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H.P. Blavatsky - From the Caves and Jungles of Hindostan
As to the heroes of this truthful narrative, they mounted their elephants once more, and directed their
heavy steps towards the high road and Jubbulpore.
God's Warrior
The direction of our pilgrimage of self-improvement lay towards the north-west, as was previously
decided. We were very impatient to see these status in statu of Anglo-India, but.... Do what you may,
there always will be a but.
We left the Jubbulpore line several miles from Nassik; and, to return to it, we had to go back to
Akbarpur, then travel by doubtful Local-Board roads to the station Vanevad and take the train of Holkar's
line, which joins the Great Indian Peninsular Railway.
Meanwhile, the Bagh caves were quite close to us, not more than fifty miles off, to the east from Mandu.
We were undecided whether to leave them alone or go back to the Nerbudda. In the country situated on
the other side of Kandesh, our Babu had some "chums," as everywhere else in India; the omnipresent
Bengali Babus, who are always glad to be of some service to you, are scattered all over Hindostan, like
the Jews in Russia. Besides, our party was joined by a new member.
The day before we had received a letter from Swami Dayanand, carried to us by a traveling Sannyasi.
Dayanand informed us that the cholera was increasing every day in Hardwar, and that we must postpone
making his acquaintance personally till the end of May, either in Dehra-Dun, at the foot of Himalaya, or
in Saharanpur, which attracts every tourist by its charming situation.
The Sannyasi brought us also a nosegay from the Swami, a nosegay of the most extraordinary flowers,
which are totally unknown in Europe. They grow only in certain Himalayan valleys; they possess the
wonderful capacity of changing their color after midday, and do not look dead even when faded. The
Latin name of this charming plant is Hibiscus mutabilis. At night they are nothing but a large knot of
pressed green leaves, but from dawn till ten o'clock the flowers open and look like large snow-white
roses; then, towards twelve o'clock, they begin to redden, and later in the afternoon they look as crimson
as a peony. These flowers are sacred to the Asuras, a kind of fallen angels in Hindu mythology, and to
the sun-god Surya. The latter deity fell in love with an Asuri at the beginning of creation, and since then
is constantly caught whispering words of fiery love to the flower that shelters her. But the Asura is a
virgin; she gives herself entirely to the service of the goddess Chastity, who is the patroness of all the
ascetic brotherhoods. The love of Surya is vain, Asura will not listen to him. But under the flaming
arrows of the enamoured god she blushes and in appearance loses her purity. The natives call this plant
lajjalu, the modest one.
We were spending the night by a brook, under a shadowy fig-tree. The Sannyasi, who had made a wide
circuit to fulfil Dayanand's request, made friends with us; and we sat up late in the night, listening whilst
he talked about his travels, the wonders of his native country, once so great, and about the heroic deeds
of old Runjit-Sing, the Lion of the Punjab.
Strange, mysterious beings are found sometimes amongst these traveling monks. Some of them are very
learned; read and talk Sanskrit; know all about modern science and politics; and, nevertheless, remain
faithful to their ancient philosophical conceptions. Generally they do not wear any clothes, except a piece
of muslin round the loins, which is insisted upon by the police of the towns inhabited by Europeans.
They wander from the age of fifteen, all their lives, and die generally very aged. They live never giving a
thought to the morrow, like the birds of heaven, and the lilies of the field. They never touch money, and
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