At five o'clock in the morning we had already arrived at the limit, not
only of driveable, but, even, of rideable roads. Our bullock-cart could
go no further. The last half mile was nothing but a rough sea of stones.
We had either to give up our enterprise, or to climb on all-fours up an
almost perpendicular slope two hundred feet high. We were utterly at
our wits' end, and meekly gazed at the historical mass before us, not
knowing what to do next. Almost at the summit of the mountain, under
the overhanging rocks, were a dozen black openings. Hundreds of pilgrims
were crawling upwards, looking, in their holiday dresses, like so many
green, pink, and blue ants. Here, however, our faithful Hindu friends
came to our rescue. One of them, putting the palm of his hand to his
mouth, produced a strident sound something between a shriek and a
whistle. This signal was answered from above by an echo, and the next
moment several half naked Brahmans, hereditary watchmen of the temple,
began to descend the rocks as swiftly and skillfully as wild cats.
Five minutes later they were with us, fastening round our bodies strong
leathern straps, and rather dragging than leading us upwards. Half an
hour later, exhausted but perfectly safe, we stood before the porch
of the chief temple, which until then had been hidden from us by giant
trees and cactuses.
This majestic entrance, resting on four massive pillars which form a
quadrangle, is fifty-two feet wide and is covered with ancient moss and
carvings. Before it stands the "lion column," so-called from the four
lions carved as large as nature, and seated back to back, at its base.
Over the principal entrance, its sides covered with colossal male
and female figures, is a huge arch, in front of which three gigantic
elephants are sculptured in relief, with heads and trunks that project
from the wall. The shape of the temple is oval. It is 128 feet long and
forty-six feet wide. The central space is separated on each side
from the aisles by forty-two pillars, which sustain the cupola-shaped
ceiling. Further on is an altar, which divides the first dome from
a second one which rises over a small chamber, formerly used by the
ancient Aryan priests for an inner, secret altar. Two side passages
leading towards it come to a sudden end, which suggests that, once upon
a time, either doors or wall were there which exist no longer. Each of
the forty-two pillars has a pedestal, an octagonal shaft, and a
capital, described by Fergusson as "of the most exquisite workmanship,
representing two kneeling elephants surmounted by a god and a goddess."
Fergusson further says that this temple, or chaitya, is older and better
preserved than any other in India, and may be assigned to a period about
200 years B.C., because Prinsep, who has read the inscription on the
Silastamba pillar, asserts that the lion pillar was the gift of Ajmitra
Ukasa, son of Saha Ravisobhoti, and another inscription shows that
the temple was visited by Dathama Hara, otherwise Dathahamini, King of
Ceylon, in the twentieth year of his reign, that is to say, 163 years
before our era. For some reason or other, Dr. Stevenson points to
seventy years B.C. as the date, asserting that Karlen, or Karli, was
built by the Emperor Devobhuti, under the supervision of Dhanu-Kakata.
But how can this be maintained in view of the above-mentioned perfectly
authentic inscriptions? Even Fergusson, the celebrated defender of the
Egyptian antiquities and hostile critic of those of India, insists that
Karli belongs to the erections of the third century B.C., adding that
"the disposition of the various parts of its architecture is identical
with the architecture of the choirs of the Gothic period, and the
polygonal apsides of cathedrals."
Above the chief entrance is found a gallery, which reminds one of the
choirs, where, in Catholic churches, the organ is placed. Besides the
chief entrance there are two lateral entrances, leading to the aisles
of the temple, and over the gallery there is a single spacious window in
the shape of a horseshoe, so that the light falls on the daghopa (altar)
entirely from above, leaving the aisles, sheltered by the pillars,
in obscurity, which increases as you approach the further end of the
building. To the eyes of a spectator standing at the entrance, the whole
daghopa shines with light, and behind it is nothing but impenetrable
darkness, where no profane footsteps were permitted to tread. A figure
on the dag-hopa, from the summit of which "Raja priests" used to
pronounce verdicts to the people, is called Dharma-Raja, from Dharma,
the Hindu Minos. Above the temple are two stories of caves, in each of
which are wide open galleries formed by huge carved pillars, and from
these galleries an opening leads to roomy cells and corridors, sometimes
very long, but quite useless, as they invariably come to an abrupt
termination at solid walls, without the trace of an issue of any kind.
The guardians of the temple have either lost the secret of further
caves, or conceal them jealously from Europeans.
Besides the Viharas already described, there are many others, scattered
over the slope of the mountain. These temple-monasteries are all smaller
than the first, but, according to the opinion of some archeologists,
they are much older. To what century or epoch they belong is not known
except to a few Brahmans, who keep silence. Generally speaking, the
position of a European archaeologist in India is very sad. The masses,
drowned in superstition, are utterly unable to be of any use to him, and
the learned Brahmans, initiated into the mysteries of secret libraries
in pagodas, do all they can to prevent archeological research. However,
after all that has happened, it would be unjust to blame the conduct of
the Brahmans in these matters. The bitter experience of many centuries
has taught them that their only weapons are distrust and circumspection,
without these their national history and the most sacred of their
treasures would be irrevocably lost. Political coups d'etat which have
shaken their country to its foundation, Mussulman invasions that proved
so fatal to its welfare, the all-destructive fanaticism of Mussulman
vandals and of Catholic padres, who are ready for anything in order to
secure manuscripts and destroy them--all these form a good excuse
for the action of the Brahmans. However in spite of these manifold
destructive tendencies, there exist in many places in India vast
libraries capable of pouring a bright and new light, not only on the
history of India itself, but also on the darkest problems of universal
history. Some of these libraries, filled with the most precious
manuscripts, are in the possession of native princes and of pagodas
attached to their territories, but the greater part is in the hands
of the Jainas (the oldest of Hindu sects) and of the Rajputana Takurs,
whose ancient hereditary castles are scattered all over Rajistan, like
so many eagles' nests on high rocks. The existence of the celebrated
collections in Jassulmer and Patana is not unknown to the Government,
but they remain wholly beyond its reach. The manuscripts are written in
an ancient and now completely forgotten language, intelligible only to
the high priests and their initiated librarians. One thick folio is
so sacred and inviolable that it rests on a heavy golden chain in the
centre of the temple of Chintamani in Jassulmer, and taken down only
to be dusted and rebound at the advent of each new pontiff. This is
the work of Somaditya Suru Acharya, a great priest of the pre-Mussulman
time, well-known in history. His mantle is still preserved in the
temple, and forms the robe of initiation of every new high priest.
Colonel James Tod, who spent so many years in India and gained the love
of the people as well as of the Brahmans--a most uncommon trait in the
biography of any Anglo-Indian--has written the only true history of
India, but even he was never allowed to touch this folio. Natives
commonly believe that he was offered initiation into the mysteries
at the price of the adoption of their religion. Being a devoted
archaeologist he almost resolved to do so, but, having to return to
England on account of his health, he left this world before he could
return to his adopted country, and thus the enigma of this new book of
the sibyl remains unsolved.
The Takurs of Rajputana, who are said to possess some of the underground
libraries, occupy in India position similar to the position of European
feudal barons of the Middle Ages. Nominally they are dependent on some
of the native princes or on the British Government; but de facto they
are perfectly independent. Their castles are built on high rocks, and
besides the natural difficulty of entering them, their possessors are
made doubly unreachable by the fact that long secret passages exist in
every such castle, known only to the present owner and confided to his
heir only at his death. We have visited two such underground halls, one
of them big enough to contain a whole village. No torture would ever
induce the owners to disclose the secret of their entrances, but the
Yogis and the initiated Adepts come and go freely, entirely trusted by
the Takurs.
A similar story is told concerning the libraries and subterranean
passages of Karli. As for the archaeologists, they are unable even to
determine whether this temple was built by Buddhists or Brahmans.
The huge daghopa that hides the holy of holies from the eyes of the
worshippers is sheltered by a mushroom-shaped roof, and resembles a low
minaret with a cupola. Roofs of this description are called "umbrellas,"
and usually shelter the statues of Buddha and of the Chinese sages.
But, on the other hand, the worshippers of Shiva, who possess the temple
nowadays, assert that this low building is nothing but a lingam of
Shiva. Besides, the carvings of gods and goddesses cut out of the rock
forbid one to think that the temple is the production of the Buddhists.
Fergusson writes, "What is this monument of antiquity? Does it belong
to the Hindus, or to the Buddhists? Has it been built upon plans drawn
since the death of Sakya Sing, or does it belong to a more ancient
religion?"
That is the question. If Fergusson, being bound by facts existing in
inscriptions to acknowledge the antiquity of Karli, will still persist
in asserting that Elephanta is of much later date, he will scarcely be
able to solve this dilemma, because the two styles are exactly the same,
and the carvings of the latter are still more magnificent. To ascribe
the temples of Elephanta and Kanari to the Buddhists, and to say that
their respective periods correspond to the fourth and fifth centuries
in the first case, and the tenth in the second, is to introduce into
history a very strange and unfounded anachronism. After the first
century A.D. there was not left a single influential Buddhist in India.
Conquered and persecuted by the Brahmans, they emigrated by thousands to
Ceylon and the trans-Himalayan districts. After the death of King Asoka,
Buddhism speedily broke down, and in a short time was entirely displaced
by the theocratic Brahmanism.
Fergusson's hypothesis that the followers of Sakya Sing, driven out by
intolerance from the continent, probably sought shelter on the islands
that surround Bombay, would hardly sustain critical analysis. Elephanta
and Salsetta are quite near to Bombay, two and five miles distant
respectively, and they are full of ancient Hindu temples. Is it
credible, then, that the Brahmans, at the culminating point of their
power, just before the Mussulman invasions, fanatical as they were, and
mortal enemies of the Buddhists, would allow these hated heretics to
build temples within their possessions in general and on Gharipuri
in particular, this latter being an island consecrated to their Hindu
pagodas? It is not necessary to be either a specialist, an architect,
or an eminent archeologist, in order to be convinced at the first glance
that such temples as Elephanta are the work of Cyclopses, requiring
centuries and not years for their construction. Whereas in Karli
everything is built and carved after a perfect plan, in Elephanta it
seems as if thousands of different hands had wrought at different times,
each following its own ideas and fashioning after its own device. All
three caves are dug out of a hard porphyry rock. The first temple is
practically a square, 130 feet 6 inches long and 130 feet wide. It
contains twenty-six thick pillars and sixteen pilasters.
Between some of them there is a distance of 12 or 16 feet, between
others 15 feet 5 inches, 13 feet 3 1/2 inches, and so on. The same lack
of uniformity is found in the pedestals of the columns, the finish and
style of which is constantly varying.
Why, then, should we not pay some attention to the explanations of the
Brahmans? They say that this temple was begun by the sons of Pandu,
after "the great war," Mahabharata, and that after their death every
true believer was bidden to continue the work according to his own
notions. Thus the temple was gradually built during three centuries.
Every one who wished to redeem his sins would bring his chisel and set
to work. Many were the members of royal families, and even kings, who
personally took part in these labors.
On the right hand side of the temple there is a corner stone, a lingam
of Shiva in his character of Fructifying Force, which is sheltered by a
small square chapel with four doors. Round this chapel are many colossal
human figures. According to the Brahmans, these are statues representing
the royal sculptors themselves, they being doorkeepers of the holy of
holies, Hindus of the highest caste. Each of the larger figures leans
upon a dwarf representative of the lower castes, which have been
promoted by the popular fancy to the rank of demons (Pisachas).
Moreover, the temple is full of unskillful work. The Brahmans hold that
such a holy place could not be deserted if men of the preceding and
present generations had not become unworthy of visiting it. As to Kanari
or Kanhari, and some other cave temples, there is not the slightest
doubt that they were all erected by Buddhists. In some of them were
found inscriptions in a perfect state of preservation, and their style
does not remind one in the least of the symbolical buildings of the
Brahmans. Archbishop Heber thinks the Kanari caves were built in the
first or second centuries B.C. But Elephanta is much older and must be
classed among prehistoric monuments, that is to say, its date must
be assigned to the epoch that immediately followed the "great
war," Mahabharata. Unfortunately the date of this war is a point of
disagreement between European scientists; the celebrated and learned
Dr. Martin Haug thinks it is almost antediluvian, while the no less
celebrated and learned Professor Max Muller places it as near the first
century of our era as possible.
The fair was at its culmination when, having finished visiting the
cells, climbing over all the stories, and examining the celebrated "hall
of wrestlers," we descended, not by way of the stairs, of which there is
no trace to be found, but after the fashion of pails bringing water out
of a deep well, that is to say, by the aid of ropes. A crowd of about
three thousand persons had assembled from the surrounding villages and
towns. Women were there adorned from the waist down in brilliant-hued
saris, with rings in their noses, their ears, their lips, and on all
parts of their limbs that could hold a ring. Their raven-black hair
which was smoothly combed back, shone with cocoanut oil, and was adorned
with crimson flowers, which are sacred to Shiva and to Bhavani, the
feminine aspect of this god.
Before the temple there were rows of small shops and of tents, where
could be bought all the requisites for the usual sacrifices--aromatic
herbs, incense, sandal wood, rice, gulab, and the red powder with which
the pilgrim sprinkles first the idol and then his own face. Fakirs,
bairagis, hosseins, the whole body of the mendicant brotherhood, was
present among the crowd. Wreathed in chaplets, with long uncombed hair
twisted at the top of the head into a regular chignon, and with bearded
faces, they presented a very funny likeness to naked apes. Some of them
were covered with wounds and bruises due to mortification of the flesh.
We also saw some bunis, snake-charmers, with dozens of various snakes
round their waists, necks, arms, and legs--models well worthy of the
brush of a painter who intended to depict the image of a male Fury. One
jadugar was especially remarkable. His head was crowned with a turban
of cobras. Expanding their hoods and raising their leaf-like dark green
heads, these cobras hissed furiously and so loudly that the sound was
audible a hundred paces off. Their "stings" quivered like lightning,
and their small eyes glittered with anger at the approach of every
passer-by. The expression, "the sting of a snake," is universal, but
it does not describe accurately the process of inflicting a wound. The
"sting" of a snake is perfectly harmless. To introduce the poison into
the blood of a man, or of an animal, the snake must pierce the flesh
with its fangs, not prick with its sting. The needle-like eye teeth of
a cobra communicate with the poison gland, and if this gland is cut out
the cobra will not live more than two days. Accordingly, the supposition
of some sceptics, that the bunis cut out this gland, is quite unfounded.
The term "hissing" is also inaccurate when applied to cobras. They do
not hiss. The noise they make is exactly like the death-rattle of a
dying man. The whole body of a cobra is shaken by this loud and heavy
growl.
Here we happened to be the witnesses of a fact which I relate exactly
as it occurred, without indulging in explanations or hypotheses of any
kind. I leave to naturalists the solution of the enigma.
Expecting to be well paid, the cobra-turbaned buni sent us word by a
messenger boy that he would like very much to exhibit his powers of
snake-charming. Of course we were perfectly willing, but on condition
that between us and his pupils there should be what Mr. Disraeli would
call a "scientific frontier."* We selected a spot about fifteen paces
from the magic circle. I will not describe minutely the tricks and
wonders that we saw, but will proceed at once to the main fact. With the
aid of a vaguda, a kind of musical pipe of bamboo, the buni caused all
the snakes to fall into a sort of cataleptic sleep. The melody that he
played, monotonous, low, and original to the last degree, nearly sent us
to sleep ourselves. At all events we all grew extremely sleepy without
any apparent cause. We were aroused from this half lethargy by our
friend Gulab-Sing, who gathered a handful of a grass, perfectly unknown
to us, and advised us to rub our temples and eyelids with it. Then the
buni produced from a dirty bag a kind of round stone, something like a
fish's eye, or an onyx with a white spot in the centre, not bigger than
a ten-kopek bit. He declared that anyone who bought that stone would be
able to charm any cobra (it would produce no effect on snakes of other
kinds) paralyzing the creature and then causing it to fall asleep.
Moreover, by his account, this stone is the only remedy for the bite
of a cobra. You have only to place this talisman on the wound, where it
will stick so firmly that it cannot be torn off until all the poison is
absorbed into it, when it will fall off of itself, and all danger will
be past.
* Written in 1879.
Being aware that the Government gladly offers any premium for the
invention of a remedy for the bite of the cobra, we did not show any
unreasonable interest on the appearance of this stone. In the meanwhile,
the buni began to irritate his cobras. Choosing a cobra eight feet long,
he literally enraged it. Twisting its tail round a tree, the cobra arose
and hissed. The buni quietly let it bite his finger, on which we all saw
drops of blood. A unanimous cry of horror arose in the crowd. But master
buni stuck the stone on his finger and proceeded with his performance.
"The poison gland of the snake has been cut out," remarked our New York
colonel. "This is a mere farce."
As if in answer to this remark, the buni seized the neck of the cobra,
and, after a short struggle, fixed a match into its mouth, so that it
remained open. Then he brought the snake over and showed it to each of
us separately, so that we all saw the death-giving gland in its mouth.
But our colonel would not give up his first impression so easily. "The
gland is in its place right enough," said he, "but how are we to know
that it really does contain poison?"
Then a live hen was brought forward and, tying its legs together, the
buni placed it beside the snake. But the latter would pay no attention
at first to this new victim, but went on hissing at the buni, who teased
and irritated it until at last it actually struck at the wretched bird.
The hen made a weak attempt to cackle, then shuddered once or twice and
became still. The death was instantaneous. Facts will remain facts, the
most exacting critic and disbeliever notwithstanding. This thought gives
me courage to write what happened further. Little by little the cobra
grew so infuriated that it became evident the jadugar himself did not
dare to approach it. As if glued to the trunk of the tree by its tail,
the snake never ceased diving into space with its upper part and trying
to bite everything. A few steps from us was somebody's dog. It seemed to
attract the whole of the buni's attention for some time. Sitting on his
haunches, as far as possible from his raging pupil, he stared at the dog
with motionless glassy eyes, and then began a scarcely audible song.
The dog grew restless. Putting his tail between his legs, he tried to
escape, but remained, as if fastened to the ground. After a few seconds
he crawled nearer and nearer to the buni, whining, but unable to tear
his gaze from the charmer. I understood his object, and felt awfully
sorry for the dog. But, to my horror, I suddenly felt that my tongue
would not move, I was perfectly unable either to get up or even to raise
my finger. Happily this fiendish scene was not prolonged. As soon as
the dog was near enough, the cobra bit him. The poor animal fell on his
back, made a few convulsive movements with his legs, and shortly died.
We could no longer doubt that there was poison in the gland. In the
meanwhile the stone had dropped from the buni's finger and he approached
to show us the healed member. We all saw the trace of the prick, a red
spot not bigger than the head of an ordinary pin.
Next he made his snakes rise on their tails, and, holding the stone
between his first finger and thumb, he proceeded to demonstrate its
influence on the cobras. The nearer his hand approached to the head of
the snake, the more the reptile's body recoiled. Looking steadfastly at
the stone they shivered, and, one by one, dropped as if paralyzed. The
buni then made straight for our sceptical colonel, and made him an offer
to try the experiment himself. We all protested vigorously, but he would
not listen to us, and chose a cobra of a very considerable size. Armed
with the stone, the colonel bravely approached the snake. For a moment
I positively felt petrified with fright. Inflating its hood, the cobra
made an attempt to fly at him, then suddenly stopped short, and, after
a pause, began following with all its body the circular movements of the
colonel's hand. When he put the stone quite close to the reptile's head,
the snake staggered as if intoxicated, its hissing grew weak, its hood
dropped helplessly on both sides of its neck, and its eyes closed.
Drooping lower and lower, the snake fell at last on the ground like a
stick, and slept.
Only then did we breathe freely. Taking the sorcerer aside we expressed
our desire to buy the stone, to which he easily assented, and, to our
great astonishment, asked for it only two rupees. This talisman became
my own property and I still keep it. The buni asserts, and our Hindu
friends confirm the story, that it is not a stone but an excrescence. It
is found in the mouth of one cobra in a hundred, between the bone of the
upper jaw and the skin of the palate. This "stone" is not fastened to
the skull, but hangs, wrapped in skin, from the palate, and so is very
easily cut off; but after this operation the cobra is said to die. If
we are to believe Bishu Nath, for that was our sorcerer's name, this
excrescence confers upon the cobra who possesses it the rank of king
over the rest of his kind.
"Such a cobra," said the buni, "is like a Brahman, a Dwija Brahman
amongst Shudras, they all obey him. There exists, moreover, a poisonous
toad that also, sometimes, possesses this stone, but its effect is much
weaker. To destroy the effect of a cobra's poison you must apply the
toad's stone not later than two minutes after the infliction of the
wound; but the stone of a cobra is effectual to the last. Its healing
power is certain as long as the heart of the wounded man has not ceased
to beat."
Bidding us good-bye, the buni advised us to keep the stone in a dry
place and never to leave it near a dead body, also, to hide it during
the sun and moon eclipses, "otherwise," said he, "it will lose all its
power." In case we were bitten by a mad dog, he said, we were to put the
stone into a glass of water and leave it there during the night, next
morning the sufferer was to drink the water and then forget all danger.
"He is a regular devil and not a man!" exclaimed our colonel, as soon
as the buni had disappeared on his way to a Shiva temple, where, by the
way, we were not admitted.
"As simple a mortal as you or I," remarked the Rajput with a smile,
"and, what is more, he is very ignorant. The truth is, he has been
brought up in a Shivaite pagoda, like all the real snake-charmers. Shiva
is the patron god of snakes, and the Brahmans teach the bunis to produce
all kinds of mesmeric tricks by empirical methods, never explaining to
them the theoretical principles, but assuring them that Shiva is behind
every phenomenon. So that the bunis sincerely ascribe to their god the
honor of their 'miracles."'
"The Government of India offers a reward for an antidote to the poison
of the cobra. Why then do the bunis not claim it, rather than let
thousands of people die helpless?"
"The Brahmans would never suffer that. If the Government took the
trouble to examine carefully the statistics of deaths caused by snakes,
it would be found that no Hindu of the Shivaite sect has ever died from
the bite of a cobra. They let people of other sects die, but save the
members of their own flock."
"But did we not see how easily he parted with his secret,
notwithstanding we were foreigners. Why should not the English buy it as
readily?"
"Because this secret is quite useless in the hands of Europeans. The
Hindus do not try to conceal it, because they are perfectly certain that
without their aid nobody can make any use of it. The stone will retain
its wonderful power only when it is taken from a live cobra. In order to
catch the snake without killing it, it must be cast into a lethargy, or,
if you prefer the term, charmed. Who is there among the foreigners who
is able to do this? Even amongst the Hindus, you will not find a single
individual in all India who possesses this ancient secret, unless he be
a disciple of the Shivaite Brahmans. Only Brahmans of this sect possess
a monopoly of the secret, and not all even of them, only those, in
short, who belong to the pseudo-Patanjali school, who are usually called
Bhuta ascetics. Now there exist, scattered over the whole of India, only
about half-a-dozen of their pagoda schools, and the inmates would rather
part with their very lives than with their secret."
"We have paid only two rupees for a secret which proved as strong in the
colonel's hands as in the hands of the buni. Is it then so difficult to
procure a store of these stones?" Our friend laughed.
"In a few days," said he, "the talisman will lose all its healing powers
in your inexperienced hands. This is the reason why he let it go at such
a low price, which he is, probably, at this moment sacrificing before
the altar of his deity. I guarantee you a week's activity for your
purchase, but after that time it will only be fit to be thrown out of
the window."
We soon learned how true were these words. On the following day we came
across a little girl, bitten by a green scorpion. She seemed to be in
the last convulsions. No sooner had we applied the stone than the child
seemed relieved, and, in an hour, she was gaily playing about, whereas,
even in the case of the sting of a common black scorpion, the patient
suffers for two weeks. But when, about ten days later, we tried the
experiment of the stone upon a poor coolie, just bitten by a cobra, it
would not even stick to the wound, and the poor wretch shortly expired.
I do not take upon myself to offer, either a defence, or an explanation
of the virtues of the "stone." I simply state the facts and leave the
future career of the story to its own fate. The sceptics may deal with
it as they will. Yet I can easily find people in India who will bear
witness to my accuracy.
In this connection I was told a funny story. When Dr. (now Sir J.)
Fayrer, who lately published his Thanatophidia, a book on the venomous
snakes of India, a work well known throughout Europe, he categorically
stated in it his disbelief in the wondrous snake-charmers of India.
However, about a fortnight or so after the book appeared amongst the
Anglo-Indians, a cobra bit his own cook. A buni, who happened to pass
by, readily offered to save the man's life. It stands to reason that
the celebrated naturalist could not accept such an offer. Nevertheless,
Major Kelly and other officers urged him to permit the experiment.
Declaring that in spite of all, in less than an hour his cook would be
no more, he gave his consent. But it happened that in less than an hour
the cook was quietly preparing dinner in the kitchen, and, it is added,
Dr. Fayrer seriously thought of throwing his book into the fire.
The day grew dreadfully hot. We felt the heat of the rocks in spite of
our thick-soled shoes. Besides, the general curiosity aroused by our
presence, and the unceremonious persecutions of the crowd, were becoming
tiring. We resolved to "go home," that is to say, to return to the cool
cave, six hundred paces from the temple, where we were to spend the
evening and to sleep. We would wait no longer for our Hindu companions,
who had gone to see the fair, and so we started by ourselves.----
On approaching the entrance of the temple we were struck by the
appearance of a young man, who stood apart from the crowd and was of
an ideal beauty. He was a member of the Sadhu sect, a "candidate for
Saintship," to use the expression of one of our party.
The Sadhus differ greatly from every other sect. They never appear
unclothed, do not cover themselves with damp ashes, wear no painted
signs on their faces, or foreheads, and do not worship idols. Belonging
to the Adwaiti section of the Vedantic school, they believe only in
Parabrahm (the great spirit). The young man looked quite decent in his
light yellow costume, a kind of nightgown without sleeves. He had long
hair, and his head was uncovered. His elbow rested on the back of a cow,
which was itself well calculated to attract attention, for, in addition
to her four perfectly shaped legs, she had a fifth growing out of her
hump. This wonderful freak of nature used its fifth leg as if it were
a hand and arm, hunting and killing tiresome flies, and scratching
its head with the hoof. At first we thought it was a trick to attract
attention, and even felt offended with the animal, as well as with its
handsome owner, but, coming nearer, we saw that it was no trick, but an
actual sport of mischievous Nature. From the young man we learned that
the cow had been presented to him by the Maharaja Holkar, and that her
milk had been his only food during the last two years.
Sadhus are aspirants to the Raj Yoga, and, as I have said above, usually
belong to the school of the Vedanta. That is to say, they are disciples
of initiates who have entirely resigned the life of the world, and lead
a life of monastic chastity. Between the Sadhus and the Shivaite
bunis there exists a mortal enmity, which manifests itself by a silent
contempt on the side of the Sadhus, and on that of the bunis by constant
attempts to sweep their rivals off the face of the earth. This antipathy
is as marked as that between light and darkness, and reminds one of the
dualism of the Ahura-Mazda and Ahriman of the Zoroastrians. Masses
of people look up to the first as to Magi, sons of the sun and of the
Divine Principle, while the latter are dreaded as dangerous sorcerers.
Having heard most wonderful accounts of the former, we were burning
with anxiety to see some of the "miracles" ascribed to them by some even
among the Englishmen. We eagerly invited the Sadhu to visit our vihara
during the evening. But the handsome ascetic sternly refused, for the
reason that we were staying within the temple of the idol-worshippers,
the very air of which would prove antagonistic to him. We offered him
money, but he would not touch it, and so we parted.
A path, or rather a ledge cut along the perpendicular face of a rocky
mass 200 feet high, led from the chief temple to our vihara. A man needs
good eyes, sure feet, and a very strong head to avoid sliding down the
precipice at the first false step. Any help would be quite out of the
question, for, the ledge being only two feet wide, no one could walk
side by side with another. We had to walk one by one, appealing for aid
only to the whole of our personal courage. But the courage of many of us
was gone on an unlimited furlough. The position of our American colonel
was the worst, for he was very stout and short-sighted, which defects,
taken together, caused him frequent vertigos. To keep up our spirits
we indulged in a choral performance of the duet from Norma, "Moriam'
insieme," holding each other's hands the while, to ensure our being
spared by death or dying all four in company. But the colonel did not
fail to frighten us nearly out of our lives. We were already half way up
to the cave when he made a false step, staggered, lost hold of my hand,
and rolled over the edge. We three, having to clutch the bushes and
stones, were quite unable to help him. A unanimous cry of horror escaped
us, but died away as we perceived that he had succeeded in clinging to
the trunk of a small tree, which grew on the slope a few steps below
us. Fortunately, we knew that the colonel was good at athletics, and
remarkably cool in danger. Still the moment was a critical one. The
slender stem of the tree might give way at any moment. Our cries of
distress were answered by the sudden appearance of the mysterious Sadhu
with his cow.
They were quietly walking along about twenty feet below us, on such
invisible projections of the rock that a child's foot could barely have
found room to rest there, and they both traveled as calmly, and even
carelessly, as if a comfortable causeway were beneath their feet,
instead of a vertical rock. The Sadhu called out to the colonel to hold
on, and to us to keep quiet. He patted the neck of his monstrous cow,
and untied the rope by which he was leading her. Then, with both hands
he turned her head in our direction, and clucking with his tongue, he
cried "Chal!" (go). With a few wild goat-like bounds the animal reached
our path, and stood before us motion-less. A for the Sadhu himself, his
movements were as swift and as goat-like. In a moment he had reached the
tree, tied the rope round the colonel's body, and put him on his legs
again; then, rising higher, with one effort of his strong hand he
hoisted him up to the path. Our colonel was with us once more, rather
pale, and with the loss of his pince-nez, but not of his presence of
mind.
An adventure that had threatened to become a tragedy ended in a farce.
"What is to be done now?" was our unanimous inquiry. "We cannot let you
go alone any further."
"In a few moments it will be dark and we shall be lost," said Mr. Y----,
the colonel's secretary.
And, indeed, the sun was dipping below the horizon, and every moment was
precious. In the meanwhile, the Sadhu had fastened the rope round the
cow's neck again and stood before us on the pathway, evidently not
understanding a word of our conversation. His tall, slim figure seemed
as if suspended in the air above the precipice. His long, black hair,
floating in the breeze, alone showed that in him we beheld a living
being and not a magnificent statue of bronze. Forgetting our recent
danger and our present awkward situation, Miss X----, who was a born
artist, exclaimed: "Look at the majesty of that pure profile; observe
the pose of that man. How beautiful are his outlines seen against the
golden and blue sky. One would say, a Greek Adonis, not a Hindu!" But
the "Adonis" in question put a sudden stop to her ecstasy. He glanced at
Miss X---- with half-pitying, half-kindly, laughing eyes, and said with
his ringing voice in Hindi--
"Bara-Sahib cannot go any further without the help of someone else's
eyes. Sahib's eyes are his enemies. Let the Sahib ride on my cow. She
cannot stumble."
"I! Ride on a cow, and a five-legged one at that? Never!" exclaimed the
poor colonel, with such a helpless air, nevertheless, that we burst out
laughing.
"It will be better for Sahib to sit on a cow than to lie on a chitta"
(the pyre on which dead bodies are burned), remarked the Sadhu with
modest seriousness. "Why call forth the hour which has not yet struck?"
The colonel saw that argument was perfectly useless, and we succeeded in
persuading him to follow the Sadhu's advice, who carefully hoisted him
on the cow's back, then, recommending him to hold on by the fifth leg,
he led the way. We all followed to the best of our ability.
In a few minutes more we were on the verandah of our vihara, where we
found our Hindu friends, who had arrived by another path. We eagerly
related all our adventures, and then looked for the Sadhu, but, in the
meanwhile, he had disappeared together with his cow.
"Do not look for him, he is gone by a road known only to himself,"
remarked Gulab-Sing carelessly. "He knows you are sincere in your
gratitude, but he would not take your money. He is a Sadhu, not a buni,"
added he proudly.
We remembered that it was reported this proud friend of ours also
belonged to the Sadhu sect. "Who can tell," whispered the colonel in my
ear, "whether these reports are mere gossip, or the truth?"
Sadhu-Nanaka must not be confounded with Guru-Nanaka, a leader of the
Sikhs. The former are Adwaitas, the latter monotheists. The Adwaitas
believe only in an impersonal deity named Parabrahm.
In the chief hall of the vihara was a life-sized statue of Bhavani, the
feminine aspect of Shiva. From the bosom of this devaki streams forth
the pure cold water of a mountain spring, which falls into a reservoir
at her feet. Around it lay heaps of sacrificial flowers, rice, betel
leaves and incense. This hall was, in consequence, so damp that we
preferred to spend the night on the verandah in the open air, hanging,
as it were, between sky and earth, and lit from below by numerous fires
kept burning all the night by Gulab-Sing's servants, to scare away wild
beasts, and, from above, by the light of the full moon. A supper was
arranged after the Eastern fashion, on carpets spread upon the floor,
and with thick banana leaves for plates and dishes. The noiselessly
gliding steps of the servants, more silent than ghosts, their white
muslins and red turbans, the limitless depths of space, lost in waves of
moonlight, before us, and behind, the dark vaults of ancient caves,
dug out by unknown races, in unknown times, in honor of an unknown,
prehistoric religion--all these, our surroundings, transported us into a
strange world, and into distant epochs far different from our own.
We had before us representatives of five different peoples, five
different types of costume, each quite unlike the others. All five are
known to us in ethnography under the generic name of Hindus. Similarly
eagles, condors, hawks, vultures, and owls are known to ornithology as
"birds of prey," but the analogous differences are as great. Each of
these five companions, a Rajput, a Bengali, a Madrasi, a Sinhalese and
a Mahratti, is a descendant of a race, the origin of which European
scientists have discussed for over half a century without coming to any
agreement.
Rajputs are called Hindus and are said to belong to the Aryan race; but
they call themselves Suryavansa, that is to say, descendants of Surya or
the sun.
The Brahmans derive their origin from Indu, the moon, and are called
Induvansa; Indu, Soma, or Chandra, meaning moon in Sanskrit. If the
first Aryans, appearing in the prologue of universal history, are
Brahmans, that is to say, the people who, according to Max Muller,
having crossed the Himalayas conquered the country of the five rivers,
then the Rajputs are no Aryans; and if they are Aryans they are not
Brahmans, as all their genealogies and sacred books (Puranas) show that
they are much older than the Brahmans; and, in this case, moreover, the
Aryan tribes had an actual existence in other countries of our globe
than the much renowned district of the Oxus, the cradle of the Germanic
race, the ancestors of Aryans and Hindus, in the fancy of the scientist
we have named and his German school.
The "moon" line begins with Pururavas (see the genealogical tree
prepared by Colonel Tod from the MS. Puranas in the Oodeypore archives),
that is to say, two thousand two hundred years before Christ, and much
later than Ikshvaku, the patriarch of the Suryavansa. The fourth son of
Pururavas, Rech, stands at the head of the line of the moon-race, and
only in the fifteenth generation after him appears Harita, who founded
the Kanshikagotra, the Brahman tribe.
The Rajputs hate the latter. They say the children of the sun and Rama
have nothing in common with the children of the moon and Krishna. As
for the Bengalis, according to their traditions and history, they are
aborigines. The Madrasis and the Sinhalese are Dravidians. They have, in
turn, been said to belong to the Semites, the Hamites, the Aryans, and,
lastly, they have been given up to the will of God, with the conclusion
drawn that the Sinhalese, at all events, must be Mongolians of Turanian
origin. The Mahrattis are aborigines of the West of India, as the
Bengalis are of, the East; but to what group of tribes belong these two
nationalities no ethnographer can define, save perhaps a German. The
traditions of the people themselves are generally denied, because they
are not in harmony with foregone conclusions. The meaning of ancient
manuscripts is disfigured, and, in fact, sacrificed to fiction, if only
the latter proceeds from the mouth of some favorite oracle.
The ignorant masses are often blamed and found to be guilty of
superstition for creating idols in the spiritual world. Is not,
then, the educated man, the man who craves after knowledge, who is
enlightened, still more inconsistent than these masses, when he deals
with his favorite authorities? Are not half a dozen laurel-crowned heads
allowed by him to do whatever they like with facts, to draw their own
conclusions, according to their own liking, and does he not stone
every one who would dare to rise against the decisions of these
quasi-infallible specialists, and brand him as an ignorant fool?
Let us remember the case in point of Louis Jacolliot, who spent twenty
years in India, who actually knew the language and the country to
perfection, and who, nevertheless, was rolled in the mud by Max Muller,
whose foot never touched Indian soil.
The oldest peoples of Europe are mere babes com-pared with the tribes
of Asia, and especially of India. And oh! how poor and insignificant are
the genealogies of the oldest European families compared with those of
some Rajputs. In the opinion of Colonel Tod, who for over twenty years
studied these genealogies on the spot, they are the completest and most
trustworthy of the records of the peoples of antiquity. They date from
1,000 to 2,200 years B.C., and their authenticity may often be proved
by reference to Greek authors. After long and careful research and
comparison with the text of the Puranas, and various monumental
inscriptions, Colonel Tod came to the conclusion that in the Oodeypore
archives (now hidden from public inspection), not to mention other
sources, may be found a clue to the history of India in particular, and
to universal ancient history in general. Colonel Tod advises the earnest
seeker after this clue not to think, with some flippant archaeologists
who are insufficiently acquainted with India, that the stories of
Rama, the Mahabharata, Krishna, and the five brothers Pandu, are mere
allegories. He affirms that he who seriously considers these legends
will very soon become thoroughly convinced that all these so-called
"fables" are founded on historical facts, by the actual existence of
the descendants of the heroes, by tribes, ancient towns, and coins still
extant; that to acquire the right to pronounce a final opinion one must
read first the inscriptions on the Inda-Prestha pillars of Purag and
Mevar, on the rocks of Junagur, in Bijoli, on Aravuli and on all the
ancient Jaina temples scattered throughout India, where are to be found
numerous inscriptions in a language utterly unknown, in comparison with
which the hieroglyphs will seem a mere toy.
Yet, nevertheless, Professor Max Muller, who, as already mentioned, was
never in India, sits as a judge and corrects chronological tables as is
his wont, and Europe, taking his words for those of an oracle, endorses
his decisions. Et c'est ainsi que s'ecrit l'histoire.
Talking of the venerable German Sanskritist's chronology, I cannot
resist the desire to show, be it only to Russia, on what a fragile
basis are founded his scientific discussions, and how little he is to
be trusted when he pronounces upon the antiquity of this or that
manuscript. These pages are of a superficial and descriptive nature,
and, as such, make no pretense to profound learning, so that what
follows may seem incongruous. But it must be remembered that in Russia,
as elsewhere in Europe, people estimate the value of this philological
light by the points of exclamation lavished upon him by his admiring
followers, and that no one reads the Veda Bhashaya of Swami Dayanand.
It may even be that I shall not be far from the truth in saying that the
very existence of this work is ignored, which may perhaps be a fortunate
fact for the reputation of Professor Max Muller. I shall be as brief as
possible. When Professor Max Muller states, in his Sahitya-Grantha, that
the Aryan tribe in India acquired the notion of God step by step and
very slowly, he evidently wishes to prove that the Vedas are far from
being as old as is supposed by some of his colleagues. Having presented,
in due course, some more or less valuable evidence to prove the truth
of this new theory, he ends with a fact which, in his opinion, is
indisputable. He points to the word hiranya-garbha in the mantrams,
which he translates by the word "gold," and adds that, as the part
of the Vedas called chanda appeared 3,100 years ago, the part called
mantrams could not have been written earlier than 2,900 years ago.
Let me remind the reader that the Vedas are divided into two parts:
chandas--slokas, verses, etc.; and mantrams--prayers and rhythmical
hymns, which are, at the same time, incantations used in white magic.
Professor Max Muller divides the mantram ("Agnihi Poorwebhihi,"
etc.) philologically and chronologically, and, finding in it the word
hiranya-garbha, he denounces it as an anachronism. The ancients, he
says, had no knowledge of gold, and, therefore, if gold is mentioned in
this mantram it means that the mantram was composed at a comparatively
modern epoch, and so on.
But here the illustrious Sanskritist is very much mistaken. Swami
Dayanand and other pandits, who sometimes are far from being Dayanand's
allies, maintain that Professor Max Muller has completely misunderstood
the meaning of the term hiranya. Originally it did not mean, and, when
united to the word garbha, even now does not mean, gold. So all the
Professor's brilliant demonstrations are labor in vain. The word hiranya
in this mantram must be translated "divine light"--mystically a symbol
of knowledge; analogically the alchemists used the term "sublimated
gold" for "light," and hoped to compose the objective metal out of its
rays. The two words, hiranya-garbha, taken together, mean, literally,
the "radiant bosom," and, when used in the Vedas, designate the first
principle, in whose bosom, like gold in the bosom of the earth, rests
the light of divine knowledge and truth, the essence of the soul
liberated from the sins of the world. In the mantrams, as in the
chandas, one must always look for a double meaning: (1) a metaphysical
one, purely abstract, and (2) one as purely physical; for everything
existing upon the earth is closely bound to the spiritual world, from
which it proceeds and by which it is reabsorbed. For instance Indra, the
god of thunder, Surya, the sun-god, Vayu, god of the wind, and Agni,
god of fire, all four depending on this first divine principle, expand,
according to the mantram from hiranya-garbha, the radiant bosom. In this
case the gods are the personifications of the forces of Nature. But the
initiated Adepts of India understand very clearly that the god Indra,
for instance, is nothing more than a mere sound, born of the shock of
electrical forces, or simply electricity itself. Surya is not the god of
the sun, but simply the centre of fire in our system, the essence whence
come fire, warmth, light, and so on; the very thing, namely, which
no European scientist, steering an even course between Tyndall and
Schropfer, has, as yet, defined. This concealed meaning has totally
escaped Professor Max Muller's attention, and this is why, clinging to
the dead letter, he never hesitates before cutting a Gordian knot. How
then can he be permitted to pronounce upon the antiquity of the Vedas,
when he is so far from the right understanding of the language of these
ancient writings.
The above is a resume of Dayanand's argument, and to him the
Sanskritists must apply for further particulars, which they will
certainly find in his Rigvedadi Bhashya Bhoomika.
In the cave, every one slept soundly round the fire except myself.
None of my companions seemed to mind in the least either the hum of
the thousand voices of the fair, or the prolonged, far-away roar of the
tigers rising from the valley, or even the loud prayers of the pilgrims
who passed to and fro all night long, never fearing to cross the steep
passage which, even by daylight, caused us such perplexity. They came
in parties of twos and threes, and sometimes there appeared a lonely
unescorted woman. They could not reach the large vihara, because we
occupied the verandah at its entrance, and so, after grumbling a little,
they entered a small lateral cave something like a chapel, containing
a statue of Devaki-Mata, above a tank full of water. Each pilgrim
prostrated himself for a time, then placed his offering at the feet of
the goddess and bathed in the "holy waters of purification," or, at
the least, sprinkled some water over his forehead, cheeks, and breast.
Lastly, retreating backwards, he knelt again at the door and disappeared
in the darkness with a final invocation: "Mata, maha mata!"--Mother, O
great mother!
Two of Gulab-Sing's servants, with traditional spears and shields of
rhinoceros skin, who had been ordered to protect us from wild beasts,
sat on the steps of the verandah. I was unable to sleep, and so watched
with increasing curiosity everything that was going on. The Takur, too,
was sleepless. Every time I raised my eyes, heavy with fatigue, the
first object upon which they fell was the gigantic figure of our
mysterious friend.
Having seated himself after the Eastern fashion, with his feet drawn up
and his arms round his knees, the Rajput sat on a bench cut in the rock
at one end of the verandah, gazing out into the silvery atmosphere. He
was so near the abyss that the least incautious movement would expose
him to great danger. But the granite goddess, Bhavani herself, could not
be more immovable. The light of the moon before him was so strong
that the black shadow under the rock which sheltered him was doubly
impenetrable, shrouding his face in absolute darkness. From time to time
the flame of the sinking fires leaping up shed its hot reflection on the
dark bronze face, enabling me to distinguish its sphinx-like lineaments
and its shining eyes, as unmoving as the rest of the features.
"What am I to think? Is he simply sleeping, or is he in that strange
state, that temporary annihilation of bodily life?... Only this
morning he was telling us how the initiate Raj-yogis were able to plunge
into this state at will... Oh, if I could only go to sleep....."
Suddenly a loud prolonged hissing, quite close to my ear, made me
start, trembling with indistinct reminiscences of cobras. The sound was
strident and evidently came from under the hay upon which I rested.
Then it struck one! two! It was our American alarum-clock, which always
traveled with me. I could not help laughing at myself, and, at the same
time, feeling a little ashamed of my involuntary fright.
But neither the hissing, nor the loud striking of the clock, nor my
sudden movement, that made Miss X---- raise her sleepy head, awakened
Gulab-Sing, who still hung over the precipice. Another half hour passed.
The far-away roar of the festivity was still heard, but everything round
me was calm and still. Sleep fled further and further from my eyes. A
fresh, strong wind arose, before the dawn, rustling the leaves and then
shaking the tops of the trees that rose above the abyss. My attention
became absorbed by the group of three Rajputs before me--by the two
shield bearers and their master. I cannot tell why I was specially
attracted at this moment by the sight of the long hair of the servants,
which was waving in the wind, though the place they occupied was
comparatively sheltered. I turned my eyes upon their Sahib, and the
blood in my veins stood still. The veil of somebody's topi, which hung
beside him, tied to a pillar, was simply whirling in the wind, while the
hair of the Sahib himself lay as still as if it had been glued to his
shoulders, not a hair moved, nor a single fold of his light muslin
garment. No statue could be more motionless. What is this then? I said
to myself. Is it delirium? Is this a hallucination, or a wonderful
inexplicable reality? I shut my eyes, telling myself I must look no
longer. But a moment later I again looked up, startled by a crackling
sound from above the steps. The long, dark silhouette of some animal
appeared at the entrance, clearly outlined against the pale sky. I saw
it in profile. Its long tail was lashing to and fro. Both the servants
rose swiftly and noiselessly and turned their heads towards Gulab-Sing,
as if asking for orders. But where was Gulab-Sing? In the place which,
but a moment ago, he occupied, there was no one. There lay only the
topi, torn from the pillar by the wind. I sprang up: a tremendous roar
deafened me, filling the vihara, wakening the slumbering echoes, and
resounding, like the softened rumbling of thunder, over all the borders
of the precipice. Good heavens! A tiger!
Before this thought had time to shape itself clearly in my mind, the
sleepers sprang up and the men all seized their guns and revolvers, and
then we heard the sound of crashing branches, and of something heavy
sliding down into the precipice. The alarm was general.
"What is the matter now?" said the calm voice of Gulab-Sing, and I again
saw him on the stone bench. "Why should you be so frightened?"
"A tiger! Was it not a tiger?" came in hasty, questioning tones from
Europeans and Hindus.
Miss X---- trembled like one stricken with fever. "Whether it was a
tiger, or something else, matters very little to us now. Whatever it
was, it is, by this time, at the bottom of the abyss," answered the
Rajput yawning.
"I wonder the Government does not destroy all these horrid animals,"
sobbed poor Miss X----, who evidently believed firmly in the omnipotence
of her Executive.
"But how did you get rid of the 'striped one'?" insisted the colonel.
"Has anyone fired a shot?"
"You Europeans think that shooting is, if not the only, at least the
best way to get rid of wild animals. We possess other means, which are
sometimes more efficacious than guns," explained Babu Narendro-Das Sen.
"Wait until you come to Bengal, there you will have many opportunities
to make acquaintance with the tigers."
It was now getting light, and Gulab-Sing proposed to us to descend and
examine the rest of the caves and the ruins of a fortress before the day
became too hot, so, at half-past three, we went by another and easier
way to the valley, and, happily, this time we had no adventures. The
Mahratti did not accompany us. He disappeared without informing us
whither he was going.
We saw Logarh, a fortress which was captured by Sivaji from the Moguls
in 1670, and the ruins of the hall, where the widow of Nana Farnavese,
under the pretext of an English protectorate, became de facto the
captive of General Wellesley in 1804, with a yearly pension of 12,000
rupees. We then started for the village of Vargaon, once fortified and
still very rich. We were to spend the hottest hours of the day there,
from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, and proceed
afterwards to the historical caves of Birsa and Badjah, about three
miles from Karli.
At about two P.M. when, in spite of the huge punkahs waving to and fro,
we were grumbling at the heat, appeared our friend the Mahratta Brahman,
whom we thought we had lost on the way. Accompanied by half-a-dozen
Daknis (inhabitants of the Dekhan plateau) he was slowly advancing,
seated almost on the ears of his horse, which snorted and seemed very
unwilling to move. When he reached the verandah and jumped down, we
saw the reason of his disappearance. Across the saddle was tied a huge
tiger, whose tail dragged in the dust. There were traces of dark blood
in his half opened mouth. He was taken from the horse and laid down by
the doorstep.
Was it our visitor of the night before? I looked at Gulab-Sing. He
lay on a rug in a corner, resting his head on his hand and reading. He
knitted his brows slightly, but did not say a word. The Brahman who
had just brought the tiger was very silent too, watching over certain
preparations, as if making ready for some solemnity. We soon learned
that, in the eyes of a superstitious people, what was about to happen
was a solemnity indeed.
A bit of hair cut from the skin of a tiger that has been killed, neither
by bullet, nor by knife, but by a "word," is considered the best of all
talismans against his tribe.
"This is a very rare opportunity," explained the Mahratti. "It is very
seldom that one meets with a man who possesses the word. Yogis and
Sadhus do not generally kill wild animals, thinking it sinful to destroy
any living creature, be it even a cobra or a tiger, so they simply keep
out of the way of noxious animals. There exists only one brotherhood in
India whose members possess all secrets, and from whom nothing in nature
is concealed. Here is the body of the tiger to testify that the animal
was not killed with a weapon of any kind, but simply by the word of
Gulab-Lal-Sing. I found it, very easily, in the bushes exactly under our
vihara, at the foot of the rock over which the tiger had rolled, already
dead. Tigers never make false steps. Gulab-Lal-Sing, you are a Raj-Yogi,
and I salute you!" added the proud Brahman, kneeling before the Takur.
"Do not use vain words, Krishna Rao!" interrupted Gulab-Sing. "Get up;
do not play the part of a Shudra."
"I obey you, Sahib, but, forgive me, I trust my own judgment. No
Raj-Yogi ever yet acknowledged his connection with the brotherhood,
since the time Mount Abu came into existence."
And he began distributing bits of hair taken from the dead animal. No
one spoke, I gazed curiously at the group of my fellow-travelers. The
colonel, President of our Society, sat with downcast eyes, very pale.
His secretary, Mr. Y----, lay on his back, smoking a cigar and looking
straight above him, with no expression in his eyes. He silently accepted
the hair and put it in his purse. The Hindus stood round the tiger,
and the Sinhalese traced mysterious signs on its forehead. Gulab-Sing
continued quietly reading his book.----
The Birza cave, about six miles from Vargaon, is constructed on the
same plan as Karli. The vault-like ceiling of the temple rests upon
twenty-six pillars, eighteen feet high, and the portico on four,
twenty-eight feet high; over the portico are carved groups of horses,
oxen, and elephants, of the most exquisite beauty. The "Hall of
Initiation" is a spacious, oval room, with pillars, and eleven very deep
cells cut in the rock. The Bajah caves are older and more beautiful.
Inscriptions may still be seen showing that all these temples were built
by Buddhists, or, rather, by Jainas. Modern Buddhists believe in one
Buddha only, Gautama, Prince of Kapilavastu (six centuries before
Christ) whereas the Jainas recognize a Buddha in each of their
twenty-four divine teachers (Tirthankaras) the last of whom was the Guru
(teacher) of Gautama. This disagreement is very embarrassing when people
try to conjecture the antiquity of this or that vihara or chaitya. The
origin of the Jaina sect is lost in the remotest, unfathomed antiquity,
so the name of Buddha, mentioned in the inscriptions, may be attributed
to the last of the Buddhas as easily as to the first, who lived (see
Tod's genealogy) a long time before 2,200 B.C.
One of the inscriptions in the Baira cave, for instance, in cuneiform
characters, says: "From an ascetic in Nassik to the one who is worthy,
to the holy Buddha, purified from sins, heavenly and great."
This tends to convince scientists that the cave was cut out by
Buddhists.
Another inscription, in the same cave, but over an-other cell, contains
the following: "An agreeable offering of a small gift to the moving
force [life], to the mind principle [soul], the well-beloved material
body, fruit of Manu, priceless treasure, to the highest and here
present, Heavenly."
Of course the conclusion is drawn that the building does not belong to
the Buddhists, but to the Brahmans, who believe in Manu.
Here are two more inscriptions from Bajah caves.
"An agreeable gift of the symbol and vehicle of the purified Saka-Saka."
"Gift of the vehicle of Radha [wife of Krishna, symbol of perfection] to
Sugata who is gone for ever."
Sugata, again, is one of the names of Buddha. A new contradiction!
It was somewhere here, in the neighborhood of Vargaon, that the
Mahrattis seized Captain Vaughan and his brother, who were hanged after
the battle of Khirki.
Next morning we drove to Chinchor, or, as it is called here, Chinchood.
This place is celebrated in the annals of the Dekkan. Here one meets
with a repetition in miniature of what takes place on a larger scale
at L'hassa in Tibet. As Buddha incarnates in every new Dalai-Lama, so,
here, Gunpati (Ganesha, the god of wisdom with the elephant's head) is
allowed by his father Shiva to incarnate in the eldest son of a certain
Brahman family. There is a splendid temple erected in his honor, where
the avatars (incarnations) of Gunpati have lived and received adoration
for over two hundred years.
This is how it happened.
About 250 years ago a poor Brahman couple were promised, in sleep, by
the god of wisdom that he would incarnate in their eldest son. The boy
was named Maroba (one of the god's titles) in honor of the deity. Maroba
grew up, married, and begot several sons, after which he was commanded
by the god to relinquish the world and finish his days in the desert.
There, during twenty-two years, according to the legend, Maroba wrought
miracles and his fame grew day by day. He lived in an impenetrable
jungle, in a corner of the thick forest that covered Chinchood in those
days. Gunpati appeared to him once more, and promised to incarnate in
his descendants for seven generations. After this there was no limit
to his miracles, so that the people began to worship him, and ended by
building a splendid temple for him.
At last Maroba gave orders to the people to bury him alive, in a sitting
posture, with an open book in his hands, and never to open his grave
again under penalty of his wrath and maledictions. After the burial
of Maroba, Gunpati incarnated in his first-born, who began a conjuring
career in his turn. So that Maroba-Deo I, was replaced by Chintaman-Deo
I. This latter god had eight wives and eight sons. The tricks of the
eldest of these sons, Narayan-Deo I, became so celebrated that his fame
reached the ears of the Emperor Alamgir. In order to test the extent of
his "deification," Alamgir sent him a piece of a cow's tail wrapped in
rich stuffs and coverings. Now, to touch the tail of a dead cow is the
worst of all degradations for a Hindu. On receiving it Narayan sprinkled
the parcel with water, and, when the stuffs were unfolded, there was
found enclosed in them a nosegay of white syringa, instead of the
ungodly tail. This transformation rejoiced the Emperor so much that he
presented the god with eight villages, to cover his private expenses.
Narayan's social position and property were inherited by Chintaman-Deo
II., whose heir was Dharmadhar, and, lastly, Narayan II came into
power. He drew down the malediction of Gunpati by violating the grave
of Maroba. That is why his son, the last of the gods, is to die without
issue.
When we saw him he was an aged man, about ninety years old. He was
seated on a kind of platform. His head shook and his eyes idiotically
stared without seeing us, the result of his constant use of opium. On
his neck, ears, and toes, shone precious stones, and all around were
spread offerings. We had to take off our shoes before we were allowed to
approach this half-ruined relic.----
On the evening of the same day we returned to Bombay. Two days later we
were to start on our long journey to the North-West Provinces, and our
route promised to be very attractive. We were to see Nassik, one of the
few towns mentioned by Greek historians, its caves, and the tower of
Rama; to visit Allahabad, the ancient Prayaga, the metropolis of the
moon dynasty, built at the confluence of the Ganges and Jumna; Benares,
the town of five thousand temples and as many monkeys; Cawnpur,
notorious for the bloody revenge of Nana Sahib; the remains of the city
of the sun, destroyed, according to the computations of Colebrooke, six
thousand years ago; Agra and Delhi; and then, having explored Rajistan
with its thousand Takur castles, fortresses, ruins, and legends, we were
to go to Lahore, the metropolis of the Punjab, and, lastly, to stay for
a while in Amritsar. There, in the Golden Temple, built in the centre
of the "Lake of Immortality," was to be held the first meeting of the
members of our Society, Brahmans, Buddhists, Sikhs, etc.--in a word,
the representatives of the one thousand and one sects of India, who all
sympathized, more or less, with the idea of the Brotherhood of Humanity
of our Theosophical Society.