I feel in my own being the rush of the sea-crossing bird, cleaving a way
beyond the limits of life and death, while the migrant world cries with a
myriad voices, "Not here, but somewhere else, in the bosom of the Faraway."
30
The crowd listens in wonder to Kashi, the young singer, whose voice, like a
sword in feats of skill, dances amidst hopeless tangles, cuts them to
pieces, and exults.
Among the hearers sits old Rajah Pratap in weary endurance. For his own
life had been nourished and encircled by Barajlal's songs, like a happy
land which a river laces with beauty. His rainy evenings and the still
hours of autumn days spoke to his heart through Barajlal's voice, and his
festive nights trimmed their lamps and tinkled their bells to those songs.
When Kashi stopped for rest, Pratap smilingly winked at Barajlal and spoke
to him in a whisper, "Master, now let us hear music and not this
new-fangled singing, which mimics frisky kittens hunting paralysed mice."
The old singer with his spotlessly white turban made a deep bow to the
assembly and took his seat.
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