ever‐increasing vehemence. At the same time my attention
was caught by a banging, thundering sound which I could
not explain to myself at all. The next morning, however, I
saw that the clear brook had become a raging mountain
torrent, with waters brown and foaming in which huge
stones rolled and bounded as they dashed onward. And it
was these that had caused the uproar. Why do you sup‐
pose that just here, when listening to these sounds, this
memory out of the time of my pilgrimage should rise
within me?”
“It comes from this,” answered Vāsitthī, “the
sounds are analogous; though in that mountain stream you
were merely hearing the collision of stones, here in the
stream of the Heavenly Gangā, worlds are rolled and
propelled along. It is these from which the booming
sounds like thunder arise.”
“Worlds!” exclaimed Kāmanīta, horrified.
Vāsitthī smiled, and floated onward as she did so;
but Kāmanīta, full of terror, caught her and held her back
by her robe.
“Take care of yourself, Vāsitthī! Who knows what
powers, what fearful forces hold sway over this Stream of
the Universe, forces into whose power you might fall by
forsaking the shore. I tremble already at the thought of
seeing you suddenly torn from me.”
“Would you not dare to follow me, then?”
“Certainly, I would follow you. But who knows
whether I could reach you, whether we should not be torn
from one another? And even if we remained together,
what misery it would be to be borne away to the Illimit‐
able, far from this abode of bliss.”
“To the Illimitable...!” repeated Vāsitthī dreamily,
and her glance swept over the surface of the Heavenly
Gangā, far out to where the silver flood touched the black
border of the sky, her gaze seeming to desire to penetrate
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ever farther. “Is it possible, then,” she asked, as if she
were lost in thought, “for eternal happiness to exist where
there is limitation?”
“Vāsitthī!” exclaimed Kāmanīta, becoming truly
alarmed. “I wish I had never led you here! Come, love,
come!”
And, even more anxiously than from the Coral
Tree, he drew her away from there.
She followed him willingly, but turned her head at
the first palms as she did so, casting a last glance back‐
ward at the heavenly stream.
*
*
*
And again they were throned on the lotus seats in
the crystal lake, again they floated between trees bearing
blossoms of jewels, again they mingled with the ranks of
the Blessèd, joined in the dances, and enjoyed the raptures
of heaven, happy in their unclouded love.
Once in the dance they met their friend of the
white robe, who greeted them with:
“So you now really have been to the shores of the
Heavenly Gangā.”
“How could you possible know that we have been
there?”
“I see it; for all who have been there wear a shadow
on their brows. For that reason I don’t wish to go. And
you will also not go a second time, no‐one ever does.”
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~ 29 ~
A
MID THE SWEETNESS OF THE
CORAL BLOSSOMS
A
S A MATTER OF FACT, they did not again visit
the inhospitable shores of the Heavenly Gangā. Often,
however, they turned their flight toward the valley
of the malachite rocks. Reposing under the mighty
crown of the Coral Tree, they breathed that perfume of
perfumes which streamed from the crimson blossoms and,
in the depths of their memory, there was opened up to
them the vista of their former lives — life preceding life in
some strangely appointed order, back into the far‐distant
past.
*
*
*
And they saw themselves in other times, when
human beings were mightier than now, in those memorable
heroic days when he tore himself from her arms and
rode his war elephant to Hastinapura to aid his friends, the
Pāndava princes, in their quarrel with the Kaurāvas; when,
fighting at the side of Arjuna and Krishna, on the plain of
Kurukshetra, on the tenth day of the gigantic battle he
yielded up his spirit. And when she had received the news
of his death and his shrouded body had been returned to
her, she had ascended the funeral pyre in front of the
palace, followed by all of her women, and had ignited the
great blaze with her own hand.
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And yet again they saw themselves in strange
regions, amid scenery of another kind.
It was no longer the valley of the Gangā and
Yamunā, with its magnificent palace‐filled cities where
warriors in shining armour, proud brahmins, rich mer‐
chants and diligent workers lent animation to the streets.
This theatre which had so often framed the stage of their
common life with its luxuriant tropical magnificence, as
though there were no other world, now disappeared
entirely to make room for a drearier and harsher land.
Here the sun of summer burns, it is true, just as hot
as by the Gangā, dries up the water‐courses and parches
the grass, but in winter the frost robs the woods of their
foliage and rime covers the fields. No towns rear their
towers in this region; only widely scattered villages with
large sheep‐folds lie in the midst of its rich pastures, and
the protecting elevation nearby is turned into a small
fortress by means of ramparts and rough wall. A warlike,
pastoral people have their home here. The woods are full
of wolves; and miles away the trembling wayfarer hears
the roar of the lion — “The beast that roams, frightful,
savage; whose lair is in the mountains” — as he describes
it; for he is a song‐maker.
After long wanderings, he approaches a village, an
unknown but welcome guest; for that he is everywhere.
Over his shoulder hangs his sole visible possession — a
small harp — but in his head he carries the whole precious
heritage of his fathers: ancient mystic hymns to Agni
and Indra, to Varuna and Mitra, yes, even to unknown
gods; songs of war and drinking choruses for men, love‐
songs for the maidens; fortune‐bringing magic sayings to
protect the cattle, the givers of milk. And he has power
and knowledge with which to increase this store from his
own resources. Where, indeed, would such a guest not be
welcome?
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