Reticent Episodes: From the Magistrate's Indian Diary

I

‘SPARTAN’ and I went on, over the fields smooth as a carpet, dipping occasionally into some tiny river bed, which ran like a great brown gash across the green face of the country. The villagers are glad to see one, and talk freely of their little affairs: how the floods spoiled the maize crop, how lack of rain at the right time damaged the rice, how the new landlord is trying — illicitly—to raise their rents. The bridge on such and such a road has been swept away; can that be put right? It can be; and steps arc taken to make sure that it is.

About noon, or a little earlier, one gets to camp. The tents are almost hidden in a thick grove of mango trees, but one sees their white tops gleaming far across the fields. I noticed a little group to the right, where the cart track from headquarters entered the village, and galloped up to find the local landowner waiting to salaam me on my arrival. Ram Sahai was incredibly frail, but enormously dignified in his tamjan — a sort of open sedan chair, heavily armored with silver, and containing more red plush than would ever seem possible. Eighty, I think he is; his teeth have gone long ago, and his nose and chin almost meet. The old man had donned his garments of ceremony, and wore a turban with an aigrette. There he stood, swaying with age, encrusted with gold lace and barbaric jewels. He is proud, intensely proud, of the fact that his lands were given him by the Government, as a direct reward for services rendered in the mutiny; and he is — and always has been — plus royaliste que le roi.

The story of how he came to possess his large estate, and his title of taluqdar, is interesting. During the mutiny, the magistrate of this district was, at one time, hunted like a rat by large gangs of mutineers from Lucknow. Ram Sahai’s father, Kallu Ram, had a distant cousin of the same name who knew the magistrate slightly. This cousin harbored the latter for weeks, at the gravest risk to his own life; when things got too hot to last, and detection seemed inevitable, he provided a disguise, and gave the magistrate all his available cash in order to assist him to escape. The hope was that he might find his way to some centre where the British still held out. That hope was not realized; but on the way the magistrate did fall in with a party of his compatriots, and shortly afterward he fell, fighting. He had, however, done what most men in similar circumstances did during these troublous times — jotted down the main facts as regards his escape; and he asked the Government to see that his protector, Kallu Ram, was suitably rewarded.

Many months afterward, when ‘ the great trouble’ was over, and when the English were administering justice with a somewhat heavy hand and rewarding with a profuse liberality those who had stood by them in the dark days of the mutiny, Kallu Ram (who by that time had died) was summoned to Lucknow, to the presence of the Chief Commissioner. The summons was delivered to his distant cousin, Kallu Ram, the father of Ram Sahai. There must have been anxious consultations and debate as to whal should be done! The ways of the English were inscrutable. Men were being hanged; men were being rewarded; the dice might fall anyhow, so they thought in the villages. But Kallu Ram had ‘ stuff’ in him. He went to his namesake’s widow — the widow of his distant cousin — in her little mud hut under the nim trees: —

‘This writing has come. In the village, as thou knowest, there is now no Kallu Ram of our caste but me. I know not what this thing may bring. It may be death — hanging; it may be a rich reward — land, money, honors. All that is in the hand of God. But this I do know, and promise on the head of my son, Ram Sahai, that if it be reward, then thou shalt be my mother while thou livest, and my house shall be thy house, and my lands thy lands, and thou shalt share with us and live with us while life lasts. Is it agreed? If it be hanging, then art thou free from blame, and Ram Sahai shall be to thee as a son in my stead. Is it agreed, O my mother?’ It was agreed; and Kallu Ram went off, ready for death or for reward;, as Parmeshwar might in his wisdom decide. Stout-hearted fellow!

His reward was great. The English made much of him; twenty thousand broad acres were assigned to him and his heirs; they gave him five lakhs of rupees, and a robe of honor stiff with gold and gems; and they made him a taluqdar of Oudh. He, Kallu Ram, of the cultivator caste, who had never seen three hundred rupees together in all his lifetime, was set in the seats of the mighty, and became one of the lords of the land.

The village knew the facts; but it was felt that substantial justice had been done. He was the wrong Kallu Ram — but that did n’t matter; it was fitting that the splendid recompense should not he lost to the family. Everyone knew that the dead Kallu’s widow was regarded as a mother by the new Kallu; she would share, to the uttermost farthing, so far as a Hindu widow could still have any joy in life, in the new Kallu’s prosperity. Further, it was ill meddling in such high matters. The English had selected Kallu for high honor; he was now the overlord of them all; he had money, which is allpotent; and, though the tale passed from father to son was the common property of all, and still remains known to everyone in the village, it went no farther. An Indian village can, when need be, keep its secrets as closely as the tomb.

One tangible thing remains. On a high site, beside the village, there is a heavy marble monument to the dead English magistrate. Round it are tanks, — huge masonry reservoirs with steps for bathers, — little kiosks here and there where one may shelter from the burning sun, oleanders and acacias to give grateful shade. The tanks are dry, but they are kept in excellent order; and the monument is as fresh as when it left the sculptor’s hands. Kallu Ram meant, at all costs, to show his gratitude; and his son, frail old man as he is, would still grip his gold-hilted and jeweled scimitar, if the need arose, to strike a blow for the English. The years have used him and his property; he is deep in debt; he cannot understand many of our ways; he resents the irksome control that is essential to save for him and his sons the broad lands that the Government gave to his stouthearted father. But through it all, and despite it all, his deep faith in the English has never wavered or been shaken. High and low, from the sodden marshes of the Terai to the burning plains of Rajputana, you will find many Ram Sahais — if you know where to look for them.

II

I am camping in what 1 always think is the most uninteresting part of my district. The country is dead flat, and one sluggish river winds through it.

For the moment, one rather curious happening holds the field of interest. Some obscure pundit or other in the holy city of Benares, upset probably by too copious and indigestible a meal, decided that the world Would come to an end toward the last of this month. Such a decision is in itself not very surprising; it has been made before, and will doubtless be made again, in India and elsewhere. What is troubling me here, however, is that the pundit — may he die of soul-twisting colics — coupled his rather banal announcement with a cheerful intimation that, three days before the end of everything, the Muhammadans would rise, at a preconcerted signal, and massacre the Hindus. I feel that in making this addition he was hardly playing fair; he quite evidently had no sympathy with the race of hardworked and necessarily anxious district officers.

The peasants are not sowing — why should they toil, when the end of the world is at hand? The revenue is not coming in — why should one pay, when the whole world will shortly vanish in smoke? Worst of all, the Hindus are watching the Muhammadans with fear in their eyes; the Muhammadans are glancing askance at the Hindus — will these soft throats offer much resistance to slitting? Will there be much loot? Will it really come to the Armageddon of the two races so soon? It does not do to treat that sort of thing too seriously; it is equally dangerous to treat it too lightly. What I do know, and can see everywhere, is that the plough is not working; the land is not sown; it is as if some infernal fellow had stuck a crowbar into the works of a delicate machine. Everywhere there is anxiety, even dread. Things have stopped with a click.

There is nothing I can do, except carry on as usual, and banter those who broach the subject. I have, however, rearranged my mighty small force of mounted police (I have eighty men for a population of a million and a quarter) so that, if trouble does come, they will be where they are most likely to be wanted. What perturbs me most is that my highest Indian officers

— Hindus and Muhammadans alike — are nervous and excited. Some of them are obviously terrified. In the course of the last two days, I had long talks with two of them, one a Hindu magistrate, the other a Muhammadan tahsildar (that is, a chief revenue officer, in charge of a subdivision consisting of about one quarter of the whole district). Both explained how widespread the uneasiness was; both laughed at the absurd prophecy; and

— confound them— both finished up by suggesting that it would make for security, and would protect a vital point, if I arranged that the police force at their station should be quadrupled during the decisive days. In other words, both of them ‘had the wind up,’ and badly. I told them coldly that I had already given orders as regards the distribution of the police; and added that I myself was camping, with my family, without a guard, at such and such a centre. The thing would pass. Their business was to carry on precisely as before; to ignore all alarmist rumors unless there seemed to be some substantial foundation for them and preventive measures were in fact possible. In that case, they must do the best they could with the resources under their own control. If things looked really serious, they could of course always come to me again; but all I wanted them to do for the moment was to carry on, as if nothing were happening, and to do all they could, by talk and by example, to tranquilize the people.

III

I had an unusual conversation today. I spent nearly two hours discussing with the father of two sons — his only children — whether there was any possible means of saving them from being hanged. A peculiarly brutal murder had been committed; and, as a result of patient and careful investigation, the police sent up these two men for trial on a charge of murder. The details would not interest you; the men were tried before an Indian judge, and were acquitted. It is one of the multifarious duties of a district officer to keep an eye on the general administration of justice in his district. If there is an acquittal in an important case, such as murder or dacoity, which seems at variance with the facts and the evidence, the district magistrate has to bring the matter to the notice of the Government, which has a right of appeal (to the High Court only) against the acquittal. The High Court then retries the case, and can inflict such penalty — even death — as may seem to it proper. In this case, it seemed to me that the acquittal was dead against the facts and the evidence. I had therefore advised the Government to appeal against the acquittal; they had done so, and the case was about to be retried by the High Court. It was at this juncture that the father of the two accused came to see me.

He was an ordinary cultivator, and not of high caste. By some means (one can guess at the method) he had got hold of the substance of mv letter advising the appeal; and he set himself to combat, point by point, the arguments advanced. The whole thing was done with a cold abstraction, a logical precision, an entire absence of emotion, that confounded me. There he was, the father of the two men who would almost certainly be hanged, discussing their deadly peril with acuteness and sang-froid, with ability which was in itself remarkable, and with a kind of intellectual aloofness from the human interests at stake. For a Hindu, as he was, the existence of a son is essential to prestige in this world, and to salvation in the next. The son must perform the funeral rites; the son carries on the family; without a son it is ‘death, disaster, and damnation.’ All that he seemed to have put out of his mind. No human emotion peeped out. It was cold, able, precise, even brilliant advocacy only. I inquired later if there had been tension between the father and his sons to account for it. I could find no evidence of that, or of anything peculiar in the family history. It finally came to this: he agreed that there were two crucial points. I told him that if he could satisfy me that his statement of the facts as to these two points was correct, or probably correct, I would, even at that very late stage of the proceedings, do all I could to stop the wheels I had set in motion. I said frankly that I saw no probability that he could satisfy me as to that; I had been through the whole case twice, and had examined most carefully all the points at issue. I saw no avenue of escape, and was at the moment firmly convinced that his sons had committed the murder. I was, however, ready to reopen the whole affair if, on the two points admittedly vital, he could convince me that his allegations were correct. He thanked me, again without any display of emotion, and said that he would call again in a few days. That was ten days ago, and he has not been back. I doubt if he will return.

In all my twenty years’ experience, that case is unique. District officers are often appealed to by the most unexpected people, and the confidence and trust reposed in them are great. The people generally feel real confidence in their desire for justice and in their sense of fair play; they know that no trouble is too great if it is a question of preventing injustice. Here, with everything at stake in this world and the next, the father had short-circuited the Government (which alone had power to take action in the matter), and he apparently intended to take no steps in the High Court when the case came before them. It was all done with an inhuman detachment which leaves me marveling. He put the whole burden on my shoulders, did his best with me, and was apparently prepared to leave it at that. In India one has fresh surprises every day.

IV

I am now on my way north again, and my spirits rise whenever I think of it. It comforts me to get as close as I can to the shadow of the Himalayas; to see the glittering, aloof peaks stand up stark at dawn; to watch them glow in the sunset; to see their cold leaden slopes when the short sunset flush is over and they withdraw majestically into the gloom of night. North, there are wide open spaces; north, there are forests. One gets to cleaner, purer air.

My first stage on that northward journey has been taken, and my tents are cosily arranged in a little clearing in a tiny bit of outlying forest that bestrides the long white dusty road to the more populous regions I have just left. I am still far from the ‘really truly’ forests, but even this pale simulacrum is immensely satisfying for the moment. This camp, too, is particularly interesting, as the whole place is a ‘criminal settlement’ inhabited by Sansiyahs. The Sansiyahs are of unknown origin; gypsies, probably, of some sort — possibly from Persia. They are fine upstanding men and women, markedly above the average as regards height and physique; they are hereditary criminals, and proud of it. Crime is their profession, and, except so far as we can prevent it, their sole occupation. They have, of course, an argot of their own, though they can speak good Hindustani. Their proficiency as thieves is remarkable; and they devote to this life work of theirs an amount of thought and energy which is amazing. Time after time, in case after case, we have found them executing a coup of some kind or other at a place about twenty miles off, leaving their settlement after the last roll call (say about ten at night) and returning in time for the roll call at six in the morning. They know the local jungles like the backs of their hands; they lope along in the dark, in single file, noiselessly, tirelessly, strike suddenly, and disappear into the blackness of the night. They are not ‘scientific’ criminals, in any sense of the term; and their game is usually petty theft, fairly safe housebreaking, the snatching of a goat here or a sheep there, shoplifting where good chances offer, and occasionally an excursion into bolder forms of crime such as dacoity, though they seldom run to murder.

There arc about three hundred of them here, and they have been ‘settled’ in a huge clearing in this strip of forest. Unwisely, I think, for the forest gives them exactly the terrain they like. Land has been allotted to them; they have cattle; they are taught to weave, and so on, and to supplement their agricultural earnings by minor home industries. But their hearts are not in the work. Like the wild dogs, they seem untamable. They are repulsively dirty in their habits; and the women in particular love the ‘stalwart beggar’ act, and terrify peaceable Hindu households by demanding money, threatening in the event of refusal to throw unspeakable ordures into the courtyards. That would usually mean elaborate purifications, and so on — time, trouble, and expense. So, usually, the Sansiyahs arc bought off, and the game proceeds merrily. Meantime, the women note the position of things; mark down houses which are worth burgling; note which children are wearing silver ornaments; and collect information useful to their scallywag husbands — for future use.

This particular settlement is in charge of a European officer of the Salvation Army. He, his wife, and one young child live in the midst of these ruffians, in a mud hut thatched with jungle grass. There they remain, summer, rains, and winter, in conditions which one can only describe as appalling. They live on such food as is locally obtainable, for their combined salary is roughly fifty pounds a year. They may possibly sec three or four Europeans each season. They are isolated from everything that makes life worth living; their only literature, except for the Bible, is a daily paper which is delivered by the post one day late. There is no doctor, of course; medical aid of a very inferior kind could possibly be obtained some fifteen miles away. In the rains, the jungle clearing is sodden with fever; in the hot weather, the earth is iron, and the skies are brass. No ice, of course; no mineral waters; and nothing to do but work. Yet they stand it all; they are always cheerful, always optimistic. They have no delusions, cither — they know the breed they have to work with.

Their lives must often be in danger, but the husband sallies forth undauntedly, clad in his red army sweater, with a huge blackthorn in his hand; and he plunges into the midst of the quarreling, excited groups, calms them down, hears the story, and gives his instant decision. When necessary, the blackthorn makes that decision respected. He is ‘a good man of his hands,’ and has established a domination, chiefly moral, in part physical, on which the whole conduct of the settlement turns. They know there is no money in the game for him; they cannot make him out. He enforces a roll call every two hours at all critical periods of the day; it is the only way to make sure that the men do not go off thieving. He pays surprise visits to their houses at all hours of the night with the same object. His Hindustani is rather elementary (he has not been there very long), but he is learning the language fast; and meantime lie ekes out his scrappy vocabulary in the expressive manner of the British Tommy. Signs and gestures; a firm tone of voice; infinite patience — and always the blackthorn firmly gripped in his muscular fist. Checking by every means I can employ for ascertaining the real facts, I find that he has got that settlement feeding out of his hand. Crime in the vicinity is practically normal; there are few complaints of any importance from the surrounding villages; the police are satisfied; the people round about are reasonably contented. Is n’t it a marvel? And when one thinks of the driving motive that can lead a man

— and his wife — to devote their lives to such work, in such surroundings, and to remain cheerful and happy through it all!

The district policeman told me a curious story regarding this settlement. About a year ago, despite all the restrictions, despite the roll calls and the control, petty thefts in the neighboring market town, fifteen miles off, were steadily increasing. Articles of considerable value were constantly disappearing from the shops. The local police could do nothing, and had no suggestions to make; they were ‘flummoxed,’and gave it up.

About that time the policeman was visiting this settlement. One evening, having spotted the tracks of a large leopard in the jungle near the river, he decided to ‘sit up for it.’ He went back at once to his camp, took his machan,

— a little tape-strung wooden frame with iron rings at the corners which one can fix in a tree, — and prepared for his long vigil, perched uncomfortably in the machan, some eighteen feet or so above the ground. The jungle was scrub, karunda, thorn bushes, and so on, and it was fairly open, so that, from a height, one could see some distance.

After sitting in absolute stillness for an hour or more, he heard someone coming along the jungle path. Soon he saw the intruder — a Sansiyah boy whom he knew well by sight. There was little danger of the policeman’s being seen, for when one is walking on a winding, narrow jungle path one seldom looks up, and the machan was, in any case, screened by leaves. That one always attends to — it is part of the game. The boy came sauntering along, stopping every now and then to pick a berry. Thirty yards or so from the machan, he was attracted by a dhak tree — a tree that bears brilliant scarlet blossoms before the leaves come out. ‘Flame of the forest,’it is sometimes called. Now, as all Indian boys know, the flower of the dhak, properly manipulated, makes an admirable sort of jew’s-harp; and this Sansiyah child — he was about twelve years old — sat down on the path to make one. Delicately he shredded off the unwanted parts; appreciatively he tried his new toy; and when all was satisfactory he resumed his stroll, passing finally out of sight without having been conscious that the policeman was watching every movement with intense interest.

The reason for the intense interest was that the policeman knew that this child had been blind from birth! He had seen him a hundred times, feeling his pitiful way through the settlement; he had often watched his pale blue eyes with their fixed unseeing stare; he knew by heart that peculiar expression of peace and calm which the faces of the blind so often wear. Every act, every gesture, had fitted in to perfection with the idea that the boy was blind, and had never known sight. It was all acting, he now knew; the boy had been trained from infancy to act as the blind act — and never had his acting failed! In that lonely jungle path, with no one likely to be there but Sansiyahs who knew and profited by his secret, he doubtless felt he could take an hour or so off. He had done so, to his own undoing. While waiting for the leopard (which never came) the policeman thought it all over, and became convinced that chance had enabled him to solve the mystery of the shop thefts. The blind boy went everywhere; everyone knew he was blind; he was unsuspected and unwatched. When the head of the local police station was told the tale, he laughed at it at first. Why, he had known the boy for five years — the sahib must be wrong. He, everyone, knew with the certainty of absolute conviction that the boy was stone-blind.

We had the child examined by the Civil Surgeon: his eyes were perfect. Eventually, the Sansiyahs gave up the game; they admitted that, the boy had normal sight, and that he had been trained, through all these years, to simulate the acts and appearance of a blind child. Think of the infinite patience required, of the supreme ability necessary, of the iron control requisite, to carry through successfully such a deception. And the boy was only twelve years old! Truly, the Sansiyah is never weary in ill-doing.

V

Here are two little thumb-nail sketches that will perhaps bring home to you the variety and the sharpness of the contrasts one comes across in one’s daily work.

Out duck shooting the other evening, I picked up a village coolie to carry the birds I had shot, and to help in retrieving others. We were passing through his village on the way back, and as we rounded a clay pit of large extent, deep and full of water, and with absolutely vertical sides, he began to shake with laughter. I asked him what the joke was. And this is the tale he told: —

‘I never pass here without laughing. The reason is that, about a month ago, a stranger somehow fell into that tank. [In passing, I may say that a ‘stranger’ often means anyone from a village not quite close to the home of the speaker.] The sides are slippery and give no hold; round and round he went, like a rat in a barrel of water, round and round and round, splashing, struggling, going under, coming up again. He could not swim well. And we all came out and sat on the sides, and watched him. It was very funny: up he came, shouted; down he went, splashing. And when he was tired, he sank. I never saw anything so funny, and when I pass here I remember it all, and laugh.’

They could have saved him, without the slightest risk, by merely pushing into his hand any one of the hundreds of bamboos that lay near. That evidently did not occur to anyone; so they sat and enjoyed the entertainment provided.

Now for the second story: A week ago, in a district close to mine, an old lady was buried alive. The funeral was attended by all the villagers, and of course by her own family — two grow nup sons and three grandsons. And this is how it all happened. The facts came out in open court, and there can be no doubt as to their accuracy.

The two sons, after working all day in their fields, bathed, prior to their evening meal. One of them noticed, with horror, that a white patch had appeared on his thigh. Leprosy! They talked the matter over with their mother. One can picture the scene: the mud-walled house, the thatched roof with the untrimmed beams showing, the flickering light of the little chiragh of coconut oil in which a tiny wick guttered, the swaying shadows of the great clay corn bin that rose from the beaten floor smooth and fresh from its daily coating of mud and cow dung, the stricken man, the wrinkled old woman bent with age and exhausting labor. It was common knowledge that the gods were angry, and it was of course very evident that there was but one sure method of propitiating them — a human sacrifice. That everyone knew. There was the family to think of. The grandsons would suffer unless the sacrifice was made; the second son might be stricken also. Clearly, there must be a sacrifice — but who should be the victim? They argued it out, dispassionately. The leper son contended that he should be buried — he was already attacked; a sacrifice might, or possibly might not, cure him; but he at least could certainly purchase by his own life immunity for his brother and their sons.

The mother did not agree. Her son was in the prime of life; his sons needed him; he was required to work the family holding. Her death would earn not only a cure for him, but also immunity for the others. She had fix ed her life; she was finished; she must die soon, anyhow — why wait for death when death, if sought, would fetch so great a price? The fife of her sons, the safety of her grandsons, the power to wring a living from the soil — all was at stake. No! She must die, and die she would, gladly. It was a little thing to give to get so much. Far into the night they talked, debating these high issues of fife and death. Finally, all agreed that the mother’s offer should be accepted; it was the wisest course. Early next morning they laid the matter before the village elders; and there again, under the great peepul tree, the question was debated afresh, gravely, dispassionately, with all the wisdom that the old men of the village could bring to bear on it. Of the efficacy of the course proposed no one had any doubt; that was quite clear. It was merely a question of deciding on the most appropriate victim. And the village council, after much high debate, agreed that the best plan was to bury the old lady. That evening she walked firmly to the grave they had dug, embraced her sons and grandsons, said her sad partings, and lay down, with her sari drawn across her face, at the bottom of her living tomb. They spread boughs rent from neighboring trees over her, and then filled up the grave. She was not drugged; she was, to the last, the dominating personality in all that tragic affair. One little touch of tremendous realism was preserved by the dry official record. When they began to fill in the earth, the old woman’s voice came muffled through the boughs and the clods: ‘Dhirti sambhalke dalo.' (‘Throw in the earth carefully — gently.’)

One wonders what the sons and the village folk thought as they went back to their homes? Possibly, some Indian version of the familiar words, ‘Greater love hath no man than this. . . .’