'Come in and rest,' said Tom, 'and I will call Ganesh, and he shall give you to eat and drink.'
'Rest!' cried the Brahmin bitterly, 'rest is for men, and I am no man. I am a dog, a creeping thing, to be spurned by the foot of the passer-by. If you have any pity, kill me!'
'My brother is raving,' said Tom pitifully. 'Fatigue and want are breaking his heart. When he has rested and eaten he will be glad of the good gift of life.'
'Does your Excellency speak like a sage now?' said the Brahmin, with a sombre derision in his voice. 'Does he know what he says when he calls life good? I tell him that it is not good?it is evil.'
'Life need not be evil unless we make it so.'
'We!' shrieked the Brahmin. 'We! I see now that you know nothing. Look at me?this ragged robe, these wasted limbs, these eyes bright with the fever of famine, and say if I have made myself what I am. I was brought up as a prince. My father, who had no sons of his body, adopted me, and I lived in his palace, sharing his wealth and dominion, which were one day to be mine. He died, and your people denied my claim. I was not, they said, of my father's kin, and I had no right to succeed him. They would inherit for me and fulfil my duties. The fools! Can they raise up children to the departed to keep green his memory upon the earth? Can they pay to his ashes the observance that is due? The funeral feast, the oblation of water and rice, the garment to clothe the shivering spirit, and the gifts to priests and teachers to redeem it? ??? who will give them? Will they? Can they? They know that they cannot. While I wander homeless and ragged upon earth, my father and my father's fathers are in the pit, herding with demons and unfriended spirits. Never can they be redeemed; never, through all the crores of ages that are to come, can they ascend into Swarga. By the treachery of your people must the memory of the pious die out. And when the Feringhees become masters of us all, as they intend, there will be no more offerings for the dead. Childless our great ones will depart, and the pit will be fed with the savour of their beauty, and Swarga shall be a desert, and the gods will lament.'
'Rest!' cried the Brahmin bitterly, 'rest is for men, and I am no man. I am a dog, a creeping thing, to be spurned by the foot of the passer-by. If you have any pity, kill me!'
'My brother is raving,' said Tom pitifully. 'Fatigue and want are breaking his heart. When he has rested and eaten he will be glad of the good gift of life.'
'Does your Excellency speak like a sage now?' said the Brahmin, with a sombre derision in his voice. 'Does he know what he says when he calls life good? I tell him that it is not good?it is evil.'
'Life need not be evil unless we make it so.'
'We!' shrieked the Brahmin. 'We! I see now that you know nothing. Look at me?this ragged robe, these wasted limbs, these eyes bright with the fever of famine, and say if I have made myself what I am. I was brought up as a prince. My father, who had no sons of his body, adopted me, and I lived in his palace, sharing his wealth and dominion, which were one day to be mine. He died, and your people denied my claim. I was not, they said, of my father's kin, and I had no right to succeed him. They would inherit for me and fulfil my duties. The fools! Can they raise up children to the departed to keep green his memory upon the earth? Can they pay to his ashes the observance that is due? The funeral feast, the oblation of water and rice, the garment to clothe the shivering spirit, and the gifts to priests and teachers to redeem it? ??? who will give them? Will they? Can they? They know that they cannot. While I wander homeless and ragged upon earth, my father and my father's fathers are in the pit, herding with demons and unfriended spirits. Never can they be redeemed; never, through all the crores of ages that are to come, can they ascend into Swarga. By the treachery of your people must the memory of the pious die out. And when the Feringhees become masters of us all, as they intend, there will be no more offerings for the dead. Childless our great ones will depart, and the pit will be fed with the savour of their beauty, and Swarga shall be a desert, and the gods will lament.'