They met a troop of long-haired,strong-scented Sansis with baskets of lizards and other unclean food on their backs,their lean dogs sniffing at their heels.These people kept their own side of the road,moving at a quick,furtive jog-trot,and all other castes gave them ample room;for the Sansi is deep pollution.Behind them,walking wide and stiffly across the strong shadows,the memory of his leg-irons still on him,strode one newly released from the jail;his full stomach and shiny skin to prove that the Government fed its prisoners better than most honest men could feed themselves.Kim knew that walk well,and made broad jest of it as they passed.Then an Akali,a wild-eyed,wild-haired Sikh devotee in the blue-checked clothes of his faith,with polished-steel quoits glistening on the cone of his tall blue turban,stalked past,returning from a visit to one of the independent Sikh States,where he had been singing the ancient glories of the Khalsa to College-trained princelings in top-boots and white-cord breeches.Kim was careful not to irritate that man;for the Akali's temper is short and his arm quick.Here and there they met or were overtaken by the gaily dressed crowds of whole villages turning out to some local fair;the women,with their babes on their hips,walking behind the men,the older boys prancing on sticks of sugar-cane,dragging rude brass models of locomotives such as they sell for a half penny,or flashing the sun into the eyes of their betters from cheap toy mirrors.One could see at a glance what each had bought;and if there were any doubt it needed only to watch the the wives comparing,brown arm against brown arm,the newly purchased dull glass bracelets that come from the North-West.These merry-makers stepped slowly,calling one to the other and stopping to haggle with sweetmeat-sellers,or to make a prayer before one of the wayside shrines -sometimes Hindu,sometimes Mussalman -which the low-caste of both creeds share with beautiful impartiality.A solid line of blue,rising and falling like the back of a caterpillar in haste,would swing up through the quivering dust and trot past to a chorus of quick cackling.That was a gang of changars -the women who have taken all the embankments of all the Northern railways under their charge -a flat-footed,big-bosomed,strong-limbed,blue-petticoated clan of earth-carriers,hurrying north on news of a job,and wasting no time by the road.They belong to the caste whose men do not count,and they walked with squared elbows,swinging hips,and heads on high,as suits women who carry heavy weights.A little later a marriage procession would strike into the Grand Trunk with music and shoutings,and a smell of marigold and jasmine stronger even than the reek of the dust.One could see the bride's litter,a blur of red and tinsel,staggering through the haze,while the bridegroom's bewreathed pony turned aside to snatch a mouthful from a passing fodder-cart.Then Kim would join the Kentish-fire of good wishes and bad jokes,wishing the couple a hundred sons and no daughters,as the saying is.Still more interesting and more to be shouted over it was when a strolling juggler with some half-trained monkeys,or a panting,feeble bear,or a woman who tied goats'horns to her feet,and with these danced on a slack-rope,set the horses to shying and the women to shrill,long-drawn quavers of amazement.
The lama never raised his eyes.He did not note the money lender on his goose-rumped pony,hastening along to collect the cruel interest;or the long-shouting,deep-voiced little mob -still in military formation -of native soldiers on leave,rejoicing to be rid of their breeches and puttees ,and saying the most outrageous things to the most respectable women in sight.Even the seller of Ganges-water he did not see,and Kim expected that he would at least buy a bottle of that precious stuff.He looked steadily at the ground,and strode as steadily hoar after hour,his soul busied elsewhere.But Kim was in the seventh heaven of joy.The Grand Trunk at this point was built on an embankment to guard against winter floods from the foothills,so that one walked,as it were,a little above the country,along a stately corridor,seeing all India spread out to left and right.It was beautiful to behold the many-yoked grain and cotton wagons crawling over the country roads:one could hear their axles,complaining a mile away,coming nearer,till with shouts and yells and bad words they climbed up the steep incline and plunged on to the hard main road,carter reviling carter.It was equally beautiful to watch the people,little clumps of red and blue and pink and white and saffron,turning aside to go to their own villages,dispersing and growing small by twos and threes across the level plain.Kim felt these things,though he could not give tongue to his feelings,and so contented himself with buying peeled sugar-cane and spitting the pith generously about his path.From time to time the lama took snuff,and at last Kim could endure the silence no longer.
'This is a good land -the land of the South!'said he.'The air is good;the water is good.Eh?'
'And they are all bound upon the Wheel,'said the lama.'Bound from life after life.To none of these has the Way been shown.'He shook himself back to this world.
'And now we have walked a weary way,'said Kim.'Surely we shall soon come to a parao [a resting-place].Shall we stay there?Look,the sun is sloping.'
'Who will receive us this evening?'
'That is all one.This country is full of good folk.Besides'he sunk his voice beneath a whisper -'we have money.'
