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RV 7 —that of the little red goddess of smallpox, side by side with her littler red twin who dispenses chicken pox or not, according to humor ; that of the five-headed black cobra who wears a tiny figure of a priest beneath his chin, to whom those make offerings who fear snakebite ; that of the red monkey-god, to whom wrestlers do homage before the bout ; that to which rich merchants and students of the University pray, before confronting examinations or risking new ventures in trade ; that of “the Universal God,” a mask, only, like an Alaskan totem. And then the ever-present phallic emblem of Siva, Kali’s husband. Before them all, little offerings of marigold blossoms, or of red wads of something in baskets trimmed with shells, both of which may be had at the temple booths, at a price, together with sacred cakes made of the dung of the temple bulls.

Mr. Haldar leads us through a lane down which, neatly arranged in rows, sit scores of more or less naked holy men and mendicants, mostly fat and hairy and covered with ashes, begging. All are eager to be photographed. Saddhus—reverend ascetics—spring up and pose. One, a madman, flings himself at us, badly scaring a little girl who is being towed past by a young man whose wrist is tied to her tiny one by the two ends of a scarf. “Husband and new wife,” says Mr. Haldar. “They come to pray for a son.”

We proceed to the temple burning-ghat. A burning is in progress. In the midst of an open space an oblong pit, dug in the ground. This is now half filled with sticks of wood. On the ground, close by, lies a rather