Chapter XIX.

IT was a quiet peaceful evening. The long dewy pasture-lands lay bathed in a yellow light and the last smile of the sun flickered on the grass that covered the slopes and the distant meadows, so soft and pliable that even the gentlest breath of wind made dimples in it. The old, old peaks were there, and a heavenly radiance seemed to rest on their tops and on the wide plain beyond, revealing every object that came into view. The dark rocks, enveloped in the yellow shimmering light, seemed to be instinct with life; the huge spreading trees far away on the plains were spangled with gold; and the dead leaves quivered as if they too were alive. It was such a scene that met Narayen the saniyasi, as he lay in his grass-thatched hut on the ledge-like plateau in his old mountain retreat where Ramchander found him after Kamala’s marriage. The rush of the torrent was heard distinctly close by, but the saniyasi’s thoughts were far away, and his mind was grappling with a new and distinct problem of life. The nearness of death seemed to have deprived him of all consolation in his usual philosophical thoughts. The highly sensitive soul was about to shake off its mortal coil and face—what? Was there really a soul? What became of man after death? A few months before he could have answered these questions with self-satisfaction, but now, as the gates of death opened, a dread fear overwhelmed him. Had he after all been deceived? Nirvana—the absorption of the individual into the Deity—this was the spiritual goal he had all along been aspiring to, but what if the end should prove to be the complete loss of consciousness and the annihilation of thought? In that case what would become of all his abstract meditations, all his fastings and prayers, his suppression of passions and all promptings of self? In what way was one like Arunayadaya superior to the unthinking crowd? But even Arunayadaya, who possessed the vision of the seer and the faculty, under great mental excitement, of knowing what was happening to those he loved, even he had not explained to him the mystery of death. He had been rewarded no doubt to a certain extent for all his meditations and abstractions, for he had attained a solemn placid happiness, a calm unknown to many. The world had been nothing to him. Riches, name, position had all lost their power over him. Sorrow had been overcome and cares had been left behind. But even Arunayadaya had often talked doubtingly of the hereafter. Surely thought did not become extinct for ever? Death must after all be a long sleep during which thought is only suspended. And then what was to be the nature of the future state? Narayen shuddered at the bare thought of annihilation. He was evidently groping for more light, for a more definite revelation of the spiritual and the supernatural, but his was a noble soul, and notwithstanding his imperfect knowledge he had tried to lead a noble life. After a time he felt calm and soothed. It appeared as if the earth had been taken away from under his feet. All ties and trammels had fallen off completely. The light of the sun had by this time assumed a pearly haze and the stars were beginning to peep out. The breeze came gently sighing and seemed to become part of the whole tranquil scene. The soul of the saniyasi drank in for a moment the peace and tranquillity of nature all around. Is it in this way that we cease to live to the outside world and live only with the stars and the gentle breezes? But this sweet calm lasted only for a short while. There fell a sudden gloom in the hut, and Narayen felt he was striving for something definite, something that he could be sure of. “Oh! for faith to strengthen me at this hour,” he cried aloud, and then fell into a swoon. After a brief interval, he breathed his last troubled breath and was no more. Arunayadaya came too late to be recognised by his disciple, but according to his own request the body of the saniyasi was taken and buried in the silent forest of Panabras.

The news of the saniyasi’s death was gently broken to poor Kamala by her father-in-law; and she mourned many a day and night for the beloved Dada whom she would see no more. But harder trials awaited her. After a time, when she was just beginning to be reconciled to her lot, her little child took ill. Those bright eyes that cheered her once had an ominous far off gaze, and though the lips always parted with a smile and readily gave a soft, ringing, bounding laugh, the child seemed very different from other children. When Kamala felt distressed, the little eyes looked into her face with such a sympathetic gleam that the poor mother felt afraid and clasped her little treasure to her bosom as if to hold it there for ever. As days passed the child became thinner; and a low fever consumed its highly sensitive little frame. Then Kamala’s superstitious fears were aroused. To the Hindu mind the spirit world is a world of reality; the universe is inhabited by living spirits, good or bad, of departed human beings; and these spirits are supposed to possess qualities which were theirs during their human existence together with other qualities peculiar to spirits. The ordinary belief is that spirits before entering swarga have to pass through a preliminary existence in this world, the period of such existence varying according to the life led in this world during the human existence. If the being leads a good life by doing deeds of charity, and has acquired a mastery over self, then he passes straight to swarga. But if he has not so lived his spirit has to pass through a long period of probation, and some never even attain to swarga. It is these spirits that are dreaded most. Children are said to be specially susceptible to the influence of such. The credulous mother often sees this widow demon in her dream, who generally appears with another child in her arms and asks the mother to accept it. Against this evil power, however, it is supposed that the temple gods and the household deities possess a protecting influence. The distracted mother often has recourse to exorcism to free her infant from such fatal influences. Even Kamala was not free from such fears, and the servant woman who always interpreted her dreams for her filled her head with all sorts of superstitious notions. Kamala did all that she could for her infant, but the child was no better. At last she heard that a great god was about to manifest his presence in the plain opposite the Bhavani temple, and she determined to take her child there. As she approached the temple she saw a large procession moving towards it from the opposite side. People were rushing about distractedly and yelling at the top of their voices. The procession stopped some distance away and then a circle of frantic devotees was formed which became larger and larger. Kamala stood under a tree trembling and silent, watching the procession, with one arm outstretched to the god and another clasping the child to her bosom. She had braved much in thus coming here. The dear little weakling lay pining in her arms but the full beauty of its lovely eyes was turned towards its mother. Nearer and nearer approached the procession, and narrower grew the circle round the dancing devotee. Then a sudden fear seized upon Kamala. What if the blind deity were to strike her little one dead before listening to her petition? The gods always wanted an offering; what if they demanded the best and the choicest—her own little treasure? Ah! she would have flown away with it to the ends of the world to protect it. The child had heard the shout; and its eyes were fixed on the procession. Then they turned towards the mother with an enquiring gaze— such wondering round eyes they were. Kamala knew the look well, and she hugged her child to her bosom and cried out:—”O God have mercy. Not this darling one. Don’t ask this. Take me away, but spare her.” The child’s cherub face nestled to her bosom, and the soft eyes, once more taking a look at the mother, closed. She felt the head, it was warm and throbbing. A sharp pang passed through her heart. “It is not better after all.” Had she done wrong in coming? No, she would make one more appeal. Was the fever increasing? She fell on her knees and prayed a silent prayer. People thought she was mad. The procession went by. After a long time she got up. Her child was sleeping, and shivering all over. She made haste to return home.

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The night was dark, and there was only a faint glimmer of star-light in the low room in which Kamala was seated with her child. Outside, however, the stars shone brightly, and the wind moaned and sighed with a sad, sad wail. “Sleep, my child, sleep!” said Kamala, as she looked with agony at the pale wasted face on her lap. The eyes once more opened wide, and she hugged her child to her breast and said: “Don’t look like that—sleep, dear one, sleep,” and then in a low voice she murmured a plaintive melody, the words of which seemed a mockery, for the infant had not long to live.

“Golden is thy cradle,

Wide thy father’s sway,

Gently slumber, sweet one,

Harm is far away.

Sleep, little one, sleep.

Bending o’er thy cradle,

All to thee unknown,

Kindly spirits hover,

Seen by Heaven alone.

Sleep, little one, sleep.

Guardians of thy slumber,

Of no earthly race,

With their wings they shade thee,

Gently fan thy face.

Sleep, little one, sleep.

Light upon thine eyelids,

Falls their kiss divine,

Lip to lip they mingle

Spirit, sweet, with thine.

Sleep, little one, sleep.

Never yet so lovely,

Luscious on the bough,

Cluster of wild berry,

As my babe, art thou.

Sleep, little one, sleep.”

As she sang this familiar song each word sounded strange in her ears. Tears flowed fast from her eyes. It was more a death song than a lullaby, and she pressed her child closer and closer to her breast. Did she know that time was speeding, and that the star-light now shone on her child and herself? And did she know that the infant spirit had taken to itself wings when she was singing the tear-woven melody? Kamala sat cold as a stone with the child clasped to her breast, and the morning found her in a dead faint leaning back on the wall. They thought the mother and child had both gone; but the one revived to the consciousness of an aching void that would never be filled, and the other had flown away.

When Kamala awoke she had a raging fever that made her unconscious for days afterwards. She knew not that another great wave of trial was passing over her. To the neighbouring people she seemed to be the buffet of fate, and they said that the star of baneful influence had shone at the hour of her birth. What were all her riches to her now? She had lost the greatest adornment of a woman. Ganesh had suddenly died of cholera after twelve hours’ suffering. Great consternation filled the house, and Kamala herself was found at the point of death. Her father-in-law and mother-in-law had to proceed to Rampur, and her friends nursed her in turns. Days passed, and she awoke from her unconscious state, but only to misery such as seldom falls to the lot of woman. Without father and mother, degraded and despised, a creature of ill-omen, she hid herself from all around and cried in the secret of her heart for her lost treasure—her little babe. She looked upon her husband’s death as a meet punishment for having left his house, for was it not different now with her friend Bhagirathi, the scornful fiery girl? Her busband had left his mistresses and come back to her, and now she was happy, boisterously happy, in the possession of a firstborn son. Bhagirathi had told Kamala that it was through her own fault that her husband had been estranged from her; that she had been jealous and spiteful and had taken every opportunity to upbraid and defy him, and that after the birth of her son she had found out her mistake. Bhagirathi’s husband had told her that he had never cared for anyone else, and that it was only to punish her that he had behaved as he had done; and Kamala felt a keen pang of remorse when she thought that if she had stayed with her husband it would have been all right with her too. But now the widow’s blight had fallen on her. She who wanted to win others by her good deeds and justify her innocence in the sight of her husband’s people, was now the most accursed of all, and she felt she deserved all this misery. Her old friends and acquaintances, however, gathered round her, and did all they could to alleviate her sorrows. Kashi brought her infant child and laid it in Kamala’s arms, saying:—”It is not my child. Nurse and bring it up.” And Kamala found some crumbs of joy still left in this life for her.