n has
its representative in something consecrated to it, a stone, a flower, a
tree, or a bird. On the West side of the Malabar Hill peeps through the
trees Valakeshvara, the temple of the "Lord of Sand." A long stream of
Hindus moves towards this celebrated temple; men and women, shining with
rings on their fingers and toes, with bracelets from their wrists up
to their elbows, clad in bright turbans and snow white muslins, with
foreheads freshly painted with red, yellow, and white, holy sectarian
signs.

The legend says that Rama spent here a night on his way from Ayodhya
(Oudh) to Lanka (Ceylon) to fetch his wife Sita who had been stolen by
the wicked King Ravana. Rama's brother Lakshman, whose duty it was
to send him daily a new lingam from Benares, was late in doing so one
evening. Losing patience, Rama erected for himself a lingam of sand.
When, at last, the symbol arrived from Benares, it was put in a temple,
and the lingam erected by Rama was left on the shore. There it stayed
during long centuries, but, at the arrival of the Portuguese, the "Lord
of Sand" felt so disgusted with the feringhi (foreigners) that he jumped
into the sea never to return. A little farther on there is a charming
tank, called Vanattirtha, or the "point of the arrow." Here Rama, the
much worshipped hero of the Hindus, felt thirsty and, not finding any
water, shot an arrow and immediately there was created a pond. Its
crystal waters were surrounded by a high wall, steps were built leading
down to it, and a circle of white marble dwellings was filled with dwija
(twice born) Brahmans.

India is the land of legends and of mysterious nooks and corners. There
is not a ruin, not a monument, not a thicket, that has no story attached
to it. Yet, however they may be entangled in the cobweb of popular
imagination, which becomes thicker with every generation, it is
difficult to point out a single one that is not founded on fact. With
patience and, still more, with the help of the learned Brahmans you
can always get at the truth, when once you have secured their trust and
friendship.

The same road leads to the temple of the Parsee fire-worshippers. At its
altar burns an unquenchable fire, which daily consumes hundredweights of
sandal wood and aromatic herbs. Lit three hundred years ago, the sacred
fire has never been extinguished, notwithstanding many disorders,
sectarian discords, and even wars. The Parsees are very proud of this
temple of Zaratus