Raja Rao - Collected Stories

‘Peace from this serpent — and God.’

‘My son, God is not to be seen. He is everywhere.’

‘Eyes to see God, for I cannot any more go northwards.’

‘Eyes to discern God you shall have.’

‘Then peace from this serpent.’

‘Faithful shall he be, true companion of the God-seeker.’

‘Peace to all men and women,’ said Moti Khan.

‘Peace to all mankind. Further, Moti Khan, I have something to tell you; as dawn breaks Maulvi Mohammed Khan will come to offer you his daughter, fair as an oleander. She has been waiting for you and she will wed you. My blessings on you, my son!’

‘Allah is found! Victory to Allah!’ cried Moti Khan. The serpent flung round him, slipped between his feet and curled round his neck and danced on his head, for, when Moti Khan found God, his sins would be worn out like the quern-stone with the grindings of man, and there would be peace in all mankind.

Moti Khan married the devout daughter of Maulvi Mohammed Khan and he loved her well, and he settled down in Fatehpur Sikri and became the guardian of Sheikh Chisti’s tomb. The serpent lived with him, and now and again he was taken to the fair to play for the children.

One day, however, Moti Khan’s wife died and was buried in a tomb of black marble. Eleven months later Moti Khan died and he was given a white marble tomb, and a dome of the same stone, for both. Three days after that the serpent died too, and they buried him in the earth beside the dargah, and gave him a nice clay tomb. A pipal sprang up on it, and a passing Brahmin planted a neem-tree by the pipal, and some merchant in the village gave money to build a platform round them. The pipal rose to the skies and covered the dome with dark, cool shade, and Brahmins planted snake-stones under it, and bells rang and camphors were lit, and marriage couples went round the platform in circumambulation. When the serpent was offered the camphor Moti Khan had the incense. And when illness comes to the town, with music and flags and torches do we go, and we fall in front of the pipal-platform and we fall prostrate before the dargah, and right through the night a wind rises and blows away the foul humours of the village. And when children cry, you say, ‘Moti Khan will cure you, my treasure,’ and they are cured. Emperors and kings have come and gone but never have they destroyed our village. For man and serpent are friends, and Moti Khan found God.

Between Agra and Fatehpur Sikri you may still find the little tomb and the pipal. Boys have written their names on the walls and dust and leaves cover the gold and blue of the pall. But someone has dug a well by the side, and if thirst takes you on the road, you can take a drink and rest under the pipal, and think deeply of God.

They called her Gauri, for she came every Tuesday evening before sunset to stand and nibble at the hair of the Master. And the Master touched her and caressed her and he said: ‘How are you, Gauri?’ and Gauri simply bent her legs and drew back her tongue and, shaking her head, ambled round him and disappeared among the bushes. And till Tuesday next she was not to be seen. And the Master’s disciples gathered grain and grass and rice-water to give her every Tuesday, but she refused it all and took only the handful of grain the Master gave. She munched it slowly and carefully as one articulates a string of holy words, and when she had finished eating, she knelt again, shook her head and disappeared. And the Master’s disciples said, ‘This is a strange creature,’ and they went to the Cotton Street and the Mango Street, and they went by the Ginning Mills and through the Weavers’ Lines, but Gauri was nowhere to be seen. She was not even a god-dedicated cow, for never had a shop-keeper caught her eating the grams nor was she found huddled in a cattle-pound. People said, ‘Only the Master could have such strange visitors,’ and they went to the Master and said: ‘Master, can you tell us who this cow may be?’ And the Master smiled with unquenchable love and fun and he said: ‘She may be my baton-armed mother-in-law. Though she may be the mother of one of you. Perhaps she is the great Mother’s vehicle.’ And like to a mother, they put kumkum on her forehead, and till Tuesday next they waited for Gauri.

But people heard of it here and people heard of it there, and they came with grain and hay and kumkum water saying, ‘We have a strange visitor, let us honour her.’ And merchants came saying, ‘Maybe she’s Lakshmi, the Goddess, and we may make more money next harvest,’ and fell at her feet. And students came to touch her head and touch her tail, saying, ‘Let me pass the examinations this year!’ And young girls came to ask for husbands and widows to ask for purity, and the childless to ask for children. And so every Tuesday there was a veritable procession of people at the Master’s hermitage. But Gauri would pass by them all like a holy wife among men, and going straight to the Master, would nibble at his hair and disappear among the bushes. People unable to take back the untouched offerings gave them to the river and the fishes jumped to eat them as at a festival; but the crocodile had disappeared from the whirls of the deep waters. And one fine morning the Master woke in his bed to hear the snake and the rat playing under him, for when the seeker finds harmony, the jackal and the deer and the rat and the serpent become friends. And Gauri was no doubt a fervent soul who had sought the paths of this world to be born a sage in the next, for she was so compassionate and true.

There was only one other person whose hair she had nibbled — she had nibbled at the hair of Mahatma Gandhi. For the Mahatma loved all creatures, the speechful and mute.

Now at this time the Mahatma’s men were fighting in the country against the Red-men’s Government. The Mahatma said: ‘Don’t buy their cloth.’ And people did not buy their cloth. The Mahatma said: ‘Don’t serve under them.’ And people did not serve under them. And the Mahatma said: ‘Don’t pay their taxes.’ And people gathered, and bonfires were lit and processions were formed, and there were many men wounded and killed and many taken to prisons, but people would not pay taxes nor would they wear foreign clothes. And soldiers came from the cities, big men, and bearded men, with large rifles, and they said to some, ‘You shall not leave the house after sunset’; and to some, ‘You shall not ride a bicycle’; and to yet others, ‘You shall not go out of the district.’ And children carried blue cards when they were good, blue and red when they were a little wicked, and red when they were very wicked. And women could not go to the temples and marriages, and men could not go to the riverside to ease themselves in the morning. Life became intolerable and people moaned and groaned, but the Red-men’s Government would rule the country, happen what may, and make men pay more and more taxes.

Then the men in the mills and factories said, ‘We are with you, brothers,’ and the women said, ‘We are with you, sisters,’ and the whole town became a battle-ground. For, when the soldiers had passed through the streets, the workers of the mills builded barricade after barricade. With stones and bamboos and bedsteads and carts and mill-stones and granary-baskets they builded barricades, and the soldiers could not pass again. The Master came and said: ‘No barricades in the name of the Mahatma, for much blood will be spilt,’ but the workmen said, ‘It is not with, “I love you, I love you,” you can change the grinding heart of this Government.’ And they builded more and more barricades and put themselves behind these, and one day they were the masters of the town.