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Updated: June 23, 2025
The Hindu had been cook of the ship, and had fought till the last by the side of his captain. Without waiting to hear the Hindu's story Brandon went back to the cabin. The door that opened into the inner cabin was shut. He tried it. It was locked. He looked into the keyhole. It was locked from the inside. A cry of surprise was the sole answer. "You are safe. We are friends. Open!" cried Brandon.
The Hindu's guest-house. Laws of hospitality; observed by Indian Christians; their generosity to each other. Indian respect for the mother; retained through life; observed by Indian Christians. Swithun's mother. Indian affection shallow, except for the mother.
He turned to Lal Chunder, who had drawn close to Norah, and was contemplating his right hand, which had been nearly shaken off by the four from Billabong. The Hindu's English was not equal to his sense of friendship, and conversation with him lacked fluency.
The Hindu's objection to having his food or water touched by Christians or people of low-caste arose, not so much from any notion of inferiority of station, but chiefly from the nature of the food of these classes. It was the touch of the meat-eater, in the days when the Hindu was more strict in his observances than he is now, which brought pollution.
"How I have missed this fruit in the West! A Hindu's heaven without mangoes is inconceivable!" I picked up a rock and downed a proud beauty hidden on the highest limb. "Dick," I asked between bites of ambrosia, warm with the tropical sun, "are all the cameras in the car?" "Yes, sir; in the baggage compartment." "If Giri Bala proves to be a true saint, I want to write about her in the West.
He must have earned it in some previous existence. It is in the debit balance of the transactions in his lives." Such are the vague ideas floating in the air. Upon any individual's acts or plans for the future, the idea of transmigration seems to have no bearing whatever beyond a numbing of the will. For in theory, the Hindu's fate is just.
He who claimed to read the thoughts of all men had signally failed in the present instance, unless Nicol Brinn stared dully into the smiling face of Rama Dass. Not yet must he congratulate himself. Perhaps the Hindu's smile concealed as much as the mask worn by Nicol Brinn. "We congratulate you," said Rama Dass. "You are a worthy brother."
The Hindu's features showed how delighted he was by the kindness of his idolised master, although there was no alteration in his humble and modest demeanour even for a moment. As respectful as ever, he said: "I bring good news, sahib.
"We do not know how much they read of what he had written. Why do we wait?" "He has some plan, Chunda Lal," replied Miska wearily. "Does he ever fail?" Her words rekindled the Hindu's ardour; his eyes lighted up anew. "I tell you his plan," he whispered tensely. "Oh! you shall hear me! He watch you grow from a little lovely child, as he watch his death-spiders and his grey scorpions grow!
It has no property simply because it wants none. If it stored honey like the busy bee, or nuts like the thrifty squirrel, it would be a prey to constant anxiety and stand in hourly danger of being plundered of its possessions, and perhaps killed for the sake of them. Therefore to speak of a Hindu's poverty as if it certainly implied want and unhappiness is mere misrepresentation born of ignorance.
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