'It isn't night yet,' replied Jaganath.
A little while later the boy exclaimed: 'It is night now, grandfather;
come let's go.'
'The village people haven't gone to bed yet,' whispered Jaganath.
Nitai waited but a moment, and said: 'They have gone to bed now,
grandfather; I am sure they have. Let's start now.'
The night advanced. Sleep began to weigh heavily on the eyelids of
the poor boy, and it was a hard struggle for him to keep awake. At
midnight, Jaganath caught hold of the boy's arm, and left the house,
groping through the dark lanes of the sleeping village. Not a sound
disturbed the stillness, except the occasional howl of a dog, when
all the other dogs far and near would join in chorus, or perhaps the
flapping of a night-bird, scared by the sound of human footsteps at
that unusual hour. Nitai trembled with fear, and held Jaganath fast
by the arm.
Across many a field they went, and at last came to a jungle, where
stood a dilapidated temple without a god in it. 'What, here!'
exclaimed Nitai in a tone of disappointment. It was nothing like what
he had imagined. There was not much mystery about it. Often, since
running away from home, he had passed nights in deserted temples
like this. It was not a bad place for playing hide-and-seek; still
it was quite possible that his comrades might track him there.
From the middle of the floor inside, Jaganath removed a slab of stone,
and an underground room with a lamp burning in it was revealed to the
astonished eyes of the boy. Fear and curiosity assailed his little
heart. Jaganath descended by a ladder and Nitai followed him.
Looking around, the boy saw that there were brass _ghurras_[17] on all
sides of him. In the middle lay spread an _assan_[18], and in front of
it were arranged vermilion, sandal paste, flowers, and other articles
of _puja_. To satisfy his curiosity the boy dipped his hand into some
of the _ghurras_, and drew out their contents. They were rupees and
gold _mohurs_.
[17] A water-pot holding about three gallons of water.
[18] A prayer carpet.
Jaganath, addressing the boy, said: 'I told you, Nitai, that I would
give you all my money. I have not got much,--these _ghurras_ are all
that I possess. These I will make over to you to-day.'
The boy jumped with delight. 'All?' he exclaimed; 'you won't take
back a rupee, will you?'
'If I do,' said the old man in solemn tones, 'may my hand be
attacked with leprosy. But there is one condition. If ever my grandson,
Gokul Chandra, or his son, or his grandson, or his great-grandson or
any of his progeny should happen to pass this way, then you must
make over to him, or to them, every rupee and every _mohur_ here.'
The boy thought that the old man was raving. 'Very well,' he replied.
'Then sit on this _assan_,' said Jaganath.
'What for?'
'Because _puja_ will be done to you.'
'But why?' said the boy, taken aback.
'This is the rule.'
The boy squatted on the _assan_ as he was told. Jaganath smeared
his forehead with sandal paste, put a mark of vermilion between his
eyebrows, flung a garland of flowers round his neck, and began to
recite _mantras_.[19]
[19] Incantations.
To sit there like a god, and hear _mantras_ recited made poor Nitai
feel very uneasy. 'Grandfather,' he whispered.
But Jaganath did not reply, and went on muttering his incantations.
Finally, with great difficulty he dragged each _ghurra_ before the boy
and made him repeat the following vow after him:
'I do solemnly promise that I will make over all this treasure to
Gokul Chandra Kundu, the son of Brindaban Kundu, the grandson of
Jaganath Kundu, or to the son or to the grandson or to the
great-grandson of the said Gokul Chandra Kundu, or to any other
progeny of his who may be the rightful heir.'
The boy repeated this over and over again, until he felt stupefied,
and his tongue began to grow stiff in his mouth. When the ceremony was
over, the air of the cave was laden with the smoke of the earthen lamp
and the breath-poison of the two. The boy felt that the roof of his
mouth had become dry as dust, and his hands and feet were burning. He
was nearly suffocated.
The lamp became dimmer and dimmer, and then went out altogether. In the
total darkness that followed, Nitai could hear the old man climbing up
the ladder. 'Grandfather, where are you going to?' said he, greatly
distressed.
'I am going now,' replied Jaganath; 'you remain here. No one will
be able to find you. Remember the name Gokul Chandra, the son of
Brindaban, and the grandson of Jaganath.'
He then withdrew the ladder. In a stifled, agonised voice the boy
implored: 'I want to go back to father.'
Jaganath replaced the slab. He then knelt down and placed his ear
on the stone. Nitai's voice was heard once more--'Father'--and
then came a sound of some heavy object falling with a bump--and
then--everything was still.
Having thus placed his wealth in the hands of a _yak_,[20] Jaganath
began to cover up the stone with earth. Then he piled broken bricks
and loose mortar over it. On the top of all he planted turfs of
grass and jungle weeds. The night was almost spent, but he could not
tear himself away from the spot. Now and again he placed his ear
to the ground, and tried to listen. It seemed to him that from far
far below--from the abysmal depth of the earth's interior--came a
wailing. It seemed to him that the night-sky was flooded with that
one sound, that the sleeping humanity of all the world was awake, and
was sitting on its beds, trying to listen.
[20] _Yak_ or _Yaksa_ is a supernatural being described in Sanskrit
mythology and poetry. In Bengal, _Yak_ has come to mean a ghostly
custodian of treasure, under such circumstances as in this story.
The old man in his frenzy kept on heaping earth higher and higher. He
wanted somehow to stifle that sound, but still he fancied he could hear
'Father.'
He struck the spot with all his might and said: 'Be quiet--people
might hear you.' But still he imagined he heard 'Father.'
The sun lighted up the eastern horizon. Jaganath then left the temple,
and came into the open fields.
There, too, somebody called out 'Father.' Startled at the sound, he
turned back and saw his son at his heels.
'Father,' said Brindaban, 'I hear my boy is hiding himself in your
house. I must have him back.'
With eyes dilated and distorted mouth, the old man leaned forward and
exclaimed: 'Your boy?'
'Yes, my boy Gokul. He is Nitai Pal now, and I myself go by the name
of Damodar Pal. Your _fame_ has spread so widely in the neighbourhood,
that we were obliged to cover up our origin, lest people should have
refused to pronounce our names.'
Slowly the old man lifted both his arms above his head. His fingers
began to twitch convulsively, as though he was trying to catch hold of
some imaginary object in the air. He then fell on the ground.
When he came to his senses again, he dragged his son towards the ruined
temple. When they were both inside it, he said: 'Do you hear any
wailing sound?'
'No, I don't,' said Brindaban.
'Just listen very carefully. Do you hear anybody calling out
"Father"?'
'No.'
This seemed to relieve him greatly.
From that day forward, he used to go about asking people: 'Do you hear
any wailing sound?' They laughed at the raving dotard.
About four years later, Jaganath lay on his death-bed. When the
light of this world was gradually fading away from his eyes, and his
breathing became more and more difficult, he suddenly sat up in a
state of delirium. Throwing both his hands in the air he seemed to
grope about for something, muttering: 'Nitai, who has removed my
ladder?'
Unable to find the ladder to climb out of his terrible dungeon, where
there was no light to see and no air to breathe, he fell on his bed
once more, and disappeared into that region where no one has ever been
found out in the world's eternal game of hide-and-seek.[21]
[21] The incidents described in this story, now happily a thing of
the past, were by no means rare in Bengal at one time. Our author,
however, slightly departs from the current accounts. Such criminally
superstitious practices were resorted to by miserly persons under the
idea that they themselves would re-acquire the treasure in a future
state of existence. 'When you see me in a future birth passing this
way, you must make over all this treasure to me. Guard it till then
and stir not,'--was the usual promise exacted from the victim before
he became _yak_. Many were the 'true' stories we heard in childhood of
people becoming suddenly rich by coming across ghostly custodians of
wealth belonging to them in a past birth.