Chapter Thirteen

After much sorrow, Mahendra and Kalyani met once more. Kalyani threw herself down and wept; Mahendra wept yet more. When the weeping was done, there began a great wiping of eyes — yet each time the eyes were dried, fresh tears came pouring forth. To stem this flow of tears, Kalyani spoke of food. The Brahmachari's attendant had left provisions behind, and Kalyani bade Mahendra eat of them. In those famine-stricken days there was no hope of rice or curry to be had, yet whatsoever the land yielded was easily come by for the Children.

That forest was inaccessible to common men. Wherever a fruit ripened upon any tree, the starving folk would pluck and devour it; but the fruit of those trees in the unapproachable wilderness no man could obtain. For this cause the Brahmachari's servant had been able to fetch many a wild fruit and some milk besides. Among the holy Sannyasis' possessions there were also some cows. At Kalyani's entreaty Mahendra first took a little nourishment; thereafter, sitting apart, Kalyani ate what was left over.

Some of the milk she gave to her little daughter; some she set aside, that she might feed her again. Then, both being overcome by drowsiness, they slept and so put away their weariness. When they awoke, they began to take counsel together as to whither they should now go. Said Kalyani, "Deeming danger at home, we forsook our house and came hither; yet now I see that outside is more peril than within. Come then, let us return home." Mahendra was of the same mind.

It was his wish, having placed Kalyani in their house with some guardian appointed over her, to take up by some means this most pleasant and unearthly vow of holy Mother-service. Therefore he readily consented. Then the twain, their weariness being cast off, took up the child in their arms and set forth toward Padachinha.

But by what path they were to go to Padachinha, in that impenetrable forest they could in no wise determine. They had supposed that once they came forth out of the wood they should find the road; but no way out of the wood could they find. Long they wandered within it, and wandering ever returned to that selfsame monastery; no path of egress could they discover. Before them stood a Brahmachari clad in the garb of a Vaishnava, a stranger, who was laughing. Mahendra, beholding him, grew wrathful and asked, "Goswami, wherefore dost thou laugh?"

The Goswami replied, "How came ye to enter this wood?"

Mahendra answered, "By whatever means, we have entered it."

The Goswami said, "Having entered, why then canst thou not come forth?" And so saying, the Vaishnava fell to laughing again.

Wrathfully Mahendra said, "Thou laughest. Canst thou come forth?"

The Vaishnava said, "Come with me, I will show thee the way. Surely ye must have entered in company with some Sannyasi or Brahmachari. Otherwise no man knoweth either the way into this monastery or the way out of it."

Hearing this, Mahendra said, "Art thou a Child?"

The Vaishnava said, "Yea, I too am a Child; come thou with me. It is for the very purpose of showing thee the way that I stand here."

Mahendra asked, "What is thy name?"

The Vaishnava said, "My name is Dhirananda Goswami."

So saying, Dhirananda went on before, and Mahendra and Kalyani followed after. By a most difficult road Dhirananda led them out, and then, alone, returned again into the forest.

Mahendra said, "What I am to do, I am pondering — a dream is but a terror, born of itself within the mind and within itself extinguished, a bubble upon the water of life. Come, let us go home."

Kalyani replied, "Whithersoever God biddeth thee go, do thou go." And so saying, she placed the child in her husband's arms.

Mahendra, taking his daughter upon his lap, asked, "And thou — whither wilt thou go?"

Kalyani, covering both her eyes with her two hands and pressing her temples, said, "Whither God hath bidden me go, thither also will I go."

Mahendra started up and said, "Where is that? In what manner wilt thou go?"

Kalyani showed him a casket of poison.

Mahendra cried in astonishment, "What is this? Wilt thou drink poison?"

"I had thought to drink it, but —" Kalyani fell silent and began to muse. Mahendra kept his gaze fixed upon her face. Each instant seemed to him a year. Seeing that Kalyani did not finish her speech, Mahendra asked, "But what wast thou saying?"

Kalyani said, "I had thought to drink it — but to leave thee — to leave Sukumari — I have no wish to go even to Vaikuntha. I shall not die."

So saying, Kalyani set the casket of poison upon the ground. Then the two fell to speaking of things past and things to come. In their talk both grew absent of mind. In this interval the little girl, playing about, took up the casket of poison. Neither of them remarked it.

Sukumari thought, "Here is a fine plaything." Holding the casket once in her left hand, she clapped it smartly with her right. Then, grasping it with both hands, she pulled at it this way and that — and so the casket came open, and the pellet fell out.

The little pellet fell upon her father's garment. Sukumari beheld it and thought, "Here is yet another plaything." Casting away the casket, she struck at it with her palm and picked up the pellet.

Wherefore Sukumari did not put the casket to her lips I cannot say — but concerning the pellet there was no tarrying. What is got, is to be eaten — Sukumari put the pellet into her mouth. At that very moment her mother's eye fell upon her.

"What hath she eaten! What hath she eaten! Ruin upon us!" cried Kalyani, and thrust her fingers into the child's mouth. Then both of them perceived that the casket of poison lay empty. Sukumari, thinking she had got herself yet another game, clenched her teeth — but a few teeth had as yet come up — and looking up into her mother's face, began to laugh. Belike in the meanwhile the taste of the poison-pellet had grown loathsome in her mouth; for after a little the child of her own accord unclenched her teeth, and Kalyani took out the pellet and cast it away. The child began to cry.

The pellet lay upon the ground. Kalyani went to the river, dipped the hem of her sari and brought water, and put it into the child's mouth. Most piteously she asked of Mahendra, "Is there a little of it gone down?"

It is the ill that comes first into the minds of father and mother — where love is greater, there is fear also more violent. Mahendra had not before observed how large the pellet had been. Now, taking the pellet in his hand and gazing upon it long, he said, "I think she hath eaten much of it."

Kalyani perforce came to the same belief. She also long held the pellet in her hand and scrutinised it. Meanwhile, by virtue even of the few drops the child had swallowed, some derangement appeared in her. She began to writhe a little — she began to cry — at length she fell into a kind of swoon. Then Kalyani said to her husband, "What more dost thou look for? By the path whither God hath called, Sukumari is gone — I too must go."

So saying, Kalyani cast the poison-pellet into her mouth, and in a moment swallowed it down.

Mahendra wept and said, "What hast thou done — Kalyani, oh, what hast thou done?"

Kalyani, making no answer, took the dust of her husband's feet upon her head and said, "My lord, if we speak, speech will but increase. I am going."

"Kalyani, what hast thou done!" Mahendra cried aloud and wept. Most softly Kalyani spoke: "I have done well. Lest for the sake of a worthless woman thou shouldst grow slack in God's work! See, I had been transgressing the word of God, and therefore my child is gone. Should there be further neglect, lest thou also be taken!"

Mahendra wept and said, "I would have set thee down in some place — when our work was accomplished, I would again have taken thee unto me and been happy. Kalyani, mine all! Why hast thou done this thing! That hand by whose strength I should have wielded the sword, that very hand thou hast cut off! Without thee, what am I?"

Kalyani said, "Whither wouldst thou have taken me — where is there a place? Mother, father, kindred, in this dread evil time — all are dead. In whose house is there a place, by what road might we go, whither wouldst thou take me? I am a burden upon thy neck. I have died, and I have done well. Bless me, that I may go to that — that radiant world, and there see thee once again." So saying, Kalyani took once more the dust of her husband's feet and laid it upon her brow.

Mahendra, finding no answer to make, wept again. Kalyani spoke yet again — most softly, most sweetly, most tenderly: "See, the will of God who hath power to gainsay? God hath given me leave to go; though I would, can I remain? Had I not died of myself, surely some other would have slain me. I have died, and have done well. The vow thou hast undertaken — fulfil it in deed, in mind, in word, and merit will be thine. Through that shall I attain heaven. Together we shall enjoy heaven everlasting."

By this time the little girl had brought up some milk and was eased of it. The poison that had gone into her stomach was but a small measure, and not deadly. But at that moment Mahendra had no thought for her. Setting his daughter in Kalyani's lap, he embraced them both closely and wept without ceasing. Then, as if from out of the depths of the forest, a low yet thunder-deep sound was heard —

"Hare Murare Madhukaitabhare, Gopala Govinda Mukunda Saure."

The poison had then begun to take hold upon Kalyani; her senses were beginning to be ravished from her. In a swoon she heard, as though in the strains of that wondrous flute heard in Vaikuntha, the words sounded —

"Hare Murare Madhukaitabhare, Gopala Govinda Mukunda Saure."

Then Kalyani, in a voice that shamed the Apsaras, in her swoon called out, "Hare Murare Madhukaitabhare."

She said to Mahendra, "Say thou — 'Hare Murare Madhukaitabhare.'"

Charmed by that sweet voice issuing from the wood and by the sweet voice of Kalyani, his heart anguished and accounting God alone his helper, Mahendra also called out, "Hare Murare Madhukaitabhare."

Then from every quarter the sound arose, "Hare Murare Madhukaitabhare."

Then the very birds in the trees seemed to sing, "Hare Murare Madhukaitabhare."

In the murmuring of the river too the sound seemed to rise, "Hare Murare Madhukaitabhare."

Then Mahendra forgot all his grief and woe — and in transport, in one accord with Kalyani, he called, "Hare Murare Madhukaitabhare."

The forest itself seemed to echo with them in one accord, "Hare Murare Madhukaitabhare."

Kalyani's voice grew fainter and yet fainter, yet still she called, "Hare Murare Madhukaitabhare."

Then little by little the voice was stilled; from Kalyani's lips no sound came forth; her eyes closed; her limbs grew cold. Mahendra understood that Kalyani, calling upon "Hare Murare," had departed unto the abode of Vaikuntha. Then like one demented, in a loud voice that made the forest tremble and startled the beasts and birds, Mahendra cried, "Hare Murare Madhukaitabhare."

At that moment one came and embraced him close, and with him in like loud voice cried, "Hare Murare Madhukaitabhare."

Then, by the majesty of that Infinite, in that infinite forest, before the body of her who had set forth upon the infinite road, the two together sang the name of the Infinite. Beast and bird were silent; the earth was wondrously fair — a fitting temple for this last hymn. Satyananda took Mahendra upon his lap and sat down.