"_O! most almighty wictoria, V.R., reg. britannicorum (V.I.,
Kaiser-i-Hind), please admit bearer to privileges of praising God on
the little drum as occasion befitteth, and your petitioner will ever
pray," etc_.
It was written on a scrap of foreign paper duly stamped as a petition,
and it did not need the interpolation of imperial titles to prove that
this was not by any means its first appearance in court. To be plain,
it had an "ancient and a fishlike smell," suggestive of many years'
acquaintance with dirty humanity. I looked at the man who had
presented it--a very ordinary _fakeer_, standing with hands folded
humbly--and was struck by the wistful expectancy in his face. It was
at once hopeful yet hopeless. Turning to the court-reader for
explanation, I found a decorous smile flowing round the circle of
squatting clerks. It was evidently an old-established joke.
"He is damnably noiseful man, Sir," remarked my _sarishtidar_,
cheerfully, "and his place of sitting close to Deputy-Commissioner's
bungalow. Thus European officers object; so it is always _na-munzoor_"
(refused).
The sound of the familiar formula drove the hope from the old man's
face; his thin shoulders seemed to droop, but he said nothing.
"How long has this been going on?" I asked.
"Fourteen years, Sir. Always on transference of officers, and it is
always _na-munzoor_." He dipped his pen in the ink, gave it the
premonitory flick.
"_Munzoor_" (granted), said I, in a sudden decision. "_Munzoor_ during
the term of my office."
That was but a month. I was only a _locum tenens_ during leave. Only a
month, and the poor old beggar had waited fourteen years to praise God
on the little drum! The pathos and bathos of it hit _me_ hard; but a
stare of infinite surprise had replaced the circumambient smile. The
_fakeer_ himself seemed flabbergasted. I think he felt lost without
his petition, for I saw him fumbling in his pocket as the janissaries
hustled him out of court, as janissaries love to do, east or west.
That night, as I was wondering if I had smoked enough and yawned
enough to make sleep possible in a hundred degrees of heat, and a
hundred million mosquitoes, I was suddenly reminded of the proverb
"Charity begins at home." It had, with a vengeance. I had thought my
_sarishtidar's_ language a trifle too picturesque; now I recognised
its supreme accuracy. The _fakeer_ was "a damnably noiseful man." It
is useless trying to add one iota to this description, especially to
those unacquainted with the torture of an Indian drum. By dawn I was
in the saddle, glad to escape from my own house and the ceaseless
"_Rumpa-tum-tum_," which was driving me crazy.
When I returned, the old man was awaiting me in the verandah, his face
full of a great content; and the desire to murder him, which rose up
in me with the thought of the twenty-nine nights yet to come, faded
before it. Perfect happiness is not the lot of many, but apparently it
was his. He salaamed down to the ground. "_Huzoor_," he said, "the
great joy in me created a disturbance last night. It will not occur
again. The Protector of the Poor shall sleep in peace, even though his
slave praises God for him all night long. The Almighty does not
require a loud drum."
I said I was glad to hear it, and my self-complacency grew until I
laid my head on the pillow somewhat earlier than usual. Then I
became aware of a faint throbbing in the air, like that which follows
a deep organ note--a throbbing which found its way into the drum of
my ear and remained there--so faint that it kept me on the rack to
know if it had stopped or was still going on. "_Rumpa-tum-tum-tum,
rumpa-tum-tum-tum, rumpa_----" Even now the impulse to make the hateful
rhythm interminable seizes on me. I have to lay aside my pen and take
a new one before going on.
I draw a veil over the mental struggle which followed. It would have
been quite easy to rescind my permission, but the thought of one month
versus fourteen years roused my pride. As representative of the
"_almighty wictoria, reg. britannicorum_," etc., I had admitted this
man to the privileges of praising God on the little drum, and there
was an end of it. But the effort left my nerves shattered with the
strain put on them. It was the middle of the hot weather--that awful
fortnight before the rains break--I was young--absolutely alone. Every
morning as I rode, a perfect wreck, past the _fakeer's_ hovel by the
gate, he used to ask me if I had slept well, and I lied to him. What
was the use of suffering if no one was the happier for it?
At last, one evening--it was the twenty-first, I remember, for I
ticked them off on a calendar like any schoolboy--I sat out among the
oleanders, knowing that sleep was mine. The rains had broken, a cool
wind stirred the dripping trees, the fever of unrest was over. Clouds
of winged white ants besieged the lamp: what wonder, when the rafters
of the old bungalow were riddled almost beyond the limits of safety by
their galleries? But what did I care? I was going to sleep. And so I
did, like a child, until close on the dawn. And then--by heavens, it
was too bad! In the verandah surely, not faint, but loudly imperative:
"RUMPA-TUM-TUM-TUM!"
I was out of bed in an instant full of fury. The fiend incarnate must
be walking round the house. I was after him in the moonlight. Not a
sign; the white oleanders were shining in the dark foliage; a firefly
or two--nothing more.
"_Rumpa-tum-tum-tum!_" Fainter this time round the corner.
Not there!
"_Rumpa-tum-tum-tum!_" A mere whisper now, but loud enough to be
traced. So on the track, I was round the house to the verandah whence
I had started.
No sign--no sound!
Gracious! what was that? A crash, a thud, a roar and rattle of earth!
The house! the roof!
When by the growing light of dawn we inspected the damage, we found
the biggest rafter of all lying right across the pillow where my head
had been two minutes before. The first sunbeams were on the still
sparkling trees when, full of curiosity, I strolled over to the
_fakeer's_ hut. It also was a heap of ruins, and when we dug the old
man out from among the ant-riddled rafters the doctor said he had been
dead for many hours.
This story may seem strange to some; others will agree with my
_sarishtidar_, who, after spending the morning over a Johnson's
dictionary and a revenue report, informed me that "such catastrophes
are but too common in this unhappy land after heavy rain following on
long-continued drought."