There is nothing, perhaps, more effectual to deaden, if not to relieve
recent misery, than the sensation of rapid motion. Leaning back in
the palankeen, with the doors now shut, and the fresh breeze blowing
refreshingly through the open blinds, Tara felt herself hurried swiftly
and smoothly along, while her attention was at once occupied and
distracted by the occurrences of the journey. Sindphul, its temple and
trees: the lane which was the bed of the rivulet, through which the
bearers plashed rapidly: the village gate now shut, and its bastions
manned with men to keep out marauders: the long shady narrow lane,
overhung with trees;--then, beyond, the plain, covered with rich
crops of grain now ripening: the shouts of the men and boys, perched
upon their stages in the fields, slinging stones at birds: the song,
drawling and monotonous, of the bullock-drivers at the wells,--were all
familiar objects and sounds to the desolate girl being carried rapidly
by them. Would she ever see them again?
As they passed their own garden, she looked among the trees--perchance
she might see Sudba, the old bullock-driver, or Purésh-ram, the
gardener; but there was no one visible, else she had cried out to them.
Were they dead, too? Ah! how often had she wandered among the trees
there with her mother, and watched the butterflies among the flowers!
The bearers stopped to change opposite the wicket gate, and she could
see the bright beds of white jessamine, unpicked as yet, and large
marigolds, and white and yellow chrysanthemums, which the men were
saving for the Dusséra. Who would gather them now? Over them, the same
bright yellow and white butterflies were hovering in hundreds, and
the fierce green and blue dragonflies chasing each other, or darting
here and there, quick as thought, and glistening in the sun. Then she
remembered the omen in her garden as she sat spinning, and fell back on
the pillow shuddering. It was true. She remembered too that the bird
had sat for a while, and twittered a sweet low song. Was he that bird,
that noble, gracious youth, who had spoken to her so gently, so kindly?
She tried to follow the thread of this thought back, but failed. Her
mind was sadly confused and wandering, now reverting to the omen, now
to the objects she was passing, and the people they met:--who were
they? what doing? whither going?--to the horsemen, the monotonous tramp
of whose horses never ceased, some behind, some before, some around
her,--fierce, dark-bearded fellows, whose very proximity she would
have dreaded before,--who were now guarding her respectfully by his
order; while the kind old man, to whose charge she had been specially
committed, rode close to the side of the litter, and where the path was
narrow, asked her, through the blinds, if she were well, and wanted
anything.
Fazil, son of Afzool; she remembered the name. It was strange to
Hindu lips, but had a musical cadence, which her memory retained as
she repeated it to herself. Fazil, son of Afzool; and he had a sister
Zyna. What would she be like? Would she be kind and loving to her? like
Radha? Was he not beautiful, and very fair, almost ruddy.
Into all these channels, confused, and whirling her mind hither and
thither like dust and straws before the wind, her thoughts wandered
dreamily, apparently avoiding the bare, hideous fact that all were
dead whom she loved--all who had protected her up to last night. But
this would not long be denied its place. It was a horrible reality not
as yet fully understood:--which her gentle mind could not grasp.
Dead! who saw them die? They were alive last night,--who had killed
them? If she had seen them die, that, indeed, would be surety. No, it
was not true. They could not be dead,--they could not have left her
so helpless. It was some fraud, some deception. She had not gone far:
Sindphul was close by: she would run and sit in the garden, and wait
for her mother; and she half-opened the door of the litter. Shêre Khan
rode by it, erect and stern, but bowed down to her as the door moved.
"Do you want anything, lady?" he said. "Go to sleep; it will rest you."
The voice, kind as it was, dispelled the other thought, and brought
back the bitter reality of desolation and the events of the night.
How she had been lifted up--and the girl Gunga's laugh of triumph and
mockery rang in her ears, and was before her eyes now, as she pressed
her hands against them: the rude men who carried her down the steps:
the fearful shrieks and din in the temple: the shots and blows, growing
fainter as they carried her away: and, above all, the voice of Moro
Trimmul, exulting with Gunga that they were safe from death, and had
Tara captive. "To Rutunjun first," he had said, "and then----"
"From that worse than death he saved me," she thought, with a shudder.
"Fazil saved me--Fazil, son of Afzool--else I were helpless with
Moro now. And they were dead--her people, all dead? Yes, the detail
Fazil had related was brief and circumstantial. The Bhópeys would not
lie--why should they? They were weeping, and had taken him up dead.
Her father, a negro had killed him, they said. She felt no hope could
come out of this detail. They had lifted him up and put him.... No,
she could not follow that. That beloved father, dead--disfigured with
ghastly wounds!--mother, whom Jánoo had seen dead, and Radha ... all?
He had said so. How could he--Fazil--know of Jánoo, or the Bhópeys, her
father's dependants, so as to deceive her with names?"
So, round and round, whirling, dashing hither and thither like the
motes in a sunbeam, staying nowhere, sometimes utterly blank, the
girl's thoughts ministered to her fast growing misery. The hot dry
eyes, red and swollen, looked out sometimes vacantly as the bearers
changed shoulders. She felt powerless to move, careless as to what
became of her. As the reality of the death of all, pressed on her mind
occasionally with greater force, she sat up and gasped for breath,
and again fell back upon the cushions; then the monotonous cries of
the bearers as they shuffled along rapidly, and the dull tramp of the
horses, with the sense of motion, were relief from mental agony: and,
after a time, she slept.
The action of setting down the litter, awoke her with a start. Under
some trees not far from a village gate, there was the small hut of a
Fakeer. Shêre Khan was speaking to the old man, and the troopers were
dismounting from their horses. Shêre Khan came to her.
"I have sent for the Josee's wife," he said. "The Syn here says she is
a kind woman. She will bring you water and something to eat. We rest
here while the men get their breakfasts, and the horses are fed. Fear
nothing. Open the litter,--it is cool and pleasant in the shade under
the trees," and then he left her.
So it was. She opened the door and looked out. A small grove of mango
trees, with a smooth green sward below them, and some cattle and goats
grazing there in the cool shade; a boy and a girl tending them looked
inquisitively at her, and the girl came up shyly and sat down by her.
"Do you want water, lady?" she said. "I am the Josee's daughter, and
those are my goats. I will go and tell my mother you want water. You
are a Brahmun, are you not?"
Tara patted her head in assent--she could not speak; and the girl ran
away, crying to the lad not to let her goats stray.
By-and-by the child and mother returned, and the latter brought a
copper vessel of water and a drinking-cup.
"Here is water, lady," she said; "will you get out and wash your face?
Surely, I know you," she continued quickly, as Tara turned her face to
her. "Where have I seen you?"
"No matter," said Tara, "I do not know you."
"Perhaps not," said the dame drearily. "So many travellers come and go,
and ... but no matter. Shall I cook anything for you? will you come to
our house and bathe?"
"No," said Tara; "they will go on presently; I will stay here."
"Come hither, Ooma," she said to the girl, who was standing apart, and
she whispered to her; "go, and come quickly," she added aloud.
"Do not send for any one else," said Tara; "I am well."
"Are you not ill?" said the woman. "Ah, your eyes are red and swollen."
"I have a headache," replied Tara; "it is so hot."
"Yes," said the woman, sitting down, and putting her arm kindly round
Tara, and pressing her head against her own bosom,--"yes, you look
tired and weary, but it will pass away. Wash your face and hands,
and your feet--it will do you good, and refresh you. Put out your
feet--so--I will wash them."
The cool water was refreshing as it was poured over her hands and feet;
and after the woman had dried them with the end of her saree, she again
laid Tara's head against her breast, and patted her as though she were
her own child.
"You look so weary," she said; "have you travelled far?"
"From Tooljapoor," Tara replied.
"Is all well there?" asked the woman. It was a common question with no
meaning to the asker, but of how much to Tara!
She could not answer, but clung, almost convulsively, to the kind
breast on which she had laid her head.
"I see," said the woman; "so young and rich, and yet thou art in
sorrow, lady--rest here." And she drew her the more closely to her, and
patted her as before. So they sat till the child came back, who brought
upon a plate, covered with a handkerchief, a few simple sweetmeats and
some parched rice. "Eat," she said, "if ever so little; eat a bit of
'Luddoo,' and drink some water." Tara shook her head, and only nestled
the closer to the soft bosom: it was strangely like her mother's.
"Poor thing, poor thing," thought the woman to herself, "what can ail
her? Perhaps her husband is unkind. Eat, my rose," she said aloud,
"eat this." And she broke off a piece of the cake and put it to Tara's
mouth. "I made it myself, and it is quite pure and clean. Eat it; open
your mouth." Tara did so mechanically, and she put it in.
Tara tried to eat, but her mouth was dry and hot; she could not
swallow, and felt choking. The woman saw it, and rubbed her throat
gently. The hardness and constriction seemed to relax, and she was able
to swallow what she had taken, and to eat a little more, the woman
feeding her.
"Good," she said kindly, "try again by-and-by. O lady, what heavy grief
is on you that no tears come? Can I do aught for you?"
"Nothing," said Tara; "only do not leave me while they are absent."
So they sat silently. If Tara could have wept, it had been well; but
that blessed relief was not to come yet. She was quiet, however,
sitting there, almost stupified, resting her head against the woman's
breast, who still patted her. Every now and then the great, sore, hot
eyes looked out drearily. Some of the goats and cattle browsed under
the trees, others had lain down resting in the shade. There was no
sound but a faint rustle of the breeze among the leaves, the dim buzz
of flies, and the droning song of a man, at a well in a garden near,
singing to his bullocks, and the distant plashing rush of the water as
it was emptied from the bag into the cistern.
And so they sat, till one by one the bearers gathered near them, and
tied up their hookas on the palankeen as before. Then the horsemen came
up, and she heard Shêre Khan asking her if she were ready, and telling
the bearers to take up the palankeen. Tara had put the gifts she had
received at the shrine under her waist-band, and remembered them. As
the palankeen was taken up she took them out and put them into the
woman's hand, who, expecting perhaps a few copper coins, stood looking
at them in amazement.
"May your grief pass from you, and may God be merciful unto you, my
child," said the woman. Ere Tara could reply, a bearer had shut the
door, and the men ran on with renewed vigour.
Yes, the little change had refreshed her, and she again fell asleep,
mercifully: and it was evening, and the shadows were lengthening fast,
when she became aware that they approached a large town, passed through
a busy bazar crowded with people, then emerged from it; crossed over a
bridge, from which a large piece of water was visible on the left hand,
and the towers and bastions of a fort washed by it; then the gloom of
a deep-arched gateway, and light beyond. A respectably dressed elderly
woman, in Mahomedan costume, took hold of the side of the palankeen,
and ran along with it a short distance.
"Stop," she cried to the bearers,--"this is the place; put it down and
go away."
Then Tara saw several other women advance and hold up a heavy sheet so
as to screen her as she got out, and the door was opened; and Goolab,
for she it was, speaking a rough dialect of Mahratta, bid her come
forth. As she did so, and stood there, Goolab "took the evil off her,"
as was her custom;[13] and other women coming forward with plates,
on which were coriander and mustard seed, waved them over her. Thus
welcomed, Tara now stood waiting a signal to advance; and Goolab,
seeing her trembling violently, put her arm round her, looking with
wonder at the richness of her apparel and the heavy gold ornaments she
wore, her exceeding beauty causing respect and silence even from the
loquacious and privileged nurse.
"Enter," said a low sweet voice from within a curtain hanging across a
doorway, which was slightly opened.
FOOTNOTE:
[13] Women pass their hands over the person on whom the ceremony is
performed from head to foot; then, turning the backs of their hands
against their temples, make all their knuckles and finger-joints crack
loudly. This is done to avert consequences of Evil Eye.