Kim, Rudyard Kipling [bill gates books to read .txt] 📗

the stimulus of talk was removed, his own self-pity, of which, like the sick, he had great store. The unnerved brain edged away from all the outside, as a raw horse, once rowelled, sidles from the spur. It was enough, amply enough, that the spoil of the kilta was away⁠—off his hands⁠—out of his possession. He tried to think of the lama⁠—to wonder why he had tumbled into a brook⁠—but the bigness of the world, seen between the forecourt gates, swept linked thought aside. Then he looked upon the trees and the broad fields, with the thatched huts hidden among crops⁠—looked with strange eyes unable to take up the size and proportion and use of things⁠—stared for a still half-hour. All that while he felt, though he could not put it into words, that his soul was out of gear with its surroundings⁠—a cogwheel unconnected with any machinery, just like the idle cogwheel of a cheap Beheea sugar-crusher laid by in a corner. The breezes fanned over him, the parrots shrieked at him, the noises of the populated house behind⁠—squabbles, orders, and reproofs⁠—hit on dead ears.

“I am Kim. I am Kim. And what is Kim?” His soul repeated it again and again.

He did not want to cry⁠—had never felt less like crying in his life⁠—but of a sudden easy, stupid tears trickled down his nose, and with an almost audible click he felt the wheels of his being lock up anew on the world without. Things that rode meaningless on the eyeball an instant before slid into proper proportion. Roads were meant to be walked upon, houses to be lived in, cattle to be driven, fields to be tilled, and men and women to be talked to. They were all real and true⁠—solidly planted upon the feet⁠—perfectly comprehensible⁠—clay of his clay, neither more nor less. He shook himself like a dog with a flea in his ear, and rambled out of the gate. Said the Sahiba, to whom watchful eyes reported this move: “Let him go. I have done my share. Mother Earth must do the rest. When the Holy One comes back from meditation, tell him.”

There stood an empty bullock-cart on a little knoll half a mile away, with a young banyan tree behind⁠—a lookout, as it were, above some new-ploughed levels; and his eyelids, bathed in soft air, grew heavy as he neared it. The ground was good clean dust⁠—no new herbage that, living, is halfway to death already, but the hopeful dust that holds the seeds of all life. He felt it between his toes, patted it with his palms, and joint by joint, sighing luxuriously, laid him down full length along in the shadow of the wooden-pinned cart. And Mother Earth was as faithful as the Sahiba. She breathed through him to restore the poise he had lost lying so long on a cot cut off from her good currents. His head lay powerless upon her breast, and his opened hands surrendered to her strength. The many-rooted tree above him, and even the dead manhandled wood beside, knew what he sought, as he himself did not know. Hour upon hour he lay deeper than sleep.

Towards evening, when the dust of returning kine made all the horizons smoke, came the lama and Mahbub Ali, both afoot, walking cautiously, for the house had told them where he had gone.

“Allah! What a fool’s trick to play in open country!” muttered the horse-dealer. “He could be shot a hundred times⁠—but this is not the Border.”

“And,” said the lama, repeating a many-times-told tale, “never was such a chela. Temperate, kindly, wise, of ungrudging disposition, a merry heart upon the road, never forgetting, learned, truthful, courteous. Great is his reward!”

“I know the boy⁠—as I have said.”

“And he was all those things?”

“Some of them⁠—but I have not yet found a Red Hat’s charm for making him overly truthful. He has certainly been well nursed.”

“The Sahiba is a heart of gold,” said the lama earnestly. “She looks upon him as her son.”

“Hmph! Half Hind seems that way disposed. I only wished to see that the boy had come to no harm and was a free agent. As thou knowest, he and I were old friends in the first days of your pilgrimage together.”

“That is a bond between us.” The lama sat down. “We are at the end of the pilgrimage.”

“No thanks to thee thine was not cut off for good and all a week back. I heard what the Sahiba said to thee when we bore thee up on the cot.” Mahbub laughed, and tugged his newly dyed beard.

“I was meditating upon other matters that tide. It was the hakim from Dacca broke my meditations.”

“Otherwise”⁠—this was in Pashtu for decency’s sake⁠—“thou wouldst have ended thy meditations upon the sultry side of Hell⁠—being an unbeliever and an idolater for all thy child’s simplicity. But now, Red Hat, what is to be done?”

“This very night,”⁠—the words came slowly, vibrating with triumph⁠—“this very night he will be as free as I am from all taint of sin⁠—assured as I am, when he quits this body, of Freedom from the Wheel of Things. I have a sign”⁠—he laid his hand above the torn chart in his bosom⁠—“that my time is short; but I shall have safeguarded him throughout the years. Remember, I have reached Knowledge, as I told thee only three nights back.”

“It must be true, as the Tirah priest said when I stole his cousin’s wife, that I am a sufi;65 for here I sit,” said Mahbub to himself, “drinking in blasphemy unthinkable⁠ ⁠… I remember the tale. On that, then, he goes to Jannatu l’Adn.66 But how? Wilt thou slay him or drown him in that wonderful river from which the Babu dragged thee?”

“I was dragged from no river,” said the lama simply. “Thou hast forgotten what befell. I found it by Knowledge.”

“Oh, ay. True,” stammered Mahbub, divided between high indignation