Hindoo Holiday (20 page)

“What is hell?” I asked.

“Hell is fire and blood, flesh, bones, dung, urine, and serpents and dragons that prey upon you,” he announced, discharging each item in this unsavory concoction almost with relish, and beating his knee with his hand. I giggled at this.

“Dear me,” I said.

“And pus!” he added with gusto, his sunken lips blowing out as he spat the word at me. Then he giggled himself, but not very good-humoredly.

“Never mind,” I said. “One doesn't stay there permanently. One is born again, isn't one?”

“Yes,” he said, “as a pig or a donkey; then back into hell; then as a serpent; then as an insect . . .”

It was clear that he was not feeling very well.

“But there is always hope?” I asked encouragingly.

“Yes, after millions and millions of reincarnations one gets back to the shape of a man and has another chance.”

“Does one ever run across one's injured ancestors on the way?”

“Perhaps by chance. But it is not likely. It is only great love that brings people together again. So that two friends may go on together, or a father and son, a brother and sister, if there was great love between them.”

Almost every morning now, and sometimes in the late afternoon, Narayan, the young Guest House clerk, comes in to see me.

“I may come in?” his soft voice inquires from the threshold, and I smile a welcome and indicate the chair opposite. He is a handsome boy, with very gentle eyes, beneath a broad, intelligent forehead. The lower part of his face is less good; his lips are too thick, his black silky mustache rather untidy, and his teeth badly discolored by betel. But he is spotlessly clean and wears his
dhoti
, which is always of the finest muslin, more gracefully than any other Hindoo I have seen, so that it falls almost to the level of his insteps. On his bare feet he wears old-fashioned buckle shoes, which are both becoming and sensible, since they have so frequently to be shuffled off; and on his head a round black hat, like Babaji Rao's, into which he crams his long oily tress of blue-black hair. His carriage is calm and dignified, conscious of the superiority of his caste; his demeanor reserved, thoughtful, and attentive.

I have found him very useful as an interpreter in getting my small wants attended to, or in suppressing the zeal of Habib, the smaller of the two Mohammedan boys, who seems to have elected himself my personal servant; but although Narayan must be aware of my need of him, he does not, like Abdul, take advantage of it, but remains always courteous and deferential.

I do not know why he comes in to me so often; if it is to benefit his English or his mind—Europeans being “so wisdom”—then his courage must fail him, for he seldom speaks a word, but just sits here, very shy and quiet, with his hands idle in his lap and his gaze bent upon the floor.

I have tried to draw him into conversation, but I dare say he is self-conscious about his English and feels it to be inadequate; for although he has no difficulty in understanding and answering my questions, he seems unable to frame one of his own. Yet his knowledge of the language, though not extensive, is serviceable enough; and he speaks it rather prettily, in a light, musical, rather caressing manner. Now I scarcely interrupt my studies for him; he salaams, and we touch hands; I offer him a chair and a cigarette, which he would not take without my permission, and then go on with my work. Every now and then our glances meet and he responds to my smile shyly and then drops his gaze. And here he sits, smoking, or chewing betel, or doing nothing, until some one calls him or he thinks he ought to go.

“Now I will go,” he says gently, making it half a question and half a statement; I nod smiling, and with a salaam he departs.

I have seen many forms of salutation here, the commonest being to move the tips of the fingers of one or both hands to and from the forehead. This is an abbreviation of the full gesture of scattering dust on the head, which some of the servile peasants still perform, laying their foreheads on the earth. There are various modifications of it, and the Prime Minister does no more than place the palm of his right hand flat on his forehead when he meets the Maharajah. But Narayan's salaam is the sweetest; he puts his hands together, in our attitude of prayer, just below his chin, and moves them a little to and fro, and smiles shyly, and the gesture grows full of love.

When he came to see me to-day he offered me his little silver box of betel-leaves before helping himself. I had never tasted one before, and was curious to try, though I did not like the smell of them in other people's mouths; but after chewing it for a few moments I felt obliged to spit it out, it had such a sickly flavor, heavy and acrid. Narayan was very amused, and pointed at me and then at his mouth, laughing on a high light note—a freer, franker sound than Babaji Rao's snigger, Abdul's titter, or His Highness's wheezy chortlings.

I went to the looking-glass to examine my mouth, and was delighted to see that my tongue and teeth were bright red. What a pity, I thought, that Mrs. Bristow is no longer here! How smilingly would I have greeted her! But I was expecting Babaji Rao at any moment, he had arranged to walk with me, so I could try my bright-red smile on him.

I told Narayan of my appointment, and he asked whether he might accompany us. I shook my head, being quite unable to imagine what kind of relation existed between them, for whereas Narayan is of a much higher caste, he is, at the same time, Babaji Rao's subordinate. But Narayan did not appear to foresee any difficulty. He put his hands together before his face, and said in a pleading voice:

“Ah yes. Please.”

“Why do you want to come?” I asked, teasing him.

“I like.”

“But why do you like?”

“I like.”

“Yes, but
why
?”

“Sim-ply.”

“But there must be a reason.”

“No reason. I like.”

“Well,” I said, “I don't think that's good enough. If you'll give me a reason—just one little reason—I'll take you; otherwise not.”

But, although he looked hard at the floor, he seemed unable to find a reason; so, when Babaji Rao arrived, I said to him:

“Narayan wants to come with us, but he won't say why. Shall we take him?”

“Certainly. With pleasure,” said Babaji Rao.

But perhaps I had carried my teasing too far and Narayan believed that he was not wanted, for now that permission had at last been obtained he held back, and I had to take him by the hand and draw him along with us. Just as we were leaving I noticed the remainder of Abdul's sweetmeats on the table and asked Babaji Rao whether they might not be acceptable to his Mohammedan tonga-wallah. He said he thought the boy would be very pleased indeed; so I wrapped them up in a piece of paper and carried them with me.

“Look,” I said to Babaji Rao, since he had not noticed it; “I am becoming an Indian indeed.” And I showed him my red teeth.

“Do not make yourself ill,” was all he said, with a smile.

I questioned him, as we strolled along the Deori road, about the small shrines that were scattered over the countryside, and he said that they commemorated
Suttees
—faithful wives who had burned themselves alive upon their husbands' funeral pyres. This, not so long ago, was quite a common practice among the highest castes; the faithful wife (unless she had young children, for the community naturally did not wish to be burdened with orphans) went voluntarily with her husband even into the fire, and was afterwards deified; and indeed so desirable did such loyalty and devotion seem, that if a widow tried to get out of it, the only possible explanation was that she had
not
been a faithful wife, and she was accordingly ostracized and outcaste. When a king died, not only his wives but his servants and household goods also sometimes went with him into the fire, so that he should not lack in the next world anything to which he had been accustomed in this; and about this gigantic funeral pyre guards armed with spears were set to drive back upon the flames any one who tried to escape. The custom of
Suttee
has been prohibited by the Indian penal code, and now, save in very rare, isolated cases of fanaticism, never takes place; but the beliefs from which it sprang remain unaltered, so that there seems no reason why, when British rule passes, it should not gradually revive. And considering how unenviable the lot of a Hindoo widow is at the present day, especially if she is a child and childless, it could hardly be more unkind to allow her to end her life in this way than to oblige her to preserve it in perpetual asceticism and mourning. Narayan did not contribute to the conversation; he walked quietly beside me, and when we turned into the town and reached Babaji Rao's house he took his leave of us. I asked Babaji Rao what he thought of him, and he said he was a good boy; but he seemed reluctant to go into the question of their relationship. He agreed, however, that Narayan would feel himself superior to lower castes, and therefore, in this respect, superior to his master Babaji Rao, and that whereas he could not, if invited, come and take food in Babaji Rao's house, the latter could and would (though he would not feel very comfortable about it owing to his superiority in
rank
) go and take food in Narayan's house.

We had entered Babaji Rao's house by now, and were sitting in his study on the ground floor—a room sparsely furnished with a desk, a few rickety chairs, some books, and a number of almanacs and photos on the walls—and it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps I had done wrong to bring Abdul's sweetmeats with me into the house.

“Do you mind?” I asked.

“No. Why should I mind?”

“I've touched them.”

“That does not matter; but if it had been cooked meat I would not have taken it.”

When his little son Ram Chandra came into the room, Babaji Rao asked him playfully whether he would eat the sweets, and the child said he wouldn't for they came from the hands of a European. But I blundered later on. While we were talking, a mosquito bit me on the hand and I slapped at it and killed it. Then, looking up, I saw that Babaji Rao's brows were contracted.

“I say! I am sorry!” I exclaimed. “I wasn't thinking.”

“It doesn't matter,” he said, not meeting my eye.

But clearly it did. There may be lives which for one reason or another it might not seem wanton to take—the life of a snake, for instance, of a rat, or of an offensive insect—and Babaji Rao would, I think, agree to this; but he would have to be hard put to it, nevertheless, before he would take even such a life himself, and by this much sensitiveness shrinks from seeing it done by others.

And Habib. He cannot be ignored, excluded from this picture. Looking back, I see that he has already introduced himself at the beginning of a process of obstinate attachment which has ended in his becoming my personal servant. I didn't engage him. I didn't want him. And I don't know whether he just took me over of his own accord, or was detailed to do so, or, being denser than the other dozen or so servants, was left behind by them as a piece of wood is left by an ebbing tide upon the shore, in their languid withdrawal, after the first fuss and excitement of my arrival had subsided, from an unaccustomed life of action to their interrupted slumbers under the
neem
tree. At any rate it is very clear that he now belongs to me. The first occasion on which I remember noticing him as something more than an obstruction of the line of vision was one morning about a month ago. I had just got out of bed and was brushing my hair at the dressing-table when I heard the sound of heavy breathing behind me, and saw in the looking-glass a small, dusky boy of about twelve, with thick brown lips, eyes like wet toffee, and very dirty feet.

He was making the bed. That is to say, that after patting the pillow with a hand which, I was surprised to see, left no stain upon it, he drew up and tucked in the clothes I had just thrown back; then, picking up a clean pair of shoes, he made off with them. But I called him back by the only name which, as far as I then knew, he possessed—Boy!—and taking hold of the mattress by one corner I turned the whole caboodle on to the floor.

It wasn't a very good thing to have done. I knew that, as soon as I perceived, from the blankness of his face, that I should now have to explain, if I could, why I had done it.

And why had I, anyway? What did it matter whether the bed was aired or not, or the mattress turned? No doubt my bed had been made after that fashion ever since I had been here, and I had slept in it without the least discomfort. But so accustomed was I at home to having my bedding turned and aired every morning, that I had come to think that such procedure was an indispensable part of bed-making, whereas in fact it made no difference to me at all. However, some explanation of my mysterious conduct was now clearly necessary, and the best way seemed to be to pick up the clothes and remake the bed myself. When I had finished, it did not look anything like as tidy as before; but I gazed hopefully at Habib. He presented an appearance wholly devoid of intelligence.

“Do you understand?” I asked in Hindi.

His thick lips unstuck a little and then cohered again.

“Oh, never mind!” I said irritably, feeling rather ridiculous; “Go away! Jao!” and I turned back to the dressing-table. But he stood there as though rooted to the spot, looking inquiringly from me to the bed, and I had at last to open the curtains and point his exit before he went, still gazing at me over his shoulder.

After this I began to observe that, among all the servants, he was the one upon whom chiefly I was depending; that what little was done for me was done by him.

Whenever I ran out of cigarettes and drew attention to this, which would otherwise not have been noticed, by placing the Gold Flake tin in the center of the verandah, it was always Habib who, apparently suspecting some connection between the emptiness and the exposure of the object, brought it back to me to elicit, by gesture, the reason for its having been placed where he found it. At the end of a month I gave him two rupees.