[Illustration:

                                 C 797

                                 NAILA

                             (See page 64)]




                             INDIAN TALES
                           OF THE GREAT ONES

                          _Among Men, Women,
                           and Bird-people_


                          By Cornelia Sorabji


                 _With Illustrations by Warwick Goble_


                        BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
                         WARWICK HOUSE, BOMBAY
                          LONDON AND GLASGOW




                                  _To
                            my Baby-Friends
                                  in
                              all Worlds_




                               CONTENTS


                                                                    Page

  THE EAGLE BROTHERS                                                   5

  THE THRONE OF JUSTICE                                               10

  SAMYUKTA, OR THE STORY OF THE OWN-CHOOSING                          16

  THE MAN WHO MADE HIMSELF AN ARCHER                                  23

  THE BLUE BIRD AND THE ARCHER                                        27

  DRAUPADI AND THE GREAT GAME                                         30

  THE SELF-BLINDING                                                   33

  THE STORY OF THE MAIDEN-KNIGHT                                      34

  THE WAY OF FRIENDSHIP                                               39

  SIBI RANA AND THE GREY DOVE                                         42

  THE CROW AND THE BELL OF JUSTICE                                    46

  RAZIYA, QUEEN OF DELHI                                              48

  BABER THE TIGER                                                     54

  THE KING WHO KEPT HIS WORD                                          62

  NAILA                                                               64

  THE LOTUS-LADY                                                      66

  THE PERFECT HOST                                                    75

  THE DOVE-GIRL AND THE PRINCE                                        79

  THE BOY WHO WAS ALWAYS THIRTEEN                                     85




                             INDIAN TALES

                           OF THE GREAT ONES




                          The Eagle Brothers


There were once two great brother-eagles--Jattayu and Sanpati. And
Jattayu was King of all the Eagle Tribes; and among the birds of the
air there was none more powerful than Jattayu.

The brothers lived together on a crag of the mountains called the Home
of Snow, which stretch across the north-east boundary of India.

They lived there because there was no higher spot in all the world that
could be found for their home. And day after day Jattayu ranged the
air, marshalling his bird-armies, or settling disputes, or swooping
down on the things which he sought for food--for all the bird-people
belonged to Jattayu, and owed him allegiance even with their lives, if
so he should desire.

And Jattayu was strong and took what he willed, without making excuse.

And Jattayu was feared, even though there were those among the
bird-people who could tell how Jattayu could be gentle to the weak.

And of these was his brother Sanpati.

When Jattayu ranged the air, he was a king; but when he flew back on
strong outspread wing to his home in the snow mountains, he was only
the big brother of Little-Eagle Sanpati.

And together as children they shared the day’s meal, and together as
children they talked of the wonders of the heavens. And always and
always in their talk Little-Eagle Sanpati noticed one yearning in the
big brother whom he loved and admired.

                  [Illustration: The Eagle Brothers]

“I want to get to the sun. Oh, as near as I can!” said Big-Brother
Jattayu.

And day after day Little-Eagle Sanpati kept wondering how this could be
managed.

And his love for Jattayu was so great that it found a way.

“If one should fly between him and the sun to protect him,” he said,
“it could be done.”

So, one day he made the little-eagle heart of him very brave, and made
Jattayu believe that he too was wanting to see the sun; but that he was
afraid of falling back upon the earth in terror, when he got near the
sun’s brilliance. So he begged Jattayu to fly just under him to protect
him.

And Jattayu consented; and they circled, Little-Eagle Sanpati and
Big-Brother Jattayu, higher and higher, till they got so near to the
sun that even Jattayu had had enough, and turned to fly back to the
safe quiet nest in the white earth mountains, taking Little-Eagle
Sanpati with him.

“It is wonderful,” he kept saying, “that I got so near, and yet was
not struck or burnt by the Sun-God and the fierceness of his rays.
It is a tale of wonder for all the bird-people to hear. Well was it,
Little-Eagle Sanpati, that I was there when you fell on my back in
terror.”

And in Little-Eagle Sanpati’s heart was a great gladness that Jattayu
had had his desire. Nor did Jattayu, nor anyone in all the bird-world,
know the reason why Little-Eagle Sanpati from that day forward remained
the home-stay eagle who could not fly.

It was because in protecting Big-Brother Jattayu whom he loved, from
the rays of the sun, poor Little-Eagle Sanpati’s wings had all been
scorched away.




                         The Throne of Justice


Long before time as we count it, there lived in India a great and just
King whose name was Vikramaditya. When he died, his beautiful palace
and city of marble fell into ruins: and people remembered nothing but
his name, and that he was great and good, and wise and gentle.

One day, some boys who were minding cows led them near a green mound
among the ruins: and while the cows cropped the grass, the boys played.

And one of them invented this game.

“I shall be the Judge,” he said, “and you shall bring your quarrels to
me. I will do justice.”

So he sat on the mound; and the boys ran away and whispered, and made a
tale of wrong, and brought it to the boy on the mound, who did justice.

But the odd thing was, that the “justice” was such wisdom, that even
through their play, the boys felt that something wonderful had happened
to their playfellow.

“He is a real Judge, not a play Judge,” was what they said.

And they told their parents; and soon all the village got into the
habit of coming to the boy on the mound to settle disputes. And
everyone was always sure that his judgment was right.

Now there lived close to the ruined city, a King great and powerful:
and to his ears also came the story of the boy doing justice on the
green mound. And the King laughed and said, “Why, he is sitting on the
seat of Vikramaditya; that is why he is wise.”

Then the King began to wish the throne for himself. And he sent men
with pickaxes and shovels, who dug away the boy’s green mound. Deeper
and deeper they went, till they came to a throne of black marble,
resting on the backs of twenty-four beautiful carved eagles of marble.
And the throne was taken to the palace of the King, and a great day of
rejoicing was proclaimed, when the King would mount the throne.

On the great day the King came in state, with his mace bearers, and the
men who called his titles, and the men who carried the State jewels,
and the men who fanned him with great fans made of the green-blue eyes
of a peacock’s tail.

But when the King would have mounted the throne, one of the carven
eagles which bore the throne on its back, came alive and spoke to
the King.

         [Illustration: One of the carven eagles came alive]

“Stop!” he said. “Have you never wanted for yourself the kingdom of
another?”

And the King had to own that he had.

“Then fast and pray for three days,” said the eagle, “and come back
again.”

And the eagle flew away.

And after three days the King returned; but the second eagle stopped
him.

“Have you never”, he said, “done harm to another, to rob him of his
riches?”

And the King said, “Yes--often.”

“Then fast and pray for three days,” said the eagle, “and come again.”

And so each time that the King returned to mount the throne, an eagle
spoke and showed some evil of his life, and the King went away
sorrowful to his three days’ fasting.

And last of all there was only one eagle left; and the King came
walking slowly: “This time I must sit on the throne,” was his thought.

But “Stop!” said likewise this eagle also, “unless you can tell me that
your heart is as pure as the heart of a child.”

And the King looked within, and found his heart not as the heart of a
child.

“I am not worthy,” said the King.

But he knew that the last eagle had solved the mystery of the green
mound of grass. The throne of Vikramaditya, where the shepherd boy did
justice, was denied to him, the great and mighty King.

For he who would be perfectly just, must have the heart of a little
child.




              Samyukta, or The Story of the Own-choosing.


Samyukta, daughter of the King of Kanauj, was the most beautiful
Princess in all India. And Prithi Raja, the King of Delhi, wanted to
marry her.

He knew that it would not be easy, because her father was his enemy.
However, always and always he liked best to do what was not easy to do.
So he meant to try.

First he sought out her old nurse, who lived not far from the palace.
Touching her feet with his forehead, as is the way of saluting
mother-people, he asked her advice. The old woman loved Prithi Raja
very dearly, and found a way of helping him.

“Give me”, she said, “that picture which the great painter at Delhi
has made of you, on ivory, in green and gold: and the rest I will tell
you when I come again from my journey.”

And the nurse who loved Prithi Raja, went a long way till she came to
the gates of the palace of Kanauj. She asked to see the Queen. Now it
happened that at that moment, the Queen wanted a new waiting-woman for
the Princess. So she took the nurse, and gave her to the household of
the Princess.

Samyukta, the Princess, was indeed beautiful. Good was she also, and of
a true heart. And as the old woman brushed her hair, or sat out with
her on the roof-balcony on the still, hot nights when the Princess was
sleepless, she told her tales of Prithi Raja, King of Delhi, and of his
great love for Samyukta.

And she showed Samyukta his picture painted on ivory in green and gold.
And as the Princess looked on his face, her heart went out to meet the
heart of the King who loved her.

And presently the King of Kanauj said: “It is time for the
Swayamvara”--that is the choosing of her husband by a Princess-Lady.
And he sent his heralds to all parts of India, to call the princes of
India to the great choosing.

But to his enemy, Prithi Raja, the King of Delhi, he sent no message.
Nevertheless the King of Delhi came to the choosing, he and his friend,
disguised as minstrels.

And the palace courtyard was gay and ready for the choosing. Garlands
of roses and jasmine hung from the pillars, and garlands of yellow
marigolds. The King and Queen sat on golden thrones on a marble
balcony: and down below were the thrones of the princes who sought the
hand of Samyukta.

[Illustration: Lightly she held the garland]

Each prince had his men-at-arms and his heralds; and all were dressed
in jewels and cloth of gold. And the musicians sat in a watch-tower at
the gate: and all who came and went, and all that happened, they saw
best of all. And with the musicians sat Prithi Raja, the great prince.

And now the bugles sounded: and Samyukta came from the inner courtyard.
She wore a sari that flowed about her like golden water, and the golden
anklets on her feet and the golden bracelets on her arms tinkled music.
Her eyes were on the ground as she walked, and lightly she held the
garland of fresh jasmine flowers, which she would place on the neck of
him whom she chose to be her husband.

As she reached the outer courtyard, she raised her eyes, and then she
saw a wooden figure of Prithi Raja standing in the place of the King’s
door-keeper. And she knew that her father had done this thing to hurt
Prithi Raja, the true knight of her heart.

From that moment her choice was made. Proudly she walked past one
prince after another. Proudly and patiently she heard the long tale
of his greatness sounded by the heralds: and silently and proudly she
passed on.

There was but one prince left, he who sat near the door-keeper. What
would she do? The King and Queen leaned out of their marble balcony,
and all the great crowd watched breathless.

But the last prince also did Samyukta reject, and turning to the wooden
image of Prithi Raja, who had had no invitation to the Great-Choosing,
she placed on its neck the garland, kept for her true knight alone.

Then was there a clash of steel, as the King and all the princes rose
in wrath. Surely for this insult Samyukta would now be bound in chains
and sent to the deepest dungeon of the palace.

But quicker than wrath was love. Prithi Raja the Minstrel, mounted on
Prithi Raja the King’s swiftest charger, was at her side, and stooping
lifted her to his saddle, and rode away swiftly to the gates of Delhi.

And this was in the days long ago, when men were knights and fought for
their ladies, and did with their own hand the thing which was not easy
to do.




                  The Man who made himself an Archer


There was a Master-Archer whose name was Drona: and it was he who
taught all the princes of India to shoot, so that none could conquer
them.

Now he was jealous for the honour of the princes. And there came to him
one named Ekalavya, the king of a caste that was not the soldier-caste,
who said: “Teach me to shoot.”

But Drona made answer: “You are not of the knightly caste. I cannot
teach you.” For he was afraid that the low-caste man might become the
equal of the high-born princes.

Then Ekalavya went away very sadly to the forest, and built a shrine
to Drona, the Master-Archer. And he thought about him, and fasted
and prayed night and day for skill in shooting: and night and day he
practised ceaselessly, shooting arrows into the distance--shooting and
shooting. And he forgot the riches of his palace and all the pleasures
of the world, in reaching out to his great desire.

One day Drona and the high-born princes were out shooting in the
forest, and they had with them a dog. And the dog strayed from the
princes and lost his way, barking in the darkness for his masters, not
far from the shrine of Ekalavya.

And Ekalavya heard, and shot an arrow in the direction of the sound;
and the arrow went straight into the dog’s mouth.

And the dog ran howling to his masters. And they were very angry; for
said they, “Someone who can shoot has sent this arrow into the dog’s
mouth.” And they made the dog show them the way to the shrine, and
there was Ekalavya shooting ceaselessly.

                [Illustration: Ekalavya at the shrine]

“Who are you,” said the princes, “who have skill in shooting even as
ourselves?”

“I am Ekalavya,” said he, “a pupil of the great Master-Archer Drona.”

So the princes went and told Drona, and he came back with them to the
shrine in the forest.

“How say you,” said Drona, “that you are my pupil?”

“Because I have taught myself to shoot, thinking only of you and your
great skill in shooting.”

Then said Drona, “If you are my pupil, give me the fee due to a Master.”

“Most gladly,” said Ekalavya, a great joy in his face. “Ask what you
will. I have nothing I would not give with all my heart.”

“Is that true?” said Drona. “Well then, I ask the thumb of your right
hand.”

And Ekalavya, allowing no look of sadness to spoil his gift, cut
off his thumb, without a word, and laid it at the feet of the
Master-Archer. But Drona spurned it, and walked away.

Then Ekalavya turned again to his shooting. But he found that, with the
loss of his thumb, his skill had gone for ever.

So were the great ones left without a rival.

But in Heaven the Gods said, “Ekalavya is truly of the knightly caste:
and men knew it not.”




                     The Blue Bird and the Archer


One day Drona, the Master-Archer, made trial of the skill of the
princes his pupils. He had them all out before him together.

“Take your bows and arrows,” said he, “and be ready to shoot, when I
tell you, at the blue bird in yonder tree.”

Prince Yudhisthira, being the eldest, was called first.

“Be ready to shoot,” said Drona. “But tell me first what you see. Do
you see the bird?”

“Yes,” said Yudhisthira.

“What else do you see? Myself, your brothers, or the tree?”

“I see yourself, my brothers, the tree, and the bird.”

Three times Drona asked this question, and three times was he thus
answered. Then very sorrowfully he turned from Yudhisthira. Not by him
was the bird to be shot.

Prince after prince, he questioned on this wise; and all alike made
answer: “I see you, my brothers, the tree, and the bird.”

And now there was but one prince left, Arjun, the master’s favourite
pupil.

“Tell me, Arjun, with bow bent, what do you see?”

“I see a bird.”

“Do you not see myself, your brothers, the tree?”

“I see the bird alone,” said Arjun, “not you, nor the tree, nor my
brothers.”

“Of what colour is the bird?”

“I see only a bird’s head.”

“Then shoot,” said Drona joyfully; and even as he expected, as soon as
the arrow sped from the bow, the bird was headless.

                            [Illustration]




                      Draupadi and the Great Game


When Arjun grew to be a man, one of his first battles was against
a King called Drupada. He and his four brothers, the Pandavas as
they were called, put their soldiers in a ring round King Drupada’s
fortress, and let no one pass out or go in.

In a week all the King’s servants were dead: and the brothers marched
into the palace and took all that they wanted of gold and emeralds,
of horses and chariots. The lady Draupadi also, the King’s daughter,
became theirs by the rules of war.

And Draupadi lived happily with her mother-in-law and the princes.

And all went well, till an enemy of the brothers, jealous of their
happiness and their power, tempted Yudhisthira, the eldest of the five.
He challenged him to a game of chance in which he put down all he
possessed, to lose or win. And Yudhisthira lost. He lost his palace,
his chariots and horses, and his whole kingdom. He lost his brothers
and himself, and last of all he lost Draupadi also.

Draupadi was the most beautiful of women, and Yudhisthira’s enemy was
glad indeed when she was brought captive before him. But he was also
afraid; for there was something so free in the spirit of Draupadi, that
he knew it would not be well with the man who made her a slave.

So, thinking it were wiser to be content with the kingdom and let
Draupadi go--

“Ask,” he said, “a boon, and it shall be granted.”

“I ask then,” said Draupadi, “for the freedom of Yudhisthira.”

“Granted,” said the enemy, for he did not dare break his word. But he
marvelled that she did not ask for herself; so, “Ask again” he said.

   [Illustration: “Ask”, he said, “a boon, and it shall be granted”]

“And for the freedom of his brothers with their weapons and chariots of
war.”

“It is granted: but I give you a third boon. Will you not ask for your
own freedom?”

“By no means,” said Draupadi. “The Pandavas, armed and free, can
conquer the world. It is they who will rescue me. They need owe nothing
to a boon; nor, with the Pandavas free, need I either, any longer.”




                           The Self-Blinding


Everyone knows the name of Dhritarashtra, the uncle of the five great
soldier-men, the Pandavas.

Dhritarashtra was blind; and Dhritarashtra was alone in his blindness.

And when Gandhari, his bride, saw the hurt of his loneliness--“Let me
in to him behind his bars of darkness,” she said to the gods.

And she bound her eyes tightly; and day and night were alike to
her for ever. But Dhritarashtra was no more lonely in his night of
sightlessness.




                    The Story of the Maiden-Knight


Drupada, the King of the Panchalas, had prayed for a son, that he might
destroy his enemy the Master-Archer.

But his wife was childless. Then as he still prayed and prayed, Shiva
appeared to him and told him that he should have a son who should first
be a daughter.

And in due time a daughter was born to him. But the Queen said, “She is
a son;” and so great was her faith that she prevailed on the King to
proclaim the child a son, and to perform the son-ceremonies.

And the child was called Shikhandi. And she grew strong and beautiful:
but was seen of none save her parents and her faithful nurse.

All too soon it was time for her to be married. And again by the advice
of the Queen, they sought for her the most beautiful princess in all
India. “We must believe the word of the gods,” said the Queen.

But at last the secret was known, and the King whose daughter was
sought in marriage was very angry. “I have”, he said, “been insulted;”
and he prepared to make war on the Panchalas.

And Shikhandi’s father felt that he had done wrong, and had been
deceitful: and he was afraid.

But Shikhandi’s mother said, “We only relied on the word of the gods.
Be unafraid as I am unafraid: and prepare to defend the kingdom. She
shall be a son.”

And Shikhandi, sad at heart that she was the cause of all this
trouble, wandered forth to lose herself. “If I am not here any longer,
the King and my father will make peace,” was what she said in her heart.

And, wandering, she came to a great forest, and to a great house the
doors of which were open. And the house smelt of smoke and incense,
and yet no one was there: and it seemed to have a host, and yet was
hostless.

And Shikhandi sat down in the house, and brooded, heeding not time nor
self, in her great desire to save her people.

And to her presently came the kind Yakshas, whose the palace was, and
he asked her what she wished.

“Make me a man,” said she, “a perfect man. My father is about to be
destroyed: and if I were a man this would not happen. Make me, oh,
Yakshas! a man: and let me keep that manhood till my father
                              is saved.”

               [Illustration: She came to a great house]

And the Yakshas was moved with pity: and gave her his manhood and his
mighty form, till she should fulfil her object. So she went forth a
warrior, in the form of Sthuna, the Yakshas.

And the King of Wealth, coming that way, found Sthuna the woman sitting
alone in the palace: and between laughter and disgust--“You shall
remain a woman,” he said. But later he was sorry, and he added--“Till
Shikhandi’s death.”

So was fulfilled the promise of Shiva--“She shall be first a daughter:
and then a son, Shikhandi, Maiden-Knight.”

And the mother of Shikhandi was full of a great gladness, that she had
believed the word of the gods.




                         The Way of Friendship


Simple is the way of friendship.

Make a fire of two sticks, or twenty, or two hundred--any number will
do: and if you walk round the fire sunwise, with that one whom you
would have for a friend, the gods themselves will not take back the
gift.

And this was the lesson which Drona tried to teach King Drupada.
Drona was the Master-Archer as we know, and Drupada was King of the
Panchalas. Now Drupada was not worthy of friendship, for he did not
believe that two sticks would do for the lighting of the Fire of
Friendship.

“They must be two hundred,” said Drupada, “and of the most costly wood.”

And Drona was sad: for he was a poor man, and two sticks gathered in a
wood were all that he could bring to the lighting.

“And you will bring one of the two,” he had said to Drupada; “for all
that matters is that we should bring the same.”

But Drupada shook his head.

And Drona journeyed to a far country, and for many years the River of
Time flowed between him and the man whom he wanted for friend.

And at last they were once again on the same bank of the river. And
Drona’s pupils, Arjun and his brother princes, took Drupada captive and
brought him to Drona.

And Drona said: “I will teach Drupada the way of friendship. Since my
two sticks, to one of which he is welcome, will not do for the lighting
of the fire, he shall give me half his two hundred sticks of the
costliest wood.”

           [Illustration: Drona and the Fire of Friendship]

And of all Drupada’s riches--treasure of gold and emeralds and diamonds
and pearls, strings of camels and horses and elephants, chariots of
war and houses and slaves--he made two equal parts; and one part he
gave to Drupada and one part he kept for himself, that he might begin
the teaching of the way of friendship to the man who was not worthy to
learn the way.




                      Sibi Rana and the Grey Dove


Long and long ago there lived a King called Sibi Rana. He was known
to all the world as a man who protected the weak, but who yet did not
withhold that which might belong to the strong.

So nearly perfect was he that the gods asked the greatest God to test
his goodness.

And this was the way of the testing.

One day as the King sat in his great Hall of Justice, there came in at
the window a poor frightened grey dove, nearly spent with flight, and
flew straight against the heart of the King. Looking up, the King saw
an eagle in pursuit, and without a moment’s hesitation he opened his
white robes to shelter the dove.

The eagle turned its piercing eye upon the King. “So this, then,
is your justice,” he said. “You rob me of my food.”

                [Illustration: Sibi Rana and the Dove]

“Nay,” said the King, “on the contrary, food equal in weight to the
bird shall be given to you.”

“Whatever food I desire?”

“Yes, whatever you desire.”

“But if I desire your own flesh?”

“My flesh shall be given,” said the King.

“Then I wish the weight of the bird to be taken from your right side,
and in the presence of the Queen and your small son,” demanded the
eagle.

“Beseech the Queen to come hither,” said the King, “with my son.”

And to the horror of all the Court, the scales were brought; and in the
presence of the Queen they prepared to slice off the weight of the bird
from the King’s right side.

The King sat steadfast: but alas! the bird seemed to grow heavier, with
each fresh gift of the King’s flesh.

And the eagle watched from the foot of the throne: and the eagle
laughed aloud.

Then from the left eye of the King fell a single tear.

“Stay,” said the eagle, “I want no unwilling sacrifice.”

“Nay, but,” said the King, “willing enough is this. My left eye but
weeps because to the right side of the King alone is it given to
protect the weak and defenceless.”

Upon which, says the old story, the miracle happened. For even the
eagle saw the beauty of giving: and he flew away hungry to his
mountains, and neither was the King really hurt, nor the dove without a
home.




                   The Crow and the Bell of Justice


This story is told of one Anangapal, who ruled in Delhi, and who loved
justice.

He caused two great lions of stone to be placed near his palace gates,
where all could see them. A bell hung from the bar between the lions.
Whoever struck that bell claimed justice, and got justice of Anangapal
the King.

One day a crow swung in the breeze on the tongue of the bell, and the
cry for justice clanged forth, reaching the ear of the King.

“Who strikes the bell?” he asked.

“My lord, it is a crow.”

“Let justice be done,” said Anangapal.

“What asks the crow?”

But no one could tell. So the King himself read the message.

“The crow strikes my bell, between the mouths of my stone lions. See
you not? The crow came as is its habit, to pick morsels of food out of
the mouth of the lion. And the lions were not lions. I deceived the
crow. Let a sheep be killed: and place some meat in the lions’ mouths,
that the crow may find its meal.”

       *       *       *       *       *

So did even the least of his subjects get justice and bounty at the
hands of Anangapal the Just.

                            [Illustration]




                        Raziya, Queen of Delhi


Raziya was the daughter of Altamish, one of the Moghul slave-kings
of Delhi who lived in the thirteenth century. She is the only woman
besides our own Queen Victoria who has ruled Delhi.

Altamish had sons also; but when he was dying he said: “You will find
no one better fitted to rule the kingdom than my daughter Raziya.”

And after his nobles had suffered for some time the cruelty and
injustice of Raziya’s half-brother, they began to see that the King was
right.

And Raziya herself helped them.

The King had given order that anyone who had a petition to make should
appear at the great Mosque in Delhi, on a Friday morning, wearing a
coloured garment, and his petition would be heard forthwith.

Now, on a Friday morning when all the men worshippers, in their
beautiful white garments, had assembled at the Mosque for the weekly
prayer, Raziya made herself brave to go among them dressed in a veil of
the Prophet’s green--a figure whom none could miss.

And the people remembered the custom of the good King who had denied
a hearing to no one; and they said: “The King’s daughter is herself
to-day a beggar.” So they listened, making it easy for Raziya to speak.

And Raziya said: “My brother has killed his brother, and now he would
slay me.”

And all the people, as one man, vowed to help her. And Raziya was put
upon the throne of Delhi.

                [Illustration: Raziya and the Peasant]

And Raziya ruled as few men have ruled in Delhi. She loved justice
and mercy, and she gave both to her people. She led them to battle,
pitching her own tent in the place of greatest danger: she was generous
and wise, and entirely forgetful of her woman’s self. All this her
people knew of her; and all this historians have said of her.

But one old man, who wrote the longest tale of her gifts and virtues,
tells us the reason of her failure to rule India: “She was a great
monarch; but she was a woman, and she ruled as a man.”

The Moslem people of those days could not forgive her that. They could
not forgive her that, being a woman, she came before them with face
unveiled; that, being a woman, she did successfully the work of a man,
and asked no woman’s reward. And so, though they took her love and
protection for so long that they forgot the cruelty of her brother who
had reigned before, they turned against her in the end and dethroned
her, and put her in prison.

From prison later, she escaped, and led an army to regain her kingdom.
And perhaps she might some day have won it back, but for a sad thing
that befell her.

In the battle which she waged she was defeated, and fled alone to the
jungles.

Passing through a field, she saw an old peasant at work, and begged for
some food, for she was starving.

The man gave her a piece of bread, which she ate gladly; and then being
worn out, she tied her horse to a tree and lay down in the field to
take a short rest. She wore the dress of a man; but the peasant saw
her jewels gleaming, as she slept unprotected in that lonely spot. He
knew that she was a woman; and no more afraid of her, he killed her
and buried her there, in a corner of a field outside the walls of that
Delhi which she had ruled.

So Raziya lost her kingdom because she was not enough of a woman to
make her people love a woman ruler; and she died, because she was a
woman, and without protection.

And her story is told here, for the reason that we know now that the
old historian was wrong; and that a woman need not fail even in the
great work of a sovereign, only because she is a woman. Raziya failed
because she thought that for success she must put aside her womanhood.
Our Queen Victoria succeeded. And one of the things which we know that
she gave to her people was that same great heart of a woman and a
mother, which poor Raziya believed that she must slay.

                            [Illustration]




                            Baber the Tiger


There was a Moghul boy-king, who fought his first battle when he was
twelve years of age, and he won it, as he says himself, “thanks to the
distinguished valour of my young soldiers”.

But like the boys in fairy tales, he had wicked uncles, who made
trouble for him; and before he was seventeen years old, he had won and
lost two of his kingdoms.

This is the boy whom all the world knows by his nickname of “Baber the
Tiger”. And the most wonderful thing we know about him is his great
spirit, which nothing could subdue. Success could not spoil him, and
defeat could not make him hang his head.

Always did he find something in which to take pleasure.

Driven away from one of his early attempts to take Delhi, he has a race
with two of his officers; and he writes of the first meal which he ate
in hiding as of a royal banquet--“such peace and plenty, nice fat meat,
bread of fine flour well baked, sweet melons, excellent grapes”.

Again: “I could not, on account of one or two defeats, sit down and
look idly around me”, he tells us; and we find him getting to work
again immediately.

Many years of wandering were before him. He had only two tents and
less than three hundred followers. They had to bear thirst and hunger,
pain and poverty; but the joyous spirit of the Tiger-boy carried them
through all. And his tenderness and love and thoughtfulness were as his
courage and good cheer.

He gave his own tent to his mother, who shared his wanderings; and for
her, as for his followers, he gathered brightness from every smallest
thing--from tulips and grasses, from animals and birds and insects.

Kabul fell to him when he was eighteen; and here for ten years he
lived peacefully, caring for his mother and grandmother, his aunts and
sisters, and all his people who had been faithful to him. Here also he
married the lady whom he called “Maham”--“my Moon”--of whom we know
only because of Baber’s great love for her. It was the “Moon-Lady” who
was the mother of Humayun.

But the land beyond the hills was calling Baber; and soon there came a
chance to try once more for the throne of Delhi.

The people of Hindustan were fighting among themselves, and asked
Baber’s help. Of the great battle that Baber won on the field of
Paniput near Delhi, there are many stories.

                      [Illustration: Baber’s Vow]

“Battle was joined at the time of early morning prayers”; and by
midday Baber the Tiger was lord of Delhi and Agra. There are wonderful
tales of the presents which he sent after this victory, to his
family and people in Kabul--forgetting no one. Ladies and nurses of
the zenana, officers, clerks, traders, even “all who pray for me”,
were remembered; and so great was the list, that it was three days
before the presents were divided. To his daughters and aunts and the
princesses of the zenana were given gold plates full of gems, trays of
coins, and nine different kinds of stuff chosen for each lady by Baber
himself--“uplifting us with pride”, says his daughter.

His last great campaign was against the Rajputs; and that was a fight
worthy of the warrior who was now about forty-four years of age, and
who had begun fighting when he was twelve. It was before this fight
that he made “the Great Repentance”.

When Baber was in Kabul he had learnt to drink wine, and had grown to
be fond of this indulgence. Walking round his outposts, however, before
the Rajput battle, the thought came to Baber that it would be good to
mend his life now in this matter, so that he might have something to
give in penitence to God.

And he sent immediately for his great goblets of gold and silver
studded with precious stones; and there on the battle-field he had them
broken to pieces and given to the poor, vowing that he would never
drink wine again.

That night and the next, three hundred of his nobles did likewise,
pouring upon the ground the wine which they had brought with them. So,
“having knocked on the door of Penitence”, did they join battle. And
once more victory was theirs.

The last tale which the books tell of Baber is beautiful.

He loved Humayun, the son of his Moon-Lady, as we know, with all his
heart. And Humayun was ill.

Everything that the doctors could do, was done; but Humayun was sick
unto death. Then a holy man said to Baber: “If some precious thing were
given to God in exchange for Humayun, God might let him live.”

And the holy man talked of the Kohinor, which Baber had got from
Gwalior, and which is now in the crown of our King-Emperor of Britain.

But Baber, who more than anyone we know had loved being alive, said:
“No, that is not the most precious thing I have to give. There is my
life.”

And he walked three times round Humayun’s bed, saying: “Oh, God! if a
life may be given for a life, I, who am Baber, I give my life and my
being for Humayun.” And he went away and prayed and fasted, saying many
times: “I have borne it away. I have prevailed.”

That night Baber fell ill, and Humayun began to get better. Then
Baber called his nobles together, and charged them to serve Humayun
faithfully, for he himself would rule no more.

And three days later he did indeed pass out from the life which he had
loved so well, and had laid down so lovingly.




          [Illustration: The Water-carrier claims his reward]

                      The King who kept his Word


There is one story told of Humayun, the Moon-Lady’s son, which is worth
remembering.

Sher Khan, the Afghan, turned traitor, and the King was compelled to
fly for his life. But there was no escape except across a river in
flood; and his horse sank exhausted in mid-stream. Then the King would
have died; but a water-carrier on the opposite bank saw the King’s
trouble, and brought him his own skin-bags, on which Humayun floated
safely to land.

“I have nothing to give thee now,” said the King; “but come to me in
Agra, and if I live thou shalt sit on my throne for a whole day.” The
King did live, and got back his kingdom; and the water-carrier came to
claim his reward.

Humayun kept his word, like the King that he was.

For one whole day the water-carrier sat on the throne; and the skin
that had saved the King’s life was cut into little pieces and stamped
into money by the Royal Mint.




                                 Naila


Ghyas-ud-din Tughlak, the Moghul, had heard of the beauty of the
daughters of Rana-Mal-Bhatti, the Rajput: and he wished a Rajput
princess for the wife of his brother Rajab.

But when he sent to ask this, Rana Mal made a haughty answer--“No
daughter of the Moon could wed with a slayer of cows.”

Then Tughlak demanded at once, and in cash, a whole year’s tribute to
be paid to Delhi. And Rana Mal was sad, for though the people stripped
themselves bare, it would not be easy.

And the sound of the people’s crying reached the ears of Rana Mal’s
old mother, who came to her son’s house weeping, with unbound hair,
to plead for the people. And as she came Naila, the most beautiful of
Rana Mal’s daughters, saw her and ran to open the door to her.

“Why weeps my grandmother?” asked Naila.

“Because of you,” said the old woman. “The Turk is taxing our people,
because your father will not give you in marriage to the Turk as he
desires.”

“If to give me to the Turk will save our people,” said Naila, “send me
at once, grandmother. Think only that the robber Turks have carried off
one of your jewels.” So did Naila give herself for her country.

And afterwards her only son Firoz Shah served his people in the same
spirit. He was loved by them all. Cruelty gave place to kindness,
taking to giving, hating to loving--and for thirty-seven years there
was peace and prosperity and goodwill in Delhi.




                            The Lotus-Lady


In the days when Ala-ud-din, the Moslem, ruled at Delhi, the beautiful
rock-fortress Chittore was the capital of Rajputana, and brave Prince
Bhimsi was regent for his nephew the Baby-King.

Now Bhimsi had a most beautiful wife, the Lotus-Lady, the fame of whose
beauty had gone forth all over India. And in the old days men thought
it not wrong to try and snatch away from others anything which they
wished to possess--be this thing what it might, rich city or lovely
lady or priceless jewel.

So Ala-ud-din waged war on Chittore in order to capture the lovely
Lotus-Lady. But the Rajput warriors laughed him to scorn, and defeated
him, and kept safe their beauteous Lady of the Lotus.

Then Ala-ud-din pretended to be very much ashamed that he had ever even
imagined that Prince Bhimsi would let the Princess be taken captive by
an enemy.

“But,” he added, “I have come a long way and have fought hard, and you
have conquered. Therefore before I go, let me look, I pray, but for one
minute on the beauty of which I have heard so much.

“Let me see the face of the Princess Lady, just for a breathing-space,
not openly, but in a mirror--so that I may have in my soul a vision of
the Perfectly Beautiful, to help me in the days that remain.”

And Bhimsi was so noble a knight that he was moved by these words to
grant his enemy his desire.

Ala-ud-din pretended to be very grateful, and the courteous knight
Bhimsi was sorry for the enemy whom he had defeated. Thinking him
to be also a knight and bound by knightly courtesies and honour, he
accompanied him alone outside the gates of the city, to set him on his
way.

But when Ala-ud-din got Bhimsi alone and at his mercy, he carried him
captive to his own camp. Only in exchange for the Lotus-Lady herself,
he declared, would he release the Rajput Prince-Regent.

Then all the knights and warriors of Chittore took counsel with the
Princess as to what should be done. And the Lotus-Lady was brave: for
she loved her lord very dearly.

So in concert with her nobles, she arranged that word should be sent to
Ala-ud-din that she was coming, as he commanded, to release her lord:
but that she craved a few minutes’ speech of her lord, before parting
with him for ever. And Ala-ud-din granted her request.

         [Illustration: The Lotus-Lady at the prisoner’s tent]

So, for the camp of the enemy set forth a great procession of
palanquins and mace-bearers; and Ala-ud-din was not afraid, for he knew
that so great a lady might not be abroad without her waiting-women and
her mistresses of the robes, and her mace-bearers and the slaves who
did her bidding--one slave for each separate little duty of the care of
her lovely person.

And now the Lotus-Lady was at the prisoner’s tent of her lord; and now
she had bid him farewell, and the long line of palanquins had turned
once more towards Chittore.

And Ala-ud-din said: “Ha! now will I have both the Prince and his
bride!” and he ordered the palanquins to stop, thinking to make an
easy capture of the prisoner whom he had just exchanged, among the
palanquins of the women-folk.

But the warriors of Chittore had prepared a surprise for Ala-ud-din,
the traitor. Forth from every palanquin streamed the bravest of
Chittore’s Rajput knights--the very palanquin-bearers were warriors:
and they fought and routed Ala-ud-din and his hosts, and carried their
Prince and his lady safely to the palace of their fortress home.

And Ala-ud-din fled in haste to Delhi.

But Ala-ud-din never forgot this second disgrace. Nor, it is said,
could he forget the face of the Lotus-Lady.

He must have been a bad man indeed, and no knight at all, in that even
the vision of Perfect Beauty had not the power to kill in him that
which was base and self-seeking. So yet once more, he sallied forth
against Chittore long years afterwards, when the Baby-King was full
grown, and with his twelve brave sons, and Bhimsi, and the other brave
Rajput princes, kept faithful guard over the honour of knighthood in
Rajputana.

And Ala-ud-din took with him mighty armies and great engines of war,
and by sheer force of numbers and deadly weapons he bore down the brave
little body of knights fighting on the walls of their beloved city.

Then again the knights sat in council. “Our weak and defenceless ones
shall not,” they said, “fall into the hands of a coward enemy.”

And they took their women down into the vaults beneath the city, where
the Rajput woman was wont to go through fire to meet her lord who
had died in battle. And they left them enough wood and fire for the
sacrifice.

And the women wore their most beautiful garments, to walk down to the
vaults, a long line of beauty and courage led by the queen of beauty,
the Lotus-Lady herself.

And now it was the turn of the men. And the King and his sons and
his brave knights all strove as to who should be first to meet
single-handed the enemy at the gates. And they cast lots: and went one
by one clad in the Rajput saffron robe of conquest: and single-handed
each hewed his way through the gates, strewing the moat and outworks
with the bodies of the slain.

But Ayeshi, his beloved son, had the King sent secretly beforehand to
a place of safety, that the race of warriors might still continue.
And when night fell, the last of the Rajputs had left the city, having
laid, each man, at the feet of the true knight and champion of the
defenceless, a full sheaf of the unknightly ones.

And Ala-ud-din came walking carefully across this carpet of the dead,
into a fortress of which the gates were wide. But no man nor woman nor
child found he anywhere in Chittore. All was emptiness--palace and hut,
and bathing-ghat, and council chamber, and garden and marble-latticed
roof--empty, all empty.

Then at last did he realize that what was in his hands was not victory
but defeat; and that the beauty and goodness of which we are not
worthy, may not, in this life or the next, be taken by violence.




                           The Perfect Host


Rasmal Rana of Marwar had three sons--Sanga, Prithi Raj, and Jismal.
And Prithi Raj was ambitious, and would boast that Fate meant him to
lead the sons of Marwar.

One day when he was boasting on this wise his eldest brother Sanga said:

“Let the gods decide between us, brother. Although I am the eldest, you
are welcome to my birthright, if so it is written. At the Tiger’s Mount
lives the priestess who sees the future. Let us ask her who is to lead
the ten thousand towns of Marwar when our father is dead.”

So they rode on together to the Tiger’s Mount. The cave was empty, and
they sat down to await the priestess.

The cave was simply furnished--a bed, a panther’s skin, a beggar’s bowl
of water. Prithi Raj made for the bed, but Sanga sought the hearth-rug.

And the priestess entered and looked at Sanga.

“In olden times,” she said, “the panther’s skin was the seat of
princes. As now you sit on this skin, so one day shall you sit on the
throne of Marwar.”

At this Prithi Raj drew his sword and would have slain his brother, but
their uncle stepped between, and Sanga escaped.

He rode hard, his horse bleeding from sword-thrusts, for Jismal, his
younger brother, was after him, while the uncle engaged Prithi Raj.

A long way from the mount he came upon a very holy sanctuary. At its
gates stood Rahtore Beeda, the perfect host: his horse stood beside
him ready for a journey.

[Illustration: “Nay--not while he is my guest”]

“I am Sanga, son of Rasmal Rana: my brothers seek to kill me,” said
Sanga.

“Have no fear,” said Rahtore Beeda. “I will defend the sanctuary while
you get away. See, there is my horse.”

And even as he spoke his eyes travelled to the speck of dust on the
horizon.

And now Jismal and his men had come up. But Rahtore Beeda stood alone
at the door of the sanctuary.

“We want Sanga.”

“He is my guest.”

“Then let us seek for him.”

“Nay--not while he is my guest,” said Rahtore Beeda, the perfect host,
drawing his sword.

Alone he stood against them. And when at last they forced their way
into the sanctuary over his dead body, Sanga was far away in safety.

And the perfect host had kept his tradition of hospitality.




                     The Dove-Girl and the Prince


There was once a Persian Prince of noble birth who lost all his money:
so he left his country and came to India, bringing with him his wife
and three children.

“It will not”, he said, “be so hard to be poor in a strange country.”

He travelled with a great many other people, all coming through the
snow mountains and passes, and wild bleak places of Afghanistan. The
women rode on camels, slung in cages on either side of the driver; and
most of their luggage also was carried in this way. The men walked, and
the journey took a weary long time for man and beast. The travellers
halted to cook their food, and they halted again to sleep by great
watch-fires, till the dawn-star told them that it was time to go on
once more.

One day a baby was born to the wife of the Persian, and he was very
cross. “It is only a girl,” he said, “and no use at all.” So when no
one was looking he laid it on the grass by the roadside, and meant to
go away and leave it there to die.

Now it happened that a great man known at the Court of the Emperor
Akbar, was also travelling with the pilgrims for safety; for there were
many robbers in those days, and only if a man travelled with a crowd of
people in what was called a Caravan, could he be safe.

And the great man saw the poor little baby lying alone on the grass,
and, as it seemed to belong to no one, he said he would take it for his
own. And he looked about among the women in the Caravan for a nurse.

[Illustration: The second dove also flew happily away]

And the baby’s mother came forward and said: “Please let me be nurse.”
So the baby had its own mother after all to care for it.

Now the great man from Akbar’s Court was so kind that the woman told
him all her story, and he asked to see her husband and her sons, and
sent them all to the Emperor himself for protection. So it came to pass
that the man from Persia got work and honour at the Emperor’s Court.

And the baby born by the roadside grew very beautiful, and was called
_Mihr-un-Nisa_, which means “the Sun of Womankind”. She lived
near the Palace, and would go with the women into the Palace gardens,
whenever the great Fairs took place, where the zenana women sold their
lovely work and embroideries.

And at one of these Fairs, Prince Salim, the Emperor’s son, lost his
way in an empty part of the garden, where he could see no one but a
small girl at play. He had in his hands his two favourite doves, and,
wanting to fly kites with the boys at the fair, he told the little
girl, who was our “Sun of Womankind”, to hold the doves till he should
return. “Take care,” he said; “don’t let them fly.”

When he came back _Mihr-un-Nisa_ had only one dove in her hands.

“Where is the other?” said Prince Salim.

“I let it fly,” said _Mihr-un-Nisa_.

And, “How did you do that, stupid-one?” said the Prince angrily.

“Just so, my Prince,” said _Mihr-un-Nisa_, opening her other hand,
from which the second dove also flew happily away.

She looked so beautiful in her naughtiness that the Prince fell in
love with her that minute. And many years afterwards, when he became
Emperor, he married her, and changed her name to _Nŭr Mahal_, “the
Light of the Palace”. And again, for she seemed more beautiful still
to him every day, he changed it to _Nŭr Jehan_, “the Light of the
World”.

       *       *       *       *       *

And her lovely face is still to be seen painted on ivory and vellum
among the treasures of the ancient city of Delhi.

                            [Illustration]




                    The Boy who was Always Thirteen


There were once a man and woman so truly good that the great god said
he would reward them with whatever they wished to ask. “We want a son,”
said the man and his wife.

“You shall have a son,” said Shiva, the great god. “But you must now
choose the kind of son you want. Will you have him perfect in every
way, beautiful and good and clever, and loved by all the world, but
doomed to be no older than his thirteenth year? Or will you have him
just an ordinary boy, but living as long as the ordinary man, so that
you may even see his children’s children? Choose: that which you wish
shall be given.”

And the man and his wife were sorrowful; for to choose was not easy.
How could they bear their son to die when he was thirteen. Yet how
could they bear to have him just an ordinary boy, like any other that
came into the world, and had trouble, and made mistakes, and died at
last, leaving no name behind him? And the puzzle was too hard for the
man.

“I cannot choose,” he said to his wife. “You must decide. It is your
business.”

And the woman said: “We will have the perfect son that Shiva has
offered us. And the rest we will leave to the gods.”

So Kamil, the perfect one, was born, and grew from happy baby to happy
boy. And he was beautiful to look upon; and clever was he, and strong,
and gentle, and kind. Everyone loved him, and to all gave he love also,
making happiness wherever he went.

And his father and mother, and all the people of his village, alike
forgot that there could be any end to this happiness. But the King of
Death did not forget. “No older than his thirteenth year,” had said
Shiva, the great god. And Kamil, the perfect boy, was in his thirteenth
year.

So, on his birthday, the King of Death sent his messengers, to bring
Kamil away to the Kingdom of Death. “It is only another kind of life,”
said the messengers; “do not be afraid, come with us. The King himself
is waiting to receive you.”

But the boy said: “Why should I come? I want no other kind of life.
This life I love. Why should I come? I will not come with you.”

“No one has ever disobeyed the King of Death,” said the messengers.
“Come, you must.”

“I will not come,” said the boy. “Go back to the King of Death and say:
‘The boy who loves the life he knows, says that he cannot come to the
new life which he does not know.’”

And the messengers went trembling back to the King with this message.

Now the King of Death is very old, and very kind and gentle, and he has
the wisdom of Peace and of Forgetfulness. And the journey back to the
life which the boy loved was for him a very long journey. “But I must
see,” he said, “the one person who has disobeyed me.” So he sent for
his black buffalo, and he rode the long and painful journey back to
Life and Youth in the world of the-things-that-pass.

And it was spring-time, and the leaves of the pipal tree were shining
after a shower of rain, which had made all the world smell sweet with
the good earth-smell. And the birds were singing. And under the pipal
tree stood the perfect boy beside the shrine of Shiva, the great god,
playing a little tune of the gladness of the-things-that-pass.

          [Illustration: “I am Death, who sent to fetch you”]

He played on a slender reed of bamboo, blowing with his mouth; and he
called the cattle to come home to rest, for it was the cow-dust hour,
and the sun was setting.

When the King of Death was close by the perfect boy stopped playing,
and looked at him riding on the long, long back of his slow-moving
grey-black buffalo.

“What an old, old man you are!” said the perfect boy; “never have I
seen you before. Who are you?”

“You have seen my messengers,” said the King. “I am Death, who sent to
fetch you to my kingdom. Why did you not come?”

“I told your messengers,” said the boy. “It was quite true. It is very
kind of you to want to take me to your kingdom; but I do not wish any
other life. I love this life very much, and I am so happy. I love
my father and my mother, and all the men-and-women people, and the
children-people, and the beast-people, and bird-people in this good
life that I know. You stay with us too. See, I will ask my mother to
make room for you in our own little hut.” But the King of Death shook
his head.

“I have a kingdom, and I come to take you to it. Come, make no trouble.
Get up behind me on the buffalo; we must be back before to-morrow’s
day.”

“And I say again, I will not come,” said the boy, standing firm. “See,
I appeal to Shiva to protect me;” and he put out his hand to the large
pebble of black stone, Shiva’s symbol, which had been brought to the
shrine from the great sacred river of the West Country.

Then the King of Death was angry, and he laid hands on the boy to take
him by force; and he dragged him away, so that the symbol of Shiva fell
to the ground.

And now Shiva himself, the great god, was angered, and his voice
thundered forth, ordering the King of Death back to the Kingdom of
Death. “And you shall not return to the world of the-things-that-pass,
till I bid you,” said Shiva.

So back went the old king on his slow-moving, grey-black buffalo. And
the boy was happy, and life was again full of love and goodness as
before, in his world of the-things-that-pass.

But the King of Death could no more send his messengers to the Earth;
so everything lived forever--the men and women and beasts and birds and
flower-people all lived; and yet new men and women and beasts and birds
and flower-people were always coming to the Earth, as before. So that
the Earth was fuller than it could hold.

And the men and women and beasts and birds and flower-people went to
the great god and said: “We are weary, and there is no room for us on
the Earth; we are the things that must pass. Send the King of Death to
take us to the Kingdom of Peace and Forgetfulness and Quiet Sleep.”

And the great god said: “I will not; I have spoken.”

Then the tired Earth-people went to Parvati, the wife of Shiva, and,
“Please help us,” they said. “See how full the Earth is. There is no
room for us all, and some of us are weary and would sleep.”

So Parvati went to the great god. “The Earth is very full,” she said.
“Will you not let the King of Death send his slow-moving grey-black
buffalo for the tired Earth-people?”

“No,” said Shiva; “he insulted my symbol: he may not return to the
Earth. I have spoken.”

“But you know you did say that the perfect boy was to be no older than
his thirteenth year,” said Parvati. “That was why the King of Death
came to fetch him.”

And Shiva was silent, not knowing what to answer.

“But when you said that, you only meant that he should never look
older than his thirteenth year, though he might live and live as long
as he liked,” said clever goddess Parvati.

And Shiva waited, for surely here was a way out of a difficulty.

“And poor old King Death was not clever enough to understand this, and
thought that you meant him to take the boy away. It was only stupidity.
Forgive him.”

And Shiva said: “It shall be as you ask.”

“Then give the message,” said Goddess Parvati.

And, “Let the old tired leaves fall from the trees,” said Shiva the
god, and turned to other business.

But his messengers were so full of gladness that good King Death might
return to the Earth once more, riding on his grey-black buffalo--for
that was the meaning of Shiva’s message--that they were drunk with
joy, and said the words wrongly.

“Let the old leaves, and the middle-aged leaves, and the little baby
leaves fall from the trees,” was what they said, when they flew back to
the Earth on the wings of the morning.

And that is why to this day, old and young, boys and babies, all alike,
ride, when the great god wills, upon the grey-black buffalo, as it
makes its slow-moving way to the quiet Kingdom of Death.

But Kamil, the perfect boy, lived in the world that he loved, and was
always and always just thirteen years old, and no more.

And, “It was well,” said the man, his father, “that I left the
Son-puzzle to you, O Mother of Kamil.”