[Picture: The Kalai-wallah] I have yielded to the claim of the
_doodwallah_ to be reckoned among the _nowkers_. His right is more than
doubtful, and I will yield no further. Nevertheless, there is a cluster
of petty dependents, a nebula of minor satellites, which have us for the
focus of their orbit, and which cannot be left out of a comprehensive
account of our system. Whence, for example, is that raucus stridulation
which sets every tooth on edge and sends a rheumatic shiver up my spine?
“It is only the _Kalai-wallah_,” says the boy, and points to a muscular
black man, very nearly in the garb of a Grecian athlete, standing with
both feet in one of my largest cooking pots. He grasps a post with both
hands, and swings his whole frame fiercely from side to side with a
circular motion, like the balance wheel of a watch. He seems to have a
rough cloth and sand under his feet, so I suppose this is only his
energetic way of scouring the pot preparatory to tinning it, for the
_Kalai-wallah_ is the “tin-man,” whose beneficent office it is to avert
death by verdigris and salts of copper from you and your family. His
assistant, a semi-nude, fleshless youth, has already extemporized a
furnace of clay in the ground hard by, and is working a huge pair of
clumsy bellows. Around him are all manner of copper kitchen utensils,
_handies_, or _deckshies_, kettles, frying-pans, and what not, and there
are also on the ground some rings of _kalai_, commonly called tin; but
pure tin is an expensive metal, and I do not think it is any part of the
_Kalai-wallah’s_ care to see that you are not poisoned with lead. One
notable peculiarity there is in this _Kalai-wallah_, or tin-man, which
deserves record, namely, that he pays no _dustooree_ to any man. I take
it as sufficient evidence of this fact that, though even the _matie_
could tell you that the pots ought to be tinned once a month, neither the
butler nor the cook ever seems to remember when the day comes round.
This is a matter which you must see to personally. Contrast with this
the case of the _Nalbund_, the clink of whose hammer in the early morning
tells that the 15th of the month has dawned. His portable anvil is
already in the ground, and he is hammering the shoes into shape after a
fashion; but he is not very particular about this, for if the shoe does
not fit the hoof he can always cut the hoof to fit the shoe. This is an
advantage which the maker of shoes for human feet does not enjoy, though
I have heard of very fashionable ladies who secretly have one toe
amputated that the rest may more easily be squeezed into that curious
pointed thing, which, by some mysterious process of mind, is regarded as
an elegant shoe. But this is by the way. To return to the _Nalbund_.
His work is guaranteed to last one calendar month, and your faithful
_ghorawallah_, who remembers nothing else, and scarcely knows the day of
the week, bears in mind the exact date on which the horse has to be shod
next, and if the careless _Nalbund_ does not appear, promptly goes in
search of him. Does not this speak volumes for the efficiency of that
venerable and wonderful institution _dustooree_, by which the interests
of all classes are cemented together and the wheels of the social system
are oiled? The shoeing of the bullock is generally a distinct
profession, I believe, from the shoeing of the horse, and is not
considered such a high art. The poor _byle_ is thrown, and, his feet
being tied together, the assistant holds his nose to the ground, while
the master nails a small slip of bad iron to each half of the hoof. I
often stop on my way to contemplate this spectacle, which beautifully
illustrates that cold patience, or natural thick-skinnedness, which fits
the _byle_ so admirably for his lot in this land. He is yoked to a
creaking cart and prodded with a sharp nail to make him go, his female
ancestry reviled to the third generation, his belly tickled with the
driver’s toes, and his tail twisted till the joints crack, but he plods
patiently on till he feels disposed to stop, and then he lies down and
takes with an even mind such cudgelling as the enraged driver can
inflict. At last a fire of straw is lighted under him, and then he gets
up and goes on. He never grows restive or frets, as a horse would, and
so he does not wear out. This is the reason why bullocks are used
throughout India for all agricultural purposes. The horse does not suit
the genius of the people. I wish horses in India could do without shoes.
In sandy districts, like Guzerat, they can, and are much better unshod;
but in the stony Deccan some protection is absolutely necessary, and the
poor beast is often at the mercy of the village bullock _Nalbund_. It
carries my thoughts to the days of our forefathers, when the blacksmith
was also the dentist.
[Picture: Nalbund]
[Picture: Grasswallah] The _Nalbund_ leads naturally to the
_Ghasswallah_, or grass-man, whose sign is a mountain of green stuff,
which comes nodding in at the back gate every day upon four emaciated
legs. A small pony’s nose protrudes from the front, with a muzzle on,
for in such matters the spirit of the law of Moses is not current in this
country. The mild Hindoo does muzzle the mouth of the ox that treadeth
out the corn. His religion forbids him to take life, and he obeys, but
he steers as near to that sin as he can, without actually committing it,
and vitality is seen here at a lower ebb, perhaps, than in any other
country under the sun. The grassman maintains just so much flesh on the
bones of his beast as will suffice to hold them together under their
burden, and this can be done without lucerne grass, so poor Tantalus
toddles about, buried under a pile of sweet-scented, fresh, green
herbage, ministering to the sleek aristocracy of his own kind, and
returns to gnaw his daily allowance of _kurbee_. There is, however, one
alleviation of his lot for which he may well be thankful, and that is
that his burden so encompasses him about that the stick of his driver
cannot get at any part of him. I believe the _Ghasswallah_ is an
institution peculiar to our presidency—this kind of _Ghasswallah_, I
mean, who is properly a farmer, owning large well-irrigated fields of
lucerne grass. Hay is supplied by another kind of _Ghasswallah_, who
does not keep a pony, but brings the daily allowance on his head. That
allowance is five _polees_ for each horse. A _polee_ is a bundle of
grass about as thick as a tree, and as long as a bit of string. This hay
merchant does a large business, and used to send in a monthly bill to
each of his constituents in due form, thus:—
To Hurree Ganesh, JANUARY.
Mr. Esmith, Esquire _Dr._
To supplying grass to Rs. 7 0 0
one horse
Ditto to ½ horse 3 8 0
Total Rs. 10 8 0
E. E.& contents received.
The ½ horse was a cow.
[Picture: Shirakee] As the monsoon draws to a close and the weather
begins to get colder, a man in a tight brown suit and leather belt, with
an unmistakable flavour of sport about him, presents himself at the door.
This is the _shikaree_ come with _khubber_ of “_ishnap_,” and quail, and
duck, and in fact of anything you like up to bison and tiger. But we
must dismiss him to-day. He would require a chapter to himself, and
would take me over ground quite outside of my present scope. What a
_loocha_ he is!
[Picture: Ready-made-clothes Wallah] What shall I say of the
_Roteewallah_ and the _Jooteewallah_, who comes round so regularly to
keep your boots and shoes in disrepair, and of all the vociferous tribe
of _borahs_? There is the _Kupprawallah_, and the _Boxwallah_, and the
_Ready-made-clotheswallah_ (“readee made cloes mem sa-ab! dressin’ gown,
badee, petticoat, drars, chamees, everyting, mem sa-ab, very che-eap!”)
and the _Chowchowwallah_ and the _Maiwawallah_ or fruit man, with his
pleasant basket of pomeloes and oranges, plantains, red and white,
custard apples, guavas, figs, grapes, and pineapples, and those
suspicious-looking old iron scales, hanging by greasy, knotted strings.
Each of these good people, it seems, lives in this hard world for no
other end but to supply my wants. One of them is positive that he
supplied my father with the necessaries of life before I was born.
[Picture: Sindworkwallah] He is by appearance about eighteen years of
age, but this presents no difficulty, for if it was not he who ministered
to my parent, it was his father, and so he has not only a personal, but a
hereditary claim on me. He is a _workboxwallah_, and is yearning to show
his regard for me by presenting me with a lady’s sandalwood dressing-case
in return for the trifling sum of thirty-five rupees. The
_sindworkwallah_, who has a similar esteem for me, scorns the thought of
wishing to sell, but if I would just look at some of his beautiful
things, he could go away happy. When they are all spread upon the
ground, then it occurs to him that I have it in my power to make him
lucky for the day by buying a fancy smoking-cap, which, by-the-by, he
brought expressly for me. But this subject always makes me sad, for
there is no disguising the fact that the _borah_ is fast passing away for
ever, and with him all the glowing morning tints of that life which we
used to live when India was still India. But let that regret pass. One
_wallah_ remains, who presents himself at your door, not monthly, or
weekly, but every day, and often twice a day, and not at the back
verandah, but at the front, walking confidently up to the very easy-chair
on which we stretch our lordly limbs. And I may safely say that, of all
who claim directly or indirectly to have eaten our salt, there is not a
man for whom we have, one and all of us, a kindlier feeling. You may
argue that he is only a public servant, and has really far less claim on
us than any of the others; never mind—
“I pray thee, peace. I will be flesh and blood.”
[Picture: Coolie] The English mail is in, and we feel, and will feel,
towards that red-livened man as Noah felt towards the dove with the olive
branch in her mouth. And when Christmas comes round, howsoever we may
harden ourselves against others, scarcely one of us, I know, will grudge
a rupee to the _tapalwallah_.
[Picture: Finis]