The same evening, in Elphinstone's Theatre, there was given a special
performance in honour of "the American Mission," as we are styled here.
Native actors represented in Gujerati the ancient fairy drama Sita-Rama,
that has been adapted from the Ramayana, the celebrated epic by Vilmiki.
This drama is composed of fourteen acts and no end of tableaux, in
addition to transformation scenes. All the female parts, as usual, were
acted by young boys, and the actors, accord-ing to the historical and
national customs, were bare-footed and half-naked. Still, the richness
of the costumes, the stage adornments and transformations, were truly
wonderful. For instance, even on the stages of large metropolitan
theatres, it would have been difficult to give a better representation
of the army of Rama's allies, who are nothing more than troops of
monkeys under the leadership of Hanuman--the soldier, statesman,
dramatist, poet, god, who is so celebrated in history (that of India
s.v.p.). The oldest and best of all Sanskrit dramas, Hanuman-Natak, is
ascribed to this talented forefather of ours.
Alas! gone is the glorious time when, proud of our white skin (which
after all may be nothing more than the result of a fading, under the
influences of our northern sky), we looked down upon Hindus and
other "niggers" with a feeling of contempt well suited to our own
magnificence. No doubt Sir William Jones's soft heart ached, when
translating from the Sanskrit such humiliating sentences as the
following: "Hanuman is said to be the forefather of the Europeans."
Rama, being a hero and a demi-god, was well entitled to unite all
the bachelors of his useful monkey army to the daughters of the Lanka
(Ceylon) giants, the Rakshasas, and to present these Dravidian beauties
with the dowry of all Western lands. After the most pompous marriage
ceremonies, the monkey soldiers made a bridge, with the help of their
own tails, and safely landed with their spouses in Europe, where they
lived very happily and had a numerous progeny. This progeny are we,
Europeans. Dravidian words found in some European languages, in Basque
for instance, greatly rejoice the hearts of the Brahmans, who would
gladly promote the philologists to the rank of demi-gods for this
important discovery, which confirms so gloriously their ancient legend.
But it was Darwin who crowned the edifice of proof with the authority of
Western education and Western scientific literature. The Indians became
still more convinced that we are the veritable descendants of Hanuman,
and that, if one only took the trouble to examine carefully, our tails
might easily be discovered. Our narrow breeches and long skirts only add
to the evidence, however uncomplimentary the idea may be to us.
Still, if you consider seriously, what are we to say when Science, in
the person of Darwin, concedes this hypothesis to the wisdom of ancient
Aryas. We must perforce submit. And, really, it is better to have for a
forefather Hanu-man, the poet, the hero, the god, than any other monkey,
even though it be a tailless one. Sita-Rama belongs to the category
of mythological dramas, something like the tragedies of Aeschylus.
Listening to this production of the remotest antiquity, the spectators
are carried back to the times when the gods, descending upon earth, took
an active part in the everyday life of mortals. Nothing reminds one of
a modern drama, though the exterior arrangement is the same. "From the
sublime to the ridiculous there is but a step," and vice versa. The
goat, chosen for a sacrifice to Bacchus, presented the world tragedy
(greek script here). The death bleatings and buttings of the quadrupedal
offering of antiquity have been polished by the hands of time and of
civilization, and, as a result of this process, we get the dying
whisper of Rachel in the part of Adrienne Lecouvreur, and the fearfully
realistic "kicking" of the modern Croisette in the poisoning scene of
The Sphinx. But, whereas the descendants of Themistocles gladly receive,
whether captive or free, all the changes and improvements considered
as such by modern taste, thinking them to be a corrected and enlarged
edition of the genius of Aeschylus; Hindus, happily for archaeologists
and lovers of antiquity, have never moved a step since the times of our
much honoured forefather Hanuman.
We awaited the performance of Sita-Rama with the liveliest curiosity.
Except ourselves and the building of the theatre, everything was
strictly indigenous and nothing reminded us of the West. There was not
the trace of an orchestra. Music was only to be heard from the stage,
or from behind it. At last the curtain rose. The silence, which had been
very remarkable before the performance, considering the huge crowd
of spectators of both sexes, now became absolute. Rama is one of the
incarnations of Vishnu and, as most of the audience were worshippers of
Vishnu, for them the spectacle was not a mere theatrical performance,
but a religious mystery, representing the life and achievements of their
favourite and most venerated gods.
The prologue was laid in the epoch before creation began (it may safely
be said that no dramatist would dare to choose an earlier one)--or,
rather, before the last manifestation of the universe. All the
philosophical sects of India, except Mussulmans, agree that the universe
has always existed. But the Hindus divide the periodical appearances and
vanishings into days and nights of Brahma. The nights, or withdrawals of
the objective universe, are called Pralayas, and the days, or epochs
of new awakening into life and light, are called Manvantaras, Yugas, or
"centuries of the gods." These periods are also called, respectively,
the inbreathings and outbreathings of Brahma. When Pralaya comes to an
end Brahma awakens, and, with this awakening, the universe that rested
in deity, in other words, that was reabsorbed in its subjective essence,
emanates from the divine principle and becomes visible. The gods, who
died at the same time as the universe, begin slowly to return to life.
The "Invisible" alone, the "Infinite," the "Lifeless," the One who is
the unconditioned original "Life" itself, soars, surrounded by shoreless
chaos. Its holy presence is not visible. It shows itself only in the
periodical pulsation of chaos, represented by a dark mass of waters
filling the stage. These waters are not, as yet, separated from the
dry land, because Brahma, the creative spirit of Narayana, has not yet
separated from the "Ever Unchanging." Then comes a heavy shock of
the whole mass and the waters begin to acquire transparency. Rays,
proceeding from a golden egg at the bottom, spread through the chaotic
waters. Receiving life from the spirit of Narayana, the egg bursts and
the awakened Brahma rises to the surface of the water in the shape of a
huge lotus. Light clouds appear, at first transparent and web-like. They
gradually become condensed, and transform themselves into Prajapatis,
the ten personified creative powers of Brahma, the god of everything
living, and sing a hymn of praise to the creator. Something naively
poetical, to our unaccustomed ears, breathed in this uniform melody
unaccompanied by any orchestra.
The hour of general revival has struck. Pralaya comes to an end.
Everything rejoices, returning to life. The sky is separated from the
waters and on it appear the Asuras and Gandharvas, the heavenly singers
and musicians. Then Indra, Yama, Varuna, and Kuvera, the spirits
presiding over the four cardinal points, or the four elements, water,
fire, earth, and air, pour forth atoms, whence springs the serpent
"Ananta." The monster swims to the surface of the waves and, bending its
swanlike neck, forms a couch on which Vishnu reclines with the Goddess
of Beauty, his wife Lakshmi, at his feet. "Swatha! Swatha! Swatha!"
cries the choir of heavenly musicians, hailing the deity. In the Russian
church service this is pronounced Swiat! Swiat! Swiat! and means holy!
holy! holy!
In one of his future avatars Vishnu will incarnate in Rama, the son of
a great king, and Lakshmi will become Sita. The motive of the whole poem
of Ramayana is sung in a few words by the celestial musicians. Kama, the
God of Love, shelters the divine couple and, that very moment, a flame
is lit in their hearts and the whole world is created.
Later there are performed the fourteen acts of the drama, which is well
known to everybody, and in which several hundred personages take part.
At the end of the prologue the whole assembly of gods come forward,
one after another, and acquaint the audience with the contents and the
epilogue of their performance, asking the public not to be too exacting.
It is as though all these familiar deities, made of painted granite and
marble, left the temples and came down to remind mortals of events long
past and forgotten.
The hall was full of natives. We four alone were representatives of
Europe. Like a huge flower bed, the women displayed the bright colors of
their garments. Here and there, among handsome, bronze-like heads, were
the pretty, dull white faces of Parsee women, whose beauty reminded me
of the Georgians. The front rows were occupied by women only. In India
it is quite easy to learn a person's religion, sect, and caste, and even
whether a woman is married or single, from the marks painted in bright
colors on everyone's forehead.
Since the time when Alexander the Great destroyed the sacred books of
the Gebars, they have constantly been oppressed by the idol worshippers.
King Ardeshir-Babechan restored fire worship in the years 229-243 A.C.
Since then they have again been persecuted during the reign of one of
the Shakpurs, either II., IX., or XI., of the Sassanids, but which of
them is not known. It is, however, reported that one of them was a great
protector of the Zartushta doctrines. After the fall of Yesdejird,
the fire-worshippers emigrated to the island of Ormasd, and, some time
later, having found a book of Zoroastrian prophecies, in obedience to
one of them they set out for Hindustan. After many wanderings,
they appeared, about 1,000 or 1,200 years ago, in the territory of
Maharana-Jayadeva, a vassal of the Rajput King Champanir, who allowed
them to colonize his land, but only on condition that they laid down
their weapons, that they abandoned the Persian language for Hindi, and
that their women put off their national dress and clothed themselves
after the manner of Hindu women. He, however, allowed them to wear
shoes, since this is strictly prescribed by Zoroaster. Since then very
few changes have been made. It follows that the Parsee women could only
be distinguished from their Hindu sisters by very slight differences.
The almost white faces of the former were separated by a strip of smooth
black hair from a sort of white cap, and the whole was covered with a
bright veil. The latter wore no covering on their rich, shining hair,
twisted into a kind of Greek chignon. Their foreheads were brightly
painted, and their nostrils adorned with golden rings. Both are fond of
bright, but uniform, colors, both cover their arms up to the elbow with
bangles, and both wear saris.
Behind the women a whole sea of most wonderful turbans was waving in the
pit. There were long-haired Rajputs with regular Grecian features and
long beards parted in the middle, their heads covered with "pagris"
consisting of, at least, twenty yards of finest white muslin, and
their persons adorned with earrings and necklaces; there were Mahrata
Brahmans, who shave their heads, leaving only one long central lock, and
wear turbans of blinding red, decorated in front with a sort of golden
horn of plenty; Bangas, wearing three-cornered helmets with a kind of
cockscomb on the top; Kachhis, with Roman helmets; Bhillis, from the
borders of Rajastan, whose chins are wrapped three times in the ends
of their pyramidal turbans, so that the innocent tourist never fails to
think that they constantly suffer from toothache; Bengalis and Calcutta
Babus, bare-headed all the year round, their hair cut after an Athenian
fashion, and their bodies clothed in the proud folds of a white
toga-virilis, in no way different from those once worn by Roman
senators; Parsees, in their black, oilcloth mitres; Sikhs, the followers
of Nanaka, strictly monotheist and mystic, whose turbans are very like
the Bhillis', but who wear long hair down to their waists; and hundreds
of other tribes.
Proposing to count how many different headgears are to be seen in Bombay
alone, we had to abandon the task as impracticable after a fortnight.
Every caste, every trade, guild, and sect, every one of the thousand
sub-divisions of the social hierarchy, has its own bright turban, often
sparkling with gold lace and precious stones, which is laid aside only
in case of mourning. But, as if to compensate for this luxury, even the
mem-bers of the municipality, rich merchants, and Rai-Bahadurs, who have
been created baronets by the Government, never wear any stockings, and
leave their legs bare up to the knees. As for their dress, it chiefly
consists of a kind of shapeless white shirt.
In Baroda some Gaikwars (a title of all the Baroda princes) still keep
in their stables elephants and the less common giraffes, though the
former are strictly forbidden in the streets of Bombay. We had an
opportunity of seeing ministers, and even Rajas, mounted on these noble
animals, their mouths full of pansupari (betel leaves), their heads
drooping under the weight of the precious stones on their turbans, and
each of their fingers and toes adorned with rich golden rings. While
the evening I am describing lasted, however, we saw no elephants, no
giraffes, though we enjoyed the company of Rajas and ministers. We had
in our box the hand-some ambassador and late tutor of the Mahararana
of Oodeypore. Our companion was a Raja and a pandit. His name was a
Mohunlal-Vishnulal-Pandia. He wore a small pink turban sparkling with
diamonds, a pair of pink barege trousers, and a white gauze coat.
His raven black hair half covered his amber-colored neck, which was
surrounded by a necklace that might have driven any Parisian belle
frantic with envy. The poor Raiput was awfully sleepy, but he stuck
heroically to his duties, and, thoughtfully pulling his beard, led us
all through the endless labyrinth of metaphysical entanglements of the
Ramayana. During the entr'actes we were offered coffee, sherbets, and
cigarettes, which we smoked even during the performance, sitting in
front of the stage in the first row. We were covered, like idols, with
garlands of flowers, and the manager, a stout Hindu clad in transparent
muslins, sprinkled us several times with rose-water.
The performance began at eight p.m. and, at half-past two, had only
reached the ninth act. In spite of each of us having a punkah-wallah
at our backs, the heat was unbearable. We had reached the limits of
our endurance, and tried to excuse ourselves. This led to general
disturbance, on the stage as well as in the auditorium. The airy
chariot, on which the wicked king Ravana was carrying Sita away, paused
in the air. The king of the Nagas (serpents) ceased breathing flames,
the monkey soldiers hung motionless on the trees, and Rama himself, clad
in light blue and crowned with a diminutive pagoda, came to the front of
the stage and pronounced in pure English speech, in which he thanked
us for the honour of our presence. Then new bouquets, pansu-paris, and
rose-water, and, finally, we reached home about four a.m. Next morning
we learned that the performance had ended at half-past six.