sea fared shorewards and found the blue-eyed mariners lying dead beside
their vessel; and they, marvelling greatly what manner of men these might
have been, took counsel among themselves and decided to bestow upon them
the last rites of the dead. So they built a mighty funeral pyre for them
with logs of resinous wood hewn in the dark forest that stretched inland,
and they fortified the souls of the dead seamen with prayer and
lamentation. But lo! a miracle: for as the flames hissed upwards,
purging the bodies of all earthly taint, life returned to them by the grace
of Parashurama; and they rose one and all from the pyre and praised Him of
the Axe, in that he had raised them from the dead and made them truly
"Chitta-Pavana" or the "Pyre Purified." And they dwelt henceforth in the
land of the arrow of their Deliverer and were at peace, forgetting their
former home and their drear wandering over the pathless sea, and taking
perchance unto themselves wives from among the ancient holders of the soil.
Now the place where they abode is called Chittapolana or Chiplun unto this
day.
[Illustration: Parashurama and the Chitpavans.]
* * * * *
And it came to pass in the fulness of time, as the Sahyadri-khand tells,
that Parashurama called all Brahmans to a great festival in the new land
which he had created between the mountains and the sea. But the twice-born
hearkened not to his words; whereas the God waxing wroth determined to
create new Brahmans who would not turn a deaf ear to his counsel. Revolving
this decision in his heart he walked down to the shore, and there in the
seaward-gazing burning-ground he met a stranger-people, white-skinned,
blue-eyed, and fair to look upon, and asked them who they were and whence
they came. "Fishermen (or hunters) are we," they answered, "and dwell upon
the seashore, sixty families of us in all." And the God was pleased with
them and raising them to the rank of Brahmans, divided them into fourteen
"Gotras," and made them a solemn promise that should they ever call him to
mind in any real emergency he would come to their assistance. So they dwelt
for many a day, waxing by the favour of God both numerous and learned,
until by ill-hap they hearkened into evil counsel and called upon the God
without just reason. And He, when he learned what they had done, was
exceeding wroth and cursed them, dooming them to sorrow and to the service
of other men so long as the sun and moon should endure. Thus the Chitpavans
gained their Brahmanhood, but lost their right to superiority in that they
flouted the promise of their God.
Such are the legends, popular and Puranic, of the coming of the Chitpavans
to Western India. That some historic truth lies below the garbled tale of
shipwreck and resurrection is partly proved by the physical traits of their
descendants,--of those men, in fact, whose immediate ancestors, employed at
first as messengers or spies of Maratha chieftains, by innate cleverness,
tact, and faculty for management gradually welded together the loose
Maratha confederacy and became directors of the internal and external
politics of the Peshwa's dominions. For to this day the true Chitpavan
perserves the fair skin, the strange grey eyes, the aspect of refined
strength and intelligence, which must have characterized the shipwrecked
mariners of old fable and marked them out in later years as strangers in a
strange land. But whence came they, these foreign immigrants, who after
long sojourn in the country of their adoption moved upwards to the Deccan
and stood within the shadow of the Peshwa's throne? Much has been written
of their origin, much that is but empty theory: but, as 'Historicus' has
remarked in the columns of a local journal, the lesson to be learned from
their home dialect and from their strange surnames,--Gogte, Lele, Karve,
Gadre, Hingne and so on,--is that the Chitpavan Brahmans of Western India
came in legendary ages from Gedrosia, Kirman and the Makran coast, and that
prior to their domicile in those latitudes they probably formed part of the
population of ancient Egypt or Africa. That they were once a seafaring and
fishing people is proved by the large number of words of oceanic origin
which still characterize their home-speech, while according to the
authority above mentioned the "Chandrakant" which they recognize is not the
sweating crystal of Northern India and ancient Sanskrit lore, but a fossil
coral found upon the Makran coast. Forty years ago Rao Saheb V. N. Mandlik
remarked that "the ancestors of the tribe probably came by ships either
from some other port in India or from the opposite coast of Africa;" and in
these later days his theory is corroborated by General Haig, who traces
them back to the great marts on the Indus and thence still further back to
the Persian Gulf and Egypt. Why or at what date they left the famous
country of the Pharaohs, none can say: but that these white-skinned
Brahmans are descendants of such people as the Berbers, who belonged of
right to the European races, seems the most plausible theory of their
origin yet put forward, and serves as an additional proof of the enormous
influence exercised upon posterity by the famous country of the Nile.
Thus perhaps the legend of storm and shipwreck is not false, but records in
poetic diction the arrival on these shores of men who presumably had in
some degree inherited the genius of the most famous and most civilized
country of prehistoric ages, and who had by long trafficking in dangerous
waters and by the hardships of long migration acquired that self-reliance
and love of mastery which has been bequeathed almost unchanged to their
Brahmanised descendants. The Chitpavans were indeed the children of the
storm, and something of the spirit of the storm lives in them still. Some
trace is theirs of the old obstinacy which taught those pale ancestors to
fight against insuperable forces until they were cast naked and broken upon
the seashore. And peradventure the secret lesson of the ancient folk-tale
is this, that the God of the Axe, despite the curse, is still at hand to
help them along the path to new birth, provided always that their cause is
fair, that they invoke not his aid for trivial or unjust ends, and that
they have been truly purified in the pyres of affliction.
XV.
NUR JAN.
"The singer only sang the Joy of Life,
For all too well, alas! the singer knew,
How hard the daily toil, how keen the strife,
How salt the falling tear, the joys how few."
"Nay, Saheb, I accept no money for my songs from you and your friend; for
you have taken a kindly interest in me and my past history, and have shewn
me the respect which my birth warrants, but which alas! my occupation hath
made forfeit in the eyes of the world. But,--if you have found satisfaction
in my singing, then write somewhat of me and of my Mimi to the paper, even
as you did of Imtiazan, that thus your people--the people who know not the
inner life of India may learn that I was not born amid the saringis and the
bells, and that I, the singer, hide within my heart a life-long regret."
[Illustration: Nur Jan.]
So she spake, seated on the clean white floor-cloth of the brightly-lighted
"diwankhana," like some delicate flower cradled on a crystal lake. We had
seen her once before at the house of an Indian friend, who had hospitably
invited a company to witness her songs and dances; we had heard her chant
the subtle melodies of Hindustan and even old English roundelays
for the special delectation of the English guests; we had remarked her
delicate hands, the great dark eyes, the dainty profile, the little ivory
feet, and above all the gentle voice and courteous bearing; and we realized
that Nur Jan had not been bred to this uncurtained life, but must once have
known the care, affection and the gentle training of a patrician home.
By what caprice of evil fortune had she come to this, hiring out her voice
and her nimble feet to enhance the pleasure of a chance entertainment, far
from her own people and from her northern Indian home? What secret lay in
the song of the frail maiden on the banks of the Jamna, in the earnest
request she made to us not to mention the name of dead Royalty before her
attendant-musicians? The mystery remained unsolved for that evening; and it
was not till some weeks later that the chances of an official enquiry
brought us face to face again. But this time the ill-starred dancing-skirt
and bells had been locked away; and in their stead we saw the silken
jacket, the spangled pale-blue sari, covered by a diaphanous black veil,
like a thin cloud half-veiling the summer heavens, the necklace of pearls
round the olive pillar of her throat, and above them the calm face and the
wealth of dark hair that scorned all artificial adornment. There she sat in
her own house, singing to two rich Arabs and a subordinate agent of one of
the greatest rulers of Asia, while behind her Mimi, aged two years,--the
legacy of a dead affection, crooned and tried to clap her small hands in
rythm with her mother's song. And in the pauses of her singing, while the
musicians tightened their bows and the silver "pan-box" was passed round to
her Indian-guests, she lifted a little way, a very little way the curtain
of the past.
"Yea, Saheb, you have rightly spoken. I come of a good family, and as a
child I was sent to school in Calcutta and learned your English tongue.
When I grew to girlhood I determined to study medicine and serve the women
of my faith as a doctor. But barely had I commenced the preliminary lessons
of compounding when the trouble came upon our house, and my sister and I
were brought away from the old home to Bombay and bidden to find the
wherewithal to support those to whom we owed respect and affection. Saheb,
with us the word of near relations is law, and their support a sacred duty.
What could we, gently-bred Mahomedan girls, do in a strange city? We had
always liked singing and had taken lessons in our home; and it seemed that
herein lay the only chance of supporting ourselves and others. Therefore,
not without hesitation, not without tears, we bade adieu to the 'pardah' of
our people and cast the pearls of our singing before the public. Thus has
it been since that day. My sister by good-hap has married well and regained
the shelter of the curtain: but I am still unwed and must sing until the
end comes."
"How can I seek help of my grandsire? Have I not disgraced his name by
adopting this life? And were I mean enough to ask his favour, would he not
first insist that I become once more 'pardahnashin'? I cannot live again
behind the screen, for too long have I been independent. The filly that has
once run free cares not afterwards for the stall and bridle. It has been an
evil mistake, Saheb, but one not of my making. I sometimes loathe the
lights, the tinsel, the bells, aye even the old songs; for they remind me
of what I might have been, but for another's fault, and, of what I am. You
ask of Mimi's future? So long as I live, she never shall play a part in
this work. Mated with a good man of mine own faith she will never know
regret. That is my great wish, Saheb. The issue lies with Allah."
So the tale ran on with its accompaniment of song, its suggestion of
regret. Once in the middle of a ballad a funeral passes in the street
below. The mourner's chant sounds above the bourdon of the tom-tom, the
wail of the saringis. "Hush, hush" cries Nur Jan, "let the dead pass in
peace. It is not meet that the song of the dancing-girl should be heard
upon the final journey." One more refrain, one more question on the mystery
of her birth, and we ask permission to depart, offering at the same time
some small token of our approval of her songs, to which she replies in the
words that commence this chapter. We catch a last glimpse of her, bidding
us good-bye in the gentle manner that tells its own tale, and of Mimi
crooning to herself and trying to push a much-crumpled playing-card,--the
Queen of Hearts,--into the cinglet of her small pyjamas.
XVI.
GOVERNOR AND KOLI.
A FISHERMAN'S LEGEND.
A friend has supplied me with the following quaint history of a well-known
Marathi ballad, which is widely chanted by the lower classes in and around
Bombay. Composed originally as a song of seed-time, it has now lost its
primary significance and is sung by men at their work or by mothers hushing
their children in the dark alleys of the city. The verse runs thus:--
"Nakhwa Koli jat bholi,
Ghara madhye dravya mahamar,
Topiwalyane hukum kela,
Batliwalyachya barabar."
which may be rudely interpreted as follows:--
"Seaman Koli of simple mould
Hath in his house great store of gold
Lo! at the order of Topiwala
Koli is peer of Batliwala"!
Now the word "Topiwala" means an Englishman; and "Batliwala" is a reference
to the first Parsi Baronet, Sir Jamsetji Jeejeebhoy: albeit the word is
often used as a synonym for "millionaire" in much the same way as
"Shankershet" has crept into Marathi parlance as the equivalent of "rich
and prosperous."
The story, which the Kolis relate with pride, refers to the great wealth of
Zuran Patel, the ancestor of Mahadev Dharma Patel who at this moment is the
headman and leader of the Christian Kolis of Bombay.
That Zuran Patel was a rich man can be proved from the ancient documents
relating to the properties recently acquired by the Improvement Trust in
and around Mandvi. For his name appears as chief owner in many of them; and
it seems clear that the spoils which he gathered from the sea formed the
basis of a goodly heritage upon dry land. He was an intimate friend of a
certain Parsi millionaire, whom the composer of the ballad has supposed to
be Sir Jamserji Jeejeebhoy, but who was more probably a member of the great
family of Wadia,--the original ship-builders and dock-masters of the East
India Company.
It chanced one day that the Governor of Bombay (perhaps Lord Falkland or
Lord Elphinstone) wandered into Mandvi Koliwada and came suddenly upon the
Parsi and the Koli Patel sitting in converse with one another. Up rose the
Parsi millionaire and made obeisance; but the Koli quite indifferent and
not recognising the solitary "Topiwala," remained in his seat. His
Excellency's curiosity was aroused; and asking the Parsi the name of his
scantily-clad comrade, he was informed that the man was a rich fisherman,
who from time to time was accustomed to spread out his piles of gold and
silver in the street to dry. "And" added the Parsi, "so simple and
guileless is he that the people walk over the glittering heap with wax
on their feet, thus robbing him in open daylight; and yet he does
nought, believing that the pile of wealth must shrink even as his
piles of fish shrink, when placed in the sun to dry." Interested in the
man's personality, the Governor asked the Parsi to introduce the Patel to
him, and enquired whether he would grant some portion of his wealth to
Government. "Yes, as much as the Government may desire" was the ready
answer. "But" quoth his Excellency, "what will you ask of Government
in return?" "Only this," answered the Koli, "that Government will
grant me the exclusive privilege of roofing my house with silver tiles."
After some little discussion, a compromise was effected, and Zuran
Patel received permission, as a special mark of favour, to place a few
copper tiles above his house.
The house in Dongri Street, where Mahadev Dharma Patel now resides, is
reputed to be the identical house upon which the copper tiles were once
fixed. But many alterations have taken place, and the tiles have
disappeared. For many years, so runs the tale, they were preserved as a
sort of family escutcheon, being taken off the roof and fixed in a
conspicuous position in the wall. Perhaps they were stolen, perhaps
they were worn away by constant polishing, who can say? They have passed
beyond the realm of fact to that of legend. Suffice it to say that the
Kolis firmly believe the whole story, and add that Zuran Patel's house
was the only real strong-house in Bombay at that epoch, the walls being
built upon a framework of iron girders and the cellar, containing
the piles of silver, being stouter than a modern safe. It seems not
improbable that the old cellars of Mandvi Kolivada were originally the
colouring-ponds of the fishermen, which, as building progressed and
crowding set in, were enclosed with tiles and brick and mortar and
utilised as store-rooms.
Such is the history of the quaint ballad of the English Governor, the
Parsi millionaire, and the Koli Patel. It seems to us to crystallise the
honourable connection and friendship which has existed from the earliest
days of British rule in Bombay between the aboriginal-fishermen, the Parsi
pioneers of commerce and the English Government in the person of its
highest representative. It recalls to us the days of siege and warfare
when the Governor of the struggling settlement sought the help of the
sturdy fishermen and when Rustom Dorabji put himself at their head, formed
them into a rudely-drilled corps, and drove the Sidi off the island. It
recalls the action of the Honourable Thomas Hodges in their behalf a
century and a half ago, and the subsequent confirmation of their ancient
rights by Sir James Fergusson and Sir Bartle Frere. And lastly it
represents a belief, which has attained almost the sanctity of religion
in the heart of Kolidom, that between themselves and the King's
representative in Bombay there exists a bond of good-feeling and respect
which dating as it does from 1675 has been welded firm by time and
shall never be broken.
[Illustration: A Koli.]
* * * * *
XVII.
THE TRIBE ERRANT.
[Illustration: A Deccani Fruit-seller.]
In the more thickly-populated quarters of the city of Bombay--quarters that
are rarely explored by the European, a succession of criers and hawkers
pass through the streets from morn till eve and sometimes far into the
night. In the early morning, before the house-sparrow has chirped himself
and his family into wakefulness, you catch the doleful and long-drawn cry
of the early Fakir or Mahomedan beggar, whose object is not so much to wake
the Faithful and bid them remember "the prayer that is better than sleep"
as to be the earliest bird to catch the mouthful of Moslem charity. Watch
him as he awakens the echoes of the quarter by repeating in the most
melancholy tones Ali's famous gift of his sons to the beggars of the Hegira
or some other great tradition of the generosity of Ali, set to verse for
the special behoof of his brotherhood by some needy poetaster like the
famous Nazir of Agra. He is followed by another who chants in deep bass
tones a legend explanatory of the virtues of the great saint of Baghdad.
But Ali is the favourite of the beggar-tribe, because forsooth the beggar
runs no risk in singing his praises. If one glorify the other three
Khalifas in a Sunni quarter, it is well with one, but not so in an area
devoted to the Shia population: and so the beggar chooses Ali's name
as a convenient and fitting means of opening the purse-strings of
both the great Musulman sects.
As the day dawns, sturdy Hyderabad chorus-singers pass along the streets
chanting the "prayers for the Prophet" in voices that awaken the denizens
of the dark garrets and hidden courts of the teeming chals. And after them
come the beggars of that class which is the peculiar product of Mahomedan
life in Bombay. As the majority of the middle-class Musulmans and all the
poorer class live in chals or "malas," each family occupying one or at most
two rooms in a building, the passages, corridors and staircases of these
human warrens become the chosen paths of those astute mendicants who
disdain not, when chance offers, to turn their hand to a little quiet
thieving. Even as they fare upon their rounds, you catch the welcome call
of the vendor of "jaleibi malpurwa," who sells wheat-cakes fried rarely in
_ghi_ and generally in oil, and the "jaleibi" a sort of macaroni fried
likewise in oil. These crisp cakes are a favourite breakfast-dish of the
early-rising factory-operative, who finds himself thus saved the drudgery
of cooking when he is barely awake and when moreover he is in a hurry to
reach the scene of his daily labours. The vendor of these dainties is truly
"a study in oils," and his hands, which serve the purpose of knife and fork
for the separation of his customers' demands, drip--but not with myrrh.
Though a vendor of oleaginous dainties, he is himself far from well-
nourished. You can see his collar-bone and count his ribs and almost mark
the beatings of his poor profit-counting heart. A dirty dhoti girds his
loins, and upon his head is a turban of the same questionable hue which
serves both as a head-dress and as a support for his tray of cakes. If a
Musulman, he wears only a skullcap, a shirt or jacket and a pair of soiled
baggy trousers. Once he has called, the jaleibi-vendor has a habit of
presenting himself every day at the very hour when the children of the
house begin to clamour for food, and calmly defies the angry order of the
householder not to appear unless bidden.
Next comes the vendor of "chah, chah garam, chaaah garaaam" or hot tea, who
is unusually an Irani. For having introduced tea into Western Asia the
inhabitants of the land of "the gul and the bulbul" claim the secret of
making a perfect infusion of the celestial leaves. He is no longer the
embodiment of Tom Moore's Heroic Guebre, this tea-vending Irani, and his
apron forbids the suggestion that he has any association with Gao, the
subverter of a monarchy and the slayer of the tyrant Zuhhac. He has sadly
degenerated from the type of his Guebre ancestor. If he owns a shop he
combines the sale of other commodities with the tea business. He has an
ice-cream, a sherbet and a "cold-drink" department; and he touts for
customers, singing the praises of hot and cold beverages in a language
redolent of Persian. It does not pay him to use fresh tea-leaves from
Kangra or China; so he purchases his stock from small traders, who in their
turn obtain it as a bargain from butlers or stewards. The latter dry them
after one infusion by their masters and, mixing some unused leaves, make up
a fresh box and dispose of it in the markets. As for soda-water and allied
beverages, he gets his supply from the cheapest manufacturers; while his
ice-cream contains probably more water than milk and is flavoured, not with
vanilla, pine-apple or orange, but with some article which he declares is a
complete antidote against internal discomfort. He prepares his tea _a la
Russe_ in a brightly-polished samovar which compares favourably with his
tea-cups and country-made tin spoons. He charges his customer from two to
four pice for this delightful mixture which has a flavour of hot-water and
iron-rust rather than of tea.
Here too comes the itinerant fruit-seller, very often a woman, who hawks
fruit of all kinds from the superior mango to the acid "karaunda" of the
Ghats. For the sale of country-mangoes a place of vantage is required; so
she takes up a strong position on the roadside or on the doorstep of a
house and sets to work to pick out her best fruit and place it on the top
of her basket. She is generally a Deccani, either Musulman or Hindu,
varying in age from 20 to 40 and is fully capable of conciliating the Lord
of the Bombay pavements, when he somewhat roughly commands her to move on.
"Jemadar Saheb" she calls him; and if this flattery is insufficient she
offers one of her ripest mangoes with a glance that he cannot resist. It is
too much for the sepoy: he smiles and tramps off, and she holds her
position undisturbed. If she be a Hindu, you will probably notice
the bright-red mark on her forehead, joining brow to brow, or, in
the words of a Persian poet, uniting two Parthian or Tartar bows
into Kama's Long-bow. The male mango-hawker is a Deccan Hindu or
Musulman gardener who purchases a stock of showy inferior fruit from the
wholesale dealers. After the mango season is over he becomes a vendor of
Poona figs or Nagpur oranges. He is often a small, dark, muscular man who
began life as a day-labourer in the highly-cultivated fields of the Deccan
and has journeyed to the city with his modest savings tightly tied up in
his waist-cloth in the hope of eventually cutting as big a figure in the
village home as does his friend Arjuna, who some years ago returned to his
village as a capitalist and is even now the bosom-friend of the Patel.
[Illustration: The Coffee-seller.]
The itinerant coffee-vendor is a characteristic feature of the Musulman
quarters of Bombay. Of Arab or Egyptian origin, this coffee-trade
immediately proved attractive to the Musulman public and, inasmuch as it
requires little stock or capital, has been a boon to many a poor Mahomedan
anxious to turn an honest penny. The "kahwe-wala" has no cry and yet
manages to proclaim his presence by sounds which are audible in the inmost
darkness of the chals. He is the beetle of the pedlar tribe. He does not
sing, he does not cry--he stridulates. Carrying in his hand a large number
of small coffee-cups, fitted one within another, he strikes them together
like a string of castanets, while in the left hand he bears a portable
stove-like article on which rests his tin or copper kettle.