When I was a child I wept over a story--if I remember right, by Mrs.
Sherwood--which bore this title.
Years after I came to man's estate, I felt inclined to weep over an
incident in real life which this title seemed to fit.
Looking back on those first tears, I judge them uncalled for by what
my maturer age condemns as false sentiment. Perhaps my later emotion
is equally at fault. The reader had better judge for himself.
* * * * *
"Speak on, O Bisram, bearer! Wherefore dost not obey? Speak on about
Mai Kali and the Noose--the Noose that is so soft, that never slips.
Wherefore dost not speak, son of an owl?"
The voice was childish, fretful. So was the listless little figure in
a flannel dressing-gown, which lay half upon the reed mat spread on
the verandah floor, half against the red and yellow livery coat of
Bisram, bearer. The latter remained silent, his dark eyes fixed
deprecatingly on a taller figure within earshot. It was the child's
mother, standing for a glance at her darling.
"Speak! Why dost not speak, base-born child of pigs? Lo! I will smite
thee. Speak of Mai Kali and the Noose. Lo! Bisram, bearer, be not
unkind. Remember I am sick. Show me the Noose. _Ai!_ Bisra! show it to
Sonny Baba."
The liquid Urdu fell from the child's lips with quaint precision, and
ended in the coaxing wail of one who knows his power.
That was unmistakable. The man's high-bred, sensitive face, which had
not quivered under the parentage assigned to him by the thin,
domineering voice, melted at the appeal, and the red and yellow arms
seemed to close round their charge at the very suggestion of sickness.
Bisram gave another deprecating glance at the tall white figure at the
door, and then, from the folds of his waistcloth, took out a silk
handkerchief crumpled into a ball. But a dexterous flutter left it in
uncreased folds across the child's knees.
"Lo! Protector of the Poor! such is the Noose of Kali," said Bisram,
deferentially.
Seen thus, the handkerchief looked larger than one would have
expected: or perhaps it is more correct to say longer, for, the
texture being loose like canvas, even the slight drag across the
child's knees stretched the stuff lengthwise. It was of that curious
Indian colour called _oodah_, which is not purple or crimson, but
which looks as if it had been the latter and might become the
former--the colour, briefly, of recently spilt blood. It looked well,
however, in the soft lustrous folds lying upon the child's white
dressing-gown. He smiled down at it joyfully: yet not content, since
there was more to come.
"Twist it for Mai Kali. Twist it, Bisram, bearer! _Ai!_ base-born,
twist it or I will smite--"
"It is time for the Shelter of the World to take his medicine," began
Bisram, interrupting the imperious little voice. "Lo! does his Honour
not see the _mem_ waiting for him?"
Sonny gave a quick glance at his mother. He knew his power there also.
"I'se not goin' to take it, mum," he called decisively, "till he's
twisted a' Noose. I won't--I want a' stwangle somefin' first. Tell
him, mum--please. Then I'll 'waller it like a good boy."
"Do what he wants, Bisram, and then bring him here," said Sonny's
mother, her eyes soft. For the child had but lately chosen the path of
Life instead of the Valley of the Shadow, so even wayward footsteps
along it were welcome.
"Now is it Government orders," boasted Sonny, reverting to the
precisions and peremptoriness of Hindustani with a wave of his small
hand. "So twist and strangle, and if thou dost it not, my father will
cause hanging to come to thee."
"_Huzoor!_" assented Bisram, cheerfully, as he shifted his burden
slightly so as to free his left hand. The next instant a purple
crimson rope of a thing, circled on itself, settled down upon the neck
of a big painted mud tiger, bright yellow with black stripes and fiery
red eyes, which one of the native visitors had brought that morning
for the magistrate's little son.
"Now the Protector of the Poor can pull," said Bisram, bearer. "It
will not slip."
But Sonny's wan little face had perplexity and doubt in it. "But,
Bisra, Mai Kali rides a tiger. She wouldn't stwangle it. Would she,
mum? I wouldn't stwangle my pony. I'd wather stwangle the gwoom;
wouldn't you, mum? I would. I'd wather like to stwangle Gamoo."
"My dear Sonny!" exclaimed his mother, looking with amused horror at
the still, helpless little figure which Bisram had brought to her.
"You wouldn't murder poor Gamoo, surely!"
Sonny made faces over his quinine, as if that were a matter of much
more importance.
"'Ess, I would," he said, with his mouth full of sweet biscuits. "I'd
stwangle him, and then Mai Kali would be pleased for a fousand years;
and then I'd stwangle Ditto an' Peroo too; so she'd be pleased for a
fousand fousand years--wouldn't she, Bisra?"
"_Huzoor!_" assented Bisram, bearer.
"My dear," said Sonny's mother, going back with a somewhat disturbed
look to the room where the magistrate, Sonny's father, was busy over
crabbed Sanskrit texts and bright-coloured talc pictures; for in his
leisure hours he was compiling a Hindu Pantheon for the use of
students, "I almost wish Bisram would not tell Sonny so many stories
about the gods and goddesses. They do such horrid things."
The scholar, who in his heart nourished a hope that his son might in
due time follow in his footsteps, and, perhaps, gain reputation where
his father only found amusement, looked up from his books mildly.
"Gods and goddesses always do, my dear. Their morality seldom conforms
to that which obtains among their worshippers. I intend to draw
general attention to this anomaly. Besides, Sonny will have to learn
these things anyhow when he begins Greek and Latin; he will in fact
find this previous knowledge of great use. Kali, for instance, is
the terrific form of Durga who, of course, corresponds to the Juno
of the Greeks and Romans and the Isis of Egypt. She is also the
crescent-crowned Diana, and as Parbutt the Earth-mother Ceres. Under
the name of Atma, again, she is 'goddess of souls governing the three
worlds,' and so equivalent to Hecate Triformis--"
"Yes! my dear," interrupted his wife, meekly. "But for all that I
don't want Sonny to talk of strangling the grooms; it really doesn't
sound nice. However, as Bisram is eager, now Sonny is really
recovering, to get away at once for his usual leave, I won't say
anything to the child. He will forget while Bisram is away, and I will
give orders that the latter is not to mention the subject on his
return."
Bisram himself, receiving his pay and his orders ere starting on the
yearly visit to his own country, which was the only portion of
his life by day or night not absolutely--without any reservation
whatever--at the disposal of his employers, fully acquiesced in the
_mem-sahiba's_ dictum. The Noose of Kali was scarcely a nice game for
the little master; indeed his slave would never have introduced it
under ordinary circumstances. But the _mem_ must remember that
dreadful day when the Heart's-eye lay so still, caring for nothing,
and the doctor-_sahib_ had said there was nothing to be done save to
coax him into looking into the restless Face of Life instead of into
the restful Face of Death. That was when he, Bisram, who knew, had
spoken of the Noose; and, at least, it had done the little Shelter of
the World no harm.
"Harm?" echoed Sonny's mother, gently. "You have never done him harm,
Bisra. Why, the doctor-_sahib_ himself said your hand was fortunate
with the child. If you had not been with him, I think--I think,
Bisram--he might have died. And now I am even wondering if I am wise
to let you go--"
Bisram looked up eagerly. "I must go, _Huzoor_--I must go without fail
to-night--the year is over--" He paused abruptly, then added quietly:
"The _Huzoor_ need have no fear. The little master will do well. The
Mighty One who cares for children will protect this one."
He spoke with such faith in voice and face, that Sonny's mother going
back once more to the study, and finding her husband busy as usual
over his Pantheon, lingered to look doubtfully at the talc pictures,
and finally remark that after all the people really had a good deal of
religious feeling, and actually seemed to believe in a God. Bisram,
for instance, had said that Sonny was in the guardianship of One who
suffered the little children-- Here her eyes filled with tears, and
her voice sank.
"He meant Mata Devi, I expect, my dear," replied the scholar without
looking up. "She is another form of Kali or Durga, and corresponds to
Cybele or the Mater Montana--"
"He was very eager to get away, however," went on Sonny's mother,
almost aggrievedly. "I really think he might have stayed a few days
longer till the boy was quite himself. But devoted as he is, he is
just like the rest of them--selfishly set on what they are accustomed
to--"
"He put off going nearly a month though, and you know, my dear, that
when he took service as Sonny's bearer, he stipulated for a
fortnight's leave every spring, about a certain time, in order to
perform some religious ceremonial," protested the justice.
"Well, and he has had it. Every year for five years; so he might have
given it up for once. But he wouldn't. I don't believe he would, not
even to save Sonny's life. However, I think the child is all right,
and even if I had kept Bisram, he wouldn't have been much good, for he
has been frightfully restless and hurried the last few days."
He did not seem so, however, as he stood quietly in the growing dusk
at the gateless gate of the compound to look back at the house where
he had left the little Shelter of the World asleep. His scarlet and
yellow coat was gone, replaced by the faint coral-coloured garments of
the pilgrim; he carried a network-covered pot for holy water, slung on
his left wrist, and the yellow trident of Siva showed like a frown on
his forehead. The thickets of flowering shrubs, the tangles of white
petunias bordering the path, sent their perfume into the air; but
above it rose the heavy, dead-sweet scent from a wild _dhatura_ plant
which, taking advantage of an unweeded nook by the gate, thrust its
long white flowers across the pilaster; one of them indeed reaching
past it, and so, seen five-pointed against the dusk beyond, looking
like a slim white hand pointing the way thither.
Bisram stooped deliberately to pick it, tore it into its five
segments, and placed the pieces in his bosom, muttering softly,
"With heart and brain and feet, and hands and eyes, Devi, I am thy
servant." Then for a second he raised himself to his full height, and
stretched both his thin, fine hands--such delicately supple, strong
hands--towards the house. "Sleep sound, Life of my Life," he murmured
again. "Sleep sound, and have no fear. The offering will be complete,
though the time is short indeed."
So, turning on his heel, he passed into the dusk, beyond the gate,
whither the flower had pointed.
A fortnight later he came out of it once more, passed into his hut in
the gloaming, dressed as a pilgrim, and emerged therefrom ten minutes
afterwards in the red and yellow coat, with a huge white turban with a
bend, as the heralds call it, across it bearing his master's crest. So
altered, he slipped back into his place as if he had never left it,
and setting aside the reed screen at the door of Sonny's nursery,
stood within. Sonny, in his white flannel dressing-gown, was
convalescent enough to be saying his prayers, kneeling on his mother's
knee.
"Go on, dear," she said gently. "You can speak to Bisram afterwards."
Sonny, whose feet were less wayward, now shut his eyes again, and
assumed a prayerful expression.
"--an' all kine friends, an' make me a velly good boy--yamen--O Bisra!
where's the Noose?" The mother might smile, unable so far to pretend
ignorance. Not so Bisram, bearer, who had his orders.
"What Noose, Shelter of the World?" he asked gravely. "Thy servant
remembers none; but he hath brought the Protector of the Poor a toy."
It was only one of the many which you can buy in any Indian town for
the fraction of a farthing, made of mud, straw, cane; a bit of tinsel
perhaps, or tuft of cotton-wool, their sole value over and above the
ingenuity and time spent in making them. But Sonny had never seen this
kind before, and laughed as the snakes, made out of curled shavings,
leapt and twisted. Leapt so like life that his mother drew back
hastily, telling herself that the bearer had certainly a fine taste in
horrors. And no doubt there would be some tale to match these. Sonny,
however, seemed to know it vaguely, for a puzzled look replaced the
laugh. "Yea! Bisra," he said in imperious argument, "Mai Kali had
snakes and skulls too; but I like the Noose best. Why didst not bring
it back, son of an owl?"
The man never moved a muscle. "The little master mistakes," he replied
calmly. "It was some others who tied the Noose. Not this dustlike one.
He is but the Protector of the Poor's bearer, Bisram."