BOMBAY--FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF INDIA.
Never did travellers open their eyes with more of wonder and curiosity
than we, as we awoke the next morning and went on deck and turned to
the unaccustomed shore. The sun had risen over the Ghauts, and now
cast his light on the islands, covered with cocoanut palms, and on the
forest of shipping that lay on the tranquil waters. Here were ships
from all parts of the world, not only from the Mediterranean and from
England, but from every part of Asia and Africa, and from Australia. A
few weeks before had been witnessed here a brilliant sight at the
landing of the Prince of Wales. A long arched way of trellis work,
still hung with faded wreaths, marked the spot where the future
Emperor of India first set foot upon its soil. Our ship, which had
anchored off the mouth of the harbor, now steamed up to her moorings,
a tug took us off to the Mazagon Bunder, the landing place of the
Peninsular and Oriental Company, where we mounted a long flight of
granite steps to the quay--and were in India.
Passing through the Custom House gates, we were greeted not by the
donkey-boys of Egypt, but by a crowd of barefooted and barelegged
Hindoos, clad in snowy white, and with mountainous turbans on their
heads, who were ambitious of the honor of driving us into the city.
The native carriage (or _gharri_, as it is called) is not a handsome
equipage. It is a mere box, oblong in shape, set on wheels, having
latticed windows like a palanquin, to admit the air and shut out the
sun. Mounting into such a "State carriage," our solemn Hindoo gave
rein to his steed, and we trotted off into Bombay. As our destination
was Watson's Hotel, in the English quarter at the extreme end of the
city, we traversed almost its whole extent. The streets seemed
endless. On and on we rode for miles, till we were able to realize
that we were in the second city in the British empire--larger than any
in Great Britain except London--larger than Liverpool or Glasgow, or
Manchester or Birmingham.
Of course the population is chiefly native, and this it is which
excites my constant wonder. As I ride about I ask myself, Am I on the
earth, or in the moon? Surely this must be some other planet than the
one that I have known before. I see men as trees walking, but they are
not of any familiar form or speech. Perhaps it is because we are on
the other side of the world, and everything is turned topsy-turvy, and
men are walking on their heads. We may have to adopt the Darwinian
theory of the origin of man; for these seem to be of another species,
to belong to another department of the animal kingdom. That old Hindoo
that I see yonder, sitting against the wall, with his legs curled up
under him, seems more like a chimpanzee than a man. He has a way of
sitting on his _heels_ (a posture which would be impossible for a
European, but which he will keep for hours), which is more like an
animal than a human creature.
Truly we have never been in such a state of bewilderment since we
began our travels, as since we landed in Bombay. Constantinople seemed
strange, and Egypt stranger still; but India is strangest of all. The
streets are swarming with life, as a hive swarms with bees. The
bazaars are like so many ant-hills, but the creatures that go in and
out are not like any race that we have seen before. They are not white
like Europeans, nor black like Africans, nor red like our American
Indians; but are pure Asiatics, of a dark-brown color, the effect of
which is the greater, as they are generally clad in the garments which
nature gives them. The laboring class go half naked, or more than
half. It is only the house-servants that wear anything that can be
called a costume. The coolies, or common laborers, have only a strip
of cloth around their loins, which they wear for decency, for in this
climate they scarcely need any garment for warmth. One thing which is
never omitted is the turban, or in its place a thick blanket, to
shield the head from the direct rays of the sun. But there is nothing
to hide the swarthy breast or limbs. Those of a better condition, who
do put on clothing, show the Oriental fondness for gorgeous apparel by
having the richest silk turbans and flowing robes. The women find a
way to show their feminine vanity, being tricked out in many colors,
dark red, crimson and scarlet, with yellow and orange and green and
blue--the mingling of which produces a strange effect as one rides
through the bazaars and crowded streets, which gleam with all the
colors of the rainbow. The effect of this tawdry finery is heightened
by the gewgaws which depend from different parts of their persons.
Earrings are not sufficiently conspicuous for a Hindoo damsel, who has
a ring of gold and pearl hung in her nose; which is considered a great
addition to female beauty. Heavy bracelets of silver also adorn her
wrists and ankles. Almost every woman who shows herself in the street,
though of the lowest condition, and barefoot, still gratifies her
pride by huge silver anklets clasping her naked feet.
But these Asiatic faces, strange as they are, would not be
unattractive but for artificial disfigurements--if men did not chew
the betel nut, which turns the lips to a brilliant red, and did not
have their foreheads striped with coarse pigments, which are the
badges of their different castes!
Imagine a whole city crowded with dark skinned men and women thus
dressed--or not dressed--half naked on the one hand, or bedizened like
harlequins on the other, walking about, or perchance riding in little
carriages _drawn by oxen_--a small breed that trot off almost as fast
as the donkeys we had in Cairo--and one may have some idea of the
picturesque appearance of the streets of Bombay.
We are becoming accustomed to the manners and customs of this eastern
world. We never sit down to dinner but with the punka swinging over
us, and the "punka-walla," the coolie who swings it, is a recognized
institution. In the hot months it is kept swinging all night, and
Europeans sleep under it. These things strike us strangely at first,
but we soon get used to these tropical devices, and in fact rather
like them. In a few days we have become quite Oriental. To confess the
truth, there are some things here in the East that are not at all
disagreeable to the natural man, especially the devices for coolness
and comfort, and the extreme deference to Europeans, which we begin to
accept as naturally belonging to us.
At first I was surprised and amused at the manners of the people. It
was a new sensation to be in this Asiatic atmosphere, to be surrounded
and waited upon by soft-footed Hindoos, who glided about noiselessly
like cats, watching every look, eager to anticipate every wish before
they heard the word of command. I was never the object of such
reverence before. Every one addressed me as "Sahib." I did not know at
first what this meant, but took it for granted that it was a title of
respect--an impression confirmed by the deferential manner of the
attendants. I could not walk through the corridor of the hotel without
a dozen servants rising to their feet, who remained standing till I
had passed. I was a little taken aback when a turbaned Oriental, in
flowing robe, approached me with an air of profound reverence, bending
low, as if he would prostrate himself at my feet. If he desired to
present a petition to my august majesty (which was, probably, that I
would buy a cashmere shawl), he bowed himself almost to the ground,
and reached down his hand very low, and then raising it, touched his
forehead, as if he would take up the dust of the earth and cast it on
his head, in token that he was unworthy to enter into such an awful
presence. I never knew before how great a being I was. There is
nothing like going far away from home, to the other side of the world,
among Hindoos or Hottentots, to be fully appreciated.
After a little experience, one learns to accept these Hindoo salaams
and obeisances. Now, when I walk down the passages of the hotel, and
snowy turbans rise on either side in token of homage, I bow in
acknowledgment, though very slightly, so as not to concede a particle
of my dignity, or encourage any familiarity. When I open my door in
the morning, I find half a dozen coolies in the passage, who have
curled up on mats and slept there all night, as Napoleon's Mameluke
slept before his master's door. It gives one a sense of dignity and
importance to be thus served and guarded and defended! I suspect all
of us have a little (or a good deal) of the Asiatic in our
composition, and could easily play the pasha and drop into these soft
Eastern ways, and find it not unpleasant to recline on a divan, and be
waited on by dusky slaves!
We find that we are in a tropical climate by the heat that oppresses
us. Although it is midwinter, we find it prudent as well as pleasant
to remain indoors in the middle of the day (time which is very
precious for writing), and make our excursions in the morning or
evening.
Morning in the tropics is delightful. There is a dewy freshness in the
air. Rising at daylight we take a small open carriage--a kind of "one
horse shay"--for our ride. It has but one seat, but the Hindoo driver,
nimble as a cat, crouches at our feet, with his legs dangling over the
side in front of the wheels, and thus mounted we gallop off gayly.
One of our morning excursions was to the Flower Market, where the
fruits and flowers of the country are displayed with truly tropical
profusion. The building, designed with English taste, is of great
extent, surrounding a spacious court, which is laid out like a
garden, with fountains and ferns, and flowering shrubs and creepers
growing luxuriantly. Here are offered for sale all kinds of poultry
and birds, parrots, and even monkeys. The Flower Market is especially
brilliant, as flowers are the customary offerings at temples. They are
very cheap. Five cents bought a large bunch of roses. White jessamines
and yellow marigolds are wrought into wreaths and garlands for their
festivities. The fruits we liked less than the flowers. They were very
tempting to the eye, but too rich for our appetite. The famous mango
cloyed us with its sweetness. Indeed, I made the observation here,
which I had to repeat afterwards in Java, that the tropical fruits,
though large and luscious, had not the delicate flavor of our Northern
fruits. A good New Jersey peach would have been far sweeter to my
taste than the ripest orange or mango, or the longest string of
bananas.
In the evening we ride out to Malabar Hill, or go to the public
gardens which English taste has laid out in different parts of the
city. Although Bombay is a city of Hindoos, yet the stamp of English
rule is everywhere impressed upon it. Like the cities of Great
Britain, it is thoroughly governed. The hand of a master is seen in
its perfect police, its well ordered and well lighted streets. There
are signs of its being gained by conquest and held by military power.
The English quarter is still called the Fort, being on the site of an
old fortress, the ramparts of which are all swept away, and in their
place are wide streets (indeed too wide for shade), and a number of
public buildings--Government offices, the Postoffice, and the
Telegraph Building, and the University--which would be an ornament to
any city in England. Here English taste comes in to add to its natural
beauty in the laying out of open squares. Our windows at the Hotel
look out upon the Esplanade, a large parade ground, the very spot
where the Sepoys were shot away from the guns after the mutiny, and
upon the sea, from which comes at evening a soft, delicious air from
the Indian ocean. It is a pretty sight to go here at sunset, when the
band is playing and there is a great turnout of carriages, bringing
the fashion and wealth of Bombay to listen to the music and inhale the
fresh breezes from the sea, that no doubt are sweeter to many in that
they seem to come from their beloved England. In the crowd of well
dressed people wealthy Parsees (distinguished by their high hats), and
Hindoos by their turbans, mingle with English officers, and the
children of all run about together on the lawn. My companion noticed
particularly the Parsee children, whose dresses were gay with many
colors--little fellows shining in pink trousers, blue shirts, green
vests, and scarlet caps! Others had satin trousers and vests of some
bright color, and over all white muslin or lace trimmings. The effect
of such a variety of colors was as if parterres of flowers were laid
out on the smooth shaven lawn. In another part of the city the
Victoria Gardens are set out like a Botanical Garden, with all manner
of plants and trees, especially with an endless variety of palms,
under which crowds saunter along the avenues, admiring the wonders of
tropical vegetation, and listening to the music that fills the evening
air.
The environs of Bombay are very beautiful. Few cities have a more
delightful suburb than Malabar Hill, where the English merchant, after
the business of the day is over, retreats from the city to enjoy a
home which, though Indian without, is English within. Hundreds of
bungalows are clustered on these eminences, shaded with palms and
embowered in tropical foliage, with steep roofs, always thatched as a
better protection from the sun. Here the occupants sit at evening on
the broad verandahs, stretched in their long bamboo chairs, enjoying
the cool air that comes in from the sea, and talk of England or of
America.
There are not many Americans in Bombay, although in one way the city
is, or was, closely connected with our country. Nowhere was the
effect of our civil war more felt than in India, as it gave a great
impetus to its cotton production. Under the sudden and powerful
stimulus, Bombay started up into an artificial prosperity. Fortunes
were made rapidly. The close of the war brought a panic from which it
has not yet recovered. But the impulse given has remained, and I am
told that there is at this moment more cotton grown in India than ever
before, although the fall in prices has cut off the great profits. But
the cost of transportation is much less, as the railroads constructed
within a few years afford the means of bringing it to market, where
before it had to be drawn slowly over the mountains in ox-carts. This
flow of cotton to the seaports has been turned to account by the
erection of cotton mills (several of which have been started here in
Bombay), which, under the direction of Englishmen, and having the
double advantage of native cotton and native labor, may yet supplant
English fabrics in the markets of India.
Though there are few Americans (except the missionaries) here, yet
there is one who has all the enterprise of his countrymen, Mr.
Kittredge, who came out to India many years ago, and is now the head
of the old house of Stearns, Hobart & Co. He has introduced that
peculiarly American institution, the street railway--or tramway, as it
is called here--which is a great comfort in moving about the city,
where transportation before was chiefly by little ox-carts. The cars
run smoothly, and as they are open at the sides are delightfully cool.
The Hindoos, though slow in adopting new ideas or new ways, take to
these as an immense convenience. Not the least good effect is the
pressure which they bring to bear on caste, by forcing those of
different castes to sit side by side!
A very singular people, found in Bombay, and nowhere else in India,
are the Parsees, who differ from the Hindoos both in race and
religion. They are followers of Zoroaster, the philosopher of Persia,
from which they were driven out centuries ago by the merciless
followers of the Prophet, and took refuge in Western India, and being,
as a class, of superior intelligence and education, they have risen to
a high position. They are largely the merchants of Bombay, and among
them are some of its wealthiest citizens, whose beautiful houses,
surrounded with gardens, line the road to Parell, the residence of the
Governor. They are fire-worshippers, adoring it as the principle of
life. Morning and evening they may be seen uncovering their heads, and
turning reverently to the rising or the setting sun, and offering
their adoration to the great luminary, which they regard as the source
of all life on earth. As I have seen them on the seashore, turning
their faces to the setting sun, and lifting their hands as if in
prayer, I have thought, that if this be idolatry, it is at least not
so degrading as that of the Hindoos around them, for if they bow to a
material object, it is at least the most glorious which they see in
nature. The more intelligent of them, however, explain that it is not
the sun itself they worship, but only regard it as the brightest
symbol and manifestation of the Invisible Deity. But they seem to have
an idolatrous reverence for fire, and keep a lamp always burning in
their houses. It is never suffered to go out day nor night, from year
to year. The same respect which they show to fire, they show also to
the other elements--earth, air, and water.
A revolting application of their principles is seen in their mode of
disposing of the dead. They cannot burn them, as do the Hindoos, lest
the touch of death should pollute the flames; nor can they bury them
in the earth, nor in the sea, for earth and water and air are all
alike sacred. They therefore expose the bodies of their dead to be
devoured by birds of the air. Outside of Bombay, on Malabar Hill, are
three or four circular towers--called The Towers of Silence, which are
enclosed by a high wall to keep observers at a distance. When a Parsee
dies, his body is conveyed to the gates, and there received by the
priests, by whom it is exposed on gratings constructed for the
purpose.
Near at hand, perched in groves of palms, are the vultures. We saw
them there in great numbers. As soon as a funeral procession
approaches, they scent their prey, and begin to circle in the air; and
no sooner is a body uncovered, and left by the attendants, than a
cloud of black wings settles down upon it, and a hundred horned beaks
are tearing at the flesh. Such are their numbers and voracity, that in
a few minutes--so we are told--every particle is stripped from the
bones, which are then slid down an inclined plane into a deep pit,
where they mingle with common clay.
Compared with this, the Hindoo mode of disposing of the dead, by
burning, seems almost like Christian burial. Yet it is done in a mode
which is very offensive. In returning from Malabar Hill one evening,
along the beautiful drive around the bay, we noticed a number of
furnace-like openings, where fires were burning, from which proceeded
a sickening smell, and were told that this was the burning of the
bodies of the Hindoos!
This mode of disposing of the dead may be defended on grounds of
health, especially in great cities. But, at any rate, I wish there was
nothing worse to be said of the Hindoos than their mode of treating
the forms from which life has departed. But their religion is far more
cruel to the living than to the dead.
To one who has never been in a Pagan country, that which is most new
and strange is its idolatry. Bombay is full of temples, which at
certain hours are crowded with worshippers. Here they flock every
morning to perform their devotions. There is nothing like the orderly
congregation gathered in a Christian house of worship, sitting quietly
in their places, and listening to a sermon. The people come and go at
will, attending to their devotions, as they would to any matter of
business. A large part of their "worship" consists in washing
themselves. With the Hindoos as with the Mohammedans, bathing is a
part of their religion. The temple grounds generally enclose a large
tank, into which they plunge every morning, and come up, as they
believe, clean from the washing. At the temple of Momba Davi (the god
who gives name to Bombay), we watched these purifications and other
acts of worship. Within the enclosure, beside the temple filled with
hideous idols, there was the sacred cow (which the people would
consider it a far greater crime to kill than to kill a Christian)
which chewed her cud undisturbed, though not with half so much content
as if she had been in a field of sweet-scented clover; and there stood
the peepul tree, the sacred tree of India (a species of banyan), round
which men and women were walking repeating their prayers, and leaving
flowers as offerings at its foot. This latter custom is not peculiar
to Pagan countries. In Christian as well as in heathen lands flowers
are laid on the altar, as if their beauty were grateful to the Unseen
Eye, and their perfume a kind of incense to the object of devotion.
Inside the enclosure men were being washed and shaved (on their heads
as well as on their faces), and painted on their foreheads (as
Catholics might be with the sign of the cross) to mark the god they
worship. And not only in the temples, but along the streets, in the
houses, which were open to the view of passers-by, people were taking
plentiful ablutions, almost a full bath, and making their toilet,
quite unembarrassed by the presence of strangers.
These observances (if divested of any religious value) are not to be
altogether condemned. The habit of frequent bathing is very useful in
a sanitary point of view, especially in this hot climate. But that
which most excites our admiration is the scrupulous regularity of the
Hindoos in their worship. They have to "do their pooja" (that is, make
their offerings and perform their devotions) before they go to their
work, or even partake of food! Here is an example of religious
fidelity worthy of Christian imitation.
The religious ideas of the Hindoos show themselves in other ways,
which at least challenge our respect for their consistency. In their
eyes all life is sacred, the life of beast and bird, nay, of reptile
and insect, as well as of man. To carry out this idea they have
established a Hospital for Animals, which is one of the institutions
of Bombay. It is on a very extensive scale, and presents a spectacle
such as I do not believe can be seen anywhere else in the world. Here,
in an enclosure covering many acres, in sheds, or stables, or in the
open grounds, as may best promote their recovery, are gathered the
lame, the halt, and the blind, not of the human species, but of the
animal world--cattle and horses, sheep and goats, dogs and cats,
rabbits and monkeys, and beasts and birds of every description. Even
poor little monkeys forgot to be merry, and looked very solemn as they
sat on their perch. The cows, sacred as they were, were yet not beyond
the power of disease, and had a most woe-begone look. Long rows of
stables were filled with broken-down horses, spavined and ring-boned,
with ribs sticking out of their sides, or huge sores on their flanks,
dripping with blood. In one pen were a number of kittens, that mewed
and cried for their mothers, though they had a plentiful supply of
milk for their poor little emaciated bodies. The Hindoos send out
carts at night and pick them up wherever they have been cast into the
street. Rabbits, whom no man would own, have here a snug warren made
for them, and creep in and out with a feeling of safety and comfort.
In a large enclosure were some hundred dogs, more wretched-looking
than the dogs of Constantinople--"whelps and curs of low degree."
These poor creatures had been so long the companions of man that,
ill-treated as they were, starved and kicked, they still apparently
longed for human society, and as soon as they saw us they seemed to
recognize us as their deliverers, and set up a howling and yelping,
and leaped against the bars of their prison house, as if imploring us
to give them liberty.
And here is a collection of birds to fill an extensive aviary, though
in their present condition they do not look exactly like birds of
Paradise. There are not only "four black crows," but more than any
farmer would like to see in his wheat field (for India is the land of
crows). Tall cranes, that had been wont to step with long legs by the
marshy brink of rivers, here were bandaged and splintered till they
could walk once more. Broken-winged seagulls, that could no more sweep
over the boundless sea, free as its own waves, were nursed till they
could fly again.
The spectacle thus presented was half touching and half ludicrous. One
cannot but respect the Hindoo's regard for life, as a thing not to be
lightly and wantonly destroyed. And yet they carry it to an extent
that is absurd. They will not take the life of animals for food, nor
even of creatures that are annoying or dangerous to themselves. Many
will not crush the insects that buzz around them and sting them, nor
kill a cobra that crawls into their houses, even when it threatens to
bite them or their children. It has been said that they even nurse
serpents, and when recovered, turn them loose into the jungle; but of
this we saw no evidence. But certainly many wretched creatures, whose
existence is not worth keeping, which it were a mercy to let die, are
here rescued and brought back to life.
While walking through these grounds in company with a couple of
missionaries, I thought how much better these animals were cared for
than some men. I was thinking of some of our broken-down ministers at
home, who, after serving their people faithfully for a whole
generation, are at last sent adrift without ceremony, like an old
horse turned out by the roadside to die! What lives of drudgery and
toil do such ministers lead! They are "beasts of burden," more than
any beast of the field. And when their working days are over, can
they not be cared for as well as the Hindoos care for old horses and
camels? If only these shattered wrecks (and magnificent wrecks some of
them are) were towed into port and allowed to rest in tranquil waters;
or (to change the figure) if these old veterans were housed and warmed
and fed and nursed as carefully as the Hindoos nurse their broken-down
animals, we should have fewer of those instances of cruel neglect
which we sometimes hear of to our sorrow and shame!
Of the antiquities of India, one of the most notable is found here in
the Caves of Elephanta, which are on an island lying off the harbor.
We set apart a day to this visit, which we made with a couple of
Americans and a couple of Englishmen, the latter of whom we met first
in Bombay, but who were to keep us company a large part of our journey
around the world. We were to embark at the Apollo Bunder, and while
waiting here for our boat (a steam launch which is used for this
purpose), a snake-charmer desired to entertain us with the dexterous
manner in which he handled cobras, taking them up like kittens,
coiling them round his neck, and tossing them about in a very playful
and affectionate manner. No doubt their fangs had been completely
extracted before he indulged in these endearments. A very cruel form
of sport was to throw one on the ground, and let it be set upon by a
mangoose, a small animal like a weasel, that is not poisoned by the
bite of serpents, and attacks them without hesitation. One of these
the man carried in a bag for the purpose. As soon as let loose, the
little creature flew at the snake spitefully, as a terrier dog would
at a rat, and seized it by the head, and bit it again and again with
its sharp teeth, and left it covered with blood. As we expressed our
disgust at this cruelty, the juggler assured us that the deceitful
reptile was not dead (in fact as soon as laid on the ground it began
to wriggle), and that he would take it by the tail and hold it up,
and pour water on its head, and it would come all right again. He did
not say, but no doubt thought, "and will be all ready for torture when
the next American or Englishman comes along."
By this time the steam launch had come round to the Bunder, and we got
on board. It was a little mite of a vessel, just big enough for the
half dozen of us, with a steam boiler not much larger than a teapot,
that wheezed as if it had the asthma. But it did its work well, and
away we shot swiftly across the beautiful bay. The island of Elephanta
is seven miles from the city, and takes its name from a gigantic
statue of an elephant that once stood upon its shore. Landing here, we
found ourselves at the foot of a rocky hill, which we mounted by
several hundred steps, and stood at the entrance of a gigantic cave or
cavern cut into the hill-side, with a lofty ceiling, pillared like a
temple. The main hall, as it might be called, runs back a hundred and
thirty feet into the solid rock.
The first thing that struck me on entering was the resemblance to the
temples of Egypt. Though in size and extent it does not approach the
ruins of Karnak, yet one recognizes the same massive architecture in
this temple, which is literally "cut out of a mountain," its roof the
overhanging cliff, supported by rows of heavy columns.
The resemblance to Egypt appears also in the symbol of divinity and
the objects of worship; the sacred bull in one country answering to
the sacred cow in the other; and the serpent, the same hooded cobra,
rearing its head on the front of the Temples of Thebes, and in the
Caves of Elephanta.
At the end of the great hall are the objects of worship in three
colossal images of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. This is the Hindoo
Trinity, and the constant recurrence of these figures in their
mythology shows how the idea of a Trinity pervaded other ancient
religions besides our own. It is a question for scholars, whence came
the original conception of this threefold personality in the Divine
Being, whether from revelation, or from a tradition as old as the
human race.
The faces are Egyptian--immobile like the Sphinx, with no expression
of eagerness or desire, but only of calm and eternal repose. Such was
the blessedness of the gods, and such the beatitude sought by their
worshippers.
The age of the Caves of Elephanta is not known, but they must be of a
great antiquity. For many centuries this rock-temple has been the
resort of millions of worshippers. Generation after generation have
the poor people of India crossed these waters to this sacred island,
and climbed wearily up this hill as if they were climbing towards
heaven.
That such a religion should have lived for thousands of years, and be
living still (for the worship of Brahma and Vishnu and Shiva is still
the religion of India), is a reflection that gives one but little hope
for the future of the human race.