“Can a man learn truth who is servant to horse-traders, and a murderer?”
“The soul does not know poverty, does not murder, is not man nor woman, Brahmin nor Sudra.”
Madhava stayed in the forest, brought firewood and water, and was taught by Narayana. Another year went by. There came a day when Madhava sat beneath a tree, pondering the universe. Suddenly he remembered how he came into the great river plain, and to be the servant of the horse-trader.... Again he drew himself from a pool of water, at the edge of the jungle. It was black night, with large, warm raindrops falling; there was a great beast coming out of the brush—a tiger surely. Madhava had gone to meet it—surely he was drunken or in a fever! The beast knew that there was something strange—turning aside, he had gone padding away. Madhava went on, walking very surely through the jungle. He went fast, with great strides, went through the night and into the day. Madhava, seated beneath the tree, remembered that going, remembered lying down and sleeping, rising and going on again—and then days and nights of sleeping and wandering, eating fruits and nuts, struggling with, outwitting, or companioning jungle inhabitants, being as a wild man. He remembered, after many days of this, striking out of the jungle into a cultivated country. He remembered a road and travellers along it.... Men came by with horses—a man stood and talked to him.... That was the horse-trader.
Madhava told Narayana that evening. “I have remembered how I came into this country, and to be the servant of the horse-trader.”
“One day,” said Narayana, “you will remember all that is beyond north and south and east and west.”
“I seem to have been a man ill or mad or drunken.”
“That was one of thy little selves. The soul is not ill nor mad nor drunken.”
Madhava stayed in the forest, brought firewood and water, and was taught by Narayana. Another year went by.
Five years.... The village upon the Jumuna had bound into the great sheaf of village tales the story of the bridegroom who fell ill and strayed from his house in the black night, and by the pool at the edge of the jungle was taken by the great old tiger. It was put upon the legend shelf, for telling by old to young, for no one knew how long. It was become simply a story among stories. Wet season, dry season, seed time and harvest, the village went about its usual business.... Zira looked and felt an old woman. When she was regarded at all it was as a drudge who was justly paying. Women were not widowed unless they had sinned..... Gângya and Itura, their sons and daughters, ill-treated her because it was Retribution, and as the Eternal Order of Things would have it. But now, long since, grief for Madhava had lost edge. No longer, as at first, did they load Zira with accusations, gross terms of blame. No longer did they make daily reference to her evil nature. They only put upon her heavy drudgery, abstinence from much food or sleep and from all pleasure. Bowed and silent, Zira worked her fingers to the bone.
Five years.... Zira washed clothes in the stream near the teak tree. Upon the opposite bank a child was playing with sticks and stones. It was a little child and sweet. It laughed to itself, building a hut to shelter a stone. Zira sat back upon her heels and watched the child. Something yearned within her, yearned and yearned, then mounted.