overeating⁠—bloated stomach and burning bowels. Obediently, then, with bowed head and brown finger alert to follow the pointer, did the chela study; but when they came to the Human World, busy and profitless, that is just above the Hells, his mind was distracted; for by the roadside trundled the very Wheel itself, eating, drinking, trading, marrying, and quarrelling⁠—all warmly alive. Often the lama made the living pictures the matter of his text, bidding Kim⁠—too ready⁠—note how the flesh takes a thousand shapes, desirable or detestable as men reckon, but in truth of no account either way; and how the stupid spirit, bond-slave to the Hog, the Dove, and the Serpent⁠—lusting after betel-nut, a new yoke of oxen, women, or the favour of kings⁠—is bound to follow the body through all the Heavens and all the Hells, and strictly round again. Sometimes a woman or a poor man, watching the ritual⁠—it was nothing less⁠—when the great yellow chart was unfolded, would throw a few flowers or a handful of cowries upon its edge. It sufficed these humble ones that they had met a Holy One who might be moved to remember them in his prayers.

“Cure them if they are sick,” said the lama, when Kim’s sporting instincts woke. “Cure them if they have fever, but by no means work charms. Remember what befell the Mahratta.”

“Then all Doing is evil?” Kim replied, lying out under a big tree at the fork of the Doon road, watching the little ants run over his hand.

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

“At the Gates of Learning we were taught that to abstain from action was unbefitting a Sahib. And I am a Sahib.”

“Friend of all the World,”⁠—the lama looked directly at Kim⁠—“I am an old man⁠—pleased with shows as are children. To those who follow the Way there is neither black nor white, Hind nor Bhotiyal. We be all souls seeking escape. No matter what thy wisdom learned among Sahibs, when we come to my River thou wilt be freed from all illusion⁠—at my side. Hai! My bones ache for that River, as they ached in the te-rain; but my spirit sits above my bones, waiting. The Search is sure!”

“I am answered. Is it permitted to ask a question?”

The lama inclined his stately head.

“I ate thy bread for three years⁠—as thou knowest. Holy One, whence came⁠—?”

“There is much wealth, as men count it, in Bhotiyal,” the lama returned with composure. “In my own place I have the illusion of honour. I ask for that I need. I am not concerned with the account. That is for my monastery. Ai! The black high seats in the monastery, and novices all in order!”

And he told stories, tracing with a finger in the dust, of the