'Didst say it was Jân-Ali-shân? Yea! it was his word. I have heard him say it; and he keeps it, my sons! he keeps it!'
Govind turned on the speaker scornfully. 'Those were other times, baba, and another Jân-Ali-shân. The times have changed and men too----'
A thin musical laugh interrupted him. It came from Lateefa, the kite-maker, who was passing with his bundle of kites for sale.
'Lo! baboo-jee!' he said. 'I know naught of time but my poor portion of it, nor of man save my poor self! But I change not, and I am as others. We are like kites; the form changes not unless the maker chooses, and God, so say the Moulvies, changes not at all. He makes men on the old pattern ever; the rest is but dye and tinsel.'
So he passed on, tossing his bundle, and chanting the street-seller's cry--
'Your eyes use, and choose!
Use your eyes and choose!'
[CHAPTER VII]
CRACKERS AND SQUIBS
'Tinkle, tinkle, ootel ish-star. Ha-a-vunder vart-oo-ar.'
'Tinkle, tinkle, ootel ish-star. Ha-a-vunder vart-oo-ar.'
'Tinkle, tinkle, ootel ish-star. Ha-a-vunder vart-oo-ar.'
The damnable iteration went on and on, the fiddles twangled and squeaked, the drum bangers banged, the nautch-girl sidled, and smirked, and shrilled.