Hindoo Holiday

by J. R. Ackerley

  He has no hatred, he says. Hatred is weakness. Miss Trend said she considered it right to hate bad people; but the Dewan said that if he were told that X was a bad man, he would say:

  “Very well, let him be bad. That is his affair. It is nothing to me. What do I care if he is bad? Why should I hate him? Why should I trouble myself? If I hate him, I hate myself, for I destroy myself. Hatred is heat. It consumes and wastes. Why should I consume and waste my body and burn my blood because X is bad?”

  “But,” said Miss Trend, “whether you hate him or not, it is your duty as a citizen to do something about him. You will have to tell him that he is bad and try to correct him.”

  “Why?” inquired the Dewan sharply. “If I tell him that he is bad, then perhaps I shall make an enemy of him, and he will hate me and injure me. That is senseless. If I am walking in the jungle, and I see a big lion coming for me, why should I hate him, poor brute? It is his habit to prey upon people and eat them. He must have blood, and here” (he indicated his enormous bulk) “is a store of blood. If he does not eat me perhaps he will not live. It is necessary that he shall eat me. Also if I do not want to be eaten it is necessary that I should shoot the lion. But I shall not hate him. And if I have no gun I shall be eaten—without malice. But I do not want to be eaten by him, so I shall do what I can to help myself. I shall not say ‘You are a bad man to want to tear and injure me’; but I shall say, ‘My good fellow, why do you come to me? I am not the only person in this world.’ And if I have any one with me I shall point to him and say. ‘Go to that man over there; do not come to me.’”

  “Suppose the other person is your wife?” asked Captain Daly. “Will you offer her first?”

  “Certainly,” cried the Dewan, on a shrill note. “I would hold her in front of me.”

  “You clearly aren’t a philanthropist,” said Miss Trend, laughing.

  “Certainly I am a philanthropist,” retorted the Dewan without the least hesitation, “for I have helped one person in this world—even though he does happen to be myself.”

  Narayan comes to me to-day looking very sad and untidy, his hair disheveled and his shirt dirty.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Very bad,” he said, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground.

  “What is the matter?”

  “Maharajah Sahib very angry with me. Send me here. Say me I no sleep in New Bakhri any more with Sharma.”

  I asked what had happened, but he only subsided into a chair, and looked down at the tablecloth. Then he asked me please not to repeat anything to His Highness, and started off.

  “Sharma have no bed in Bakhri for him and me to sleep, so he say Tahsildar (the departmental officer) to give him bed, and Tahsildar say Jama’dar (the captain of the guard). But Jama’dar no give; so Sharma say Maharajah Sahib Jama’dar no give bed; so Maharajah Sahib very angry and say punish him, so he punished.”

  I asked how the Jama’dar had been punished, and was told that he had received two slaps, one on each cheek, administered by a superior official. Slapping is a recognized form of punishment here; it is carried out in public by authorities or their delegates, and is intended rather to shame than to hurt. But as a result of his slapping the Jama’dar had gone crying to the Dewan whose servant he was. Thereupon the Dewan wrote to the Maharajah saying that Sharma was a bad man and had punished his Jama’dar, that Sharma was a proud and arrogant man, and that it was time he was suppressed.

  This letter the Maharajah read out to Sharma, who said “You told me to have Jama’dar punished, and this I have done.” So the Maharajah sent for the Dewan, who came and abused Sharma in front of him, saying that he was a wicked man, that he was always spreading false tales, and that he (the Dewan) would “give him the shoe.” And Sharma wept after the Dewan had gone, and would not eat; he had done as he was told, he said, so where was his offense? The Maharajah said to him “You must eat”; but he would not. “So Maharajah call Dewan again and say ‘Love Sharma!’ So Dewan say him, ‘You are a boy, and I am your Dewan. I am your father and your mother. If I say hard to you, excuse me.’”

  So Sharma was pacified and ate his food. But later on he went out, and foolishly, in front of other men, told Narayan that the Dewan had apologized and said “Excuse me.” Narayan had beaten Sharma for this indiscretion. He had slapped him many times, in many places, so that Sharma had wept again. I expressed regret at this hard treatment, but Narayan said, “He is a fool-boy.” It was his duty to slap him, he said, just as it would be my duty to slap him (Narayan) if he were in fault. But anyway the mischief had been done.

  In the evening one of the men who had overheard Sharma’s speech went in to the Maharajah and informed him that Narayan was “telling a report” that the Dewan had apologized to Sharma, the barber’s son; that the Dewan had fallen down at Sharma’s feet and begged to be forgiven. This man was His Highness’s “Kindness man” and an enemy of Narayan’s, and he was supported in this story by two confederates, and had other tales to whisper as well, such as that Narayan was a thief and furnished his house with things stolen from the Guest House, and that his influence over Sharma was perverted and bad.

  So in the night His Highness sent a servant to the New Bakhri to spy upon Narayan and Sharma as they lay in bed together, to learn how they acted together and of what they talked. Two or three times during the night he came and stood in the shadows and watched; but Narayan was asleep, and only Sharma saw him. And in the morning His Highness, having received a disappointing report from his servant, sent for Narayan and accused him of the other story, which Narayan denied.

  “I did not say such things,” he answered, and told the story as it had really happened. But His Highness refused to believe him, and said that he was a liar and should have his tongue cut out; that his father and his brother were good men, but that he was a bad man, that he must leave the New Bakhri at once, and that he would be punished when they returned to Chhokrapur.

  Narayan urged his innocence again, and said:

  “I have not said this thing, but if I have said this thing, you are my Lord and I am a poor boy—please excuse me.”

  But His Highness sent him away.

  And Sharma had gone to the Palace to plead for him; but His Highness had said:

  “For every good thing you say of him I will do him ill. Tell him to go away from me, and give him two slaps.”

  But Sharma had said:

  “He is my friend.”

  So Narayan had left the New Bakhri, and on his way here had met his enemy and accused him; but his enemy had replied:

  “I did not say.”

  So Narayan had left him and gone among the tents and wept.

  “Why are you weeping?” Hashim had asked.

  “Because I have a little fever,” he replied.

  And then he had come to me.

  “I am so ashamed,” he said; “I want to die.”

  While we were talking, a servant came bringing Narayan some food from Sharma, but Narayan sent it away.

  “Why don’t you eat?” I asked.

  “My stomach is full of uneasy,” he replied.

  Sharma had promised to come and visit him, if he could do so without being seen, and presently he arrived, slouching into the tent with an air of guilt and apprehension. He shook hands limply with me, and then, sinking heavily on to a chair behind Narayan, stared childishly about him. For some time no word or sign passed between them; then Narayan addressed some question to him in a low voice without turning his head, and after a short conversation Sharma slouched out again.

  “What is my defect?” Narayan asked me.

  “Perhaps you are too honest,” I said, smiling.

  “It is a good policy?”

  “The best, they say.”

  “Then what is this matter?”

  After a pause, he said:

  “I have no flattery. I say the truth always, always. If you say me, ‘He is a good man?’ I say you what I think. I say you, ‘You a good man.’ So
I think. But if I think you a bad man then I say you it.”

  Before he left he asked me again to say nothing of what had passed between us.

  “To-day,” I said, “you don’t trust any one, do you?”

  “Ah, excuse me!” he murmured.

  MARCH 24TH

  When I returned from my daily ride this morning at about 7:30, Habib met me as usual in the encampment to take possession of my switch and gloves, in order to place them on the table in the tent which I was myself about to enter. As soon as they are restored to their accustomed place he departs. It is one of the many important services he unfailingly performs, and I did not take any particular notice of him.

  “Sahib!” he said, without moving. Conversation was not part of his routine, and I looked down at him with surprise.

  Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  “Whatever’s the matter with you?” I asked.

  He made no reply, and thinking that he had probably only been scrapping with the other Mohammedan boy, I went on into my tent.

  Later on Hashim came in to say that breakfast was ready, and I asked what had happened to Habib.

  “He is a very bad boy,” said Hashim severely. “He has broken your camera.”

  This was indeed bad news, for it isn’t my camera; it was very kindly lent to me by a lady in Rajgarh. Perhaps a camera has never been seen in Chhokrapur before; at any rate, since it came into my possession I have become very popular and have had quite a number of new visitors. Babaji Rao’s servant, the Dewan’s coachman, His Highness’s cook—all sorts of quaint young men have “called”—that is to say, have hung bashfully about the vicinity of my tent, displaying red or white teeth, and on being asked their business, have expressed a polite desire to be photographed. But foreseeing damage to it at the hands of Habib, I had forbidden him to touch it.

  I examined it, and his activities were at once apparent. I had made only one exposure on the film, and had turned it on to number “2”; but now it was turned on to “Finish,” and the screw was bent and jammed. What had happened was obvious enough.

  While I was out riding he must have picked it up and seen the number “2” through the little red window at the back. He had turned the screw, and “2” had vanished. A few more turns, and there was “3.”

  This was great fun. After “3,” “4” “5” and “6” had been made to pass the little red window; but “7” had been a long time in coming and then had been found not to exist; instead there was this word “Finish,” which, no doubt, he had not understood. Then, either because he wanted to see the little numbers pass again, or because he thought he had better leave the camera as he found it, he had tried to reverse the spool, and found, to his dismay, that the screw would not turn that way. He had forced it until it bent; but behind the little red window nothing had moved. Then in terror he had dropped the camera and run to tell the cook, who had boxed his ears.

  In a very short time the story of Habib’s wickedness was all over the encampment, and fearful and sympathetic advisers crowded about my tent.

  “He must be punished,” chanted the cook.

  “Shall I slap him?” asked Hashim.

  “I told you he was half-made,” said Narayan.

  But I said I would not have him slapped, only warned never, in any circumstances, to enter my tent again on penalty of such a slapping as his infant mind had never dreamed of. For the rest of the day he sulked, like Achilles, in his tent; but in the evening, as I went down to the Palace to visit His Highness, I saw him with a friend among the bushes. He was hurling stones at a troop of “disgraced” monkeys.

  His Highness complained of not feeling very well.

  “Narayan doesn’t seem to be very well either,” I said.

  “Narayan! What is the matter with him?”

  “He has been crying a lot and seems to be rather unhappy.”

  “He is a very bad man,” said His Highness. “I have sent him away from my Palace. Did he not tell you?”

  “He said you were very angry with him, Prince.”

  “What else did he say?” he asked quickly, fixing his protuberant eyes upon me.

  “I didn’t question him further.”

  “He has been very bad,” pursued His Highness, with a nod. “I had to punish him. He is a liar. He has told many lies, and made mischief with the barber’s son.”

  “I’m very surprised to hear that,” I said.

  “So am I. He is the grandson of my old physician, whom I loved very much, and for his sake I wished to be kind to Narayan, but I cannot overlook these bad reports I have of him.”

  “Personally I always find him a remarkably honest boy,” I said. “In fact I can’t believe he has lied to you, Prince. I should have thought you could have told how truthful he was merely by looking at him. Don’t you think he’s got rather a fine face?”

  His Highness raised his brows politely.

  “I have never looked closely at him,” he said.

  The Dewan to-day, in conversation with us, warmly denied having said that he would sacrifice his wife’s life to preserve his own. He must, of course, he said, do his best to save her. He must die for her or for any other member of his family: it was quite impossible that he should have thought or spoken otherwise. Miss Trend said she did not wish to disbelieve him; she was only too glad to hear that women had eventually some value in the Hindoo’s scheme of life, and he agreed with her that the lack of interest with which female babies were received into the world was very sad.

  But he denied that these first feelings of disappointment and indifference continued.

  “We worship our daughters,” he said. “We touch their feet. They do not touch ours. We cannot ask them to—it would be a scandal, a disgraceful request. Nor can we ask them to do any menial labor.”

  Narayan said to me this evening:

  “I like you very much; give me fifteen rupees a month, and

  I will come and live with you for always. I will be your servant instead of friend.”

  I asked him what difference this would make in his conduct towards me, and he said he would not sit in my presence, nor smile and laugh with me. He asked if he might have a photo of me, and I gave him one. It was very beautiful, he thought, and he would like to kiss it.

  “Your face is good and some beautiful,” he said. “You are thin, with no belly and the chest of a fight-man.”

  When I went back to England, he said, he did not know what he would do; he would take my photo and speak to it; but it would not answer.

  I had no cigarette to give him, so I offered him the one I was smoking myself; but he said he could not accept it, because it had been in my mouth.

  MARCH 25TH

  To-day was Holi day, the chief day of the festival of Holi, which, as far as I could gather from Babaji Rao, is named after a girl, Holikar, who was a devotee of the devil Madhu. Being herself insensible to fire, she conspired with her father to carry her brother into the flames and burn him up because he worshipped Krishna.

  This was not the first time that they had tried to destroy the young man, but Krishna had always contrived to outwit Madhu whose instruments they were; and he was not at a loss on this occasion either, but managed to transfer the protective virtue from sister to brother, so that the wicked Holikar was consumed instead.

  Holi , then, is in honor of Krishna. It is held under the full moon, and used to be an occasion for the wildest excesses. The merrymakers would work themselves up with music, dancing, and bhung (the intoxicating juice of hemp) into such a frenzy that they would tear off their clothes and dance naked about the streets, singing improper songs, exhibiting improper images, and ending up indiscriminately in each other’s arms. But the British Raj did not encourage such high spirits, and much of the interest has now died out. It is still, however, a queer affair. Babaji Rao told me that the inspiring idea was “Fellowship.” On Holi day, Hindoos go out to meet their friends and enemies and embrace them all, old disputes are patched up, and gr
ievances forgiven. Moreover, social differences, as distinct from caste observances, disappear; all men are equal and may be treated so in the name of Friendship.

  This gives opportunity, of course, for a good deal of license which on any other day would be termed disrespectful and punished. A clerk may pinch or slap his employer in a jocular manner, and the latter may not take offense. He may, however, retaliate; and though the attacker is entitled to only one pinch or slap, the attacked may have as many as he chooses; but good-humor must prevail, and pincher and pinched must part in peace. The only way to avoid this Brotherly Love is not to venture out, and Captain Daly, Miss Trend, and His Highness who was sitting in the marquee examining beautiful Kashmir shawls and silken muslins which a Benares merchant was spreading before him, warned me not to go down to the Fair. But I was curious to see the festival, and asked Babaji Rao to accompany me.

  “Certainly,” he said, beaming through his spectacles; “but I cannot take responsibility for what may happen to you.”

  “What may happen to me?” I asked, and he said they would probably throw colored powder at me.

  “They will make you like the rainbow,” wheezed His Highness; “you should not take him, Babaji Rao.”

  “Let him go! Let him go if he wishes!” cried the Dewan, who is now very friendly with me. “They will not do him any harm.”

  “Do you dare to come?” asked Babaji Rao.

  “When I’ve changed into my oldest suit,” I said.