The chill touch of the water sent his hot blood to heart and brain. He could scarcely keep his voice to the orthodox whisper, as he began the secret ritual which he had not repeated for years--
'Om! Earth! Air! Heaven! Om!
Let us worship the supreme splendour of the Sun.
May his light lighten our darkness.'
The words blent with the silvery tinkle of the water falling back from his upraised hands, and at the familiar sound a stir came from the branches of the pipal trees behind him; and from the shadowy water below them a couple of shelldrakes sailed out, with their echoing cry, to the lighter level before him.
The sound of that first libation to the gods had awakened the temple world.
As yet, however, he and nature had worship to themselves.
Therefore, waist deep in the water, he stood free to dream once more that he was twice born, regenerate, raised high above the herd.
Yet free also to return to the new ways if he chose, since there was none to see, as yet----
But ere he had finished the ritual, an old man, still half asleep, came yawning down the steps, carrying a tray of little platters filled with coloured powders. Having reached the water's very edge, he set these in a row, and kept an eye on Chris; for he was the pujâri of the temple, with the right, for a small fee, to re-mark the bathers with their proper caste marks.
'What race, my son?' he asked drowsily, as Chris came up out of the river.
The question sent a vast pride through the young man. With bare limbs scarce hidden by the dripping shawl, he stood hesitating for a brief second, and then squatted down beside the familiar earthen platters.