Part 11

Naraini, the gardener's granddaughter, had different views. She stood, at the beginning of the five minutes, beneath a citron-tree. One dimpled brown hand held the branch above her, and, as she swayed her body to and fro leisurely, the flowers dropped into her stretched veil. She was not unlike a citron-blossom herself. Like them, arrayed boldly in saffron and white; like them, looking the world in the face with calm consciousness that she was worth a look in return. Finally, her world was theirs--that is to say, these few acres of scented shade. As yet Naraini knew no other, though the next day she was to leave it and her childhood in order to follow the unknown bridegroom to whom she had been married for twelve years.

The incessant throbbing of a tom-tom, the occasional blare of a horrible horn in the ruined arcade which was all that remained of a royal rest-house, proclaimed that the marriage festivities were even now going on beyond the crumbling walls. From all this Naraini being necessarily excluded, she had spent the morning in receiving the female visitors with simulated tears, in order to impress them with her admirable culture; thereinafter relapsing, with them, to shrill-voiced feminine chatter until the heat of noon stilled even the women's tongues. Then, driven by an odd unrest, she had slipped away to the cool alleys she knew so well; even there busying herself with preparations, since the flowers she gathered would be needed to strew the bridal bed. It was no new task. Every year an old distiller came, in blossom-time, to set up his still beside the well. Then, in the dewy dawns, she and the old grandmother beat down the blossoms, and when sunset brought respite from the heat Naraini used to watch while the flowers were crushed into the pan, and luted down with clay as if into a grave. And a grave it was to beauty. The first time she saw the yellow mash which was left after the sweetness had trickled into the odd assortment of bottles the old distiller brought with him, she had cried bitterly. But a whole bottle of orange-flower water as her very own had been consoling, and the fact that the label proclaimed her treasure to be "_Genuine, Old, Unsweetened Gin_" did not disturb her ignorance.

Every year afterwards the old man had given her another bottle, and as she had always chosen a fresh label, she had quite an assortment of them in the shed which served her as a play-room. And now, being nearly sixteen, she was about to leave other things besides that row of bottles labelled "_Encore_," "_Dry Monopole_," "_Heidsiecker_," and "_Chloric Ether Bitters!_"

She was not alarmed. She had taken a peep at her future husband that morning and satisfied herself that he had the requisite number of eyes, legs, and arms. For the rest, men were kind to pretty girls, and she knew herself to be a very pretty girl. It is hard to convey any impression of the girl's state of mind to English ears, simply because marriage had never been presented to her as an occasion for personal choice. She had been happy hitherto; the possession of a husband ought to increase that happiness, if Fate sent her a pleasant mother-in-law. The man himself was a trifle, since men were always kind to pretty girls. That, formulated so plainly as to rob it of all offence, was Naraini's first and last argument for content.

As she stood swaying in the shadow, some one came down the alley. She recognized him at once. It was the bridegroom; and the demon of mischief, which enters into Eastern girlhood as causelessly as it does into Western, suggested that she had him at an advantage. He had not seen her since she was three years old--could not possibly recognize her. Besides, what brought him there? An intolerable curiosity, mingled with a pleasant conviction, made her stand her ground. Perhaps she knew that the spot occupied by her was the only one visible from the roof of the arcade, and drew her own conclusions. Perhaps she did not. It was true nevertheless, and the bridegroom, having caught a glimpse of something attractive, had taken advantage of the general sleepiness to climb over the ruined wall for a closer view; for he was of those who are very kind indeed to pretty faces. He, it must be remembered, had caught no consolatory glimpse of his bride. People told him she was beautiful, but that was always said: but here was undoubted good looks; so, despite his wedding-day on the morrow, he slipped into the citron garden intent on a lark. No more refined word expresses his mood so clearly.

Naraini, however, neither shrieked nor giggled at the sight of a stranger. She simply drew her veil closer, and went on gathering citron-blossoms. He paused, uncertain of everything save her entrancing grace. Was she only a servant, or did he run risks in venturing closer? Naraini, meanwhile, behind her veil, gurgled with soft laughter, pleased at being able to test the value of her beauty on the man she meant to rule by it. So they stood--she in the shadow at one end of the alley, he in the shadow at the other; between them the scented path bordered by the runnels of water slipping by to bring a deluge to some portion of that little world. Some might have called it a pretty scene, instinct with the joy of youth; others might have turned their heads away, praying to be delivered from the world, the flesh, and the devil. Naraini thought of nothing save her own laughter.

The garden seemed asleep save for those two, as, with the cruelty of a chase waking in him, as in a cat stalking a mouse, the cruelty of success waking in her as in a snake charming a bird, the distance between them lessened.

Suddenly, with a burst of high, childish laughter, the veil full of citron-blossoms was flung in his face, and Naraini was off down the alleys, while he, with anger added to admiration, was after her.

The walls echoed to the soft thud of their flying feet--down one path, up another, round by the tomb, scaring the parrots to a screaming wheel. Confident in her superior knowledge, she paused on the topmost step, ere scudding across the causeway, to fling back a handful of flowers lingering in a fold. He set his teeth hard. If she tried short cuts, so could he; and he was round the next square so fast, that she gave a little shriek and dived into the thickest part of the garden, whither the water was flowing, and where the beasts and birds and creeping things innumerable found a cool, damp refuge. His blood was up--the jade must be caught and kissed, if only in revenge! The flutter of her saffron skirt at the opposite side of a square made him try strategy. He crept into the thickest undergrowth and waited.

Something else waited, not a footfall off, but he did not see it. His eyes were on that saffron flutter, pausing, advancing, retreating, pausing again. Naraini had lost the bearings of her pursuer, and, like a child playing "I spy," was on the alert for a surprise.

Suddenly came a cry as she caught sight of him, a shout as he bounded out; both lost in a yell arresting her flight and his, as if it had turned them to stone. He stood with the wide nostrils and fixed eyes of ghastly fear, clinging for support to the branch above him, whence the flowers fell pattering to the ground. On his ankle two spots of blood, bright against the brown skin. Across the path a big, black rope of a thing, curving swiftly to the roses beyond.

"Snake! snake!"

Her cry echoed his, as she ran back to him; but he struck at her with clenched hand.

"Go, woman--she-devil! Thou hast killed me. Curse thee! oh, curse thee for beguiling me! It has bitten me. Holy Gunga, I am dead! and I was the bridegroom. 'Tis thy fault. I was the bridegroom." He had sunk to the ground clasping his ankle, and rocked himself backward and forward, moaning and shuddering in impotent fear. Naraini stood by him. There was no hope: the big, black rope of a thing did its work well; yet, even so, anger was her first thought.

"It was a lie! 'Tis not my fault! Why didst come? Why didst follow? And if thou art the bridegroom, was not I the bride?" Then something leaped to memory. She threw her hands above her head and beat them wildly in passionate despair and horror.

"He is dead! he is dead! And I am the bride."

The words rang through the garden, and pierced even his grovelling fear. As he turned to fly, he clutched at her skirts, and dragged himself to her fiercely.

"The bride? Then the widow! my widow! Thou hast killed me, but thou canst not escape me. A widow! a widow! a widow!"

His face was terrible in its fear, its regret, its revenge. She fought against him desperately, but his hands held fast, shifting to her waist, till he forced her down to the dust beside him, where she crouched silent, like a young animal terrified into acquiescence.

"Thou shalt see me die--'tis thy fault--thou shalt see me die!" he muttered again and again.

So they sat side by side in the grip of death, his head on her bosom, his hands bruising her wrists, his eyes, full of despair and regret, on her face.

The sun-flecks shifted over them, the citron-flowers fell upon them as the afternoon breeze stirred the branches. And even when the swift poison loosed his clasp, Naraini was still a prisoner to the dead body, lying with its face of desire and disgust hidden in her lap.

She was a widow. The citron-blossom had fallen.

That night there was weeping and wailing instead of feasting in the garden; and at dawn the women put bowls of sweetened milk into the scented thickets to propitiate the holy snake, lest, having chosen one victim, it might seek a pair. Perhaps, as far as happiness goes, it might as well have claimed Naraini also.

After a time, to be sure, life went on as before. The old distiller came, and Naraini shook the blossoms for him into her widow's shroud. The sweetness of them was no less sweet as it trickled into the old gin and champagne bottles, but Naraini got no share of it. What have widows to do with the perfumes of life?

This is an idle tale of a five minutes' tragedy--perhaps none the less of a tragedy because it is true.

NUR JEHAN.

Long ago--so runs the story--in the days of King Akbar, 'Mid the pearly--tinted splendours of the Paradise Bazar,[12] Young Jehangir, boyish--hearted, playing idly with his dove, Lost his fav'rite, lost his boyhood, lost his heart, and found his love.

[Footnote 12: Hung and decorated in silver and white.]

By a fretted marble fountain, set in broidery of flowers, Sat a girl, half child, half maiden, dreaming o'er the future hours, Wond'ring simply, yet half guessing, what the harem women mean When they call her fair, and whisper, "You are born to be a queen."

Curving her small palms like petals, for a store of glistening spray, Gazing in the sunny water, where her rippling shadow lay, Lips that ripen fast for kisses, slender form of budding grace, Hair that frames with ebon softness a clear, oval, ivory face.

Arched and fringed with velvet blackness, from their shady depths her eyes Shine as summer lightning flashes in the dusky evening skies. Mihr un-nissa (queen of women), so they call the little maid Dreaming by the marble fountain where but yesterday she played.

Heavy-sweet the creamy blossoms gem the burnished orange-groves; Through their bloom comes Prince Jehangir, on his wrist two fluttering doves. "Hold my birds, child!" cries the stripling, "I am tired of their play"-- Thrusts them in her hand unwilling; careless saunters on his way.

Culling posies as he wanders from the flowers sweet and rare, Heedless that the fairest blossom, 'mid the blaze of blossom there, Is the little dreaming maiden, by the fountain-side at rest, With the onyx-eyed, bright-plumaged birds of love upon her breast.

Flowers fade, and perfume passes; nothing pleases long to-day; Back towards his feathered favourites soon the prince's footsteps stray. Dreaming still sits Mihr-un-nissa, but within her listless hold Only one fair struggling captive does the boy, surprised, behold.

"Only one?" he queried sharply. "Sire," she falters, "one has flown." "Stupid! how?" The maiden flushes at the proud, imperious tone. "So, my lord!" she says, defiant, with a scornful smile, and straight From her unclasped hands the other, circling, flies to join his mate.

Startled by her quick reprisal, wrath is lost in blank surprise; Silent stands the heir of Akbar, gazing with awakening eyes On the small, rebellious figure, with its slender arms outspread, Rising resolute before him 'gainst the sky of sunset red.

Heavy-sweet the creamy blossom gems the gloomy orange-tree, Where the happy doves are cooing o'er their new-found liberty. Slowly dies the flush of anger, as the flush of evening dies; Slowly grow his eyes to brightness, as the stars in evening skies.

"So, my lord!" So Love had flitted from the listless hold of Fate, And the heart of young Jehangir, like the dove, had found its mate.

SHURFU THE ZAILDAR[13]

[Footnote 13: Head-man of a circle of villages.]

Then you'll give me a character, won't you? and say I'm a first-class _zaildâr_. Not a man of them's done half so much as old Shurfu to please the _Sirkâr_. Why, I've brought you full forty "suspected ones"; that isn't bad as a haul. Look you! forty "suspected ones" _present_, and gone bail myself for them all.

And a word, _sahib_--for your ear alone--if you'd like me to bring a few more, Just to make a round fifty on paper, and show that the work's to the fore-- _Bismillah!_ they never shall say, while old Shurfu is one of the crew, That his district _sahib's_ schedules were shaky for want of a _budmâsh_[14] or two.

[Footnote 14: Bad character.]

And what do I think of the system? Why, just what the Presence may choose; But a good cattle-thief nowadays must look after his p's and his q's. There are many more folk to be squared, and the hire of the bail to be paid; But it makes the lads three times as careful, and raises the style of a raid.

Still the game, as a game, is no more; for your reign has been death to all sport. E'en a cattle-thief thinks like a banker, and scarcely gives honour a thought. 'Tis mere money grub--pennies and farthings. What _I_ in my youth you have heard Was a noted--O fie on the Presence! It shouldn't believe such a word.

There are twenty-three schools in my circle; I pay all the Government fees! I've made a canal and a garden! I've planted some thousands of trees! I've headed the lists and subscriptions! I've tried queer new crops on my land! Not a village of mine owns a dung-heap! My mares are all Government brand!

Not a hobby his district _sahib's_ ridden, but Shurfu has ridden it too; Though the number of _sahibs_ has been awful, and every one's hobby was new. Well, I don't mind a glass, since there's nobody nigh; you won't tell, I'll engage. True! the Prophet forbids; but he didn't know brandy, and wasn't my age.

When a man turns of eighty, there ain't many sins he has strength to commit, So his day-book can stand a few trifles. Aye, wine wakes the mem'ry a bit. As for Fuzla, we've all heard of Fuzla--the _best_ cattle-thief in Punjâb-- Pooh! you don't mean to say he ne'er met with a match on this side of Chenâb?

I could tell you a story--well, half a glass more--but I'd best hold my tongue. So Mian Fuzla had never his match! come, that's good! Why, when we were both young-- What the deuce am I saying? _Jehannam_ be mine, but I cannot keep still! I'll tell how I swam the Chenâb in full flood! Yes, by Allah! I will.

Mian Fuzla had squared th' police on his side of the stream, as one can With good luck; but my cowards were cautious, and hadn't the pluck of a man; So Mian Fuzla got up in the bottle and sent me a message to say He had fifty-three head of my cattle, and when would I take them away?

Now the waters were out, so the boast was scarce fair; but I took up the glove, And with Môkhun and Dittu to help, that same night crossed the river above While they thought all secure; but it wasn't! So dawn found us stealing along With a herd of a hundred she buffaloes, all of them lusty and strong.

Well, we made for the river, through tamarisk jungle and tussocks of grass, And narrow-pathed tangle of _jhau_ that would scarce let a buffalo pass, With our thoughts on the footsteps behind, till the first level streak of the light Brought us down to the stream; and, by God! it had risen ten feet in the night!

'Twas a broad, yellow plain, shining far in the rays of the sun as it rose, And a cold wind swept over the flood that came hurrying down from the snows With a swift, silent current in eddying swirls--not a sound, not a dash Save a sudden, dull thud, as the bank, undermined, tumbled in with a splash.

Then we looked at each other in silence; the looks of the others said "No." But I thought of that challenge of Fuzla's, and made up my mind I would go, Though I knew that the odds were against me; so, bidding the cowards turn back, With a few of the beasts on their traces and try hard to deaden the track--

For 'twas time, it was time that I wanted--I drove the rest down to the brink, But the brutes wouldn't take to the water; they loved life too well not to shrink. So I took a young calf from its mother--'twas cruel, but what did I reck? And butchered the brute with my hanger, and fastened my _pug_ round its neck,

Then I dragged it right into the water, and buoyed it up well round the throat With a bundle of grasses and reeds that would keep the dead body afloat. I thought of that challenge of Fuzla's; then turned and struck out like a man, While the mother leaped after her young one, and all the rest followed the van.

The flood swept me down like a leaf, and the calf swept me farther down still, But I knew 'twas a life or death struggle, and breasted the stream with a will; While the hope I could lead the beasts on, till 'twas safer before than behind, And the fear lest Mian Fuzla should win, were the only two thoughts in my mind.

It was half a yard forward to half a mile downward, yet still I made way, While behind, in a long single file, the black heads of the buffaloes lay, Till I knew we had reached the big stream, and that now there was no going back; Then I gave one faint shout, and I cast off the dead calf, and let myself slack.

So we drifted, and drifted, and drifted. I strove to recover my breath, But a numbness came over my heart, and I knew I was drifting to death, As the big, heavy beasts were swept past by the terrible force of the stream, And the whole world seemed slipping away, as I swam on alone in a dream.

Then I wondered how Fuzla would take it, and how many miles I had come; Or guessed what the people would say when days passed and I never came home-- Till it came to me, as in a dream, that the current was setting in shore; And after that, _sahib_, it is strange I could never recall any more.

Only this I can tell you: we measured it after, from starting to end, And the distance was over ten miles by the straight, without counting the bend. So Mian Fuzla was beat; and sent me a _pugri_ with knots which his women had tied, And the song of the "Crossing of Shurfu" is known through the whole countryside.

_Wâh! illâh!_ How my tongue has been wagging, and I the _zaildâr!_ But in sooth 'Tis dull work for old Shurfu compared to the merry, mad days of his youth. _Ji salaam!_ And whatever you want, send for Shurfu the _zaildâr_; and, _sahib_, You'll remember that Fuzla once met with his match on this side of Chenâb!

SONGS OF THE PEOPLE.

I.

PLOUGH SONG.

Bitter blue sky with no fleck of cloud! _Ho! brother ox, make the plough speed_; For the dear hearth-mother with care is bowed As the hungry little ones round her crowd. 'Tis the _buniya's_ belly grows fat and proud When poor folk are in need.

Sky, dappled grey like a partridge's breast-- _Ho! brother ox, drive the plough deep_; For the wind may blow from the north or west, And the hungry fledglings fall from the nest, Or the dear hearth-mother fold hands in rest, Ere harvest's ripe to reap.

Clouds, driving up in the teeth of the wind-- _Ho! brother ox, guide the plough straight_; For the dear hearth-mother feeds halt and blind, While the hungry little ones garlands bind Round the tree where the Dread One sits enshrined, On whom we poor folk wait.

Merry drops slanting from south and east-- _Ho! brother ox, drive home the wain_; For the dear hearth-mother will spread a feast. There's none shall be hungry--nor bairn nor beast; 'Tis the _buniya's_ belly that gets the least When Ram sends poor folk rain.

II.

SOWING SONG

Sun-flash on the grain As it leaps from the sower's hand, Quick with desire to gain New life from the land.

Seams, furrows, and scars On the face of our Mother Earth, For the gods set sorrow and tears At the gates of birth.

Swift flight of the seed, Like a bird through the sun-bright air, To rot in the ground, or breed In the Dread One's care.

Broken heart of soil, Taking all to its patient breast, With never a cease from toil Or a dream of rest.

Wheat-grains grow to wheat, And the seed of a tare to tare. Who knows if Man's soul will meet Man's body to wear?

Great Ram! grant me life From the grain of a golden deed; Sink not my soul in the strife To wake as a weed.

Seek thy grave, O grain! Some day I will seek mine too, To rise from the level plain, The old in the new.

III.

HARVEST SONG.

Scorching sun that shrivels and sears, Withering wind in the rustling ears, Rattle of death as the dry stalks fall, Promise of life in the seed for all. Flash of the sickles, sweat of the brows, Rest in the noon, beneath sheltering boughs. _Gather and reap, Death is but sleep_. Golden grain ripens though lovers are dead; Lips long for kisses, but mouths must have bread.

Blazing brass of the sky at noon, Broad, bright face of the harvest moon; Slow stars wheeling to meet the morn, Toilers asleep on the sheaves of corn; Stealthy snake with the lifted crest, Poisoned prick in a tired breast. _Gather and bind, Fate is but blind_. Golden grain ripens though dear ones may weep; Love longs for gladness, but toil must have sleep.

Kine knee-deep in the glistening straw; Flocks of birds round the threshing-floor; Clouds of chaff from the winnowing-tray, Gleaming gold as they drift away; Wreath of smoke from the funeral pyre, End of love and its vain desire! _Gather and sheave, Why should we grieve?_ Death finds new life in the Great Mother's breast, Rest turns to labour, and labour to rest.

IV.