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Kim
Rudyard Kipling
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Kim
Rudyard Kipling
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About This Book
Nobel Prize-winning author Rudyard Kipling set his final and most famous novel in the complex, mystery-shrouded India of the mid-nineteenth century where an exotic landscape teems with natives living under British colonial rule.
Kim, the poor orphaned son of an Irish soldier stationed in Lahore, straddles both worlds. Neither wholly British nor completely Indian, the young boy searches for his identity in the country where he was born; but at the same time, he struggles to create an identity for himself. Cunning and street wise, Kim is mature beyond his thirteen years and learns to move chameleon-like between the two cultures, becoming the disciple of a Tibetan monk while training as a spy for the British secret service.
Far above the average adventure story, Kim will captivate Kipling devotees as well as fans of tales brimming with foreign intrigue and treachery.
Kim, the poor orphaned son of an Irish soldier stationed in Lahore, straddles both worlds. Neither wholly British nor completely Indian, the young boy searches for his identity in the country where he was born; but at the same time, he struggles to create an identity for himself. Cunning and street wise, Kim is mature beyond his thirteen years and learns to move chameleon-like between the two cultures, becoming the disciple of a Tibetan monk while training as a spy for the British secret service.
Far above the average adventure story, Kim will captivate Kipling devotees as well as fans of tales brimming with foreign intrigue and treachery.
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CHAPTER I
Oh ye who tread the Narrow Way
By Tophet-flare to Judgment Day,
Be gentle when the heathen pray
To Buddha at Kamakura!
By Tophet-flare to Judgment Day,
Be gentle when the heathen pray
To Buddha at Kamakura!
HE SAT, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammah on her brick platform opposite the old Ajaib-Gherāthe Wonder House, as the natives call the Lahore Museum. Who hold Zam-Zammah, that āfire-breathing dragon,ā hold the Punja; for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conquerorās loot.
There was some justification for Kim,āhe had kicked Lala Dinanathās boy off the trunnions,āsince the English held the Punjab and Kim was English. Though he was burned black as any native; though he spoke the vernacular by preference, and his mother-tongue in a clipped uncertain sing-song; though he consorted on terms of perfect equality with the small boys of the bazar; Kim was whiteāa poor white of the very poorest. The half-caste woman who looked after him (she smoked opium, and pretended to keep a second-hand furniture shop by the square where the cheap cabs wait) told the missionaries that she was Kimās motherās sister; but his mother had been nursemaid in a colonelās family and had married Kimball OāHara, a young colour-sergeant of the Mavericks, an Irish regiment. He afterwards took a post on the Sind, Punjab, and Delhi railway, and his regiment went home without him. The wife died of cholera in Ferozepore, and OāHara fell to drink and loafing up and down the line with the keen-eyed three-year-old baby. Societies and chaplains anxious for the child, tried to catch him, but OāHara drifted away, till he came across the woman who took opium and learned the taste from her, and died as poor whites die in India. His estate at death consisted of three papersāone he called his āne varieturā because those words were written below his signature thereon, and another his āclearance-certificate.ā The third was Kimās birth-certificate. Those things, he was used to say, in his glorious opium hours, would yet make little Kimball a man. On no account was Kim to part with them, for they belonged to a great piece of magicāsuch magic as men practised over yonder behind the Museum, in the big blue and white Jadoo-Gherāthe Magic House, as we name the Masonic Lodge. It would, he said, all come right some day, and Kimās horn would be exalted between pillarsāmonstrous pillarsāof beauty and strength. The Colonel himself, riding on a horse, at the head of the finest regiment in the world, would attend to Kim,ālittle Kim that should have been better off than his father. Nine hundred first-class devils, whose god was a Red Bull on a green field, would attend to Kim, if they had not forgotten OāHaraāpoor OāHara that was gang-foreman on the Ferozepore line. Then he would weep bitterly in the broken rush chair on the verandah. So it came about after his death that the woman sewed parchment, paper, and birth-certificate into a leather amulet-case which she strung round Kimās neck.
āAnd some day,ā she said, confusedly remembering OāHaraās prophecies, āthere will come for you a great Red Bull on a green field, and the Colonel riding on his tall horse, yes, andāādropping into Englishāānine hundred devils.ā
āAh,ā said Kim, āI shall remember. A Red Bull and a Colonel on a horse will come, but first, my father said, come the two men making ready the ground for these matters. That is how, my father said, they always did; and it is always so when men work magic.ā
If the woman had sent Kim up to the local Jadoo-Gher with those papers, he would, of course, have been taken over by the Provincial Lodge and sent to the Masonic Orphanage in the Hills; but what she had heard of magic she distrusted. Kim, too, held views of his own. As he reached the years of indiscretion, he learned to avoid missionaries and white men of serious aspect who asked who he was, and what he did. For Kim did nothing with an immense success. True, he knew the wonderful walled city of Lahore from the Delhi Gate to the outer Fort Ditch; was hand in glove with men who led lives stranger than anything Haroun al Raschid dreamed of; and he lived in a life wild as that of the Arabian Nights, but missionaries and secretaries of charitable societies could not see the beauty of it. His nickname through the wards was āLittle Friend of all the Worldā; and very often, being lithe and inconspicuous, he executed commissions by night on the crowded housetops for sleek and shiny young men of fashion. It was intrigue, of course,āhe knew that much, as he had known all evil since he could speak,ābut what he loved was the game for its own sakeāthe stealthy prowl through the dark gullies and lanes, the crawl up a water-pipe, the sights and sounds of the womenās world on the flat roofs, and the headlong flight from housetop to housetop under cover of the hot dark. Then there were holy men, ash-smeared faquirs by their brick shrines under the trees at the riverside, with whom he was quite familiarāgreeting them as they returned from begging-tours, and, when no one was by, eating from the same dish. The woman who looked after him insisted with tears that he should wear European clothesātrousers, a shirt, and a battered hat. Kim found it easier to slip into Hindu or Mohammedan garb when engaged on certain businesses. One of the young men of fashionāhe who was found dead at the bottom of a well on the night of the earthquakeāhad once given him a complete suit of Hindu kit, the costume of a low-caste street boy, and Kim stored it in a secret place under some baulks in Nila Ramās timber-yard, beyond the Punjab High Court, where the fragrant deodar logs lie seasoning after they have driven down the Ravee. When there was business or frolic afoot, Kim would use his properties, returning at dawn to the verandahh, all tired out from shouting at the heels of a marriage procession, or yelling at a Hindu festival. Sometimes there was food in the house, more often there was not, and Kim went out again to eat with his native friends.
As he drummed his heels against Zam-Zammah he turned now and again from his king-of-the-castle game with little Chota Lal and Abdullah the sweetmeat-sellerās son, to make a rude remark to the native policeman on guard over rows of shoes at the Museum door. The big Punjabi grinned tolerantly: he knew Kim of old. So did the water-carrier, sluicing water on the dry road from his goat-skin bag. So did Jawahir Singh, the Museum carpenter, bent over new packing-cases. So did everybody in sight except the peasants from the country, hurrying up to the Wonder House to view the things that men made in their own province and elsewhere. The Museum was given up to Indian arts and manufactures, and anybody who sought wisdom could ask the curator to explain.
āOff ! Off ! Let me up!ā cried Abdullah, climbing up Zam-Zammahās wheel.
āThy father was a pastry-cook, Thy mother stole the ghi,ā sang Kim. āAll Mussalmans fell off Zam-Zammah long ago!ā
āLet me up!ā shrilled little Chota Lal in his gilt-embroidered cap. His father was worth perhaps half a million sterling, but India is the only democratic land in the world.
āThe Hindus fell off Zam-Zammah too. The Mussalmans pushed them off. Thy father was a pastry-cookāāā
He stopped; for there shuffled round the corner, from the roaring Motee Bazar, such a man as Kim, who thought he knew all castes, had never seen. He was nearly six feet high, dressed in fold upon fold of dingy stuff like horse-blanketing, and not one fold of it could Kim refer to any known trade or profession. At his belt hung a long open-work iron pencase and a wooden rosary such as holy men wear. On his head was a gigantic sort of tam-oā-shanter. His face was yellow and wrinkled, like that of Fook Shing, the Chinese bootmaker in the bazar. His eyes turned up at the corners and looked like little slits of onyx.
āWho is that?ā said Kim to his companions.
āPerhaps it is a man,ā said Abdullah, finger in mouth, staring.
āWithout doubt,ā returned Kim; ābut he is no man of India that I have ever seen.ā
āA priest, perhaps,ā said Chota Lal, spying the rosary. āSee! He goes into the Wonder House!ā
āNay, nay,ā said the policeman, shaking his head. āI do not understand your talk.ā The constable spoke Punjabi. āOh, The Friend of all the World, what does he say?ā
āSend him hither,ā said Kim, dropping from Zam-Zammah, flourishing his bare heels. āHe is a foreigner, and thou art a buffalo.ā
The man turned helplessly and drifted towards the boys. He was old, and his woollen gaberdine still reeked of the stinking artemisia of the mountain passes.
āO Children, what is that big house?ā he said in very fair Urdu.
āThe Ajaib-Gher, the Wonder House!ā Kim gave him no titleāsuch as Lala or Mian. He could not divine the manās creed.
āAh! The Wonder House! Can any enter?ā
āIt is written above the doorāall can enter.ā
āWithout payment?ā
āI go in and out. I am no banker,ā laughed Kim.
āAlas! I am an old man. I did not know.ā Then, fingering his rosary, he half turned to the Museum.
āWhat is your caste? Where is your house? Have you come far?ā Kim asked.
āI came by Kuluāfrom beyond the Kailasābut what know you? From the hills whereāāhe sighedāāthe air and water are fresh and cool.ā
āAha! Khitai (a Chinaman),ā said Abdullah proudly. Fook Shing had once chased him out of his shop for spitting at the joss above the boots.
āPahari (a hillman),ā said little Chota Lal.
āAye, childāa hillman from hills thouālt never see. Didst hear of Bhotiyal (Tibet)? I am no Khitai, but a Bhotiya (Tibetan), since you must knowāa lamaāor, say a guru in your tongue.ā
āA guru from Tibet,ā said Kim. āI have not seen such a man. They be Hindus in Tibet, then?ā
āWe be followers of the Middle Way, living in peace in our lamasseries, and I go to see the Four Holy Places before I die. Now do you, who are children, know as much as I do who am old.ā He smiled benignantly on the boys.
āHast thou eaten?ā
He fumbled in his bosom and drew forth a worn wooden begging-bowl. The boys nodded. All priests of their acquaintance begged.
āI do not wish to eat yet.ā He turned his head like an old tortoise in the sunlight. āIs it true that there are many images in the Wonder House of Lahore?ā He repeated the last words as one making sure of an address.
āThat is true,ā said Abdullah. āIt is full of heathen b ts. Thou also art an idolator.ā
āNever mind him,ā said. Kim. āThat is the Governmentās house and there is no idolatry in it, but only a Sahib with a white beard. Come with me and I will show.ā
āStrange priests eat boys,ā whispered Chota Lal.
āAnd he is a stranger and a b t-parast (idolator),ā said Abdullah, the Mohammedan.
Kim laughed. āHe is new. Run to your mothersā laps, and be safe. Come!ā
Kim clicked round the self-registering turnstile; the old man followed and halted amazed. In the entrance-hall stood the larger figures of the Greco-Buddhist sculptures done, savants know how long since, by forgotten workmen whose hands were feeling, and not unskilfully, for the mysteriously transmitted Grecian touch. There were hundreds of pieces, friezes of figures in relief, fragments of statues and slabs crowded with figures that had encrusted the brick walls of the Buddhist stupas and viharas of the North Country and now, dug up and labelled, made the pride of the Museum. In open-mouthed wonder the lama turned to this and that, and finally checked in rapt attention before a large alto-relief representing a coronation or apotheosis of the Lord Buddha. The Master was represented seated on a lotus the petals of which were so deeply undercut as to show almost detached. Round Him was an adoring hierarchy of kings, elders, and old-time Buddhas. Below were lotus-covered waters with fishes and water-birds. Two butterfly-winged dewas held a wreath over His head; above them another pair supported an umbrella surmounted by the jewelled headdress of the Bodhisat.
āThe Lord! The Lord! It is Sakya Muni himself,ā the lama half sobbed; and under his breath began the wonderful Buddhist invocation:ā
āTo Him the Wayāthe LawāApartā
Whom Maya held beneath her heart
Anandaās Lordāthe Bodhisat.ā
Whom Maya held beneath her heart
Anandaās Lordāthe Bodhisat.ā
āAnd He is here! The Most Excellent Law is here also. My pilgrimage is well begun. And what work! What work!ā
āYonder is the Sahib.ā said Kim, and dodged sideways among the cases of the arts and manufacture wing. A white-bearded Englishman was looking at the lama, who gravely turned and saluted him and after some fumbling drew forth a note-book and a scrap of paper.
āYes, that is my name,ā smiling at the clumsy, childish print.
āOne of us who had made pilgrimage to the Holy Placesāhe is now Abbot of the Lung-Cho Monasteryāgave it me,ā stammered the lama. āHe spoke of these.ā His lean hand moved tremulously round.
āWelcome, then, O lama from Tibet. Here be the images, and I am hereāāhe glanced at the lamaās faceāāto gather knowledge. Come to my office awhile.ā The old man was trembling with excitement.
The office was but a little wooden cubicle partitioned off from the sculpture-lined gallery. Kim laid himself down, his ear against a crack in the heat-split cedar door, and, following his instinct, stretched out to listen and watch.
Most of the talk was altogether above his head. The lama, haltingly at first, spoke to the curator of his own lamassery, the Such-zen, opposite the Painted Rocks, four monthsā march away. The curator brought out a huge book of photos and showed him that very place, perched on its crag, overlooking the gigantic valley of many-hued strata.
āAy, ay!ā The lama mounted a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles of Chinese work. āHere is the little door through which we bring wood before winter. And thouāthe English know of these things? He who is now Abbot of Lung-Cho told me, but I did not believe. The Lordāthe Excellent OneāHe has honour here too? And His life is known?ā
āIt is all carven upon the stones. Come and see, if thou art rested.ā
Out shuffled the lama to the main hall, and, the curator beside him, went through the collection with the reverence of a devotee and the appreciative instinct of a craftsman.
Incident by incident in the beautiful story he identified on the blurred stone, puzzled here and there by the unfamiliar Greek convention, but delighted as a child at each new trove. Where the sequence failed, as in the Annunciation, the curator supplied it from his mound of booksāFrench and German, with photographs and reproductions.
Here was the devout Asita, the pendant of Simeon in the Christian story, holding the Holy Child on his knee while mother and father listened; and here were incidents in the legend of the cousin Devadatta. Here was the wicked woman who accused the Master of impurity, all confounded; here was the teaching in the Deer-park; the miracle that stunned the fire-worshippers; here was the Bodhisat in royal state as a prince; the miraculous birth; the death at Kusinagara, where the weak disciple fainted; while there were almost countless repetitions of the meditation under the Bodhi tree; and the adoration of the alms-bowl was everywhere. In a few minutes the curator saw that his guest was no mere bead-telling mendicant, but a scholar of parts. And they went at it all over again, the lama taking snuff, wiping his spectacles, and talking at railway speed in a bewildering mixture of Urdu and Tibetan. He had heard of the travels of the Chinese pilgrims, Fu-Hian and Hwen-Thiang, and was anxious to know if there was any ...