“Blessings be on thy head,” said the master.
“Of what clan art thou, my child? It is only fitting for a Brahmin to aspire to the highest wisdom.”
“Master,” answered the boy, “I know not of what clan I am. I shall go and ask my mother.”
Thus saying, Satyakāma took leave, and wading across the shallow stream, came back to his mother’s hut, which stood at the end of the sandy waste at the edge of the sleeping village.
The lamp burnt dimly in the room, and the mother stood at the door in the dark waiting for her son’s return.
She clasped him to her bosom, kissed him on his hair, and asked him of his errand to the master.
“What is the name of my father, dear mother?” asked the boy.
“It is only fitting for a Brahmin to aspire to the highest wisdom, said Lord Guatama to me.”
The woman lowered her eyes, and spoke in a whisper.
“In my youth I was poor and had many masters. Thou didst come to thy mother Jabālā’s arms, my darling, who had no husband.”