BY-WAYS OF BOMBAY.
BY
S. M. EDWARDES, C.V.O.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
The various chapters of this book originally appeared under the
_nom-de-plume_ of "Etonensis" in the _Times of India_, to the
proprietors of which journal I am indebted for permission to publish them
in book-form, They cannot claim to be considered critical studies, but are
merely a brief record of persons whom I have met and of things that I have
seen during several years' service as a Government official in Bombay. In
placing them before the public in their present form, I can only hope
that they will be found of brief interest by those unacquainted with the
inner life of the City of Bombay.
HEAD POLICE OFFICE,
BOMBAY, _June 1912_.
S. M. E.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
The first edition of "By-ways of Bombay" having been sold out within a
month, Messrs Taraporevala Sons and Co. have interested themselves in
publishing the present edition which includes several illustrations by Mr.
M. V. Dhurandhar and an additional article on the Tilak Riots which
appeared in the _Bombay Gazette_ in August, 1908. My acknowledgments
are due to the Editor for permission to republish this article.
HEAD POLICE OFFICE,
BOMBAY. _November, 1912_.
S. M. EDWARDES.
CONTENTS
I. The Spirit of Chandrabai
II. Bombay Scenes
III. Shadows of Night
IV. The Birthplace of Shivaji
V. The Story of Imtiazan
VI. The Bombay Mohurrum
VII. The Possession of Afiza
VIII. A Kasumba Den
IX. The Ganesh Caves
X. A Bhandari Mystery
XI. Scenes in Bombay
XII. Citizens of Bombay
XIII. The Sidis of Bombay
XIV. A Konkan Legend
XV. Nur Jan
XVI. Governor and Koli
XVII. The Tribe Errant
XVIII. The Pandu-Lena Caves
XIX. Fateh Muhammad
XX. The Tilak Riots
ILLUSTRATIONS.
1. Spirit of Chandrabai
2. A Mill-hand
3. A Marwari selling Batasa
4. The seller of "Malpurwa Jaleibi"
5. A Koli woman
6. The "Pan" Seller
7. An Opium Club
8. A "Madak-khana"
9. Imtiazan
10. The Possession of Afiza
11. A Bhandari Mystery
12. An Arab
13. A Bombay Memon
14. Sidis of Bombay
15. The Parshurama and the Chitpavans
16. Nur Jan
17. A Koli
18. A Deccani Fruit-seller
19. The Coffee-seller
20. Fateh Muhammad
[Illustration: The Spirit of Chandrabai]
I.
THE SPIRIT OF CHANDRABAI.
A STUDY IN PROTECTIVE MAGIC.
Fear reigned in the house of Vishnu the fisherman: for, but a week before,
his wife Chandra had died in giving birth to a child who survived his
mother but a few hours, and during those seven days all the elders and the
wise women of the community came one after another unto Vishnu and,
impressing upon him the malignant influence of such untimely deaths, bade
him for the sake of himself and his family do all in his power to lay the
spirit of his dead wife. So on a certain night early in December Vishnu
called all his caste-brethren into the room where Chandra had died, having
first arranged there a brass salver containing a ball of flour loosely
encased in thread, a miniature cot with the legs fashioned out of the
berries of the "bhendi," and several small silver rings and bangles, a
coral necklace and a quaint silver chain, which were destined to be hung in
due season upon the wooden peg symbolical of his dead wife's spirit in the
"devaghar," or gods' room, of his house. And he called thither also Rama
the "Gondhali," master of occult ceremonies, Vishram, his disciple, and
Krishna the "Bhagat" or medium, who is beloved of the ghosts of the
departed and often bears their messages unto the living.
When all are assembled, the women of the community raise the brass salver
and head a procession to the seashore, none being left in the dead woman's
room save Krishna the medium who sits motionless in the centre thereof; and
on the dry shingle the women place the salver and two brass "lotas" filled
with milk and water, while the company ranges itself in a semi-circle
around Rama the Gondhali, squatting directly in front of the platter. For a
moment he sits wrapped in thought, and then commences a weird chant of
invocation to the spirit of the dead woman, during which her relations in
turn drop a copper coin into the salver. "Chandrabai," he wails "take this
thy husband's gift of sorrow;" and as the company echoes his lament, Vishnu
rises and drops his coin into the plate. Then her four brothers drop a coin
apiece; her sister-in-law, whispering "It is for food" does likewise; also
her mother with the words "choli patal" or "Tis a robe and bodice for
thee"; - and so on until all the relatives have cast down their
offerings, - one promising a fair couch, another an umbrella, a third a
pair of shoes, and little Moti, the dead woman's eldest child, "a pair of
bangles for my mother," until in truth all the small luxuries that the
dead woman may require in the life beyond have been granted. Meanwhile
the strange invocation proceeds. All the dead ancestors of the family, who
are represented by the quaint ghost-pegs in the gods' room of Vishnu's
home, are solemnly addressed and besought to receive the dead woman in
kindly fashion; and as each copper coin tinkles in the salver, Rama cries,
"Receive this, Chandrabai, and hie thee to thy last resting-place."
When the last offering has been made, the women again raise the salver and
the party fares back to Vishnu's house, where a rude shrine of Satvai (the
Sixth Mother) has been prepared. "For," whispers our guide, "Chandrabai
died without worshipping Satvai and her spirit must perforce fulfil those
rites." Close to the shrine sits a midwife keeping guard over a new gauze
cloth, a sari and a bodice, purchased for the spirit of Chandrabai; and on
a plate close at hand are vermilion for her brow, antimony for her eyes, a
nose-ring, a comb, bangles and sweetmeats, such as she liked during her
life-time. When the shrine is reached, one of the brothers steps forward
with a winnowing-fan, the edge of which is plastered with ghi and supports
a lighted wick; and as he steps up to the shrine, the relations and friends
of the deceased again press forward and place offerings of fruit and
flowers in the fan. There he stands, holding the gifts towards the
amorphous simulacrum of the primeval Mother, while Rama the hierophant
beseeches her to send the spirit of the dead Chandrabai into the
winnowing-fan.
And lo! on a sudden the ghostly flame on the lip of the fan dies out! The
spirit of Chandrabai has come! Straightway Rama seizes the fan and followed
by the rest dashes into the room where Krishna the medium is still sitting.
Four or five men commence a wild refrain to the accompaniment of brazen
cymbals, and Rama passes the winnowing-fan, containing the dead woman's
spirit, over the head of the medium. "Let the spirit appear" shrieks Rama
amid the clashing of the cymbals.
"Let the spirit appear" he cries, as he blows a cloud of incense into
Krishna's face. The medium quivers like an aspen leaf; the dead woman's
brothers crawl forward and lay their foreheads upon his feet; he shakes
more violently as the spirit takes firmer hold upon him; and then with a
wild shriek he rolls upon the ground and lies, rent with paroxysms, his
face stretched upwards to the winnowing-fan. Louder and louder crash the
cymbals; louder rises the chant. "Who art thou?" cries Rama. "I am
Chandrabai," comes the answer. "Hast thou any wish unfulfilled?" asks the
midwife. "Nay, all my wishes have been met," cries the spirit through the
lips of the medium, "I am in very truth Chandrabai, who was, but am not
now, of this world." As the last words die away the men dash forward, twist
Krishna's hair into a knot behind, dress him, as he struggles, in the
female attire which the midwife has been guarding, and place in his hand a
wooden slab rudely carved into the semblance of a woman and child. "Away,
away to the underworld" chant the singers; and at the command Krishna
wrenches himself free from the men who are holding him and dashes out with
a yell into the night.
Straight as an arrow he heads for the seashore, his hands clutching the air
convulsively, his 'sari' streaming in the night-breeze; and behind, like
hounds on the trail of the deer, come Rama, the brethren, the sisters, and
rest of the community. Over the shingle they stream and down on to the hard
wet sand. Some one digs a hole; another produces a black cock; and Rama
with a knife cuts its throat over the hole, imploring the spirit's
departure, at the very moment that Krishna with a final shriek plunges into
the sea. They follow him, carry him out of danger, and lay him, stark and
speechless, upon the margin of the waves.
Thence, after a pause and a final prayer, they bear him homeward, as men
bear a corpse, nor leave him until he has regained consciousness and his
very self. For with that last shrill cry the ghost of Chandrabai fled
across the waste waters to meet the pale ancestral dead and dwell with them
for evermore: and the house of Vishnu the fisherman was freed from the
curse of her vagrant and unpropitiated spirit. "She has never troubled me
since that day," says Vishnu; "but at times when I am out in my
fishing-boat and the wind blows softly from the west, I hear her voice
calling to me across the waters. And one day, if the gods are kind, I
shall sail westward to meet her!"
* * * * *
II.
BOMBAY SCENES.
MORNING.
"Binishin bar sari juyo guzari umr bibin
kin isharat zi jahani guzeran mara bas."
So wrote the great poet of Persia: "Sit thou on the bank of a stream and in
the flow of its waters watch the passing of thy life. Than this a vain and
fleeting world can grant thee no higher lesson." Of the human tides which
roll through the streets of the cities of the world, none are brighter or
more varied than that which fills the streets of Bombay. Here are Memon and
Khoja women in shirt and trousers ("kurta" and "izzar") of green and gold
or pink or yellow, with dark blue sheets used as veils, wandering along
with their children dressed in all the hues of the rainbow. Here are sleek
Hindus from northern India in soft muslin and neat coloured turbans:
Gujarathis in red head-gear and close-fitting white garments; Cutchi
sea-farers, descendants of the pirates of dead centuries, with clear-cut
bronzed features that show a lingering strain of Med or Jat, clad in white
turbans, tight jackets, and waist cloths girded tightly over trousers that
button at the ankle. There, mark you, are many Bombay Mahomedans of
the lower class with their long white shirts, white trousers and skull-caps
of silk or brocade: there too is every type of European from the almost
albino Finn to the swarthy Italian, - sailors most of them, accompanied by a
few Bombay roughs as land-pilots; petty officers of merchant ships, in
black or blue dress, making up a small private cargo of Indian goods with
the help of a Native broker; English sailors of the Royal Navy; English
soldiers in khaki; Arabs from Syria and the valley of the Euphrates;
half-Arab, half-Persian traders from the Gulf, in Arab or old Persian
costumes and black turbans with a red border. Here again comes a Persian
of the old school with arched embroidered turban of white silk, white "aba"
or undercoat reaching to the ankles, open grey "shaya," and soft yellow
leather shoes; and he is followed by Persians of the modern school in small
stiff black hats, dark coats drawn in at the waist, and English trousers
and boots. After them come tall Afghans, their hair well-oiled, in the
baggiest of trousers; Makranis dressed like Afghans but distinguished by
their sharper nose and more closely-set eyes; Sindis in many-buttoned
waistcoats; Negroes from Africa clad in striped waist cloths, creeping
slowly through the streets and pausing in wonder at every new sight;
Negroes in the Bombay Mahomedan dress and red fez; Chinese with pig-tails:
Japanese in the latest European attire; Malays in English jackets and loose
turbans; Bukharans in tall sheep skin caps and woollen gabardines, begging
their way from Mecca to to their Central Asian homes, singing hymns in
honour of the Prophet, or showing plans of the Ka'aba or of the
shrine of the saint of saints, Maulana Abdul Kadir Gilani, at Baghdad.
[Illustration: A Millhand.]
[Illustration: A Marwari selling Batassa.]
The ebb and flow of life remains much the same from day to day. The
earliest street sound, before the dawn breaks, is the rattle of the trams,
the meat-carts on their way to the markets, the dust-carts and the
watering-carts; and then, just as the grey thread of the dawn fringes the
horizon, the hymn of the Fakir rings forth, praising the open-handed Ali
and imploring the charity of the early-riser who knows full well that a
copper bestowed unseen during the morning watch is worth far more than
silver bestowed in the sight of men. On a sudden while the penurious widows
and broken respectables are yet prosecuting their rounds of begging, the
great cry "Allaho Akbar" breaks from the mosques and the Faithful troop
forth from their homes to prayer - prayer which is better than sleep. More
commonplace sounds now fill the air, the hoarse "Batasaa, Batasaa" of the
fat Marwari with the cakes, the "Lo phote, lo phote" (Buy my cocoa-cakes)
of a little old Malabari woman, dressed in a red "lungi" and white cotton
jacket, and the cry of the "bajri" and "chaval" seller, clad simply in a
coarse "dhoti" and second-hand skull-cap, purchased at the nearest
rag-shop. And as he passes, bending under the weight of his sacks, you
catch the chink of the little empty coffee-cups without handles, which the
itinerant Arab is soon to fill for his patrons from the portable coffee-pot
in his left hand, or the tremulous "malpurwa jaleibi" of the lean Hindu
from Kathiawar who caters for the early breakfast of the millhand. Mark him
as he pauses to oblige a customer; mark his oil-stained shirt, and loose
turban, once white but now deep-brown from continual contact with the
bottom of his tray of oil-fried sweetmeats: watch him as he worships with
clasped hands the first coin that has fallen to his share this morning,
calling it his "Boni" or lucky handsel and striking it twice or thrice
against the edge of his tray to ward off the fiend of "No Custom." But
hark! the children have heard of his arrival; a shrill cry of "Come in,
jaleibiwala" forces him to drop the first coin into his empty pocket; and
with silent steps he disappears down the dark passage of the neighbouring
chal.
[Illustration: The seller of "Malpurwa jaleibi".]
Now, as the Faithful wend their way homewards, bands of cheerful millhands
hasten past you to the mills, and are followed by files of Koli
fisherfolk, - the men unclad and red-hatted, with heavy creels, the women
tight-girt and flower-decked, bearing their headloads of shining fish at a
trot towards the markets. The houses disgorge a continuous stream of
people, bound upon their daily visit to the market, both men and women
carrying baskets of palm-leaf matting for their purchases; and a little
later the verandahs, "otlas," and the streets are crowded with Arabs,
Persians, and north-country Indians, seated in groups to sip their coffee
or sherbet and smoke the Persian or Indian pipe. Baluchis and Makranis
wander into the ghi and flour shops and purchase sufficient to hand over to
the baker, who daily prepares their bread for them; the "panseller" sings
the virtue of his wares in front of the cook-shop; the hawkers - the Daudi
Bohra of "zari purana" fame, the Kathiawar Memon, the Persian "pashmak-
seller" crying "Phul mitai" (flower sweets), start forth upon their daily
pilgrimage; while in the centre of the thoroughfare the "reckla," the
landau, the victoria and the shigram bear their owners towards the
business quarters of the city. "Mera churan mazedar uso khate hain,
sirdar," and past you move a couple of drug-sellers, offering a word
of morning welcome to their friend the Attar (perfumer) from the Deccan;
while above your head the balconies are gradually filling with the mothers
and children of the city, playing, working, talking and watching the human
panorama unfold before their eyes.
[Illustration: A Koli woman.]
So the morning passes into mid-day, amid a hundred sounds symbolical of the
various phases of life in the Western capital, - the shout of the driver,
the twang of the cotton-cleaner, the warning call of the anxious mother,
the rattle of the showman's drum, the yell of the devotee, the curse of the
cartman, the clang of the coppersmith, the chaffering of buyer and seller
and the wail of the mourner. And above all the roar of life broods the echo
of the call to prayer in honour of Allah, the All-Powerful and All-Pitiful,
the Giver of Life and Giver of Death.
* * * * *
EVENING.
[Illustration: The "Pan" Seller.]
As the sun sinks low in the west, a stream of worshippers flows through the
mosque-gates - rich black-coated Persian merchants, picturesque full-bearded
Moulvis, smart sepoys from Hindustan, gold-turbaned shrewd-eyed Memon
traders, ruddy Jats from Multan, high-cheeked Sidis, heavily dressed
Bukharans, Arabs, Afghans and pallid embroiderers from Surat, who grudge
the half-hour stolen from the daylight. At the main entrance of the mosques
gather groups of men and women with sick children in their arms, waiting
until the prayers are over and the worshippers file out; for the
prayer-laden breath of the truly devout is powerful to exorcise the demons
of disease, and the child over whom the breath of the worshipper has passed
has fairer surety of recovery than can be gained from all the nostrums and
charms of the Syed and Hakim. Just before and after sunset the streets wear
their busiest air. Here are millhands and other labourers returning from
their daily labours, merchants faring home from their offices, beggars,
hawkers, fruit-sellers and sweetmeat-vendors, while crowds enter the
cookshops and sherbet shops, and groups of Arabs and others settle
themselves for recreation on the threshold of the coffee-sellers' domain.
There in a quiet backwater of traffic a small crowd gathers round a
shabbily-dressed Panjabi, who, producing a roll of pink papers and waving
them before his audience, describes them as the Prayer-treasure of the
Heavenly Throne ("Duai Ganjul Arsh"), Allah's greatest gift to the Prophet.
"The Prophet and his children," he continues, "treasured this prayer; for
before it fled the evil spirits of possession, disease and difficulty. Nor
hath its virtue faded in these later days. In Saharanpur, hark ye, dwelt a
woman, rich, prosperous and childless, and unto her I gave this prayer
telling her to soak it in water once a month and drink thereafter. And lo!
in two months by the favour of Allah she conceived, and my fame was spread
abroad among men. The troubles of others also have I lightened with this
prayer, - even a woman possessed by a Jinn, under whose face I burned the
prayer, so that the evil spirit fled." He asks from two to four annas for
the prayer sheet and finds many a purchaser in the crowd; and now and again
he rolls the sheet into a thin tube and ties it round the neck of a sick
child or round the arm of a sick woman, whom faith in Allah urges into the
presence of the peripathetic healer. "Oh, ye lovers of the beauties of the
Prophet," he cries, "Faith is the greatest of cures. Have faith and ye have
all! Know ye not that Allah bade the Prophet never pray for them that
lacked faith nor pray over the graves of those of little faith!"
Hark, through the hum of the crowd, above the rumble of wheels and the
jangle of bullock-bells, rises the plaintive chant of the Arab
hymn-singers, leading the corpse of a brother to the last "mukam"
or resting-place; while but a short distance away, - only a narrow
street's length, - the drum and flageolets escort the stalwart young
Memon bridegroom unto the house of the bride. Thus is it ever in
this city of strange contrasts. Life and Death in closest juxtaposition,
the hymn in honour of the Prophet's birth blending with the elegy
to the dead. Bag-pipes are not unknown in the Musalman quarters of
Bombay; and not infrequently you may watch a crescent of ten or twelve
wild Arab sailors in flowing brown gowns and parti-coloured head-scarves
treading a measure to the rhythm of the bagpipes blown by a younger
member of their crew. The words of the tune are the old words "La
illaha illallah," set to an air endeared from centuries past to the
desert-roving Bedawin, and long after distance has dulled the tread of
the dancing feet the plaintive notes of the refrain reach you upon the
night breeze. About midnight the silent streets are filled with the
long-drawn cry of the shampooer or barber, who by kneading and patting the
muscles induces sleep for the modest sum of 4 annas; and barely has his
voice died away than the Muezzin's call to prayer falls on the ear of the
sleeper, arouses in his heart thoughts of the past glory of his Faith, and
forces him from his couch to wash and bend in prayer before Him "Who
fainteth not, Whom neither sleep nor fatigue overtaketh."
During the hot months of the year the closeness of the rooms and the
attacks of mosquitoes force many a respectable householder to shoulder his
bedding and join the great army of street-sleepers, who crowd the footpaths
and open spaces like shrouded corpses. All sorts and conditions of men thus
take their night's rest beneath the moon, - Rangaris, Kasais, bakers,
beggars, wanderers, and artisans, - the householder taking up a small
position on the flags near his house, the younger and unmarried men
wandering further afield to the nearest open space, but all lying with
their head towards the north for fear of the anger of the Kutb or Pole
star.
"Kibla muaf karta hai, par Kutb hargiz nahin!"
The Kibla forgives, but the Kutb never!
The sights and sounds vary somewhat at different seasons of the year.
During Ramazan, for example, the streets are lined with booths and stalls
for the sale of the rice-gruel or "Faludah" which is so grateful a posset
to the famishing Faithful, hurrying dinnerless to the nearest mosque. When
the evening prayer is over and the first meal has been taken, the
coffee-shops are filled with smokers, the verandahs with men playing
'chausar' or drafts, while the air is filled with the cries of iced
drink sellers and of beggars longing to break their fast also. Then
about 8 p.m., as the hour of the special Ramazan or "Tarawih" prayer
draws nigh, the mosque beadle, followed by a body of shrill-voiced
boys, makes his round of the streets, crying "Namaz tayar hai, cha-lo-o,"
and all the dwellers in the Musalman quarter hie them to the house
of prayer.
It is in the comparative quiet of the streets by night that one hears more
distinctly the sounds in the houses. Here rises the bright note of the
"shadi" or luck songs with which during the livelong night the women of the
house dispel the evil influences that gather around a birth, a circumcision
or a "bismillah" ceremony. There one catches the passionate outcry of the
husband vainly trying to pierce the deaf ear of death. For life in the city
has hardened the hearts of the Faithful, and has led them to forget the
kindly injunction of the Prophet, still observed in small towns or villages
up-country: - "Neither shall the merry songs of birth or of marriage deepen
the sorrow of a bereaved brother." The last sound that reaches you as you
turn homewards, is the appeal of the "Sawale" or begging Fakir for a
hundred rupees to help him on his pilgrimage. All night long he tramps
through the darkness, stopping every twenty or thirty paces to deliver his
sonorous prayer for help, nor ceases until the Muezzin voices the summons
to morning prayer. He is the last person you see, this strange and
portionless Darwesh of the Shadows, and long after he has passed from your
sight, you hear his monotonous cry: - "Hazrat Shah Ali, Kalandar Hazrat Zar
Zari zar Baksh, Hazrat Shah Gisu Daroz Khwajah Bande Nawaz Hazrat Lal
Shahbaz ke nam sau rupai Hajjul Beit ka kharch dilwao!" He has elevated
begging to a fine art, and the Twelve Imams guard him from disappointment.
III.
SHADOWS OF NIGHT.
There are certain clubs in the city where a man may purchase nightly
oblivion for the modest sum of two or three annas; and hither come
regularly, like homing pigeons at nightfall, the human flotsam and jetsam,
which the tide of urban life now tosses into sight for a brief moment and
now submerges within her bosom. Halt in that squalid lane which looks out
upon the traffic of one of the most crowded thoroughfares and listen, if
you will, for some sign of life in the dark, ungarnished house which towers
above you. All is hushed in silence; no voice, no cry from within reaches
the ear; the chal must be tenanted only by the shadows. Not so! At the far
end of a passage, into which the sullage water drips, forming ill-smelling
pools, a greasy curtain is suddenly lifted for a minute, disclosing several
flickering lights girt about with what in the distance appear to be
amorphous blocks of wood or washerman's bundles. Grope your way down the
passage, push aside the curtain with your stick - it is far too foul to
touch with the hand - and the mystery is made plain. The room with its
tightly-closed shutters and smoke-blackened walls is filled with recumbent
men, in various stages of _deshabille_, all sunk in the sleep which
the bamboo-pipe and the little black pellets of opium ensure. The room is
not a large one, for the habitual smoker prefers a small apartment, in
which the fumes of the drug hang about easily; and its reeking walls are
unadorned save with a chromo plan of the chief buildings at Mecca, a crude
portrait of a Hindu goddess, and oleographs of British royalty. It were all
the same if these were absent; for the opium-smoker comes not hither to see
pictures, save those which the drugged brain fashions, and cares not for
distinctions of race, creed or sovereignty. The proprietor of the club may
be a Musalman; his patrons may be Hindus, Christians or Chinese; and the
dreams which riot across the semi-consciousness of the latter are not
concerned as a rule with heroes of either the spiritual or temporal kind.
[Illustration: An Opium Club.]
The smokers lie all over the room in groups of four or five, each of whom
is provided with a little wooden head-rest and lies curled up like a tired
dog with his face towards the lamp in the centre of the group. In his hand
is the bamboo-stemmed pipe, the bowl of which reminds one of the cheap
china ink-bottles used in native offices, and close by lies the long thin
needle which from time to time he dips in the saucer of opium-juice and
holds in the flame until the juice frizzles into a tiny pellet fit for
insertion in the bowl of the pipe. The room is heavy with vapour that
clutches at the throat, for every cranny and interstice is covered with
fragments of old sacking defying the passage of the night air. As you turn
towards the door, a fat Mughal rises slowly from the ground and makes
obeisance, saying that he is the proprietor. "Your club seems to pay,
shet-ji! Is it always as well patronised as it is this evening?" "Aye,
always," comes the sleepy answer, "for my opium is good, the daily
subscription but small; and there be many whom trouble and sorrow have
taught the road to peace. They come hither daily about sundown and dream
till day-break, and again set forth upon their day's work. But they return,
they always return until Sonapur claims them. They are of all kinds, my
customers. There, mark you, is a Sikh embroiderer from Lahore; here is a
Mahomedan fitter from the railway work-shops; this one keeps a tea shop in
the Nall Bazaar, that one is a pedlar; and him you see smiling in his
sleep, he is a seaman just arrived from a long voyage."
You hazard the question whether any of the customers ever die in this
paradise of smoke-begotten dreams; and the answer comes: "Not often; for
they that smoke opium are immune from plague and other sudden diseases. But
the parrot which you see in the cage overhead was left to me by one who
died just where the saheb now stands. He was a merchant of some status and
used to travel to Singapore and South Africa before he came here. But once,
after a longer journey than usual, he returned to find that his only son
had died of the plague and that his wife had forgotten him for another.
Therefore he cast aside his business and came hither in quest of
forgetfulness. Here he daily smoked until his money was well-nigh spent,
and then one night he died quietly, leaving me the parrot." You peer up
through the fumes and discern one bright black eye fixed upon you half in
anger, half in inquiry. The bird's plumage is soiled and smoke-darkened;
but the eye is clear, wickedly clear, suggesting that its owner is the one
creature in this languid atmosphere that never sleeps. What stories it
could tell, if it could but speak-stories of sorrow, stories of evil, tales
of the little kindnesses which the freemasonry of the opium-club teaches
men to do unto one another. But, as if it shunned inquiry, it retreats to
the back of its perch and drops a film over its eye, just as the smoke-film
shutters in the consciousness of those over whom it mounts guard.
Further down the indescribable passage is a similar room, the occupants of
which are engaged in a novel game. Two men squat against the wall on either
side, surrounded by their adherents, each holding between his knees a
long-stemmed pipe built somewhat on the German fashion. Into the bowls
they push at intervals a round ball of lighted opium or some other drug,
and then after a long pull blow with all the force of their lungs down the
stem, so that the lighted ball leaps forth in the direction of the
adversary. The game is to make seven points by hitting the adversary as
many times, and he who wins receives the exiguous stakes for which they
play. "What do you call this game," you ask; and an obvious Sidi in
the corner replies: - "This Russian and Japanese war, Sar; Japanese
winning!" The game moves very slowly, for both the players and onlookers
are in a condition of semi-coma, but the interest which they take in an
occasional coup is by no means feigned, and is perhaps natural to people
whose daily lives are fraught with little joy. Round the corner lies
a third room or club, likewise filled with starved and sleepy humanity.
Near the door squats a figure without arms, who can scratch his head
with his toes without altering his position, "What do you do for a living,
Baba?" you ask; "I beg, saheb. I beg from sunrise until noon, wandering
about the streets and past the "pedhis" of the rich merchants, and with
luck I obtain six or eight annas. That gives me the one meal I need,
for I am a small man; and the balance I spend in the club, where
I may smoke and lie at peace. No, I am not a Maratha; I am a Panchkalshi;
but I reck nothing of caste now. That belongs to the past."
A light chuckle behind you, as the last words are spoken, brings you sharp
round on your heels; and you discern huddled in the semi-darkness of the
corner what appears in the miserable light of the cocoanut oil lamp to be a
Goanese boy. There are the short gray knickers and the thin white shirt
affected by the Native Christian boy; there is the short black hair; but
the skin is white, unusually white for a native of Goa, and there is
something curious about the face which prompts you to ask the owner who he
is and whence he comes. The only reply is a vacant but not unpleasant
smile; and the armless wastrel then volunteers the information that the
child - for she is little more - is not a boy but a girl. Merciful Heaven!
How comes she here amid this refuse of humanity? "She is an orphan," says
the armless one, "and she is half-mad. Her parents died when she was very
young, and her mind became somehow weak. There was none to take charge of
her; so we of the opium-club brought her here, and in return for our
support she runs errands for us and prepares the room for the nightly
conclave. She is a Mahomedan." You look again at the dark-eyed child
smiling in the corner and you wonder what horror, what ill-treatment
or what grief brought her to this pass. Peradventure it is a mercy
that her mind has gone and cannot therefore revolt against the squalor
of her surroundings. It is useless to ask her of herself; she can only
smile in her scanty boyish garb. It is the saddest sight in this
valley of the abyss, where men purchase draughts of nepenthe to fortify
themselves against the cares that the day brings. The opium-club
kills religion, kills nationality. In this case it has killed sex also!
[Illustration: A "Madak-Khana."]
IV.
THE BIRTHPLACE OF SHIVAJI.
About half a mile westward of the town of Junnar there rises from the plain
a colossal hill, the lower portion whereof consists of steep slopes covered
with rough grass and a few trees, and the upper part of two nearly
perpendicular tiers of scarped rock, surmounted by an undulating and
triangular-shaped summit. The upper tier commences at a height of six
hundred feet from the level of the plain and, rising another 200 feet,
extends dark and repellant round the entire circumference of the hill.
Viewed from the outskirts of the town, the upper scarp, which runs straight
to a point in the north, bears the strongest similarity to the side of a
huge battleship, riding over billows long since petrified and grass grown:
and the similarity is accentuated by the presence in both scarps of a line
of small Buddhist cells, the apertures of which are visible at a
considerable distance and appear like the portholes or gun-ports of the
fossilised vessel. Unless one has a predilection for pushing one's way
through a perpendicular jungle or crawling over jagged and sunbaked rock,
the only way to ascend the hill is from the south-western side, from the
upper portion of which still frown the outworks and bastioned walls which
once rendered the fortress impregnable. The road from the town of Junnar is
in tolerable repair and leads you across a stream, past the ruined mud
walls of an old fortified enclosure, and past the camping-ground of the
Twelve Wells, until you reach a group of trees overshadowing the ruined
tombs of a former captain of the fort and other Musulmans. The grave of the
Killedar is still in fair condition; but the walls which enclose it are
sorely dilapidated, and the wild thorn and prickly pear, creeping unchecked
through the interstices, have run riot over the whole enclosure.
At this point one must leave the main road, which runs forward to the crest
of the Pirpadi Pass, and after crossing a level stretch of rock, set one's
steps upon the pathway which, flanked on one side by the lofty
rock-bastions of the hill and on the other by the rolling slopes, leads
upwards to the First Gate. At your feet lies the deserted and ruined
village of Bhatkala, which once supplied the Musulman garrison with food
and other necessaries, and is now but a memory; and above your head the
wall and outwork of the Phatak Tower mark the vicinity of the shrine of
Shivabai, the family goddess of the founder of the Maratha Empire. The
pathway yields place to a steep and roughly-paved ascent, girt with dense
clumps of prickly pear, extending as far as the first gateway of the
fortress. There are in all seven great gateways guarding the approach
to the hill-top, of which the first already mentioned, the second or
"Parvangicha Darvaja," the fourth or Saint's gate, and the fifth
or Shivabai gate are perhaps more interesting than the rest. One
wonders why there should be seven gateways, no more and no less.
Was it merely an accident or the physical formation of the hill-side
which led to the choice of this number? Or was it perhaps a memory
of the mysterious power of the number seven exemplified in both Hebrew
and Hindu writings, which induced the Musulman to build that number
of entrances to his hill-citadel? The coincidence merits passing thought.
The second gateway originally bore on either side, at the level of the
point of its arch, a mystic tiger, carved on the face of a stone slab,
holding in its right forepaw some animal, which the _Gazetteer_
declares is an elephant but which more closely resembles a dog. The tiger
on the left of the arch alone abides in its place; the other lies on the
ground at the threshold of the gate. Local wiseacres believe the tiger to
have been the crest of the Killedar who built the gate and to have
signified to the public of those lawless days much the same as the famous
escutcheon in "Marmion," with its legend, "who laughs at me to Death is
dight!"
The Saint's gate, so called from the tomb of a "Pir" hidden in the
surrounding growth of prickly pear, is the largest of all the gates and is
formed of splendid slabs of dressed stone, each about 8 feet in length. On
either side of the gateway are rectangular recesses, which were doubtless
used as dwellings or guardrooms by the soldiers in charge of the gate.
Thence the pathway divides; one track, intended for cavalry, leading round
to the north-western side of the hill, and the other for foot-passengers,
composed of rock-hewn steps and passing directly upwards to the Shivabai
gate, where still hangs the great teak-door, studded with iron spikes,
against which the mad elephants of an opposing force might fruitlessly hurl
their titanic bulk.
Leaving for a moment the direct path, which climbs to the crest of the hill
past the Buddhist caves and cisterns, we walk along a dainty terrace lined
with champak and sandalwood trees and passing under a carved stone gateway
halt before the shrine dedicated to Shivaji's family goddess. The dark
inner shrine must have once been a Buddhist cave, carved out of the wall of
rock; and to it later generations added the outer hall, with its carved
pillars of teakwood, which hangs over the very edge of a precipitous
descent. Repairs to the shrine are at present in progress; and on the day
of our visit two bullocks were tethered in the outer chamber, the materials
of the stone-mason were lying here and there among the carved pillars, and
a painfully modern stone wall is rising in face of the austere threshold of
the inner sanctuary. The lintel of the shrine is surmounted with inferior
coloured pictures of Hindu deities, and two printed and tolerably faithful
portraits of the great Maratha chieftain. "Thence," in the words of the
poet, "we turned and slowly clomb the last hard footstep of that iron
crag," and traversing the seventh and last gate reached the ruined
_Ambarkhana_ or Elephant-stable on the hill top. It is a picture of
great desolation which meets the eye. The fragment of a wall or plinth,
covered with rank creepers, an archway of which the stones are sagging into
final disruption, and many a tumulus of coarse brown grass are all that
remain of the wide buildings which once surrounded the _Ambarkhana_.
The latter, gray and time-scarred, still rears on high its double row of
arched vaults; but Vandalism, in the guise of the local shepherd and
grass-cutter, has claimed it as her own and has bricked up in the rudest
fashion, for the shelter of goats and kine, the pointed stone arches which