“Who should know better than you, O Zeus!” I returned; “since you sent it to Cawnpore to snatch the little boy!”
Then I had to go. I thought he was going to choke; his betelstained tongue, like a piece of red flannel, rushed in and out of his mouth; the music stopped, and even Napoleon the Third came to a standstill and was infected by the sovereign mirth.
FEBRUARY 11TH
I visited Abdul’s house with him to-day. It was a low, irregular, whitewashed wall, with a portal and a window above it. The portal was not more than five feet high, and was closed with two solid unvarnished wooden doors, studded with nails, and badly slung on their hinges. The window, behind which, he said, his wife and mother lived, was curtained with sacking. The effect of the whole was that of a blind beggar. Abdul rapped on the door; whereupon a man poked his head out, peered at us and retired. This person, Abdul explained, was his brother-in-law, who lived with him and who had kindly lent his services for the occasion; he had gone in to warn the women of my arrival so that they might conceal themselves. This did not take long; a cry from within signalized that the coast was clear, and we entered. The low portal gave upon three small dark rooms which were quite bare and empty and looked as though they were made of mud. The doorways that gave them intercommunication were even smaller than the street-entrance, so that I had to double up to get through to the little open yard that lay beyond. This was weedy and so neglected that the walls and buildings on the further side had crumbled into ruins. It contained nothing but a puppy, which immediately rolled over on its back. Abdul ignored it. He picked his way past it, and guided me up a short flight of stone steps which were built against the wall on our left and led back on to the roof of the three rooms through which we had passed. This was our destination.
The major part of Abdul’s house, a low, one storied building with two doors, faced me. One of the doors was curtained and must have been the room into which the women had just been herded—the room whose window was veiled with sacking. The other door was open and probably led to the kitchen.
The minor part of the house was a tiny compartment about five feet square sprouting all by itself from a corner of the roof. It looked like a box, without its cover, standing on end. It was Abdul’s private bed-stitting-room. The door-way was open, and a tongue of stained and faded purple cloth protruded across the threshold.
Behind this box, balancing a similar structure on the other corner, rose a low open turret approached by very narrow ladder-like steps. These turrets, said Abdul, were used either as storerooms or as sleeping-out places in summer—each being just large enough to take a charpai.
It was very hot standing on the roof in the full glare of the sun, and I was glad when he invited me to enter his room. I shuffled off my shoes and crawled like a fly over the purple tongue. There was no furniture in the room. It was so small that one could neither stand up nor lie down in it at full length. There was a white sheet spread upon the floor, and on this, copying as nearly as I could Abdul’s attitude, I squatted beside him. We filled the room.
And yet, in spite of its smallness, it contained all Abdul’s worldly goods. These either hung from innumerable nails in the walls, or were neatly piled along the sides; and I never saw such a remarkable collection. One would have thought that never in his life had he thrown anything away, however worthless or useless. Empty tins and boxes; worn-out shoes; remnants of socks and other articles of clothing; books and bits of books—these were neatly stacked and surmounted by a small cotton-tree in a pot; while on the wall were hanging almanacs and photos, a hat, a bladeless knife, a glove, some broken pieces of glass and metal, and all manner of quite useless and unornamental things. It was, somehow, very like Abdul himself, this room of his: very like his mind, small, mean, tidy, uncomfortable, and full of rubbishy things. There was a smell of mold.
“Your tree looks dead,” I said.
“Yes,” said Abdul, “it is dead.”
I was then introduced to his son, who was brought by the brother-in-law and placed on the purple cloth in front of us. He was a sturdy and rather pretty little chap of about five, with a very large head and tarbush and a distended stomach.
Abdul offered me cigarettes, spices, and scent upon a tray. There were three scent-bottles, one containing a brown, gummy Indian scent and another a cheap French perfume bought in Calcutta. The third bottle was shaped like a slender sausage and contained a little transparent fluid. I took it up curiously.
“Is this good?” I asked.
“No very,” said Abdul.
“How does it open?”
“No one can open,” he replied. “Only my father, who is dead.”
His father had been dead for two years, but I was not discouraged until I perceived that in the small brass neck at either end the glass stopper had been broken off short. I handed it back to him, wondering why, since it could only be opened by his father who was dead, he continued to offer the scent in it to his guests. No doubt it looked mysterious and important on the tray with the others. After I had rubbed a little of the Indian scent upon my hands, he showed me some of his treasures—cheap, highly colored plates of Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem, and some “holy books” which were tied up with string and suspended from nails in the roof. He also showed me an early family group, so faded as to be scarcely discernible, in which he figured as a little boy.
“That is me in my lovelyhood,” he said.
Then, when the attractions of the room were exhausted, he sent his brother-in-law, who, with Abdul’s son and two other idle spectators, was hanging about outside, to bring the sweetmeats. In a few moments these arrived, in saucers, on a tray, preceded and accompanied by a cloud of flies and followed by a cat of the most mangy and sinister appearance. It was covered with half-concealed sores, and its almost hairless tail was rigid and twisted like a stiff piece of rope.
Abdul greeted it affectionately.
“I told you I had a cat,” he said.
I gazed with disgust at this wretched object, which, I am thankful to say, did not come into the room. It sat just outside on the purple cloth and peered short-sightedly, from beneath drooping pink lids, at the sweetmeats which were set before us. These were chiefly mustard-colored or pale gray, and looked rather like bread pellets moulded by grubby schoolboy fingers into various sizes for flipping at other schoolboys across the table. A little sugar clung to them, and a thin, adhesive silver tissue (also edible, said Abdul) which fluttered in the slight breeze. He handed me a spoon, and with his own attempted to beat off the flies which swarmed so obstinately upon the food that they appeared to prefer death to separation from it. Personally I could not pretend to their enthusiasm. but gingerly digging with my spoon to the center of one of the piles, I selected, with a care which may have seemed rather rude, three of the smallest pellets I could find.
These, which were no larger than peas, I swallowed, and, recollecting Mrs. Bristow’s dire prophecy of a month ago, had little doubt but that in a very short space of time I should be dead of cholera.
But Abdul was watching me, and, protesting loudly against my modesty and politeness, pressed other and larger sweetmeats upon me, which I firmly refused.
He seemed very upset. If I did not care for Indian sweetmeats, he said, he had some English cakes he had bought in Calcutta; but I pleaded a recent lunch, remembering that he had not been in Calcutta for over six months. He gazed unhappily at the loaded tray. He had hoped, he said, that we would share it between us. It was a great disappointment. Indeed, so depressed did he look that I suggested that, since I did not feel inclined for food at present, I might be allowed to carry some back with me to my house to eat another time.
This seemed to him an excellent plan; his spirits revived at once, and he sent his son with the sweetmeats to make up a bundle for me to take away. But in a few moments the little boy returned to say that unfortunately nothing could be found in which to tie up the food; whereupon Abdul, never at a loss, drew from his pocket a soiled handkerch
ief which he tossed over to his son. Then, in spite of my refusal, he ordered tea, which was brought, already mixed with milk and sugar, in a kettle; but owing no doubt to its not having been made with boiling water it was found to be so thick with tealeaves that it could scarcely trickle through the spout, and was sent back to be strained. I accepted a glass when at last it returned to make up for my refusal of the food; but it was sickly sweet and tepid, and I did not drink much. Shortly afterwards I left, carrying with me the sweetmeats tied up in Abdul’s handkerchief.
For a day or two I shall keep them exposed to view on a plate in my sitting-room, throwing away a few from time to time, so that he may think they are being steadily consumed. He said he couldn’t express his pride and satisfaction that I had visited his house, which, he added, cost him two rupees a month in rent.
Since his show of irresolution a few days ago His Highness has not spoken to me again about his pilgrimage. Such incidental allusions as he has made to it have implied that he has accepted the inevitable with resignation; and though he does not cease to complain of ill-health, it seems settled that he will depart in four days’ time. It is my own fault, I expect, that I don’t know much about it. Since the original plan was that we should synchronize our holidays, I naturally tried to keep him up to the mark, feeling that my own tour depended upon his; and, since my urgings have increased with his reluctance, he no doubt feels me to be out of sympathy with him and leaves the subject alone. But now that, what with introductory letters and invitations and one thing and another, it seems assured that, independently of his plans, I am to leave for Benares on the 19th, it makes no difference to me whether he goes on his pilgrimage or not. So while we were driving to-day I carefully approached the subject to find out if he was feeling any more cheerful about it. He wasn’t. He was very gloomy, and said there was no improvement in his health, and that the medicine the doctors gave him made his eyes water. I asked what the exact object of his pilgrimage was, and he explained that he was under obligation to perform certain religious rites at certain holy places to obtain absolution for the souls of his ancestors. There was no definite punishment for failing to do this, but the souls would continue in everlasting need of it, and this neglect would count as a bad act against him and, along with such other bad acts as he may have committed, operate to send him to hell and delay his passage through the cycle of transmigrations to reabsorption into the one Universal Spirit.
“What is hell?” I asked.
“Hell is fire and blood, flesh, bones, dung, urine, and serpents and dragons that prey upon you,” he announced, discharging each item in this unsavory concoction almost with relish, and beating his knee with his hand. I giggled at this.
“Dear me,” I said.
“And pus!” he added with gusto, his sunken lips blowing out as he spat the word at me. Then he giggled himself, but not very good-humoredly.
“Never mind,” I said. “One doesn’t stay there permanently. One is born again, isn’t one?”
“Yes,” he said, “as a pig or a donkey; then back into hell; then as a serpent; then as an insect . . .”
It was clear that he was not feeling very well.
“But there is always hope?” I asked encouragingly.
“Yes, after millions and millions of reincarnations one gets back to the shape of a man and has another chance.”
“Does one ever run across one’s injured ancestors on the way?”
“Perhaps by chance. But it is not likely. It is only great love that brings people together again. So that two friends may go on together, or a father and son, a brother and sister, if there was great love between them.”
FEBRUARY 13TH
Almost every morning now, and sometimes in the late afternoon, Narayan, the young Guest House clerk, comes in to see me.
“I may come in?” his soft voice inquires from the threshold, and I smile a welcome and indicate the chair opposite. He is a handsome boy, with very gentle eyes, beneath a broad, intelligent forehead. The lower part of his face is less good; his lips are too thick, his black silky mustache rather untidy, and his teeth badly discolored by betel. But he is spotlessly clean and wears his dhoti, which is always of the finest muslin, more gracefully than any other Hindoo I have seen, so that it falls almost to the level of his insteps. On his bare feet he wears old-fashioned buckle shoes, which are both becoming and sensible, since they have so frequently to be shuffled off; and on his head a round black hat, like Babaji Rao’s, into which he crams his long oily tress of blue-black hair. His carriage is calm and dignified, conscious of the superiority of his caste; his demeanor reserved, thoughtful, and attentive.
I have found him very useful as an interpreter in getting my small wants attended to, or in suppressing the zeal of Habib, the smaller of the two Mohammedan boys, who seems to have elected himself my personal servant; but although Narayan must be aware of my need of him, he does not, like Abdul, take advantage of it, but remains always courteous and deferential.
I do not know why he comes in to me so often; if it is to benefit his English or his mind—Europeans being “so wisdom”—then his courage must fail him, for he seldom speaks a word, but just sits here, very shy and quiet, with his hands idle in his lap and his gaze bent upon the floor.
I have tried to draw him into conversation, but I dare say he is self-conscious about his English and feels it to be inadequate; for although he has no difficulty in understanding and answering my questions, he seems unable to frame one of his own. Yet his knowledge of the language, though not extensive, is serviceable enough; and he speaks it rather prettily, in a light, musical, rather caressing manner. Now I scarcely interrupt my studies for him; he salaams, and we touch hands; I offer him a chair and a cigarette, which he would not take without my permission, and then go on with my work. Every now and then our glances meet and he responds to my smile shyly and then drops his gaze. And here he sits, smoking, or chewing betel, or doing nothing, until some one calls him or he thinks he ought to go.
“Now I will go,” he says gently, making it half a question and half a statement; I nod smiling, and with a salaam he departs.
I have seen many forms of salutation here, the commonest being to move the tips of the fingers of one or both hands to and from the forehead. This is an abbreviation of the full gesture of scattering dust on the head, which some of the servile peasants still perform, laying their foreheads on the earth. There are various modifications of it, and the Prime Minister does no more than place the palm of his right hand flat on his forehead when he meets the Maharajah. But Narayan’s salaam is the sweetest; he puts his hands together, in our attitude of prayer, just below his chin, and moves them a little to and fro, and smiles shyly, and the gesture grows full of love.
When he came to see me to-day he offered me his little silver box of betel-leaves before helping himself. I had never tasted one before, and was curious to try, though I did not like the smell of them in other people’s mouths; but after chewing it for a few moments I felt obliged to spit it out, it had such a sickly flavor, heavy and acrid. Narayan was very amused, and pointed at me and then at his mouth, laughing on a high light note—a freer, franker sound than Babaji Rao’s snigger, Abdul’s titter, or His Highness’s wheezy chortlings.
I went to the looking-glass to examine my mouth, and was delighted to see that my tongue and teeth were bright red. What a pity, I thought, that Mrs. Bristow is no longer here! How smilingly would I have greeted her! But I was expecting Babaji Rao at any moment, he had arranged to walk with me, so I could try my bright-red smile on him.
I told Narayan of my appointment, and he asked whether he might accompany us. I shook my head, being quite unable to imagine what kind of relation existed between them, for whereas Narayan is of a much higher caste, he is, at the same time, Babaji Rao’s subordinate. But Narayan did not appear to foresee any difficulty. He put his hands together before his face, and said in a pleading voice:
“Ah yes. Please.”
“Wh
y do you want to come?” I asked, teasing him.
“I like.”
“But why do you like?”
“I like.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Sim-ply.”
“But there must be a reason.”
“No reason. I like.”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t think that’s good enough. If you’ll give me a reason—just one little reason—I’ll take you; otherwise not.”
But, although he looked hard at the floor, he seemed unable to find a reason; so, when Babaji Rao arrived, I said to him:
“Narayan wants to come with us, but he won’t say why. Shall we take him?”
“Certainly. With pleasure,” said Babaji Rao.
But perhaps I had carried my teasing too far and Narayan believed that he was not wanted, for now that permission had at last been obtained he held back, and I had to take him by the hand and draw him along with us. Just as we were leaving I noticed the remainder of Abdul’s sweetmeats on the table and asked Babaji Rao whether they might not be acceptable to his Mohammedan tonga-wallah. He said he thought the boy would be very pleased indeed; so I wrapped them up in a piece of paper and carried them with me.
“Look,” I said to Babaji Rao, since he had not noticed it; “I am becoming an Indian indeed.” And I showed him my red teeth.
“Do not make yourself ill,” was all he said, with a smile.
I questioned him, as we strolled along the Deori road, about the small shrines that were scattered over the countryside, and he said that they commemorated Suttees—faithful wives who had burned themselves alive upon their husbands’ funeral pyres. This, not so long ago, was quite a common practice among the highest castes; the faithful wife (unless she had young children, for the community naturally did not wish to be burdened with orphans) went voluntarily with her husband even into the fire, and was afterwards deified; and indeed so desirable did such loyalty and devotion seem, that if a widow tried to get out of it, the only possible explanation was that she had not been a faithful wife, and she was accordingly ostracized and outcaste. When a king died, not only his wives but his servants and household goods also sometimes went with him into the fire, so that he should not lack in the next world anything to which he had been accustomed in this; and about this gigantic funeral pyre guards armed with spears were set to drive back upon the flames any one who tried to escape. The custom of Suttee has been prohibited by the Indian penal code, and now, save in very rare, isolated cases of fanaticism, never takes place; but the beliefs from which it sprang remain unaltered, so that there seems no reason why, when British rule passes, it should not gradually revive. And considering how unenviable the lot of a Hindoo widow is at the present day, especially if she is a child and childless, it could hardly be more unkind to allow her to end her life in this way than to oblige her to preserve it in perpetual asceticism and mourning. Narayan did not contribute to the conversation; he walked quietly beside me, and when we turned into the town and reached Babaji Rao’s house he took his leave of us. I asked Babaji Rao what he thought of him, and he said he was a good boy; but he seemed reluctant to go into the question of their relationship. He agreed, however, that Narayan would feel himself superior to lower castes, and therefore, in this respect, superior to his master Babaji Rao, and that whereas he could not, if invited, come and take food in Babaji Rao’s house, the latter could and would (though he would not feel very comfortable about it owing to his superiority in rank) go and take food in Narayan’s house.
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