UNWELCOME INTRUDERS
India at last!
We have come up the west coast from Ceylon and are now approaching
Bombay. It is night-time, and far ahead we see a great yellow light
which appears and disappears, and is visible for twenty miles out at
sea. It seems to blink at us in greeting, peeping every few seconds to
see if we are still there. Then at last we ride into the harbour, and
such a harbour! We cannot see it now at all, and even if it were
daylight we couldn't see more than a very small part of it, for it is
fifteen miles one way by four or five the other, and a harbour that size
cannot be taken in at one glance.
We have to sleep on board, for there are some formalities to be
observed before we go ashore. There is our heavy baggage to get out of
the hold, for instance, and to pass through the Customs. That can wait
until to-morrow.
Our first impression of Bombay is therefore a city of lights. There are
lights sprinkled about anyhow and anywhere; some in chains, some
separate, some low, and some apparently slung high up in mid-air. These
are on the hill above the town, which itself stands on an island.
The very first incident we notice is a ludicrous one, and I am sure we
shan't forget it. A rather stout Englishman who is landing to-night
steps on to the launch, and in an instant is garlanded with marigolds
hung in wreaths round his neck. A crowd of native friends surrounds him.
Some are in European dress, and talk a queer sort of English very fast
and fluently, as if it were being pumped out of their mouths by the
yard; others wear the flowing drapery of the East. Many of them carry
bunches of flowers, which look more like balls, because the native habit
is to strip off every atom of leaf and then pack the blossoms with all
their heads together as tight as they will go. Many such balls are being
pressed upon the embarrassed Englishman, and the scent of crushed
marigolds fills the air. This is all by way of welcome, and it is
evident that the newcomer is a prime favourite with the people. He looks
sheepish, but his round rosy face rises good-humouredly above the absurd
garlands.
Next morning we are up in good time, and as soon as ever we get our
baggage clear of the Customs we go sight-seeing. In our nostrils is the
subtle scent of India; it has something of dust in it, but is not
chiefly dust, as in Egypt; there is a waft of wood-smoke, and a strong
flavour of mixed spices, and some hint of sweet flowers, and many other
things not so agreeable. It is a blend that any Anglo-Indian knows, and
if he smelt it suddenly when he was thousands of miles away, with the
daisied grass beneath his feet, and the swallows wheeling overhead, it
would carry him back with a jump to a land of dark faces and burning sun
and red dust, and all the vivid sights of the East.
We are not starting on our great journey across India until the evening,
so we can wander at will through the broad clean streets, looking into
the magnificent shops that might be in any European town, and then we
can plunge into the native part, where we find narrow, busy bazaars that
might belong to the _Arabian Nights_.
Bombay was one of the first bits of India to belong to the English. The
Portuguese held it before then, and gave it to our nation as part of the
dower of Catherine of Braganza, the Portuguese princess who married
Charles II. You know the old saying, "trade follows the flag," and it
certainly did in Bombay, for the East India Company rented the city from
the king at L10 a year. The Company pushed forward all over the rest of
India year by year, and it was through their steady and persistent
advance in the country that the British finally occupied India--so later
on the saying was reversed, and "the flag followed trade," as it more
often does. But you know that story, every British boy does, the story
of Clive and Hastings, and later on of the Mutiny; it is a part of
English history and one of the most thrilling parts too.
Bombay is a city of trade; her immense docks receive ships of all sizes,
her wharves are laden with the produce of the world, her wide streets
are open to traffic of all descriptions, her public buildings are
splendid, her clubs and hotels palatial. Her merchants prosper and grow
rich, and build for themselves houses on Malabar Hill, the long ridge
above the town, which catches the sea-breezes. At one time that ridge
was looked upon as sacred to Europeans, but now the wealthy natives
settle there, and there is not room for all the poorer Europeans, who
have to be content with lower levels.
Stand still for a moment in this street, and look around. Here comes a
motor-car, and in it lolls a hugely fat man with a yellow skin, and that
crafty insolent look which marks the successful native trader; his thick
neck rolls in creases above his purple brocade coat. But they are not
all like this; some are thoughtful men who have given lakhs of rupees
for the public good.
What a contrast! Here is one of the poorest of the poor. A bullock-cart
comes along, drawn by two lean animals with their ribs sticking out. A
heavy yoke passes across their necks, but otherwise they have not a
scrap of harness on them. That lean man huddled up on the pole between
them, clad in a few yards of rag, prods them with a pointed stick when
he wants them to go this way and that. He dares not now twist their
tails till he breaks them, or keep open running sores so that he may
prick them in a sensitive part, as he would have done at one time, for
if he did the police would be down on him.
On the side-walk there is a lady, yes, it _is_ a lady--in very baggy
green and gold trousers, with gold anklets tinkling as she walks. Her
head and face are swathed in a "sari" or shawl of shot gold and purple,
which only allows her heavy black eyes to appear above its folds. The
street is alive with men in white; some wear long white coats buttoned
down over the kind of white petticoat called a _dhoti_, others have the
curious habit of wearing their shirts outside their trousers like a
kilt, but you soon get used to this, and cease to notice it. That fellow
in a tall extinguisher cap made of lamb's wool is a Persian.
In the midst of all this queer crowd, which looks like a fancy-dress
ball let loose in broad daylight, run the curving steel tram-lines.
There are shades of every complexion to be seen. That very fresh,
pink-faced lady, who has just gone dashing by in her smart "tum-tum" or
pony-cart, is at one end of the scale--she is probably newly out from
home,--and that ebony-black native woman of so low a caste that she goes
uncovered in the public street is at the other, but even she, poor
thing, cares enough about her personal appearance to wear a gold ring
through one of her nostrils!
[Illustration: A PERSIAN.]
Now we can see the long outline of Malabar Hill quite clearly, and below
all its trees and gardens and the great houses rising among them, but at
one part, the highest, the hill is kept for other uses. Look up into the
clear blue sky overhead, do you see a black speck? Not got it yet? Wait
a moment and try again. There! That is right, and there is another and
another; you can't help seeing them now. Their flight is the slow heavy
flight of clumsy birds. What do you suppose they are? Vultures. They
live, as you know, on carrion, which is dead flesh, and the vultures of
Bombay are peculiarly favoured, for they banquet on human bodies.
In this district there are a large number of Parsees or
fire-worshippers, and these people have their peculiar ceremonies. Under
the British Crown every man is free to carry out his own religion in his
own way; persecution is unknown. The Parsees have their cemetery on the
top of that high hill; it is a beautiful place, laid out in gardens,
and reached by flights of steps. Only at one end are five grim towers
shut in by a wall and called the Towers of Silence. Their parapets are
high, and none may climb to the top except certain men set apart and
dedicated for this terrible work. When a Parsee dies, his body is borne
reverently and with care to the gardens on the hill, but instead of
burying it in the earth, these men take it up the winding stairs of one
of the towers and lay it on the roof, and then retire. The vultures do
the rest! No human being has ever seen that dread spectacle, for when
the men come back again about a fortnight later there are only the clean
bleached bones of the skeleton to take away and lay in quicklime to be
absorbed.
So the vultures hover over Bombay and sit like great images around the
parapets on the Towers of Silence, knowing that they will never lack a
meal!
* * * * *
We have seen many and bewildering things in this great city, and when at
last we arrive at the station between five and six in the evening, for
our first journey across this vast land, we are glad to rest. We engaged
our places directly we arrived, for here, where a journey takes often
nights and days, it is no use wandering in casually a few minutes before
the train starts. We also engaged the whole of a compartment to
ourselves, as we want a good night's sleep. It has been cleaned and
prepared, and looks very comfortable when we come to claim it. There are
two seats running lengthwise, the opposite way to that which they do in
an English train. Above them are two more which can be let down as bunks
if required, so that the carriage can accommodate four, but as we have
paid extra to get it to ourselves we ought not to be disturbed.
By the way, you haven't seen any Indian money yet. This is a rupee, a
large and substantial coin you see, about as big as a two-shilling
piece, but it is only worth one and fourpence; fifteen of them go to the
pound. An anna is a penny, and that little coin like a threepenny bit is
a two-anna bit.
[Illustration: SIT LIKE IMAGES ROUND THE PARAPET.]
We have had to hire a native boy to travel with us and look after the
luggage, as it is difficult to do without one in India. All servants are
called "boys" here, even if they are grey-headed; our man is probably
about five-and-twenty. He is called Ramaswamy, and has a
chocolate-coloured moon-face with big round eyes; I think he is
intelligent though he looks stupid. He is dressed in spotless white, his
garments consisting of a short jacket and a dhoti, and he wears a large
round turban on his head, and a pair of neat little gold ear-rings in
his ears. It is a very difficult thing to get a really trustworthy boy,
but the Madrassees are the best, and Ramaswamy comes from the Madras
country far south; he has been in service with a man I know for two
years, and as he is only lent to us for this trip he will probably
behave himself. He is piling up our bedding in a corner of the carriage,
and later on when the train stops at a station for a few minutes he will
come to spread it out. It seems funny to have to carry bedding with us
on a journey, but it is very necessary here. We have pillows and rugs
and a couple of _rezai_ each. These are rather like eider-down quilts,
but are stuffed with cotton instead of down, so they are heavier, and
very comfortable they are to lie upon when doubled up.
You remarked on the amount of luggage we seem to be taking in the
carriage, it is a simple nothing to what is the custom here; look at all
that being piled into the next compartment! Besides masses of bedding
there is a deck-chair, a typewriter, a case for a topee, or helmet, a
gun-case, two portmanteaus, and a box of books, as well as a
lunch-basket. The owner, a pleasant-looking, sun-browned Englishman,
stands by giving orders to his native servants in Hindustanee, which is
a language spoken by the English people to the natives and understood
pretty nearly everywhere. That man is almost certainly what is here
known as a "civilian," that is to say, one of the men in the Indian
Civil Service who govern India. They have to pass stiff examinations at
home, and then come out here for a number of years to do all the work of
government, being magistrates, judges, rulers, and general protectors of
the native, giving up their lives to the country, and dealing out
justice to all men. Some men have not the habit of command, but if it is
in them at all it comes out here, where one white man alone in a
district running to hundreds of miles often has everything in his own
hands; he has to make decisions in an instant of emergency, and stand
by them, compel evildoers to behave, save the miserable low-caste
natives, ground down by those above them, and often to hold his life in
his hand for fear of the knife or bullet of a fanatic.
A little farther up the platform there is a gorgeous group, of which the
central figure is a fine tall man, slenderly built, with a clear proud
face. He is dressed in marvellous silks which shimmer and flash in the
late afternoon sunlight. His upper garment is deep rich rose, and the
lower one a medley of greens and gold. Watch the flashing of that great
jewel which fastens the aigrette in his turban; it is probably worth
anywhere about three thousand pounds. That man is a native prince, and
those very splendid gentlemen in purple and yellow silk are seeing him
off. There are many of these native rulers or maharajahs in India, and
they keep up the state of royalty and are treated with respect. So long
as they rule their people wisely the British Government does not
interfere with them.
[Illustration: A RAJAH.]
Sometimes one thinks of India as one whole country, as England is or
France, but that is not true. It is not, and never was. The state held
by a native prince may be only the size of a gentleman's country
estate, but it may be as large as the United Kingdom. In the old days
the rulers of these kingdoms were for ever fighting against each other,
and though one of them sometimes got the better of his neighbours for a
while, India was never ruled from end to end by one sovereign until it
passed into the possession of Great Britain. The nations and races who
make up this vast land are as different from each other as the races of
Europe; to think of them as being one people would be as foolish as to
imagine that you, say, and an Italian, were one people.
The size of India is a thing almost impossible to conceive. In
old-fashioned atlases the whole of this mighty land was often given one
page to itself, and little England was put on another just the same
size, that is to say, they were drawn on quite different scales, a mile
in England being given about as much space as forty miles in India! The
best way to judge is this--picture India set down on the map of Europe,
and you will find it would cover about half of it!
At the other end of the train, the third-class end, what a contrast to
His Highness! Here a crowd of natives of all kinds have been crammed
into what look like covered-in trucks, and they are squatting on the
floor. There is no hardship in that, they prefer it; to sit on chairs is
an art only acquired by the Europeanised. There are women here as well
as men; look at that handsome creature whose crimson scarf has slipped
off her sheeny black hair, showing the gold ring in her nose and the
huge decorative ear-rings! She is hugging a tiny boy with one blue bead
slung round his neck as a charm, just as it was round the donkey's neck
in Egypt,--people are very much alike all the world over! This little
chap has silver bangles on his podgy ankles but not a rag of any sort of
clothing.
[Illustration: NATIVES AT THE RAILWAY STATION.]
These people are packed so tightly you could hardly get a foot in
between them, but they are very happy, because they love travelling.
Natives have no idea of time, and when they are going to start on a
journey as likely as not they arrive at the station the evening before,
sleep rolled round in their garments where they may happen to be, and
next day eat a handful of something or other they carry with them,
waiting patiently till that marvellous object, the train, condescends to
start. Most of these here are munching sweetmeats; they love them as
children do, and the sweetmeat-seller never lacks trade. There he is,
with a tray on his shoulder! A man with a water-pot stops by the third
classes and pours some of the precious fluid into the cups held out to
him, and even into one man's hands. You notice that he is careful not to
touch either hand or cup. In India there is an extraordinary custom
called caste, deep-rooted in the natives. They are all divided into
higher and lower castes, according to their birth, and those of a higher
caste will not allow those of a lower caste to touch them or prepare
their food and drink, for they fancy they would be defiled! Only the
lowest castes of all will do dirty work, such as scavenging and carrying
away refuse, and you can imagine what difficulties all this leads to.
The Brahman, who is the highest caste, will not touch food which has
been defiled even by having the shadow of another fall on it, he would
throw it away and remain hungry sooner.
As we stroll back to our places we pass various men with marks on their
foreheads; these are caste-marks and to those who understand they tell a
great deal. Standing beside the second classes we see a short-sighted
gentleman in glasses, wearing an alpaca suit; he has with him a lady,
who, like himself, is coffee-coloured. She is wearing a full petticoat
of brocaded silk, and has a very lovely shawl edged with sequins thrown
round her head in place of a hat, but, alas, all this magnificence is
spoilt by the pair of tight and obviously most uncomfortable yellow
leather European shoes, which she has put on to show how fashionable she
is. When she climbs into the carriage she immediately takes them off,
putting them on the seat beside her, and shows a pair of bare brown feet
without shame. The shoes were only meant for show, and she has endured
them to the utmost!
Well, we are off! And as it is dark we can't, unfortunately, see much of
the country, which at first is quite pretty. Presently we cross the sea
by a long bridge and notice the lights reflected sparkling in the water,
and then we begin to climb up into the hills and it quickly grows
colder.
While we go along to the restaurant-car for dinner Ramaswamy takes
advantage of the stoppage of the train to hasten along, settling his
turban as he comes. He must never appear before us without it; we are
supposed to think it a fixture on his round cropped head, and also he
must not come into a room where we are with his shoes on! Odd how
fashion differs! With us men remove the head-covering on entering a
room, but would not dream of being so rude as to take off their shoes!
When we come back after dinner we find our bedding neatly spread out and
looking very inviting. As there is nothing else to do it is not long
before we turn in and fall asleep, lulled by the rumbling of the train.
I am deep in dreamland when I am woke unpleasantly by a draught of icy
air as the door at the end of the compartment is pushed open, and I
realise the train has stopped at a station. The native guard stands in
the doorway apologetically fumbling with the key which he has just used
in undoing the door. "Mem-sahib coming in," says he hopelessly, and a
very disagreeable high-pitched voice makes itself heard behind him.
Pushing rudely past come a man and woman so much alike they must be
brother and sister; they have both coarse features and clumsy squat
figures; they speak English but with a strong Colonial accent of some
kind.
"They can't have it _all_ their own way," says Madam viciously. "I'm
coming in here, and that's flat."
An overloaded coolie follows, and dumps down masses of rolled-up bedding
and trunks into the small space between our bunks and departs.
"This compartment is engaged," I say as politely as I can, conscious
that I don't look dignified in shirt-sleeves, but thankful I have only
taken off my coat and boots.
"Can't help that," snaps the lady.
"Isn't there any other----" I begin patiently.
"I telling the Mem-sahib," begins the guard plaintively, "that there is
one with only----"
"Don't care if there is! Horace, undo that bundle. I'm going to bed at
once," and the newcomer proceeds to remove her coat and hat.
The guard hastily lets down the two upper bunks and disappears as the
train gets under way again.
Appalled at the idea of how much she may think it necessary to remove,
and thankful that you are sleeping peacefully through all the turmoil, I
get up and grope for my shoes.
"If you prefer the lower bunk it is at your service," I say, making the
best of a bad job and gathering up my coverlets. She deigns to snap out
"Thanks!"
"I will go outside until you're ready," I say, retreating to the small
platform between the carriages; there is nothing else for it, as there
isn't room to turn inside. Just as I leave I add to the man, "Don't wake
the boy if you can help it, he has had a hard day."
It is intensely cold outside, and after having smoked two cigarettes I
think I may venture in again as I hear no sounds, so I knock, and
getting no answer enter. By the dim light I make out the form of the
lady in my bunk; but that is surely not the brother in the one opposite?
It _is_! The impudence of it! They have turned you out and made you go
into the upper one. As I climb to my own perch, internally wrathful and
debating whether I shall not poke the man up and make him restore you to
your place, I hear your sleepy voice in a stage whisper--
"He made me come up here." Then deliberately, leaning over and with
mischief in your voice, you add: "I suppose when you are fat like that
it would be very difficult to climb."
I think you got your own back! I saw the fellow squirm!
Bad as they were at night our fellow-travellers are worse in the
daytime. They won't get up until ten o'clock, and we have to stay
outside until they do, as there is nowhere to sit down. Ramaswamy brings
us _chota hazri_, consisting of tea and toast and plantains, and we eat
it outside. The Englishman in the next compartment looks out presently
and invites us in. He laughs when he hears of our adventure. "Brutes!"
he says tersely; "people like that should be hanged at sight. The worst
is you meet them travelling more often than elsewhere; they have come
into some money probably, and are so proud of it they think themselves
little gods."
I think he was right, for when we pull up at the station, where we are
at last to get rid of our tormentors, I happen to remark to you that I
thought some restaurant we had been to in Bombay was rather expensive.
"Did you indeed!" says the lady, taking the remark as if addressed to
herself. "'Grace and I dined there and paid double that, and we did not
think anything of it."
She then immediately turns, and seeing Ramaswamy standing outside
mistakes him for a station-attendant, and orders him to tie up their
bedding. He looks to me for orders. I nod to him to do it, and, hat in
hand, make a sweeping bow--
"Only too glad if my boy can be of any service to you, Madam."
I think I also got my own back!
[Illustration: A BRASS WORKER, DELHI.]