(A Story)
WE were seated, the three of us, one December
night, round a fire in front of Forest Officer Annappa’s tent, speeding in easy
talk the time between dinner and bed. I am the Distrret Medical Officer of
Rudranagar. My friend Dr. Narayana Rao, M.Sc., Ph.D., is Professor of Geology
in our College. He and I were classmates in the University College and took our
M. Sc. the same year. After taking the Degree I went to the Medical College,
and Narayana Rao went to Europe for his Doctorate in Geology. On his return he
was appointed a University Professor, and posted to Rudranagar College, and
thus it happened that we could recapture our old intimacy. We usually met at
the Club on working days, and when holidays approached, we put our heads
together to plan for spending them in a sort as unlike our daily work as
possible. When Christmas came, we had decided to spend a week or ten days in
the Ghat forests, shooting. When we broached the scheme, to the District Forest
Officer, Mr. Annappa, he fell in with it quite enthusiastically, took on
himself all the arrangements, and would not hear but we should be his guests.
And so we started.
Well, the shooting expedition must be pronounced a
success. That is to say, we had good food, plenty of exercise, excellent talk,
and companionship, sound sleep, romantic camping in beautiful forests. We
injured no living thing. Eager as we were to encounter game, we invariably were
on the spot a few hours or days after ferocious tigers, cunning panthers, and
other beasts of prey had left, but the place was alive with thrilling vestiges
of their recent presence,–spoors, droppings, etc.–which were pointed out to us
with ample expatiation. We usually left our camp each morning after an early
breakfast, worthy of the strenuous sportsmen we were, walked up hill and down
dale, into deep forest glades, and along pebbly streams, listening to the
shikar-lore of our lambanis and
forest guards, persuading ourselves that we had learnt to distinguish between
trails and marks that looked the same, till the sun was high in the heavens,
and our breakfast had faded into a memory, and our rifles had grown intolerably
heavy; and then we went back to camp–no, not at the old place, but shifted to a
new and if possible lovelier spot by stream or lake in immemorial forest there
to take a good and well earned meal which disposed us to rest during the hot
afternoon hours on camp beds under shady trees. Then again we would resume in
the evening the interrupted labours of the day–and so earn a dinner worthy of
the appetite we brought to it. After dinner we used to go out and gather round
a camp fire in easy tobacco nourished talk till drowsiness weighed down words
and indicated bed. Is there anything here to which the greatest stickler for Ahimsa
could object? I love to think that this was the kind of life that the rishis
of old lived in Dandakaranya!
One night, after six or seven days of this life, we
three, as I said, sat as usual round the camp fire, smoking.
The talk flitted desultorily from theme to theme;
and one of us–I think it was Narayana Rao–said what a pretty conceit it was of
the Sanskrit poets to endow every forest with its devata, or presiding
nymph.
Annappa who was staring pensively at the fire
looked up.
“Well, pretty of course–but, to my mind, not all
fancy. To me, every forest has a soul, its own individual spirit, if you know
what I mean. To the man who loves forests and lives with them sharing their
springtime gladness, and their pangs in summer, and who can join with them in
their monsoon festival–to such a man the spirit reveals herself. She whispers
to him her–”
He paused in mid-speech, and raising his face in
the attitude of one intent to listen, and stretching his hand in a dramatic
gesture, continued:
“Hist! Listen! That is her voice,” and his own was
hushed. We were conscious of a low, long melodious murmur, probably the whisper
of the breeze among the leaves and branches far up in the summits of the trees.
“Don’t laugh at me, my friends, if I tell you that
if you took me round my forests blindfold, I could tell you from the tone, the
fragrance, and a hundred other traits I cannot define, which forest is
which–with hardly a mistake.”
That reminded me of a thing which made me smile. In
my prentice days, it was my good fortune to work in the Victoria Hospital under
a great surgeon who was second to none in his profession, and whose fame
attracted to him patients from far and near. He gave his mind with such fierce
concentration to the disease that very often he had none to spare for the
patient, and it sometimes happened that though he had an excellent memory for
the one, he had no recollection of the other. Well it chance that this guru of
mine had, years ago, earned the gratitude of a rich Natukkottai Chettiyar by a
skilful operation. Once again the poor plutocrat had the same trouble–a
fistula–and once again he came to my guru for relief. Holding out his hands in
salutation he said in a voice frothy with gush: “Here I am again doctor, don’t
you remember me?”–but my master didn’t, but turned on him the cold eyes of an
utter stranger and said only: “Well, let us see your trouble.” And he did; and
then ah! recognition came on him in a flash. He turned his patient round shook
him warmly by the hand and said: “Oh, Mr. Shanmugam! How is every one at home,
sir? It is beastly this thing should trouble you again, but we shall soon put
you right; never fear.” This was a special faculty of identification of men not
unlike Mr. Annappa’s of forests.
Narayana Rao who was watching my face asked, “What
is the fun?”
To state the real cause of my smile would perhaps
not be quite civil to Mr. Annappa–and so, I said:
‘Brainy people–especially those gifted with a
lively imagination who spend long yearn alone with nature may fill with their
own lives forest or hill or river, and find inspiring companionship in them.
“The poet’s eye, etc.”–one of those etc. quotations, you know, which it would
be an insult to your hearer to give in full.”
Narayana Rao was silent for a while, and then said
slowly:
“I for one believe in Annappa’s sylvan spirits.
When a man talks from his own experience who shall say whether it is fact or
fancy? He only knows who has had the experience. You see a thing and you know
it exists. But another hasn’t seen, and says it doesn’t; does his denial alter
the fact or make any difference to you? If you are wise, or weary, you smile
and decline argument, for some things cannot be usefully discussed, because
they are outside the scope of scientific method. ‘There are more things in
heaven and earth’–well there’s another etc. quotation if you please!”
He stopped, with the look of one who felt he had
said too much.
Mr. Annappa looked at him with eager interest.
“Have you ever had any such experience?”
Narayana Rao was silent for a few seconds, and then
answered quietly: “Well, yes.”
“Is it anything you could tell us? If so, do
please, and remember we are intimate friends.”
There was an appreciable pause, during which
Narayana Rao seemed to be debating within himself. Then he looked up with a
smile, having made up his mind obviously.
“Yes certainly, if you care to listen. It was in
these same ghat forests that my–what did you call it?–experience came to me.
This place, this hour, these friends–what better setting could one wish for a
story like mine? I am not quite sure myself whether what I am going to tell you
really happened, or I only dreamt it. Take it as a story, if you like, and I
would be very pleased if I shall have helped to while away an hour in wonder or
amusement.”
The servants heaped a few more logs on the fire,
and we lighted fresh cigars, and settled ourselves to listen.
It was six years ago that the thing I am going to
tell happened–happened to me, I mean. I had passed my M. Sc. The big problem
was what to do next. One thing I had made up my mind about–I would take a
Doctorate in Geology in any case. It occurred to me I couldn’t do better to
start with than prospecting in our ghat region. If I made a careful scientific
survey, and prepared a map of the occurrence of ores of industrial value, not
only would I have first-hand material for my Doctorate thesis, but, who knows?
it might help me to find congenial employment if big capital was interested in
my researches, and an industry was started in consequence. Besides, it was my
profession, the work which interested me most in life, and field work in the
ghat regions did not cost a great deal–did not require much more than a good
grounding in Geology which I had, and sound health and enthusiasm for work
which also I had. I had always liked going about in forests, and here I could
combine business and pleasure. So I thought, and presently put my scheme under
way. I equipped myself with the tools of my trade,–hammer, chisel, magnifying
glass, compass, topo sheets, and all–which I carried in a strong canvas bag
over my shoulder, provided myself with stout clothes and boots suited for rough
wear, and a good walking stick, and started on my expedition. I travelled by
rail as far as it could take me on my way, and then with a stout heart plunged
on foot into the forests of the malnad, with no other guide than a
compass in one pocket and a topo-sheet in the other. This was my daily
programme: follow interesting indications till noon, collecting specimens with
hammer and chisel; at noon make my way to the nearest village, and claim the
hospitality of the chief inhabitant for food and a place to rest in; start
again in the afternoon at about four o’clock and work till dusk; then return
either to the same village, or to go to another if it happened to be nearer,
for the night. As you know a malnad
village is just a cluster of maybe half a dozen houses–more often than not
belonging to one expanded household–the sahukar and his jeetals or
agrestic labourers. Ignorant of malnad tradition, I first offered to pay
for my entertainment, but none would hear of it; and some took deep offence
till they realised I was but an ignorant plainsman and knew no better; and then
they forgave me my bad mariners and made me welcome. Then it was only a matter
of entering some village home at mealtime unbidden, with the certainty of a
cordial welcome, and such cheer as the house afforded–it was enough that you
were a stranger and hungry.
I wandered about in this manner for many days. One
evening; more tired than usual, I climbed my way to the rocky crest of an
incline, and after a satisfying pull at my water bottle, sat idly looking down
into the valley where a vast ocean of green forest lay before me billowing in
the breeze far as eye could see. It grew to sunset. The beauty of the evening
entered and filled my very being, and made me insensible to the flight of time.
To me the West, red with the expiring day, became a Kurukshetra where of old
our best and bravest fell, and a Yuga crashed in ruin. Lines from the
Mahabharata rose unbidden to my mind–and presently the hero Karna’s father sank
in a welter of bloodstained clouds–the rack it seemed of a lost battle.
It was not till then that I came to myself with a
start. Good God! it was late, and soon it would be dark, and I was at least
three miles away from Adumbi, where I meant to go for the night. I must get
there somehow before it got too dark. I started up from my rock, and coming
down to the woods, turned my face in the direction where I believed Adumbi to
lie, and made what speed I could. Night falls swiftly in those mighty forests,
and it was presently quite dark. You are no doubt aware of this curious thing
about losing yourself in a forest–whichever way you turn, that seems to be the
right way for you; you get the illusion of walking along limitless avenues. I
struck a match and consulted my pocket compass, but since I did not know where
I was, the compass told me nothing to the purpose. And matches were precious.
One hears people who rather fancy themselves for poetical expression talk of
the silent midnight woods. What utter rubbish! At night every tree gives its
particular voice to the wind, boisterous or grave, joyful or sad. There you
are–I am just repeating Annappa, amn’t I?
Soon the gloom was so thick that it was impossible
to see. The very stars were hid by the unbroken canopy of mingling treetops.
Trees, trees, on every side–making a man feel so small and such a stranger in
the midst of all their vigorous life! And presently I could hear furtive
movements, low growls, as the denizens of that forest woke to their usual
lives. I could not see them, but they could of course see me. The thought
filled me with a creeping sense of animal fear–perhaps the submerged inheritance
of some far off past. I felt it was no use my groping my way about any further;
I had better seek some convenient tree and spend the night sheltered in its
branches. But those trees! The most of them were too big and too sheer in the
bole for me to get grip or foothold for a climb. At last I came to one which in
the light of my last match seemed more hopeful and hospitable than the rest;
with infinite toil and after many slips I worked my way up it to the place
where the trunk forked into the main branches and settled myself in the small
landing there as comfortably as I could. Tired and overwrought I was soon fast
asleep.
I don’t know how long I slept. I woke up suddenly.
My sleep could not have been sound owing to my cramped position, and the pain in
a side of my hip which had to bear all my weight. It was a tramp of hoofs which
broke my sleep. In the east, through the interspaces of trees, I glimpsed a
thin moon some fathoms up the sky. The hoof-beats approached, and seemed
passing right underneath my tree–and presently a cavalier rode into my view
along the path just in front of me. He was on a great Mandesh horse, bay
in colour so far as I could make out in the struggling light. Oh! the pride of
its port! It carried its head high with an arrogant curve like that of a
cobra’s angry hood, and moved with a high-stepping action as though in scorn of
the earth it trod. Was it pride of its own race, and strength and beauty, or,
was it the consciousness of the noble rider it bore? I couldn’t then see the virile
beauty of his face, but I was struck with his breadth of chest, his gallant
bearing, and the easy mastery which made his great horse a limb of himself. He
wore a riding coat and a turban like what one sees in pictures of Sivaji. From
a belt which passed over his right shoulder, there hung by his left thigh a
sword of the talwar type. I could see all this as the horse went past at
a swift walk. I rubbed my eyes, and watched the rider and horse as they passed,
wondering if it was not all a dream–the get-up seemed so fantastic and unlike
truth. And besides, what could any sensible man be doing riding at midnight in
a dense forest? While I was puzzling over this, the rider passed out of my
sight into the trees. Then it occurred to me that this man was surely going to
some town or village he knew, and if I was wise, and followed him, I could
escape spending the rest of the night in tapas doubled up in the fork of that
god-forsaken tree. Also, being within hail of an armed fellow-man, who however
funnily tricked up, did not look a thug, seemed preferable to solitary sojourn
amidst beasts of prey. I slid down my tree, and though by this time the
cavalier was out of sight, I had no difficulty in guiding myself by the
hoof-falls of his steed. After we had gone about a mile, the forest thinned a
little, and I could see the rider and horse again, and could keep easily in
their wake, without approaching too closely. So for two miles more, and then
across a small stream; and I caught a glimmer of lights amidst trees on a
rising bit of ground. To judge from the space covered by the lights that
twinkled here and there, it must have been a town of some size. My cavalier
entered that town, and I did likewise behind him. Some dogs barked, and that
brought a couple of armed men from somewhere, who interposed their spears
across the street, and cried–Halt! My cavalier bent forward, and saying
something I couldn’t catch, took something out of his belt or pocket and gave
it to them, at which they respectfully saluted and fell back. I went on too
unhindered, for they must have taken me for his servant. I saw one watchman
whispering to his companion, who threat turned round in surprise and stared at
the horseman. And then I heard them laugh a little, as I passed on. That town,
big as it was, and rich to judge from some of the houses I passed, must have
been wretchedly served by its municipality if it had one, for there were no
street lamps, and even the main thoroughfare was dark in the shadow of the tall
houses, and the air was noisome with neglected sanitation. Presently my
cavalier turned into a lane, and alighting in front of a house, made his horse
fast by the reins to a pillar which supported a sort of porch. At first he
knocked at the door without response, but after a while, I could see a glimmer
inside and footsteps approaching the door.
“Who is that?”
“It is I, Lakumi!” My cavalier had a deep rich
voice.
I could hear within a catch of the breath in
surprise, and the door I opened at once.
“Oh, you, my lord, and at this hour! Is it meet of
you to run such risks? But come in.”
The sowar, to be sure, did not wait for a
second invitation, and I heard the sound of a door shut and barred.
“Is it proper of my lord to come at such a
dangerous hour to this border town? How terrible if you should come to any
harm! and, what would people say?”
This also was a woman’s voice, but another’s; from
the timbre of it she must have been of middle age.
The cavalier laughed pleasantly.
“I told you I would come, and here I am. I have come
to take Lakumi home to my people. And what is wrong with the hour? The hour is
auspicious and admirable, for it dispenses with elaborate leave taking of your
Pallegar both for you and me! Come Lakumi, my love, get ready quickly.”
I have been giving their talk in the Kannada I
speak. It was also Kannada, but somehow different from mine. It was not any
dialect I had ever heard. It was certainly not the farrago which some learned
scholars compose as old Kannada–for it was easy and graceful. Neither was it the
stilted painted Kannada of the stage which nobody hears in life. It resembled
our speech graciously as a grandmother in her prime must have resembled her
grandchild.
Wonder filled me. What town could this be I had
blundered into? This was no town marked in my map so far as I could make out.
And what sweet variant or dialect of Kannada was it that fell so quaintly on my
ears?
“My prince’s life is without price. We are poor
people, but we also have our code of honour. It was quite improper of my lord to
risk his life in this reckless way. I am not the kind of girl who would consent
to your risking your life and fame for me, nor would I consent to steal away
with you like a thief. You should not forget, what is due to your greatness,
nor will I suffer myself be held in such light regard. I beg you–”
The prince, for so he seemed to be styled, broke
in, in a voice thrilling with earnestness and passion. Gone was the tone of a
lord conveying a wish to a vassal–it was a strong man pleading for his
happiness.
“List to me, Lakumi. I have never uttered a lie,
and the Great Mother of all who guards our house knows how truly I love you.
You made my life yours by saving it on that bitter day when, wounded and
broken, I recked not if I lived or died! Can I forget–it is graven on my
heart–, can you forget, you, a heroine fit to be a hero’s mother, how, flying
from the lost battle, faint from wounds and loss of blood, and mad to quench my
burning thirst, even if I died the next moment, I came to your village tank where
you were doing some household task. Hot on my heels rode some Turuk sowars at
the bruit of whom you beckoned me to hide myself in the reeds and rushes which
grew thick in the margin, and you braved death to keep my secret! After they
had ridden off with foul curses, you half led, half carried me to your home,
and hid me from foes who sought my life, and cared for me till I was well
again. Your womanly compassion, your courage, your resourcefulness–if I can
forget these, it would be a shame to my race and myself! I first worshipped you
in gratitude, but soon gratitude glowed into a burning love which fills all my
life. There is no hour when you are not in my mind, inspiring me to be worthy
of your love. My life that you saved for me is of no value to me without you. I
risked my life coming here, didn’t you say? This danger is joy to me, for I run
it for you who are dearer to me than life itself. I will take you from this
wretched place, to my mother who shall be yours also, and I shall wed you
according to the law of our house.”
I had no wish at all to eavesdrop on this intimate
talk, but I had no choice, for it came with a rush, before I could think of
anywhere else to go to.
“What talk is this of wedding, my lord? You are a
prince, and we are courtezans. We would be fortunate to serve you at all–”
This was the older woman.
The girl interrupted her in a voice broken with
sobs.
“Hush mother–don’t comment on the words which come
from the greatness of his heart and love. Since such a love has blessed my life,
unworthy as I am, I shall spend it in his service. The water with which I shall
bathe my lord’s feet shall be my daily thirtha for purifying my soul.
But, will such a fortune be mine? You have promised me to the Pollegar, and
even such a promise has to be faithfully kept.”
The prince laughed aloud.
“You needn’t break your given word, for I am here
to break it for you. I am taking away Lakumi from here by force. Who can hold
you to blame?” Even as he spoke, the horse lifted its head, and neighed, and there
was a clamour of barking dogs and a man came running up, a drawn sword in his
hand. I crouched in the shadow of the porch to avoid his sight. Even in the dim
moonlight he was a striking figure, tall and well-knit, with a bold and
strongly marked profile. His features were thickly be spread with clotting
blood which welling out from a long wound on his head had flowed down his face,
matting his hair, eyebrows and moustache. His sword was stained with blood; and
its hilt seemed glued to his grip with clotted gore. Strong and grim he looked,
but at the moment so weary that he swayed back and forth as he stood, and his
great chest seemed bursting with his labouring breath. He staggered to the
door, knocking on it with his sword hilt, and called hoarsely:
“My prince, my liege!”
The door was thrown wide open, and the prince came
out seemingly in a great rage.
“This is too bad, Malla Nayaka! Am I your prisoner,
or, am I a baby that you can’t leave me alone, but–”
But as he looked at the soldier, and saw his
condition his anger vanished, and he proceeded in a voice of great concern:
“What is this? wounded? where? why? Oh, you seem
badly wounded and quite done up!” So saying, he put his hand affectionately on
the other’s shoulder.
Malla Nayaka seemed revived master’s touch, and
pulled himself proudly together.
“This is no time for tale. Ranadowla Khan’s troops
will be here even now! By great luck I got through alive to warn you. My horse
was killed–no thanks to them that I wasn’t too, yes, see (pointing to the wound
on his head) one of them gave me this decoration. He is now bragging about in
hell, where I sent him. I hid myself in bushes in country where houses couldn’t
come, and by secret ways known to myself, made all the haste I could in hope to
warn and serve you.”
“But how could you know I would be here?”
Malla Nayaka laughed–a merry laugh which was
startlingly at variance with his grim visage.
“I have also been young, my liege–I am not so very
old even now. When my lord chose to encamp close to this miserable border town,
I guessed how it was. And suspicion became certainty when you came out of your
tent, and yourself saddling your charger, rode on it alone. The Turuks have
their camp not far from here on their side of the border; but, whatever risks my
lord runs in the high courage of his blood and love is it not my duty to be at
hand with my life to serve him? So, I started in my master’s steps a little
time after, but before I had gone far I heard the tramp of cavalry and I hid
myself to find out what was afoot. It appeared that the enemy had tidings of
your intended visit to Tavarekatte, and had planned to capture you there, or in
ambush on your way back. I wanted to come to you by a devious route to warn
you, and help you out of the trap; but, presently, two of their out-riders
spied me out, and gave chase. One of them I cut down, but the other shot my
horse. It was lucky I know the ground well, for I slid down gullies and crawled
in bushes, and made haste to you through country where horseman could not
pursue me. But my throat is so dry, I can hardly speak, and so tired–”
At this a girl came out of the house, with a vessel
of water. This must have been the possesser of the younger, sweeter voice. I
could not see her features very well, but every curve, motion and gesture
seemed eloquent of youthful charm and grace.
Malla Nayaka received the vessel and drank its
contents with eagerness. Then with a sigh of satisfaction, he passed the back
of his hand across his eyes, probably to clear them of the blood that obscured
his sight and looked at the girl.
“God bless you, my lady, I well see why my Lord is
prepared to brave all dangers for you. May you–”
He was interrupted by a wild tumult of horrible
noises all around. Shouts of Allah Yar, din, din, came mingled with
cries and screams of fear and rage and agony. They seemed to rush in from all
sides and converge towards us–and presently there were heard war cries in
Kannada, seemingly from the defenders of the town. Parts of the town were
obviously on fire for smoke and sparks thickened the air, and a red angry glow
overpowered the pale moonlight. The pandemonium grew worse every moment. The
defenders were getting the worst of it, for soon their warlike slogans were
drowned in cries and screams of mortal distress. Presently a house fell in with
a loud crash, erupting flames and sparks and smoke and throwing a ghastly light
on the street.
The Prince and Malla Nayaka stood there looking in
the direction of an approaching roar of men. The girl was near them, and there
was an elderly woman, dishevelled and sobbing at the door at the house. Each
was so full of the immediate menace that I remained unnoticed in my corner. I
think now that my very mind must have been jolted out of gear, for the
absurdity of such happenings–murder, ravage, arson–taking place in these
civilized days in a country owning the rule of our gracious Maharaja did not
once occur to me. I seemed to accept events as natural. I was conscious of but
one thought, of how I could defend myself if the raiders found me. I pulled the
geological hammer out of my bag and gripped it hard.
Presently there came in view a crowd of flying
screaming fugitives pursued by a shouting mass of men with bloodstained swords
and spears striking and killing indiscriminately. Malla Nayaka said to his
master: “My liege, mount and ride away by the road you came, which is yet open.
Lose not a moment: Take your lady with you, if you must. I fall at your feet
and beg you.”
He untied the horse from the pillar to which it had
been made fast. The prince looked for a moment divided in mind, but only for a
moment. “I cannot abandon her to her death here,” said he, ‘I shall take her
with me, and trust to God for her safety. But you–what about you? What about
her mother?” He had hardly finished when a shot rang out from somewhere and the
woman who was at the door screamed, putting her hands to her bosom, and sank to
the ground. Malla Nayaka turned to her and smiled grimly; it must have seemed
to him that the prince’s question had been answered; but what he said was this:
“My lord, have no fear for me. I shall escape by
plunging down some obscure lane or ditch or other. I am not so important that
they will give me much time or thought–but go for God’s sake.”
The prince was still hesitating when a bullet hit
the girl somewhere and she uttered a faint cry. The prince hesitated no longer,
but lifted her up to the saddle and sprung into it himself, and at one leap the
gallant horse was out of sight.
Malla Nayaka could not have known that he was
thinking aloud–at such supreme moments thoughts probably become words: -
“May God accept me and keep them. If I can delay
those rascals for a few moments, my lord’s good horse will have borne him out
of danger. For my one life, the Turuks shall pay several, if God wills.”
He gripped his sword firmly and shook it as though
enjoying its poise and resilience for a moment and the next, he strode to the
centre of the street and stood, one foot advanced, and weapon ready. Not too
soon–for the invaders were on him, crying–din, din,–and brandishing
swords and spears, some of which were dripping and red. When they saw but one
armed man to oppose them, they stopped, and a swordsman came out of the crowd
to engage him. I heard a clash of steel and I saw the Turuk fall. Malla Nayaka
killed the next man also, and then a third man came on and they fell together
each with his sword through the other. If there is a Vira Swarga for
heroes, surely this brave and devoted servant must have gone there!
That horde of Turuks swept on its way shouting its
war cries, and was out of sight, but, two men lingered behind, and attracted it
may be by the hope of loot turned to the house by which I was ensconced, and
prepared to enter it. Lakumi’s mother lay where she had fallen across the door,
and one of the men seized her leg and pulled her out of the way. There was
still life in her for she shrieked in mortal pain; the ruffian split her head
with a blow of his sword. Till then I had fortunately passed unobserved, but
this brutality shocked me out of my discretion, and I sprang out of my hiding
place with an execration. The man rushed at me with uplifted sword, but before
he could reach me, I hurled my hammer at his head with all my strength, and had
the satisfaction of seeing him crumple up, as it took him full in the face. The
next moment his companion struck me with a mace or club, and the world passed
out in a whirl of shooting sparks. I lost all consciousness.
It was about seven in the morning when I was
awakened by the caress of warm young sunshine on my face. The lurid horror of
the night was then no more than a dream, thank God, but how terrible, how vivid
it was! The prince, the damsel, the heroic henchman, that ecstatic love, the
conflict, the supreme sacrifice which raises earthly love to eternal
values–could the drama in which I saw all these be no more than a dream? Which
is dream? Which is reality? How do we know that our lives are not a dream, and
our facts mere visions? These thoughts were in my mind as I opened my eyes to
the glorious gladness of the morning. A gentle breeze just stirred the leaves,
and the golden sunshine made jewels of the dew drops on bush and meadow.
I was a bundle of aches of which the worst was on
the back of head. My fingers discovered a big bump there, extremely tender to
the touch. There above me was the big tree which had been my shelter in the
night, and I could see in it the fork which had been my perch of rest. There
was not much room for luxurious rolling there, and a very little uneasy
shifting must have precipitated me down. And this soul-stirring drama of love
and life and death was but a mocking fantasy packed into the interval between
slipping from my perch and knocking my head against a clod or stone! I sat up
and looked around me. The place where I had spent the night must have been the
site of some long dead town or village, to judge from the mouldering vestiges
of what once had been walls. I must have hurt my head in falling against one
such reminder of the past which was right under my tree of shelter. My hammer
lay some little distance away, jerked off by my fall–and it made me smile to
think of the slaughterous use I had made in my dream of that innocent tool of
my trade! I had a good wash in a stream which babbled past on a bed of pebbles,
and then climbed up a little hill hard by to get my bearings. To my surprise
and joy, I could see the roofs of Adumbi not more than two or three valleys
off–it could not be farther than four or five miles away.
I went to Adumbi to my old friend the Karnik.
Whenever my wanderings took me within reasonable distance of Adumbi I
invariably claimed his hospitality. He was somewhat of an antiquary, with a
great stock of local knowledge and folklore, and he had had also sufficient
school instruction to give him an interest in other things. We got on very
well, and swopped goods-I showing samples and explaining their meaning and
utility, and he telling me about local traditions and beliefs, and the vanished
pomps of the Malnad. He welcomed me that morning with a gesture. “You have come
unusually early. Where did you spend last night?”
I laughed. “Will you believe me? I lost my way in
the dark, going round and round in a fool’s circle, and lay all night in the
forest not five miles from here. Not even in a thick forest, worse luck, but in
a scrub-covered ruined village, not a horn’s blast from here. Bad stars, don’t
you think?”
He looked at me curiously. “Ruin of a village, did
you say? What ruin? Was it to the northeast of here, just beyond a brook and
were there great gnarled tamarind trees and mouldering walls?”
This description would be true of most ruined
villages; it was true also of mine. I answered Yes. That was it.
He caught hold of my hand in some excitement.
“These ruins,” he said impressively, “were once the flourishing capital of a
small principality named Tavarekote. It had a curious history and I have the
old manuscript of it with me. Come in, I shall read it to you.”
But I knew old manuscripts.
“Oh, tell me the story as you know it. For goodness
sake spare me the reading of it. I know your Puraniks. They love their village
so much that .its lizards are alligators, and its water-snakes Adisesha of the
thousand hoods. But for mercy’s sake, even before the viva-voce Purana, give me
one or two-say, a good many-cups of good hot coffee.”
We had coffee with something nice to eat. The
Karnik then fixed me with a pedagogic eye, and said: “Last night you spent in
the ruins of Tavarekote. Today, it is the sixth day of the bright half of
Ashada—Ashada Bahula Shasti. Last night it was panchami-the fifth day. Am I to
understand you self happily through the night?”
I did not like telling him about my dream, for I
knew it would be published with due embellishments to all his little world and
get established as a sequel to the local Purana of Tavarekote. My natural
modesty shrank from a niche in the local temple of fame. So I answered, with
seeming indifference:
“Oh yes, well enough, that is to say, after I fell
off the tree, particularly. But tell me about Tavarekote.”
He brought a bundle of Palmyra manuscript from
inside. “Oh, don’t get frightened—I am not going to read it all out. It is just
to refresh my memory. This, in short, is the story:-
“In the days of the Maharaja Thirumalaraya
Tavarekote was an important ‘buffer’ palyapat as you might now call it, between
Vijayanagar and Bijapur. The Pallegar helped or betrayed as it suited him both
the Maharaja and the Sultan, and while the going was good, feathered his nest
petty comfortably from both; but he was never trusted by either. It is a
dangerous kind of prosperity this; and a turn of luck means utter destruction.
Well, his number was up at midnight on Ashada Bahula Panchami and Randhula Khan
the Bijapur General overwhelmed Tavarekote utterly with fire and sword and left
not a soul alive, man, woman, or child. The cause is not clear-but it is
believed that Randhula Khan had proof that the Pallegar was plotting with
Vijayanagar for a surprise attack on Bijapur. The purana says that the midnight
tragedy of Tavarekote in all its horror and pity will be revealed as in a
picture to any person, who born under a particular star spends in lonely vigil
the night of Ashada Bahula Panch ami on the site of that unhappy town. That is
what the purana says but nobody to my knowledge has tested the truth of it.
What is your nakshatra of nativity?”
“The Lord knows. Never bothered to get my horoscope
cast.”
Narayana Rao ceased.
We rose and retired to bed.