Yesterday he was telling me in what great reverence people of this locality hold the sacred river Ganges. If one of their relatives dies, he said, and they have not the means of taking the ashes to the Ganges, they powder a piece of bone from his funeral pyre and keep it till they come across some one who, some time or other, has drunk of the Ganges. To him they administer some of this powder, hidden in the usual offering of pán{1}, and thus are content to imagine that a portion of the remains of their deceased relative has gained purifying contact with the sacred water.
{Footnote 1: Spices wrapped in betel leaf.}
I smiled as I remarked: "This surely must be an invention."
He pondered deeply before he admitted after a pause: "Yes, it may be."
ON THE WAY.
February 1891.
We have got past the big rivers and just turned into a little one.
The village women are standing in the water, bathing or washing clothes; and some, in their dripping saris, with veils pulled well over their faces, move homeward with their water vessels filled and clasped against the left flank, the right arm swinging free. Children, covered all over with clay, are sporting boisterously, splashing water on each other, while one of them shouts a song, regardless of the tune.