CHAPTER ITHE SON OF GOKARNA
It was July; and in Bul-Ruknu, Vindhya-sheltered, the rains were over. From now till September one could but avoid the open sunlight and sleep as much as the human system would permit. This afternoon the heat poured blindly over the mud and bamboo village, and even animals and children had deserted the streets and sought shelter from the molten sky. One woman, her head and body wrapped round in bright-colored cotton, darted out of the close veranda of her own dwelling and hurried swiftly down the street toward the spot where, set a little off by itself, stood the largest and best-built house in the town. Entering the veranda of this she found seated there, on a pile of straw cushions, her half-sister, Kota, wife of Gokarna, the head-man, and at the same time, which was unusual, chief priest of Siva, the village deity.
Greetings passed between the two; and Kota, causing her sister to sit beside her, clapped her hands for a slave who presently appeared in the doorway, a timid, unkempt girl of fifteen.
“Bring us fruits, Jensa,” commanded her mistress. Then, as the girl disappeared, she turned to Hilka:“’Tis six days since I have seen thee. Are thy gods propitious?”
“Yesterday, at sacrifice, the omens for the harvest were bad. But Gokarna has told thee that. How art thou?”
Kota stirred a little, uncomfortably, and lifted her languorous eyes to her sister’s face. Just then the slave came back with custard-apples, early mangoes, and pomegranates in a basket. Kota took them from her, proffered the dish to her visitor, who accepted one of the mangoes, and then, while both began to eat, Kota said slowly: “I am not happy, my sister. My mind is troubled. I am filled with melancholy and foreboding concerning the child. I see many strange visions in my sleep. The gods refuse me peace.”
“Art thou thus, Kota? That is not right. Yes, I can see thou art not well. Let Gokarna offer special sacrifice for thee.”
“He hath done so twice already since thePumsavana. But ah, Hilka, I cannot speak my heart to him. It seems to me as if my thoughts were not my own. They are put into my mind by evil spirits. I fear them, and I fear the end. Alas, shall the soul of this child be evil? I fear it! I fear it!” She spoke with a nervous intensity that made a strong impression upon Hilka, who knew well her sister’s lazy, thoughtless temperament. It was the first time she had ever perceived any strong feeling in her. Now she said anxiously: “Go to Naka, at the end of the village, and get a charm from him to ward off theDevas.”
“Hush! Gokarna is coming! Do not speak before him of charms, or he would scold us both.”
Hilka, who had been sitting with her back to the street, turned hastily, as Kota’s husband appeared in the veranda entrance:—a tall and austere-looking Brahman, clad in a long, white garment. He came forward at once to greet his wife, giving Hilka but a careless recognition; for, to the head of the village, even his wife’s relatives were scarcely worthy of attention from him. And Hilka’s visit was brought to a sudden close; for no woman of Bul-Ruknu would, from choice, have stayed long in the proximity of the Priest of Siva.
Kota bade her sister a quiet farewell, not asking her to come again—rather taking that for granted. And when the visitor was gone, she turned immediately to her husband, who touched her on the forehead, answered briefly her questions concerning the day’s auguries, and presently left her and went into the house.
Kota, knowing that it would be useless to follow him, too dreary at heart to care whether or not he talked with her, returned to her cushions and sat down again to gaze off into space at the swirling, white heat-waves, and to dream, vaguely, of days that had never been.
For an Indian, Kota was a pretty woman, her eyes being very large and soft, and her black hair, just now woven with yellow champak flowers, thick and long. She was seventeen years old, and had been married for three years. Moreover, she had been born a Brahman, and, in her married life, had been highly honored; for, though until now she had been childless, her husbandhad not taken another wife. Above all, Gokarna’s parents had died in his early youth; so that Kota, at her marriage made mistress of the finest house in Bul-Ruknu, had been also spared that terror and curse of all young Indian women—the mother-in-law, whose traditional duty it was to make the life of the young wife one of perpetual misery.
At the time of her marriage, the girl Kota had been envied by every woman in the village. Later, despite the unheard-of advantages of her position, she had not been so much looked up to, for the reason that she was childless. But, just now, her star was again in the ascendant, since, in the winter, she was to present Gokarna’s house with a much-prayed-for heir.
In spite of the fact that she was to have what she herself had most longed for, Kota, as she had just explained to her sister, was not happy. Her mind was in an abnormal state; and was seriously affected by the slightest incident. Highly imaginative, like all her race, she had always been more or less given to visions and presentiments; though never so much as now. She would sit for hours motionless, wrapped in unhappy dreams, or, as the result of some slight accident, a prey to the keenest forebodings of evil. These things she did not often confide to her husband. Nor did she see enough of the members of her own family to get much comfort from them. Thus the naturally morbid state of her mind was fostered and increased by her loneliness and her secret broodings, till her nights were filled with terror, and her days were of the length of years.
The hot months passed slowly; and when, after the early harvest, the fall monsoon came on, Kota grew more than ever listless and unhappy. Her time was now much occupied, however, with religious ceremonial; and, in this respect, probably no woman was ever better cared for than Kota. TheSimontonnayanawas made the occasion of a special festival, which was attended by the whole village. According to the commands of the Vedic ritual, the mother was magnificently dressed, and adorned with gold and jewels. Gokarna sacrificed a bull to Indra, the flesh of which, after an offering to the gods, was partaken by everybody. Then the ceremony of the parting of the hair was performed, and texts were chanted by all the Brahmans. Only one event marred the general gayety of the night. At the end of the prescribed ceremony, and before the beginning of the feast, Gokarna, following custom, bade his wife sing the merry festival song: “Taza ba Taza”. Kota, who had sat silent and solemn through the entire ceremony, looked up at her husband pleadingly, then opened her lips, uttered the first words of the song in a hoarse and trembling tone, and suddenly burst into a torrent of tears that no entreaty of her friends nor stern command of her husband could still. This incident was considered an evil omen; but, in the subsequent feast and merrymaking, it was quickly forgotten by all save the poor little mother herself.
After this, Kota did not appear again in public. Indeed, for the next two moons she spent her time almost wholly on her bed, attended by Jensa, andsometimes by Hilka, till, at length, January came. In the last days, Gokarna suddenly became attentive, nay, almost tender, to his wife. He was by nature neither demonstrative nor affectionate. But the matter of his child touched the dominating note of his nature:—pride. And he could not but be interested in the person who had power to present him with sons to whom he could hand down his state and dignity. Gokarna was inordinately anxious for a son. Though his dispassionate nature rebelled bitterly at the thought, he was determined that, should this child prove to be a girl, he would take another wife. Meantime, however, Kota was the object of his highest interest; and not a little was she astonished when he left the conducting of the full-moon sacrifices to an under-priest, that he might stay beside her. He wished to talk with her of the child. But Kota’s three years of wedded life had not prepared her to confide her secret thoughts to her husband, and he got surprisingly little from her on the subject nearest both of them. His conclusion was that she was like all women:—too stupid to think. But had Kota chosen, she could have disclosed to him a little wonder-world of motherhood that would have opened his eyes anew to womankind. Melancholy she had been. Now she was full of dread. Nevertheless, the sacred love was in her; and, in her brighter hours, she had given her child all the tenderness of hope, all the ambitions and desires for its welfare, that her stunted womanhood could conjure up. For the first years of its life, at least, the baby would be her own tolove and to rule. Her heart would have something to cling to. The dry dust of her existence was about to put forth flowers and foliage at last. But of such thoughts, and the joy in them, she could tell Gokarna nothing, as he sat beside her mat-bed in mid-January of that year 1207. He could only make ceaseless inquiries as to her welfare; and, toward nightfall, he was rewarded by her suddenly sitting up, and crying to him to send at once for the low-caste nurse who was to attend her in the coming hours.
These hours were terrible enough, even to the emotionless Gokarna. Religion forbade his remaining with his wife, or allowing any but the woman of special caste to behold her. All he could do was to sit in the room next to that in which she lay, kindle a sacrificial fire, repeat over it certain prescribed Vedic texts, and listen anxiously to the sounds issuing from the neighboring room. This lasted an unconscionable time. Then, when the night was at its most solemn ebb, the moaning and sobbing suddenly ceased, and silence fell on the priest’s house. This stillness was far more terrible than the noise had been. Gokarna’s unemotional nature was stirred to its very depths. Should he brave the Vedas—and go to her? While he waited, straining his ears, a new sound came:—a faint, baby wail that pierced the heart of the man and caused him to start joyously to his feet. A moment later the hanging before the doorway was pushed aside, and the nurse appeared, holding in her arms the child, wrapped in a piece of cotton cloth. For a second,Gokarna stood still, choking with hope. Then he ran forward, and put his hands on the tiny form:
“Is it—is it a boy? Speak!” he said.
The nurse answered not a word, but laid the child in his arms.
Not until noon the next day did Gokarna enter the room where his wife lay. Kota, on the bed, with the baby beside her, started up as he entered. But the words on her lips were stopped by his look.
“In the name of the gods, Kota, I give greeting to thee—and to my son. My son,” he repeated, slowly, his eyes fixed upon the face of his wife, whose frightened expression did not diminish. “And thou,” he continued, turning to the nurse who stood at hand, listening intently, “see that, on penalty of banishment, thou prate to none concerning the matters of this house. I am now come to perform the ceremony of the breathing and the secret name. Therefore depart, woman, from the room, nor return until I summon thee.”
The nurse, alarmed at his tone, made a hasty exit; and Gokarna turned again to his wife. Nor did he say another word on the subject nearest both their hearts. Immediately he took the child from its mother’s arms, at which it protested, with lusty voice, Kota watching it the while with tenderest mother-eyes. Gokarna, holding the child up before him, breathed three times upon it, and murmured: “Draw in thy breath with theRik, breathe within theYagus, breathe forth with theSaman.”
Then, handing the babe for a moment back to its mother, he left the room, shortly returning with the articles of daily sacrifice:—honey, melted butter, and barley mixed together in a small earthen dish, in which stood also a spoon of beaten silver. Placing these on the floor beside the bed, he seated himself, took the child again, and looked up to Kota. “The name,” he said. “Find thou the omen for our name for him.”
Kota stirred uneasily. “Hark!” she said, listening, “what do they sing there without:—what song?”
Somewhere in the village a chant was sounding, the words as yet indistinct, but becoming gradually louder, till a little procession passed Gokarna’s house, uttering these words, over their heavy and sorrowful burden:
“Call on Rama! Call to Rama!Oh, my Brothers, call on Rama!For this deadWhom we bring,Call aloud to mighty Rama!”
“Call on Rama! Call to Rama!Oh, my Brothers, call on Rama!For this deadWhom we bring,Call aloud to mighty Rama!”
“Call on Rama! Call to Rama!Oh, my Brothers, call on Rama!For this deadWhom we bring,Call aloud to mighty Rama!”
“Call on Rama! Call to Rama!
Oh, my Brothers, call on Rama!
For this dead
Whom we bring,
Call aloud to mighty Rama!”
“Rama!” echoed Kota, tremulously. “God of death!—Alas! Alas! That is the omen.”
“It is surely an evil omen that a funeral should pass the house of the new-born. Yet Rama is a god. He must be honored. Let the secret name of the child be ‘Ramasarman.’ There are the four, holy Brahmanic syllables. ‘Ramasarman.’ Say it with me, Kota.”
And the mother, with tears in her eyes and in her voice, repeated with her husband the words thatgave her first-born a secret name of death. And when this ceremony was over, receiving the baby once more into her arms, she wept over it, quietly and persistently, throughout the afternoon.