Page:Alien Souls by Achmed Abdullah (1922).djvu/167

when the land was dying of hunger, and the call to prayer gave way to the maddening chant of despair—when his heart, his poor, tortured heart—bled with the pity of it all, even then he would prosper exceedingly. For behold: he was a Hindu, a babu, a follower of the praised god who is Shiva, charitable to a fault and quite unlike the Armenian pigs who suck the heart-blood of the unhappy land to the west; again he would loosen the strings of his compassionate purse and advance thousands of rupees to the men of the village. Never would he accept more than three hundred and twelve per cent a month, and he would be content, as only security, with a mortgage on every bullock and goat, every cartwheel and fishing-net, every tree and well in the blessed village.

His eyes filled with tears of gratitude when he beheld the righteous growth of his treasures. I said that he prospered—and, indeed, there was never cartwheel tired, there was never net anchored, tree planted or grain sown but he received his fair share of the profits.

He was the Corporation of the Village.

It was when the juice was being collected from the heads of the opium poppies, that three wandering fakirs, a guru and two disciples, strayed into the village. They were very dirty, and thus very holy. They demanded food, drink, shelter and cowdung fuel from a wretched peasant who lived on the outskirts of the village. Money? No. They had none. They were fakirs, followers of the many gods, very holy, also very dirty. They had no money. Not a single rupee.

"But do not let that worry you," said the guru. "To-night I shall pray to Shiva. He will repay you."