He asked him, "Father, why leave my temple of the golden dome and
sit on the dust outside to preach God's love?"
"Because God is not there in your temple," said Narottam.
The King frowned and said, "Do you know, twenty millions of gold
went to the making of that marvel of art, and it was consecrated
to God with costly rites?"
"Yes, I know it," answered Narottam. "It was in that year when
thousands of your people whose houses had been burned stood
vainly asking for help at your door.
"And God said, 'The poor creature who can give no shelter to his
brothers would build my house!'
"And he took his place with the shelterless under the trees by
the road.
"And that golden bubble is empty of all but hot vapour of pride."
The King cried in anger, "Leave my land."
Calmly said the saint, "Yes, banish me where you have banished my
God."
XXXV
The trumpet lies in the dust.
The wind is weary, the light is dead.
Ah, the evil day!
Come, fighters, carrying your flags, and singers, with your
war-songs!
Come, pilgrims of the march, hurrying on your journey!
The trumpet lies in the dust waiting for us.
I was on my way to the temple with my evening offerings, seeking
for a place of rest after the day's dusty toil: hoping my hurts
would be healed and the stains in my garment washed white, when I
found thy trumpet lying in the dust.
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