The temple served well as an introduction to the fantastic extravagance of Oriental building. Its massive outer walls inclosed a vast plot of ground. In the center, surrounded by a chaos of smaller edifices, rose the inner temple, its cone-shaped roof and slender domes a great field of burnished gold before which the eye quailed in the cutting sunlight. Above all, the four gateways to the inclosure challenged attention. Identical in form, yet vastly different in minor detail, they towered twelve stories above the lowly huts and swarming bazaars of the city that radiates from the sacred area. Four thousand statues of Hindu gods—to quote mathematical experts—adorned each gateway, hideous-faced idols, each pouring down from four pairs of hands his blessing on the groveling humans who starved beneath.
Within the gates, under vaulted archways, swarmed multitudes; pilgrims in the rags of contrition, shopkeepers shrieking the virtues of their wares from their open booths, screaming vendors of trinkets, abject coolies cringing before their countrymen of higher caste, loungers seeking relief from the sunshine outside. A sunken-eyed youth wormed his way through the throng and offered us guidance at two annas. We accepted, and followed him down a branch passageway to the lead-colored pond in which unfastidious pilgrims washed away their sins; then out upon an open space for a nearer view of the golden roofs. High up within, whispered the youth, while Marten interpreted, dwelt a god; but we, as white men, dared not enter to verify the assertion.
We turned back instead to the quarters of the sacred elephants. Here seven of the jungle monsters, chained by a foot, thrashed about over their supper of hay in a roofless stable. They were as ready to accept a tuft of fodder from a heathen sahib as from the dust-clad faquir who had tramped many a burning mile to perform this holy act for the acquiring of merit. Children played in and out among the animals. The largest was amusing himself by setting the urchins, one by one, on his back. But in the far corner stood another that even the clouted keepers shunned. The most sacred of a holy troop, our guide assured us, for he was mad, and wreaked a furious vengeance on whomsoever came within reach of his writhing trunk. Yet—if the sunken-eyed youth spoke truly—it was no misfortune to have life crushed out by this holiest of animals. The coolie suffering that fate was reborn a farmer, the peasant a shopkeeper, the merchant a warrior. Was it satisfaction with their station in life or a weakness of faith? We noted that even the despised sudras avoided the far corner.
“And how about a white man?” asked Haywood.
“A sahib,” said our guide, “when he dies, becomes a crow. Therefore are white men afraid to die.”
We turned out again into the bazaars. Naked girls, carrying baskets, were quarreling over the offal of passing beasts. The façade of every hut was decorated with splashes of manure, each bearing the imprint of a hand. For fuel is there none in this treeless land, save bois de vache.
With nightfall, Haywood, promising to return quickly, set out to visit the missionaries of Madura, to each of whom the Kansan had given him a note. Before he rejoined us at the station he had succeeded in “raising the wind” to the sum of three full fares to the next city. Yet he sneered at our extravagance in purchasing tickets for a night ride, and, tucking away the “convert money” in the band of his tropical helmet, followed us out upon the platform. The train was crowded. A band of coolies, whom the station master, in the absence of white travelers, had thrust into the European compartment, tumbled out as rats scurry from a suddenly lighted room, and left us in full possession.
In India, as in Europe, tickets are not taken up on the train; they are punched at various stations en route by local officials, misnamed “collectors.” The collectors, however, are commonly Eurasian youths, deferential to white men and no match in wits for beachcombers.
Having turned out the light in the ceiling of our compartment, we stretched out on the two wooden benches and laid plans for the morrow. At each halt Marten kept look-out. If the collector carried no lantern, Haywood had merely to roll under a bench until he had passed. At a whisper of “bull’s-eye” our unticketed companion slipped through the opposite door, and watched the progress of the half-breed by peering under the train at his uniformed legs. Once he was taken red-handed. It was after midnight, and we had all three fallen asleep. Suddenly there came the rapping of a punch on the sill of the open window.
“Tickets, sahibs,” said an apologetic voice.