My grandfather's family were of the Lingaet caste, and lived in
Calicut; but they went and settled near Goa at the time the English
were there. It was there my grandfather became a Christian. He and his
wife, and all the family, became Christians at once, and when his
father heard it he was very angry, and turned them all out of the
house. There were very few Christians in those days. Now you see
Christians everywhere, but then we were very proud to see one
anywhere. My grandfather was Havildar[3] in the English army, and when
the English fought against Tippo Sahib, my grandmother followed him
all through the war. She was a very tall, fine, handsome woman, and
very strong; wherever the regiment marched she went, on, on, on, on
(great deal hard work that old woman done). Plenty stories my granny
used to tell about Tippo and how Tippo was killed, and about Wellesley
Sahib, and Monro Sahib, and Malcolm Sahib, and Elphinstone Sahib.[4]
Plenty things had that old woman heard and seen. Ah, he was a good
man, Elphinstone Sahib! My granny used often to tell us how he would
go down and say to the soldiers, "Baba,[5] Baba, fight well. Win the
battles, and each man shall have his cap full of money; and after the
war is over I'll send every one of you to his own home." (And he did
do it.) Then we children plenty proud, when we heard what Elphinstone
Sahib had said. In those days the soldiers were not low-caste people
like they are now. Many, very high-caste men, and come from very far,
from Goa, and Calicut, and Malabar to join the English.
[3] Sergeant of native troops.
[4] The Duke of Wellington, Sir Thomas Monro, Sir John Malcolm and
Mr. Mountstuart Elphinstone.
[5] My children.
My father was a tent lascar,[6] and when the war was over my
grandfather had won five medals for all the good he had done, and my
father had three; and my father was given charge of the Kirkee
stores.[7] My grandmother and mother, and all the family, were in
those woods behind Poona at time of the battle at Kirkee.[8] I've
often heard my father say how full the river was after the
battle--baggage and bundles floating down, and men trying to swim
across--and horses and all such a bustle. Many people got good things
on that day. My father got a large chattee,[9] and two good ponies
that were in the river, and he took them home to camp; but when he got
there the guard took them away. So all his trouble did him no good.
[6] Tent-pitcher.
[7] The Field Arsenal at Kirkee (near Poona).
[8] The battle which decided the fate of the Deccan, and led to the
downfall of Bajee Row Peishwa, and extinction of Mahratta rule.
Fought 13th November, 1817. See Note A.
[9] A Jar.
We were poor people, but living was cheap, and we had plenty comfort.
In those days house rent did not cost more than half a rupee[10] a
month, and you could build a very comfortable house for a hundred
rupees. Not such good houses as people now live in, but well enough
for people like us. Then a whole family could live as comfortably on
six or seven rupees a month as they can now on thirty. Grain, now a
rupee a pound, was then two annas a pound. Common sugar, then one anna
a pound, is now worth four annas a pound. Oil which then sold for six
pice a bottle, now costs four annas. Four annas' worth of salt,
chillies, tamarinds, onions and garlic, would then last a family a
whole month; now the same money would not buy a week's supply. Such
dungeree[11] as you now pay half rupee a yard for, you could then buy
from twenty to forty yards of, for the rupee. You could not get such
good calico then as now, but the dungeree did very well. Beef then
was a pice a pound, and the vegetables cost a pie a day. For half a
rupee you could fill the house with wood. Water also was much cheaper.
You could then get a man to bring you two large skins full, morning
and evening, for a pie; now he would not do it under half a rupee or
more. If the children came crying for fruit, a pie would get them as
many guavas as they liked in the bazaar. Now you'd have to pay that
for each guava. This shows how much more money people need now than
they did then.[12]
[10] The following shows the Narrator's calculation of currency:
1 Pie = 1/4 of a cent.
3 Pie = 1 Pice.
4 Pice = 1 Anna.
16 Annas = 1 Rupee = about 50 cents.
[11] A coarse cotton cloth.
[12] See Note B.
The English fixed the rupee to the value of sixteen annas, in those
days there were some big annas, and some little ones, and you could
sometimes get twenty-two annas for a rupee.
I had seven brothers and one sister. Things were very different in
those days to what they are now. There were no schools then to send
the children to; it was only the great people who could read and
write. If a man was known to be able to write he was plenty proud, and
hundreds and hundreds of people would come to him to write their
letters. Now you find a pen and ink in every house! I don't know what
good all this reading and writing does. My grandfather couldn't write,
and my father couldn't write, and they did very well; but all's
changed now.
My father used to be out all day at his work, and my mother often went
to do coolie-work,[13] and she had to take my father his dinner (my
mother did plenty work in the world); and when my granny was strong
enough she used sometimes to go into the bazaar, if we wanted money,
and grind rice for the shop-keepers, and they gave her half a rupee
for her day's work, and used to let her have the bran and chaff
besides. But afterward she got too old to do that, and besides there
were so many of us children. So she used to stay at home and look
after us while my mother was at work. Plenty bother 'tis to look after
a lot of children. No sooner my granny's back turned than we all run
out in the sun, and play with the dust and stones on the road.
[13] Such work as is done by the Coolie caste, chiefly fetching and
carrying heavy loads.
Then my granny would call out to us, "Come here, children, out of the
sun, and I'll tell you a story. Come in; you'll all get headaches."
So she used to get us together (there were nine of us, and great
little fidgets, like all children), into the house; and there she'd
sit on the floor, and tell us one of the stories I tell you. But then
she used to make them last much longer, the different people telling
their own stories from the beginning as often as possible; so that by
the time she'd got to the end, she had told the beginning over five or
six times. And so she went on, talk, talk, talk, Mera Bap reh![14]
Such a long time she'd go on for, till all the children got quite
tired and fell asleep. Now there are plenty schools to which to send
the children, but there were no schools when I was a young girl; and
the old women, who could do nothing else, used to tell them stories to
keep them out of mischief.
[14] Oh, my Father!
We used sometimes to ask my grandmother, "Are those stories you tell
us really true? Were there ever such people in the world?" She
generally answered, "I don't know, but maybe there are somewhere." I
don't believe there are any of those people living; I dare say,
however, they did once live; but my granny believed more in those
things than we do now. She was a Christian, she worshiped God and
believed in our Saviour, but still she would always respect the Hindoo
temples. If she saw a red stone, or an image of Gunputti[15] or any of
the other Hindoo gods, she would kneel down and say her prayers there,
for she used to say, "Maybe there's something in it."
[15] The Hindoo God of Wisdom.
About all things she would tell us pretty stories--about men, and
animals, and trees, and flowers, and stars. There was nothing she did
not know some tale about. On the bright cold-weather nights, when you
can see more stars than at any other time of the year, we used to like
to watch the sky, and she would show us the Hen and Chickens,[16] and
the Key,[17] and the Scorpion, and the Snake, and the Three Thieves
climbing up to rob the Ranee's silver bedstead, with their mother
(that twinkling star far away) watching for her sons' return.
Pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, you can see how her heart beats, for she is
always frightened, thinking, "Perhaps they will be caught and hanged!"
[16] The Pleiades.
[17] The Great Bear.
Then she would show us the Cross,[18] that reminds us of our
Saviour's, and the great pathway of light[19] on which He went up to
heaven. It is what you call the Milky Way. My granny usen't to call it
that: she used to say that when our Lord returned up to heaven that
was the way He went, and that ever since it has shone in memory of His
ascension, so beautiful and bright.
[18] The Southern Cross.
[19] The Milky Way. This is an ancient Christian legend.
She always said a star with a smoky tail (comet) meant war, and she
never saw a falling star without saying, "There's a great man died;"
but the fixed stars she used to think were all really good people,
burning like bright lamps before God.
As to the moon, my granny used to say she's most useful to debtors who
can't pay their debts. Thus: A man who borrows money he knows he
cannot pay, takes the full moon for witness and surety. Then, if any
man so silly as to lend him money and go and ask him for it, he can
say, "The moon's my surety; go catch hold of the moon!" Now, you see,
no man can do that; and what's more, when the moon's once full, it
grows every night less and less, and at last goes out altogether.
All the Cobras in my grandmother's stories were seven-headed. This
puzzled us children, and we would say to her, "Granny, are there any
seven-headed Cobras now? For all the Cobras we see that the conjurors
bring round have only one head each." To which she used to answer,
"No, of course there are no seven-headed Cobras now. That world is
gone, but you see each Cobra has a hood of skin; that is the remains
of another head." Then we would say, "Although none of those old
seven-headed Cobras are alive now, maybe there are some of their
children living somewhere." But at this my granny used to get vexed,
and say, "Nonsense! you are silly little chatter-boxes; get along with
you!" And, though we often looked for the seven-headed Cobras, we
never could find any of them.
My old granny lived till she was nearly a hundred; when she got very
old she rather lost her memory, and often made mistakes in the stories
she told us, telling a bit of one story and then joining on to it a
bit of some other; for we children bothered her too much about them,
and sometimes she used to get very tired of talking, and when we asked
her for a story, would answer, "You must ask your mother about it; she
can tell you."
Ah! those were happy days, and we had plenty ways to amuse ourselves.
I was very fond of pets; I had a little dog that followed me
everywhere, and played all sorts of pretty tricks, and I and my
youngest brother used to take the little sparrows out of their nests
on the roof of our house and tame them. These little birds got so fond
of me they would always fly after me; as I was sweeping the floor one
would perch on my head, and two or three on my shoulders, and the rest
come fluttering after. But my poor father and mother used to shake
their heads at me when they saw this, and say, "Ah, naughty girl, to
take the little birds out of their nests: that stealing will bring you
no good." All my family were very fond of music. You know that Rosie
(my daughter) sings very nicely and plays upon the guitar, and my
son-in-law plays on the pianoforte and the fiddle (we've got two
fiddles in our house now), but Mera Bap reh! how well my grandfather
sang! Sometimes of an evening he would drink a little toddy,[20] and
be quite cheerful, and sing away; and all we children liked to hear
him. I was very fond of singing. I had a good voice when I was young,
and my father used to be so fond of making me sing, and I often sang
to him that Calicut song about the ships sailing on the sea[21] and
the little wife watching for her husband to come back, and plenty more
that I forget now; and my father and brothers would be so pleased at
my singing, and laugh and say, "That girl can do anything." But now my
voice is gone, and I didn't care to sing any more since my son died,
and my heart been so sad.
[20] An intoxicating drink made from the juice of the palm tree.
[21] See Note C.
In those days there were much fewer houses in Poona than there are
now, and many more wandering gipsies, and such like. They were very
troublesome, doing nothing but begging and stealing, but people gave
them all they wanted, as it was believed that to incur their ill-will
was very dangerous. It was not safe even to speak harshly of them. I
remember one day, when I was quite a little girl, running along by my
mother's side, when she was on her way to the bazaar: we happened to
pass the huts of some of these people, and I said to her "See, mother,
what nasty, dirty people those are; they live in such ugly little
houses, and they look as if they never combed their hair nor washed."
When I said this, my mother turned round quite sharply and boxed my
ears, saying, "Because God has given you a comfortable home and good
parents, is that any reason for you to laugh at others who are poorer
and less happy?" "I meant no harm," I said; and when we got home I
told my father what my mother had done, and he said to her, "Why did
you slap the child?" She answered, "If you want to know, ask your
daughter why I punished her. You will then be able to judge whether I
was right or not." So I told my father what I had said about the
gipsies, and when I told him, instead of pitying me, he also boxed my
ears very hard. So that was all I got for telling tales against my
mother!
But they both did it, fearing if I spoke evil of the gipsies and were
not instantly punished, some dreadful evil would befall me.
It was after my granny that I was named "Anna Liberata." She died
after my father, and when I was eleven years old. Her eyes were quite
bright, her hair black, and her teeth good to the last. If I'd been
older then, I should have been able to remember more of her stories.
Such a number as she used to tell! I'm afraid my sister would not be
able to remember any of them. She has had much trouble; that puts
those sort of things out of people's heads; besides, she is a goose.
She is younger than I am, although you would think her so much older,
for her hair turned gray when she was very young, while mine is quite
black still. She is almost bald too, now, as she pulled out her hair
because it was gray. I always said to her, "Don't do so; for you can't
make yourself any younger, and it is better, when you are getting old,
to look old. Then people will do whatever you ask them! But however
old you may be, if you look young, they'll say to you, 'You are young
enough and strong enough to do your own work yourself.'"
My mother used to tell us stories too; but not so many as my granny.
A few years ago there might be found several old people who knew those
sorts of stories; but now children go to school, and nobody thinks of
remembering or telling them--they'll soon be all forgotten. It is true
there are books with some stories something like these, but they
always put them down wrong. Sometimes when I cannot remember a bit of
a story, I ask some one about it; then they say, "There is a story of
that name in my book. I don't know it, but I'll read." Then they read
it to me, but it is all wrong, so that I get quite cross, and make
them shut up the book. For in the books they cut the stories quite
short, and leave out the prettiest part, and they jumble up the
beginning of one story with the end of another--so that it is
altogether wrong.
When I was young, old people used to be very fond of telling these
stories; but instead of that, it seems to me that now the old people
are fond of nothing but making money.
Then I was married. I was twelve years old then. Our native people
have a very happy life till we marry. The girls live with their father
and mother and brothers and sisters, and have got nothing to do but
amuse themselves, and got father and mother to take care of them; but
after they're married they go to live at their husband's house, and
the husband's mother and sisters are often very unkind to them.
You English people can't understand that sort of thing. When an
Englishman marries, he goes to a new house, and his wife is the
mistress of it; but our native people are very different. If the
father is dead, the mother and unmarried sisters live in the son's
house, and rule it; his wife is nothing in the house. And the mother
and sisters say to the son's wife, "This is not your house--you've not
always lived in it; you cannot be mistress here." And if the wife
complains to her husband, and he speaks about it, they say, "Very
well, if you are such an unnatural son, you'd better turn your mother
and sisters out of doors; but while we live here, we'll rule the
house." So there is always plenty fighting. It's not unkind of the
mother and sisters--it's custom.
My husband was a servant in Government House--that was when Lord Clare
was governor here. When I was twenty years old, my husband died of a
bad fever, and left me with two children--the boy and the girl, Rosie.
I had no money to keep them with, so I said, "I'll go to service," and
my mother-in-law said, "How can you go with two children, and so young,
and knowing nothing?" But I said, "I can learn, and I'll go;" and a
kind lady took me into her service. When I went to my first place, I
hardly knew a word of English (though I knew our Calicut language, and
Portuguese, and Hindostani, and Mahratti well enough), and I could not
hold a needle. I was so stupid, like a Coolie-woman;[22] but my
mistress was very kind to me, and I soon learnt; she did not mind the
trouble of teaching me. I often think, "Where find such good Christian
people in these days?" To take a poor, stupid woman and her two
children into the house--for I had them both with me, Rosie and the
boy. I was a sharp girl in those days; I did my mistress' work and I
looked after the children too. I never left them to any one else. If
she wanted me for a long time, I used to bring the children into the
room and set them down on the floor, so as to have them under my own
eye whilst I did her work. My mistress was very fond of Rosie, and used
to teach her to work and read. After some time my mistress went home,
and since then I have been in eight places.
[22] A low caste--hewers of wood and drawers of water.
My brother-in-law was valet at that time to Napier Sahib, up in Sind.
All the people and servants were very fond of that Sahib. My
brother-in-law was with him for ten years; and he wanted me to go up
there to get place as ayah, and said, "You quick, sharp girl, and know
English very well; you easily get good place and make plenty money."
But I such a foolish woman I would not go. I write and tell him, "No,
I can't come, for Sind such a long way off, and I cannot leave the
children." I plenty proud then. I give up all for the children. But
now what good? I know your language. What use? To blow the fire? I
only a miserable woman, fit to go to cook-room and cook the dinner. So
go down in the world, a poor woman (not much good to have plenty in
head and empty pocket!) but if I'd been a man I might now be a
Fouzdar.[23]
[23] Chief Constable.
I was at Kolapore[24] at the time of the mutiny, and we had to run
away in the middle of the night; but I've told you before all about
that. Then seven years ago my mother died (she was ninety when she
died), and we came back to live at Poona, and my daughter was married,
and I was so happy and pleased.
[24] Capital of the Kolapore State, in the Southern Mahratta country.
I gave a feast then to three hundred people, and we had music and
dancing, and my son, he so proud he dancing from morning to night, and
running here and there arranging everything; and on that day I said,
"Throw the doors open, and any beggar, any poor person come here, give
them what they like to eat, for whoever comes shall have enough, since
there's no more work for me in the world." So, thinking I should be
able to leave service, and give up work, I spent all the money I had
left. That was not very much, for in sending my son to school I'd
spent a great deal. He was such a beauty boy--tall, straight,
handsome--and so clever. They used to say he looked more like my
brother than my son, and he said to me, "Mammy, you've worked for us
all your life; now I'm grown up, I'll get a clerk's place and work for
you. You shall work no more, but live in my house." But last year he
was drowned in the river. That was my great sad. Since then I couldn't
lift up my head. I can't remember things now as I used to do, and all
is muddled in my head, six and seven. It makes me sad sometimes to
hear you laughing and talking so happy with your father and mother and
all your family, when I think of my father, and mother, and brothers,
and husband, and son, all dead and gone! No more happy home like that
for me. What should I care to live for? I would come to England with
you, for I know you would be good to me and bury me when I die, but I
cannot go so far from Rosie. My one eye put out, my other eye left. I
could not lose it too. If it were not for Rosie and her children I
should like to travel about and see the world. There are four places I
have always wished to see--Calcutta, Madras, England and Jerusalem (my
poor mother always wished to see Jerusalem, too--that her great hope);
but I shall not see them now. Many ladies wanted to take me to England
with them, and if I had gone I should have saved plenty money, but now
it is too late to think of that. Besides, it would not be much use.
What's the good of my saving money? Can I take it away with me when I
die? My father and grandfather did not do so, and they had enough to
live on till they died. I have enough for what I want, and I've plenty
poor relations. They all come to me, asking for money, and I give it
them. I thank our Saviour there are enough good Christians here to
give me a slice of bread and cup of water when I can't work for it. I
do not fear to come to want.
Government House,
Parell, Bombay, 1866.
[Decoration]