Part 1

BETWEEN THE TWILIGHTS

BETWEEN THE TWILIGHTS: BEING STUDIES OF INDIAN WOMEN BY ONE OF THEMSELVES

BY CORNELIA SORABJI

LONDON AND NEW YORK HARPER AND BROTHERS 45, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

1908

CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.

DEDICATED TO THE HOUR OF UNION

COVER AND END PAPER DESIGNED BY J. LOCKWOOD KIPLING

PREFACE

In the language of the Zenana there are two twilights, “when the Sun drops into the sea,” and “when he splashes up stars for spray,” ... the _Union_, that is, of _Earth and Sun_, _and_, again, of _Light and Darkness_.

And the space between is the time of times in these sun-wearied plains in which I dwell. One sees the world in a gentle haze of reminiscence--reminiscence of the best. There, across the horizon, flames the Sun’s “good-bye.” Great cave of mystery, or lake of liquid fire: anon pool of opal and amethyst, thoughts curiously adjustable to the day that is done, memory of joy or sorrow, of strength of love, or disregard of pain. Gradually the colour fades, now to a golden fleece of the softest, now to wisps of translucence, blush-pink, violet: oft-times the true ecstasy of colour is in the east, away from the Sun’s setting. Or, now again, the sky is a study in grays and blue-grays, in that peculiar heat-haze which belongs to May and September, and the pale curve of the new moon looks old and weary. Is not all Life marching towards the Silence? it seems to say.

Yes, the manner of its loitering is varied, but always, always, is it an hour of enchantment, this hour Between the Twilights: and it is my very own. I choose it, from out the day’s full sheaf, and I sit with it in the Silences on my roof-tree.

It was in this hour, through a hot summer, that the thoughts which make this little book came to me, and were written down. I had spent my days going in and out among my friends of the Zenana, and a great yearning was in my heart that others should know them as I did, in their simplicity and their wisdom.

The half is not yet told: much would not bear telling--I had no business to take strangers into the walled garden of our intimacy--and some things were too elusive for speech, but the sounds which have thridded the Silence have been echoes of reality, and I can only hope that they may convey some impression of the gently pulsing life of the Zenana.

Not by any means are the Studies meant to be exhaustive. I have left out of count the Anglicized and English-educated Indian, the capable woman who earns her own living, the cultured woman of the world or philanthropist. There was little to learn about her which a common language and the opportunity of intercourse might not teach any sojourner in India at first-hand.

But these others of whom I have written seemed to justify in a very special sense the hour of my meditation.... They float elusive in the half-light between two civilizations, sad by reason of something lost, sad by reason of the more that may come to be rejected hereafter.... And none but God knoweth when will toll for them that final Hour of Union, and whether, when it is here, we shall be able to see the stars through the blue veil of the Light that lies slain for all Eternity.

CONTENTS

PAGE

PREFACE vii

I. THE STORY OF WISDOM 1

II. THE STORY OF DESTRUCTION 12

III. THE STORY OF A WOMAN 21

IV. _DEVI_--GODDESS! 30

V. THE SETTER-FAR OF IGNORANCE 44

VI. THE KING OF DEATH 53

VII. THE WISE MAN, “TRUTH-NAMED” 74

VIII. THE NASAL TEST--A STUDY OF CASTE 89

IX. THE MOTHERS OF FIGHTERS 106

X. THE QUEEN WHO STOOD ERECT 115

[1]XI. PORTRAITS OF SOME INDIAN WOMEN 128

XII. GARDEN FANCIES 150

XIII. A CHILD OR TWO 156

XIV. THE TIE THAT BINDS 176

[Footnote 1: “Portraits of some Indian Women” is reprinted from “The Nineteenth Century and After,” by the kind permission of the late Sir J. Knowles.]

GLOSSARY

_Amla_, officer of a household.

_Bina_, a musical instrument (stringed).

_Brahmin_, highest or priestly caste.

_Didi_, elder sister.

_Guru_, spiritual guide.

_Jog_, Hindu Vedantic system of meditation and of acquiring sanctity.

_Kincab_, gold brocade.

_Khattriya_, the fighter: of the fighting or second highest Caste.

_Mali_, gardener.

_Mantras_, incantations.

_Munias_, small speckled birds.

_Namascar_, the salutation to the learned: and to a superior.

_Pandas_, pilgrim guides at holy places.

_Pooja_, worship of a God.

_Pujari_, a Temple servant.

_Purdahnashin_, she who sits behind the curtain: the secluded.

_Sais_, groom.

_Saree_, a long winding-sheet, which forms the drapery worn by women.

_Shastras_, sacred writings.

_Sudra_, the server; of the fourth or Serving Class.

_Takht-posh_, a wooden plank on four legs used as a bedstead.

_Veishya_, originally of the third or agricultural, now often of the professional caste.

BETWEEN THE TWILIGHTS

I

THE STORY OF WISDOM

She comes with the Spring--a two days’ guest in an Indian household. Nor has frequency bred either carelessness or coolness of reception. Early on the morning of her arrival you will see the women hastening from the Bathing Ghat, their garments clinging about their supple limbs, their long hair drying in the wind. They bear full water-pots, for nought but Gunga-Mai to-day suffices--no slothful backsliding to nearby pump.

In the house of my friend, it was Parvati, the oldest serving-woman who undertook to make ready the guest chamber. I watched her as she crossed the courtyard--a handful of the precious liquid for Dharti-Mai the Earth Mother, and the rest--a generous swob, for the black marble veranda. Soon had she helpers, and to spare--the most practised among them made the white chalk marks of good luck--tridents, fishes, flames of fire; and the tidiest made the little inclosure--white cotton “railings,” the posts being balls of Ganges mud, in which were buried swiftly-flying arrows--threat for daring devil.

But the centre of interest was naturally the Altar. This was just a plain raised platform of wood, carrying bravely its variety of offering. Great mountains of yellow and white flowers, with fruits, chiefly the cocoanut, fruit of healing, old Sanskrit manuscripts, lettered palm-leaves, thumbed and blotted copybooks and tattered “primers”--the prayers of children--the pointed reed, and ink-horns, glass ink-pots and steel pens from the “Europe” shop across the way; a school edition of “The Vicar of Wakefield,” Ganot’s Physics, quaint combs and mirrors, powder-boxes, and perfumes, “the tears of scented grass,” or that more subtle “scent of red rose leaves.” Why not? Is she not woman, even though a Goddess and learned? The “Europe” products, I notice, carry milk in place of ink. “Sanctify to us this Western Education”--is that what it means in this country, where deepest feeling finds outlet other than through doors of speech? So her worshippers made ready, not in private chapel but here where the life of the days pulsed and languished through the years; here, where friend or passing stranger might alike turn to greet her; for Wisdom is one, though her hosts be many. Moreover, She who is called Wisdom loves the voices of little children, and nothing is hushed, or ordered otherwise for her coming. The most unregenerate rogue romps at her feet, the most thriftless housewife, the most rebellious daughter-in-law has access to her Altar, and through the day one after another will come bearing her gift; and, lingering a while, will go away softly even as she came. Sometimes, by no means generally, there will be an image of the Goddess. One such I have seen in the house of a rich merchant. It was a life-sized figure dancing on a lotus, the full bloom, pink-edged, in her hand she bore a _bina_ for the Goddess of Wisdom is also Queen of Harmony; and the rich man’s friends had honoured her as was meet, with priceless gifts of _Kincab_, of gem, of trinket. Now Wisdom of necessity has yet one more aspect, she is Goddess of Perfect Speech. It is of her that the tongue-tied prays eloquence, the scholar success; and the offering to her in this capacity you will find absent from no Altar, rich or poor. To omit this would mean the curse of the dumb for ever. It is a little cake of rice and milk, this oblation for lapses from accuracy, for “benevolent falsehood.”

“Oh Guest of the hours, remember the past, the puzzling need of the tangled moments, remember--and forgive.”

A list of benevolent falsehoods must needs vary with the age. Manu includes (viii, 130) “The giver of false evidence for a pious motive, for such an one shall not lose a seat in heaven,” his lapses being called the “Speech of the Gods.”

“To save a life,” “To protect a cow,” “To counteract the thriftless ways of husbands,” have added Hindu women of my acquaintance.

Simple is the ritual of the worship of Wisdom. “With folded hands I bow before the Goddess, the Goddess who provides all wealth, and vouchsafes the power of speech.” “May the Goddess of Wisdom protect me, the Mother of the Vedas, who from the crimson lotus of her hands pours radiance on the implements of writing, and on the works produced by her power.”

“May the Goddess of Wisdom protect me--She who robed in white, sets far all ignorance. She who abides with the Creator may she abide with me ...;” and the rest of the prayers are either said by the Priest, or found in the heart of the worshipper. The battered lesson book, the oft-used pen, are these not prayers in themselves?

The last time I saw the Goddess was at the Children’s Festival. Wisdom danced on her lotus flower, in a little bower of bamboos and marigolds, out in the open courtyard. At her feet sat children, row upon row, ranging in age from three years to twelve. I watched them come so happily, tripping hand in hand with some friend or comrade. They wore their best gay little saree, gold-spangled and bordered, in their hair thread of gold, or great heavy ornament, or just some flower among the light close braidings. And, as they took their seats in the Great Cathedral roofed by God’s sky, the Priests moved among them anointing each little forehead with oil of sandal wood from off the altar of her who is named Wisdom.

Then the musicians beat their drums and rang the bell of worship, and every single forehead was on the ground before the Goddess. The worship had begun.... First be consecrate, then bring your offering--is the creed.... I heard no prayers, but there-after, one by one, the Babies passed before her, throwing at her feet sweet-scented wreaths of Jasmine. I needed not then to hear their prayers.... And that was all the Service. The play of the children at the feet of Wisdom.

Thus then the Hindu honours his Guest. And, on the second day--for even Wisdom must share at length the waters of oblivion--with music and singing with the happy laughter of children and a gay following of the faithful, her image is taken to the Ganges; and with love and much injunction as to next year’s journey from the Mounts of Blessing, is it set afloat on that sacred river whose bourne is the Eternal Sea.

Wisdom, in Sanskrit story, is Creative Power to the Great God himself, his energy--without her he is but a great incommunicable passive force.

“I make strong whom I choose--originating all things I pass even as a breeze. Above the Heavens am I, beyond the Earth, and what is the Great One, _that_ am I. I make holy the Great God Himself. For the Great Archer it is I bend the bow; it is I who stay evil in the name of the Destroyer. Few know me, yet near to all alike am I. God is he from whom Wisdom and Speech--after reaching Him--return.”

Unravelling it all, what quaint teaching may we not piece together? That is true wisdom which puts man in touch with God--creature with Creator. And the same power of God refrains not from blessing the things that are of value to the Earth--the written, the spoken word, all arts and harmonies and science.

Then, is it not a parable that the Goddess of Speech is primarily the Goddess of all Learning? Let the ignorant keep silence.

The _Tulsi_ spirals stirred in the hot wind, and the great white red-throated Sarus flapped his wings as he walked about the women’s courtyard. The men of the house had taken the Image to the water, and we sat by the empty altar in the hour between the Twilights. “Tell me more about Wisdom,” said I to my Wisest of the Wise, and she told me of how Vishnu gave her as wife to Brahma, and how Brahma put a slight upon the Lady of Wisdom--a slight which she never forgave.

A great sacrifice was going forward, and the Priest bade Brahma call his Lady. For is it not the wife, and she alone who must hold the sacred grass, must sprinkle the offerings. “But Saraswati is engaged in dressing,” was the answer.

Then the Priest “without a wife what blessing can come?”

So Brahma turned to Indra, and bade him find a substitute in hedge or highway.

Indra soon returned, leading by the hand a milkmaid, beautiful and happy. She bore a jar of butter on her head. “She shall become the Mother of the Vedas,” said the Priest; and that is how Gayatri, the Milkmaid, was wed to the Great God Himself.

Then came forth Saraswati all unconscious, and very gorgeous, attended by the wives of Vishnu, Rudra, and other of the Gods--a worthy train.

When she heard what had happened, she was wroth beyond power of words to tell.

Said the Great God, shamefaced, “The Priest did this thing; the Priest and Indra.”

But Saraswati said, “By the powers I have obtained, may Brahma never be worshipped in Temple or Sacred Place--except one day in each year--and since Indra, thou didst bring that Milkmaid to my Lord, thou shalt be bound in chains by all thine enemies and prisoned in a strange and distant country, thy power over the winds and thy station on high, given to others. Cursed also be ye--Priests. Henceforth shall ye perform sacrifices solely for the desire of obtaining the usual gifts, and for love of gain alone shall ye serve Temples and holy places; satisfied only shall ye be with the food of others, and dissatisfied with that of your own houses. And in quest of riches shall ye unduly perform rites and ceremonies.”...

In great wrath she called for her peacock, to leave the assembly, but the Goddess of Wealth refused to accompany her; and her also did she curse.

“May you always abide with the vile and the inconstant, the contemptible and foolish, the sinful, cruel and vulgar.”

After her departure Gayatri modifies all the curses; so neither need all Priests nor all the wealthy be base and contemptible.

When the youngest daughter-in-law in the house is listening to the story-telling my Wisest of the Wise adds a variation--Saraswati is appeased, and Brahma says he will do with the Milkmaid what the Goddess commands, while the Milkmaid herself falls at the feet of Wisdom, who, raising her, says, “Let be--let you and me both serve my Lord!”

* * * * *

And now for a year her Altar is empty but she is not forgotten, and in the practice and devotion of the faithful still does the third watch of the night belong to Wisdom.

“Let the home-keeping ones wake in the time sacred to Saraswati, the Goddess of Speech; let them reflect on virtue and virtuous emoluments; and on the whole meaning and essence of the words of Wisdom.”

* * * * *

“So desirable, and yet she may be only a two days’ Guest in a Hindu household,” I mused aloud.

“Ah, but,” answered she who worshipped Wisdom, “were Wisdom always with us, how should we live among the sons of men!”...

II

THE STORY OF DESTRUCTION

When the world was young there were two Giant Demons--Shumbo and Nishumbo, who made great discord both in heaven and upon earth: nor did victory bring harmony, for when all who opposed them lay vanquished, they fought with each other.

Then did the Gods and Godlings take counsel how they might slay them. “Go to the Destroyer,” said the Great God, and so said also the Preserver--“It is his business.” But Shiva, the Destroyer, owned to a dilemma. “I have promised them,” said he, “that no _man_ shall prevail against them. What shall I do?” Then upon meditation--“I am resolved what to do. One shall I create in the form of a woman, that this strife might be ended.”...

And that was how Creation came near to Kali the Mother. Very beautiful was she, the strength of the strong, and the attractiveness of that which was to conquer strife: and her did Shiva name _Jugatdatri_--Nurse of the World. None could stand before her, and it came to pass that at last was left only one enemy--the King of Demons; and he, seeing her beauty, sought her in marriage; but she laughed saying, “I wed none but him I cannot conquer.”

And Shumbo maddened by her laughter vowed victory, and her very glory was a peril, for he seized upon her hair, and impeded her much.... Then did the Gods take counsel again together. It was the Destroyer who found help. “Let us each give her of our strength,” said he, “that evil may be smitten for ever.”

And they did all even as he suggested, and the incoming of this great strength made her so that she lost some of her comeliness. And now was she called _Kali_ ... She that is black.

And the strength of the Gods was as wine to her, and she fought intoxicate. And behold, while all the Gods and Demons watched, they fought--those two--the Nurse of the World and the King of Evil, and Kali won.

Then was there great rejoicing on earth and in heaven, and Kali joyed no less than her creatures, and she danced in her joy, drunk with the blood of her victim.

And for the third time the Gods took counsel, for they said, “The thing we have ourselves made strong will at last destroy even us.”

And the Great God said: “She is wife to the Destroyer. This is his business.” And Shiva thought long and earnestly, for even he could not causelessly retake the strength that he had given.... And the end of the meditation was that he went forth from Heaven and lay in her path as she came down from the Snow mountains in her dance of Death. And she, mad with victory and blood, seeing nothing, danced on to his chest exultant, when looking down, she recognized her husband, and was shamed and sobered. And this final vision of Kali is the one worshipped by her children--Kali, the four-armed, the Conqueror of Demons, vanquished only by the husband who lies under her feet. In one hand beareth she the head of a victim, in another a sword, with a third she blesseth, and with the fourth she holdeth out fearlessness to all her followers. She wears a garland of skulls, and a waistlet of hands,--and no more danceth she the dance of Death. Yet to her, the Mother, come alike all who are drunk with blood, righteous or unrighteous, for she understands; and all who would have the strength of the Gods to slay the Evil in the world--for was not this the purpose of her being, in the old, old days when the world was young?...

Thus to me one of my gentle friends of “The Inside” in this land of legend and silences.

Then we turned to her of many years and long meditations, who sat by listening--“Is that how you know the story, Mother?”

“Yea, my children,” made she answer. “Even so--and when mine eyes are shut these are the thoughts that come to me--blessing and cursing, destruction and creation, death and life--are not both companions of Time?”

“But the skull and hands, Mother--read that parable.”

And she--“All is destroyed save intelligence and work--these outlast us.”

So, museful, I took my way to the Mount of Kali, which lies without the City, past many ancient tanks grown rank with vegetation, past flowering trees, and swamps of mat huts and malaria.

A bright-eyed baby played upon a log, see-sawing over a nauseous drain--Was this one measure of the dance of Death?... An avenue now of shops--the Precincts--Gods and Godlings and sacrificial vessels were for sale, with the beads of the Sacred, and water-bottles made of Ganges sand blown fine as glass.... I lingered among the women making purchase. Images of Kali seemed most popular, with bright red and yellow horses for the children, nor was the picture shop neglected--and I laughed softly to myself to see a German print of Romeo and Juliet in the balcony scene selling clamorously for “Radha Krishna,” the gay God with his favourite lady.

Seated under a _pipal_ tree, hoary with age, was an ash-smeared Priest, at his feet a heap of yellow marigolds. No woman passed him without some offering, and sometimes he spoke, but most often kept silence, noting all things through the matted hair that veiled his slits of eyes. Of such begging Priests there was a great collection--the ascetics sat still, but were gifted for fear of curses; others ran after the women, teasing, traducing each other; and these were gifted for their importunity. One, half-mad, I think, had a few words of English and followed me cursing the Priest-guide I had chosen for a “stupid-’umbug-flatterer”--said all as one long word, which sounded a potent curse indeed.

The Image is in a small brick and stone building behind closed doors, which are opened at fixed times. In the ante-room sit the faithful, reading sacred books or preparing their offerings for the Goddess. There seemed a separate Priest for each devotee.

One man only did I see whom my heart convicted of holiness: and looking on his face I knew that it was possible even here to forget all the grossness to which the ignorant had degraded the Kali-legend.... The place of Sacrifice ran red, and already the Priests had sold the flesh of Kali’s tale of goats to eager bidders. The poorer applicants sat in a circle, a gory head on each lap.... It was a gruesome sight.

By the Bathing Ghat was a great crowd. Here were two young women in charge of a chaperone. They had come far ways measuring their length along the ground. It was in the rains, and they were all mud and slush from the exercise. The woman stood by, policing them, seeing that they abated no jot or tittle of their vows, where the head had been the feet should lie--there, and not an inch further.

“What was the vow?” I asked.

A prayer for one--that the child then on its way might live.... Oh! the pathos of it. The other woman was giving thanks for the recovery of her reason.... “The dance of Death,” “The dance of Death”--a minuet....

“If I were God, I should pity the heart of man ...”

They were travelling at the moment towards the drain behind the Image of the Goddess. Oh! the water, oh! the water!--it was black with impurities. It had washed the feet of the Goddess, and the flowers of her Temple, and the refuse of the Sacrifice; but they drank eagerly--at full length still--content.