About half-past six o’clock the next morning a gang of convicts
were working on the road near the jail, carrying stones with much
chain-clanking, all obtrusively industrious for the moment, as the keen
black eye of the jail burkundaz was fixed upon them; but presently his
gaze was attracted by a little group that approached him: a policeman
escorting two ragged children.
“What are these?” he inquired.
“They were found last night near the police thana on the Futupore Road.
The boy had fainted on the wayside, and I kept them till dawn, when I
brought them in on a passing hackery. They come, they say, from Paroor,
a village seventy miles off. The boy has walked all the way, carrying
the girl on his back--so he says.”
“Truly, but it is a fable! Of a surety, they are beggars from our own
city.”
“We can easily prove them. They have come hither to seek their father,
who is in prison here; they aver that his name is Chūnnee Sing, of
Paroor.”
The convicts lagged to listen, and one whispered to another, “It is the
tall man, who never smiles.”
“Such a one is here for dacoity--two years’ sentence.”
“Where is he?” inquired the burkundaz of one of the gang.
“Working in the jail-garden gang, hazoor” (_i.e._ your highness).
An order was given to fetch him at once.
“They had a cat, too,” continued the policeman; “I left it at the
thana. What do these beggars with a cat?”
Meanwhile a large crowd had collected round the children--the
curly-haired, pretty little girl, and the miserably emaciated boy, with
his lacerated feet tied up in rags--a number of market coolies and
officers’ servants; and the convicts dawdled near--as closely as they
dared.
In a very short time the warder returned, preceded by a tall convict.
The children stared with wistful, questioning eyes; they did not
recognize Chūnnee, at first glance, in the close-fitting cap drawn
well over his ears, his loose dress, and chains; but after a pause of
breathless amazement he cried, “Array khoda! Girunda and Gyannia, my
children, how came you here?”
They rushed to him at the sound of that familiar voice, and broke into
loud cries and sobs--sobs of joy and relief.
“I walked,” panted the boy presently, “and carried her. Uncle thrust
us forth one night; he said he would kill us if we ever went back, so
we came to thee. We will abide with thee; we will never leave thee,”
sobbed the boy, clinging to his hands, whilst Chūnnee took the girl up
in his arms and fondled her.
“We are so tired and hungry, father; may we not go to thy house and
rest?” and Gyannia dropped her head on his shoulder.
The jail official was much perplexed--here was a most unusual case: two
children clamouring for admittance into an establishment which every
one else was averse to entering.
What was he to do with them? Were they to be left at the gates, to be
sent back to Paroor? One thing was positively certain--they could not
be received inside the jail.
A great multitude had now gathered to behold the convict’s boy, who
had walked seventy miles with his sister on his back. It takes but
little at any time to attract an Indian audience. The crowd was about
to be dispersed by the police, when the jail superintendent drove up
in his brougham for his morning inspection, and alighted, and asked in
amazement the reason of the tumult.
In five minutes he was in possession of all the facts--the thread of
the story--much delayed by constant exclamations and additions from
excited women in the throng.
“So these are thy children?” said the superintendent to Chūnnee.
“Yes, my lord; and it was for the sake of these that I tried to commit
that theft.”
“And thy brother hath turned them out?”
“So they say; and it was like him.”
“Why hath he done so?”
“How can I tell thee, protector of the poor, save that he is a bad man?
His name of Zālim Sing fits him but too well; truly he is a tyrannical
lion. If the bountiful sirkar would only feed my children!”
“You cannot, of course, have these children with you; but I will look
after them for you, at any rate, for the present. You shall see them
again to-morrow. Here, burkundaz; send these children down to my house
on an ekka, and let this crowd disperse.”
As soon as the two objects of curiosity had been rattled off in charge
of a warder, the assembly melted away, each to his own avocation.
The superintendent’s wife was a charitable, gentle lady, and accepted
the weary, half-starved wayfarers into her household. A servant--one of
their own caste--shared his “go-down” with them, and they were bathed,
fed, and their sores attended to. In a short time they looked totally
different--such is the effect of kindness. They went to visit their
father at stated periods, and when Girunda related his life of toil and
blows at his uncle’s hands, Chūnnee’s straight brows grew very black.
The charitable lady who had given them a shelter did more than feed
and clothe them; they were included among her servants’ children, who
learnt from a munshi, and were taught at her expense. The munshi, with
his blue spectacles, sat in the midst of them, and every week there
were prizes of fruit, and twice a year of clothes. They were also
permitted to pick withered leaves in the lady’s lovely garden, and
Girunda was proud when he was allowed to carry a pot; and sometimes
their father worked there also, with a few other favoured convicts.
And oh, what a garden that was!--even to a _blasé_ European eye, an
exquisite spot; how much more to two ignorant native children, who have
never seen any flowers but marigolds? The steps from the house led down
into a great spreading lawn, green and smooth as velvet, and surrounded
by wide walks, bordered with bushes of magnificent roses. Beyond the
lawn, and leading straight out of it, lay an avenue of loquat trees,
which was lined with stands of maiden-hair ferns, orchids, arum lilies,
jheel plants--a truly fairy-like scene. There were long alleys overhung
with fruit trees and flowers; there were enormous bushes of yellow
roses--in one tree a pair of bulbuls had their nest--a large, square
plot covered with a dense crop of variegated sweet peas. There was,
moreover, a big vinery, a quantity of fruitful peach trees, a cote of
pigeons, with nearly two hundred in the branches of a mango tree, and
a house full of white rabbits with ruby eyes! Truly, when they were
permitted to enter this garden, Girunda said to his sister, “Behold,
this must be the place the preaching moola meant when he spoke of the
garden of Paradise!”
The wheel of fortune turns, and strange events do occur at times, even
in a mud village, in an obscure locality.
Old Turroo Sing had been wise in his generation; he had not grudged to
offer a considerable reward for news of, or the recovery of, his lost
treasure. For eight weary months no tidings reached him, and he had
almost prepared to await the coming of death, a broken-hearted man,
when, lo! one day six gay policemen--I allude to their red turbans,
yellow trousers, and blue tunics--were once more seen approaching the
village. The inspector had come to see Turroo, to confer with him
privately. When the door was closed fast, the inspector drew forth a
heavy gold bangle, and placed it in the old man’s withered, trembling
hands.
“Is this yours?” he asked.
“It is; it is; it is! Where are the rest?” clamoured Turroo.
“Patience! This was offered for sale in Delhi, and was about to be
melted down. The man who sold it is in the village. He is Goora Dutt,
the brother-in-law of thy nephew, Zālim Sing.”
“May every curse light on him!” screamed the venerable Turroo.
“He was caught and convicted; he hath confessed. Thou wilt get nearly
all thy property back, my father; but thou wilt be liberal to the
police?”
“As I live, I will give much buchseesh, I swear it on the cow’s tail!”
“There is a gang of gamblers here in Paroor. We have known it long.
Goora Dutt is the chiefest among them. They were--for all things are
known to the police--without money; they were in debt, and their
creditors were hungry; therefore they agreed to rob thee, and they
did. They carried off thy money and jewels. Though Chūnnee Sing was
convicted and sentenced for the same, he never fingered a tolah of gold
nor one rupee.”
“And where is it? where is it? Oh, speak!”
“It is buried by a neem tree near Goora Dutt’s garden. They had no time
to carry it farther, and it is convenient to their houses. The rupees
are gone, but the gold and pearls and carbuncles are still mostly
there. They feared to sell them, for the size and number and marks were
known.”
In half an hour’s time Turroo Sing’s treasure, which was buried in a
kerosene-oil tin (oh, to how many uses are those tins put!), was dug
up in the presence of the entire village, and shown to its owner, who
wept with joy as he tore open the parcel and counted his pearls--his
forty pairs without blemish. But there were some very glum faces in the
crowd--four families were implicated in the robbery--and when Zālim
Sing had come to overwhelm his grand-uncle with felicitations, that
fierce old person had spat at him--like an infuriated toddy cat.
“Thou hadst a hand in it, oh, badmash, son of lies!” he screamed,
foaming at the mouth. “Thy brother-in-law, Goora Dutt, is thy shadow.
’Twas he fetched the police for Chūnnee, who hath languished in jail
for thy sins. Take this robber, and release Chūnnee Sing.”
* * * * *
Zālim Sing’s popularity had been on the wane for a considerable
time. He had assured his neighbours in his most plausible manner,
that Girunda and Gyannia had run away, ungrateful wretches that they
were--just like their father, the jail-bird. But the neighbours
believed a wholly different tale. A ryot, living in the nearest
village, had met Zālim, one dark night, driving a pair of children
before him. People began to whisper, and then to talk openly, of
screams heard from Zālim’s house; of the boy Girunda being seen
carrying loads as heavy as a pony’s--and now, after all these months,
public opinion set in, in full tide, in favour of Chūnnee.
Zālim Sing had a presentiment that his good days were leaving him when
he saw his friend Goora Dutt and four other men led away between the
crops, with handcuffs on their wrists; and many a curious glance was
cast at Zālim himself.
“How came his wife to wear a pearl nose-ring? How came he to possess
_four_ bullocks and a Waterbury watch and a pistol? Could any one give
an honest reason? Could his crops have sold at double the rates of
ours?” his neighbours asked one another. Truly, he was as great a thief
as any; but his accomplices had been staunch to him, and had held their
peace.
Of course Chūnnee was released, much to his own surprise. His ragged
coat was restored to him one morning, with a “hookum,” to say that he
was free. His first duty was to return thanks to the benevolent lady
who had rescued his starving children. He laid his head at her feet,
and touched the hem of her gown; and there was a mist in his eyes as
he said, “Now I understand why God suffered me to be put in the Jail
Khana. It was that my children might know you. Eshwar, Eshwar will
bless you always.”
“And where will you go, Chūnnee?” she inquired, ere he took leave.
“Home,” he answered: a native returns to his ancestral village as a
Swiss turns to the mountains. “Back to Paroor and my house. It is true
that I have no friends; but I have no friends anywhere. I was born
there; also my father and grandfather. It is my country, and there will
I die.”
“It is more to the purpose, how will you live, once you are there?”
“I have good-conduct money. I shall hire a little bit of land, and dig
it, and buy seeds. Girunda is growing big, he can help me.”
He was not to be deterred by offers of employment in the city. No, his
heart was set upon Paroor--only Paroor; and his kind patroness fitted
out the children with clothes and food, and they bade farewell to her,
and her enchanted garden, with many bitter tears.
Most of the journey was made by rail, and in the delightful novelty of
the motion of a railway carriage they soon forgot their sorrows. The
last twenty miles had to be accomplished on foot. Girunda stepped out
manfully beside his father, who carried Gyannia. All _he_ had to carry
was the cat; and, moreover, he had now a pair of shoes and a stick.
They reached Paroor at nightfall, and Chūnnee went straight to his own
hut. It was occupied by an old crone, who had bought it from Zālim Sing
for six rupees, and who felt herself a proprietress of some importance.
She thrust him out with a lighted brand, and Chūnnee and his family
passed the night under a stack of straw.
The following morning he went and rapped boldly at his brother’s door,
and confronted him sternly.
“So thou art back, badmash! I wonder thou hast come here!” cried Zālim,
with ill-simulated scorn.
“How daredst thou sell my house?” rejoined the other.
“I sold it to pay for thy children’s food.”
“Speak not of the children you worked as slaves, and beat, and turned
out at night to perish. Restore the money and the house, O villain!”
Hearing loud and angry voices, the inevitable crowd collected. There
was Chūnnee, looking quite well-to-do, and actually speaking in a
commanding tone to his once all-powerful brother!
“Behold, he hath sold my poor hovel, and hath kept the money,”
explained Chūnnee, turning to the eager audience. “He hath beaten and
starved my children, and hath thrust them out to die. Why do ye suffer
such a sinner among you?”
The crowd began to clamour and howl, and Zālim Sing withdrew and barred
his door; but the angry neighbours beat upon it till it shook on its
rusty hinges, and Zālim Sing was forced to shout, “Go! thou shalt have
thy house, O badmash.” And for the first time in all his life, Chūnnee
was beholden to the force of public opinion.