BETWEEN THE TWILIGHTS
BETWEEN THE TWILIGHTS:
BEING STUDIES OF INDIAN
WOMEN BY ONE OF
THEMSELVES
BY
CORNELIA SORABJI
[Illustration]
LONDON AND NEW YORK
HARPER AND BROTHERS
45, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1908
CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
DEDICATED
TO
THE HOUR OF UNION
COVER AND END PAPER
DESIGNED BY
J. LOCKWOOD KIPLING
PREFACE
In the language of the Zenana there are two twilights, “when the Sun
drops into the sea,” and “when he splashes up stars for spray,” ...
the _Union_, that is, of _Earth and Sun_, _and_, again, of _Light and
Darkness_.
And the space between is the time of times in these sun-wearied
plains in which I dwell. One sees the world in a gentle haze of
reminiscence--reminiscence of the best. There, across the horizon,
flames the Sun’s “good-bye.” Great cave of mystery, or lake of liquid
fire: anon pool of opal and amethyst, thoughts curiously adjustable to
the day that is done, memory of joy or sorrow, of strength of love,
or disregard of pain. Gradually the colour fades, now to a golden
fleece of the softest, now to wisps of translucence, blush-pink,
violet: oft-times the true ecstasy of colour is in the east, away
from the Sun’s setting. Or, now again, the sky is a study in grays
and blue-grays, in that peculiar heat-haze which belongs to May and
September, and the pale curve of the new moon looks old and weary. Is
not all Life marching towards the Silence? it seems to say.
Yes, the manner of its loitering is varied, but always, always, is it
an hour of enchantment, this hour Between the Twilights: and it is my
very own. I choose it, from out the day’s full sheaf, and I sit with it
in the Silences on my roof-tree.
It was in this hour, through a hot summer, that the thoughts which
make this little book came to me, and were written down. I had spent
my days going in and out among my friends of the Zenana, and a great
yearning was in my heart that others should know them as I did, in
their simplicity and their wisdom.
The half is not yet told: much would not bear telling--I had no
business to take strangers into the walled garden of our intimacy--and
some things were too elusive for speech, but the sounds which have
thridded the Silence have been echoes of reality, and I can only hope
that they may convey some impression of the gently pulsing life of the
Zenana.
Not by any means are the Studies meant to be exhaustive. I have left
out of count the Anglicized and English-educated Indian, the capable
woman who earns her own living, the cultured woman of the world or
philanthropist. There was little to learn about her which a common
language and the opportunity of intercourse might not teach any
sojourner in India at first-hand.
But these others of whom I have written seemed to justify in a very
special sense the hour of my meditation.... They float elusive in the
half-light between two civilizations, sad by reason of something lost,
sad by reason of the more that may come to be rejected hereafter....
And none but God knoweth when will toll for them that final Hour of
Union, and whether, when it is here, we shall be able to see the stars
through the blue veil of the Light that lies slain for all Eternity.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE vii
I. THE STORY OF WISDOM 1
II. THE STORY OF DESTRUCTION 12
III. THE STORY OF A WOMAN 21
IV. _DEVI_--GODDESS! 30
V. THE SETTER-FAR OF IGNORANCE 44
VI. THE KING OF DEATH 53
VII. THE WISE MAN, “TRUTH-NAMED” 74
VIII. THE NASAL TEST--A STUDY OF CASTE 89
IX. THE MOTHERS OF FIGHTERS 106
X. THE QUEEN WHO STOOD ERECT 115
[1]XI. PORTRAITS OF SOME INDIAN WOMEN 128
XII. GARDEN FANCIES 150
XIII. A CHILD OR TWO 156
XIV. THE TIE THAT BINDS 176
[Footnote 1: “Portraits of some Indian Women” is reprinted from “The
Nineteenth Century and After,” by the kind permission of the late Sir
J. Knowles.]
GLOSSARY
_Amla_, officer of a household.
_Bina_, a musical instrument (stringed).
_Brahmin_, highest or priestly caste.
_Didi_, elder sister.
_Guru_, spiritual guide.
_Jog_, Hindu Vedantic system of meditation and of acquiring sanctity.
_Kincab_, gold brocade.
_Khattriya_, the fighter: of the fighting or second highest Caste.
_Mali_, gardener.
_Mantras_, incantations.
_Munias_, small speckled birds.
_Namascar_, the salutation to the learned: and to a superior.
_Pandas_, pilgrim guides at holy places.
_Pooja_, worship of a God.
_Pujari_, a Temple servant.
_Purdahnashin_, she who sits behind the curtain: the secluded.
_Sais_, groom.
_Saree_, a long winding-sheet, which forms the drapery worn by women.
_Shastras_, sacred writings.
_Sudra_, the server; of the fourth or Serving Class.
_Takht-posh_, a wooden plank on four legs used as a bedstead.
_Veishya_, originally of the third or agricultural, now often of the
professional caste.
BETWEEN THE TWILIGHTS
I
THE STORY OF WISDOM
She comes with the Spring--a two days’ guest in an Indian household.
Nor has frequency bred either carelessness or coolness of reception.
Early on the morning of her arrival you will see the women hastening
from the Bathing Ghat, their garments clinging about their supple
limbs, their long hair drying in the wind. They bear full water-pots,
for nought but Gunga-Mai to-day suffices--no slothful backsliding to
nearby pump.
In the house of my friend, it was Parvati, the oldest serving-woman
who undertook to make ready the guest chamber. I watched her as she
crossed the courtyard--a handful of the precious liquid for Dharti-Mai
the Earth Mother, and the rest--a generous swob, for the black marble
veranda. Soon had she helpers, and to spare--the most practised among
them made the white chalk marks of good luck--tridents, fishes, flames
of fire; and the tidiest made the little inclosure--white cotton
“railings,” the posts being balls of Ganges mud, in which were buried
swiftly-flying arrows--threat for daring devil.
But the centre of interest was naturally the Altar. This was just
a plain raised platform of wood, carrying bravely its variety of
offering. Great mountains of yellow and white flowers, with fruits,
chiefly the cocoanut, fruit of healing, old Sanskrit manuscripts,
lettered palm-leaves, thumbed and blotted copybooks and tattered
“primers”--the prayers of children--the pointed reed, and ink-horns,
glass ink-pots and steel pens from the “Europe” shop across the way;
a school edition of “The Vicar of Wakefield,” Ganot’s Physics, quaint
combs and mirrors, powder-boxes, and perfumes, “the tears of scented
grass,” or that more subtle “scent of red rose leaves.” Why not? Is she
not woman, even though a Goddess and learned? The “Europe” products,
I notice, carry milk in place of ink. “Sanctify to us this Western
Education”--is that what it means in this country, where deepest
feeling finds outlet other than through doors of speech? So her
worshippers made ready, not in private chapel but here where the life
of the days pulsed and languished through the years; here, where friend
or passing stranger might alike turn to greet her; for Wisdom is one,
though her hosts be many. Moreover, She who is called Wisdom loves the
voices of little children, and nothing is hushed, or ordered otherwise
for her coming. The most unregenerate rogue romps at her feet, the
most thriftless housewife, the most rebellious daughter-in-law has
access to her Altar, and through the day one after another will come
bearing her gift; and, lingering a while, will go away softly even as
she came. Sometimes, by no means generally, there will be an image of
the Goddess. One such I have seen in the house of a rich merchant. It
was a life-sized figure dancing on a lotus, the full bloom, pink-edged,
in her hand she bore a _bina_ for the Goddess of Wisdom is also Queen
of Harmony; and the rich man’s friends had honoured her as was meet,
with priceless gifts of _Kincab_, of gem, of trinket. Now Wisdom of
necessity has yet one more aspect, she is Goddess of Perfect Speech.
It is of her that the tongue-tied prays eloquence, the scholar success;
and the offering to her in this capacity you will find absent from no
Altar, rich or poor. To omit this would mean the curse of the dumb for
ever. It is a little cake of rice and milk, this oblation for lapses
from accuracy, for “benevolent falsehood.”
“Oh Guest of the hours, remember the past, the puzzling need of the
tangled moments, remember--and forgive.”
A list of benevolent falsehoods must needs vary with the age. Manu
includes (viii, 130) “The giver of false evidence for a pious motive,
for such an one shall not lose a seat in heaven,” his lapses being
called the “Speech of the Gods.”
“To save a life,” “To protect a cow,” “To counteract the thriftless
ways of husbands,” have added Hindu women of my acquaintance.
Simple is the ritual of the worship of Wisdom. “With folded hands
I bow before the Goddess, the Goddess who provides all wealth, and
vouchsafes the power of speech.” “May the Goddess of Wisdom protect me,
the Mother of the Vedas, who from the crimson lotus of her hands pours
radiance on the implements of writing, and on the works produced by her
power.”
“May the Goddess of Wisdom protect me--She who robed in white, sets
far all ignorance. She who abides with the Creator may she abide with
me ...;” and the rest of the prayers are either said by the Priest, or
found in the heart of the worshipper. The battered lesson book, the
oft-used pen, are these not prayers in themselves?
The last time I saw the Goddess was at the Children’s Festival. Wisdom
danced on her lotus flower, in a little bower of bamboos and marigolds,
out in the open courtyard. At her feet sat children, row upon row,
ranging in age from three years to twelve. I watched them come so
happily, tripping hand in hand with some friend or comrade. They wore
their best gay little saree, gold-spangled and bordered, in their hair
thread of gold, or great heavy ornament, or just some flower among
the light close braidings. And, as they took their seats in the Great
Cathedral roofed by God’s sky, the Priests moved among them anointing
each little forehead with oil of sandal wood from off the altar of her
who is named Wisdom.
Then the musicians beat their drums and rang the bell of worship, and
every single forehead was on the ground before the Goddess. The worship
had begun.... First be consecrate, then bring your offering--is the
creed.... I heard no prayers, but there-after, one by one, the Babies
passed before her, throwing at her feet sweet-scented wreaths of
Jasmine. I needed not then to hear their prayers.... And that was all
the Service. The play of the children at the feet of Wisdom.
Thus then the Hindu honours his Guest. And, on the second day--for
even Wisdom must share at length the waters of oblivion--with music
and singing with the happy laughter of children and a gay following of
the faithful, her image is taken to the Ganges; and with love and much
injunction as to next year’s journey from the Mounts of Blessing, is it
set afloat on that sacred river whose bourne is the Eternal Sea.
Wisdom, in Sanskrit story, is Creative Power to the Great God himself,
his energy--without her he is but a great incommunicable passive force.
“I make strong whom I choose--originating all things I pass even as a
breeze. Above the Heavens am I, beyond the Earth, and what is the Great
One, _that_ am I. I make holy the Great God Himself. For the Great
Archer it is I bend the bow; it is I who stay evil in the name of the
Destroyer. Few know me, yet near to all alike am I. God is he from whom
Wisdom and Speech--after reaching Him--return.”
Unravelling it all, what quaint teaching may we not piece together?
That is true wisdom which puts man in touch with God--creature with
Creator. And the same power of God refrains not from blessing the
things that are of value to the Earth--the written, the spoken word,
all arts and harmonies and science.
Then, is it not a parable that the Goddess of Speech is primarily the
Goddess of all Learning? Let the ignorant keep silence.
The _Tulsi_ spirals stirred in the hot wind, and the great white
red-throated Sarus flapped his wings as he walked about the women’s
courtyard. The men of the house had taken the Image to the water, and
we sat by the empty altar in the hour between the Twilights. “Tell me
more about Wisdom,” said I to my Wisest of the Wise, and she told me of
how Vishnu gave her as wife to Brahma, and how Brahma put a slight upon
the Lady of Wisdom--a slight which she never forgave.
A great sacrifice was going forward, and the Priest bade Brahma call
his Lady. For is it not the wife, and she alone who must hold the
sacred grass, must sprinkle the offerings. “But Saraswati is engaged in
dressing,” was the answer.
Then the Priest “without a wife what blessing can come?”
So Brahma turned to Indra, and bade him find a substitute in hedge or
highway.
Indra soon returned, leading by the hand a milkmaid, beautiful and
happy. She bore a jar of butter on her head. “She shall become the
Mother of the Vedas,” said the Priest; and that is how Gayatri, the
Milkmaid, was wed to the Great God Himself.
Then came forth Saraswati all unconscious, and very gorgeous, attended
by the wives of Vishnu, Rudra, and other of the Gods--a worthy train.
When she heard what had happened, she was wroth beyond power of words
to tell.
Said the Great God, shamefaced, “The Priest did this thing; the Priest
and Indra.”
But Saraswati said, “By the powers I have obtained, may Brahma never be
worshipped in Temple or Sacred Place--except one day in each year--and
since Indra, thou didst bring that Milkmaid to my Lord, thou shalt be
bound in chains by all thine enemies and prisoned in a strange and
distant country, thy power over the winds and thy station on high,
given to others. Cursed also be ye--Priests. Henceforth shall ye
perform sacrifices solely for the desire of obtaining the usual gifts,
and for love of gain alone shall ye serve Temples and holy places;
satisfied only shall ye be with the food of others, and dissatisfied
with that of your own houses. And in quest of riches shall ye unduly
perform rites and ceremonies.”...
In great wrath she called for her peacock, to leave the assembly, but
the Goddess of Wealth refused to accompany her; and her also did she
curse.
“May you always abide with the vile and the inconstant, the
contemptible and foolish, the sinful, cruel and vulgar.”
After her departure Gayatri modifies all the curses; so neither need
all Priests nor all the wealthy be base and contemptible.
When the youngest daughter-in-law in the house is listening to the
story-telling my Wisest of the Wise adds a variation--Saraswati is
appeased, and Brahma says he will do with the Milkmaid what the Goddess
commands, while the Milkmaid herself falls at the feet of Wisdom, who,
raising her, says, “Let be--let you and me both serve my Lord!”
* * * * *
And now for a year her Altar is empty but she is not forgotten, and in
the practice and devotion of the faithful still does the third watch of
the night belong to Wisdom.
“Let the home-keeping ones wake in the time sacred to Saraswati, the
Goddess of Speech; let them reflect on virtue and virtuous emoluments;
and on the whole meaning and essence of the words of Wisdom.”
* * * * *
“So desirable, and yet she may be only a two days’ Guest in a Hindu
household,” I mused aloud.
“Ah, but,” answered she who worshipped Wisdom, “were Wisdom always with
us, how should we live among the sons of men!”...
II
THE STORY OF DESTRUCTION
When the world was young there were two Giant Demons--Shumbo and
Nishumbo, who made great discord both in heaven and upon earth: nor did
victory bring harmony, for when all who opposed them lay vanquished,
they fought with each other.
Then did the Gods and Godlings take counsel how they might slay them.
“Go to the Destroyer,” said the Great God, and so said also the
Preserver--“It is his business.” But Shiva, the Destroyer, owned to a
dilemma. “I have promised them,” said he, “that no _man_ shall prevail
against them. What shall I do?” Then upon meditation--“I am resolved
what to do. One shall I create in the form of a woman, that this strife
might be ended.”...
And that was how Creation came near to Kali the Mother. Very beautiful
was she, the strength of the strong, and the attractiveness of that
which was to conquer strife: and her did Shiva name _Jugatdatri_--Nurse
of the World. None could stand before her, and it came to pass that at
last was left only one enemy--the King of Demons; and he, seeing her
beauty, sought her in marriage; but she laughed saying, “I wed none but
him I cannot conquer.”
And Shumbo maddened by her laughter vowed victory, and her very glory
was a peril, for he seized upon her hair, and impeded her much.... Then
did the Gods take counsel again together. It was the Destroyer who
found help. “Let us each give her of our strength,” said he, “that evil
may be smitten for ever.”
And they did all even as he suggested, and the incoming of this great
strength made her so that she lost some of her comeliness. And now was
she called _Kali_ ... She that is black.
And the strength of the Gods was as wine to her, and she fought
intoxicate. And behold, while all the Gods and Demons watched, they
fought--those two--the Nurse of the World and the King of Evil, and
Kali won.
Then was there great rejoicing on earth and in heaven, and Kali joyed
no less than her creatures, and she danced in her joy, drunk with the
blood of her victim.
And for the third time the Gods took counsel, for they said, “The thing
we have ourselves made strong will at last destroy even us.”
And the Great God said: “She is wife to the Destroyer. This is his
business.” And Shiva thought long and earnestly, for even he could
not causelessly retake the strength that he had given.... And the end
of the meditation was that he went forth from Heaven and lay in her
path as she came down from the Snow mountains in her dance of Death.
And she, mad with victory and blood, seeing nothing, danced on to his
chest exultant, when looking down, she recognized her husband, and was
shamed and sobered. And this final vision of Kali is the one worshipped
by her children--Kali, the four-armed, the Conqueror of Demons,
vanquished only by the husband who lies under her feet. In one hand
beareth she the head of a victim, in another a sword, with a third she
blesseth, and with the fourth she holdeth out fearlessness to all her
followers. She wears a garland of skulls, and a waistlet of hands,--and
no more danceth she the dance of Death. Yet to her, the Mother, come
alike all who are drunk with blood, righteous or unrighteous, for she
understands; and all who would have the strength of the Gods to slay
the Evil in the world--for was not this the purpose of her being, in
the old, old days when the world was young?...
Thus to me one of my gentle friends of “The Inside” in this land of
legend and silences.
Then we turned to her of many years and long meditations, who sat by
listening--“Is that how you know the story, Mother?”
“Yea, my children,” made she answer. “Even so--and when mine eyes are
shut these are the thoughts that come to me--blessing and cursing,
destruction and creation, death and life--are not both companions of
Time?”
“But the skull and hands, Mother--read that parable.”
And she--“All is destroyed save intelligence and work--these outlast
us.”
So, museful, I took my way to the Mount of Kali, which lies without
the City, past many ancient tanks grown rank with vegetation, past
flowering trees, and swamps of mat huts and malaria.
A bright-eyed baby played upon a log, see-sawing over a nauseous
drain--Was this one measure of the dance of Death?... An avenue now
of shops--the Precincts--Gods and Godlings and sacrificial vessels
were for sale, with the beads of the Sacred, and water-bottles made of
Ganges sand blown fine as glass.... I lingered among the women making
purchase. Images of Kali seemed most popular, with bright red and
yellow horses for the children, nor was the picture shop neglected--and
I laughed softly to myself to see a German print of Romeo and Juliet in
the balcony scene selling clamorously for “Radha Krishna,” the gay God
with his favourite lady.
Seated under a _pipal_ tree, hoary with age, was an ash-smeared Priest,
at his feet a heap of yellow marigolds. No woman passed him without
some offering, and sometimes he spoke, but most often kept silence,
noting all things through the matted hair that veiled his slits of
eyes. Of such begging Priests there was a great collection--the
ascetics sat still, but were gifted for fear of curses; others ran
after the women, teasing, traducing each other; and these were gifted
for their importunity. One, half-mad, I think, had a few words of
English and followed me cursing the Priest-guide I had chosen for a
“stupid-’umbug-flatterer”--said all as one long word, which sounded a
potent curse indeed.
The Image is in a small brick and stone building behind closed doors,
which are opened at fixed times. In the ante-room sit the faithful,
reading sacred books or preparing their offerings for the Goddess.
There seemed a separate Priest for each devotee.
One man only did I see whom my heart convicted of holiness: and looking
on his face I knew that it was possible even here to forget all the
grossness to which the ignorant had degraded the Kali-legend.... The
place of Sacrifice ran red, and already the Priests had sold the flesh
of Kali’s tale of goats to eager bidders. The poorer applicants sat in
a circle, a gory head on each lap.... It was a gruesome sight.
By the Bathing Ghat was a great crowd. Here were two young women in
charge of a chaperone. They had come far ways measuring their length
along the ground. It was in the rains, and they were all mud and slush
from the exercise. The woman stood by, policing them, seeing that they
abated no jot or tittle of their vows, where the head had been the feet
should lie--there, and not an inch further.
“What was the vow?” I asked.
A prayer for one--that the child then on its way might live.... Oh! the
pathos of it. The other woman was giving thanks for the recovery of her
reason.... “The dance of Death,” “The dance of Death”--a minuet....
“If I were God, I should pity the heart of man ...”
They were travelling at the moment towards the drain behind the Image
of the Goddess. Oh! the water, oh! the water!--it was black with
impurities. It had washed the feet of the Goddess, and the flowers of
her Temple, and the refuse of the Sacrifice; but they drank eagerly--at
full length still--content.
It was a parable on the power of Faith.... And truly, the Temple of
Kali opens many doors to reflection. Evil, we notice, is conquered by
Time in the end. Of Love, which conquered Time, there is no Gospel
in Hinduism. Inherent strength is the last vanquisher, the Great
Gods themselves helping in the conquest, even parting with their own
strength to the fighter. And that which God inspires may be as God.
Yet, in spite of the Hindu doctrine of works, there would seem to be a
caution against too great activity. Kali drunk with activity was shamed
by Gods and men....
* * * * *
I went back to my Wise Woman of many years.... “To the ignorant,” she
said, “Kali but wants a life--Kali slays and Kali makes alive. Said I
not once before, blessing and cursing, death and life, these are the
Soul’s eternal doors. In the house of Kali the doors are ever open....
But, for us women, the lesson to hide in the heart is this--Kali,
the Great Destroyer, the Nurse of the World, the Dread-Inspirer, is
vanquished only by--her husband.”
* * * * *
Here, then, meet ancient story and modern history, the history of every
Hindu woman throughout the Land. The last stage of perfection is wifely
submission.
III
THE STORY OF A WOMAN
Now Dokhio, the Father of Durga, was wroth because Shiva, to whom he
had given his daughter in marriage, though he had the reputation of a
God, was as poor as any beggar. And in his wrath he devised revenge.
He made a great Feast, to which he bade Gods and Goddesses, Godlings
and baby Godlings--all, save Shiva and his wife Durga. And Narod, the
Mischief Man, was made the voice to bear the message to each guest.
So Narod went to Shiva, and “This is what your Father-in-law hath
planned,” saith he, inciting.
But Shiva, “What is that to me?” “Dishonour, insult, affront--see you
not?” said the Mischief Man.
And Shiva, again, “What is that to me? They who do not honour cannot
hurt me.”...
Narod then went to Durga, Shiva’s wife: “A Feast of Gods and
Goddesses,” saith he. “Let be,” said Durga; “What is that to me?”
“Such display of dresses and jewels, such cackling of women’s tongues.
‘Why is Shiva not there? Why not Durga?’ Surely a daughter may go to
the house of her Father, by chance, on the day of the Feast, ignorant
of what is forward?”...
Durga sought her husband. But he was firm. “They will make sport of you
to spite me.”
“What matter? It were worse not to be seen there--things happening
behind our backs.”...
But Shiva was firm.
Then did Durga use all the wiles of women--coaxing, sulking,
flattering--Shiva was firm; so, finally she used the wiles of a more
than human ...
She took unto herself ten forms each more awful than the last,
and ten-headed she passed before Shiva, threatening and mocking.
Till--“Go!” said Shiva; “Let happen what will happen.”
And Durga, a little fearfully, in that she had got at last her heart’s
desire, arrayed herself in garments gorgeous and becoming, and made her
way to her Mother’s house. And her Mother embraced her right gladly, so
that a great contempt was in Durga’s heart for the trouble at which she
had been in coming.
But the Mother said within herself: “It is well my Lord is away and
busy, it is well ... else might he hurt this child of mine.”
Yet soon the question came: “And where is my Father?”
“At the Place of Sacrifice, where he makes a great feast,” said the
gentle Mother. “Stay with me, my child; leave such-like things to the
men-people.”
But Durga: “A Feast? Nay, then must I go and see” ... and she heeded
nothing.
And Dokhio was furious, in that after all his insult would be robbed of
point.
“Why art thou come hither?” he thundered. And she: “Because my Father’s
daughters may not be kept from my Father’s Sacrifice.”
Then Dokhio cursed Shiva and all that belonged to him, which Durga
hearing, passed out of life with grief inconsolable.
And Shiva, who had cared nothing for the slight to himself, revenged
the death of his wife most mightily. He sent forth his lightning and
consumed that great sacrifice ere they who were bidden had arrived
to make it; and so the guests found nothing save charred wood, and a
wizened old Dokhio with the head of a bearded goat.
For this was Shiva’s little joke to keep the matter for ever in the
mind of Durga’s Father, Dokhio.
* * * * *
We sat on the great quiet roof in the cow-dust hour while the latest
Mother-in-law among us told the story.
She meant it, I think, for the special benefit of Boho, the
ten-year-old Bride; and she was gratified, for Boho caught her breath
in great gusts at this bold coercion of a husband. Nothing did the
story mean to her save that--punishment for such sacrilege.
But Kamalamoni looked up smiling from a game with the household
tyrant--her Nagendra--aged four.
“It is not thus the story hath its ending,” she said.
“Then tell the rest, Kamal.” But Kamal was better occupied.
“And how calls the horse, my son? and how the dog? and the cat?
and sheep? And,” roguishly--“and how the great grandmother when in
anger?” Till she of many years claimed Nagendra as her fee for such
impertinence and Kamala was forced to tell her tale.
“And how should story end which wails no dirge for death of wife?”
said Kamala, hotly. For opinion is but experience crystallized. “When
Durga’s soul left her body thus early, it wandered to the mountains
of snow, and finding on the threshold of sense, the empty house of a
new-born babe, it entered it.”
Uma was the name by which its parents chose to know the child; and Uma
grew strong and beautiful, gentle and good, with no memory of Durga the
Ten-Headed.... And, one day when she had come to her woman’s estate in
our kingdom of life, and was playing with her waiting-woman among the
swans beside the lotus-beds, an aged Priest-man appeared before her,
and falling at her feet, said, “Durga Mother, thy Lord of Destruction
fasts and prays sorrowing for thee: go and tend him.”
And Uma ran to her mother, wrathful.... “An old Priest-man fell at my
feet Mother,” she said, “and said unto me words which are not fit to be
heard by me before my maidens.”
So Uma’s Father went out forthwith, and finding Narod--for he it was,
the Mischief Man turned Priest in old-age, he heard the wondrous
God-news about his daughter.
Shiva, it seemed lived a life of prayer and fasting--close by in the
Cave of the Cow’s mouth.
“Send Uma to tend him,” said Narod, “and haply he will look and love,
and they be man and wife once more.”
Thus Uma was sent to Shiva, and tended him night and day; and the
woman’s love for the thing that she tended, grew in her heart.
But Shiva, full of self-pity for loss of a jewel which he might better
have preserved (for this was his thought), saw not that same jewel
lying burnished and re-beautified in the dust at his feet. And Uma’s
heart was sad, till even the Great God himself was moved to pity, and
sent the little God of Love to wake Shiva the Monk from his trance of
bead-telling.
Then, fearfully--for is not Shiva the Destroyer himself?--went the
Godling of the arched bow, and hiding in the bracken he shot forth his
arrows--not without success. And Shiva, furious, saw one upturned foot
in flight, and the fire from his eye burnt up the thing he saw, so that
Kama Deva comes no more among the haunts of men.
But, and when his anger was dead, he looked up, and his eyes being
opened, he beheld Uma, knowing her for Durga his own possession.
And so, once more was fulfilled the destiny of a woman.
“But for three days in every year does Uma go back to her parents and
her swanlets in the mountains of Snow; and this journeying of Uma
is always at _Durga-pooja_ time when we make feast for many days to
worship the Ten-handed.”
In the silence which fell upon us after this story, she of many years
was heard to yawn, while all the women snapped their fingers till her
jaws met again.
From Shiva’s Temple gleaming white among the yellow-green of the date
palms came the sound of the _pooja_ bell--some one, a woman probably,
praying for her Lord to the Lord of Killing and Cursing. Clear against
the gray-blue sky stood the cross-crowned spire of the Christian
Cathedral; and almost at our doors, rang out the prayer-keeper’s call
to the faithful Moslem: “There is no God so great as God.”...
“There is no God so great as--my God.” It is what we are all saying;
and it makes at once the strength and the tragedy of human lives. “No
God so great as my God.” What different things we mean when we say
that--we of the bustling outside world.
The Hindu woman means one thing only.... “No God so great as my God.”
That was the lesson each was taking from the story of Durga and Uma.
Did not almost every fable and legend chant that chorus? “No God so
Great.”... In punishment may be sometimes, or in penitence (see the
miracle of the Destroyer himself turned monk for Durga)--but most of
all in _graciousness_....
“He knew Uma for her who went to Dokhio’s feast, and yet he forgave,”
said Boho Rani, “Oh! the wonder.”...
But the Mother of Nagendra laughed, sure of her possession.... “The
Godling of the arrows was not really burnt,” she said, “the flying foot
belonged to Kama’s sheaf-bearer and rival, the less-than-godlet of
unlawful love.”...
And the Wise Woman smiled to herself in the growing dusk. “The ignorant
are incapable of receiving knowledge,” was what she said.
IV
DEVI--GODDESS!
A young unmarried girl is by some in Bengal called _Kumari_--Princess,
and when married, _Devi_--Goddess.
I was musing on this, and all it told of the feeling of a Nation,
and of the true beauty of that feeling at its best, when an old
Prime-Minister friend of mine in a Native State came to invite me to a
Ceremony.
It is known how I love all things primitive and individual, and my
orthodox Hindu friends are very good to me in remembering this. “But of
course I will come,” I promised. “What is it this time?”
“The worship of young girls,” said he. There was the idea again, the
central idea in all Hindu thought in relation to women.... The worship
of the _Life-Bringer_.
It was very simple, as all such Ceremonies are, and free from all
manner of false shame or conventionality. There was remembrance of the
Creator; for the creature--the gentle little girls, such babies all of
them--there were garlands of gay flowers, feastings and anointings with
perfume of rose-leaves.
There was also towards them in the manner of these kindly elders who
had long looked on the face of Nature, a pretty dignity and reverence
which could not fail to beautify the fact of Creation whenever it
should draw nigh.
Not long after, the youngest Bride in the household--she is but ten
years of age--had a joy-making on her own account. She worshipped the
Aged. They came in happy groups, the same who had so lately blessed
her--toothless grandmother, great-aunt, cousins’ Mother, wife of
Mother-in-Law’s Spiritual Guide--each had a name of her own in the
dictionary of relationships. She received them charmingly, standing at
the head of the Zenana stairs--the baby-hostess! falling at the feet
(_parnam_) of those to whom she owed this courtesy, saluting others
with joined hands raised to forehead (_numuscar_), and each made answer
“Blessings,” hand on the child’s head. Then they sat in rows on little
mats along the floor, and ate sweets and vegetables off green plantain
leaves, their hostess waiting on them.
This little exchange of religious obligation is all the etiquette, and
makes all the social amenities known among orthodox women in India.
It is hard to convey the idea, state the fact as one may, but the Hindu
woman acknowledges no claims save those of religion. No social, no
communal claims. Her worship of the Gods, of her husband, her children,
they are all the same, part of her religion, and they make her life.
Even the ordinary business of the day, bathing, dressing, eating, is a
religious act.... To cook her husband’s food an orthodox Hindu wears
a special silk garment: the only gardening she ever attempts is to
water and tend the sacred basil (_Tulsi_). If she travels, it is on
a pilgrimage to this shrine or that, to bathe in this or that sacred
river. Of course she gives dinner parties as did my ten-year-old Bride,
on special occasions, or on feasts of Gods and Goddesses through
the year, also in memory of the dead; but there is no machinery of
calls, no social entertaining for entertainment sake, no interchange
of civilities to acquaint young people and make marriages. Marriages
are made by the Priests and your map of stars, not by the social
broker. For births and deaths you may have a house full of women,
your relations or “spiritual” relations, come unbidden on a visit of
congratulation or sympathy. To these you may never suggest departure,
and only innate good manners in the visitor has saved from bankruptcy
many a house in which the doors of Life and Death were often open.
This involuntary hospitality may become quite tiresome in practice. I
remember one great Feasting. It was a ceremony for the dead. A Maharani
had died, and we made her “praying-for-the-soul” budget, buying her
sinlessness for 1,000 lives at a cost of Rs. 20,000. Part of the
penalty was feeding Brahmins. Our budget provided for 3,000 guests: but
it was not etiquette to shut the gates, and when 5,000 had been fed, my
business soul did really take alarm.
“If the gates were shut by my order no ill-luck would betide the house,
would it?” I asked of her of many years, who kept our abstract of
right action. “Luck or ill-luck concern only the Believer” was her
verdict ... so my way was clear. In the courtyard great caldrons of
food were steaming. Here was one stirring the rice and ever boiling
more and yet more. On the veranda sat Brahmin cooks, cutting up red
pumpkins or brown-green _brinjals_, slicing potatoes, grinding curry
stuffs, dancing red-yellow grains of pulse in the winnowing fan. Other
Brahmins ran to and fro, serving the food as it was made ready: all
was orderly confusion, at which the women peeped from the third floor
balcony.
They were the disciples of Priests at the expense of whose appetites we
were buying merit, and they sat in rows, hungry and clamorous. Scarce
could they be served fast enough.
“But how long will they sit there?” I asked of my old Dewan.
“Till they are fulfilled,” was his delightful answer; and it gave me
courage for the shutting of the gates.
It was but the day before that we had prayed for the soul of the Lady,
at thirteen altars of holy Ganges mud. Four of these altars were
arranged round a great central place of prayer, under an awning, to
which were four “Gateways.” At each gateway hung a looking-glass to
hold the shadow of the spirit.... Beside the awning stood a wooden
image of the dead, and to this was tethered a cow. So we bought for
her blessings. This was also the purpose of the final ritual--gifts
to Priests--silver vessels, beds with silken hangings, jewels of
gold, and precious stones;... for the apostles of the order, whole
travelling-kits--neat rolls of matting, drinking-gourds, umbrellas,
begging-bowls....
But, after all, it was in the Zenana that regret and longing were
prettiest rendered.... In the hour of Union (as we call the Twilight in
Bengal), when the glories of the West had died into silence, and earth
and sky were gray and still as life at the passing of a friend--she who
was now Maharani--my ten-year-old Bride, crept out on to the landing of
“the Inside” to sprinkle with holy water the place where soul and body
parted, and to light the death-light of welcome.
“She will come back, and know that we have not forgotten.”
It is interesting, the definite place in the scheme of life, allotted
to women in a country where woman is of no account, except as
hand-maid to her lord man. I am always finding illustration of this
truth. No spite, no resentment can rob individuals of the right to
perform certain religious acts. The death-light, for instance, was
the province of Boho-Rani, the daughter-in-law, the youngest in a
household including three generations, and many collaterals.... But
the most passionate love for the dead never suggested any variation
of etiquette. The old Mother bent with grief, sisters, daughters sat
huddled in the living-room, looking with hungry eyes at Boho, who alone
could relieve the tension of that quiet-coloured hour by service.
Now it is the turn of one, now of another, the women know; there is
no wrangling.... But a few days past there had been the Spring games,
and the Festival of the Spring. The children-wives swung to and fro
under the big tree in the women’s courtyard. It was a pretty sight--the
graceful little ladies in their bright draperies, clinging with their
toes to the board (for they swing standing), holding to the ropes with
tiny hands.... The sun peeped at them through the screen of leaves,
and set on fire the rough-cut jewels at throat, at wrist, at anklet.
To and fro, to and fro ... so rhythmic was the motion, I found myself
thinking of a field of grass, rippling in the wind. Some brides, too
small for the exercise, were gravely swinging their dolls, and here was
a “religious” fondling the baby Krishna in his cradle ... but none of
them played really: it was only--_Oberammergau_--how the god Krishna
grown to manhood sported with the maidens; that was the reason given by
all for the evening’s gaiety.
Another day, with laughter and shy importance, the youngest Bride
and Bridegroom were led to a place of prominence. It was their first
Springtime since the marriage ceremony, and they sat side by side,
bound together with silken cords; while the mother and grandmother
threw at them little soft cushions of red powder, the same that is
used in religious sacrifices for dusting the idol; with it is made
the mark on the head of the Bride: perhaps the colour is symbolical,
the women do not know, “it has always been so,” they tell you. And,
as to the games--why it is Springtime, children should be merry, and
the shy pelting with red pellets is Zenana merriment in italics. Next
year, maybe, the Bride will be a mother, and such boisterousness will
not become her. Let the children play while they may, and let the old
Grand-dame pillow-fight with red powder cushions. Is she not nearer
to the children in spirit than that grave-eyed Madan Mohun, of three
Springtides, for instance, who is having his baby feed, in greedy
solemnity. For is she not the wise woman of many years? and only the
years can bring true youth and wisdom. Ignorance dies after decades of
convention, of pain, of mistakes, and from the dead bulb springs this
wonderful flower of youth and wisdom. The ignorance, the pain, the
mistakes,--they had to be. Do they not make the fragrance of our Spring
plant? The pity is when the original shrub knows no decay, when in the
smug satiety of its ever-greenness it journeys to no winter, and finds
no aftermath of Spring.
On yet another day the youngest sister was chief lady. I found her
sitting before a brass tray of glass bangles and silver ornaments.
It was a first visit to her childhood’s home since marriage, and her
husband would break her old bangles and refit her. The Wise Woman
says it is symbolical of the fact that even in her Parents’ house
she remains the possession of her husband. So he is admitted to the
parental “Inside,” and the women other than his wife, peep at the
bangle-play from behind doors and curtains.
“What do Indian women do with their time?” how often I have been asked
the question. Custom and religion make the day’s programme--a woman’s
husband, and a woman’s God, are occupation in themselves, and then
there may be the children. The good Hindu will have her house of Gods,
her private Chapel. Sometimes there is an image in it. I have known
God-houses without any image. The name of the particular God it is
right for her to worship will be whispered in her ear by the family
Priest, and not even to her husband may she reveal the secret. But in
her Chapel you will find most often in Bengal, an image either of the
Baby God a-crawling, or of Kali, the Mother. In Krishna Chapels there
will be a little crib, fashioned in these Western-Eastern days like
an English bedstead, with mosquito nets: and just as in the morning
the devotee bathes and anoints the baby, leaving food beside it on the
little altar, so at even-tide she lights the nursery lamp and puts it
to bed.... Is this Hinduism? I do not know. In practice it seems to me
but the Mother-worship of the Child.
But in truth there is no one form or stage of Hinduism to be found in
India, or, for the matter of that, in Bengal.... The great truths are
eternal and prevail in every religion: yet all men are not capable
of receiving the truth, and Hinduism recognizes this. In the actual
worship of the idol are the illiterate and ignorant encouraged. “It
would be sin to disclose to these the mysteries of a God not made with
hands,” so says the wisest of my wise women ... “for he who has heard
and hearkens not, and understands not, hath the greater sin.” Yet that
even a child may be capable of instruction she proves to you. I have
seen many hundreds of babies under her roof, babies ranging from three
to twelve years of age doing their morning _pooja_. It is “the worship
of the possible” that she teaches them, “the worship of the Might-be.”
At 9 o’clock they come hastening to the hour of prayer, like the
birds and lizards of the Moslem legend: each little devotee, lips
pursed in serious earnestness, is carrying her “basket of worship,”
and sits cross-legged to unpack it--an incense-burner, the bowl for
Ganges water, flowers, bits of half-eaten fruit and vegetables, the
sacrificial powder, often a remnant of some favourite saree, the Ganges
mud with which to make her “idol”--all this she unpacks gravely,
daintily, moulding her lump of clay into a cone.... Now she will make
comparison with her neighbour, a little wistfully, perhaps, perhaps
exultingly: often she shares her gifts.... Anything may be given to the
God; the teaching here is to give what costs something, and when the
_pooja_ is over, the Pujari carries round a food-collecting plate for
the animals within the gates, and the crows on the housetops. Now she
is threading garlands of the sacred white jasmine, and the Priests have
come for the chaunting.
The children sit in rows facing each other, along the walls of the
veranda. My Wisest of the Wise explains to me that the God who dwells
within us is to be invited to inhabit that lump of mud (the clay on the
potters’ wheel), for His better worshipping by the children of men. So,
the opening ceremony is a movement of the hands--the invocation! Each
little worshipper sits wrapt before the God in the clay.... Now the
Priest takes up the Sanskrit word, and the Babies chaunt it after him.
“Oh! Great God, bless us, forgive us, remain with us.”
“Oh, Great God, I offer thee this incense, these flowers, this holy
water,” etc.
And the fingers are busy with the offering while every now and again
“_Dhyan karo_” (meditate) will be the order: and five hundred pairs of
Baby eyes are puckered into concentration and five hundred pairs of
arms are tightly folded.
The earnest tension of the attitude moves one to tears.... Of what are
they thinking? Oh! but of what?
“The worship of the Possible?”
_That_ is the Wise Woman’s thought, not theirs. I put it to her.
“Of what should they think,” said she, “but of the whole duty of
womanhood--to be a good wife: to omit no act of ceremonial Hinduism.”
The sequence showed her wisdom. And being a good Hindu wife means
fulfilling the duty of a Life-Bringer, thinking no evil of the lord who
bears to you God’s message of creation, counting his most temporal want
as superior to your own most spiritual craving, making a religion of
his smallest wish; and when the Gods, for your sins, take him from you,
holding to his memory with prayer and fasting and self-suppression....
So we end, whence we set out _Devi--Goddess!_
V
THE SETTER-FAR OF IGNORANCE
I have tried to indicate the women’s attitude towards the man in
India. His towards her is more difficult to determine--partly
because she is not his whole existence, as he is hers; she is his
occasional amusement, and always his slave and the physical element
in the eventual saving of his soul, that complicated machinery which
necessitates a son who will pay your material and spiritual debts.
Comradeship, as we have seen, there can be little between orthodox
Hindu husband and wife. Love we will not deny--these things are between
soul and soul; show of affection would be insult in the presence of
third persons; courtesy, in the thousand little ways required in the
West, is shown rather by the woman to the man than by him to her. And,
indeed, the very fact that he allows all this is proof of respect. To
accept service is the compliment--and he respects her after his kind.
But certainly he respects her. Does he not arrange that himself shall
be her chief interest in life and her chief care and memory in death?
Is she not allowed to be at once his “parasite and his chalice.” But
certainly he respects her. Her name may not be in the mouth of a man,
even in the form of polite inquiry after her health: no strange man may
see her face, and often he may not even hear her voice. Is it not her
husband who guards her from contact with the outer world, from sight of
God’s most beautiful creation, from knowledge of the way he lives his
life, or works, or plays?
But certainly he respects her. He eats the food she cooks for him, he
gives her complete control of his household, and he sees that she lives
up to his ideal of her place in the scheme of life.