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

“How if I guess, though?” said Kim, and putting his arm round her waist, he kissed her on the cheek, adding in English: “Thank you verree much, my dear.”

Kissing is practically unknown among Asiatics, which may have been the reason that she leaned back with wide-open eyes and a face of panic.

“Next time,” Kim went on, “you must not be so sure of your heatthen priests. Now I say goodbye.” He held out his hand English-fashion. She took it mechanically. “Goodbye, my dear.”

“Goodbye, and⁠—and”⁠—she was remembering her English words one by one⁠—“you will come back again? Goodbye, and⁠—thee God bless you.”

Half an hour later, as the creaking litter jolted up the hill path that leads southeasterly from Shamlegh, Kim saw a tiny figure at the hut door waving a white rag.

“She has acquired merit beyond all others,” said the lama. “For to set a man upon the way to Freedom is half as great as though she had herself found it.”

“Umm,” said Kim thoughtfully, considering the past. “It may be that I have acquired merit also⁠ ⁠… At least she did not treat me like a child.” He hitched the front of his robe, where lay the slab of documents and maps, re-stowed the precious food-bag at the lama’s feet, laid his hand on the litter’s edge, and buckled down to the slow pace of the grunting husbands.

“These also acquire merit,” said the lama after three miles.

“More than that, they shall be paid in silver,” quoth Kim. The Woman of Shamlegh had given it to him; and it was only fair, he argued, that her men should earn it back again.

I’d not give room for an Emperor⁠—
I’d hold my road for a King.
To the Triple Crown I’d not bow down⁠—
But this is a different thing!
I’ll not fight with the Powers of Air⁠—
Sentry, pass him through!
Drawbridge let fall⁠—He’s the Lord of us all⁠—
The Dreamer whose dream came true!

Two hundred miles north of Chini, on the blue shale of Ladakh, lies Yankling Sahib, the merry-minded man, spy-glassing wrathfully across the ridges for some sign of his pet tracker⁠—a man from Ao-chung. But that renegade, with a new Männlicher rifle and two hundred cartridges, is elsewhere, shooting musk-deer for the market, and Yankling Sahib will learn next season how very ill he has been.

Up the valleys of Bushahr⁠—the far-beholding eagles of the Himalayas swerve at his new blue-and-white gored umbrella⁠—hurries a Bengali, once fat and well-looking, now lean and weatherworn. He has received the thanks of two foreigners of distinction, piloted not unskilfully to Mashobra tunnel, which leads to the great and gay capital of India. It was not his fault that, blanketed by wet mists, he conveyed them past the telegraph-station and European colony of Kotgarh. It was not his fault, but that of the Gods, of whom he discoursed so engagingly, that he led them into the borders of Nahan, where the Rahah of that State mistook them for deserting British soldiery. Hurree Babu explained the greatness and glory, in their own country, of his companions, till the drowsy kinglet smiled. He explained it to everyone who asked⁠—many times⁠—aloud⁠—variously. He begged food, arranged accommodation, proved a skilful leech for an injury of the groin⁠—such a blow as one may receive rolling down a rock-covered hillside in the dark⁠—and in all things indispensable. The reason of his friendliness did him credit. With millions of fellow-serfs, he had learned to look upon Russia as the great deliverer from the North. He was a fearful man. He had been afraid that he could not save his illustrious employers from the anger of an excited peasantry. He himself would just as lief hit a holy man as not, but⁠ ⁠… He was deeply grateful and sincerely rejoiced that he had done his “little possible” towards bringing their venture to⁠—barring the lost baggage⁠—a successful issue, he had forgotten the blows; denied that any blows had been dealt that unseemly first night under the pines. He asked neither pension nor retaining fee, but, if they deemed him worthy, would they write him a testimonial? It might be useful to him later, if others, their friends, came over the Passes. He begged them to remember him in their future greatnesses, for he “opined subtly” that he, even he, Mohendro Lal Dutt, M.A. of Calcutta, had “done the State some service.”

They gave him a certificate praising his courtesy, helpfulness, and unerring skill as a guide. He put it in his waist-belt and sobbed with emotion; they had endured so many dangers together. He led them at high noon along crowded Simla Mall to the Alliance Bank of Simla, where they wished to establish their identity. Thence he vanished like a dawn-cloud on Jakko.

Behold him, too fine-drawn to sweat, too pressed to vaunt the drugs in his little brassbound box, ascending Shamlegh slope, a just man made perfect. Watch him, all Babudom laid aside, smoking at noon on a cot, while a woman with turquoise-studded headgear points southeasterly across the bare grass. Litters, she says, do not travel as fast as single men, but his birds should now be in the Plains. The holy man would not stay though Lispeth pressed him. The Babu groans heavily, girds up his huge loins, and is off again. He does not care to travel after dusk; but his days’ marches⁠—there is none to enter them in a book⁠—would astonish folk who mock at his race. Kindly villagers, remembering the Dacca drug-vendor of two months ago, give him shelter against evil spirits of the wood. He dreams of Bengali Gods, University textbooks of education, and the Royal Society, London, England. Next dawn the bobbing blue-and-white umbrella goes forward.

On the edge of the Doon, Mussoorie well behind them and the Plains spread out in golden dust before, rests a worn litter in which⁠—all the Hills know it⁠—lies a sick lama who