BY GAJANAN KATHARDEKAR

He loves me, my brave and noble husband! He has told me this so often. When he smokes his earthen pipe between his working hours, he thinks of me. My poor innocent! Little does he know the caprice of a woman's heart.

But we are honest folk–my husband and I. My parents were care-takers of a house among the hills. The gallant fort of Sinhgarh has today a few miserable houses at the top and my father kept watch over one of these. He had a few cattle too; and when we were married, my husband and I looked after the cattle. The poor animals always took care of themselves and we took care of each other.

One foggy day, when one could hardly see the trees down the slope, my husband and I slipped away towards the little pool, where the gold-fish have their sport, and we sat, beside it, singing together "the song of the mountain breeze", so favourite of my husband. As I sang into the mysterious void around me I thought of a hundred things, of my father and the cattle–of the one that ate nothing and looked so sad; and of the little calf that came to this world on that very day, of his tender white skin, and his bright, bright eyes–oh, he was such a baby!

"You sing so well, –and my word! you are so pretty, my girl!" came the faltering words of my husband as he took my hands in his.

For shame, I looked down. I was pretty, he said, and lo! there was my reflection in the clear waters below.–Perhaps I was pretty!

* * *

That was long ago. It had rained heavily for months and there were little brooks all over the hills. We had wandered far that day and I was feeling tired. When we came to the stream that sang merrily as it jumped from rock to rock, I thought I would not cross it. But before I knew what I had thought, my husband had picked me up and he was already in the mid-stream.

My heart beat as it never beat before: I must have blushed. He felt something too–a richer blood must have tingled in his veins, his sinews must have been enlivened to a new strength; I do not know. But he said as he took me across and laid me down: "I am a big boy now: I am a man. I am not for grazing cows any more. I will run down to yonder village and make money. I will cover you with gold, my darling; and when the rain sets in again, you will sing a song to your new babe . . . ." And as I looked up into his big black eyes, I loved him with all my heart.

That night he brought great tidings. He had secured a job in a village that lay ten miles away. He was to take care of a garden and he liked such work. It was not up to his ambitions but it was enough to begin with. He had to go early in the morning, before the sun ascended the sky, to return only after dark. For some days I missed him terribly. How could I walk over the hill, every part of which haunted me with sacred memories? I wept and wept. The trees and the brooks taunted me with their mirth and my heart was full of pain. But as the evening came, my thoughts were full of him who toiled away in a garden, all for my own sake. We had enough for our modest needs–why did he labour so hard, all alone? But he said he would bring me ornaments to enrich my God-given grace. I was a growing girl, in the prime of my youth and the thought grew on me: that I was beautiful.

I dressed with eager care when evening approached. My beauty and my youth were his. I merely carried them for him, just as when he brought me roses from his garden, I wore them for him.

"I get so jealous when everybody smells the roses of my garden,’ he said.

"But you can't prevent the fragrance from reaching them!" I told him. "After all, is not the beauty of the rose for all eyes that rest on it? Can anyone imprison the fragrance of the flower that grows so lustily upon the mountain air?"

* * *

An year has gone by. Things have now changed for us. "We have sold our cattle. Poor father died last month. My mother and I look after the house. I am now a mother and my time is spent in nursing the child who is growing into such a healthy kid. The rogue! He gives me no rest at all.

Besides this, I have no work. That gives me time–to think of myself. In fact I realise that I am thinking–too much of myself. I am growing vain–otherwise, why did I fall into such disgrace, only the other day?

It was this way. I was singing to my baby "the song of the mountain breeze." It was raining heavily and the birds lay snugly in their cosy nests, afraid to stir out. I was wondering what they would eat and how they would feed their little ones. Just then some one called for me from the side verandah. He must have been calling for long. I could not hear because I was singing to the beating sound of rain.

"I want shelter;–yes–and now, please, I will have some water," he said. I brought him water; many visitors come this way–I do not think much of them. They are usually good people and they leave us some money before they go.

As I gave him water, I noticed that he was looking intently at my hands. Infinite care has made them tender, I know. He then looked up at me with such wonderful, frank eyes and asked me: "Won't you sing the song you were singing? Please do!" My heart fluttered. He was a young man of high birth. His brown eyes looked sad and his face seemed to be full of a rare charm. I gave in, in a moment. I sang to him my sweetest songs. He said he loved music and wrote it for people to sing, He taught me a few songs of his own. His voice was so soft and sweet. I loved him for all my worth. He was so kind and noble . . . .

He left a silver coin in my hand and went his way. He may never come again but he has left his magic spell behind. Idly I toyed with the coin; it was no use–I could not help my tears . . . . . I told my mother what had happened. She said, to love a stranger is a sin and God would punish me for it.

I do not know where God resides: but if he resides in a world where the birds sing their twittering tunes, where the rose blossoms for all, where the clouds hang so mysteriously,

enwrapping the beauteous mountain peaks and where the river heedlessly rushes into the blue depths of the sea, He will understand me and know that this child of nature is no sinner, but a lily that lightly holds its head to the passing breeze of the mountains.

* * *