[Picture: The Mussaul] THE _Mussaul’s_ name is Mukkun, which means
butter, and of this commodity I believe he absorbs as much as he can
honestly or dishonestly come by. How else does the surface of him
acquire that glossy, oleaginous appearance, as if he would take fire
easily and burn well? I wish we could do without him! The centre of his
influence, a small room in the suburbs of the dining-room, which he calls
the _dispence_, or _dispence-khana_, is a place of unwholesome sights and
noisome odours, which it is good not to visit unless as Hercules visited
the stables of Augeas. The instruments of his profession are there, a
large _handie_ full of very greasy water, with bits of lemon peel and
fragments of broken victuals swimming in it, and a short, stout stick,
with a little bunch of foul rag tied to one end of it. Here the
_Mussaul_ sits on the ice _numda_ while we have our meals, and as each
plate returns from the table, he takes charge of it, and transfers to his
mouth whatever he finds on it, for he is of the _omnivora_, like the
crow. Then he seizes his weapon of offence, and, dipping the rag end
into the _handie_, gives the plate a masterly wipe, and lays it on the
table upside down, or dries it with a damask table napkin. The butler
encourages him for some reason to use up the table napkins in this way.
I suppose it is because he does not like to waste the _dhobie_ on
anything before it is properly soiled. When the _Mussaul_ has disposed
of the breakfast things in this summary way, he betakes himself to the
great work of the day, the polishing of the knives. He first plunges the
ivory handles into boiling water, and leaves them to steep for a time,
then he seats himself on the ice again, and, arranging a plank of wood in
a sloping position, holds it fast with his toes, rubs it well with a
piece of bath brick, and commences to polish with all the energy which he
has saved by the neglect of other duties. Hour after hour the squeaky,
squeaky, squeaky sound of that board plays upon your nerves, not the
nerves of the ear, but the nerves of the mind, for there is more in it
than the ear can convey. Every sight and every sound in this world comes
to us inextricably woven into the warp which the mind supplies, and, as
you listen to that baleful sound, you seem to feel with your finger
points the back of each good, new knife getting sharper and sharper, and
to watch its progress as it wears away at the point of greatest pressure,
until the end of the blade is connected with the rest by a narrow neck,
which eventually breaks, and the point falls off, leaving the knife in
that condition so familiar to us all, when the blade, about three inches
long, ends in a jagged, square point, the handle having, meanwhile,
acquired a rich orange hue. Oh, those knives! those knives!
[Picture: More light]
Etymologically Mukkun is a man of lamps, and, when he has brushed your
boots and stowed them away under your bed, putting the left boot on the
right side and _vice versa_, in order that the toes may point outwards,
as he considers they should, then he addresses himself to this part of
his duty. Old Bombayites can remember the days of cocoanut, when he had
to begin his operations during the cold season by putting a row of
bottles out in the sun to melt the frozen oil; but kerosine has changed
all that, and he has nothing to do but to trim the wick into that
fork-tailed pattern in which he delights, and which secures the minimum
of light with the maximum destruction of chimneys, to smear the outside
of each lamp with his greasy fingers, to conjure away a gallon or so of
oil, and to meet remonstrance with a child-like query, “Do I drink
kerosene oil?” Then he unbends, and gives himself up to a gentle form of
recreation in which he finds much enjoyment. This is to perch on a low
wall or big stone at the garden gate, and watch the carriages and horses
as they pass by. Other _Mussauls_, _ghorawallas_, and passing ice
coolies stop and perch beside him, and sometimes an _ayah_ or two, with a
perambulator and its weary little occupant, grace the gathering. I
suppose the topics of the day are discussed, the chances of a Russian
invasion, the dearness of rice, and the events which led to the dismissal
of Mr. Smith’s old _Mussaul_ Canjee. Then the time for the lighting of
lamps arrives, and Mukkun returns to his duties.
You might not perhaps suspect it, but Mukkun is a prey to vanity. The
pure oily transparency of his Italian complexion commands his admiration,
and he thinks much of those glossy love-locks which emerge from his
turban and curl in front of his ears. Several times a day he goes into
his room to contemplate himself in a small hand mirror, and to wind up
the love-locks on his finger. Poor Mukkun has, indeed, a very human
side, and the phenomenon which we recognise as our _Mussaul_ is not the
whole of him. By birth he is an agriculturist, and there is in the
environs of Surat a little plot of land and a small dilapidated hut in
one corner of it, overgrown with monstrous gourds, which he thinks of as
home, sweet home. There are his young barbarians all at play, but he,
their sire, is forced to seek service abroad because, as he practically
expresses it, the produce of his small field is not sufficient to fill so
many bellies. But, wherever he wanders, his heart—for he has a
heart—flutters about that rickety hut, and as he sits polishing your
boots of a morning, you may hear him pensively humming to himself:—
Beatus ille qui, procul negotiis,
Ut prisca gens mortalium,
Paterna rura bobus exercet suis,
Solutus omni fœnore.
He puts a peculiar pathos into the last line, for he is grievously
haunted by an apparition in the form of an old man with a small red
turban, gold earrings, and grey beard parted in the middle, who
flourishes a paper in his face and talks of the debtors’ gaol; and hints
that he will have the little house and field near Surat. Mukkun first
fell into the net of this spider many years ago, when he wanted a few
hundred rupees to enable him to celebrate the marriage of his little
child. He signed a bond for twice the amount he received then, and it
continues to increase from year to year, though he has paid the principal
twice over in interest; at least he thinks he has, but he is not a good
accountant. Every now and then he is required to sign some fresh
document, of the contents of which he knows nothing, but the effect of
which is always the same—_viz._, to heap up his liabilities and rivet his
fetters more firmly, and punctually on pay day every month, the grim old
man waylays him and compels him to disgorge his wages, allowing him so
much grain and spices as will keep him in condition till next pay day.
In a word, Mukkun is a slave. Yet he does not jump into the garden well,
nor his quietus make with a bare bodkin. No, he plods through life, eats
his rice and curry with gusto, smokes his cigarette with satisfaction,
oils his lovelocks, borrows money from the cook to buy a set of silver
buttons for his waistcoat, and when he tires of them, pawns them to pay
for a velvet cap on which he has set his heart. In short, he behaves _à
la Mukkun_, and no insight is to be had by examining his case through
English spectacles; but it is our strange infirmity, being the most
singular people on earth, to regard ourselves as typical of the human
race, and _ergo_ to conclude that what is good for us cannot be otherwise
than good for all the world. Hence many of our anti-tyranny agitations
and philanthropies, not always beneficial to the subjects of them, and
also many of our misplaced sympathies. We see a spider eating a fly, and
long to crush the spider, while we shed a tear for the fly. But the
spider is much the higher animal of the two. It labours long hours
laying out a net, and then waits all day for the fruit of its toil.
Insects are caught and escape again, the net gets broken, and when, after
many disappointments, the spider secures a fat fly, what advantage does
it derive? A meal; just what the fly got by sitting in a pit of manure
and sipping till it could sip no more. Doom that fly to the life which
the spider leads, and it would drown itself in your milk jug on the spot,
unable to bear up under such a weight of care and toil. In this parable
the fly is Mukkun and the spider is Shylock, and my sympathies are not
wholly given to the former. I quite admit that Shylock worries him
cruelly, and if he had not given hostages to fortune, he would abscond
with a light heart to some distant station where he might forget his old
debts and contract new ones. But this is not the alternative before him.
The alternative is to take care of his money, not to buy things which he
cannot afford, to do without the silver buttons, and postpone the velvet
cap, all which would put a strain on his mental and moral constitution,
under which he would wear out in a week. He must find some other _modus
vivendi_ than that. If he had lived in the world’s infancy, he would
have sold himself and his family to someone who would have fed him and
clothed him, and relieved him of the cares of life. But Britons never,
never, never shall be slaves, and under our rule Mukkun is forced to
share that disability; so he attains his end in an indirect way, and
lives thereafter in such happiness as nature has given him capacity to
enjoy. Shylock will neither put him into gaol nor seize his field. We
do not send our milch cow to the butcher. Shylock owns a hundred such as
he, and much trouble they give him.
Mukkun lives in dread of the devil. Nothing will induce him to pass at
night by places where the foul fiend is known to walk, nor will he sleep
alone without a light.
[Picture: In dread of the devil]