Kim (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) - Rudyard Kipling [19]
The Curator looked through them. They were heavily scratched, but the power was almost exactly that of his own pair, which he slid into the lama’s hand, saying: ‘Try these.’
‘A feather! A very feather upon the face!’ The old man turned his head delightedly and wrinkled up his nose. ‘How scarcely do I feel them! How clearly do I see!’
‘They be bilaur—crystal—and will never scratch. May they help thee to thy River, for they are thine.’
‘I will take them and the pencils and the white note-book,’ said the lama, ‘as a sign of friendship between priest and priest—and now—’ He fumbled at his belt, detached the open-work iron pencase, and laid it on the Curator’s table. ‘That is for a memory between thee and me—my pencase. It is something old—even as I am.’
It was a piece of ancient design, Chinese, of an iron that is not smelted these days; and the collector’s heart in the Curator’s bosom had gone out to it from the first. For no persuasion would the lama resume his gift.
‘When I return, having found the River, I will bring thee a written picture of the Padma Samthora46—such as I used to make on silk at the lamassery. Yes—and of the Wheel of Life,’ he chuckled, ‘for we be craftsmen together, thou and I.’
The Curator would have detained him: they are few in the world who Still have the secret of the conventional brush-pen Buddhist pictures which are, as it were, half written and half drawn. But the lama strode out, head high in air, and pausing an instant before the great statue of a Bodhisat in meditation, brushed through the turnstiles.
Kim followed like a shadow. What he had overheard excited him wildly. This man was entirely new to all his experience, and he meant to investigate further, precisely as he would have investigated a new building or a strange festival in Lahore city. The lama was his trove, and he purposed to take possession. Kim’s mother had been Irish too.
The old man halted by Zam-Zammah and looked round till his eye fell on Kim. The inspiration of his pilgrimage had left him for a while, and he felt old, forlorn, and very empty.
‘Do not sit under that gun,’ said the policeman loftily.
‘Huh! Owl!’ was Kim’s retort on the lama’s behalf. ‘Sit under that gun if it please thee. When didst thou steal the milk-woman’s slippers, Dunnoo?’
That was an utterly unfounded charge sprung on the spur of the moment, but it silenced Dunnoo, who knew that Kim’s clear yell could call up legions of bad bazar boys if need arose.
‘And whom didst thou worship within?’ said Kim affably, squatting in the shade beside the lama.
‘I worshipped none, child. I bowed before the Excellent Law.’
Kim accepted this new God without emotion. He knew already a few score. 47
‘And what dost thou do?’
‘I beg. I remember now it is long since I have eaten or drunk.
What is the custom of charity in this town? In silence, as we do of Tibet, or speaking aloud?’
‘Those who beg in silence starve in silence,’ said Kim, quoting a native proverb. The lama tried to rise, but sank back again, sighing for his disciple, dead in far-away Kulu. Kim watched—head to one side, considering and interested.
‘Give me the bowl. I know the people of this city—all who are charitable. Give, and I will bring it back filled.’
Simply as a child the old man handed him the bowl.
‘Rest, thou. I know the people.’
He trotted off to the open shop of a kunjri, a low-caste vegetable-seller, which lay opposite the belt-tramway line down the Motee Bazar. She knew Kim of old.
‘Oho, hast thou turned yogi with thy begging-bowl?’ she cried.
‘Nay,’ said Kim proudly. ‘There is a new priest in the city—a man such as I have never seen.’
‘Old priest—young tiger,’ said the woman angrily. ‘I am tired of new priests! They settle on our wares like flies. Is the father of my son a well of charity to give to all who ask?’
‘No,’ said Kim. ‘Thy man is rather yagi [bad-tempered] than yogi [a holy man]. But this priest is new. The Sahib in the Wonder House has talked to him like a brother. 0 my mother, fill me this bowl. He waits.