From the Caves and Jungles of Hindostan | Page 2

The rejoicing was general.
What a glorious daybreak followed this dark night! The sea no longer
tossed our ship. Under the skilled guidance of the pilot, who had just
arrived, and whose bronze form was so sharply defined against the pale
sky, our steamer, breathing heavily with its broken machinery, slipped
over the quiet, transparent waters of the Indian Ocean straight to the
harbour. We were only four miles from Bombay, and, to us, who had
trembled with cold only a few weeks ago in the Bay of Biscay, which
has been so glorified by many poets and so heartily cursed by all sailors,
our surroundings simply seemed a magical dream.
After the tropical nights of the Red Sea and the scorching hot days that
had tortured us since Aden, we, people of the distant North, now
experienced something strange and unwonted, as if the very fresh soft
air had cast its spell over us. There was not a cloud in the sky, thickly
strewn with dying stars. Even the moonlight, which till then had
covered the sky with its silvery garb, was gradually vanishing; and the
brighter grew the rosiness of dawn over the small island that lay before
us in the East, the paler in the West grew the scattered rays of the moon
that sprinkled with bright flakes of light the dark wake our ship left
behind her, as if the glory of the West was bidding good-bye to us,
while the light of the East welcomed the newcomers from far-off lands.
Brighter and bluer grew the sky, swiftly absorbing the remaining pale
stars one after the other, and we felt something touching in the sweet
dignity with which the Queen of Night resigned her rights to the
powerful usurper. At last, descending lower and lower, she disappeared
completely.
And suddenly, almost without interval between darkness and light, the
red-hot globe, emerging on the opposite side from under the cape, leant
his golden chin on the lower rocks of the island and seemed to stop for
a while, as if examining us. Then, with one powerful effort, the torch of
day rose high over the sea and gloriously proceeded on its path,
including in one mighty fiery embrace the blue waters of the bay, the
shore and the islands with their rocks and cocoanut forests. His golden
rays fell upon a crowd of Parsees, his rightful worshippers, who stood

on shore raising their arms towards the mighty "Eye of Ormuzd." The
sight was so impressive that everyone on deck became silent for a
moment, even a red-nosed old sailor, who was busy quite close to us
over the cable, stopped working, and, clearing his throat, nodded at the
sun.
Moving slowly and cautiously along the charming but treacherous bay,
we had plenty of time to admire the picture around us. On the right was
a group of islands with Gharipuri or Elephanta, with its ancient temple,
at their head. Gharipuri translated means "the town of caves" according
to the Orientalists, and "the town of purification" according to the
native Sanskrit scholars. This temple, cut out by an unknown hand in
the very heart of a rock resembling porphyry, is a true apple of discord
amongst the archaeologists, of whom none can as yet fix, even
approximately, its antiquity. Elephanta raises high its rocky brow, all
overgrown with secular cactus, and right under it, at the foot of the rock,
are hollowed out the chief temple and the two lateral ones. Like the
serpent of our Russian fairy tales, it seems to be opening its fierce black
mouth to swallow the daring mortal who comes to take possession of
the secret mystery of Titan. Its two remaining teeth, dark with time, are
formed by two huge pillars t the entrance, sustaining the palate of the
monster.
How many generations of Hindus, how many races, have knelt in the
dust before the Trimurti, your threefold deity, O Elephanta? How many
centuries were spent by weak man in digging out in your stone bosom
this town of temples and carving your gigantic idols? Who can say?
Many years have elapsed since I saw you last, ancient, mysterious
temple, and still the same restless thoughts, the same recurrent
questions vex me snow as they did then, and still remain unanswered.
In a few days we shall see each other again. Once more I shall gaze
upon your stern image, upon your three huge granite faces, and shall
feel as hopeless as ever of piercing the mystery of your being. This
secret fell into safe hands three centuries before ours. It is not in vain
that the old Portuguese historian Don Diego de Cuta boasts that "the
big square stone fastened over the arch of the pagoda with a distinct
inscription, having been