MOTHER, let us imagine we are travelling, and passing through a strange and dangerous country.  
You are riding in a palanquin and I am by you on a red horse.
 
It is evening and the sun goes down. The waste of Joradighi lies and grey before us. The land is and barren.
 
You are frightened and thinking--"I know not where we have come to."
 
I say to you, "Mother, do not be afraid."
 
The meadow is prickly with grass, and through it runs a narrow broken path.
 
There are no cattle to be seen in the wide field; they have gone to their village stalls.
 
It grows dark and dim on the land and sky, and we cannot tell where we are going.
 
Suddenly you call me and ask me in a whisper, "What light is that near the bank?"
 
Just then there bursts out a fearful yell, and figures come running towards us.
 
You sit in your palanquin and repeat the names of the gods in prayer.
 
The bearers, shaking in terror, hide themselves in the bush.
 
I shout to you, "Don't be afraid, mother. I am here."
 
With long sticks in their hands and hair all wild about their heads, they come nearer and nearer.
 
I shout, "H............