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CHAPTER X IN THE SUNSHINE “ARE you
happy?” “I am
happy.” That is
one of the
commonest forms of salutation in the East, corresponding to our “How
d’you do?”
— “Quite well, thank you.” But the conventional inquiry and stereotyped
reply
mean little. “I am happy,” a man answered me once, with a very
lugubrious face,
who, I learned on further questioning, had lost nine of his nearest and
dearest
relations from cholera during the three preceding days. I am
conscious that
so far in this attempt to depict daily life in India the colours used
have been
sombre. It has been unavoidable, for India is a land of penury and
privation,
struggle and starvation, woe and want, for the vast majority. England
is not
“merrie” when times are hard; in India, the times are always more or
less hard.
A popular handbook tells us that the Indian peasant is at the best of
times not
far from the verge of starvation, and the statement is not exaggerated.
I harp
on the peasant, but, after all, he is nine tenths of the country. Let us see
what
sunshine there is in the lives of the native Indians over and above
that
superabundance poured upon the land, what are their theories of
enjoying
themselves, their amusements, their diversions, and recreations.
Prosperity and
happiness are often synonymous terms, and I think material prosperity
yields
more unalloyed delight in the East than in the West. There is much of
the miser
in the native of India, and the accumulation of money, or its
equivalent,
brings rapture to the brown soul. The money-lender’s ledger is a book
whose
perusal brings him more pleasure than all the other literature of the
East. I
have seen a spiritual gleam of happiness on the face of a shepherd,
whose
features were ordinarily as witless as those of his own sheep and
goats, what
time the lambing season came round, and things were going well. And I
have
often observed a peasant squatting on one of the banks that divided his
fields,
contemplating his ripening crops with a smile that intimated sunshine
in his
soul. The happiest ryot I ever knew was a landless labourer, who, after
twenty
years of frugality and self-denial, saved sufficient to buy himself an
acre of
land. I vow that man was a monument of merriness; his face always
engendered a
sympathetic grin in mine; it made one happy by infection to look at
him.
“Happy! Bigly happy!” was his spontaneous ejaculation every time I met
him. But this, after all, does not describe the sort of sunshine the chapter-heading aims at, which rather refers to moral than material cheerfulness. The basis of happiness in England is home life; if a man is happy at home, it makes up for all the kicks he gets abroad. How about the home life of the native of India? His ideas
of
domesticity are very foreign to ours, and it is difficult to enter into
his
feelings. Where he has sons I think probably you can account him
content. A son
is something more to him than one to the Emperor of Austria or the Tzar
of
Russia, for a male child is necessary to his salvation in a future
state. A
great light beams on his house when a son is born. As for his wife, she
is
quite a secondary consideration; she can be replaced, but a son cannot
be
assured. I remember sympathising with a native friend, quite a superior
man,
whose wife and son were both dangerously ill. He was filled with
anguish for
the latter, but when I ventured a guarded inquiry ( as etiquette
demanded)
about the former, “Kúch perwáni!”
was the reply — “No matter about her.” The native
is a
fond parent, often a doting one. He systematically spoils his children.
Even a
daughter, whose advent is dreaded, will worm her way into her father’s
heart.
There was another native friend of mine I used to visit periodically
who always
had a bed brought out for me to sit on, and placed in the shade of a
tree in
front of his house. By-and-by, as I became a familiar figure, his
little
daughter would shyly steal out to reconnoitre the sahib, and, growing bolder,
nestle in her father’s lap, and
proceed to tease him. The thing told its own tale, and I cannot
conceive that
man was anything but happy in his domestic relation with that daughter.
And
when she married at the age of twelve, and left his home for good, I
often used
to think he missed the childish caresses, which he accepted before me
with such
an air of apologetic shamefacedness, from a loving little girl who
would not be
denied her demonstration of affection. And I should certainly say that
the
girl-child, so unwelcome at her birth, had come to be a ray of sunshine
—
whilst it lasted — in her father’s life. The
inaccessibility
of an Indian home makes it impossible for the European to form any
trustworthy
opinion of its constitutional happiness or otherwise. Hindu writers
insist on
its joys, and, while admitting the harsh conditions under which they
live,
declare the womenfolk are contented and happy. This may be true, but it
is
seldom, if ever, indicated in the external behaviour or the appearance
of the
females, which rather create the idea of a subdued melancholy. But for
the men,
I readily admit that affection for “home” in the abstract is a feature
in their
characters; but I should hesitate before I committed myself as to
whether it is
for the place or the people in it. It is a difficult topic to touch on
in
conversation with a native, who never “lets himself out” on this aspect
of his
life. Coming to
the
amusements of the people, you find them singularly crude. There are no
national
games, save those the English have introduced through the medium of
schools.
Cricket and football amongst the schoolboys of the modern rising
generation are
now common enough, but they are only played by the educated youth, and
that in
India is the equivalent of what the conditions in England would be if
the great
public schools monopolised those sports. All the world over, children
will
play, but they have fewer toys to play with in India than in any land I
know
of, and leave off playing sooner in life than elsewhere, and, as they
marry
early, grow staid early. I remember talking to a Mahomedan youth twelve
years
of age, the son of a Nawab, who was going to England to be educated at
Harrow.
He was married earlier than usual in life for a Mahomedan, because he
would be
absent when the proper time arrived, and his father wanted the match
secured.
He was the most precocious boy I ever conversed with, entered into a
description of his home life, told me his step-mother was very jealous
of him
and he always went in fear that she would poison him, described his
bride and
criticised her want of accomplishments, and protested that he spent his
leisure
in reading Sadi and the Koran. An Englishman of double his age would
not have
talked more seriously and soberly, and for his deportment, it was that
of a
grown-up person. In my plantation I employed a great number of boys
from ten or
eleven to fifteen or sixteen years of age, and I can never call to mind
seeing
them playing out of work-hours. The Indian
Tamásha, or
entertainment and amusement
combined, is one where a few perform and the many look on. Festivals
are far
more numerous than in England, but (except in the case of fairs, with
which I
shall deal presently) frolic enters only into one. The annual Déwali festival is a saturnalia
of
horse-play and indecency, during which the mild and staid Hindu seems
to lose
his head utterly. He expends his energies in sousing everybody he meets
with
red water and yellow powder to a chorus of “Holi,
holi, holi,” and a commentary of obscene jests and jokes. At
certain
other festivals, he goes in for gambling. But his general idea of a
Bank
Holiday has physical laziness at the back of it, and a good long sleep
or bask
in the sun, smoking his hookah, affords him all the relaxation and
enjoyment he
seeks. Horse-racing
is
unknown to him; cricket and football he does not understand; rowing is
the
privilege of a caste, being a calling; theatres he has none; the
pleasures of a
walk for walking’s sake are outside his comprehension; “courting” is
against
his custom; reading is beyond his powers. If I were asked to summarise
his idea
of thoroughly amusing himself, I should say sight-seeing. He wants
something to
look at, not something to do. He dislikes manly sports and hobbies he
has none.
The idea of a native training for physical proficiency, or bicycling
for
pleasure, or pigsticking, or taking up photography, or going in for
botany, or
collecting anything for art’s sake, is too remote to be considered.
What are
the sports of the great and the rich? Nautch-girls and music,
cock-fighting and
pitting wild animals one against the other, hunting with a cheetah, or
falconry. A few shoot, but from the ease of an elephant’s howdah, or
for the
“pot.” Ask them to walk up a marsh for snipe and they will think you
mad. To aim
at a flying bird is accounted folly by the native shikari. Nor is the
native
capable of deriving any pleasure from the beauties of nature. A pretty
scene, a
lovely sunset, an artistic blend of colours lack the power of appealing
to him.
His nosegays are red and yellow; his finest artists have not the
remotest idea
of depicting a landscape; he will look at an English picture upside
down. Music
he enjoys, but it is the sort of music that sends a European
distracted. He is
not ordinarily tickled by a joke, and he laughs little, and never
loudly. There
is a certain sour dignity in his code of etiquette which debars him
from
romping with children, or indulging in any physical pastime, and this
repression is extended to those feelings the exhibition of which
indicates
pleasure with Europeans. Women are
naturally
more restricted than men in their pleasures and amusements. Even in the
zenanas of the
rich, books merely mention
their love of dress and jewellery, as constituting their chief
pleasure, and
story-telling and a game of cards are their principal amusements. The
recreations of the lower orders are even fewer, and perhaps their most
enjoyable hour is that when the gathering round the well to draw water
permits
the luxury of a gossip, which they thoroughly appreciate. Without
doubt,
feasting affords the greatest general gratification. It is the leading
form of
entertainment. To feast the Brahmins is particularly enjoined in the
sacred
books of the Hindus, and no ceremony or festival is complete without a
banquet.
Beggars congregate on such occasions with the knowledge they will not
go away
empty. In nine cases out of ten, when your native asks you for leave of
absence, it is to attend some burra
khána,
or big dinner. Backslidings from caste invariably require the giving of
a feast
to secure forgiveness and purification. In a land where hunger is
chronic, and
death from starvation periodical, it is easy to understand that a full
stomach
may mean the acme of joy. No native feeds oftener than twice a day, and
in some
cases only once. They have prodigious powers of eating, and I have
known men
lament their Gargantuan appetite as a handicap on their livelihood, and
put it
forward as a plea for extra pay. On the other hand, there is a species
of rice
which is very expensive, and only purchased by the wealthy, because (as
was
explained to me) it is easily digested, and you get hungry again within
two
hours. The term “prosper and wax fat” has its many illustrations in
India,
where a man’s worldly circumstances may be correctly gauged by his
circumference. Fatness is a charm in women, and a cause for envy in
men; khub moti
(beautifully fat) is a common
phrase of compliment. Eastern life is sensual, and the appetite of the
stomach
not the least source of pleasure. What drinking is in the West, that is
eating
in the East; the medium of self-indulgence and conviviality. I should
also feel
inclined to rank idleness as one of the chief delights of the Indian.
“The
apathetic attitude of contemplative Asia” has been made familiar to us
in books
of travel, but I do not think we quite realise what pure enjoyment
there is in
some of that apathy. The native is an adept in the art of doing
nothing; it
never bores him to be idle; on the contrary, he seems to take a
positive
pleasure in prolonging his inaction, and will squat on his hams by the
hour,
like a crow on a wall, and enjoy it as much as Western people do
reading a
novel in an easy armchair, or listening to a concert. I would even go
so far as
to say of the average native that he is seldom so happy as when he is
idle; and
outside the islands of the Pacific I doubt if you will find a more
devoted
disciple of the dolce far niente.
The educated mind and the active body of the mentally and physically
energetic
Briton may make him scout such a contention, but feed the Anglo-Saxon
on
vegetable diet for three generations, plant him in a tropical climate,
eliminate from his resources the ability to read, and reduce his
surroundings
to those which are within reach of the native, and I fancy he would
begin to
discover unsuspected possibilities of enjoying himself in the passive. There is
one
species of amusement which stands out in the economy of Indian life as
universal and supreme, and that is the méla,
or fair. It may be a religious festival in honour of some shrine, or a
great
annual gathering like that of Hurdwar, or a purely commercial business
like the
cattle-fairs held in various parts of India, but it represents the
native’s
most extended idea of dissipation. For weeks before, it is the one
subject of
his anticipation; for weeks after, the one topic of his conversation.
It is the
single species of festivity in which the women have almost as great a
part as
the men; not, of course, the poor zenana
captives, who are never let out of their prisons, but the ordinary
native woman
who leaves her home for a holiday as seldom as the omnibus-driver does
his box.
To them, the fair is what the Christmas pantomime is to children who
are taken
to the theatre once a year; their glee is childish, and to be forbidden
the
treat would certainly reduce them to tears. An Indian
fair is a
far more picturesque scene than an English one, and none held in
England can
compete with even a moderate gathering out in the East. As the
population of
India is numbered in hundreds of millions and that of Great Britain in
tens of
millions, so it is with the vast and overwhelming multitudes that
attend these
fairs. They gather together such crowds as nothing short of a
Coronation or Jubilee
can collect in England. To English eyes, the most extraordinary part of
the
spectacle is the sudden apparition of more women than you ever
suspected were
in the land; one wonders where they all spring from, and marvels that
so much
comeliness should remain hidden, if it is lawful to be seen. But there
is a
sort of license allowed to women in attending a fair, and for once in a
way,
all their faces are smiling instead of decorous. You may live many
years in
India and form the opinion that the women are — I will not say ugly,
but
decidedly unattractive. Go to a fair, and the revelation bursts on you
that
they can hold their own in looks with any country in the world. Perhaps
it is
the unaccustomed smile that lights up their features — usually prudish
and
stand-offish in the ordinary episodes of life. And yet, no; I can call
to mind mélas in the
hill-country, where the
lighter complexioned races live, which left me with a suspicion that,
after
all, the Anglo-Saxon woman might not be so beautiful as the Aryan. And
one
thing is certain about these fairs: they serve to bring out the fair. I
do not
mean an abominable pun by that, but the simple statement of fact that
you see
at them a vast number of women who are not daily exposed to the sun,
and
realise that the women of India are far lighter complexioned than the
men. And then
their
dresses! The fashion may be two thousand years old, but the wealth of
colour,
the tinsel, the prodigality of silver jewellery taken in the mass
present such
a coup d’oeil as would
make Ascot
or Goodwood look comparatively colourless. It is as an Autumn sunset
shining
upon Autumn leaves, all warm and glowing, with the glint of running
water
counterfeited in the abundant silver necklaces, hair-ornaments,
bangles, and
anklets. The display of jewellery, which assumes a snobbish aspect with
the
English, never seems excessive in the native woman. I have seen her
laden with
it, and yet could never think to myself, “You would look far better if
you left
half of those ornaments at home!” There is no “snobbishness” in the
Indian,
except in the case of the Europeanised native. The fun of an Indian fair is noisy and demonstrative; the merry-go-round is a feature of it, and the music is of the loudest. There are the Oriental equivalents of all the itinerant entertainers to which one is accustomed in the West, and the trash offered for sale is quite equal to that purchased at a charity bazaar. As a rule, every one has money to spend, for all have been saving up for this day for months past and temptation to spend it is spread around. A nation which “thinks in cowrie shells” (whereof a hundred go to a penny) can probably make sixpence go farther than any other, and enjoy the going of it more than a people to whom the patronage of a penny-in-the slot machine means a bagatelle and not a day’s wage expended. The slot-machines of India would have to be manufactured to respond to cowrie shells. I have
altogether
forgotten fireworks, which are a distinct item in the list of native
amusements. The evenings are cool, fine nights can be discounted, and
the form
of entertainment is one you can enjoy sitting at your ease on the
ground. That
meets every requirement of the East, and fireworks are one of the most
popular
forms of amusement. Illuminations, too, must be mentioned; to a people
accustomed to live in the dark after nightfall, such exhibitions have a
special
delight, and the Indian chirág,
or oil-lamp, especially adapts itself to the occasion. If a
contented mind
is a continual feast, it should take little to make the native happy,
for so
little contents him, and his horizon is small. He tires slowly of a
toy, and in
this his otherwise childish capacity for enjoyment contrasts with the
easily
tired nature of English children. He will listen to the same tune, look
at the
same performance repeated over and over again, without any apparent
diminution
of satisfaction. Music and mirth are too rare in his life to bore him
easily.
He cannot have too much of a good thing, and his entertainments are
seldom affairs
of less than twelve hours. I have
left to the
last perhaps the most typical, as it certainly is the most
contradictory,
example of the “sunshine of life” in India. Were I asked which was the
happiest
moment of any year to the average native, I would say, without
hesitation, the
one in which the sky was dark and threatening — the breaking of the
monsoon.
There is no music in India like that of falling rain in May or June; no
sunshine, literal or metaphorical, that can bring such joy as the
clouds which
sweep up from the south-west. What the rising of the Nile is to the
Egyptian
fellah, that and something more is the breaking of the rainy season to
the
ryots. Out they come tumbling from huts and hovels at the first
pitter-patter
of the great drops, their grateful eyes lifted to the skies, and the
paean of
thankfulness, “Rám, Rám, Mahadeo!”
bursting from their lips. Here is salvation, here not the happiness of
a
passing hour, but security for the whole year. I have myself in that
arid land
felt something of the thrill that follows the falling of rain after a
long, hot
drought, and for the poor peasant — well, it may be a paradox, a
contradiction
in terms, but the weeping rain-clouds bring the greatest amount of
sunshine
into his life. |