It is the hour when the cattle are being driven
home. At the head of a herd there walks, with supreme
grace in every movement of her young body, a maiden of
lofty stature; by her side goes her pet cow, whose bell the
others follow, and from time to time the favourite licks her
mistress’s hand. The young wanderer gives the maiden an
evening greeting; she replies with kindly words. Smiling,
they look at one another — and the look is the same as
that which was born in the pleasure park of Kosambī,
which flew back and forth between the ball‐player on the
stage and the handsome stranger.
But the Land of the Five Streams, after it has re‐
peatedly given them shelter and a home, disappears in its
turn as did the valley of the Gangā. Other regions come
into view, other peoples and customs surround them —
everything poorer, rougher, wilder.
The steppe over which the procession passes —
horsemen, wagons, and people on foot in endless lines —
is white with snow. The air is full of whirling flakes. Black
mountains look darkly down. From under the tent‐like
roof of a heavy ox‐wagon, a maiden leans forward with
such haste of movement that the sheepskin slips aside,
and her wealth of golden hair flows down over cheeks,
throat and breast. Anxiety burns in her eyes as she gazes
out in the direction in which all eyes are turned, where all
fingers point — to where, like a dark cloud whirled up by
the wind, a horde of mounted horsemen comes sweeping
towards them. But she smiles confidently, as her glance
meets that of the youth who rides on a black ox beside the
wagon; and it is the same look as before, even if out of
blue eyes. The glance sets the heart of the youth on fire —
he swings his battle‐axe, and with loud cry joins the other
warriors who rush to meet the foe — sets it on fire, and
still warms it when it is pierced by the cold iron of a
Scythian arrow.
227
But they saw greater changes yet; led by the
fragrant odour of the Coral Tree, they undertook even
longer journeys.
They found themselves as stag and hind in a vast
forest. Their love was wordless now, but not sightless.
And again it was the same look; deep in the darkest
depths of their great eyes, as if prescient, there lightened,
even if through dim blue mists, the same spark that had
later found its way so radiantly from human eye to human
eye.
They grazed together and waded side by side in
the clear, cool forest brook; body by body they rested in
the tall soft grass. They had their joys in common and
together they trembled for fear, when a branch suddenly
became alive and the jaws of the python opened wide or
when, in the stillness of the night, a scarcely audible
creeping movement was caught by their quick ears, while
flaring nostrils discerned the pungent odour of a beast of
prey, and they fled with mighty bounds, just as a rustling
crack made itself heard in the neighbouring thicket and
the angry roar of a tiger that had fallen short of its prey
rolled through the wood, which now suddenly wakened
to life all around.
*
*
*
Farther yet, and a pair of golden eagles were building
their eyrie high up in a savage mountain fastness,
hanging over the blue abysses of the Himalayas, circling
round its snowy pinnacles.
As two dolphins they ploughed the boundless
expanse of old Ocean’s salty flood.
Yes, once they even grew as two palms on an
island in the midst of the seas, their roots intertwined in
the cool sand of the shore and their tops rustling together
228
in the cool sea‐breeze.
Thus did they two, companions in so many wan‐
derings, linger in the shade of the Coral Tree and, day by
day, enjoy the sweets of memory exhaled by its fragrant
blossoms.
For even as a royal couple have many tales related
to them by the court story‐teller in pursuit of amusement
and knowledge — now the life‐story of a king, now a
simple village tale; at one time a heroic poem, at another a
legend of ancient days; or maybe a fable of some animal,
or a fairy tale — and all the while they know that, how‐
ever often it pleases them to listen, there is no fear that
this prince of story‐tellers will ever be at a loss for words,
because the treasury of his knowledge and his own inven‐
tive ability are both inexhaustible — so these two were
able to say to themselves: “However often and however
long we may linger here, even if it were for an eternity,
there is no danger that these blossoms will ever be unable
to waken further memories; for the farther we go down
into the abysses of time, the farther does time recede
before us.”
And they marvelled much.
“We are as old as the world,” said Vāsitthī.
229
~ 30 ~
“
T
O BE BORN IS TO DIE…
”
A
SSUREDLY: WE ARE as old as the world,” said
Kāmanīta. “But up to this time we have wandered
on, never resting, and the Lord of Death when he has
come has always projected us into a new life. Now,
however, we have reached a place where there is no more
passing away, where eternal joy is our sweet possession.”
*
*
*
At the time when he spoke thus, they were just
returning from the Coral Tree to their lake. He was about
to let himself down on his lotus flower when it suddenly
struck him that its red colour seemed to have lost something
of its freshness and gloss. Yes, as he now remained
floating over it in the air and looked attentively down, he
saw with dismay that the petals of the corona had become
brown at the edges, as if they had been burnt, and that
their tips were losing their vitality and curling up.
Vāsitthī’s white lotus did not look any better; she
also had remained floating over hers, evidently arrested by
the same phenomenon.
He turned his eyes upon his blue neighbour whose
lotus showed just the same change, and Kāmanīta noticed
that his face did not beam as joyously as it had on that day
when he, Kāmanīta, first greeted him; his features were
not so animated as formerly, his bearing not so open. Yes,
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