MOHAMMEDANISM WITHIN THE ZENANA
We are often told that Mohammedan women are not religious, that they
leave all devotional exercises for their lords and masters, who are
accountable to Allah for their salvation, and to whom they must look for
permission to enter the abode of the blessed. It is a fact that the
women followers of the Arabian prophet are not seen in the mosques,
because no Mohammedan woman appears in a public place where she may come
in contact with the other sex. Mohammed discouraged the worship of women
in public by saying, “The presence of women in the mosques inspires men
with feelings other than those purely devotional.”
[Illustration:
MOHAMMEDAN WOMEN, HYDERABAD.
To face p. 170.]
Although restricted to the home in which to say her prayers, the
Mohammedan woman is very religious, and often more narrow and bigoted
than her husband, who has the opportunity of broadening his religious
views by contact with those of other faiths. The Mohammedan religion,
like those of Western lands, has its divisions and subdivisions,
differing from each other on the subject of ritualism and the different
interpretations of the Koran. The two most important branches of El
Islam are the Shiahs and the Sunnis. At the death of the prophet, Abu
Bekr was elected to take his place—wrongfully, as many believe. They
feel that the mantle of prophethood should have fallen upon the
shoulders of his son-in-law, Ali, who was one of his first disciples and
his cousin. The coterie who adhered to the election of the caliph
instead of the hereditary descent are called the Sunnis. All of the
Egyptians, the Turks, and many Indians are followers of this party.
Those who think that Ali was deprived of his just rights are called the
Shiahs; the Persians, many Arabs, and a few Indians compose the main
body of this division. Ali was finally made caliph, but was murdered,
the caliphate passing out of his family instead of descending to his
grandsons, Hossain and Hassan, who rebelled against the ruling caliph
and were killed in battle. They are considered the great martyrs of the
Mohammedan faith, and their deaths are mourned annually by the Shiahs.
We were in Hyderabad, the great Mohammedan State of India, at the time
of mourning, and I was fortunate enough to be asked to a “mourning
party,” given by the women of one of the old Mohammedan families. It was
most exceptional, as outsiders are never asked to these homes during
this time of religious emotion. Even their Sunni friends and their
acquaintances in the Hindu faith, know that intruders are not looked
upon kindly during the days set apart for sorrow.
We arrived at the home, which was surrounded by a great wall, in which
was a massive wooden door studded with iron nails. In the olden time
these homes were used as fortresses, and were made strong enough to
repel an invasion by the enemy. Within an embrasure by the side of the
gate was a man on guard, with a gun beside him. It is true that the gun
was of an obsolete pattern, that would quite likely do the user more
damage than any one else, if the guard had been called upon to act, but
it looked picturesque. The guard immediately turned his back when he saw
that the carriage contained ladies, and our servant went ahead to see
that all men-servants were out of sight before my Mohammedan friends
would enter the courtyard. We drove into what seemed an immense
stable-yard. Bullocks were standing by the side of great lumbering
carts, horses were in their stalls, and stable accessories were
scattered about in great disorder. A curtain was raised by a
woman-servant, disclosing a short stone stairway, ascending which we
found ourselves in the women’s quarters. It was a courtyard, with rooms
opening upon it from the four sides. These rooms were more like large
alcoves, being separated from the court only by arches.
At one end was a large room, where about sixty ladies were sitting on
the floor in front of a strip of white cloth, that served as table and
tablecloth combined. They were seated on the three sides of the room,
leaving the open space in the middle for the servants to pass while
serving the food. We left our shoes at the entrance and were taken to a
servant, who poured water over our hands from a brass ewer, allowing it
to fall into a basin in which was some finely chopped straw to conceal
the water. Our hostess seated us opposite her, and an old servant dipped
from a central bowl of rice a generous helping for me, and then various
curries, unknown to me, were passed. I watched my friend, and took from
the dishes she favoured, mixing it with the rice upon my plate, making
rather a sticky mess, that was conveyed to my mouth with difficulty.
Eating with the fingers is not so easy as it may appear to a casual
observer, but evidently practice makes perfect, because all seemed most
adept, using only the thumb and three fingers of the right hand. No food
must be touched with the left hand, as it is, religiously, unclean.
After my feet had so thoroughly gone to sleep that they ceased from
paining me, I took the opportunity of looking around and trying to
become acquainted with my neighbours. The ladies wore no jewellery, and
their dresses were supposed to be of a subdued hue, yet every colour of
the rainbow was represented except red, which is the colour of joy and
associated with festive occasions. The Mohammedan dress is not so
graceful as is the Indian sari. The women wear a pair of tight trousers,
made of satin, silk, or brocade, coming to the tops of their embroidered
slippers. Over the chest is a small sleeveless jacket, then a tunic of
white or embroidered gauze, and over all a chiffon-like drapery which is
drawn over the head. All of these outer draperies were of so diaphanous
a material that they did not disguise the outlines of the figure.
Down the centre of the strips of cloth which served as table were great
dishes of rice and sweets, many curries, fruits, and an elaborate
assortment of cakes. Servants were everywhere, and it was hard for a
stranger to distinguish between some of the servants and their
mistresses, as many of the former were very well dressed and covered
with jewellery. They wore bracelets, anklets, nose-rings, ear-rings, and
necklaces, mainly of silver or glass; but one often saw the glint of
gold upon the neck of a serving-woman, and found she was the personal
slave of some member of the family.
Slavery exists still in Hyderabad, although in a modified form. No
person of good family would think of selling a slave, and the slaves
themselves feel the honour of belonging to one of the old families. In a
quarrel with a servant a slave will draw herself up proudly and say,
“You are only a servant—_I_ belong to the family.” Both servants and
slaves are treated with a familiarity unknown in the West. They take
part in the conversation, enter the rooms without knocking—in fact, I
don’t believe there is such a thing as a locked door in all India—and
talk to the mistress on terms of equality. While at dinner a small boy,
very prettily dressed, came to the hostess and snuggled his head against
her, while he stared at the peculiar-looking foreign woman opposite. I
asked if he was her son. She turned his face up to study it more
carefully, then said, “No; he is the son of one of my sister’s slaves.”
Resisting all the importunities of my hostess to have my plate refilled
with the curry and rice, we rose and went again to the servants in
charge of the ewer and basin, and our hands were washed. We then
adjourned to a courtyard, where many of the guests had preceded us.
There appears to be no etiquette in regard to leaving the table; when a
guest has eaten her dinner she rises and leaves, not asking to be
excused, nor feeling that it is necessary to wait for her hostess.
The ladies were sitting on the floor of the alcoves in groups of six or
seven, and pan boxes were much in evidence. Our hostess went into the
open courtyard and mounted a low, square table, over which was thrown a
rug. We sat down opposite her and she proceeded to make pan for us, and
we remained there for perhaps half an hour, waiting for the servants to
finish their dinner. There were at least fifty servants and slaves, all
running around aimlessly, doing whatever they found to do at the time,
with what seemed no system nor order governing their work. The mistress
had rather a shrill voice, and her orders could be heard very distinctly
as she called to some one in another part of the court. I asked my
friend if Indian ladies generally had such loud voices and commanding
tones, and she laughed and said: “Well, if they have not to begin with
they soon acquire them, as they must be heard above the confusion always
reigning in one of these great houses, where there are innumerable
servants, slaves, and poor relations. It takes a strong-minded woman,
and one with no mean executive ability, to keep peace and harmony in an
Eastern zenana.”
After every one had gossiped to her heart’s content, we went to a large
room at the end of the courtyard, which was fitted up as a chapel. In
front of an altar were three pieces of wood wreathed with flowers to
represent the tombs of Ali, Hossain, and Hassan. Facing the tombs were
ten girls, and the guests grouped themselves around them on the floor.
When we were all seated they began to chant. One would sing a line, then
the rest would join their voices and sing four or five lines; then a
short pause, and the leader would again start the chant. The listeners
were absolutely quiet, and the music rose and fell in weird, minor
strains that sounded tragic even to ears that could not understand the
words. The whole story of the slaying of the martyrs was told, and this
recital of their passion play moved the hearers deeply. From one part of
the room I heard a sob, then from another, and soon there was not a dry
eye in the place. At a certain strain in the music all rose, preceded by
the women carrying the miniature tombs, and marched slowly into an outer
courtyard, where incense was waved over the flower-wreathed pieces of
wood, after which a return was made to the room and the chanting
commenced again. We did not sit down, and the most dramatic part of the
performance began. All stood and beat their breasts in time with the
music, and, as chorus to the verses, would cry, “Hossain, Hassan!
Hossain, Hassan!” The servants beat their breasts so severely that it
seemed they would seriously hurt themselves, and it is considered a
great mark of piety to severely chastise themselves at this time, but
the ladies were more conservative and kept time with light taps.
This continued, with slight intermissions, for half an hour, some
sobbing, others crying quietly. At the end each one dropped to her knees
with her face towards Mecca, and from outside the wall the voice of a
man from the mosque chanted a benediction. It was most exquisitely sung,
and added the final touch to a weirdly beautiful scene—the moon shining
down into the courtyard, the flickering lights before the tiny
flower-wreathed tombs, the dark-faced women in their pretty gowns, with
the tears glistening on their eyelashes, kneeling, while the unseen
voice cried softly, “Salaam! Peace be with you! There is no God but
God.”
[Illustration:
HUSKING RICE IN A BURMESE VILLAGE.
To face p. 179.]