A Digit of the Moon: A Hindoo Love Story

by F. W. Bain

[[4]] Famous in poetry for its extraordinary toughness.

[[5]] Literally, what is the error of policy (nítídósha) in the story.

[[6]] i.e. 'a chain is no stronger than its weakest link.' The Princess's answer is exceedingly clever: and there are few who would not have given the obvious answer which she rejects.

DAY 13.

Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, unless I am blinded by love and egoism, the Princess exhibits signs of a disposition to favour me. But alas! now twelve of my days are gone, and only nine remain. Oh beware! lest you lose me my beloved. And even the portrait now brings me no relief, for day by day it grows less like her. It looks at me with scorn, but she with tenderness. Even with it, I know not how I shall endure separation till the morning. So the King spent the night in a state of lassitude, gazing at the portrait. And when the sun rose, he rose also, and passed the long hours of day with the help of Rasakósha and the garden. Then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. And there they saw the Princess, clad in an orange-tawny robe, and a bodice studded with rubies, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. And a shadow fled as it were from her face when she saw the King, and he sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. Then Rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again:

Lady, once upon a time, the master of a caravan was crossing the great desert. And as he went along, he suddenly looked up, and saw before him in the distance the walls of a great city, with a beautiful lake of heavenly blue before it. And he was amazed; and with a soul on fire with longing for the nectar of that lake and that city, he urged on his camels in that direction. But he could not reach it: and suddenly it disappeared, and he found himself alone in the desert, with the sun and the sand, and no water and no city. Then he said: This is a wonderful thing. I would not lose that city for all my wealth. Then his followers said to him: Sir, this is a delusion: it is the mirage: there is no such city and no water. But he would not believe them. And remaining where he was in the desert, he waited till next day. And at the same hour he saw it again. So he mounted his swiftest camel, and pursued it for hours far into the desert, but he could not overtake it: but as before, it disappeared.

Then he abandoned his journey and encamped in the desert. And day after day he gave chase to that beautiful city with its water, but never got any nearer to it. But the more he pursued it, the more his yearning to reach it grew upon him, so that at last he forgot everything else in the world.

And meanwhile his affairs went to ruin through neglect. And hearing of his proceedings his relations came to him in the desert, and said: What is this that you are doing? What madness has smitten you? Do you not know that this is the mirage, and that you are wasting your time in pursuing phantoms while your wealth goes to ruin? But he answered: What are words in comparison with the testimony of the eyes? Do I not see the city and its water as I see you yourselves? Then how can it be a delusion? Then his relations flew into a rage, and said: You fool, it is the mirage. But he said: If it is nothing, then how can I see it? Explain this to me. But they could not. So they abused him and laughed at him, and went away leaving him alone in the desert. And he remained there, spending his all in purchasing camels, and every day pursuing that city till it disappeared. And this he continued to do, till his wealth was exhausted, and his camels died, and he himself was lost and died in the desert, and the sun whitened his bones.

Then his story went abroad, and the people said: What difficulty is there in this? The sun of the desert made him mad. But his relations said: Out on this madman! he has destroyed us with his folly. And a certain ascetic heard the story: and he laughed to himself, and said: Trashy trishy washy wishy[[1]]. Says the pot to the pipkin: Out on you, miserable clay!