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Also, a white bull-calf wanders, while one reverend graybeard in the midst of it all, squatting cross-legged on the pavement before a great book, lifts up a droning voice. Haldar, "is reading to the worshipers from our Hindu mythology.The history of Kali." Of a sudden, a piercing outburst of shrill bleating.Of her four hands, one grasps a bleeding human head, one a knife, the third, outstretched, cradles blood, the fourth, raised in menace, is empty.

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The blood gushes forth on the pavement, the drums and the gongs before the goddess burst out wildly. "In this manner we kill here from one hundred and fifty to two hundred kids each day," says Mr. "The worshipers supply the kids." Now he leads us among the chapels of minor deities--that of the little red goddess of smallpox, side by side with her littler red twin who dispenses chicken pox or not, according to humor; that of the five-headed black cobra who wears a tiny figure of a priest beneath his chin, to whom those make offerings who fear snakebite; that of the red monkey-god, to whom wrestlers do homage before the bout; that to which rich merchants and students of the University pray, before confronting examinations or risking new ventures in trade; that of "the Universal God," a mask, only, like an Alaskan totem. "They come to pray for a son." We proceed to the temple burning-ghat. In the midst of an open space an oblong pit, dug in the ground. On the ground, close by, lies a rather beautiful young Indian woman, relaxed as though in a swoon.And then the ever-present phallic emblem of Siva, Kali's husband. One, a madman, flings himself at us, badly scaring a little girl who is being towed past by a young man whose wrist is tied to her tiny one by the two ends of a scarf. Her long black hair falls loose around her, a few flowers among its meshes.We turn the corner of the edifice to reach the open courtyard at the end opposite the shrine.Here stand two priests, one with a cutlass in his hand, the other holding a young goat.On the long platform before the deity, men and women prostrate themselves in vehement supplication.

Among them stroll lounging boys, sucking lollypops fixed on sticks.

Rich Calcutta, wide-open door to the traffic of the world and India, traffic of bullion, of jute, of cotton--of all that India and the world want out of each other's hands.

In the courts and alleys and bazaars many little bookstalls, where narrow-chested, near-sighted, anaemic young Bengali students, in native dress, brood over piles of fly-blown Russian pamphlets.

The priest who holds the goat swings it up and drops it, stretched by the legs, its screaming head held fast in a cleft post. " shout all the priests and the suppliants together, some flinging themselves face downward on the temple floor.

The second priest with a single blow of his cutlass decapitates the little creature. Meantime, and instantly, a woman who waited behind the killers of the goat has rushed forward and fallen on all fours to lap up the blood with her tongue--"in the hope of having a child." And now a second woman, stooping, sops at the blood with a cloth, and thrusts the cloth into her bosom, while half a dozen sick, sore dogs, horribly misshapen by nameless diseases, stick their hungry muzzles into the lengthening pool of gore.

For this reason the manuscript of this book has not been submitted to any member of the Government of India, nor to any Briton or Indian connected with official life. Pilgrims from far and near, with whom the shrine is always crowded, make money offerings. And the innumerable booths that shoulder each other up and down the approaches, booths where sweetmeats, holy images, marigold flowers, amulets, and votive offerings are sold, bring in a sound income.