Good Luck, she is never a lady,<BR>
But the cursedest quean alive,<BR>
Tricksy, wincing, and jady—<BR>
Kittle to lead or drive.<BR>
Greet her—she's hailing a stranger!<BR>
Meet her—she's busking to leave!<BR>
Let her alone for a shrew to the bone<BR>
And the hussy comes plucking your sleeve!<BR>
Largesse! Largesse, O Fortune!<BR>
Give or hold at your will.<BR>
If I've no care for Fortune,<BR>
Fortune must follow me still!<BR>
Then, lowering their voices, they spoke together. Kim came to rest
under a tree, but the lama tugged impatiently at his elbow.
'Let us go on. The River is not here.'
'Hai mai! Have we not walked enough for a little? Our River will not
run away. Patience, and he will give us a dole.'
'This.' said the old soldier suddenly, 'is the Friend of the Stars. He
brought me the news yesterday. Having seen the very man Himself, in a
vision, giving orders for the war.'
'Hm!' said his son, all deep in his broad chest. 'He came by a
bazar-rumour and made profit of it.'
His father laughed. 'At least he did not ride to me begging for a new
charger, and the Gods know how many rupees. Are thy brothers'
regiments also under orders?'
'I do not know. I took leave and came swiftly to thee in case—'
'In case they ran before thee to beg. O gamblers and spendthrifts all!
But thou hast never yet ridden in a charge. A good horse is needed
there, truly. A good follower and a good pony also for the marching.
Let us see—let us see.' He thrummed on the pommel.
'This is no place to cast accounts in, my father. Let us go to thy
'At least pay the boy, then: I have no pice with me, and he brought
auspicious news. Ho! Friend of all the World, a war is toward as thou
'Nay, as I know, the war,' returned Kim composedly.
'Eh?' said the lama, fingering his beads, all eager for the road.
'My master does not trouble the Stars for hire. We brought the news
bear witness, we brought the news, and now we go.' Kim half-crooked
his hand at his side.
The son tossed a silver coin through the sunlight, grumbling something
about beggars and jugglers. It was a four-anna piece, and would feed
them well for days. The lama, seeing the flash of the metal, droned a
'Go thy way, Friend of all the World,' piped the old soldier, wheeling
his scrawny mount. 'For once in all my days I have met a true
prophet—who was not in the Army.'
Father and son swung round together: the old man sitting as erect as
A Punjabi constable in yellow linen trousers slouched across the road.
He had seen the money pass.
'Halt!' he cried in impressive English. 'Know ye not that there is a
takkus of two annas a head, which is four annas, on those who enter the
Road from this side-road? It is the order of the Sirkar, and the money
is spent for the planting of trees and the beautification of the ways.'
'And the bellies of the police,' said Kim, slipping out of arm's reach.
'Consider for a while, man with a mud head. Think you we came from the
nearest pond like the frog, thy father-in-law? Hast thou ever heard
the name of thy brother?'
'And who was he? Leave the boy alone,' cried a senior constable,
immensely delighted, as he squatted down to smoke his pipe in the
'He took a label from a bottle of belaitee-pani [soda-water], and,
affixing it to a bridge, collected taxes for a month from those who
passed, saying that it was the Sirkar's order. Then came an Englishman
and broke his head. Ah, brother, I am a town-crow, not a village-crow!'
The policeman drew back abashed, and Kim hooted at him all down the
'Was there ever such a disciple as I?' he cried merrily to the lama.
'All earth would have picked thy bones within ten mile of Lahore city
if I had not guarded thee.'
'I consider in my own mind whether thou art a spirit, sometimes, or
sometimes an evil imp,' said the lama, smiling slowly.
'I am thy chela.' Kim dropped into step at his side—that
indescribable gait of the long-distance tramp all the world over.
'Now let us walk,' muttered the lama, and to the click of his rosary
they walked in silence mile upon mile. The lama as usual, was deep in
meditation, but Kim's bright eyes were open wide. This broad, smiling
river of life, he considered, was a vast improvement on the cramped and
crowded Lahore streets. There were new people and new sights at every
stride—castes he knew and castes that were altogether out of his
They met a troop of long-haired, strong-scented Sansis with baskets of
lizards and other unclean food on their backs, their lean dogs sniffing
at their heels. These people kept their own side of the road', moving
at a quick, furtive jog-trot, and all other castes gave them ample
room; for the Sansi is deep pollution. Behind them, walking wide and
stiffly across the strong shadows, the memory of his leg-irons still on
him, strode one newly released from the jail; his full stomach and
shiny skin to prove that the Government fed its prisoners better than
most honest men could feed themselves. Kim knew that walk well, and
made broad jest of it as they passed. Then an Akali, a wild-eyed,
wild-haired Sikh devotee in the blue-checked clothes of his faith, with
polished-steel quoits glistening on the cone of his tall blue turban,
stalked past, returning from a visit to one of the independent Sikh
States, where he had been singing the ancient glories of the Khalsa to
College-trained princelings in top-boots and white-cord breeches. Kim
was careful not to irritate that man; for the Akali's temper is short
and his arm quick. Here and there they met or were overtaken by the
gaily dressed crowds of whole villages turning out to some local fair;
the women, with their babes on their hips, walking behind the men, the
older boys prancing on sticks of sugar-cane, dragging rude brass models
of locomotives such as they sell for a halfpenny, or flashing the sun
into the eyes of their betters from cheap toy mirrors. One could see
at a glance what each had bought; and if there were any doubt it needed
only to watch the wives comparing, brown arm against brown arm, the
newly purchased dull glass bracelets that come from the North-West.
These merry-makers stepped slowly, calling one to the other and
stopping to haggle with sweetmeat-sellers, or to make a prayer before
one of the wayside shrines—sometimes Hindu, sometimes Mussalman—which
the low-caste of both creeds share with beautiful impartiality. A
solid line of blue, rising and falling like the back of a caterpillar
in haste, would swing up through the quivering dust and trot past to a
chorus of quick cackling. That was a gang of changars—the women who
have taken all the embankments of all the Northern railways under their
charge—a flat-footed, big-bosomed, strong-limbed, blue-petticoated
clan of earth-carriers, hurrying north on news of a job, and wasting no
time by the road. They belong to the caste whose men do not count, and
they walked with squared elbows, swinging hips, and heads on high, as
suits women who carry heavy weights. A little later a marriage
procession would strike into the Grand Trunk with music and shoutings,
and a smell of marigold and jasmine stronger even than the reek of the
dust. One could see the bride's litter, a blur of red and tinsel,
staggering through the haze, while the bridegroom's bewreathed pony
turned aside to snatch a mouthful from a passing fodder-cart. Then Kim
would join the Kentish-fire of good wishes and bad jokes, wishing the
couple a hundred sons and no daughters, as the saying is. Still more
interesting and more to be shouted over it was when a strolling juggler
with some half-trained monkeys, or a panting, feeble bear, or a woman
who tied goats' horns to her feet, and with these danced on a
slack-rope, set the horses to shying and the women to shrill,
long-drawn quavers of amazement.
The lama never raised his eyes. He did not note the money-lender on
his goose-rumped pony, hastening along to collect the cruel interest;
or the long-shouting, deep-voiced little mob—still in military
formation—of native soldiers on leave, rejoicing to be rid of their
breeches and puttees, and saying the most outrageous things to the most
respectable women in sight. Even the seller of Ganges-water he did not
see, and Kim expected that he would at least buy a bottle of that
precious stuff. He looked steadily at the ground, and strode as
steadily hour after hour, his soul busied elsewhere. But Kim was in
the seventh heaven of joy. The Grand Trunk at this point was built on
an embankment to guard against winter floods from the foothills, so
that one walked, as it were, a little above the country, along a
stately corridor, seeing all India spread out to left and right. It
was beautiful to behold the many-yoked grain and cotton wagons crawling
over the country roads: one could hear their axles, complaining a mile
away, coming nearer, till with shouts and yells and bad words they
climbed up the steep incline and plunged on to the hard main road,
carter reviling carter. It was equally beautiful to watch the people,
little clumps of red and blue and pink and white and saffron, turning
aside to go to their own villages, dispersing and growing small by twos
and threes across the level plain. Kim felt these things, though he
could not give tongue to his feelings, and so contented himself with
buying peeled sugar-cane and spitting the pith generously about his
path. From time to time the lama took snuff, and at last Kim could
endure the silence no longer.
'This is a good land—the land of the South!' said he. 'The air is
good; the water is good. Eh?'
'And they are all bound upon the Wheel,' said the lama. 'Bound from
life after life. To none of these has the Way been shown.' He shook
himself back to this world.
'And now we have walked a weary way,' said Kim. 'Surely we shall soon
come to a parao [a resting-place]. Shall we stay there? Look, the sun
'Who will receive us this evening?'
'That is all one. This country is full of good folk. Besides' he sunk
his voice beneath a whisper—'we have money.'
The crowd thickened as they neared the resting-place which marked the
end of their day's journey. A line of stalls selling very simple food
and tobacco, a stack of firewood, a police-station, a well, a
horse-trough, a few trees, and, under them, some trampled ground dotted
with the black ashes of old fires, are all that mark a parao on the
Grand Trunk; if you except the beggars and the crows—both hungry.
By this time the sun was driving broad golden spokes through the lower
branches of the mango-trees; the parakeets and doves were coming home
in their hundreds; the chattering, grey-backed Seven Sisters, talking
over the day's adventures, walked back and forth in twos and threes
almost under the feet of the travellers; and shufflings and scufflings
in the branches showed that the bats were ready to go out on the
night-picket. Swiftly the light gathered itself together, painted for
an instant the faces and the cartwheels and the bullocks' horns as red
as blood. Then the night fell, changing the touch of the air, drawing
a low, even haze, like a gossamer veil of blue, across the face of the
country, and bringing out, keen and distinct, the smell of wood-smoke
and cattle and the good scent of wheaten cakes cooked on ashes. The
evening patrol hurried out of the police-station with important
coughings and reiterated orders; and a live charcoal ball in the cup of
a wayside carter's hookah glowed red while Kim's eye mechanically
watched the last flicker of the sun on the brass tweezers.
The life of the parao was very like that of the Kashmir Serai on a
small scale. Kim dived into the happy Asiatic disorder which, if you
only allow time, will bring you everything that a simple man needs.
His wants were few, because, since the lama had no caste scruples,
cooked food from the nearest stall would serve; but, for luxury's sake,
Kim bought a handful of dung-cakes to build a fire. All about, coming
and going round the little flames, men cried for oil, or grain, or
sweetmeats, or tobacco, jostling one another while they waited their
turn at the well; and under the men's voices you heard from halted,
shuttered carts the high squeals and giggles of women whose faces
should not be seen in public.
Nowadays, well-educated natives are of opinion that when their
womenfolk travel—and they visit a good deal—it is better to take them
quickly by rail in a properly screened compartment; and that custom is
spreading. But there are always those of the old rock who hold by the
use of their forefathers; and, above all, there are always the old
women—more conservative than the men—who toward the end of their days
go on a pilgrimage. They, being withered and undesirable, do not,
under certain circumstances, object to unveiling. After their long
seclusion, during which they have always been in business touch with a
thousand outside interests, they love the bustle and stir of the open
road, the gatherings at the shrines, and the infinite possibilities of
gossip with like-minded dowagers. Very often it suits a longsuffering
family that a strong-tongued, iron-willed old lady should disport
herself about India in this fashion; for certainly pilgrimage is
grateful to the Gods. So all about India, in the most remote places,
as in the most public, you find some knot of grizzled servitors in
nominal charge of an old lady who is more or less curtained and hid
away in a bullock-cart. Such men are staid and discreet, and when a
European or a high-caste native is near will net their charge with most
elaborate precautions; but in the ordinary haphazard chances of
pilgrimage the precautions are not taken. The old lady is, after all,
intensely human, and lives to look upon life.
Kim marked down a gaily ornamented ruth or family bullock-cart, with a
broidered canopy of two domes, like a double-humped camel, which had
just been drawn into the par. Eight men made its retinue, and two of
the eight were armed with rusty sabres—sure signs that they followed a
person of distinction, for the common folk do not bear arms. An
increasing cackle of complaints, orders, and jests, and what to a
European would have been bad language, came from behind the curtains.
Here was evidently a woman used to command.
Kim looked over the retinue critically. Half of them were thin-legged,
grey-bearded Ooryas from down country. The other half were
duffle-clad, felt-hatted hillmen of the North; and that mixture told
its own tale, even if he had not overheard the incessant sparring
between the two divisions. The old lady was going south on a
visit—probably to a rich relative, most probably to a son-in-law, who
had sent up an escort as a mark of respect. The hillmen would be of
her own people—Kulu or Kangra folk. It was quite clear that she was
not taking her daughter down to be wedded, or the curtains would have
been laced home and the guard would have allowed no one near the car.
A merry and a high-spirited dame, thought Kim, balancing the dung-cake
in one hand, the cooked food in the other, and piloting the lama with a
nudging shoulder. Something might be made out of the meeting. The lama
would give him no help, but, as a conscientious chela, Kim was
delighted to beg for two.