I do not know how long this kind of life continued. It may have been a
year or only a few months. There was nothing to break the monotony,
nothing to be as time marks to show the passing days and months. The
little mama took less and less interest in everything. One day coming
out of the other room I found her lying on the floor. I saw by the look
of her face that something was the matter with her, so I ran quickly and
called the old woman, who placed her carefully upon the charpoy. She did
not utter a word, made no sign of pain or distress, but kept on looking
in the old direction with those large brilliant eyes, so wide open,
peering into the distance. How bright they seem to me now, how they have
haunted me all these years! Many a night have I awakened to see those
eyes before me as if in reality they were there.
The rupees had been going, one by one, and now that the little mama
remained on the charpoy day and night, the old woman took the key of the
padlock from my mother’s waist-string and opened the box to get a rupee
for some food. I saw there was but little in the box, a few fancy bits
of clothing, some ornaments and a bundle of papers bound up with a
string. The old woman took the best care she could of us all. She
evidently saw that the time was short before all her labors, especially
for the mama, would be ended.
One morning early, coming out of the other room, I saw those wide open
eyes as usual, but the strange appearance of the face startled me. I had
never seen a dead person, I had never heard of death. I did not know
that people died. Yet, ignorant as I was, I saw that something terrible
was the matter with mama. The old woman came quickly and at the first
sight with a wailing cry exclaimed, “gayi! gayi!” gone! gone! I could
not comprehend it, mama gone and yet she was lying there before me! The
little sister came and we put our hands on mama’s face, we took her
hands in ours. They were so cold and strange, we spoke to her, but her
lips moved not. So unlike our little mama, as we delighted to call her.
The old woman beckoned to some women in the court below. They quickly
came. One of them took us into the other room and tried to make us
understand what had happened but all we could realize was this, that our
mama had gone. When we came out into the room again a white sheet was
placed over the charpoy and tied at the four corners. All was so still
and silent; we went and crouched into a corner clinging to each other in
abject fear.
I felt as I did when that fearful white giant was in the room on that
dreadful night, that I did not dare to breathe hard for fear some one
might discover us. Toward evening two men came and took away the charpoy
and all on it. I tried to get the old woman to tell me what had
happened, but her only reply was that mama, the dear mama, had gone and
we should never see her again. Our little hearts were breaking. We wept
together until we fell asleep at night. The morning came but no mama for
us to see.
How many times in my life since those dark sorrowful days have I thought
to myself, Alas! What numbers of women’s hearts have been broken by
these faithless Christian Europeans! These women were only natives to be
sure, but they had hearts as warm for those whose soft words of love
they had heard, and whose promises they believed, as any of their more
favored white sisters. What is the use of talking of God, of justice, of
virtue, of right and wrong, if such deception, cruelties and wrongs are
to remain unnoticed and unpunished? Is there to be no recompense to
those so cruelly injured? Are there no memories to follow the
perpetrators of such infamous deeds? If not, then this world is one of
chance and confusion. Might makes right, vice is as good as virtue and
the sooner we get through the farce of living the better, to die and
perish forever.
Soon the few remaining rupees were gone, then the trinkets, the few
articles of clothing, and lastly, the box itself, all, everything had
gone to purchase the little food we needed. There was nothing left with
which to supply our wants or to pay our rent. One day the old woman took
the little sister and me down into a little shelter, made by an old
grass roof leaning against the back wall of the court. This was to be
our home. She had gathered some coarse grass on which we were to sleep.
Our only furniture consisted of two old earthen pots in which to cook
our food if we could get any. All of our beautiful brass dishes that we
once looked upon as shining jewels, when, after our meals they were
scoured and placed in the sun to dry, had gone, following the trinkets
and the box. My best suit consisted of a few inches of cloth and a
string around my waist. My little sister had a very short skirt much
fringed by long use around the bottom. For awhile the people in the
court gave us food, some rice, others vegetables, and others a pepper
pod and a few grains of salt. The little sister and I gathered old
grass, and dried manure with which our food was cooked. So we were
happy. It takes so little when we are willing to be happy that I
sometimes question whether civilization is a benefactor, for it
increases our wants and adds to our labor in supplying them.
The old woman lived with us of course, as this was her only home as well
as ours. She was so kind that we clung to her as our new mama. Bye and
bye the neighbors gave us less and less; not that they were unwilling,
but they were all so poor. I did not understand the political economy of
either poverty or riches. I did not know fully why the people could not
give us anything.
However, I well remember a scene, an object lesson of tyranny, and the
helplessness of poverty, that occurred one day. A man on a horse rode
into the big gate followed by a number of men with long bamboo sticks in
their hands. I heard one who lived in a hut next to us say as he ran
into his house, that the zemindar who owned the place had come to
collect his rents. It seemed that the rents were long overdue, because
the people were unable to pay them though they did the best they could.
The people were all called out of their huts where the most of them had
concealed themselves and those that would not come were forced out by
the men with sticks. The man on his horse demanded the rents. The people
said they had nothing to pay. The little fields outside the city that
they cultivated had produced nothing, for there had been no rain. They
had tried to get work but there was none to be had. They could not get
the poorest food for their wives and children. They were starving. They
would work for him and do anything he told them, for their lives were in
his hands. He turned upon them with scorn, denounced them with all the
filthy names he could use and they were many. I could understand only a
few of the words, but I knew they were terrible. How angry he was!
The men, with the women and children, threw themselves on the ground
around his horse and pleaded with him for mercy, but the more they
begged the more angry he grew, and then, when he became tired out with
his stream of fearful words, he gave orders to his men with the long
sticks to search every house, and in they went with a rush. The old
charpoys, the tattered rags of blankets, here and there a brass cup or
an iron dish, everything was brought and laid in the center of the
court, a mass of rubbish the most of which should have gone out by the
back door and been thrown into the gully. A cart was brought in and
everything placed upon it and off it went. Just as the zemindar was
going out of the gate, a man living in one of the huts came in. He had
been out from very early morning going for miles to a pond where he
caught a few small fish, not one over an inch in length. These he was
bringing for his poor old decrepit mother who was really starving. As
soon as the big man saw this handful of fish he ordered one of his men
to take them. The poor man seeing that he was about to lose his little
treasure threw himself upon the ground, and in tones heart-rending,
begged the fish for his old mother who was dying for want of food; but
he might as well have talked to the gate post. The fish were gone and
the big man departed on his high-stepping horse.
Had the big zemindar put us all in some room, closed the door and
suffocated us, it would have been an act of mercy compared with what he
did. What is the little pain of a sudden death, in comparison with a
life of hardship, starvation, suffering, misery, and after all, death
sure to come? Better half should go and give the other half a chance,
than to prolong the wretchedness of all. Death cannot be escaped by
waiting. Much of philanthropy is to prolong misery. The real
philanthropist should seek to shorten and end it. Men die for their
country, for glory, the latter always a paltry thing. Why not die to
relieve themselves from wretchedness and to benefit others by their
absence? This would be the real sacrifice—a dying to save others. Words
fail me to describe what took place after the robbery of our little
court. In every hut there was wailing for their little losses, but all
they had. There was not a tattered rag or dish left. There was no food
of any kind, no work for anybody. They could gather nothing from the
fields, for the country for miles was barren even of a blade of grass.
I was repelled by all I had seen, and felt like weeping as I heard the
mournful cries of the women. We were more blessed than they were,
because we had lost nothing, for the best of reasons. My instinct told
me it were better to go away than to remain any longer. Our new mama
seemed to have the same feeling, for without a word she took each of us
by the hand and we went out through the big gate, whither we knew not.
One direction was as good to us as another, so we took the first road we
saw. We wandered on for a number of days, sleeping at night by the
roadside, and during the days stopped where cartmen were feeding their
cattle. They allowed us to pick up some grains of feed, which was the
bread of heaven to us. One day toward evening we came to a large peepul
tree with a small hut beside it. An old man, a faqir, was sitting in
front of the hut. Something told him we were hungry, and going inside he
brought out a few withered bananas and several dried fruits. He told us
to eat them, and when he prepared his food he would give us some. I
expressed my gratitude as best I could. I think I said that I hoped
Allah would show him mercy. The old man gave me such a kindly smile, the
first I had ever seen. We were all very weary, and the little sister was
footsore. I went out to where some carts had stopped and gathered
several armfuls of dried grass and straw, which I placed at the back of
the hut. The old faqir, seeing this, went into his little garden and
brought a square of bamboo, thatched with grass, that he placed over the
straw with its top against the hut. What a house we had; a palace,
furnished, for our wearied bodies. Into this we crept, for our new mama
was always beside us. We slept—and such sleep! I dreamed of great dishes
of food, how fragrant it was and how delicious it tasted, when we were
awakened by the voice of the faqir calling us to come out and eat. We
did not wait for a second call, and such dishes of rice and dhal,
steaming hot and so fragrant. We ate as if we had not tasted food for
many a day, and indeed we had but little for months. The old faqir
smiled all over his wrinkled face as he saw the eagerness with which we
ate his savory dishes. If I know anything about the matter—and probably
I know as much as any one—I feel sure that the good angel above, who
does the recording, gave the old faqir three very long credit marks for
the good he did to each of us that day. He scarcely said a word. No
doubt his motto was, “Doing—not talking,” and the very best habit one
can fall into. After an hour or so of resting from our laborious task of
eating so much, we crept into our little house and were all soon fast
asleep. I dreamt that I saw my mama. She was looking with those large
liquid eyes of hers, not to the westward, but toward us. She smiled so
sweetly, the first smile I had ever seen upon her face, as she saw how
comfortably we were placed.
At early morning we were awakened by the birds in the peepul tree. My
first words were, “Darling mama,” for I expected to see her, and what an
eternal joy it would have been if I could have had but one sight of her
beautiful smiling face as I saw it in my dream! My heart was sorely
disappointed and harassed. Why could not this world have been arranged
without so many disappointments? Why could not the sorrows be more
equally divided? The roses be without so many thorns? We went to the
well in the garden and the faqir drew water with his lota and string,
and the little sister and I had a nice shower bath as the faqir poured
the water over us. He enjoyed his part as much as we did ours. He
out-Christianed the Christian teaching, for besides food and shelter, he
not only gave us water to drink, but poured it all over us. On returning
to the hut he gave us some dried figs, nuts and sugar, and we were still
more happy. After awhile, with a look of pleasure and pity, he asked
whither we were traveling? I told him we did not know. This rather
surprised him. Then he inquired where our home was, and I replied that
we had no home. He wanted to know who our father and mother were, and I
answered that we never had a father; that we had a dear mama once, but
she had gone; two men had carried her away on a charpoy and we never saw
her again.
The old man seemed very sad on hearing this, and when our new mama asked
if we should not be going on, he begged of us to wait and rest another
day; so we stayed. We watched the carts and the travelers as they passed
by, listened to the songs of the birds in the peepul tree, and rested;
and what a rest it was, without being hungry.
A day and another pleasant night passed, when something said, “Go on.”
It is forever thus. It seems an inevitable law that one must be always
going, progressing, growing, or else comes idleness, death and decay.
This may seem a big idea to have any reference to the small subject in
hand, but I do not look at it in that way. I was then of as much
importance to myself as the greatest man on earth is to himself. The
life of a fly is as valuable to the fly as the life of an elephant is to
the elephant, though they differ so much in size of body and sphere of
life. Each smallest thing has its round of destiny to fulfill, and I had
mine.
We were very sorry to part with our kind old friend, to leave our palace
of rest and feasts of food, but something impelled us onward. We started
not without thanking the good kind old faqir in every possible phrase,
and when we were on the way, as we looked back we saw him watching us.
We waved our hands and he responded. Soon we were out of sight never to
see our friend again, but I have erected a monument in my heart to his
memory.
We wandered on, not in any haste, as one place was as good as another to
us, only it seemed that we must be moving. Sometimes we went into the
villages to get a drink of water, and the people gave us parched grain,
and to the little sister, sweets, for they seemed to be greatly taken
with her. She had our mama’s large eyes, and she was always playful and
happy. She had not seen that white giant that frightened and killed our
dear mama. Several times I thought of telling her about him, but as I
was about to do so she appeared so happy that I had not the heart to do
it. She never knew it, for some good angel ever kept me from telling.
She was a little beauty, though I say it. Her only dress was a little
skirt reaching just below the knees, and very tattered and torn. Her
hair was gathered up and tied with a bit of grass. Though so poorly
clad, her bright eyes, the dimples on her cheeks, the ripples of her
smiles, the real priceless adornments of nature, as she tripped along
with us, made her a beauty, at least in my eyes. Her sweet voice calling
me bhai, brother, the only name she gave me, or pyari bhai, was like
music to my ears.
After some days wandering we came to the outskirts of a town or city and
we found shelter under a big tree by a wall. Some large beasts came into
the tree above us and made a great noise that frightened us very much,
so I persuaded the new mama to take us into the city. We came to a
building into which a number of people were going, so we went with them.
We found a place to rest on a veranda where there was a little straw on
which we could sleep. Some one gave us water to drink and others some
fruit to eat. About midnight the new mama began to groan as if in
terrible pain. She grew worse and worse until I became greatly
frightened and ran to some men who brought a lantern. Her moanings and
groanings chilled me to the heart. I tried to comfort her but it was no
use, the pain increased. Between the attacks her cries were, “What will
become of the babas?”
Soon she was silent and when the men came again to see her they said to
each other, margayi, dead gone, hyja! Other men soon came with a charpoy
and took our kind new mama away and we never saw her again. Our dear
mama and now our new mama both had gone and we were left alone in our
sorrow that must be felt as it cannot be described. We cried ourselves
to sleep in each other’s arms and were awakened in the early morning by
the tramp of some people near us. There stood one of those white giants,
not so tall as the one I had once seen. “Hallo!” said he, “What have we
here?” Then speaking in Hindustani to some attendants of the serai, he
asked who these children were. They said they did not know, that they
had come with an old woman, that she had died of cholera in the night
and had already been buried. The sahib, as I soon learned to call a
white man, then turned toward us and though I was greatly frightened at
first, his kindly face soon drove away every fear. He asked me, in
Hindustani of course, who we were, and I told him I didn’t know. He
asked where we came from and I couldn’t tell. He asked our names and I
said we never had any names, and then he inquired who our father was,
and I replied that we never had a father. Then he turned to his
attendants and spoke in Hindustani so that I understood him well,
saying, “This is a very strange thing under the sun! Two children who
never had a father! What is the world coming to?” And then each of the
others repeated, “Strange! barra taajub ki bat, a very strange thing
under the sun, two children who never had a father! What is the world
coming to?” I did not know what they meant by “under the sun” or “what
is the world,” but that is what they said.
Up drove a great covered cart drawn by a horse. Such a thing I had never
seen before. There might have been many in the place where we lived, but
as I had never been outside of our court how could I have seen them?
We were put into this cart and driven away so fast that I was really
scared and held my breath. It seemed like flying as the birds do, and I
thought, “what wonderful beings these white giants are.” Soon we were at
the gate of a large building and another white being came out, very
slender and as thin as I felt I was, before I had eaten of that good old
faqir’s food. What strange comparisons we often make, but the best of us
only reason from what we know, and how little did I know? He was so thin
that I did not feel very much afraid of him, as I thought he had not
eaten many boys, or at most, not very many. Something was said that I
did not understand, as the noise from the mouths of the two sahibs was
so strange. I was lifted out of the cart and it was quickly driven away.
I screamed, “My sister! my sister!” and started to run after it but was
caught by a native and carried into a room where there were several
other boys. They could shut me up in a room but they could not prevent
me crying out for my sister, as I felt that I had been given to this
sahib, and she to the other, and that she might possibly be eaten that
day for dinner.
The sahib came in and had a long talk with me. He said that this was a
school, an orphanage, where they kept boys who had no father or mother.
They fed them, gave them clothes and taught them to read. This was news
to me, but what about my sister? He replied that she would be sent to
another school for girls in another city and be well cared for. This
pacified me somewhat, as it was better than to be eaten, yet I would
have rather been out on the road alone with the little sister than
anywhere else. She was all I had, all, and I had lost her! My grief was
intense. I dreamed of her at night, I thought of her every hour of the
day. What else could I do but dream and think?
I was taken with the other boys out through a gate into a large yard
that was surrounded by a number of houses all very neat and clean. We
were then taken into one of the houses where we were given each a bath
and some clothing, then into another house where we received some food
that was most delightful and agreeable to me, as I had scarcely eaten
anything for days, since we left the good old faqir. What a charming,
soothing effect a good meal has upon, well, upon everybody. Like a
fellow-feeling, it makes us wondrous kind. I had thoughts of rebellion,
but the food conquered me. I concluded it might not be such a bad place
after all if they gave us such good things to eat. I strolled out into
the shade of a large tree in the center of the yard. The boys were
rather shy of me. I was but a wee bit of a fellow, the smallest one
among them all. Soon there was a ringing noise on the top of a high
building at one end of the yard, when all the boys went into the
building and I followed. It seemed to me that I should do as the rest
did. I was lifted to a seat so high that I could scarcely get up alone,
and when seated my feet were far above the floor. Soon the sahib came in
and then another sahib like him, only this one had no beard and wore
different kind of clothes. This sahib went to a big box, and then a
great noise came out of the box and then all the boys made a great noise
with their mouths, that fairly frightened me, but I thought if the other
little boys were not killed by it I would not be hurt. Then the first
sahib talked to Allah, as one of the larger boys told me afterward, for
it was all so new and strange to me that I could not understand anything
that was said. After that we went into what they called the school and I
was taught to say alif be.
The days and the weeks passed and I became well pleased with my place. I
followed the larger boys and they seemed to like me very much, calling
me “The little one.” But one day they laughed at me when I spoke of the
sahib who made a noise with the big box as the “Sahib without a beard.”
This tickled them greatly, and for several days they often repeated
“Sahib without a beard.” They explained that she was the mem sahib, the
sahib’s bibi. I think some one must have told her about it, for the next
time she came into the chapel she patted my cheeks and called me some
pet name. This greatly pleased me and more than made up for the laughter
of the boys. I had learned that the name of the large room was the
girja, or chapel.