* * * * *
"O world she left! to bring it peace not war.
O world she left, forget not she was fair,
So very fair. The jasmine in her hair
And round her kind, wise face; about her throat
The cold blue stones, and for her queenly crown
The sunlight in the water--like the stars.
"O Âtma mâta! strike thy servant blind,
He and his sons for ever, lest they find
Thy face within the wreath their fingers bind."
* * * * *
The old man's song ceased, but he went on without a pause. "The Huzoor will hear that it is all about Âtma. Her name is there always."
He had finished stringing the flowers also, and now with a deft hand set the fragile garland--strung like a daisy chain upon a dead woman's hair and then tied to a circle--afloat upon the water, where it drifted idly, each separate flower separate, and keeping its appointed place.
A crown of scented stars!
I roused myself to answer. "Undoubtedly it is all about Âtma; but you have not told me why you weave the crown?"
"It is always woven, Huzoor," he replied. "Our family belongs to the place, and as one son is always blind, he stays at home--since he cannot earn money at other trades, Huzoor--and makes Mai Âtma's crown as his fathers did."
"One son is always blind?" I echoed curiously.