Early morning in the big bazaar at Faizapore. So much can be said; but
who with pen alone could paint the scene, or who with brush give the
aroma, physical and moral, which, to those familiar with the life of
Indian streets, remains for ever the one indelible memory? The
mysterious smell indescribable to those who know not the East; the air
of sordid money-getting and giving which pervades even the children;
the gaily-dressed, chattering stream of people drifting by; but from
the grey-bearded cultivator come on a lawsuit from his village, to the
sweeper, besom in hand, propelling the black flood along the gutter,
the only subject sufficiently interesting to raise one voice above the
universal hum, is money. Even the stalwart herdswomen with their
kilted skirts swaying at each free bold step, their patchwork bodices
obeying laws of decency antipodal to ours, even they, born and bred in
the desert, talk noisily of the _ghee_ they are bringing to market in
the russet and black jars poised on their heads; and if _ghee_ be not
actually money, it is inextricably mixed up with it in the native
mind.
All else may fade from the memory; the glare of sunlight, the
transparent shadows, the clustering flies and children round the
cavernous sweetmeat-shops, the glitter of brazen pots, and the
rainbow-hued overflow from the dyers' vats staining the streets like a
reflection of the many-tinted cloths festooned to dry overhead. Even
the sharper contrasts of the scene may be forgotten; the marriage
procession swerving to give way to the quiet dead, swathed in muslins
and bound with tinsel, carried high on the string bed, or awaiting
sunset and burial in some narrow by-way among green-gold melons and
piles of red wheat. But to those who have known an Indian bazaar well,
the chink of money, and the smell of a chemist's shop, will ever
remain a more potent spell to awaken memory than any elaborate
pictures made by pen or pencil.
On this particular morning quite a little crowd was collected round
the doorway leading to the house of one Shunker Dâs, usurer,
contractor, and honorary magistrate; a man who combined those three
occupations into one unceasing manufacture of money. In his hands pice
turned to annas, annas to rupees, and rupees in their turn to fat. For
there is no little truth in the assertion that the real test of a
_buniah's_ (money-lender's) wealth is his weight, and the safest guard
for income-tax his girth in inches.
Nevertheless a skeleton lay hidden under Shunker Dâs's mountain of
prosperous flesh; a gruesome skeleton whose bones rattled ominously.
Between him and the perdition of a sonless death stood but one life; a
life so frail that it had only been saved hitherto by the expedient of
dressing the priceless boy in petticoats, and so palming him off on
the dread Shiva as a girl. At least so said the _zenana_ women, and so
in his inmost heart thought Shunker Dâs, though he was a prime
specimen of enlightened native society. But on that day the fateful
first decade during which the Destroyer had reft away so many
baby-heirs from the usurer's home was over; and amid countless
ceremonies, and much dispensation of alms, the little Nuttu, with his
ears and nose pierced like a girl's, had been attired in the _pugree_
and _pyjamas_ of his sex. Hence the crowd closing in round the Lâlâ's
Calcutta-built barouche which waited for its owner to come out. Hence
the number of professional beggars, looking on the whole more fat and
well-liking than the workers around them, certainly more so than a
small group of women who were peeping charily from the door of the
next house,--a very different house from Shunker Dâs's pretentious
stucco erection with its blue elephants and mottled tigers frescoed
round the top storey, and a railway train, flanked by two caricatures
of the British soldier, over the courtyard doorway. This was a tall,
square, colourless tower, gaining its only relief from the numerous
places where the outer skin of bricks had fallen away, disclosing
the hard red mortar beneath; mortar that was stronger than stone;
mortar that had been ground and spread long years before the word
"contractor" was a power in India. Here in poverty, abject in all save
honour, dwelt Mahomed Lateef, a Syyed of the Syyeds;[1] and it was his
hewers of wood and drawers of water who formed the group at the door,
turning their lean faces away disdainfully when the baskets of dough
cakes, and trays of sweet rice were brought out for distribution from
the idolater's house.
The crowd thickened, but fell away instinctively to give place to a
couple of English soldiers who came tramping along shoulder to
shoulder, utterly unconcerned and unsympathetic; their Glengarry caps
set at the same angle, the very pipes in their mouths having a drilled
appearance. Such a quiet, orderly crowd it was; not even becoming
audible when Shunker Dâs appeared with little Nuttu, the hero of the
day, who in a coat of the same brocade as his father's, and a _pugree_
tied in the same fashion, looked a wizened, changeling double of his
unwieldy companion. The barouche was brilliant as to varnish, vivid as
to red linings, and the bay Australians were the best money could buy;
yet the people, as it passed, took small notice of the Lâlâ, lolling
in gorgeous attire against the Berlin-wool-worked cushion which he had
bought from the Commissioner's wife at a bazaar in aid of a cathedral.
They gave far more attention to a hawk-eyed old man with a cruel,
high-bred face, who rode by on a miserable pony, and after returning
the Lâlâ's contemptuous salutation with grave dignity, spat solemnly
into the gutter.
This was Mahomed Lateef, who but the day before had put the
talisman-signet on his right hand to a deed mortgaging the last acre
of his ancestral estate to the usurer. Yet the people stood up with
respectful _salaams_ to him, while they had only obsequious grins for
the other. Indeed, one old patriarch waiting for death in the sun,
curled up comfortably, his chin upon his knees, on a bed stuck well
into the street, nodded his head cheerfully and muttered "Shunker's
father was nobody," over and over again till he fell asleep; to dream
perchance of the old order of things.
Meanwhile the Lâlâ waited his turn for audience at the District
Officer's bungalow. There were many other aspirants to that honour,
seated on a row of cane-bottomed chairs in the verandah, silent,
bored, uncomfortable. It is an irony of fate which elevates the chair
in India into a patent of position, for nowhere does the native look
more thoroughly out of place than in the coveted honour. As it is he
clings to it, notably with his legs; those thin legs round whose
painful want of contour the tight cotton pantaloons wrinkle all too
closely, and which would be so much better tucked away under dignified
skirts in true Eastern fashion. But the exotic has a strange
fascination for humanity. Waiting there for his turn, the Lâlâ
inwardly cursed the Western morality which prevented an immediate and
bribe-won entry; but the red-coated badge-wearers knew better than to
allow even a munificent shoe-money to interfere with the roster. The
harassed-looking, preoccupied official within had an almost uncanny
quickness of perception, so the rupees chinked into their pockets, but
produced no effect beyond whining voices and fulsome flattery.
"Well, Lâlâ-ji! and what do _you_ want?" asked the representative of
British majesty when, at last, Shunker Dâs's most obsequious smile
curled out over his fat face. There was no doubt a certain brutality
of directness in the salutation, but it came from a deadly conviction
that a request lay at the bottom of every interview, and that duty
bade its discovery without delay. The abruptness of the magistrate was
therefore compressed politeness. As he laid down the pen with which he
had been writing a judgment, and leant wearily back in his chair, his
bald head was framed, as it were, in a square nimbus formed by a
poster on the wall behind. It was four feet square, and held, in
treble columns, a list of all the schedules and reports due from his
office during the year to come. That was his patent of position; and
it was one which grows visibly, as day by day, and month by month, law
and order become of more consequence than truth and equity in the
government of India.
The Lâlâ's tact bade him follow the lead given. "I want, _sahib_," he
said, "to be made a _Rai Bâhâdur_."
Now _Rai Bâhâdur_ is an honorific title bestowed by Government for
distinguished service to the State. So without more ado Shunker Dâs
detailed his own virtues, totalled up the money expended in public
utility, and wound up with an offer of five thousand rupees towards a
new Female Hospital. The representative of British majesty drew
diagrams on his blotting-paper, and remarked, casually, that he would
certainly convey the Lâlâ's liberal suggestion about the hospital to
the proper authorities; adding his belief that one Puras Râm, who was
about to receive the coveted honour, had offered fifteen thousand for
the same purpose.
"I will give ten thousand, _Huzoor_" bid the usurer, with a scowl
struggling with his smile; "that will make seventy-five thousand in
all; and Tôta Mull got it for building the big tank that won't hold
water. If it cost him fifty thousand, may I eat dirt; and I ought to
know for I had the contract. It won't last, _Huzoor_; I know the stuff
that went into it."
"Tôta Mull had other services."
"Other services!" echoed Shunker fumbling in his garments, and
producing a printed book tied up in a cotton handkerchief. "See my
certificates; one from your honour's own hand."
Perhaps the District Officer judged the worth of the others by the
measure of his own testimonial, wherein, being then a "griff" of six
months' standing, he had recorded Shunker's name opposite a list of
the cardinal virtues, for he set the book aside with a sad smile. Most
likely he was thinking that in those days his ambition had been a
reality, and his liver an idea, and that now they had changed places.
"I am glad to see your son looking so well," he remarked with pointed
irrelevance. "I hear you are to marry him next month, and that
everything is to be on a magnificent scale. Tôta Mull will be quite
eclipsed; though his boy's wedding cost him sixty-five thousand,--he
told me so himself. Accept my best wishes on the occasion."
"_Huzoor!_ I will give fifteen thou--" British majesty rose gravely
with the usual intimation of dismissal, and a remark that it was
always gratified at liberality. Shunker Dâs left the presence with his
smile thoroughly replaced by a scowl, though his going there had
simply been an attempt to save his pocket; for he knew right well that
he had not yet filled up the measure of qualification for a _Rai
Bâhâdur_-ship.
While this interview had been going on, another of a very different
nature was taking place outside a bungalow on the other side of the
road, where Philip Marsden stood holding the rein of his charger and
talking to Mahomed Lateef, whose pink-nosed pony was tied to a
neighbouring tree.
The old man, in faded green turban and shawl, showed straight and tall
even beside the younger man's height and soldierly carriage.
"_Sahib_," he said, "I am no beggar to whine at the feet of a stranger
for alms. I don't know the _sahib_ over yonder whose verandah, as you
see, is crowded with such folk. They come and go too fast these
_sahibs_, nowadays; and I am too old to tell the story of my birth. If
it is forgotten, it is forgotten. But you know me, Allah be praised!
You feel my son's blood there on your heart where he fell fighting
beside you! Which of the three was it? What matter? They all died
fighting. And this one is Benjamin; I cannot let him go. He is a
bright boy, and will give brains, not blood, to the Sirkar, if I can
only get employment for him. So I come to you, who know me and mine."
Philip Marsden laid his hand on the old man's shoulder. "That is true.
Khân _sahib_. What is it I can do for you?"
"There is a post vacant in the office, _Huzoor!_ It is not much, but a
small thing is a great gain in our poor house. The boy could stay at
home, and not see the women starve. It is only writing-work, and
thanks to the old mullah, Murghub Admed is a real _khush nawis_
(penman). Persian and Arabic, too, and Euclidus, and Algebra; all a
true man should know. If you would ask the _sahib_."
"I'll go over now. No, no, _Khân sahib!_ I am too young, and you are
too old."
But Mahomed Lateef held the stirrup stoutly with lean brown fingers.
"The old help the young into the saddle always, _sahib_. It is for you
boys to fight now, and for us to watch and cry 'Allah be with the
brave!'"
So it happened that as Shunker Dâs drove out of the District Officer's
compound, Major Marsden rode in. Despite his scowl, the usurer stood
up and _salaamed_ profusely with both hands, receiving a curt salute
in return.
British majesty was now in the verandah disposing of the smaller fry
in batches. "Come inside," it said, hastily dismissing the final lot.
"I've only ten minutes left for bath and breakfast, but you'll find a
cigar there, and we can talk while I tub."
Amid vigorous splashings from within Major Marsden unfolded his
mission, receiving in reply a somewhat disjointed enquiry as to
whether the applicant had passed the Middle School examination, for
otherwise his case was hopeless.
"And why, in Heaven's name?" asked his hearer impatiently.
The magistrate having finished his ablutions appeared at the door in
scanty attire rubbing his bald head with a towel. "Immutable decree of
government."
"And loyalty, family, influence--what of them?"
A shrug of the shoulders,--"Ask some one else. I am only a
barrel-organ grinding out the executive and judicial tunes sent down
from headquarters."
"And a lively discord you'll make of it in time! But you are wrong. A
man in your position is, as it were, trustee to a minor's estate and
bound to speak up for his wards."
"And be over-ridden! No good! I've tried it. Oh lord! twelve o'clock
and I had a case with five pleaders in it at half-past eleven. Well,
I'll bet the four-anna bit the exchange left me from last month's pay,
that my judgment will be upset on appeal."
"I pity you profoundly."
"Don't mention it; there's balm in Gilead. This is mail-day, and I
shall hear from my wife and the kids. Good-bye!--I'm sorry about the
boy, but it can't be helped."
"It strikes me it will have to be helped some day," replied Major
Marsden as he rode off.
Meanwhile a third interview, fraught with grave consequences to this
story, had just taken place in the Commissariat office whither Shunker
Dâs had driven immediately after his rebuff, with the intention of
robbing Peter to pay Paul; in other words, of getting hold of some
Government contract, out of which he could squeeze the extra rupees
required for the purchase of the _Rai Bâhâdur_-ship; a proceeding
which commended itself to his revengeful and spiteful brain. As it so
happened, he appeared in the very nick of time; for he found Colonel
Stuart looking helplessly at a telegram from headquarters, ordering
him to forward five hundred camels to the front at once.
Now the Faizapore office sent in the daily schedules, original,
duplicate, and triplicate, with commendable regularity, and drew the
exact amount of grain sanctioned for transport animals without fail;
nevertheless a sudden demand on its resources was disagreeable. So, as
he had done once or twice before in this time of war and rumours of
wars, the chief turned to the big contractor for help; not without a
certain uneasiness, for though a long course of shady transactions had
blunted Colonel Stuart's sense of honour towards his equals, it had
survived to an altogether illogical extent towards his inferiors. Now
his private indebtedness to the usurer was so great that he could not
afford to quarrel with him; and this knowledge nurtured a suspicion
that Shunker Dâs made a tool of him, an idea most distasteful both to
pride and honour. No mental position is more difficult to analyse than
that of a man, who having lost the desire to do the right from a
higher motive, clings to it from a lower one. Belle's father, for
instance, did not hesitate to borrow cash from monies intrusted to his
care; but he would rather not have borrowed it from a man with whom he
had official dealings.
Shunker Dâs, however, knew nothing, and had he known would have
credited little, of this survival of honour. It seemed impossible in
his eyes that the innumerable dishonesties of the Faizapore office
could exist without the knowledge of its chief. Bribery was to him no
crime; nor is it one to a very large proportion of the people of
India. To the ignorant, indeed, it seems such a mere detail of daily
life that it is hard for them to believe in judicial honesty. Hence
the ease with which minor officials extort large sums on pretence of
carrying the bribe to the right quarter; and hence again comes, no
doubt, many a whispered tale of corruption in high places.
"I shall lose by this contract, _sahib_," said the Lâlâ, when the
terms had been arranged; "but I rely on your honour's generous aid in
the future. There are big things coming in, when the Protector of the
Poor will doubtless remember his old servant, whose life and goods are
always at your honour's disposal."
"I have the highest opinion of,--of your integrity, Lâlâ _sahib_,"
replied the Colonel evasively, "and of course shall take it,--I mean
your previous services--into consideration, whenever it--it is
possible to do so." The word integrity had made him collapse a little,
but ere the end of the sentence he had recovered his self-esteem, and
with it his pomposity.
The Lâlâ's crafty face expanded into a smile. "We understand each
other, _sahib_, and if--!" here he dropped his voice to a confidential
pitch.
Five minutes after Colonel Stuart's debts had increased by a thousand
rupees, and the Lâlâ was carefully putting away a duly stamped and
signed I.O.U. in his pocket-book; not that he assigned any value to
it, but because it was part of the game. Without any distinct idea of
treachery, he always felt that Lukshmi, the goddess of Fortune, had
given him one more security against discomfiture when he managed to
have the same date on a contract and a note of hand. Not that he
anticipated discomfiture either. In fact, had any one told him that he
and the Colonel were playing at cross-purposes, he would have laughed
the assertion to scorn. He had too high an opinion of the perspicacity
of the _sahib-logue_, and especially of the _sahib_ who shut his eyes
to so many irregularities, to credit such a possibility.
So he drove homewards elate, and on the way was stopped in a narrow
alley by an invertebrate crowd, which, without any backbone of
resistance, blocked all passage, despite the abuse he showered around.
"Run over the pigs! Drive on, I say," he shouted to the driver, when
other means failed.
"Best not, Shunker," sneered a little gold-earringed Rajpoot amongst
the crowd, "there's a sepoy in yonder shooting free."
The Lâlâ sank back among his cushions, green with fear. At the same
moment an officer in undress uniform rode up as if the street were
empty, the crowd making way before him. "What is it, _havildar_
(sergeant)?" he asked sharply, reining up before an open door where a
sentry stood with rifle ready.
"Private Afzul Khân run amuck, _Huzoor!_"
Major Marsden threw himself from his horse and looked through the door
into the little court within. It was empty, but an archway at right
angles led to an inner yard. "When?"
"Half an hour gone--the guard will be here directly, _Huzoor!_ They
were teasing him for being an Afghan, and saying he would have to
fight his own people."
"Any one hurt?"
"Jeswunt Rai and Gurdit Singh, not badly; he has--seven rounds left,
_sahib_, and swears he won't be taken alive."
The last remark came hastily, as Major Marsden stepped inside the
doorway. He paused, not to consider, but because the tramp of soldiers
at the double came down the street. "Draw up your men at three paces
on either side of the door," he said to the native officer. "If you
hear a shot, go on the house-top and fire on him as he sits. If he
comes out alone, shoot him down."
"Allah be with the brave!" muttered one or two of the men, as Philip
Marsden turned once more to enter the courtyard. It lay blazing in the
sunshine, open and empty; but what of the dim archway tunnelling a row
of buildings into that smaller yard beyond, where Afzul Khân waited
with murder in his heart, and his finger on the trigger of his rifle?
There the Englishman would need all his nerve. It was a rash attempt
he was making; he knew that right well, but he had resolved to attempt
it if ever he got the opportunity. Anything, he had told himself, was
better than the wild-beast-like scuffle he had witnessed not long
before; a hopeless, insane struggle ending in death to three brave
men, one of them the best soldier in the regiment. The remembrance of
the horrible scene was strong on him as his spurs clicked an even
measure across the court.
It was cooler in the shadow, quite a relief after the glare. Ah!...
just as he had imagined! In the far corner a crouching figure and a
glint of light on the barrel of a rifle. No pause; straight on into
the sunlight again; then suddenly the word of command rang through the
court boldly. "Lay down your arms!"
The familiar sound died away into silence. It was courage against
power, and a life hung on the balance. Then the long gleam of light on
the rifle wavered, disappeared, as Private Afzul Khân stood up and
saluted. "You are a braver man than I, _sahib_," he said. That was
all.
A sort of awed whisper of relief and amazement ran through the crowd
as Philip Marsden came out with his prisoner, and gave orders for the
men to fall in. Two Englishmen in mufti had ridden up in time for the
final tableau; and one of them, nodding his head to the retreating
soldiers, said approvingly, "That is what gave, and keeps us India."
"And that," returned John Raby pointing to Shunker Dâs who with
renewed arrogance was driving off, "will make us lose it."
"My dear Raby! I thought the moneyed classes--"
"My dear Smith! if you think that when the struggle comes, as come it
must, our new nobility, whose patent is plunder, will fight our
battles against the old, I don't."
They argued the point all the way home without convincing each other,
while Time with the truth hidden in his wallet passed on towards the
Future.