_What! the Digit of the Moon on his brow, Gangá in his hair, and Gaurí
on his knee, and yet proof against all Love's arrows! O wonder of
wonders! who but the greatest of all the gods would not have melted
long ago, like butter between three fires?_[2]
Now, long ago, it happened, that Párwatí was left alone on Kailàs for
a little while, as she waited for the Lord of the Moony Tire. And
having nothing else to do, she amused herself by building an elephant
of snow, with large ears and a little tail, made of a yak's hair. And
when it was finished, she was so delighted with her toy, that she
began to clap her hands: and then, not being able to endure waiting,
she went off with impatience to fetch the Moony-crested god, to show
him what she had done, and revel in his applause. And the moment that
her back was turned, Nandi[3] happened to come along: and just as he
reached the elephant, which owing to his abstraction he never noticed,
taking it for a mere hump, formed at random by the snowdrifts, he was
suddenly seized with an irresistible desire to roll. And so, over he
rolled, and went from side to side, throwing up his legs into the air.
And as luck would have it, exactly at that very moment the Daughter of
the Snow returned, pulling Maheshwara along eagerly by the hand. And
she looked and saw Nandi, rolling about on the flat snow just where
she had left her elephant, which was gone. And she uttered a loud cry,
and stood, aghast with rage and disappointment. And she opened her
mouth to curse the author of the mischief, and was on the very verge
of saying: Sink into a lower birth, thou insolent destroyer! when
Maheshwara stopped her in the very act, guessing her intention, by
putting his hand upon her mouth.[4] And he exclaimed: Say nothing
rash, O angry one, for Nandi did not do it on purpose, after all. And
a good servant does not deserve cursing, for an accidental blunder.
And then, Párwatí burst into tears. And she exclaimed: Out of my
sight, thou clumsy one! for I cannot bear to see thee. And she turned
away, sobbing. And Maheshwara looked at her out of the corner of his
eye, and he said to himself: Now, then, I must do something to console
her for the elephant, and bring back her good humour. For ill humour
in a woman spoils all. And presently he said: Come now, enough! for
Nandi has gone off in disgrace, sufficiently punished by banishment
for a time, and very sad to have been the unwitting cause of thy
distress. And let us roam about awhile, in search of something new,
that may help to obliterate recollection, and change thy gloom into a
smile.
And he took the goddess in his arms, and set her as she sobbed upon
his knee, and rose from the peak of Kailàs, and shot like a falling
star down into the plain below. And coming to Haradwára, where Gangá
issues from the hills, he began to follow the holy stream down its
course, gliding along just above it like a cloud that was unable to
refrain from watching its own beautiful reflection in the blue mirror
of her wave. And so they went, until at last they reached an island
that was nothing but a sandbank in the very middle of the river,
covered with crocodiles lying basking in the sun. And then he said:
See! we will go down, and rest awhile among the crocodiles on this
sand, whose banks resemble nothing so much as the outline of thy own
graceful limbs. And Umá said tearfully: Pish! what do I care for
crocodiles, that sit for hours never even moving, like a _yogí_ in a
trance?
Then said the cunning god: None the less, we will go down: for it may
be that the island contains something besides its crocodiles. And as
they settled on it, he said again: Did I not say we should find
something? for yonder it lies, and it is a very great curiosity
indeed. And now, canst thou tell me what it is?
And she looked at it with scrutiny, and presently she said: I can tell
this only, that it must have been in the water for a very long time,
before it was washed up at last upon this bank by the river's flood:
since it is but a shapeless lump, covered with sand and rust and dirt.
Who but thyself could even guess what it might be? And Maheshwara
said: It has had a very long journey, and been not only in the river,
but in a crocodile too. For crocodiles swallow everything. And long
ago, this was carried by a man, who was drowned in another stream by
the upsetting of his boat, and became with all he carried the prey of
an old crocodile, which died long ago, and rotted away, letting this
at last escape out of its tomb, and roll along, till at last it got
into the Ganges, and was thrown up here in the rainy season, only the
other day. And when at last the water sank, lo! there it lay, as it
has lain until this moment, as if expecting thy arrival, to provide
thee with entertainment. And when all is over, thou wilt very likely
bless Nandi, instead of cursing him; since but for his awkwardness in
rolling on thy elephant, thou wouldst never have known anything about
it.
And Párwatí said peevishly: Where is the entertainment in this
foolish lump of flotsam, of which thou hast related the adventures
without ever saying what it is?
And the Moony-crested god said: Aha! Snowy One, do not be too sure.
For many things hold in their heart things not to be anticipated,
judging by their outside: and this lump which thou despisest is like a
coco-nut, whose coarse skin is full of nectar. But it has been shut so
long, that it would not easily be opened by anyone but me.[5] And he
touched it with his foot, saying, Open, and it opened like a shell.
And he said: See! it has in it a very strange kernel, preserved safe
and sound only because all its adventures added to its case, sheath
after sheath. And all the leaves are still there, a very little
mouldy, and the silk that tied them, and the seal. And the goddess
said: But what is it after all? And Maheshwara said: It is a case of
urgency, that all came to nothing in the end, being a letter that
never even reached its destination, because the sender was in so great
a hurry that he defeated his own object, bidding his messenger go so
fast that in his haste his boat turned over, and he and his message
were eaten on their way by a river beast. For those who go too fast
often go so slow as never to arrive at all, as was the case here. Then
said Umá: He that sent it must have been a fool. And Maheshwara said!
Nay, O Snowy One, not at all: far from it: and yet he became, as many
do, a fool for the occasion, under the influence of passion, which
blinds the eyes, and shuts up the ears, and twists the whole
character awry, so that it acts in a manner contrary to itself, as if
the man had been suddenly changed into another, or his body entered by
a Wetála, in the temporary absence of his soul.
And Párwatí said: What was the passion here? And the Moony-crested god
said slowly: It was a threefold cord, and very strong: love, and love
turned by intense disappointment into hatred, and rage against a
rival: each by itself alone enough to turn reason into madness. But
the whole story is told, by its hero himself, in the very letter: and
if thou wilt, I will read it aloud to thee, exactly as he wrote it,
word for word. And the goddess said: Thou knowest all: why not tell it
in thy own way, without the trouble of reading? And Maheshwara said:
Nay, on the contrary, it is far better to let him tell it for himself:
for who knew everything better than he did? And moreover, every story
told by a stranger is imperfect, since he is obliged to fill up the
gaps in his knowledge by imagination or conjecture: whereas, when the
actor in it all is himself the narrator, it is the very truth itself,
unless he expressly desires to conceal it, which is not the case here.
For he was very anxious indeed to tell his enemy everything, on
purpose to offend him: and he only made one mistake, which I will show
thee in due time. So I will read it exactly as it stands, omitting
absolutely nothing. And the Daughter of the Snow said: Read. But she
thought: If it is not worth hearing, I will simply go to sleep as he
reads. And Maheshwara said: Nay, O Snowy One, I will guarantee that
thou dost not go to sleep.
And then, the goddess suddenly threw her arms about his neck, and hid
her face on his breast. And she said: What is the use of trying to
hide anything at all from thee? Read. But for all that, I will go to
sleep, if I choose. And the Moony-crested god said with a smile: Aye!
but thou wilt not choose.
And then he began to read, throwing away the leaves as they ended, one
by one into the stream, which carried them away. And the crocodiles
all lay round him in a circle, worshipping their Lord, as he read.