IV

Mn €ytr Baffle 1M&

^TTHE road that links Delhi to Lahore is more than

^ three hundred miles long. Just off the hundredth
milestone lie the plains of Kurukshetra. The setting
sun bathes the plain in red, then disappears behind the
horizon. Black shadows to either side add loneliness
to the scene, while shapely silhouettes against the pale
indigo sky reveal the presence of temple towers. A few
yards from the brick embankment of an ancient tank,
the waters are lost to sight in the mist—mists of the
night and of time.

Grita Bhuvan was built for those who wish to
spend their days in thought and meditation, who wish
to read the Song Celestial in the surroundings where
it was first composed; Gifca Bhuvan is for the simple of
taste who are content to draw their water from the
well, cook their food in the open air, wash their clothes
in the early morning sunlight, and. sleep the sleep of
the mentally contented under the stars, or within the
white-washed walls of a bare and airy room. Gita
Bhuvan has a library in which are found all the
translations of the Gifca that were ever made in over
a dozen languages.

It is true there is nothing much to see in Kuruk-
shetra, but there is much to feel. The temples, though
some of them are in ruins, are not of ancient date;

the great tank alone has claims to some antiquity.
Memories of Mughal times are found in the vast
sami, now used for housing cattle, and in the massive