Chapter XII.
SAI’S coming was a great diversion. She was seen everywhere and continually spoken of by the young men of his company. They congratulated him on the notice she took of him in public, and he was very much pleased. Poor Kamala felt very much disturbed in her mind as her acquaintances spoke to her of having seen her husband in Sai’s company, and the news of her father’s illness caused her additional anxiety of another kind. Now she feared for Ganesh and now for her father and her mind was distracted. “If anything happen to my husband,” she said to herself after a great deal of thought, “it won’t be through any fault of mine. If he commits any mistakes or comes under this woman’s power what can I do? The threads of destiny are taken out of my hands by a Higher power. My father requires me. Yet something tells me I am needed by my husband too.” In her difficulty she muttered some kind of prayer to the temple gods, though she felt that it was of little use. In her concern for her husband she had sought to repress her affection for her father, but having learned of his illness she could restrain it no longer, and casting herself down on the ground she wept, crying, “O my father, my father. I am here and who is there to help you?” The thought that perhaps he would die before she could see him made her intensely miserable, and she could not sleep the whole night.
Next morning she had to go with her mother-in-law to her mountain home which she had not seen for so long a time. Ganesh was up early. He had slept soundly, little thinking of Kamala’s troubles, but when he saw her red swollen eyes and downcast face and her vain attempts to quiet herself by bustling about, his conscience smote him. She was constantly going to the outer door and back, restlessly waiting for her mother-in-law to come out of her room. Ganesh saw all this and could not help going near her and saying to her: “Don’t cry.” She drew back at these words, for the tears began to gush from her eyes and she went to a side room to hide them. Ganesh followed, and lifted her drooping covered face, saying: “No! No! Kamala. Don’t go on like that.” Something like pity filled his heart and the thought of his neglect of her all these days flashed across his mind. It was somehow painfully mingled with fear at her going away. A vague feeling as if he would lose her came over him. But he shook away the thought and laughed uneasily and said: “Kamala, you are a little baby to cry so. Your father is not so bad. I made special inquiries of Ramachunder Rao yesterday, and he said that your father was only pining to see you. No wonder! He has not seen you for so long.” Then, hearing voices near, he hastily drew away his hand and said in a whisper: “I shall come to see you soon, and now go.”
Kamala’s thoughts on the way were fixed on the home far in front of her on the top of the distant hill. Her head was reeling, and a feeling of unreality came over her. She passed the bazaar street at the other end of the town—the street that she had so often crossed with her father in those bygone days when she was carried on his back, and she felt a choking in her throat at the thought of those visits. Ah! where was the caressing hand, the dear voice calling her to go to sleep and not to mind anything? The rice fields waved as of old, dimpling with every breath of wind, and she remembered her old joy when she and her father waded through them; and she looked up wondering whether the sunlight was still there and the wind, her old play fellow: and she saw the morning rays struggling with the soft mist under the trees and lighting up the shining leaves and the dew-laden tops of the trees. Then she thought of the long years that had passed since she was last there and the change that had come on her, and she exclaimed to herself: “Oh, where are all the old joys? Will they never come back to me any more?” and she shuddered at the thought. Nearer the hill Kamala’s mother-in-law told her to run on, for she had been so eager to go forward. On the hill Kamala saw her old friend Yeshi approaching. Her heart stood still. “Yeshi,” she said, and realized for the first time the great change that had come over her, for Yeshi held a child in her arms. But there was no time for words. Blame not the girl because she stumbled into Yeshi’s arms—her own beloved Yeshi—and cried. There was no room for the pride of caste, for the touch-me-not feelings of the Brahman all vanished before the gush of her old affection. Yeshi held her mistress in her arms, delighted, surprised, and was almost lost for joy. “Kamalabai, how changed you are!” she said.
“How is my father?” asked Kamala, eagerly.
“Your father was very ill, but he is better. Don’t be anxious. I have been looking out for you.” And they both went up hand in hand to the old home, Kamala stumbling at every stone and ready to fall.
Eagerly entering the hut she fell on her father’s bed: “Father! father! Oh, how I have longed to see you.” The suppressed feelings of years gave way, and sobs—heavy deep sobs—came from her.
“Kamala! Kamala dear! let me see you,” said the feeble old man, as he raised her head and kissed her, The sobs were hushed, and a great peacefulness stole over her as if she had found her haven of rest at last. She did not ask him any questions. She gave him one inquiring look and laid her head on his bosom while he held her tight, looking into her eyes and caressing her. Thus she lay when her mother-in-law entered the room, but she moved not. “What, Kamala?” said the old dame, and then seeing that she did not move asked: “Is the girl sleeping?”
“No! let her be thus,” said the old sanyasi, in his feeble voice. “It is a great thing for me to have her near. In her childhood we were never separated.”
Meanwhile Kamala sank motionless from sheer exhaustion, and she was allowed to remain beside her father.
* * * *
It was a dark, primeval forest. The deep, solemn stillness was broken only by the constant falling of dead leaves, which, collected in heaps below, lay in some places to a depth of three or four feet. The leaves one by one rustled and fell with a perceptible thud through the length and breadth of the forest. The huge gigantic trees, covered with creepers, met overhead, their branches intertwining and forming a huge canopy, beneath which the sunlight rarely penetrated, the light of day paling into a soft greyish blue twilight. The forest lay on a high plateau among weird, bleak hills, which were unattractive even to birds and beasts. When the mists came curling up from the valleys or descended from the hills they wrapped the forest in their soft white fleecy arms and settled on the treetops, giving to the whole scene a dim shadowy appearance, as if it was a phantom forest waving in cloudland far far away. But when the cold winds rushed from the hill-tops they roared and crashed through the branches, and the noise of the awakened forest resembled that of the ocean when in its fury it breaks on some rock-bound coast.
Such was the forest of Panabaras, the abode of the far-famed sage, Aranyadaya, who was learned in all the old Vedic and Puranic lore, and who was regarded by people, who had heard of his fame but had not seen him, as possessing the key to the healing art. The sage loved to have his abode here where he could gather rare herbs and enjoy the sanctity of seclusion. He had devoted his whole life to study and meditation and only a favoured few had the privilege of his personal acquaintance. Among these were Narayen, the saniyasi, and the young physician, Ramchander.
The Rishi was seated on a mat under a huge tree a little away from his solitary hut and Ramchander was by his side. After some moments of silence he called out softly: “Ramchander!”
“Guru Raj!” said the young man, reverently, “Speak, I am listening.”
“My days are nearly over, Ramchander, though it seems as if my friend Narayen will go before me. Have you grasped everything I have told you? Do you think you will be able to keep the torch of knowledge burning when we are gone?”
“I will try, my master, ignorant and unlearned as I am.” Saying this, Ramchander, the young disciple, approached the sage so as to listen further to his instructions; but the mood for talking had passed away and the old man seemed absent. After some time Ramchander said: “I have bad news to tell you.” But even this did not seem to have any effect on the old man. Then after a further interval Ramchander continued: “I have read all the Charmapatrikas (parchments) you asked me to read. I have found the serpentine root that is so rare. I have found it in the cliffs youder, a solitary clinging herb. The plates, platters and powders are ready.” But all this was said in vain, for the great rishi was lost in thought. Nothing could awaken him from his dreamy reverie. He was evidently deep in thought, and he rose and walked as a blind man would, feeling for the trunks of trees and looking intently on the ground, as if trying to catch sounds unheard by other ears. The young man waited, for he knew his master’s moods.
At last the sage turned sharply and grasping Ramchander’s arm shook him in excitement and said in a hoarse whisper: “I have been hearing the sound of waters. There is a spring hidden here somewhere and I have been calling to mind the pages in the sacred book that refer to this spring. It is the famous spring of Ashtarini that we read of in the old books. Haste, search for it, lest I lose the sound again. Go straight on and turn to the left. There you will see a rock. Near by must be the rude image of Vanadeva covered over all these years with dead leaves Feel with this stick; close to the image must be the medicinal spring whose waters give health and life. It bubbles up and you must be careful to open its mouth and let the waters run out. Haste! something tells me that my friend Narayen sorely needs our aid.”
“Yes, I came to tell you that he was lying in a deep faint.”
“Well, be quick! Fetch the water and we shall go in.”
Ramachander did as he was told. He found the bubbling spring. Then he and the old sage went to their primitive hut of leaves where they found Narayen lying on a mat. The music of the forest was heard around the hut in all its grandeur, but Narayen seemed to be unconscious of it. The rishi approached, felt his pluse, and waking him made him drink some water from the famous spring.
“You have sacrificed much, my friend, to gain knowledge and its power,” said the rishi to Narayen, “and now you must not despair. What are your wishes?”
“My wishes?” said Narayen, in a soft whisper; “I have only one. I wish to pass away quietly in this great temple of leaves but my heart longs to see my girl. Then I should like to die peacefully.”
“But, father,” said Ramchander, “it is not possible to bring her here. Let me take you back to your old home in Anjinighur. You must not despair, you have drunk of the waters of healing and you shall not die yet.”
Thus was Narayen, the saniyasi, brought over to Anjinighur, where his old home was, and Kamala was sent for. Since Kamala’s marriage the old man had led a solitary life He was absorbed chiefly in abstract thought. His mind was puzzled over many things. He felt the unreality of everything that appealed to the senses. All things were changing and yet there remained something eternal and unchangeable and that was God. But what was the sensible material universe? Was it an emblem of the deity? If so how could it partake of the nature of the changeable? Or was it a part of the deity? What were the Shastras for:—the endless ritual and symbol worship contained in them, if God was everywhere and in everything? Surely in human beings He was manifest. Such were some of the saniyasi’s thoughts. He felt that he had no scope for such speculations except in solitude, apart from the world. There alone the highest emotions of his soul were called forth, there he felt the greatest exaltation of spirit, and there he heard the voice of God speaking to his soul direct. His one object was to become absorbed in the deity and to become one with Him, and for this he found it necessary to suppress all the passions of the senses. He was very fond of the company of his rishi friend, Aranyadaya, and when any thought troubled him he went to the old sage for advice and counsel. Often Narayen would emerge from his solitude inspired with a mission and with enthusiasm expound to the people the real meaning of the Shastras. He would grow so eloquent and yet remain so practical in his eloquence that people wondered at the great knowledge of the world and of mankind that he possessed.
It is your old religion, he would say, the religion of your ancient rishis and sages. Leave it not, change it not for any other. God is God under whatever name you worship Him. You take His different attributes and erect temples as symbols of these different attributes and worship them separately. That is well; but He is not in the hills nor in the green waving trees, and yet He is there and everywhere. You hear His voice but you cannot see Him. He is a part of everything you see. Now He is chaste Rohini; now the protecting Bhagvani; now the guardian deity that sustains you. To the wicked He is a fierce demon, till proper propitiation is made in the way of sacrifices and the passions are subdued; but to higher natures is given the privilege of being absorbed in the deity. Do not care for pleasures, for pleasures are a delusion. Work out your salvation by deeds of merit and acts of charity. Thus Narayen would discourse, argue, and talk, now sitting on the steps of a temple, now on a river ghaut, and now in the grove of the shastris; and he was known and reverenced by all.
The intense love of the Indian for a life of solitude and meditation has been a puzzle to foreigners, who forget that a keen sensibility is one of the marked characteristics of the Hindu mind. The Hindu is subject to moments of depression and exaltation of spirits, and is deeply affected by intense spiritual cravings which are generally alien to men of other climes. He loves meditation because he finds a deep pleasure in it, and he hugs to himself the new found joys of the intellect, and would sacrifice anything to satisfy the longings of an awakened soul. He leaves the world and the petty worries of life because they come between him and his life of meditation, and he resorts to places where he can be free and enjoy to his heart’s content the pleasures of the soul in the contemplation of all that is good and beautiful. He does not find it dull to live alone, for he enjoys pleasures of which men sensually inclined know nothing. His wants are few and easily satisfied, and his love of all that is beautiful in nature is great. The wind blows a cool, refreshing breeze and he experiences the keenest pleasure from it. The clouds form on the hills, arrayed in gorgeous colours, and he looks at them, at the gaily decked flowers, at the milky cascades, at the warbling brooks, and at the merry birds, and feels he has companions in them all. The mountain goats, the cows and their calves, and the very crows gather round the recluse and in numerous delightful trusting ways proclaim him their friend; and they weary him not as human friends do. He leaves them when he chooses, changes his abode, or goes on a pilgrimage to sacred spots, always returning to his solitude when he is inclined. Others know nothing of the luxury of such a life.