The Pilgrim Kamanita/Chapter 25
It suddenly seemed to Kamanita as though something living were moving in the depths of the pond. In the crystal deeps he became dimly aware of a rising shadow. The waters bubbled and seethed, and a large lotus bud, with red apex, shot like a fish above the surface on which it then lay swimming and rocking. The waters themselves rose and sank in ever-extending rings, and, for a long time afterwards, trembled and glittered, shivered, as it seemed, into fragments and radiating light, as if the pond were filled with liquid diamonds, while the reflection of the watery coruscations flickered up like miniature flames over the lotus leaves, the robes, and the faces and forms of the Blest.
Kamanita's own being trembled, and radiated all its hidden colours, and over his heart also there seemed to dance, as if in happy play, a reflection of joyous emotion.
"What may that have been?" his glance asked of his blue neighbour.
"Deep down, among far-distant worlds on the gloomy earth, a human soul has this instant centred its heart's desire upon entering again into existence here in Sukhavati. Now let us also see whether the bud will develop well, and finally blossom. For many a soul fixes its desire on this pure home of bliss and is not able to live up to its longing, but, on the contrary, entangles itself again in a maze of unholy passions, succumbs to the lust of the flesh, and remains bound to the impurities of earth. Then the bud pines away and at last disappears entirely. This time, as thou seest, it is a man's soul. Such a one, in the checkered life of earth, fails more easily from the path to Paradise, for which reason thou wilt also notice that even if the red and white are about equal in number, among the blue the lighter in colour, the females, are by far the more numerous."
At this communication the heart of Kamanita quivered strangely as if, all at once, joy blent with pain and sorrow, bearing a promise of future happiness, had set it vibrating, and his gaze rested, as though seeking the solution to some riddle, upon a closed lotus flower which, white as the breast of a swan, rocked gracefully quite near to him in the still gently moving water.
"Canst thou remember seeing the bud of my lotus rise from the depths?" he asked of his experienced neighbour.
"Surely, for it came up together with that white flower thou art now gazing upon. And I have always watched the pair, at times not without anxiety. For fairly soon thy bud began perceptibly to shrivel up, and it had almost sunk beneath the surface of the water when all at once it raised itself again, became fuller and brighter, and then developed magnificently till it opened. The white, however, grew slowly, but gradually and evenly towards the day when it should open—when suddenly it was attacked as if by some sickness. It recovered, however, very quickly, and became the magnificent flower thou now seest before thee."
At these words there arose in Kamanita such a feeling of joy that it really seemed to him as if he had hitherto been but a sad guest in a sad place—to such a degree did everything now appear to glow, to smell sweet, and to breathe music.
And as though his gaze, which had rested unwaveringly on the white lotus, had been a magician's wand for the raising of hidden treasures, the apex of the flower began to move, the petals bent their edges outward, drooping gracefully down on every side, and lo!—in their midst sat Vasitthi, with widely-opened eyes, whose sweetly smiling glance met his own.
Simultaneously Kamanita and Vasitthi stretched out their arms to one another, and hand in hand they floated away over the pond towards the bank.
Kamanita observed, of course, that Vasitthi had not as yet recognised him, but had only turned to him unconsciously as the sunflower to the sun. How should she have recognised him—seeing that no one, immediately on awaking, remembered anything of his previous life—even if, at sight of him, in the depths of her heart, dim presentiments might stir, as had happened in his own case when his neighbour spoke of the heavenly Gunga?
He showed her the gleaming river, which emptied itself noiselessly into the pond—
"In like fashion do the silver waters of the heavenly Gunga feed all the lakes in the fields of the Blest."
"The heavenly Gunga," she repeated questioningly, and drew her hand across her forehead.
"Come, let us go to the Coral Tree."
"But the grove and the shrubbery are so beautiful over there, and they are playing such delightful games," said Vasitthi, pointing in another direction.
"Later! First let us go to the Coral Tree in order that thou mayst be vivified by its wonderful perfume."
Like a child one has comforted by the promise of a new toy, for not having been allowed to take part in the joyous games of its comrades, Vasitthi followed him willingly. As the perfume began to float towards them her features grew more and more animated.
"Whither dost thou lead me?" she asked, as they turned into the narrow gorge among the rocks. "Never have I been so filled with expectation. And it seems to me that I have often in the past been filled with expectation, although thy smile reminds me that I have but just awakened to consciousness. But thou hast surely mistaken the way, we can go no farther in this direction."
"Oh, we can go farther, much farther," smiled Kamanita, "and perhaps thou wilt now become aware that that feeling of which thou hast spoken has not deceived thee, dearest Vasitthi."
Even as he spoke there opened before them the basin of the valley amid the malachite rocks, with the red Coral Tree and the deep blue sky. Then the perfume of all perfumes enveloped her.
Vasitthi laid her hands on her breast as if to check her all too deep breathing, and in the rapid play of light and shadow on her features, Kamanita discerned how the storm of life-memories was sweeping over her.
Suddenly she raised her arms and flung herself on his breast—
"Kamanita, my beloved!"
And he bore her thence, speeding back through the gorge with eager haste.
In the open, if still somewhat sombre, valley with its dark shrubbery and thickset groves, where the gazelles were at play but no human form disturbed the solitude, he descended with her, finding shelter under a tree.
"Oh, my poor Kamanita," said Vasitthi, "what must thou have suffered! And what thought of me when thou didst learn that I had married Satagira!"
Then Kamanita told her how he had not learned that from hearsay but had himself, in the chief street of Kosambi, seen the bridal procession, and how the speechless misery graven on her face had directly convinced him that she had only yielded to the pressure of her parents.
"But no power on earth would have compelled me, my only love, if I had not been forced to believe myself in possession of sure proof that thou wert no longer alive."
And Vasitthi began to tell him of the events of that bygone time.