CALICUT.
Can those three or four bungalows, with that stick-like light-house
between them and the half-dozen tiled and thatched roofs peeping from
amongst the trees, compose Calicut—the city of world-wide celebrity,
which immortalised herself by giving a name to calico?
Yes; but when we land we shall find a huge mass of huts and hovels, each
built in its own yard of cocoas with bazaars, vast and peculiar-looking
mosques, a chapel or two, courts and cutcherries, a hospital, jail,
barracks, and a variety of bungalows. Seen from the sea, all the towns on
this coast look like straggling villages, with a background of distant
blue hill,[58] and a middle space of trees, divided by a strip of sand
from the watery plain.
Calicut is no longer the
Cidade—nobre e rica[59]
described by Camoens’ tuneful muse. Some, indeed, declare that the
present city is not the one alluded to in the Lusiad. There is a
tradition amongst the natives of the country, that the ancient Calicut
was merged beneath the waves; but in the East, tradition is always a
terrible romancer. So we will still continue to believe that here old De
Gama first cast anchor and stepped forth from his weather-beaten ship, at
the head of his mail-clad warriors, upon the land of promise.
D’Anville assigns two dates to the foundation of Calicut, the earlier
one[60]—A.D. 805—will suit historical purposes sufficiently well. There
is nothing to recommend the position selected. During the monsoon, no
vessel can approach the anchorage-ground with safety, and even in the
fine season many have been wrecked upon the reefs of rocks which line
the coast. Very little wind suffices to raise the surf: Nature has made
no attempt at a harbour, and the ships lying in an open roadstead, are
constantly liable to be driven on the sand and mud-banks around them.
Tippoo Sultan—a very long-headed individual, by the bye—saw the defects
of the situation, and determining to remove the town about six miles
southward to the mouth of the Beypoor, or Arricode river, where a natural
port exists, adopted the energetic measure of almost destroying the old
city, that the inhabitants might experience less regret in leaving their
homes. The Moslem emperor regarded Calicut with no peculiar good-will.
He and his subjects were perpetually engaged in little squabbles, which
by no means tended to promote kindly feeling between them.[61] On one
occasion, offended by the fanaticism of the Nair and Tiyar Hindoos, their
ruler pulled down almost every pagoda in the place, and with the stones
erected a splendid tank in the middle of the large open space where the
travellers’ bungalow now stands. Tippoo unfortunately failed in this
project of removal, and when the British became supreme in Malabar, the
natives all returned to their ancient haunts. Calicut, for many reasons,
is not likely to be deserted under the present rule: it is the point to
which all the lines of road which intersect the country converge; besides
it would now scarcely be worth our while to bring about so violent a
change for the purpose of eventual improvement.
When old Nelkunda began to decline, Calicut rose to importance, probably
in consequence of its being in very early times the metropolis of the
Samiry Rajah (the Zamorin of Camoens), lord paramount of Malabar. Shortly
after the origin of Islam, it was visited and colonised by thousands of
Arabs,[62] who diffused energy and activity throughout the land. As
trade increased, Calicut throve because of its centrical position between
the countries east and west of Cape Comorin. Even in the present day,
although Goa, and subsequently Bombay, have left the ancient emporium of
Western India but little of its former consequence, commerce[63] still
continues to flourish there. The export is brisker than the import trade:
the latter consists principally of European piece goods and metals, the
former comprises a vast variety of spices, drugs, valuable timber and
cotton cloths.
* * * * *
We will now take a walk through the town and remark its several
novelties. Monuments of antiquity abound not here: the fort erected
by the Portuguese has long since been level with the ground, and
private bungalows occupy the sites of the old Dutch, French, and Danish
factories. We shall meet few Europeans in the streets: there are
scarcely twenty in this place, including all the varieties of civilians,
merchants, missionaries, and the officers belonging to the two seapoy
companies detached from the neighbouring station—Cananore. Most of the
residents inhabit houses built upon an eminence about three miles to the
north of the town; others live as close as possible to the sea. A dreary
life they must lead, one would suppose, especially during the monsoon,
when the unhappy expatriated’s ears are regaled by no other sounds but
the pelting of the rain, the roaring of the blast, and the creaking of
the cocoa trees, whilst a curtain of raging sea, black sky, and watery
air, is all that meets his weary ken.
The first thing we observe during our perambulation, is the want of
the quadruped creation: there are no horses,[64] sheep, or goats,
and the cows are scarcely as large as English donkeys. Secondly, the
abundance of sore eyes, produced, it is supposed by the offensive glare
and the peculiar effect of the sun’s rays, which in these regions
are insufferable even to the natives of other Indian provinces. The
population apparently regards us with no friendly feeling, Moslem and
Hindoo, all have scowls upon their faces, and every man, moreover,
carries a knife conveniently slung to his waistband. Those dark-faced
gentlemen, in imitation European dresses, are familiar to our eyes: they
are Portuguese, not, however, from Goa, but born, bred, and likely to be
buried at Calicut. A little colony, of fifty or sixty families of the
race is settled here; they employ themselves either in commerce, or as
writers in the different government offices.
The bazaars appear to be well stocked with everything but vegetables
and butcher’s meat, these two articles being as scarce and bad as the
poultry; fish and fruit are plentiful and good. The shops are poor;
there is not a single Parsee or European store in the town, so that all
supplies must be procured from the neighbouring stations. Everywhere the
houses are much more comfortably and substantially built than in the
Bombay presidency; the nature of the climate requires a good roof, and
as much shade on and around it as possible: the streets and roads, also,
look civilised compared with the narrow and filthy alleys of our native
towns in general. But we shall find little amusement in inspecting the
mass of huts and hovels, mosques and schools, gardens and tanks, so we
might as well prolong our stroll beyond the town, and visit the venerable
pagoda of Varkool.
It is, you see, a building by no means admirable in point of outward
appearance; the roof is tiled, and there is little to excite your
curiosity in the woodwork. Its position is remarkable—perched upon the
summit of a pile of laterite rock rising abruptly from a level expanse
of sand. But it is great, very great, in its historical importance.
That edifice was one of the hundred and eight Maha Chaitrum, or temples
of the first order, built by the demigod Parasu Rama, upon this coast,
and dedicated to the Hindoo Triad. Equally notable it is for sanctity.
Early in the month of October, water appears bubbling from a fissure of
the rock, and this, learned Brahmans, by what test we know not, have
determined to be the veritable fluid of the Ganges, which, passing under
ground,[65] _viâ_ Central India, displays itself regularly once a year
to the devotees of Rama. Kindly observe that there is a crowd of Nairs
gathered round the temple, and that some petty prince, as we may know
by his retinue of armed followers, is visiting the shrine. We will not
venture in, as the Hindoos generally in this part of the world, and
the Nairs particularly, are accustomed to use their knives with scant
ceremony. Besides, just at present, they are somewhat in a state of
excitement: they expect a partial eclipse of the moon, and are prepared
to make all the noise they can, with a view of frightening away the
wicked monster, Rahu, who is bent upon satisfying his cannibal appetites
with the lucid form of poor Luna.
* * * * *
The present Samiry Rajah is a proud man, who shuns Europeans, and
discourages their visiting him on principle. Wishing, however, to see
some sample of the regal family, we called upon a cadet of the house
of Yelliah, an individual of little wealth or influence, but more
sociable than the high and mighty Mana Vikram.[66] After a ride of
about three miles, through lanes lined with banks of laterite, and over
dykes stretching like rude causeways along paddy fields invested with
a six-foot deep coating of mud, we arrived at the village of Mangaon.
The Rajah was apparently resolved to receive us with all the honours: a
caparisoned elephant stood at the gate of the “palace,” and a troop of
half-naked Nairs, armed as usual, crowded around to receive us. We were
ushered through a succession of courts and gateways—the former full of
diminutive, but seemingly most pugnacious cows—and at last, ascending
a long flight of dark and narrow steps, suddenly found ourselves in the
“presence.” Our Rajah was a little dark man, injudiciously attired in
a magnificent coat of gold cloth, a strangely-shaped cap of the same
material, and red silk tights. The room was small, and choked with
furniture; chairs, tables, clocks, drawers, washing-stands, boxes,
book-shelves, and stools, were arranged, or rather piled up around it,
with all the effect of an old curiosity-shop. The walls exhibited a
collection of the cheapest and worst of coloured prints—our late gracious
queen dangling in dangerous proximity to the ferocious-looking Beau
Sabreur, and La Belle Americaine occupied in attentively scrutinising
certain diminutive sketches of Richmond Hill, and other localities,
probably torn out of some antiquated Annual. Our host met us _à
l’Anglaise_—that is to say, with a warm, moist, and friendly squeeze of
the hand: he was profuse in compliments, and insisted upon our sitting on
the sofa opposite his chair. With the assistance of an interpreter—for
the Rajah understands little Hindostani, and we less Malayalim—some
twenty minutes were spent in conversation, or rather in the usual
exchange of questions and answers which composes the small-talk of an
Oriental visit. Presently we arose and took polite leave of our host,
who accompanied us as far as the door of his little den: the regal rank
and dignity forbidding him to pass the threshold. Not a little shuffling
and shrieking was caused by our turning a corner suddenly and meeting
in the gateway a crowd of dames belonging to the palace. They and their
attendants appeared as much annoyed as we were gratified to catch a sight
of Nair female beauty. The ladies were very young and pretty—their long
jetty tresses, small soft features, clear dark olive-coloured skins, and
delicate limbs, reminded us exactly of the old prints and descriptions
of the South Sea Islanders. Their _toilette_, in all save the ornamental
part of rings and necklaces, was decidedly scanty. It was the same
described by old Capt. Hamilton, who, when introduced at the Court of the
Samorin, observed that the queen and her daughters were “all naked above
the waist, and barefooted.”
People are fond of asserting that native prejudices are being rapidly
subjugated by the strong arm of English civilization. We could instance
numerous proofs of the contrary being the case. Two hundred years ago
the white man was allowed to look upon a black princess in the presence
of her husband. How long will it be before such privilege will ever be
extended to him again in India?
* * * * *
On the way homewards our guide pointed out what he considered the great
lion of Calicut. It is a square field, overgrown with grass and weeds and
surrounded by a dense grove of trees. Fronting the road stands a simple
gateway, composed of one stone laid horizontally across two of the same
shape, planted perpendicularly in the ground. Not detecting instantly
any great marvel about the place we looked our curiosity for further
information.
“In days of old a strong fort, and a splendid palace adorned that
spot—their only remains now those two mounds”—said the guide, pointing at
what appeared to be the ruins of bastions—“and that raised platform of
earth at the other end. Upon the latter a temporary festive building is
erected whenever a Rajah is invested with the turban of regal dignity, in
memory of the ancient dwelling-place of his ancestors, and the city which
is now no more.”
We had half an hour to waste, and were not unwilling to hear a detailed
account of old Calicut’s apocryphal destruction. So we asked the man
to point out its former site. He led us towards the shore, and called
our attention to a reef of rocks lying close off the mouth of the little
Kullai River; they were clearly discernible as it was then low water.[67]
“There,” said the guide,—a good Hindoo, of course—“there lies the
accursed city of Cherooman Rajah!”
Our escort did not require much pressing to ease himself of a little
legendary lore. After preparing his mouth for conversation by disposing
of as much betel juice as was convenient, he sat down upon the ground
near the log of wood occupied by ourselves, and commenced.
“When Cherooman Rajah, the last and most powerful of our foreign
governors, apostatizing from the holy faith of his forefathers, received
the religion of the stranger, he went forth as a pilgrim to the land of
the Arab, and dwelt there for several years.[68]
“Our ruler’s return was signalized by a determination to propagate the
new belief throughout Malabar, and unusual success attended upon the
well-planned system of persuasion and force adopted by him. Thousands of
the slaves, the cultivators and the fishermen, became Moslems, many of
the Nairs, some of them men of high rank, and even a few of the Brahmans
did not disdain to follow their prince’s example. But the _Numboory_[69]
stood firm in his refusal to turn from the law of Brahma; he not only
toiled to counteract the monarch’s influence, but on more than one
occasion in solemn procession visited the palace, and denounced a curse
upon the Rajah and people of Calicut if the proselytising continued.
“At length the chieftain, irritated by the determined opposition of the
priesthood, and urged on by his Arab advisers, swore a mighty oath that
he would forcibly convert his arch enemies. The person selected to eat
impure meat as a warning to his brethren was the holy Sankaracharya, the
high Brahman of the Varkool pagoda.
“Slowly the old man’s tottering frame bowed, and trembling with
age, moved down the double line of bearded warriors that crowded
the audience-hall. At the further end of the room, upon the cushion
of royalty, and surrounded by a throng of foreign counsellors, sat
Cherooman, looking like a Rakshasa or Spirit of Evil.
“Few words passed between the Brahman and the ruler. The threats of the
latter, and the scoffs of his myrmidons, fell unheeded upon the old
priest’s ears.
“‘It is said that a Rajah is a sword in the hand of the Almighty—but
thou, Cherooman, art like the assassin’s knife. Since thou art thus
determined upon thine own destruction accompany me to the beach, and
there, unless before sunset the dread Deity I adore vouchsafe to show
thee a sign of his power, I will obey thine unhallowed orders.’
“The Rajah mounted his elephant, and followed by his mufties, his
wuzeers, and guardsmen, moved slowly towards the brink of the briny
wave. On foot and unattended, propping his faltering footsteps with a
sandal wand, the Brahman accompanied the retinue. And all the people
of Calicut, whose leaning towards the new faith made them exult in the
prospect of conversion being forced upon so revered a personage as the
old priest, informed of the event, hurried down in thousands to the
shore, and stood there in groups conversing earnestly, and sparing
neither jest nor jibe at the contrast between the champions of the two
rival faiths.
“Sankaracharya sat down upon the sand where the small waves swelled and
burst at his feet. Muffling his head in a cotton sheet removed from
his shoulders, he drew the rosary bag over his right hand, and after
enumerating the Deity’s names upon his beads, proceeded to recite the
charm of destruction.
“Presently, a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand rose like a sea-bird
above the margin of the western main. It increased with preternatural
growth, and before half an hour had elapsed it veiled the mid-day light
of heaven, and spread over the sky like the glooms of night. A low
moaning sound as of a rising hurricane then began to break the drear
stillness of the scene, and fierce blasts to career wildly over the
heaving bosom of the waters.
“Still the Brahman continued his prayer.
“Now huge billowy waves burst like thunder upon the yellow sands, the
zig-zag lightning streaking the murky sky blinded the eyes, whilst the
roar of the elements deafened the ears of the trembling crowd. Yet they
stood rooted to the spot by a mightier power than they could control. The
Rajah, on his elephant, and the beggar crawling upon his knees, all had
prepared for themselves one common doom.
“Before the bright car of Surya,[70] the Lord of Day, borne by its
flaming steeds with agate hoofs, had entered upon their starry way, the
wavelet was rippling, and the sea-gull flapping his snowy wing over the
city of Cherooman the Apostate.”