'Ohé!' murmured one of the villagers, 'it is easy to avoid killing in a place like that.'
'Have you ever worked, old man?' said the peon. 'Have you ever earned a fanam by work? In this part of the country rupees don't grow on wara[52] bushes.'
'No,' said the old man; 'I have never done anything like that. I am mad, you know'. I remember once they took me to the field to watch—I was a boy—I had to scare the birds away. I was there alone, sitting under a small tree beside the field. The little birds came in crowds to feed on the young paddy. They were very hungry. What harm, I thought, if they eat a little? Plenty will remain for the house. So I sat there thinking of other things, and I forgot about the paddy and the birds until my father came and beat me. After that they took me no more to the fields; and I sat in the compound all day, thinking foolish things, until at last an old priest came by, and he told me of the path, and how to meditate, and I followed him. He died many years ago, many years. I have been no more to my village, it is forgotten; but I think it was up there in the hills; it is very long ago, and I have seen many villages since then. They are all the same; even the names I never know; always some huts, and men and women and children, suffering punishment for their sins and sinning again.'
'This is fool's talk,' said the peon impatiently. 'We cannot all beg upon the road. I have heard the priests themselves say that every one cannot reach Nirvana. Nor are we all mad. There are the women and the children. Are they too to become holy men? It is hard enough to live on the eleven rupees which the Government gives us. I don't kill deer, but I eat it when I can get it. Is that too a sin, old man?'
But before the old beggar could answer, Silindu threw himself down on the ground in front of him, and touching his feet with his hands burst out:
'It is true, father, it is true what you say. I did not understand before, though I knew; yes, I knew it well. I have seen it all so long in the jungle. But I did not understand. How many times have I told the little ones—not understanding—about it all. Always the killing, killing, killing; everything afraid: the deer and the pig and the jackal after them, and the leopard himself. Always evil there. No peace, no rest—it was rest I wanted. It is true, father, I have seen it, it is the punishment for their sins. And always evil for me too, there; hunger always and trouble always. You should have shown me this path of yours before, father; even now I do not understand that, and it would be useless now. Through all the evil I have but sinned more, killing the deer and the pig, and now these two men. It is too late. They will hang me, they will hang me, and what then, old man, what then?'
The old man began to shake with laughter. He mumbled incoherently, pulling at his beard and long hair with his hands. The scene caused great pleasure and amusement to all the others, except the peon, who was annoyed at finding that he was no longer playing the most important part. After a while the old man's laughter began to subside, and he regained sufficient control to make himself intelligible.
'Well, well,' he said, 'well, well, I'm not the Lord Buddha, my son. Well, well. D'you see that? He touches my feet as though I were the Lord Buddha himself. I have never seen that before, and I have seen many strange things. I am become a holy man; well, well.' Here again he was overcome with silent laughter.
'Do not laugh, father,' said Silindu. 'Why do you laugh? Is it lies that you told me just now?'
The other became serious again at once.