[Picture: The Pundit]
THE Pundit is like duty; his cough rouses us from our beds in the morning
like the voice of conscience. Why must we pass examinations? Not that
we may know the language of the people, for it is matter of daily
observation, that of all the mysteries which perplex the humble mind of
the country bumpkin in this land, causing him to scratch his—well, not
his head—there is none which he gives up as hopeless sooner than the
strange sounds addressed to him by the young _saheb_ who has just passed
his higher standard. He joins his palms in loyal acquiescence, and
asserts that the gentleman is his father and mother. It was Swift, was
it not, who suggested that all high offices of state should be filled by
lot, because the result would be on the whole quite as satisfactory as
that obtained by the present system, while disappointed candidates would
curse Fortune, who has a broader back than the Prime Minister. No doubt
examinations were introduced on the same sort of principle, to act as a
buffer between the train of candidates and the engine of Government.
That the examination often comes after instead of before the appointment
is a necessary modification, without which no room would be left for the
play of those kindly feelings for kith and kin which we bitterly nickname
nepotism. Under this arrangement I have known a needy _nepos_ of H. E.
himself provided with a salary for a whole year, till he could hold the
examination at bay no longer, when he evacuated his position and
retreated to his friends. Whatever the explanation of the matter may be,
it falls to the lot of most of us to experience the Pundit. I may remark
here that he is very commonly called a Moonshee, on the same principle on
which a horse is not called a cow. The Pundit is not a Moonshee. The
Moonshee is a follower of the Prophet and teaches Oordoo, or
Hindoostanee, while the Pundit is a Brahmin and instructs you in Marathee
or Gujarathee. The Moonshee struggles to get you to disgorge the sound
_ghain_ and leads you through the enchanted mazes of the Bagh-o-Bahar;
the Pundit distinguishes between the _kurmunnee_ and the _kurturree
prayog_, and has many knotty points of mythology to expound, in order
that you may rightly understand his idioms and appreciate his proverbial
sayings. Of Pundits there are three species, quite distinct from each
other. The first I would recommend if your object should, by any chance,
be to learn to speak the language intelligibly; but he knows no English,
and you must gird yourself to work if you employ him. This sort of
teacher does not suit the tastes of the present generation and is dying
out, I think. The second kind is invaluable if your purpose is to pass
an examination. He knows English well, dresses smartly, and is
altogether a superior sort of person to the last, especially in his own
estimation; but appearances are delusive, and the sign that really
distinguishes him from other Pundits is that he enjoys in a high degree
the esteem and confidence of a native member of the examining body.
Another unfailing characteristic of him is that he requires a monstrous
monthly stipend and the promise of a handsome _douceur_ if you pass; but
then you have the satisfaction of knowing that, if you fulfil the
conditions, that happy result is certain. His system leaves no room for
failure. Some people regard this man as a myth, but I have had authentic
accounts of him from numerous young gentlemen who had failed in their
examinations simply, as they themselves assured me, because they did not
employ him. The third class consists of young men, aspirants to
University honours and others, with some knowledge of English and a
laudable desire to improve it by conversation with Englishmen. I do not
know for what purpose this sort of Pundit is useful.
Old Ragunath Rao belonged to the first of these three classes. He knew
no English, and he desired to know none, neither English words nor
English thoughts. He was an undiluted Brahmin. He had taught a former
generation of Anglo-Indians, long since retired, or in their graves, and
one or two of these, who were very religious men, had impressed him by
their characters so deeply that he always spoke of them with reverence,
as not men but divinities. The tide had ebbed away from him, and no one
employed him now: he was very poor. His face was heavy, his ears like
beef-steaks, with a fringe of long bristles round the edge and a bushy
tuft of the same sprouting from the inside. His features were not
pleasing, but strongly expressive of character, stubborn Hindoo
character, self-disciplined, self-satisfied, and in a set attitude of
defence against the invasions of novelty. His athletic intellect was
exercised in all manner of curious questions. The only matter about
which it never concerned itself was reality, the existence of which he
probably doubted. At any rate, he considered truth, right, wrong, to be
subjects for speculative philosophy. As a practical man, he had minutely
acquainted himself with all the things that behoved to be believed by an
orthodox Brahmin, and he was not the man to give way to mere facts. This
frame of mind begot in him a large tolerance, for what possible
connection could there be between what it became him to believe and what
it became you to believe? If his son had turned a Christian, he could
have swung him from a tree by his thumbs and toes and flagellated him
from below with acute pleasure; but if you expounded Christian doctrines
and morals to him, he would listen with profound admiration. A Christian
who lived up to his creed he respected unfeignedly. Strange old man!
like one of his own idols, not modelled upon anything that is in heaven
or on earth. Are they not, he and the idol, the fruit of the same tree?
What memories rise out of their graves at the mention of old Ragunath!
Just about a quarter of an hour after his time he comes slowly up the
steps, panting for breath, and leaving his shoes at the door, walks in
with a _quasi_ courtly salutation. As soon as he can recover his voice,
he tells of a hair-breadth escape from sudden death. As he was crossing
the road, a carriage and pair bore down on him. He stood petrified with
terror, not knowing whether to hurry forward or turn back, but just as
the horses were upon him, he made a frantic effort and gained the
side-walk! He infers that his time to die had not arrived, and takes the
occasion to impart some information about the planets and their influence
on human destinies. Then we seat ourselves, and he takes my exercise
(translation from Grant Duff), and reads it slowly in a muffled voice,
which is forced to make its exit by the nose, the mouth being occupied
with cardamoms or betel nut. As he reads he corrects with a pencil, but
gives no explanation of his corrections; for you must not expect him to
teach: he is a mine simply, in which you must dig for what you want. One
thing you may depend on, that whatever you extract from that mine will be
worth having, indigenous treasure, current wherever Hindoo thought is
moving, very different from the foreign-flavoured pabulum with which your
English smattering instructor charges his feeding bottle. The exercise
gives Ragunath an opportunity of digressing into some traditional
incident of Maratha history which escaped the researches of Mr. Grant
Duff, an incident generally in which Maratha cunning (_sagacity_ he calls
it) triumphed over English stupidity. After the exercise comes the
inevitable petition. I do not remember the subject of it—some grievance
no doubt connected with hereditary rights in land—but it matters little;
the whole document might as well be a Moabite stone recording the wars of
Mesha with Jehoram, for not a letter of it stands out recognisable to my
eyes. Indeed, no letter, or word either, stands out at all; the scribe
seems never to have lifted his pen from his paper except for ink, and
that generally in the middle of a word. However, Ragunath takes the
greasy paper from my hand, remarks that the handwriting is good, and
starts off reading it, or, I should say, intoning it, on exactly the same
principle, _viz._, never pausing except for breath, and that generally in
the middle of a word. Then we read together the “Garland of Pearls,”
which he illuminates with notes of his own. Speaking of old age, he
remarks that the hair of some men ripens sooner than that of others, but
that our heads must all grow grey as our brains get thin. He discourses
on anatomy, food, digestion, the advisability of lying down on the left
side for twenty minutes after meals, and on many things in heaven and
earth which are not dreamed of in our philosophy. As the morning wears
on, the old man, who is not accustomed to sitting on chairs, begins to
fidget, and shows signs of a desire to gather up his feet into the seat
and nurse them. At last drowsiness overtakes him. His eyes are open,
but his mind is asleep, and I may do as I please with grammar and idiom:
even when I yawn, he omits to snap his fingers and lets the devil skip
down my throat. When he awakes he suggests that it is time to stop, and
asks leave for the next day, as he has to renew his sacred thread. Poor
old Ragunath! I fear he has gone long since to the burning ground on the
banks of the Moota Moola.
[Picture: Learned repose] Before we part let me give you a hint. Always
keep a separate chair for your Pundit, one isolated on glass legs, if
possible. Even this does not afford complete security, for he now and
then detects one of the many insects which you have watched coursing up
and down his white scarf, and picking it off with his finger and thumb,
puts it on the floor. His creed forbids him to take the life of anything
which may possibly be the corporeal habitation of the spirit of one of
his deceased ancestors, but these little insects irritate him, so he
deports them as we do our loafers.