disdain, and stood pouting like a child. And suddenly she turned
again, and put up to her head the graceful creepers of her round
arms, and undid the knot of her hair, and shook it. And it fell,
like midnight, about those stars her eyes, and wrapped her all over
like a veil, and rolled down round her feet and along the ground,
like a black serpent. Then with her hand she put it away from her
face, and shot through its meshes a subtle smile, and said: At least
thou hast never seen the equal of my hair? And Umra-Singh felt her
glance strike him like a thunderbolt out of a cloud. And he said to
himself: Well may she ask; and now, if my soul were not already
snared in the long lashes of the eyes of Shrí, it would be netted
like a quail in this extraordinary mass of never-ending hair. But he
said: Beauty, lovely at night is the heaven with its stars, but
lovelier still the dark blue sea, in which they are reflected, for it
contains all their beauty, and adds another of its own.
Then Ulupí was very angry, and she stood with flashing eyes, swelling
with rage. And suddenly she stooped, and gathered up her hair in her
arm, and came up to Umra-Singh, and flung it round him like a noose,
and whispered in his ear, with lips that caressed it as they moved: O
foolish bee[7], I am but a lotus of the night: yet why despise me, in
comparison with the absent lotus of the day? It is hot and dusty,
and I am cool and fragrant as the nectar of that moon in whose light
I blow. And Umra-Singh trembled. For there came from her hair a
strange wind, like a cloud of the sweet of a thousand scents, that
lured his soul to listen and dream in the lulling murmur of her
mouth. And as he closed his eyes for fear, he saw before him the
blue scorn in the eyes of Shrí, and the sound of her laughter and the
noise of the drums and the voices of the criers boomed in his ear,
and drowned Ulupí's spell. And he shook himself free from her hair,
and said: Beauty, I am a Rajpoot of the race of the Sun: what have I
to do with a lotus of the moon?
Then Ulupí screamed, like a wounded elephant. And she seized him by
the arm and shook him violently, and exclaimed: Hast thou a stone
within thy breast, instead of a heart, that my beauty cannot touch
thee? For I know that I am beautiful, and there is not beauty like
mine in the three worlds. And Umra-Singh looked at her, and
wondered, for her fury made her more lovely than before. And he
said: O daughter of a Daitya, thou speakest the truth: yet a vessel
that is full can hold no more, be the liquor what it may, and such is
my heart. Let me now pass by thee, as undeserving thy regard: for I
am bound for the Land of the Lotus of the Sun. Then said Ulupí, with
a stamp of her foot: Fool! thou shall never see that Lotus Land.
And she looked at him with a jeering laugh: and instantly she sat
down, and wound herself up in her long hair, and began to weep. And
as she wept, the tears ran down from her eyes like a river, and fell
into the lake. Immediately the lake began to rise and swell, and
flood the wood with water. And as Umra-Singh stood gazing at her
with astonishment, he found himself standing in a vast marsh, with
the trees of the forest for rushes. And he looked, and lo! suddenly
that delusive daughter of a Daitya became a mist, and floated away
over the water like vapour. And Umra-Singh heard her laughter dying
away in the distance as she went, and he was left alone in the wood,
with the water up to his waist.
[1] The Creator.
[2] From which the sandal wood comes.
[3] A kind of demon, '_a son of Dili_.' (Pronounce _dait-_ as
_white_.}
[4] A reminiscence of Bharirihari.
[5] Nothing can translate _bálá_. It means child, woman, beauty,
_beauté-de-diable_.
[6] Wishnu's great breast-jewel (_Kou_ as _cow_).
[7] This word here used may mean either a bee or a lover or a
wanderer (_bhramara_).
VII.
The Silver Swans
And as the water kept on rising, rising, Umra-Singh said to himself:
Extraordinary is the guile of women, and copious their tears, but
this daughter of a Daitya surely surpasses them all. For who ever
heard of tears that, like rivers, could flood a quarter of the world?
But in the meanwhile, before I find my death in these rising waters,
it is better to take refuge in a tree. So he climbed up into a tree,
and looked out over the water, on which the mist hung in the
moonlight like a curtain of silver on a floor of lapis-lazuli. And
he said to himself: Is this merely an illusion, or rather, is not
this wood well named, being in very truth the matted hair of the
great god, with these trees for hairs, and this water for the Ganges
that wanders among them[1], and yonder moon the very ornament of the
moon-crested god? But this water goes on rising, and I must ascend
higher into the tree.
So he climbed up, and up, and as he climbed, the water rose after
him, higher and higher, until at last he could see nothing but the
water, and the moon, and the tree that stretched away above him into
the sky. And as he went, he said to himself: Up I must go, for there
is no other resource: and now, unless like the husband of Shrí[2], I
could save myself on the back of a tortoise from this very sea of
water, I must surely be destroyed. For unless this extraordinary
tree has no top, I must presently reach it, and meet with my death at
the same time. And even without the water, as to how I am to get
down again, I have not an idea. So he continued to climb and climb,
while the water rose, and the moon sank, and the night gradually came
to an end.
And then the sun rose over the eastern mountain, and began like
himself to climb up into the sky. And the sweat poured from his
limbs, and at last he stopped, overcome with fatigue. And he said to
himself: Now I can go no further. Since I must now in any case
perish, why should I go on climbing in vain? For surely I am on the
very roof of the world, and alone with the sun in the sky.
And as he looked down, suddenly he saw before him no water and no
tree, and his head grew dizzy, and his vision swam, and he could
scarcely believe his eyes.
For he stood on the peak of a high mountain, in the very zenith of
the sky. And all round him, and all before him, and behind him, was
a vast desert of burning sand, that stretched away to the very limit
of the range of sight, and on its edges rested the quarters of
heaven. And it glowed in the fire of the sun's rays like a furnace,
and was furrowed and pitted with holes and chasms; and its surface
rose and fell, as he watched it, like a woman's breast, and it looked
as if it were alive, though it was in truth the home of death. And
as he gazed, he saw, how over it there crawled swiftly living things
with pointed tails, of the colour of sand, which entered the desert
by the holes, and issued from them, and at length stood still, and
became invisible, save that their tails never rested, and their
bright eyes stood out of the sand to watch. And it seemed to
Umra-Singh, in the loneliness of that vast solitude, that all those
hideous Eyes sought him out, and fastened on him, and rested on him
alone, saying to him as it were: Thou canst not escape.
And then he said to himself: Now there is indeed no help for me, and
beyond a doubt, my end has come. For to remain here is impossible,
and equally certain the death that lies, either in going forward or
going back. And yet I could wish to die, if at all, not in the
presence of eyes such as these, but in the colour of the eyes of
Shrí. Yet how shall I escape the vigilance of yonder dreadful
Dwellers in the Sand, wading with difficulty in its substance that
will sink under my feet like the waves of the sea, but over which
they scud like the shadow of a cloud?
So all day he remained on that high place, not daring to descend.
And then at length the sun went to his rest in the western quarter,
and the moon rose, and was reflected in the bright eyes of those
sand-haunting Rákshasas, which glittered in the distance on the dark
desert like drops of water on the leaf of a black lotus. And all
night long Umra-Singh lay and watched them, as a bird watches the
eyes of a snake.
Then in the early dawn he looked, and as the light of morning began
to glimmer in the distance on the edge of the world, he saw far away
in the pale air two dark specks in the sky. And as he gazed, they
grew larger and rapidly approached him, sending back to him, like
mirrors, the red rays of the rising sun. And they drew nearer, and
he saw that they were a pair of silver Swans, carrying in their bills
the dead body of a third, of gold. So these two Swans crossed over
that dreadful desert with the rapidity of the lightning that
resembled them, and settled beside him on the hill, to rest.
Then said Umra-Singh: Hail! ye fair birds: surely ye are no birds,
but deities, fallen into these bodies of swans by reason of a curse.
Whence come ye, and whither go ye, and what is this dead golden body
that ye carry as ye go? Then said the Swans: We are carrying home
the body of our king, far away to the Mánasa lake. For he died
yesterday, in the Land of the Lotus of the Sun. And now we must bear
him ever onward swiftly to his own country, that the funeral
ceremonies may duly be performed.
But when Umra-Singh heard them name the Land of the Lotus, his heart
leaped in his breast. And sword in hand, he rushed on the dead body
with a shout. And he said to the Swans: As you carried him hither
from that Land of the Lotus of the Sun, so swear now, that you will
carry me first back thither, leaving him here till you return:
otherwise I will keep him, and cut you to pieces.
Then seeing that there was no help for it, the Swans said: Be it so:
and they bound themselves to him by an oath. And then Umra-Singh
took hold of them by the neck, one in each hand; and they stretched
out their necks, and flew away with him over the desert as he hung.
And he left far behind him the eyes of those hideous Rákshasas
glowing in the sand as if with rage to see him escape: and after a
long while, they came to the edge of the desert. And Umra-Singh
looked down and saw, far below him, the blue sea, shimmering like the
eyes of Shrí. And at a distance in the water, like a dusky jewel on
a purple carpet, he saw an island, with a city on it. So he said to
the Swans: What is that which I see below me? And they said: It is
the Land of the Lotus of the Sun.
Then in his delight, Umra-Singh let go his hold, and clapped his
hands. And instantly he fell down like a stone into the sea. But
the Swans returned swiftly over the desert to the body which they had
left upon the hill.
[1] The Ganges fell from heaven, and Shiwa caught it on his head,
where it wandered in his hair for a thousand years before it could
find its way down. A legend which doubtless has reference to the
vast plateaux of the Himálaya and Tibet.
[2] He compares himself to the husband of the other Shrí, i.e. the
Goddess of Beauty, or Wishnu, whose second incarnation was that of a
tortoise.
VIII.
The Land of the Lotus
But Umra-Singh rose out of the water like a fowl, and saw the Land of
the Lotus away on the sea before him. And he shouted for joy, and
began to swim in that direction. And he swam on all day, and at
last, though with difficulty, he reached the shore, when his strength
was almost gone. And he crept up out of the water, as the sun was
going down; and overcome with weariness, he lay down, there where he
came up out of the sea, and fell asleep. And all night long he
slept, and all day; and when the moon had risen again, full and
round, as if to see whether he was still there, he awoke.
And then he stood up, and rubbed his eyes, and exclaimed: Ha! now I
am at my journey's end, and all its dangers are gone like dreams.
And this is that wonderful Land of the Lotus of the Sun, of which no
one in Indirálayá had ever heard! So now that I am here, what
remains for me to do, but to leave it, and go back again as quickly
as possible. For I desired to find it, only to say that I had been
there. And yet when I return, who will believe me? It were better,
now that I am here, to examine it, and learn its peculiarities, that
I may not twice meet with the treatment due to impostors.
So he went up from the shore, and through the streets of the city,
that lay before him, black and white, in the rays of the silver moon.
And he met nobody, but it was empty, and dark as a barren womb, and
silent as a stone incarnation of the spirit of death. And as he
wandered up and down, he came at last to a great palace, whose doors
stood wide open, as much as to say: Come in. So he went in, and
passed along, wondering, with echoing steps, from room to room. Then
on a sudden he entered a door, and found himself in a vast hall,
whose walls were pierced with tall windows, through which the
moonlight fell, cold as camphor, on moon-stones that hung in clusters
from the roof. And from them the nectar fell slowly, drop by drop,
upon the floor. And at the far end of the room, on a golden couch,
he saw lying a dead body, covered with a white pall.
Then he said to himself: What is this wonder, and who can it be that
lies here, alone in this empty hall? And he moved on slowly, through
the lights of the windows and the shadows of the walls, till he came
up to the end of the hall, and stood beside the couch. And he
stooped down, and lifted up the edge of the pall, and uncovered the
face, and looked, and lo! it was the face of Shrí.
And Umra-Singh was so astounded, that he leaped into the air, and
uttered a cry: and he let his sword fall with a crash upon the
crystal floor. And he said to himself: Is it a dream, or is it an
illusion? Lo! I left her living in Indirálayá, and I have travelled
over the three worlds, and here at the end of space I find her again,
lying dead in this empty hall!
So he stood, like a picture on a wall, gazing in silence at the face
of Shrí, while the night wore away, and the moon travelled on, and
the nectar from the moonstones fell slowly, drop by drop, upon the
ground, and the shadows moved round upon the floor. And at last,
after a long while, he came to himself. And he let the pall fall
from his hand, recovering the face. And he stooped down, and took up
his sword, and went slowly out of that strange hall, and sat down on
the steps of a marble tank, and fell into a waking dream. And as he
gazed into vacancy, he saw before him the blue ocean of the eyes of
Shrí; and his memory echoed with faint murmurs of the sound of drums
and the voices of criers; and they filled his soul with whispers
coming from an infinite distance across the years of separation,
until at length the sun rose.
Then Umra-Singh rose up also, and he struck his forehead with his
hand. And he exclaimed: I cannot tell, whether it is reality, or
whether it is a dream. But this I know, that now I must get back
without delay to Indirálayá, and cross, somehow or other, over that
sea, and that terrible desert, and through that hideous wood, and
tell my story to the King, and claim my bride. But first I will
bathe in yonder pool: for my heart is heavy, and my head aches, for
all that I have endured during the night, and all that I have seen.
And he went down the steps, and plunged into the waters of the pool.
IX.
Recognition
And as he rose from the water, there rang in his ears, loud and
clear, the sound of the beating of drums. And he listened, and heard
the criers crying: _Whatsoever high-caste man has been to the Land of
the Lotus of the Sun, let him come to the King: he shall share the
King's kingdom, and marry the King's daughter_. And he looked round.
Lo! he was standing in that very tank in Indirálayá, from which he
had started, years before, to find the Land of the Lotus of the Sun.
Then in his amazement, his flesh crept, and his hair stood on end.
And he stood in the pool like a pillar of stone, with the water
streaming from his body, and doubt bewildering his soul. And he said
to himself: Is it indeed reality, or is it a dream? And what has
become of the Land of the Lotus, and all my toil? For here I am in
Indirálayá, and there are the very criers whom I left behind me,
crying, and beating, just as they did before, their drums!
And then suddenly he uttered a shout, and exclaimed: Well, now I will
go to the King, for the time has come to claim the reward. And he
leaped out of the water, and ran up the steps like one that is mad,
and went up to the criers, and said to them: Cease this useless
crying, and this empty beating of drums, and take me quickly to the
King, for I have seen that Lotus Land. And the criers did not
recognise him, but they were full of joy at hearing his words: for
their crying had made them weary of life. So as they were preparing
to take him to the King, he clapped his hands, and said again: Quick!
delay not! but make haste, great haste! or else my heart will break.
For I endured separation, when union seemed at a distance, with ease:
but now that the moment of re-union approaches, my heart is breaking:
every moment seems an age: and if you delay long, I cannot endure.
Then the criers made great haste, and brought him as quickly as
possible to the King.
But when the King saw Umra-Singh, he looked at him narrowly, and knew
him again, for all that he was changed. And he said to himself:
Surely this is that very rogue, who came to me before to cheat me;
and now, here he is again! And he said to Umra-Singh: I know thee,
thou impostor. Beware! for this time thou shalt not escape. Then
said Umra-Singh: King, be it as thou wilt. Only let me see thy
daughter, and that quickly: for I have really seen that Lotus Land:
thereafter deal with me as it may please thee best. And as he spoke,
ungovernable impatience seized him: and he stamped his foot upon the
ground, and tears came into his eyes, and suddenly he began to laugh.
And the King looked at him with curiosity, and wondered at him: and
he said to himself: Either this fellow is mad, or it is as he says,
and he has really seen that Lotus Land. But he said again to
Umra-Singh: Remember, if this time also thou art playing false, death
is the reward. Umra-Singh said: Show me thy daughter, and put me
then to any kind of death.
So the King sent for his daughter, and after a while, Shrí came in.
But when Umra-Singh saw her enter, he sobbed aloud, and strode
towards her. And as she turned her eyes on him in fear, he plunged
his fainting soul into their azure sea. And in an instant he forgot
his journey and his toil, and obtained in that moment the nectar of
emancipation from the hunger of longing, and the pain of separation,
and the terror of untimely death. And Shrí looked at him, as he
stood before her, and instantly she knew him again. And her heart
beat in her bosom like a drum, and she was seized with trembling, and
could not speak, for fear and doubt. For again the forgotten ties of
her former birth fought for utterance in her soul, and yet she feared
him for his insolence, and despised him for his poverty: for he was
ten times leaner and more ragged than before. And long she looked at
him without speaking. And then at last she found her voice, and
spoke, and said slowly: What! is it thou, most doughty traveller?
And hast thou made another story? Good it had better be, thy second
tale, for never shall thou live to make a third.
But Umra-Singh leaned towards her, with hungry eyes, for his soul
yearned for the repetition of a forgotten past. And he looked at her
long and wistfully, till her glance quailed, for her spirit was
mastered by his courage and his love. And twice he strove to speak,
and twice he failed, while great tears fell from his eyes upon the
ground. And then at last, he became master of himself. And he said:
Dear, now use me as thou wilt, and put me to any death. But tell me
first, before I die: How comes it that I see thee here alive, and yet
I saw thee, in that Lotus City, lying dead upon a couch. in the cold
rays of the moon?
Then Shrí threw up her arms with a shriek. And she cried out: Ha! it
is the truth: this man has really seen the Land of the Lotus of the
Sun. And suddenly, the veil of oblivion was drawn for an instant,
and she caught a glimpse of her former birth, and knew her husband
again. And instantly she ran to him, and threw herself into his
arms, and hung on his breast, and clung to him, like a jasmine
creeper on a noble tree. And tears fell from her eyes like rain, and
she laughed for joy, and caressed his face with her hand, and said:
Brave heart, and didst thou dare to go alone to that distant Lotus
Land? Thou art indeed my own husband, in this life as in the last.
And now, after long separation, I have found thee for an instant, and
thou hast me. Only seek as well again, and we shall meet once more,
and taste yet another drop of the nectar of mutual enjoyment, before
we die: for so it is decreed. I say, remember: we shall meet again.
Then she stood up, and pushed him back, so violently, that he nearly
fell. And all they that stood by watched her and wondered. For as
they gazed, she grew in beauty, like a waxing moon, and flashed like
a great jewel, and dazzled the eyes of all like the brightness of a
lamp: and the colour of her wondrous eyes shot from them and streamed
about the room, and lit up its walls with glory like that of a
setting sun. And seeing it, the King her father was full of joy, for
he thought: Now she is going to be married, and I have attained the
fruit of my birth. But the astrologers looked at each other in
dismay, for they knew that she was about to die. So as they gazed,
suddenly she drooped and fell, and lay before them on the floor, like
a lotus smitten by the frost.
Then the astrologers said, gloomily: She has abandoned the body, and
gone somewhere else. And the King, seeing her fall, and hearing them
speak, lost his senses, and fell down beside her in a swoon. But
Umra-Singh turned, and left the palace, and went out into the street.
X.
Separation
And he reeled about like a drunken man, this way and that way,
jostling the people, who marvelled and mocked at him: See, see, the
ragged Rajpoot, the suitor of the King's daughter, whose very sight
has killed her! But he heard nothing but the words of Shrí, and saw
nothing but her eyes. And he staggered on, like a wooden doll, on
feet that moved of their own accord, till as before he reached the
tank, and sank down upon the ground, knowing neither where he was nor
what he did, puzzled about the quarters of the world[1]. And like a
man, out of whose universe the sun and moon and the five elements
with their compounds have withdrawn, leaving him alone in the centre
of empty space, he lay motionless, plunged in stupor, with dry eyes.
Then all at once memory returned to him, and he began to weep. And
he wept, as if he contained within him the very fountains of the salt
sea, till at last from weariness and grief he fell asleep on the edge
of the tank. And in his dreams Shrí stood beside him, and revived
his parched soul with the nectar of her kindly glance, as a hermit's
daughter refreshes with water the plants of the hermitage committed
to her charge.
And after drinking deep draughts from those two fountains of pity and
love, he awoke, and found that it was now night, and again he was
alone at the moonlit tank. And he said to himself: Alas! alas! I
found my bride, and lost her again at the same instant, through the
terrible operation of sins committed in a former birth. Now indeed I
am alone, for this time she is gone I know not where, and how am I to
look for her? And yet she told me we should meet again, to keep me
from despair. Therefore now I will wander away over the wide world,
and spend my life in seeking her: for but this, nothing is left in
life, and the hope of reunion is like the back of the Great Tortoise,
my solitary refuge in the wreck of the three worlds.