“I am bound,” said the Curator. “But whither goest thou?”
“First to Kashi [Benares]: where else? There I shall meet one of the pure faith in a Jain temple of that city. He also is a Seeker in secret, and from him haply I may learn. Maybe he will go with me to Buddh Gaya. Thence north and west to Kapilavastu, and there will I seek for the River. Nay, I will seek everywhere as I go—for the place is not known where the arrow fell.”
“And how wilt thou go? It is a far cry to Delhi, and farther to Benares.”
“By road and the trains. From Pathânkot, having left the Hills, I came hither in a te-rain. It goes swiftly. At first I was amazed to see those tall poles by the side of the road snatching up and snatching up their threads,”—he illustrated the stoop and whirl of a telegraph-pole flashing past the train. “But later, I was cramped and desired to walk, as I am used.”
“And thou art sure of thy road?” said the Curator.
“Oh, for that one but asks a question and pays money, and the appointed persons despatch all to the appointed place. That much I knew in my lamassery from sure report,” said the lama proudly.
“And when dost thou go?” The Curator smiled at the mixture of old-world piety and modern progress that is the note of India today.
“As soon as may be. I follow the places of His life till I come to the River of the Arrow. There is, moreover, a written paper of the hours of the trains that go south.”
“And for food?” Lamas, as a rule, have good store of money somewhere about them, but the Curator wished to make sure.
“For the journey, I take up the Master’s begging-bowl. Yes. Even as He went so go I, forsaking the ease of my monastery. There was with me when I left the hills a chela (disciple) who begged for me as the Rule demands, but halting in Kulu awhile a fever took him and he died. I have now no chela, but I will take the alms-bowl and thus enable the charitable to acquire merit.” He nodded his head valiantly. Learned doctors of a lamassery do not beg, but the lama was an enthusiast in this quest.