This remarkable man, who thus for the second time became my rescuer—his hands yet bloody from the hideous Kali sacrifice he had conducted—was the son of a Brahman. But because he had been born under the Robber Constellation he had taken to the trade of the robber. At first he had belonged to the “Thugs,” but went over for scientific reasons to the “Senders.” From his father’s family he had inherited, as he told me, a leaning to religious meditation. So, on the one hand, he conducted the sacrificial service as priest—and people ascribed the unusual luck of the band nearly as much to his priestly knowledge as to Angulimala’s able leadership—and, on the other hand, he lectured on the metaphysics of the robber-nature, in systematic form—and not only on the technical side of it, but on its ethical side also; for I observed, to my amazement, that the robbers did have a morality of their own, and by no means considered themselves worse than other men.
These lectures were delivered chiefly at night, during the clear half of the month, at which time—apart from chance occurrences—business was quiet. In a forest clearing, the hearers squatted in several semicircular rows about the worshipful Vajaçravas, who sat with his legs crossed under him. His powerful head, barren of all hair, shone in the moonlight, and his whole appearance was not unlike that of a Vedic teacher who, in the quiet of a starlit night, imparts the Esoteric or Secret Doctrine to the inmates of a forest hermitage; but, on the other hand, many an unholy and bestial face, aye, and that of many a gallows-bird, was to be seen in that circle. It really seems to me as though I see them at this moment—as though I hear again the seething of the sounds in that gigantic forest, now swelling to the long sough of the far-off storm, anon sinking to the gentle sigh of the night wind as it goes to rest amid the lonely treetops—at intervals, the distant growl of a tiger or the hoarser bellow of a panther—and above it all, clear, penetrating, marvellously quiet, the voice of Vajaçravas—a deep, full-toned bass, the priceless inheritance of countless generations of Udgatars.7
To these lectures I was admitted because Vajaçravas had conceived a liking for me. He even went so far as to assert that I, like himself, had been born under a robber star, and that I would one day join myself to the servants of Kali, for which reason it would be of value to listen to his addresses, as they would unquestionably waken to active life the instincts slumbering within me. I have on such occasions heard very remarkable lectures from him on the different “Sects of Kali”—usually called thieves and robbers—and on the usages which severally distinguish them. No less instructive than entertaining were his excursive remarks on themes like “The value of courtesans in hoodwinking the police,” or “Characteristics of officials of the upper and lower ranks, open to bribery, with reliable notes as to each man’s price.” To his particularly keen observation of mankind, as well as to his severe logicality in drawing conclusions, irreproachable testimony was borne by his treatment of the question, “How and why do rascals recognise one another at the first glance, while honest men do not; and what advantages accrue to the former from this circumstance?” not to speak of his brilliant remarks on “The stupidity of night-watchmen in general, a stimulating reflection for beginners,” when the sleeping forest rang again to such a chorus of laughter that the robbers flocked together from all sides of the camp, in order to hear what was going on.
But dry technical questions also, the master understood how to handle in an interesting fashion, and I recollect really fascinating dissertations on “How to make a breach in a wall without noise,” or, “How to excavate a subterranean passage with technical accuracy.” The proper construction of different kinds of crowbars, particularly of the so-called “snake-jaw,” and of the “cancriform” hook, was most graphically described; the use of soft-stringed instruments to discover whether people are awake, and of the wooden head of a man thrust in at the door or window to ascertain whether the supposed burglar will be observed—all such things were thoroughly discussed. His development of the theory that a man, when carrying out a theft, must unquestionably take the life of everyone who might later bear witness against him, as also his general consideration of the statement that a thief should not be afflicted with a moral walk and conversation, but, on the contrary, be coarse and violent, occasionally abandoning himself to drunkenness and immorality, I count among the most learned and witty lectures I have ever heard.
In order, however, to give thee a better idea of the profound mind of this truly original man, I must repeat to thee the most famous passage from his “Commentary on the Ancient Kali-Sutras, the Esoteric Doctrine of the Thieves”8—a commentary of all but canonical importance.
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Esoteric Doctrine
Thus the Sutra reads: “The Divine also dost thou think? … No! … Irresponsibility … On account of space, of Scripture, of Tradition.”
The worshipful Vajaçravas comments upon this as follows:
“ ’The divine also …’ that is punishment.
“For, in the preceding Sutra, such punishments were spoken of as the king or the authorities decree upon the robber, of which are: the mutilation of hand, foot, and nose, the seething cauldron, the pitch garland, the dragon’s mouth, running the gauntlet, the rack, besprinkling with boiling oil, decapitation, rending by dogs, impalement of the living body—more than sufficient reason why the robber should, if possible, not let himself be caught, but, if he should indeed have been caught, why he should in every possible way seek to escape.
“Now some people
