Not many years ago a young married lady was journeying alone.
It is not customary in India for young women, even if married, to go
out by themselves. The purdah system unfits them for independence. Even
when going for a short distance by palanquin or just for a carriage
drive, a chaperon is necessary.
Yet occasions arise when it is imperative that they should journey,
but no suitable escort can be found or spared for the purpose. They
are then obliged to go with servants. It may seem strange that young
ladies should be permitted to travel alone with servants. But readers
who know India will not be surprised, for Indians treat their servants
after the patriarchal system, especially those who have served the
family for generations. Even hired attendants, like the driver in
this story, are thoroughly trusted when known to the family.
The young lady was on her way to visit her father and mother. Indian
parents-in-law cannot visit at the parental home of their
daughter-in-law. Therefore bow-ma journeyed alone with her little son,
a child of about five years of age.
The distance was not a long one, only from Calcutta to Durgapore, a
village a few miles away from the city. So a hackney-carriage was hired
with a driver who had often before been employed by her father-in-law,
and everyone felt assured bow-ma would reach her destination safely.
Her mother-in-law saw her into the carriage. Her little boy was lifted
up beside her, and, with many injunctions to drive carefully and with
speed ringing in his ears, the driver whipped up his horses and they
were off.
Bow-ma knew the road well. Often had she journeyed to and fro in
the early years of her married life, and even after the birth of her
little son her visits to her parents had been frequent.
The carriage was close and her heavy silken saree hot to wear, so
she opened the venetians and lazily watched the familiar landmarks
as they passed. She had started early so that the journey should be
accomplished in day-light, and still they did not reach home. She
noted the various trees and hedges and was puzzled. Surely, the road
seemed different. The sun, a ball of golden fire, sank to rest in
a bed of many-tinted clouds, and still they had not arrived. Bow-ma
felt strangely anxious.
The carriage suddenly swerved. To her dismay she saw they had turned
into a rough and untravelled road with paddy-fields on either side. The
place seemed lonely. It was now rapidly growing dark, for in India
after sun-set Night does not long delay her coming. A presentiment of
evil clutched bow-ma's heart. She whispered to her little boy to ask
the driver where they were and when they should arrive. In India it
is not permitted a woman to address any man save her husband, father,
and brothers.
The child obeyed but the driver made no reply. "Ask again," whispered
the mother, "he has not heard you."
The boy asked, "When shall we arrive?" again and again, but not a
word answered the driver.
Bow-ma, now thoroughly alarmed, beat the shutters of the carriage
and commanded her son to shout loudly. The boy screamed at the top
of his voice, "Why don't you reply? What road is this?"
The driver now answered disrespectfully: "You will soon know where
you are going," and laughed.
His rude gruff tone and evasive answer confirmed bow-ma's worst
fears. The awful word dacoits stood out in her mind in letters of
fire. Horror and dread filled her soul. Drawing her child towards
her, she hushed his eager questioning and waited in silent anguish
for the coming danger.
The carriage bumped and rattled over the uneven road. Presently it
stopped. It was now almost dark. The door was jerked open and a harsh
voice commanded: "Get out of the carriage." Bow-ma recognised the
driver's voice and, realising the futility of objecting, without a
word she stepped down and helped her little son to alight.
"Follow me" was the next rough order. Again she silently obeyed. The
man left the road and led her a little distance away under the shadow
of some trees. "Take off your jewels. Give them to me." A faint sigh
of relief escaped her. Perhaps the jewels were all he wanted. Quickly
she unclasped her handsome necklet and gave it him. He grasped it
greedily with one hand and extended the other for more. One by one she
stripped her wrists and arms of their lovely bracelets and bangles and
handed them to him. "More" he growled. She pulled the rings from her
fingers and added to them her ear and nose rings. "Your waist chain"
he snapped. She unclasped and dropped its golden weight into those
greedy hands. "Take off your anklets, I want all" he sneered. She
knelt on the ground to unclasp them. Then, rising, handed them to him,
wondering what more would follow.
Meanwhile the child wept bitterly, and angrily forbade the driver
to take his mother's jewels, calling him robber and thief. "Yes,
dacoit I am," the scoundrel replied to the boy's revilings, "and if
you will not be quiet, I will teach you how to." Bow-ma gently strove
to console and silence her son. "Fret not! Your father will give me
more and better jewels."
"Take off your saree" was the next outrageous command. The boy's
indignation flamed afresh. His mother took an unguarded step forward
and asked: "Are not my jewels enough that you want the saree off
my back?"
"Aye, your saree and all you have. Silence your child or I will kill
him." Terrible was the harsh voice in its determination. Bow-ma's
heart stood still. Entreaty would be of no avail. She unwound the
richly-embroidered silken folds from about her and cast the gold and
green saree at his feet: "Take it."
"You have stripped my mother," screamed the boy. The ruffian caught
the saree with a fearful oath and turning on him said: "Now I can
deal with you. I will fetch a brick from yonder kiln and pound the
breath out of you," With these words he strode forward, tying the
jewels in the saree as he went. Now her sorely-tried nerves gave way,
and, distracted with grief, bow-ma caught her child in her arms,
and their mingled cries rent the air. But the thief did not return.
About midnight a village policeman going his rounds heard their
cries. At first he paid no heed to them: jackals swarmed and disturbed
the night. Again the anguished voices quivered in the air. There was
something human in the sound. He stopped to listen. The cries rose
again. He walked forward in their direction. Clearer, as he advanced,
shrilled the distressed voices, and he recognised they were those
of a woman and a child. He quickened his steps and hastened to
the spot. The light from his lantern revealed bow-ma and her son,
clinging to each other and weeping piteously.
"Who are you? What ails you?" he asked. The distraught mother,
unconscious of the flight of time, thinking him the heartless dacoit
returned to kill her boy, fell at his feet in an agony of supplication:
"Spare my son. Take my life instead."
"I am a chowkidar (watchman). What is up?" But so dulled were her
ears with fear and grief that he was twice obliged to repeat his
words. When the joyful intelligence reached her brain she burst into
tears. "O! save my son." Then the consciousness that the danger
was past reminded her of her own plight, and she sobbed: "Give me
something to wear."
The policeman had noticed her semi-nude state. Dropping, his pugree
at her feet he turned away. She shook out its many folds and draped
it about her body. Then she related what had befallen her and pointed
towards the direction the thief had taken.
The policeman walked cautiously forward, his lantern raised in one
hand and his lathi tightly grasped in the other. A few yards ahead
he came to an old brick kiln. Here, prone among the broken bricks,
lay the robber in greater straits than his victims. A huge cobra was
tightly coiled round his right arm, while on the left hung the saree
and the jewels. The rays of the lantern disturbed the snake. With
an angry hiss it uncoiled itself and disappeared. The dacoit, more
dead than alive from simple fear of the snake's fatal sting, yielded
himself a prisoner, and it was subsequently discovered that the whole
gang, of whom he was a member, were licensed hackney drivers.