Hindoo Holiday

by J. R. Ackerley

  But he is always considered as a paying guest in her house, and leaves behind him a nominal sum of four or five rupees at the end of each visit.

  Younger brothers may stay with their married sisters without fear of comment, for they never had the right to dispose of them.

  He explained this as I accompanied him to the hospital today. He was not feeling very well, and wanted to have his throat painted. The hospital is a dingy one-storied building, with a colonnaded verandah, forming three sides of a square. It is a hundred years old, Babaji Rao told me, but I do not know whether it was civic pride or astonishment that prompted this information. In the center of the court was a short black lamppost, rather like a stage “prop,” stuck on a white stone platform, and just behind this a small jaman tree was growing.

  The tree had begun to collapse, I noticed as we passed; it was supported by a piece of stick, and a coil of torn and soiled surgical bandage.

  I told the doctor I was pleased to see that the trees also received medical attention; but he did not seem to find amusement in this little joke, and merely remarked that the jaman tree produces a pleasant fruit, like a plum, which is good for constipation.

  The doctor is a Bengali from Calcutta, and he eats meat. But meat is said to be eaten generally in Bengal, even by Brahmans. He is a very stout man with protuberant pale green eyes. Once he had eight percent of diabetes, but he has reduced it. His children, on the other hand, have been allowed to accumulate; he now has eight sons and one daughter. While Babaji Rao was having his throat painted in the dispensary, the doctor showed me his operating theater. It was a small dark room containing two cases of instruments, a tin washstand, and a blood-stained table. On the wall was a snake-bite chart, giving diagrams of the physical characteristics of the various poisonous snakes, and information of what to do when bitten by each. I have seen these charts before, but have always refrained from studying them, feeling that I should certainly get it all wrong if I ever had need to remember it, and that a quick death would be preferable to the awful dual anxiety of trying to recognize one’s snake and recall its particular antidote.

  From a cabinet in the wall the doctor brought out two large yellowish lumps of chalky material to show me. They were gall-stones, he said, which he himself had removed. But he had not removed a gall-stone for some considerable time; he followed a different system now, he crushed the stones inside the bladder. I diverted him from this painful topic by asking him what he thought of the Indian system of medicine, and he said it was very good, indeed many men had returned to it after qualifying in the European system. What were his views as a doctor, I asked, on the medicinal value of cow’s urine, internally administered? Also of the semen of the bear, which I had seen advertised in a Delhi newspaper named The Rajasthan?

  “In olden days,” the advertisement had run, “these Rajbansi pills were used by many Badushas of Delhi who owned many wives. This is prepared according to the old Urdu Sastras with very great cost, risk, and valuable ingredients and herbs, along with the essence of the well-grown generative organs of the male bears as to cure impotency. The above pills have to be taken in . . . This is a heavenly nectar for impotent. A trial will give you conviction to its effect. . . . All correspondence treated as confidential.”

  After a moment’s thought the doctor replied that semen contained albumen like an egg and was therefore strengthening; but the Dewan, who is seldom far from the doctor and joined us at this moment, pooh-poohed the efficacy of this remedy. We then passed on to artificial insemination, and the Dewan remarked that if a man were impotent and heirless he would be quite justified in purchasing the semen of a friend—so long, of course, as the friend were a Brahman or of the purchaser’s caste.

  “Urine,” said the doctor, “contains bile, which is good for constipation and lassitude.”

  He added that of course I knew of the veneration in which Hindoos held the cow.

  “We look upon it as our mother,” he said, “because it gives us milk.”

  In the evening after dinner I went for a walk in the city, and since it was very dark, took the punkah-wallah, a poor, thin boy of about sixteen, to light me down the hill. He lives in the town, and not wishing to drag him all the way back, I took the lamp from him at the city gate and gave him fourpence. He dropped down on his knees before me and laid his forehead on my feet.

  APRIL 6TH

  I had a letter from His Highness this morning, my first direct news of him for several days. It ran:

  D.F. (Dear Friend),—I am very much ashamed of my behavior really—but what could I do—my illness of the abscess—or boil what it may be termed—was so nasty this time that I couldn’t do anything in the least. . . .

  However, I am little better since yesterday—and if Almighty wills—I shall see you this afternoon anyhow and it will cover up all my shameful behavior to you. I can’t write more. Ta-ta till 4 o’clock.

  However, like the termination of his letter, he looked sprightly enough when he arrived, dressed in a new coat of French brocaded silk—small gold flowers upon a dark-blue ground. But I, on the other hand, was not feeling at all well, or inclined for this drive in the hot sun.

  “How are you, Prince?” I asked gloomily, as I clambered into the car and sat down beside him.

  “A little better. A little better,” he replied, without conviction; and since I knew that he would never inquire after my state of health, I informed him of it.

  “I’m not feeling at all well myself,” I said.

  He clapped his hands together once.

  “So!” he exclaimed bitterly. “Here is another! Since Garha every one is ill. My secretary, my wife, my son, my servants—every one, every one. And they are all very angry with me. They say it is all my fault. They say I should have gone on my pilgrimage, and that I have angered the Gods. They are all very angry indeed.”

  I felt too crushed by this to say anything, and after a few moments of somber silence, he asked rather crossly:

  “What is the matter with you?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” I said hurriedly, sorry now that I had mentioned it; “only a slight headache and general feeling of slackness. I dare say it’s the heat.”

  “But, my dear sir, this is not heat! Have you been to the doctor?”

  “Oh no,” I said, “I’m not bad enough for that. Besides, if it’s the wrath of God it’s not much use consulting a doctor, is it?”

  But he was taking now, when it was no longer welcome, a serious interest in my health, and was not to be diverted.

  “But you must do so, Mr. Ackerley.”

  “Very well,” I said feebly. “If I’m not better to-morrow I’ll go and call on him.”

  After that we drove along for some time in silence through the torrid atmosphere, and then he said he wanted my advice and began a long rambling story about an American lady named Murdock who wishes to set up here a discreet dispensary for timid Indian ladies—too timid to visit the hospital where there is insufficient protection for the sensibilities of their sex and caste.

  Nearly a year ago Miss Murdock introduced her philanthropic scheme to His Highness: she would build the dispensary with her own money if His Highness would give her a site; she would also procure the services of an American lady doctor to take charge. His Highness, always childishly pleased with any new idea, shared her enthusiasm without her practicalness.

  He loves Miss Murdock. She shall have her dispensary. They will build at once: She must choose her site and secure the lady doctor without delay. She does so. There is an ideal site—the site of a demolished building—just outside the walls of the city; it has a well of its own, and more important still, a natural gully at the back which, with very little trouble, can be converted into a private passage down which timid Indian ladies will be able to steal unperceived from the city to the dispensary.

  Miss Murdock thinks of everything. She has been thirty years in the Province. She knows it stone by stone. But apparently she does not know His Highness. He
approves the site; he expects it will be all right, but he must consult with his ministers. He has the power to decide, but prefers not to do so. No doubt he has already consulted with his ministers and found them suspicious and unfavorable; and no doubt he does not care whether there is a dispensary for timid Indian ladies or not; but he loves Miss Murdock and cannot bear to take the blame for disappointing her. Others must shoulder that. His Ministers must shoulder that. They do not like the idea of the dispensary. Undeniably it is necessary, undeniably it would be nice to have one without paying for it, without taxing for it, without reducing the laborers’ wage from tuppence-ha’penny to tuppence again—but they are suspicious of it; it is the thin end of the wedge; a European dispensary for timid Indian ladies invariably turns into a kindergarten, and a kindergarten into a mission-house.

  But neither do the ministers want the blame for thwarting Miss Murdock, so they call in public opinion. Public opinion, they say, objects to a European dispensary inside the city, so they regret Miss Murdock may not have the site she has chosen, but she may have that one over there, about five hundred yards further away, or indeed any other site she wishes on or outside that radius.

  But Miss Murdock wants the site she has chosen. Five hundred yards make a considerable difference to her, and that site over there has none of the natural advantages of her site; it has no well, and no gully for timid Indian ladies to creep along; also the amount of excavation and leveling that would be needed to prepare it makes it impracticable.

  Besides, she points out, her own site fulfills the requirements of public opinion, for it too is outside the city. But this is disputed. True, her site is outside the walls, but the walls are very old, and the city itself has spread outside them; her site is not outside the city.

  A long and wearisome argument ensues, throughout which His Highness, by professing complete helplessness and pretending that her disappointment is also his, tries to preserve the friendship he so deeply values.

  But in vain. The lady doctor, her grip packed, is waiting impatiently on the quay in America for her call, and Miss Murdock, vexed and irritable, has taken refuge in Rajgarh, where she stirs up against His Highness the displeasure of the British Cantonment.

  “How does one make a decision? How does one make up one’s mind?” sighed His Highness.

  One doesn’t. The business of the dispensary has been dragging on for months.

  APRIL 7TH

  I did not feel any better this morning, so very early, before breakfast, I went down to find the doctor. He was sitting on the verandah of his house, smoking a hubble-bubble and contemplating the scenery, which comprised the back premises of his hospital and the back premises of a goat which was rooting about among the weeds and refuse of which his garden consisted.

  “Very kind of you to come,” he said amiably, struggling out of an armchair which was rather too small for him and offering it to me.

  “Yes, it’s partly friendliness,” I said; “but also because I want some castor-oil.”

  “May I see your tongue?” he asked politely.

  I protruded it. He gazed at it in silence, and then, returning the stem of his pipe to his mouth, fell to contemplating the scenery again in a thoughtful manner.

  “Very dirty!” he remarked, eyeing the goat, which had given a little skip and drawn nearer. Then he stretched out a plump brown hand and felt my pulse.

  “You must fast for two days,” he said, “and then you must take only light things like milk pudding, vermicelli, and fish. You will be all right in a day or two.”

  He bubbled for a moment into his pipe and then said:

  “You are to leave us soon?”

  “Yes, in about a month’s time.”

  “I am sorry. His Highness will be sorry. Have you enjoyed it here?”

  “Oh yes, very much indeed. But I find it a little too warm for me now.”

  “Of course, of course,” he said, “I understand. And is it not a little lonely for you sometimes—up at the Guest House by yourself?”

  “Yes, it is sometimes.”

  “It is natural. We are not made to be alone. If there is anything that I can do for you, please to tell me. The society of girls, it is not difficult to arrange. . . . If you speak to your sweeper, she will find you some one.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Sahib,” I said, “but I can get along without.”

  He nodded.

  “His Highness says that you will come back again?”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “Will you come alone?”

  “Alone?”

  “You should marry in England and bring out your wife to Chhokrapur with you.”

  I smiled.

  “If I come again,” I said, “I shall come alone.”

  “It is a pity,” he replied. “For then you will not stay.”

  With another little skip the goat mounted the steps of the verandah and entered the house.

  “If you will come with me to the hospital,” said the doctor, “I will give you some castor-oil.”

  APRIL 10TH

  When I return from my early morning rides I find flowers on my dressing-table. Sometimes there is a single blossom of scented chaman; sometimes a handful of petals, usually jasmine, scattered upon the marble. I thought, for some time, that these gifts came from Narayan; but now I learn that they are from Hashim, the waiter.

  Abdul has gone off to Deogarh for a day or two in search of a new job. He was afraid, he said, of what would happen to him after my departure, so wished to take measures for his defense while I was still here. After all, I had done nothing for him except make his life more difficult; but if I would now give him a certificate—a good certificate—to the district Commissioner, he might yet retrieve the fortunes I had jeopardized. Yes, I had done my best for him; he knew that; but nothing had come of my promises, nothing—three rupees! I had failed.

  I gave him an excellent certificate, feeling that if it was going to rid me of Abdul praise could not be too extravagant, and told him it was the last work I would do on his behalf. Eventually a reply to his application came—a telegram telling him to present himself at once to the Deogarh Collector for examination.

  His diplomacy was admirable at this point. After expressing his gratitude for the success of my certificate, he said that he could not however take the journey, for that would interrupt my studies with him. I said they would not suffer much by the interruption, and advised him to go. He consented—it would be only for a few days.

  “Very well, Mr. Ackerley, I will go, since you wish it.”

  But one other thing—he distrusted the wording of the telegram; it said nothing about “expenses paid,” and his railway fare would be twelve rupees, which he could ill afford. Since Mr. Ackerley wished him to go and apply for the job . . .

  I shook my head.

  “Nothing more, Abdul.”

  He received the refusal with perfect composure and left, exhorting me to study hard while he was away so that we should be able to make great progress when he returned. I watched his retreating figure, stiff, self-conscious, humorless, and knew that I had had my last lesson.

  There is a golden mohur tree near the Guest House, and I sat on the verandah to-day looking at its beautiful cascading orange flowers. A mina bird perched on its branches, looking very inquisitorial and making a variety of inquisitorial noises. The mina is a kind of starling, and is said to be as intelligent as the parrot in learning to talk. Maybe it is; and its harsh voice is no less unpleasant to listen to. Bird noises are seldom pleasant, however. The peacock’s voice is as ugly as his nature, but then he is beautiful to look at, so perhaps nothing more should be expected of him.

  In a neem tree close by a family of doves was disputing, peevish and spiteful; and a tree-pie gurgled somewhere overhead, like an air-locked water-pipe. Then a bulbul, the Eastern songthrush, arrived; but he did not contribute to the concert; he only turned up his tail at me to show me that his bottom was decorated with a tuft of red feathers,
and then flew away.

  APRIL 14TH

  Babaji Rao left Chhokrapur for two months’ holiday yesterday, so I shall not see him again. He said he would give me a call for farewells at five o’clock this morning as he passed the foot of the Guest House hill on his way to Rajgarh; but as he had not come by half-past five I walked down to his house, fearing I had missed him. But he had not started. A fantastic green wooden coach, to which two lean horses were harnessed, was standing outside his gate; some tin trunks and a bundle in a blanket were stacked on the roof, and three children were clambering over it like monkeys.

  Eight people were to travel in this, and a plank had been placed across the two benches inside to afford more seating room. I asked one of the children where Babaji Rao was, and a grubby hand pointed in the direction of the Palace; so I sat on the wall and waited. At a quarter to seven he came, carrying papers and smoothing his scant, disordered hair.

  “How late you are!” I said.

  “What could I do?” he replied. “His Highness called me at four-thirty, but when I got there he had fallen asleep again and slept until six o’clock. When he had dictated some letters I came away.”

  That was all he said, and without the least suggestion of impatience or reproach or any sign of bitterness.

  “Will you catch your train?” I asked.

  “I do not think so; but we must try.”

  I said good-bye to him at once so as not to delay him further, and returned to the Guest House thinking what a kind, generous man he was and how sadly I should miss him.

  Babaji Rao departing, Abdul returns, very brisk, very selfpossessed, very punctilious. After perfunctory inquiries about my “homework,” we turned to more important matters. His visit to Deogarh had been most unsatisfactory, the Collector had offered him the job at forty-five rupees—but only on a month’s probation. Abdul had not trusted the Collector. He was a Hindoo. Moreover he had not refunded Abdul’s train fare.