_For the Training of Biroo_
"Ah, small villain, budmash! must I send thee back to Nyagong, thee and
thy dog, to learn respect for thy betters? The Thanadar's son hath the
ordering of thee, and thou hast beaten him,--toba, toba!"
"My father," replied Biroo, respectfully, to Ram Deen, "Mohun Lal took
my kite, and when I strove to hold mine own he smote me, whereon I
pulled his hair; and 'twas no fault of mine that it lacked strength and
remained in my hand. So he set his dog on me; but Hasteen slew it.
Wherein have I offended, my father?"
And the Thanadar laughed, saying, "Ram Deen, Mohun Lal but received his
due." To the "defendant in the case" he said, "Get thee to sleep, Biroo;
and be brave and strong; so will Nana Debi reward thee." Then turning
to those who sat round the fire, he went on, "Brothers, 'tis late, and I
would have speech with Ram Deen. Ye may take your leave."
When they were by themselves, the Thanadar spoke. "The man-child waxeth
fierce and strong, my old friend; 'twere well he were restrained. He
will be wealthy by thy favor, and the favor of Nyagong, when he cometh
to man's estate, and 'twere pity that he should lack courtesy when he is
a man grown."
"Thanadar ji, thou art his father as much as I am. Thou shouldst correct
him with strokes whenas I am on the road and carrying the Queen's mail."
"Blows but inure to hardness, and--Gunga knoweth!--little Biroo is hard
already. Why dost thou not give up the service of the Queen, and----" He
paused, and after awhile asked, "What didst thou receive from Captain
Barfield?"
"The gun thou hast seen, Thanadar ji; but from his mem-sahib five
hundred rupees, a timepiece of gold, and whatsoever I may want
hereafter. The money lieth in the hands of Moti Ram, the great mahajun
(banker) of Naini Tal."
"Wah! Ram Deen, thou art thyself rich enough to be a mahajun. Consider,
too, the kindness bestowed by Nyagong on Biroo at thy asking,--two
hundred rupees and over, and much merchandise. Leave the road, my
friend, and put thy money out at usury. A woman in thy hut to cook thy
evening meal, and mend Biroo's ways, were not amiss. Eh? The daughters
of the Terai are very fair, as thou knowest, coach-wan ji."
"The road hath been father and mother to me, Thanadar Sahib, since I
lost my Buldeo, who knew not his mother; so I may not leave it. And when
I think of Bheem Dass, bunnia and usurer of the village whereof I was
potter three years ago, and whom ye found dead on the road the day I
brought in the mail, and was made driver, as thou rememberest, I may not
live by harassing the poor and the widow and fatherless. God forbid! As
for women,--they be like butterflies that flit from flower to flower;
perchance, if I could find a woman who cared not to gossip at the
village well, and had eyes and thoughts for none save her husband, I
might--but I must be about my business on the road, and I have no time
for the seeking of such a woman. Wah! I have not, even as yet, tried the
gun Barfield sahib gave me."
Soon afterwards, by an alteration of the service, Ram Deen brought the
mail to Kaladoongie in the early afternoon, and availed himself of the
opportunity thus afforded of rambling about during the rest of the day
in the jungle with Biroo and Hasteen, in search of small game.
One day they came upon a half-grown fawn, at which Ram Deen let fly with
both barrels; but as his gun was loaded with small shot only, the deer
bounded away apparently unhurt, with Hasteen in hot pursuit, whilst Ram
Deen and Biroo followed with what haste they could.
Presently, they could hear the baying of the great dog and the shrill
cries of a woman in distress. Directed by these sounds, they crossed the
road that leads to Naini Tal, and, scrambling up the bank and over a
low stone wall, they found themselves in a neglected garden, in the
middle of which was a grass hut, whence issued the cries that had
quickened their steps. They arrived just in time, for Hasteen had almost
dug himself into the hut.
Calling off the dog, Ram Deen hastened to allay the fears of the woman
in the hut, who was still giving voice to her distress in the Padhani
patois. "The dog will not harm thee; see, I have tied him with my
waistband to a tree."
"Who art thou?" asked the woman. The tones of her voice, when she spoke,
were exceedingly soft and pleasant, and made one long to look upon the
face of the speaker.
"I am Ram Deen, the driver of the mail-cart, and well known in
Kaladoongie."
"I have heard of thee and thy doings, and will come forth. But the dog
(Nana Debi, was there ever such a dog!--he almost slew my fawn), art
thou sure he cannot harm us?"
"Kali Mai twist my joints, if he be not well secured."
Whereupon the door of the hut was opened a few inches. Having satisfied
herself that all was as Ram Deen had said, the young woman came out of
the hut with one arm about the fawn.
She was a Padhani, and in her early womanhood. The simple kilt she wore
allowed her shapely ankles to be seen, and her bodice well expressed the
charms of her youthful figure. Ram Deen thought her eyes were not less
beautiful than the fawn's.
After salaaming to him, she looked at her pet. "Oh, sahib, she
bleeds,--my Ganda bleeds!" she exclaimed, pointing to a slender streak
of red on the fawn's flank.
"Belike some thorn tore her skin as she fled," said Ram Deen; but he
knew that at least one shot from his gun had taken effect.
"'Tis a sore hurt, Coach-wan sahib. Will she die?"
"Nay, little one, 'tis nought. See!" and with a wisp of grass Ram Deen
wiped the blood from the fawn's skin.
"But the dog, coach-wan,--thou wilt not permit him to fright my Ganda
again?"
"Of a surety, not." Then, with a hand on the fawn's head, he rebuked
Hasteen, saying, "Villain, the jackals shall pursue thee if thou huntest
here again!" And Hasteen hung his head, putting his tail between his
legs; and the young girl knew that Ganda was safe thereafter from the
great dog.
As they talked together, a very decrepit old man appeared at the door of
the hut; after peering at Ram Deen from under his hand, he spoke in the
flat, toneless voice of a deaf man: "Tumbaku, Provider of the Poor, give
me tumbaku."
Ram Deen put his pouch of dried tobacco-leaf in the old man's hand, and
looked inquiringly at the young woman.
"It is my grandfather, and he is deaf and nearly blind,--and a sore
affliction. Give back his tumbaku to the sahib, da-da," she said in a
louder voice to the old man.
"Nay, nay, let him keep it!" said Ram Deen; then after a pause, and by
way of excuse for staying a little longer, he inquired the old man's
name.
"Hera Lal, Coach-wan sahib; our kinsman is Thapa Sing, of Serya Tal, who
was accounted rich, and planted this garden and these fruit trees many
years ago. We stay here by his leave in the winter time, to keep the
deer and wild hog out. My name is Tara, and I sell firewood to Gunga Ram
the sweetmeat vender."
Whilst she was speaking, Biroo had approached the fawn with a handful of
grass.
"Is this the little one they say ye found on the Bore bridge, sahib?"
inquired the young Padhani.
Ram Deen nodded affirmatively.
"Poor child!" she exclaimed, and, moved by a sudden impulse of pity, she
knelt beside Biroo, and smoothing the hair from his face she put a
marigold behind his ear.
Next day, after he had delivered the mail, Ram Deen, making a bundle of
his best clothes, started off into the jungle. When he was out of sight
of the village, he donned a snowy tunic and a scarlet turban, and
encased his feet in a pair of red, hide-sewn shoes. When Tara, on her
way to the bazaar with a load of firewood, met him soon after, she
thought she had never seen any one so bravely attired, and stepped off
the path to make room for him to pass.
"Toba, toba!" he exclaimed; "it maketh my head ache to see the load thou
bearest. Gunga Ram will, doubtless, give thee not less than eight annas
for the firewood."
"Nay, Coach-wan sahib, Gunga Ram is just, and besides giving me the
market price,--two annas,--he often bestoweth on me a handful of
sweetmeats."
"Thou shalt sell no more wood to Gunga Ram. He is base, and his father
is a dog. Set thy load at my door; here is the price thereof," and Ram
Deen laid an eight-anna piece in her palm. Before she could recover from
her astonishment he said, "The fawn Ganda, is her hurt healed?"
"It is well with her. And what of Biroo, sahib?"
"He is a budmash, Tara, and I repent me of befriending him."
"Nay, Coach-wan sahib, he is but little, and hath no mother."
"That is the evil of it," said Ram Deen, leaving her abruptly.
When Tara returned to her home that evening, she noticed the footprints
of a man's shoes in the dust in front of the hut; her grandfather,
looking at her cunningly, smoked sweetened tobacco that was well
flavored, and the clay bowl of his hookah was new and was gayly painted.
A similar scene was enacted on the jungle path the next day, and many
days in succession, and the tale of Biroo's iniquities grew at each
recital. Every day there was some fresh villainy of his to relate, and
each day Tara's grandfather waxed in affluence, which culminated one day
in a new blanket and a small purse with money in it.
"Tara," said Ram Deen one day, "put down thy load; I have bad tidings to
tell thee concerning Biroo. He and Hasteen killed a milch-goat to-day
belonging to the Thanadar."
"'Twas the dog's doing, Ram Deen."
"Nay, Biroo is the older budmash, and planneth all the villainies.
To-morrow I must pay the Thanadar three rupees and eight annas, or
Hasteen will be slain and Biroo beaten with a shoe by the Thanadar's
chuprassi."
"Biroo shall not be beaten for a matter of three or four rupees, sahib.
Lo, here is the money," and Tara, taking a small purse from a tiny
pocket in her bodice, held it out to him.
"Nay, listen further!" exclaimed Ram Deen, holding up his hands; "thou
knowest I am wifeless, and I might have the best and fairest woman in
the Terai for my wife; but she liketh not Biroo, and will not share my
hut because of him. Verily, I shall return him to the men of Nyagong."
"Thou art, doubtless, entitled to the best and the fairest wife in the
Terai," said Tara, with a sudden catch in her voice; "but Biroo goeth
not back to Nyagong as long as our hut standeth and as long as Gunga
Ram, who is a just man and a generous, will pay me two annas each day
for wood." She turned away her face, so that Ram Deen should not see
the tears that suddenly filled her eyes.
"'Tis well, Tara; thou shalt have him, but thou must beat him every day,
and often, to make an upright man of him."
"Nana Debi wither the hand that striketh him! He is not a dog to be
taught with stripes." Then, after a pause, she went on, "And the--the
woman who is to be the best and fairest wife in the Terai,--what manner
of woman is she?"
"She is about thine age."
"Yes?"
"And as tall as thou art."
"Proceed."
"Her voice is soft and sweet as a blackbird's, and her eyes are like a
fawn's. Her name is----"
"Well, what is her name?"
"'Tis the most beautiful name that a woman can bear. Nay, how can I tell
thee her name if thou wilt not look at me?"
When she had turned her eyes on him, he put his hands on her shoulders,
saying, "Her name is Tara, star of the Terai."
And Tara put her head on his breast, and was very happy.
"Thou must beat Biroo, Beloved, or he will be hanged."
"Thou wouldst have been hanged, budmash, hadst thou been motherless and
beaten by strangers. Biroo's mother will make him a better man than thou
art, O Beater of Babes."
"And thou takest me for love?"
"Nay, coach-wan ji, but for the training of Biroo."