stream of worshippers flowing in through the portals of the house of
prayer. Here are the rich purse-proud merchants of Persia, clad in their
long black coats; there the full-bearded Maulavis. Behind them come smart
sepoys hailing from Northern India, golden-turbaned, shrewd-eyed Memon
traders and ruddy-complexioned close-bearded Jats from Multan. Nor is our
friend the dark Sidi wanting to the throng: and he is followed by the Arab
with his well-known head-gear, by the handsome Afghan, and by the broad-
shouldered native of Bokhara in his heavy robes. Mark too the hurried steps
of the brocade-worker from Surat, and note the contrast of colour as the
grimy fitter or black-smith passes through the porch side by side with the
spotlessly-clad Konkani Musulman, whose high features and olive skin betray
his Indo-Arab origin. Rich and poor, clean and unclean, all pass in to
prayer. As the concourse increases the shoes of the Faithful gather in
heaps along the inner edge of the porch: only the newer shoes are permitted
to lie, sole against sole, close to their owners, each of whom after
washing in the shaded cistern takes his place in the hindmost line of
worshippers.
* * * * *
As the service proceeds the ranks of the congregation kneel, stand, fall
prostrate, and press the brow upon the ground with a rhythm so reverential
and so dignified that the watcher forgets for a time the torn or tawdry
raiment, the grime of the factory, the dust of the streets, and feels that
each fresh attitude of devotion is indeed the true posture of prayer. It is
as a sea troubled by the breath of some unseen spirit,--wave upon wave
rising, bending, and finally casting itself low in humility and self-
sacrifice at the very footstool of the Most High. But all the worshippers
are men. "Where are the women," you ask; "do they not repeat the daily
prayers also?" "Verily yes," replies our guide; "they are all praying in
their homes at this hour. More regular, more reverent are they than we are;
and if we men but prayed as the women pray, no shadow would dim the
brightness of Islam."
* * * * *
[Illustration: An Arab.]
As the evening-prayer progresses groups of men and women with children in
their arms gather at the main entrance of the mosque. For the children are
vexed with sickness against which medicine has availed nought, and in a
higher healing lies their only chance of recovery. So, as the congregation
passes out through the gateway, the parents hold out their ailing
children; and well-nigh every worshipper, rich or poor, young or
old, turning his face downwards lets his prayer-laden breath pass
over the face of the sick child that needs his aid. A picturesque custom is
this, which illustrates two ancient and universal beliefs, namely that all
disease is spirit-caused and that the holy book is charm-laden. He who
repeats the inspired words of the Koran is purged of all evil, and his
breath alone, surcharged with the utterances of divinity, has power to cast
out the devils of sickness. Thus to this day all classes of Mahomedans, but
particularly the lower classes, carry their sick children to the mosques to
receive the prayer-laden breath of the Musallis (prayer-sayers): and
sometimes in cases of grievous disease a Pir or Mashaikh is asked to
perform the healing office, prefacing the brief ceremony with that famous
verse of the Koran:--"Wa nunaz-zilo minal Kuraani ma huwa Shifaun wa rah
matun lil moaminina" which being interpreted means, "We send down from the
Koran that which is a cure and a mercy unto true believers." So the mosques
of the City are homes of healing as well as of prayer.
* * * * *
Occasionally, when the prayer-breath of the ordinary worshipper has failed
to effect a cure, a Mussulman mother will take her sick child to some Syed
or other holy man in the city for what she calls "Jhada dalwana"
(_i.e._ the sweeping-over). The Syed questions her about the symptoms
and duration of the disease. "Ay me," moans the mother, "I cannot say what
ails the child, Syed Saheb! He was full of life and health till the other
day when I left him on the threshold sucking a sweetmeat. There came by an
old Wagri woman who stared at him, whining for alms. I gave her a little
bread, wishing her well away: but alack! no sooner had she gone than my
child sickened and hath not recovered since." The Syed then asks her to
drop a pice upon a paper covered with magic squares; which being done, he
consults a thumb-marked manuscript and decides that the child is a victim
of the Evil Eye. Accordingly he proceeds to pass the end of a twisted
handkerchief seven times over the child's body, murmuring at the same time
certain mystic formulae which he, as it were, blows over the child from
head to foot. This operation is performed daily for three or four days;
after which in many cases the child actually gets better, and the mother in
gratitude pays the Syed from eight annas to a rupee for his kind offices.
So too it is the Syed and the prayers he breathes which exorcise the spirit
of hysteria that so often lays hold of young maidens; and it is likewise
the prayer-laden breath of the devout man which fortifies the souls of them
that have journeyed unto the turnstiles of Night.
XII.
CITIZENS OF BOMBAY.
THE MEMON AND RANGARI.
[Illustration: A Bombay Memon.]
Would you learn how the Memon and the Rangari--two of the most notable
inhabitants of the city--pass the waking hours? They are early risers as a
rule and are ready to repair to the nearest mosque directly the Muezzin's
call to prayer breaks the silence of the approaching dawn, and when the
prayers are over they return to a frugal breakfast of bread soaked in milk
or tea and then open their shops for the day's business. If his trade
permits it, the middle-class Memon will himself go a-marketing, taking with
him a "jambil" or Arab-made basket of date-leaves in which to place his
vegetables, his green spices, his meat and a little of such fruit as may be
in season. His other requisites,--flour, pulse, sugar and molasses,--come
to him in what he calls his "khata,"--his account with a neighbouring
retail-dealer. He is by no means beloved of the Bombay shop-keeper, for he
is strict in his observance of the "sunna" which bids him haggle "till his
forehead perspires, just as it did in winning the money". The Bombay
shop-keeper commences by asking an exorbitant price for his commodities;
our Memon retorts by offering the least they could possibly fetch; and the
battle between the maximum and the minimum eventually settles itself
somewhere about the golden mean, whereupon the Memon hies him homewards as
full of satisfaction as Thackeray's Jew. In many cases the mother of the
house or the sister, if old, widowed and in the words of the Koran
"despairing of a marriage," performs the business of shopping and proves
herself no less adept than her kinsman at driving a bargain.
About mid-day the Memon or Rangari has his chief meal consisting of
leavened or unleavened bread, meat curry or stew or two "kababs" or fried
fish, followed perhaps by mangoes, when in season; and when this is over he
indulges in a siesta whenever his business allows of it. The afternoon
prayers are followed by re-application to business, which keeps him busy in
his shop until 8 or 9 p.m., when he again returns home to a frugal supper
of "khichdi." It is hardly a satisfying meal, and many young Memons indulge
in a fresh collation before retiring to rest. The "khichdi" finished, the
young members of the family set forth for their evening resorts, nor
forbear to take such refreshment as the city offers on their journey. They
purchase a glass of ice-cream here, accept a cup of tea offered by a friend
there or purchase a tumbler of "faludah," which plays the same part in the
Mahomedan life of Bombay as macaroni does in the life of the Neapolitan. It
consists of rice-gruel, cooked and allowed to cool in large copper-trays
and sold at the corners of Mahomedan streets. On receiving a demand, the
Faludah-seller cuts out a slice from the seemingly frozen mass, puts it
into a large tumbler mixes sugar and sherbet with it, and then hands it to
his customer who swallows the mixture with every sign of deep satisfaction.
If possessed of a conveyance the middle-class Memon will drive about sunset
to the Apollo Bunder, Breach Candy or the Bandstand. Happy possessor of a
tolerably decent horse and victoria, he considers himself above the
conventionalities of dress, and thus may be seen in the skull-cap,
waist-coat, long white shirt and trousers which constitute his shop or
business-attire, attended not infrequently by little miniatures of himself
in similar garb. Reaching the Bunder he silences the importunity of the
children by a liberal purchase of salted almonds and pistachios or grain
fried in oil, and passes an hour or so in discussing with a friend the
market-rate of grain, cotton, _ghi_, or indigo.
If young, the middle-class Memon and Rangari is fond of the native theatres
where he rewards Parsi histrionic talent by assiduous attention and
exclamations of approval. He and his friends break their journey home by a
visit to an Irani or Anglo-Indian soda-water shop, where they repeat the
monotonous strain of the theatre songs and assure themselves of the
happiness of the moment by asking one another again and again:--"Kevi
majha" (what bliss!) to which comes the reply "Ghani majha" or "sari majha"
(great bliss!). Then perhaps, if the night is still young, they will knock
up the household of a singer and demand a song or two from her. Phryne
cannot refuse, however late the hour may be, but she has her revenge by
charging a very high price for her songs, which her "ustads" or musicians
take care to pocket beforehand. Home is at length reached, and there after
a final supper of "malai ke piyale" (cups of cream) and hard-boiled eggs
the young Memon disappears until the morrow. The older and more settled
members of the community amuse themselves till mid-night by congregating in
the tea and coffee shops of the city and there discussing the general trend
of trade. Others have formed unions, which assemble at the house of each
member in turn and spend a few hours in singing the "maulud" or hymns on
the birth of the Prophet (upon whom be peace). These hymns, in pure Hejazi
verse, are sung in different measures and are not unpleasant to the ear at
a distance. Another peculiar Memon custom is the street-praying for rain. A
number of men and boys assemble about 9 p.m., in the street and sing chants
set to music by some poet of Gujarat or Hindustan. The chants are really
prayers to God for rain, for forgiveness of sins and for absolution from
ingratitude for former bounties. One with a strong voice sings the
recitative, and then the chorus breaks in with the words "Order, O Lord,
the rain-cloud of thy mercy!" Thus chanting the company wanders from street
to street till midnight and continues the practice nightly until the rain
falls.
A Rangari betrothal though simple enough in itself contains certain
elements of interest. The father of the bridegroom usually informs the
Patel of the caste that his son's betrothal will take place on a certain
day, and on the evening of that day the bridegroom's retinue, accompanied
by the Patel and various friends and relations, journeys to the house of
the bride. After the company has fully assembled someone brings forward a
cocoanut on a tray with a few copper coins beside it. The Patel then asks
why the cocoanut has been brought, to which one of the bride's supporters
replies "It is for the betrothal of the daughter of Zeid with Omar." This
feature of the ceremony is obviously of Hindu origin and must be a legacy
of the days when the Rangaris, not yet converted to Islam, belonged to the
Hindu Khatri or Kshattriya caste of Gujarat and Cutch. For the loose copper
coins, which till recently were styled "dharam-paisa," must be lingering
remnants of the Brahman "dakshina," which always accompanied the "shripal"
or auspicious fruit; while among Hindus from the very earliest ages
cocoanuts have been sent by the bride to the bridegroom, sometimes as
earnest of an offer of marriage, sometimes in token of acceptance. After
this ceremony is complete the parties cannot retract, the ceremony being
considered equivalent to a "nikah" or actual registration by the Kazi; and
this fact again discovers the Hindu origin of the Mahomedan Rangaris and of
their customs, for among foreign Musulmans the betrothal is a mere period
of probation and is terminable at the desire of either party. The
"dharam-paisa" usually finds its way into the pocket of the street-Mulla,
who has a room in the neighbouring mosque and is charged with the
circulation of invitations to all members of the Rangari jamat to
assemble at the bride-groom's house for the betrothal-ceremony.
XIII.
THE SIDIS OF BOMBAY.
AN AFRICAN REEL.
Among the most curious of the modern portions of Bombay City one may reckon
Madanpura, which lies off Ripon Road and is commonly known as the home of
the Julhais or Muhammadan weavers from Northern India. It is a rapidly
growing quarter, for new chals and new shops spring up every year and
quickly find a full complement of tenants from among the lower classes of
the population. Amongst those who like the Julhais have moved northward
from the older urban area are the Sidis or Musulmans of African descent,
who supply the steamship companies with stokers, firemen and engine-room
assistants, and the dockyards and workshops with fitters and mechanics. A
hardy race they are, with their muscular frames, thick lips and crisp black
hair--the very last men you would wish to meet in a rough-and-tumble, and
yet withal a jovial people, well-disposed and hospitable to anyone whom
they regard as a friend. If they trust you fully they will give you
_carte blanche_ to witness one of their periodical dances, in which
both sexes participate and, which commencing about 10-30 p.m., usually last
until 3 or 4 o'clock the following morning. They are worth seeing once, if
only for the sake of learning how the Sidis amuse themselves when the
spirit moves them.
* * * * *
Imagine a bare white-washed room, opening directly upon the street, the
walls of which boast of no ornament save a row of tom-toms, and the sides
and window ledges of which are lined with an expectant crowd of Sidis of
varying age, from the small boy of eight years to the elderly headman or
patel, who is responsible for the good behaviour of the community and is
the general arbiter of their internal disputes. This is the Sidi Jamatkhana
or caste-hall: and long before you reach the door threading your way
through a crowd of squatting hawkers, your ears are assailed by the most
deafening noise, reminding you forcibly of the coppersmith's bazaar with an
accompaniment of rythmic drumming. The cause is not far to seek. In the
centre of the room two Sidis are sitting, in cock-horse fashion, astride
what appear to be wooden imitations of a cannon and beating the parchment-
covered mouths of their pseudo-steeds with their hands; at their feet a
third Sidi is playing a kind of _reveille_ upon a flattened kerosine
oil-tin; and in the corner, with his back to the audience, an immense
African--an ebony Pan blowing frenzy through his wide lips--is forcing the
whole weight of his lungs into a narrow reed pipe. The noise is phenomenal,
overpowering, but is plainly attractive to Sidi ears; for the room is
rapidly filling, and more than one of the spectators suddenly leaps from
his seat and circles round the drummers, keeping time to the rythm with
queer movements of his body and feet and whirling a "lathi" round his head
in much the same fashion as the proverbial Irishman at Donneybrook Fair.
* * * * *
Meanwhile there is some movement toward in the half-light of the inner
room. From time to time you catch a glimpse of the black sphinx-faces,
immobile and heavy-eyed, framed in scarves bearing a bold pattern of red
monkeys and blue palm-trees: and as the din increases the owners of those
inscrutable faces creep out and sink down upon a strip of china matting on
the far side of the room. They are the wives and daughters of the
community--some of them young and, from the Sidi point of view, good to
look upon, others emulating the elephant in bulk, but all preternaturally
solemn and immovable. Here and there among the faces you miss the well-
known type. The thick prominent lips yield place to more delicate mouths,
the shapeless nose to the slightly aquiline, for there are half-breeds
here, who take more after their Indian fathers than their African mothers,
and who serve as a living example of the tricks that Nature can play in the
intermingling of races.
[Illustration: Sidis of Bombay.]
And now the piper in the corner sets up a wilder strain; the drummers work
till their muscles crack, now looking as if they were undergoing torture,
now turning half-round to have a joke with a fresh arrival, until the
tension reaches breaking-point and with a shout some ten men dash forward
and forming a ring round the musicians commence the wild "Bomo" dance, even
as their savage ancestors were wont to do in past ages round the camp-fires
of Africa. Watch them as they move round. They are obviously inspired
by the noise and are bent heart and soul upon encouraging the laggards
to join in, One of them, as he passes, shouts out that he sails by
the P. and O. "Dindigul" the next day and intends to make a night
of it; another is wearing the South African medal and says he earned
it as fireman-serang on a troopship from these shores; while a third,
in deference to the English guest, gives vent at intervals to a resonant
"Hip, hip, Hurrah," which almost drowns the unmelodious efforts of
the "maestro" with the kerosine-tin. The "Bomo" dance is followed
with scarce a pause by the "Lewa," a kind of festal revel, in which
the dancers move inwards and outwards as they circle round; and this
in turn yields place to the "Bondogaya" and two religious figures,
the "Damali" and "Chinughi," which are said when properly performed to give
men the power of divination.
Long ere the "Lewa" draws to a close, the women have joined in. First two
of the younger women move from the corner, one of them with eyes half-
closed and preserving a curious rigidity of body even while her feet are
rythmically tapping the floor: then two more join and so on, until the
circumference of the dancing-circle is expanded as far as the size of the
room will allow and not a single woman is left on the china matting. Some
of them are as completely under the spell of the music as the men, but they
exhibit little sign of pleasure or excitement on their faces; and were it
not for an occasional smile or the weird shriek they raise at intervals,
one might suppose them all to be in a state of hypnotism. Perchance they
are. The most vivacious of them all is the old Patelni, who since the death
of Queen Sophie has been in almost complete control of the female portion
of the Sidi community. She has no place in the chain of dancing fanatics
but stands in the centre near the drummers, now breaking into a "pas seul"
on her own account, now urging a laggard with all the force of a powerful
vocabulary, beating time the while upon the shoulder of the nearest
drummer.
So the revel progresses, sometimes dying down into a slow movement in which
only the hoarse breathing of the men, the tap-tap of female heels, is
heard; and anon breaking into a kind of gallop, punctuated with shouts of
"Bravo" "Hip, hip, Hurrah" and the queer dental shriek, which our friendly
serang tells us is the peculiar note of the African reveller. But at length
Nature asserts her sway; and after the dancing has lasted almost without
interruption for three hours, the Sidi Patel, Hassan, gives permission for
a brief recess, during which he introduces to the spectators the son of the
Sidi chief Makanda,--a fine specimen of manhood whose six-foot stature
belies the fact that he is still according to Sidi views a minor incapable
of looking after his own interests. At this juncture too an itinerant
coffee-seller limps into the room with his tin can and cups and is
straightway pounced upon by the breathless performers, who apparently find
coffee better dancing-powder than any other beverage.
"How much" you ask him "do you charge per cup?"
"Saheb," comes the answer, "for two rupees you can treat the whole
gathering, men, women and children to a cup apiece; for this coffee is of
the best!" So we pay our footing in kind and bid adieu to the dancers who
are prepared to continue the revels till the early hours of the morning. As
we turn the corner into Ripon Road, we catch a final glimpse of our
bemedalled serang executing a fandango on the door-step, and of the Sidi
Patel with a cup of hot coffee in his hand shouting in broken English,
"Good-night, God Save the King!"
XIV.
A KONKAN LEGEND.
Legend and tradition have rendered many a spot in India sacrosanct for all
time; and to no tract perhaps have such traditions clung with greater
tenacity than to the western littoral which in the dawn of the centuries
watched the traders of the ancient world sail down from the horizon to
barter in its ports. As with Gujarat and the Coast of Kathiawar, so with
the Konkan it is a broken tale of strange arrivals, strange building,
strange trafficking in human and inanimate freight that greets the student
of ancient history and bewilders the ethnologist. The Konkan, in which in
earliest days "the beasts with man divided empire claimed," and which
itself is dowered with a legendary origin not wholly dissimilar in kind
from the story of Rameses III and his naval conquest, offers a fair sample
of these semi-historical myths in the tale of the arrival of the Chitpavans
at Chiplun in Ratnagiri. For, so runs the tale, on a day long buried in the
abyss of Time it chanced that a terrific storm gathered over the western
waters; and as night drew on the sky, black with serried ranks of clouds,
burst into sharp jets of fire, the rain poured forth in torrents
unquenchable, and the shriek of a mighty whirlwind, mingling with the deep
echoes of Indra's thunder, drowned even the roar of the storm-lashed seas.
Among the ships abroad on that night was one of strange device with high
peaked prow, manned by a crew of fair-skinned and blue-eyed men, which was
forging its way from a northern port to some fair city of Southern India;
and when the storm struck her, she was not many miles from what we now call
the Ratnagiri coast. Bravely did she battle with the tempest; bravely did
her men essay to keep her on her course, bringing to play their hereditary
knowledge of sea-craft, their innate dexterity of brain. But all their
scheming, all their courage proved fruitless. As a bridegroom of old time
scattering the bridal procession by the might of a powerful right arm, the
sea swept away her protectors and carried her, lone and defenceless, on to
the surge-beaten shore. And when morning broke Surya, rising red above the
eastern hills, watched the hungry waves cast up beside her fourteen white
corpses, the remnants of her crew--silent suppliants for the last great
rites which open to man the passage into the next world.