The Lagoon

by Ruskin Bond

  ‘Art thou hurt father?’ he enquired.

  ‘Nay, my son,’ was the mumbled reply as the old man painfully stood up. At last he was erect but sank to the ground again, exclaiming ‘Yavana! Yavana!’ Heliodoros helped him to rise once more, saying ‘Why Yavana, father? Come, rest and tell me thy story,’ and he led the way to the camp. The flickering fire-light showed that the way-farer had passed the usual limits of man’s life. Toothless, bleared and feeble he was as one left behind by time. The men made him comfortable on a pile of saddle-bags and gave him a strong, hot drink. As the warmth crept through his withered limbs he seemed rejuvenated and looking at the Greek said clearly, ‘Yes, Yavanas came and the horse was grey.’

  ‘What horse? Where was it? Tell us.’

  ‘I forget. I was only up to my father’s knee when I saw it. We were on the banks of a great stream. Maybe it was this. Maybe not. I remember I had caught a fish when out of the forest beyond, came a great horse, grey like a raincloud. A mighty army came after. Loud drums beat and I was feared so that we hid behind a bush. But I forget,’ and the shaking head drooped.

  ‘Some more wine,’ whispered the eager listener.

  So the strong wine was given and the thin, piping voice went on. ‘My father said it was the king’s horse and no one must stop it. Then another army came, tall men, riding like gods, and one who rode near where we lay looked like thee. My father said he was a Yavana. The two armies fought. Oh, such blood and noise! I hid my face and when I looked up the horse was wandering away.’

  Heliodoros gazed at the speaker. He must have seen the sacred horse as it ranged from field to field followed by an army which, if unconquered after a year, gave to the one who had sent it forth the right to call himself Lord-Paramount. The pundit at Taxila had told of the fight young Vasumitra, great Pushyamitra’s grandson, had with a wandering band of Yavanas when he was guarding the horse. The aged one, when a stripling, must have seen that battle. What luck!

  Early next morning they crossed the flooded river by means of a raft floated on inflated bullock-skins. And now they hastened. It was a kind, generous land through which they rode. In the silver mist of dawn, quails, red and grey, ran across their paths and hares broke constantly from the cactus hedges. In the thin light of the ‘wolfs brush’ jackals were seen slinking home and the rising sun shone on the backs of antelopes.

  Haste as they might, yet progress was slow and it was more than three months since they left Taxila when they entered Ujjjain. In green and gold, in rose-colour and snow-white, in dimples and greys, the city and its walls made a picture charming to the eye. As sang a poet of later days:

  ‘Oh, fine Ujjain, Gem to Avanti given; Where village ancients tell their tales of mirth.

  And old romance; oh, radiant bit of heaven!’

  Four days were spent in resting and enjoying the hospitality of the students in the college for the study of the stars. Heliodoros was enamoured with the wonderful stone instruments for measuring the heights of the heavenly bodies. Soon, too soon, he thought they moved on across the beautiful Dasharna country towards Vidisa (Bhilsa).

  The sweet, sweet smell of forest earth filled their nostrils. The low bushes were aglow with buds and the trees were filled with green parrots. It was a journey of only 120 odd miles and on the seventh day they were in sight of the city. That night they camped on the banks of a lovely reed-fringed jheel, full of crimson and blue lotuses and crowded with water-birds. The next morning, they entered the city and the ambassador sought audience of the king. He was led at once to Bhagabhadra, a prince of pleasant demeanour, courteous and frank yet with a truly royal dignity.

  ‘Victory oh King’ and the Greek bowed low. ‘I bring greeting from mighty Antialcidas’ and he proffered the letter. It ran thus,

  ‘The king of Taxila salutes the king of Vidisa.

  The reputation of the Maharaja has spread far and wide and the benefits of his rule has reached to distant regions. So great is his fame and so powerful his strength that I, Antialcidas, Keeper of the Northern Gates, desire to make treaty with him so that north and south may be bound together in friendship and peace with prosperity abound.

  Salutation.

  Antialcidas.’

  The letter was read and given to the chief minister; then ‘What of my son?’ asked the royal father. From his leather pouch Heliodoros drew the epistle entrusted to him by Bhadrasena in Taxila. The king’s hand trembled as he untied the golden thread. The letter ended, ‘Of Dion and his family I have only loving words to speak. They have made the wilderness to blossom for me, have treated me as a son and I ask my gracious father to give to my friend, Heliodoros, the welcome his father gave to me.’

  The king stepped down, embraced the young man and said, ‘As thy father dealt with my son so will I with thee.’ Thus the Greek became a member of the king’s household, mixing freely with its inmates. There were two children, Malavika, a slender maid of fourteen years and Kusha, a charming, eager child, who showed ‘his little buds of teeth in countless peals of laughter’.

  Vidisa at this time was as beautiful as any great city of the world. The king’s palace was built close to a lake and surrounded by lovely green parterres threaded with silver streams. Even in dreams Heliodoros had never seen such a wonderful structure as rose, storey above storey, in rose-red and snowy-white balconies, gay with frescoes and floral ornaments. Beneath these lay the palace-garden with its pomegranates, feathery palms and broad-flagged bananas.

  It was the time of the cold weather and each day was delightful. One of the tasks imposed by Antialcidas was the gathering of many fine elephants. So, long treks were made through sombre forests and over enchanting plains. To rise at dawn, to taste the pure air flying across the maidan, to hear the cry of the sand-grouse before the bird was seen, to startle a storm of purple, green and gold as the peacocks rose from the kura grass, made a life strongly alluring to the Greek, lover of beauty in all its forms.

  A year passed before the tale of elephants was complete. And now the ambassador had to select some rare and precious stones for Antialcidas. Bazaar rumours of Vidisa’s jewels, of diamonds as big as a hen’s egg, of pearls the size of grapes, of rubies in clusters like sultanas had spread to the north and tickled the king’s ear. He would adorn his flat cap with an aigrette. So, from the south and from the diamond mines, merchants came with their stores of flashing gems for Heliodoros to inspect. After some weeks’ examination he authorized three to proceed to Taxila.

  The second spring of his stay was near. One early morning he walked in a small garden. At its heart was a pool where forever broke a ripple. Around the pool some trees stood. The mango cast the faint sweet scent of its modest flower on the air; the simal opened its red, red bowls for the birds to sip, and the asoka, the sorrowless tree burgeoned into spear-shaped wavy leaves. But its bright blossoms of crimson, orange and saffron were still closed and to the young man’s amusement a maiden, standing in front of its sweetly dancing lines, was timidly kicking the trunk with her sandalled pink-tinted foot.

  ‘Bravo, Malavika,’ he called as he approached. ‘The tree will surely blossom now the foot of such a beautiful woman has touched it.’

  As swiftly she turned, her lemon-yellow sari slipped from the bee-black hair where nestled a small red rose. Under a graceful arch of brows great eyes misted over and a silver tear hung on dark lashes. Heliodoros was aghast. Never would he wound so tender a heart.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Remember how you married the vine to the mango tree. See how prosperous that union has been; what a pretty pair they make! The asoka will open its Heart’s Ease flowers soon. Shall we come every morning to see when that happens?’

  She smiled as she faltered, ‘Every morning’ and he saw that she was a lovely woman. The girl-child had suddenly bloomed into womanhood.

  And so, unknown to the king and queen they met. She saw that he was brave to look upon her. To him she was the fairest woman God had made. In the East love grows quickly and soon each l
oved the other. As light faded, each evening Bhagabhadra’s tenderly nurtured daughter braved the terrors of the dark and crept to the bamboo grove, there to secrete a fairy love-letter, cut by her dainty nail on a birch leaf for Heliodoros. Alas! a wanton breeze blew a letter from its hiding place and Kusha, playing near, found and took it to his mother, Savitri.

  Malavika was wife-old. Already suitors had spoken for her hand. The court astrologers at this very time were busy casting the horoscopes of various princes to see with whom the princess might be auspiciously united.

  With an anxious hurry the queen came to her husband and the mandate went forth—the lovers must be parted; the man banished from the palace and the maiden confined to the woman’s quarters.

  ‘She will forget if thou, wise wife, speak to her. Entreat her not to shame her father’s house by caring for a barbarian. Bid her prepare to marry one of our choice.’ So spoke the monarch, skilled in man’s affairs but knowing not the ways of a maid.

  Malavika protested not, but a palpable wistfulness settled over her, and the tear-swollen eye, the unanointed curl, the loose attire spoke in poignant language to the mother’s heart. Savitri again sought her husband and with love and gentle sweetness pleaded for her daughter’s happiness. ‘Let us consult pundit Kaushika. He is wise. He may perchance, solicit the gods and they will show a way out of this difficulty,’ she said.

  ‘Perchance.’ Bhagabhadra could not forget that it was one he had welcomed who had hurt his heart and pride. But he sent for the wise man.

  ‘Our daughter is sick. Only a shadow of her beauty remains. Give us of thy wisdom, oh father.’

  ‘Victory oh King! What says the queen? I know not the maiden’s heart.’

  ‘Thou art indeed wise, punditji. Her mother says she loves the Greek stranger.’

  ‘I will talk with the young man.’

  Heliodoros was eager to explain to this trusted friend of the court how love came unsought; how his birth was noble, could he not trace his descent back to a prince who had come with Alexander, how his father had great wealth; but the question came swift, ‘What of thy god?’

  In truth he could not name one god. All were alike, he thought but he was willing to learn and Kaushika advised his majesty to allow the marriage if the Greek would accept Vishnu as his God. On such terms the lover was more than willing to take Malavika for virtue, love and wealth.

  Joyfully the mother whispered the sweet message of her father’s consent to her child. ‘It is good,’ said the sick girl. ‘A maiden cannot choose again once her troth is given. Her lips must confess what her heart holds dear.’

  Brightly dawned the bridal day. A crowd of gaily clad, quickly moving people thronged the city. Festive trumpets sounded and rich festoons and graceful garlands hung from balcony and wall.

  Quickly the months passed in marital bliss and the joy of man and wife was perfected by the birth of a son. Happy tears dimmed Malavika’s eyes as she caressed the boy with her ‘blossom-hand’. Her beauty grew till she seemed a flower unfolding in mysterious bliss.

  Her husband was anxious to return to Taxila. His stay had lasted for a much longer time than was at first intended. He wished to make account of his ambassadorship of King Antialcidas. One hundred elephants were ready to go northwards. He, his wife and child would precede them and travel in comfort if they left just after the rains.

  One morning his wife woke him. The babe was crying and would not be stilled. Tiny hands were clenched, little eyes glazed. The mother was frantic. Desperately she sought to ease her darling’s pain. Over the fevered body the nurse cracked her thumbs. Savitri came in haste bringing the charm which cured Kasha years ago. All was of no avail.

  Malavika turned to her husband. ‘He is dying,’ she cried. ‘The gods are angry because thou dost only give lip-worship. Haste to the temple and ask what thou must do. Go, go,’ and she pushed him from the chamber.

  ‘Every prayer, which is uttered, finds its way to the ears of the Great Presence,’ muttered the unhappy father as he strode swiftly to the temple. A dark-faced twice-born with dreamy emaciated face and ardent sunk eyes cast off his shoes, bared his right shoulder and covered his hands while he began in the three mystical manners to recite the sacred text. The magical words fell on the ears of Heliodoros; only to hear these chanted formulas was salvation. He felt his son would live.

  Quickly he retraced his steps. ‘He sleeps,’ whispered Malavika. ‘Krishna has blessed us.’

  The father’s heart filled with gratitude and he said, ‘I will erect a pillar so that all men shall know how great is Krishna, incarnation of Vishnu, who has given us back our joy.’

  But his wife replied, ‘Heart of my heart, it is good to honour the gods but put not the child’s name lest evil again befall him.’

  ‘Nay!’ said the Brahman Kaushika, who entered as they spoke together. ‘Nay, put words that will help all who pass this way. Put on the pillar these words: “Three immortal precepts lead to heaven—self-restraint, charity, conscientiousness.’’’ And so even to this day are these precepts preserved on the column standing amid the scanty vestiges of the once-famed Vidisa.

  THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN

  Ruskin Bond

  I had the train compartment to myself up to Rohana, then a girl got in. The couple who saw her off were probably her parents; they seemed very anxious about her comfort, and the woman gave the girl detailed instructions as to where to keep her things, when not to lean out of windows, and how to avoid speaking to strangers.

  They called their goodbyes and the train pulled out of the station. As I was going blind at the time, my eyes sensitive only to light and darkness, I was unable to tell what the girl looked like; but I knew she wore slippers from the way they slapped against her heels.

  It would take me some time to discover something about her looks, and perhaps I never would. But I liked the sound of her voice, and even the sound of her slippers.

  ‘Are you going all the way to Dehra?’ I asked.

  I must have been sitting in a dark corner, because my voice startled her. She gave a little exclamation and said, ‘I didn’t know anyone else was here.’

  Well, it often happens that people with good eyesight fail to see what is right in front of them. They have too much to take in, I suppose. Whereas people who cannot see (or see very little) have to take in only the essentials, whatever registers most tellingly on their remaining senses.

  ‘I didn’t see you either,’ I said. ‘But I heard you come in.’

  I wondered if I would be able to prevent her from discovering that I was blind. Provided I keep to my seat, I thought, it shouldn’t be too difficult.

  The girl said, ‘I’m getting off at Saharanpur. My aunt is meeting me there.’

  ‘Then I had better not get too familiar,’ I replied. ‘Aunts are usually formidable creatures.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘To Dehra, and then to Mussoorie.’

  ‘Oh, how lucky you are. I wish I were going to Mussoorie. I love the hills. Especially in October.’

  ‘Yes, this is the best time,’ I said, calling on my memories. ‘The hills are covered with wild dahlias, the sun is delicious, and at night you can sit in front of a logfire and drink a little brandy. Most of the tourists have gone, and the roads are quiet and almost deserted. Yes, October is the best time.’

  She was silent. I wondered if my words had touched her, or whether she thought me a romantic fool. Then I made a mistake.

  ‘What is it like outside?’ I asked.

  She seemed to find nothing strange in the question. Had she noticed already that I could not see? But her next question removed my doubts.

  ‘Why don’t you look out of the window?’ she asked.

  I moved easily along the berth and felt for the window ledge. The window was open, and I faced it, making a pretence of studying the landscape. I heard the panting of the engine, the rumble of the wheels, and, in my mind’s eye, I could see telegraph posts flash
ing by.

  ‘Have you noticed,’ I ventured, ‘that the trees seem to be moving while we seem to be standing still?’

  ‘That always happens,’ she said. ‘Do you see any animals?’

  ‘No,’ I answered quite confidently. I knew that there were hardly any animals left in the forests near Dehra.

  I turned from the window and faced the girl, and for a while we sat in silence.

  ‘You have an interesting face,’ I remarked. I was becoming quite daring, but it was a safe remark. Few girls can resist flattery. She laughed pleasantly—a clear ringing laugh.

  ‘It’s nice to be told I have an interesting face. I’m tired of people telling me I have a pretty face.’

  Oh, so you do have a pretty face, thought I; and aloud I said, ‘Well, an interesting face can also be pretty.’

  ‘You are a very gallant young man,’ she said ‘but why are you so serious?’

  I thought, then, I would try to laugh for her, but the thought of laughter only made me feel troubled and lonely.

  ‘We’ll soon be at your station,’ I said.

  ‘Thank goodness it’s a short journey. I can’t bear to sit in a train for more than two or three hours.’

  Yet I was prepared to sit there for almost any length of time, just to listen to her talking. Her voice had the sparkle of a mountain stream. As soon as she left the train, she would forget our brief encounter; but it would stay with me for the rest of the journey, and for some time after.

  The engine’s whistle shrieked, the carriage wheels changed their sound and rhythm, the girl got up and began to collect her things. I wondered if she wore her hair in a bun, or if it was plaited; perhaps it was hanging loose over her shoulders, or was it cut very short?

  The train drew slowly into the station. Outside, there was the shouting of porters and vendors and a high-pitched female voice near the carriage door; that voice must have belonged to the girl’s aunt.

  ‘Goodbye,’ the girl said.

  She was standing very close to me, so close that the perfume from her hair was tantalizing. I wanted to raise my hand and touch her hair, but she moved away. Only the scent of perfume still lingered where she had stood.