“Poor thing,” said the Governor, “how can you go home in such a
state? However, there’s no harm in your trying.”
Well, I did try. And then I found that, as soon as one enters the maw
of Yaksha Town, its jaws shut fast, and the one road that remains
open leads withinwards. Now I am swamped in that interior without
hope and without light, and the only difference between you and
me is, that the Governor looks down upon me even worse than upon
you. Man despises the broken pot of his own creation more than the
withered leaf fallen from the tree.
_Phágulal_
What does that matter, Bishu? You have risen high in our esteem.
_Bishu_
Discovery only means death. Where your favour falls there falls
the Governor’s glance. The more noisily the yellow frogs welcome
the black toad, the sooner their croaking points him out to the
boa-constrictor.
_Chandrá_
But when will your work be finished?
_Bishu_
The calendar never records the last day. After the first day comes
the second, after the second the third. There’s no such thing as
getting finished here. We’re always digging--one yard, two yards,
three yards. We go on raising gold nuggets,--after one nugget
another, then more and more and more. In Yaksha Town figures follow
one another in rows and never arrive at any conclusion. That’s why we
are not men to them, but only numbers.--Phágu, what’s yours?
_Phágulal_
I’m No. 47 V.
_Bishu_
I’m 69 Ng.
_Chandrá_
Brother, they’ve hoarded such heaps of gold, can’t they stop digging
now?
_Bishu_
There’s always an end to things of need, no doubt; so we stop when
we’ve had enough to eat. But we don’t need drunkenness, therefore
there’s no end to it. These nuggets are the drink--the solid
drink--of our Gold King. Don’t you see?
_Chandrá_
No, I don’t.
_Bishu_
Cups in hand, we forget that we are chained to our limits. Gold
blocks in hand, our master fancies he’s freed from the gravitation of
the commonplace, and is soaring in the rarest of upper heights.
_Chandrá_
In this season the villages are preparing for their harvest festival.
Let’s go home.
_Phágulal_
Don’t worry me, Chandrá. A thousand times over have I told you that
in these parts there are high roads to the market, to the burning
ground, to the scaffold,--everywhere except to the homeland.
_Chandrá_