“Hast thou a charm to change my shape? Else I am dead. Five—ten minutes alone, if I had not been so pressed, and I might—”
“Is he cured yet, miracle-worker?” said the Kamboh jealously. “Thou hast chanted long enough.”
“Nay. There is no cure for his hurts, as I see, except he sit for three days in the habit of a bairagi .” This is a common penance, often imposed on a fat trader by his spiritual teacher.
“One priest always goes about to make another priest,” was the retort. Like most grossly superstitious folk, the Kamboh could not keep his tongue from deriding his Church.
“Will thy son be a priest, then? It is time he took more of my quinine.”
“We Jats are all buffaloes,” said the Kamboh, softening anew.
Kim rubbed a fingertip of bitterness