Tales of Destiny | Page 8

his hand the jewel I had
discovered. He asked me where I had found it, and when I replied
truthfully, his eyes flashed with anger, and his voice thundered at me in
rebuke. Although I had done no wrong, but rather a virtuous deed, I
implored for pardon. But in vain. My mind grew confused, and the next
thing I remember was the sharp cut of bamboo rods upon the soles of
my feet. I was in a small vaulted chamber, bound to a wooden bench,
surrounded by the zemindar's soldiers, and powerless except to scream
out in the agony of each blow. Thirty strokes were counted, and then I
was flung out of the gates of the castle, to limp my way home.'
"Tears of self-pity were in the dhobi's eyes as he recounted his tale of

woe. Even then I was reflecting on the real cause of the zemindar's
wrath. The jewel had been discovered in the folds of a garment worn by
one of the women in his zenana, and his quick access of anger showed
that the gift had come from some other hand than his. Savage jealousy,
therefore, had prompted the act of injustice inflicted upon the
unfortunate washerman. I knew my master so well his sullen moods,
his outbursts of passion, that already I could arrive at this conclusion
with certainty.
"'Proceed,' I said, indifferently, for it is well that a man should keep his
own counsel in such delicate affairs. 'What is my concern with your
misfortune?'
"'Harken, O dispenser of bounties! Last night when I lay nursing my
wounds, I remembered that the ring which had proved the cause of my
misery had been wrapped in a fragment of paper whereon were some
strange marks and lines as in the books of learned men. This I had
flung away, at that time deeming only the ring to be of any
consequence. But the thought came to me in the night that perhaps the
paper might tell something about the ring. So all this day have I
searched among the bushes by the stream where I beat the clothes on
stones and wash them. And behold, I have found that for which I have
been seeking.'
"Hereupon the dhobi loosened the loin cloth beneath his upper garment,
and extracted from its folds a tiny roll of paper. This he presented to me,
with a bow of deference to my superior understanding of such things.
"'This time I have come to you,' he said, 'a man of learning and of
justice, not like unto the cruel zemindar. Does the paper tell why I
should have suffered such shame and pain at his hands?'
"I had unrolled the scroll, the folds of which showed that it had served
as a wrapping for the ring. The writing was in neat Persian characters,
and I had no difficulty in deciphering it, for the four lines that met my
eyes had been recited to me only a few days before by the very man
who claimed to be their author.

"Now did my very heart tremble with agitation. But to the dhobi I
appeared cold as the waters of the snows that melt on the mountains.
"'This writing would only add to your troubles,' I said. 'Here, let me
destroy it.' And, turning to the red ashes burning in a brazier near at
hand, I dexterously substituted a fragment of paper, on which I had
been figuring my accounts, for the paper received, from the dhobi,
placing the former on the glowing charcoal embers and bestowing the
latter in the security of my girdle. A curl of white smoke, a puff of
flame, and the work of destruction was, to all appearance, completed.
"'In view of your misfortune, my friend,' I resumed, 'I bestow upon you
in the name of my master ten maunds of dal, which will be sent to your
home on the morrow.'
"The recipient of this unexpected bounty prostrated himself before me.
"'O prince of justice, no longer do my wounds pain me. The bellies of
my children will be filled for many long days to come.'
"'Then go thy way, rejoicing in thy heart even though limping on thy
feet. And remember that silence is golden. Say not one word more to
anyone about the ring or the paper, your punishment or the reward that
has now redressed the wrong. Go in peace.'
"And the dhobi, after profuse expressions of gratitude, hobbled from
my presence.
"Alone with my thoughts, I felt sorely troubled. The writer of the verses
of ardent poetry written on the paper brought to me by the washerman
was my cherished friend, a youth from far-away Bokhara, Abdul by
name. This young man had come to our country only a year or