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ANGLO-INDIAN LIFE CHAPTER XIII THE LAND OF EXILE INDIA has
often
been called “The Land of Regrets.” It is the logical result of exile.
The
pervading sentiment in Anglo-Indian life is the consciousness of exile;
the
dearest word and thought, “Home.” And yet, curiously enough, there are
few
retired Anglo-Indians who are not often heard to wish themselves back
in India!
I have
never been
able to decide in my mind whether the charms of Anglo-Indian life
outbalanced
its defects. It is such a mass of contradictions; of sunshine and
gloom, of
luxury and squalor, of comfort and discomfort. You recall one phase
with
delight to shrink at the reminiscence of another. India is something
more than
a foreign country, it is a fantastic country, and it is almost
impossible to
come at a comparison between the conditions there and those in England,
because
they differ as much as life at sea and on shore. People in
England
have a habit of beginning all conversations with a reference to the
weather;
this can hardly be avoided when you come to talk of India, for the
climatic
conditions dominate life there, and make it for the greater part of the
year an
indoor one. Take a census of the European population any time between
ten and
four, from March to September, and you shall find it indoors. This, of
course,
is a very stale piece of information, and you may retort that all
office-men
and most women in England suffer the same confinement. True, but from a
very
different necessity, and under very different conditions. There are
times on a
hot summer’s day when indoors becomes oppressive even in England: it is
always
oppressive in India. At seasons it is overpoweringly so, as when you
live for
two or three months at a stretch in a bath of perspiration, and wonder
whether
you will ever know what it is to be cool again. It debilitates and
depresses;
the punkah that sways above you with its drowsy rise and fall, and
keeps you
imprisoned to a square of the carpet, is either an irritant or a
soporific; the
darkened room affects you with the sadness of a perpetual twilight.
Life
resolves itself into a negative state, and inanition supervenes on
apathy.
There are six hundred minutes in some Indian hours, I am sure, and not
one of
them bearable. The new
arrival, in
his fever of Saxon energy and impatience, puts on a hat (that is in
itself a
handicap on ordinary comfort) and makes a plunge into the roasting
sunshine. If
under such conditions you can train your mind to think of anything so
delicious
as an icy blast, it may be said that the east wind is tempered to the
shorn
lamb; for it is undoubtedly the case that the “Griffin” — who
corresponds to
the “New Chum” of the Colonies — feels or fears the heat much less than
the
presumably hardened old stager. I cannot explain this, but it is
notorious, and
the old Anglo-Indian who returns to England will often find its summer
temperature more oppressive than a man who has never experienced a
tropical
one. But when
you have
dared the sun, and are once out of doors in India, what do you gain by
it? I
vow the only thing more physically disagreeable than indoors is out of
doors,
and you must be very much in a hurry to see the country to stick to the
exchange. There is nothing to recommend it, and your last state is
worse than
your first. There are only heat, glare, dust, thirst, perspiration,
flies, and
a conviction that you are not in your proper element; and that is what
makes
the imprisonment of indoor life in India so hard to suffer — there is
absolutely no refuge from it. Except for
the
members of the commercial community, India is a land of locomotion and
unsettled habitation. Two or three years in any one “station,” as towns
are
called, is the utmost that can be anticipated. No man lays himself out
for a
long residence any where, and a permanent home is an unknown quantity
to the
majority of Anglo-Indians, whose life is practically passed in a
succession of
furnished apartments. Far more often than not his furniture is hired,
and his
bungalow rented on a monthly tenancy, so that he may always be ready to
strike
his tents and shift station at the shortest notice. A man deems himself
lucky
who is permitted to pass four undisturbed years in one district. It must
not be
presumed from my reference to furnished apartments that there are such
conveniences in the East, except in the sense that house and furniture
are both
rented. In city life, a few men reside in hotels, which are cheaper in
India
than anywhere I know of in the world, the charge being seven to eight
shillings
a day, and the comfort in ratio to the charge. In the finest hotel in
Bombay
you will be supplied with only one knife, fork, and spoon, which will
be taken
away and cleaned after every course! In Calcutta there are a great
number of
boarding-houses, but the average Englishman, be he married or single,
has to
keep up his own house and establishment. With bachelors, “chumming” is
very
common, where there is any one to chum with, but, taken on the whole,
life is
solitary and ungregarious. Locomotion
is
rendered comparatively easy by the railways, but the distances that
have to be
traversed are enormous. I remember once being a week in trains
travelling from
Calicut to Lahore, and two to three days is quite an ordinary journey.
For
shorter distances, every one who can manage it travels by night. No
European
travels third‑class, and as many as can first, the charge for which is
a
fraction over a penny a mile. There are in every train carriages set
aside for
ladies, an arrangement which is very necessary when the railway
carriage
practically becomes a place of residence for two or three days. Every
carriage
is a saloon or half-saloon, with a bathroom and lavatory attached, and
the
seats are so constructed that the backs turn up and form couches or
bunks. It
is the universal practice in India to carry your bedding about with
you; in
fact, no one ever leaves home for a single night without his proper
complement
of quilts, sheets, and pillows, so that the matter of bed-clothes gives
no
trouble. Male passengers habitually undress and tumble into pyjamas, and ladies adopt the negligé of a dressing-gown.
Meals are
provided at “Refreshment-room stations” at stated intervals on the
line, and,
being ordered in advance by the guard, are always ready when the train
draws
up; the charges vary from two to three shillings for breakfast, tiffin
(the
Anglo-Indian name for luncheon), and dinner. In the hot weather, the
guard
always carries ice and soda-water in his van, and these can be
purchased at any
stopping station en route.
A
dining-car is unknown in India, where, judging by the length of
stoppages at
insignificant stations, saving time is of little consideration. The
speed of
the trains varies from sixteen to twenty-five miles an hour, with the
exception
of a few mail trains, which may attain thirty. This is quite in accord
with the
sentiment of the East, where hurry is against the etiquette of native
good
manners. A great
deal of
travelling in India has to be accomplished by horse transit, and a tonga, which is a sort of
two-horsed
dog-cart, is the commonest vehicle in use, and ambles along at the rate
of six
miles an hour. After this comes the dák-gharrie, which runs on four
wheels. In
this you may bridge over the seats, spread your bedding out, and take
your
ease. Failing these methods of crossing country there is the dhoolie-dák,
or palanquin, which still survives in some of the out-of-the-way
places. Here
you are carried in a recumbent position in a closed-in litter on the
shoulders
of four men, with a couple to relieve, at a stereotyped pace of three
miles an
hour, and in a cloud of dust churned up by their shuffling feet. The
experienced
dhoolie-dák traveller never allows his dhoolie to be set on the
ground, whereby
he avoids exasperating detentions at the stages where the bearers are
changed.
In these methods of travelling you put up at dák-bungalows, or Government
hostelries, which
are erected all along the main Indian roads. They are comfortless
places as a
rule, in charge of a cook who generally catches and kills a fowl for
you when
you arrive, and serves it up within twenty minutes. The dák-bungalow
is one of the trials of Anglo-Indian life, and has probably had more
jokes
fathered upon it than English seaside lodging houses; but when you are
in one,
the joke is not appreciable. Such are
the means
by which the Mofussil,
“up-country,” or provincial Anglo-Indian will reach his station or
district,
and unless he is going to Bombay or Calcutta, which are practically the
two
entrance doors of the Empire, with Madras for a back door, his first
experience
of Anglo-Indian life will be of travel; and the land journey will often
prove
much more trying than the sea-voyage. India is, as I have called it, a
Land of
Locomotion. Outside
the
principal cities and towns of India, shopping is impossible. This does
not
refer to household shopping, which is always left to the servants, for,
wherever you are, it is beneath your dignity to have personal
transactions with
your butcher, baker, grocer, or milkman. But European luxuries, which
include
wines and tinned provisions, you may select yourself without any loss
of caste.
India luxuriates in hermetically sealed stores: tinned salmon and
lobster,
tinned bacon and cheese, tinned soups and sausages, tinned asparagus
and fruit,
tinned jam and potted meats — good heavens! what is there that is not
tinned?
These are the dainties of Anglo-Indian daily life, the delicacies of
the
dinner-party. “I suppose,” the “country-bred” belle is reported to have
said,
“the Queen of England has tinned tidbits at every meal!” They
correspond with
the truffles and turtle-soup of English banquets. I remember a very
worthy
Scotchman who used to allow himself a tinned Finnan haddock every
Sunday for
breakfast; he said it was an extravagance, but it reminded him of
Scotland! I
have myself found tinned lobster in the solitudes of the Himalayas
reminiscent
of the Isle of Sark, where I spent the most delightful holiday of my
life.
Taste is as great a refresher of memory as smell. In small
up-country
stations there are generally one or two “Europe shops,” kept more often
than
not by Parsees, where one can purchase the most miscellaneous
assortment of
articles, ranging from patent medicines and Scotch whisky to composite
candles
and Christmas cards. But for other tradesmen, such as the tailor,
bootmaker,
draper, and barber, you send for them to attend you. Your tailor,
indeed, you
often keep on the premises, for the Indian derzie,
or knight of the needle, squats in the verandah, and can adapt his art
to
either sex, turning out hot-weather suits of white drill, or tea-gowns,
or
summer frocks with a sort of ambidexterity. The hat is another affair;
in the
land of the turban you will do well not to rely on the vernacular
hatter. It is
well to obtain your topee from a
reliable
source, for the native-made head-gear of the Mofussil, a
monstrous
“mushroom” made out of pith an inch in thickness, is the sort of thing
to
provide novelty and amusement in a pantomime. Your washerman is your
private
property, and resides on the premises; if you are a bachelor, you pay
him four
or five shillings a month, and he does all your washing; even if it
runs to
seven suits of white drill clothes and fourteen shirts a week there is
no extra
charge. The Anglo-Indian changes his linen very frequently, and when he
returns
to England the first thing he curses is the laundry bill. Beyond the
necessaries of life, whatever you want you must send for by post. There
is a
system in India called the “Value Payable Post,” or briefly “V.P.P.,”
by which
the value of the parcel delivered is at time of delivery recovered from
the
purchaser, who must pay before he gets his goods. This has been a great
boon to
the shopkeepers of the country, where, until its institution, credit
was
universal, and not always immaculate. All petty shopping is done by
V.P.P.; it
is the recognised arrangement, and seldom abused except where the
unkind cut is
practised of sending an old unpaid bill, receipted, through its medium.
The
European tradesmen of the cities make this method of shopping easy by
distributing the most elaborate illustrated catalogues and price-lists,
many of
them in bulk equal to the Field.
The nuisance of circulars is greater in Anglo-India than in England. One of the
luxuries
of England is the daily morning paper to be purchased everywhere and in
endless
variety. Except on the line of rail in India, you cannot buy a paper,
and then
only for fourpence in the majority of cases, though a penny paper
exists in
Calcutta. The Pioneer,
or Englishman, or Times of India is always
received by post, and imparts a
peculiar sense of welcome to the man in scarlet, the distinctive
uniform of the
Indian postman. The craving for home news is very marked, and the
London
cablegrams are the first things glanced at or inquired about. They not
unfrequently constitute the one excitement of the Indian day. After
them, the advertisement
columns attract as much attention as any other, for here you shall
glean much
personal information that is vastly interesting. You do your shopping
from them
as a matter of course, but more edifying than this is to learn who is
selling-off and going home. For the first thing an Anglo-Indian does
who
premeditates a trip to England is to advertise his household goods in
the
Press. If you want to buy a piano, horse, dog, tent, dinner service, or
anything substantial in value, your first course is to scan the
advertisement
columns of your paper, wherein from March to June, the season when
every one
desires to leave India, you can rely on a plethora of bargains offered
to you;
but prices go up from October to December, when all who are on leave,
and can
fix their own time, return to the country, and are “on the buy.” The Indian
daily
paper is far more to the Anglo-Indian than you would suppose; it is his
living
link with England, and its meagre cablegrams — for they are miserly
meagre —
bring delight to thousands of exiles. That feeling of being “in touch
with
home” cannot be understood by any one who has not left it. There are
men parted
from those they hold most dear who keep account of the approximate
speed of the
various mail steamers, and will tell you at a moment’s notice whether
the
week’s mail may be expected a day earlier or a day later than the
average, or
on the contract date. And they eagerly trace its course from Brindisi
to Port
Said, from Port Said to Aden, from Aden to Bombay, and are all agog to
know
whether a special train has been put on to expediate the bags to their
part of
India. That is where the sense of exile comes in, — the looking and
longing for
the English mail. Except in
the
Hills, which are elevated sanatoriums on the slopes of the Himalayas or
other
mountain ranges, and which correspond to English holiday resorts, there
is not
much walking done in India. First of all the act of walking is
derogatory, and
no native gentleman ever travels on “Shanks’ mare.” When a viceroy
indulged in
a walking tour in the Himalayas the natives were scandalised. Then,
again, the
majority of Europeans keep at least one horse and trap. You may almost
call it
a necessity for the European character. In the commercial centres an
“office
carriage” is often kept for the clerks of the mercantile houses, or at
least a
palanquin. At those times when the English would consider walking a
pastime the
Anglo-Indian rides or drives; a gentle stroll in the cool of the
evening is the
limit of his exertions, except when he is out shooting. Of course,
climate has
a good deal to do with this lassitude, not to say laziness; but when
people can
afford horse-flesh, it is extraordinary how soon they learn to become
“carriage-folk,” who had never kept a carriage in England did they live
there
for a century. The cost of keeping a horse is comparatively small,
though each
horse has a groom and grass-cutter attached to it; you may put it down
at about
fifteen-pence a day, and the purchase of a hack at twenty pounds,
though a
“country-bred” can be picked up much cheaper. Drinking is far more prevalent in Anglo-India than in England. Up-country, to omit offering a “peg,” which almost invariably assumes the form of a whisky and soda, is a great lapse from propriety and decency. But the Indian “peg,” albeit copious, is fairly innocuous, a small modicum of spirit being usually drowned in a pint of aerated water. Many men fight shy of beer on account of liver; light wines are coming more into favour; but brandy, once the typical Anglo-Indian drink, is unknown. Of course, the thirst is abnormal, and a long drink before midday probably the custom. But by eleven o’clock, when the sun is supposed to come over the fore-arm, the Anglo-Indian has been up for five or six hours, and for my part I always considered that the middle of the working-day, and a legitimate hour to refresh. The really insidious time for “pegging” is in the cool hours of the evening after sunset, and before dinner, when people meet for company and too often for conviviality. But, taking him for all in all, the Anglo-Indian has made a greater stride towards sobriety in the last thirty years than England did in the nineteenth century, which is saying a good deal. Without calling him temperate, I should decidedly call him a sufficiently sober soul, considering the aggravating conditions of thirst under which he lives. The food
in India,
whilst far inferior in the raw material to that of England, is rendered
much
more tasty by the excellence of the cooking. No one ever sits down to a
dinner
of less than four courses, and the native chef
is peculiarly skilful at entrées,
or “side dishes,” as they are called. The country itself provides some
excellent appetisers, and pillaos,
ketcheries, and
curries will
tempt the most jaded palate when English cooking would nauseate it. For
tiffin
in the hottest weather there is nothing like currie. Joints are at a
discount
in a country where all the meat is bad, and people who turn up their
noses at
Australian mutton would find it convenient to be born snub-nosed for a
residence in the East. Chicken is the standard dish of India, and beef
the
least consumed. Eggs enter very largely into the dietary, but they are
small,
scarce bigger than bantams’; and, in the season, game can be shot or
purchased
almost everywhere. There is
no
difficulty in making acquaintances in India, for the first call is the
prerogative of the last arrival. Every Anglo-Indian’s bungalow stands in its own
garden, and at
the gate hangs suspended a board with his name painted on it. Each
station is a
directory in itself, and all the new-comer requires is a sheaf of
visiting-cards. Having delivered these he enters society, and his
subsequent
experience depends upon himself. Hospitality, though behind the
standard of the
pre-Suez-Canal days, is still a shining virtue of the Anglo-Indian, and
a
stranger who is able to make himself agreeable is never a stranger
long. His
chief difficulty will be to avoid the cliques into which society in the
East
habitually falls; this is perhaps a natural result in a community where
every
one knows every one, and a splitting up into groups of affinities is
the
corollary, — and not only knows every one else, but his income, his
prospects,
and his particular social status in a select population governed by the
strictest laws of precedence. There have been more quarrels over
precedence in
Anglo-India than over any other cause; it is regulated by a table
edited and
issued by Government, which is, in effect, the charter of Anglo-Indian
society.
Ladies are pedantically jealous, and woe betide the unhappy hostess who
makes
some quite unintentional error in the order in which she sends her
guests in to
dinner. It often leads to a row royal. When it becomes very acute, some
one
pitches the Table of Precedence at the parties, as Moses did the Tables
of the
Law, and that settles it. And
talking of
Anglo-Indian ladies, their position in the East is not what it was. The
fatal
Canal supplied them in such legions that the difficulty of the modern
hostess
is to get dancing men, not spinsters. In the “good old days,” a ball
was often
put off when it was known that an unmarried girl or two — ”spins,” as
they are
called in Anglo-Indian phrase — were dáking
up to the station, consequent on the arrival of a ship from England;
nowadays
it is deferred until a polo match of gymkhana
(a gathering for sports) is due, to bring the men into headquarters.
When I
went out to India in 1871, there were nine “spins” in a passenger-list
of
forty, and all were married within the year; returning in 1896 in a P.
and O.
mail steamer, there were more blighted ambitions on board than I
counted. The
modern Anglo-Indian is prone to marriage, but he goes home to get him a
wife in
the majority of cases. And if there is one thing he avoids, it is the
“country-bred.” “Country”
is a
peculiar adjective in Anglo-Indianism that at once diminishes the value
of
anything. It is a sneer and a condemnation. A “country-bred” individual
is at
once stigmatised by the appellation. “Country-made” goods are a synonym
for
inferiority. On the other hand, anything “English” or “imported” at
once
acquires a special value, and an imported dog, iron bedstead, carpet,
or
article of furniture stamps the owner as a man of taste and means, and
sheds
dignity over him. “What is she?” a man asks, nodding towards a pretty
brunette
in a ballroom. “Oh, only a C. B.” That suffices. But you must know your
audience in using the initials. There is a story told of a gentleman
who was
ex.. tolling the merits of a certain handsome young official, already a
Companion of the Bath, to a lady of the country, and observed he was a
“C. B.”
“What is that?” she inquired, half daring, half doubting, for she could
not
believe the individual in question was not “imported.” “A Companion of
the
Bath,” came the explanation. “Oh, you must not speak to me like that!”
was the
protest of the coy creature. |