Kalighat

"The five years will be up to-morrow. When the sun rises next upon

the festival of Kali I shall have completed my vow."

Scarcely had the holy man been able to say his prayers or repeat his

sacred texts the whole day long, for there had been constantly

before his mind the knowledge that this was the last day of his

self-imposed sacrifices and that the next day he would be free from

all restraints to do--what? Over and over had the thought repeated

itself in the man's mind until now, unconsciously, he had given

utterance to it and the stout, sleek priest of Kali who chanced to

be standing beside his shelter, looked down upon him in surprise.

"What vow, most holy one?" he courteously inquired. "For many years

thou hast sat here at the ghat, the most honoured and revered of all

the holy men this side the temple of our Goddess Kali. Was this thy

vow--to sit thus in ashes?"

The fakir started at the priest's voice, for his own remarks had

been unconscious, and, looking up at his interrogator, he seemed

slowly to comprehend that he had spoken aloud and that the priest

had heard his words.

"Yes, Priest of Kali," he said, dropping his eyes and poking the

little fire before him with his sacred tongs.

"Perhaps you of the holy priesthood can answer a question for me,"

he added slowly after a moment, without looking up.

The fat, half-naked priest, not loath to take advantage of any

opportunity to do nothing, especially when at the same time he was

being religious by talking with a holy man, dropped lazily to the

pavement beside the fakir's rude shelter of a bit of thatch on four

poles and, waving for a hookah from the rest-house across the narrow

street, settled himself to listen in comfort.

But before the holy man propounded his question, for a few minutes

he seemed to have forgotten about it. His keen, dark eyes, after

turning thoughtfully from one side to the other of the small paved

square in front of him, looked across the sluggish brown stream at

the foot of the steps to the opposite bank where a few people were

bathing in the water, and beyond to where were crowded close

together the small mud houses of the native section of a great

Indian city. While he gazed thus, the young priest took several

puffs at the long pipe, leering lazily the while at two pretty girls

who had come from the street into the square and, pausing before the

fakir, timidly had placed a few pice on the dirty cloth spread out

before him, but, seeing the leer of the priest, hastened to pull

their saris over their faces and pass hurriedly down the steps to

the sacred Ganges.

The holy man had not noticed the girls, nor did he seem to see the

rest of the crowd of people who walked back and forth through the

little square, having come to throw flowers upon the river or to

bathe in its waters or, having bathed, to lie down and rest in

Indian fashion in the roofed verandas charitably provided by rich

and merit-seeking Hindus. He did not seem to see any of them,

although so many of them brought their offerings of fruit and pice

to him that his begging cloth was almost overflowing. Nor did he

notice the presence of an American tourist who had stepped into the

square and who, with a Murray under one arm and an umbrella under

the other, was endeavouring to keep an immense sola, topi, from

falling over on his nose while he took a picture of the "freak"; for

how else could a globe-trotting American classify a man who, naked

all but for a small loin cloth, sat cross-legged upon a deer's

skin, his long hair, matted with filth into ropes, wound in a

scraggy knot upon his head and his body smeared with ashes from the

small fire that burned before him, the marks of white upon his

forehead, intelligible only to the Hindu, making his bearded face

almost frightful.

Nor did the fakir heed the naked children who trotted across the

pavement at the heels of their mothers, going to perform the sacred

rites at the river and to secure their children from all harm by a

dip in its holy waters. The old woman, too, who, scarcely able to

hobble along, had placed a little brass bowl of the dirty, foul

water beside him (for the piece of water near Kali's temple is only

a slip of the Ganges itself and is, therefore, particularly filthy)

received not her usual blessing in return and sank down near by to

wait until the holy man should notice her.

"Yes, Priest of Kali," the holy one turned from his gazing, "I have

a question that waits an answer. Listen to my story. I was once a

wealthy man, trained in all the learning of Brahminism. I did only

what our religion allowed; I did all that it required, in sacrifices

to the gods, in presents to their priests, and even in pilgrimages.

But I was wretched within. I had no peace." As he spoke he laid his

hand upon his heart and his eyes were heavy. "On the day of the

great feast five years ago, on this very spot, after having made my

offering to Jaganauth and to Haunamon and the other gods there," and

he indicated with his dirty hand a little stone building at his left

which contained a shrine to the legless, armless, hideous god,

Jaganauth, and to the red, shapeless figure known as Haunamon, "I

came to this spot to present my offering to the old man who had sat

here ever since I could remember. But he was not here. He was gone.

They told me that they had found him that morning lying dead on the

steps there with his feet in the Ganges and that already his body

had been burnt in the burning-ghat near by. 'What a reward!' I

thought, 'to have died by the side of Mother Gunga. Surely he must

have found peace.'

"'Can I not find peace by following his example?' The thought came

to me suddenly as I stood here gazing upon his empty shelter and his

neglected fire. I determined at least to try, for, at any cost, I

must find peace! In my zeal and eagerness at once I stripped off my

clothing and smeared myself with ashes from the fire which the holy

man had kindled but the day before. Leaving my clothes on the ground

underneath this little roof near the heap of ashes, as a sign that

the dead man's place had been taken, to warn off other possible

devotees from the spot, immediately I passed down the little street

there between the stalls where are sold the articles needed in the

worship of your goddess. At one I bought the little lamp; at

another, garlands; at another, oil and a brass bowl; and at the

street there I turned aside to buy, with my last annas, a black kid

as a sacrifice for Kali.

"Through the narrow passage between the houses that surround the

temple of Kali I went in haste, drawing the bleating kid behind me

by a rope. When I reached the little paved courtyard before that

small but most sacred shrine where dwells the goddess herself I gave

the animal over to the priest. Then I watched eagerly as he put the

little creature's neck between the posts so that he could not get

away, and, with but one blow of the knife, severed the head from the

body, letting the blood pour forth. I hastened to catch the precious

blood in my brass bowl. I daubed it upon my forehead. I touched the

sacred slaughter posts with it. I gladly stepped where it had flowed

upon the pavement and reddened my feet in the sacred flood. Then, as

the priest carried the carcass away and other sacrificers thronged

in, I took my bowl and, mounting the steps of the holy place where

no unclean foot has ever trod, I saw the door of the shrine open and

before me stood the Goddess Kali in her black majesty, with human

skulls for a necklace and human arms for a girdle, her protruding

tongue thirsting for blood. I poured my offering of blood upon her

and with prayers and presentation of flowers and incense, I invoked

her blessing upon me and declared to her a vow that for five years I

would sit at the ghat day and night; that I would follow all the

customs of the holy men:--wear no clothes but ashes, eat no food but

fruit, drink no water but that of the sacred Ganges, and pray

without ceasing; and that every anna that I received as alms I would

give to her.

"Now, Priest of this most revered goddess, all this have I done. I

have never left this spot since returning from offering my vow to

her five years ago; I did not even go home to tell my family, who

after several days traced me here; but I was so changed that they

did not recognize me. Now they mourn me as dead. Here I have sat for

five years upon this skin. See my legs, how withered they are! See

my body; there is not a clean spot on it! See, I have drunk nothing

but this water," and he held up the jar of muddy liquid which the

old woman had set down at his side. "I eat nothing but fruit; I

think of nothing but my beads and my sacred book; I give every pice

to your temple. I have kept my vow. But I am not satisfied. I have

not found peace. What shall I do? Priest of Kali! What can I do to

find peace?"

The sad heart of the holy man was in his eyes as he looked at the

priest and his voice was pleading. "If thou dost know, tell me!"

The priest, who had been dulled by his bestiality so that he was not

able to comprehend the soul-longings of the man before him, had

already become weary of the fakir's earnestness and importunity.

Lazily he pulled himself to his feet, after a last long suck at the

pipe. "Come and be a priest of Kali," was his only answer as he

turned down the lane towards the temple of his goddess, with lustful

eyes fixed upon a pretty woman, who, attracted by the unusual

animation of the holy man, had been standing near by until the

priest arose.

The fakir, worn out by the eagerness with which he had spoken and

the unappreciativeness of his listener, turned wearily to his holy

book and his prayers. He knew the priesthood of Kali; in his five

years at the Kalighat he had heard and seen strange things which as

a Hindu he could not condemn, but which he knew would not bring

peace to him, even as a priest of Kali, for in his young manhood he

had tried them and had not been at rest. "I was, indeed, foolish to

have talked to the priest at all," he murmured.

"Pardon me, holy one," a voice interrupted his thoughts, the voice

of a young man who had been standing for some time with an open book

in his hand, not reading, but listening to the words of the fakir.

"I heard thy conversation. Hast thou ever tried the pursuit of

wisdom? Study, learn, become the wisest of men and surely thou wilt

become the most happy. I am a follower of that way."

The holy man, turning, looked fixedly for some time at the young

man. "Son, what means the sad look in your eyes? Are you yourself

happy? Tell me truly!"

The young man's intelligent but undeniably sad face was turned full

towards the fakir. For a few moments he seemed to hesitate to reply.

At last he said, "No, holy man, I have not found peace yet. I have

not found happiness yet, but I am only a student. I am seeking. I

study and read at all times--but even while I read my heart is not

at rest, I must confess." He turned as he finished speaking and with

bowed head, unmindful of the noise and confusion of the square about

him, went down the lane.

The fakir sighed. "Peace is not found in that way, poor youth! For I

have tried it. I was a Hindu scholar of note before I became this,"

and he gazed at his dirty hands and body with evident loathing.

The old woman, who had waited all this time for her blessing, said

timidly, holding out her hand towards him, "Holy man, most holy man!

Give me thy blessing, for my son is ill. Tell me how he can be

healed, my only son."

Mechanically the holy man muttered a blessing, and taking a pinch of

ashes from the fire before him, with a mumbled prayer, dropped them

into her hand. "Put these upon his tongue. Bathe his head in the

holy Gunga water and forget not to offer a kid to Kali."

"But I cannot offer a kid. I have no money! I have no money! My son

will die! My son will die!" sobbed the woman.

The holy man looked at her fixedly for a full minute, realizing her

grief and her need. Then with a quick glance about him he leaned

forward. He swept up the pile of coins on the offering cloth before

him and thrusting them into the woman's hands whispered: "Go and

buy! Go and buy!"

The woman went quickly, wiping her eyes with her sari.

The fakir's face became radiant. "Surely that sweet feeling was

peace! Blessed peace! Is this the end of my quest? Has my soul at

last found rest?"

As suddenly his face darkened. "Yet, yet--I should have given that

money to the goddess. I promised in my vow that every anna, above

the cost of my fruit and of the wood for my fire, should be given to

her."

He bowed his head upon his hands.

"I have broken my vow--on the last day of the five years I have

broken my vow! I am unholy! I am unholy!"

After a few minutes he raised his bowed head and seemed to be

thinking aloud. "Peace could not have come in cheating the gods.

That strange feeling when I gave to the woman to relieve her sorrow

could not have been peace--but it was sweet, very sweet!" He paused

with a half smile which soon, however, was overcast, for all the joy

went out of his face again as he said, "It must be that I have not

denied myself enough, have not made enough sacrifices. And I have

been unholy! Surely there is peace for the truly holy. I will try

again.--I will swear another vow. Take me to Kali!" He called the

last sentence loudly, but ere the people in the square understood

his wish, he remembered that he had no money, no offering to take;

even he, a "holy man," could not go to Kali's temple to make a vow

without an offering. He must wait until the people should fill his

empty begging cloth.

"After all, it is best thus," he thought. It would have been useless

for him to have gone to the temple without having planned what new

form of self-torture he must add to his present life, in his search

for peace. "I must plan my vow," he said.

In the meantime the sun had set and the people were leaving the

ghat. Involuntarily the fakir pulled a cotton sheet around him and

started to add a stick to his fire, for it was beginning to get

chilly. But suddenly he stopped, dropped the stick from his hand and

threw the cloth from his shoulders, proclaiming in a loud voice:

"For the next five years I will have no fire at night, nor will I

put more clothing about my body; but I will have a fire by day when

the sun is hot. Moreover I will eat but once a day and but once a

day will I drink water, no matter how parching the heat. And--and--I

will hold my arms above my head all the night! Surely," his

voice sank, "surely these sacrifices will bring me peace.

Surely--they--will--bring--me--peace. To-morrow will be the day to

begin my new vow, but," he paused, "perchance I can gain my desire

sooner if I begin now. Now, to-night, I will begin to keep my vow."

In haste the holy man beat out his fire with the sacred tongs; he

threw his cotton sheet towards a beggar shivering on a step near

by; and with his eyes turned towards the waters of the sacred

Ganges, just visible in the dim twilight, he raised his arms high

above his head.