[Picture: The Bheestee] THE _malee_ has an ally called the _Bheestee_.
If you ask, Who is the _Bheestee_? I will tell you. _Behisht_ in the
Persian tongue means Paradise, and a _Bihishtee_ is, therefore, an
inhabitant of Paradise, a cherub, a seraph, an angel of mercy. He has no
wings; the painters have misconceived him; but his back is bowed down
with the burden of a great goat-skin swollen to bursting with the elixir
of life. He walks the land when the heaven above him is brass and the
earth iron, when the trees and shrubs are languishing and the last blade
of grass has given up the struggle for life, when the very roses smell
only of dust, and all day long the roaring “dust devils” waltz about the
fields, whirling leaf and grass and corn stalk round and round and up and
away into the regions of the sky; and he unties a leather thong which
chokes the throat of his goat-skin just where the head of the poor old
goat was cut off, and straight-way, with a life-reviving gurgle, the
stream called _thunda panee_ gushes forth, and plant and shrub lift up
their heads and the garden smiles again. The dust also on the roads is
laid and a grateful incense rises from the ground, the sides of the water
chatty grow dark and moist and cool themselves in the hot air, and
through the dripping interstices of the _khuskhus_ tattie a chilly
fragrance creeps into the room, causing the mercury in the thermometer to
retreat from its proud place. Nay, the seraph finds his way to your very
bath-room, and discharging a cataract into the great tub, leaves it
heaving like the ocean after a storm. When you follow him there, you
will thank that nameless poet who gave our humble Aquarius the title he
bears. Surely in the world there can be no luxury like an Indian “tub”
after a long march, or a morning’s shooting, in the month of May. I know
of none. Wallace says that to eat a _durian_ is a new sensation, worth a
voyage to the East to experience. “A rich, butterlike custard, highly
flavoured with almonds, gives the best general idea of it, but
intermingled with it come wafts of flavour which call to mind cream
cheese, onion sauce, brown sherry, and other incongruities.” If this is
true, then eating a _durian_ must, in its way, be something like having a
tub. That certainly is a new sensation. I cannot tell what gives the
best general idea of it, but there are mingled with it many wafts of a
vigorous enjoyment, which touch you, I think, at a higher point in your
nature than cream cheese or onion sauce. There is first the
enfranchisement of your steaming limbs from gaiter and shooting boot,
buckskin and flannel; then the steeping of your sodden head in the
pellucid depth, with bubaline snortings and expirations of satisfaction;
then, as the first cold stream from the “tinpot” courses down your spine,
what electric thrills start from a dozen ganglia and flush your whole
nervous system with new life! Finally, there is the plunge and the
wallow and the splash, with a feeling of kinship to the porpoise in its
joy, under the influence of which the most silent man becomes vocal and
makes the walls of the narrow _ghoosulkhana_ resound with amorous, or
patriotic, song. A flavour of sadness mingles here, for you must come
out at last, but the ample gaol towel receives you in its warm embrace
and a glow of contentment pervades your frame, which seems like a special
preparation for the soothing touch of cool, clean linen, and white duck,
or smooth _khakee_. And even before the voice of the butler is heard at
the door, your olfactory nerves, quickened by the tonic of the tub, have
told you what he is going to say.
Some people in India always bathe in hot water, not for their sins, but
because they like it. At least, so they say, and it may be true, for I
have been told that you may get a taste even for drinking hot water if
you keep at it long enough.
[Picture: The well]
The _Bheestee_ is the only one of all our servants who never asks for a
rise of pay on account of the increase of his family. But he is not like
the other servants. We do not think of him as one of the household. We
do not know his name, and seldom or never speak to him; but I follow him
about, as you would some little animal, and observe his ways. I find
that he always stands on his left leg, which is like an iron gate-post,
and props himself with his right. I cannot discover whether he
straightens out when he goes home at night, but when visible in the
daytime, he is always bowed, either under the weight of his _mussuk_ or
the recollection of it. The constant application of that great cold
poultice must surely bring on chronic lumbago, but he does not complain.
I notice, however, that his waist is always bound about with many folds
of unbleached cotton cloth and other protective gear. The place to study
him to advantage is the _bowrie_, or station well, in a little hollow at
the foot of a hill. Of course there are many wells, but some have a bad
reputation for guineaworm, and some are brackish, and some are jealously
guarded by the Brahmins, who curse the _Bheestee_ if he approaches, and
some are for low caste people. This well is used by the station
generally, and the water of it is very “sweet.” Any native in the place
will tell you that if you drink of this well you will always have an
appetite for your meals and digest your food. It is circular and
surrounded by a strong parapet wall, over which, if you peep cautiously
into the dark abyss, you may catch a sight of the wary tortoise, which
shares with a score or so of gigantic frogs the task of keeping the water
“sweet.” It was introduced for the purpose by a thoughtful _Bheestee_:
the frogs fell in. Wild pigeons have their nests in holes in the sides
of the well. Here, morning and evening, you will find the _Bheestees_ of
the station congregated, some coming and some going, like bees at the
mouth of a hive, but most standing on the wall and letting down their
leather buckets into the water. As they begin to haul these up again
hand over hand, you will look to see them all topple head foremost into
the well, but they do not as a rule. It makes an imaginative European
giddy to look down into that Tartarean depth; but then the _Bheestee_ is
not imaginative. As the hot season advances, the water retreats further
and further into the bowels of the earth, and the labour of filling the
_mussuk_ becomes more and more arduous. At the same time, the demand for
water increases, for man is thirsty and the ground parched. So the toils
of the poor _Bheestee_ march _pari passu_ with the tyranny of the
climate, and he grows thin and very black. Then, with the rain, his
vacation begins. Happy man if his master does not cut his pay down on
the ground that he has little to do. We masters sometimes do that kind
of thing.
I believe the _mussuk_ bearer is the true and original _Bheestee_, but in
many places, as wealth and luxury have spread, he has emancipated his own
back and laid his burden on the patient bullock, which walks sagaciously
before him, and stops at the word of command beside each flower-pot or
bush. He treats his slave kindly, hanging little bells and _cowries_
about its neck. If it is refractory he does not beat it, but gently
reviles its female ancestors. I like the _Bheestee_ and respect him. As
a man, he is temperate and contented, eating _bajree_ bread and slacking
his thirst with his own element. The author of Hobson Jobson says he
never saw a drunken _Bheestee_. And as a servant he is laborious and
faithful, rarely shirking his work, seeking it out rather. For example,
we had a bottle-shaped filter of porous stoneware, standing in a bucket
of water, which it was his duty to fill daily; but the good man, not
content with doing his bare duty, took the plug out of the filter and
filled it too! And all the station knows how assiduously he fills the
rain gauge. But what I like best in him is his love of nature. He keeps
a tame lark in a very small cage, covered with dark cloth that it may
sing, and early in the morning you will find him in the fields, catching
grasshoppers for his little pet. I am speaking of a Mahomedan
_Bheestee_. You must not expect love of nature in a Hindoo.
[Picture: His little pet]