Atmâ A Romance

A century and a half after, Govind Singh had kindled the hearts of his countrymen with his prophetic visions of a military church regnant on the hills of Kashmir, there took place the struggle which we call the second Sikh war, culminating on the twenty-first of February in the Battle of Gugerat followed by the surrender of the Sikhs to the British under Lord Gough and the disbandment of the Sikh army. And, lo, the Khalsa was as a tale that is told, its clang and clash of warlike achievements a thing that could be no more, its Holy War transformed by failure into a foolish chimera, and the only thing that lived was a memory lingering in quiet souls of the truths that Nanuk taught.

"For shapes that come, not at an earthly call, Will not depart when mortal voices bid."

But many whose faith was in their religion rather than in God felt their spirit falter, and believed that the universe grew dark. This is ever the weakness of disciples, and thus it is that while many flocking to the new standard see all things made plain, others whose hopes are entwined about the displaced creeds suffer an eclipse of faith.

Among those who in the fall of the Khalsa suffered life's last and sorest loss was Raee Singh, an aged man, in whose veins ran the blood of the gentle Nanuk. On that March morning when the disbanded army went to lay down their arms before a victorious foe, he descended the mountain slope very slowly. The rest walked in bands of five, of ten, of twenty, but Raee Singh walked alone. Although his flowing beard was white, he did not bear himself erect in the dignity of years; his eyes were fixed on the ground, for the shadow of defeat and dishonour which rested on him was hard to bear.

Presently he stood before the tent of the British general. A great heap of weapons lay there glittering in the sun. As he looked, the pile grew larger, for each Sikh cast his sword there. Raee also extended his arm, grasping his tulwar, but he did not let it go until an officer touched his shoulder and spoke. The blade fell then with a clang, and he turned away. He passed from the camp without seeing it, and took his homeward way as silently as he had come. The dreams of youth make the habit of age, and Raee had revered the Khalsa in childhood, and in manhood he had urged its high commission to his own hurt. As a Khivan proverb has it, "That which goes in with the milk only goes out with the soul," and the soul of Raee Singh gathered the fragments of its broken faith and prepared to depart with them to the Land of Restoration.

He lay for four days, taking no food, and only wetting his lips with the water which his sole surviving son proffered from time to time. His heart was crushed, he was full of years, his end was near; and his son, knowing this, was dumb with sorrow. On the evening of the fourth day he turned his face to the boy, and spoke,

"Son, well beloved, My parting hour is nigh; A heavenly peace should glorify A life approved By God, by man, by mine own soul; The record of my stainless years unroll-- My years beset From infancy to age with pitfalls deep In pathway winding aye on mountain steep Of perilous obedience, and yet In bitterness of soul I lay me down, Of home bereft, with hope and creed o'erthrown In woe that will not weep; My reeling spirit ere from sense set free Is loosed from mooring, beaten to and fro, And in the throbbing, quick'ning flesh I know The lone desertion of the Shoreless Sea. O Brotherhood! O hope so high, so fair, That would the wreck of this sad world repair Had ye but stood! Can God forget? This Khalsa of his own supreme decree Vanquished, debased, in loss of liberty Has lost its own mysterious entity. And yet, and yet, A strange persuasion fills my breast that He Who wrecked my home, Who bade my people from their mountains flee And friendless roam, Will soon with tenderest pity welcome me, And, if my lips be dumb, Will frame the prayer that fills my dying breast, And give my heavy-laden spirit rest, And grant me what He will--His will is best. I go--I know not where, Upward or down, or toward the setting sun None knows,--some shadowy goal is won, Some unseen issue near, So oft with death I journeyed hand in hand, The spectral pageant of his border land I do not fear.

Weep not when I have passed, but go thy way, Thou art not portionless nor service free, A warrior Sikh, for thee a high behest Abides, to claim thy true-sword's ministry. Go, Atma, from those echoing hillsides, lest The haunting voices of the vanished say 'Vain is thy travail, poor thine utmost store, We loved and laboured, lo, we are no more,' And thy fond heart in fealty to our clay Fail in allegiance to the name we bore. Go, seek thy kinsman, to a brother's hand I gave possession of a gem more fair, More costly far than gold, than rubies rare, Thy part and heritage, of him demand Its just bestowal, and with dauntless tread Pursue the pathway of thy holy dead."

When the old Sikh had ceased speaking, he lay greatly exhausted. The night deepened. It was a remote spot. Now and then the sound of trampling feet or the tread of a horse climbing the difficult road reached the ear. The hours were long and dreary, but they passed. Morning dawned, and Atma found himself alone. He had known that it would be so, and yet it came with the sharpness of an unexpected blow. He mourned, and, as is the way with mourners, he accused himself from hour to hour of having failed in duty to the departed during his lifetime. Looking on the face of the dead, he wondered much where the spirit that so lately had seemed to be with the frame but a single identity, one and indivisible, had fled. He recalled his father's words,