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India is a very old land, and those who live there look far back into the past. They listen to the stories that were told of men and gods in those old days, and follow the customs that were followed then.

There are many gods in India, and many priests who serve in their temples and at their shrines. The priests have more power over the lives of the people than the gods have, but custom has far more power than either gods or priests.

No one can tell how many hundreds of years have passed since the stories that rule the lives of Hindu children to-day were first told. Long before the earliest time of which we know anything in the history of our islands, there were wise thinkers and clever workmen in India, and the men and women of that land think of them and of their customs with awe and reverence. And because much of the life of a Hindu child to-day is the result of the thoughts that have come from that far past time, we must listen to some of those old stories.

Before America was discovered by Columbus men here had strange ideas about the shape of the world. Men in India had thought of that too, long before anyone in Britain did, and this is the picture of the world they made for themselves.

They saw a beautiful large lotus flower held up on the back of an elephant, in the midst of seven seas. One sea was of salt water and another of fresh, and these two were the only ones that were at all like the seas of earth. One of the others was a sticky sea, for the waves that broke on its shores were of sugar-cane juice. Another was clear and sparkling with dancing waves of wine. Then there was an oily sea of melted butter, a flat sea of curds, and a beautiful white sea of milk. But no one had looked at these strange seas, nor had anyone seen the great elephant that held the lotus flower on his back. Only the flower itself at the centre of all was seen or known. India to the south, and the other lands to the north, the east, and the west of the Himalayas, formed the petals of the world lotus, and at its centre amongst the great snow mountains the god Siva sat on his throne on Mount Meru.

ON PILGRIMAGE TO THE MOUNTAIN

There is one special mountain there, to which pilgrims go, and they hold it as sacred as if it really were the ancient Mount Meru. It rises from a grassy plain, and a deep ravine cuts it off from the other mountains. High up it is covered with snow, but towards the foot great cliffs of rock stand out bluish purple against the whiteness, in bands round the mountain. Near the base there is a broad dark band made by a very high cliff, and the priests point this out to pilgrims. “See,” they say, “the mark of the ropes of the demon who tried to drag away the throne of Siva.”

And the pilgrim gazes with awestruck eyes, for he sees not only the marks of the demon’s rope, but also, in the narrower bands higher up the mountain, the coils of the serpent that he has often seen in his images of Siva; and, in the ragged edges of the snow-clad peaks and the icicles that hang from the glaciers, he sees the matted hair of the god. He is tired and weary, for it is months since he left his home in the plains. First he marched through tangled jungle, through grass three times as tall as himself, and under great cane stalks and feathery bamboo trees. In these early stages of his walk he sang and shouted to frighten away the heavy sleepy bear, and to scare the quick-limbed panther that might be resting on any overhanging branch. Then he climbed up through forests of dark cedar and pine, with the white flowers of the magnolia, and the wealth of rhododendrons bright against the dark tree stems. On and on he went into the cold grey passes where his fear of wild beasts was lost in the fear of the spirits of the mountains, and he walked in silence and awe lest avalanche or storm should prove to him their anger. For he felt that he was indeed amongst the homes of the gods. Each moment as he mounted higher new snow-clad peaks rose before him, and those he had already seen seemed higher and greater. His heart was filled with the dream of a rich land somewhere amongst these glittering heights to which his soul might go after death, if only his pilgrimage should win him merit. So, as the sun sent flashes of light across the snowy peaks, the weary man plucked up courage and stepped out more bravely, till at length through a last ravine he saw the hoary head of the mountain he sought, and as he saw it he tore from his threadbare loin-cloth a little rag to tie to a bit of scrub. Other rags hung there, for many pilgrims when they reached that spot had been so poor that they had nothing left to offer at the sacred bush except a bit of the cloth they wore. And so he added another, and left the rags to flutter there in the cold winds of that high land, while he hastened on to finish his pilgrimage, and walk round the sacred mountain.

Other places are sacred besides this mountain that stands for Mount Meru, the centre of the world lotus. Each rock and stream has its spirit, and everywhere amongst the mountains there are shrines and temples and far-off holy places to which pilgrims go in their endless search for rest. Through all the land of India the mountains of the north are held sacred, and often the eyes of men who will never be able to reach them as pilgrims look longingly towards those homes of the gods.