Starting for the nearest shop, he walked proudly along, shouldering his way through the crowd, pushing aside all who stood in his path, not rudely, but firmly. Natives threw themselves flat on the ground before him; street peddlers stepped aside with muttered prayers; scores of women fell on their knees and elbows in crowded streets, bowed their heads low in the dust, and ran to kiss his flanks.
Marching boldly up to the first booth, the bull chose a morsel of green stuff from the stand, and, chewing it daintily, strolled on to the next stall. He selected something from each of the long rows of shops, stopping longest where the supplies were freshest. The keepers did not like this, but they did not say much against it. For how may a Hindu know that the soul of his grandfather does not look out through those calm eyes? At any rate, he is just so much more sure of heaven for every leaf and stalk that he loses. Now and again Marten told me what the storekeeper was saying.
“Hast thou not always had they fill, O holy one!” prayed one native, rocking his body back and forth in time to his prayer. “I would willingly feed thee. Hast thou not always found welcome at my shop? But I am a poor man, O king of sacred beasts. I pray thee, therefore, take of the goods of my neighbor, who has great wealth. For I am very poor, and if thou dost not cease to-morrow I may not be here to feed thee.”
As if in answer to the prayer, the animal moved on to the booth of the neighbor, who showed no sign of the great wealth that had been charged against him. His stock was fresh, however, and the bull ate generously in spite of the keeper’s prayer. A second and a third time the keeper begged him to stop, but he would not. Then the Hindu, picking up a bamboo stick, murmured the prayer into it.
“Thou canst not hear the prayer of a poor man, O sacred one, through thine ears,” wailed the merchant. “Listen then to this.” And, rising in his place, he struck the animal sharply over the nose with the bamboo stick. The bull turned to gaze on the sinner, looked reproachfully at him for a moment through half-closed eyelids, and strolled slowly away.
We saw many widows among the swarming thousands of Puri. There was a time when, on the death of her husband, the Hindu woman had to mount the funeral pyre and be burned with his dead body. But since the British have taken possession of India they have made a law against such cruelties. Now, on the death of her husband, the Hindu woman must merely shave her head and dress in a snow-white sheet, and she must never marry again.
There were other women in the crowd. Most of them wore jewelry. We met some who wore rings on every finger and toe and bracelets on both arms from wrists to elbows. It was not unusual to meet a woman with rings in the top, side, and fleshy part of each ear, or women wearing three nose-rings, one of which pierces the left nostril and swings back and forth against the cheek of the wearer.
That afternoon we left by train for Calcutta. The express rumbled into Khurda Road soon after we reached the main line. To rest our bones we strolled along the platform, stepped into another car—and fell back in astonishment. Swinging from a peg near the ceiling was a helmet we had seen before. It was none other than Haywood’s. And beneath it, lying at full length on a bench, was Haywood himself. He had been released from prison, and had lost no time in taking the north-bound express—to overtake us, very likely.
His joy at meeting us once more was greater than ours. We were unable to look pleased, and Marten grumbled under his breath at the luck that kept us in such harmful company.
In the early morning the train stopped at Howrah, a suburb of Calcutta, and Haywood alighted with us at the station. We crossed the Hoogly River on a floating bridge that connects Howrah with Calcutta, meeting crowds of coolies tramping to a day of toil in the city. The Hoogly was alive with natives sporting in the muddy waters. Below the bridge scores of ships lay at anchor; native barges darted here and there among them; from the docks came the rattle of machinery and the shrill chatter of men loading freight on the boats. Here, at last, was a real city, with all its familiar uproar. My companions started off to visit some missionary, and I plunged aimlessly into the stream of people that surged through the dusty streets.