Part 9

“_Vizier._”—From the Arabic word, “Wuzir,” literally, a bearer of a burden. A Grand Vizier is the highest temporal dignitary in Mahomedan States. The title of “Wuzir” dates from the 8th Century and was conferred on the Chief Minister of the first Abbaside Califs, a dynasty which reigned at Baghdad from about A.D. 740 to 1,250, and they derived their name and descent from a paternal uncle of Mahomed.

“_Shepherd._”—The Hindustani word, and that in frequent use, is “Gadryā,” from “Gādar,” a sheep, but in the original the local word is “Ajuree,” Ajur being the term for flocks and herds, and “Ajuree” the caretaker.

The shepherds of this and many other districts are a simple-hearted set of men, owing not a little to the rustic kind of life they lead. In this district they possess some few sheep and goats of their own, but more frequently they graze the flocks of the neighbouring farmers. The dogs they have, usually two or three to each shepherd, are bred and trained in the district.

They are fierce and savage to strangers, but docile and obedient to their own masters, clever in protecting the flocks from wild animals, and in controlling their movements from place to place. They do not come at the call of a whistle, but at the shrill cry of “Toh! Toh!” several times repeated. The names they give them are generally after the colour of their hair. A black dog would be called “Kaldo” or “Kulwa.” A spotted dog would be “Dubboo.” A yellowish grey dog would be called “Gaindar,” and a reddish coated dog “Loha.” For dogs of a dark grey the term would be “Sauah,” and a white dog “Bugla,” after a crane of that colour. It is not an uncommon thing for a dog to be called “Motee,” a pearl. Some fine dogs, and standing over three feet in height, shaggy in coat, bushy tail, small ears and eyes, not fleet but powerful, are bred in the hills in the Kangra district. They are called “Gudhi” dogs, after a Hindu shepherd tribe.

These dogs will not live long in the plains. There is another fine hill dog bred in the country round about Chitral, as large as a good-sized Newfoundland, with a head like a mastiff, and long hair.

These Gudhi shepherds in the extreme winter come down to the lower ranges of hills, together with all their sheep and goats. The farmers are glad to let them pen their flocks on their fallow land for a few nights, the shepherd and his dogs being fed by the farmer, who receives more than his equivalent in the manure afforded by the flocks.

The shepherds for the most part carry a staff, with or without a crook, and by way of a solace they have a wind instrument, of music called an “Alghūza.” It is something in the shape of a piccolo, and usually to obtain the double notes they put two in the mouth at the same time. They also have sometimes a fife, called a “Bānsli” These are all made out of a hard wood, and sometimes from bamboo.

If you ask a shepherd why he grazes goats and sheep together, he replies that but for the nimble goats he would never get the sheep along. When a murrain breaks out amongst the goats, which it sometimes does, there is a class of men called “Unga” who inoculate the healthy goats behind the ear with a portion of the caul of the liver of one diseased, and this has the effect generally of stopping the spread of the disease.

To protect the flocks and herds at nights from the depredation of wild animals, the shepherds in the summer time raise a high ring fence of thorny bushes; in the winter they are housed at nights in the closed sheds.

The Indian Shepherds have a custom which is purely Asiatic, of preceding their flocks to pasture, as in the words of the Psalmist “He shall lead me beside the waters of comfort.” Most of the Nomad races in India are shepherds, and in Asia generally they were so. Moses herded the flock of his father-in-law Jethro, and David tended his father’s sheep.

THE BANJĀRA, HIS DOG, AND THE BANKER.

Once upon a time there was a Banker, or “Sait,” who lived in a large city in Northern India, and being a man of great wealth was held in high repute by the Rajah and people of the place.

He had all the cunning of his class, and had amassed the most of his fortune by lending money at a high rate of interest, and by giving credit to men engaged in commerce.

One of his debtors was a “Banjāra,” or grain merchant who had owed him some money for a considerable time, and had paid neither interest nor any portion of that which he had borrowed. These Banjāras are well-known people all over India, where they are scattered in large and small communities. They are the possessors, you know, of herds of cattle, which they employ as pack animals to convey their goods and grain from place to place. It is interesting to meet them as they wend their way from one camping ground to another, headed by the leading bullock, which is called the “Guru Bail,” or “Sainted Bullock.” This bullock is ornamented in every direction; the horns and pack-saddle with cowry shells, bits of scarlet cloth, peacock’s feathers, and tassels of various colours, while its neck is encircled by a band of leather carrying tinkling bells of different sounds.

The Banjāra of this story was one day again obliged, on matters of business, to go to the city where his creditor, the banker, lived; so, to avoid meeting him, he encamped some distance off and then went singly and alone to the city, in the hope that he might not come across him; still he was haunted with the old native saying, oft repeated, “If you have not seen a tiger, then look at a cat, and if you do not want to see the Angel of death, then keep out of the way of your creditor.”

As ill luck would have it, however, he had no sooner got into the streets of the town than upon turning a corner he came face to face with the Banker, who instantly recognised him, and carried him off to his house, and demanded that immediate payment should be made. It was quite in vain for the poor Banjāra to sue for pity and forbearance, for the debt was an old one, and the Banker was both hard and unmerciful.

At last the Banjāra bethought him of an expedient and said, “Permit me to go to my encampment, and I will beg and borrow from my friends, and return to you with the money without fail in three days’ time.” “No, no,” said the Banker; “I cannot trust you again out of my sight, and by my influence here I could, you know, get you thrown into prison. If indeed I were merciful enough to let you go to your encampment for the money, I should require the very best security.” “I know no one in the city,” replied the Banjāra; “What can I do? Oh dear! what can I do? But wait a moment. Here is my best friend, my faithful dog, “Kaloo” (Kala is “black” in Sanscrit); “take him as my pledge and security that I will return and pay you all I owe.”

Now a Banjāra’s dog is of a breed well known in India; he is ready of resource and of wonderful sagacity, and obedient to the voice and gesture of his master in a very marked degree.

After some considerable demur the Banker at last consented to take the dog as security, and bringing a collar and chain to the Banjāra, he bid him tie up the dog in the yard of his house.

This the Banjāra did; then patting and caressing his dog he said, “Now, ‘Kaloo,’ remember you are not to leave this house until I come back to fetch you; if you run away you will disgrace my name, and I will never forgive you.”

After thus addressing his dog he made a hasty “salaam” to the Banker, and took his departure.

When the Banjāra had returned to his encampment he found the packs as he had left them, still under their awning of blankets, and as it was sun-down the cattle were being picketed in a circle round the packs, and the fires were ready for the night, while the dogs were roaming about outside on their usual guard over the camp.

Saluting his friends he said, “Now give me, please, a draught of water to drink,—not like the sweet water of the Sāgar Lake, my friends, where you know the firstborn of our race was sacrificed to the goddess ‘Devi,’ to appease her wrath for drying up the lake,—but the pure crystal stream from the hills.”

He had soon refreshed himself with a draught, and then went round the encampment in order to collect the money due to the Banker, and by early the next morning he had got together enough to liquidate the debt.

In the meantime strange things were happening at the Banker’s house, for on the night of the very day when the Banjāra had gone for the money the house was attacked by some “badmāshes,” or thieves, who carried off several bags of rupees.

“Kaloo” gave tongue, and barked loudly, but he failed to rouse the inmates, and the thieves made off with their booty. At last “Kaloo” succeeded in breaking his chain, and he followed the thieves along the road, who finding that the dawn of day was rapidly coming on, hastily deposited the money bags in a tank, intending at some future time to come again and remove them.

“Kaloo” noticed all this, gave up all further chase, and returned to the Banker’s house. When the household rose in the morning it was soon found out what had happened during the night, and in very quick time a large concourse of friends and neighbours came round about the house, and condoled with the Banker and his family at the loss they had incurred. There were offers of help on every hand, the police were sent in pursuit, and all that could be done was done to help the great Banker of the city.

While all this stir was going on some of the friends noticed that the dog was much agitated, and was every now and then pulling at their garments. Many drove him off, and even the Banker said, “As if I had not worry enough without being annoyed by a dog which does not belong to me!”

Then the Banker told all his friends how he came to be possessed of the dog which belonged to a Banjāra. Shortly afterwards an old man of the party, who knew the quick intelligence of these Banjāra dogs, said, “I think the dog knows more than you give him credit for; look! he has come to me, and I shall go where he leads me.” Soon others followed in the train, and the dog went knowingly along the road until he came to a dead stop near a tank, and went in. The old man said, “There is something here, depend upon it; let some young man go into the tank and make a search.”

This was done, and lo and behold! one bag of rupees was brought up out of the tank, and then another, and another, until all had been recovered that the Banker had lost.

Then came shoutings and congratulations from all the people upon this wonderful discovery, and loud praises were lavished on the Banjāra’s dog who had found out the hiding-place of the thieves. The Banker himself was so overcome with delight that he gave presents to his friends all round, and then looking at “Kaloo” he said, “You faithful dog! you most blessed of all securities! I shall now write out a receipt in full for the money your master owes me, and tell him all that you have done, and you yourself shall be the bearer of the good news to him.”

This he at once did, and tied the receipt and the letter on to the collar of the dog, and giving him a good feed he dismissed him to his master with many smiles and blessings.

“Kaloo,” thus released by authority, and proud of having done his duty, ran off with great joy to seek his master.

It was not long ere he saw his master hurriedly returning to the city, and running up to him he began to play round about him, and to show every sign of interest and affection. To “Kaloo’s” dismay, however, his master did not respond, but on the contrary, was in great anger, and much disappointed that his hitherto faithful dog had, as he thought, broken his chain and run away from the Banker’s house, where he had lodged him as security. In a loud voice he said, “Kaloo,’ you are a ‘Namak Harram’ (traitor to your salt); did I not tell you to wait till I released you? But instead of that you have disobeyed me, disgraced my name, and I can no longer have any confidence in you, and you are not fit to live.” Whereupon he at once drew his “talwār” (sword) from its scabbard, and at one cut severed poor “Kaloo’s” head from his body. “Wretched dog!” he said, “This is the first time I have known you to deceive me, and you richly deserve your fate.” Stooping down, his eye suddenly caught sight of a piece of paper tied to the dog’s collar, and hastily opening it he discovered to his utmost dismay that it was the Banker’s receipt in full for all the money that he owed him, and with the receipt was a letter, yes! a letter, describing how that the faithful dog had been the means of his recovering all the property that some thieves had stolen from his house on the same night of his departure from the city.

Plunged at once into the direst horror and grief at what he had done, and alone on the road with his faithful friend dead before his eyes, he could not resist the impulse, and seizing the open talwār he thrust it into his own body, and so perished by the side of his favourite. In this state were they found, and the story of the Banjāra and his dog, and the spot where they died, have ever since been treasured up in the memories of the people.

Moral, or “Nasihut”: Keep always a steel-plate upon your temper, and a “Rothâs” bridle on your tongue, which you know is the strongest of all, and never give way to rash and impulsive acts.

EXPLANATORY NOTES.

“_Sait._”—This is a Sanscrit word for a banker, and is pronounced “Seth.” The word “Chetty” is derived from this, as applied to “Tamil” traders in Burmah and the Straits Settlements. Those who take up purely financial matters are astute men of business; lending money at exhorbitant rates of interest they get many of the farmers into complete subjection to them. They are wise enough to keep in with the people generally, and often build masonry tanks and dig wells for general use. Sometimes in the very hot weather they will employ a high caste Brahmin to provide drinking water to passing travellers, and will keep them in their pay for a whole hot season.

The natives of the district have their saying about this, as they have about every class, and it runs as a proverb from mouth to mouth:

Paisah ourrâh cheez Sub noo kurdhâh yar uzeez.

TRANSLATED THUS:

Money is a great and rare article, and quite a marvel, For it makes everyone claim for you the strongest friendship.

“_Banjāra._”—Derived either from the Sanscrit word “Banj,” meaning Trade, or from the Persian word “Brinj,” Rice, and “Ar,” Carrying.

The Banjāras are wandering tribes, leading a sort of gipsy life. They possess many valuable pack animals, and carry their own grain, and that also of farmers, from one part of the country to another. As a rule they are well-to-do.

They are divided into several “Gôts,” or original races, some of them children of the stock of “Thurkee,” “Baidh,” and “Subanna,” and many claim “Gour Brahman” as their ancestor. Nearly every community has a Chief, or “Naik,” or “Tanda,” who lives a life of asceticism, and to whom they yield implicit obedience. Some Banjāras are known to engage in gang robberies, but this is rare with most of the tribes.

They are to be found both amongst the Mahomedans and Hindus. Amongst a particular class of them “bull worship” is said to exist. When sickness occurs the sick man is led to the feet of the bullock “Hatadiya,” devoted to the god “Balaji,” a Hindu deity of Gujerat. On this animal no burden is ever laid, but he moves steadily at the head of the convoy, and the place he lies down on when tired, _that_ they make their halting-place for the day.

At his feet they make their vows when difficulties overtake them; and in illness, whether of themselves or cattle, they trust to his worship for a cure.—_Crooke._

They are believed to have been originally the grain-carriers for the old Moghul armies, and had many privileges given to them in consequence. Distance and climate do not stand in the way of their conveying grain from one part of the country to the other, and being held in fear by other natives, they are never molested or interfered with. They are gradually dying out, as the traffic in grain is being carried on by other means.

“_Faithful Dog._”—Dogs play a prominent part in the Folk-tales of most countries, and in India they have ever been the cherished companions of many tribes. With the Banjāras they are the sentinels of their encampment; as it is so well known they are equally so to the Bedouins in the desert. It is believed by many that they are in touch with the spirits of their dead, and a sure protection from evil influences.

There are many legends and omens about them in the district, too numerous to mention here.

It is not lucky for a dog to lie on its back. It is not lucky for a dog to be given to howl. It _is_ lucky for a strange dog to follow one home.

And so on.

When the natives see the wild dog in the jungles, (and they are still existing there) they marvel at the triumph that man has had over them, to bring them from such a fierce and savage state to be so close a friend and companion.

Crooke says there is an old bit of folk-lore from the Mirzapoor district, where the merchant kills his faithful dog near a tank.

Our thoughts will also take us to the old Welsh tradition of Prince Llewellyn’s hound, still kept in memory in the name of the village, Beddgelert, or grave of “Gelert.”

These are but further instances of the common groundwork of all folk-lore.

There are two breeds of the Banjāra dogs known in the district. They are not unlike the “Gudhi” dogs bred in the Kangra district, but devoid of their woolly and shaggy coat. The ears with one of the breeds are carried erect, and they stand over two feet in height. They are devoted to their individual master, and remain attached to him till death. They seem to anticipate his every wish and thought, and almost to assume a certain likeness to him.

An unfaithful dog is spoken of as:

Khandhâh peendhâh saeent-dha ghur Vungh Bhonkdhâh kassâe dha ghur.

THUS TRANSLATED.

He eats and drinks at his master’s house, But he barks for and protects the butcher’s shop.

HOW AN EVIL SPIRIT WAS EXORCISED.

Once upon a time there lived in the city of Peshawar, not very long ago, an old Priest who had obtained a reputation for the power he possessed over malignant spirits. This Priest usually had under his tuition two or three boys who were “Jinns,” and to whom as it pleased him from time to time he communicated the knowledge he possessed of the black art.

This old Priest came to dwell in the village of Haji Shah, and took up his abode near to the Mahomedan mosque there. This mosque was in close proximity to the quarters of the “Chuprassies,” who you know, are employed by the Sirkar or Government in the suppression of salt smuggling.

The Chief of these “Chuprassies” had in his household a man of the name of Gopee, whose brother Shivedas was one of the “Chuprassies,” and lived with the others in the quarters provided for them.

Shivedas was occasionally seized with violent fits, and when under their influence would rave like a maniac. All kinds of medicine had been tried to relieve him of the disorder, but it was all in vain; so at last his friends left him to himself, and only sought to prevent his doing any injury to himself when the fits came upon him.

One day when Shivedas was returning to his quarters he was again attacked by his old malady, and so violent was he on this occasion that it took four men to hold him down on his “charpai,” or bed. His brother Gopee was at once sent for, and he found him in one of the severest fits he had ever had. On reaching his bedside, Shivedas cried out, “Save me, Gopee; save me!”

Those round the bed, and the four holding him, said, “Why do you not do something for your brother?” He replied, “I have done all I can, but there is no cure for his disease.” They said, “Then why do you not send for the Priest here, who would soon expel this evil spirit, which comes now and again to torment him?” Now Gopee did not believe in the power of the Priest. At last one of the “Chuprassies” went to their European Chief’s house, and begged him to come up to the quarters to see what could be done. When he arrived there and saw the state that Shivedas was in, and Gopee, his brother, in such great distress, he said, “What can be done to relieve this man?” They all said, “Send for the Priest, the old Peshawar man, and he will soon put him right.” The Chief said, “Well, do so if you like.” They replied, “He will not come for us, for he is a grumpy old man; but he will come for you.” So the Chief, to relieve the sufferer, and perhaps to satisfy his own curiosity, sent to ask the Priest to come.

In a short time he made his appearance, just when Shivedas was in one of his worse struggles, and looking at him for some time, he all of a sudden seemed to make up his mind, and drawing his “Qorân” from his pocket went close to the bedside and called out, “Are you going to leave this man, or not?” And a voice came from Shivedas, “No! I will not.” Now, many present heard the voice, but it was not the voice of Shivedas.

The Priest then asked for some rag, and many ran to get a piece of an old “Chudder,” or cloth, but he said, “No! this will not do; it must be blue rag.” And in very quick time someone ran and brought a piece from the Bazaar.

When the Priest took it into his hand he called for a light, and then proceeded to burn it in the flame. Then, again advancing to the bedside, with the burning rag in one hand and the open Qorân in the other, he called out in a louder tone than before, “Are you going to leave this man, or are you not? If not I will burn you out and all your generation.” The same voice then uttered the words, “I will not leave him; and who are you?”

The old Priest then placed the smouldering rag to the nose of Shivedas, and again threatened the evil spirit; and then, to the astonishment of all, the voice said, “I will go away this time if you will not trouble nor worry me.”

After this Shivedas became still and tranquil, and went off into a profound sleep.

Some hours afterwards, when he awoke, and was questioned as to what had occurred, he could call nothing to his remembrance.

The “Chuprassies” believed that the evil spirit had been exorcised by the Priest, and it is certainly true that Shivedas had no return of his fits; and I tell you this tale, for it is believed by many of us to this day.

EXPLANATORY NOTES.

“_Jinns._”—Before referred to, and meaning that which is internal, and cannot be seen. The word is spelt sometimes Djinns, or Ginns. They are supposed by some to be deities of the ancient pagans. By the Greeks believed to be spirits never engaged in matter, nor ever joined to bodies, subdivided into good and bad, every man having one of each to attend him at all times.