Indigo seed growing.--Seed buying and buyers.--Tricks of sellers.
--Tests for good seed.--The threshing-floor.--Seed cleaning and
packing.--Staff of servants.--Despatching the bags by boat.--The
'Pooneah' or rent day.--Purneah planters--their hospitality.--The
rent day a great festival.--Preparation.--Collection of rents.--Feast
to retainers.--The reception in the evening.--Tribute.--Old customs.
--Improvisatores and bards.--Nautches.--Dancing and music.--The dance
of the Dangurs.--Jugglers and itinerary showmen.--'Bara Roopes,' or
actors and mimics.--Their different styles of acting.
Besides indigo planting proper, there is another large branch of
industry in North Bhaugulpore, and along the Nepaul frontier there,
and in Purneah, which is the growing of indigo seed for the Bengal
planters. The system of advances and the mode of cultivation is much
the same as that followed in indigo planting proper. The seed is sown
in June or July, is weeded and tended all through the rains, and cut
in December. The planters advance about four rupees a beegah to the
ryot, who cuts his seed-plant, and brings it into the factory
threshing ground, where it is beaten out, cleaned, weighed, and packed
in bags. When the seed has been threshed out and cleaned, it is
weighed, and the ryot or cultivator gets four rupees for every
maund--a maund being eighty pounds avoirdupois. The previous advance
is deducted. The rent or loan account is adjusted, and the balance
made over in cash.
Others grow the seed on their own account, without taking advances,
and bring it to the factory for sale. If prices are ruling high, they
may get much more than four rupees per maund for it, and they adopt
all kinds of ingenious devices to adulterate the seed, and increase
its weight. They mix dust with it, seeds of weeds, even grains of
wheat, and mustard, pea, and other seeds. In buying seed, therefore,
one has to be very careful, to reject all that looks bad, or that may
have been adulterated. They will even get old useless seed, the refuse
stock of former years, and mixing this with leaves of the neem tree
and some turmeric powder, give it a gloss that makes it look like
fresh seed.
When you suspect that the seed has been tampered with in this manner,
you wet some of it, and rub it on a piece of fresh clean linen, so as
to bring off the dye. Where the attempt has been flagrant, you are
sometimes tempted to take the law into your own hands, and administer
a little of the castigation which the cheating rascal so richly
deserves. In other cases it is necessary to submit the seed to a
microscopic examination. If any old, worn seeds are detected, you
reject the sample unhesitatingly. Even when the seed appears quite
good, you subject it to yet another test. Take one or two hundred
seeds, and putting them on a damp piece of the pith of a plantain
tree, mixed with a little earth, set them in a warm place, and in two
days you will be able to tell what percentage has germinated, and what
is incapable of germination. If the percentage is good, the seed may
be considered as fairly up to the sample, and it is purchased. There
are native seed buyers, who try to get as much into their hands as
they can, and rig the market. There are also European buyers, and
there is a keen rivalry in all the bazaars.
The threshing-floor, and seed-cleaning ground presents a busy sight
when several thousand maunds of seed are being got ready for despatch
by boats. The dirty seed, full of dust and other impurities, is heaped
up in one corner. The floor is in the shape of a large square, nicely
paved with cement, as hard and clean as marble. Crowds of nearly nude
coolies, hurry to and fro with scoops of seed resting on their
shoulders. When they get in line, at right angles to the direction in
which the wind is blowing, they move slowly along, letting the seed
descend on the heap below, while the wind winnows it, and carries the
dust in dense clouds to leeward. This is repeated over and over again,
till the seed is as clean as it can be made. It is put through bamboo
sieves, so formed that any seed larger than indigo cannot pass
through. What remains in the sieve is put aside, and afterwards
cleaned, sorted, and sold as food, or if useless, thrown away or given
to the fowls. The men and boys dart backwards and forwards, there is a
steady drip, drip, of seed from the scoops, dense clouds of dust, and
incessant noise and bustle. Peons or watchmen are stationed all around
to see that none is wasted or stolen. Some are filling sacks full of
the cleaned seed, and hauling them off to the weighman and his clerk.
Two maunds are put in every sack, and when weighed the bags are hauled
up close to the _godown_ or store-room. Here are an army of men with
sailmaker's needles and twine. They sew up the bags, which are then
hauled away to be marked with the factory brand. Carts are coming and
going, carrying bags to the boats, which are lying at the river bank
taking in their cargo, and the returning carts bring back loads of
wood from the banks of the river. In one corner, under a shed, sits
the sahib chaffering with a party of _paikars_ (seed merchants), who
have brought seed for sale.
Of course he decries the seed, says it is bad, will not hear of the
price wanted, and laughs to scorn all the fervent protestations that
the seed was grown on their own ground, and has never passed through
any hands but their own. If you are satisfied that the seed is good,
you secretly name your price to your head man, who forthwith takes up
the work of depreciation. You move off to some other department of the
work. The head man and the merchants sit down, perhaps smoke a
_hookah_, each trying to outwit the other, but after a keen encounter
of wits perhaps a bargain is made. A pretty fair price is arrived at,
and away goes the purchased seed, to swell the heap at the other end
of the yard. It has to be carefully weighed first, and the weighman
gets a little from the vendor as his perquisite, which the factory
takes from him at the market rate.
You have buyers of your own out in the _dehaat_ (district), and the
parcels they have bought come in hour by hour, with invoices detailing
all particulars of quantity, quality, and price. The loads from the
seed depots and outworks, come rolling up in the afternoon, and have
all to be weighed, checked, noted down, and examined. Every man's hand
is against you. You cannot trust your own servants. For a paltry bribe
they will try to pass a bad parcel of seed, and even when you have
your European assistants to help you, it is hard work to avoid being
over-reached in some shape or other.
You have to keep up a large staff of writers, who make out invoices
and accounts, and keep the books. Your correspondence alone is enough
work for one man, and you have to tally bags, count coolies, see them
paid their daily wage, attend to lawsuits that may be going on, and
yet find time to superintend the operations of the farm, and keep an
eye to your rents and revenues from the villages. It is a busy, an
anxious time. You have a vast responsibility on your shoulders, and
when one takes into consideration the climate you have to contend
with, the home comforts and domestic joys you have to do without, the
constant tension of mind and irritation of body from dust, heat,
insects, lies, bribery, robbers, and villany of every description,
that meets you on all hands, it must be allowed that a planter at such
a time has no easy life.
The time at which you despatch the seed is also the very time when you
are preparing your land for spring sowings. This requires almost as
much surveillance as the seed-buying and despatching. You have not a
moment you can call your own. If you had subordinates you could trust,
who would be faithful and honest, you could safely leave part of the
work to them, but from very sad experience I have found that trusting
to a native is trusting to a very rotten stick. They are certainly not
all bad, but there are just enough exceptions to prove the rule.
One peculiar custom prevailed in this border district of North
Bhaugulpore, which I have not observed elsewhere. At the beginning of
the financial year, when the accounts of the past season had all been
made up and arranged, and the collection of the rents for the new year
was beginning, the planters and Zemindars held what was called the
_Pooneah_. It is customary for all cultivators and tenants to pay a
proportion of their rent in advance. The Pooneah might therefore be
called 'rent-day.' A similar day is set apart for the same purpose in
Tirhoot, called _tousee_ or collections, but it is not attended by the
same ceremonious observances, and quaint customs, as attach to the
Pooneah on the border land.
When every man's account has been made up and checked by the books,
the Pooneah day is fixed on. Invitations are sent to all your
neighbouring friends, who look forward to each other's annual Pooneah
as a great gala day. In North Bhaugulpore and Purneah, nearly all the
planters and English-speaking population belong to old families who
have been born in the district, and have settled and lived there long
before the days of quick communication with home. Their rule among
their dependants is patriarchal. Everyone is known among the natives,
who have seen him since his birth living amongst them, by some pet
name. The old men of the villages remember his father and his father's
father, the younger villagers have had him pointed out to them on
their visits to the factory as 'Willie Baba,' 'Freddy Baba,' or
whatever his boyish name may have been, with the addition of 'Baba,'
which is simply a pet name for a child. These planters know every
village for miles and miles. They know most of the leading men in each
village by name. The villagers know all about them, discuss their
affairs with the utmost freedom, and not a single thing, ever so
trivial, happens in the planter's home but it is known and commented
on in all the villages that lie within the _ilaka_ (jurisdiction) of
the factory.
The hospitality of these planters is unbounded. They are most of them
much liked by all the natives round. I came a 'stranger amongst them,'
and in one sense, and not a flattering sense, they tried 'to take me
in,' but only in one or two instances, which I shall not specify here.
By nearly all I was welcomed and kindly treated, and I formed some
very lasting friendships among them. Old traditions of princely
hospitality still linger among them. They were clannish in the best
sense of the word. The kindness and attention given to aged or
indigent relations was one of their best traits. I am afraid the race
is fast dying out. Lavish expenditure, and a too confiding faith in
their native dependants has often brought the usual result. But many
of my readers will associate with the name of Purneah or Bhaugulpore
planter, recollections of hospitality and unostentatious kindness, and
memories of glorious sport and warm-hearted friendships.
On the Pooneah day then, or the night before, many of these friends
would meet. The day has long been known to all the villages round, and
nothing could better shew the patriarchal semi-feudal style in which
they ruled over their villages than the customs in connection with
this anniversary. Some days before it, requisitions have been made on
all the villages in any way connected with the factory, for various
articles of diet. The herdsmen have to send a tribute of milk, curds,
and _ghee_ or clarified butter. Cultivators of root crops or fruit
send in samples of their produce, in the shape of huge bundle of
plantains, immense jack-fruits, or baskets of sweet potatoes, yams,
and other vegetables. The _koomhar_ or potter has to send in earthen
pots and jars. The _mochee_ or worker in leather, brings with him a
sample of his work in the shape of a pair of shoes. These are pounced
on by your servants and _omlah_, the omlah being the head men in the
office. It is a fine time for them. Wooden shoes, umbrellas, brass
pots, fowls, goats, fruits, in fact all the productions of your
country side are sent or brought in. It is the old feudal tribute of
the middle ages back again. During the day the _cutcherry_ or office
is crowded with the more respectable villagers, paying in rents and
settling accounts. The noise and bustle are great, but an immense
quantity of work is got through.
The village putwarries and head men are all there with their
voluminous accounts. Your rent-collector, called a _tehseeldar_, has
been busy in the villages with the tenants and putwarries, collecting
rent for the great Pooneah day. There is a constant chink of money, a
busy hum, a scratching of innumerable pens. Under every tree, 'neath
the shade of every hut, busy groups are squatted round some acute
accountant. Totals are being totted up on all hands. From greasy
recesses in the waistband a dirty bundle is slowly pulled forth, and
the desired sum reluctantly counted out.
From early morn till dewy eve this work goes on, and you judge your
Pooneah to have been a good or bad one by the amount you are able to
collect. Peons, with their brass badges flashing in the sun, and their
red puggrees shewing off their bronzed faces and black whiskers, are
despatched in all directions for defaulters. There is a constant going
to and fro, a hurrying and bustling in the crowd, a hum as of a
distant fair pervading the place, and by evening the total of the
day's collections is added up, and while the sahib and his friends
take their sherry and bitters, the omlah and servants retire to wash
and feast, and prepare for the night's festivities.
During the day, at the houses of the omlah, culinary preparations on a
vast scale have been going on. The large supplies of grain, rice,
flour, fruit, vegetables, &c., which were brought in as _salamee_ or
tribute, supplemented by additions from the sahib's own stores, have
been made into savoury messes. Curries, and cakes, boiled flesh, and
roast kid, are all ready, and the crowd, having divested themselves of
their head-dress and outer garments, and cleaned their hands and feet
by copious ablutions, sit down in a wide circle. The large leaves of
the water-lily are now served out to each man, and perform the office
of plates. Huge baskets of _chupatties_, a flat sort of
'griddle-cake,' are now brought round, and each man gets four or five
doled out. The cooking and attendance is all done by Brahmins. No
inferior caste would answer, as Rajpoots and other high castes will
only eat food that has been cooked by a Brahmin or one of their own
class. The Brahmin attendants now come round with great _dekchees_ or
cooking-pots, full of curried vegetables, boiled rice, and similar
dishes. A ladle-full is handed out to each man, who receives it on his
leaf. The rice is served out by the hands of the attendants. The
guests manipulate a huge ball of rice and curry mixed between the
fingers of the right hand, pass this solemnly into their widely-gaping
mouths, with the head thrown back to receive the mess, like an
adjutant-bird swallowing a frog, and then they masticate with much
apparent enjoyment. Sugar, treacle, curds, milk, oil, butter,
preserves, and chutnees are served out to the more wealthy and
respectable. The amount they can consume is wonderful. Seeing the
enormous supplies, you would think that even this great crowd could
never get through them, but by the time repletion has set in, there is
little or nothing left, and many of the inflated and distended old
farmers could begin again and repeat 'another of the same' with ease.
Each person has his own _lotah_, a brass drinking vessel, and when all
have eaten they again wash their hands, rinse out their mouths, and
don their gayest apparel.
The gentlemen in the bungalow now get word that the evening's
festivities are about to commence. Lighting our cigars, we sally out
to the _shamiana_ which has been erected on the ridge, surrounding the
deep tank which supplies the factory during the manufacturing season
with water. The _shamiana_ is a large canopy or wall-less tent. It is
festooned with flowers and green plantain trees, and evergreens have
been planted all round it. Flaring flambeaux, torches, Chinese
lanterns, and oil lamps flicker and glare, and make the interior
almost as bright as day. When we arrive we find our chairs drawn up in
state, one raised seat in the centre being the place of honour, and
reserved for the manager of the factory.
When we are seated, the _malee_ or gardener advances with a wooden
tray filled with sand, in which are stuck heads of all the finest
flowers the garden can afford, placed in the most symmetrical
patterns, and really a pretty tasteful piece of workmanship. Two or
three old Brahmins, principal among whom is 'Hureehar Jha,' a wicked
old scoundrel, now advance, bearing gay garlands of flowers, muttering
a strange gibberish in Sanskrit, supposed to be a blessing, but which
might be a curse for all we understood of it, and decking our wrists
and necks with these strings of flowers. For this service they get a
small gratuity. The factory omlah headed by the dignified, portly
_gornasta_ or confidential adviser, dressed in snowy turbans and
spotless white, now come forward. A large brass tray stands on the
table in front of you. They each present a _salamee_ or _nuzzur_, that
is, a tribute or present, which you touch, and it is then deposited
with a rattling jingle on the brass plate. The head men of villages,
putwarries, and wealthy tenants, give two, three, and sometimes even
four rupees. Every tenant of respectability thinks it incumbent on him
to give something. Every man as he comes up makes a low salaam,
deposits his _salamee_, his name is written down, and he retires. The
putwarries present two rupees each, shouting out their names, and the
names of their villages. Afterwards a small assessment is levied on
the villagers, of a 'pice' or two 'pice' each, about a halfpenny of
our money, and which recoups the putwarree for his outlay.
This has nothing to do with the legitimate revenue of the factory. It
never appears in the books. It is quite a voluntary offering, and I
have never seen it in any other district. In the meantime the
_Raj-bhats_, a wandering class of hereditary minstrels or bards, are
singing your praises and those of your ancestors in ear-splitting
strains. Some of them have really good voices, all possess the gift of
improvisation, and are quick to seize on the salient points of the
scene before them, and weave them into their song, sometimes in a very
ingenious and humorous manner. They are often employed by rich
natives, to while away a long night with one of their, treasured
rhythmical tales or songs. One or two are kept in the retinue of every
Rajah or noble, and they possess a mine of legendary information,
which would be invaluable to the collector of folk-lore and
antiquarian literature.
At some of the Pooneahs the evening's gaiety winds up with a _nautch_
or dance, by dancing girls or boys. I always thought this a most
sleep-inspiring exhibition. It has been so often described that I need
not trouble my readers with it. The women are gaily dressed in
brocades and gauzy textures, and glitter with spangles and tawdry
ornaments. The musical accompaniment of clanging zither, asthmatic
fiddle, timber-toned drum, clanging cymbal, and harsh metallic
triangle, is a sore affliction, and when the dusky prima donna throws
back her head, extends her chest, gets up to her high note, with her
hand behind her ear, and her poura-stained mouth and teeth wide
expanded like the jaws of a fangless wolf, and the demoniac
instruments and performers redouble their din, the noise is something
too dreadful to experience often. The native women sit mute and
hushed, seeming to like it. I have heard it said that the Germans eat
ants. Finlanders relish penny candles. The Nepaulese gourmandise on
putrid fish. I am fond of mouldy cheese, and organ-grinders are an
object of affection with some of our home community. I _know_ that the
general run of natives delight in a nautch. Tastes differ, but to me
it is an inexplicable phenomenon.
Amid all this noise we sit till we are wearied. Parin-leaves and betel
nut are handed round by the servants. There is a very sudorific odour
from the crowd. All are comfortably seated on the ground. The torches
flare, and send up volumes of smoke to the ornamented roof of the
canopy. The lights are reflected in the deep glassy bosom of the
silent tank. The combined sounds and odours get oppressive, and we are
glad to get back to the bungalow, to consume our 'peg' and our 'weed'
in the congenial company of our friends.
In some factories the night closes with a grand dance by all the
inhabitants of the _dangur tola_. The men and women range themselves
in two semicircles, standing opposite each other. The tallest of both
lines at the one end, diminishing away at the other extremity to the
children and little ones who can scarcely toddle. They have a wild,
plaintive song, with swelling cadences and abrupt stops. They go
through an extraordinary variety of evolutions, stamping with one foot
and keeping perfect time. They sway their bodies, revolve, march, and
countermarch, the men sometimes opening their ranks, and the women
going through, and _vice versa_. They turn round like the winding
convolutions of a shell, increase their pace as the song waxes quick
and shrill, get excited, and finish off with a resounding stamp of the
foot, and a guttural cry which seems to exhaust all the breath left in
their bodies. The men then get some liquor, and the women a small
money present. If the sahib is very liberal he gives them a pig on
which to feast, and the _dangurs_ go away very happy and contented.
Their dance is not unlike the _corroborry_ of the Australian
aborigines. The two races are not unlike each other too in feature,
although I cannot think that they are in any way connected.
Next morning there is a jackal hunt, or cricket, or pony races, or
shooting matches, or sport of some kind, while the rent collection
still goes on. In the afternoon we have grand wrestling matches
amongst the natives for small prizes, and generally witness some fine
exhibitions of athletic skill and endurance.
Some wandering juggler may have been attracted by the rumour of the
gathering. A tight-rope dancer, a snake charmer, an itinerant showman
with a performing goat, monkey, or dancing bear, may make his
appearance before the admiring crowd.
At times a party of mimes or actors come round, and a rare treat is
not seldom afforded by the _bara roopees_. _Bara_ means twelve, and
_roop_ is an impersonation, a character. These 'twelve characters'
make up in all sorts of disguises. Their wardrobe is very limited, yet
the number of people they personate, and their genuine acting talent
would astonish you. With a projecting tooth and a few streaks of clay,
they make up a withered, trembling old hag, afflicted with palsy,
rheumatism, and a hacking cough. They make friends with your bearer,
and an old hat and coat transforms them into a planter, a missionary,
or an officer. They whiten their faces, using false hair and
moustache, and while you are chatting with your neighbour, a strange
sahib suddenly and mysteriously seats himself by your side. You stare,
and look at your host, who is generally in the secret, but a stranger,
or new comer, is often completely taken in. It is generally at night
that they go through their personations, and when they have dressed
for their part, they generally choose a moment when your attention is
attracted by a cunning diversion. On looking up you are astounded to
find some utter stranger standing behind your chair, or stalking
solemnly round the room.
They personate a woman, a white lady, a sepoy policeman, almost any
character. Some are especially good at mimicking the Bengalee Baboo,
or the merchant from Cabool or Afghanistan with his fruits and cloths.
A favourite _roop_ with them is to paint one half of the face like a
man. Everything is complete down to moustache, the folds of the
puggree, the _lathee_ or staff, indeed to the slightest detail. You
would fancy you saw a stalwart, strapping Hindoo before you. He turns
round, and lo, a bashful maiden. Her eyes are stained with _henna_
(myrtle juice) or antimony. Her long-hair neatly smoothed down is tied
into a knot at the back, and glistens with the pearl-like ornaments.
The taper arm is loaded with armlets and bracelets. The very toes are
bedecked with rings. The bodice hides the taper waist and budding
bosom, the tiny ear is loaded with jewelled ear-rings, the very nose
is not forgotten, but is ornamented with a golden circle, bearing on
its circumference a pearl of great price. The art, the posturing, the
mimicry, is really admirable. A good _bara roopee_ is well worth
seeing, and amply earns the two or three rupees he gets as his reward.
The Pooneah seldom lasts more than the two days, but it is quite
unique in its feudal character, and is one of the old-fashioned
observances; a relic of the time when the planter was really looked
upon as the father of his people, and when a little sentiment and
mutual affection mingled with the purely business relations of
landlord and tenant.
I delighted my ryots by importing some of our own country recreations,
and setting the ploughmen to compete against each other. I stuck a
greasy bamboo firmly into the earth, putting a bag of copper coins at
the top. Many tried to climb it, but when they came to the grease they
came down 'by the run.' One fellow however filled his _kummerbund_
with sand, and after much exertion managed to secure the prize.
Wheeling the barrow blindfold also gave much amusement, and we made
some boys bend their foreheads down to a stick and run round till they
were giddy. Their ludicrous efforts then to jump over some water-pots,
and run to a thorny bush, raised tumultuous peals of laughter. The
poor boys generally smashed the pots, and ended by tumbling into the
thorns.