Part 11

All is now bustle and confusion. The wharf is full of gharrys of every class seeking fares to the city. To the uninitiated the gharry is anything but a tempting vehicle; but throughout India it is, with the palanquin (or, as it is better known, the “palky”) the only public conveyance to be had. The latter, from its name, can be imagined; but the gharry is quite a specialty—a square, black box, some five feet in every face, more or less suspended on very indifferent springs (_less_ rather than _more_), perched on four very questionable wheels which, when in motion, waddle about as if every turn would be their last. I am now describing the best class of gharry. There are _four_. I leave it to the reader to sketch out the _fourth_. What may be said of the conveyance pales into insignificance when a close inspection is bestowed on the horses, and more particularly the harness. In the latter there seemed to me to be a total absence of leather or buckles. Bits of rope, a good deal of rope-yarn, twisted rags, predominate; but all these are quite sufficient to hold the cattle and set the vehicle in motion. The poor, wretched brutes have not the least appearance of life in them. The _tout ensemble_ is complete when the Jehu is perched on the box. The “livery” consists of a few yards of dirty cotton stuff, sometimes wound round his loins—when not round his head as a turban. “Coachy” never has another vestige of clothing, but he is never without an umbrella!—blue, red, white, or green. This indispensable article he freely makes use of, either to poke the horses with, or to protect himself from the rain; and in order to do so effectually he squats on the box, umbrella in one hand and reins in the other. On such occasions the strip of cotton goods which constitutes his sole garment is carefully put under the box cushion to be kept dry. His skin may get wet, but the “rag” never.

When one gets used to gharrys they are all right, but it takes some time to do it. Like many other Indian “dainties,” it is an acquired taste. Besides other shortcomings, the gharry driver is not only thoroughly ignorant of English; but, to make matters worse, has not the remotest knowledge of locality. When I got my valise safely tied on one of these charming conveyances, I told the driver to take me to the Great Eastern Hotel. We made a start, and after half-an-hour’s jostling from side to side I saw that I was not getting any nearer to town, and naturally attempted to argue the point with my driver, who was in high argument with his assistant—there are always two for a two-horse gharry, one for every horse. All the reply I could elicit was “Acha, sahib,” which I have learned since means “All right.” After several stoppages, and the invariable “Achas,” I found myself at Ballygunge, one of the suburbs of Calcutta, where, by sheer luck, I met that most useful of all British institutions—a policeman!—who administered a few cuts of his cane to my drivers, and a wholesome admonition, which caused them to land me at last at the door of the Great Eastern.

The first step into Eastern life—the most important, if one wishes to get on safely and peaceably in India—is the engagement of a “kitmugar.” This is the servant which one _must_ have, even at an hotel, where food and a bed are provided, but no attendance whatever. Everyone needs this kitmugar, who makes your bed, waits on you hand and foot, and, if he be a good man, never leaves you, day or night. He has the privilege of robbing his “Barra sahib,” but he takes good care that nobody else does it; and this, let me assure you, is a very important matter in that most interesting country, where the European is looked upon as “fair game” by the three hundred and sixty odd millions of natives.

Next to the engagement of the kitmugar comes the hiring of a “Victoria” and the two other inevitable attendants, viz., coachman and groom. I was particularly lucky in this. An Assam tea planter had just left the hotel, and at the recommendation of the manager I secured the lot—kitmugar, victoria, and coachman—who proved excellent servants during the whole period of my first stay in Calcutta. Master Hassam was a fair English scholar, as sharp as they make them, knew every hole and corner in this immense city, and was a perfect “terror” at a dinner party, when he could fight his way amongst all other servants, and secure for his “Sahib” the daintiest tit-bits of every dish, the best brands of wine, and the biggest lumps of ice. He was quite _au fait_ at bargaining—knew the run of the bazaars—and nothing of any interest could be held within fifty miles without his being able to get us in as “dead-heads.” The amount of lying and romancing he must have had recourse to must have been something astounding.

Wherever I went the natives made way, and granted me a reception which surprised me, until I discovered that Hassam was trading on the “Exhibition ticket,” which was becoming the talk of India, and Calcutta in particular. Being the kitmugar of the “Barra sahib” of the Exhibition cast a lustre on him which he took good care to keep in the very highest state of polish, inasmuch as he had in view the perquisites of patronage from the hundreds of tradesmen, artisans, and others seeking employment. The rascal knew what he was about. If he did pluck a feather here and there off my back, he took them by handfuls off those who tried to interview me on business; and wherever we went amongst natives he made the most of his chance to “show off” his sahib, and get both his share of the honour and glory, as well as the whole of the “backsheesh.”

During the Doorgha Pooja and other great religious festivities, which in November keep the whole of India—but more particularly Calcutta and other cities on the banks of the sacred rivers—in a state of excitement and gorgeous displays, we had a pretty lively time of it. Day and night we had to attend processions, Nautch dances, fireworks, and gatherings the description of which would cast into the shade tales from the “Arabian Nights.” No one but those who have visited India during the period I am alluding to, can have the least conception of the scenes we witnessed. A city of upwards of a million of inhabitants—with an increase of more than double that number—all clad in gay colours, thronging the thoroughfares day and night in such dense crowds that one could almost walk on their heads; bands of music, heading hundreds of glittering pagodas; images of gods and goddesses of huge proportions being carried and paraded through the streets, followed by dancers, mimes, imps, and devils, elaborately painted and going on with the most extraordinary antics; balconies and windows being loaded with people, gaily adorned in costly silks, and glittering with jewels, gold and silver lace, spangled banners, &c. For a whole fortnight this carnival continues incessantly, all business is stopped, the whole population perambulates the streets night and day, until at last the costly pagodas, the images of gods and goddesses, wend their way to the river, where, in the midst of the clanging noise of hundreds of bands of music, they are cast into the waters of the sacred river, and Calcutta once more resumes its every-day style of life.

Why Calcutta is called the city of palaces I never could realise. Truly the houses in Chowringhee and in the European portion of the city are large, lofty, and pretentious, but not in any way palatial. The Residence of the Viceroy, or that of the Governor of Bengal at Alipore—and, for the matter of that, all and every one of the public or private buildings—have a clean, gay appearance during the “cold season”: that is, from December till March; but as soon as the rains begin they all assume a dingy, woe-begone appearance, which casts quite a gloom over the whole place.

Calcutta, during the four months above-named, is bright, lively, enchanting—the climate most charming.

The Strand, after 4 P.M., thronged with carriages and horsemen—a gay crowd, which, with the gay trappings of the four-in-hands and the Oriental costume of many of the native princes quite eclipses even Rotten Row or Longchamps.

But when the season is over—when vice-royalty and its cumbersome _personnel_ have gone to Simla and Darjeeling—the gay butterfly loses its bright colouring; nothing is left but the unsightly chrysalis. The heat, the damp, with the ills which follow, renders the city anything but a desirable place of residence.

British enterprise has got over the difficulty in some measure, and for those who have to stay in the plains it is now an easy matter to take an occasional run up into the hills—a truly wonderful piece of engineering having conquered the most inaccessible perpendicular walls of the Himalaya ranges. The Darjeeling railway—a 2ft. 6in. guage zig-zag line, carries a mail and passenger traffic daily from Calcutta to that sanatorium, 7000 feet above the sea level. This trip can be accomplished in sixteen hours, and is full of incidents which make it attractive. The first stage is on the broad guage railway to the banks of the Ganges, which is crossed by a large steamer, on board which dinner is served. On the other side begins the narrow guage line, which runs through tea plantations as far as Kurseong.

IV

_THE DENIZENS OF THE JUNGLE._

Saligoori—the lowermost station at the foot of the Himalayas—gives one the first insight into the real Indian jungle, the habitat of the far-famed Bengal tigers and still more dreadful cobra, besides leopards, cheetahs, hyænas, wolves, foxes, and jackals, which, with the wild hog, are reckoned the “big game,” which both natives and Europeans chase for pastime.

The tiger, being the noblest, has the first claim—being _the_ characteristic beast of prey in India. The Bengal tiger is certainly the finest of all mammals—its average length from the point of his nose to the tip of his tail being twelve feet.

In many districts the natives consider the tiger as a sort of protection to their crops, which it saves from destruction by the wild animals on which he feeds. But when once he develops a taste for human blood, the slaughter he works becomes truly formidable. The confirmed man-eater is generally an old beast, disabled from overtaking his usual prey, and seems to accumulate his tale of victims in sheer cruelty rather than for food. A single tiger, now in the Zoological Gardens at Alipore (Calcutta), is known to have killed 108 persons in the course of three years. He was at last trapped, and caged in the Zoo, and is by far the finest specimen of the species I have ever seen.

Many instances are recorded of even more frightful depredations. In the hills, 13 villages were abandoned, and 250 square miles of country thrown out of cultivation; in 1869, one of these dreadful animals killed 137 people and stopped all traffic on a main public road for several weeks, until the opportune arrival of an English sportsman, who killed him.

Official records are kept of such matters. In 1877, 819 persons and 16,137 head of cattle were reported to have been killed by tigers; on the other hand, 1579 tigers were destroyed by native hunters, and £3777 paid in rewards, besides those killed by European sportsmen.

The leopard and cheetah are smaller and less dangerous to life. The latter is often tamed for hunting purposes, as I shall explain anon.

The wolf, fox, jackal, and hyæna limit their depredations to flocks or children, but being of a timid nature, are easily kept at bay.

The serpent tribe in India is numerous. They actually swarm in gardens, and often intrude into the dwellings of the inhabitants, principally during the rainy season. Certainly the majority are harmless, but the bite of others is speedily fatal. The most to be dreaded is the cobra-de-capello, or hooded snake. It seldom exceeds three or four feet in length, and is about an inch and a quarter thick. The Rupelian snake—about four feet long—is another whose bite is almost instantaneous death. Sir Joseph Fraser states that no antidote has yet been discovered to cure the bite of either of these horrible reptiles.

The loss of life from snake bites in India is painful to contemplate, but the extermination of snakes is attended with grave difficulties—from their great number, the character of the country, the rapid undergrowth of the jungle; and, above all, the scruples of the majority of the people, whom caste prevents from destroying life.

Something, however, has been effected by the offer of rewards. In 1877 a total of 16,777 persons are reported as having died from snake-bites, while £811 was paid for the destruction of 127,295 snakes!

The last census of the Indian Empire shows a population of 252,451,210, and this may be accepted as a minimum, owing to the great difficulty existing in obtaining exact returns. Many of the natives evince a great reluctance at giving the true number of their family. The density of the population may be appreciated when a comparison is drawn from the following figures:—France has 180 people to the square mile, England 200, whilst in Bengal the population reaches the enormous number of 1280 persons to each cultivated square mile. The Famine Commissioners in 1880 reported that over six millions of the peasant holdings of Bengal—or two-thirds of the whole—averaged from two to three acres a-piece. Allowing for women and children, this represents a population of about 24,000,000 struggling to live off 15,000,000 acres—or just half-an-acre a-piece.

Unlike other countries, India has few large towns, and no manufacturing centres. In England, for instance, 42 per cent.—or nearly one half of the population—live in towns, with upwards of 20,000 inhabitants; whilst in India barely 4 per cent.—or not a twentieth of the people—live in towns. India is entirely a rural country.

We see, therefore, in India, a dense population of farmers. Wherever their number exceeds one to the acre—or 640 to the square mile—the struggle for existence becomes a hard task; at half-an-acre a-piece (and it is often so), that struggle is very hard indeed. When a crop fails the Government has a bad time of it to feed the starving millions. Disease and death in such periods, amongst underfed people, is simply horrible.

The opening up of lines of railway throughout this vast empire, now enables the Governments to alleviate the dreadful effects of over-population, and relieve the distress. Still, the fact remains that since the establishment of British rule in India the population has increased materially. The census of 1872 shows an increase of 240,000; the production of the soil being stationary, the future becomes problematical.

V.

_SANCTIMONIOUS._

The foregoing pages are, I am afraid, rather dry and tiresome, but still, one cannot travel through a country like India with one’s eyes and ears closed; and when it is taken into consideration that we are accustomed to look upon the Indian population with contempt—entirely losing sight of the undeniable fact that when the Gaul and the Saxon were savages, clad in sheep and goat-skins, the Brahmins of India were almost as highly advanced in civilisation as the French and English of the present day—it is natural that in travelling through such a country one should spend a few hours, at least, in studying with interest a people whose history is traceable far beyond the Christian era. W. W. Hunter, in his admirable work on India, traces its history back 3000 years. Vedic temples have been found, showing an advanced state of civilisation several centuries before Christ.

A collection of short lyrical poems, containing 10,580 verses, addressed to the gods, are still in existence.

These people, whom we now treat with contempt, are direct descendants from a nation whose faith, after all, is not so very dissimilar from our own.

Three thousand years have elapsed since the production of some of these poems or hymns. Religion, like many other matters, may have changed somewhat since then, yet words remain such as these:—“_Neither gods nor men reach unto thee, O Indra; Soma is King of Heaven and earth, the conqueror of all._” To Varuna, also, it is said in prayer:—“_Thou art Lord of all, of heaven and earth; thou art the King of all those who are gods, and of all who are men._” This evidently shows that they worshipped one god, although not one alone.

Not very far, after all, from the Creed we are so proud of in the year of our Lord, 1889.

At the rate we are daily modifying and twisting it about, I doubt much if in three thousand years from this we shall have as much of the original as the poor Hindus now have of theirs.

I have just come across another Vedic hymn, which I think I should record before leaving a subject which I hand over to my readers to ponder upon at their leisure.

It is a translation from the Sanskrit text by Professor Max Müller, and is in the public libraries in India:—

“In the beginning there arose a Golden Child. He was the one born Lord of all that is; he established the earth and the sky. Who is the God to whom we shall offer our sacrifice?

“He who gives life; he who gives strength; whose command all the bright gods revere; whose shadow is immortality; whose shadow is death. Who is the God to whom we shall offer our sacrifice?

“He who through his power is the one King of the breaking and awakening world; he who governs all—man and beast. Who is the God to whom we shall offer our sacrifice?

“He through whom the sky is bright and the earth is firm; he through whom the heaven was established—nay, the highest heaven; he who measured out the light and the air. Who is the God to whom we shall offer our sacrifice?

“He who by his height looked even over the water-clouds; he who alone is God above all gods. Who is the God to whom we shall offer our sacrifice?

“The yearning for rest is God; that desire for the wings of a dove, so as to fly away and be at rest, with which noble hearts have ached in all ages.

“Where there is eternal light in the world, where the sun is placed; in the immortal, imperishable world, place me, O Soma!

“Where life is free, in the third heaven of heavens; where the worlds are radiant, there make me immortal! Where there is happiness and delight, where joy and pleasure reside, where our desires are attained—there make me immortal!”

Is there in the whole of our Christian Creed a more simple, more beautifully expressed prayer to the Almighty power?

This hymn, as I said before, was the common prayer of a people 3000 years ago.

The Vedic conception of immortality is not less beautiful in its simplicity:—

“Do thou conduct us to heaven, where our friends dwell in bliss, having left on earth the infirmities of the body—free from lameness, free from blindness, free from crookedness of body—there let us behold our fathers, forefathers, and our children. May the water-shedding spirits bear us upwards, cooling us with their swift motion through the air, and sprinkling us with dew. Bear us, carry us, with all our faculties complete, to the world of the righteous. Crossing the dark valley which spreadeth boundless around him, let the unborn soul ascend to heaven. Wash the feet of him who is stained with sin; let him go upwards with cleansed feet. Crossing the gloom, gazing with wonder in many directions, let the unborn soul go up to heaven.”

From the Vedas has arisen the great sacred Brahmin caste, which even now ranks highest throughout India. It is regarded as pure, stainless, divine, as well as human, worthy of unbounded admiration and worship. The Brahmin is the general preceptor, the guide of many millions of Hindus, residing in the vast country lying between the Himalayas and Cape Comarin.

The Brahmin is not merely the thinking, but he alone is the reading, man. He possesses and reads the holy books—Vedas, Shastras, and Puranas—he knows the Sanskrit and the Hindu literature—he interprets its secrets to his countrymen.

Of course the Brahminical tribes are now numerous all through India, and education is fast stripping them of their divine assumptions, and reducing them gradually to the condition of ordinary humanity. Still, as they become imbued with our modern ideas and bend to European influence, the Brahmins adhere to their studious habits. They find their way to the “professions,” which are gradually introduced into the Indian empire.

One of the best pleaders in the courts of Calcutta, my friend Jokonanda Mookerjea, is a Brahmin of the highest caste, but like many of his ancient tribe, he has of late years forfeited the good opinion of his people, owing to his having modified somewhat, or rather relaxed, the strict rules of that caste.

One who has not had much communion with Indians can hardly conceive how strictly, even after a century of close contact with Europeans, the natives keep in its integrity the observance of the caste law. A case is on record of a Brahmin felon, confined in the Calcutta gaol in 1864, who tried to starve himself to death, and submitted to most severe flogging rather than eat food, on account of his scruples as to whether the man who had cooked it was equal in _sanctity_ to his own caste.

Trades of all kinds are classified according to caste. The goldsmiths rank highest, and claim to be the nearest to the Brahmins; the Dattas, or writers, come next; then follow the bankers, merchants, &c., &c., down to the very lowest grade of menial work—barber, man-servant, cook, cook’s mate, sweeper, and, last of all, meter and dome—this last is the only one which will remove the dead, whether man or beast.

If an animal—even a cat, dog, or rat—lies dead on your premises, not one of the scores of servants employed will remove its carcase. A dome has to be sought ere the nuisance can be abated. The meter is the only one who will empty the slops.

The rules and regulations of caste are thoroughly well arranged, and strictly adhered to. Each caste has its guild, guild funds, charities. Indeed, in this, like in many others, “_we_,” the conceited civilisers of the world, are following in the footsteps of the most ancient people of the earth.

I fail to see much difference between our trades and labour unions and the “caste” of India, where one man is not allowed to do any other work than that of his “_caste_.” Hence the unavoidable nuisance of even the humblest paid European having to employ a dozen servants. The cook is not allowed to wash a plate or carry the meal into the parlour; the kitmugar will bring your boots to your dressing room, but his “caste” forbids him to clean them. The native clerk will copy and address a letter, but he will hand it over to the “Péon,” who alone can carry it to its destination. The “Dobbee” will wash your clothes, but you must employ a water carrier to fetch the water used in the laundry. This very interesting trade and labour union, like the “Vedic” creed, dates from an almost “pre-Adamite” period.

The longer I live, the firmer I believe that there is nothing new under the sun, and that from the beginning of the world it has been the lot of humanity to “prey” on one another. My firm belief is that as it was in the beginning it is now, and ever shall be, to the end of the chapter.

A while ago I put down my pen, thinking that I had allowed it to run too freely into very uninteresting matters. I find that the last few pages are almost as much so. Still, some of my readers may feel interested in such. Those who do not have a very easy remedy—“skip” them. “_Scripta manent_,” they are written; let them remain.

VI.

_THE CALCUTTA EXHIBITION._

Whilst in Calcutta—being there for the sole object of initiating an International Exhibition, it became urgent to disseminate amongst the native population the purpose of such a venture.