A Fallen Idol

THE PROLOGUE-2

As the Brahman came in with a general and highly offensive air of precaution against moral and physical contamination, the Jain rose and saluted him as courteously as he could bring himself to do.

Ram Chunga declined the seat which the other indicated on the stone bench, and, remaining at some distance, began by saying that the errand which alone could bring him to such a place would probably be guessed.

If, said the Jain, his visitor had come to renew his offer to purchase the Siva, he must, with every respect, make the same answer as before.

The Brahman replied that he no longer proposed to purchase the image;-he now demanded that it should be surrendered to him without a price.

That, said Acharya Chick, was obviously unjust. The Siva was his own, he had brought it at his own expense from one of the Jain temples at Padan-guddy, how then could the Brahman claim it from him?

As the ministrant of Siva, the azure-throated, Ram Chunga replied, it was intolerable to him to know that the image of that mighty one was forced to share the offerings and suffer the companionship of such a herd of insignificant little demigods as he understood were venerated in the temple of the Jain.

To which Acharya Chick answered peaceably that his brother was mistaken. It was true indeed that many of the Vedantic emblems were to be found in Jain temples, and he instanced Erabma, Indra, Indrani, and the bull Nandi, as well as Siva; but they were not at any time considered as more than devatas or attendants upon the various tirthankars, and this particular image of Siva was a mere ornament, and never received offerings or adoration.

His reply did not improve matters, for the Brahman retorted that this only increased the impiety. Why should Siva go unhonoured while these tawdry little tirthankars were loaded with gifts? Which were more powerful, a handful of deified men or a god who was before all things began?

“You mistake, Ram Chunga, you do not grasp the spirit of our creed”(the Brahman’s thin lips curled contemptuously); “we lay our humble tributes of fruit and flowers before the emblems of these our arhats, the pure existences, the sages, the teachers, but with no purpose to please or propitiate. They themselves are infinitely beyond our poor homage; but to honour what is pure and good is beneficial in itself, and acts of devotion purify the heart, though there is no other reward.”

“And this newest god of yours,” said the Brahman, “who and what was he?”

The Jain gave an embarrassed cough. “You speak of Chalanka, who was but yesterday amongst us and now has passed away? He, too, is worthy of our worship; he had overcome the eight great crimes, fasting in silence (even as did the blessed Mahâvîr, who for months kept his eyes fixed upon the tip of his nose); he had vanquished all human passion and infirmity, and now therefore that he has crossed the ocean of existence, his life remains to us for an example.”

The Brahman made a guttural sound of intense contempt. “An example truly!” he exclaimed; and then coming nearer and lowering his voice as he bent his cold keen eyes upon the other’s face, he asked, “Know you how he died — and why? Hear then!”

It was a wild story that was poured into the Jain’s unwilling ears, a story of stolen joys, of detection, hideous punishment and fierce despair; it was small wonder that Acharya Chick utterly refused to believe it.

“Where is this perjured dancing girl of yours?” he said. “I would fain question her.”

“The girl?” said the Brahman drily. “Where not you, Acharya Chick, nor any man will see her more. And this man, forsooth, is to take his place amongst your divinities — his shrine is to be decked whilst the idol of sacred Siva craves garlands in vain! Nay, this shall not be. I, his unworthy priest, protest against this last outrage. Let this image depart, which you know not how to honour — let it depart, I say!”

Mild as the Jain was, he was not going to be bullied in his own temple; the attack on Chalanka had roused his flagging enthusiasm; besides, the Brahman’s demand was too unconscionable to be treated seriously.

“I have spoken, O Ram Chunga,” he said; “leave me to administer my own temple and go in peace.”

“You refuse?” said Ram Chunga, and his brows grew black.

“I refuse!” said Acharya Chick.

“Then hear my warning. Not long can such obstinacy go unpunished. Our gods at least have not dreamed themselves to eternal apathy. They can reward, and, what is more, they can punish. Quick are they to feel a slight — yea, and to revenge it. Have you never heard of the bag of insufficient peas, and the insulted idol of Mahadeva, which is Iswara, which is Siva?”

And, as the Jain made no reply, Ram Chunga told him the story: how a pious but parsimonious worshipper repaired to the village of Tady Malingy, where are many temples to Mahadeva; how, being desirous to pay each shrine the compliment of an offering if he could do so with prudence, he solved the problem by procuring a bag of peas, a single one of which he laid before each idol. How, unhappily for him, there were not enough peas to go round, and one idol was left out in the cold, at which he was highly offended, and mortified into the bargain by the insolent boasting of the other gods, who seem, by the way, to have been somewhat easily elated. How, in his anger, the incensed idol transported itself miraculously across the river in chase of the unsuspecting worshipper, who was trudging home in calm satisfaction with his own economical genius. And how something too dreadful to describe befell the pilgrim, and how the idol evermore refused to return, and all its former companions and their temples lie fathoms deep under the sand to this day.

This marvellous tale Ram Chunga repeated with impressive solemnity. “Such is Siva, the glorious, the conqueror of death, in whose sacred name I now speak.” He concluded, “Think once, aye and twice, ere you thwart him!”

Acharya Chick rose with a mild dignity. “I must leave you, O Ram Chunga,” he said; “it is the hour at which I begin my ministrations.”

The Brahman shrugged his shoulders. “Upon your own head be the consequences,” he said. “You are warned, and I say to you, Acharya Chick, that this image will yet be mine!”

He turned and strode down the path with his aquiline nose high in the air, while the Jain stood in the portico for a few moments, watching the Brahman’s scarlet cap as it burned in the sun every time he passed out of the shade, before he went into his temple with a new reason for disquietude.

He could not, he would not, believe so terrible a slander, and yet he wished more than ever that the head guru had not been so positive about the new idol. He was more determined than before to observe a marked moderation in the offerings he laid before it.

Thus resolved, he shook off his slippers on the marble pavement of the vestibule under the central dome, and unfastened the heavy and richly inlaid doors which communicated with the idol-chamber, a large, cool, and dimly lighted place, where the air was charged with the accumulated fragrance of constantly renewed blossoms of the champak and a kind of oleander.

The whole of one wall was elaborately carved and divided into two tiers of highly ornamented niches. In the centre of the upper tier, supported by two other arhats, sat Mahâvîra, the presiding deity of the temple, whose image was painted yellow and bathed in a flood of mysterious glory from an unseen opening above, through which came the only light that was admitted.

In the lower tier were the other tirthankars, each idol painted its characteristic colour, and in a separate compartment; its sacred cognizance carved below, and the mystic triple umbrella forming a kind of finial over its head. The attitude was the same in every case: all the idols squatted cross-legged, their hands being laid, one on the other, over the feet, whose soles turned upwards; most of the images had been hung with earrings and necklaces of more or less value, and before each niche was a kind of slab or altar for the reception of offerings.

In the corner, by the doors, stood the image of Siva, which the Brahman coveted for his own temple; a large and imposing figure, pot-bellied, painted a sickly blue, with a superfluous eye in the middle of its forehead, and more arms than even a deity could manage with either comfort or dexterity.

It had not been found possible to accommodate Chalanka in the tier of niches, but they had contrived a very comfortable little recess and a temporary altar for him in the opposite wall. His image, it may be said, was in its general character of the same pattern as the rest, though — owing to a hint which Acharya had given the idol-carver — considerably smaller; his cognizance was the hunting-leopard, or cheetah.

The gloom when the priest entered made it difficult to distinguish objects very clearly for a time, but, as his eyes became more accustomed to it, he made a startling discovery. Some impious person had entered during the night and stripped the idols of their jewellery! The robber had even dared to carry off the freshly dedicated flowers and fruit, for the altars which Acharya himself had seen heaped the night before were bared.

But the next moment brought a certain relief. It was not sacrilege after all; neither jewellery, fruit, nor flowers had been actually removed! The earrings and necklaces loaded the idol of the new tirthankar, before which the whole of the previous day’s offerings were heaped in profusion.

The sight made Acharya extremely angry notwithstanding; the temple ministrant (for Acharya himself merely superintended the ceremonies) was youthful and fervid, but still it was ill-judged of him to give this invidious welcome to the idol of a local celebrity.

He sent for his too zealous subordinate and censured him severely; but unfortunately a vow of silence for that day prevented the offender from making any attempt at self-defence beyond shaking his head with much vehemence.

That evening, as Acharya presided over the distribution of the day’s offerings, he was even more careful than before to restrict Chalanka’s portion both in quantity and quality. It was vain to tell himself that the Brahman’s story had had no influence upon him — a slandered saint is like a damaged plum, something is gone from him that can never be restored — and then, too, the Jain had had his doubts from the beginning.

But the very next morning revealed an outrage of the grossest irreverence. Every one of the tirthankars had been turned upside-down in his niche, except Chalanka, who was almost hidden under a mass of flowers!

Acharya well knew that no Jain would be guilty of such impiety; he saw in it the hand of his unscrupulous adversary, Ram Chunga, and was struck with mingled consternation and wrath.

He got the idols replaced in a normal position before the worshippers arrived, and as soon as the morning’s rites were ended he went down to the village and had an interview with the headman, Fattekhan Gûl, to whom he disclosed what had happened.

The headman sent him a Mussulinan guard, who, having a splendid contempt for Jains and Brahmans alike, might be trusted to remain impartial, and who were posted around the temple in such a manner that none could approach unchallenged.

And then the idols were all carefully oiled and bathed with sandal water, and left for the night with a strong conviction on Acharya’s part that their tranquillity was not likely to be again invaded.