Life's Handicap: Being Stories of Mine Own People — John Shaqi
Life's Handicap: Being Stories of Mine Own PeopleKipling, Rudyard
History
Life's Handicap: Being Stories of Mine Own People
Kipling, Rudyard
India -- History -- British occupation, 1765-1947 -- Fiction; India -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories, English
‘Nay, very far away. Maybe at Trimbak or Hurdwar, whither thou must make
pilgrimage when thou art a man. Now, there was sitting in the garden
under the jujube trees, a mendicant that had worshipped Shiv for
forty years, and he lived on the offerings of the pious, and meditated
holiness night and day.’
‘Oh father, was it thou?’ said the child, looking up with large eyes.
‘Nay, I have said it was long ago, and, moreover, this mendicant was
married.’
‘Did they put him on a horse with flowers on his head, and forbid him
to go to sleep all night long? Thus they did to me when they made my
wedding,’ said the child, who had been married a few months before.
‘And what didst thou do?’ said I.
‘I wept, and they called me evil names, and then I smote HER, and we
wept together.’
‘Thus did not the mendicant,’ said Gobind; ‘for he was a holy man, and
very poor. Parbati perceived him sitting naked by the temple steps where
all went up and down, and she said to Shiv, “What shall men think of the
Gods when the Gods thus scorn their worshippers? For forty years yonder
man has prayed to us, and yet there be only a few grains of rice and
some broken cowries before him after all. Men’s hearts will be hardened
by this thing.” And Shiv said, “It shall be looked to,” and so he called
to the temple which was the temple of his son, Ganesh of the elephant
head, saying, “Son, there is a mendicant without who is very poor. What
wilt thou do for him?” Then that great elephant-headed One awoke in the
dark and answered, “In three days, if it be thy will, he shall have one
lakh of rupees.” Then Shiv and Parbati went away.
‘But there was a money-lender in the garden hidden among the
marigolds’--the child looked at the ball of crumpled blossoms in its
hands--‘ay, among the yellow marigolds, and he heard the Gods talking.
He was a covetous man, and of a black heart, and he desired that lakh
of rupees for himself. So he went to the mendicant and said, “O brother,
how much do the pious give thee daily?” The mendicant said, “I cannot
tell. Sometimes a little rice, sometimes a little pulse, and a few
cowries and, it has been, pickled mangoes, and dried fish.”’
‘That is good,’ said the child, smacking its lips.
‘Then said the money-lender, “Because I have long watched thee, and
learned to love thee and thy patience, I will give thee now five rupees
for all thy earnings of the three days to come. There is only a bond
to sign on the matter.” But the mendicant said, “Thou art mad. In two
months I do not receive the worth of five rupees,” and he told the
thing to his wife that evening. She, being a woman, said, “When did
money-lender ever make a bad bargain? The wolf runs through the corn for
the sake of the fat deer. Our fate is in the hands of the Gods. Pledge
it not even for three days.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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