Life's Handicap , livre ebook

Pub One Info - Rudyard Kipling

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

179 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

pubOne.info thank you for your continued support and wish to present you this new edition. In Northern India stood a monastery called The Chubara of Dhunni Bhagat. No one remembered who or what Dhunni Bhagat had been. He had lived his life, made a little money and spent it all, as every good Hindu should do, on a work of piety - the Chubara. That was full of brick cells, gaily painted with the figures of Gods and kings and elephants, where worn-out priests could sit and meditate on the latter end of things; the paths were brick paved, and the naked feet of thousands had worn them into gutters. Clumps of mangoes sprouted from between the bricks; great pipal trees overhung the well-windlass that whined all day; and hosts of parrots tore through the trees. Crows and squirrels were tame in that place, for they knew that never a priest would touch them.

Informations

Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	23 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819918639
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

PREFACE
In Northern India stood a monastery called TheChubara of Dhunni Bhagat. No one remembered who or what DhunniBhagat had been. He had lived his life, made a little money andspent it all, as every good Hindu should do, on a work of piety -the Chubara. That was full of brick cells, gaily painted with thefigures of Gods and kings and elephants, where worn-out priestscould sit and meditate on the latter end of things; the paths werebrick paved, and the naked feet of thousands had worn them intogutters. Clumps of mangoes sprouted from between the bricks; greatpipal trees overhung the well-windlass that whined all day; andhosts of parrots tore through the trees. Crows and squirrels weretame in that place, for they knew that never a priest would touchthem.
The wandering mendicants, charm-sellers, and holyvagabonds for a hundred miles round used to make the Chubara theirplace of call and rest. Mahomedan, Sikh, and Hindu mixed equallyunder the trees. They were old men, and when man has come to theturnstiles of Night all the creeds in the world seem to himwonderfully alike and colourless.
Gobind the one-eyed told me this. He was a holy manwho lived on an island in the middle of a river and fed the fisheswith little bread pellets twice a day. In flood-time, when swollencorpses stranded themselves at the foot of the island, Gobind wouldcause them to be piously burned, for the sake of the honour ofmankind, and having regard to his own account with God hereafter.But when two-thirds of the island was torn away in a spate, Gobindcame across the river to Dhunni Bhagat's Chubara, he and his brassdrinking vessel with the well-cord round the neck, his shortarm-rest crutch studded with brass nails, his roll of bedding, hisbig pipe, his umbrella, and his tall sugar-loaf hat with thenodding peacock feathers in it. He wrapped himself up in hispatched quilt made of every colour and material in the world, satdown in a sunny corner of the very quiet Chubara, and, resting hisarm on his short-handled crutch, waited for death. The peoplebrought him food and little clumps of marigold flowers, and he gavehis blessing in return. He was nearly blind, and his face wasseamed and lined and wrinkled beyond belief, for he had lived inhis time which was before the English came within five hundredmiles of Dhunni Bhagat's Chubara.
When we grew to know each other well, Gobind wouldtell me tales in a voice most like the rumbling of heavy guns overa wooden bridge. His tales were true, but not one in twenty couldbe printed in an English book, because the English do not think asnatives do. They brood over matters that a native would dismisstill a fitting occasion; and what they would not think twice abouta native will brood over till a fitting occasion: then native andEnglish stare at each other hopelessly across great gulfs ofmiscomprehension.
'And what,' said Gobind one Sunday evening, 'is yourhonoured craft, and by what manner of means earn you your dailybread?'
'I am,' said I, 'a kerani - one who writes with apen upon paper, not being in the service of the Government.'
'Then what do you write?' said Gobind. 'Come nearer,for I cannot see your countenance, and the light fails.'
'I write of all matters that lie within myunderstanding, and of many that do not. But chiefly I write of Lifeand Death, and men and women, and Love and Fate according to themeasure of my ability, telling the tale through the mouths of one,two, or more people. Then by the favour of God the tales are soldand money accrues to me that I may keep alive.'
'Even so,' said Gobind. 'That is the work of thebazar story-teller; but he speaks straight to men and women anddoes not write anything at all. Only when the tale has arousedexpectation, and calamities are about to befall the virtuous, hestops suddenly and demands payment ere he continues the narration.Is it so in your craft, my son?'
'I have heard of such things when a tale is of greatlength, and is sold as a cucumber, in small pieces.'
'Ay, I was once a famed teller of stories when I wasbegging on the road between Koshin and Etra; before the lastpilgrimage that ever I took to Orissa. I told many tales and heardmany more at the rest-houses in the evening when we were merry atthe end of the march. It is in my heart that grown men are but aslittle children in the matter of tales, and the oldest tale is themost beloved.'
'With your people that is truth,' said I. 'But inregard to our people they desire new tales, and when all is writtenthey rise up and declare that the tale were better told in such andsuch a manner, and doubt either the truth or the inventionthereof.'
'But what folly is theirs!' said Gobind, throwingout his knotted hand. 'A tale that is told is a true tale as longas the telling lasts. And of their talk upon it - you know howBilas Khan, that was the prince of tale-tellers, said to one whomocked him in the great rest-house on the Jhelum road: "Go on, mybrother, and finish that I have begun," and he who mocked took upthe tale, but having neither voice nor manner for the task came toa standstill, and the pilgrims at supper made him eat abuse andstick half that night.'
'Nay, but with our people, money having passed, itis their right; as we should turn against a shoeseller in regard toshoes if those wore out. If ever I make a book you shall see andjudge.'
'And the parrot said to the falling tree, Wait,brother, till I fetch a prop!' said Gobind with a grim chuckle.'God has given me eighty years, and it may be some over. I cannotlook for more than day granted by day and as a favour at this tide.Be swift.'
'In what manner is it best to set about the task.'said I, 'O chiefest of those who string pearls with theirtongue?'
'How do I know? Yet' - he thought for a little -'how should I not know? God has made very many heads, but there isonly one heart in all the world among your people or my people.They are children in the matter of tales.'
'But none are so terrible as the little ones, if aman misplace a word, or in a second telling vary events by so muchas one small devil.'
'Ay, I also have told tales to the little ones, butdo thou this - ' His old eyes fell on the gaudy paintings of thewall, the blue and red dome, and the flames of the poinsettiasbeyond. 'Tell them first of those things that thou hast seen andthey have seen together. Thus their knowledge will piece out thyimperfections. Tell them of what thou alone hast seen, then whatthou hast heard, and since they be children tell them of battlesand kings, horses, devils, elephants, and angels, but omit not totell them of love and suchlike. All the earth is full of tales tohim who listens and does not drive away the poor from his door. Thepoor are the best of tale-tellers; for they must lay their ear tothe ground every night.'
After this conversation the idea grew in my head,and Gobind was pressing in his inquiries as to the health of thebook.
Later, when we had been parted for months, ithappened that I was to go away and far off, and I came to bidGobind good-bye.
'It is farewell between us now, for I go a very longjourney,' I said.
'And I also. A longer one than thou. But what of thebook?' said he.
'It will be born in due season if it is soordained.'
'I would I could see it,' said the old man, huddlingbeneath his quilt. 'But that will not be. I die three days hence,in the night, a little before the dawn. The term of my years isaccomplished.'
In nine cases out of ten a native makes nomiscalculation as to the day of his death. He has the foreknowledgeof the beasts in this respect.
'Then thou wilt depart in peace, and it is goodtalk, for thou hast said that life is no delight to thee.'
'But it is a pity that our book is not born. Howshall I know that there is any record of my name?'
'Because I promise, in the forepart of the book,preceding everything else, that it shall be written, Gobind, sadhu,of the island in the river and awaiting God in Dhunni Bhagat'sChubara, first spoke of the book,' said I.
'And gave counsel - an old man's counsel. Gobind,son of Gobind of the Chumi village in the Karaon tehsil, in thedistrict of Mooltan. Will that be written also?'
'That will be written also.'
'And the book will go across the Black Water to thehouses of your people, and all the Sahibs will know of me who ameighty years old?'
'All who read the book shall know. I cannot promisefor the rest.'
'That is good talk. Call aloud to all who are in themonastery, and I will tell them this thing.'
They trooped up, faquirs, sadhus, sunnyasis,byragis, nihangs, and mullahs, priests of all faiths and everydegree of raggedness, and Gobind, leaning upon his crutch, spoke sothat they were visibly filled with envy, and a white-haired seniorbade Gobind think of his latter end instead of transitory repute inthe mouths of strangers. Then Gobind gave me his blessing and Icame away.
These tales have been collected from all places, andall sorts of people, from priests in the Chubara, from Ala Yar thecarver, Jiwun Singh the carpenter, nameless men on steamers andtrains round the world, women spinning outside their cottages inthe twilight, officers and gentlemen now dead and buried, and afew, but these are the very best, my father gave me. The greaterpart of them have been published in magazines and newspapers, towhose editors I am indebted; but some are new on this side of thewater, and some have not seen the light before.
The most remarkable stories are, of course, thosewhich do not appear - for obvious reasons.
THE LANG MEN O' LARUT
The Chief Engineer's sleeping suit was of yellowstriped with blue, and his speech was the speech of Aberdeen. Theysluiced the deck under him, and he hopped on to the ornamentalcapstan, a black pipe between his teeth, though the hour was notseven of the morn.
'Did you ever hear o' the Lang Men o' Larut?' heasked when the Man from Orizava had finished a story of anaboriginal giant discovered in the wilds of B