The Mirror and the Bracelet: Little Bullets from Batala
9781465669612
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
HEAR ye the story of the adventures and misfortunes of Bandhu. O Hindu reader! Perhaps you will find that he is one well-known unto you. The mother of Bandhu went on a pilgrimage, and took her son with her. He was then seven years of age. The pilgrimage was a long one, the woman was poor; the flour which she carried with her was little for one, and quite insufficient for two. Bandhu fell grievously sick; sores spread over his body; he had no strength to walk. His mother lifted him up, and carried him a short distance; but she was tired, hungry, and sad, and soon laid him down on the ground. Bandhu grew worse and worse; he moaned aloud in his pain; then his senses left him, and he lay on the earth as one dead. The mother wailed aloud and cried, "What an unlucky day is this! What wretch's face did I happen to see early this morning? Hae! Hae! What shall I do? If I stay here, I shall perish with hunger, or some wild beast will devour me! The boy is dying; I cannot save him; why should I perish with him?" So the mother of Bandhu did what many who go on long pilgrimages are constrained to do, she left the one who was dearest to her upon earth to die alone! Bandhu, happily for him, knew not that his mother was departing. He saw not her form disappearing behind the tall bamboos; he heard not the sound of her wailing. He lay quite alone, sick and senseless, a poor helpless object, from which a stranger might have turned in disgust. But when the sun went down, there was a stirring in the bamboos. The bushes parted on either side. Had Bandhu awoke from his trance, he would have seen the huge head, the glaring eyes, the mouth with its terrible fangs, of a large yellow-striped tiger. The tread of the beast made no sound; he saw his prey lying before him. Crouching like a cat, the tiger drew nearer and nearer; it seemed certain that the deserted boy would be torn to pieces, and devoured by the forest monster. But whilst the tiger crept forward from the left hand, some one was approaching from the right. This was a tall, noble-looking man, richly dressed, from whose mien the truth might be guessed that his rank was that of a king. Never had a grander trodden the earth. He had just conquered that land; all that he surveyed was his own, and won by his prowess. Enemies might hate the king, but they could not withstand his victorious sword; they laid down their arms, they brought tribute, and crouched submissive before his feet. The king had ridden forth that day to hunt, with a numerous suite of attendants; but because he was better mounted than any of them, he had outstripped them all, and now he rode alone. There was not so much as a syce to hold his golden stirrup. The king's horse at last falling lame, his rider had dismounted, and after tying his bridle to a tree, had determined to rejoin his attendants on foot. It was then that the king came on the place where Bandhu lay stretched on the earth, within reach of the tiger's spring. Perhaps out of a million men there would have been but one who would not have left the wretched, diseased child to his fate. Of all princes there would have been but one who would not have thought, "To save so worthless a life I never will risk my own. I am of lofty degree, he is some wretched beggar; better that a host of such should die than a hair of my head should suffer." But the mighty king was that exceptional one. His heart was a treasury of compassion, and every one of his subjects, even those of this newly-conquered land, was dear in his sight. Silently the king drew his sword from its jewelled scabbard, and rushing across the space which divided him from the tiger, he wounded the creature deeply, as he was in the act to spring on the child.
