Island - Aldous Huxley [106]
“Solomon in all his glory,” he exclaimed, “was not arrayed like one of these.”
But then Solomon, he went on to reflect, was only a king; these gorgeous scarecrows were beings of a higher order. One was a Future Buddha, the other a delightfully gay, East Indian version of God the Father as one sees him in the Sistine Chapel, swooping down over the newly created Adam. With each tug of the string the Future Buddha wagged his head, uncrossed his legs from the lotus posture, danced a brief fandango in the air, then crossed them again and sat motionless for a moment until another jerk of the string once more disturbed his meditations. God the Father, meanwhile, waved his outstretched arm, wagged his forefinger in portentous warning, opened and shut his horsehair-fringed mouth and rolled a pair of eyes which, being made of glass, flashed comminatory fire at any bird that dared to approach the rice. And all the time a brisk wind was fluttering his draperies, which were bright yellow, with a bold design—in brown, white and black—of tigers and monkeys, while the Future Buddha’s magnificent robes of red and orange rayon bellied and flapped around him with an Aeolian jingling of dozens of little silver bells.
“Are all your scarecrows like this?” Will asked.
“It was the Old Raja’s idea,” Vijaya answered. “He wanted to make the children understand that all gods are homemade, and that it’s we who pull their strings and so give them the power to pull ours.”
“Make them dance,” said Tom Krishna, “make them wiggle.” He laughed delightedly.
Vijaya stretched out an enormous hand and patted the child’s dark curly head. “That’s the spirit!” And turning back to Will, “Quote ‘gods’ unquote,” he said in what was evidently an imitation of the Old Raja’s manner, “—their one great merit apart from scaring birds and quote ‘sinners’ unquote, and occasionally, perhaps, consoling the miserable, consists in this: being raised aloft on poles, they have to be looked up at; and when anyone looks up, even at a god, he can hardly fail to see the sky beyond. And what’s the sky? Air and scattered light; but also a symbol of that boundless and (excuse the metaphor) pregnant emptiness out of which everything, the living and the inanimate, the puppet makers and their divine marionettes, emerge into the universe we know—or rather that we think we know.”
Mary Sarojini, who had been listening intently, nodded her head. “Father used to say,” she volunteered, “that looking up at birds in the sky was even better. Birds aren’t words, he used to say. Birds are real. Just as real as the sky.” Vijaya brought the car to a standstill. “Have a good time,” he said as the children jumped out. “Make them dance and wiggle.”
Shouting, Tom Krishna and Mary Sarojini ran down to join the little group in the field below the road.
“And now for the more solemn aspects of education.” Vijaya turned the jeep into the driveway that led up to the schoolhouse. “I’ll leave the car here and walk back to the station. When you’ve had enough, get someone to drive you home.” He turned off the ignition and handed Will the key.
In the school office Mrs. Narayan, the Principal, was talking across her desk to a white-haired man with a long, rather doleful face like the face of a lined and wrinkled bloodhound.
“Mr. Chandra Menon,” Vijaya explained when the introductions had been made, “is our Under-Secretary of Education.”
“Who is paying us,” said the Principal, “one of his periodical visits of inspection.”
“And who thoroughly approves of what he sees,” the Under-Secretary added with a courteous bow in Mrs. Narayan’s direction.
Vijaya excused himself. “I have to get back to my work,” he said and moved towards the door.
“Are you specially interested in education?” Mr. Menon enquired.
“Specially ignorant would be more like it,” Will answered. “I was merely brought up, never educated. That’s why I’d like to have a look at the genuine article.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” the Under-Secretary assured him. “New Rothamsted is one of our best schools.”
“What’s your