Zira, clad in a ragged, brown dress, sat beneath a clump of bamboo growing by the stream that ran past GÂngya’s house, and cleaned the copper cooking-pots. For three years Zira had been called widow. When you are young and fortunate, beloved and happy, three years is not a great space of time. When you are young but unfortunate, abused and wretched, it may be long indeed. Zira was young in years, but quite old in misery.

Her head showed shaven, the ragged shawl that covered it being pushed back since none was by saving the monkeys in the banyan tree and the lizards on the rock wall. She was thin, for she was never given enough to eat and steadily overworked. Upon her arms were black bruises, for her mother-in-law was subject to hot rages and yesterday had shaken Zira until her teeth chattered in her head, and the blood stood still under the griping fingers. Across her shoulders ran a weal from the stick with which she had been struck because she had broken an earthern lamp. Zira looked, and was, forlorn, ill-treated, poorly lodged and fed, abused, struck with tongue and hand, a menial and pariah, a widow in the house of her husband’s parents.

Zira scoured, dully, a huge red copper pan. There were many vessels to be cleaned, for GÂngya was a rich man as riches went in the village by the Jumuna. The earth swam in heat; it was so hot that even the monkeys were quiet, and the lizards themselves might seem less active. Zira, drawing a sigh, put her head on her arms and her arms on her knees. She must have a little rest, no matter what the consequences! A change to looking on pleasurable things from things so sadly unpleasurable becomes now and then a necessity, even to the old in woe. Zira must have a little colour and fragrance and music, and went to the only place where she knew she might get them, and that was down the steps into Memory. The ache might seem worse after being there, but let it seem!

Madhava’s caste and her caste had been Vaisya, merchants, husbandmen. As a child and a girl she was not without teaching. Her own mother strictly taught her many things, though not, of course, the high things in which the priest instructed her father and elder brother. But she knew, sitting by the stream, with her head in her arms, that she had been born many times and would be born many times again. But she was not one of those strong ones who could stray at will in Memory. She could go down the steps a little way, but then there arose, as it were, mist and a roaring in the ears. She had imagination, had it, indeed, in bulk, but it did not occur to her particularly to connect imagination and her own history—not yet did that occur. She made pictures with which to lighten unhappiness, but often the pictures were bitter, and gave her no entertainment.... But now, down in Memory, she was re-living small happinesses of childhood and girlhood—toys and adornments and days and moods and happenings—and then again, again, for the ten thousandth time again, her marriage to Madhava.

Her marriage to Madhava. Ah!... Ah! She sat under the bamboo, under the teak tree, and forgot the pots and pans, the bruises upon her arms and how sore were her shoulders—how dull and slow-beating and sore was her heart!... Village lights—village lights, and the gongs in the temple—lights carried in procession, and flowers and flowers; spices and cakes and fruits burned in sacrificial fires.... How she, Zira, was dressed by her mother and sisters and the neighbours, and how she met Madhava and they walked hand in hand.... All the rites—oblation to Agni and prayers for long life, kind kindred, many children, right wealth—all the rites, and the marriage pledge,

How bright was that day—and the village shouting and laughing—and all so friendly, even the children friendly—children that now stoned her and cried “Widow, widow! Madhava must have died because of you!”

Oh, the marriage, how sweet it was, and the feasting and the well-wishing—and now all the sweetness long gone by, long, long gone by.... That was the trouble with going down into Memory—the swords were so sharp beside the flowers!

Zira raised her head and looked at two darting lizards beside her, then at a painted butterfly upon a red flower, then up into the boughs of the tree. A monkey there threw down a sizable twig. It struck upon the wall and sent the lizards into crannies. “Tree-folk, you do not suffer like me!” said Zira.

“Boom!—Boom!” went the temple gong, some sacrifice being toward. Zira threw herself upon the ground and wept.

Blurred and aching pictures still came through. The days after the wedding danced by—then Madhava, ill, pale, and shaking, then red with fever, bright-eyed, talking, talking, talking!—Madhava lying upon the great bed and Zira and his mother and sisters nursing him—the priest coming, gazing, speaking—and the hot still days with the rains beginning—and the nights velvet black with the clouds gathering—and all the verses of the sacred writings that they said ... but Madhava only burned the more with fever and cried the more wildly—and the mother and sisters said to Zira, “Unhappy one! Do not all people know that if the husband dies it is the wife who slays him!”

Zira dug her fingers into the earth. Memory now was not fair and warm and dear, no indeed it was not! but it held her—it held her—away down the stair! It poured over her again, it made her feel the hot days with the rains beginning, the nights velvet black without a star. It made her hear again the dogs that howled by night, the sounds that went stealthily through the village, the jungle murmur that the winds brought over the fields, over the village wall. She heard again, mind-brought, the cry of a tiger a-roam. Memory made her hear and see and touch Madhava, talking, talking, talking, and hard to hold in bed, and the nursing women so tired and thirsty for sleep.... It brought her to a grey day with warm, large raindrops falling slowly—it brought her to a black, black night, and Madhava lying at last quiet, seeming to sleep.... Madhava lay so still, seeming as though he dreamed and were happy. Itura, his mother, and JadÉh, his sister, stole away to get a little sleep. Zira stayed, heavy-eyed, beside the bed. What happened then? She sat upon the floor, her head drooped against the foot of the bed; she did not mean to shut her eyes, or, if she shut them, meant at once to open.... Zira drew a moaning sigh, lying upon the earth beneath the bamboo by the stream near GÂngya’s house, three years and more from that night. What happened? Some demon entered surely to entice! but if she had not slept the demon might not have won in. So it was Zira’s fault—Zira’s fault—Zira’s fault—set to guard her lord, her husband, and sleeping, sleeping—Zira’s fault—Zira’s fault. The fever came back to Madhava. He opened his eyes, he sat up in bed, he looked around—and there was only the faithless wife sleeping. Madhava put his feet out of the bed; he stood up—and all the little bells and flower faces were calling! Madhava went out of the room and down the passage and out of the house door—all in the soft and black and muffled night. Zira, in the shadow of the teak tree, took up a handful of earth and strewed it over her sunken head. O woe, woe! death for Madhava, and for Zira such long woe, such long atonement, such long woe.... Down in Memory, she followed Madhava. Out of the house, into the village street, and the night so black and wordless with the rain at hand and all householders within doors, sleeping with their families. The street, the wall, the gate made for keeping out all jungle beasts, but not formed so that a man might not pass from within, knowing the opening’s trick—Madhava went out of the gate, and Zira who had not waked and followed that night, waked and followed now.... The beaten path across the black fields, and the hilly ground, and the little ravines, and in front the jungle growing higher, growing blacker, growing higher, growing blacker, growing nearer.... The jungle sounds growing louder.... Madhava the sick man, fevered and talking to himself, and walking the jungle path where no one went at night, before him the pool with the cane and the fallen trees, and the bank where the jungle came to drink.... Madhava, talking to himself, going to the jungle, and there, by the pool, red-eyed, and waiting, the tiger whose voice for a week the village had heard.... Zira stumbled up the stair from Memory, covering her eyes with her hands.

breathed Zira under the bamboo.

She took the greatest copper pot, set it between her knees, and with the rag that she held rubbed it clean. It blazed in the sun, it hurt her eyes. A quarrel sprang up between the monkeys in the teak tree. They chattered and screeched at one another, they showered twigs and leaves. Zira, drawing her hand around and around the copper vessel, saw with each circle some one of the hours that followed Itura’s return to the room, and the missing of Madhava. Around—the tracking him from the house—around—the rousing of the village, the finding without the wall his naked footprints—around—the following at dawn upon the jungle path—around—-the coming to the pool, the track of the tiger there, the end of all signs and of all hoping—around, around—the beginning of the unhappy life of Zira, a woman wedded, whose husband was dead!

The monkeys in the tree sulked after quarrelling. The lizards ran again over the wall, the water went past in sheets of diamonds, the brown earth swam in heat, boom! boom! sounded the temple gong. Zira gathered together all the pots and pans, clean now until they must be cleaned again. She weighted herself with them, her thin shoulders bending under the load. She drew the ragged veil over her head, and getting stumblingly to her feet because of her burden, faced GÂngya’s house that was all her home. “What stupid and wicked lives were mine before I came here—before I came here?” asked Zira, and went on to the house and her midday piece of sessamum-cake.

Three years.... And all that time Madhava walked the earth as Madhava, though not by the banks of Jumuna. He walked in a forest back from Ganges, a forest standing from old time, a resort from old time of holy men. Madhava gathered firewood, dry branches from beneath the trees, dead and broken scrub. He carried the fuel to the hut of such a man. When that was done, he shouldered an earthern jar and went for water to a spring two bow-shots away. When the water was brought, he made cakes of millet flour and baked them upon a heated stone. When they were baked he ranged them upon a board; and when this was done he went out under the trees, looking for Narayana, the holy man. He found him seated, entranced, under a sandal-wood tree. Madhava, stepping backward, returned to the hut and seating himself by the fire which burned without doors, waited for the seer to retake the body and bring it to the hut for food. Madhava was the holy man’s one pupil, his chela.

Madhava looked through the grey and green and purple arches of the forest. He looked at one spot, and he said over thrice verses that he had been taught, and strove to still the waves of the mind that ran here and there in twenty different channels. Madhava always found it very hard to still the mind, though the holy man told him the method time and again.... This day, somehow, the waves sank of their own accord.

Madhava, sitting there in the forest back of Ganges, beside the jar of water and the millet cakes, with the blue wood smoke rising in a feather, very quietly and suddenly remembered how he had happened to enter the forest. He had not remembered it before.... He had come to the forest from long travelling to and fro in a land of towns and temples and villages and roads with people always upon them. There he was the servant of a horse-trader, and people thought him out of his head, and the children gathered around him in the villages, and he told them stories of the animals in the forest, and especially of one great tiger. The horse-trader treated him very cruelly. He suffered. In the night-time he wept for wretchedness. Then one day, going upon the road that touched this forest, his master the horse-trader began to beat him mercilessly. Madhava felt something terrible rise within him. He took an iron bar and killed the horse-trader, and then he ran into the forest—ran and ran and ran, until he caught his foot in the root of a tree and fell, striking his head.... Madhava, sitting by the sage’s hut and fire, drew a long breath. It was clear how he came into the forest.

The holy man lying under the sandal-wood tree came back to his body and brought it to the hut and the evening meal. The blue feather of smoke went up, the shadows stretched at immense length, the insect folk made their even song. The seer sat down and took from Madhava’s hands a cup of water and a millet cake.

“Master,” said Madhava, “I have remembered how I came into the forest.”

“It was written that that would come to pass.”

“I was with my master, a horse-trader, who treated me cruelly. One day he beat and cursed me. Something terrible rose within me and I took an iron bar and killed him. Then I ran into the forest and ran and ran until I caught my foot in a root and fell upon my head—”

“That was a year ago,” said Narayana. “I found you lying without sense. I carried you here and nursed you well. But you could not remember until now how you came into the forest.”

“That was how I came,” said Madhava.

“It is well that that veil has been taken away. Now will you learn with greater strength.”

“Can a man learn truth who is servant to horse-traders, and a murderer?”

“The soul does not know poverty, does not murder, is not man nor woman, Brahmin nor Sudra.”

Madhava stayed in the forest, brought firewood and water, and was taught by Narayana. Another year went by. There came a day when Madhava sat beneath a tree, pondering the universe. Suddenly he remembered how he came into the great river plain, and to be the servant of the horse-trader.... Again he drew himself from a pool of water, at the edge of the jungle. It was black night, with large, warm raindrops falling; there was a great beast coming out of the brush—a tiger surely. Madhava had gone to meet it—surely he was drunken or in a fever! The beast knew that there was something strange—turning aside, he had gone padding away. Madhava went on, walking very surely through the jungle. He went fast, with great strides, went through the night and into the day. Madhava, seated beneath the tree, remembered that going, remembered lying down and sleeping, rising and going on again—and then days and nights of sleeping and wandering, eating fruits and nuts, struggling with, outwitting, or companioning jungle inhabitants, being as a wild man. He remembered, after many days of this, striking out of the jungle into a cultivated country. He remembered a road and travellers along it.... Men came by with horses—a man stood and talked to him.... That was the horse-trader.

Madhava told Narayana that evening. “I have remembered how I came into this country, and to be the servant of the horse-trader.”

“One day,” said Narayana, “you will remember all that is beyond north and south and east and west.”

“I seem to have been a man ill or mad or drunken.”

“That was one of thy little selves. The soul is not ill nor mad nor drunken.”

Madhava stayed in the forest, brought firewood and water, and was taught by Narayana. Another year went by.

Five years.... The village upon the Jumuna had bound into the great sheaf of village tales the story of the bridegroom who fell ill and strayed from his house in the black night, and by the pool at the edge of the jungle was taken by the great old tiger. It was put upon the legend shelf, for telling by old to young, for no one knew how long. It was become simply a story among stories. Wet season, dry season, seed time and harvest, the village went about its usual business.... Zira looked and felt an old woman. When she was regarded at all it was as a drudge who was justly paying. Women were not widowed unless they had sinned..... GÂngya and Itura, their sons and daughters, ill-treated her because it was Retribution, and as the Eternal Order of Things would have it. But now, long since, grief for Madhava had lost edge. No longer, as at first, did they load Zira with accusations, gross terms of blame. No longer did they make daily reference to her evil nature. They only put upon her heavy drudgery, abstinence from much food or sleep and from all pleasure. Bowed and silent, Zira worked her fingers to the bone.

Five years.... Zira washed clothes in the stream near the teak tree. Upon the opposite bank a child was playing with sticks and stones. It was a little child and sweet. It laughed to itself, building a hut to shelter a stone. Zira sat back upon her heels and watched the child. Something yearned within her, yearned and yearned, then mounted.

The child looked across to the woman for applause. “Pretty! Pretty!” called Zira. She had with her a cluster of fruit. She tossed this across to the child who caught it and laughed and danced about. “Something else! something else!” cried the child. Zira had a piece of bread that with the fruit was to have made her dinner. She threw this across also. The child caught it and ran away, looking back and laughing.

Zira, washing clothes with eyes that dazzled for weariness, with an aching and hungry body, felt within her being, away from the ache and glare, away from GÂngya’s house, away from Zira washing clothes, the rise of something from level to level, power and faculty changing form....

In the forest, Madhava brought to Narayana’s hut firewood and water. He built the dawn fire, laying the sticks and the tinder, striking the flint and steel. All over the world was a mist, with a moist smell of earth and leaves. The mist began to part, showing ragged depths. Madhava stood up from the flame he had kindled. It crackled and sang, it made his garment shine, and his outstretched arm. Madhava remembered that he was Madhava, the son of GÂngya, the husband of Zira. He remembered his childhood, his youth and manhood, in the village by the Jumuna. All that came back to him as though it were yesterday. Before him formed the face of Zira....

Narayana sat in contemplation under the sandal-wood. When the spirit returned, said Madhava to him, “Master, I fully remember this life. I am Madhava, son of GÂngya, who lives in a village by the Jumuna. I was the bridegroom of Zira, but hardly were we married before I fell ill. In fever, I must have wandered from home. It all comes back to me.... Many to whom I am debtor think that I am dead. I must return to them.”

“Ropes unbroken,” said Narayana, “will bind and draw as is their nature to. You may not miss out your years as a householder. Go then, son, but put in a safe treasure room what you have learned.”

“I do not go,” said Madhava, “until comes one to take my place.”

In three months’ time there came a youth to take Madhava’s place. On the other side of the forest had lived a holy man who now laid down the body. The student who served him came, as the sage had directed, to attach himself to Narayana. “Now go!” said Narayana to Madhava. “As long as the ropes are there, answer to their drawing. But remember that there is a fire that you must feed with yourself.”

“I mean to remember,” said Madhava.

Madhava cut himself a staff and took a bottle for water, and said farewell to Narayana and to the chela from the other side of the forest, and became a traveller. As he went through the land he worked for food, and now he slept under some friendly roof, and now he slept by the roadside.

He had been given three years of clean living and of wisdom words, and that is enough to set the stalk to dreaming of flowers and fruit....

Nearly six years! Zira, drawing water from the stream, set down the jar, straightened her aching back, and shaded her eyes with her hand. There was a man standing under the teak tree. He seemed travel-worn, but a well-looking man for all that.

Zira made to lift the jar to her shoulder and go away. The man spoke. “Are the people friendly in this village?”

“That is as it is looked at,” said Zira. “To many they are friendly.”

The man came nearer. “Whose house is that among the trees?”

“GÂngya’s.”

“Are GÂngya and Itura living, and their sons and daughters?”

“You have been in the village before?—GÂngya and Itura are living, and their daughters and all their sons save one.”

“Which one is that?”

“Madhava.”

“I remember him.—How did he die and when?”

“He had a fever. In the night time he rose from his bed and left the house and the village. He walked upon the jungle path—into the jungle—to the jungle pool. It was night, and there was a tiger hunting.... Madhava died nearly six years ago.”

“Madhava!—I heard that he was to be married.”

“He was married.”

“They said the woman was beautiful. Her name was Zira.”

“Yes. Zira.”

“Is she living?”

“Yes, she is living.”

“She was very beautiful.... All these years she has been named a widow.”

“All these years she has been widow,” said Zira. “She may live yet many years.”

“A widow has a miserable life,” said the man. “Is she yet beautiful?”

“No.”

“Ah,” said the man. Zira gazed at him, then again she turned to lift the water jar, then let it be. She went nearer to the man. She gazed again. “Who are you?”

“Whom am I like?”

“You are like Madhava.”

Zira’s voice came only from her lips. She loosed the fastening of her shawl that covered her head and shadowed her face. It fell. She stood against the rock wall. “I am Zira. Are you Madhava?”

Madhava buried his face in his arms. “The tiger should not have fled from me that night, nor I have wandered on—”

“You are Madhava ... Madhava!”

Her voice deepened, then rose in a loud and bitter cry, “Madhava!”

Madhava dropped his hands from his face. He rose and came to her. They stood by the running water. “Thou art not fair as thou wert.... Or art thou fairer?... We have suffered—we have learned.... When all is said, thou art deep in me!”

“When all is said, thou art deep in me!”

“It was broken—the beautiful tree! But now it grows again.”

“It grows again!”

From GÂngya’s house came a calling. “Zira—Zira!” Zira turned, and Madhava with her. Hand in hand they went to GÂngya’s house.