Chapter One

Some two hundred and fifty years ago, on a certain day in the month of Magh, at the close of night, a pilgrim's boat was returning from the Sagar island at the mouth of the Ganges. It was the custom of that age, in dread of the Portuguese and other corsairs of the sea, for the pilgrim craft to journey in companies; but these voyagers were companionless. The reason was this: at the close of night a thick fog had spread over the whole horizon, and the boatmen, unable to ascertain the quarter, had drifted far from the fleet. Now in what direction, or toward what shore, they were moving, none could in any wise determine.

The greater number of the passengers were sunk in slumber. One man advanced in years, and one in the bloom of youth — these two alone remained awake. The elder was holding converse with the younger. Once, suspending his discourse, the old man enquired of the boatmen, "Boatman, how far yet may we proceed this day?" The boatman, after some hesitation, made answer, "That I cannot tell."

The old man, growing wroth, fell to chiding the boatman. The youth then spake: "Sir, what lieth in the hand of God, even the wise cannot foretell; how then should this poor fellow declare it? Trouble not thyself."

The old man cried out hotly, "Trouble not myself, sayest thou? What sayest thou? The rascals have cut and carried off twenty or five-and-twenty bighas of my paddy — whereon shall my children and household feed for a twelvemonth?"

This tiding he had received, after his coming to the sea, from the lips of certain other pilgrims who had followed after him. The youth said, "Did I not tell thee at the first, that there is none other in thy house to keep ward — it was not well of thee to undertake this journey."

The old man, as wrathful as before, replied, "Not come, sayest thou? Three ages have run their course; one only remaineth. If now I do not provide for the world to come, when shall I do it?"

The youth said, "If I have understood the scriptures aright, that office which is performed by pilgrimage unto holy places may be performed no less by abiding at one's own threshold."

Said the old man, "Wherefore then art thou come?"

The youth answered, "Did I not tell thee already, that I had a great longing to behold the sea, and for that cause am I come?" And then, in a somewhat softer tone, he continued, "Ah! what have I beheld! through birth upon birth I shall never forget it."

The elder had no ear for poesy. He had been attending, single-minded, to the discourse which the boatmen held among themselves.

One boatman was saying to another, "Brother — this business hath turned out ill. Whether we have fallen into the open sea, or come unto some unknown country, that I cannot tell."

The speaker's voice was deeply afraid. The old man perceived that some occasion of peril was at hand. With an anxious heart he asked, "Boatman, what hath befallen?" The boatman returned no answer; but the youth, awaiting no reply, went forth from the cabin. Coming forth, he saw that day was well-nigh broken. On every side a thick fog was spread; sky, stars, moon, shore — nothing was visible. He understood that the mariners had lost their bearings. In what direction they now drifted, they could not tell — lest they should be cast into the open ocean and perish in unfathomed waters, fear had laid hold upon them.

To keep off the cold, a curtain had been hung in front of the cabin, and for that cause those within had known nothing of these matters. But the young traveller, comprehending the case, made it known to the old man in particular; whereupon there arose a great clamour within the boat. Such of the womenfolk as were in the cabin, some among them already wakened by the sound of voices, no sooner heard than they set up a cry of lamentation. The elder cried out, "To the shore! To the shore! To the shore!"

The youth, with a faint smile, said, "If we knew where the shore lay, wherefore should we have come to this pass?"

Hearing this, the clamour of the voyagers waxed yet greater. The young traveller, after some pains, having quieted them, addressed the boatmen, saying, "There is no cause for fear. Day hath dawned; in the space of four or five dandas no harm shall come to the boat. Cease, therefore, from rowing; let the boat drift whither the current bears her; when the sun is well risen, we shall take counsel together."

The boatmen, consenting to this counsel, did accordingly.

For a long while the boatmen remained inactive. The passengers' very lives seemed lodged in their throats for fear. There was little wind; therefore they did not greatly feel the heaving of the waves. Yet every one accounted death at hand. The men silently muttered the name of Durga; the women, raising their voices, fell to weeping in divers strains. One woman had cast her child into the waters at Sagar, and being unable to draw him up again, was reft of him: she alone did not weep.

Whilst they thus waited, by their reckoning the time wore on till nigh upon the third hour of the day. Then on a sudden the boatmen, calling aloud upon the names of the five Pirs of the deep, set up a great cry. The passengers all asked together, "What is it? What is it? Boatman, what hath befallen?" The boatmen, too, with one voice cried out, "The sun hath risen! Behold yonder, the land!" The passengers, every one in eagerness, came forth from the boat to see whither they had come and what the case was. They saw that the sun was risen. From the gathered darkness of the fog the whole circle of the heavens was utterly delivered. The day was already advanced beyond a single watch. The place to which the boat had come was not in truth the great ocean, but only the mouth of a river; yet such was the breadth of that river there, that nowhere had its like been seen. One bank of the river was indeed close at hand, within some fifty cubits of the boat; but the further shore could not be descried. Wheresoever else the eye looked, there was a boundless waste of waters, kindled by the trembling beams of the sun, and mingling at the horizon with the sky. The waters near at hand had the wonted muddy hue of river-water; but the more distant flood was of a blue lustre. The passengers were now well assured that they had drifted out into the great ocean; but, by good fortune, the shore being near, there was no cause for further dread. Looking upon the sun, they determined the quarters. The shore before them was easily set down for the western coast of the sea. Within the line of that shore, no great distance from the boat, the mouth of a river was emptying itself in a slow, silvery current. At the point of confluence, upon the right hand, lay a great stretch of sandy beach, where birds of many kinds were sporting in numberless multitudes. That river is now known as the river of Rasulpur.