his hands bruising her wrists, his eyes, full of despair and regret,
on her face.
The sun-flecks shifted over them, the citron-flowers fell upon them as
the afternoon breeze stirred the branches. And even when the swift
poison loosed his clasp, Naraini was still a prisoner to the dead
body, lying with its face of desire and disgust hidden in her lap.
She was a widow. The citron-blossom had fallen.
That night there was weeping and wailing instead of feasting in the
garden; and at dawn the women put bowls of sweetened milk into the
scented thickets to propitiate the holy snake, lest, having chosen one
victim, it might seek a pair. Perhaps, as far as happiness goes, it
might as well have claimed Naraini also.
After a time, to be sure, life went on as before. The old distiller
came, and Naraini shook the blossoms for him into her widow's shroud.
The sweetness of them was no less sweet as it trickled into the old
gin and champagne bottles, but Naraini got no share of it. What have
widows to do with the perfumes of life?
This is an idle tale of a five minutes' tragedy--perhaps none the
less of a tragedy because it is true.
NUR JEHAN.
Long ago--so runs the story--in the days of King
Akbar,
'Mid the pearly--tinted splendours of the Paradise
Bazar,[12]
Young Jehangir, boyish--hearted, playing idly with
his dove,
Lost his fav'rite, lost his boyhood, lost his heart, and
found his love.
---------------------
[Footnote 12: Hung and decorated in silver and white.]
---------------------
By a fretted marble fountain, set in broidery of
flowers,
Sat a girl, half child, half maiden, dreaming o'er the
future hours,
Wond'ring simply, yet half guessing, what the harem
women mean
When they call her fair, and whisper, "You are born
to be a queen."
Curving her small palms like petals, for a store of
glistening spray,
Gazing in the sunny water, where her rippling
shadow lay,
Lips that ripen fast for kisses, slender form of
budding grace,
Hair that frames with ebon softness a clear, oval,
ivory face.
Arched and fringed with velvet blackness, from their
shady depths her eyes
Shine as summer lightning flashes in the dusky
evening skies.
Mihr un-nissa (queen of women), so they call the
little maid
Dreaming by the marble fountain where but yesterday
she played.
Heavy-sweet the creamy blossoms gem the burnished
orange-groves;
Through their bloom comes Prince Jehangir, on his
wrist two fluttering doves.
"Hold my birds, child!" cries the stripling, "I am
tired of their play"--
Thrusts them in her hand unwilling; careless saunters
on his way.
Culling posies as he wanders from the flowers sweet
and rare,
Heedless that the fairest blossom, 'mid the blaze of
blossom there,
Is the little dreaming maiden, by the fountain-side
at rest,
With the onyx-eyed, bright-plumaged birds of love
upon her breast.
Flowers fade, and perfume passes; nothing pleases
long to-day;
Back towards his feathered favourites soon the
prince's footsteps stray.
Dreaming still sits Mihr-un-nissa, but within her
listless hold
Only one fair struggling captive does the boy,
surprised, behold.
"Only one?" he queried sharply. "Sire," she
falters, "one has flown."
"Stupid! how?" The maiden flushes at the proud,
imperious tone.
"So, my lord!" she says, defiant, with a scornful
smile, and straight
From her unclasped hands the other, circling, flies
to join his mate.
Startled by her quick reprisal, wrath is lost in blank
surprise;
Silent stands the heir of Akbar, gazing with awakening
eyes
On the small, rebellious figure, with its slender arms
outspread,
Rising resolute before him 'gainst the sky of sunset
red.
Heavy-sweet the creamy blossom gems the gloomy
orange-tree,
Where the happy doves are cooing o'er their
new-found liberty.
Slowly dies the flush of anger, as the flush of evening
dies;
Slowly grow his eyes to brightness, as the stars in
evening skies.
"So, my lord!" So Love had flitted from the
listless hold of Fate,
And the heart of young Jehangir, like the dove, had
found its mate.
SHURFU THE ZAILDAR[13]
---------------------
[Footnote 13: Head-man of a circle of villages.]
---------------------
Then you'll give me a character, won't you? and
say I'm a first-class _zaildar_.
Not a man of them's done half so much as old
Shurfu to please the _Sirkar_.
Why, I've brought you full forty "suspected ones";
that isn't bad as a haul.
Look you! forty "suspected ones" _present_, and gone
bail myself for them all.
And a word, _sahib_--for your ear alone--if you'd like
me to bring a few more,
Just to make a round fifty on paper, and show that
the work's to the fore--
_Bismillah!_ they never shall say, while old Shurfu is
one of the crew,
That his district _sahib's_ schedules were shaky for
want of a _budmash_[14] or two.
---------------------
[Footnote 14: Bad character.]
---------------------
And what do I think of the system? Why, just what
the Presence may choose;
But a good cattle-thief nowadays must look after his
p's and his q's.
There are many more folk to be squared, and the
hire of the bail to be paid;
But it makes the lads three times as careful, and
raises the style of a raid.
Still the game, as a game, is no more; for your reign
has been death to all sport.
E'en a cattle-thief thinks like a banker, and scarcely
gives honour a thought.
'Tis mere money grub--pennies and farthings. What
_I_ in my youth you have heard
Was a noted--O fie on the Presence! It shouldn't
believe such a word.
There are twenty-three schools in my circle; I pay
all the Government fees!
I've made a canal and a garden! I've planted some
thousands of trees!
I've headed the lists and subscriptions! I've tried
queer new crops on my land!
Not a village of mine owns a dung-heap! My mares
are all Government brand!
Not a hobby his district _sahib's_ ridden, but Shurfu
has ridden it too;
Though the number of _sahibs_ has been awful, and
every one's hobby was new.
Well, I don't mind a glass, since there's nobody nigh;
you won't tell, I'll engage.
True! the Prophet forbids; but he didn't know
brandy, and wasn't my age.
When a man turns of eighty, there ain't many sins
he has strength to commit,
So his day-book can stand a few trifles. Aye, wine
wakes the mem'ry a bit.
As for Fuzla, we've all heard of Fuzla--the _best_
cattle-thief in Punjab--
Pooh! you don't mean to say he ne'er met with a
match on this side of Chenab?
I could tell you a story--well, half a glass
more--but I'd best hold my tongue.
So Mian Fuzla had never his match! come, that's
good! Why, when we were both young--
What the deuce am I saying? _Jehannam_ be mine,
but I cannot keep still!
I'll tell how I swam the Chenab in full flood! Yes,
by Allah! I will.
Mian Fuzla had squared th' police on his side of the
stream, as one can
With good luck; but my cowards were cautious, and
hadn't the pluck of a man;
So Mian Fuzla got up in the bottle and sent me a
message to say
He had fifty-three head of my cattle, and when would
I take them away?
Now the waters were out, so the boast was scarce
fair; but I took up the glove,
And with Mokhun and Dittu to help, that same night
crossed the river above
While they thought all secure; but it wasn't! So
dawn found us stealing along
With a herd of a hundred she buffaloes, all of them
lusty and strong.
Well, we made for the river, through tamarisk jungle
and tussocks of grass,
And narrow-pathed tangle of _jhau_ that would scarce
let a buffalo pass,
With our thoughts on the footsteps behind, till the
first level streak of the light
Brought us down to the stream; and, by God! it
had risen ten feet in the night!
'Twas a broad, yellow plain, shining far in the rays
of the sun as it rose,
And a cold wind swept over the flood that came
hurrying down from the snows
With a swift, silent current in eddying swirls--not a
sound, not a dash
Save a sudden, dull thud, as the bank, undermined,
tumbled in with a splash.
Then we looked at each other in silence; the looks
of the others said "No."
But I thought of that challenge of Fuzla's, and
made up my mind I would go,
Though I knew that the odds were against me; so,
bidding the cowards turn back,
With a few of the beasts on their traces and try hard
to deaden the track--
For 'twas time, it was time that I wanted--I drove
the rest down to the brink,
But the brutes wouldn't take to the water; they
loved life too well not to shrink.
So I took a young calf from its mother--'twas cruel,
but what did I reck?
And butchered the brute with my hanger, and
fastened my _pug_ round its neck,
Then I dragged it right into the water, and buoyed
it up well round the throat
With a bundle of grasses and reeds that would keep
the dead body afloat.
I thought of that challenge of Fuzla's; then turned
and struck out like a man,
While the mother leaped after her young one, and
all the rest followed the van.
The flood swept me down like a leaf, and the calf
swept me farther down still,
But I knew 'twas a life or death struggle, and
breasted the stream with a will;
While the hope I could lead the beasts on, till 'twas
safer before than behind,
And the fear lest Mian Fuzla should win, were the
only two thoughts in my mind.
It was half a yard forward to half a mile
downward, yet still I made way,
While behind, in a long single file, the black heads of
the buffaloes lay,
Till I knew we had reached the big stream, and that
now there was no going back;
Then I gave one faint shout, and I cast off the dead
calf, and let myself slack.
So we drifted, and drifted, and drifted. I strove to
recover my breath,
But a numbness came over my heart, and I knew I
was drifting to death,
As the big, heavy beasts were swept past by the
terrible force of the stream,
And the whole world seemed slipping away, as I
swam on alone in a dream.
Then I wondered how Fuzla would take it, and how
many miles I had come;
Or guessed what the people would say when days
passed and I never came home--
Till it came to me, as in a dream, that the current
was setting in shore;
And after that, _sahib_, it is strange I could never
recall any more.
Only this I can tell you: we measured it after, from
starting to end,
And the distance was over ten miles by the straight,
without counting the bend.
So Mian Fuzla was beat; and sent me a _pugri_ with
knots which his women had tied,
And the song of the "Crossing of Shurfu" is known
through the whole countryside.
_Wah! illah!_ How my tongue has been wagging, and
I the _zaildar!_ But in sooth
'Tis dull work for old Shurfu compared to the
merry, mad days of his youth.
_Ji salaam!_ And whatever you want, send for Shurfu
the _zaildar_; and, _sahib_,
You'll remember that Fuzla once met with his match
on this side of Chenab!
SONGS OF THE PEOPLE.
I.
PLOUGH SONG.
Bitter blue sky with no fleck of cloud!
_Ho! brother ox, make the plough speed_;
For the dear hearth-mother with care is bowed
As the hungry little ones round her crowd.
'Tis the _buniya's_ belly grows fat and proud
When poor folk are in need.
Sky, dappled grey like a partridge's breast--
_Ho! brother ox, drive the plough deep_;
For the wind may blow from the north or west,
And the hungry fledglings fall from the nest,
Or the dear hearth-mother fold hands in rest,
Ere harvest's ripe to reap.
Clouds, driving up in the teeth of the wind--
_Ho! brother ox, guide the plough straight_;
For the dear hearth-mother feeds halt and blind,
While the hungry little ones garlands bind
Round the tree where the Dread One sits enshrined,
On whom we poor folk wait.
Merry drops slanting from south and east--
_Ho! brother ox, drive home the wain_;
For the dear hearth-mother will spread a feast.
There's none shall be hungry--nor bairn nor beast;
'Tis the _buniya's_ belly that gets the least
When Ram sends poor folk rain.
II.
SOWING SONG
Sun-flash on the grain
As it leaps from the sower's hand,
Quick with desire to gain
New life from the land.
Seams, furrows, and scars
On the face of our Mother Earth,
For the gods set sorrow and tears
At the gates of birth.
Swift flight of the seed,
Like a bird through the sun-bright air,
To rot in the ground, or breed
In the Dread One's care.
Broken heart of soil,
Taking all to its patient breast,
With never a cease from toil
Or a dream of rest.
Wheat-grains grow to wheat,
And the seed of a tare to tare.
Who knows if Man's soul will meet
Man's body to wear?
Great Ram! grant me life
From the grain of a golden deed;
Sink not my soul in the strife
To wake as a weed.
Seek thy grave, O grain!
Some day I will seek mine too,
To rise from the level plain,
The old in the new.
III.
HARVEST SONG.
Scorching sun that shrivels and sears,
Withering wind in the rustling ears,
Rattle of death as the dry stalks fall,
Promise of life in the seed for all.
Flash of the sickles, sweat of the brows,
Rest in the noon, beneath sheltering boughs.
_Gather and reap,
Death is but sleep_.
Golden grain ripens though lovers are dead;
Lips long for kisses, but mouths must have bread.
Blazing brass of the sky at noon,
Broad, bright face of the harvest moon;
Slow stars wheeling to meet the morn,
Toilers asleep on the sheaves of corn;
Stealthy snake with the lifted crest,
Poisoned prick in a tired breast.
_Gather and bind,
Fate is but blind_.
Golden grain ripens though dear ones may weep;
Love longs for gladness, but toil must have sleep.
Kine knee-deep in the glistening straw;
Flocks of birds round the threshing-floor;
Clouds of chaff from the winnowing-tray,
Gleaming gold as they drift away;
Wreath of smoke from the funeral pyre,
End of love and its vain desire!
_Gather and sheave,
Why should we grieve?_
Death finds new life in the Great Mother's breast,
Rest turns to labour, and labour to rest.
IV.
COTTON-PICKING SONG[15]
---------------------
[Footnote 15: This is often an occasion for mutual chaff between the
bands of boys and girls, which, as a rule, takes a riddling form.
Blossom and fruit grow side by side.]
---------------------
In the field how many blossoms showing,
In the field how many maidens rare?
Golden, set with red, the blossoms glowing;
Red veils sewn with gold the maidens wear.
Oh, the merry hours
Midst the maids and flowers!
Tell us, which of these twain is most fair?
CHORUS OF BOYS.
O golden bud!
Spotless without thou art,
Sin--stained within, like blood--
So woman's heart.
CHORUS OF GIRLS.
Not so! No, no!
We will not have it so!
O pale, pure bloom,
Cold to the world thou art;
Yet warm love finds a room
In woman's heart.
In the field the merry leaves are dancing;
In the field small hands which never rest;
Leaves with five points crimson-tinged and glancing,
Fingers henna-tipped and daintiest.
Fate a bright spell weaves
With the hands and leaves.
Tell us, which of these twain is the best?
CHORUS OF BOYS.
Wind-driven leaves,
Busy at its command,
Idle when none perceives--
So woman's hand.
CHORUS OF GIRLS.
Not so! No, no!
We will not have it so!
Pitiful leaves,
Doing, by kindness planned,
Work that no man perceives--
So woman's hand.
In the field, down on the breeze is blowing;
In the fields, the maidens' thoughts rise light;
Down to bear the seed for wider sowing,
Thoughts which fly to dear ones out of sight;
Merrily they've flown,
Thoughts and cotton down.
Tell us, which of these twain does the right?
CHORUS OF BOYS.
Unstable down,
By every idle wind
Hither and thither blown--
So woman's mind.
CHORUS OF GIRLS.
Not so! No, no!
We will not have it so!
Soft, white--winged down,
Eager new work to find,
Hoarding naught for its own--
So woman's mind.
In the field the husk-shells swing and rustle;
In the field the merry tongues wag fast;
Clatter! chatter! Oh, the laughing bustle!
Smiles and jests at all as they come past.
Yonder's a man--
Answer if he can.
"Blows and kisses, tears and smiling;
Women's faith and man's beguiling;
Money spending, money piling:
Tell us, what in life will longest last?"
VOICE OF A MAN.
Ram, give me strength,
Else it will be unsung,
For none can tell the length
Of woman's tongue.
CHORUS OF GIRLS.
Fie, fie! Not so!
We will not have it so!
CHORUS OF MATRONS.
Have patience, lassies--wait a little space;
The bridal lamps will flame, the songs be sung;
Then you can laugh, and teach your own good man
To know the length of his good woman's tongue!
THE END.
* * * * *
_Printed from American Plates_
Edinburgh: T. & A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty.
End of Project Gutenberg's From the Five Rivers, by Flora Annie Steel