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Prema removed Niranjan
empty bowl. It is not the sun we need now, she
said. sighing. Can you not pray for rain? Surely the Lord will
hear you.
Niranjan shook his
head and smiled at the simplicity of his wife. Have I not prayed?
Everything depends on His will. Prayer and worship do not cause rain
any more than a child's request causes its fulfillment. The request
is necessary, of course, but whether it will be granted or not
depends on the will of the mother. Well, never mind. Why should you
trouble your head about these subtleties? He went back into the
courtyard and sat again at the manuscript.
Bring
me the ink pot and pen, he called. This
is truly a deplorable mistake! Again he tapped the page
and shook his head, incredulous that a scholar could have so erred. The
original was "I give", there can be no doubt. A
copyist should never meddle with manuscripts; though perhaps his
eyesight was poor and are similar.
As Niranjan
muttered thus to himself, Prema brought his ink pot and pen. The
baked earth was hot on the soles of her feet as she ran across the
courtyard. There was a sadness in her heart, the cause of which she
could not place the heat, perhaps, or the threat of famine to the
village.
Niranjan dipped his
pen into the ink as she held the jar for him. Then emphatically he
struck two black lines across, I carry,
and wrote above it in a neat hand. I give.
There,
he said, it is now as it was meant to be.
The Lord has graciously made me His instrument in correcting this
mistake.
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