Kim. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

down the Ravee. When there was business or frolic afoot, Kim would use his properties, returning at dawn to the verandah, all tired out from shouting at the heels of a marriage procession, or yelling at a Hindu festival. Sometimes there was food in the house, more often there was not, and Kim went out again to eat with his native friends.

      As he drummed his heels against Zam-Zammah he turned now and again from his king-of-the-castle game with little Chota Lal and Abdullah the sweetmeat-seller’s son, to make a rude remark to the native policeman on guard over rows of shoes at the Museum door. The big Punjabi grinned tolerantly: he knew Kim of old. So did the water-carrier, sluicing water on the dry road from his goatskin bag. So did Jawahir Singh, the Museum carpenter, bent over new packing-cases. So did everybody in sight except the peasants from the country, hurrying up to the Wonder House to view the things that men made in their own province and elsewhere. The Museum was given up to Indian arts and manufactures, and anybody who sought wisdom could ask the curator to explain.

      ‘Off! Off! Let me up!’ cried Abdullah, climbing up Zam-Zammah’s wheel.

      ‘Thy father was a pastry-cook, Thy mother stole the ghi,’ sang Kim. ‘All Mussalmans fell off Zam-Zammah long ago!’

      ‘Let me up!’ shrilled little Chota Lal in his gilt-embroidered cap. His father was worth perhaps half a million sterling, but India is the only democratic land in the world.

      ‘The Hindus fell off Zam-Zammah too. The Mussalmans pushed them off. Thy father was a pastry-cook—’

      He stopped; for there shuffled round the corner, from the roaring Motee Bazar, such a man as Kim, who thought he knew all castes, had never seen. He was nearly six feet high, dressed in fold upon fold of dingy stuff like horse-blanketing, and not one fold of it could Kim refer to any known trade or profession. At his belt hung a long open-work iron pencase and a wooden rosary such as holy men wear. On his head was a gigantic sort of tam-o’-shanter. His face was yellow and wrinkled, like that of Fook Shing, the Chinese bootmaker in the bazar. His eyes turned up at the corners and looked like little slits of onyx.

      ‘Who is that?’ said Kim to his companions.

      ‘Perhaps it is a man,’ said Abdullah, finger in mouth, staring.

      ‘Without doubt,’ returned Kim; ‘but he is no man of India that I have ever seen.’

      ‘A priest, perhaps,’ said Chota Lal, spying the rosary. ‘See! He goes into the Wonder House!’

      ‘Nay, nay,’ said the policeman, shaking his head. ‘I do not understand your talk.’ The constable spoke Punjabi. ‘Oh, The Friend of all the World, what does he say?’

      ‘Send him hither,’ said Kim, dropping from Zam-Zammah, flourishing his bare heels. ‘He is a foreigner, and thou art a buffalo.’

      The man turned helplessly and drifted towards the boys. He was old, and his woollen gaberdine still reeked of the stinking artemisia of the mountain passes.

      ‘O Children, what is that big house?’ he said in very fair Urdu.

      ‘The Ajaib-Gher, the Wonder House!’ Kim gave him no title—such as Lala or Mian. He could not divine the man’s creed.

      ‘Ah! The Wonder House! Can any enter?’

      ‘It is written above the door—all can enter.’

      ‘Without payment?’

      ‘I go in and out. I am no banker,’ laughed Kim.

      ‘Alas! I am an old man. I did not know.’ Then, fingering his rosary, he half turned to the Museum.

      ‘What is your caste? Where is your house? Have you come far?’ Kim asked.

      ‘I came by Kulu—from beyond the Kailas—but what know you? From the hills where’—he sighed—‘the air and water are fresh and cool.’

      ‘Aha! Khitai (a Chinaman),’ said Abdullah proudly. Fook Shing had once chased him out of his shop for spitting at the joss above the boots.

      ‘Pahari (a hillman),’ said little Chota Lal.

      ‘Aye, child — a hillman from hills thou’lt never see. Didst hear of Bhotiyal (Tibet)? I am no Khitai, but a Bhotiya (Tibetan), since you must know—a lama—or, say a guru in your tongue.’

      ‘A guru from Tibet,’ said Kim. ‘I have not seen such a man. They be Hindus in Tibet, then?’

      ‘We be followers of the Middle Way, living in peace in our lamasseries, and I go to see the Four Holy Places before I die. Now do you, who are children, know as much as I do who am old.’ He smiled benignantly on the boys.

      ‘Hast thou eaten?’

      He fumbled in his bosom and drew forth a worn wooden begging-bowl. The boys nodded. All priests of their acquaintance begged.

      ‘I do not wish to eat yet.’ He turned his head like an old tortoise in the sunlight. ‘Is it true that there are many images in the Wonder House of Lahore?’ He repeated the last words as one making sure of an address.

      ‘That is true,’ said Abdullah. ‘It is full of heathen būts. Thou also art an idolator.’

      ‘Never mind him,’ said Kim. ‘That is the Government’s house and there is no idolatry in it, but only a Sahib with a white beard. Come with me and I will show.’

      ‘Strange priests eat boys,’ whispered Chota Lal.

      ‘And he is a stranger and a būt-parast (idolator)’ said Abdullah, the Mohammedan.

      Kim laughed. ‘He is new. Run to your mothers’ laps, and be safe. Come!’

      Kim clicked round the self-registering turnstile; the old man followed and halted amazed. In the entrance-hall stood the larger figures of the Greco-Buddhist sculptures done, savants know how long since, by forgotten workmen whose hands were feeling, and not unskilfully, for the mysteriously transmitted Grecian touch. There were hundreds of pieces, friezes of figures in relief, fragments of statues and slabs crowded with figures that had encrusted the brick walls of the Buddhist stupas and viharas of the North Country and now, dug up and labelled, made the pride of the Museum. In open-mouthed wonder the lama turned to this and that, and finally checked in rapt attention before a large alto-relief representing a coronation or apotheosis of the Lord Buddha. The Master was represented seated on a lotus the petals of which were so deeply undercut as to show almost detached. Round Him was an adoring hierarchy of kings, elders, and old-time Buddhas. Below were lotus-covered waters with fishes and water-birds. Two butterfly-winged dewas held a wreath over His head; above them another pair supported an umbrella surmounted by the jewelled headdress of the Bodhisat. ‘The Lord! The Lord! It is Sakya Muni himself,’ the lama half sobbed; and under his breath began the wonderful Buddhist invocation:—

       ‘To Him the Way—the Law—Apart—

       Whom Maya held beneath her heart

       Ananda’s Lord—the Bodhisat.’

      ‘And He is here! The Most Excellent Law is here also. My pilgrimage is well begun. And what work! What work!’

      ‘Yonder is the Sahib,’ said Kim, and dodged sideways among the cases of the arts and manufacture wing. A white-bearded Englishman was looking at the lama, who gravely turned and saluted him and after some fumbling drew forth a note-book and a scrap of paper.

      ‘Yes, that is my name,’ smiling at the clumsy, childish print.

      ‘One of us who had made pilgrimage to the Holy Places—he is now Abbot of the Lung-Cho Monastery — gave it me,’ stammered the lama. ‘He spoke of these.’ His lean hand moved tremulously round.

      ‘Welcome, then, O lama from Tibet. Here be the images, and I am here’—he glanced at the lama’s face—‘to gather knowledge. Come to my office awhile.’ The old man was trembling with excitement.

      The