As a matter of fact, they did not again visit the inhospitable shores of the heavenly Gunga. Often, however, they turned their flight toward the valley of the malachite rocks. Reposing under the mighty crown of the Coral Tree, they breathed that perfume of perfumes which streamed from the crimson blossoms, and, in the depths of their memory, there was opened up to them the vista of their former lives—life preceding life in some strangely appointed order, back into the far-distant past.
Sometimes in palaces, sometimes in huts, they saw themselves again, but whether robed in silk and muslin, or clad in the coarse fabrics of the village loom, the mutual love was ever there. At one time, it was crowned with the happiness of their union, at another, separation due to life's destiny, or to death, was their sad lot, but, happy or unhappy, the love remained the same.
And they saw themselves in other times, when human beings, were mightier than now, in those eternally unforgettable heroic days, when he tore himself from her arms and bestrode his war elephant, in order to march to the City of Elephants, to the aid of his friends, the Pandaver princes, in their quarrel with the Kauravas; when, fighting at the side of Arjuna and Krishna, on the plain of Kurukshetra, on the tenth day of the gigantic battle he yielded up his heroic soul. But she, when she reeves the news of his death, ascended, in front of the palace, and followed by all of her women, the funeral pyre, which she lit with her own hand.
........
And yet again they saw themselves, in strange regions, and amid natural scenery of another type.
It was no longer the valley of the Gunga and Jumna, with its magnificent palace-filled cities where warriors in shining armour, proud Brahmans, rich citizens, and diligent Çudras lent animation to the streets. This theatre which, with its luxuriant tropical magnificence, had so often girt round their common life, as though there were no other world, now disappeared entirely, to make room for a drearier and harsher land.
Here the sun of summer burns, it is true, just as hot as by the Gunga, dries up the water-courses, and parches the grass. But in winter the frost robs the woods of their foliage and rime covers the fields. No towns rear their towers in this region; only widely scattered villages, with large folds, lie in the midst of its rich pastures, and the protecting elevation near by is turned into a small fortress by means of ramparts and rude walls. A warlike, pastoral people have here their home. The woods are full of wolves, and miles away the trembling wayfarer hears the roar of the lion—"of the beast that roameth, frightful, savage; whose lair is in the mountains"—as he describes him; for he is a song-maker.
After long wanderings, he approaches a village, an unknown but welcome guest; for that he is everywhere. Over his shoulder hangs his sole visible possession—a small lute; but in his head he carries the whole precious heritage of his fathers: ancient mystic hymns to Agni and Indra, to Varuna and Mitra, yea, even to unknown gods; songs of war and wassail for men; love-songs for the maidens; fortune-bringing magic sayings for the kine, the givers of milk. And he has power and knowledge with which to increase this store from his own resources. Where, indeed, would such a guest not be welcome?
It is the hour when the cattle are being driven home. At the head of a herd, there walks, with supreme grace in every movement of her young body, a maiden of lofty stature; by her side goes her pet cow, whose bell the others follow, and from time to time the favourite licks her mistress's hand. The young wanderer gives the maiden evening greeting; she replies with kindly words. Smiling, they look at one another—and the look is the same that in the pleasure park at Kosambi flew back and forth between the ball-player on the stage and the stranger spectator.
........
But the Land of the Five Streams, after it has repeatedly given them shelter and a home, disappears in its turn as did the valley of the Gunga. Other regions come into view, other peoples and customs surround them—everything poorer, ruder, wilder.
The steppe over which the procession passes—horsemen, wagons, and pedestrians in endless lines—is white with snow. The air is full of whirling flakes. Black mountains look darkly down. From under the tentlike roof of a heavy ox-wagon, a maiden leans forward with such haste of movement that the sheepskin slips aside, and her wealth of golden hair flows down over cheeks, throat, and breast. Anxiety burns in her eyes as she gazes out in the direction in which all eyes are turned, all fingers point—to where, like a dark cloud whirled up by the wind, a horde of mounted horsemen comes sweeping towards them. But she smiles confidently, as her glance meets that of the youth who rides on a black ox beside the wagon; and it is the same look as erstwhile, even if out of blue eyes. The glance sets the heart of the youth on fire—he swings his battle-axe, and with loud cry joins the other warriors who rush to meet the foe—sets it on fire, and still warms it when it is pierced by the cold iron of a Scythian dart.
........
But they saw greater changes yet; led by the fragrant odour of the Coral Tree, they undertook even longer journeys.
They found themselves as stag and hind in the vast forest. Their love was wordless now, but not sightless. And again it was the same look; deep in the darkest depths of their great presageful eyes there lightened, even if through dim blue mists, the same spark that had later found its way so radiantly from human eye to human eye.
They grazed together; waded side by side in the clear, cool forest brook; body by body rested in the tall soft grass. They had their joys in common; together trembled for fear, when a branch suddenly became alive and the jaws of the python opened wide, or when, in the stillness of the night, a scarcely audible, creeping movement was caught by their quick cars, while their distended nostrils winded the pungent odour of a beast of prey, and they fled thence, with mighty bounds, just as a rustling and cracking made itself heard in the neighbouring thicket, and the angry roar of a tiger that had fallen short of its prey rolled through the wood, now suddenly waking to life all around.
For many years they had thus together shared all the delights and dangers of the forest, when in a lovely bit of shade one day they proceeded to gnaw the young and juicy saplings. Alas! the hind entangled herself in the snare of a hunter. In vain did her mate work with tine and hoof to burst the bonds that fettered his love, though he laboured ceaselessly till the enemy—man—approached. Then he faced the foe with lowered antlers, and the deadly spear soon ended the lives of both.
........
Farther yet, and a pair of golden eagles were building their eyrie high up in savage mountain fastnesses, hanging over the blue abysses of the Himalayas, and circling round its snowy pinnacles.
As two dolphins they ploughed the boundless expanse of old ocean's salty flood.
Yes, once they even grew as two palms on an island in the midst of the seas, their roots intertwined in the cool sand of the shore, and their tops rustling together in the cool sea-breeze.
Thus did they two, companions in so many wanderings, linger in the shade of the Coral Tree, and, day by day, enjoy the sweets of memory exhaled by its fragrant blossoms.
For, even as a royal couple, in pursuit of amusement and knowledge, have many things related to them by the court story-teller—now the life-story of a king, again a simple village tale—at one time, an heroic poem; at another, a legend of ancient days or, it may be, a fable of some animal, or a fairy tale—and all the while know that, however often it pleases them to listen, there is no fear that this prince of story-tellers will ever be at a loss for matter, because the treasury of his legendary knowledge and his own inventive ability are both inexhaustible—so these two were able to say to themselves: "However often and however long we may linger here, ay, even if it were for an eternity, there is no danger that these blossoms will ever be unable to wake further memories; for the farther we go down into the abysses of time, the farther does time recede from us."
And they marvelled much.
"We are as old as the world," said Vasitthi.