Part 1 (2/2)
Straight as an arrow he heads for the seash.o.r.e, his hands clutching the air convulsively, his 'sari' streaming in the night-breeze; and behind, like hounds on the trail of the deer, come Rama, the brethren, the sisters, and rest of the community. Over the s.h.i.+ngle they stream and down on to the hard wet sand. Some one digs a hole; another produces a black c.o.c.k; and Rama with a knife cuts its throat over the hole, imploring the spirit's departure, at the very moment that Krishna with a final shriek plunges into the sea. They follow him, carry him out of danger, and lay him, stark and speechless, upon the margin of the waves.
Thence, after a pause and a final prayer, they bear him homeward, as men bear a corpse, nor leave him until he has regained consciousness and his very self. For with that last shrill cry the ghost of Chandrabai fled across the waste waters to meet the pale ancestral dead and dwell with them for evermore: and the house of Vishnu the fisherman was freed from the curse of her vagrant and unpropitiated spirit. ”She has never troubled me since that day,” says Vishnu; ”but at times when I am out in my fis.h.i.+ng-boat and the wind blows softly from the west, I hear her voice calling to me across the waters. And one day, if the G.o.ds are kind, I shall sail westward to meet her!”
II.
BOMBAY SCENES.
MORNING.
”Binis.h.i.+n bar sari juyo guzari umr bibin kin isharat zi jahani guzeran mara bas.”
So wrote the great poet of Persia: ”Sit thou on the bank of a stream and in the flow of its waters watch the pa.s.sing of thy life. Than this a vain and fleeting world can grant thee no higher lesson.” Of the human tides which roll through the streets of the cities of the world, none are brighter or more varied than that which fills the streets of Bombay. Here are Memon and Khoja women in s.h.i.+rt and trousers (”kurta” and ”izzar”) of green and gold or pink or yellow, with dark blue sheets used as veils, wandering along with their children dressed in all the hues of the rainbow. Here are sleek Hindus from northern India in soft muslin and neat coloured turbans: Gujarathis in red head-gear and close-fitting white garments; Cutchi sea-farers, descendants of the pirates of dead centuries, with clear-cut bronzed features that show a lingering strain of Med or Jat, clad in white turbans, tight jackets, and waist cloths girded tightly over trousers that b.u.t.ton at the ankle. There, mark you, are many Bombay Mahomedans of the lower cla.s.s with their long white s.h.i.+rts, white trousers and skull-caps of silk or brocade: there too is every type of European from the almost albino Finn to the swarthy Italian,--sailors most of them, accompanied by a few Bombay roughs as land-pilots; petty officers of merchant s.h.i.+ps, in black or blue dress, making up a small private cargo of Indian goods with the help of a Native broker; English sailors of the Royal Navy; English soldiers in khaki; Arabs from Syria and the valley of the Euphrates; half-Arab, half-Persian traders from the Gulf, in Arab or old Persian costumes and black turbans with a red border. Here again comes a Persian of the old school with arched embroidered turban of white silk, white ”aba”
or undercoat reaching to the ankles, open grey ”shaya,” and soft yellow leather shoes; and he is followed by Persians of the modern school in small stiff black hats, dark coats drawn in at the waist, and English trousers and boots. After them come tall Afghans, their hair well-oiled, in the baggiest of trousers; Makranis dressed like Afghans but distinguished by their sharper nose and more closely-set eyes; Sindis in many-b.u.t.toned waistcoats; Negroes from Africa clad in striped waist cloths, creeping slowly through the streets and pausing in wonder at every new sight; Negroes in the Bombay Mahomedan dress and red fez; Chinese with pig-tails: j.a.panese in the latest European attire; Malays in English jackets and loose turbans; Bukharans in tall sheep skin caps and woollen gabardines, begging their way from Mecca to to their Central Asian homes, singing hymns in honour of the Prophet, or showing plans of the Ka'aba or of the shrine of the saint of saints, Maulana Abdul Kadir Gilani, at Baghdad.
[Ill.u.s.tration: A Millhand.]
[Ill.u.s.tration: A Marwari selling Bata.s.sa.]
The ebb and flow of life remains much the same from day to day. The earliest street sound, before the dawn breaks, is the rattle of the trams, the meat-carts on their way to the markets, the dust-carts and the watering-carts; and then, just as the grey thread of the dawn fringes the horizon, the hymn of the Fakir rings forth, praising the open-handed Ali and imploring the charity of the early-riser who knows full well that a copper bestowed unseen during the morning watch is worth far more than silver bestowed in the sight of men. On a sudden while the penurious widows and broken respectables are yet prosecuting their rounds of begging, the great cry ”Allaho Akbar” breaks from the mosques and the Faithful troop forth from their homes to prayer--prayer which is better than sleep. More commonplace sounds now fill the air, the hoa.r.s.e ”Batasaa, Batasaa” of the fat Marwari with the cakes, the ”Lo phote, lo phote” (Buy my cocoa-cakes) of a little old Malabari woman, dressed in a red ”lungi” and white cotton jacket, and the cry of the ”bajri” and ”chaval” seller, clad simply in a coa.r.s.e ”dhoti” and second-hand skull-cap, purchased at the nearest rag-shop. And as he pa.s.ses, bending under the weight of his sacks, you catch the c.h.i.n.k of the little empty coffee-cups without handles, which the itinerant Arab is soon to fill for his patrons from the portable coffee-pot in his left hand, or the tremulous ”malpurwa jaleibi” of the lean Hindu from Kathiawar who caters for the early breakfast of the millhand. Mark him as he pauses to oblige a customer; mark his oil-stained s.h.i.+rt, and loose turban, once white but now deep-brown from continual contact with the bottom of his tray of oil-fried sweetmeats: watch him as he wors.h.i.+ps with clasped hands the first coin that has fallen to his share this morning, calling it his ”Boni” or lucky handsel and striking it twice or thrice against the edge of his tray to ward off the fiend of ”No Custom.” But hark! the children have heard of his arrival; a shrill cry of ”Come in, jaleibiwala” forces him to drop the first coin into his empty pocket; and with silent steps he disappears down the dark pa.s.sage of the neighbouring chal.
[Ill.u.s.tration: The seller of ”Malpurwa jaleibi”.]
Now, as the Faithful wend their way homewards, bands of cheerful millhands hasten past you to the mills, and are followed by files of Koli fisherfolk,--the men unclad and red-hatted, with heavy creels, the women tight-girt and flower-decked, bearing their headloads of s.h.i.+ning fish at a trot towards the markets. The houses disgorge a continuous stream of people, bound upon their daily visit to the market, both men and women carrying baskets of palm-leaf matting for their purchases; and a little later the verandahs, ”otlas,” and the streets are crowded with Arabs, Persians, and north-country Indians, seated in groups to sip their coffee or sherbet and smoke the Persian or Indian pipe. Baluchis and Makranis wander into the ghi and flour shops and purchase sufficient to hand over to the baker, who daily prepares their bread for them; the ”panseller” sings the virtue of his wares in front of the cook-shop; the hawkers--the Daudi Bohra of ”zari purana” fame, the Kathiawar Memon, the Persian ”pashmak- seller” crying ”Phul mitai” (flower sweets), start forth upon their daily pilgrimage; while in the centre of the thoroughfare the ”reckla,” the landau, the victoria and the s.h.i.+gram bear their owners towards the business quarters of the city. ”Mera churan mazedar uso khate hain, sirdar,” and past you move a couple of drug-sellers, offering a word of morning welcome to their friend the Attar (perfumer) from the Deccan; while above your head the balconies are gradually filling with the mothers and children of the city, playing, working, talking and watching the human panorama unfold before their eyes.
[Ill.u.s.tration: A Koli woman.]
So the morning pa.s.ses into mid-day, amid a hundred sounds symbolical of the various phases of life in the Western capital,--the shout of the driver, the tw.a.n.g of the cotton-cleaner, the warning call of the anxious mother, the rattle of the showman's drum, the yell of the devotee, the curse of the cartman, the clang of the coppersmith, the chaffering of buyer and seller and the wail of the mourner. And above all the roar of life broods the echo of the call to prayer in honour of Allah, the All-Powerful and All-Pitiful, the Giver of Life and Giver of Death.
EVENING.
[Ill.u.s.tration: The ”Pan” Seller.]
As the sun sinks low in the west, a stream of wors.h.i.+ppers flows through the mosque-gates--rich black-coated Persian merchants, picturesque full-bearded Moulvis, smart sepoys from Hindustan, gold-turbaned shrewd-eyed Memon traders, ruddy Jats from Multan, high-cheeked Sidis, heavily dressed Bukharans, Arabs, Afghans and pallid embroiderers from Surat, who grudge the half-hour stolen from the daylight. At the main entrance of the mosques gather groups of men and women with sick children in their arms, waiting until the prayers are over and the wors.h.i.+ppers file out; for the prayer-laden breath of the truly devout is powerful to exorcise the demons of disease, and the child over whom the breath of the wors.h.i.+pper has pa.s.sed has fairer surety of recovery than can be gained from all the nostrums and charms of the Syed and Hakim. Just before and after sunset the streets wear their busiest air. Here are millhands and other labourers returning from their daily labours, merchants faring home from their offices, beggars, hawkers, fruit-sellers and sweetmeat-vendors, while crowds enter the cookshops and sherbet shops, and groups of Arabs and others settle themselves for recreation on the threshold of the coffee-sellers' domain.
There in a quiet backwater of traffic a small crowd gathers round a shabbily-dressed Panjabi, who, producing a roll of pink papers and waving them before his audience, describes them as the Prayer-treasure of the Heavenly Throne (”Duai Ganjul Arsh”), Allah's greatest gift to the Prophet.
”The Prophet and his children,” he continues, ”treasured this prayer; for before it fled the evil spirits of possession, disease and difficulty. Nor hath its virtue faded in these later days. In Saharanpur, hark ye, dwelt a woman, rich, prosperous and childless, and unto her I gave this prayer telling her to soak it in water once a month and drink thereafter. And lo!
in two months by the favour of Allah she conceived, and my fame was spread abroad among men. The troubles of others also have I lightened with this prayer,--even a woman possessed by a Jinn, under whose face I burned the prayer, so that the evil spirit fled.” He asks from two to four annas for the prayer sheet and finds many a purchaser in the crowd; and now and again he rolls the sheet into a thin tube and ties it round the neck of a sick child or round the arm of a sick woman, whom faith in Allah urges into the presence of the peripathetic healer. ”Oh, ye lovers of the beauties of the Prophet,” he cries, ”Faith is the greatest of cures. Have faith and ye have all! Know ye not that Allah bade the Prophet never pray for them that lacked faith nor pray over the graves of those of little faith!”
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