The Phantom Rickshaw

by Rudyard Kipling

  He shambled out of the office and departed in the direction of the Deputy Commissioner’s house. That day at noon I had occasion to go down the blinding hot Mall, and I saw a crooked man crawling along the white dust of the roadside, his hat in his hand, quavering dolorously after the fashion of street-singers at Home. There was not a soul in sight, and he was out of all possible earshot of the houses. And he sang through his nose, turning his head from right to left:

  ‘The Son of Man goes forth to war,

  A golden crown to gain;

  His blood-red banner streams afar—

  Who follows in his train?’

  I waited to hear no more, but put the poor wretch into my carriage and drove him off to the nearest missionary for eventual transfer to the asylum. He repeated the hymn twice while he was with me whom he did not in the least recognize and I left him singing it to the missionary.

  Two days later I inquired after his welfare of the Superintendent of the asylum.

  ‘He was admitted suffering from sunstroke. He died early yesterday morning,’ said the Superintendent. ‘Is it true that he was half an hour bareheaded in the sun at midday?’

  ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘but do you happen to know if he had anything upon him by any chance when he died?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ said the Superintendent. And there the matter rests.

  Without Benefit of Clergy

  I

  ‘BUT IF IT be a girl?’

  ‘Lord of my life, it cannot be. I have prayed for so many nights, and sent gifts to Sheikh Badl’s shrine so often, that I know God will give us a son—a man-child that shall grow into a man. Think of this and be glad. My mother shall be his mother till I can take him again, and the mullah of the Pattan Mosque shall cast his nativity—Godsend he be born in an auspicious hour!—and then, and then thou wilt never weary of me, thy slave.’

  ‘Since when hast thou been a slave, my queen?’

  ‘Since the beginning—till this mercy came to me. How could I be sure of thy love when I knew that I had been bought with silver?’

  ‘Nay, that was the dowry. I paid it to thy mother.’

  ‘And she had buried it, and sits upon it all day long like a hen. What talk is yours of dowry? I was bought as though I had been a Lucknow dancing-girl instead of a child.’

  ‘Art thou sorry for the sale?’

  ‘I have sorrowed; but today I am glad. Thou wilt never cease to love me now? Answer, my king.’

  ‘Never—never. No.’

  ‘Not even though the Mem-log the—white women of thy own blood—love thee? And remember, I have watched them driving in the evening; they are very fair.’

  ‘I have seen fire-balloons by the hundred, I have seen the moon and—then I saw no more fire-balloons.’

  Ameera clapped her hands and laughed. ‘Very good talk,’ she said. Then, with an assumption of great stateliness: ‘It is enough. Thou hast my permission to depart—if thou wilt.’

  The man did not move. He was sitting on a low red-lacquered couch in a room furnished only with a blue-and-white floor-cloth, some rugs, and a very complete collection of native cushions. At his feet sat a woman of sixteen, and she was all but all the world in his eyes. By every rule and law she should have been otherwise, for he was an Englishman and she a Mussulman’s daughter, bought two years before from her mother, who, being left without money, would have sold Ameera, shrieking, to the Prince of Darkness if the price had been sufficient.

  It was a contract entered into with a light heart. But even before the girl had reached her bloom she came to fill the greater portion of John Holden’s life. For her and the withered hag her mother he had taken a little house overlooking the great red-walled city, and found, when the marigolds had sprung up by the well in the courtyard, and Ameera had established herself according to her own ideas of comfort and her mother had ceased grumbling at the inadequacy of the cooking-places, the distance from the daily market and matters of housekeeping in general, that the house was to him his home. Any one could enter his bachelor’s bungalow by day or night, and the life that he led there was an unlovely one. In the house in the city his feet only could pass beyond the outer courtyard to the women’s rooms; and when the big wooden gate was bolted behind him he was king in his own territory, with Ameera for queen. And there was going to be added to his kingdom a third person, whose arrival Holden felt inclined to resent. It interfered with his perfect happiness. It disarranged the orderly peace of the house that was his own. But Ameera was wild with delight at the thought of it, and her mother not less so. The love of a man, and particularly a white man, was at the best an inconstant affair, but it might, both women argued, be held fast by a baby’s hands. ‘And then,’ Ameera would always say—‘Then he will never care for the white Mem-log. I hate them all—I hate them all!’

  ‘He will go back to his own people in time,’ said the mother, ‘but, by the blessing of God, that time is yet afar off.’

  Holden sat silent on the couch, thinking of the future, and his thoughts were not pleasant. The drawbacks of a double life are manifold. The government, with singular care, had ordered him out of the station for a fortnight on special duty, in the place of a man who was watching by the bedside of a sick wife. The verbal notification of the transfer had been edged by a cheerful remark that Holden ought to think himself lucky in being a bachelor and a free man. He came to break the news to Ameera.

  ‘It is not good,’ she said, slowly, ‘but it is not all bad. There is my mother here, and no harm will come to me— unless, indeed, I die of pure joy. Go thou to thy work, and think no troublesome thoughts. When the days are done, I believe . . . nay, I am sure, and—and then I shall lay him in thy arms, and thou wilt love me forever. The train goes tonight— at midnight, is it not? Go now, and do not let thy heart be heavy by cause of me. But thou wilt not delay in returning! Thou wilt not stay on the road to talk to the bold white Mem-log! Come back to me swiftly, my life!’

  As he left the courtyard to reach his horse, that was tethered to the gate-post, Holden spoke to the white-haired old watchman who guarded the house, and bid him under certain contingencies dispatch the filled-up telegraph form that Holden gave him. It was all that could be done, and, with the sensations of a man who has attended his own funeral, Holden went away by the night mail to his exile. Every hour of the day he dreaded the arrival of the telegram, and every hour of the night he pictured himself the death of Ameera. In consequence, his work for the state was not of first-rate quality, nor was his temper toward his colleagues of the most amiable. The fortnight ended without a sign from his home, and, torn to pieces by his anxieties, Holden returned to be swallowed up for two precious hours by dinner at the club, wherein he heard, as a man hears in a swoon, voices telling him how execrably he had peformed the other man’s duties and how he had endeared himself to all his his associates. Then he fled on horseback through the night with his heart in his mouth. There was no answer at first to his blows on the gate, and he had just wheeled his horse round to kick it in, when Pir Khan appeared with a lantern and held his stirrup.

  ‘Has aught occurred?’ said Holden.

  ‘The news does not come from my mouth, Protector of the Poor, but—’ He held out his shaking hand, as befitted the bearer of good news who is entitled to a reward.

  Holden hurried through the courtyard. A light burned in the upper room. His horse neighed in the gateway, and he heard a pin-pointed wail that sent all the blood into the apple of his throat. It was a new voice, but it did not prove that Ameera was alive.

  ‘Who is there?’ he called up the narrow brick staircase. There was a cry of delight from Ameera, and then the voice of her mother, tremulous with old age and pride: ‘We be two women, and—the—man—thy son.’

  On the threshold of the room Holden stepped on a naked dagger that was laid there to avert ill-luck, and it broke at the hilt under his impatient heel.

  ‘God is great !’ cooed Ameera in the half-light. ‘Thou hast taken his misf
ortunes on thy head.’

  ‘Aye, but how is it with thee, life of my life? Old woman, how is it with her?’

  ‘She has forgotten her sufferings for joy that the child is born. There is no harm; but speak softly,’ said the mother.

  ‘It only needed thy presence to make me all well,’ said Ameera. ‘My king, thou hast been very long away. What gifts hast thou for me? Ah! ah! It is I that bring gifts this time. Look, my life, look! Was there ever such a babe? Nay, I am too weak even to clear my arm from him.’

  ‘Rest, then, and do not talk. I am here, bachheri’ (little woman).

  ‘Well said, for there is a bond and a heelrope (peecharee) between us now that nothing can break. Look—canst thou see in this light? He is without spot or blemish. Never was such a man-child. Ya Illah! he shall be a pundit—no, a trooper of the queen. And, my life, dost thou love me as well as ever, though I am faint and sick and worn? Answer truly.’

  ‘Yea, I love as I have loved, with all my soul. Lie still, pearl, and rest.’

  ‘Then do not go. Sit by my side here—so. Mother, the lord of this house needs a cushion. Bring it.’ There was an almost imperceptible movement on the part of the new life that lay in the hollow of Ameera’s arm. ‘Aho!’ she said, her voice breaking with love. ‘The babe is a champion from his birth. He is kicking me in the side with mighty kicks. Was there ever such a babe? And he is ours to us—thine and mine. Put thy hand on his head, but carefully, for he is very young, and men are unskilled in such matters.’

  Very cautiously Holden touched with the tips of his fingers the downy head.

  ‘He is of the Faith,’ said Ameera; ‘for, lying here in the night-watches, I whispered the Call to Prayer and the Profession of Faith into his ears. And it is most marvellous that he was born upon a Friday, as I was born. Be careful of him, my life; but he can almost grip with his hands.’

  Holden found one helpless little hand that closed feebly on his finger. And the clutch ran through his limbs till it settled about his heart. Till then his sole thought had been for Ameera. He began to realize that there was someone else in the world, but he could not feel that it was a veritable son with a soul. He sat down to think, and Ameera dozed lightly.

  ‘Get thence, Sahib,’ said her mother, under her breath. ‘It is not good that she should find you here on waking. She must be still.’

  ‘I go,’ said Holden, submissively. ‘Here be rupees. See that my baba gets fat and finds all that he needs.’

  The chink of the silver roused Ameera. ‘I am his mother, and no hireling,’ she said, weakly. ‘Shall I look to him more or less for the sake of money? Mother, give it back. I have borne my lord a son.’

  The deep sleep of weakness came upon her almost before the sentence was completed. Holden went down to the courtyard very softly, with his heart at ease. Pir Khan, the old watchman, was chuckling with delight.

  ‘This house is now complete,’ he said, and without further comment thrust into Holden’s hands the hilt of a saber worn many years ago, when Pir Khan served the queen in the police. The bleat of a tethered goat came from the well-curb.

  ‘There be two,’ said Pir Khan—‘two goats of the best. I bought them, and they cost much money; and since there is no birth-party assembled, their flesh will be all mine. Strike carefully, Sahib. ’Tis an ill-balanced saber at the best. Wait till they raise their heads from cropping the marigolds.’

  ‘And why?’ said Holden, bewildered.

  ‘For the birth sacrifice. What else? Otherwise the child, being unguarded from fate, may die. The Protector of the Poor knows the fitting words to be said.’

  Holden had learned them once, with little thought that he would ever say them in earnest. The touch of the cold saber-hilt in his palm turned suddenly to the clinging grip of the child upstairs—the child that was his own son—and a dread of loss filled him.

  ‘Strike!’ said Pir Khan. ‘Never life came into the world but life was paid for it. See, the goats have raised their heads. Now! With a drawing cut!’

  Hardly knowing what he did, Holden cut twice as he muttered the Mohammedan prayer that runs: ‘Almighty! In place of my son I offer this life for life, blood for blood, head for head, bone for bone, hair for hair, skin for skin.’ The waiting horse snorted and bounded in his pickets at the sail of the raw blood that spurted over Holden’s riding-boots.

  ‘Well smitten!’ said Pir Khan, wiping the saber. ‘A swordsman was lost in thee. Go with a light heart, heaven born. I am thy servant and the servant of thy son. May the Presence live a thousand years, and . . . the flesh of the goats is all mine?’

  Pir Khan drew back richer by a month’s pay. Holden swung himself into the saddle and rode off through the low-hanging wood smoke of the evening. He was full of riotous exultation, alternating with a vast vague tenderness directed toward no particular object, that made him choke as he bent over the neck of his uneasy horse. ‘I never felt like this in my life,’ he thought. ‘I’ll go to the club and pull myself together.’ A game of pool was beginning, and the room was full of men. Holden entered, eager to get to the light and the company of his fellows, singing at the top of his voice:

  ‘In Baltimore a-walking, a lady I did meet.’

  ‘Did you?’ said the club secretary from his corner. ‘Did she happen to tell you that your boots were wringing wet? Great goodness, man, it’s blood!’

  ‘Bosh!’ said Holden, picking his cue from the rack. ‘May I cut in? It’s dew. I’ve been riding through high crops. My faith! my boots are in a mess, though!

  ‘And if it be a girl, she shall wear a wedding-ring;

  And if it be a boy, he shall fight for his king;

  With his dirk and his cap, and his little jacket blue,

  He shall walk the quarter-deck—’

  ‘Yellow and blue—green next player,’ said the marker, monotonously.

  ‘He shall walk the quarter-deck’—am I green, marker?—

  ‘he shall walk the quarter-deck’—ouch! that’s a bad shot!—‘as his daddy used to do!’

  ‘I don’t see that you have anything to crow about,’ said a zealous junior civilian, acidly. ‘The government is not exactly pleased with your work when you relieved Sanders.’

  ‘Does that mean a wigging from headquarters?’ said Holden, with an abstracted smile. ‘I think I can stand it.’

  The talk beat up round the ever-fresh subject of each man’s work, and steadied Holden till it was time to go to his dark, empty bungalow, where where his butler received him as one who knew all his affairs. Holden remained awake for the greater part of the night, and his dreams were pleasant ones.

  II

  ‘How old is he now?’

  ‘Ya Illah! What a man’s question! He is all but six weeks old; and on this night I go up to the housetop with thee, my life, to count the stars. For that is auspicious. And he was born on a Friday, under the sign of the Sun, and it has been told to me that he will outlive us both and get wealth. Can we wish for aught better, beloved?’

  ‘There is nothing better. Let us go up to the roof, and thou shalt count the stars—but a few only, for the sky is heavy with cloud.’

  ‘The winter rains are late, and maybe they come out of season. Come, before all the stars are hid. I have put on my richest jewels.’

  ‘Thou hast forgotten the best of all.’

  ‘Ai! Ours. He comes also. He has never yet seen the skies.’ Ameera climbed the narrow staircase that let to the flat roof. The child, placid and unwinking, lay in the hollow of her right arm, gorgeous in silver-fringed muslin, with a small skull-cap on his head. Ameera wore all that she valued most. The diamond nose-stud that takes the place of the western patch in drawing attention to the curve of the nostril, the gold ornament in the centre of the forehead studded with tallow-drop emeralds and flawed rubies, the heavy circlet of beaten gold that was fastened round her neck by the softness of the pure metal and the chinking curb-patterned silver anklets hanging low over the rosy ankle-bone. She was dressed in j
ade-green muslin, as befitted a daughter of the Faith, and from shoulder to elbow and elbow to wrist ran bracelets of silver tied with floss silk, frail glass bangles slipped over the wrist in proof of the slenderness of the hand and certain heavy gold bracelets that had no part in her country’s ornaments, but since they were Holden’s gift, and fastened with a cunning European snap, delighted her immensely.

  They sat down by the low white parapet of the roof, overlooking the city and its lights.

  ‘They are happy down there,’ said Ameera. ‘But I do not think that they are as happy as we. Nor do I think the white Mem-log are as happy. And thou?’

  ‘I know they are not.’

  ‘How dost thou know?’

  ‘They give their children over to the nurses.’

  ‘I have never seen that,’ said Ameera, with a sigh; ‘nor do I wish to see. Ah!’—she dropped her head on Holden’s shoulder—‘I have counted forty stars, and I am tired. Look at the child, love of my life. He is counting, too.’

  The baby was staring with round eyes at the dark of the heavens. Ameera placed him in Holden’s arms, and he lay there without a cry.

  ‘What shall we call him among ourselves?’ she said. ‘Look! Art thou ever tired of looking? He carries thy very eyes! But the mouth—’

  ‘Is thine, most dear. Who should know better than I?’

  ’Tis such a feeble mouth. Oh, so small! And yet it holds my heart between its lips. Give him to me now. He has been too long away.’

  ‘Nay, let him lie; he has not yet begun to cry.’

  ‘When he cries thou wilt give him back, eh? What a man of mankind thou art! If he cried, he were only the dearer to me. But, my life, what little name shall we give him?’

  The small body lay close to Holden’s heart. It was utterly helpless and very soft. He scarcely dared to breathe for fear of crushing it. The caged green parrot, that is regarded as a sort of guardian spirit in most native households, moved on its perch and fluttered a drowsy wing.