The man says to her, "Would you lend me your pitcher?"
"My pitcher?" she asks, "to draw water?"
"No, to paint patterns on."
"I have no time to waste," the girl retorts in contempt.
Now a busy soul has no chance against one who is supremely idle.
Every day she meets him at the well, and every day he repeats the same request, till at last she yields.
Our man paints the pitcher with curious colours in a mysterious maze of lines.
The girl takes it up, turns it round and asks, "What does it mean?"
"It has no meaning," he answers.
The girl carries the pitcher home. She holds it up in different lights and tries to con its mystery.
At night she leaves her bed, lights a lamp, and gazes at it from all points of view.
This is the first time she has met with something without meaning.
On the next day the man is again near the well.
The girl asks, "What do you want?"
"To do more work for you."
"What work?" she enquires.
"Allow me to weave coloured strands into a ribbon to bind your hair."
"Is there any need?" she asks.
"None whatever," he allows.
The ribbon is made, and thence-forward she spends a great deal of time over her hair.
The even stretch of well-employed time in that Paradise begins to show irregular rents.
The elders are troubled; they meet in council.
The guide confesses his blunder, saying that he has brought the wrong man to the wrong place.
The wrong man is called. His turban, flaming with colour, shows plainly how great that blunder has been.
The chief of the elders says, "You must go back to the earth."
The man heaves a sigh of relief: "I am ready."
The girl with the ribbon round her hair chimes in: "I also!"
For the first time the chief of the elders is faced with a situation which has no sense in it.
27.
It is said that in the forest, near the meeting of river and lake, certain fairies live in disguise who are only recognised as fairies after they have flown away.
A Prince went to this forest, and when he came where river met lake he saw a village girl sitting on the bank ruffling the water to make the lilies dance.
He asked her in a whisper, "Tell me, what fairy art thou?"
The girl laughed at the question and the hillsides echoed her mirth.
The Prince thought she was the laughing fairy of the waterfall.
News reached the King that the Prince had married a fairy: he sent horses and men and brought them to his house.
The Queen saw the bride and turned her face away in disgust, the Prince's sister flushed red with annoyance, and the maids asked if that was how fairies dressed.
The Prince whispered, "Hush! my fairy has come to our house in disguise."
On the day of the yearly festival the Queen said to her son, "Ask your bride not to shame us before our kinsfolk who are coming to see the fairy."
And the Prince said to his bride, "For my love's sake show thy true self to my people."
Long she sat silent, then nodded her promise while tears ran down her cheeks.
The full moon shone, the Prince, dressed in a wedding robe, entered his bride's room.
No one was there, nothing but a streak of moonlight from the window aslant the bed.
The kinsfolk crowded in with the King and the Queen, the Prince's sister stood by the door.
All asked, "Where is the fairy bride?"
The Prince answered, "She has vanished for ever to make herself known to you."
28.
KARNA AND KUNTI.
KARNA AND KUNTI.
The Pandava Queen Kunti before marriage had a son, Karna, who, in manhood, became the commander of the Kaurava host. To hide her shame she abandoned him at birth, and a charioteer, Adhiratha, brought him up as his son.
KARNA.
I am Karna, the son of the charioteer, Adhiratha, and I sit here by the bank of holy Ganges to worship the setting sun. Tell me who you are.
KUNTI.
I am the woman who first made you acquainted with that light you are worshipping.
KARNA.
I do not understand: but your eyes melt my heart as the kiss of the morning sun melts the snow on a mountain-top, and your voice rouses a blind sadness within me of which the cause may well lie beyond the reach of my earliest memory. Tell me, strange woman, what mystery binds my birth to you?
KUNTI.
Patience, my son. I will answer when the lids of darkness come down over the prying eyes of day. In the meanwhile, know that I am Kunti.
KARNA.
Kunti! The mother of Arjuna?
KUNTI.
Yes, indeed, the mother of Arjuna, your antagonist. But do not, therefore, hate me. I still remember the day of the trial of arms in Hastina when you, an unknown boy, boldly stepped into the arena, like the first ray of dawn among the stars of night. Ah! who was that unhappy woman whose eyes kissed your bare, slim body through tears that blessed you, where she sat among the women of the royal household behind the arras? Why, the mother of Arjuna! Then the Brahmin, master of arms, stepped forth and said, "No youth of mean birth may challenge Arjuna to a trial of strength." You stood speechless, like a thunder-cloud at sunset flashing with an agony of suppressed light. But who was the woman whose heart caught fire from your shame and anger, and flared up in silence? The mother of Arjuna! Praised be Duryodhana, who perceived your worth, and then and there crowned you King of Anga, thus winning the Kauravas a champion. Overwhelmed at this good fortune, Adhiratha, the charioteer, broke through the crowd; you instantly rushed to him and laid your crown at his feet amid the jeering laughter of the Pandavas and their friends. But there was one woman of the Pandava house whose heart glowed with joy at the heroic pride of such humility;-even the mother of Arjuna!
KARNA.
But what brings you here alone, Mother of kings?
KUNTI.
I have a boon to crave.
KARNA.
Command me, and whatever manhood and my honour as a Kshatriya permit shall be offered at your feet.
KUNTI.
I have come to take you.
KARNA.
Where?
KUNTI.
To my breast thirsting for your love, my son.
KARNA.
Fortunate mother of five brave kings, where can you find place for me, a small chieftain of lowly descent?
KUNTI.
Your place is before all my other sons.
KARNA.
But what right have I to take it?
KUNTI.
Your own God-given right to your mother's love.
KARNA.
The gloom of evening spreads over the earth, silence rests on the water, and your voice leads me back to some primal world of infancy lost in twilit consciousness. However, whether this be dream, or fragment of forgotten reality, come near and place your right hand on my forehead. Rumour runs that I was deserted by my mother. Many a night she has come to me in my slumber, but when I cried: "Open your veil, show me your face!" her figure always vanished. Has this same dream come this evening while I wake? See, yonder the lamps are lighted in your son's tents across the river; and on this side behold the tent-domes of my Kauravas, like the suspended waves of a spell-arrested storm at sea. Before the din of tomorrow's battle, in the awful hush of this field where it must be fought, why should the voice of the mother of my opponent, Arjuna, bring me a message of forgotten motherhood? and why should my name take such music from her tongue as to draw my heart out to him and his brothers?
KUNTI.
Then delay not, my son, come with me!
KARNA.
Yes, I will come and never ask question, never doubt. My soul responds to your call; and the struggle for victory and fame and the rage of hatred have suddenly become untrue to me, as the delirious dream of a night in the serenity of the dawn. Tell me whither you mean to lead?
KUNTI.
To the other bank of the river, where those lamps burn across the ghastly pallor of the sands.
KARNA.
Am I there to find my lost mother for ever?
KUNTI.
O my son!
KARNA.