184 



THE HIGHLANDS OF CENTKAL INDIA. 



Six months thus she prayed and fasted, 

 Till the King of Gods, Bhagwantal,* 

 Swinging in a swing and snoozing, 

 By her penance greatly moved was 

 Moved to rise and look about him ; 

 Sent the messenger Narayan, 

 Sent him forth to Dewalgiri, 

 Sent to see what she was np to, 



Why so sadly she was grieving. 

 Soon she told her little grievance, 

 How her pleasant- smelling Gonds had 

 Disappeared from Dewalgiri. 

 Then Bhagwantal sent and told her 

 He would try if he could find them ; 

 And betook him to his swinging, 

 And bethought him how to do it. 



II. THE COMING OF LINGO. 



On the mountain Lingawangad, 

 Grew the flowering-tree Pahindi. 

 Flowers budding, still unopened, 

 Yellow flowers of the Pahindi, 

 Saw the King of Gods Bhagwantal ; 

 Saw and thought him of the Koitor, 

 Wandering sadly in the mountains, 

 Pining deep in Dewalgiri ; 

 Saw, and came as comes a raincloud, 

 Spreading fanlike, came in thunder. 

 Lightning flashed, the sky was dark- 

 ened, 

 Thus the God came to the Flower. 

 Darkness spread around her cover, 

 Gently oped the flower her blossom, 

 Softly fell the quickening shower 

 Thus conceived the flower Pahindi. 

 In the fourth watch of the night 

 time 

 Fell a heap of yellow saffron ; 

 Fell beneath the tree Pahindi. 

 Morning dawned, the clouds were 



opened ; 

 Thundering still the clouds were 



opened. 

 Burst the yellow flower Pahindi, 

 Cracking burst it in the sunlight. 

 Sprang to life from it my Lingo, 

 Sprang into the heap of saffron ; 

 Sat and wept among the saffron, 

 Till his tears the God Paternal 

 Dried with sprinkling of the saffron ; 



Sent the Gular tree beside him, 

 Honey dropping from its branches, 

 Dropped it in the mouth of Lingo. 

 Sweetness drinking then he cried not. 



Blew around him noontide zephyrs ; 

 Grew my Lingo in their breathing. 

 In a God-sent swing reposing 

 Gently slept he till the evening. 



Purest water may be stained ; 

 Stainless ail and pure was Lingo. 

 Diamond sparkled on his navel ; 

 On his forehead beamed the Tika, 

 Mark divine of fragrant sandal, 

 Mark of godhead in my Lingo. 

 Playing grew he in the saffron, 

 Swinging slept he in his cradle, 

 Honey sucking, nothing eating 

 Of the wild fruits in the forest. 



Nine years old became my Lingo, 

 When his soul began to wonder 

 Whether all alone his lot was 

 In that forest shade primeval. 

 There no wild deer cropped the herbage, 

 Manlike form there none appeared ; 

 Somewhere they must be, thought 



Lingo ; 

 I will seek them, I may find them. 

 Then he rose and wandered onwards, 

 Wandered on by brook and meadow, 

 Through the forest shade primeval, 

 Till before him rose a mountain, 

 Mountain pointed like a needle. 



* This is intended for Bhagwan, the unworshipped Creator of the Hindus 

 (vide p. 144). His introduction here as a mythical personage is not consonant 

 with the usual practice in Hindu writings. 



