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TO MY DAUGHTER

LORD TENNYSON

SEETA AND RAMA--A TALE OF THE INDIAN FAMINE

THE STORY OF PRINCE D?SING

THE STORY OF RUDRA

THE STORY OF THE ROYAL HUNTRESS

CHANDRA--A TALE OF THE FIELD OF TELLIK?TA

THE KORATHY'S LULLABY

A poet of my native land has said-- The life the good and virtuous lead on earth Is like the black-eyed maiden of the East, Who paints the lids to look more bright and fair. The eyes may smart and water, but withal She loves to please them that behold her face. E'en so, my Master, thine own life has been. Thy songs have pleased the world, thy thoughts divine Have purified, likewise ennobled man. And what are they, those songs and thoughts divine, But sad experience of thy life, dipt deep In thine own tears, and traced on nature's page? To please and teach the world for two dear ones You mourned--a friend in youth, a son in age 'Tis said the life that gives one moment's joy To one lone mortal is not lived in vain; But lives like thine God grants as shining lights That we in darkness Him aright may see. Nay more, such lives the more by ills beset Do shine the more and better teach His ways. Alas! thou'rt gone that wert so kind to one Obscure--a stranger in a distant land. Accept from him this wreath uncouth of words Which do but half express the grief he feels.

A TALE OF THE INDIAN FAMINE.

It was by far the loveliest scene in Ind:-- A deep sunk lonely vale, 'tween verdant hills That, in eternal friendship, seemed to hold Communion with the changing skies above; Dark shady groves the haunts of shepherd boys And wearied peasants in the midday noon; A lake that shone in lustre clear and bright Like a pure Indian diamond set amidst Green emeralds, where every morn, with songs Of parted lovers that tempted blooming maids With pitchers on their heads to stay and hear Those songs, the busy villagers of the vale Their green fields watered that gave them sure hopes Of future plenty and of future joys. Oh, how uncertain man's sure hopes and joys! In this enchanted hollow that was scooped-- For so it seemed--by God's own mighty hand, Where Nature shower'd her richest gifts to make Another paradise, stood Krishnapore With her two score and seven huts reared by The patient labour of her simple men.

Hither a monster came, that slowly sucked The vigour, the very life of Krishnapore. The brilliant lustre of the diamond lake, The emerald greenness of the waving fields, The shady groves and pleasant cottage grounds, And all the beauties of the happy vale Soon vanished imperceptibly, as if Some unconsuming furnace underneath Had baked the earth and rendered it all bare, Until its inmates wandered desolate, With hollow cheeks, sunk eyes, and haggard faces, Like walking skeletons pasted o'er with skin. No more would blooming girls with pitchers laden Repair to the clear lake while curling smoke Rose from their cottage roofs; no more at morn Would Rama be the first at school to see His Seeta deck her father's house with flowers; No more at eve the village master pour From Hindu lore the mighty deeds of gods To the delighted ears of simple men; For these have left their lands and their dear homes. And Seeta with her father left her cot, And cast behind, with a deep, heavy sigh, One ling'ring look upon that vale where she Was born and fondly nursed,--where glided on Her days in pleasure and pure innocence,-- Where Rama lived and loved her tenderly. Her father died of hunger on the way, And the lone creature wandered in the streets Of towns from door to door, and vainly begged For food, till some, deep moved by the sad tales Of the lone straggler, safely lodged her in A famine camp, where, heavy laden with A double sorrow , her tedious life she spent. And days and weeks and months thus rolled away, Until at last her love for the dead youth Mysterious waned, and, like a shallow lamp, Burnt in her breast with nothing to feed it.

One day the news went through the famine shed That a lean youth, plucked from the very arms Of cruel death, was tenderly nursed there; And all its inmates hurried to the scene. Poor Seeta saw the youth, and that sad sight She ne'er forgot; the youth was in her mind Too firmly rooted to be rooted out, Who ev'ry day in strength and beauty grew, till he Appeared the fairest youth in all the camp. First pity for the youth, then love for him Mysterious came to her, until at last The flick'ring flame shone sudden in her breast. "This stranger I must wed, for him I love, I know not how; that pleasant face is like The face of him I dearly loved; I see Appearing ev'ry day upon that face, As if by magic wrought, those beauties that Were seated on dead Rama's face." Thus mused This maiden of the camp, and the fair youth Thus kindled in her breast the hidden flame Of love and fed it ever with new strength, Which shone again in all its purity.

As the moon whose effulgence hidden lies When dimmed by clouds, suddenly blazes forth And in her wonted beauty shines again What time she darts into the cloudless vault, So shone again in lovely Seeta's breast The lamp of love by clouds of sorrow dimmed. The smothered passion suddenly blazed forth In brighter lustre, and to her returned With double force, as when the flaming fire Is smothered when more fuel is on it thrown, And straightway flames and gives a brighter light.

At last the monster left the land, the camp Was broke, its inmates left it for their homes. England, would that one of thy sons were there To hear what words, what blessings now burst from Their inward hearts for nursing them when they From all estranged had poured into thine arms! Poor Seeta hastened to the youth she loved, And to him with a gladdened heart thus spake:-- Her rosy lips, just oped to speak, were like A half-blown rosebud blossoming all at once; Such magic was wrought on her ere she spake: "Kind stranger, whither goest thou? I am A lonely maiden, and friends I have none; And thee alone I trust as my safe guide To Krishnapore." "Dear maid! thy sorrows cease; My way now lies through Krishnapore: fear not, I shall restore thee to thy home and friends; Trust me as your safe guide and dearest friend." She, overjoyed, recounted to the youth Her tale--how she, her father's only hope And pride, reluctant left their native vale And cottage home; how he died on the way, And she, a lonely creature, wandered in The streets from door to door and begged for food; How she was taken to the famine camp; How he, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, Was brought one day and there nursed tenderly; And how in beauty ev'ry day he grew Until like her dead Rama he appeared. The village youth, unable any more Now to suppress him, suddenly exclaimed, "Look here, whose name is on this arm tattooed?" "O Rama, Krishna, Govinda, and all Ye Gods that I adore, ye have blest me; This is the happiest moment in my life, And this the happiest spot in all the earth, For now my long-lost Rama I have found." So saying, she intently gazed on him.

As a rich mine pours forth its hidden wealth To the delight of those that day and night Court eagerly its treasures them t' enrich; So from this lovely pair's deep mine of feelings, What honeyed words escaped now through their lips To their intense joy, better far than all The treasures any ample mine bestows! With sweet talk they beguiled their tedious way; The verdant hills sublime rose to the view; The broad lake glittered diamond-like again; And wreathing smoke curled from the cottage roofs; The lovely vale became the lovely vale Again, and all the long forgotten scenes In quick succession flowed before them both; And never was a happier marriage seen In all that happy vale of Krishnapore.

It was the month of May, and glorious rose The sun on Jinji, bathing in his light Her lofty hills, her ancient walls and towers, Her battlements, and all the glittering scene That bade the stranger tell--"here lives a prince;" And greeting late, as if too long he slept Upon his ocean bed, the eager crowd That in their best attire at early dawn Fast gathered from their hamlets far and wide, And like a hive swarmed on the castled hills.

Perhaps some village poet waited there, Who day and night toiled hard in metres rare To sing the deeds and virtues of his prince And trace them on the leaves of that lone palm Which stood close by his humble cottage home. Perhaps with faces that bespoke deep grief A troop of farmers there had come to tell To their sport-loving prince the havoc wrought Upon their toiling cattle by wild beasts That nightly from their hill abodes came down To feast on them. And in that motley crowd Were servants of the state and many more Who long had waited merely for a glimpse Of their just ruler D?sing holding court.

But soon there echoed through the lofty hills The sound of th' Indian bugle and the drum Proclaiming the arrival of the prince; And often, as the new flood rushing down With the still waters of a sleeping stream, Leaves nought behind, and all is vacancy, Or as the dim light of a shallow lamp Suddenly blazes forth and soon is quenched, So louder rose the clamour of the crowd At the sound of the bugle and the drum, Then straightway in deep silence died away, And perfect stillness reigned everywhere.

Upon his gorgeous throne sat Jinji's prince With servants fanning him on either side; And in a place of honour sate in that Capacious hall his holy Brahmin priest, The master of his well-trained army there, The chief and trusted min'ster of the state, The aged poet that his praises sang, The sage that, versed in all the starry lore, His royal master's fortunes daily told; The painter that adorned those ancient walls, And countless other servants of the prince There gathered each in his accustomed seat.

Then from the gate approached a trusty page, And said with folded hands and trembling lips-- "O royal master, at the gate there waits A man of noble mien from the far north Requesting audience on affairs of state." "Conduct him to our presence," said the prince. The stranger came,--upon the floor he knelt And said--"Thou mighty prince of these fair lands, I come from Arcot, and the Nabob sent His humble servant to demand of thee Thy dues which these five years thou hast not paid. Know, then, if these are not now duly paid, From thee he will these broad dominions wrest, And give them those who will his rule obey." The angry prince made answer--"Go and tell Your master that his vain threats move us not, Say we will gladly meet him on the field." So saying, from his royal seat he rose, And to his palace instantly withdrew.

As when a stone dropped in the middle of A placid pool its slumb'ring waters wakes, And the calm surface is all ruffled seen, Or at the merest touch of ruthless man Bent on the honeyed treasures of the hive Those myriad ones leave murm'ring to the foe Their hoarded wealth to which they fondly clung, So scattered to their distant native homes The bustling crowd that met on Jinji's hills, When he of Arcot came to mar their joys.

And days and months rolled on until one day To D?sing came his loyal spy and said-- "My noble ruler, on the other side Of the fair stream that runs through yonder plain, There waits our foe of Arcot with his men: Prepare to go and meet him on the field." 'Twas even time--the warrior prince soon wrote To Mamood Khan, the master of his troops, To hasten to his country's duty first. What though it was that soldier's bridal hour, When he received his royal master's call! "My country's welfare first, then my fair spouse," He said, and leapt upon his faithful steed And stood, ere morn had streaked the eastern sky, Before his lord his bidding to obey.

The prince rose early on that fated day And to the temple of his God repaired, There to invoke His blessing on the field. Then to the palace hastened he to meet, Ere he went forth to fight, his youthful wife, Who day by day in beauty grew amidst A score of maidens, like the waxing moon; And, with a screen of silk between, they met. As one lured by the fragrance of the rose Stoops down gently to lift the truant stalk That to the other side of the thick hedge Shoots out alone from its own parent stem, So fondly down stooped Jinji's noble prince To kiss the jewelled arm of his fair spouse Which through the screen she offered to her lord. Prince D?sing was the first who silence broke. "My dear wife! on the day when we were wed These eyes of mine had not e'en this arm seen, Although on the same bridal seat we sat. The screen which by the custom of our race Was drawn by cruel hands hid thee from view. So wondrous fair this arm looks that methinks Rare beauties must be seated on thy face. My foe hath come; fear not; I go to fight, And come with honours loaded from the field, A victor to rejoice with thee to-night At the propitious hour which, by the aid Of all his starry lore, our Brahmin sage Hath for our nuptials named,--to gaze and scan In silent joy what charms, what beauties rare The hand divine has showered upon thy face, And to recount to thee, when with thine own My arm in friendship plays, what blood it shed, What havoc in the Moslem camp it wrought. So let me now depart." To which the Queen: "I was the only daughter of my sire, And cradled in his sinewy arms I grew; And when upon his warrior breast I laid My head to sleep, my mother by his side Lulled me with songs of how in days gone by The martial women of our noble race Went with their husbands by their side to fight; And one so nursed fears not the Moslem foe. But now, alas! some evil it forebodes That thou shouldst on this day go forth to fight."

And as she spoke tears trickled down his eyes, And one, a pearly drop, stole to her palm. She felt it: instantly her hand withdrew, And then began to speak in words like these: "It is not meet that Jinji's valiant prince Should like a child at this last hour shed tears And fear to meet his foe; fear not, my lord, To meet him like a soldier on the field. If thou a victor comest from the fight, We shall in joy spend our first nuptial night, But if thou comest routed from the field, I never more will see thy timid face Or think that thou art born of Kshatriya race. And if thou fallest bravely fighting, then Remember, Prince, thou hast in me a wife Who will not let thee pass from earth alone. Go forth and like a warrior meet the foe. But fear not; Runga will be on our side, So ere thou goest kiss this hand of mine Which from thine eyes that precious tear has sought." So saying, this brave Rajput girl once more To D?sing offered through the screen her hand. He lifted it and reverently kissed, Then sallied forth resolved to win or die.

Fierce raged the battle, but the hapless prince Was weak to meet his foeman's myriad host; And Mamood Khan fell bravely lighting there, And with him many of his valiant men. The faithful steed that through all perils bore The prince was slain, and soon he fought on foot. But ere the foe could capture him alive, He hurled his heavy dagger, bared his breast, And instantly a lifeless corpse he fell. A few brave soldiers bore him from the field. They hastened to the castle and before The widowed Queen their precious burden laid. She, nothing daunted, orders gave at once That her attendants should prepare the pyre; And then to her assembled men thus spake: "My faithful men and my brave soldiers! you Who with my lord fought nobly on the field, I see you all weep at our hapless fate. 'Tis God has willed we thus should end our lives. But a worse fate shall surely soon befall Our cruel foe--howe'er exulting now. Weep not--there soon shall dawn another day When from the farthest end of this vast globe A race for valour and for virtue famed Shall wrest his kingdom from his ruthless hands, And everywhere your sons and your sons' sons Shall lasting peace and happiness enjoy. Be witness to the curse pronounced by me, A widowed maiden at the hour of death, Thou setting Sun and thou, O rising Moon!"

Then as a bride in all her glory decked Approaches with a gladdened heart t' embrace Th' expectant bridegroom on the nuptial bed, E'en so ascended this fair Queen the pyre, And there embracing lay by her dear lord. The fire was lighted and the pyre was closed, And speedily to ashes were reduced The lifeless husband and the living wife. The Moslem came--heard of the death she died Amid the flames, repented of his deed, And, it is said, he built a lordly town In honour of the Queen, who counted it, A sin her noble husband to survive, And in a moment flung her life away.

FOOTNOTES:

A deep calm sea; on the blue waters toiled, From morn till eve, the simple fishermen; And, on the beach, there stood a group of huts Before whose gates old men sat mending nets And eyed with secret joy the little boys That gaily gambolled on the sandy beach Regardless of their parents' daily toils. And all the busy women left their homes And their young ones with baskets on their heads Filled with the finny treasures of the deep.

A thousand yards to landward rose a town With its broad streets, high roofs, and busy marts. An ancient temple in the centre stood, Where to his servant Nandi once appeared Great Siva, it is said, in human frame. E'en learned saints sang of the holy shrine; And to this sacred spot from far-off lands For adoration countless pilgrims came And men to buy all rarest things that poured Into her busy marts from foreign parts.

Here in this ancient port of Nundipore In royal splendour lived a merchant youth, Who scarce had reached his one-and-twentieth year. His aged father had but lately died And left him the sole heir of all his wealth. And Rudra--for that was the brave youth's name-- Had heard from infant days full many tales Of how his grandsire and his sire had braved The perils of the deep in search of gold, And in his bosom fondly nurtured hopes To travel likewise on the dang'rous sea. And oft would he to Rati, his fair wife, Exulting tell how wisely he would trade In foreign shores and with rare gems return; How even princes, by those gems allured, To court his friendship come from distant lands, And he dictate his own high terms to them, And thus add glory to his glorious house. And often would she vainly plead in turn Her desolate position and her youth. And her dear lord implore upon her knees For ever to dismiss his cherished thoughts And turn to her and to their lordly wealth Which God had given them, to live in peace. Thus wrangled for some months the timid wife And he whom woman's charms could not subdue Until at last arrived th' appointed day. The little ship was waiting in the port, And Rudra to his youthful wife repaired His purpose to disclose; and as at times Clouds hover over us and darken all The sky for days, and still no rain descends-- But suddenly when least expected comes-- So she to whom her husband's parting lay In words saw it burst in reality.

He said, "Dear Rati! well thou knowest how I fondly wish to trade in distant realms. The time has come for me to part from thee. This morn a little ship was sighted here, And she is riding yonder on the sea. And ere the setting sun sinks down to rest Into the western waves the little bark Now destined to take me will leave the port; And I have therefore one, but one short hour. 'Tis willed by Him above that I should soon Bid farewell to the place where I was born, Where all my thoughts for ever centred lie,-- Soon part from all that to my heart is dear, But soon come richer, greater to my home, To spend my days in joy and happiness. Dear wife! allow me therefore to depart."

To which the wife--"Dear husband, sad it is To me to think that thou shouldst part from me; But sadder still the thought that thou shouldst go On seas to roam in lands unknown and strange, And canst not tell when to this spot return. There is our lordly mansion here; there is Our wealth, and here I am thy youthful wife. Why go away and risk thy precious life While we enjoy our days like king and queen? Why leave me here to pine away in grief And loneliness? Without my lord it is Half death to me, and I would rather die Than see him part; hence banish from thy mind All thoughts of going and stay here with me."

"If it is true," replied the crying maid, "That Sita followed Rama to the woods, And that she of the Pandus also shared With them their toils--if ever woman's charms Had power to move the adamantine heart Of man, then let thy Rati go with thee To share with thee thy joys and woes as well. If thou shouldst go alone, remember then, Dear lord, the sin rests solely on thy head That a young maiden has been left alone To mourn for ever for her husband on The seas--and all for gold and for a name."

It was a land of plenty and of wealth; There God's indulgent hand made for a race Supremely blest a paradise on earth. A land of virtue, truth, and charity, Where nature's choicest treasures man enjoyed With little toil, where youth respected age, Where each his neighbour's wife his sister deemed, Where side by side the tiger and the lamb The water drank, and sported oft in mirth. A land where each man deemed him highly blest When he relieved the miseries of the poor, When to his roof the wearied traveller came To share his proffered bounty with good cheer. Such was the far-famed land of Panchala.

Here reigned a king who walked in virtue's path, Who ruled his country only for his God. His people's good he deemed his only care, Their sorrows were his sorrows, and their joys He counted as his own; such was the king Whose daily prayers went up to Him on high For wisdom and for strength to rule his men Aright, and guard the land from foreign foes. Such was the far-famed king of Panchala.

An only son he had--a noble prince, The terror of his foes, the poor man's friend. He mastered all the arts of peace and war, And was a worthy father's worthy son. What gifts and graces men as beauties deem These Nature freely lavished on the youth, And people loved in wonder to behold The face that kindled pleasure in their minds. The courage of a warrior in the field, A woman's tender pity to the weak-- All these were centred in the royal youth. His arrows killed full many a beast that wrought Dread havoc on the cattle of the poor. Such was the famous prince of Panchala.

The people, they were all true men and good, Their ruler they adored, for by their God He was ordained to rule their native land. They freely to their king made known their wants, And he as freely satisfied their needs, And e'en the meanest of the land deemed it The basest act to sin against his king. Such were the people of the ancient land Of Panchala, who stood one day with tears Before their king to pour their plaintive tales Of ruin wrought upon their cattle by The tiger of the forest, that all day Was safe in his impenetrable lair, But every night his dreaded figure showed And feasted on the flesh of toiling beasts.

The king gave ear to their sad tales of woe, And straightway called his only son, and said-- "Dear son! my people's good I value more Than thine own life. Go therefore to the woods With all thine arrows and thy trusty bow, And drag the dreaded tiger from his den, And to their homes their wonted peace restore. His spotted skin and murderous claws must soon Be added to the trophies of the past, Now hanging on our ancient palace walls." The prince obeyed, and to the forest went: Three days and nights he wandered in the woods, But still found not the object of his search. He missed his faithful men and lost his way, Till worn and weary underneath a tree, Whose shady boughs extended far and wide, The lonely straggler stretched his limbs and slept, And for a time forgot his dire distress.

So thought the royal youth of his sad doom, When lo! a spotless figure, with a bow, A pouch with arrows dangling on her back, A hatchet in her hand for cutting wood, And with a pitcher on her head, appeared. Here every day she came to gather wood, And, dressed in male attire, her heavy load Took to the nearest town, sold it, then reached, At close of day to cook the ev'ning meal, Her cottage on the outskirts of the wood, Where, with her sire, bent down with years, she lived, And dragged her daily miserable life. Such was the maid that was upon that day, As if by instinct, drawn to the fair youth, And such the huntress Radha he beheld. A fairer woman never breathed the air-- No, not in all the land of Panchala.

The maid in pity saw his wretched plight, Then from the pitcher took her midday meal, And soon relieved his hunger and his thirst. The grateful prince, delighted, told his tale, And she, well pleased, thus spake: "Fair youth! grieve not, Behold the brook that yonder steals along, To this the tiger comes at noon to quench His thirst. Then, safely perched upon a tree, We can for ever check his deadly course," Both went, and saw at the expected hour The monarch of the forest near the brook. In quick succession, lightning-like from them The arrows flew, and in a moment fell His massive body lifeless on the ground. Then vowing oft to meet his valiant friend, The prince returned, and with the happy news Appeared before the king, who blest his son And said: "My son! well hast thou done the deed; Thy life thou hast endangered for my men; Ask anything and I will give it thee." "I want not wealth nor power," the prince replied, "But, noble father I one request I make. I chanced to meet a huntress in the wood, And Radha is her name; she saved my life. I but for her had died a lingering death, Her valour and her beauty I admire, And therefore grant me leave to marry her."

The king spake not, but forthwith gave command To banish from his home the reckless youth, Who brought disgrace upon his royal house, And who, he wished, should wed one worthy of The noble race of ancient Panchala. Poor youth! he left his country and his home, He that was dreaded by his foes was gone.

Vain lust of power impelled the neighbouring king, The traitor who usurped his sovereign's throne, To march on Panchala with all his men. He went, and to the helpless king proclaimed-- "Thou knowest well my armies are the best On earth, and folly it will be in thee To stand 'gainst them and shed thy people's blood. Send forth thy greatest archer, and with him My prowess I will try: this will decide If you or I should sit upon the throne, And whether Panchala is thine or mine." The king, bewildered, knew not what to do, But soon two maidens, strangers to the land, Met him, and, of the two, the younger said-- "O righteous king! we left our distant homes To visit shrines and bathe in holy streams. We have been wandering in many climes, And yesternight this place we reached, and heard Your loyal people speak of your sad plight. In early youth I learned to use the bow-- I pray thee, therefore, send me forth against The wretch that dares to wrest this land from thee."

And ere the treacherous wretch could string his bow, A pointed arrow carrying death with it, Like lightning flew from forth the maiden's hands, Pierced deep into his head, that plans devised To kill his royal master and once more Thought ill of Panchala and her good king. His body lifeless lay upon the field.

Then spake the maiden to the grateful king:-- "Thou, noble ruler of this ancient land! Before thy sacred presence and before All these assembled in thy royal court, I will reveal my story, sad but true. I am the only child of him that ruled The neighbouring state, whose kings for centuries In peace and friendship lived with Panchala. Alas! the villain, whom my arrow gave To crows and to the eagles of the air, Usurped my father's throne, and sad to tell, He instant orders gave to murder us. The menials sent to do the cruel deed Felt pity for the fallen king and me, His only daughter, in the woods left us And went away, reporting they had done The deed; and there, in that deserted place, Unknown we lived a wretched life for years. And glad I am that death ignoble, which The wretch deserved, has now befallen him.

"This person standing here--I now remove The veil, and, by the mole upon his breast, Behold in him thine own begotten son-- Was by thy orders banished from the land. Grant that I now may plead for him, because A woman's words can sooner soothe the heart. I crave your Majesty to pardon him For loving me, and take him back unto His father's home; grant also, gracious king, That I, a princess, may be worthy deemed Of being wedded to thine only son."

A TALE OF THE FIELD OF TELLIK?TA, A.D. 1565.

At length the four great Mahometan governments, A'dil Sh?h, N?z?m Sh?h, Bar?d, and K?tb Sh?h, formed a league against R?m R?ja, then ruling at Bij?yanagar. A great battle took place on the Kishna, near T?lic?t, which, for the numbers engaged, the fierceness of the conflict, and the importance of the stake, resembled those of the early Mahometan invaders. The barbarous spirit of those days seemed also to be renewed in it; for, on the defeat of the Hindus, their old and brave r?ja, being taken prisoner, was put to death in cold blood, and his head was kept till lately at Bijap?r as a trophy.

This battle destroyed the monarchy of Bij?yanagar, which at that time comprehended almost all the South of India. But it added little to the territories of the victors; their mutual jealousies prevented each from much extending his frontier; and the country fell into the hands of petty princes, or of those insurgent officers of the old government, since so well known as zem?nd?rs or poligars.

FOOTNOTES:

The Korathy is the tattooer of the Indian village, who offers her services for a small fee. Hindu females are very fond of having their bodies tattooed. The Korathy first makes a sketch of the figure of a scorpion or a serpent on the part of the body offered to her for tattooing, then takes a number of sharp needles, dips them in some liquid preparation which she has ready, and pricks the flesh most mercilessly. In a few days the whole appears green. This is considered a mark of beauty among the Hindus. While the tattooing takes place the Korathy sings a crude song, so as to make the person undergoing the process forget the pain. The following is as nearly as possible a translation of the song which I myself heard:--

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