The Cult of Loving Kindness Read Online Free PDF Page B

was growing by the dike, and with his other hand he pushed the boy aside. “Sarnath?” he inquired—a soft, tentative question that cleared away all other noise. The little girl stopped laughing suddenly and there was quiet, save for the boy’s angry breath.
    The novice was bare-chested and was dressed in baggy shorts. Despite his low spiritual condition, he was not young. His face was heavier than those of most of his race, and when his mouth broke open in a smile, he revealed a row of large white teeth—evidence of a strange genetic mix.
    He pushed the boy aside. He walked slowly down the dike and stopped, and reached out his dirty hand to touch the traveler’s face. Mr. Sarnath was smiling and he closed his eyes, but the old novice hesitated at the final instant, and reached instead to grasp the end of Mr. Sarnath’s veil where it was hanging low around his mouth. The novice pulled the veil away completely, unwound it from the traveler’s neck. Then he reached out to touch Mr. Sarnath’s arm and take his knapsack from his shoulder. “How are you?” he asked, his wet lips making a mess out of the words—“How are you doing?” But his face was lit with happiness, and when Sarnath hugged him, he placed his forehead shyly on the taller man’s chest. “Nice to see you,” he said.
    “Honest Toil,” replied Mr. Sarnath.
    The little girl had dragged herself onto the dike. Avoiding the boy’s stare, she limped down the path toward Sarnath, and she burrowed in between him and the older man, cleaning her face against their pants. The path was wider where they stood, but not much; startled by the new contact, Honest Toil pulled away. He gestured the other novice forward and stood holding the shoulder bag, muttering to himself and making soft, impatient noises, while Mr. Sarnath squatted down with his handkerchief and started to wipe the mud from the girl’s hands and legs.
    Under his fingers the bruises seemed to grow, spreading soft and yellow from her knee. The gladness that protected her from pain had dissipated; now she was biting her lips to keep from crying. Mr. Sarnath raised his head. “How far are we?”
    Honest Toil was shaking his head and mumbling to himself, but when he saw he had Sarnath’s attention, his face cleared suddenly and he smiled. “Oh,” he said. “I would like you to meet my friend Mr. Goldbrick.”
    The second novice, a younger man, stood relaxed and unresistant as Honest Toil pulled him forward by the hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, a hint of good-natured irony in his voice. Mr. Sarnath wasn’t looking. He was poking at the little girl’s thigh. But then, glancing up, he noticed signs of renewed consternation on Honest Toil’s face, and he reached out his hand. He nodded hello; for an instant the three men’s hands came together, and they seemed to generate a spark that only Honest Toil could feel. He grinned excitedly, shaking out his fingers. “One quarter of a mile,” he said.
    The day was hot and overcast. A little way along the path, the boy stood on one leg and picked a thorn out of his foot. A cloud of midges jiggled around Sarnath’s head, and the swamp gave off a rich, fermented smell. Unctuous water stretched away on both sides of the dike.
    There had been no swamp here when he was a child, no mangrove trees upon their stiltlike roots. Here had been a dry glade of anorack. Now at eight-thirty in the morning it was already hot. Cassia’s skin, as he wiped it with his handkerchief, was covered with small beads of sweat.
     
    *
That day was important in the history of the village because at nine o’clock the master announced to his disciples that he was leaving, that his term of life was over, that he was unable to stay longer with his students and his friends. Eight weeks before, he had broken his hip while he was working in the lentil pit. The bone had twisted when they were getting him out—he had hung suspended in the ropes, cursing steadily, and by