looked fixedly at each number before going on to the next. He came to 350, after that 400, and after that 501 and then 600.
âFive-nought-one in second-class! Can it be true?â he shrieked. He looked at the number again and again. Yes, there it was. He had obtained a second-class. âIf this is true I shall sit in the B.A. class next month,â he shouted. His voice rang through the silent building. âI will flay alive anyone who calls me a fool hereafter . . .â he proclaimed. He felt slightly giddy. He leant against the wall. Years of strain and suspense were suddenly relaxed; and he could hardly bear the force of this release. Blood raced along his veins and heaved and knocked under his skull. He steadied himself with an effort. He softly hummed a tune to himself. He felt he was the sole occupant of the world and its overlord. He thumped his chest and addressed the notice-board: âKnow who I am?â He stroked an imaginary moustache arrogantly, laughed to himself and asked, âIs the horse ready, groom?â He threw a supercilious side glance at the notice-board and strutted out like a king. He stood on the last step of the porch and looked for his steed. He waited for a minute and commanded, âFool, bring the horse nearer. Do you hear?â The horse was brought nearer. He made a movement as if mounting and whipped his horse into a fury. His voice rang through the dark riverside, urging the horse on. He swung his arms and ran along the sands. He shouted at the top of his voice: âKeep off; the king is coming; whoever comes his way will be trampled . . .â
âI have five hundred and one horses,â he spoke to the night. The number stuck in his mind and kept coming up again and again. He ran the whole length of the riverbank up and down. Somehow this did not satisfy him. âPrime Minister,â he said, âthis horse is no good. Bring me the other five hundred and one horses, they are all in second-classesââ He gave a kick to the horse which he had been riding and drove it off. Very soon the Prime Minister brought him another horse. He mounted it with dignity and said, âThis is better.â Now he galloped about on his horse. It was a strange sight. In the dim starlight, alone at that hour, making a tap-tap with his tongue to imitate galloping hoofs. With one hand swinging and tugging the reins, and with the other stroking his moustache defiantly, he urged the horse on and on until it attained the speed of a storm. He felt like a conqueror as the air rushed about him. Soon he crossed the whole stretch of sand. He came to the waterâs edge, hesitated for a moment and whispered to his horse, âAre you afraid of water? You must swim across, otherwise I will never pay five-nought-one rupees for you.â He felt the horse make a leap.
Next afternoon his body came up at a spot about a quarter of a mile down the course of the river. Meanwhile, some persons had already picked up the coat left on the step and discovered in the inner pocket the slip of paper with the inscription:
âMy dear father: By the time you see this letter I shall be at the bottom of Sarayu. I donât want to live. Donât worry about me. You have other sons who are not such dunces as I amââ
SUCH PERFECTION
A sense of great relief filled Soma as he realized that his five years of labour were coming to an end. He had turned out scores of images in his lifetime, but he had never done any work to equal this. He often said to himself that long after the Deluge had swept the earth this Nataraja would still be standing on His pedestal.
No other human being had seen the image yet. Soma shut himself in and bolted all the doors and windows and plied his chisel by the still flame of a mud lamp, even when there was a bright sun outside. It made him perspire unbearably, but he did not mind it so long as it helped him to keep out prying eyes. He worked with a fierce
âFive-nought-one in second-class! Can it be true?â he shrieked. He looked at the number again and again. Yes, there it was. He had obtained a second-class. âIf this is true I shall sit in the B.A. class next month,â he shouted. His voice rang through the silent building. âI will flay alive anyone who calls me a fool hereafter . . .â he proclaimed. He felt slightly giddy. He leant against the wall. Years of strain and suspense were suddenly relaxed; and he could hardly bear the force of this release. Blood raced along his veins and heaved and knocked under his skull. He steadied himself with an effort. He softly hummed a tune to himself. He felt he was the sole occupant of the world and its overlord. He thumped his chest and addressed the notice-board: âKnow who I am?â He stroked an imaginary moustache arrogantly, laughed to himself and asked, âIs the horse ready, groom?â He threw a supercilious side glance at the notice-board and strutted out like a king. He stood on the last step of the porch and looked for his steed. He waited for a minute and commanded, âFool, bring the horse nearer. Do you hear?â The horse was brought nearer. He made a movement as if mounting and whipped his horse into a fury. His voice rang through the dark riverside, urging the horse on. He swung his arms and ran along the sands. He shouted at the top of his voice: âKeep off; the king is coming; whoever comes his way will be trampled . . .â
âI have five hundred and one horses,â he spoke to the night. The number stuck in his mind and kept coming up again and again. He ran the whole length of the riverbank up and down. Somehow this did not satisfy him. âPrime Minister,â he said, âthis horse is no good. Bring me the other five hundred and one horses, they are all in second-classesââ He gave a kick to the horse which he had been riding and drove it off. Very soon the Prime Minister brought him another horse. He mounted it with dignity and said, âThis is better.â Now he galloped about on his horse. It was a strange sight. In the dim starlight, alone at that hour, making a tap-tap with his tongue to imitate galloping hoofs. With one hand swinging and tugging the reins, and with the other stroking his moustache defiantly, he urged the horse on and on until it attained the speed of a storm. He felt like a conqueror as the air rushed about him. Soon he crossed the whole stretch of sand. He came to the waterâs edge, hesitated for a moment and whispered to his horse, âAre you afraid of water? You must swim across, otherwise I will never pay five-nought-one rupees for you.â He felt the horse make a leap.
Next afternoon his body came up at a spot about a quarter of a mile down the course of the river. Meanwhile, some persons had already picked up the coat left on the step and discovered in the inner pocket the slip of paper with the inscription:
âMy dear father: By the time you see this letter I shall be at the bottom of Sarayu. I donât want to live. Donât worry about me. You have other sons who are not such dunces as I amââ
SUCH PERFECTION
A sense of great relief filled Soma as he realized that his five years of labour were coming to an end. He had turned out scores of images in his lifetime, but he had never done any work to equal this. He often said to himself that long after the Deluge had swept the earth this Nataraja would still be standing on His pedestal.
No other human being had seen the image yet. Soma shut himself in and bolted all the doors and windows and plied his chisel by the still flame of a mud lamp, even when there was a bright sun outside. It made him perspire unbearably, but he did not mind it so long as it helped him to keep out prying eyes. He worked with a fierce
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