Page:Between the twilights being studies of Indian women by one of themselves (IA betweentwilights00soraiala).pdf/170



VERYONE in India is familiar with the homely little Tulsi—the sacred basil—with its aromatic brown spirals and dull green leaves. It was sprawling across the drive of a house I had newly come to tenant, and while my Mali and I did tidyings in the Garden, I spoke to him gently about the plant. “Move the sacred garden-person. Suppose some day we drove over it and hurt it, quite by accident, what sin! See, put it in a new hole yonder, by your own hut if you wish.” He is a holy man, my Mali, from Puri, where dwells Jagannath of the Car with his Brother and Sister; and he will not touch the Tulsi till he has bathed, saving for it his first draught of water of mornings. I could only hope that my good intentions were credited. But he made no sign beyond a reverence to the Tulsi, and a wagging