“I have to ask you something, Mr. Ackerley,” he said. “Three things. Will you promise to grant my wish?”
“State it, Abdul.”
“But you must keep it in your heart, and not tell it to any one.”
“You must leave that to my superior intelligence,” I said.
He smirked at this, and then, after a brief consideration, began volubly to explain. Would I get for him, from the Political Agent, a letter of recommendation so that he could obtain better employment, in one of the neighboring States, than that which he now has in Chhokrapur—a clerkship at twelve rupees a month in the Forestry and Mining Department.
“How can I support myself and my family members?” he demanded. “It is not possible.”
“But I don’t see any reason why the Political Agent should consider such a request,” I answered. “He doesn’t know you, and he doesn’t know me very well either . . .”
But Abdul was already proceeding. Failing that, there were two posts in Chhokrapur he would very much like to obtain: typist in the “War Office,” or lecturer in Persian and Urdu in the school.
“But are these posts vacant?” I asked.
“Oh no; but the present men can be sent somewhere else. You have only to ask His Highness and he will at once do it for you. And the lecturer is not at all a good man; he should not have been appointed, but my application was passed over because I am a Mohammedan. But I am much better suited for the post than any other man—though I do not say it, of course, because I want the post, but because it is true. You understand? Am I clear? In this way.”
“I see,” I said; “and you haven’t any feelings about getting a man turned out of his job in order that it may be given to you instead?”
“But he can be given another post somewhere else. A much better post . . . in some other State. In this way. So it would be greatly to his benefit . . .”
“You hypocrite!” I said. “You don’t care a rap if he starves. No, my dear Abdul, we’ll put your alternatives aside, and consider the question of the Political Agent.”
He sniggered self-consciously, drawing in his chin.
“Ah, Mr. Ackerley,” he said; “but you always go to the base of things! But if you will promise to stay in Chhokrapur, to get some good permanent post here, I will not want to leave it at all. Why don’t you? Do so, for my sake.”
When I went into my bedroom this morning I disturbed a rat on my dressing-table. It vanished with alacrity behind it. Silence ensued. I wondered vaguely what it could have done with itself, for the piece of furniture was isolated and the rat had not emerged. I peered underneath, but there was nothing to be seen, so I concluded that the rat must be halfway down, between the back of the table and the wall; and wondering how it could be supporting itself in such a sheer and difficult place, I peeped cautiously behind.
There it was, a globular, dusky shape, its little beady eyes, bright in the gloom, looking up at me. It had fixed itself much in the attitude a mountaineer adopts in negotiating what I believe is called a “chimney,” its little legs spread out and clutching on the one side some roughness in the wall, on the other the wood of the table. Quite absurd it looked, its small fat body propped between the two precipices by its short, spread, match-like legs. We stared at each other for some time. I would have liked to see it complete the descent, but it seemed disinclined to move, and not wishing to trouble it further I went away.
In the evening Babaji Rao drove up in his tonga to chat with me. He is a good man. I realize now that his shifty, taciturn manner (by which, together with his general appearance, I was at first unfavorably impressed) is only due to timidity, whilst he, having interpreted perhaps my reserve as color prejudice or the conscious racial superiority which Anglo-Indians exhale, is also delighted to confess himself wrong and has readily responded to my friendly overtures; in fact, we are both now very well pleased with each other. I like his tonga-driver too, though our intercourse consists solely in a frequent exchange of grins. He is a thin, pock-marked Mohammedan boy, and extremely dirty (his neck, indeed, is so disgraceful that I drew Babaji Rao’s attention to it), but his smile is so infectious that it always makes me gay. His dress, too—what there is of it—is soiled and unkempt; but of one garment he is obviously very proud, and I never see him without it. It is the last he puts on, a waistcoat, and must, once upon a time, have been a very fine waistcoat indeed; but nothing now remains of it but the back, very greasy and stained, and a few wisps of pink silk which still adhere to the front of the armholes, so that it is only when one sees him from the rear that one realizes that he is wearing one more garment than one had reckoned in studying him from the front.
Babaji Rao shook hands with me, and placing his round black hat on the center table by the lamp, sat down opposite me in a characteristic attitude—his legs wide apart and his hands, fingers inwards, resting on his thighs. I always feel, from the careful way in which he does it, that he dislikes shaking hands with me and is glad when it is over; and apart from the fact that it is not a natural Hindoo salute and therefore awkward, it cannot be pleasant for him to have to touch the hand of a meat-eater. But he is courageous in discussion, and is always ready, in the interests of learning, to converse with me on any topic, however distasteful it may be; so I broached this very subject of meat-eating, and he told me a curious reminiscence.
Two years ago his only son, Ram Chandra, now aged eight, was playing with some fireworks, when one exploded prematurely and his dhoti caught fire. With great difficulty, burning his own hands in the process, Babaji Rao tore off the blazing garment, but not before the little boy had received very severe injuries to his thighs and stomach.
Immediate medical aid was of course necessary, and though Babaji Rao knew that his parents, who do not live in Chhokrapur, would prefer him to obtain Indian treatment, he called in the local Indian doctor who follows the European system of medicine. The child was very weak from shock and pain, and could take nothing but a little rice or porridge, which, the doctor said, was not sufficient to nourish him, and the resisting power engendered by nourishment was very necessary, for every day the wounds had to be anointed and dressed, and this was such a painful business that it took about two hours, the least touch causing the little boy to cry out. So the doctor advised Babaji Rao that, since the patient could not digest milk, he must be given something that he could digest—he must be given Brand’s Essence of Chicken. Babaji Rao’s face puckered with disgust as he uttered these dreadful words to me. Was ever man placed in such a terrible dilemma? He had not known what to do. He could not even think. And he was left to settle it alone with his conscience, for he could not go and seek advice from his friends on so repugnant a matter—except, of course, from the Prime Minister, who had said bluntly exactly what one had expected him to say: “Don’t be a fool, my good fellow! Do what the doctor tells you, and don’t make such a fuss about it!”
For the Prime Minister was already guilty of the offense of having eaten with his nephews, who, since they had been educated in England, must be presumed to have eaten meat there—or, at any rate, to have eaten with people who had eaten meat. By this act he had become tainted with the same defilement which already disqualified them from being contracted into the best marriages, to which their very high birth entitled them; but a loss of prestige which would undoubtedly have damaged Babaji Rao’s self-respect, had upon the Prime Minister the opposite effect; having already suffered, by eating with those who had eaten meat, the same loss of caste in which they were involved, he had then done openly what, it was suspected, he had been doing for some time in private—eaten meat himself. Eggs. He liked them. But Babaji Rao, though he secretly admired the Prime Minister’s courage, whilst deploring his taste for eggs, and though he was, perhaps, a little comforted by the unhesitating decision of his advice, could not bring himself to take it. What would his parents say to him if, contrary to their counsel—for they would never permit it—he administered to Ram Chandra Brand’s Essence of Chicke
n—whatever Brand’s Essence might be? What would his son say to him afterwards when he learnt that he had been made the victim of such an enormity? And yet, on the other hand . . . He could not decide.
For five or six days he had procrastinated, hoping that the boy’s condition would improve naturally, without such desperate remedies; but at length the doctor had told him that unless his instructions were carried out he could not answer for the child’s life. And then Babaji Rao had yielded. But still he could not find the courage to take the first step himself; it was the Prime Minister who had bought the horrid stuff, opened the tin, and introduced into Ram Chandra’s mouth the first spoonfuls. After that Babaji Rao and his wife had carried on the treatment, until about nine or ten tins were consumed. Indeed Brand’s Essence seemed more remotely related to the chicken than was the Prime Minister’s egg; but this was small comfort, and the moment the little boy was pronounced to be out of danger, though still terribly weak and tormented, Babaji Rao stopped the treatment, in spite of the doctor’s advice to continue it.
However, the child had picked up gradually; but it was nearly three months from the day of the disaster before he was sufficiently restored to enable Babaji Rao, who had been sharing the watch with his wife, to obtain a complete night’s rest.
He told me this story with great shame and discomfort and then added:
“I did not tell my father till afterwards, and he was very angry with me and said I had done wrong.”
“And what about the little boy?” I asked. “Does he know?”
“Yes, he knows,” said Babaji Rao, fixing his gaze on the wall, “and when he thinks of it, he thinks of it with shame. He wishes that I had not made him eat it, and I often think now that, on his account, perhaps I was not justified. But we did not tell him at the time, so that he did not know what he was doing; and I wish I had not been told myself, but that it had been done without my knowledge.”
“But supposing you had told him at the time—told him that unless he ate it he would surely die?”
“He would not have taken it,” said Babaji Rao.
FEBRUARY 5TH
I think my denial of intimacy with the Political Agent has disheartened Abdul, for he seems to have lost interest in that quarter and is now worrying me to try to get him advancement through the Maharajah instead. I promised nothing; but Abdul does not need positive encouragement; his requests supply their own promises, extracting them, it seems, from any reaction which cannot be called definitely opposed; so that, before long, he was reproaching me with my unreliability. However, an opportunity occurred to-day for speaking a word on his behalf, and I took it.
“How are you getting on with your tutor?” asked His Highness.
“Quite well,” I said. “If I did as much work for him as he does for me I should be getting on very well. He has aptitude for teaching, I think, and it seems a pity that his talent should be wasted on a poorly paid clerkship. Only the other day he was saying how disappointed he had been not to get the position of Lecturer in Persian and Urdu in your school when it fell vacant. Is there, perhaps, room for another lecturer? Can any thing be done for him, Prince?”
“What is he getting? Fifteen rupees?”
“No, twelve; and he says he finds it difficult to support himself and his family on that.”
“But he must send in a petition,” said His Highness gravely. “Why has he not done so? Tell him to write one and give it to you, and you can give it to me, and I will give it to the Dewan.”
In the afternoon, when Abdul appeared to teach me, I was feeling a little tired, so I did not wait as usual to watch him work carefully round in his own way to the subject foremost in his mind, but told him at once that I had spoken to the Maharajah about him. Immediately he was in a twitter.
“And I am to be moved to that post in the school? When? To-morrow? Tell me it is so. If it is not so, do not tell me anything. Is it so?”
I shook my head.
“Then it is bad news!” he moaned. “I do not want to hear. Do not tell me anything! O my Lord! You have failed. You have not done your best for me. You have not said what I told you. You have not pestered him. O my Lord! It is bad news! Then do not tell me anything! I do not want to hear!” He began rapidly to turn the pages of his dictionary; then, without raising his eyes, he started to moan again. “O my Lord! What is to be done now? In a short time you will go, and I will stay—and you have not done your best for me. O my Lord! But come, tell me, what passed between you?”
I gave him the conversation.
“But it is good!” he cried, his face brightening. “A petition? Then it is done! I will get the post! He will give it me! That is good news! Why did you say it was bad news?”
He was greatly excited, pressing his face towards me into the air; but something—the amusement in my eyes, perhaps—made him suddenly self-conscious, and abruptly he withdrew, became decorous and tutorial, and began to teach. But as soon as the hour had elapsed, during which he had displayed unusual absentmindedness and impatience with my slowness, he asked me if I would do him the favor of drafting his petition for him “in the best English and manner possible,” and with some reluctance I produced this:
“May it please His Highness the Maharajah Sahib Bahadur of Chhokrapur, I, Abdul Haq, petition that I may be granted employment in the High School, as a teacher of Persian and Urdu, of both of which languages I have a thorough knowledge; or in such other capacity (as a Master in the Preparatory School, or as Manager of the Guest House) as may seem suitable to His Highness, so long as it be permanent and may bring me a monthly salary of twenty-five rupees and as much more as may seem to His Highness just and appropriate. I have the honor to be His Highness’s most obedient servant. . . .”
I read it through to him, and he nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the paper. I was surprised at his silence, which he maintained while I copied the letter out—until I came to the word “appropriate”: then he held out a lean, detaining hand.
“Please add there—‘For this gracious act of great kindness, I will pray every day for Your Highness, and for Your Highness’s son, the Rajah Bahadur, and for.. .’”
“No, Abdul,” I said firmly. “If you want anything added you must add it yourself.”
“What harm there is?”
“It isn’t necessary.”
“But he is Hindoo. He will like.”
“Nobody cares tuppence,” I said, “whether you pray for him or not.”
But of course he was right. I realized that afterwards, when my irritation had subsided. He was only treating His Highness in the same manner as His Highness had treated the A.G.G. It was customary; it was acceptable; and the irritation that it started in me was stupid and bad.
When Babaji Rao drove up to see me in the evening, his tongawallah grinned at me even more radiantly than usual; but I was too astonished to respond. The boy was quite clean.
“What has happened to your tonga-wallah?” I asked. “Has he fallen into one of the tanks?”
Babaji Rao smiled.
“I noticed his neck myself yesterday,” he answered, “and I said to him ‘Do you ever wash yourself?’ Then I gave him two pice; but I also was a little surprised to find him as clean as this to-day.”
Two pice is equal to a halfpenny.
“It’s a miracle,” I said. “How do you suppose he did it?”
“He bought a piece of soap.”
“And what did that cost him?”
“Two pice.”
I thought it good of the boy to have spent the two pice on a piece of soap, for his wages, which the State supplies, are only one rupee (about IS. 4d.) a week, and Babaji Rao, who is himself badly paid, adds little to this—as will already have been remarked.
To-night I started him off on Hindoo marriage customs, and he spoke at great length on this subject.
A Hindoo marriage, he said, is divided into three ceremonies—Betrothal, Marriage, and Consummation; and the first of these takes place when the boy is a
bout five years old. At about that time his father begins to look about for a wife for him, and this is sometimes done by means of a messenger—a professional matchmaker—who visits the district in search of a baby girl of suitable rank—that is to say, of at least equal caste.
This is the most important consideration. Usually, I suppose, the two families are neighbors, well known to each other, and already perhaps in agreement on this question, so that the employment of a messenger is either unnecessary or a mere formality; but when there is no such familiarity, some inquiry is necessary.
Either this inquiry is considered sufficiently answered by information brought by the messenger, or sometimes an actual inspection of the would-be bride is thought desirable; at any rate Romance can obviously have no part in the transaction, and when the boy’s family have ascertained that, besides being of the right caste, the girl is a strong and serviceable article, sound in wind and limb, and in possession of her faculties, then they have learned about her all that they have any wish to know. But, as Babaji Rao observed, it is now different in his more advanced society; a photograph is usually required, and, if this is not forthcoming, some serious member of the family—the father, or the elder brother (the younger brother is not considered serious)—will visit the young lady and report upon her appearance. After this, if the reports from both sides are satisfactory, her father will wish to examine the horoscope of the prospective bridegroom to see whether it is favorable and agrees with that of his daughter; and if there is anything wrong, if the boy’s horoscope predicts for him an early grave, or if, however unexceptionable it may be in itself, in conjunction with the girl’s equally good horoscope it prognosticates a barren or unhappy union, the marriage is off. All Hindoo children have a horoscope taken at birth, except the lowest castes, sweepers and cobblers, who usually cannot afford the services of a pundit, and are therefore obliged to go through life without knowing, from day to day, what is about to happen to them.
Hindoo Holiday Page 12
