rosaries," Sam said. "I've seen the sadhus wear them."
Mila looked fully upon Sam then. "You are unusual," she said. "I don't know many people visiting India who would have taken the trouble to be so observant."
Sam felt a flush of happiness and said, "The rudraksha tree represents the tears of Lord Shiva, and 'rudra' is Shiva's name, and 'aksha' means tears. Lord Shiva is said to have come out of a deep meditation, and upon opening his eyes, peace and happiness so overwhelmed him that tears ran down his face and fell upon the earth. At each place the tears drenched the ground, a rudraksha tree sprang up."
He watched surprise flood her face and said, "I should confess; I teach South Asian languages back home especially Sanskrit."
"Are you visiting Rudrakot for long?" Mila asked. "My father would be absolutely delighted to meet you."
"Not very long," Sam said. "So why Rudrakot?"
"Many years ago, we claimed this as the origin of the kingdom--as the sacred ground upon which Lord Shiva had wept for joy. The name was then shortened to Rudrakot, now to mean the abode of Lord Shiva, not merely of his tears, even more ambitious than the original name, as you see. What had not mattered to the kings who named the land was that no rudraksha tree grew in or around Rudrakot. When we are questioned about the absence of the tree that gives the place its name, you will find us vacillating, with perhaps at one time maybe or but, of course, there was a reason, now just lost in time and legend. The rudraksha tree grows only at the foothills of the Himalayas; the Sukh desert could never nurture it." Mila began to laugh. "Perhaps that is why Rudrakot shortened its name--the nonexistence of the tree is obvious; Shiva's presence at Rudrakot could not be suspect. For God only shows Himself to those who believe."
"Sahib," the rickshaw puller said behind them. "We can go."
Mila's laugh turned into a lower, more self-conscious sound. She bent down to pat her horse's neck and soothe him. For the past five minutes, as Mila and Sam had talked, Ghatoth had fallen into a steady restlessness, his shoes clicking on the tar road as he shifted his feet about.
"Thank you," Sam said. "I will remember this story forever." And the voice and the face of the storyteller, he thought to himself. If only he had more time in Rudrakot, he could find out who this woman was, he could ...
He stood back and raised his hand again. "Good-bye."
She nodded and rode away.
Twenty minutes later, Sam reached the political agent's house and paid off the rickshaw driver. When he looked down at the ground, he realized that he was standing on an elaborate design--flowers and squares and hexagons, drawn upon the dark earth in rice flour; this was a welcome kolam. He lifted a foot and saw that the lines of the design had dissolved under his weight. Sam stepped carefully around and climbed the steps without smudging the design. It seemed a shame to destroy it, yet he knew that a smudged kolam was the sign of a house well-visited, a house where people came to ask after the owners' health, a house that was welcoming and open--it was almost obligatory for the visitor to step into the home with little grains of rice flour clinging to the soles of his feet, but Sam did not have the heart to disturb it so early in the morning.
At the top step, Sam was raising a hand to pound on the door when his shoulder began to throb. He dropped his holdall, letting it tumble down to settle in a fine mist of dust and rice flour, the kolam distorted beyond recognition, and leaned against the wood door, his eyes closed, his knock unfinished.
April 1942, a Month Earlier
Somewhere in Burma
There has been no rain for an hour, but the teak forest stubbling the lower hills holds moisture in its dogged embrace. It is not monsoon season yet, or so the meteorologists declared in the report that Sam read in Assam. The monsoon in Burma is southwesterly; rains blanket the country from May until October of
Mila looked fully upon Sam then. "You are unusual," she said. "I don't know many people visiting India who would have taken the trouble to be so observant."
Sam felt a flush of happiness and said, "The rudraksha tree represents the tears of Lord Shiva, and 'rudra' is Shiva's name, and 'aksha' means tears. Lord Shiva is said to have come out of a deep meditation, and upon opening his eyes, peace and happiness so overwhelmed him that tears ran down his face and fell upon the earth. At each place the tears drenched the ground, a rudraksha tree sprang up."
He watched surprise flood her face and said, "I should confess; I teach South Asian languages back home especially Sanskrit."
"Are you visiting Rudrakot for long?" Mila asked. "My father would be absolutely delighted to meet you."
"Not very long," Sam said. "So why Rudrakot?"
"Many years ago, we claimed this as the origin of the kingdom--as the sacred ground upon which Lord Shiva had wept for joy. The name was then shortened to Rudrakot, now to mean the abode of Lord Shiva, not merely of his tears, even more ambitious than the original name, as you see. What had not mattered to the kings who named the land was that no rudraksha tree grew in or around Rudrakot. When we are questioned about the absence of the tree that gives the place its name, you will find us vacillating, with perhaps at one time maybe or but, of course, there was a reason, now just lost in time and legend. The rudraksha tree grows only at the foothills of the Himalayas; the Sukh desert could never nurture it." Mila began to laugh. "Perhaps that is why Rudrakot shortened its name--the nonexistence of the tree is obvious; Shiva's presence at Rudrakot could not be suspect. For God only shows Himself to those who believe."
"Sahib," the rickshaw puller said behind them. "We can go."
Mila's laugh turned into a lower, more self-conscious sound. She bent down to pat her horse's neck and soothe him. For the past five minutes, as Mila and Sam had talked, Ghatoth had fallen into a steady restlessness, his shoes clicking on the tar road as he shifted his feet about.
"Thank you," Sam said. "I will remember this story forever." And the voice and the face of the storyteller, he thought to himself. If only he had more time in Rudrakot, he could find out who this woman was, he could ...
He stood back and raised his hand again. "Good-bye."
She nodded and rode away.
Twenty minutes later, Sam reached the political agent's house and paid off the rickshaw driver. When he looked down at the ground, he realized that he was standing on an elaborate design--flowers and squares and hexagons, drawn upon the dark earth in rice flour; this was a welcome kolam. He lifted a foot and saw that the lines of the design had dissolved under his weight. Sam stepped carefully around and climbed the steps without smudging the design. It seemed a shame to destroy it, yet he knew that a smudged kolam was the sign of a house well-visited, a house where people came to ask after the owners' health, a house that was welcoming and open--it was almost obligatory for the visitor to step into the home with little grains of rice flour clinging to the soles of his feet, but Sam did not have the heart to disturb it so early in the morning.
At the top step, Sam was raising a hand to pound on the door when his shoulder began to throb. He dropped his holdall, letting it tumble down to settle in a fine mist of dust and rice flour, the kolam distorted beyond recognition, and leaned against the wood door, his eyes closed, his knock unfinished.
April 1942, a Month Earlier
Somewhere in Burma
There has been no rain for an hour, but the teak forest stubbling the lower hills holds moisture in its dogged embrace. It is not monsoon season yet, or so the meteorologists declared in the report that Sam read in Assam. The monsoon in Burma is southwesterly; rains blanket the country from May until October of
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