The Village in the Jungle

by Leonard Woolf

'He shot two men dead up there in the jungle.'

'Chi! chi! why did he do that?'

'He's mad, father, as mad as you.'

The old man turned and looked hard at Silindu, while Silindu stared at him. The spectators laughed at the curious sight. The old man smiled.

'He's not mad,' he said. 'Not as mad as I am. So he killed twice, did he? Dear, dear. The Lord Buddha said: Kill not at all, kill nothing. It is a sin to kill. If he saw a caterpillar in the path, he put his foot on one side. Man, man, why have you killed twice? Were you mad?'

'I'm not mad,' said Silindu. 'They were hunting me: they would have killed me. Therefore I killed them.'

'The man is not mad, no more mad than you, or you—but I—I am mad. So at least they say. Why do they say that I'm mad? My son, do you see this paper?' (He showed a very dirty English newspaper to Silindu.) 'Well, if you are quite quiet and no gecko[50] cries and the jackals don't howl, I will look at it like this afterwards, for some short time—staring hard—then I shall see things on the paper, not the writing—I have wandered all my life—a wanderer on the path, seeking merit by the Three Gems—I cannot read writing or letters—but I shall see things themselves, a little hut up there in the jungle, if you desire it—your hut, my son—and I'll tell you what is doing there, that the woman is lying in the hut, crying perhaps. This paper was given to me by a white Mahatmaya whom I met out there once, also in the jungle. It is of great power: before I could only see what was doing in this country; but now, by its help, I can see over the sea, to the white Mahatmaya's country. Then they say: this is a mad old man. Well, well, who knows? I am always on the path—to-morrow I shall leave this village—from village to village, from town to town, and from jungle to jungle. I see many different men on the path. Strange men, and they do strange things. Thieving, stabbing, killing, cultivating paddy. I do not cultivate paddy, nor do I thieve or kill. I am mad perhaps. But very often it is they who seem to me to want but a little to be mad. All this doing and doing,—running round and round like the red ants—thieving, stabbing, killing, cultivating this and that. Is there much good or wisdom in such a life? It seems to me full of evil—nothing but evil and trouble. Do they ever sit down and rest, do they ever meditate? Desire and desire again, and no fulfilment ever. Is such a life sane or mad? Did they call you mad in the village even before this, my son?'

'Yes, the mad hunter,' said Silindu, and the others laughed again.

'Ah, you are a hunter too. That also I have not done. But I know the jungle, for I travel through it often on my path. Do the beasts in it speak to you, son hunter?'

'Yes. They used to speak to me.'