HYDERABAD AND THE MOHAMMEDAN WOMAN
The city of Hyderabad seems to have been dropped to the earth from an
Oriental dream. It is the most Eastern city in this most Eastern land,
and you are filled with a sense that it is not at all real, but
especially staged and set for your amusement, and when you leave, it
will all disappear. The gaily painted shops will be pulled down and put
in the property-room, the goldsmiths who make the bracelets, nose-rings,
and necklaces for the pretty, dark-eyed women within the zenanas is only
waiting for his cue to leave the stage. The men on the corners with
their great wreaths of white flowers, with their marigolds and garlands
to be hung about the necks of friends, or to curtain the doorways at
some feast or wedding, are there only for show, to add colour to the
picture. These women passing by with saris of purple or crimson, with
gleaming bracelets and tinkling anklets, with kohl-blackened eyes that
stare at you wonderingly from above the closely drawn sari, or, what is
more peculiar to visitors from the West, the women draped in long white
cloaks like winding-sheets, which cover them completely from the view of
the passer-by, seem part of the chorus; and the sheen of knives and guns
and huge silver chains hanging over the shoulder of the man from the
North, the elephant swaying slowly down the street, looking with keen,
twinkling eyes at the people who make way for him, are all a part of the
pantomime, or a mirage caused by the brilliant sunshine of this
Southland.
[Illustration:
A CARRIAGE FOR WOMEN.
To face p. 154.]
We are told that Hyderabad is the oldest and greatest native State in
the Indian Empire, and we have heard from childhood of the magnificence
of the Nizam of Hyderabad, the man who seemed to outrival Solomon with
his palaces, his jewels, and his wives. His hospitality was given with
Oriental lavishness. Those who were fortunate enough to be his guests at
the great Durbar at Delhi, when King George was proclaimed Emperor of
India, will never forget the gorgeousness and prodigality of his
entertainment. For sixteen months he had an army of workmen clearing the
ground, making the lawns and flower-gardens, and erecting the tents that
were to accommodate his guests and the four thousand people he took with
him from Hyderabad. His women were lodged in an old palace at a distance
from the tents of the guests and were unseen, viewing the spectacle from
afar.
Even those of the immediate circle surrounding the Nizam at Hyderabad
knew nothing of his private life within the zenana, and only conjectures
were made in regard to the number of women within its walls. Gossip says
that when the late Nizam died there was a cartload of broken glass
bracelets (the bangles that are worn by wives, but that are broken on
their wrists when they become widows) taken away from the palace. This
fortunate man was credited with a great many more wives than he actually
possessed. Hyderabad is a feudal country, with many of the customs that
prevailed in France under the old feudal régime. The Nizam is the
overlord. His feudal princes when possessing a pretty daughter are
always anxious to give her as wife to the Nizam. He perhaps may accept
her and send her to his women’s quarters, never seeing her again. But
her people are satisfied, as they have the honour of having a daughter
in the Imperial zenana, consequently a friend at Court, as she will
naturally remember her family when Imperial offices or gifts are being
distributed. She receives a stated income, said to range from sixty
dollars to four hundred dollars a month, according to her status, number
of children, etc.
The Nizam was planning to give his first ball while I was in Hyderabad,
and every one was on the _qui vive_ regarding those who should be asked
and those who should not. It is remarkable how everything seems to
revolve around the ruler of one of these principalities. His Highness is
an absolute autocrat concerning the life and actions of his people, and
the foreigners seem to have caught the infection, because in every State
we visited the name of the ruler was on all tongues. “His Highness
thinks so and so,” or “His Highness does not think so and so,” was the
ultimate, final word for everything. His greatness and his Oriental
splendour seem to overpower the people and make them subservient. Yet it
is not from any personal contact, as few of even the Nizam’s ministers
have seen him, and his people never have that honour, unless at some
great Durbar, where, arrayed in royal magnificence, he permits them to
view him upon his throne, or when, as he is being swiftly whirled along
in his motor, four shrill blasts from the whistles of the police notify
the populace that their ruler is passing.
A native ruler seems to attract a genuine admiration and respect from
his subjects. He appeals to their instincts with his display. They love
to hear the glories of his magnificence, to see his elephants, his
guards, and his foreign motors. He can understand his people and his
people understand him; and even if the taxes are oppressive and he
grinds the faces of the people into the dust to get money to squander
upon his favourites and to build great palaces, the peasant will bear it
all and not complain, as he feels it is ordained, and his Rajah is the
child of the gods and entitled to his very life.
There is no fear in the State of Hyderabad that the present race of
rulers will become extinct. When a child is born to the Nizam there is a
public holiday in the State, the schools are closed, cannon are fired,
and every one is supposed to rejoice with the happy father. While we
were there the people enjoyed four public holidays within eight days
arising from this fact, and nine more were expected the following week.
While we were in this State there arose a case that was causing a great
deal of comment. The son of a woman was killed and the murderer was
condemned to death. In this Mohammedan country the law “a life for a
life” prevails, and the death penalty cannot be revoked unless the heir
of the dead man demands it. In some Hindu communities, where the saving
of life is a meritorious performance, the village or city will often
raise a certain sum and offer it to the heir in exchange for the life of
the condemned prisoner. Men, I was told, will sometimes take the money,
but women, especially if it was their son or husband who was killed,
will practically always demand the life. In this instance the woman, who
was a devout Mohammedan, took the money and sent it to help her
fellow-Mohammedans in their war with the infidel Italians. Her religious
zeal overcame the instinct for revenge, so deeply planted within the
breast of all followers of the Arabian prophet.
At tea at the home of a Mohammedan I met several ladies, who willingly
discussed with me the difference between the social customs of our
Western land and those governing the life of the woman of the East. I
was told that there is no society life as we know it, no calling, nor
promiscuous making of new acquaintances. The social life centres around
the three great events of Indian life—births, weddings, and deaths. If a
wedding occurs in a family, the mother will send invitations to all the
ladies of the same social standing as herself, and, dressed in their
most gorgeous saris and jewels, they come to the house, where elaborate
refreshments are served with much gossiping and merry-making. The guests
stay hours or days, according to their relationship to the family. Also
at times of death they go and offer their condolences to the bereaved
family, and although colours are much more subdued at the time of sorrow
than at the time of rejoicing, it is often another place in which to
show off new finery. These secluded women feel like the little girl who
stopped to see a friend on her way to a funeral. She was dressed in a
bright pink sari, and when remonstrated with on wearing such a gay dress
on such a mournful occasion, said, “Why, how can I be sure that I will
get another chance to show it.”
I said to my hostess in the course of the conversation: “If I were a
Mohammedan or a Hindu lady and came here to live, would the ladies whose
husbands perhaps had business associations with my husband come to call
upon me?” She said: “No, not at all. You would never meet the ladies
unless at the time of some festivity you were invited.” I asked the
reason for this, and they answered, “Custom”—the word that rules the
whole Eastern world. This lack of exchange of courtesies between new
people is traced in some cases to the attitude of the husbands, who seem
afraid to allow their wives to make new acquaintances. They must decide
whom the wife shall visit. They must know that the house visited is
strictly secluded, that the hostess has no advanced ideas, and that the
husband is a man of standing before they allow their women to make new
friends. They say that it is the desire of protection, not deprivation
of liberty, that causes them to take such care of their dear ones.
An Englishwoman ten years ago tried to meet the Indian ladies, and sent
sixty invitations for a tea. Only three of the invited guests put in an
appearance. She persisted, convinced the husbands that no male eyes
would gaze upon their secluded treasures, and now the original sixty
have come with nearly every high-class lady in Hyderabad, so that on her
reception days the house is crowded.
There is a club where the Mohammedan and Hindu ladies meet once a month
and play badminton, and eat much cake and gossip. Still, they are not as
yet taking any active interest in social work, nor in what is going on
in the world outside. Mme. Sarojinni Naidu, the Indian poetess whose
charming poems have been so well received in England, and who is herself
a social favourite in that country, has been trying to interest the
ladies of Hyderabad in social work among women. She has been specially
interested in reviving the old industry of silk-weaving, and the weavers
through her efforts have been encouraged to do their best work. She has
sold thousands of rupees worth of the beautiful silks to her friends
within the zenanas, but it is rather discouraging work, as it has caused
her to be looked upon with suspicion by many of the officials, who fear
that she may be using her influence with the people for some Socialistic
movement.
While in Hyderabad I saw a great deal of this wonderfully attractive
woman, who looks like a young girl, but who is the mother of children
nearly as big as herself. She herself is not “purdah,” and she has
violated the customs of her caste by marrying a man of another caste.
She goes to public entertainments and lives the life of an Englishwoman.
I went with her to see the “sports,” that form of entertainment which
always follow the English wherever they go. They were held at the race
track, and in the grand stand were the entire foreign community, with a
mixture of Indian gentlemen. We watched the riders in the field below,
and I must confess the Indian gentlemen easily carried the honours. They
are wonderful horsemen, and are most picturesque. I think there is no
handsomer man in the world than the high-class Indian gentleman. With
his clear brown skin, his large black eyes, his stately carriage, and
magnificent physique, accentuated by the pugaree or turban on his head,
he is a picture that, once seen, cannot easily be forgotten. The average
Englishman looks either too fat or too thin, does not hold himself well,
has generally, if a resident in the East, a most unhealthy complexion,
and in comparison with his Indian neighbour makes a very poor showing.
Mme. Naidu was the only Indian woman in the grand stand, and after tea
was served, she asked me if I would like to visit the Indian women. We
went upstairs to an enclosed room, which was filled with Indian ladies,
who could see all that was going on in the grounds below, but were
protected from view by the carved woodwork enclosing the room. They came
to a side entrance in their carriages or motors; a screen of canvas was
made from their carriage to the entrance so that they could pass
immediately from their carriage to a covered stairway, themselves
unseen.
There were about twenty ladies, dressed in most brilliant colours and
decked with an immense amount of jewellery. One woman had seven
piercings in her ears, in four of which were set small buttons of
turquoises, and in the others great hoops of gold in which were hanging
pearls about the size of a pea. In her right nostril was a diamond and
in her left a ruby. Her arms were covered with bracelets, and there were
five necklaces of diamonds around her neck. Her trousers, the ugly
trousers of the Mohammedan lady, were of bright pink brocade, the tunic
was of white, and over it all was a long veil of light blue gauze. One
would imagine a glaring clash of colours, but all this riot of colour
blends and makes the right setting for the dark beauty of these Indian
women. They are extremely pretty, with the colouring of an Italian or
Spaniard from the South; their big black eyes are shaded by long silky
lashes, their noses are most delicate, and they have exquisitely shaped
mouths. I do not think that I saw an ugly woman all the time I was
visiting the “purdah” women of India. Some of them with age become a
little too stout, but their dress disguises the figure if too well
blessed with flesh, and softens harsh outlines if too thin.
The women in this secluded enclosure seemed to be enjoying themselves
much more than the conventional Englishwomen below them. There was a
table with a varied assortment of non-alcoholic drinks, and many kinds
of cakes and sweets. Each lady had her silver pan-box, and made pan for
her friends, all chatting and laughing with the utmost freedom and
good-fellowship. They do not seem to feel it a deprivation at all to be
compelled to pass their lives with women. I am sure they would feel very
ill at ease if they thought that they could be seen by any man except
their husband, brother, or immediate relative.
I had an example of what instinct will do in the fear of being seen by
some one outside of the family circle. Mme. Naidu and I called upon a
Mohammedan lady who was strictly “purdah.” We were taken into a
drawing-room furnished in European fashion, where the father-in-law of
our hostess was chatting with another gentleman. The stranger left
immediately, but the father-in-law remained to talk with me while Mme.
Naidu went in search of the mistress of the house. She returned soon,
and said to the man, “You must leave,” and after his departure the lady
entered. When she sat down she noticed that one of the blinds of the
window was open, and she drew her sari across her face and spoke to Mme.
Naidu, who went to the window and closed the blind. Even that did not
satisfy her, and a servant was called, who saw that all the windows were
securely closed and that no one could possibly look into the room from
the outside. It seemed a useless precaution to me, as the windows opened
on to a garden, and no one could pass unless some member of the
household. She laughed apologetically and said: “I know what you think,
but I cannot sit here with any degree of comfort if I think some one, a
servant or one of my husband’s guests, might pass by. It is instinct; my
mother and my mother’s mother were ‘purdah’ women, and it is in the
blood.”
She asked us to come to her rooms and look at some new clothing. Her
rooms were big and rather bare, as are most rooms in this hot country,
but the furniture was all European. Bed, dressing-table, and chairs all
looked as if made in England or France. She had a servant bring her
pan-box. This giving of pan is the first thing offered to a guest on
arrival and the last thing on going away. Her pan-box was of silver,
about nine inches wide by twelve long. It had a shallow tray in the top,
in which was kept in tiny compartments the betel-nut and spices. In the
bottom of the box, covered with a damp cloth, were the leaves. The
hostess takes a leaf, covers it with a thin layer of lime, and with a
pair of scissors breaks a betel-nut into small pieces, puts it with half
a dozen different spices into the leaf, folds it up, sticking a clove
through the leaf as a fastener, and hands it to the guest. The guest
removes the clove and places the leaf in the mouth, where it makes a
huge bunch on the side of the face until it is slowly masticated. It
gives forth a juice which colours the inside of the mouth and the teeth
a dark red, but not permanently, as it rinses quite easily. The pan has
a spicy taste, and leaves the mouth feeling deliciously clean, I presume
owing to the lime in it. Many of the great houses have a servant or
slave whose only duty is to make pan for the inmates of the zenana. One
such servant said she made five hundred a day and her wrist became quite
lame from time to time caused by cutting the betel-nut.
Our hostess had a box of clothing put in front of her on the floor, and
she showed us a beautiful collection of saris of woven gold cloth made
in Benares, long tunics of embroidered chiffon-like gauze, and trousers
of heavy gold and silver goods, almost like tapestry.
I asked them to tell me the duties of a high-class lady of Hyderabad.
Mme. Naidu laughed and said—
“About eight o’clock in the morning my lady yawns, and a slave-girl will
say, ‘Will not the Begum rise?’ and the Begum will slowly get out of bed
and allow her slave to brush her teeth with powdered charcoal and wash
her face and hands. Then she would sit down upon a mat and have her hair
dressed, while other slaves came in with articles of dress or of the
toilet. Soon the other women of the household would join her, and they
would chew betel-nut and talk and gossip until about ten o’clock, when a
large tray would be brought in with breakfast, consisting of rice and
curry and sweets. After breakfast, more friends or relatives come in,
and the sewing women and higher servants, and they all talk and laugh
together. In the afternoon the silk merchants may send their wares or
the jewellers their bracelets and rings and precious stones, which are
brought into the zenana by women. These shopwomen are great gossips, and
tell all the news from other zenanas—who is engaged and who married and
what presents were given, etc. The women shop and haggle, and perhaps
buy and perhaps do not, and by the time the merchants leave it is time
to eat again. In the evening the husband or the sons visit the women’s
quarters and brings the Begum the news of the world of men outside, and
then it is time to sleep again.”
A great many women—nearly all Indian women, in fact—attend personally to
their households. For instance, I went with one of my friends, who
belonged to a very rich and powerful family, to call upon her mother,
and found her and her daughter-in-law sitting in the courtyard preparing
the vegetables for dinner. All ladies know how to cook, and think it no
disgrace to prepare the dinner with their own hands. If a guest is to be
especially honoured, the mother or wife will prepare the meal for him.
In a Hindu community, where the food must be cooked by a person of their
own or a higher caste, where no one of a lower caste is even allowed to
look into the kitchen, it might cause great annoyance if the women of
the household did not know how to cook, as even in India the mistress
has the servant question with which to contend from time to time.
In these old families in Hyderabad there are a great many people under
the one roof. The patriarchal family life prevails—that is, the sons
bring their wives to their father’s home, and a large house shelters
many families. The mother is the head of the women’s quarters and her
word is law. Innumerable servants and poor relations are ever present,
and to our Western eyes disorder and chaos seem to reign. There are some
old families in this city that keep up the state of princes or petty
kings. There is one great lady who is surrounded by a bodyguard of
amazons, women dressed as soldiers, who salute and present arms with
military precision when her courtyard is entered by a visitor.
We went from the house of our young hostess, loaded down with pan and
fruit, to the home of a colonel in the Nizam’s bodyguard. His wife is
“purdah,” but his daughter is allowed to be seen in public. In the
drawing-room was a man tuning the piano, and Mme. Naidu said to the
daughter, “Your mother cannot come here. There is a man.” The daughter
replied: “Oh, it is all right, he is blind.” The mother had travelled
extensively in Europe, Egypt, and Turkey. While abroad she went about
freely as any European, only becoming the secluded Indian wife while in
her own country. Her daughter was to be married and she showed me the
clothes for the trousseau. There were about fifty complete outfits, made
of gorgeous Benares cloth, heavy with gold. This clothing lasts a
lifetime, and is handed down from daughter to daughter, as styles do not
radically change. The mother told me that the custom of giving so much
clothing is dying out, and money is given instead, allowing the daughter
to buy from time to time, according to her fancy.
While we were talking the husband came in. He was dressed in English
riding clothes, and was a very up-to-date man-of-the-world. The moment
he entered, the mother and daughter, who up to this time had been
chatting affably and freely, became silent. They virtually did not speak
a word while he was in the room, but became at once true Indian women,
silent before that superior being—the man.