Adventure stories; Boys -- Fiction; India -- Fiction; Irish -- India -- Fiction; Lamas -- Fiction; Orphans -- Fiction; Spy stories
The diamond-bright dawn woke men and crows and bullocks together. Kim
sat up and yawned, shook himself, and thrilled with delight. This was
seeing the world in real truth; this was life as he would have
it--bustling and shouting, the buckling of belts, and beating of
bullocks and creaking of wheels, lighting of fires and cooking of food,
and new sights at every turn of the approving eye. The morning mist
swept off in a whorl of silver, the parrots shot away to some distant
river in shrieking green hosts: all the well-wheels within earshot went
to work. India was awake, and Kim was in the middle of it, more awake
and more excited than any one, chewing on a twig that he would presently
use as a toothbrush; for he borrowed right- and left-handedly from all
the customs of the country he knew and loved. There was no need to worry
about food--no need to spend a cowrie at the crowded stalls. He was the
disciple of a holy man annexed by a strong-willed old lady. All things
would be prepared for them, and when they were respectfully invited so
to do they would sit and eat. For the rest,--Kim giggled here as he
cleaned his teeth,--his hostess would rather heighten the enjoyment of
the road. He inspected her bullocks critically, as they came up grunting
and blowing under the yokes. If they went too fast--it was not
likely--there would be a pleasant seat for himself along the pole; the
lama would sit beside the driver. The escort, of course, would walk. The
old lady, equally of course, would talk a great deal, and by what he had
heard that conversation would not lack salt. She was already ordering,
haranguing, rebuking, and, it must be said, cursing her servants for
delays.
'Get her her pipe. In the name of the Gods, get her her pipe and stop
her ill-omened mouth,' cried an Oorya, tying up his shapeless bundles of
bedding. 'She and the parrots are alike. They screech in the dawn.'
'The lead-bullocks! Hai! Look to the lead-bullocks!' They were backing
and wheeling as a grain-cart's axle caught them by the horns. 'Son of an
owl, where dost thou go?' This to the grinning carter.
'Ai! Yai! Yai! That within there is the Queen of Delhi going to pray
for a son,' the man called back over his high load. 'Room for the Queen
of Delhi and her prime minister the gray monkey climbing up his own
sword!' Another cart loaded with bark for a down-country tannery
followed close behind, and its driver added a few compliments as the
ruth-bullocks backed and backed again.
From behind the shaking curtains came one volley of invective. It did
not last long, but in kind and quality, in blistering, biting
appropriateness, it was beyond anything that even Kim had heard. He
could see the carter's bare chest collapse with amazement, as the man
salaamed reverently to the voice, leaped from the pole, and helped the
escort haul their volcano on to the main road. Here the voice told him
truthfully what sort of wife he had wedded, and what she was doing in
his absence.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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