Late in the evening of the sixteenth of February, 1879, after a rough
voyage which lasted thirty-two days, joyful exclamations were heard
everywhere on deck. "Have you seen the lighthouse?" "There it is at
last, the Bombay lighthouse."
Cards, books, music, everything was forgotten. Everyone rushed on deck.
The moon had not risen as yet, and, in spite of the starry tropical sky,
it was quite dark. The stars were so bright that, at first, it seemed
hardly possible to distinguish, far away amongst them, a small fiery
point lit by earthly hands. The stars winked at us like so many huge
eyes in the black sky, on one side of which shone the Southern Cross.
At last we distinguished the lighthouse on the distant horizon. It was
nothing but a tiny fiery point diving in the phosphorescent waves. The
tired travellers greeted it warmly. The rejoicing was general.
What a glorious daybreak followed this dark night! The sea no longer
tossed our ship. Under the skilled guidance of the pilot, who had just
arrived, and whose bronze form was so sharply defined against the pale
sky, our steamer, breathing heavily with its broken machinery, slipped
over the quiet, transparent waters of the Indian Ocean straight to
the harbour. We were only four miles from Bombay, and, to us, who had
trembled with cold only a few weeks ago in the Bay of Biscay, which has
been so glorified by many poets and so heartily cursed by all sailors,
our surroundings simply seemed a magical dream.
After the tropical nights of the Red Sea and the scorching hot days
that had tortured us since Aden, we, people of the distant North, now
experienced something strange and unwonted, as if the very fresh soft
air had cast its spell over us. There was not a cloud in the sky,
thickly strewn with dying stars. Even the moonlight, which till then had
covered the sky with its silvery garb, was gradually vanishing; and the
brighter grew the rosiness of dawn over the small island that lay before
us in the East, the paler in the West grew the scattered rays of the
moon that sprinkled with bright flakes of light the dark wake our ship
left behind her, as if the glory of the West was bidding good-bye to us,
while the light of the East welcomed the newcomers from far-off lands.
Brighter and bluer grew the sky, swiftly absorbing the remaining pale
stars one after the other, and we felt something touching in the
sweet dignity with which the Queen of Night resigned her rights to the
powerful usurper. At last, descending lower and lower, she disappeared
completely.
And suddenly, almost without interval between darkness and light, the
red-hot globe, emerging on the opposite side from under the cape, leant
his golden chin on the lower rocks of the island and seemed to stop for
a while, as if examining us. Then, with one powerful effort, the torch
of day rose high over the sea and gloriously proceeded on its path,
including in one mighty fiery embrace the blue waters of the bay, the
shore and the islands with their rocks and cocoanut forests. His golden
rays fell upon a crowd of Parsees, his rightful worshippers, who stood
on shore raising their arms towards the mighty "Eye of Ormuzd." The
sight was so impressive that everyone on deck became silent for a
moment, even a red-nosed old sailor, who was busy quite close to us over
the cable, stopped working, and, clearing his throat, nodded at the sun.
Moving slowly and cautiously along the charming but treacherous bay, we
had plenty of time to admire the picture around us. On the right was a
group of islands with Gharipuri or Elephanta, with its ancient temple,
at their head. Gharipuri translated means "the town of caves" according
to the Orientalists, and "the town of purification" according to the
native Sanskrit scholars. This temple, cut out by an unknown hand in
the very heart of a rock resembling porphyry, is a true apple of
discord amongst the archaeologists, of whom none can as yet fix, even
approximately, its antiquity. Elephanta raises high its rocky brow, all
overgrown with secular cactus, and right under it, at the foot of the
rock, are hollowed out the chief temple and the two lateral ones. Like
the serpent of our Russian fairy tales, it seems to be opening its
fierce black mouth to swallow the daring mortal who comes to take
possession of the secret mystery of Titan. Its two remaining teeth, dark
with time, are formed by two huge pillars t the entrance, sustaining the
palate of the monster.
How many generations of Hindus, how many races, have knelt in the
dust before the Trimurti, your threefold deity, O Elephanta? How many
centuries were spent by weak man in digging out in your stone bosom this
town of temples and carving your gigantic idols? Who can say? Many years
have elapsed since I saw you last, ancient, mysterious temple, and still
the same restless thoughts, the same recurrent questions vex me snow as
they did then, and still remain unanswered. In a few days we shall see
each other again. Once more I shall gaze upon your stern image, upon
your three huge granite faces, and shall feel as hopeless as ever of
piercing the mystery of your being. This secret fell into safe hands
three centuries before ours. It is not in vain that the old Portuguese
historian Don Diego de Cuta boasts that "the big square stone fastened
over the arch of the pagoda with a distinct inscription, having been
torn out and sent as a present to the King Dom Juan III, disappeared
mysteriously in the course of time....," and adds, further, "Close to
this big pagoda there stood another, and farther on even a third one,
the most wonderful of all in beauty, incredible size, and richness of
material. All those pagodas and caves have been built by the Kings of
Kanada, (?) the most important of whom was Bonazur, and these buildings
of Satan our (Portuguese) soldiers attacked with such vehemence that in
a few years one stone was not left upon another...." And, worst of
all, they left no inscriptions that might have given a clue to so much.
Thanks to the fanaticism of Portuguese soldiers, the chronology of the
Indian cave temples must remain for ever an enigma to the archaeological
world, beginning with the Brah-mans, who say Elephanta is 374,000 years
old, and ending with Fergusson, who tries to prove that it was carved
only in the twelfth century of our era. Whenever one turns one's eyes to
history, there is nothing to be found but hypotheses and darkness. And
yet Gharipuri is mentioned in the epic Mahabharata, which was written,
according to Colebrooke and Wilson, a good while before the reign of
Cyrus. In another ancient legend it is said that the temple of Trimurti
was built on Elephanta by the sons of Pandu, who took part in the war
between the dynasties of the Sun and the Moon, and, belonging to the
latter, were expelled at the end of the war. The Rajputs, who are the
descendants of the first, still sing of this victory; but even in their
popular songs there is nothing positive. Centuries have passed and will
pass, and the ancient secret will die in the rocky bosom of the cave
still unrecorded.
On the left side of the bay, exactly opposite Elephanta, and as if in
contrast with all its antiquity and greatness, spreads the Malabar Hill,
the residence of the modern Europeans and rich natives. Their brightly
painted bungalows are bathed in the greenery of banyan, Indian fig, and
various other trees, and the tall and straight trunks of cocoanut palms
cover with the fringe of their leaves the whole ridge of the hilly
headland. There, on the south-western end of the rock, you see the
almost transparent, lace-like Government House surrounded on three
sides by the ocean. This is the coolest and the most comfortable part of
Bombay, fanned by three different sea breezes.
The island of Bombay, designated by the natives "Mambai," received its
name from the goddess Mamba, in Mahrati Mahima, or Amba, Mama, and Amma,
according to the dialect, a word meaning, literally, the Great Mother.
Hardly one hundred years ago, on the site of the modern esplanade, there
stood a temple consecrated to Mamba-Devi. With great difficulty and
expense they carried it nearer to the shore, close to the fort, and
erected it in front of Baleshwara the "Lord of the Innocent"--one of
the names of the god Shiva. Bombay is part of a considerable group of
islands, the most remarkable of which are Salsetta, joined to Bombay by
a mole, Elephanta, so named by the Portuguese because of a huge rock cut
in the shape of an elephant thirty-five feet long, and Trombay, whose
lovely rock rises nine hundred feet above the surface of the sea. Bombay
looks, on the maps, like an enormous crayfish, and is at the head of
the rest of the islands. Spreading far out into the sea its two claws,
Bombay island stands like a sleepless guardian watching over his younger
brothers. Between it and the Continent there is a narrow arm of a river,
which gets gradually broader and then again narrower, deeply indenting
the sides of both shores, and so forming a haven that has no equal in
the world. It was not without reason that the Portuguese, expelled in
the course of time by the English, used to call it "Buona Bahia."
In a fit of tourist exaltation some travellers have compared it to the
Bay of Naples; but, as a matter of fact, the one is as much like the
other as a lazzaroni is like a Kuli. The whole resemblance between the
former consists in the fact that there is water in both. In Bombay, as
well as in its harbour, everything is original and does not in the least
remind one of Southern Europe. Look at those coasting vessels and native
boats; both are built in the likeness of the sea bird "sat," a kind
of kingfisher. When in motion these boats are the personi-fication of
grace, with their long prows and rounded poops. They look as if they
were gliding backwards, and one might mistake for wings the strangely
shaped, long lateen sails, their narrow angles fastened upwards to a
yard. Filling these two wings with the wind, and careening, so as almost
to touch the surface of the water, these boats will fly along with
astonishing swiftness. Unlike our European boats, they do not cut the
waves, but glide over them like a sea-gull.
The surroundings of the bay transported us to some fairy land of the
Arabian Nights. The ridge of the Western Ghats, cut through here and
there by some separate hills almost as high as themselves, stretched all
along the Eastern shore. From the base to their fantastic, rocky tops,
they are all overgrown with impenetrable forests and jungles inhabited
by wild animals. Every rock has been enriched by the popular imagination
with an independent legend. All over the slope of the mountain are
scattered the pagodas, mosques, and temples of numberless sects. Here
and there the hot rays of the sun strike upon an old fortress, once
dreadful and inaccessible, now half ruined and covered with prickly
cactus. At every step some memorial of sanctity. Here a deep vihara,
a cave cell of a Buddhist bhikshu saint, there a rock protected by the
symbol of Shiva, further on a Jaina temple, or a holy tank, all covered
with sedge and filled with water, once blessed by a Brahman and able to
purify every sin, all indispensable attribute of all pagodas. All the
surroundings are covered with symbols of gods and goddesses. Each of the
three hundred and thirty millions of deities of the Hindu Pantheon has
its representative in something consecrated to it, a stone, a flower, a
tree, or a bird. On the West side of the Malabar Hill peeps through the
trees Valakeshvara, the temple of the "Lord of Sand." A long stream of
Hindus moves towards this celebrated temple; men and women, shining with
rings on their fingers and toes, with bracelets from their wrists up
to their elbows, clad in bright turbans and snow white muslins, with
foreheads freshly painted with red, yellow, and white, holy sectarian
signs.
The legend says that Rama spent here a night on his way from Ayodhya
(Oudh) to Lanka (Ceylon) to fetch his wife Sita who had been stolen by
the wicked King Ravana. Rama's brother Lakshman, whose duty it was
to send him daily a new lingam from Benares, was late in doing so one
evening. Losing patience, Rama erected for himself a lingam of sand.
When, at last, the symbol arrived from Benares, it was put in a temple,
and the lingam erected by Rama was left on the shore. There it stayed
during long centuries, but, at the arrival of the Portuguese, the "Lord
of Sand" felt so disgusted with the feringhi (foreigners) that he jumped
into the sea never to return. A little farther on there is a charming
tank, called Vanattirtha, or the "point of the arrow." Here Rama, the
much worshipped hero of the Hindus, felt thirsty and, not finding any
water, shot an arrow and immediately there was created a pond. Its
crystal waters were surrounded by a high wall, steps were built leading
down to it, and a circle of white marble dwellings was filled with dwija
(twice born) Brahmans.
India is the land of legends and of mysterious nooks and corners. There
is not a ruin, not a monument, not a thicket, that has no story attached
to it. Yet, however they may be entangled in the cobweb of popular
imagination, which becomes thicker with every generation, it is
difficult to point out a single one that is not founded on fact. With
patience and, still more, with the help of the learned Brahmans you
can always get at the truth, when once you have secured their trust and
friendship.
The same road leads to the temple of the Parsee fire-worshippers. At its
altar burns an unquenchable fire, which daily consumes hundredweights of
sandal wood and aromatic herbs. Lit three hundred years ago, the sacred
fire has never been extinguished, notwithstanding many disorders,
sectarian discords, and even wars. The Parsees are very proud of this
temple of Zaratushta, as they call Zoroaster. Compared with it the
Hindu pagodas look like brightly painted Easter eggs. Generally they are
consecrated to Hanuman, the monkey-god and the faithful ally of Rama, or
to the elephant headed Ganesha, the god of the occult wisdom, or to one
of the Devis. You meet with these temples in every street. Before each
there is a row of pipals (Ficus religiosa) centuries old, which no
temple can dispense with, because these trees are the abode of the
elementals and the sinful souls.
All this is entangled, mixed, and scattered, appearing to one's eyes
like a picture in a dream. Thirty centuries have left their traces
here. The innate laziness and the strong conservative tendencies of
the Hindus, even before the European invasion, preserved all kinds of
monuments from the ruinous vengeance of the fanatics, whether those
memorials were Buddhist, or belonged to some other unpopular sect.
The Hindus are not naturally given to senseless vandalism, and a
phrenologist would vainly look for a bump of destructiveness on their
skulls. If you meet with antiquities that, having been spared by time,
are, nowadays, either destroyed or disfigured, it is not they who are
to blame, but either Mussulmans, or the Portuguese under the guidance of
the Jesuits.
At last we were anchored and, in a moment, were besieged, ourselves as
well as our luggage, by numbers of naked skeleton-like Hindus, Parsees,
Moguls, and various other tribes. All this crowd emerged, as if from the
bottom of the sea, and began to shout, to chatter, and to yell, as only
the tribes of Asia can. To get rid of this Babel confusion of tongues as
soon as possible, we took refuge in the first bunder boat and made for
the shore.
Once settled in the bungalow awaiting us, the first thing we were struck
with in Bombay was the millions of crows and vultures. The first are, so
to speak, the County Council of the town, whose duty it is to clean the
streets, and to kill one of them is not only forbidden by the police,
but would be very dangerous. By killing one you would rouse the
vengeance of every Hindu, who is always ready to offer his own life in
exchange for a crow's. The souls of the sinful forefathers transmigrate
into crows and to kill one is to interfere with the law of Karma and
to expose the poor ancestor to something still worse. Such is the firm
belief, not only of Hindus, but of Parsees, even the most enlightened
amongst them. The strange behaviour of the Indian crows explains, to
a certain extent, this superstition. The vultures are, in a way, the
grave-diggers of the Parsees and are under the personal protection
of the Farvardania, the angel of death, who soars over the Tower of
Silence, watching the occupations of the feathered workmen.
The deafening caw of the crows strikes every new comer as uncanny, but,
after a while, is explained very simply. Every tree of the numerous
cocoa-nut forests round Bombay is provided with a hollow pumpkin. The
sap of the tree drops into it and, after fermenting, becomes a most
intoxicating beverage, known in Bombay under the name of toddy. The
naked toddy wallahs, generally half-caste Portuguese, modestly adorned
with a single coral necklace, fetch this beverage twice a day, climbing
the hundred and fifty feet high trunks like squirrels. The crows
mostly build their nests on the tops of the cocoa-nut palms and drink
incessantly out of the open pumpkins. The result of this is the chronic
intoxication of the birds. As soon as we went out in the garden of our
new habitation, flocks of crows came down heavily from every tree. The
noise they make whilst jumping about everywhere is indescribable. There
seemed to be something positively human in the positions of the slyly
bent heads of the drunken birds, and a fiendish light shone in their
eyes while they were examining us from foot to head.
We occupied three small bungalows, lost, like nests, in the garden,
their roofs literally smothered in roses blossoming on bushes twenty
feet high, and their windows covered only with muslin, instead of the
usual panes of glass. The bungalows were situated in the native part of
the town, so that we were transported, all at once, into the real India.
We were living in India, unlike English people, who are only surrounded
by India at a certain distance. We were enabled to study her character
and customs, her religion, superstitions and rites, to learn her
legends, in fact, to live among Hindus.
Everything in India, this land of the elephant and the poisonous cobra,
of the tiger and the unsuccessful English missionary, is original and
strange. Everything seems unusual, unexpected, and striking, even to one
who has travelled in Turkey, Egypt, Damascus, and Palestine. In these
tropical regions the conditions of nature are so various that all the
forms of the animal and vegetable kingdoms must radically differ from
what we are used to in Europe. Look, for instance, at those women on
their way to a well through a garden, which is private and at the same
time open to anyone, because somebody's cows are grazing in it. To whom
does it not happen to meet with women, to see cows, and admire a garden?
Doubtless these are among the commonest of all things. But a single
attentive glance will suffice to show you the difference that exists
between the same objects in Europe and in India. Nowhere more than
in India does a human being feel his weakness and insignificance. The
majesty of the tropical growth is such that our highest trees would look
dwarfed compared with banyans and especially with palms. A European cow,
mistaking, at first sight, her Indian sister for a calf, would deny the
existence of any kinship between them, as neither the mouse-coloured
wool, nor the straight goat-like horns, nor the humped back of the
latter would permit her to make such an error. As to the women, each of
them would make any artist feel enthusiastic about the gracefulness
of her movements and drapery, but still, no pink and white, stout Anna
Ivanovna would condescend to greet her. "Such a shame, God forgive me,
the woman is entirely naked!"
This opinion of the modern Russian woman is nothing but the echo of what
was said in 1470 by a distinguished Russian traveler, "the sinful slave
of God, Athanasius son of Nikita from Tver," as he styles himself. He
describes India as follows: "This is the land of India. Its people are
naked, never cover their heads, and wear their hair braided. Women have
babies every year. Men and women are black. Their prince wears a veil
round his head and wraps another veil round his legs. The noblemen wear
a veil on one shoulder, and the noblewomen on the shoulders and round
the loins, but everyone is barefooted. The women walk about with their
hair spread and their breasts naked. The children, boys and girls, never
cover their shame until they are seven years old...." This description
is quite correct, but Athanasius Nikita's son is right only concerning
the lowest and poorest classes. These really do "walk about" covered
only with a veil, which often is so poor that, in fact, it is nothing
but a rag. But still, even the poorest woman is clad in a piece of
muslin at least ten yards long. One end serves as a sort of short
petticoat, and the other covers the head and shoulders when out in the
street, though the faces are always uncovered. The hair is erected into
a kind of Greek chignon. The legs up to the knees, the arms, and the
waist are never covered. There is not a single respectable woman who
would consent to put on a pair of shoes. Shoes are the attribute and the
prerogative of disreputable women. When, some time ago, the wife of the
Madras governor thought of passing a law that should induce native
women to cover their breasts, the place was actually threatened with
a revolution. A kind of jacket is worn only by dancing girls. The
Government recognized that it would be unreasonable to irritate women,
who, very often, are more dangerous than their husbands and brothers,
and the custom, based on the law of Manu, and sanctified by three
thousand years' observance, remained unchanged.
For more than two years before we left America we were in constant
correspondence with a certain learned Brahman, whose glory is great
at present (1879) all over India. We came to India to study, under his
guidance, the ancient country of Aryas, the Vedas, and their difficult
language. His name is Dayanand Saraswati Swami. Swami is the name of the
learned anchorites who are initiated into many mysteries unattainable by
common mortals. They are monks who never marry, but are quite different
from other mendicant brotherhoods, the so-called Sannyasi and Hossein.
This Pandit is considered the greatest Sanskritist of modern India
and is an absolute enigma to everyone. It is only five years since
he appeared on the arena of great reforms, but till then, he lived,
entirely secluded, in a jungle, like the ancient gymnosophists mentioned
by the Greek and Latin authors. At this time he was studying the chief
philosophical systems of the "Aryavartta" and the occult meaning of the
Vedas with the help of mystics and anchorites. All Hindus believe that
on the Bhadrinath Mountains (22,000 feet above the level of the sea)
there exist spacious caves, inhabited, now for many thousand years, by
these anchorites. Bhadrinath is situated in the north of Hindustan on
the river Bishegunj, and is celebrated for its temple of Vishnu right in
the heart of the town. Inside the temple there are hot mineral springs,
visited yearly by about fifty thousand pilgrims, who come to be purified
by them.
From the first day of his appearance Dayanand Saraswati produced
an immense impression and got the surname of the "Luther of India."
Wandering from one town to another, today in the South, tomorrow in the
North, and transporting himself from one end of the country to another
with incredible quickness, he has visited every part of India, from Cape
Comorin to the Himalayas, and from Calcutta to Bombay. He preaches the
One Deity and, "Vedas in hand," proves that in the ancient writings
there was not a word that could justify polytheism. Thundering against
idol worship, the great orator fights with all his might against caste,
infant marriages, and superstitions. Chastising all the evils grafted on
India by centuries of casuistry and false interpretation of the Vedas,
he blames for them the Brahmans, who, as he openly says before masses of
people, are alone guilty of the humiliation of their country, once great
and independent, now fallen and enslaved. And yet Great Britain has in
him not an enemy, but rather an ally. He says openly--"If you expel the
English, then, no later than tomorrow, you and I and everyone who rises
against idol worship will have our throats cut like mere sheep. The
Mussulmans are stronger than the idol worshippers; but these last
are stronger than we." The Pandit held many a warm dispute with the
Brah-mans, those treacherous enemies of the people, and has almost
always been victorious. In Benares secret assassins were hired to slay
him, but the attempt did not succeed. In a small town of Bengal, where
he treated fetishism with more than his usual severity, some fanatic
threw on his naked feet a huge cobra. There are two snakes deified by
the Brahman mythology: the one which surrounds the neck of Shiva on his
idols is called Vasuki; the other, Ananta, forms the couch of Vishnu. So
the worshipper of Shiva, feeling sure that his cobra, trained purposely
for the mysteries of a Shivaite pagoda, would at once make an end of
the offender's life, triumphantly exclaimed, "Let the god Vasuki himself
show which of us is right!"
Dayanand jerked off the cobra twirling round his leg, and with a single
vigorous movement, crushed the reptile's head. "Let him do so," he
quietly assented. "Your god has been too slow. It is I who have decided
the dispute, Now go," added he, addressing the crowd, "and tell everyone
how easily perish the false gods."
Thanks to his excellent knowledge of Sanskrit the Pandit does a great
service, not only to the masses, clearing their ignorance about the
monotheism of the Vedas, but to science too, showing who, exactly, are
the Brahmans, the only caste in India which, during centuries, had the
right to study Sanskrit literature and comment on the Vedas, and which
used this right solely for its own advantage.
Long before the time of such Orientalists as Burnouf, Colebrooke and Max
Muller, there have been in India many reformers who tried to prove the
pure monotheism of the Vedic doctrines. There have even been founders
of new religions who denied the revelations of these scriptures; for
instance, the Raja Ram Mohun Roy, and, after him, Babu Keshub Chunder
Sen, both Calcutta Bengalees. But neither of them had much success. They
did nothing but add new denominations to the numberless sects existing
in India. Ram Mohun Roy died in England, having done next to nothing,
and Keshub Chunder Sen, having founded the community of "Brahmo-Samaj,"
which professes a religion extracted from the depths of the Babu's own
imagination, became a mystic of the most pronounced type, and now
is only "a berry from the same field," as we say in Russia, as the
Spiritualists, by whom he is considered to be a medium and a Calcutta
Swedenborg. He spends his time in a dirty tank, singing praises to
Chaitanya, Koran, Buddha, and his own person, proclaiming himself their
prophet, and performs a mystical dance, dressed in woman's attire,
which, on his part, is an attention to a "woman goddess" whom the Babu
calls his "mother, father and eldest brother."
In short, all the attempts to re-establish the pure primitive monotheism
of Aryan India have been a failure. They always got wrecked upon the
double rock of Brahmanism and of prejudices centuries old. But lo! here
appears unexpectedly the pandit Dayanand. None, even of the most
beloved of his disciples, knows who he is and whence he comes. He openly
confesses before the crowds that the name under which he is known is not
his, but was given to him at the Yogi initiation.
The mystical school of Yogis was established by Patanjali, the founder
of one of the six philosophical systems of ancient India. It is supposed
that the Neo-platonists of the second and third Alexandrian Schools were
the followers of Indian Yogis, more especially was their theurgy brought
from India by Pythagoras, according to the tradition. There still exist
in India hundreds of Yogis who follow the system of Patanjali, and
assert that they are in communion with Brahma. Nevertheless, most of
them are do-nothings, mendicants by profession, and great frauds, thanks
to the insatiable longing of the natives for miracles. The real Yogis
avoid appearing in public, and spend their lives in secluded retirement
and studies, except when, as in Dayanand's case, they come forth in
time of need to aid their country. However, it is perfectly certain that
India never saw a more learned Sanskrit scholar, a deeper metaphysician,
a more wonderful orator, and a more fearless denunciator of every evil,
than Dayanand, since the time of Sankharacharya, the celebrated founder
of the Vedanta philosophy, the most metaphysical of Indian systems,
in fact, the crown of pantheistic teaching. Then, Dayanand's personal
appearance is striking. He is immensely tall, his complexion is pale,
rather European than Indian, his eyes are large and bright, and his
greyish hair is long. The Yogis and Dikshatas (initiated) never cut
either their hair or beard. His voice is clear and loud, well calculated
to give expression to every shade of deep feeling, ranging from a sweet
childish caressing whisper to thundering wrath against the evil doings
and falsehoods of the priests. All this taken together produces an
indescribable effect on the impressionable Hindu. Wherever Dayanand
appears crowds prostrate themselves in the dust over his footprints;
but, unlike Babu Keshub Chunder Sen, he does not teach a new
religion, does not invent new dogmas. He only asks them to renew their
half-forgotten Sanskrit studies, and, having compared the doctrines of
their forefathers with what they have become in the hands of Brahmans,
to return to the pure conceptions of Deity taught by the primitive
Rishis--Agni, Vayu, Aditya, and Anghira--the patriarchs who first gave
the Vedas to humanity. He does not even claim that the Vedas are a
heavenly revelation, but simply teaches that "every word in these
scriptures belongs to the highest inspiration possible to the earthly
man, an inspiration that is repeated in the history of humanity, and,
when necessary, may happen to any nation....."
During his five years of work Swami Dayanand made about two million
proselytes, chiefly amongst the higher castes. Judging by appearances,
they are all ready to sacrifice to him their lives and souls and even
their earthly possessions, which are often more precious to them than
their lives. But Dayanand is a real Yogi, he never touches money, and
despises pecuniary affairs. He contents himself with a few handfuls of
rice per day. One is inclined to think that this wonderful Hindu bears
a charmed life, so careless is he of rousing the worst human passions,
which are so dangerous in India. A marble statue could not be less moved
by the raging wrath of the crowd. We saw him once at work. He sent away
all his faithful followers and forbade them either to watch over him
or to defend him, and stood alone before the infuriated crowd, facing
calmly the monster ready to spring upon him and tear him to pieces.
Here a short explanation is necessary. A few years ago a society of
well-informed, energetic people was formed in New York. A certain
sharp-witted savant surnamed them "La Societe des Malcontents du
Spiritisme." The founders of this club were people who, believing in the
phenomena of spiritualism as much as in the possibility of every other
phenomenon in Nature, still denied the theory of the "spirits." They
considered that the modern psychology was a science still in the first
stages of its development, in total ignorance of the nature of the
psychic man, and denying, as do many other sciences, all that cannot be
explained according to its own particular theories.
From the first days of its existence some of the most learned Americans
joined the Society, which became known as the Theosophical Society. Its
members differed on many points, much as do the members of any other
Society, Geographical or Archeological, which fights for years over
the sources of the Nile, or the Hieroglyphs of Egypt. But everyone is
unanimously agreed that, as long as there is water in the Nile,
its sources must exist somewhere. So much about the phenomena of
spiritualism and mesmerism. These phenomena were still waiting their
Champollion--but the Rosetta stone was to be searched for neither in
Europe nor in America, but in the far-away countries where they still
believe in magic, where wonders are performed daily by the native
priesthood, and where the cold materialism of science has never yet
reached--in one word, in the East.
The Council of the Society knew that the Lama-Buddhists, for instance,
though not believing in God, and denying the personal immortality of the
soul, are yet celebrated for their "phenomena," and that mesmerism was
known and daily practised in China from time immemorial under the name
of "gina." In India they fear and hate the very name of the spirits whom
the Spiritualists venerate so deeply, yet many an ignorant fakir can
perform "miracles" calculated to turn upside-down all the notions of
a scientist and to be the despair of the most celebrated of European
prestidigitateurs. Many members of the Society have visited India--many
were born there and have themselves witnessed the "sorceries" of the
Brahmans. The founders of the Club, well aware of the depth of modern
ignorance in regard to the spiritual man, were most anxious that
Cuvier's method of comparative anatomy should acquire rights of
citizenship among metaphysicians, and, so, progress from regions
physical to regions psychological on its own inductive and deductive
foundation. "Otherwise," they thought, "psychology will be unable to
move forward a single step, and may even obstruct every other branch of
Natural History." Instances have not been wanting of physiology poaching
on the preserves of purely metaphysical and abstract knowledge, all
the time feigning to ignore the latter absolutely, and seeking to class
psychology with the positive sciences, having first bound it to a Bed
of Procrustes, where it refuses to yield its secret to its clumsy
tormentors.
In a short time the Theosophical Society counted its members, not
by hundreds, but by thousands. All the "malcontents" of American
Spiritualism--and there were at that time twelve million Spiritualists
in America--joined the Society. Collateral branches were formed in
London, Corfu, Australia, Spain, Cuba, California, etc. Everywhere
experiments were being performed, and the conviction that it is not
spirits alone who are the causes of the phenomena was becoming general.
In course of time branches of the Society were in India and in Ceylon.
The Buddhist and Brahmanical members became more numerous than the
Europeans. A league was formed, and to the name of the Society was
added the subtitle, "The Brotherhood of Humanity." After an active
correspondence between the Arya-Samaj, founded by Swami Dayanand, and
the Theosophical Society, an amalgamation was arranged between the
two bodies. Then the Chief Council of the New York branch decided upon
sending a special delegation to India, for the purpose of studying, on
the spot, the ancient language of the Vedas and the manuscripts and
the wonders of Yogism. On the 17th of December, 1878, the delegation,
composed of two secretaries and two members of the council of the
Theosophical Society, started from New York, to pause for a while in
London, and then to proceed to Bombay, where it landed in February,
1879.
It may easily be conceived that, under these circumstances, the members
of the delegation were better able to study the country and to make
fruitful researches than might, otherwise, have been the case. Today
they are looked upon as brothers and aided by the most influential
natives of India. They count among the members of their society
pandits of Benares and Calcutta, and Buddhist priests of the Ceylon
Viharas--amongst others the learned Sumangala, mentioned by Minayeff
in the description of his visit to Adam's Peak--and Lamas of Thibet,
Burmah, Travancore and elsewhere. The members of the delegation are
admitted to sanctuaries where, as yet, no European has set his foot.
Consequently they may hope to render many services to Humanity and
Science, in spite of the illwill which the representatives of positive
science bear to them.
As soon as the delegation landed, a telegram was despatched to Dayanand,
as everyone was anxious to make his personal acquaintance. In reply, he
said that he was obliged to go immediately to Hardwar, where hundreds of
thousands of pilgrims were expected to assemble, but he insisted on
our remaining behind, since cholera was certain to break out among the
devotees. He appointed a certain spot, at the foot of the Himalayas, in
the jab, where we were to meet in a month's time.
Alas! all this was written some time ago. Since then Swami Dayanand's
countenance has changed completely toward us. He is, now, an enemy of
the Theosophical Society and its two founders--Colonel Olcott and the
author of these letters. It appeared that, on entering into an offensive
and defensive alliance with the Society, Dayanand nourished the
hope that all its members, Christians, Brahmans and Buddhists, would
acknowledge His supremacy, and become members of the Arya Samaj.
Needless to say, this was impossible. The Theosophical Society rests on
the principle of complete non-interference with the religious beliefs
of its members. Toleration is its basis and its aims are purely
philosophical. This did not suit Dayanand. He wanted all the members,
either to become his disciples, or to be expelled from the Society. It
was quite clear that neither the President, nor the Council could assent
to such a claim. Englishmen and Americans, whether they were Christians
or Freethinkers, Buddhists, and especially Brahmans, revolted against
Dayanand, and unanimously demanded that the league should be broken.
However, all this happened later. At the time of which I speak we were
friends and allies of the Swami, and we learned with deep interest that
the Hardwar "mela," which he was to visit, takes place every twelve
years, and is a kind of religious fair, which attracts representatives
from all the numerous sects of India.
Learned dissertations are read by the disputants in defence of their
peculiar doctrines, and the debates are held in public. This year
the Hardwar gathering was exceptionally numerous. The Sannyasis--the
mendicant monks of India--alone numbered 35,000 and the cholera,
foreseen by the Swami, actually broke out.
As we were not yet to start for the appointed meeting, we had plenty of
spare time before us; so we proceeded to examine Bombay.
The Tower of Silence, on the heights of the Malabar Hill, is the last
abode of all the sons of Zoroaster. It is, in fact, a Parsee cemetery.
Here their dead, rich and poor, men, women and children, are all laid in
a row, and in a few minutes nothing remains of them but bare skeletons.
A dismal impression is made upon a foreigner by these towers, where
absolute silence has reigned for centuries. This kind of building is
very common in every place were Parsees live and die. In Bombay, of six
towers, the largest was built 250 years ago, and the least but a short
time since. With few exceptions, they are round or square in shape, from
twenty to forty feet high, without roof, window, or door, but with a
single iron gate opening towards the East, and so small that it is
quite covered by a few bushes. The first corpse brought to a new
tower--"dakhma"--must be the body of the innocent child of a mobed
or priest. No one, not even the chief watcher, is allowed to approach
within a distance of thirty paces of these towers. Of all living human
beings "nassesalars"--corpse-carriers--alone enter and leave the "Tower
of Silence." The life these men lead is simply wretched. No European
executioner's position is worse. They live quite apart from the rest
of the world, in whose eyes they are the most abject of beings. Being
forbidden to enter the markets, they must get their food as they can.
They are born, marry, and die, perfect strangers to all except their own
class, passing through the streets only to fetch the dead and carry them
to the tower. Even to be near one of them is a degradation. Entering
the tower with a corpse, covered, whatever may have been its rank or
position, with old white rags, they undress it and place it, in
silence, on one of the three rows presently to be described. Then, still
preserving the same silence, they come out, shut the gate, and burn the
rags.
Amongst the fire-worshippers, Death is divested of all his majesty and
is a mere object of disgust. As soon as the last hour of a sick person
seems to approach, everyone leaves the chamber of death, as much to
avoid impeding the departure of the soul from the body, as to shun the
risk of polluting the living by contact with the dead. The mobed alone
stays with the dying man for a while, and having whispered into his ear
the Zend-Avesta precepts, "ashem-vohu" and "Yato-Ahuvarie," leaves the
room while the patient is still alive. Then a dog is brought and made
to look straight into his face. This ceremony is called "sas-did,"
the "dog's-stare." A dog is the only living creature that the
"Drux-nassu"--the evil one--fears, and that is able to prevent him from
taking possession of the body. It must be strictly observed that no
one's shadow lies between the dying man and the dog, otherwise the whole
strength of the dog's gaze will be lost, and the demon will profit by
the occasion. The body remains on the spot where life left it, until the
nassesalars appear, their arms hidden to the shoulders under old bags,
to take it away. Having deposited it in an iron coffin--the same for
everyone--they carry it to the dakhma. If any one, who has once been
carried thither, should happen to regain consciousness, the nassesalars
are bound to kill him; for such a person, who has been polluted by one
touch of the dead bodies in the dakhma, has thereby lost all right
to return to the living, by doing so he would contaminate the whole
community. As some such cases have occurred, the Parsees are trying to
get a new law passed, that would allow the miserable ex-corpses to live
again amongst their friends, and that would compel the nassesalars to
leave the only gate of the dakhma unlocked, so that they might find a
way of retreat open to them. It is very curious, but it is said that the
vultures, which devour without hesitation the corpses, will never touch
those who are only apparently dead, but fly away uttering loud shrieks.
After a last prayer at the gate of the dakhma, pronounced from afar by
the mobed, and re-peated in chorus by the nassesalars, the dog ceremony
is repeated. In Bombay there is a dog, trained for this purpose, at the
entrance to the tower. Finally, the body is taken inside and placed on
one or other of the rows, according to its sex and age.
We have twice been present at the ceremonies of dying, and once of
burial, if I may be permitted to use such an incongruous term. In this
respect the Parsees are much more tolerant than the Hindus, who are
offended by the mere presence at their religious rites of an European.
N. Bayranji, a chief official of the tower, invited us to his house to
be present at the burial of some rich woman. So we witnessed all that
was going on at a distance of about forty paces, sitting quietly on
our obliging host's verandah. While the dog was staring into the dead
woman's face, we were gazing, as intently, but with much more disgust,
at the huge flock of vultures above the dakhma, that kept entering the
tower, and flying out again with pieces of human flesh in their beaks.
These birds, that build their nests in thousands round the Tower of
Silence, have been purposely imported from Persia. Indian vultures
proved to be too weak, and not sufficiently bloodthirsty, to perform
the process of stripping the bones with the despatch prescribed by
Zoroaster. We were told that the entire operation of denuding the bones
occupies no more than a few minutes. As soon as the ceremony was over,
we were led into another building, where a model of the dakhma was to be
seen. We could now very easily imagine what was to take place presently
inside the tower. In the centre there is a deep waterless well, covered
with a grating like the opening into a drain. Around it are three broad
circles, gradually sloping downwards. In each of them are coffin-like
receptacles for the bodies. There are three hundred and sixty-five such
places. The first and smallest row is destined for children, the second
for women, and the third for men. This threefold circle is symbolical of
three cardinal Zoroastrian virtues--pure thoughts, kind words, and good
actions. Thanks to the vultures, the bones are laid bare in less than
an hour, and, in two or three weeks, the tropical sun scorches them into
such a state of fragility, that the slightest breath of wind is enough
to reduce them to powder and to carry them down into the pit. No smell
is left behind, no source of plagues and epidemics. I do not know that
this way may not be preferable to cremation, which leaves in the air
about the Ghat a faint but disagreeable odour. The Ghat is a place
by the sea, or river shore, where Hindus burn their dead. Instead of
feeding the old Slavonic deity "Mother Wet Earth" with carrion, Parsees
give to Armasti pure dust. Armasti means, literally, "fostering cow,"
and Zoroaster teaches that the cultivation of land is the noblest of all
occupations in the eyes of God. Accordingly, the worship of Earth is
so sacred among the Parsees, that they take all possible precautions
against polluting the "fostering cow" that gives them "a hundred golden
grains for every single grain." In the season of the Monsoon, when,
during four months, the rain pours incessantly down and washes into the
well everything that is left by the vultures, the water absorbed by the
earth is filtered, for the bottom of the well, the walls of which are
built of granite, is, to this end, covered with sand and charcoal.
The sight of the Pinjarapala is less lugubrious and much more amusing.
The Pinjarapala is the Bombay Hospital for decrepit animals, but a
similar institution exists in every town where Jainas dwell. Being one
of the most ancient, this is also one of the most interesting, of the
sects of India. It is much older than Buddhism, which took its rise
about 543 to 477 B.C. Jainas boast that Buddhism is nothing more than a
mere heresy of Jainism, Gautama, the founder of Buddhism, having been a
disciple and follower of one of the Jaina Gurus. The customs, rites,
and philosophical conceptions of Jainas place them midway between the
Brahmanists and the Buddhists. In view of their social arrangements,
they more closely resemble the former, but in their religion they
incline towards the latter. Their caste divisions, their total
abstinence from flesh, and their non-worship of the relics of the
saints, are as strictly observed as the similar tenets of the Brahmans,
but, like Buddhists, they deny the Hindu gods and the authority of
the Vedas, and adore their own twenty-four Tirthankaras, or Jinas, who
belong to the Host of the Blissful. Their priests, like the Buddhists',
never marry, they live in isolated viharas and choose their successors
from amongst the members of any social class. According to them, Prakrit
is the only sacred language, and is used in their sacred literature,
as well as in Ceylon. Jainas and Buddhists have the same traditional
chronology. They do not eat after sunset, and carefully dust any place
before sitting down upon it, that they may not crush even the tiniest of
insects. Both systems, or rather both schools of philosophy, teach the
theory of eternal indestructible atoms, following the ancient atomistic
school of Kanada. They assert that the universe never had a beginning
and never will have an end. "The world and everything in it is but an
illusion, a Maya," say the Vedantists, the Buddhists, and the Jainas;
but, whereas the followers of Sankaracharya preach Parabrahm (a deity
devoid of will, understanding, and action, because "It is absolute
understanding, mind and will"), and Ishwara emanating from It, the
Jainas and the Buddhists believe in no Creator of the Universe,
but teach only the existence of Swabhawati, a plastic, infinite,
self-created principle in Nature. Still they firmly believe, as do
all Indian sects, in the transmigration of souls. Their fear, lest, by
killing an animal or an insect, they may, perchance, destroy the life of
an ancestor, develops their love and care for every living creature to
an almost incredible extent. Not only is there a hospital for invalid
animals in every town and village, but their priests always wear a
muslin muzzle, (I trust they will pardon the disrespectful expression!)
in order to avoid destroying even the smallest animalcule, by
inadvertence in the act of breathing. The same fear impels them to drink
only filtered water. There are a few millions of Jainas in Gujerat,
Bombay, Konkan, and some other places.
The Bombay Pinjarapala occupies a whole quarter of the town, and is
separated into yards, meadows and gardens, with ponds, cages for beasts
of prey, and enclosures for tame animals. This institution would have
served very well for a model of Noah's Ark. In the first yard, however,
we saw no animals, but, instead, a few hundred human skeletons--old men,
women and children. They were the remaining natives of the, so-called,
famine districts, who had crowded into Bombay to beg their bread. Thus,
while, a few yards off, the official "Vets." were busily bandaging the
broken legs of jackals, pouring ointments on the backs of mangy dogs,
and fitting crutches to lame storks, human beings were dying, at their
very elbows, of starvation. Happily for the famine-stricken, there were
at that time fewer hungry animals than usual, and so they were fed on
what remained from the meals of the brute pensioners. No doubt many of
these wretched sufferers would have consented to transmigrate instantly
into the bodies of any of the animals who were ending so snugly their
earthly careers.
But even the Pinjarajala roses are not without thorns. The graminivorous
"subjects," of course, could mot wish for anything better; but I doubt
very much whether the beasts of prey, such as tigers, hyenas, and
wolves, are content with the rules and the forcibly prescribed diet.
Jainas themselves turn with disgust even from eggs and fish, and, in
consequence, all the animals of which they have the care must turn
vegetarians. We were present when an old tiger, wounded by an English
bullet, was fed. Having sniffed at a kind of rice soup which was offered
to him, he lashed his tail, snarled, showing his yellow teeth, and with
a weak roar turned away from the food. What a look he cast askance upon
his keeper, who was meekly trying to persuade him to taste his nice
dinner! Only the strong bars of the cage saved the Jaina from a vigorous
protest on the part of this veteran of the forest. A hyena, with a
bleeding head and an ear half torn off, began by sitting in the trough
filled with this Spartan sauce, and then, without any further ceremony,
upset it, as if to show its utter contempt for the mess. The wolves
and the dogs raised such disconsolate howls that they attracted the
attention of two inseparable friends, an old elephant with a wooden
leg and a sore-eyed ox, the veritable Castor and Pollux of this
institution. In accordance with his noble nature, the first thought of
the elephant concerned his friend. He wound his trunk round the neck
of the ox, in token of protection, and both moaned dismally. Parrots,
storks, pigeons, flamingoes--the whole feathered tribe--revelled
in their breakfast. Monkeys were the first to answer the keeper's
invitation and greatly enjoyed themselves. Further on we were shown a
holy man, who was feeding insects with his own blood. He lay with his
eyes shut, and the scorching rays of the sun striking full upon his
naked body. He was literally covered with flies, mosquitoes, ants and
bugs.
"All these are our brothers," mildly observed the keeper, pointing to
the hundreds of animals and insects. "How can you Europeans kill and
even devour them?"
"What would you do," I asked, "if this snake were about to bite you? Is
it possible you would not kill it, if you had time?"
"Not for all the world. I should cautiously catch it, and then I should
carry it to some deserted place outside the town, and there set it
free."
"Nevertheless; suppose it bit you?"
"Then I should recite a mantram, and, if that produced no good result,
I should be fair to consider it as the finger of Fate, and quietly leave
this body for another."
These were the words of a man who was educated to a certain extent, and
very well read. When we pointed out that no gift of Nature is aimless,
and that the human teeth are all devouring, he answered by quoting whole
chapters of Darwin's Theory of Natural Selection and Origin of Species.
"It is not true," argued he, "that the first men were born with
canine teeth. It was only in course of time, with the degradation of
humanity,--only when the appetite for flesh food began to develop--that
the jaws changed their first shape under the influence of new
necessities."