Free The Karma of Love (Bantam Series No. 14) by Barbara Cartland Page B
Authors: Barbara Cartland
reached it, it was in fact deserted.
Orissa went to two deck-chairs far forward in the bow, and they pulled them out to sit clear of the awning right against the railing which encircled the top deck.
There was just a faint breeze but not enough to fill the sails and the ship was relying entirely on its engines.
Again the stars threw a mystical light over the universe and the reflection of the lights from the ship on the smooth sea was very beautiful.
Orissa sat down and Mr. Mahla seated himself beside her.
“Are you looking forward to being home again?” she asked in his own language.
He shook his head.
“No?” she questioned.
“I wished to stay in England,” Mr. Mahla replied. “I enjoyed my position at the University. It was very interesting and I had many friends.”
“Then why are you going back?
“I have to go ! My father has died and now I am head of the family. There is my mother to care for and I have four brothers, three sisters and their children who are all depending on me.”
“You mean that you will have to give up working as a teacher?” Orissa asked.
He nodded and she could see by the light of the stars that his eyes were dark and miserable.
“ W e have a little land,” he said. “I must work on it for the good of the family.”
“Then your literary achievements will be wasted.”
“It is my Karma—my Fate.”
“Do you really believe,” Orissa asked, “that you have no choice in the matter?”
“None.”
"But I cannot think that is true,” she protested. ‘Is it all ordained what we shall do, what is to happen to us?”
“That is what I believe,” Mr. Mahla answered.
“How can you be sure that you are not imagining such a thing?” Orissa asked, “and just accepting everything that occurs, however bad, as inevitable without fighting against it?”
“It is all written in our hands.”
“I have heard that,” Orissa said, “and yet I can hardly credit that it is true.”
“Look at the lines on your palm,” he suggested. “Every line is different. No two human beings have the same marks. There is the story of one’s life. There are the lines of fate very clear for us to see.”
“Can you read your own fate?” Orissa enquired. “Can you read other people’s?”
“Sometimes,” he answered.
She put out her left hand, palm upwards towards him.
“What do you see in mine?”
Very delicately Mr. Mahla supported her fingers with the first two of his right hand.
Looking down into her small palm he said:
“Can you not see your line of Fate running almost from your wrist to the base of your middle finger? It is a very straight line. It denotes not only strength of character and tenacity but also that your life is preordained. You are a very old soul, Mrs. Lane.”
“Tell me more,” Orissa begged, fascinated.
Then as he raised her hand a trifle higher to catch the fight from the Heavens above there was a shadow beside them.
Orissa looked up and felt her heart give a frightened leap.
It was Major Meredith who stood there and she knew although she was not certain whether she saw it in his eyes or merely sensed it, that he was in a towering rage.
“You do not belong to this deck!” he said sharply to Mr. Mahla.
For a moment both Orissa and the Indian teacher stiffened.
Then Mr. Mahla rose to his feet, made his usual obeisance to Orissa and moved away before she could prevent him.
She was so surprised at Major Meredith’s behaviour that for a moment she could not think, and the words would not come to her lips. Before she could speak he said:
“It would be wiser, Mrs. Lane, if you kept your favours to your own class and to your own colour!”
For a second Orissa did not understand what he was saying, and then as a blush burnt her cheeks, she lost her temper!
“How dare you speak to me like that!” she said in a voice that was low and vibrant with fury. “How dare you make such suggestions or infer such motives for my actions! Whatever I do
Orissa went to two deck-chairs far forward in the bow, and they pulled them out to sit clear of the awning right against the railing which encircled the top deck.
There was just a faint breeze but not enough to fill the sails and the ship was relying entirely on its engines.
Again the stars threw a mystical light over the universe and the reflection of the lights from the ship on the smooth sea was very beautiful.
Orissa sat down and Mr. Mahla seated himself beside her.
“Are you looking forward to being home again?” she asked in his own language.
He shook his head.
“No?” she questioned.
“I wished to stay in England,” Mr. Mahla replied. “I enjoyed my position at the University. It was very interesting and I had many friends.”
“Then why are you going back?
“I have to go ! My father has died and now I am head of the family. There is my mother to care for and I have four brothers, three sisters and their children who are all depending on me.”
“You mean that you will have to give up working as a teacher?” Orissa asked.
He nodded and she could see by the light of the stars that his eyes were dark and miserable.
“ W e have a little land,” he said. “I must work on it for the good of the family.”
“Then your literary achievements will be wasted.”
“It is my Karma—my Fate.”
“Do you really believe,” Orissa asked, “that you have no choice in the matter?”
“None.”
"But I cannot think that is true,” she protested. ‘Is it all ordained what we shall do, what is to happen to us?”
“That is what I believe,” Mr. Mahla answered.
“How can you be sure that you are not imagining such a thing?” Orissa asked, “and just accepting everything that occurs, however bad, as inevitable without fighting against it?”
“It is all written in our hands.”
“I have heard that,” Orissa said, “and yet I can hardly credit that it is true.”
“Look at the lines on your palm,” he suggested. “Every line is different. No two human beings have the same marks. There is the story of one’s life. There are the lines of fate very clear for us to see.”
“Can you read your own fate?” Orissa enquired. “Can you read other people’s?”
“Sometimes,” he answered.
She put out her left hand, palm upwards towards him.
“What do you see in mine?”
Very delicately Mr. Mahla supported her fingers with the first two of his right hand.
Looking down into her small palm he said:
“Can you not see your line of Fate running almost from your wrist to the base of your middle finger? It is a very straight line. It denotes not only strength of character and tenacity but also that your life is preordained. You are a very old soul, Mrs. Lane.”
“Tell me more,” Orissa begged, fascinated.
Then as he raised her hand a trifle higher to catch the fight from the Heavens above there was a shadow beside them.
Orissa looked up and felt her heart give a frightened leap.
It was Major Meredith who stood there and she knew although she was not certain whether she saw it in his eyes or merely sensed it, that he was in a towering rage.
“You do not belong to this deck!” he said sharply to Mr. Mahla.
For a moment both Orissa and the Indian teacher stiffened.
Then Mr. Mahla rose to his feet, made his usual obeisance to Orissa and moved away before she could prevent him.
She was so surprised at Major Meredith’s behaviour that for a moment she could not think, and the words would not come to her lips. Before she could speak he said:
“It would be wiser, Mrs. Lane, if you kept your favours to your own class and to your own colour!”
For a second Orissa did not understand what he was saying, and then as a blush burnt her cheeks, she lost her temper!
“How dare you speak to me like that!” she said in a voice that was low and vibrant with fury. “How dare you make such suggestions or infer such motives for my actions! Whatever I do