And she—“All is destroyed save intelligence and work—these outlast us.”
So, museful, I took my way to the Mount of Kali, which lies without the City, past many ancient tanks grown rank with vegetation, past flowering trees, and swamps of mat huts and malaria.
A bright-eyed baby played upon a log, see-sawing over a nauseous drain—Was this one measure of the dance of Death? … An avenue now of shops—the Precincts—Gods and Godlings and sacrificial vessels were for sale, with the beads of the Sacred, and water-bottles made of Ganges sand blown fine as glass. … I lingered among the women making purchase. Images of Kali seemed most popular, with bright red and yellow horses for the children, nor was the picture shop neglected—and I laughed softly to myself to see a German print of Romeo and Juliet in the balcony scene selling clamorously for “Radha Krishna,” the gay God with his favourite lady.
Seated under a pipal tree, hoary with age, was an ash-smeared Priest, at his feet a heap of yellow marigolds. No woman passed him
