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the Caves and Jungles of Hindostan
From the Caves and
Jungles of Hindostan
by
H P Blavatsky
The
Secret Doctrine by H P Blavatsky
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FROM
THE CAVES AND JUNGLES OF HINDOSTAN
By
Helena Petrovna Blavatsky
Translated
From The Russian
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Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
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Translator's
Preface
"You
must remember," said Mme. Blavatsky, "that I never meant this for a
scientific
work. My letters to the Russian Messenger, under the general
title:
'From the Caves and Jungles of Hindostan,' were written in
leisure
moments, more for amusement than with any serious design.
"Broadly
speaking, the facts and incidents are true; but I have freely
availed
myself of an author's privilege to group, colour, and dramatize
them,
whenever this seemed necessary to the full artistic effect;
though,
as I say, much of the book is exactly true, l would rather claim
kindly
judgment for it, as a romance of travel, than incur the critical
risks
that haunt an avowedly serious work."
To
this caution of the author's, the translator must add another; these
letters,
as Mme Blavatsky says, were written in leisure moments, during
1879
and 1880, for the pages of the Russki Vyestnik, then edited by M.
Katkoff.
Mme. Blavatsky's manuscript was often incorrect; often obscure.
The
Russian compositors, though they did their best to render faithfully
the
Indian names and places, often produced, through their ignorance of
Oriental
tongues, forms which are strange, and sometimes unrecognizable.
The
proof-sheets were never corrected by the author, who was then in
local
and personal names to their proper form.
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
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A
similar difficulty has arisen with reference to quotations and
cited
authorities, all of which have gone through a double process of
refraction:
first into Russian, then into English. The translator, also
a
Russian, and far from perfectly acquainted with English, cannot
claim
to possess the erudition necessary to verify and restore the many
quotations
to verbal accuracy; all that is hoped is that, by a careful
rendering,
the correct sense has been preserved.
The
translator begs the indulgence of English readers for all
imperfections
of style and language; in the words of the Sanskrit
proverb:
"Who is to be blamed, if success be not reached after due
effort?"
The
translator's best thanks are due to Mr. John C. Staples, for
valuable
help in the early chapters.--
Contents
In
On the Way to Karli
In the
Vanished Glories
A City of the Dead
Brahmanic Hospitalities
A Witch's Den
God's Warrior
The Banns of Marriage
The Caves of Bagh
An Isle of Mystery
Jubblepore
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FROM
THE CAVES AND JUNGLES OF HINDOSTAN
In
Late
in the evening of
voyage
which lasted thirty-two days, joyful exclamations were heard
everywhere
on deck. "Have you seen the lighthouse?" "There it is at
last,
the
Cards,
books, music, everything was forgotten. Everyone rushed on deck.
The
moon had not risen as yet, and, in spite of the starry tropical sky,
it
was quite dark. The stars were so bright that, at first, it seemed
hardly
possible to distinguish, far away amongst them, a small fiery
point
lit by earthly hands. The stars winked at us like so many huge
eyes
in the black sky, on one side of which shone the Southern Cross.
At
last we distinguished the lighthouse on the distant horizon. It was
nothing
but a tiny fiery point diving in the phosphorescent waves. The
tired
travellers greeted it warmly. The rejoicing was general.
What
a glorious daybreak followed this dark night! The sea no longer
tossed
our ship. Under the skilled guidance of the pilot, who had just
arrived,
and whose bronze form was so sharply defined against the pale
sky,
our steamer, breathing heavily with its broken machinery, slipped
over
the quiet, transparent waters of the
the
harbour. We were only four miles from
trembled
with cold only a few weeks ago in the
been
so glorified by many poets and so heartily cursed by all sailors,
our
surroundings simply seemed a magical dream.
After
the tropical nights of the
that
had tortured us since
experienced
something strange and unwonted, as if the very fresh soft
air
had cast its spell over us. There was not a cloud in the sky,
thickly
strewn with dying stars. Even the moonlight, which till then had
covered
the sky with its silvery garb, was gradually vanishing; and the
brighter
grew the rosiness of dawn over the small island that lay before
us
in the East, the paler in the West grew the scattered rays of the
moon
that sprinkled with bright flakes of light the dark wake our ship
left
behind her, as if the glory of the West was bidding good-bye to us,
while
the light of the East welcomed the newcomers from far-off lands.
Brighter
and bluer grew the sky, swiftly absorbing the remaining pale
stars
one after the other, and we felt something touching in the
sweet
dignity with which the Queen of Night resigned her rights to the
powerful
usurper. At last, descending lower and lower, she disappeared
completely.
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And
suddenly, almost without interval between darkness and light, the
red-hot
globe, emerging on the opposite side from under the cape, leant
his
golden chin on the lower rocks of the island and seemed to stop for
a
while, as if examining us. Then, with one powerful effort, the torch
of
day rose high over the sea and gloriously proceeded on its path,
including
in one mighty fiery embrace the blue waters of the bay, the
shore
and the islands with their rocks and cocoanut forests. His golden
rays
fell upon a crowd of Parsees, his rightful worshippers, who stood
on
shore raising their arms towards the mighty "Eye of Ormuzd." The
sight
was so impressive that everyone on deck became silent for a
moment,
even a red-nosed old sailor, who was busy quite close to us over
the
cable, stopped working, and, clearing his throat, nodded at the sun.
Moving
slowly and cautiously along the charming but treacherous bay, we
had
plenty of time to admire the picture around us. On the right was a
group
of islands with Gharipuri or Elephanta, with its ancient temple,
at
their head. Gharipuri translated means "the town of caves" according
to
the Orientalists, and "the town of purification" according to the
native
Sanskrit scholars. This temple, cut out by an unknown hand in
the
very heart of a rock resembling porphyry, is a true apple of
discord
amongst the archaeologists, of whom none can as yet fix, even
approximately,
its antiquity. Elephanta raises high its rocky brow, all
overgrown
with secular cactus, and right under it, at the foot of the
rock,
are hollowed out the chief temple and the two lateral ones. Like
the
serpent of our Russian fairy tales, it seems to be opening its
fierce
black mouth to swallow the daring mortal who comes to take
possession
of the secret mystery of Titan. Its two remaining teeth, dark
with
time, are formed by two huge pillars t the entrance, sustaining the
palate
of the monster.
How
many generations of Hindus, how many races, have knelt in the
dust
before the Trimurti, your threefold deity, O Elephanta? How many
centuries
were spent by weak man in digging out in your stone bosom this
town
of temples and carving your gigantic idols? Who can say? Many years
have
elapsed since I saw you last, ancient, mysterious temple, and still
the
same restless thoughts, the same recurrent questions vex me snow as
they
did then, and still remain unanswered. In a few days we shall see
each
other again. Once more I shall gaze upon your stern image, upon
your
three huge granite faces, and shall feel as hopeless as ever of
piercing
the mystery of your being. This secret fell into safe hands
three
centuries before ours. It is not in vain that the old Portuguese
historian
Don Diego de Cuta boasts that "the big square stone fastened
over
the arch of the pagoda with a distinct inscription, having been
torn
out and sent as a present to the King Dom Juan III, disappeared
mysteriously
in the course of time....," and adds, further, "Close to
this
big pagoda there stood another, and farther on even a third one,
the
most wonderful of all in beauty, incredible size, and richness of
material.
All those pagodas and caves have been built by the Kings of
Kanada,
(?) the most important of whom was Bonazur, and these buildings
of
Satan our (Portuguese) soldiers attacked with such vehemence that in
a
few years one stone was not left upon another...." And, worst of
all,
they left no inscriptions that might have given a clue to so much.
Thanks
to the fanaticism of Portuguese soldiers, the chronology of the
Indian
cave temples must remain for ever an enigma to the archaeological
world,
beginning with the Brah-mans, who say Elephanta is 374,000 years
old,
and ending with Fergusson, who tries to prove that it was carved
only
in the twelfth century of our era. Whenever one turns one's eyes to
history,
there is nothing to be found but hypotheses and darkness. And
yet
Gharipuri is mentioned in the epic Mahabharata, which was written,
according
to Colebrooke and Wilson, a good while before the reign of
Cyrus.
In another ancient legend it is said that the
was
built on Elephanta by the sons of Pandu, who took part in the war
between
the dynasties of the Sun and the Moon, and, belonging to the
latter,
were expelled at the end of the war. The Rajputs, who are the
descendants
of the first, still sing of this victory; but even in their
popular
songs there is nothing positive. Centuries have passed and will
pass,
and the ancient secret will die in the rocky bosom of the cave
still
unrecorded.
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On
the left side of the bay, exactly opposite Elephanta, and as if in
contrast
with all its antiquity and greatness, spreads the Malabar Hill,
the
residence of the modern Europeans and rich natives. Their brightly
painted
bungalows are bathed in the greenery of banyan, Indian fig, and
various
other trees, and the tall and straight trunks of cocoanut palms
cover
with the fringe of their leaves the whole ridge of the hilly
headland.
There, on the south-western end of the rock, you see the
almost
transparent, lace-like Government House surrounded on three
sides
by the ocean. This is the coolest and the most comfortable part of
The
name
from the goddess Mamba, in Mahrati Mahima, or Amba, Mama, and Amma,
according
to the dialect, a word meaning, literally, the Great Mother.
Hardly
one hundred years ago, on the site of the modern esplanade, there
stood
a temple consecrated to Mamba-Devi. With great difficulty and
expense
they carried it nearer to the shore, close to the fort, and
erected
it in front of Baleshwara the "Lord of the Innocent"--one of
the
names of the god Shiva.
islands,
the most remarkable of which are Salsetta, joined to
a
mole, Elephanta, so named by the Portuguese because of a huge rock cut
in
the shape of an elephant thirty-five feet long, and Trombay, whose
lovely
rock rises nine hundred feet above the surface of the sea.
looks,
on the maps, like an enormous crayfish, and is at the head of
the
rest of the islands. Spreading far out into the sea its two claws,
brothers.
Between it and the Continent there is a narrow arm of a river,
which
gets gradually broader and then again narrower, deeply indenting
the
sides of both shores, and so forming a haven that has no equal in
the
world. It was not without reason that the Portuguese, expelled in
the
course of time by the English, used to call it "Buona Bahia."
In
a fit of tourist exaltation some travellers have compared it to the
Bay
of
other
as a lazzaroni is like a Kuli. The whole resemblance between the
former
consists in the fact that there is water in both. In
well
as in its harbour, everything is original and does not in the least
remind
one of
boats;
both are built in the likeness of the sea bird "sat," a kind
of
kingfisher. When in motion these boats are the personi-fication of
grace,
with their long prows and rounded poops. They look as if they
were
gliding backwards, and one might mistake for wings the strangely
shaped,
long lateen sails, their narrow angles fastened upwards to a
yard.
Filling these two wings with the wind, and careening, so as almost
to
touch the surface of the water, these boats will fly along with
astonishing
swiftness. Unlike our European boats, they do not cut the
waves,
but glide over them like a sea-gull.
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The
surroundings of the bay transported us to some fairy land of the
Arabian
Nights. The ridge of the
there
by some separate hills almost as high as themselves, stretched all
along
the
they
are all overgrown with impenetrable forests and jungles inhabited
by
wild animals. Every rock has been enriched by the popular imagination
with
an independent legend. All over the slope of the mountain are
scattered
the pagodas, mosques, and temples of numberless sects. Here
and
there the hot rays of the sun strike upon an old fortress, once
dreadful
and inaccessible, now half ruined and covered with prickly
cactus.
At every step some memorial of sanctity. Here a deep vihara,
a
cave cell of a Buddhist bhikshu saint, there a rock protected by the
symbol
of Shiva, further on a Jaina temple, or a holy tank, all covered
with
sedge and filled with water, once blessed by a Brahman and able to
purify
every sin, all indispensable attribute of all pagodas. All the
surroundings
are covered with symbols of gods and goddesses. Each of the
three
hundred and thirty millions of deities of the Hindu Pantheon has
its
representative in something consecrated to it, a stone, a flower, a
tree,
or a bird. On the West side of the Malabar Hill peeps through the
trees
Valakeshvara, the temple of the "Lord of Sand." A long stream of
Hindus
moves towards this celebrated temple; men and women, shining with
rings
on their fingers and toes, with bracelets from their wrists up
to
their elbows, clad in bright turbans and snow white muslins, with
foreheads
freshly painted with red, yellow, and white, holy sectarian
signs.
The
legend says that Rama spent here a night on his way from Ayodhya
(
the
wicked King Ravana. Rama's brother Lakshman, whose duty it was
to
send him daily a new lingam from
evening.
Losing patience, Rama erected for himself a lingam of sand.
When,
at last, the symbol arrived from
and
the lingam erected by Rama was left on the shore. There it stayed
during
long centuries, but, at the arrival of the Portuguese, the "Lord
of
Sand" felt so disgusted with the feringhi (foreigners) that he jumped
into
the sea never to return. A little farther on there is a charming
tank,
called Vanattirtha, or the "point of the arrow." Here Rama, the
much
worshipped hero of the Hindus, felt thirsty and, not finding any
water,
shot an arrow and immediately there was created a pond. Its
crystal
waters were surrounded by a high wall, steps were built leading
down
to it, and a circle of white marble dwellings was filled with dwija
(twice
born) Brahmans.
is
not a ruin, not a monument, not a thicket, that has no story attached
to
it. Yet, however they may be entangled in the cobweb of popular
imagination,
which becomes thicker with every generation, it is
difficult
to point out a single one that is not founded on fact. With
patience
and, still more, with the help of the learned Brahmans you
can
always get at the truth, when once you have secured their trust and
friendship.
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The
same road leads to the temple of the Parsee fire-worshippers. At its
altar
burns an unquenchable fire, which daily consumes hundredweights of
sandal
wood and aromatic herbs. Lit three hundred years ago, the sacred
fire
has never been extinguished, notwithstanding many disorders,
sectarian
discords, and even wars. The Parsees are very proud of this
Hindu
pagodas look like brightly painted Easter eggs. Generally they are
consecrated
to Hanuman, the monkey-god and the faithful ally of Rama, or
to
the elephant headed Ganesha, the god of the occult wisdom, or to one
of
the Devis. You meet with these temples in every street. Before each
there
is a row of pipals (Ficus religiosa) centuries old, which no
temple
can dispense with, because these trees are the abode of the
elementals
and the sinful souls.
All
this is entangled, mixed, and scattered, appearing to one's eyes
like
a picture in a dream. Thirty centuries have left their traces
here.
The innate laziness and the strong conservative tendencies of
the
Hindus, even before the European invasion, preserved all kinds of
monuments
from the ruinous vengeance of the fanatics, whether those
memorials
were Buddhist, or belonged to some other unpopular sect.
The
Hindus are not naturally given to senseless vandalism, and a
phrenologist
would vainly look for a bump of destructiveness on their
skulls.
If you meet with antiquities that, having been spared by time,
are,
nowadays, either destroyed or disfigured, it is not they who are
to
blame, but either Mussulmans, or the Portuguese under the guidance of
the
Jesuits.
At
last we were anchored and, in a moment, were besieged, ourselves as
well
as our luggage, by numbers of naked skeleton-like Hindus, Parsees,
Moguls,
and various other tribes. All this crowd emerged, as if from the
bottom
of the sea, and began to shout, to chatter, and to yell, as only
the
tribes of
soon
as possible, we took refuge in the first bunder boat and made for
the
shore.
Once
settled in the bungalow awaiting us, the first thing we were struck
with
in
to
speak, the County Council of the town, whose duty it is to clean the
streets,
and to kill one of them is not only forbidden by the police,
but
would be very dangerous. By killing one you would rouse the
vengeance
of every Hindu, who is always ready to offer his own life in
exchange
for a crow's. The souls of the sinful forefathers transmigrate
into
crows and to kill one is to interfere with the law of Karma and
to
expose the poor ancestor to something still worse. Such is the firm
belief,
not only of Hindus, but of Parsees, even the most enlightened
amongst
them. The strange behaviour of the Indian crows explains, to
a
certain extent, this superstition. The vultures are, in a way, the
grave-diggers
of the Parsees and are under the personal protection
of
the Farvardania, the angel of death, who soars over the Tower of
Silence,
watching the occupations of the feathered workmen.
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The
deafening caw of the crows strikes every new comer as uncanny, but,
after
a while, is explained very simply. Every tree of the numerous
cocoa-nut
forests round
sap
of the tree drops into it and, after fermenting, becomes a most
intoxicating
beverage, known in
naked
toddy wallahs, generally half-caste Portuguese, modestly adorned
with
a single coral necklace, fetch this beverage twice a day, climbing
the
hundred and fifty feet high trunks like squirrels. The crows
mostly
build their nests on the tops of the cocoa-nut palms and drink
incessantly
out of the open pumpkins. The result of this is the chronic
intoxication
of the birds. As soon as we went out in the garden of our
new
habitation, flocks of crows came down heavily from every tree. The
noise
they make whilst jumping about everywhere is indescribable. There
seemed
to be something positively human in the positions of the slyly
bent
heads of the drunken birds, and a fiendish light shone in their
eyes
while they were examining us from foot to head.
We
occupied three small bungalows, lost, like nests, in the garden,
their
roofs literally smothered in roses blossoming on bushes twenty
feet
high, and their windows covered only with muslin, instead of the
usual
panes of glass. The bungalows were situated in the native part of
the
town, so that we were transported, all at once, into the real
We
were living in
by
and
customs, her religion, superstitions and rites, to learn her
legends,
in fact, to live among Hindus.
Everything
in
of
the tiger and the unsuccessful English missionary, is original and
strange.
Everything seems unusual, unexpected, and striking, even to one
who
has travelled in
tropical
regions the conditions of nature are so various that all the
forms
of the animal and vegetable kingdoms must radically differ from
what
we are used to in
their
way to a well through a garden, which is private and at the same
time
open to anyone, because somebody's cows are grazing in it. To whom
does
it not happen to meet with women, to see cows, and admire a garden?
Doubtless
these are among the commonest of all things. But a single
attentive
glance will suffice to show you the difference that exists
between
the same objects in
in
majesty
of the tropical growth is such that our highest trees would look
dwarfed
compared with banyans and especially with palms. A European cow,
mistaking,
at first sight, her Indian sister for a calf, would deny the
existence
of any kinship between them, as neither the mouse-coloured
wool,
nor the straight goat-like horns, nor the humped back of the
latter
would permit her to make such an error. As to the women, each of
them
would make any artist feel enthusiastic about the gracefulness
of
her movements and drapery, but still, no pink and white, stout Anna
Ivanovna
would condescend to greet her. "Such a shame, God forgive me,
the
woman is entirely naked!"
This
opinion of the modern Russian woman is nothing but the echo of what
was
said in 1470 by a distinguished Russian traveler, "the sinful slave
of
God, Athanasius son of Nikita from Tver," as he styles himself. He
describes
naked,
never cover their heads, and wear their hair braided. Women have
babies
every year. Men and women are black. Their prince wears a veil
round
his head and wraps another veil round his legs. The noblemen wear
a
veil on one shoulder, and the noblewomen on the shoulders and round
the
loins, but everyone is barefooted. The women walk about with their
hair
spread and their breasts naked. The children, boys and girls, never
cover
their shame until they are seven years old...." This description
is
quite correct, but Athanasius Nikita's son is right only concerning
the
lowest and poorest classes. These really do "walk about" covered
only
with a veil, which often is so poor that, in fact, it is nothing
but
a rag. But still, even the poorest woman is clad in a piece of
muslin
at least ten yards long. One end serves as a sort of short
petticoat,
and the other covers the head and shoulders when out in the
street,
though the faces are always uncovered. The hair is erected into
a
kind of Greek chignon. The legs up to the knees, the arms, and the
waist
are never covered. There is not a single respectable woman who
would
consent to put on a pair of shoes. Shoes are the attribute and the
prerogative
of disreputable women. When, some time ago, the wife of the
women
to cover their breasts, the place was actually threatened with
a
revolution. A kind of jacket is worn only by dancing girls. The
Government
recognized that it would be unreasonable to irritate women,
who,
very often, are more dangerous than their husbands and brothers,
and
the custom, based on the law of Manu, and sanctified by three
thousand
years' observance, remained unchanged.
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For
more than two years before we left
correspondence
with a certain learned Brahman, whose glory is great
at
present (1879) all over
guidance,
the ancient country of Aryas, the Vedas, and their difficult
language.
His name is Dayanand Saraswati Swami. Swami is the name of the
learned
anchorites who are initiated into many mysteries unattainable by
common
mortals. They are monks who never marry, but are quite different
from
other mendicant brotherhoods, the so-called Sannyasi and Hossein.
This
Pandit is considered the greatest Sanskritist of modern
and
is an absolute enigma to everyone. It is only five years since
he
appeared on the arena of great reforms, but till then, he lived,
entirely
secluded, in a jungle, like the ancient gymnosophists mentioned
by
the Greek and Latin authors. At this time he was studying the chief
philosophical
systems of the "Aryavartta" and the occult meaning of the
Vedas
with the help of mystics and anchorites. All Hindus believe that
on
the
there
exist spacious caves, inhabited, now for many thousand years, by
these
anchorites. Bhadrinath is situated in the north of
the
river Bishegunj, and is celebrated for its
the
heart of the town. Inside the temple there are hot mineral springs,
visited
yearly by about fifty thousand pilgrims, who come to be purified
by
them.
From
the first day of his appearance Dayanand Saraswati produced
an
immense impression and got the surname of the "Luther of India."
Wandering
from one town to another, today in the South, tomorrow in the
North,
and transporting himself from one end of the country to another
with
incredible quickness, he has visited every part of
Comorin
to the
One
Deity and, "Vedas in hand," proves that in the ancient writings
there
was not a word that could justify polytheism. Thundering against
idol
worship, the great orator fights with all his might against caste,
infant
marriages, and superstitions. Chastising all the evils grafted on
he
blames for them the Brahmans, who, as he openly says before masses of
people,
are alone guilty of the humiliation of their country, once great
and
independent, now fallen and enslaved. And yet
him
not an enemy, but rather an ally. He says openly--"If you expel the
English,
then, no later than tomorrow, you and I and everyone who rises
against
idol worship will have our throats cut like mere sheep. The
Mussulmans
are stronger than the idol worshippers; but these last
are
stronger than we." The Pandit held many a warm dispute with the
Brah-mans,
those treacherous enemies of the people, and has almost
always
been victorious. In
him,
but the attempt did not succeed. In a small town of
he
treated fetishism with more than his usual severity, some fanatic
threw
on his naked feet a huge cobra. There are two snakes deified by
the
Brahman mythology: the one which surrounds the neck of Shiva on his
idols
is called Vasuki; the other, Ananta, forms the couch of Vishnu. So
the
worshipper of Shiva, feeling sure that his cobra, trained purposely
for
the mysteries of a Shivaite pagoda, would at once make an end of
the
offender's life, triumphantly exclaimed, "Let the god Vasuki himself
show
which of us is right!"
Dayanand
jerked off the cobra twirling round his leg, and with a single
vigorous
movement, crushed the reptile's head. "Let him do so," he
quietly
assented. "Your god has been too slow. It is I who have decided
the
dispute, Now go," added he, addressing the crowd, "and tell everyone
how
easily perish the false gods."
Thanks
to his excellent knowledge of Sanskrit the Pandit does a great
service,
not only to the masses, clearing their ignorance about the
monotheism
of the Vedas, but to science too, showing who, exactly, are
the
Brahmans, the only caste in
right
to study Sanskrit literature and comment on the Vedas, and which
used
this right solely for its own advantage.
Long
before the time of such Orientalists as Burnouf, Colebrooke and Max
Muller,
there have been in
pure
monotheism of the Vedic doctrines. There have even been founders
of
new religions who denied the revelations of these scriptures; for
instance,
the Raja Ram Mohun Roy, and, after him, Babu Keshub Chunder
Sen,
both
did
nothing but add new denominations to the numberless sects existing
in
and
Keshub Chunder Sen, having founded the community of "Brahmo-Samaj,"
which
professes a religion extracted from the depths of the Babu's own
imagination,
became a mystic of the most pronounced type, and now
is
only "a berry from the same field," as we say in
Spiritualists,
by whom he is considered to be a medium and a
Swedenborg.
He spends his time in a dirty tank, singing praises to
Chaitanya,
Koran, Buddha, and his own person, proclaiming himself their
prophet,
and performs a mystical dance, dressed in woman's attire,
which,
on his part, is an attention to a "woman goddess" whom the Babu
calls
his "mother, father and eldest brother."
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In
short, all the attempts to re-establish the pure primitive monotheism
of
Aryan India have been a failure. They always got wrecked upon the
double
rock of Brahmanism and of prejudices centuries old. But lo! here
appears
unexpectedly the pandit Dayanand. None, even of the most
beloved
of his disciples, knows who he is and whence he comes. He openly
confesses
before the crowds that the name under which he is known is not
his,
but was given to him at the Yogi initiation.
The
mystical
of
one of the six philosophical systems of ancient
that
the Neo-platonists of the second and third Alexandrian Schools were
the
followers of Indian Yogis, more especially was their theurgy brought
from
in
assert
that they are in communion with Brahma. Nevertheless, most of
them
are do-nothings, mendicants by profession, and great frauds, thanks
to
the insatiable longing of the natives for miracles. The real Yogis
avoid
appearing in public, and spend their lives in secluded retirement
and
studies, except when, as in Dayanand's case, they come forth in
time
of need to aid their country. However, it is perfectly certain that
a
more wonderful orator, and a more fearless denunciator of every evil,
than
Dayanand, since the time of Sankharacharya, the celebrated founder
of
the Vedanta philosophy, the most metaphysical of Indian systems,
in
fact, the crown of pantheistic teaching. Then, Dayanand's personal
appearance
is striking. He is immensely tall, his complexion is pale,
rather
European than Indian, his eyes are large and bright, and his
greyish
hair is long. The Yogis and Dikshatas (initiated) never cut
either
their hair or beard. His voice is clear and loud, well calculated
to
give expression to every shade of deep feeling, ranging from a sweet
childish
caressing whisper to thundering wrath against the evil doings
and
falsehoods of the priests. All this taken together produces an
indescribable
effect on the impressionable Hindu. Wherever Dayanand
appears
crowds prostrate themselves in the dust over his footprints;
but,
unlike Babu Keshub Chunder Sen, he does not teach a new
religion,
does not invent new dogmas. He only asks them to renew their
half-forgotten
Sanskrit studies, and, having compared the doctrines of
their
forefathers with what they have become in the hands of Brahmans,
to
return to the pure conceptions of Deity taught by the primitive
Rishis--Agni,
Vayu, Aditya, and Anghira--the patriarchs who first gave
the
Vedas to humanity. He does not even claim that the Vedas are a
heavenly
revelation, but simply teaches that "every word in these
scriptures
belongs to the highest inspiration possible to the earthly
man,
an inspiration that is repeated in the history of humanity, and,
when
necessary, may happen to any nation....."
During
his five years of work Swami Dayanand made about two million
proselytes,
chiefly amongst the higher castes. Judging by appearances,
they
are all ready to sacrifice to him their lives and souls and even
their
earthly possessions, which are often more precious to them than
their
lives. But Dayanand is a real Yogi, he never touches money, and
despises
pecuniary affairs. He contents himself with a few handfuls of
rice
per day. One is inclined to think that this wonderful Hindu bears
a
charmed life, so careless is he of rousing the worst human passions,
which
are so dangerous in
by
the raging wrath of the crowd. We saw him once at work. He sent away
all
his faithful followers and forbade them either to watch over him
or
to defend him, and stood alone before the infuriated crowd, facing
calmly
the monster ready to spring upon him and tear him to pieces.
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Here
a short explanation is necessary. A few years ago a society of
well-informed,
energetic people was formed in
sharp-witted
savant surnamed them "La Societe des Malcontents du
Spiritisme."
The founders of this club were people who, believing in the
phenomena
of spiritualism as much as in the possibility of every other
phenomenon
in Nature, still denied the theory of the "spirits." They
considered
that the modern psychology was a science still in the first
stages
of its development, in total ignorance of the nature of the
psychic
man, and denying, as do many other sciences, all that cannot be
explained
according to its own particular theories.
From
the first days of its existence some of the most learned Americans
joined
the Society, which became known as the Theosophical Society. Its
members
differed on many points, much as do the members of any other
Society,
Geographical or Archeological, which fights for years over
the
sources of the
unanimously
agreed that, as long as there is water in the
its
sources must exist somewhere. So much about the phenomena of
spiritualism
and mesmerism. These phenomena were still waiting their
Champollion--but
the Rosetta stone was to be searched for neither in
believe
in magic, where wonders are performed daily by the native
priesthood,
and where the cold materialism of science has never yet
reached--in
one word, in the East.
The
Council of the Society knew that the Lama-Buddhists, for instance,
though
not believing in God, and denying the personal immortality of the
soul,
are yet celebrated for their "phenomena," and that mesmerism was
known
and daily practised in
of
"gina." In
the
Spiritualists venerate so deeply, yet many an ignorant fakir can
perform
"miracles" calculated to turn upside-down all the notions of
a
scientist and to be the despair of the most celebrated of European
prestidigitateurs.
Many members of the Society have visited
were
born there and have themselves witnessed the "sorceries" of the
Brahmans.
The founders of the Club, well aware of the depth of modern
ignorance
in regard to the spiritual man, were most anxious that
Cuvier's
method of comparative anatomy should acquire rights of
citizenship
among metaphysicians, and, so, progress from regions
physical
to regions psychological on its own inductive and deductive
foundation.
"Otherwise," they thought, "psychology will be unable to
move
forward a single step, and may even obstruct every other branch of
Natural
History." Instances have not been wanting of physiology poaching
on
the preserves of purely metaphysical and abstract knowledge, all
the
time feigning to ignore the latter absolutely, and seeking to class
psychology
with the positive sciences, having first bound it to a Bed
of
Procrustes, where it refuses to yield its secret to its clumsy
tormentors.
In
a short time the Theosophical Society counted its members, not
by
hundreds, but by thousands. All the "malcontents" of American
Spiritualism--and
there were at that time twelve million Spiritualists
in
experiments
were being performed, and the conviction that it is not
spirits
alone who are the causes of the phenomena was becoming general.
In
course of time branches of the Society were in
The
Buddhist and Brahmanical members became more numerous than the
Europeans.
A league was formed, and to the name of the Society was
added
the subtitle, "The Brotherhood of Humanity." After an active
correspondence
between the Arya-Samaj, founded by Swami Dayanand, and
the
Theosophical Society, an amalgamation was arranged between the
two
bodies. Then the Chief Council of the
sending
a special delegation to
the
spot, the ancient language of the Vedas and the manuscripts and
the
wonders of Yogism. On the 17th of December, 1878, the delegation,
composed
of two secretaries and two members of the council of the
Theosophical
Society, started from
1879.
It
may easily be conceived that, under these circumstances, the members
of
the delegation were better able to study the country and to make
fruitful
researches than might, otherwise, have been the case. Today
they
are looked upon as brothers and aided by the most influential
natives
of
pandits
of
Viharas--amongst
others the learned Sumangala, mentioned by Minayeff
in
the description of his visit to
Burmah,
Travancore and elsewhere. The members of the delegation are
admitted
to sanctuaries where, as yet, no European has set his foot.
Consequently
they may hope to render many services to Humanity and
Science,
in spite of the illwill which the representatives of positive
science
bear to them.
As
soon as the delegation landed, a telegram was despatched to Dayanand,
as
everyone was anxious to make his personal acquaintance. In reply, he
said
that he was obliged to go immediately to
thousands
of pilgrims were expected to assemble, but he insisted on
our
remaining behind, since cholera was certain to break out among the
devotees.
He appointed a certain spot, at the foot of the
the
jab, where we were to meet in a month's time.
Alas!
all this was written some time ago. Since then Swami Dayanand's
countenance
has changed completely toward us. He is, now, an enemy of
the
Theosophical Society and its two founders--Colonel Olcott and the
author
of these letters. It appeared that, on entering into an offensive
and
defensive alliance with the Society, Dayanand nourished the
hope
that all its members, Christians, Brahmans and Buddhists, would
acknowledge
His supremacy, and become members of the Arya Samaj.
Needless
to say, this was impossible. The Theosophical Society rests on
the
principle of complete non-interference with the religious beliefs
of
its members. Toleration is its basis and its aims are purely
philosophical.
This did not suit Dayanand. He wanted all the members,
either
to become his disciples, or to be expelled from the Society. It
was
quite clear that neither the President, nor the Council could assent
to
such a claim. Englishmen and Americans, whether they were Christians
or
Freethinkers, Buddhists, and especially Brahmans, revolted against
Dayanand,
and unanimously demanded that the league should be broken.
However,
all this happened later. At the time of which I speak we were
friends
and allies of the Swami, and we learned with deep interest that
the
years,
and is a kind of religious fair, which attracts representatives
from
all the numerous sects of
Learned
dissertations are read by the disputants in defence of their
peculiar
doctrines, and the debates are held in public. This year
the
mendicant
monks of
foreseen
by the Swami, actually broke out.
As
we were not yet to start for the appointed meeting, we had plenty of
spare
time before us; so we proceeded to examine
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The
abode
of all the sons of Zoroaster. It is, in fact, a Parsee cemetery.
Here
their dead, rich and poor, men, women and children, are all laid in
a
row, and in a few minutes nothing remains of them but bare skeletons.
A
dismal impression is made upon a foreigner by these towers, where
absolute
silence has reigned for centuries. This kind of building is
very
common in every place were Parsees live and die. In
towers,
the largest was built 250 years ago, and the least but a short
time
since. With few exceptions, they are round or square in shape, from
twenty
to forty feet high, without roof, window, or door, but with a
single
iron gate opening towards the East, and so small that it is
quite
covered by a few bushes. The first corpse brought to a new
tower--"dakhma"--must
be the body of the innocent child of a mobed
or
priest. No one, not even the chief watcher, is allowed to approach
within
a distance of thirty paces of these towers. Of all living human
beings
"nassesalars"--corpse-carriers--alone enter and leave the "Tower
of
Silence." The life these men lead is simply wretched. No European
executioner's
position is worse. They live quite apart from the rest
of
the world, in whose eyes they are the most abject of beings. Being
forbidden
to enter the markets, they must get their food as they can.
They
are born, marry, and die, perfect strangers to all except their own
class,
passing through the streets only to fetch the dead and carry them
to
the tower. Even to be near one of them is a degradation. Entering
the
tower with a corpse, covered, whatever may have been its rank or
position,
with old white rags, they undress it and place it, in
silence,
on one of the three rows presently to be described. Then, still
preserving
the same silence, they come out, shut the gate, and burn the
rags.
Amongst
the fire-worshippers, Death is divested of all his majesty and
is
a mere object of disgust. As soon as the last hour of a sick person
seems
to approach, everyone leaves the chamber of death, as much to
avoid
impeding the departure of the soul from the body, as to shun the
risk
of polluting the living by contact with the dead. The mobed alone
stays
with the dying man for a while, and having whispered into his ear
the
Zend-Avesta precepts, "ashem-vohu" and "Yato-Ahuvarie,"
leaves the
room
while the patient is still alive. Then a dog is brought and made
to
look straight into his face. This ceremony is called "sas-did,"
the
"dog's-stare." A dog is the only living creature that the
"Drux-nassu"--the
evil one--fears, and that is able to prevent him from
taking
possession of the body. It must be strictly observed that no
one's
shadow lies between the dying man and the dog, otherwise the whole
strength
of the dog's gaze will be lost, and the demon will profit by
the
occasion. The body remains on the spot where life left it, until the
nassesalars
appear, their arms hidden to the shoulders under old bags,
to
take it away. Having deposited it in an iron coffin--the same for
everyone--they
carry it to the dakhma. If any one, who has once been
carried
thither, should happen to regain consciousness, the nassesalars
are
bound to kill him; for such a person, who has been polluted by one
touch
of the dead bodies in the dakhma, has thereby lost all right
to
return to the living, by doing so he would contaminate the whole
community.
As some such cases have occurred, the Parsees are trying to
get
a new law passed, that would allow the miserable ex-corpses to live
again
amongst their friends, and that would compel the nassesalars to
leave
the only gate of the dakhma unlocked, so that they might find a
way
of retreat open to them. It is very curious, but it is said that the
vultures,
which devour without hesitation the corpses, will never touch
those
who are only apparently dead, but fly away uttering loud shrieks.
After
a last prayer at the gate of the dakhma, pronounced from afar by
the
mobed, and re-peated in chorus by the nassesalars, the dog ceremony
is
repeated. In
entrance
to the tower. Finally, the body is taken inside and placed on
one
or other of the rows, according to its sex and age.
We
have twice been present at the ceremonies of dying, and once of
burial,
if I may be permitted to use such an incongruous term. In this
respect
the Parsees are much more tolerant than the Hindus, who are
offended
by the mere presence at their religious rites of an European.
N.
Bayranji, a chief official of the tower, invited us to his house to
be
present at the burial of some rich woman. So we witnessed all that
was
going on at a distance of about forty paces, sitting quietly on
our
obliging host's verandah. While the dog was staring into the dead
woman's
face, we were gazing, as intently, but with much more disgust,
at
the huge flock of vultures above the dakhma, that kept entering the
tower,
and flying out again with pieces of human flesh in their beaks.
These
birds, that build their nests in thousands round the Tower of
Silence,
have been purposely imported from
proved
to be too weak, and not sufficiently bloodthirsty, to perform
the
process of stripping the bones with the despatch prescribed by
Zoroaster.
We were told that the entire operation of denuding the bones
occupies
no more than a few minutes. As soon as the ceremony was over,
we
were led into another building, where a model of the dakhma was to be
seen.
We could now very easily imagine what was to take place presently
inside
the tower. In the centre there is a deep waterless well, covered
with
a grating like the opening into a drain. Around it are three broad
circles,
gradually sloping downwards. In each of them are coffin-like
receptacles
for the bodies. There are three hundred and sixty-five such
places.
The first and smallest row is destined for children, the second
for
women, and the third for men. This threefold circle is symbolical of
three
cardinal Zoroastrian virtues--pure thoughts, kind words, and good
actions.
Thanks to the vultures, the bones are laid bare in less than
an
hour, and, in two or three weeks, the tropical sun scorches them into
such
a state of fragility, that the slightest breath of wind is enough
to
reduce them to powder and to carry them down into the pit. No smell
is
left behind, no source of plagues and epidemics. I do not know that
this
way may not be preferable to cremation, which leaves in the air
about
the Ghat a faint but disagreeable odour. The Ghat is a place
by
the sea, or river shore, where Hindus burn their dead. Instead of
feeding
the old Slavonic deity "Mother Wet Earth" with carrion, Parsees
give
to Armasti pure dust. Armasti means, literally, "fostering cow,"
and
Zoroaster teaches that the cultivation of land is the noblest of all
occupations
in the eyes of God. Accordingly, the worship of Earth is
so
sacred among the Parsees, that they take all possible precautions
against
polluting the "fostering cow" that gives them "a hundred golden
grains
for every single grain." In the season of the Monsoon, when,
during
four months, the rain pours incessantly down and washes into the
well
everything that is left by the vultures, the water absorbed by the
earth
is filtered, for the bottom of the well, the walls of which are
built
of granite, is, to this end, covered with sand and charcoal.
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The
sight of the Pinjarapala is less lugubrious and much more amusing.
The
Pinjarapala is the
similar
institution exists in every town where Jainas dwell. Being one
of
the most ancient, this is also one of the most interesting, of the
sects
of
about
543 to 477 B.C. Jainas boast that Buddhism is nothing more than a
mere
heresy of Jainism, Gautama, the founder of Buddhism, having been a
disciple
and follower of one of the Jaina Gurus. The customs, rites,
and
philosophical conceptions of Jainas place them midway between the
Brahmanists
and the Buddhists. In view of their social arrangements,
they
more closely resemble the former, but in their religion they
incline
towards the latter. Their caste divisions, their total
abstinence
from flesh, and their non-worship of the relics of the
saints,
are as strictly observed as the similar tenets of the Brahmans,
but,
like Buddhists, they deny the Hindu gods and the authority of
the
Vedas, and adore their own twenty-four Tirthankaras, or Jinas, who
belong
to the Host of the Blissful. Their priests, like the Buddhists',
never
marry, they live in isolated viharas and choose their successors
from
amongst the members of any social class. According to them, Prakrit
is
the only sacred language, and is used in their sacred literature,
as
well as in
chronology.
They do not eat after sunset, and carefully dust any place
before
sitting down upon it, that they may not crush even the tiniest of
insects.
Both systems, or rather both schools of philosophy, teach the
theory
of eternal indestructible atoms, following the ancient atomistic
and
never will have an end. "The world and everything in it is but an
illusion,
a Maya," say the Vedantists, the Buddhists, and the Jainas;
but,
whereas the followers of Sankaracharya preach Parabrahm (a deity
devoid
of will, understanding, and action, because "It is absolute
understanding,
mind and will"), and Ishwara emanating from It, the
Jainas
and the Buddhists believe in no Creator of the Universe,
but
teach only the existence of Swabhawati, a plastic, infinite,
self-created
principle in Nature. Still they firmly believe, as do
all
Indian sects, in the transmigration of souls. Their fear, lest, by
killing
an animal or an insect, they may, perchance, destroy the life of
an
ancestor, develops their love and care for every living creature to
an
almost incredible extent. Not only is there a hospital for invalid
animals
in every town and village, but their priests always wear a
muslin
muzzle, (I trust they will pardon the disrespectful expression!)
in
order to avoid destroying even the smallest animalcule, by
inadvertence
in the act of breathing. The same fear impels them to drink
only
filtered water. There are a few millions of Jainas in Gujerat,
The
Bombay Pinjarapala occupies a whole quarter of the town, and is
separated
into yards, meadows and gardens, with ponds, cages for beasts
of
prey, and enclosures for tame animals. This institution would have
served
very well for a model of Noah's
we
saw no animals, but, instead, a few hundred human skeletons--old men,
women
and children. They were the remaining natives of the, so-called,
famine
districts, who had crowded into
while,
a few yards off, the official "Vets." were busily bandaging the
broken
legs of jackals, pouring ointments on the backs of mangy dogs,
and
fitting crutches to lame storks, human beings were dying, at their
very
elbows, of starvation. Happily for the famine-stricken, there were
at
that time fewer hungry animals than usual, and so they were fed on
what
remained from the meals of the brute pensioners. No doubt many of
these
wretched sufferers would have consented to transmigrate instantly
into
the bodies of any of the animals who were ending so snugly their
earthly
careers.
But
even the Pinjarajala roses are not without thorns. The graminivorous
"subjects,"
of course, could mot wish for anything better; but I doubt
very
much whether the beasts of prey, such as tigers, hyenas, and
wolves,
are content with the rules and the forcibly prescribed diet.
Jainas
themselves turn with disgust even from eggs and fish, and, in
consequence,
all the animals of which they have the care must turn
vegetarians.
We were present when an old tiger, wounded by an English
bullet,
was fed. Having sniffed at a kind of rice soup which was offered
to
him, he lashed his tail, snarled, showing his yellow teeth, and with
a
weak roar turned away from the food. What a look he cast askance upon
his
keeper, who was meekly trying to persuade him to taste his nice
dinner!
Only the strong bars of the cage saved the Jaina from a vigorous
protest
on the part of this veteran of the forest. A hyena, with a
bleeding
head and an ear half torn off, began by sitting in the trough
filled
with this Spartan sauce, and then, without any further ceremony,
upset
it, as if to show its utter contempt for the mess. The wolves
and
the dogs raised such disconsolate howls that they attracted the
attention
of two inseparable friends, an old elephant with a wooden
leg
and a sore-eyed ox, the veritable Castor and Pollux of this
institution.
In accordance with his noble nature, the first thought of
the
elephant concerned his friend. He wound his trunk round the neck
of
the ox, in token of protection, and both moaned dismally. Parrots,
storks,
pigeons, flamingoes--the whole feathered tribe--revelled
in
their breakfast. Monkeys were the first to answer the keeper's
invitation
and greatly enjoyed themselves. Further on we were shown a
holy
man, who was feeding insects with his own blood. He lay with his
eyes
shut, and the scorching rays of the sun striking full upon his
naked
body. He was literally covered with flies, mosquitoes, ants and
bugs.
"All
these are our brothers," mildly observed the keeper, pointing to
the
hundreds of animals and insects. "How can you Europeans kill and
even
devour them?"
"What
would you do," I asked, "if this snake were about to bite you? Is
it
possible you would not kill it, if you had time?"
"Not
for all the world. I should cautiously catch it, and then I should
carry
it to some deserted place outside the town, and there set it
free."
"Nevertheless;
suppose it bit you?"
"Then
I should recite a mantram, and, if that produced no good result,
I
should be fair to consider it as the finger of Fate, and quietly leave
this
body for another."
These
were the words of a man who was educated to a certain extent, and
very
well read. When we pointed out that no gift of Nature is aimless,
and
that the human teeth are all devouring, he answered by quoting whole
chapters
of Darwin's Theory of Natural Selection and Origin of Species.
"It
is not true," argued he, "that the first men were born with
canine
teeth. It was only in course of time, with the degradation of
humanity,--only
when the appetite for flesh food began to develop--that
the
jaws changed their first shape under the influence of new
necessities."
I
could not help asking myself, "Ou la science va-t'elle se fourrer?"
The
same evening, in Elphinstone's Theatre, there was given a special
performance
in honour of "the American Mission," as we are styled here.
Native
actors represented in Gujerati the ancient fairy drama Sita-Rama,
that
has been adapted from the Ramayana, the celebrated epic by Vilmiki.
This
drama is composed of fourteen acts and no end of tableaux, in
addition
to transformation scenes. All the female parts, as usual, were
acted
by young boys, and the actors, accord-ing to the historical and
national
customs, were bare-footed and half-naked. Still, the richness
of
the costumes, the stage adornments and transformations, were truly
wonderful.
For instance, even on the stages of large metropolitan
theatres,
it would have been difficult to give a better representation
of
the army of Rama's allies, who are nothing more than troops of
monkeys
under the leadership of Hanuman--the soldier, statesman,
dramatist,
poet, god, who is so celebrated in history (that of
s.v.p.).
The oldest and best of all Sanskrit dramas, Hanuman-Natak, is
ascribed
to this talented forefather of ours.
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Alas!
gone is the glorious time when, proud of our white skin (which
after
all may be nothing more than the result of a fading, under the
influences
of our northern sky), we looked down upon Hindus and
other
"niggers" with a feeling of contempt well suited to our own
magnificence.
No doubt Sir William Jones's soft heart ached, when
translating
from the Sanskrit such humiliating sentences as the
following:
"Hanuman is said to be the forefather of the Europeans."
Rama,
being a hero and a demi-god, was well entitled to unite all
the
bachelors of his useful monkey army to the daughters of the Lanka
(
with
the dowry of all Western lands. After the most pompous marriage
ceremonies,
the monkey soldiers made a bridge, with the help of their
own
tails, and safely landed with their spouses in
lived
very happily and had a numerous progeny. This progeny are we,
Europeans.
Dravidian words found in some European languages, in Basque
for
instance, greatly rejoice the hearts of the Brahmans, who would
gladly
promote the philologists to the rank of demi-gods for this
important
discovery, which confirms so gloriously their ancient legend.
But
it was Darwin who crowned the edifice of proof with the authority of
Western
education and Western scientific literature. The Indians became
still
more convinced that we are the veritable descendants of Hanuman,
and
that, if one only took the trouble to examine carefully, our tails
might
easily be discovered. Our narrow breeches and long skirts only add
to
the evidence, however uncomplimentary the idea may be to us.
Still,
if you consider seriously, what are we to say when Science, in
the
person of
Aryas.
We must perforce submit. And, really, it is better to have for a
forefather
Hanu-man, the poet, the hero, the god, than any other monkey,
even
though it be a tailless one. Sita-Rama belongs to the category
of
mythological dramas, something like the tragedies of Aeschylus.
Listening
to this production of the remotest antiquity, the spectators
are
carried back to the times when the gods, descending upon earth, took
an
active part in the everyday life of mortals. Nothing reminds one of
a
modern drama, though the exterior arrangement is the same. "From the
sublime
to the ridiculous there is but a step," and vice versa. The
goat,
chosen for a sacrifice to Bacchus, presented the world tragedy
(greek
script here). The death bleatings and buttings of the quadrupedal
offering
of antiquity have been polished by the hands of time and of
civilization,
and, as a result of this process, we get the dying
whisper
of Rachel in the part of Adrienne Lecouvreur, and the fearfully
realistic
"kicking" of the modern Croisette in the poisoning scene of
The
Sphinx. But, whereas the descendants of Themistocles gladly receive,
whether
captive or free, all the changes and improvements considered
as
such by modern taste, thinking them to be a corrected and enlarged
edition
of the genius of Aeschylus; Hindus, happily for archaeologists
and
lovers of antiquity, have never moved a step since the times of our
much
honoured forefather Hanuman.
We
awaited the performance of Sita-Rama with the liveliest curiosity.
Except
ourselves and the building of the theatre, everything was
strictly
indigenous and nothing reminded us of the West. There was not
the
trace of an orchestra. Music was only to be heard from the stage,
or
from behind it. At last the curtain rose. The silence, which had been
very
remarkable before the performance, considering the huge crowd
of
spectators of both sexes, now became absolute. Rama is one of the
incarnations
of Vishnu and, as most of the audience were worshippers of
Vishnu,
for them the spectacle was not a mere theatrical performance,
but
a religious mystery, representing the life and achievements of their
favourite
and most venerated gods.
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The
prologue was laid in the epoch before creation began (it may safely
be
said that no dramatist would dare to choose an earlier one)--or,
rather,
before the last manifestation of the universe. All the
philosophical
sects of
has
always existed. But the Hindus divide the periodical appearances and
vanishings
into days and nights of Brahma. The nights, or withdrawals of
the
objective universe, are called Pralayas, and the days, or epochs
of
new awakening into life and light, are called Manvantaras, Yugas, or
"centuries
of the gods." These periods are also called, respectively,
the
inbreathings and outbreathings of Brahma. When Pralaya comes to an
end
Brahma awakens, and, with this awakening, the universe that rested
in
deity, in other words, that was reabsorbed in its subjective essence,
emanates
from the divine principle and becomes visible. The gods, who
died
at the same time as the universe, begin slowly to return to life.
The
"Invisible" alone, the "Infinite," the
"Lifeless," the One who is
the
unconditioned original "Life" itself, soars, surrounded by shoreless
chaos.
Its holy presence is not visible. It shows itself only in the
periodical
pulsation of chaos, represented by a dark mass of waters
filling
the stage. These waters are not, as yet, separated from the
dry
land, because Brahma, the creative spirit of Narayana, has not yet
separated
from the "Ever Unchanging." Then comes a heavy shock of
the
whole mass and the waters begin to acquire transparency. Rays,
proceeding
from a golden egg at the bottom, spread through the chaotic
waters.
Receiving life from the spirit of Narayana, the egg bursts and
the
awakened Brahma rises to the surface of the water in the shape of a
huge
lotus. Light clouds appear, at first transparent and web-like. They
gradually
become condensed, and transform themselves into Prajapatis,
the
ten personified creative powers of Brahma, the god of everything
living,
and sing a hymn of praise to the creator. Something naively
poetical,
to our unaccustomed ears, breathed in this uniform melody
unaccompanied
by any orchestra.
The
hour of general revival has struck. Pralaya comes to an end.
Everything
rejoices, returning to life. The sky is separated from the
waters
and on it appear the Asuras and Gandharvas, the heavenly singers
and
musicians. Then Indra, Yama, Varuna, and Kuvera, the spirits
presiding
over the four cardinal points, or the four elements, water,
fire,
earth, and air, pour forth atoms, whence springs the serpent
"Ananta."
The monster swims to the surface of the waves and, bending its
swanlike
neck, forms a couch on which Vishnu reclines with the Goddess
of
Beauty, his wife Lakshmi, at his feet. "Swatha! Swatha! Swatha!"
cries
the choir of heavenly musicians, hailing the deity. In the Russian
church
service this is pronounced Swiat! Swiat! Swiat! and means holy!
holy!
holy!
In
one of his future avatars Vishnu will incarnate in Rama, the son of
a
great king, and Lakshmi will become Sita. The motive of the whole poem
of
Ramayana is sung in a few words by the celestial musicians.
God
of Love, shelters the divine couple and, that very moment, a flame
is
lit in their hearts and the whole world is created.
Later
there are performed the fourteen acts of the drama, which is well
known
to everybody, and in which several hundred personages take part.
At
the end of the prologue the whole assembly of gods come forward,
one
after another, and acquaint the audience with the contents and the
epilogue
of their performance, asking the public not to be too exacting.
It
is as though all these familiar deities, made of painted granite and
marble,
left the temples and came down to remind mortals of events long
past
and forgotten.
The
hall was full of natives. We four alone were representatives of
their
garments. Here and there, among handsome, bronze-like heads, were
the
pretty, dull white faces of Parsee women, whose beauty reminded me
of
the Georgians. The front rows were occupied by women only. In
it
is quite easy to learn a person's religion, sect, and caste, and even
whether
a woman is married or single, from the marks painted in bright
colors
on everyone's forehead.
Since
the time when Alexander the Great destroyed the sacred books of
the
Gebars, they have constantly been oppressed by the idol worshippers.
King
Ardeshir-Babechan restored fire worship in the years 229-243 A.C.
Since
then they have again been persecuted during the reign of one of
the
Shakpurs, either II., IX., or XI., of the Sassanids, but which of
them
is not known. It is, however, reported that one of them was a great
protector
of the Zartushta doctrines. After the fall of Yesdejird,
the
fire-worshippers emigrated to the
later,
having found a book of Zoroastrian prophecies, in obedience to
one
of them they set out for
they
appeared, about 1,000 or 1,200 years ago, in the territory of
Maharana-Jayadeva,
a vassal of the Rajput King Champanir, who allowed
them
to colonize his land, but only on condition that they laid down
their
weapons, that they abandoned the Persian language for Hindi, and
that
their women put off their national dress and clothed themselves
after
the manner of Hindu women. He, however, allowed them to wear
shoes,
since this is strictly prescribed by Zoroaster. Since then very
few
changes have been made. It follows that the Parsee women could only
be
distinguished from their Hindu sisters by very slight differences.
The
almost white faces of the former were separated by a strip of smooth
black
hair from a sort of white cap, and the whole was covered with a
bright
veil. The latter wore no covering on their rich, shining hair,
twisted
into a kind of Greek chignon. Their foreheads were brightly
painted,
and their nostrils adorned with golden rings. Both are fond of
bright,
but uniform, colors, both cover their arms up to the elbow with
bangles,
and both wear saris.
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Behind
the women a whole sea of most wonderful turbans was waving in the
pit.
There were long-haired Rajputs with regular Grecian features and
long
beards parted in the middle, their heads covered with "pagris"
consisting
of, at least, twenty yards of finest white muslin, and
their
persons adorned with earrings and necklaces; there were Mahrata
Brahmans,
who shave their heads, leaving only one long central lock, and
wear
turbans of blinding red, decorated in front with a sort of golden
horn
of plenty; Bangas, wearing three-cornered helmets with a kind of
cockscomb
on the top; Kachhis, with Roman helmets; Bhillis, from the
borders
of Rajastan, whose chins are wrapped three times in the ends
of
their pyramidal turbans, so that the innocent tourist never fails to
think
that they constantly suffer from toothache; Bengalis and
Babus,
bare-headed all the year round, their hair cut after an Athenian
fashion,
and their bodies clothed in the proud folds of a white
toga-virilis,
in no way different from those once worn by Roman
senators;
Parsees, in their black, oilcloth mitres; Sikhs, the followers
of
Nanaka, strictly monotheist and mystic, whose turbans are very like
the
Bhillis', but who wear long hair down to their waists; and hundreds
of
other tribes.
Proposing
to count how many different headgears are to be seen in
alone,
we had to abandon the task as impracticable after a fortnight.
Every
caste, every trade, guild, and sect, every one of the thousand
sub-divisions
of the social hierarchy, has its own bright turban, often
sparkling
with gold lace and precious stones, which is laid aside only
in
case of mourning. But, as if to compensate for this luxury, even the
mem-bers
of the municipality, rich merchants, and Rai-Bahadurs, who have
been
created baronets by the Government, never wear any stockings, and
leave
their legs bare up to the knees. As for their dress, it chiefly
consists
of a kind of shapeless white shirt.
In
in
their stables elephants and the less common giraffes, though the
former
are strictly forbidden in the streets of
opportunity
of seeing ministers, and even Rajas, mounted on these noble
animals,
their mouths full of pansupari (betel leaves), their heads
drooping
under the weight of the precious stones on their turbans, and
each
of their fingers and toes adorned with rich golden rings. While
the
evening I am describing lasted, however, we saw no elephants, no
giraffes,
though we enjoyed the company of Rajas and ministers. We had
in
our box the hand-some ambassador and late tutor of the Mahararana
of
Oodeypore. Our companion was a Raja and a pandit. His name was a
Mohunlal-Vishnulal-Pandia.
He wore a small pink turban sparkling with
diamonds,
a pair of pink barege trousers, and a white gauze coat.
His
raven black hair half covered his amber-colored neck, which was
surrounded
by a necklace that might have driven any Parisian belle
frantic
with envy. The poor Raiput was awfully sleepy, but he stuck
heroically
to his duties, and, thoughtfully pulling his beard, led us
all
through the endless labyrinth of metaphysical entanglements of the
Ramayana.
During the entr'actes we were offered coffee, sherbets, and
cigarettes,
which we smoked even during the performance, sitting in
front
of the stage in the first row. We were covered, like idols, with
garlands
of flowers, and the manager, a stout Hindu clad in transparent
muslins,
sprinkled us several times with rose-water.
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The
performance began at
reached
the ninth act. In spite of each of us having a punkah-wallah
at
our backs, the heat was unbearable. We had reached the limits of
our
endurance, and tried to excuse ourselves. This led to general
disturbance,
on the stage as well as in the auditorium. The airy
chariot,
on which the wicked king Ravana was carrying Sita away, paused
in
the air. The king of the Nagas (serpents) ceased breathing flames,
the
monkey soldiers hung motionless on the trees, and Rama himself, clad
in
light blue and crowned with a diminutive pagoda, came to the front of
the
stage and pronounced in pure English speech, in which he thanked
us
for the honour of our presence. Then new bouquets, pansu-paris, and
rose-water,
and, finally, we reached home about four a.m. Next morning
we
learned that the performance had ended at half-past six.
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On
The Way To Karli
It
is an early morning near the end of March. A light breeze caresses
with
its velvety hand the sleepy faces of the pilgrims; and the
intoxicating
perfume of tuberoses mingles with the pungent odors of the
bazaar.
Crowds of barefooted Brahman women, stately and well-formed,
direct
their steps, like the biblical Rachel, to the well, with brass
water
pots bright as gold upon their heads. On our way lie numerous
sacred
tanks, filled with stagnant water, in which Hindus of both sexes
perform
their prescribed morning ablutions. Under the hedge of a garden
somebody's
tame mongoose is devouring the head of a cobra. The headless
body
of the snake convulsively, but harmlessly, beats against the thin
flanks
of the little animal, which regards these vain efforts with an
evident
delight. Side by side with this group of animals is a human
figure;
a naked mali (gardener), offering betel and salt to a monstrous
stone
idol of Shiva, with the view of pacifying the wrath of the
"Destroyer,"
excited by the death of the cobra, which is one of his
favourite
servants. A few steps before reaching the railway station, we
meet
a modest Catholic procession, consisting of a few newly converted
pariahs
and some of the native Portuguese. Under a baldachin is a
litter,
on which swings to and fro a dusky Madonna dressed after the
fashion
of the native goddesses, with a ring in her nose. In her arms
she
carries the holy Babe, clad in yellow pyjamas and a red Brah-manical
turban.
"Hari, hari, devaki!" ("Glory to the holy Virgin!") exclaim
the
converts,
unconscious of any difference between the Devaki, mother of
Krishna,
and the Catholic Madonna. All they know is that, excluded from
the
temples by the Brahmans on account of their not belonging to any
of
the Hindu castes, they are admitted sometimes into the Christian
pagodas,
thanks to the "padris," a name adopted from the Portuguese
padre,
and applied indiscriminately to the missionaries of every
European
sect.
At
last, our gharis--native two-wheeled vehicles drawn by a pair of
strong
bullocks--arrived at the station. English employes open wide
their
eyes at the sight of white-faced people travelling about the town
in
gilded Hindu chariots. But we are true Americans, and we have come
hither
to study, not Europe, but India and her products on the spot.
If
the tourist casts a glance on the shore opposite to the port of
Bombay,
he will see a dark blue mass rising like a wall between himself
and
the horizon. This is Parbul, a flat-topped mountain 2,250 feet high.
Its
right slope leans on two sharp rocks covered with woods. The highest
of
them, Mataran, is the object of our trip. From Bombay to Narel, a
station
situated at the foot of this mountain, we are to travel four
hours
by railway, though, as the crow flies, the distance is not more
than
twelve miles. The railroad wanders round the foot of the most
charming
little hills, skirts hundreds of pretty lakes, and pierces with
more
than twenty tunnels the very heart of the rocky ghats.
We
were accompanied by three Hindu friends. Two of them once belonged to
a
high caste, but were excommunicated from their pagoda for association
and
friendship with us, unworthy foreigners. At the station our party
was
joined by two more natives, with whom we had been in correspondence
for
many a year. All were members of our Society, reformers of the Young
India
school, enemies of Brahmans, castes, aid prejudices, and were to
be
our fellow-travelers and visit with us the annual fair at the temple
festivities
of Karli, stopping on the way at Mataran and Khanduli.
One
was a Brahman from Poona, the second a moodeliar (landowner)
from
Madras, the third a Singalese from Kegalla, the fourth a Bengali
Zemindar,
and the fifth a gigantic Rajput, whom we had known for a long
time
by the name of Gulab-Lal-Sing, and had called simply Gulab-Sing. I
shall
dwell upon his personality more than on any of the others, because
the
most wonderful and diverse stories were in circulation about this
strange
man. It was asserted that he belonged to the sect of Raj-Yogis,
and
was an initiate of the mysteries of magic, alchemy, and various
other
occult sciences of India. He was rich and independent, and rumour
did
not dare to suspect him of deception, the more so because, though
quite
full of these sciences, he never uttered a word about them in
public,
and carefully concealed his knowledge from all except a few
friends.
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He
was an independent Takur from Rajistan, a province the name of which
means
the land of kings. Takurs are, almost without exception, descended
from
the Surya (sun), and are accordingly called Suryavansa. They are
prouder
than any other nation in the world. They have a proverb, "The
dirt
of the earth cannot stick to the rays of the sun." They do not
despise
any sect, except the Brahmans, and honor only the bards who sing
their
military achievements. Of the latter Colonel Tod writes somewhat
as
follows,* "The magnificence and luxury of the Rajput courts in the
early
periods of history were truly wonderful, even when due allowance
is
made for the poetical license of the bards. From the earliest times
Northern
India was a wealthy country, and it was precisely here that
was
situated the richest satrapy of Darius. At all events, this country
abounded
in those most striking events which furnish history with her
richest
materials. In Rajistan every small kingdom had its Thermopylae,
and
every little town has produced its Leonidas. But the veil of the
centuries
hides from posterity events that the pen of the historian
might
have bequeathed to the everlasting admiration of the nations.
Somnath
might have appeared as a rival of Delphi, the treasures of Hind
might
outweigh the riches of the King of Lydia, while compared with the
army
of the brothers Pandu, that of Xerxes would seem an inconsiderable
handful
of men, worthy only to rank in the second place."
*
In nearly every instance the passages quoted from various authorities
have
been retranslated from the Russian. As the time and labor needful
for
verification would he too great, the sense only of these passages is
given
here. They do not pretend to be textual.--Translator
England
did not disarm the Rajputs, as she did the rest of the Indian
nations,
so Gulab-Sing came accompanied by vassals and shield-bearers.
Possessing
an inexhaustible knowledge of legends, and being evidently
well
acquainted with the antiquities of his country, Gulab-Sing proved
to
be the most interesting of our companions.
"There,
against the blue sky," said Gulab-Lal-Sing, "you behold the
majestic
Bhao Mallin. That deserted spot was once the abode of a holy
hermit;
now it is visited yearly by crowds of pilgrims. According to
popular
belief the most wonderful things happen there--miracles. At the
top
of the mountain, two thousand feet above the level of the sea, is
the
platform of a fortress. Behind it rises another rock two hundred and
seventy
feet in height, and at the very summit of this peak are to be
found
the ruins of a still more ancient fortress, which for seventy-five
years
served as a shelter for this hermit. Whence he obtained his food
will
for ever remain a mystery. Some think he ate the roots of wild
plants,
but upon this barren rock there is no vegetation. The only mode
of
ascent of this perpendicular mountain consists of a rope, and holes,
just
big enough to receive the toes of a man, cut out of the living
rock.
One would think such a pathway accessible only to acrobats and
monkeys.
Surely fanaticism must provide wings for the Hindus, for no
accident
has ever happened to any of them. Unfortunately, about forty
years
ago, a party of Englishmen conceived the unhappy thought of
exploring
the ruins, but a strong gust of wind arose and carried them
over
the precipice. After this, General Dickinson gave orders for the
destruction
of all means of communication with the upper fortress, and
the
lower one, once the cause of so many losses and so much bloodshed,
is
now entirely deserted, and serves only as a shelter for eagles and
tigers."
Listening
to these tales of olden times, I could not help comparing the
past
with the present. What a difference!
"Kali-Yug!"
cry old Hindus with grim despair. "Who can strive against
the
Age of Darkness?"
This
fatalism, the certainty that nothing good can be expected now, the
conviction
that even the powerful god Shiva himself can neither appear
nor
help them are all deeply rooted in the minds of the old generation.
As
for the younger men, they receive their education in high schools and
universities,
learn by heart Herbert Spencer, John Stuart Mill, Darwin
and
the German philosophers, and entirely lose all respect, not only for
their
own religion, but for every other in the world.
The
young "educated" Hindus are materialists almost without exception,
and
often achieve the last limits of Atheism. They seldom hope to attain
to
anything better than a situation as "chief mate of the junior clerk,"
as
we say in Russia, and either become sycophants, disgusting flatterers
of
their present lords, or, which is still worse, or at any rate
sillier,
begin to edit a newspaper full of cheap liberalism, which
gradually
develops into a revolutionary organ.
But
all this is only en passant. Compared with the mysterious and
grandiose
past of India, the ancient Aryavarta, her present is a
natural
Indian ink background, the black shadow of a bright picture, the
inevitable
evil in the cycle of every nation. India has become decrepit
and
has fallen down, like a huge memorial of antiquity, prostrate and
broken
to pieces. But the most insignificant of these fragments will for
ever
remain a treasure for the archeologist and the artist, and, in
the
course of time, may even afford a clue to the philosopher and the
psychologist.
"Ancient Hindus built like giants and finished their work
like
goldsmiths," says Archbishop Heber, describing his travel in India.
In
his description of the Taj-Mahal of Agra, that veritable eighth
wonder
of the world, he calls it "a poem in marble." He might have added
that
it is difficult to find in India a ruin, in the least state of
preservation,
that cannot speak, more eloquently than whole volumes, of
the
past of India, her religious aspirations, her beliefs and hopes.
There
is not a country of antiquity, not even excluding the Egypt of
the
Pharaohs, where the development of the subjective ideal into
its
demonstration by an objective symbol has been expressed more
graphically,
more skillfully, and artistically, than in India. The whole
pantheism
of the Vedanta is contained in the symbol of the bisexual
deity
Ardhanari. It is surrounded by the double triangle, known in India
under
the name of the sign of Vishnu. By his side lie a lion, a bull,
and
an eagle. In his hands there rests a full moon, which is reflected
in
the waters at his feet. The Vedanta has taught for thousands of years
what
some of the German philosophers began to preach at the end of last
century
and the beginning of this one, namely, that everything objective
in
the world, as well as the world itself, is no more than an illusion,
a
Maya, a phantom created by our imagination, and as unreal as the
reflection
of the moon upon the surface of the waters. The phenomenal
world,
as well as the subjectivity of our conception concerning our
Egos,
are nothing but, as it were, a mirage. The true sage will never
submit
to the temptations of illusion. He is well aware that man will
attain
to self-knowledge, and become a real Ego, only after the entire
union
of the personal fragment with the All, thus becoming an immutable,
infinite,
universal Brahma. Accordingly, he considers the whole cycle of
birth,
life, old age, and death as the sole product of imagination.
Generally
speaking, Indian philosophy, split up as it is into numerous
metaphysical
teachings, possesses, when united to Indian ontological
doctrines,
such a well developed logic, such a wonderfully refined
psychology,
that it might well take the first rank when contrasted with
the
schools, ancient and modern, idealist or positivist, and eclipse
them
all in turn. That positivism expounded by Lewis, that makes each
particular
hair on the heads of Oxford theologians stand on end,
is
ridiculous child's play compared with the atomistic school of
Vaisheshika,
with its world divided, like a chessboard, into six
categories
of everlasting atoms, nine substances, twenty-four qualities,
and
five motions. And, however difficult, and even impossible may
seem
the exact representation of all these abstract ideas, idealistic,
pantheistic,
and, sometimes, purely material, in the condensed shape of
allegorical
symbols, India, nevertheless, has known how to express all
these
teachings more or less successfully. She has immortalized them in
her
ugly, four-headed idols, in the geometrical, complicated forms of
her
temples, and even in the entangled lines and spots on the foreheads
of
her sectaries.
We
were discussing this and other topics with our Hindu
fellow-travellers
when a Catholic padre, a teacher in the Jesuit College
of
St. Xavier in Bombay, entered our carriage at one of the stations.
Soon
he could contain himself no longer, and joined in our conversation.
Smiling
and rubbing his hands, he said that he was curious to know
on
the strength of what sophistry our companions could find anything
resembling
a philosophical explanation "in the fundamental idea of the
four
faces of this ugly Shiva, crowned with snakes," pointing with his
finger
to the idol at the entrance to a pagoda.
"It
is very simple," answered the Bengali Babu. "You see that its four
faces
are turned towards the four cardinal points, South, North, West,
and
East--but all these faces are on one body and belong to one god."
"Would
you mind explaining first the philosophical idea of the four
faces
and eight hands of your Shiva," interrupted the padre.
"With
great pleasure. Thinking that our great Rudra (the Vedic name
for
this god) is omnipresent, we represent him with his face turned
simultaneously
in all directions. Eight hands indicate his omnipotence,
and
his single body serves to remind us that he is One, though he is
everywhere,
and nobody can avoid his all-seeing eye, or his chastising
hand."
The
padre was going to say something when the train stopped; we had
arrived
at Narel.
It
is hardly twenty-five years since, for the first time, a white man
ascended
Mataran, a huge mass of various kinds of trap rock, for the
most
part crystalline in form. Though quite near to Bombay, and only
a
few miles from Khandala, the summer residence of the Europeans, the
threatening
heights of this giant were long considered inaccessible. On
the
north, its smooth, almost vertical face rises 2,450 feet over the
valley
of the river Pen, and, further on, numberless separate rocks
and
hillocks, covered with thick vegetation, and divided by valleys and
precipices,
rise up to the clouds. In 1854, the railway pierced one of
the
sides of Mataran, and now has reached the foot of the last mountain,
stopping
at Narel, where, not long ago, there was nothing but a
precipice.
From Narel to the upper plateau is but eight miles, which you
may
travel on a pony, or in an open or closed palanquin, as you choose.
Considering
that we arrived at Narel about six in the evening, this
course
was not very tempting. Civilization has done much with inanimate
nature,
but, in spite of all its despotism, it has not yet been able to
conquer
tigers and snakes. Tigers, no doubt, are banished to the
more
remote jungles, but all hinds of snakes, especially cobras and
coralillos,
which last by preference inhabit trees, still abound in
the
forests of Mataran as in days of old, and wage a regular guerilla
warfare
against the invaders. Woe betide the belated pedestrian, or even
horseman,
if he happens to pass under a tree which forms the ambuscade
of
a coralillo snake! Cobras and other reptiles seldom attack men, and
will
generally try to avoid them, unless accidentally trodden upon,
but
these guerilleros of the forest, the tree serpents, lie in wait for
their
victims. As soon as the head of a man comes under the branch which
shelters
the coralillo, this enemy of man, coiling its tail round
the
branch, dives down into space with all the length of is body, and
strikes
with its fangs at the man's forehead. This curious fact was long
considered
to be a mere fable, but it has now been verified, and belongs
to
the natural history of India. In these cases the natives see in the
snake
the envoy of Death, the fulfiller of the will of the bloodthirsty
Kali,
the spouse of Shiva.
But
evening, after the scorchingly hot day, was so tempting, and held
out
to us from the distance such promise of delicious coolness, that we
decided
upon risking our fate. In the heart of this wondrous nature one
longs
to shake off earthly chains, and unite oneself with the boundless
life,
so that death itself has its attractions in India.
Besides,
the full moon was about to rise at eight p.m. Three hours'
ascent
of the mountain, on such a moonlit, tropical night as would tax
the
descriptive powers of the greatest artists, was worth any sacrifice.
Apropos,
among the few artists who can fix upon canvas the subtle charm
of
a moonlit night in India public opinion begins to name our own V.V.
Vereshtchagin.
Having
dined hurriedly in the dak bungalow we asked for our sedan
chairs,
and, drawing our roof-like topees over our eyes, we started.
Eight
coolies, clad, as usual, in vine-leaves, took possession of each
chair
and hurried up the mountain, uttering the shrieks and yells no
true
Hindu can dispense with. Each chair was accompanied besides by a
relay
of eight more porters. So we were sixty-four, without counting
the
Hindus and their servants--an army sufficient to frighten any stray
leopard
or jungle tiger, in fact any animal, except our fearless cousins
on
the side of our great-grandfather Hanuman. As soon as we turned into
a
thicket at the foot of the Mountain, several dozens of these kinsmen
joined
our procession. Thanks to the achievements of Rama's ally,
monkeys
are sacred in India. The Government, emulating the earlier
wisdom
of the East India Company, forbids everyone to molest them, not
only
when met with in the forests, which in all justice belong to them,
but
even when they invade the city gardens. Leaping from one branch
to
another, chattering like magpies, and making the most formidable
grimaces,
they followed us all the way, like so many midnight spooks.
Sometimes
they hung on the trees in full moonlight, like forest nymphs
of
Russian mythology; sometimes they preceded us, awaiting our arrival
at
the turns of the road as if showing us the way. They never left us.
One
monkey babe alighted on my knees. In a moment the authoress of his
being,
jumping without any ceremony over the coolies' shoulders, came to
his
rescue, picked him up, and, after making the most ungodly grimace at
me,
ran away with him.
"Bandras
(monkeys) bring luck with their presence," remarked one of
the
Hindus, as if to console me for the loss of my crumpled topee.
"Besides,"
he added, "seeing them here we may be sure that there is not
a
single tiger for ten miles round."
Higher
and higher we ascended by the steep winding path, and the forest
grew
perceptibly thicker, darker, and more impenetrable. Some of the
thickets
were as dark as graves. Passing under hundred-year-old banyans
it
was impossible to distinguish one's own finger at the distance of two
inches.
It seemed to me that in certain places it would not be possible
to
advance without feeling our way, but our coolies never made a false
step,
but hastened onwards. Not one of us uttered a word. It was as if
we
had agreed to be silent at these moments. We felt as though wrapped
in
the heavy veil of dark-ness, and no sound was heard but the short,
irregular
breathing of the porters, and the cadence of their quick,
nervous
footsteps upon the stony soil of the path. One felt sick at
heart
and ashamed of belonging to that human race, one part of which
makes
of the other mere beasts of burden. These poor wretches are paid
for
their work four annas a day all the year round. Four annas for going
eight
miles upwards and eight miles downwards not less than twice a
day;
altogether thirty-two miles up and down a mountain 1,500 feet high,
carrying
a burden of two hundredweight! However, India is a country
where
everything is adjusted to never changing customs, and four annas a
day
is the pay for unskilled labor of any kind.
Gradually
open spaces and glades became more frequent and the light grew
as
intense as by day. Millions of grasshoppers were shrilling in
the
forest, filling the air with a metallic throbbing, and flocks of
frightened
parrots rushed from tree to tree. Sometimes the thundering,
prolonged
roars of tigers rose from the bottom of the precipices thickly
covered
with all kinds of vegetation. Shikaris assure us that, on a
quiet
night, the roaring of these beasts can be heard for many miles
around.
The panorama, lit up, as if by Bengal fires, changed at every
turn.
Rivers, fields, forests, and rocks, spread out at our feet over
an
enormous distance, moved and trembled, iridescent, in the silvery
moonlight,
like the tides of a mirage. The fantastic character of the
pictures
made us hold our breath. Our heads grew giddy if, by chance, we
glanced
down into the depths by the flickering moonlight. We felt that
the
precipice, 2,000 feet deep, was fascinating us. One of our American
fellow
travelers, who had begun the voyage on horseback, had to
dismount,
afraid of being unable to resist the temptation to dive head
foremost
into the abyss.
Several
times we met with lonely pedestrians, men and young women,
coming
down Mataran on their way home after a day's work. It often
happens
that some of them never reach home. The police unconcernedly
report
that the missing man has been carried off by a tiger, or killed
by
a snake. All is said, and he is soon entirely forgotten. One person,
more
or less, out of the two hundred and forty millions who inhabit
India
does not matter much! But there exists a very strange superstition
in
the Deccan about this mysterious, and only partially explored,
mountain.
The natives assert that, in spite of the considerable number
of
victims, there has never been found a single skeleton. The corpse,
whether
intact or mangled by tigers, is immediately carried away by the
monkeys,
who, in the latter case, gather the scattered bones, and bury
them
skillfully in deep holes, that no traces ever remain. Englishmen
laugh
at this superstition, but the police do not deny the fact of the
entire
disappearance of the bodies. When the sides of the mountain were
excavated,
in the course of the construction of the railway, separate
bones,
with the marks of tigers' teeth upon them, broken bracelets, and
other
adornments, were found at an incredible depth from the surface.
The
fact of these things being broken showed clearly that they were not
buried
by men, because, neither the religion of the Hindus, nor their
greed,
would allow them to break and bury silver and gold. Is it
possible,
then, that, as amongst men one hand washes the other, so in
the
animal kingdom one species conceals the crimes of another?
Having
spent the night in a Portuguese inn, woven like an eagle's nest
out
of bamboos, and clinging to the almost vertical side of a rock, we
rose
at daybreak, and, having visited all the points de vue famed for
their
beauty, made our preparations to return to Narel. By daylight
the
panorama was still more splendid than by night; volumes would not
suffice
to describe it. Had it not been that on three sides the horizon
was
shut out by rugged ridges of mountain, the whole of the Deccan
plateau
would have appeared before our eyes. Bombay was so distinct that
it
seemed quite near to us, and the channel that separates the town from
Salsetta
shone like a tiny silvery streak. It winds like a snake on its
way
to the port, surrounding Kanari and other islets, which look the
very
image of green peas scattered on the white cloth of its bright
waters,
and, finally, joins the blinding line of the Indian Ocean in the
extreme
distance. On the outer side is the northern Konkan, terminated
by
the Tal-Ghats, the needle-like summits of the Jano-Maoli rocks, and,
lastly,
the battlemented ridge of Funell, whose bold silhouette stands
out
in strong relief against the distant blue of the dim sky, like a
giant's
castle in some fairy tale. Further on looms Parbul, whose flat
summit,
in the days of old, was the seat of the gods, whence, according
to
the legends, Vishnu spoke to mortals. And there below, where the
defile
widens into a valley, all covered with huge separate rocks, each
of
which is crowded with historical and mythological legends, you may
perceive
the dim blue ridge of mountains, still loftier and still more
strangely
shaped. That is Khandala, which is overhung by a huge stone
block,
known by the name of the Duke's Nose. On the opposite side, under
the
very summit of the mountain, is situated Karli, which, according
to
the unanimous opinion or archeologists, is the most ancient and best
preserved
of Indian cave temples.
One
who has traversed the passes of the Caucasus again and again; one
who,
from the top of the Cross Mountain, has beheld beneath her feet
thunderstorms
and lightnings; who has visited the Alps and the Rigi;
who
is well acquainted with the Andes and Cordilleras, and knows
every
corner of the Catskills in America, may be allowed, I hope, the
expression
of a humble opinion. The Caucasian Mountains, I do not deny,
are
more majestic than Ghats of India, and their splendour cannot be
dimmed
by comparison with these; but their beauty is of a type, if I may
use
this expression. At their sight one experiences true delight, but
at
the same time a sensation of awe. One feels like a pigmy before
these
Titans of nature. But in India, the Himalayas excepted, mountains
produce
quite a different impression. The highest summits of the Deccan,
as
well as of the triangular ridge that fringes Northern Hindostan, and
of
the Eastern Ghats, do not exceed 3,000 feet. Only in the Ghats of the
Malabar
coast, from Cape Comorin to the river Surat, are there heights
of
7,000 feet above the surface of the sea. So that no comparison can
be
dawn between these and the hoary headed patriarch Elbruz, or Kasbek,
which
exceeds 18,000 feet. The chief and original charm of Indian
mountains
wonderfully consists in their capricious shapes. Sometimes
these
mountains, or, rather, separate volcanic peaks standing in a row,
form
chains; but it is more common to find them scattered, to the great
perplexity
of geologists, without visible cause, in places where the
formation
seems quite unsuitable. Spacious valleys, surrounded by high
walls
of rock, over the very ridge of which passes the railway, are
common.
Look below, and it will seem to you that you are gazing upon
the
studio of some whimsical Titanic sculptor, filled with half finished
groups,
statues, and monuments. Here is a dream-land bird, seated upon
the
head of a monster six hundred feet high, spreading its wings
and
widely gaping its dragon's mouth; by its side the bust of a man,
surmounted
by a helmet, battlemented like the walls of a feudal castle;
there,
again, new monsters devouring each other, statues with broken
limbs,
disorderly heaps of huge balls, lonely fortresses with loopholes,
ruined
towers and bridges. All this scattered and intermixed with
shapes
changing incessantly like the dreams of delirium. And the chief
attraction
is that nothing here is the result of art, everything is the
pure
sport of Nature, which, however, has occasionally been turned to
account
by ancient builders. The art of man in India is to be sought
in
the interior of the earth, not on its surface. Ancient Hindus seldom
built
their temples otherwise than in the bosom of the earth, as
though
they were ashamed of their efforts, or did not dare to rival the
sculpture
of nature. Having chosen, for instance, a pyramidal rock, or
a
cupola shaped hillock like Elephanta, Or Karli, they scraped away
inside,
according to the Puranas, for centuries, planning on so grand a
style
that no modern architecture has been able to conceive anything
to
equal it. Fables (?) about the Cyclops seem truer in India than in
Egypt.
The
marvellous railroad from Narel to Khandala reminds one of a similar
line
from Genoa up the Apenines. One may be said to travel in the air,
not
on land. The railway traverses a region 1,400 feet above Konkan,
and,
in some places, while one rail is laid on the sharp edge of the
rock,
the other is supported on vaults and arches. The Mali Khindi
viaduct
is 163 feet high. For two hours we hastened on between sky and
earth,
with abysses on both sides thickly covered with mango trees and
bananas.
Truly English engineers are wonderful builders.
The
pass of Bhor-Ghat is safely accomplished and we are in Khandala.
Our
bungalow here is built on the very edge of a ravine, which nature
herself
has carefully concealed under a cover of the most luxuriant
vegetation.
Everything is in blossom, and, in this unfathomed recess,
a
botanist might find sufficient material to occupy him for a lifetime.
Palms
have disappeared; for the most part they grow only near the
sea.
Here they are replaced by bananas, mango trees, pipals (ficus
religiosa),
fig trees, and thousands of other trees and shrubs, unknown
to
such outsiders as ourselves. The Indian flora is too often slandered
and
misrepresented as being full of beautiful, but scentless, flowers.
At
some seasons this may be true enough, but, as long as jasmines,
the
various balsams, white tuberoses, and golden champa (champaka or
frangipani)
are in blossom, this statement is far from being true. The
aroma
of champa alone is so powerful as to make one almost giddy. For
size,
it is the king of flowering trees, and hundreds of them were in
full
bloom, just at this time of year, on Mataran and Khandala.
We
sat on the verandah, talking and enjoying the surrounding views,
until
well-nigh midnight. Everything slept around us.
Khandala
is nothing but a big village, situated on the flat top of one
of
the mountains of the Sahiadra range, about 2,200 feet above the sea
level.
It is surrounded by isolated peaks, as strange in shape as any we
have
seen.
One
of them, straight before us, on the opposite side of the abyss,
looked
exactly like a long, one-storied building, with a flat roof and
a
battlemented parapet. The Hindus assert that, somewhere about this
hillock,
there exists a secret entrance, leading into vast interior
halls,
in fact to a whole subterranean palace, and that there still
exist
people who possess the secret of this abode. A holy hermit, Yogi,
and
Magus, who had inhabited these caves for "many centuries," imparted
this
secret to Sivaji, the celebrated leader of the Mahratta armies.
Like
Tanhauser, in Wagner's opera, the unconquerable Sivaji spent seven
years
of his youth in this mysterious abode, and therein acquired his
extraordinary
strength and valour.
Sivaji
is a kind of Indian Ilia Moorometz, though his epoch is much
nearer
to our times. He was the hero and the king of the Mahrattas in
the
seventeenth century, and the founder of their short-lived empire. It
is
to him that India owes the weakening, if not the entire destruction,
of
the Mussulman yoke. No taller than an ordinary woman, and with the
hand
of a child, he was, nevertheless, possessed of wonderful strength,
which,
of course, his compatriots ascribed to sorcery. His sword is
still
preserved in a museum, and one cannot help wondering at its size
and
weight, and at the hilt, through which only a ten-year-old child
could
put his hand. The basis of this hero's fame is the fact that
he,
the son of a poor officer in the service of a Mogul emperor, like
another
David, slew the Mussulman Goliath, the formidable Afzul Khan.
It
was not, however, with a sling that he killed him, he used in this
combat
the formidable Mahratti weapon, vaghnakh, consisting of five long
steel
nails, as sharp as needles, and very strong. This weapon is worn
on
the fingers, and wrestlers use it to tear each other's flesh like
wild
animals. The Deccan is full of legends about Sivaji, and even
the
English historians mention him with respect. Just as in the fable
respecting
Charles V, one of the local Indian traditions asserts that
Sivaji
is not dead, but lives secreted in one of the Sahiadra caves.
When
the fateful hour strikes (and according to the calculations of the
astrologers
the time is not far off) he will reappear, and will bring
freedom
to his beloved country.
The
learned and artful Brahmans, those Jesuits of India, profit by
the
profound superstition of the masses to extort wealth from them,
sometimes
to the last cow, the only food giver of a large family.
In
the following passage I give a curious example of this. At the end
of
July, 1879, this mysterious document appeared in Bombay. I translate
literally,
from the Mahratti, the original having been translated into
all
the dialects of India, of which there are 273.
"Shri!"
(an untranslatable greeting). "Let it be known unto every one
that
this epistle, traced in the original in golden letters, came down
from
Indra-loka (the heaven of Indra), in the presence of holy Brahmans,
on
the altar of the Vishveshvara temple, which is in the sacred town of
Benares.
"Listen
and remember, O tribes of Hindustan, Rajis-tan, Punjab, etc.,
etc.
On Saturday, the second day of the first half of the month Magha,
1809,
of Shalivahan's era" (1887 A.D.), "the eleventh month of the
Hindus,
during the Ashwini Nakshatra" (the first of the twenty-seven
constellations
on the moon's path), "when the sun enters the sign
Capricorn,
and the time of the day will be near the constellation
Pisces,
that is to say, exactly one hour and thirty-six minutes after
sunrise,
the hour of the end of the Kali-Yug will strike, and the
much
desired Satya-Yug will commence" (that is to say, the end of the
Maha-Yug,
the great cycle that embraces the four minor Yugas). "This
time
Satya-Yug will last 1,100 years. During all this time a man's
lifetime
will be 128 years. The days will become longer and will consist
of
twenty hours and forty-eight minutes, and the nights of thirteen
hours
and twelve minutes, that is to say, instead of twenty-four hours
we
shall have exactly thirty-four hours and one minute. The first day
of
Satya-Yug will be very important for us, because it is then that will
appear
to us our new King with white face and golden hair, who will come
from
the far North. He will become the autonomous Lord of India. The
Maya
of human unbelief, with all the heresies over which it presides,
will
be thrown down to Patala" (sig-nifying at once hell and the
antipodes),
"and the Maya of the righteous and pious will abide with
them,
and will help them to enjoy life in Mretinloka" (our earth).
"Let
it also be known to everyone that, for the dissemination of this
divine
document, every separate copy of it will be rewarded by the
forgiveness
of as many sins as are generally forgiven when a pious man
sacrifices
to a Brahman one hundred cows. As for the disbelievers and
the
indifferent, they will be sent to Naraka" (hell). "Copied out and
given,
by the slave of Vishnu, Malau Shriram, on Saturday, the 7th
day
of the first half of Shravan" (the fifth month of the Hindu year),
"1801,
of Shalivalian's era" (that is, 26th July, 1879).
The
further career of this ignorant and cunning epistle is not known
to
me. Probably the police put a stop to its distribution; this only
concerns
the wise administrators. But it splendidly illustrates, from
one
side, the credulity of the populace, drowned in superstition, and
from
the other the unscrupulousness of the Brahmans.
Concerning
the word Patala, which literally means the opposite side,
a
recent discovery of Swami Dayanand Saraswati, whom I have already
mentioned
in the preceding letters, is interesting, especially if this
discovery
can be accepted by philologists, as the facts seem to promise.
Dayanand
tries to show that the ancient Aryans knew, and even visited,
America,
which in ancient MSS. is called Patala, and out of which
popular
fancy constructed, in the course of time, something like the
Greek
Hades. He supports his theory by many quotations from the oldest
MSS.,
especially from the legends about Krishna and his favourite
disciple
Arjuna. In the history of the latter it is mentioned that
Arjuna,
one of the five Pandavas, descendants of the moon dynasty,
visited
Patala on his travels, and there married the widowed daughter of
King
Nagual, called Illupl. Comparing the names of father and daughter
we
reach the following considerations, which speak strongly in favour of
Dayanand's
supposition.
(1)
Nagual is the name by which the sorcerers of Mexico, Indians and
aborigines
of America, are still designated. Like the Assyrian and
Chaldean
Nargals, chiefs of the Magi, the Mexican Nagual unites in his
person
the functions of priest and of sorcerer, being served in the
latter
capacity by a demon in the shape of some animal, generally a
snake
or a crocodile. These Naguals are thought to be the descendants
of
Nagua, the king of the snakes. Abbe Brasseur de Bourbourg devotes a
considerable
amount of space to them in his book about Mexico, and says
that
the Naguals are servants of the evil one, who, in his turn, renders
them
but a temporary service. In Sanskrit, likewise, snake is Naga,
and
the "King of the Nagas" plays an important part in the history of
Buddha;
and in the Puranas there exists a tradition that it was Arjuna
who
introduced snake worship into Patala. The coincidence, and the
identity
of the names are so striking that our scientists really ought
to
pay some attention to them.
(2)
The Name of Arjuna's wife Illupl is purely old Mexican, and if we
reject
the hypothesis of Swami Daya-nand it will be perfectly impossible
to
explain the actual existence of this name in Sanskrit manuscripts
long
before the Christian era. Of all ancient dialects and languages
it
is only in those of the American aborigines that you constantly meet
with
such combinations of consonants as pl, tl, etc. They are abundant
especially
in the language of the Toltecs, or Nahuatl, whereas, neither
in
Sanskrit nor in ancient Greek are they ever found at the end of
a
word. Even the words Atlas and Atlantis seem to be foreign to the
etymology
of the European languages. Wherever Plato may have found them,
it
was not he who invented them. In the Toltec language we find the
root
atl, which means water and war, and directly after America was
discovered
Columbus found a town called Atlan, at the entrance of the
Bay
of Uraga. It is now a poor fishing village called Aclo. Only
in
America does one find such names as Itzcoatl, Zempoaltecatl, and
Popocatepetl.
To attempt to explain such coincidences by the theory of
blind
chance would be too much, consequently, as long as science does
not
seek to deny Dayanand's hypothesis, which, as yet, it is unable to
do,
we think it reasonable to adopt it, be it only in order to follow
out
the axiom "one hypothesis is equal to another." Amongst other things
Dayanand
points out that the route that led Arjuna to America five
thousand
years ago was by Siberia and Behring's Straits.
It
was long past midnight, but we still sat listening to this legend and
others
of a similar kind. At length the innkeeper sent a servant to
warn
us of the dangers that threatened us if we lingered too long on the
verandah
on a moonlit night. The programme of these dangers was divided
into
three sections--snakes, beasts of prey, and dacoits. Besides the
cobra
and the "rock-snake," the surrounding mountains are full of a kind
of
very small mountain snake, called furzen, the most dangerous of
all.
Their poison kills with the swiftness of lightning. The moonlight
attracts
them, and whole parties of these uninvited guests crawl up to
the
verandahs of houses, in order to warm themselves. Here they are more
snug
than on the wet ground. The verdant and perfumed abyss below
our
verandah happened, too, to be the favorite resort of tigers and
leopards,
who come thither to quench their thirst at the broad brook
which
runs along the bottom, and then wander until daybreak under the
windows
of the bungalow. Lastly, there were the mad dacoits, whose dens
are
scattered in mountains inaccessible to the police, who often shoot
Europeans
simply to afford themselves the pleasure of sending ad patres
one
of the hateful bellatis (foreigners). Three days before our arrival
the
wife of a Brahman disappeared, carried off by a tiger, and two
favorite
dogs of the commandant were killed by snakes. We declined to
wait
for further explanations, but hurried to our rooms. At daybreak we
were
to start for Karli, six miles from this place.
In
The Karli Caves
At
five o'clock in the morning we had already arrived at the limit, not
only
of driveable, but, even, of rideable roads. Our bullock-cart could
go
no further. The last half mile was nothing but a rough sea of stones.
We
had either to give up our enterprise, or to climb on all-fours up an
almost
perpendicular slope two hundred feet high. We were utterly at
our
wits' end, and meekly gazed at the historical mass before us, not
knowing
what to do next. Almost at the summit of the mountain, under
the
overhanging rocks, were a dozen black openings. Hundreds of pilgrims
were
crawling upwards, looking, in their holiday dresses, like so many
green,
pink, and blue ants. Here, however, our faithful Hindu friends
came
to our rescue. One of them, putting the palm of his hand to his
mouth,
produced a strident sound something between a shriek and a
whistle.
This signal was answered from above by an echo, and the next
moment
several half naked Brahmans, hereditary watchmen of the temple,
began
to descend the rocks as swiftly and skillfully as wild cats.
Five
minutes later they were with us, fastening round our bodies strong
leathern
straps, and rather dragging than leading us upwards. Half an
hour
later, exhausted but perfectly safe, we stood before the porch
of
the chief temple, which until then had been hidden from us by giant
trees
and cactuses.
This
majestic entrance, resting on four massive pillars which form a
quadrangle,
is fifty-two feet wide and is covered with ancient moss and
carvings.
Before it stands the "lion column," so-called from the four
lions
carved as large as nature, and seated back to back, at its base.
Over
the principal entrance, its sides covered with colossal male
and
female figures, is a huge arch, in front of which three gigantic
elephants
are sculptured in relief, with heads and trunks that project
from
the wall. The shape of the temple is oval. It is 128 feet long and
forty-six
feet wide. The central space is separated on each side
from
the aisles by forty-two pillars, which sustain the cupola-shaped
ceiling.
Further on is an altar, which divides the first dome from
a
second one which rises over a small chamber, formerly used by the
ancient
Aryan priests for an inner, secret altar. Two side passages
leading
towards it come to a sudden end, which suggests that, once upon
a
time, either doors or wall were there which exist no longer. Each of
the
forty-two pillars has a pedestal, an octagonal shaft, and a
capital,
described by Fergusson as "of the most exquisite workmanship,
representing
two kneeling elephants surmounted by a god and a goddess."
Fergusson
further says that this temple, or chaitya, is older and better
preserved
than any other in
200
years B.C., because Prinsep, who has read the inscription on the
Silastamba
pillar, asserts that the lion pillar was the gift of Ajmitra
Ukasa,
son of Saha Ravisobhoti, and another inscription shows that
the
temple was visited by Dathama Hara, otherwise Dathahamini, King of
before
our era. For some reason or other, Dr. Stevenson points to
seventy
years B.C. as the date, asserting that Karlen, or Karli, was
built
by the Emperor Devobhuti, under the supervision of Dhanu-Kakata.
But
how can this be maintained in view of the above-mentioned perfectly
authentic
inscriptions? Even Fergusson, the celebrated defender of the
Egyptian
antiquities and hostile critic of those of
Karli
belongs to the erections of the third century B.C., adding that
"the
disposition of the various parts of its architecture is identical
with
the architecture of the choirs of the Gothic period, and the
polygonal
apsides of cathedrals."
Above
the chief entrance is found a gallery, which reminds one of the
choirs,
where, in Catholic churches, the organ is placed. Besides the
chief
entrance there are two lateral entrances, leading to the aisles
of
the temple, and over the gallery there is a single spacious window in
the
shape of a horseshoe, so that the light falls on the daghopa (altar)
entirely
from above, leaving the aisles, sheltered by the pillars,
in
obscurity, which increases as you approach the further end of the
building.
To the eyes of a spectator standing at the entrance, the whole
daghopa
shines with light, and behind it is nothing but impenetrable
darkness,
where no profane footsteps were permitted to tread. A figure
on
the dag-hopa, from the summit of which "Raja priests" used to
pronounce
verdicts to the people, is called Dharma-Raja, from Dharma,
the
Hindu Minos. Above the temple are two stories of caves, in each of
which
are wide open galleries formed by huge carved pillars, and from
these
galleries an opening leads to roomy cells and corridors, sometimes
very
long, but quite useless, as they invariably come to an abrupt
termination
at solid walls, without the trace of an issue of any kind.
The
guardians of the temple have either lost the secret of further
caves,
or conceal them jealously from Europeans.
Besides
the Viharas already described, there are many others, scattered
over
the slope of the mountain. These temple-monasteries are all smaller
than
the first, but, according to the opinion of some archeologists,
they
are much older. To what century or epoch they belong is not known
except
to a few Brahmans, who keep silence. Generally speaking, the
position
of a European archaeologist in India is very sad. The masses,
drowned
in superstition, are utterly unable to be of any use to him, and
the
learned Brahmans, initiated into the mysteries of secret libraries
in
pagodas, do all they can to prevent archeological research. However,
after
all that has happened, it would be unjust to blame the conduct of
the
Brahmans in these matters. The bitter experience of many centuries
has
taught them that their only weapons are distrust and circumspection,
without
these their national history and the most sacred of their
treasures
would be irrevocably lost. Political coups d'etat which have
shaken
their country to its foundation, Mussulman invasions that proved
so
fatal to its welfare, the all-destructive fanaticism of Mussulman
vandals
and of Catholic padres, who are ready for anything in order to
secure
manuscripts and destroy them--all these form a good excuse
for
the action of the Brahmans. However in spite of these manifold
destructive
tendencies, there exist in many places in India vast
libraries
capable of pouring a bright and new light, not only on the
history
of India itself, but also on the darkest problems of universal
history.
Some of these libraries, filled with the most precious
manuscripts,
are in the possession of native princes and of pagodas
attached
to their territories, but the greater part is in the hands
of
the Jainas (the oldest of Hindu sects) and of the Rajputana Takurs,
whose
ancient hereditary castles are scattered all over Rajistan, like
so
many eagles' nests on high rocks. The existence of the celebrated
collections
in Jassulmer and Patana is not unknown to the Government,
but
they remain wholly beyond its reach. The manuscripts are written in
an
ancient and now completely forgotten language, intelligible only to
the
high priests and their initiated librarians. One thick folio is
so
sacred and inviolable that it rests on a heavy golden chain in the
centre
of the temple of Chintamani in Jassulmer, and taken down only
to
be dusted and rebound at the advent of each new pontiff. This is
the
work of Somaditya Suru Acharya, a great priest of the pre-Mussulman
time,
well-known in history. His mantle is still preserved in the
temple,
and forms the robe of initiation of every new high priest.
Colonel
James Tod, who spent so many years in India and gained the love
of
the people as well as of the Brahmans--a most uncommon trait in the
biography
of any Anglo-Indian--has written the only true history of
India,
but even he was never allowed to touch this folio. Natives
commonly
believe that he was offered initiation into the mysteries
at
the price of the adoption of their religion. Being a devoted
archaeologist
he almost resolved to do so, but, having to return to
England
on account of his health, he left this world before he could
return
to his adopted country, and thus the enigma of this new book of
the
sibyl remains unsolved.
The
Takurs of Rajputana, who are said to possess some of the underground
libraries,
occupy in India position similar to the position of European
feudal
barons of the Middle Ages. Nominally they are dependent on some
of
the native princes or on the British Government; but de facto they
are
perfectly independent. Their castles are built on high rocks, and
besides
the natural difficulty of entering them, their possessors are
made
doubly unreachable by the fact that long secret passages exist in
every
such castle, known only to the present owner and confided to his
heir
only at his death. We have visited two such underground halls, one
of
them big enough to contain a whole village. No torture would ever
induce
the owners to disclose the secret of their entrances, but the
Yogis
and the initiated Adepts come and go freely, entirely trusted by
the
Takurs.
A
similar story is told concerning the libraries and subterranean
passages
of Karli. As for the archaeologists, they are unable even to
determine
whether this temple was built by Buddhists or Brahmans.
The
huge daghopa that hides the holy of holies from the eyes of the
worshippers
is sheltered by a mushroom-shaped roof, and resembles a low
minaret
with a cupola. Roofs of this description are called "umbrellas,"
and
usually shelter the statues of Buddha and of the Chinese sages.
But,
on the other hand, the worshippers of Shiva, who possess the temple
nowadays,
assert that this low building is nothing but a lingam of
Shiva.
Besides, the carvings of gods and goddesses cut out of the rock
forbid
one to think that the temple is the production of the Buddhists.
Fergusson
writes, "What is this monument of antiquity? Does it belong
to
the Hindus, or to the Buddhists? Has it been built upon plans drawn
since
the death of Sakya Sing, or does it belong to a more ancient
religion?"
That
is the question. If Fergusson, being bound by facts existing in
inscriptions
to acknowledge the antiquity of Karli, will still persist
in
asserting that Elephanta is of much later date, he will scarcely be
able
to solve this dilemma, because the two styles are exactly the same,
and
the carvings of the latter are still more magnificent. To ascribe
the
temples of Elephanta and Kanari to the Buddhists, and to say that
their
respective periods correspond to the fourth and fifth centuries
in
the first case, and the tenth in the second, is to introduce into
history
a very strange and unfounded anachronism. After the first
century
A.D. there was not left a single influential Buddhist in India.
Conquered
and persecuted by the Brahmans, they emigrated by thousands to
Ceylon
and the trans-Himalayan districts. After the death of King Asoka,
Buddhism
speedily broke down, and in a short time was entirely displaced
by
the theocratic Brahmanism.
Fergusson's
hypothesis that the followers of Sakya Sing, driven out by
intolerance
from the continent, probably sought shelter on the islands
that
surround Bombay, would hardly sustain critical analysis. Elephanta
and
Salsetta are quite near to Bombay, two and five miles distant
respectively,
and they are full of ancient Hindu temples. Is it
credible,
then, that the Brahmans, at the culminating point of their
power,
just before the Mussulman invasions, fanatical as they were, and
mortal
enemies of the Buddhists, would allow these hated heretics to
build
temples within their possessions in general and on Gharipuri
in
particular, this latter being an island consecrated to their Hindu
pagodas?
It is not necessary to be either a specialist, an architect,
or
an eminent archeologist, in order to be convinced at the first glance
that
such temples as Elephanta are the work of Cyclopses, requiring
centuries
and not years for their construction. Whereas in Karli
everything
is built and carved after a perfect plan, in Elephanta it
seems
as if thousands of different hands had wrought at different times,
each
following its own ideas and fashioning after its own device. All
three
caves are dug out of a hard porphyry rock. The first temple is
practically
a square, 130 feet 6 inches long and 130 feet wide. It
contains
twenty-six thick pillars and sixteen pilasters.
Between
some of them there is a distance of 12 or 16 feet, between
others
15 feet 5 inches, 13 feet 3 1/2 inches, and so on. The same lack
of
uniformity is found in the pedestals of the columns, the finish and
style
of which is constantly varying.
Why,
then, should we not pay some attention to the explanations of the
Brahmans?
They say that this temple was begun by the sons of Pandu,
after
"the great war," Mahabharata, and that after their death every
true
believer was bidden to continue the work according to his own
notions.
Thus the temple was gradually built during three centuries.
Every
one who wished to redeem his sins would bring his chisel and set
to
work. Many were the members of royal families, and even kings, who
personally
took part in these labors.
On
the right hand side of the temple there is a corner stone, a lingam
of
Shiva in his character of Fructifying Force, which is sheltered by a
small
square chapel with four doors. Round this chapel are many colossal
human
figures. According to the Brahmans, these are statues representing
the
royal sculptors themselves, they being doorkeepers of the holy of
holies,
Hindus of the highest caste. Each of the larger figures leans
upon
a dwarf representative of the lower castes, which have been
promoted
by the popular fancy to the rank of demons (Pisachas).
Moreover,
the temple is full of unskillful work. The Brahmans hold that
such
a holy place could not be deserted if men of the preceding and
present
generations had not become unworthy of visiting it. As to Kanari
or
Kanhari, and some other cave temples, there is not the slightest
doubt
that they were all erected by Buddhists. In some of them were
found
inscriptions in a perfect state of preservation, and their style
does
not remind one in the least of the symbolical buildings of the
Brahmans.
Archbishop Heber thinks the Kanari caves were built in the
first
or second centuries B.C. But Elephanta is much older and must be
classed
among prehistoric monuments, that is to say, its date must
be
assigned to the epoch that immediately followed the "great
war,"
Mahabharata. Unfortunately the date of this war is a point of
disagreement
between European scientists; the celebrated and learned
Dr.
Martin Haug thinks it is almost antediluvian, while the no less
celebrated
and learned Professor Max Muller places it as near the first
century
of our era as possible.
The
fair was at its culmination when, having finished visiting the
cells,
climbing over all the stories, and examining the celebrated "hall
of
wrestlers," we descended, not by way of the stairs, of which there is
no
trace to be found, but after the fashion of pails bringing water out
of
a deep well, that is to say, by the aid of ropes. A crowd of about
three
thousand persons had assembled from the surrounding villages and
towns.
Women were there adorned from the waist down in brilliant-hued
saris,
with rings in their noses, their ears, their lips, and on all
parts
of their limbs that could hold a ring. Their raven-black hair
which
was smoothly combed back, shone with cocoanut oil, and was adorned
with
crimson flowers, which are sacred to Shiva and to Bhavani, the
feminine
aspect of this god.
Before
the temple there were rows of small shops and of tents, where
could
be bought all the requisites for the usual sacrifices--aromatic
herbs,
incense, sandal wood, rice, gulab, and the red powder with which
the
pilgrim sprinkles first the idol and then his own face. Fakirs,
bairagis,
hosseins, the whole body of the mendicant brotherhood, was
present
among the crowd. Wreathed in chaplets, with long uncombed hair
twisted
at the top of the head into a regular chignon, and with bearded
faces,
they presented a very funny likeness to naked apes. Some of them
were
covered with wounds and bruises due to mortification of the flesh.
We
also saw some bunis, snake-charmers, with dozens of various snakes
round
their waists, necks, arms, and legs--models well worthy of the
brush
of a painter who intended to depict the image of a male Fury. One
jadugar
was especially remarkable. His head was crowned with a turban
of
cobras. Expanding their hoods and raising their leaf-like dark green
heads,
these cobras hissed furiously and so loudly that the sound was
audible
a hundred paces off. Their "stings" quivered like lightning,
and
their small eyes glittered with anger at the approach of every
passer-by.
The expression, "the sting of a snake," is universal, but
it
does not describe accurately the process of inflicting a wound. The
"sting"
of a snake is perfectly harmless. To introduce the poison into
the
blood of a man, or of an animal, the snake must pierce the flesh
with
its fangs, not prick with its sting. The needle-like eye teeth of
a
cobra communicate with the poison gland, and if this gland is cut out
the
cobra will not live more than two days. Accordingly, the supposition
of
some sceptics, that the bunis cut out this gland, is quite unfounded.
The
term "hissing" is also inaccurate when applied to cobras. They do
not
hiss. The noise they make is exactly like the death-rattle of a
dying
man. The whole body of a cobra is shaken by this loud and heavy
growl.
Here
we happened to be the witnesses of a fact which I relate exactly
as
it occurred, without indulging in explanations or hypotheses of any
kind.
I leave to naturalists the solution of the enigma.
Expecting
to be well paid, the cobra-turbaned buni sent us word by a
messenger
boy that he would like very much to exhibit his powers of
snake-charming.
Of course we were perfectly willing, but on condition
that
between us and his pupils there should be what Mr. Disraeli would
call
a "scientific frontier."* We selected a spot about fifteen paces
from
the magic circle. I will not describe minutely the tricks and
wonders
that we saw, but will proceed at once to the main fact. With the
aid
of a vaguda, a kind of musical pipe of bamboo, the buni caused all
the
snakes to fall into a sort of cataleptic sleep. The melody that he
played,
monotonous, low, and original to the last degree, nearly sent us
to
sleep ourselves. At all events we all grew extremely sleepy without
any
apparent cause. We were aroused from this half lethargy by our
friend
Gulab-Sing, who gathered a handful of a grass, perfectly unknown
to
us, and advised us to rub our temples and eyelids with it. Then the
buni
produced from a dirty bag a kind of round stone, something like a
fish's
eye, or an onyx with a white spot in the centre, not bigger than
a
ten-kopek bit. He declared that anyone who bought that stone would be
able
to charm any cobra (it would produce no effect on snakes of other
kinds)
paralyzing the creature and then causing it to fall asleep.
Moreover,
by his account, this stone is the only remedy for the bite
of
a cobra. You have only to place this talisman on the wound, where it
will
stick so firmly that it cannot be torn off until all the poison is
absorbed
into it, when it will fall off of itself, and all danger will
be
past.
*
Written in 1879.
Being
aware that the Government gladly offers any premium for the
invention
of a remedy for the bite of the cobra, we did not show any
unreasonable
interest on the appearance of this stone. In the meanwhile,
the
buni began to irritate his cobras. Choosing a cobra eight feet long,
he
literally enraged it. Twisting its tail round a tree, the cobra arose
and
hissed. The buni quietly let it bite his finger, on which we all saw
drops
of blood. A unanimous cry of horror arose in the crowd. But master
buni
stuck the stone on his finger and proceeded with his performance.
"The
poison gland of the snake has been cut out," remarked our New York
colonel.
"This is a mere farce."
As
if in answer to this remark, the buni seized the neck of the cobra,
and,
after a short struggle, fixed a match into its mouth, so that it
remained
open. Then he brought the snake over and showed it to each of
us
separately, so that we all saw the death-giving gland in its mouth.
But
our colonel would not give up his first impression so easily. "The
gland
is in its place right enough," said he, "but how are we to know
that
it really does contain poison?"
Then
a live hen was brought forward and, tying its legs together, the
buni
placed it beside the snake. But the latter would pay no attention
at
first to this new victim, but went on hissing at the buni, who teased
and
irritated it until at last it actually struck at the wretched bird.
The
hen made a weak attempt to cackle, then shuddered once or twice and
became
still. The death was instantaneous. Facts will remain facts, the
most
exacting critic and disbeliever notwithstanding. This thought gives
me
courage to write what happened further. Little by little the cobra
grew
so infuriated that it became evident the jadugar himself did not
dare
to approach it. As if glued to the trunk of the tree by its tail,
the
snake never ceased diving into space with its upper part and trying
to
bite everything. A few steps from us was somebody's dog. It seemed to
attract
the whole of the buni's attention for some time. Sitting on his
haunches,
as far as possible from his raging pupil, he stared at the dog
with
motionless glassy eyes, and then began a scarcely audible song.
The
dog grew restless. Putting his tail between his legs, he tried to
escape,
but remained, as if fastened to the ground. After a few seconds
he
crawled nearer and nearer to the buni, whining, but unable to tear
his
gaze from the charmer. I understood his object, and felt awfully
sorry
for the dog. But, to my horror, I suddenly felt that my tongue
would
not move, I was perfectly unable either to get up or even to raise
my
finger. Happily this fiendish scene was not prolonged. As soon as
the
dog was near enough, the cobra bit him. The poor animal fell on his
back,
made a few convulsive movements with his legs, and shortly died.
We
could no longer doubt that there was poison in the gland. In the
meanwhile
the stone had dropped from the buni's finger and he approached
to
show us the healed member. We all saw the trace of the prick, a red
spot
not bigger than the head of an ordinary pin.
Next
he made his snakes rise on their tails, and, holding the stone
between
his first finger and thumb, he proceeded to demonstrate its
influence
on the cobras. The nearer his hand approached to the head of
the
snake, the more the reptile's body recoiled. Looking steadfastly at
the
stone they shivered, and, one by one, dropped as if paralyzed. The
buni
then made straight for our sceptical colonel, and made him an offer
to
try the experiment himself. We all protested vigorously, but he would
not
listen to us, and chose a cobra of a very considerable size. Armed
with
the stone, the colonel bravely approached the snake. For a moment
I
positively felt petrified with fright. Inflating its hood, the cobra
made
an attempt to fly at him, then suddenly stopped short, and, after
a
pause, began following with all its body the circular movements of the
colonel's
hand. When he put the stone quite close to the reptile's head,
the
snake staggered as if intoxicated, its hissing grew weak, its hood
dropped
helplessly on both sides of its neck, and its eyes closed.
Drooping
lower and lower, the snake fell at last on the ground like a
stick,
and slept.
Only
then did we breathe freely. Taking the sorcerer aside we expressed
our
desire to buy the stone, to which he easily assented, and, to our
great
astonishment, asked for it only two rupees. This talisman became
my
own property and I still keep it. The buni asserts, and our Hindu
friends
confirm the story, that it is not a stone but an excrescence. It
is
found in the mouth of one cobra in a hundred, between the bone of the
upper
jaw and the skin of the palate. This "stone" is not fastened to
the
skull, but hangs, wrapped in skin, from the palate, and so is very
easily
cut off; but after this operation the cobra is said to die. If
we
are to believe Bishu Nath, for that was our sorcerer's name, this
excrescence
confers upon the cobra who possesses it the rank of king
over
the rest of his kind.
"Such
a cobra," said the buni, "is like a Brahman, a Dwija Brahman
amongst
Shudras, they all obey him. There exists, moreover, a poisonous
toad
that also, sometimes, possesses this stone, but its effect is much
weaker.
To destroy the effect of a cobra's poison you must apply the
toad's
stone not later than two minutes after the infliction of the
wound;
but the stone of a cobra is effectual to the last. Its healing
power
is certain as long as the heart of the wounded man has not ceased
to
beat."
Bidding
us good-bye, the buni advised us to keep the stone in a dry
place
and never to leave it near a dead body, also, to hide it during
the
sun and moon eclipses, "otherwise," said he, "it will lose all
its
power."
In case we were bitten by a mad dog, he said, we were to put the
stone
into a glass of water and leave it there during the night, next
morning
the sufferer was to drink the water and then forget all danger.
"He
is a regular devil and not a man!" exclaimed our colonel, as soon
as
the buni had disappeared on his way to a Shiva temple, where, by the
way,
we were not admitted.
"As
simple a mortal as you or I," remarked the Rajput with a smile,
"and,
what is more, he is very ignorant. The truth is, he has been
brought
up in a Shivaite pagoda, like all the real snake-charmers. Shiva
is
the patron god of snakes, and the Brahmans teach the bunis to produce
all
kinds of mesmeric tricks by empirical methods, never explaining to
them
the theoretical principles, but assuring them that Shiva is behind
every
phenomenon. So that the bunis sincerely ascribe to their god the
honor
of their 'miracles."'
"The
Government of India offers a reward for an antidote to the poison
of
the cobra. Why then do the bunis not claim it, rather than let
thousands
of people die helpless?"
"The
Brahmans would never suffer that. If the Government took the
trouble
to examine carefully the statistics of deaths caused by snakes,
it
would be found that no Hindu of the Shivaite sect has ever died from
the
bite of a cobra. They let people of other sects die, but save the
members
of their own flock."
"But
did we not see how easily he parted with his secret,
notwithstanding
we were foreigners. Why should not the English buy it as
readily?"
"Because
this secret is quite useless in the hands of Europeans. The
Hindus
do not try to conceal it, because they are perfectly certain that
without
their aid nobody can make any use of it. The stone will retain
its
wonderful power only when it is taken from a live cobra. In order to
catch
the snake without killing it, it must be cast into a lethargy, or,
if
you prefer the term, charmed. Who is there among the foreigners who
is
able to do this? Even amongst the Hindus, you will not find a single
individual
in all India who possesses this ancient secret, unless he be
a
disciple of the Shivaite Brahmans. Only Brahmans of this sect possess
a
monopoly of the secret, and not all even of them, only those, in
short,
who belong to the pseudo-Patanjali school, who are usually called
Bhuta
ascetics. Now there exist, scattered over the whole of India, only
about
half-a-dozen of their pagoda schools, and the inmates would rather
part
with their very lives than with their secret."
"We
have paid only two rupees for a secret which proved as strong in the
colonel's
hands as in the hands of the buni. Is it then so difficult to
procure
a store of these stones?" Our friend laughed.
"In
a few days," said he, "the talisman will lose all its healing powers
in
your inexperienced hands. This is the reason why he let it go at such
a
low price, which he is, probably, at this moment sacrificing before
the
altar of his deity. I guarantee you a week's activity for your
purchase,
but after that time it will only be fit to be thrown out of
the
window."
We
soon learned how true were these words. On the following day we came
across
a little girl, bitten by a green scorpion. She seemed to be in
the
last convulsions. No sooner had we applied the stone than the child
seemed
relieved, and, in an hour, she was gaily playing about, whereas,
even
in the case of the sting of a common black scorpion, the patient
suffers
for two weeks. But when, about ten days later, we tried the
experiment
of the stone upon a poor coolie, just bitten by a cobra, it
would
not even stick to the wound, and the poor wretch shortly expired.
I
do not take upon myself to offer, either a defence, or an explanation
of
the virtues of the "stone." I simply state the facts and leave the
future
career of the story to its own fate. The sceptics may deal with
it
as they will. Yet I can easily find people in India who will bear
witness
to my accuracy.
In
this connection I was told a funny story. When Dr. (now Sir J.)
Fayrer,
who lately published his Thanatophidia, a book on the venomous
snakes
of India, a work well known throughout Europe, he categorically
stated
in it his disbelief in the wondrous snake-charmers of India.
However,
about a fortnight or so after the book appeared amongst the
Anglo-Indians,
a cobra bit his own cook. A buni, who happened to pass
by,
readily offered to save the man's life. It stands to reason that
the
celebrated naturalist could not accept such an offer. Nevertheless,
Major
Kelly and other officers urged him to permit the experiment.
Declaring
that in spite of all, in less than an hour his cook would be
no
more, he gave his consent. But it happened that in less than an hour
the
cook was quietly preparing dinner in the kitchen, and, it is added,
Dr.
Fayrer seriously thought of throwing his book into the fire.
The
day grew dreadfully hot. We felt the heat of the rocks in spite of
our
thick-soled shoes. Besides, the general curiosity aroused by our
presence,
and the unceremonious persecutions of the crowd, were becoming
tiring.
We resolved to "go home," that is to say, to return to the cool
cave,
six hundred paces from the temple, where we were to spend the
evening
and to sleep. We would wait no longer for our Hindu companions,
who
had gone to see the fair, and so we started by ourselves.----
On
approaching the entrance of the temple we were struck by the
appearance
of a young man, who stood apart from the crowd and was of
an
ideal beauty. He was a member of the Sadhu sect, a "candidate for
Saintship,"
to use the expression of one of our party.
The
Sadhus differ greatly from every other sect. They never appear
unclothed,
do not cover themselves with damp ashes, wear no painted
signs
on their faces, or foreheads, and do not worship idols. Belonging
to
the Adwaiti section of the Vedantic school, they believe only in
Parabrahm
(the great spirit). The young man looked quite decent in his
light
yellow costume, a kind of nightgown without sleeves. He had long
hair,
and his head was uncovered. His elbow rested on the back of a cow,
which
was itself well calculated to attract attention, for, in addition
to
her four perfectly shaped legs, she had a fifth growing out of her
hump.
This wonderful freak of nature used its fifth leg as if it were
a
hand and arm, hunting and killing tiresome flies, and scratching
its
head with the hoof. At first we thought it was a trick to attract
attention,
and even felt offended with the animal, as well as with its
handsome
owner, but, coming nearer, we saw that it was no trick, but an
actual
sport of mischievous Nature. From the young man we learned that
the
cow had been presented to him by the Maharaja Holkar, and that her
milk
had been his only food during the last two years.
Sadhus
are aspirants to the Raj Yoga, and, as I have said above, usually
belong
to the school of the Vedanta. That is to say, they are disciples
of
initiates who have entirely resigned the life of the world, and lead
a
life of monastic chastity. Between the Sadhus and the Shivaite
bunis
there exists a mortal enmity, which manifests itself by a silent
contempt
on the side of the Sadhus, and on that of the bunis by constant
attempts
to sweep their rivals off the face of the earth. This antipathy
is
as marked as that between light and darkness, and reminds one of the
dualism
of the Ahura-Mazda and Ahriman of the Zoroastrians. Masses
of
people look up to the first as to Magi, sons of the sun and of the
Divine
Principle, while the latter are dreaded as dangerous sorcerers.
Having
heard most wonderful accounts of the former, we were burning
with
anxiety to see some of the "miracles" ascribed to them by some even
among
the Englishmen. We eagerly invited the Sadhu to visit our vihara
during
the evening. But the handsome ascetic sternly refused, for the
reason
that we were staying within the temple of the idol-worshippers,
the
very air of which would prove antagonistic to him. We offered him
money,
but he would not touch it, and so we parted.
A
path, or rather a ledge cut along the perpendicular face of a rocky
mass
200 feet high, led from the chief temple to our vihara. A man needs
good
eyes, sure feet, and a very strong head to avoid sliding down the
precipice
at the first false step. Any help would be quite out of the
question,
for, the ledge being only two feet wide, no one could walk
side
by side with another. We had to walk one by one, appealing for aid
only
to the whole of our personal courage. But the courage of many of us
was
gone on an unlimited furlough. The position of our American colonel
was
the worst, for he was very stout and short-sighted, which defects,
taken
together, caused him frequent vertigos. To keep up our spirits
we
indulged in a choral performance of the duet from Norma, "Moriam'
insieme,"
holding each other's hands the while, to ensure our being
spared
by death or dying all four in company. But the colonel did not
fail
to frighten us nearly out of our lives. We were already half way up
to
the cave when he made a false step, staggered, lost hold of my hand,
and
rolled over the edge. We three, having to clutch the bushes and
stones,
were quite unable to help him. A unanimous cry of horror escaped
us,
but died away as we perceived that he had succeeded in clinging to
the
trunk of a small tree, which grew on the slope a few steps below
us.
Fortunately, we knew that the colonel was good at athletics, and
remarkably
cool in danger. Still the moment was a critical one. The
slender
stem of the tree might give way at any moment. Our cries of
distress
were answered by the sudden appearance of the mysterious Sadhu
with
his cow.
They
were quietly walking along about twenty feet below us, on such
invisible
projections of the rock that a child's foot could barely have
found
room to rest there, and they both traveled as calmly, and even
carelessly,
as if a comfortable causeway were beneath their feet,
instead
of a vertical rock. The Sadhu called out to the colonel to hold
on,
and to us to keep quiet. He patted the neck of his monstrous cow,
and
untied the rope by which he was leading her. Then, with both hands
he
turned her head in our direction, and clucking with his tongue, he
cried
"Chal!" (go). With a few wild goat-like bounds the animal reached
our
path, and stood before us motion-less. A for the Sadhu himself, his
movements
were as swift and as goat-like. In a moment he had reached the
tree,
tied the rope round the colonel's body, and put him on his legs
again;
then, rising higher, with one effort of his strong hand he
hoisted
him up to the path. Our colonel was with us once more, rather
pale,
and with the loss of his pince-nez, but not of his presence of
mind.
An
adventure that had threatened to become a tragedy ended in a farce.
"What
is to be done now?" was our unanimous inquiry. "We cannot let you
go
alone any further."
"In
a few moments it will be dark and we shall be lost," said Mr. Y----,
the
colonel's secretary.
And,
indeed, the sun was dipping below the horizon, and every moment was
precious.
In the meanwhile, the Sadhu had fastened the rope round the
cow's
neck again and stood before us on the pathway, evidently not
understanding
a word of our conversation. His tall, slim figure seemed
as
if suspended in the air above the precipice. His long, black hair,
floating
in the breeze, alone showed that in him we beheld a living
being
and not a magnificent statue of bronze. Forgetting our recent
danger
and our present awkward situation, Miss X----, who was a born
artist,
exclaimed: "Look at the majesty of that pure profile; observe
the
pose of that man. How beautiful are his outlines seen against the
golden
and blue sky. One would say, a Greek Adonis, not a Hindu!" But
the
"Adonis" in question put a sudden stop to her ecstasy. He glanced at
Miss
X---- with half-pitying, half-kindly, laughing eyes, and said with
his
ringing voice in Hindi--
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"Bara-Sahib
cannot go any further without the help of someone else's
eyes.
Sahib's eyes are his enemies. Let the Sahib ride on my cow. She
cannot
stumble."
"I!
Ride on a cow, and a five-legged one at that? Never!" exclaimed the
poor
colonel, with such a helpless air, nevertheless, that we burst out
laughing.
"It
will be better for Sahib to sit on a cow than to lie on a chitta"
(the
pyre on which dead bodies are burned), remarked the Sadhu with
modest
seriousness. "Why call forth the hour which has not yet struck?"
The
colonel saw that argument was perfectly useless, and we succeeded in
persuading
him to follow the Sadhu's advice, who carefully hoisted him
on
the cow's back, then, recommending him to hold on by the fifth leg,
he
led the way. We all followed to the best of our ability.
In
a few minutes more we were on the verandah of our vihara, where we
found
our Hindu friends, who had arrived by another path. We eagerly
related
all our adventures, and then looked for the Sadhu, but, in the
meanwhile,
he had disappeared together with his cow.
"Do
not look for him, he is gone by a road known only to himself,"
remarked
Gulab-Sing carelessly. "He knows you are sincere in your
gratitude,
but he would not take your money. He is a Sadhu, not a buni,"
added
he proudly.
We
remembered that it was reported this proud friend of ours also
belonged
to the Sadhu sect. "Who can tell," whispered the colonel in my
ear,
"whether these reports are mere gossip, or the truth?"
Sadhu-Nanaka
must not be confounded with Guru-Nanaka, a leader of the
Sikhs.
The former are Adwaitas, the latter monotheists. The Adwaitas
believe
only in an impersonal deity named Parabrahm.
In
the chief hall of the vihara was a life-sized statue of Bhavani, the
feminine
aspect of Shiva. From the bosom of this devaki streams forth
the
pure cold water of a mountain spring, which falls into a reservoir
at
her feet. Around it lay heaps of sacrificial flowers, rice, betel
leaves
and incense. This hall was, in consequence, so damp that we
preferred
to spend the night on the verandah in the open air, hanging,
as
it were, between sky and earth, and lit from below by numerous fires
kept
burning all the night by Gulab-Sing's servants, to scare away wild
beasts,
and, from above, by the light of the full moon. A supper was
arranged
after the Eastern fashion, on carpets spread upon the floor,
and
with thick banana leaves for plates and dishes. The noiselessly
gliding
steps of the servants, more silent than ghosts, their white
muslins
and red turbans, the limitless depths of space, lost in waves of
moonlight,
before us, and behind, the dark vaults of ancient caves,
dug
out by unknown races, in unknown times, in honor of an unknown,
prehistoric
religion--all these, our surroundings, transported us into a
strange
world, and into distant epochs far different from our own.
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We
had before us representatives of five different peoples, five
different
types of costume, each quite unlike the others. All five are
known
to us in ethnography under the generic name of Hindus. Similarly
eagles,
condors, hawks, vultures, and owls are known to ornithology as
"birds
of prey," but the analogous differences are as great. Each of
these
five companions, a Rajput, a Bengali, a Madrasi, a Sinhalese and
a
Mahratti, is a descendant of a race, the origin of which European
scientists
have discussed for over half a century without coming to any
agreement.
Rajputs
are called Hindus and are said to belong to the Aryan race; but
they
call themselves Suryavansa, that is to say, descendants of Surya or
the
sun.
The
Brahmans derive their origin from Indu, the moon, and are called
Induvansa;
Indu, Soma, or Chandra, meaning moon in Sanskrit. If the
first
Aryans, appearing in the prologue of universal history, are
Brahmans,
that is to say, the people who, according to Max Muller,
having
crossed the Himalayas conquered the country of the five rivers,
then
the Rajputs are no Aryans; and if they are Aryans they are not
Brahmans,
as all their genealogies and sacred books (Puranas) show that
they
are much older than the Brahmans; and, in this case, moreover, the
Aryan
tribes had an actual existence in other countries of our globe
than
the much renowned district of the Oxus, the cradle of the Germanic
race,
the ancestors of Aryans and Hindus, in the fancy of the scientist
we
have named and his German school.
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The
"moon" line begins with Pururavas (see the genealogical tree
prepared
by Colonel Tod from the MS. Puranas in the Oodeypore archives),
that
is to say, two thousand two hundred years before Christ, and much
later
than Ikshvaku, the patriarch of the Suryavansa. The fourth son of
Pururavas,
Rech, stands at the head of the line of the moon-race, and
only
in the fifteenth generation after him appears Harita, who founded
the
Kanshikagotra, the Brahman tribe.
The
Rajputs hate the latter. They say the children of the sun and Rama
have
nothing in common with the children of the moon and Krishna. As
for
the Bengalis, according to their traditions and history, they are
aborigines.
The Madrasis and the Sinhalese are Dravidians. They have, in
turn,
been said to belong to the Semites, the Hamites, the Aryans, and,
lastly,
they have been given up to the will of God, with the conclusion
drawn
that the Sinhalese, at all events, must be Mongolians of Turanian
origin.
The Mahrattis are aborigines of the West of India, as the
Bengalis
are of, the East; but to what group of tribes belong these two
nationalities
no ethnographer can define, save perhaps a German. The
traditions
of the people themselves are generally denied, because they
are
not in harmony with foregone conclusions. The meaning of ancient
manuscripts
is disfigured, and, in fact, sacrificed to fiction, if only
the
latter proceeds from the mouth of some favorite oracle.
The
ignorant masses are often blamed and found to be guilty of
superstition
for creating idols in the spiritual world. Is not,
then,
the educated man, the man who craves after knowledge, who is
enlightened,
still more inconsistent than these masses, when he deals
with
his favorite authorities? Are not half a dozen laurel-crowned heads
allowed
by him to do whatever they like with facts, to draw their own
conclusions,
according to their own liking, and does he not stone
every
one who would dare to rise against the decisions of these
quasi-infallible
specialists, and brand him as an ignorant fool?
Let
us remember the case in point of Louis Jacolliot, who spent twenty
years
in India, who actually knew the language and the country to
perfection,
and who, nevertheless, was rolled in the mud by Max Muller,
whose
foot never touched Indian soil.
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The
oldest peoples of Europe are mere babes com-pared with the tribes
of
Asia, and especially of India. And oh! how poor and insignificant are
the
genealogies of the oldest European families compared with those of
some
Rajputs. In the opinion of Colonel Tod, who for over twenty years
studied
these genealogies on the spot, they are the completest and most
trustworthy
of the records of the peoples of antiquity. They date from
1,000
to 2,200 years B.C., and their authenticity may often be proved
by
reference to Greek authors. After long and careful research and
comparison
with the text of the Puranas, and various monumental
inscriptions,
Colonel Tod came to the conclusion that in the Oodeypore
archives
(now hidden from public inspection), not to mention other
sources,
may be found a clue to the history of India in particular, and
to
universal ancient history in general. Colonel Tod advises the earnest
seeker
after this clue not to think, with some flippant archaeologists
who
are insufficiently acquainted with India, that the stories of
Rama,
the Mahabharata, Krishna, and the five brothers Pandu, are mere
allegories.
He affirms that he who seriously considers these legends
will
very soon become thoroughly convinced that all these so-called
"fables"
are founded on historical facts, by the actual existence of
the
descendants of the heroes, by tribes, ancient towns, and coins still
extant;
that to acquire the right to pronounce a final opinion one must
read
first the inscriptions on the Inda-Prestha pillars of Purag and
Mevar,
on the rocks of Junagur, in Bijoli, on Aravuli and on all the
ancient
Jaina temples scattered throughout India, where are to be found
numerous
inscriptions in a language utterly unknown, in comparison with
which
the hieroglyphs will seem a mere toy.
Yet,
nevertheless, Professor Max Muller, who, as already mentioned, was
never
in India, sits as a judge and corrects chronological tables as is
his
wont, and Europe, taking his words for those of an oracle, endorses
his
decisions. Et c'est ainsi que s'ecrit l'histoire.
Talking
of the venerable German Sanskritist's chronology, I cannot
resist
the desire to show, be it only to Russia, on what a fragile
basis
are founded his scientific discussions, and how little he is to
be
trusted when he pronounces upon the antiquity of this or that
manuscript.
These pages are of a superficial and descriptive nature,
and,
as such, make no pretense to profound learning, so that what
follows
may seem incongruous. But it must be remembered that in Russia,
as
elsewhere in Europe, people estimate the value of this philological
light
by the points of exclamation lavished upon him by his admiring
followers,
and that no one reads the Veda Bhashaya of Swami Dayanand.
It
may even be that I shall not be far from the truth in saying that the
very
existence of this work is ignored, which may perhaps be a fortunate
fact
for the reputation of Professor Max Muller. I shall be as brief as
possible.
When Professor Max Muller states, in his Sahitya-Grantha, that
the
Aryan tribe in India acquired the notion of God step by step and
very
slowly, he evidently wishes to prove that the Vedas are far from
being
as old as is supposed by some of his colleagues. Having presented,
in
due course, some more or less valuable evidence to prove the truth
of
this new theory, he ends with a fact which, in his opinion, is
indisputable.
He points to the word hiranya-garbha in the mantrams,
which
he translates by the word "gold," and adds that, as the part
of
the Vedas called chanda appeared 3,100 years ago, the part called
mantrams
could not have been written earlier than 2,900 years ago.
Let
me remind the reader that the Vedas are divided into two parts:
chandas--slokas,
verses, etc.; and mantrams--prayers and rhythmical
hymns,
which are, at the same time, incantations used in white magic.
Professor
Max Muller divides the mantram ("Agnihi Poorwebhihi,"
etc.)
philologically and chronologically, and, finding in it the word
hiranya-garbha,
he denounces it as an anachronism. The ancients, he
says,
had no knowledge of gold, and, therefore, if gold is mentioned in
this
mantram it means that the mantram was composed at a comparatively
modern
epoch, and so on.
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But
here the illustrious Sanskritist is very much mistaken. Swami
Dayanand
and other pandits, who sometimes are far from being Dayanand's
allies,
maintain that Professor Max Muller has completely misunderstood
the
meaning of the term hiranya. Originally it did not mean, and, when
united
to the word garbha, even now does not mean, gold. So all the
Professor's
brilliant demonstrations are labor in vain. The word hiranya
in
this mantram must be translated "divine light"--mystically a symbol
of
knowledge; analogically the alchemists used the term "sublimated
gold"
for "light," and hoped to compose the objective metal out of its
rays.
The two words, hiranya-garbha, taken together, mean, literally,
the
"radiant bosom," and, when used in the Vedas, designate the first
principle,
in whose bosom, like gold in the bosom of the earth, rests
the
light of divine knowledge and truth, the essence of the soul
liberated
from the sins of the world. In the mantrams, as in the
chandas,
one must always look for a double meaning: (1) a metaphysical
one,
purely abstract, and (2) one as purely physical; for everything
existing
upon the earth is closely bound to the spiritual world, from
which
it proceeds and by which it is reabsorbed. For instance Indra, the
god
of thunder, Surya, the sun-god, Vayu, god of the wind, and Agni,
god
of fire, all four depending on this first divine principle, expand,
according
to the mantram from hiranya-garbha, the radiant bosom. In this
case
the gods are the personifications of the forces of Nature. But the
initiated
Adepts of India understand very clearly that the god Indra,
for
instance, is nothing more than a mere sound, born of the shock of
electrical
forces, or simply electricity itself. Surya is not the god of
the
sun, but simply the centre of fire in our system, the essence whence
come
fire, warmth, light, and so on; the very thing, namely, which
no
European scientist, steering an even course between Tyndall and
Schropfer,
has, as yet, defined. This concealed meaning has totally
escaped
Professor Max Muller's attention, and this is why, clinging to
the
dead letter, he never hesitates before cutting a Gordian knot. How
then
can he be permitted to pronounce upon the antiquity of the Vedas,
when
he is so far from the right understanding of the language of these
ancient
writings.
The
above is a resume of Dayanand's argument, and to him the
Sanskritists
must apply for further particulars, which they will
certainly
find in his Rigvedadi Bhashya Bhoomika.
In
the cave, every one slept soundly round the fire except myself.
None
of my companions seemed to mind in the least either the hum of
the
thousand voices of the fair, or the prolonged, far-away roar of the
tigers
rising from the valley, or even the loud prayers of the pilgrims
who
passed to and fro all night long, never fearing to cross the steep
passage
which, even by daylight, caused us such perplexity. They came
in
parties of twos and threes, and sometimes there appeared a lonely
unescorted
woman. They could not reach the large vihara, because we
occupied
the verandah at its entrance, and so, after grumbling a little,
they
entered a small lateral cave something like a chapel, containing
a
statue of Devaki-Mata, above a tank full of water. Each pilgrim
prostrated
himself for a time, then placed his offering at the feet of
the
goddess and bathed in the "holy waters of purification," or, at
the
least, sprinkled some water over his forehead, cheeks, and breast.
Lastly,
retreating backwards, he knelt again at the door and disappeared
in
the darkness with a final invocation: "Mata, maha mata!"--Mother, O
great
mother!
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Two
of Gulab-Sing's servants, with traditional spears and shields of
rhinoceros
skin, who had been ordered to protect us from wild beasts,
sat
on the steps of the verandah. I was unable to sleep, and so watched
with
increasing curiosity everything that was going on. The Takur, too,
was
sleepless. Every time I raised my eyes, heavy with fatigue, the
first
object upon which they fell was the gigantic figure of our
mysterious
friend.
Having
seated himself after the Eastern fashion, with his feet drawn up
and
his arms round his knees, the Rajput sat on a bench cut in the rock
at
one end of the verandah, gazing out into the silvery atmosphere. He
was
so near the abyss that the least incautious movement would expose
him
to great danger. But the granite goddess, Bhavani herself, could not
be
more immovable. The light of the moon before him was so strong
that
the black shadow under the rock which sheltered him was doubly
impenetrable,
shrouding his face in absolute darkness. From time to time
the
flame of the sinking fires leaping up shed its hot reflection on the
dark
bronze face, enabling me to distinguish its sphinx-like lineaments
and
its shining eyes, as unmoving as the rest of the features.
"What
am I to think? Is he simply sleeping, or is he in that strange
state,
that temporary annihilation of bodily life?... Only this
morning
he was telling us how the initiate Raj-yogis were able to plunge
into
this state at will... Oh, if I could only go to sleep....."
Suddenly
a loud prolonged hissing, quite close to my ear, made me
start,
trembling with indistinct reminiscences of cobras. The sound was
strident
and evidently came from under the hay upon which I rested.
Then
it struck one! two! It was our American alarum-clock, which always
traveled
with me. I could not help laughing at myself, and, at the same
time,
feeling a little ashamed of my involuntary fright.
But
neither the hissing, nor the loud striking of the clock, nor my
sudden
movement, that made Miss X---- raise her sleepy head, awakened
Gulab-Sing,
who still hung over the precipice. Another half hour passed.
The
far-away roar of the festivity was still heard, but everything round
me
was calm and still. Sleep fled further and further from my eyes. A
fresh,
strong wind arose, before the dawn, rustling the leaves and then
shaking
the tops of the trees that rose above the abyss. My attention
became
absorbed by the group of three Rajputs before me--by the two
shield
bearers and their master. I cannot tell why I was specially
attracted
at this moment by the sight of the long hair of the servants,
which
was waving in the wind, though the place they occupied was
comparatively
sheltered. I turned my eyes upon their Sahib, and the
blood
in my veins stood still. The veil of somebody's topi, which hung
beside
him, tied to a pillar, was simply whirling in the wind, while the
hair
of the Sahib himself lay as still as if it had been glued to his
shoulders,
not a hair moved, nor a single fold of his light muslin
garment.
No statue could be more motionless. What is this then? I said
to
myself. Is it delirium? Is this a hallucination, or a wonderful
inexplicable
reality? I shut my eyes, telling myself I must look no
longer.
But a moment later I again looked up, startled by a crackling
sound
from above the steps. The long, dark silhouette of some animal
appeared
at the entrance, clearly outlined against the pale sky. I saw
it
in profile. Its long tail was lashing to and fro. Both the servants
rose
swiftly and noiselessly and turned their heads towards Gulab-Sing,
as
if asking for orders. But where was Gulab-Sing? In the place which,
but
a moment ago, he occupied, there was no one. There lay only the
topi,
torn from the pillar by the wind. I sprang up: a tremendous roar
deafened
me, filling the vihara, wakening the slumbering echoes, and
resounding,
like the softened rumbling of thunder, over all the borders
of
the precipice. Good heavens! A tiger!
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
Before
this thought had time to shape itself clearly in my mind, the
sleepers
sprang up and the men all seized their guns and revolvers, and
then
we heard the sound of crashing branches, and of something heavy
sliding
down into the precipice. The alarm was general.
"What
is the matter now?" said the calm voice of Gulab-Sing, and I again
saw
him on the stone bench. "Why should you be so frightened?"
"A
tiger! Was it not a tiger?" came in hasty, questioning tones from
Europeans
and Hindus.
Miss
X---- trembled like one stricken with fever. "Whether it was a
tiger,
or something else, matters very little to us now. Whatever it
was,
it is, by this time, at the bottom of the abyss," answered the
Rajput
yawning.
"I
wonder the Government does not destroy all these horrid animals,"
sobbed
poor Miss X----, who evidently believed firmly in the omnipotence
of
her Executive.
"But
how did you get rid of the 'striped one'?" insisted the colonel.
"Has
anyone fired a shot?"
"You
Europeans think that shooting is, if not the only, at least the
best
way to get rid of wild animals. We possess other means, which are
sometimes
more efficacious than guns," explained Babu Narendro-Das Sen.
"Wait
until you come to Bengal, there you will have many opportunities
to
make acquaintance with the tigers."
It
was now getting light, and Gulab-Sing proposed to us to descend and
examine
the rest of the caves and the ruins of a fortress before the day
became
too hot, so, at half-past three, we went by another and easier
way
to the valley, and, happily, this time we had no adventures. The
Mahratti
did not accompany us. He disappeared without informing us
whither
he was going.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
We
saw Logarh, a fortress which was captured by Sivaji from the Moguls
in
1670, and the ruins of the hall, where the widow of Nana Farnavese,
under
the pretext of an English protectorate, became de facto the
captive
of General Wellesley in 1804, with a yearly pension of 12,000
rupees.
We then started for the village of Vargaon, once fortified and
still
very rich. We were to spend the hottest hours of the day there,
from
nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, and proceed
afterwards
to the historical caves of Birsa and Badjah, about three
miles
from Karli.
At
about two P.M. when, in spite of the huge punkahs waving to and fro,
we
were grumbling at the heat, appeared our friend the Mahratta Brahman,
whom
we thought we had lost on the way. Accompanied by half-a-dozen
Daknis
(inhabitants of the Dekhan plateau) he was slowly advancing,
seated
almost on the ears of his horse, which snorted and seemed very
unwilling
to move. When he reached the verandah and jumped down, we
saw
the reason of his disappearance. Across the saddle was tied a huge
tiger,
whose tail dragged in the dust. There were traces of dark blood
in
his half opened mouth. He was taken from the horse and laid down by
the
doorstep.
Was
it our visitor of the night before? I looked at Gulab-Sing. He
lay
on a rug in a corner, resting his head on his hand and reading. He
knitted
his brows slightly, but did not say a word. The Brahman who
had
just brought the tiger was very silent too, watching over certain
preparations,
as if making ready for some solemnity. We soon learned
that,
in the eyes of a superstitious people, what was about to happen
was
a solemnity indeed.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
A
bit of hair cut from the skin of a tiger that has been killed, neither
by
bullet, nor by knife, but by a "word," is considered the best of all
talismans
against his tribe.
"This
is a very rare opportunity," explained the Mahratti. "It is very
seldom
that one meets with a man who possesses the word. Yogis and
Sadhus
do not generally kill wild animals, thinking it sinful to destroy
any
living creature, be it even a cobra or a tiger, so they simply keep
out
of the way of noxious animals. There exists only one brotherhood in
India
whose members possess all secrets, and from whom nothing in nature
is
concealed. Here is the body of the tiger to testify that the animal
was
not killed with a weapon of any kind, but simply by the word of
Gulab-Lal-Sing.
I found it, very easily, in the bushes exactly under our
vihara,
at the foot of the rock over which the tiger had rolled, already
dead.
Tigers never make false steps. Gulab-Lal-Sing, you are a Raj-Yogi,
and
I salute you!" added the proud Brahman, kneeling before the Takur.
"Do
not use vain words, Krishna Rao!" interrupted Gulab-Sing. "Get up;
do
not play the part of a Shudra."
"I
obey you, Sahib, but, forgive me, I trust my own judgment. No
Raj-Yogi
ever yet acknowledged his connection with the brotherhood,
since
the time Mount Abu came into existence."
And
he began distributing bits of hair taken from the dead animal. No
one
spoke, I gazed curiously at the group of my fellow-travelers. The
colonel,
President of our Society, sat with downcast eyes, very pale.
His
secretary, Mr. Y----, lay on his back, smoking a cigar and looking
straight
above him, with no expression in his eyes. He silently accepted
the
hair and put it in his purse. The Hindus stood round the tiger,
and
the Sinhalese traced mysterious signs on its forehead. Gulab-Sing
continued
quietly reading his book.----
The
Birza cave, about six miles from Vargaon, is constructed on the
same
plan as Karli. The vault-like ceiling of the temple rests upon
twenty-six
pillars, eighteen feet high, and the portico on four,
twenty-eight
feet high; over the portico are carved groups of horses,
oxen,
and elephants, of the most exquisite beauty. The "Hall of
Initiation"
is a spacious, oval room, with pillars, and eleven very deep
cells
cut in the rock. The Bajah caves are older and more beautiful.
Inscriptions
may still be seen showing that all these temples were built
by
Buddhists, or, rather, by Jainas. Modern Buddhists believe in one
Buddha
only, Gautama, Prince of Kapilavastu (six centuries before
Christ)
whereas the Jainas recognize a Buddha in each of their
twenty-four
divine teachers (Tirthankaras) the last of whom was the Guru
(teacher)
of Gautama. This disagreement is very embarrassing when people
try
to conjecture the antiquity of this or that vihara or chaitya. The
origin
of the Jaina sect is lost in the remotest, unfathomed antiquity,
so
the name of Buddha, mentioned in the inscriptions, may be attributed
to
the last of the Buddhas as easily as to the first, who lived (see
Tod's
genealogy) a long time before 2,200 B.C.
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CF24-1DL
One
of the inscriptions in the Baira cave, for instance, in cuneiform
characters,
says: "From an ascetic in Nassik to the one who is worthy,
to
the holy Buddha, purified from sins, heavenly and great."
This
tends to convince scientists that the cave was cut out by
Buddhists.
Another
inscription, in the same cave, but over an-other cell, contains
the
following: "An agreeable offering of a small gift to the moving
force
[life], to the mind principle [soul], the well-beloved material
body,
fruit of Manu, priceless treasure, to the highest and here
present,
Heavenly."
Of
course the conclusion is drawn that the building does not belong to
the
Buddhists, but to the Brahmans, who believe in Manu.
Here
are two more inscriptions from Bajah caves.
"An
agreeable gift of the symbol and vehicle of the purified Saka-Saka."
"Gift
of the vehicle of Radha [wife of Krishna, symbol of perfection] to
Sugata
who is gone for ever."
Sugata,
again, is one of the names of Buddha. A new contradiction!
It
was somewhere here, in the neighborhood of Vargaon, that the
Mahrattis
seized Captain Vaughan and his brother, who were hanged after
the
battle of Khirki.
Next
morning we drove to Chinchor, or, as it is called here, Chinchood.
This
place is celebrated in the annals of the Dekkan. Here one meets
with
a repetition in miniature of what takes place on a larger scale
at
L'hassa in Tibet. As Buddha incarnates in every new Dalai-Lama, so,
here,
Gunpati (Ganesha, the god of wisdom with the elephant's head) is
allowed
by his father Shiva to incarnate in the eldest son of a certain
Brahman
family. There is a splendid temple erected in his honor, where
the
avatars (incarnations) of Gunpati have lived and received adoration
for
over two hundred years.
This
is how it happened.
About
250 years ago a poor Brahman couple were promised, in sleep, by
the
god of wisdom that he would incarnate in their eldest son. The boy
was
named Maroba (one of the god's titles) in honor of the deity. Maroba
grew
up, married, and begot several sons, after which he was commanded
by
the god to relinquish the world and finish his days in the desert.
There,
during twenty-two years, according to the legend, Maroba wrought
miracles
and his fame grew day by day. He lived in an impenetrable
jungle,
in a corner of the thick forest that covered Chinchood in those
days.
Gunpati appeared to him once more, and promised to incarnate in
his
descendants for seven generations. After this there was no limit
to
his miracles, so that the people began to worship him, and ended by
building
a splendid temple for him.
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At
last Maroba gave orders to the people to bury him alive, in a sitting
posture,
with an open book in his hands, and never to open his grave
again
under penalty of his wrath and maledictions. After the burial
of
Maroba, Gunpati incarnated in his first-born, who began a conjuring
career
in his turn. So that Maroba-Deo I, was replaced by Chintaman-Deo
I.
This latter god had eight wives and eight sons. The tricks of the
eldest
of these sons, Narayan-Deo I, became so celebrated that his fame
reached
the ears of the Emperor Alamgir. In order to test the extent of
his
"deification," Alamgir sent him a piece of a cow's tail wrapped in
rich
stuffs and coverings. Now, to touch the tail of a dead cow is the
worst
of all degradations for a Hindu. On receiving it Narayan sprinkled
the
parcel with water, and, when the stuffs were unfolded, there was
found
enclosed in them a nosegay of white syringa, instead of the
ungodly
tail. This transformation rejoiced the Emperor so much that he
presented
the god with eight villages, to cover his private expenses.
Narayan's
social position and property were inherited by Chintaman-Deo
II.,
whose heir was Dharmadhar, and, lastly, Narayan II came into
power.
He drew down the malediction of Gunpati by violating the grave
of
Maroba. That is why his son, the last of the gods, is to die without
issue.
When
we saw him he was an aged man, about ninety years old. He was
seated
on a kind of platform. His head shook and his eyes idiotically
stared
without seeing us, the result of his constant use of opium. On
his
neck, ears, and toes, shone precious stones, and all around were
spread
offerings. We had to take off our shoes before we were allowed to
approach
this half-ruined relic.----
On
the evening of the same day we returned to Bombay. Two days later we
were
to start on our long journey to the North-West Provinces, and our
route
promised to be very attractive. We were to see Nassik, one of the
few
towns mentioned by Greek historians, its caves, and the tower of
Rama;
to visit Allahabad, the ancient Prayaga, the metropolis of the
moon
dynasty, built at the confluence of the Ganges and Jumna; Benares,
the
town of five thousand temples and as many monkeys; Cawnpur,
notorious
for the bloody revenge of Nana Sahib; the remains of the city
of
the sun, destroyed, according to the computations of Colebrooke, six
thousand
years ago; Agra and Delhi; and then, having explored Rajistan
with
its thousand Takur castles, fortresses, ruins, and legends, we were
to
go to Lahore, the metropolis of the Punjab, and, lastly, to stay for
a
while in Amritsar. There, in the Golden Temple, built in the centre
of
the "Lake of Immortality," was to be held the first meeting of the
members
of our Society, Brahmans, Buddhists, Sikhs, etc.--in a word,
the
representatives of the one thousand and one sects of India, who all
sympathized,
more or less, with the idea of the Brotherhood of Humanity
of
our Theosophical Society.
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Vanished
Glories
Benares,
Prayaga (now Allahabad), Nassik, Hurdwar, Bhadrinath,
Matura--these
were the sacred places of prehistoric India which we were
to
visit one after the other; but to visit them, not after the usual
manner
of tourists, a vol d'oiseau, with a cheap guide-book in our hands
and
a cicerone to weary our brains, and wear out our legs. We were well
aware
that all these ancient places are thronged with traditions and
overgrown
with the weeds of popular fancy, like ruins of ancient castles
covered
with ivy; that the original shape of the building is destroyed
by
the cold embrace of these parasitic plants, and that it is as
difficult
for the archaeologist to form an idea of the architecture
of
the once perfect edifice, judging only by the heaps of disfigured
rubbish
that cover the country, as for us to select from out the thick
mass
of legends good wheat from weeds. No guides and no cicerone could
be
of any use whatever to us. The only thing they could do would be to
point
out to us places where once there stood a fortress, a castle, a
temple,
a sacred grove, or a celebrated town, and then to repeat legends
which
came into existence only lately, under the Mussulman rule. As to
the
undisguised truth, the original history of every interesting spot,
we
should have had to search for these by ourselves, assisted only by
our
own conjectures.
Modern
India does not present a pale shadow of what it was in the
pre-Christian
era, nor even of the Hindostan of the days of Akbar,
Shah-Jehan
and Aurungzeb. The neighborhood of every town that has been
shattered
by many a war, and of every ruined hamlet, is covered with
round
reddish pebbles, as if with so many petrified tears of blood. But,
in
order to approach the iron gate of some ancient fortress, it is not
over
natural pebbles that it is necessary to walk, but over the broken
fragments
of some older granite remains, under which, very often, rest
the
ruins of a third town, still more ancient than the last. Modern
names
have been given to them by Mussulmans, who generally built their
towns
upon the remains of those they had just taken by assault. The
names
of the latter are sometimes mentioned in the legends, but the
names
of their predecessors had completely disappeared from the popular
memory
even before the Mussulman invasion. Will a time ever come
for
these secrets of the centuries to be revealed? Knowing all this
beforehand,
we resolved not to lose patience, even though we had to
devote
whole years to explorations of the same places, in order to
obtain
better historical information, and facts less disfigured than
those
obtained by our predecessors, who had to be contented with a
choice
collection of naive lies, poured forth from the mouth of some
frightened
semi-savage, or some Brahman, unwilling to speak and desirous
of
disguising the truth. As for ourselves, we were differently situated.
We
were helped by a whole society of educated Hindus, who were as deeply
interested
in the same questions as ourselves. Besides, we had a promise
of
the revelation of some secrets, and the accurate translation of some
ancient
chronicles, that had been preserved as if by a miracle.
The
history of India has long since faded from the memories of her sons,
and
is still a mystery to her conquerors. Doubtless it still exists,
though,
perchance, only partly, in manuscripts that are jealously
concealed
from every European eye. This has been shown by some
pregnant
words, spoken by Brahmans on their rare occasions of friendly
expansiveness.
Thus, Colonel Tod, whom I have already quoted several
times,
is said to have been told by a Mahant, the chief of an ancient
pagoda-monastery:
"Sahib, you lose your time in vain researches. The
Bellati
India [India of foreigners] is before you, but you will
never
see the Gupta India [secret India]. We are the guardians of her
mysteries,
and would rather cut out each other's tongues than speak."
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Yet,
nevertheless, Tod succeeded in learning a good deal. It must be
borne
in mind that no Englishman has ever been loved so well by the
natives
as this old and courageous friend of the Maharana of Oodeypur,
who,
in his turn, was so friendly towards the natives that the humblest
of
them never saw a trace of contempt in his demeanour. He wrote before
ethnology
had reached its present stage of development, but his book
is
still an authority on everything concerning Rajistan. Though the
author's
opinion of his work was not very high, though he stated that
"it
is nothing but a conscientious collection of materials for a future
historian,"
still in this book is to be found many a thing undreamed of
by
any British civil servant.
"Let
our friends smile incredulously. Let our enemies laugh at our
pretensions
to penetrate the world-mysteries of Aryavarta," as a certain
critic
recently expressed himself. However pessimistic may be our
critics'
views, yet, even in the event of our conclusions not proving
more
trustworthy than those of Fergusson, Wilson, Wheeler, and the rest
of
the archeologists and Sanskritists who have written about India,
still,
I hope, they will not be less susceptible of proof. We are daily
reminded
that, like unreasonable children, we have undertaken a task
before
which archaeologists and historians, aided by all the influence
and
wealth of the Government, have shrunk dismayed; that we have taken
upon
ourselves a work which has proved to be beyond the capacities of
the
Royal Asiatic Society.
Let
it be so.
Let
everyone try to remember, as we ourselves remember, that not very
long
ago a poor Hungarian, who not only had no means of any kind but was
almost
a beggar, traveled on foot to Tibet through unknown and dangerous
countries,
led only by the love of learning and the eager wish to
pour
light on the historical origin of his nation. The result was that
inexhaustible
mines of literary treasures were discovered. Philology,
which
till then had wandered in the Egyptian darkness of etymological
labyrinths,
and was about to ask the sanction of the scientific world
to
one of the wildest of theories, suddenly stumbled on the clue of
Ariadne.
Philology discovered, at last, that the Sanskrit language is,
if
not the forefather, at least--to use the language of Max Muller--"the
elder
brother" of all classical languages. Thanks to the extraordinary
zeal
of Alexander Csoma de Koros, Tibet yielded a language the
literature
of which was totally unknown. He partly translated it and
partly
analyzed and explained it. His translations have shown the
scientific
world that (1) the originals of the Zend-Avesta, the sacred
scriptures
of the sun-worshippers, of Tripitaka, that of the Buddhists,
and
of Aytareya-Brahmanam, that of the Brahmans, were written in one and
the
same Sanskrit language; (2) that all these three languages--Zend,
Nepalese,
and the modern Brahman Sanskrit--are more or less dialects of
the
first; (3) that old Sanskrit is the origin of all the less ancient
Indo-European
languages, as well as of the modern European
tongues
and dialects; (4) that the three chief religions of
heathendom--Zoroastrianism,
Buddhism and Brahmanism--are mere heresies
of
the monotheistic teachings of the Vedas, which does not prevent them
from
being real ancient religions and not modern falsifications.
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
The
moral of all this is evident. A poor traveler, without either money
or
protection, succeeded in gaining admittance to the Lamaseries of
Tibet
and to the sacred literature of the isolated tribe which inhabits
it,
probably because he treated the Mongolians and the Tibetans as
his
brothers and not as an inferior race--a feat which has never been
accomplished
by generations of scientists. One cannot help feeling
ashamed
of humanity and science when one thinks that he whose labors
first
gave to science such precious results, he who was the first sower
of
such an abundant harvest, remained, almost until the day of his
death,
a poor and obscure worker. On his way from Tibet he walked to
Calcutta
without a penny in his pocket. At last Csoma de Koros became
known,
and his name began to be pronounced with honor and praise whilst
he
was dying in one of the poorest parts of Calcutta. Being already very
ill,
he wanted to get back to Tibet, and started on foot again through
Sikkhim.
He succumbed to his illness on the road and was buried in
Darhjeeling.
It
is needless to say we are fully aware that what we have undertaken is
simply
impossible within the limits of ordinary newspaper articles.
All
we hope to accomplish is to lay the foundation stone of an edifice,
whose
further progress must be entrusted to future generations. In order
to
combat successfully the theories worked out by two generations of
Orientalists,
half a century of diligent labor would be required. And,
in
order to replace these theories with new ones, we must get new facts,
facts
founded not on the chronology and false evidence of scheming
Brahmans,
whose interest is to feed the ignorance of European
Sanskritists
(as, unfortunately, was the experience of Lieutenant
Wilford
and Louis Jacolliot), but on indubitable proofs that are to
be
found in inscriptions as yet undeciphered. The clue to these
inscriptions
Europeans do not possess, because, as I have already
stated,
it is guarded in MSS. which are as old as the inscriptions and
which
are almost out of reach. Even in case our hopes are realized and
we
obtain this clue, a new difficulty will arise before us. We shall
have
to begin a systematic refutation, page by page, of many a volume
of
hypotheses published by the Royal Asiatic Society. A work like
this
might be accomplished by dozens of tireless, never-resting
Sanskritists--a
class which, even in India, is almost as rare as white
elephants.
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Thanks
to private contributions and the zeal of some educated Hindu
patriots,
two free classes of Sanskrit and Pali had already been
opened--one
in Bombay by the Theosophical Society, the other in Benares
under
the presidency of the learned Rama-Misra-Shastri. In the present
year,
1882, the Theosophical Society has, altogether, fourteen schools
in
Ceylon and India.
Our
heads full of thoughts and plans of this kind, we, that is to say,
one
American, three Europeans, and three natives, occupied a whole
carriage
of the Great Indian Peninsular Railroad on our way to Nassik,
one
of the oldest towns in India, as I have already mentioned, and
the
most sacred of all in the eyes of the inhabitants of the Western
Presidency.
Nassik borrowed its name from the Sanskrit word "Nasika,"
which
means nose. An epic legend assures us that on this very spot
Lakshman,
the eldest brother of the deified King Rama, cut off the nose
of
the giantess Sarpnaka, sister of Ravana, who stole Sita, the "Helen
of
Troy" of the Hindus.
The
train stops six miles from the town, so that we had to finish our
journey
in six two-wheeled, gilded chariots, called ekkas, and drawn by
bullocks.
It was one o'clock A.M., but, in spite of the darkness of the
hour,
the horns of the animals were gilded and adorned with flowers,
and
brass bangles tinkled on their legs. Our waylay through ravines
overgrown
with jungle, where, as our drivers hastened to inform
us,
tigers and other four-footed misanthropes of the forest played
hide-and-seek.
However, we had no opportunity of making the acquaintance
of
the tigers, but enjoyed instead a concert of a whole community of
jackals.
They followed us step by step, piercing our ears with shrieks,
wild
laughter and barking. These animals are annoying, but so cowardly
that,
though numerous enough to devour, not only all of us, but our
gold-horned
bullocks too, none of them dared to come nearer than the
distance
of a few steps. Every time the long whip, our weapon against
snakes,
alighted on the back of one of them, the whole horde disappeared
with
unimaginable noise. Nevertheless, the drivers did not dispense with
a
single one of their superstitious precautions against tigers. They
chanted
mantrams in unison, spread betel over the road as a token of
their
respect to the Rajas of the forest, and, after every couplet,
made
the bullocks kneel and bow their heads in honor of the great gods.
Needless
to say, the ekka, as light as a nutshell, threatened each time
to
fall with its passenger over the horns of the bullocks. We had to
endure
this agreeable way of traveling for five hours under a very dark
sky.
We reached the Inn of the Pilgrims in the morning at about six
o'clock.
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The
real cause of Nassik's sacredness, however, is not the mutilated
trunk
of the giantess, but the situation of the town on the banks of
the
Godavari, quite close to the sources of this river which, for some
reason
or other, are called by the natives Ganga (Ganges). It is to
this
magic name, probably, that the town owes its numerous magnificent
temples,
and the selectness of the Brahmans who inhabit the banks of
the
river. Twice a year pilgrims flock here to pray, and on these solemn
occasions
the number of the visitors exceeds that of the inhabitants,
which
is only 35,000. Very picturesque, but equally dirty, are the
houses
of the rich Brahmans built on both sides of the way from the
centre
of the town to the Godavari. A whole forest of narrow pyramidal
temples
spreads on both sides of the river. All these new pagodas
are
built on the ruins of those destroyed by the fanaticism of the
Mussulmans.
A legend informs us that most of them rose from the ashes
of
the tail of the monkey god Hanuman. Retreating from Lanka, where
the
wicked Ravana, having anointed the brave hero's tail with some
combustible
stuff set it on fire, Hanuman, with a single leap through
the
air, reached Nassik, his fatherland. And here the noble adornment
of
the monkey's back, burned almost entirely during the voyage, crumbled
into
ashes, and from every sacred atom of these ashes, fallen to
the
ground, there rose a temple.... And, indeed, when seen from
the
mountain, these numberless pagodas, scattered in a most curious
disorderly
way, look as if they had really been thrown down by handfuls
from
the sky. Not only the river banks and the surrounding country, but
every
little island, every rock peeping from the water is covered
with
temples. And not one of them is destitute of a legend of its
own,
different versions of which are told by every individual of the
Brahmanical
community according to his own taste--of course in the hope
of
a suitable reward.
Here,
as everywhere else in India, Brahmans are divided into two
sects--worshippers
of Shiva and worshippers of Vishnu--and between the
two
there is rivalry and warfare centuries old. Though the neighborhood
of
the Godavari shines with a twofold fame derived from its being the
birthplace
of Hanuman and the theatre of the first great deeds of Rama,
the
incarnation of Vishnu, it possesses as many temples dedicated to
Shiva
as to Vishnu. The material of which the pagodas consecrated to
Shiva
are constructed is black basalt. And it is, exactly, the color
of
the material which is the apple of discord in this case. The black
material
is claimed by the Vaishnavas as their own, it being of the
same
color as the burned tail of Rama's ally. They try to prove that
the
Shivaites have no right to it. From the first days of their rule
the
English inherited endless lawsuits between the fighting sectarians,
cases
decided in one law-court only to be transferred on appeal to
another,
and always having their origin in this ill-omened tail and its
pretensions.
This tail is a mysterious deus ex machina that directs all
the
thoughts of the Nassik Brahmans pro and contra.
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On
the subject of this tail were written more reams of paper and
petitions
than in the quarrel about the goose between Ivan Ivanitch and
Ivan
Nikiphoritch; and more ink and bile were spilt than there was mud
in
Mirgorod, since the creation of the universe. The pig that so happily
decided
the famous quarrel in Gogol would be a priceless blessing to
Nassik,
and the struggle for the tail. But unhappily even the "pig" if
it
hailed from "Russia" would be of no avail in India; for the English
would
suspect it at once, and arrest it as a Russian spy!
Rama's
bathing place is shown in Nassik. The ashes of pious Brahmans are
brought
hither from distant parts to be thrown into the Godavari, and so
to
mingle for ever with the sacred waters of Ganges. In an ancient MS.
there
is a statement of one of Rama's generals, who, somehow or other,
is
not mentioned in the Ramayana. This statement points to the river
Godavari
as the frontier between the kingdoms of Rama, King of Ayodya
(Oude),
and of Ravana, King of Lanka (Ceylon). Legends and the poem of
Ramayana
state that this was the spot where Rama, while hunting, saw a
beautiful
antelope, and, intending to make a present to his beloved Sita
of
its skin, entered the regions of his unknown neighbor. No doubt Rama,
Ravana,
and even Hanuman, promoted, for some unexplained reason, to
the
rank of a monkey, are historical personages who once had a real
existence.
About fifty years ago it was vaguely suspected that the
Brahmans
possessed priceless MSS. It was reported that one of these
MSS.
treats of the prehistoric epoch when the Aryans first invaded the
country,
and began an endless war with the dark aborigines of southern
India.
But the religious fanaticism of the Hindus never allowed the
English
Government to verify these reports.
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The
most interesting sights of Nassik are its cave-temples, about five
miles
from the town. The day before we started thither, I certainly
did
not dream that a "tail" would have to play an important part in
our
visit to Nassik, that, in this case, it would save me, if not from
death,
at least from disagreeable and perhaps dangerous bruises. This is
how
it happened.
As
the difficult task of ascending a steep mountain lay before us,
we
decided to hire elephants. The best couple in the town was brought
before
us. Their owner assured us "that the Prince of Wales had ridden
upon
them and was very contented." To go there and back and have them in
attendance
the whole day--in fact the whole pleasure-trip--was to cost
us
two rupees for each elephant. Our native friends, accustomed from
infancy
to this way of riding, were not long in getting on the back of
their
elephant. They covered him like flies, with no predilection for
this
or that spot of his vast back. They held on by all kinds of strings
and
ropes, more with their toes than their fingers, and, on the whole,
presented
a picture of contentment and comfort. We Europeans had to use
the
lady elephant, as being the tamer of the two. On her back there
were
two little benches with sloping seats on both sides, and not the
slightest
prop for our backs. The wretched, undergrown youngsters seen
in
European circuses give no idea of the real size of this noble beast.
The
mahout, or driver, placed himself between the huge animal's ears
whilst
we gazed at the "perfected" seats ready for us with an uneasy
feeling
of distrust The mahout ordered his elephant to kneel, and it
must
be owned that in climbing on her back with the aid of a small
ladder,
I felt what the French call chair de poule. Our she-elephant
answered
to the poetical name of "Chanchuli Peri," the Active Fairy, and
really
was the most obedient and the merriest of all the representatives
of
her tribe that I have ever seen. Clinging to each other we at last
gave
the signal for departure, and the mahout goaded the right ear of
the
animal with an iron rod. First the elephant raised herself on her
fore-legs,
which movement tilted us all back, then she heavily rose on
her
hind ones, too, and we rolled forwards, threatening to upset the
mahout.
But this was not the end of our misfortunes. At the very
first
steps of Peri we slipped about in all directions, like quivering
fragments
of blancmange.
The
journey came to a sudden pause. We were picked up in a hasty way,
replaced
on our respective seats, during which proceeding Peri's trunk
proved
very active, and the journey continued. The very thought of the
five
miles before us filled us with horror, but we would not give up
the
excursion, and indignantly refused to be tied to our seats, as was
suggested
by our Hindu companions, who could not suppress their merry
laughter....
However, I bitterly repented this display of vanity. This
unusual
mode of locomotion was something incredibly fantastical, and,
at
the same time, ridiculous. A horse carrying our luggage trotted
by
Peri's side, and looked, from our vast elevation, no bigger than a
donkey.
At every mighty step of Peri we had to be prepared for all sorts
of
unexpected acrobatic feats, while jolted from one side to the
other
by her swinging gait. This experience, under the scorching
sun,
unavoidably induced a state of body and mind something between
sea-sickness
and a delirious nightmare. As a crown to our pleasures,
when
we began to ascend a tortuous little path over the stony slope of
a
deep ravine, our Peri stumbled. This sudden shock caused me to lose my
balance
altogether. I sat on the hinder part of the elephant's back,
in
the place of honor, as it is esteemed, and, once thoroughly shaken,
rolled
down like a log. No doubt, next moment I should have found myself
at
the bottom of the ravine, with some more or less sad loss to my
bodily
constitution, if it had not been for the wonderful dexterity and
instinct
of the clever animal. Having felt that something was wrong she
twisted
her tail round me, stopped instantaneously and began to kneel
down
carefully. But my natural weight was too much for the thin tail
of
this kind animal. Peri did not lose hold of me, but, having at last
knelt
down, she moaned plaintively, though discreetly, thinking probably
that
she had nearly lost her tail through being so generous. The mahout
hurried
to my rescue and then examined the damaged tail of his animal.
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We
now witnessed a scene that clearly showed us the coarse cunning,
greediness
and cowardice of a low-class Hindu, of an outcast, as they
are
denominated here.
The
mahout very indifferently and composedly examined Peri's tail, and
even
pulled it several times to make sure, and was already on the point
of
hoisting himself quietly into his usual place, when I had the unhappy
thought
of muttering something that expressed my regret and compassion.
My
words worked a miraculous transformation in the mahout's behavior. He
threw
himself on the ground, and rolled about like a demoniac, uttering
horrible
wild groans. Sobbing and crying he kept on repeating that the
Mam-Sahib
had torn off his darling Peri's tail, that Peri was damaged
for
ever in everybody's estimation, that Peri's husband, the proud
Airavati,
lineal descendant of Indra's own favourite elephant, having
witnessed
her shame, would renounce his spouse, and that she had better
die....
Yells and bitter tears were his only answer to all remonstrances
of
our companions. In vain we tried to persuade him that the "proud
Airavati"
did not show the slightest disposition to be so cruel, in vain
we
pointed out to him that all this time both elephants stood quietly
together,
Airavati even at this critical moment rubbing his trunk
affectionately
against Peri's neck, and Peri not looking in the least
discomfited
by the accident to her tail. All this was of no avail! Our
friend
Narayan lost his patience at last. He was a man of extraordinary
muscular
strength and took recourse to a last original means. With one
hand
he threw down a silver rupee, with the other he seized the mahout's
muslin
garment and hurled him after the coin. Without giving a thought
to
his bleeding nose, the mahout jumped at the rupee with the greediness
of
a wild beast springing upon its prey. He prostrated himself in the
dust
before us repeatedly, with endless "salaams," instantly changing
his
deep sorrow into mad joy. He gave another pull at the unfortunate
tail
and gladly declared that, thanks to the "prayers of the sahib," it
really
was safe; to demonstrate which he hung on to it, till he was torn
away
and put back on his seat.
"Is
it possible that a single, miserable rupee can have been the cause
of
all this?" we asked each other in utter bewilderment.
"Your
astonishment is natural enough," answered the Hindus. "We need
not
express how ashamed and how disgusted we all feel at this voluntary
display
of humiliation and greed. But do not forget that this wretch,
who
certainly has a wife and children, serves his employer for twelve
rupees
a year, instead of which he often gets nothing but a beating.
Remember
also the long centuries of tyrannical treatment from Brahmans,
from
fanatical Mussulmans, who regard a Hindu as nothing better than an
unclean
reptile, and, nowadays, from the average Englishman, and maybe
you
will pity this wretched caricature of humanity."
But
the "caricature" in question evidently felt perfectly happy and
not
in the least conscious of a humiliation of any kind. Sitting on the
roomy
forehead of his Peri, he was telling her of his unexpected wealth,
reminding
her of her "divine" origin, and ordering her to salute the
"sahibs"
with her trunk. Peri, whose spirits had been raised by the gift
of
a whole stick of sugar-cane from me, lifted her trunk backwards and
playfully
blew into our faces.
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On
the threshold of the Nassik caves we bid good-bye to the modern
pigmy
India, to the petty things of her everyday life, and to her
humiliations.
We re-entered the unknown world of India, the great and
the
mysterious.
The
main caves of Nassik are excavated in a mountain bearing the name
of
Pandu-Lena, which points again to the undying, persistent, primaeval
tradition
that ascribes all such buildings to the five mythical (?)
brothers
of prehistoric times. The unanimous opinion of archaeologists
esteems
these caves more interesting and more important than all the
caves
of Elephanta and Karli put together. And, nevertheless--is it not
strange?--with
the exception of the learned Dr. Wilson, who, it may be,
was
a little too fond of forming hasty opinions, no archaeologist has,
as
yet, made so bold as to decide to what epoch they belong, by whom
they
were erected, and which of the three chief religions of antiquity
was
the one professed by their mysterious builders.
It
is evident, however, that those who wrought here did not all belong
either
to the same generation or to the same sect. The first thing which
strikes
the attention is the roughness of the primitive work, its huge
dimensions,
and the decline of the sculpture on the solid walls, whereas
the
sculpture and carvings of the six colossi which prop the chief cave
on
the second floor, are magnificently preserved and very elegant.
This
circumstance would lead one to think that the work was begun
many
centuries before it was finished. But when? One of the Sanskrit
inscriptions
of a comparatively recent epoch (on the pedestal of one of
the
colossi) clearly points to 453 B.C. as the year of the building. At
all
events, Barth, Stevenson, Gibson, Reeves, and some other scientists,
who
being Westerns can have none of the prejudices proper to the native
Pundits,
have formed this conjecture on the basis of some astronomical
data.
Besides, the conjunction of the planets stated in the inscription
leaves
no doubt as to the dates, it must be either 453 B.C., or 1734
of
our era, or 2640 B.C., which last is impossible, because Buddha and
Buddhist
monasteries are mentioned in the inscription. I translate some
of
the most important sentences:
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"To
the most Perfect and the Highest! May this be agreeable to Him! The
son
of King Kshaparata, Lord of the Kshatriya tribe and protector of
people,
the Ruler of Dinik, bright as the dawn, sacrifices a hundred
thousand
cows that graze on the river Banasa, together with the river,
and
also the gift of gold by the builder of this holy shelter of gods,
the
place of the curbing of the Brahmans' passions. There is no more
desirable
place than this place, neither in Prabhasa, where accumulate
hundreds
of thousands of Brahmans repeating the sacred verse, nor in the
sacred
city Gaya, nor on the steep mountain near Dashatura, nor on the
Serpents'
Field in Govardhana, nor in the city Pratisraya where
stands
the monastery of Buddhists, nor even in the edifice erected by
Depana-kara
on the shores of the fresh water [?] sea. This place, giving
incomparable
favors, is agreeable and useful in all respects to the
spotted
deerskin of an ascetic. A safe boat given also by him who built
the
gratuitous ferry daily transports to the well-guarded shore. By him
also
who built the house for travelers and the public fountain, a gilded
lion
was erected by the ever-assaulted gate of this Govardhana, also
another
[lion] by the ferry-boat, and another by Ramatirtha. Various
kinds
of food will always be found here by the scanty flock; for this
flock
more than a hundred kinds of herbs and thousands of mountain
roots
are stored by this generous giver. In the same Govardhana, in the
luminous
mountain, this second cave was dug by the order of the same
beneficent
person, during the very year when the Sun, Shukra and Rahu,
much
respected by men, were in the full glory of their rise; it was in
this
year that the gifts were offered. Lakshmi, Indra and Yama having
blessed
them, returned with shouts of triumph to their chariot, kept on
the
way free from obstacles [the sky], by the force of mantrams. When
they
[the gods] all left, poured a heavy shower....." and so on.
Rahn
and Kehetti are the fixed stars which form the head and the tail
of
the constellation of the Dragon. Shukra is Venus. Lakshmi, Indra and
Yama
stand here for the constellations of Virgo, Aquarius and Taurus,
which
are subject and consecrated to these three among the twelve higher
deities.
The
first caves are dugout in a conical hillock about two hundred and
eighty
feet from its base. In the chief of them stand three statues of
Buddha;
in the lateral ones a lingam and two Jaina idols. In the top
cave
there is a statue of Dharma Raja, or Yudhshtira, the eldest of the
Pandus,
who is worshipped in a temple erected in his honor, between Pent
and
Nassik. Farther on is a whole labyrinth of cells, where Buddhist
hermits
probably lived, a huge statue of Buddha in a reclining posture.
and
another as big, but surrounded with pillars adorned with figures of
various
animals. Styles, epochs and sects are here as much mixed up and
entangled
as different trees in a thick forest.
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It
is very remarkable that almost all the cave temples of India are to
be
found inside conical rocks and mountains. It is as though the ancient
builders
looked for such natural pyramids purposely. I noticed this
peculiarity
in Karli, and it is to be met with only in India. Is it
a
mere coincidence, or is it one of the rules of the religious
architecture
of the remote past? And which are the imitators--the
builders
of the Egyptian pyramids, or the unknown architects of the
under
ground caves of India? In pyramids as well as in caves everything
seems
to be calculated with geometrical exactitude. In neither case are
the
entrances ever at the bottom, but always at a certain distance from
the
ground. It is well known that nature does not imitate art, and, as
a
rule, art tries to copy certain forms of nature. And if, even in this
similarity
of the symbols of Egypt and India, nothing is to be found but
a
coincidence, we shall have to own that coincidences are sometimes very
extraordinary.
Egypt has borrowed many things from India. We must not
forget
that nothing is known about the origin of the Pharaohs, and
that
the few facts science has succeeded in discovering, far from
contradicting
our theory, suggest India as the cradle of the Egyptian
race.
In the days of remote antiquity Kalluka-Bhatta wrote: "During the
reign
of Visvamitra, first king of the Soma-Vansha dynasty, after a five
days
battle, Manu-Vena, the heir of ancient kings, was abandoned by the
Brahmans,
and emigrated with his army, and, having traversed Arya and
Barria,
at last reached the shores of Masra....."
Arya
is Iran or Persia; Barria is an ancient name of Arabia; Masr or
Masra
is a name of Cairo, disfigured by Mussulmans into Misro and Musr.
Kalluka-Bhatta
is an ancient writer. Sanskritists still quarrel over his
epoch,
wavering between 2,000 years B.C., and the reign of the Emperor
Akbar
(the time of John the Terrible and Elizabeth of England). On the
grounds
of this uncertainty, the evidence of Kalluka-Bhatta might be
objected
to. In this case, there are the words of a modern historian,
who
has studied Egypt all his life, not in Berlin or London, like some
other
historians, but in Egypt, deciphering the inscriptions of the
oldest
sarcophagi and papyri, that is to say, the words of Henry
Brugsch-Bey:
"...
I repeat, my firm conviction is that the Egyptians came from Asia
long
before the historical period, having traversed the Suez promontory,
that
bridge of all the nations, and found a new fatherland on the banks
of
the Nile."
An
inscription on a Hammamat rock says that Sankara, the last Pharaoh of
the
eleventh dynasty, sent a nobleman to Punt: "I was sent on a ship to
Punt,
to bring back some aromatic gum, gathered by the princes of the
Red
Land."
Commenting
on this inscription, Brugsch-Bey explains that "under the
name
of Punt the ancient inhabitants of Chemi meant a distant land
surrounded
by a great ocean, full of mountains and valleys, and rich
in
ebony and other expensive woods, in perfumes, precious stones and
metals,
in wild beasts, giraffes, leopards and big monkeys." The name of
a
monkey in Egypt was Kaff, or Kafi, in Hebrew Koff, in Sanskrit Kapi.
In
the eyes of the ancient Egyptians, this Punt was a sacred land,
because
Punt or Panuter was "the original land of the gods, who left
it
under the leadership of A-Mon [Manu-Vena of Kalluka-Bhatta?] Hor and
Hator,
and duly arrived in Chemi."
Hanuman
has a decided family likeness to the Egyptian Cynocephalus, and
the
emblem of Osiris and Shiva is the same. Qui vivra verra!
Our
return journey was very agreeable. We had adapted ourselves to
Peri's
movements and felt ourselves first-rate jockeys. But for a whole
week
afterwards we could hardly walk.
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A
City Of The Dead
What
would be your choice if you had to choose between being blind and
being
deaf? Nine people out of ten answer this question by positively
preferring
deafness to blindness. And one whose good fortune it has been
to
contemplate, even for a moment, some fantastic fairy-like corner of
India,
this country of lace-like marble palaces and enchanting gardens,
would
willingly add to deafness, lameness of both legs, rather than lose
such
sights.
We
are told that Saadi, the great poet, bitterly complained of his
friends
looking tired and indifferent while he praised the beauty and
charm
of his lady-love. "If the happiness of contemplating her wonderful
beauty,"
remonstrated he, "was yours, as it is mine, you could not
fail
to understand my verses, which, alas, describe in such meagre and
inadequate
terms the rapturous feelings experienced by every one who
sees
her even from a distance!"
I
fully sympathize with the enamoured poet, but cannot condemn his
friends
who never saw his lady-love, and that is why I tremble lest my
constant
rhapsodies on India should bore my readers as much as Saadi
bored
his friends. But what, I pray you, is the poor narrator to do,
when
new, undreamed-of charms are daily discovered in the lady-love
in
question? Her darkest aspects, abject and immoral as they are, and
sometimes
of such a nature as to excite your horror--even these aspects
are
full of some wild poetry, of originality, which cannot be met with
in
any other country. It is not unusual for a European novice to shudder
with
disgust at some features of local everyday life; but at the same
time
these very sights attract and fascinate the attention like a
horrible
nightmare. We had plenty of these experiences whilst our ecole
buissoniere
lasted. We spent these days far from railways and from any
other
vestige of civilization. Happily so, because European civilization
does
not suit India any better than a fashionable bonnet would suit a
half
naked Peruvian maiden, a true "daughter of Sun," of Cortes' time.
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All
the day long we wandered across rivers and jungles, passing villages
and
ruins of ancient fortresses, over local-board roads between Nassik
and
Jubblepore, traveling with the aid of bullock cars, elephants,
horses,
and very often being carried in palks. At nightfall we put up
our
tents and slept anywhere. These days offered us an opportunity
of
seeing that man decidedly can surmount trying and even dangerous
conditions
of climate, though, perhaps, in a passive way, by mere force
of
habit. In the afternoons, when we, white people, were very nearly
fainting
with the roasting heat, in spite of thick cork topis and such
shelter
as we could procure, and even our native companions had to use
more
than the usual supplies of muslin round their heads--the Bengali
Babu
traveled on horseback endless miles, under the vertical rays of the
hot
sun, bareheaded, protected only by his thick crop of hair. The sun
has
no influence whatever on Bengali skulls. They are covered only on
solemn
occasions, in cases of weddings and great festivities. Their
turbans
are useless adornments, like flowers in a European lady's hair.
Bengali
Babus are born clerks; they invade all railroad stations, post
and
telegraph offices and Government law courts. Wrapped in their
white
muslin toga virilis, their legs bare up to the knees, their heads
unprotected,
they proudly loaf on the platforms of railway stations, or
at
the entrances of their offices, casting contemptuous glances on the
Mahrattis,
who dearly love their numerous rings and lovely earrings in
the
upper part of their right ears. Bengalis, unlike the rest of the
Hindus,
do not paint sectarian signs on their foreheads. The only
trinket
they do not completely despise is an expensive necklace; but
even
this is not common. Contrary to all expectations, the Mahrattis,
with
all their little effeminate ways, are the bravest tribe of India,
gallant
and experienced soldiers, a fact which has been demonstrated
by
centuries of fighting; but Bengal has never as yet produced a single
soldier
out of its sixty-five million inhabitants. Not a single Bengali
is
to be found in the native regiments of the British army. This is a
strange
fact, which I refused to believe at first, but which has been
confirmed
by many English officers and by Bengalis themselves. But with
all
this, they are far from being cowardly. Their wealthy classes do
lead
a somewhat effeminate life, but their zemindars and peasantry are
undoubtedly
brave. Disarmed by their present Government, the Bengali
peasants
go out to meet the tiger, which in their country is more
ferocious
than elsewhere, armed only with a club, as composedly as they
used
to go with rifles and swords.
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Many
out-of-the-way paths and groves which most probably had never
before
been trodden by a European foot, were visited by us during these
short
days. Gulab-Lal-Sing was absent, but we were accompanied by a
trusted
servant of his, and the welcome we met with almost everywhere
was
certainly the result of the magic influence of his name. If the
wretched,
naked peasants shrank from us and shut their doors at our
approach,
the Brahmans were as obliging as could be desired.
The
sights around Kandesh, on the way to Thalner and Mhau, are very
picturesque.
But the effect is not entirely due to Nature's beauty. Art
has
a good deal to do with it, especially in Mussulman cemeteries. Now
they
are all more or less destroyed and deserted, owing to the increase
of
the Hindu inhabitants around them, and to the Mussulman princes, once
the
rightful lords of India, being expelled. Mussulmans of the present
day
are badly off and have to put up with more humiliations than even
the
Hindus. But still they have left many memorials behind them, and,
amongst
others, their cemeteries. The Mussulman fidelity to the dead is
a
very touching feature of their character. Their devotion to those
that
are gone is always more demonstrative than their affection for
the
living members of their families, and almost entirely concentrates
itself
on their last abodes. In proportion as their notions of paradise
are
coarse and material, the appearance of their cemeteries is poetical,
especially
in India. One may pleasantly spend whole hours in these
shady,
delightful gardens, amongst their white monuments crowned with
turbans,
covered with roses and jessamine and sheltered with rows of
cypresses.
We often stopped in such places to sleep and dine. A cemetery
near
Thalner is especially attractive. Out of several mausoleums in a
good
state of preservation the most magnificent is the monument of the
family
of Kiladar, who was hanged on the city tower by the order of
General
Hislop in 1818. Four other mausoleums attracted our attention
and
we learned that one of them is celebrated throughout India. It is a
white
marble octagon, covered from top to bottom with carving, the
like
of which could not be found even in Pere La Chaise. A Persian
inscription
on its base records that it cost one hundred thousand
rupees.
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By
day, bathed in the hot rays of the sun, its tall minaret-like outline
looks
like a block of ice against the blue sky. By night, with the aid
of
the intense, phosphorescent moonlight proper to India, it is still
more
dazzling and poetical. The summit looks as if it were covered with
freshly
fallen snow-crystals. Raising its slender profile above the dark
background
of bushes, it suggests some pure midnight apparition, soaring
over
this silent abode of destruction and lamenting what will never
return.
Side by side with these cemeteries rise the Hindu ghats,
generally
by the river bank. There really is something grand in the
ritual
of burning the dead. Witnessing this ceremony the spectator is
struck
with the deep philosophy underlying the fundamental idea of this
custom.
In the course of an hour nothing remains of the body but a
few
handfuls of ashes. A professional Brahman, like a priest of death,
scatters
these ashes to the winds over a river. The ashes of what once
lived
and felt, loved and hated, rejoiced and wept, are thus given back
again
to the four elements: to Earth, which fed it during such a long
time
and out of which it grew and developed; to Fire, emblem of purity,
that
has just devoured the body in order that the spirit may be rid
of
everything impure, and may freely gravitate to the new sphere of
posthumous
existence, where every sin is a stumbling block on the way to
"Moksha,"
or infinite bliss; to Air, which it inhaled and through which
it
lived, and to Water, which purified it physically and spiritually,
and
is now to receive its ashes into her pure bosom.
The
adjective "pure" must be understood in the figurative sense of the
mantram.
Generally speaking, the rivers of India, beginning with the
thrice
sacred Ganges, are dreadfully dirty, especially near villages and
towns.
In
these rivers about two hundred millions of people daily cleanse
themselves
from the tropical perspiration and dirt. The corpses of
those
who are not worth burning are thrown in the same rivers, and their
number
is great, because it includes all Shudras, pariahs, and various
other
outcasts, as well as Brahman children under three years of age.
Only
rich and high-born people are buried pompously. It is for them that
the
sandal-wood fires are lit after sunset; it is for them that mantrams
are
chanted, and for them that the gods are invoked. But Shudras must
not
listen on any account to the divine words dictated at the beginning
of
the world by the four Rishis to Veda Vyasa, the great theologian of
Aryavarta.
No fires for them, no prayers. As during his life a Shudra
never
approaches a temple nearer than seven steps, so even after death
he
cannot be put on the same level with the "twice-born."
Brightly
burn the fires, extending like a fiery serpent along the river.
The
dark outlines of strange, wildly-fantastical figures silently move
amongst
the flames. Sometimes they raise their arms towards the sky, as
if
in a prayer, sometimes they add fuel to the fires and poke them with
long
iron pitchforks. The dying flames rise high, creeping and dancing,
sputtering
with melted human fat and shooting towards the sky whole
showers
of golden sparks, which are instantly lost in the clouds of
black
smoke.
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
This
on the right side of the river. Let us now see what is going on
on
the left. In the early hours of the morning, when the red fires, the
black
clouds of miasmas, and the thin figures of the fakirs grow dim and
vanish
little by little, when the smell of burned flesh is blown away by
the
fresh wind which rises at the approach of the dawn, when, in a word,
the
right side of the river with its ghotas plunges into stillness
and
silence, to be reawakened when the evening comes, processions of a
different
kind appear on the left bank. We see groups of Hindu men and
women
in sad, silent trains. They approach the river quietly. They
do
not cry, and have no rituals to perform. We see two men carrying
something
long and thin, wrapped in an old red rug. Holding it by the
head
and feet they swing it into the dirty, yellowish waves of the
river.
The shock is so violent that the red rug flies open and we behold
the
face of a young woman tinged with dark green, who quickly disappears
in
the river. Further on another group; an old man and two young women.
One
of them, a little girl of ten, small, thin, hardly fully developed,
sobs
bitterly. She is the mother of a stillborn child, whose body is to
be
thrown in the river. Her weak voice monotonously resounds over the
shore,
and her trembling hands are not strong enough to lift the poor
little
corpse that is more like a tiny brown kitten than a human being.
The
old man tries to console her, and, taking the body in his own hands,
enters
the water and throws it right in the middle. After him both the
women
get into the river, and, having plunged seven times to purify
themselves
from the touch of a dead body, they return home, their
clothes
dripping with wet. In the meanwhile vultures, crows and other
birds
of prey gather in thick clouds and considerably retard the
progress
of the bodies down the river. Occasionally some half-stripped
skeleton
is caught by the reeds, and stranded there helplessly for
weeks,
until an outcast, whose sad duty it is to busy himself all his
life
long with such unclean work, takes notice of it, and catching it
by
the ribs with his long hook, restores it to its highway towards the
ocean.
But
let us leave the river bank, which is unbearably hot in spite of
the
early hour. Let us bid good-bye to the watery cemetery of the poor.
Disgusting
and heart-rending are such sights in the eyes of a European!
And
unconsciously we allow the light wings of reverie to transport us
to
the far North, to the peaceful village cemeteries where there are no
marble
monuments crowned with turbans, no sandal-wood fires, no dirty
rivers
to serve the purpose of a last resting place, but where humble
wooden
crosses stand in rows, sheltered by old birches. How peacefully
our
dead repose under the rich green grass! None of them ever saw these
gigantic
palms, sumptuous palaces and pagodas covered with gold. But
on
their poor graves grow violets and lilies of the valley, and in the
spring
evenings nightingales sing to them in the old birch-trees.
No
nightingales ever sing for me, either in the neighboring groves, or
in
my own heart. The latter least of all.----
-------Cardiff Theosophical
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
Let
us stroll along this wall of reddish stone. It will lead us to a
fortress
once celebrated and drenched with blood, now harmless and half
ruined,
like many another Indian fortress. Flocks of green parrots,
startled
by our approach, fly from under every cavity of the old wall,
their
wings shining in the sun like so many flying emeralds. This
territory
is accursed by Englishmen. This is Chandvad, where, during
the
Sepoy mutiny, the Bhils streamed from their ambuscades like a mighty
mountain
torrent, and cut many an English throat.
Tatva,
an ancient Hindu book, treating of the geography of the times
of
King Asoka (250-300 B.C.), teaches us that the Mahratti territory
spreads
up to the wall of Chandvad or Chandor, and that the Kandesh
country
begins on the other side of the river. But English people do
not
believe in Tatva or in any other authority and want us to learn that
Kandesh
begins right at the foot of Chandor hillocks.----
Twelve
miles south-east from Chandvad there is a whole town of
subterranean
temples, known under the name of Enkay-Tenkay. Here, again,
the
entrance is a hundred feet from the base, and the hill is pyramidal.
I
must not attempt to give a full description of these temples, as this
subject
must be worked out in a way quite impossible in a newspaper
article.
So I shall only note that here all the statues, idols, and
carvings
are ascribed to Buddhist ascetics of the first centuries after
the
death of Buddha. I wish I could content myself with this statement.
But,
unfortunately, messieurs les archeologues meet here with an
unexpected
difficulty, and a more serious one than all the difficulties
brought
on them by the inconsistencies of all other temples put
together.
In
these temples there are more idols designated Buddhas than anywhere
else.
They cover the main entrance, sit in thick rows along the
balconies,
occupy the inner walls of the cells, watch the entrances
of
all the doors like monster giants, and two of them sit in the chief
tank,
where spring water washes them century after century without any
harm
to their granite bodies. Some of these Buddhas are decently clad,
with
pyramidal pagodas as their head gear; others are naked; some sit,
others
stand; some are real colossi, some tiny, some of middle size.
However,
all this would not matter; we may go so far as to overlook the
fact
of Gautama's or Siddhartha-Buddha's reform consisting precisely in
his
earnest desire to tear up by the roots the Brahmanical idol-worship.
Though,
of course, we cannot help remembering that his religion remained
pure
from idol-worship of any kind during centuries, until the Lamas of
Tibet,
the Chinese, the Burmese, and the Siamese taking it into their
lands
disfigured it, and spoilt it with heresies. We cannot forget that,
persecuted
by conquer-ing Brahmans, and expelled from India, it
found,
at last, a shelter in Ceylon where it still flourishes like the
legendary
aloe, which is said to blossom once in its lifetime and then
to
die, as the root is killed by the exuberance of blossom, and the
seeds
cannot produce anything but weeds. All this we may overlook, as I
said
before. But the difficulty of the archaeologists still exists, if
not
in the fact of idols being ascribed to early Buddhists, then in the
physiognomies,
in the type of all these Enkay-Tenkay Buddhas. They all,
from
the tiniest to the hugest, are Negroes, with flat noses, thick
lips,
forty five degrees of the facial angle, and curly hair! There
is
not the slightest likeness between these Negro faces and any of the
Siamese
or Tibetan Buddhas, which all have purely Mongolian features
and
perfectly straight hair. This unexpected African type, unheard of in
India,
upsets the antiquarians entirely. This is why the archaeologists
avoid
mentioning these caves. Enkay-Tenkay is a worse difficulty for
them
than even Nassik; they find it as hard to conquer as the Persians
found
Thermopylae.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
We
passed by Maleganva and Chikalval, where we examined an exceedingly
curious
ancient temple of the Jainas. No cement was used in the building
of
its outer walls, they consist entirely of square stones, which are so
well
wrought and so closely joined that the blade of the thinnest knife
cannot
be pushed between two of them; the interior of the temple is
richly
decorated.
On
our way back we did not stop in Thalner, but went straight on to
Ghara.
There we had to hire elephants again to visit the splendid ruins
of
Mandu, once a strongly fortified town, about twenty miles due north
east
of this place. This time we got there speedily and safely. I
mention
this place because some time later I witnessed in its vicinity a
most
curious sight, offered by the branch of the numerous Indian rites,
which
is generally called "devil worship."
Mandu
is situated on the ridge of the Vindhya Mountains, about two
thousand
feet above the surface of the sea. According to Malcolm's
statement,
this town was built in A.D. 313, and for a long time was the
capital
of the Hindu Rajas of Dhara. The historian Ferishtah points to
Mandu
as the residence of Dilivan-Khan-Ghuri, the first King of Malwa,
who
flourished in 1387-1405. In 1526 the town was taken by Bahadur-Shah,
King
of Gujerat, but in 1570 Akbar won this town back, and a marble slab
over
the town gate still bears his name and the date of his visit.
On
entering this vast city in its present state of solitude (the natives
call
it the "dead town") we all experienced a peculiar feeling, not
unlike
the sensation of a man who enters Pompeii for the first time.
Everything
shows that Mandu was once one of the wealthiest towns of
India.
The town wall is thirty-seven miles long. Streets ran whole
miles,
on their sides stand ruined palaces, and marble pillars lie on
the
ground. Black excavations of the subterranean halls, in the coolness
of
which rich ladies spent the hottest hours of the day, peer from under
dilapidated
granite walls. Further on are broken stairs, dry tanks,
waterless
fountains, endless empty yards, marble platforms, and
disfigured
arches of majestic porches. All this is overgrown with
creepers
and shrubs, hiding the dens of wild beasts. Here and there a
well-preserved
wall of some palace rises high above the general wreck,
its
empty windows fringed with parasitic plants blinking and staring at
us
like sightless eyes, protesting against troublesome intruders. And
still
further, in the very centre of the ruins, the heart of the dead
town
sends forth a whole crop of broken cypresses, an untrimmed grove
on
the place where heaved once so many breasts and clamoured so many
passions.
In
1570 this town was called Shadiabad, the abode of happiness. The
Franciscan
missionaries, Adolf Aquaviva, Antario de Moncerotti, and
others,
who came here in that very year as an embassy from Goa to seek
various
privileges from the Mogul Government, described it over and over
again.
At this epoch it was one of the greatest cities of the world,
whose
magnificent streets and luxurious ways used to astonish the most
pompous
courts of India. It seems almost incredible that in such a short
period
nothing should remain of this town but the heaps of rubbish,
amongst
which we could hardly find room enough for our tent. At last we
decided
to pitch it in the only building which remained in a tolerable
state
of preservation, in Yami-Masjid, the cathedral-mosque, on a
granite
platform about twenty-five steps higher than the square. The
stairs,
constructed of pure marble like the greater part of the town
buildings,
are broad and almost untouched by time, but the roof has
entirely
disappeared, and so we were obliged to put up with the stars
for
a canopy. All round this building runs a low gallery supported by
several
rows of thick pillars. From a distance it reminds one, in spite
of
its being somewhat clumsy and lacking in proportion, of the Acropolis
of
Athens. From the stairs, where we rested for a while, there was a
view
of the mausoleum of Gushanga-Guri, King of Malwa, in whose reign
the
town was at the culmination of its brilliancy and glory. It is a
massive,
majestic, white marble edifice, with a sheltered peristyle and
finely
carved pillars. This peristyle once led straight to the palace,
but
now it is surrounded with a deep ravine, full of broken stones and
overgrown
with cacti. The interior of the mausoleum is covered with
golden
lettering of inscriptions from the Koran, and the sarcophagus
of
the sultan is placed in the middle. Close by it stands the palace
of
Baz-Bahadur, all broken to pieces--nothing now but a heap of dust
covered
with trees.
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We
spent the whole day visiting these sad remains, and returned to
our
sheltering place a little before sunset, exhausted with hunger
and
thirst, but triumphantly carrying on our sticks three huge snakes,
killed
on our way home. Tea and supper were waiting for us. To our great
astonishment
we found visitors in the tent. The Patel of the neighboring
village--something
between a tax-collector and a judge--and two
zemindars
(land owners) rode over to present us their respects and to
invite
us and our Hindu friends, some of whom they had known previously,
to
accompany them to their houses. On hearing that we intended to spend
the
night in the "dead town" they grew awfully indignant. They assured
us
it was highly dangerous and utterly impossible. Two hours later
hyenas,
tigers, and other beasts of prey were sure to come out from
under
every bush and every ruined wall, without mentioning thousands
of
jackals and wild cats. Our elephants would not stay, and if they did
stay
no doubt they would be devoured. We ought to leave the ruins as
quickly
as possible and go with them to the nearest village, which would
not
take us more than half an hour. In the village everything had been
prepared
for us, and our friend the Babu was already there, and getting
impatient
at our delay.
Only
on hearing this did we become aware that our bareheaded and
cautious
friend was conspicuous by his absence. Probably he had left
some
time ago, without consulting us, and made straight to the village
where
he evidently had friends. Sending for us was a mere trick of his.
But
the evening was so sweet, and we felt so comfortable, that the idea
of
upsetting all our plans for the morning was not at all attractive.
Besides,
it seemed quite ridiculous to think that the ruins, amongst
which
we had wandered several hours without meeting anything more
dangerous
than a snake, swarmed with wild animals. So we smiled and
returned
thanks, but would not accept the invitation.
"But
you positively must not dare to stay here," insisted the fat Patel.
"In
case of accident, I shall be responsible for you to the Government.
Is
it possible you do not dread a sleepless night spent in fighting
jackals,
if not something worse? You do not believe that you are
surrounded
with wild animals..... It is true they are invisible until
sunset,
but nevertheless they are dangerous. If you do not believe us,
believe
the instinct of your elephants, who are as brave as you, but a
little
more reasonable. Just look at them!"
We
looked. Truly, our grave, philosophic-looking elephants behaved very
strangely
at this moment. Their lifted trunks looked like huge points of
interrogation.
They snorted and stamped restively. In another minute one
of
them tore the thick rope, with which he was tied to a broken pillar,
made
a sudden volte-face with all his heavy body, and stood against the
wind,
sniffing the air. Evidently he perceived some dangerous animal in
the
neighborhood.
The
colonel stared at him through his spectacles and whistled very
meaningly.
"Well,
well," remarked he, "what shall we do if tigers really assault
us?"
"What
shall we do indeed?" was my thought. "Takur Gulab-Lal-Sing is not
here
to protect us."
Our
Hindu companions sat on the carpet after their oriental fashion,
quietly
chewing betel. On being asked their opinion, they said they
would
not interfere with our decision, and were ready to do exactly as
we
liked. But as for the European portion of our party, there was no use
concealing
the fact that we were frightened, and we speedily prepared to
start.
Five minutes later we mounted the elephants, and, in a quarter
of
an hour, just when the sun disappeared behind the mountain and heavy
darkness
instantaneously fell, we passed the gate of Akbar and descended
into
the valley.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
We
were hardly a quarter of a mile from our abandoned camping place when
the
cypress grove resounded with shrieking howls of jackals, followed
by
a well-known mighty roar. There was no longer any possibility
of
doubting. The tigers were disappointed at our escape. Their
discontentment
shook the very air, and cold perspiration stood on
our
brows. Our elephant sprang forward, upsetting the order of our
procession
and threatening to crush the horses and their riders before
us.
We ourselves, however, were out of danger. We sat in a strong
howdah,
locked as in a dungeon.
"It
is useless to deny that we have had a narrow escape!" remarked the
colonel,
looking out of the window at some twenty servants of the Patel,
who
were busily lighting torches.
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
Brahmanic
Hospitalities
In
an hour's time we stopped at the gate of a large bungalow, and were
welcomed
by the beaming face of our bareheaded Bengali. When we were
all
safely gathered on the verandah, he explained to us that, knowing
beforehand
that our "American pigheadedness" would not listen to any
warning,
he had dodged up this little scheme of his own and was very
glad
he had been successful.
"Now
let us go and wash our hands, and then to supper. And," he added,
addressing
me, "was it not your wish to be present at a real Hindu meal?
This
is your opportunity. Our host is a Brahman, and you are the first
Europeans
who ever entered the part of his house inhabited by the
family."----
Who
amongst Europeans ever dreamed of a country where every step, and
the
least action of everyday life, especially of the family life, is
controlled
by religious rites and cannot be performed except according
to
a certain programme? India is this country. In India all the
important
incidents of a man's life, such as birth, reaching certain
periods
of a child's life, marriage, fatherhood, old age and death,
as
well as all the physical and physiological functions of everyday
routine,
like morning ablutions, dressing, eating, et tout ce qui s'en
suit,
from a man's first hour to his last sigh, everything must be
performed
according to a certain Brahmanical ritual, on penalty of
expulsion
from his caste. The Brahmans may be compared to the musicians
of
an orchestra in which the different musical instruments are the
numerous
sects of their country. They are all of a different shape and
of
a different timbre; but still every one of them obeys the same leader
of
the band. However widely the sects may differ in the interpretation
of
their sacred books, however hostile they may be to each other,
striving
to put forward their particular deity, every one of them,
obeying
blindly the ancient custom, must follow like musicians the same
directing
wand, the laws of Manu. This is the point where they all meet
and
form a unanimous, single-minded community, a strongly united mass.
And
woe to the one who breaks the symphony by a single discordant note!
The
elders and the caste or sub-caste councils (of these there are any
number),
whose members hold office for life, are stern rulers. There is
no
appeal against their decisions, and this is why expulsion from
the
caste is a calamity, entailing truly formidable consequences. The
excommunicated
member is worse off than a leper, the solidarity of the
castes
in this respect being something phenomenal. The only thing that
can
bear any comparison with it is the solidarity of the disciples of
Loyola.
If members of two different castes, united by the sincerest
feelings
of respect and friendship, may not intermarry, may not dine
together,
are forbidden to accept a glass of water from each other, or
to
offer each other a hookah, it becomes clear how much more severe all
these
restrictions must be in the case of an excommunicated person. The
poor
wretch must literally die to everybody, to the members of his own
family
as to strangers. His own household, his father, wife, children,
are
all bound to turn their faces from him, under the penalty of
being
excommunicated in their turn. There is no hope for his sons and
daughters
of getting married, however innocent they may be of the sin of
their
father.
From
the moment of "excommunication" the Hindu must totally disappear.
His
mother and wife must not feed him, must not let him drink from the
family
well. No member of any existing caste dares to sell him his food
or
cook for him. He must either starve or buy eatables from outcasts
and
Europeans, and so incur the dangers of further pollution. When the
Brahmanical
power was at its zenith, such acts as deceiving, robbing and
even
killing this wretch were encouraged, as he was beyond the pale of
the
laws. Now, at all events, he is free from the latter danger, but
still,
even now, if he happens to die before he is forgiven and received
back
into his caste, his body may not be burned, and no purifying
mantrams
will be chanted for him; he will be thrown into the water, or
left
to rot under the bushes like a dead cat.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
This
is a passive force, and its passiveness only makes it more
formidable.
Western education and English influence can do nothing
to
change it. There exists only one course of action for the
excommunicated;
he must show signs of repentance and submit to all kinds
of
humiliations, often to the total loss of all his worldly possessions.
Personally,
I know several young Brahmans, who, having brilliantly
passed
the university examinations in England, have had to submit to the
most
repulsive conditions of purification on their return home; these
purifications
consisting chiefly in shaving off half their moustaches
and
eyebrows, crawling in the dust round pagodas, clinging during
long
hours to the tail of a sacred cow, and, finally, swallowing the
excrements
of this cow. The latter ceremony is called "Pancha-Gavya,"
literally,
the five products of the cow: milk, curds, butter, etc.
The
voyage over Kalapani, the black water, that is to say the sea, is
considered
the worst of all the sins. A man who commits it is considered
as
polluting himself continually, from the first moment of his going on
board
the bellati (foreign) ship.
Only
a few days ago a friend of ours, who is an LL.D., had to
undergo
this "purgation," and it nearly cost him his reason. When we
remonstrated
with him, pointing out that in his case it was simply
foolish
to submit, he being a materialist by conviction and not caring
a
straw for Brahmanism, he replied that he was bound to do so for the
following
reasons:
"I
have two daughters," he explained, "one five, the other six years
old.
If I do not find a husband for the eldest of them in the course of
the
coming year, she will grow too old to get married, nobody will think
of
espousing her. Suppose I suffer my caste to excommunicate me, both
my
girls will be dishonored and miserable for the rest of their lives.
Then,
again, I must take into consideration the superstitions of my old
mother.
If such a misfortune befell me, it would simply kill her....."
But
why should he not free himself from every bond to Brahmanism and
caste?
Why not join, once for all, the ever-growing community of men
who
are guilty of the same offence? Why not ask all his family to form a
colony
and join the civilization of the Europeans?
All
these are very natural questions, but unfortunately there is no
difficulty
in finding reasons for answering them in the negative.
There
were thirty-two reasons given why one of Napoleon's marshals
refused
to besiege a certain fortress, but the first of these reasons
was
the absence of gunpowder, and so it excluded the necessity of
discussing
the remaining thirty-one. Similarly the first reason why a
Hindu
cannot be Europeanized is quite sufficient, and does not call for
any
additional ones. This reason is that by doing so a Hindu would
not
improve his position. Were he such an adept of science as to rival
Tyndall,
were he such a clever politician as to eclipse the genius of
Disraeli
and Bismarck, as soon as he actually had given up his caste and
kinsmen,
he would indubitably find himself in the position of Mahomet's
coffin;
metaphorically speaking, he would hang half-way between the
earth
and the sky.
It
would be an utter injustice to suppose that this state of things
is
the result of the policy of the English Government; that the said
Government
is afraid of giving a chance to natives who may be suspected
of
being hostile to the British rule. In reality, the Government has
little
or nothing to do with it. This state of things must be attributed
entirely
to the social ostracism, to the contempt felt by a "superior"
for
an "inferior" race, a contempt deeply rooted in some members of
the
Anglo-Indian society and displayed at the least provocation.
This
question of racial "superiority" and "inferiority" plays a
more
important part than is generally believed, even in England.
Nevertheless,
the natives (Mussulmans included) do not deserve contempt,
and
so the gulf between the rulers and the ruled widens with every year,
and
long centuries would not suffice to fill it up.
I
have to dwell upon all this to give my readers a clear idea on the
subject.
And so it is no wonder the ill-fated Hindus prefer
temporary
humiliations and the physical and moral sufferings of the
"purification,"
to the prospect of general contempt until death. These
were
the questions we discussed with the Brahmans during the two hours
before
dinner.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
Dining
with foreigners and people belonging to different castes is, no
doubt,
a dangerous breach of Manu's sacred precepts. But this time, for
once,
it was easily explained. First, the stout Patel, our host, was
the
head of his caste, and so was beyond the dread of excommunication;
secondly,
he had already taken all the prescribed and advisable
precautions
against being polluted by our presence. He was a
free-thinker
in his own way, and a friend of Gulab-Lal-Sing, and so
he
rejoiced at the idea of showing us how much skillful sophistry and
strategical
circumspection can be used by adroit Brahmans to avoid the
law
in some circumstances, while adhering at the same time to its dead
letter.
Besides, our good-natured, well-favored host evidently desired
to
obtain a diploma from our Society, being well aware that the
collector
of his district was enrolled amongst our members.
These,
at any rate, were the explanations of our Babu when we expressed
our
astonishment; so it was our concern to make the most of our
chance,
and to thank Providence for this rare opportunity. And this we
accordingly
did.
Hindus
take their food only twice a day, at ten o'clock in the morning
and
at nine in the evening. Both meals are accompanied by complicated
rites
and ceremonies. Even very young children are not allowed to eat
at
odd times, eating without the prescribed performance of certain
exorcisms
being considered a sin. Thousands of educated Hindus have long
ceased
to believe in all these superstitious customs, but, nevertheless,
they
are daily practised.
Sham
Rao Bahunathji, our host, belonged to the ancient caste of Patarah
Prabhus,
and was very proud of his origin. Prabhu means lord, and this
caste
descends from the Kshatriyas. The first of them was Ashvapati (700
B.C.),
a lineal descendant of Rama and Prithu, who, as is stated in the
local
chronology, governed India in the Dvapara and Treta Yugas, which
is
a good while ago! The Patarah Prabhus are the only caste within which
Brahmans
have to perform certain purely Vedic rites, known under the
name
of the "Kshatriya rites." But this does not prevent their being
Patans,
instead of Patars, Patan meaning the fallen one. This is
the
fault of King Ashvapati. Once, when distributing gifts to holy
anchorites,
he inadvertently forgot to give his due to the great Bhrigu.
The
offended prophet and seer declared to him that his reign was
drawing
near its end, and that all his posterity would perish. The king,
throwing
himself on the ground, implored the prophet's pardon. But his
curse
had worked its fulfilment already. All that he could do to
stop
the mischief consisted in a solemn promise not to let the king's
descendants
disappear completely from the earth. However, the Patars
soon
lost their throne and their power. Since then they have had to
"live
by their pens," in the employment of many successive governments,
to
exchange their name of Patars for Patans, and to lead a humbler life
than
many of their late subjects. Happily for our talkative Amphitryon,
his
forefathers became Brahmans, that is to say "went through the golden
cow."
-------Cardiff Theosophical
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
The
expression "to live by their pens" alludes, as we learned later on,
to
the fact of the Patans occupying all the small Government posts in
the
Bombay Presidency, and so being dangerous rivals of the Bengali
Babus
since the time of British rule. In Bombay the Patan clerks reach
the
considerable figure of five thousand. Their complexion is darker
than
the complexion of Konkan Brahmans, but they are handsomer and
brighter.
As to the mysterious expression, "went through the golden
cow,"
it illustrates a very curious custom. The Kshatriyas, and even
the
much-despised Shudras, may become a sort of left-hand Brahmans. This
metamorphosis
depends on the will of the real Brahmans, who may, if they
like,
sell this right for several hundreds or thousands of cows. When
the
gift is accomplished, a model cow, made of pure gold, is erected
and
made sacred by the performance of some mystical ceremonies. The
candidate
must now crawl through her hollow body three times, and thus
is
transformed into a Brahman. The present Maharaja of Travankor, and
even
the great Raja of Benares, who died recently, were both Shudras who
acquired
their rights in this manner. We received all this information
and
a notion of the legendary Patar chronicle from our obliging host.
Having
announced that we must now get ready for dinner, he disappeared
in
the company of all the gentlemen of our party. Being left to
ourselves,
Miss X---- and I decided to have a good look at the house
whilst
it was empty. The Babu, being a downright, modern Bengali, had
no
respect for the religious preparations for dinner, and chose to
accompany
us, proposing to explain to us all that we should otherwise
fail
to understand.
The
Prabhu brothers always live together, but every married couple have
separate
rooms and servants of their own. The habitation of our host
was
very spacious. There were small several bungalows, occupied by
his
brothers, and a chief building containing rooms for visitors, the
general
dining-room, a lying-in ward, a small chapel with any number
of
idols, and so on. The ground floor, of course, was surrounded by a
verandah
pierced with arches leading to a huge hall. All round this hall
were
wooden pillars adorned with exquisite carving. For some reason or
other,
it struck me that these pillars once belonged to some palace of
the
"dead town." On close examination I only grew more convinced that
I
was right. Their style bore no traces of Hindu taste; no gods, no
fabulous
monster animals, only arabesques and elegant leaves and flowers
of
nonexistent plants. The pillars stood very close to each other, but
the
carvings prevented them from forming an uninterrupted wall, so that
the
ventilation was a little too strong. All the time we spent at the
dinner
table miniature hurricanes whistled from behind every pillar,
waking
up all our old rheumatisms and toothaches, which had peacefully
slumbered
since our arrival in India.
The
front of the house was thickly covered with iron horseshoes--the
best
precaution against evil spirits and evil eyes.
At
the foot of a broad, carved staircase we came across a couch or a
cradle,
hung from the ceiling by iron chains. I saw somebody lying on
it,
whom, at first sight, I mistook for a sleeping Hindu, and was going
to
retreat discreetly, but, recognizing my old friend Hanuman, I grew
bold
and endeavored to examine him. Alas! the poor idol possessed only a
head
and neck, the rest of his body was a heap of old rags.
On
the left side of the verandah there were many more lateral rooms,
each
with a special destination, some of which I have mentioned already.
The
largest of these rooms was called "vattan," and was used exclusively
by
the fair sex. Brahman women are not bound to spend their lives
under
veils, like Mussulman women, but still they have very little
communication
with men, and keep aloof. Women cook the men's food, but
do
not dine with them. The elder ladies of the family are often held in
great
respect, and husbands sometimes show a shy courteousness towards
their
wives, but still a woman has no right to speak to her husband
before
strangers, nor even before the nearest relations, such as her
sisters
and her mother.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
As
to the Hindu widows, they really are the most wretched creatures in
the
whole world. As soon as a woman's husband dies she must have her
hair
and her eyebrows shaven off. She must part with all her trinkets,
her
earrings, her nose jewels, her bangles and toe-rings. After this is
done
she is as good as dead. The lowest outcast would not marry her. A
man
is polluted by her slightest touch, and must immediately proceed to
purify
himself. The dirtiest work of the household is her duty, and she
must
not eat with the married women and the children. The "sati," the
burning
of the widows, is abolished, but Brahmans are clever managers,
and
the widows often long for the sati.
At
last, having examined the family chapel, full of idols, flowers, rich
vases
with burning incense, lamps hanging from its ceiling, and aromatic
herbs
covering its floor, we decided to get ready for dinner. We
carefully
washed ourselves, but this was not enough, we were requested
to
take off our shoes. This was a somewhat disagreeable surprise, but a
real
Brahmanical supper was worth the trouble.
However,
a truly amazing surprise was still in store for us.
On
entering the dining-room we stopped short at the entrance--both our
European
companions were dressed, or rather undressed, exactly like
Hindus!
For the sake of decency they kept on a kind of sleeveless
knitted
vest, but they were barefooted, wore the snow-white Hindu dhutis
(a
piece of muslin wrapped round to the waist and forming a petticoat),
and
looked like something between white Hindus and Constantinople
garcons
de bains. Both were indescribably funny, I never saw anything
funnier.
To the great discomfiture of the men, and the scandal of the
grave
ladies of the house, I could not restrain myself, but burst out
laughing.
Miss X----blushed violently and followed my example.
A
quarter of an hour before the evening meal every Hindu, old or young,
has
to perform a "puja" before the gods. He does not change his clothes,
as
we do in Europe, but takes off the few things he wore during the day.
He
bathes by the family well and loosens his hair, of which, if he is
a
Mahratti or an inhabitant of the Dekkan, he has only one long lock at
the
top of his shaven head. To cover the body and the head whilst eating
would
be sinful. Wrapping his waist and legs in a white silk dhuti,
he
goes once more to salute the idols and then sits down to his
meal.----
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
But
here I shall allow myself to digress. "Silk possesses the property
of
dismissing the evil spirits who inhabit the magnetic fluids of the
atmosphere,"
says the Mantram, book v., verse 23. And I cannot help
wondering
whether this apparent superstition may not contain a deeper
meaning.
It is difficult, I own, to part with our favorite theories
about
all the customs of ancient heathendom being mere ignorant
superstitions.
But have not some vague notions of these customs being
founded
originally on a true knowledge of scientific principles found
their
way amongst European scientific circles? At first sight the idea
seems
untenable. But why may we not suppose that the ancients prescribed
this
observance in the full knowledge that the effect of electricity
upon
the organs of digestion is truly beneficial? People who have
studied
the ancient philosophy of India with a firm resolve to penetrate
the
hidden meaning of its aphorisms have for the most part grown
convinced
that electricity and its effects were known to a considerable
extent
to some philosophers, as, for instance, to Patanjali. Charaka and
Sushruta
had pro-pounded the system of Hippocrates long before the time
of
him who in Europe is supposed to be the "father of medicine." The
Bhadrinath
temple of Vishnu possesses a stone bearing evident proof of
the
fact that Surya-Sidhanta knew and calculated the expansive force of
steam
many centuries ago. The ancient Hindus were the first to determine
the
velocity of light and the laws of its reflection; and the table of
Pythagoras
and his celebrated theorem of the square of hypotenuse are to
be
found in the ancient books of Jyotisha. All this leads us to suppose
that
ancient Aryans, when instituting the strange custom of wearing
silk
during meals, had something serious in view, more serious, at all
events,
than the "dismissing of demons."
Having
entered the "refectory," we immediately noticed what were the
Hindu
precautions against their being polluted by our presence. The
stone
floor of the hall was divided into two equal parts. This division
consisted
of a line traced in chalk, with Kabalistic signs at either
end.
One part was destined for the host's party and the guests belonging
to
the same caste, the other for ourselves. On our side of the hall
there
was yet a third square to contain Hindus of a different caste. The
furniture
of the two bigger squares was exactly similar. Along the two
opposite
walls there were narrow carpets spread on the floor, covered
with
cushions and low stools. Before every occupant there was an oblong
on
the bare floor, traced also with chalk, and divided, like a chess
board,
into small quadrangles which were destined for dishes and plates.
Both
the latter articles were made of the thick strong leaves of the
butea
frondosa: larger dishes of several leaves pinned together with
thorns,
plates and saucers of one leaf with its borders turned up.
All
the courses of the supper were already arranged on each square; we
counted
forty-eight dishes, containing about a mouthful of forty-eight
different
dainties. The materials of which they were composed were
mostly
terra incognita to us, but some of them tasted very nice. All
this
was vegetarian food. Of meat, fowl, eggs and fish there appeared no
traces.
There were chutneys, fruit and vegetables preserved in vinegar
and
honey, panchamrits, a mixture of pampello-berries, tamarinds, cocoa
milk,
treacle and olive oil, and kushmer, made of radishes, honey and
flour;
there were also burning hot pickles and spices. All this was
crowned
with a mountain of exquisitely cooked rice and another mountain
of
chapatis, which are something like brown pancakes. The dishes stood
in
four rows, each row containing twelve dishes; and between the rows
burned
three aromatic sticks of the size of a small church taper.
Our
part of the hall was brightly lit with green and red candles. The
chandeliers
which held these candles were of a very queer shape. They
each
represented the trunk of a tree with a seven-headed cobra wound
round
it. From each of the seven mouths rose a red or a green wax candle
of
spiral form like a corkscrew. Draughts blowing from behind every
pillar
fluttered the yellow flames, filling the roomy refectory with
fantastic
moving shadows, and causing both our lightly-clad gentlemen
to
sneeze very frequently. Leaving the dark silhouettes of the Hindus
in
comparative obscurity, this unsteady light made the two white figures
still
more conspicuous, as if making a masquerade of them and laughing
at
them.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
The
relatives and friends of our host came in one after the other. They
were
all naked down to the waist, all barefooted, all wore the triple
Brahmanical
thread and white silk dhutis, and their hair hung loose.
Every
sahib was followed by his own servant, who carried his cup, his
silver,
or even gold, jug filled with water, and his towel. All of them,
having
saluted the host, greeted us, the palms of their hands pressed
together
and touching their foreheads, their breasts, and then the
floor.
They all said to us: "Ram-Ram" and "Namaste" (salutation to
thee),
and then made straight for their respective seats in perfect
silence.
Their civilities reminded me that the custom of greeting each
other
with the twice pronounced name of some ancestor was usual in the
remotest
antiquity.
We
all sat down, the Hindus calm and stately, as if preparing for some
mystic
celebration, we ourselves feeling awkward and uneasy, fearing to
prove
guilty of some unpardonable blunder. An invisible choir of women's
voices
chanted a monotonous hymn, celebrating the glory of the gods.
These
were half a dozen nautch-girls from a neighboring pagoda. To this
accompaniment
we began satisfying our appetites. Thanks to the Babu's
instructions,
we took great care to eat only with our right hands. This
was
somewhat difficult, because we were hungry and hasty, but quite
necessary.
Had we only so much as touched the rice with our left hands
whole
hosts of Rakshasas (demons) would have been attracted to take part
in
the festivity that very moment; which, of course, would send all the
Hindus
out of the room. It is hardly necessary to say that there were no
traces
of forks, knives or spoons. That I might run no risk of
breaking
the rule I put my left hand in my pocket and held on to my
pocket-handkerchief
all the time the dinner lasted.
The
singing lasted only a few minutes. During the rest of the time a
dead
silence reigned amongst us. It was Monday, a fast day, and so
the
usual absence of noise at meal times had to be observed still more
strictly
than on any other day. Usually a man who is compelled to break
the
silence by some emergency or other hastens to plunge into water
the
middle finger of his left hand, which till then had remained hidden
behind
his back, and to moisten both his eyelids with it. But a really
pious
man would not be content with this simple formula of purification;
having
spoken, he must leave the dining-room, wash thoroughly, and then
abstain
from food for the remainder of the day.
Thanks
to this solemn silence, I was at liberty to notice everything
that
was going on with great attention. Now and again, whenever I caught
sight
of the colonel or Mr. Y----, I had all the difficulty in the world
to
preserve my gravity. Fits of foolish laughter would take possession
of
me when I observed them sitting erect with such comical solemnity and
working
so awkwardly with their elbows and hands. The long beard of the
one
was white with grains of rice, as if silvered with hoar-frost,
the
chin of the other was yellow with liquid saffron. But unsatisfied
curiosity
happily came to my rescue, and I went on watching the quaint
proceedings
of the Hindus.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
Each
of them, having sat down with his legs twisted under him, poured
some
water with his left hand out of the jug brought by the servant,
first
into his cup, then into the palm of his right hand. Then he
slowly
and carefully sprinkled the water round a dish with all kinds
of
dainties, which stood by itself, and was destined, as we learned
afterwards,
for the gods. During this procedure each Hindu repeated a
Vedic
mantram. Filling his right hand with rice, he pronounced a new
series
of couplets, then, having stored five pinches of rice on the
right
side of his own plate, he once more washed his hands to avert the
evil
eye, sprinkled more water, and pouring a few drops of it into his
right
palm, slowly drank it. After this he swallowed six pinches of
rice,
one after the other, murmuring prayers all the while, and wetted
both
his eyes with the middle finger of his left hand. All this done,
he
finally hid his left hand behind his back, and began eating with the
right
hand. All this took only a few minutes, but was performed very
solemnly.
The
Hindus ate with their bodies bent over the food, throwing it up and
catching
it in their mouths so dexterously that not a grain of rice
was
lost, not a drop of the various liquids spilt. Zealous to show
his
consideration for his host, the colonel tried to imitate all these
movements.
He contrived to bend over his food almost horizontally, but,
alas!
he could not remain long in this position. The natural weight of
his
powerful limbs overcame him, he lost his balance and nearly tumbled
head
foremost, dropping his spectacles into a dish of sour milk and
garlic.
After this unsuccessful experience the brave American gave up
all
further attempts to become "Hinduized," and sat very quietly.
The
supper was concluded with rice mixed with sugar, powdered peas,
olive
oil, garlic and grains of pomegranate, as usual. This last
dainty
is consumed hurriedly. Everyone nervously glances askance at his
neighbor,
and is mortally afraid of being the last to finish, because
this
is considered a very bad sign. To conclude, they all take some
water
into their mouths, murmuring prayers the while, and this time they
must
swallow it in one gulp. Woe to the one who chokes! 'Tis a clear
sign
that a bhuta has taken possession of his throat. The unfortunate
man
must run for his life and get purified before the altar.
The
poor Hindus are very much troubled by these wicked bhutas, the
souls
of the people who have died with ungratified desires and earthly
passions.
Hindu spirits, if I am to believe the unanimous assertions
of
one and all, are always swarming round the living, always ready to
satisfy
their hunger with other people's mouths and gratify their impure
desires
with the help of organs temporarily stolen from the living. They
are
feared and cursed all over India. No means to get rid of them
are
despised. The notions and conclusions of the Hindus on this
point
categorically contradict the aspirations and hopes of Western
spiritualists.
"A
good and pure spirit, they are confident, will not let his soul
revisit
the earth, if this soul is equally pure. He is glad to die and
unite
himself to Brahma, to live an eternal life in Svarga (heaven) and
enjoy
the society of the beautiful Gandharvas or singing angels. He is
glad
to slumber whole eternities, listening to their songs, whilst his
soul
is purified by a new incarnation in a body, which is more perfect
than
the one the soul abandoned previously."
-------Cardiff Theosophical
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
The
Hindus believe that the spirit or Atma, a particle of the GREAT
ALL,
which is Parabrahm, cannot be punished for sins in which it never
participated.
It is Manas, the animal intelligence, and the animal
soul
or Jiva, both half material illusions, that sin and suffer and
transmigrate
from one body into the other till they purify themselves.
The
spirit merely overshadows their earthly transmigrations. When the
Ego
has reached the final state of purity, it will be one with the Atma,
and
gradually will merge and disappear in Parabrahm.
But
this is not what awaits the wicked souls. The soul that does not
succeed
in getting rid of earthly cares and desires before the death of
the
body is weighed down by its sins, and, instead of reincarnating in
some
new form, according to the laws of metempsychosis, it will remain
bodiless,
doomed to wander on earth. It will become a bhuta, and by its
own
sufferings will cause unutterable sufferings to its kinsmen. That is
why
the Hindu fears above all things to remain bodiless after his death.
"It
is better for one to enter the body of a tiger, of a dog, even of a
yellow-legged
falcon, after death, than to become a bhuta!" an old Hindu
said
to me on one occasion. "Every animal possesses a body of his own
and
a right to make an honest use of it. Whereas the bhutas are doomed
dakoits,
brigands and thieves, they are ever watching for an opportunity
to
use what does not belong to them. This is a horrible state--a horror
indescribable.
This is the true hell. What is this spiritualism they
talk
so much of in the West? Is it possible the intelligent English and
Americans
are so mad as this?"
And
all our remonstrances notwithstanding, he refused to believe that
there
are actually people who are fond of bhutas, who would do much to
attract
them into their homes.
After
supper the men went again to the family well to wash, and then
dressed
themselves.
Usually
at this hour of the night the Hindus put on clean malmalas,
a
kind of tight shirt, white turbans, and wooden sandals with knobs
pressed
between the toes. These curious shoes are left at the door
whilst
their owners return to the hall and sit down along the walls
on
carpets and cushions to chew betel, smoke hookahs and cheroots, to
listen
to sacred reading, and to witness the dances of the nautches.
But
this evening, probably in our honor, all the Hindus dressed
magnificently.
Some of them wore darias of rich striped satin, no end of
gold
bangles, necklaces mounted with diamonds and emeralds, gold watches
and
chains, and transparent Brahmanical scarfs with gold embroidery.
The
fat fingers and the right ear of our host were simply blazing with
diamonds.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
The
women, who waited on us during the meal, disappeared afterwards
for
a considerable time. When they came back they also were luxuriously
overdressed
and were introduced to us formally as the ladies of the
house.
They were five: the wife of the host, a woman of twenty-six or
twenty-seven
years of age, then two others looking somewhat younger, one
of
whom carried a baby, and, to our great astonishment, was introduced
as
the married daughter of the hostess; then the old mother of the host
and
a little girl of seven, the wife of one of his brothers. So that our
hostess
turned out to be a grandmother, and her sister-in-law, who was
to
enter finally into matrimony in from two to three years, might have
become
a mother before she was twelve. They were all barefooted, with
rings
on each of their toes, and all, with the exception of the old
woman,
wore garlands of natural flowers round their necks and in their
jet
black hair. Their tight bodices, covered with embroidery, were so
short
that between them and the sari there was a good quarter of a yard
of
bare skin. The dark, bronze-coloured waists of these well-shaped
Women
were boldly presented to any one's examination and reflected the
lights
of the room. Their beautiful arms and their ankles were covered
with
bracelets. At the least of their movements they all set up a
tinkling
silvery sound, and the little sister-in-law, who might easily
be
mistaken for an automaton doll, could hardly move under her load of
ornaments.
The young grandmother, our hostess, had a ring in her left
nostril,
which reached to the lower part of the chin. Her nose was
considerably
disfigured by the weight of the gold, and we noticed how
unusually
handsome she was only when she took it off to enable herself
to
drink her tea with some comfort.
The
dances of the nautch girls began. Two of them were very pretty.
Their
dancing consisted chiefly in more or less expressive movements
of
their eyes, their heads, and even their ears, in fact, of the whole
upper
part of their bodies. As to their legs, they either did not move
at
all or moved with such a swiftness as to appear in a cloud of mist.
After
this eventful day I slept the sleep of the just.
After
many nights spent in a tent, it is more than agreeable to sleep in
a
regular bed, even if it is only a hanging one. The pleasure would, no
doubt,
have been considerably increased had I but known I was resting on
the
couch of a god. But this latter circumstance was revealed to me only
in
the morning, when descending the staircase I suddenly discovered
the
poor general en chef, Hanuman, deprived of his cradle and
unceremoniously
stowed away under the stairs. Decidedly, the Hindus of
the
nineteenth century are a degenerate and blaspheming race!
In
the course of the morning we learned that this swinging throne of
his,
and an ancient sofa, were the only pieces of furniture in the whole
house
that could be transformed into beds.
Neither
of our gentlemen had spent a comfortable night. They slept in an
empty
tower that was once the altar of a decayed pagoda and was situated
behind
the main building. In assigning to them this strange resting
place,
the host was guided by the praiseworthy intention of protecting
them
from the jackals, which freely penetrate into all the rooms of the
ground
floor, as they are pierced by numberless arches and have no
door
and no window frames. The jackals, however, did not trouble the
gentlemen
much that night, except by giving their nightly concert. But
both
Mr. Y---- and the colonel had to fight all the night long with a
vampire,
which, besides being a flying fox of an unusual size, happened
to
be a spirit, as we learned too late, to our great misfortune.
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This
is how it happened. Noiselessly hovering about the tower, the
vampire
from time to time alighted on the sleepers, making them shudder
under
the disgusting touch of his cold sticky wings. His intention
clearly
was to get a nice suck of European blood. They were wakened by
his
manipulations at least ten times, and each time frightened him away.
But,
as soon as they were dozing again, the wretched bat was sure to
return
and perch on their shoulders, heads, or legs. At last Mr. Y----,
losing
patience, had recourse to strong measures; he caught him and
broke
his neck.
Feeling
perfectly innocent, the gentlemen mentioned the tragic end of
the
troublesome flying fox to their host, and instantly drew down on
their
heads all the thunder-clouds of heaven.
The
yard was crowded with people. All the inhabitants of the house stood
sorrowfully
drooping their heads, at the entrance of the tower. Our
host's
old mother tore her hair in despair, and shrieked lamentations in
all
the languages of India. What was the matter with them all? We were
at
our wits' end. But when we learned the cause of all this, there was
no
limit to our confusion.
By
certain mysterious signs, known only to the family Brahman, it had
been
decided ten years ago that the soul of our host's elder brother had
incarnated
in this blood-thirsty vampire-bat. This fact was stated as
being
beyond any doubt. For nine years the late Patarah Prabhu existed
under
this new shape, carrying out the laws of metempsychosis. He spent
the
hours between sunrise and the sunset in an old pipal-tree before the
tower,
hanging with his head downwards. But at night he visited the
old
tower and gave fierce chase to the insects that sought rest in
this
out-of-the-way corner. And so nine years were spent in this happy
existence,
divided between sleep, food, and the gradual redemption of
old
sins committed in the shape of a Patarah Prabhu. And now? Now his
listless
body lay in the dust at the entrance of his favorite tower,
and
his wings were half devoured by the rats. The poor old woman, his
mother,
was mad with sorrow, and cast, through her tears, reproachful,
angry
looks at Mr. Y----, who, in his new capacity of a heartless
murderer,
looked disgustingly composed.
But
the affair was growing serious. The comical side of it disappeared
before
the sincerity and the intensity of her lamentations. Her
descendants,
grouped around her, were too polite to reproach us openly,
but
the expression of their faces was far from reassuring. The family
priest
and astrologer stood by the old lady, Shastras in hand, ready to
begin
the ceremony of purification. He solemnly covered the corpse with
a
piece of new linen, and so hid from our eyes the sad remains on which
ants
were literally swarming.
Mr.
Y---- did his best to look unconcerned, but still, when the tactless
Miss
X---- came to him, expressing her loud indignation at all these
superstitions
of an inferior race, he at least seemed to remember that
our
host knew English perfectly, and he did not encourage her farther
expressions
of sympathy. He made no answer, but smiled contemptuously.
Our
host approached the colonel with respectful salaams and invited us
to
follow him.
"No
doubt he is going to ask us to leave his house immediately!" was my
uncomfortable
impression.
But
my apprehension was not justified. At this epoch of my Indian
pilgrimage
I was far, as yet, from having fathomed the metaphysical
depth
of a Hindu heart.
Sham
Rao began by delivering a very far-fetched, eloquent preface.
He
reminded us that he, personally, was an enlightened man, a man who
possessed
all the advantages of a Western education. He said that, owing
to
this, he was not quite sure that the body of the vampire was actually
inhabited
by his late brother. Darwin, of course, and some other great
naturalists
of the West, seemed to believe in the transmigration of
souls,
but, as far as he understood, they believed in it in an inverse
sense;
that is to say, if a baby had been born to his mother exactly at
the
moment of the vampire's death, this baby would indubitably have
had
a great likeness to a vampire, owing to the decaying atoms of the
vampire
being so close to her.
"Is
not this an exact interpretation of the Darwinian school?" he asked.
We
modestly answered that, having traveled almost incessantly during the
last
year, we could not help being a bit behindhand in the questions
of
modern science, and that we were not able to follow its latest
conclusions.
"But
I have followed them!" rejoined the good-natured Sham Rao, with a
touch
of pomposity. "And so I hope I may be allowed to say that I have
understood
and duly appreciated their most recent developments. I have
just
finished studying the magnificent Anthropogenesis of Haeckel,
and
have carefully discussed in my own mind his logical, scientific
explanations
of the origin of man from inferior animal forms through
transformation.
And what is this transformation, pray, if not the
transmigration
of the ancient and modern Hindus, and the metempsychosis
of
the Greeks?"
We
had nothing to say against the identity, and even ventured to observe
that,
according to Haeckel, it does look like it.
"Exactly!"
exclaimed he joyfully. "This shows that our conceptions are
neither
silly nor superstitious, as is maintained by some opponents
of
Manu. The great Manu, anticipated Darwin and Haeckel. Judge for
yourself;
the latter derives the genesis of man from a group of
plastides,
from the jelly-like moneron; this moneron, through the
ameoba,
the ascidian, the brainless and heartless amphioxus, and so on,
transmigrates
in the eighth remove into the lamprey, is transformed, at
last,
into a vertebrate amniote, into a premammalian, into a marsupial
animal....
The vampire, in its turn, belongs to the species of
vertebrates.
You, being well read people all of you, cannot contradict
this
statement." He was right in his supposition; we did not contradict
it.
"In
this case, do me the honor to follow my argument...."
We
did follow his argument with the greatest attention, but were at a
loss
to foresee whither it tended to lead us.
"Darwin,"
continued Sham Rao, "in his Origin of Species, re-established
almost
word for word the palin-genetic teachings of our Manu. Of this I
am
perfectly convinced, and, if you like, I can prove it to you book in
hand.
Our ancient law-giver, amongst other sayings, speaks as follows:
'The
great Parabrahm commanded man to appear in the universe, after
traversing
all the grades of the animal kingdom, and springing primarily
from
the worm of the deep sea mud.' The worm be-came a snake, the snake
a
fish, the fish a mammal, and so on. Is not this very idea at the
bottom
of Darwin's theory, when he maintains that the organic forms have
their
origin in more simple species, and says that the structureless
protoplasm
born in the mud of the Laurentian and Silurian periods--the
Manu's
'mud of the seas,' I dare say--gradually transformed itself into
the
anthropoid ape, and then finally into the human being?"
We
said it looked very like it.
"But,
in spite of all my respect for Darwin and his eminent follower
Haeckel,
I cannot agree with their final conclusions, especially with
the
conclusions of the latter," continued Sham Rao. "This hasty and
bilious
German is perfectly accurate in copying the embryology of Manu
and
all the metamorphoses of our ancestors, but he forgets the evolution
of
the human soul, which, as it is stated by Manu, goes hand in hand
with
the evolution of matter. The son of Swayambhuva, the Self Becoming,
speaks
as follows: 'Everything created in a new cycle, in addition to
the
qualities of its preceding transmigrations, acquires new qualities,
and
the nearer it approaches to man, the highest type of the earth, the
brighter
becomes its divine spark; but, once it has become a Brahma, it
will
enter the cycle of conscious transmigrations.' Do you realize what
that
means? It means that from this moment, its transformations depend
no
longer on the blind laws of gradual evolution, but on the least of a
man's
actions, which brings either a reward or a punishment. Now you
see
that it depends on the man's will whether, on the one hand, he will
start
on the way to Moksha, the eternal bliss, passing from one Loka to
another
till he reaches Brahmaloka, or, on the other, owing to his sins,
will
be thrown back. You know that the average soul, once freed from
earthly
reincarnations, has to ascend from one Loka to another, always
in
the human shape, though this shape will grow and perfect itself with
every
Loka. Some of our sects understood these Lokas to mean certain
stars.
These spirits, freed from earthly matter, are what we mean by
Pitris
and Devas, whom we worship. And did not your Kabalists of the
middle
ages designate these Pitris under the expression Planetary
Spirits?
But, in the case of a very sinful man, he will have to
begin
once more with the animal forms which he had already traversed
unconsciously.
Both Darwin and Haeckel lose sight of this, so to speak,
second
volume of their incomplete theory, but still neither of them
advances
any argument to prove it false. Is it not so?"
"Neither
of them does anything of the sort, most assuredly."
"Why,
in this case," exclaimed he, suddenly changing his colloquial tone
for
an aggressive one, "why am I, I who have studied the most modern
ideas
of Western science, I who believe in its representatives--why am I
suspected,
pray, by Miss X---- of belonging to the tribe of the
ignorant
and superstitious Hindus? Why does she think that our perfected
scientific
theories are superstitions, and we ourselves a fallen
inferior
race?"
Sham
Rao stood before us with tears in his eyes. We were at a loss what
to
answer him, being confused to the last degree by this outburst.
"Mind
you, I do not proclaim our popular beliefs to be infallible
dogmas.
I consider them as mere theories, and try to the best of my
ability
to reconcile the ancient and the modern science. I formulate
hypotheses
just like Darwin and Haeckel. Besides, if I understood
rightly,
Miss X---- is a spiritualist, so she believes in bhutas. And,
believing
that a bhuta is capable of penetrating the body of a medium,
how
can she deny that a bhuta, and more so a less sinful soul, may enter
the
body of a vampire-bat?"
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I
own, this logic was a little too condensed for us, and so, avoiding a
direct
answer to a metaphysical question of such delicacy, we tried to
apologize
and excuse Miss X----'s rudeness as well as we could.
"She
did not mean to offend you," we said, "she only repeated a calumny,
familiar
to every European. Besides, if she had taken the trouble to
think
it over, she probably would not have said it...."
Little
by little we succeeded in pacifying our host. He recovered his
usual
cheerfulness, but could not resist the temptation of adding a
few
words to his long argumentation. He had just begun to reveal to us
certain
peculiarities of his late brother's character, which induced him
to
be prepared, judging by the laws of atavism, to see their repetition
in
the propensities of a vampire bat, when Mr. Y----suddenly dashed in
on
our small group and spoiled all the results of our conciliatory words
by
screaming at the top of his voice: "The old woman has gone demented!
She
keeps on cursing us and says that the murder of this wretched bat
is
only the forerunner of a whole series of misfortunes brought on her
house
by you, Sham Rao," said he, hastily addressing the bewildered
follower
of Haackel. "She says you have polluted your Brahmanical
holiness
by inviting us. Colonel, you had better send for the elephants.
In
another moment all this crowd will be on us..."
"For
goodness' sake!" exclaimed poor Sham Rao, "have some consideration
for
my feelings. She is an old woman, she has some superstitions, but
she
is my mother. You are educated people, learned people... Advise me,
show
me a way out of all these difficulties. What should you do in my
place?"
"What
should I do, sir?" exclaimed Mr. Y----, completely put out of
temper
by the utter ludicrousness of our awkward predicament. "What
should
I do? Were I a man in your position and a believer in all you
are
brought up to believe, I should take my revolver, and in the first
place,
shoot all the vampire bats in the neighborhood, if only to rid
all
your late relations from the abject bodies of these creatures,
and,
in the second place, I should endeavor to smash the head of the
conceited
fraud in the shape of a Brahman who invented all this stupid
story.
That is what I should do, sir!"
But
this advice did not content the miserable descendant of Rama. No
doubt
he would have remained a long time undecided as to what course
of
action to adopt, torn as he was between the sacred feelings of
hospitality,
the innate fear of the Brahman-priest, and his own
superstitions,
if our ingenious Babu had not come to our rescue.
Learning
that we all felt more or less indignant at all this row, and
that
we were preparing to leave the house as quickly as possible,
he
persuaded us to stay, if only for an hour, saying that our hasty
departure
would be a terrible outrage upon our host, whom, in any case,
we
could not find fault with. As to the stupid old woman, the Babu
promised
us to pacify her speedily enough: he had his own plans and
views.
In the meantime, he said, we had better go and examine the ruins
of
an old fortress close by.
We
obeyed very reluctantly, feeling an acute interest in his "plans." We
proceeded
slowly. Our gentlemen were visibly out of temper. Miss X----
tried
to calm herself by talking more than usual, and Narayan, as
phlegmatic
as usual, indolently and good-naturedly chaffed her about
her
beloved "spirits." Glancing back we saw the Babu accompanied by the
family
priest. Judging by their gestures they were engaged in some warm
discussion.
The shaven head of the Brahman nodded right and left, his
yellow
garment flapped in the wind, and his arms rose towards the sky,
as
if in an appeal to the gods to come down and testify to the truth of
his
words.
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"I'll
bet you a thousand dollars, no plans of our Babu's will be of any
avail
with this fanatic!" confidently remarked the colonel as he lit his
pipe.
But
we had hardly walked a hundred steps after this remark when we saw
the
Babu running after us and signaling us to stop.
"Everything
ended first-rate!" screamed he, as soon as we could hear.
"You
are to be thanked... You happen to be the true saviours and
benefactors
of the deceased bhuta... You..."
Our
Babu sank on the ground holding his narrow, panting breast with both
his
hands, and laughed, laughed till we all burst into laughter too,
before
learning any-thing at all.
"Think
of it," began the Babu, and stopped short, prevented from going
on
by his exuberant hilarity. "Just think of it! The whole transaction
is
to cost me only ten rupees.... I offered five at first... but he
would
not.... He said this was a sacred matter..... But ten he could not
resist!
Ho, ho, ho...."
At
last we learned the story. All the metempsychoses depend on the
imagination
of the family Gurus, who receive for their kind offices
from
one hundred to one hundred and fifty rupees a year. Every rite is
accompanied
by a more or less considerable addition to the purse of the
insatiable
family Brahman, but the happy events pay better than the
sad
ones. Knowing all this, the Babu asked the Brahman point-blank to
perform
a false samadhi, that is to say, to feign an inspiration and
to
announce to the sorrowing mother that her late son's will had acted
consciously
in all the circumstances; that he brought about his end
in
the body of the flying fox, that he was tired of that grade of
transmigration,
that he longed for death in order to attain a higher
position
in the animal kingdom, that he is happy, and that he is deeply
indebted
to the sahib who broke his neck and so freed him from his
abject
embodiment.
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Besides,
the observant eye of our all-knowing Babu had not failed to
remark
that a she-buffalo of the Guru's was expecting a calf, and that
the
Guru was yearning to sell it to Sham Rao. This circumstance was
a
trump card in the Babu's hand. Let the Guru announce, under the
influence
of samadhi, that the freed spirit intends to inhabit the body
of
the future baby-buffalo and the old lady will buy the new incarnation
of
her first-born as sure as the sun is bright. This announcement will
be
followed by rejoicings and by new rites. And who will profit by all
this
if not the family priest?
At
first the Guru had some misgivings, and swore by everything sacred
that
the vampire bat was veritably inhabited by the brother of Sham
Rao.
But the Babu knew better than to give in. The Guru ended by
understanding
that his skillful opponent saw through his tricks, and
that
he was well aware that the Shastras exclude the possibility of such
a
transmigration. Growing alarmed, the Guru also grew meek, and asked
only
ten rupees and a promise of silence for the performance of a
samadhi.
On
our way back we were met at the gate by Sham Rao, who was simply
radiant.
Whether he was afraid of our laughing at him, or was at loss to
find
an explanation of this new metamorphosis in the positive sciences
in
general, and Haeckel in particular, he did not attempt to explain why
the
affair had taken such an unexpectedly good turn. He merely
mentioned
awkwardly enough that his mother, owing to some new mysterious
conjectures
of hers, had dismissed all sad apprehensions as to
the
destiny of her elder son, and he then dropped the subject
completely.----
In
order to wipe away the traces of the morning's perplexities from our
minds,
Sham Rao invited us to sit on the verandah, by the wide entrance
of
his idol room, whilst the family prayers were going on. Nothing
could
suit us better. It was nine o'clock, the usual time of the morning
prayers.
Sham Rao went to the well to get ready, and dress himself, as
he
said, though the process was more like undressing. In a few moments
he
came back wearing only a dhuti, as during dinner time, and with his
head
uncovered. He went straight to his idol room. The moment he entered
we
heard the loud stroke of a bell that hung under the ceiling, and that
continued
tolling all the time the prayers lasted.
The
Babu explained to us that a little boy was pulling the bell rope
from
the roof.
Sham
Rao stepped in with his right foot and very slowly. Then he
approached
the altar and sat on a little stool with his legs crossed.
At
the opposite side of the room, on the red velvet shelves of an altar
that
resembled an etagere in the drawing-room of some fashionable lady,
stood
many idols. They were made of gold, of silver, of brass and of
marble,
according to their im-portance and merits. Maha-Deva or Shiva
was
of gold. Gunpati or Ganesha of silver, Vishnu in the form of a round
black
stone from the river Gandaki in Nepal. In this form Vishnu is
called
Lakshmi-Narayan. There were also many other gods unknown to us,
who
were worshipped in the shapes of big sea-shells, called Chakra.
Surya,
the god of the sun, and the kula-devas, the domestic gods, were
placed
in the second rank. The altar was sheltered by a cupola of carved
sandal-wood.
During the night the gods and the offerings were covered
by
a huge bell glass. On the walls there were many sacred images
representing
the chief episodes in the biographies of the higher gods.
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Sham
Rao filled his left hand with ashes, murmuring prayers all the
while,
covered it for a second with the right one, then put some matter
to
the ashes, and mixing the two by rubbing his hands together, he
traced
a line on his face with this mixture by moving the thumb of his
right
hand from his nose upwards, then from the middle of the forehead
to
the right temple, then back again to the left temple. Having done
with
his face he proceeded to cover with wet ashes his throat, arms,
shoulders,
his back, head and ears. In one corner of the room stood a
huge
bronze font filled with water. Sham Rao made straight to it and
plunged
into it three times, dhuti, head, and all, after which he came
out
looking exactly like a well-favored dripping wet Triton. He twisted
the
only lock of hair on the top of his shaved head and sprinkled it
with
water. This operation concluded the first act.
The
second act began with religious meditations and with mantrams,
which,
by really pious people, must be repeated three times a day--at
sunrise,
at noon and at sunset. Sham Rao loudly pronounced the names of
twenty-four
gods, and each name was accompanied by a stroke of the bell.
Having
finished he first shut his eyes and stuffed his ears with cotton,
then
pressed his left nostril with two fingers of his left hand, and
having
filled his lungs with air through the right nostril, pressed the
latter
also. Then he tightly closed his lips, so that breathing became
impossible.
In this position every pious Hindu must mentally repeat a
certain
verse, which is called the Gayatri. These are sacred words which
no
Hindu will dare to pronounce aloud. Even in repeating them mentally
he
must take every precaution not to inhale anything impure.
I
am bound by my word of honor never to repeat the whole of this prayer,
but
I may quote a few unconnected sentences:
"Om...
Earth... Heaven.... Let the adored light of.... [here follows a
name
which must not be pronounced] shelter me. Let thy Sun, O thou only
One,
shelter me, the unworthy... I shut my eyes, I shut my ears, I do
not
breathe... in order to see, hear and breathe thee alone. Throw light
upon
our thoughts [again the secret name]... "
It
is curious to compare this Hindu prayer with the celebrated prayer
of
Descartes' "Meditation III" in his L'Existence de Dieu. It runs as
follows,
if I remember rightly:
"Now
I shut my eyes, cover my ears, and dismiss all my five senses, I
will
dwell on the thought of God alone, I will meditate on His quality
and
look on the beauty of this wondrous radiancy."
After
this prayer Sham Rao read many other prayers, holding with two
fingers
his sacred Brahmanical thread. After a while began the ceremony
of
"the washing of the gods." Taking them down from the altar, one after
the
other, according to their rank, Sham Rao first plunged them in the
big
font, in which he had just bathed himself, and then bathed them in
milk
in a smaller bronze font by the altar. The milk was mixed up with
curds,
butter, honey, and sugar, and so it cannot be said that this
cleansing
served its purpose. No wonder we were glad to see that the
gods
underwent a second bathing in the first font and then were dried
with
a clean towel.
When
the gods were arranged in their respective places, the Hindu traced
on
them the sectarian signs with a ring from his left hand. He used
white
sandal paint for the lingam and red for Gunpati and Surya. Then he
sprinkled
them with aromatic oils and covered them with fresh flowers.
The
long ceremony was finished by "the awakening of the gods." A small
bell
was repeatedly rung under the noses of the idols, who, as the
Brahman
probably supposed, all went to sleep during this tedious
ceremony.
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Having
noticed, or fancied, which often amounts to the same thing,
that
they were wide awake, he began offering them his daily sacrifices,
lighting
the incense and the lamps, and, to our great astonishment,
snapping
his fingers from time to time, as if warning the idols to "look
out."
Having filled the room with clouds of incense and fumes of burning
camphor,
he scattered some more flowers over the altar and sat on the
small
stool for a while, murmuring the last prayers. He repeatedly held
the
palms of his hands over the flame of the tapers and rubbed his face
with
them. Then he walked round the altar three times, and, having knelt
three
times, retreated backwards to the door.
A
little while before our host had finished his morning prayers the
ladies
of the house came into the room. They brought each a small
stool
and sat in a row murmuring prayers and telling the beads of their
rosaries.
The
part played by the rosaries in India is as important as in all
Buddhist
countries. Every god has his favorite flower and his favorite
material
for a rosary. The fakirs are simply covered with rosaries. The
rosary
is called mala and consists of one hundred and eight beads. Very
pious
Hindus are not content to tell the beads when praying; they must
hide
their hands during this ceremony in a bag called gomukha, which
means
the cow's mouth.
We
left the women to their prayers and followed our host to the cow
house.
The cow symbolizes the "fostering earth," or Nature, and is
worshipped
accordingly. Sham Rao sat down by the cow and washed her
feet,
first with her own milk, then with water. He gave her some sugar
and
rice, covered her forehead with powdered sandal, and adorned her
horns
and four legs with chains of flowers. He burned some incense under
her
nostrils and brandished a burning lamp over her head. Then he walked
three
times round her and sat down to rest. Some Hindus walk round the
cow
one hundred and eight times, rosary in hand. But our Sham Rao had
a
slight tendency to freethinking, as we knew, and besides, he was too
much
of an admirer of Haeckel. Having rested himself, he filled a cup
with
water, put in it the cow's tail for a moment, and then drank it!
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After
this he performed the rite of worshipping the sun and the sacred
plant
tulsi. Unable to bring the god Surya from his heavenly altar and
wash
him in the sacred font, Sham Rao contented himself by filling
his
own mouth with water, standing on one leg, and spirting this water
towards
the sun. Needless to say it never reached the orb of day, but,
very
unexpectedly, sprinkled us instead.----
It
is still a mystery to us why the plant tulsi, Royal Basilicum, is
worshipped.
However, towards the end of September we yearly witnessed
the
strange ceremony of the wedding of this plant with the god Vishnu,
notwithstanding
that tulsi bears the title of Krishna's bride, probably
because
of the latter being an incarnation of Vishnu. On these occasions
pots
of this plant are painted and adorned with tinsel. A magical circle
is
traced in the garden and the plant is put in the middle of it. A
Brahman
brings an idol of Vishnu and begins the marriage ceremony,
standing
before the plant. A married couple hold a shawl between the
plant
and the god, as if screening them from each other, the Brahman
utters
prayers, and young women, and especially unmarried girls, who are
the
most ardent worshippers of tulsi, throw rice and saffron over the
idol
and the plant. When the ceremony is concluded, the Brahman is
presented
with the shawl, the idol is put in the shade of his wife,
the
Hindus clap their hands, rend everyone's ears with the noise of
tom-toms,
let off fireworks, offer each other pieces of sugar-cane, and
rejoice
in every conceivable way till the dawn of the next day.
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A
Witch's Den
Our
kind host Sham Rao was very gay during the remaining hours of
our
visit. He did his best to entertain us, and would not hear of our
leaving
the neighborhood without having seen its greatest celebrity,
its
most interesting sight. A jadu wala--sorceress--well known in
the
district, was just at this time under the influence of seven
sister-goddesses,
who took possession of her by turns, and spoke their
oracles
through her lips. Sham Rao said we must not fail to see her, be
it
only in the interests of science.
The
evening closes in, and we once more get ready for an excursion. It
is
only five miles to the cavern of the Pythia of Hindostan; the road
runs
through a jungle, but it is level and smooth. Besides, the jungle
and
its ferocious inhabitants have ceased to frighten us. The timid
elephants
we had in the "dead city" are sent home, and we are to mount
new
behemoths belonging to a neighboring Raja. The pair, that stand
before
the verandah like two dark hillocks, are steady and trust worthy.
Many
a time these two have hunted the royal tiger, and no wild shrieking
or
thunderous roaring can frighten them. And so, let us start!
The
ruddy flames of the torches dazzle our eyes and increase the forest
gloom.
Our surroundings seem so dark, so mysterious. There is something
indescribably
fascinating, almost solemn, in these night-journeys in
the
out-of-the-way corners of India. Everything is silent and deserted
around
you, everything is dozing on the earth and overhead. Only the
heavy,
regular tread of the elephants breaks the stillness of the night,
like
the sound of falling hammers in the underground smithy of Vulcan.
From
time to time uncanny voices and murmurs are heard in the black
forest.
"The
wind sings its strange song amongst the ruins," says one of us,
"what
a wonderful acoustic phenomenon!" "Bhuta, bhuta!" whisper the
awestruck
torch-bearers. They brandish their torches and swiftly spin on
one
leg, and snap their fingers to chase away the aggressive spirits.
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The
plaintive murmur is lost in the distance. The forest is once more
filled
with the cadences of its invisible nocturnal life--the metallic
whirr
of the crickets, the feeble, monotonous croak of the tree-frog,
the
rustle of the leaves. From time to time all this suddenly stops
short
and then begins again, gradually increasing and increasing.
Heavens!
What teeming life, what stores of vital energy are hidden
under
the smallest leaf, the most imperceptible blades of grass, in this
tropical
forest! Myriads of stars shine in the dark blue of the sky, and
myriads
of fireflies twinkle at us from every bush, moving sparks, like
a
pale reflection of the far-away stars.
We
left the thick forest behind us, and reached a deep glen, on three
sides
bordered with the thick forest, where even by day the shadows are
as
dark as by night. We were about two thousand feet above the foot of
the
Vindhya ridge, judging by the ruined wall of Mandu, straight above
our
heads. Suddenly a very chilly wind rose that nearly blew our torches
out.
Caught in the labyrinth of bushes and rocks, the wind angrily shook
the
branches of the blossoming syringas, then, shaking itself free, it
turned
back along the glen and flew down the valley, howling, whistling
and
shrieking, as if all the fiends of the forest together were joining
in
a funeral song.
"Here
we are," said Sham Rao, dismounting. "Here is the village; the
elephants
cannot go any further."
"The
village? Surely you are mistaken. I don't see anything but trees."
"It
is too dark to see the village. Besides, the huts are so small,
and
so hidden by the bushes, that even by daytime you could hardly find
them.
And there is no light in the houses, for fear of the spirits."
"And
where is your witch? Do you mean we are to watch her performance in
complete
darkness?"
Sham
Rao cast a furtive, timid look round him; and his voice, when he
answered
our questions, was somewhat tremulous.
"I
implore you not to call her a witch! She may hear you.... It is
not
far off, it is not more than half a mile. Do not allow this short
distance
to shake your decision. No elephant, and even no horse, could
make
its way there. We must walk.... But we shall find plenty of light
there....
"
This
was unexpected, and far from agreeable. To walk in this gloomy
Indian
night; to scramble through thickets of cactuses; to venture in a
dark
forest, full of wild animals--this was too much for Miss X----.
She
declared that she would go no further. She would wait for us in the
howdah,
on the elephant's back, and perhaps would go to sleep.
Narayan
was against this parti de plaisir from the very beginning, and
now,
without explaining his reasons, he said she was the only sensible
one
among us.
"You
won't lose anything," he remarked, "by staying where you are. And I
only
wish everyone would follow your example."
"What
ground have you for saying so, I wonder?" remonstrated Sham Rao,
and
a slight note of disappointment rang in his voice, when he saw that
the
excursion, proposed and organized by himself, threatened to come to
nothing.
"What harm could be done by it? I won't insist any more that
the
'incarnation of gods' is a rare sight, and that the Europeans hardly
ever
have an opportunity of witnessing it; but, besides, the Kangalim
in
question is no ordinary woman. She leads a holy life; she is a
prophetess,
and her blessing could not prove harmful to any one. I
insisted
on this excursion out of pure patriotism."
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"Sahib,
if your patriotism consists in displaying before foreigners the
worst
of our plagues, then why did you not order all the lepers of your
district
to assemble and parade before the eyes of our guests? You are a
patel,
you have the power to do it."
How
bitterly Narayan's voice sounded to our unaccustomed ears. Usually
he
was so even-tempered, so indifferent to everything belonging to the
exterior
world.
Fearing
a quarrel between the Hindus, the colonel remarked, in a
conciliatory
tone, that it was too late for us to reconsider our
expedition.
Besides, without being a believer in the "incarnation of
gods,"
he was personally firmly convinced that demoniacs existed even in
the
West. He was eager to study every psychological phenomenon, wherever
he
met with it, and whatever shape it might assume.
It
would have been a striking sight for our European and American
friends
if they had beheld our procession on that dark night. Our way
lay
along a narrow winding path up the mountain. Not more than
two
people could walk together--and we were thirty, including the
torch-bearers.
Surely some reminiscence of night sallies against the
confederate
Southerners had revived in the colonel's breast, judging
by
the readiness with which he took upon himself the leadership of our
small
expedition. He ordered all the rifles and revolvers to be loaded,
despatched
three torch-bearers to march ahead of us, and arranged us
in
pairs. Under such a skilled chieftain we had nothing to fear from
tigers;
and so our procession started, and slowly crawled up the winding
path.
It
cannot be said that the inquisitive travelers, who appeared later on,
in
the den of the prophetess of Mandu, shone through the freshness and
elegance
of their costumes. My gown, as well as the traveling suits of
the
colonel and of Mr. Y---- were nearly torn to pieces. The cactuses
gathered
from us whatever tribute they could, and the Babu's disheveled
hair
swarmed with a whole colony of grasshoppers and fireflies, which,
probably,
were attracted thither by the smell of cocoa-nut oil. The
stout
Sham Rao panted like a steam engine. Narayan alone was like his
usual
self; that is to say, like a bronze Hercules, armed with a
club.
At the last abrupt turn of the path, after having surmounted the
difficulty
of climbing over huge, scattered stones, we suddenly found
ourselves
on a perfectly smooth place; our eyes, in spite of our many
torches,
were dazzled with light; and our ears were struck by a medley
of
unusual sounds.
A
new glen opened before us, the entrance of which, from the valley,
was
well masked by thick trees. We understood how easily we might have
wandered
round it, without ever suspecting its existence. At the bottom
of
the glen we discovered the abode of the celebrated Kangalim.
The
den, as it turned out, was situated in the ruin of an old Hindu
temple
in tolerably good preservation. In all probability it was built
long
before the "dead city," because during the epoch of the latter, the
heathen
were not allowed to have their own places of worship; and the
temple
stood quite close to the wall of the town, in fact, right under
it.
The cupolas of the two smaller lateral pagodas had fallen long ago,
and
huge bushes grew out of their altars. This evening, their branches
were
hidden under a mass of bright colored rags, bits of ribbon, little
pots,
and various other talismans; because, even in them, popular
superstition
sees something sacred.
"And
are not these poor people right? Did not these bushes grow
on
sacred ground? Is not their sap impregnated with the incense of
offerings,
and the exhalations of holy anchorites, who once lived and
breathed
here?"
The
learned, but superstitious Sham Rao would only answer our questions
by
new questions.
But
the central temple, built of red granite, stood unharmed by time,
and,
as we learned afterwards, a deep tunnel opened just behind its
closely-shut
door. What was beyond it no one knew. Sham Rao assured
us
that no man of the last three generations had ever stepped over the
threshold
of this thick iron door; no one had seen the subterranean
passage
for many years. Kangalim lived there in perfect isolation, and,
according
to the oldest people in the neighborhood, she had always lived
there.
Some people said she was three hundred years old; others alleged
that
a certain old man on his death-bed had revealed to his son that
this
old woman was no one else than his own uncle. This fabulous uncle
had
settled in the cave in the times when the "dead city" still counted
several
hundreds of inhabitants. The hermit, busy paving his road to
Moksha,
had no intercourse with the rest of the world, and nobody knew
how
he lived and what he ate. But a good while ago, in the days when the
Bellati
(foreigners) had not yet taken possession of this mountain, the
old
hermit suddenly was transformed into a hermitess. She continues
his
pursuits and speaks with his voice, and often in his name; but she
receives
worshippers, which was not the practice of her predecessor.
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We
had come too early, and the Pythia did not at first appear. But
the
square before the temple was full of people, and a wild, though
picturesque,
scene it was. An enormous bonfire blazed in the centre,
and
round it crowded the naked savages like so many black gnomes, adding
whole
branches of trees sacred to the seven sister-goddesses. Slowly
and
evenly they all jumped from one leg to another to a tune of a single
monotonous
musical phrase, which they repeated in chorus, accompanied
by
several local drums and tambourines. The hushed trill of the latter
mingled
with the forest echoes and the hysterical moans of two little
girls,
who lay under a heap of leaves by the fire. The poor children
were
brought here by their mothers, in the hope that the goddesses
would
take pity upon them and banish the two evil spirits under whose
obsession
they were. Both mothers were quite young, and sat on their
heels
blankly and sadly staring at the flames. No one paid us the
slightest
attention when we appeared, and afterwards during all our
stay
these people acted as if we were invisible. Had we worn a cap of
darkness
they could not have behaved more strangely.
"They
feel the approach of the gods! The atmosphere is full of their
sacred
emanations!" mysteriously explained Sham Rao, contemplating
with
reverence the natives, whom his beloved Haeckel might have easily
mistaken
for his "missing link," the brood of his " Bathybius
Haeckelii."
"They
are simply under the influence of toddy and opium!" retorted the
irreverent
Babu.
The
lookers-on moved as in a dream, as if they all were only
half-awakened
somnambulists; but the actors were simply victims of St.
Vitus's
dance. One of them, a tall old man, a mere skeleton with a long
white
beard, left the ring and begun whirling vertiginously, with his
arms
spread like wings, and loudly grinding his long, wolf-like teeth.
He
was painful and disgusting to look at. He soon fell down, and was
carelessly,
almost mechanically, pushed aside by the feet of the others
still
engaged in their demoniac performance.
All
this was frightful enough, but many more horrors were in store for
us.
Waiting
for the appearance of the prima donna of this forest opera
company,
we sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, ready to ask
innumerable
questions of our condescending host. But I was hardly
seated,
when a feeling of indescribable astonishment and horror made me
shrink
back.
I
beheld the skull of a monstrous animal, the like of which I could not
find
in my zoological reminiscences. This head was much larger than the
head
of an elephant skeleton. And still it could not be anything but an
elephant,
judging by the skillfully restored trunk, which wound down
to
my feet like a gigantic black leech. But an elephant has no horns,
whereas
this one had four of them! The front pair stuck from the flat
forehead
slightly bending forward and then spreading out; and the
others
had a wide base, like the root of a deer's horn, that gradually
decreased
almost up to the middle, and bore long branches enough to
decorate
a dozen ordinary elks. Pieces of the transparent amber-yellow
rhinoceros
skin were strained over the empty eye-holes of the skull, and
small
lamps burning behind them only added to the horror, the devilish
appearance
of this head.
"What
can this be?" was our unanimous question. None of us had ever met
anything
like it, and even the colonel looked aghast.
"It
is a Sivatherium," said Narayan. "Is it possible you never came
across
these fossils in European museums? Their remains are common
enough
in the Himalayas, though, of course, in fragments. They were
called
after Shiva."
"If
the collector of this district ever hears that this antediluvian
relic
adorns the den of your--ahem!--witch," remarked the Babu, "it
won't
adorn it many days longer."
All
round the skull, and on the floor of the portico there were heaps
of
white flowers, which, though not quite antediluvian, were totally
unknown
to us. They were as large as a big rose; and their white petals
were
covered with a red powder, the inevitable concomitant of every
Indian
religious ceremony. Further on, there were groups of cocoa-nuts,
and
large brass dishes filled with rice; and each adorned with a red
or
green taper. In the centre of the portico there stood a queer-shaped
censer,
surrounded with chandeliers. A little boy, dressed from head to
foot
in white, threw into it handfuls of aromatic powders.
"These
people, who assemble here to worship Kangalim," said Sham Rao,
"do
not actually belong either to her sect or to any other. They are
devil-worshippers.
They do not believe in Hindu gods, but live in small
communities;
they belong to one of the many Indian races, which usually
are
called the hill-tribes. Unlike the Shanars of Southern Travancore,
they
do not use the blood of sacrificial animals; they do not build
separate
temples to their bhutas. But they are possessed by the strange
fancy
that the goddess Kali, the wife of Shiva, from time immemorial
has
had a grudge against them, and sends her favorite evil spirits to
torture
them. Save this little difference, they have the same beliefs as
the
Shanars. God does not exist for them; and even Shiva is considered
by
them as an ordinary spirit. Their chief worship is offered to the
souls
of the dead. These souls, however righteous and kind they may
be
in their lifetime, become after death as wicked as can be; they
are
happy only when they are torturing living men and cattle. As the
opportunities
of doing so are the only reward for the virtues they
possessed
when incarnated, a very wicked man is punished by becoming
after
his death a very soft-hearted ghost; he loathes his loss of
daring,
and is altogether miserable. The results of this strange logic
are
not bad, nevertheless. These savages and devil-worshippers are
the
kindest and the most truth-loving of all the hill-tribes. They do
whatever
they can to be worthy of their ultimate reward; because, don't
you
see, they all long to become the wickedest of devils!...."
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CF24-1DL
And
put in good humor by his own wittiness, Sham Rao laughed till his
hilarity
became offensive, considering the sacredness of the place.
"A
year ago some business matters sent me to Tinevelli," continued he.
"Staying
with a friend of mine, who is a Shanar, I was allowed to be
present
at one of the ceremonies in the honor of devils. No European has
as
yet witnessed this worship--whatever the missionaries may say; but
there
are many converts amongst the Shanars, who willingly describe them
to
the padres. My friend is a wealthy man, which is probably the reason
why
the devils are especially vicious to him. They poison his cattle,
spoil
his crops and his coffee plants, and persecute his numerous
relations,
sending them sunstrokes, madness and epilepsy, over which
illnesses
they especially preside. These wicked demons have settled in
every
corner of his spacious landed property--in the woods, the ruins,
and
even in his stables. To avert all this, my friend covered his land
with
stucco pyramids, and prayed humbly, asking the demons to draw their
portraits
on each of them, so that he may recognize them and worship
each
of them separately, as the rightful owner of this, or that,
particular
pyramid. And what do you think?.... Next morning all
the
pyramids were found covered with drawings. Each of them bore an
incredibly
good likeness of the dead of the neighborhood. My friend had
known
personally almost all of them. He found also a portrait of his own
late
father amongst the lot....."
"Well?
And was he satisfied?"
"Oh,
he was very glad, very satisfied. It enabled him to choose the
right
thing to gratify the personal tastes of each demon, don't you
see?
He was not vexed at finding his father's portrait. His father
was
somewhat irascible; once he nearly broke both his son's legs,
administering
to him fatherly punishment with an iron bar, so that
he
could not possibly be very dangerous after his death. But another
portrait,
found on the best and the prettiest of the pyramids, amazed
my
friend a good deal, and put him in a blue funk. The whole district
recognized
an English officer, a certain Captain Pole, who in his
lifetime
was as kind a gentleman as ever lived."
"Indeed?
But do you mean to say that this strange people worshipped
Captain
Pole also?"
"Of
course they did! Captain Pole was such a worthy man, such an honest
officer,
that, after his death, he could not help being promoted to the
highest
rank of Shanar devils. The Pe-Kovil, demon's house, sacred to
his
memory, stands side by side with the Pe-Kovil Bhadrakali, which was
recently
conferred on the wife of a certain German missionary, who also
was
a most charitable lady and so is very dangerous now."
"But
what are their ceremonies? Tell us something about their rites."
"Their
rites consist chiefly of dancing, singing, and killing
sacrificial
animals. The Shanars have no castes, and eat all kinds of
meat.
The crowd assembles about the Pe-Kovil, previously designated by
the
priest; there is a general beating of drums, and slaughtering of
fowls,
sheep and goats. When Captain Pole's turn came an ox was killed,
as
a thoughtful attention to the peculiar tastes of his nation. The
priest
appeared, covered with bangles, and holding a wand on which
tinkled
numberless little bells, and wearing garlands of red and white
flowers
round his neck, and a black mantle, on which were embroidered
the
ugliest fiends you can imagine. Horns were blown and drums rolled
incessantly.
And oh, I forgot to tell you there was also a kind of
fiddle,
the secret of which is known only to the Shanar priesthood. Its
bow
is ordinary enough, made of bamboo; but it is whispered that the
strings
are human veins.... When Captain Pole took possession of the
priest's
body, the priest leapt high in the air, and then rushed on the
ox
and killed him. He drank off the hot blood, and then began his
dance.
But what a fright he was when dancing! You know, I am not
superstitious....
Am I?..."
Sham
Rao looked at us inquiringly, and I, for one, was glad, at this
moment,
that Miss X---- was half a mile off, asleep in the howdah.
"He
turned, and turned, as if possessed by all the demons of Naraka. The
enraged
crowd hooted and howled when the priest begun to inflict deep
wounds
all over his body with the bloody sacrificial knife. To see him,
with
his hair waving in the wind and his mouth covered with foam; to see
him
bathing in the blood of the sacrificed animal, mixing it with his
own,
was more than I could bear. I felt as if hallucinated, I fancied I
also
was spinning round...."
Sham
Rao stopped abruptly, struck dumb. Kangalim stood before us!
Her
appearance was so unexpected that we all felt embarrassed. Carried
away
by Sham Rao's description, we had noticed neither how nor whence
she
came. Had she appeared from beneath the earth we could not have been
more
astonished. Narayan stared at her, opening wide his big jet-black
eyes;
the Babu clicked his tongue in utter confusion. Imagine a skeleton
seven
feet high, covered with brown leather, with a dead child's tiny
head
stuck on its bony shoulders; the eyes set so deep and at the same
time
flashing such fiendish flames all through your body that you begin
to
feel your brain stop working, your thoughts become entangled and your
blood
freeze in your veins.
I
describe my personal impressions, and no words of mine can do them
justice.
My description is too weak.
Mr.
Y---- and the colonel both grew pale under her stare, and Mr.
Y----made
a movement as if about to rise.
Needless
to say that such an impression could not last. As soon as the
witch
had turned her gleaming eyes to the kneeling crowd, it vanished
as
swiftly as it had come. But still all our attention was fixed on this
remarkable
creature.
Three
hundred years old! Who can tell? Judging by her appearance, we
might
as well conjecture her to be a thousand. We beheld a genuine
living
mummy, or rather a mummy endowed with motion. She seemed to have
been
withering since the creation. Neither time, nor the ills of life,
nor
the elements could ever affect this living statue of death. The
all-destroying
hand of time had touched her and stopped short. Time
could
do no more, and so had left her. And with all this, not a single
grey
hair. Her long black locks shone with a greenish sheen, and fell in
heavy
masses down to her knees.
To
my great shame, I must confess that a disgusting reminiscence flashed
into
my memory. I thought about the hair and the nails of corpses
growing
in the graves, and tried to examine the nails of the old woman.
Meanwhile,
she stood motionless as if suddenly transformed into an ugly
idol.
In one hand she held a dish with a piece of burning camphor, in
the
other a handful of rice, and she never removed her burning eyes from
the
crowd. The pale yellow flame of the camphor flickered in the wind,
and
lit up her deathlike head, almost touching her chin; but she paid no
heed
to it. Her neck, as wrinkled as a mushroom, as thin as a stick, was
surrounded
by three rows of golden medallions. Her head was adorned with
a
golden snake. Her grotesque, hardly human body was covered by a piece
of
saffron-yellow muslin.
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The
demoniac little girls raised their heads from be-neath the leaves,
and
set up a prolonged animal-like howl. Their example was followed by
the
old man, who lay exhausted by his frantic dance.
The
witch tossed her head convulsively, and began her invocations,
rising
on tiptoe, as if moved by some external force.
"The
goddess, one of the seven sisters, begins to take possession of
her,"
whispered Sham Rao, not even thinking of wiping away the big drops
of
sweat that streamed from his brow. "Look, look at her!"
This
advice was quite superfluous. We were looking at her, and at
nothing
else.
At
first, the movements of the witch were slow, unequal, somewhat
convulsive;
then, gradually, they became less angular; at last, as if
catching
the cadence of the drums, leaning all her long body forward,
and
writhing like an eel, she rushed round and round the blazing
bonfire.
A dry leaf caught in a hurricane could not fly swifter. Her
bare
bony feet trod noiselessly on the rocky ground. The long locks of
her
hair flew round her like snakes, lashing the spectators, who knelt,
stretching
their trembling arms towards her, and writhing as if they
were
alive. Whoever was touched by one of this Fury's black curls, fell
down
on the ground, overcome with happiness, shouting thanks to the
goddess,
and considering himself blessed for ever. It was not human hair
that
touched the happy elect, it was the goddess herself, one of the
seven.
Swifter and swifter fly her decrepit legs; the young, vigorous
hands
of the drummer can hardly follow her. But she does not think
of
catching the measure of his music; she rushes, she flies forward.
Staring
with her expressionless, motionless orbs at something before
her,
at something that is not visible to our mortal eyes, she hardly
glances
at her worshippers; then her look becomes full of fire; and
whoever
she looks at feels burned through to the marrow of his bones.
At
every glance she throws a few grains of rice. The small handful seems
inexhaustible,
as if the wrinkled palm contained the bottomless bag of
Prince
Fortunatus.
Suddenly
she stops as if thunderstruck.
The
mad race round the bonfire had lasted twelve minutes, but we looked
in
vain for a trace of fatigue on the deathlike face of the witch. She
stopped
only for a moment, just the necessary time for the goddess to
release
her. As soon as she felt free, by a single effort she jumped
over
the fire and plunged into the deep tank by the portico. This time,
she
plunged only once; and whilst she stayed under the water, the
second
sister-goddess entered her body. The little boy in white produced
another
dish, with a new piece of burning camphor, just in time for the
witch
to take it up, and to rush again on her headlong way.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
The
colonel sat with his watch in his hand. During the second obsession
the
witch ran, leaped, and raced for exactly fourteen minutes. After
this,
she plunged twice in the tank, in honor of the second sister; and
with
every new obsession the number of her plunges increased, till it
became
six.
It
was already an hour and a half since the race began. All this time
the
witch never rested, stopping only for a few seconds, to disappear
under
the water.
"She
is a fiend, she cannot be a woman!" exclaimed the colonel, seeing
the
head of the witch immersed for the sixth time in the water.
"Hang
me if I know!" grumbled Mr. Y----, nervously pulling his beard.
"The
only thing I know is that a grain of her cursed rice entered my
throat,
and I can't get it out!"
"Hush,
hush! Please, do be quiet!" implored Sham Rao. "By talking you
will
spoil the whole business!"
I
glanced at Narayan and lost myself in conjectures. His features, which
usually
were so calm and serene, were quite altered at this moment, by a
deep
shadow of suffering. His lips trembled, and the pupils of his eyes
were
dilated, as if by a dose of belladonna. His eyes were lifted over
the
heads of the crowd, as if in his disgust he tried not to see what
was
before him, and at the same time could not see it, engaged in a deep
reverie,
which carried him away from us, and from the whole performance.
"What
is the matter with him?" was my thought, but I had no time to ask
him,
because the witch was again in full swing, chasing her own shadow.
But
with the seventh goddess the programme was slightly changed. The
running
of the old woman changed to leaping. Sometimes bending down to
the
ground, like a black panther, she leaped up to some worshipper, and
halting
before him touched his forehead with her finger, while her long,
thin
body shook with inaudible laughter. Then, again, as if shrinking
back
playfully from her shadow, and chased by it, in some uncanny game,
the
witch appeared to us like a horrid caricature of Dinorah, dancing
her
mad dance. Suddenly she straightened herself to her full height,
darted
to the portico and crouched before the smoking censer, beating
her
forehead against the granite steps. Another jump, and she was quite
close
to us, before the head of the monstrous Sivatherium. She knelt
down
again and bowed her head to the ground several times, with the
sound
of an empty barrel knocked against something hard.
We
had hardly the time to spring to our feet and shrink back when she
appeared
on the top of the Sivatherium's head, standing there amongst
the
horns.
Narayan
alone did not stir, and fearlessly looked straight in the eyes
of
the frightful sorceress.
But
what was this? Who spoke in those deep manly tones? Her lips were
moving,
from her breast were issuing those quick, abrupt phrases, but
the
voice sounded hollow as if coming from beneath the ground.
"Hush,
hush!" whispered Sham Rao, his whole body trembling. "She is
going
to prophesy!.... " "She?" incredulously inquired Mr. Y----.
"This
a
woman's voice? I don't believe it for a moment. Someone's uncle must
be
stowed away somewhere about the place. Not the fabulous uncle she
inherited
from, but a real live one!..."
Sham
Rao winced under the irony of this supposition, and cast an
imploring
look at the speaker.
"Woe
to you! woe to you!" echoed the voice. "Woe to you, children of
the
impure Jaya and Vijaya! of the mocking, unbelieving lingerers round
great
Shiva's door! Ye, who are cursed by eighty thousand sages! Woe to
you
who believe not in the goddess Kali, and you who deny us, her Seven
divine
Sisters! Flesh-eating, yellow-legged vultures! friends of the
oppressors
of our land! dogs who are not ashamed to eat from the same
trough
with the Bellati!" (foreigners).
"It
seems to me that your prophetess only foretells the past," said Mr.
Y----,
philosophically putting his hands in his pockets. "I should say
that
she is hinting at you, my dear Sham Rao."
"Yes!
and at us also," murmured the colonel, who was evidently beginning
to
feel uneasy.
As
to the unlucky Sham Rao, he broke out in a cold sweat, and tried to
assure
us that we were mistaken, that we did not fully understand her
language.
"It
is not about you, it is not about you! It is of me she speaks,
because
I am in Government service. Oh, she is inexorable!"
"Rakshasas!
Asuras!" thundered the voice. "How dare you appear before
us?
how dare you to stand on this holy ground in boots made of a cow's
sacred
skin? Be cursed for etern----"
But
her curse was not destined to be finished. In an instant the
Hercules-like
Narayan had fallen on the Sivatherium, and upset the whole
pile,
the skull, the horns and the demoniac Pythia included. A second
more,
and we thought we saw the witch flying in the air towards the
portico.
A confused vision of a stout, shaven Brahman, suddenly emerging
from
under the Sivatherium and instantly disappearing in the hollow
beneath
it, flashed before my dilated eyes.
But,
alas! after the third second had passed, we all came to the
embarrassing
conclusion that, judging from the loud clang of the door
of
the cave, the representative of the Seven Sisters had ignominiously
fled.
The moment she had disappeared from our inquisitive eyes to her
subterranean
domain, we all realized that the unearthly hollow voice we
had
heard had nothing supernatural about it and belonged to the Brahman
hidden
under the Sivatherium--to someone's live uncle, as Mr. Y---- had
rightly
supposed.
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CF24-1DL
Oh,
Narayan! how carelessly.... how disorderly the worlds rotate around
us....
I begin to seriously doubt their reality. From this moment I
shall
earnestly believe that all things in the universe are nothing but
illusion,
a mere Maya. I am becoming a Vedantin.... I doubt that in the
whole
universe there may be found anything more objective than a Hindu
witch
flying up the spout.----
Miss
X---- woke up, and asked what was the meaning of all this
noise.
The noise of many voices and the sounds of the many retreating
footsteps,
the general rush of the crowd, had frightened her. She
listened
to us with a condescending smile, and a few yawns, and went to
sleep
again.
Next
morning, at daybreak, we very reluctantly, it must be owned, bade
good-bye
to the kind-hearted, good-natured Sham Rao. The confoundingly
easy
victory of Narayan hung heavily on his mind. His faith in the holy
hermitess
and the seven goddesses was a good deal shaken by the shameful
capitulation
of the Sisters, who had surrendered at the first blow from
a
mere mortal. But during the dark hours of the night he had had time to
think
it over, and to shake off the uneasy feeling of having unwillingly
misled
and disappointed his European friends.
Sham
Rao still looked confused when he shook hands with us at parting,
and
expressed to us the best wishes of his family and himself.
As
to the heroes of this truthful narrative, they mounted their
elephants
once more, and directed their heavy steps towards the high
road
and
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God's
Warrior
The
direction of our pilgrimage of self-improvement lay towards the
north-west,
as was previously decided. We were very impatient to see
these
status in statu of Anglo-India, but.... Do what you may, there
always
will be a but.
We
left the
it,
we had to go back to Akbarpur, then travel by doubtful Local-Board
roads
to the station Vanevad and take the train of Holkar's line, which
joins
the Great Indian Peninsular Railway.
Meanwhile,
the Bagh caves were quite close to us, not more than fifty
miles
off, to the east from Mandu. We were undecided whether to leave
them
alone or go back to the Nerbudda. In the country situated on the
other
side of Kandesh, our Babu had some "chums," as everywhere else in
India;
the omnipresent Bengali Babus, who are always glad to be of
some
service to you, are scattered all over Hindostan, like the Jews in
Russia.
Besides, our party was joined by a new member.
The
day before we had received a letter from Swami Dayanand, carried to
us
by a traveling Sannyasi. Dayanand informed us that the cholera was
increasing
every day in Hardwar, and that we must postpone making his
acquaintance
personally till the end of May, either in Dehra-Dun, at the
foot
of Himalaya, or in Saharanpur, which attracts every tourist by its
charming
situation.
The
Sannyasi brought us also a nosegay from the Swami, a nosegay of the
most
extraordinary flowers, which are totally unknown in Europe. They
grow
only in certain Himalayan valleys; they possess the wonderful
capacity
of changing their color after midday, and do not look dead even
when
faded. The Latin name of this charming plant is Hibiscus mutabilis.
At
night they are nothing but a large knot of pressed green leaves,
but
from dawn till ten o'clock the flowers open and look like large
snow-white
roses; then, towards twelve o'clock, they begin to redden,
and
later in the afternoon they look as crimson as a peony. These
flowers
are sacred to the Asuras, a kind of fallen angels in Hindu
mythology,
and to the sun-god Surya. The latter deity fell in love with
an
Asuri at the beginning of creation, and since then is constantly
caught
whispering words of fiery love to the flower that shelters her.
But
the Asura is a virgin; she gives herself entirely to the service
of
the goddess Chastity, who is the patroness of all the ascetic
brotherhoods.
The love of Surya is vain, Asura will not listen to him.
But
under the flaming arrows of the enamoured god she blushes and in
appearance
loses her purity. The natives call this plant lajjalu, the
modest
one.
We
were spending the night by a brook, under a shadowy fig-tree. The
Sannyasi,
who had made a wide circuit to fulfil Dayanand's request, made
friends
with us; and we sat up late in the night, listening whilst he
talked
about his travels, the wonders of his native country, once so
great,
and about the heroic deeds of old Runjit-Sing, the Lion of the
Punjab.
Strange,
mysterious beings are found sometimes amongst these traveling
monks.
Some of them are very learned; read and talk Sanskrit; know all
about
modern science and politics; and, nevertheless, remain faithful to
their
ancient philosophical conceptions. Generally they do not wear any
clothes,
except a piece of muslin round the loins, which is insisted
upon
by the police of the towns inhabited by Europeans. They wander from
the
age of fifteen, all their lives, and die generally very aged. They
live
never giving a thought to the morrow, like the birds of heaven, and
the
lilies of the field. They never touch money, and are contented with
a
handful of rice. All their worldly possessions consist of a small dry
pumpkin
to carry water, a rosary, a brass cup and a walking stick.
The
Sannyasis and the Swamis are usually Sikhs from the Punjab, and
monotheists.
They despise idol-worshipers, and have nothing to do with
them,
though the latter very often call themselves by their names.
Our
new friend was a native of Amritsar, in the Punjab, and had been
brought
up in the "Golden Temple," on the banks of Amrita-Saras, the
"Lake
of Immortality." The head Guru, or instructor, of Sikhs resides
there.
He never crosses the boundaries of the temple. His chief
occupation
is the study of the book called Adigrantha, which belongs to
the
sacred literature of this strange bellicose sect. The Sikhs respect
him
as much as the Tibetans respect their Dalai-Lama. The Lamas in
general
consider the latter to be the incarnation of Buddha, the Sikhs
think
that the Maha-Guru of Amritsar is the incarnation of Nanak, the
founder
of their sect. Nevertheless, no true Sikh will ever say that
Nanak
was a deity; they look on him as a prophet, inspired by the spirit
of
the only God. This shows that our Sannyasi was not one of the
naked
travelling monks, but a true Akali; one of the six hundred
warrior-priests
attached to the Golden Temple, for the purpose of
serving
God and protecting the temple from the destructive Mussulmans.
His
name was Ram-Runjit-Das; and his personal appearance was in perfect
accordance
with his title of "God's warrior." His exterior was very
remarkable
and typical; and he looked like a muscular centurion of
ancient
Roman legions, rather than a peaceable servant of the altar.
Ram-Runjit-Das
appeared to us mounted on a magnificent horse, and
accompanied
by another Sikh, who respectfully walked some distance
behind
him, and was evidently passing through his noviciate. Our Hindu
companions
had discerned that he was an Akali, when he was still in the
distance.
He wore a bright blue tunic without sleeves, exactly like that
we
see on the statues of Roman warriors. Broad steel bracelets protected
his
strong arms, and a shield protruded from behind his back. A blue,
conical
turban covered his head, and round his waist were many steel
circlets.
The enemies of the Sikhs assert that these sacred sectarian
belts
become more dangerous in the hand of an experienced "God's
warrior,"
than any other weapon.
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The
Sikhs are the bravest and the most warlike sect of the whole
The
word sikh means disciple. Founded in the fifteenth century by the
wealthy
and noble Brahman Nanak, the new teaching spread so successfully
amongst
the northern soldiers, that in 1539 A.D., when the founder died,
it
counted one hundred thousand followers. At the present time, this
sect,
harmonizing closely with the fiery natural mysticism, and the
warlike
tendencies of the natives, is the reigning creed of the whole
Punjab.
It is based on the principles of theocratic rule; but its dogmas
are
almost totally unknown to Europeans; the teachings, the religious
conceptions,
and the rites of the Sikhs, are kept secret. The following
details
are known generally: the Sikhs are ardent monotheists, they
refuse
to recognize caste; have no restrictions in diet, like Europeans;
and
bury their dead, which, except among Mussulmans, is a rare exception
in
India. The second volume of the Adigrantha teaches them "to adore the
only
true God; to avoid superstitions; to help the dead, that they
may
lead a righteous life; and to earn one's living, sword in hand."
Govinda,
one of the great Gurus of the Sikhs, ordered them never to
shave
their beards and moustaches, and not to cut their hair--in order
that
they may not be mistaken for Mussulmans or any other native of
India.
Many
a desperate battle the Sikhs fought and won, against the
Mussulmans,
and against the Hindus. Their leader, the celebrated
Runjit-Sing,
after having been acknowledged the autocrat of the Upper
Punjab,
concluded a treaty with Lord Auckland, at the beginning of this
century,
in which his country was proclaimed an independent state. But
after
the death of the "old lion," his throne became the cause of the
most
dreadful civil wars and disorders. His son, Maharaja Dhulip-Sing,
proved
quite unfit for the high post he inherited from his father,
and,
under him, the Sikhs became an ill-disciplined restless mob. Their
attempt
to conquer the whole of Hindostan proved disastrous. Persecuted
by
his own soldiers, Dhulip-Sing sought the help of Englishmen, and was
sent
away to Scotland. And some time after this, the Sikhs took their
place
amongst the rest of Britain's Indian subjects.
But
still there remains a strong body of the great Sikh sect of old.
The
Kuks represent the most dangerous underground current of the popular
hatred.
This new sect was founded about thirty years ago [written in
1879]
by Balaka-Rama, and, at first, formed a bulk of people near Attok,
in
the Punjab, on the east bank of the Indus, exactly on the spot where
the
latter becomes navigable. Balaka-Rama had a double aim; to restore
the
religion of the Sikhs to its pristine purity, and to organize a
secret
political body, which must be ready for everything, at a moment's
notice.
This brotherhood consists of sixty thousand members, who pledged
themselves
never to reveal their secrets, and never to disobey any order
of
their leaders. In Attok they are few, for the town is small. But we
were
assured that the Kuks live everywhere in
is
so perfectly organized that it is impossible to find them out, or to
learn
the names of their leaders.
In
the course of the evening our Akali presented us with a little
crystal
bottle, filled with water from the "
said
that a drop of it would cure all diseases of the eye. There are
numbers
of fresh springs at the bottom of this lake, and so its water is
wonderfully
pure and transparent, in spite of hundreds of people daily
bathing
in it. When, later on, we visited it, we had the opportunity to
verify
the fact that the smallest stone at the bottom is seen perfectly
distinctly,
all over the one hundred and fifty square yards of the lake.
Amrita-Saran
is the most charming of all the sights of
The
reflection of the
picture
that is simply feerique.
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We
had still seven weeks at our disposal. We were undecided between
exploring
the Bombay Presidency, the North-West Provinces and the
Rajistan.
Which were we to choose? Where were we to go? How best to
employ
our time? Before such a variety of interesting places we became
irresolute.
scenery
of the Arabian Nights, seemed so attractive that we seriously
thought
of turning our elephants back to the territory of the Nizam.
We
grew fond of the idea of visiting this "City of the Lion," which was
built
in 1589 by the magnificent Mohamed-Kuli-Kuth-Shah, who was so used
to
luxuries of every kind as to grow weary even of Golkonda, with all
its
fairyland castles and bright gardens. Some buildings of
Hyderabad,
mere remnants of the past glory, are still known to
renown.
Mir-Abu-Talib, the keeper of the Royal Treasury, states that
Mohamed-Kuli-Shah
spent the fabulous sum of L 2,800,000 sterling on the
embellishment
of the town, at the beginning of his reign; though the
labor
of the workmen did not cost him anything at all. Save these few
memorials
of greatness, the town looks like a heap of rubbish nowadays.
But
all tourists are unanimous on one point, namely, that the British
Residency
of Hyderabad still deserves its title of the Versailles of
India.
The
title the British Residency bears, and everything it may contain at
the
present time, are mere trifles compared with the past. I remember
reading
a chapter of the History of Hyderabad, by an English author,
which
contained something to the following effect: Whilst the Resident
entertained
the gentlemen, his wife was similarly employed receiving the
ladies
a few yards off, in a separate palace, which was as sumptuous,
and
bore the name of Rang-Mahal. Both palaces were built by Colonel
Kirkpatrick,
the late minister at the Nizam's court. Having married a
native
princess, he constructed this charming abode for her personal
use.
Its garden is surrounded by a high wall, as is customary in the
Orient,
and the centre of the garden is adorned with a large marble
fountain,
covered with scenes from the Ramayana, and mosaics, Pavilions,
galleries
and terraces--everything in this garden is loaded with
adornments
of the most costly Oriental style, that is to say, with
abundance
of inlaid designs, paintings, gilding, ivory and marble. The
great
attraction of Mrs. Kirkpatrick's receptions were the nautches,
magnificently
dressed, thanks to the generosity of the Resident. Some
of
them wore a cargo of jewels worth L 30,000, and literally shone from
head
to foot with diamonds and other precious stones.
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The
glorious times of the East India Company are beyond recall, and
no
Residents, and even no native princes, could now afford to be so
"generous."
utterly
exhausted, like a pile of gold in the hands of an alchemist, who
thriftlessly
spent it in the hope of finding the philosopher's stone.
Besides
ruining themselves and the country, the Anglo-Indians commit the
greatest
blunders, at least in two points of their present Government
system.
These two points are: first, the Western education they give to
the
higher classes; and, secondly, the protection and maintenance of the
rights
of idol worship. Neither of these systems is wise. By means of
the
first they successfully replace the religious feelings of old India,
which,
however false, had the great advantage of being sincere, by a
positive
atheism amongst the young generation of the Brahmans; and by
the
means of the second they flatter only the ignorant masses, from
whom
nothing is to be feared under any circumstances. If the patriotic
feelings
of the bulk of the population could possibly be roused, the
English
would have been slaughtered long ago. The rural populace is
unarmed,
it is true, but a crowd seeking revenge could use the brass and
stone
idols, sent to India by thousands from Birmingham, with as great
success
as if they were so many swords. But, as it is, the masses of
India
are indifferent and harmless; so that the only existing danger
comes
from the side of the educated classes. And the English fail to see
that
the better the education they give them, the more careful they must
be
to avoid reopening the old wounds, always alive to new injury, in
the
heart of every true Hindu. The Hindus are proud of the past of their
country,
dreams of past glories are their only compensation for the
bitter
present. The English education they receive only enables them
to
learn that Europe was plunged in the darkness of the Stone Age, when
India
was in the full growth of her splendid civilization. And so the
comparison
of their past with their present is only the more sad. This
consideration
never hinders the Anglo-Indians from hurting the feelings
of
the Hindus. For instance, in the unanimous opinion of travelers
and
antiquarians, the most interesting building of Hyderabad is
Chahar-Minar,
a college that was built by Mohamed-Kuli-Khan on the ruins
of
a still more ancient college. It is built at the crossing of four
streets,
on four arches, which are so high that loaded camels and
elephants
with their turrets pass through freely. Over these arches rise
the
several stories of the college. Each story once was destined for
a
separate branch of learning. Alas! the times when India studied
philosophy
and astronomy at the feet of her great sages are gone, and
the
English have transformed the college itself into a warehouse. The
hall,
which served for the study of astronomy, and was filled with
quaint,
medieval apparatus, is now used for a depot of opium; and the
hall
of philosophy contains huge boxes of liqueurs, rum and champagne,
which
are prohibited by the Koran, as well as by the Brahmans.
We
were so enchanted by what we heard about
to
start thither the very next morning, when our ciceroni and companions
destroyed
all our plans by a single word. This word was: heat. During
the
hot season in
Fahrenheit
in the shade, and the temperature of the water in the
is
the temperature of the blood. As to
the
air, and the extreme aridity of the sandy soil reproduce the
in
miniature, the usual shade temperature is one hundred and thirty
degrees
Fahrenheit. No wonder the missionaries have no chance there.
The
most eloquent of Dante's descriptions of hell could hardly produce
anything
but a cooling effect on a populace who live perfectly contented
under
these circumstances.
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Calculating
that there was no obstacle to our going to the Bagh caves,
and
that going to Sindh was a perfect impossibility, we recovered our
equanimity.
Then the general council decided that we had better abandon
all
ideas of a predetermined plan, and travel as fancy led us.
We
dismissed our elephants, and next day, a little before sunset,
arrived
at the spot where the Vagrey and Girna join. These are two
little
rivers, quite famous in the annals of the Indian mythology, and
which
are generally conspicuous by their absence, especially in summer.
At
the opposite side of the river, there lay the illustrious Bagh caves,
with
their four openings blinking in the thick evening mist.
We
thought of crossing to them immediately, by the help of a ferry boat,
but
our Hindu friends and the boat-men interposed. The former said
that
visiting these caves is dangerous even by daytime; because all the
neighborhood
is full of beasts of prey and of tigers, who, I concluded,
are
like the Bengali Babus, to be met with everywhere in India. Before
venturing
into these caves, you must send a reconnoitring party of
torch-bearers
and armed shikaris. As to the boatmen, they protested on
different
grounds, but protested strongly. They said that no Hindu would
dare
to approach these caves after the sun set. No one but a Bellati
would
fancy that Vagrey and Girna are ordinary rivers, for every Hindu
knows
they are divine spouses, the god Shiva and his wife Parvati.
This,
in the first instance; and in the second, the Bagh tigers are no
ordinary
tigers either. The sahibs are totally mistaken. These tigers
are
the servants of the Sadhus, of the holy miracle-workers, who have
haunted
the caves now for many centuries, and who deign sometimes to
take
the shape of a tiger. And neither the gods, nor the Sadhus, nor
the
glamour, nor the true tigers are fond of being disturbed in their
nightly
rest.
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What
could we say against all this? We cast one more sorrowful look
at
the caves, and returned to our antediluvian carriages. The Babu and
Narayan
said we must spend the night at the house of a certain "chum"
of
the Babu, who resided in a small town, three miles further on, and
bearing
the same name as the caves; and we unwillingly acquiesced.
Many
things in
most
wonderful and the most unintelligible, is the geographical and the
topographical
disposition of the numberless territories of this country.
Political
conjunctures in India seem to be everlastingly playing the
French
game casse-tete, changing the pattern, diminishing one part and
adding
to another. The land that only yesterday belonged to this Raja or
that
Takur, is sure to be found today in the hands of quite a different
set
of people. For instance, we were in the Raj of Amjir in Malva, and
we
were going to the little city of Bagh, which also belongs to Malva
and
is included in the Amjir Raj. In the documents, Malva is included
in
the independent possessions of Holkar; and nevertheless the Amjir Raj
does
not belong to Tukuji-Rao-Holkar, but to the son of the independent
Raja
of Amjir, who was hanged, "by inadvertence" as we were assured, in
1857.
The city, and the caves of Bagh, very oddly belong to the Maharaja
Sindya
of Gwalior, who, besides, does not own them personally, having
made
a kind of present of them, and their nine thousand rupees of
revenue,
to some poor relation. This poor relation, in his turn, does
not
enjoy the property in the least, because a certain Rajput Takur
stole
it from him, and will not consent to give it back. Bagh is
situated
on the road from Gujerat to Malva, in the defile of Oodeypur,
which
is owned accordingly by the Maharana of Oodeypur. Bagh itself is
built
on the top of a woody hillock, and being disputed property does
not
belong to any one in particular, properly speaking; but a small
fortress,
and a bazaar in the centre of it are the private possessions
of
a certain dhani; who, besides being the chieftain of the Bhimalah
tribe,
was the personal "chum" of our Babu, and a "great thief and
highway
robber," according to the assertions of the said Babu.
"But
why do you intend taking us to the place of a man whom you consider
as
a thief and a robber?" objected one of us timidly.
"He
is a thief and a brigand," coolly answered the Bengali, "but only in
the
political sense. Otherwise he is an excellent man, and the truest
of
friends. Besides, if he does not help us, we shall starve; the bazaar
and
everything in the shops belong to him."
These
explanations of the Babu notwithstanding, we were glad to learn
that
the "chum" in question was absent, and we were received by a
relation
of his. The garden was put at our disposal, and before our
tents
were pitched, we saw people coming from every side of the garden,
bringing
us provisions. Having deposited what he had brought, each of
them,
on leaving the tent, threw over his shoulder a pinch of betel and
soft
sugar, an offering to the "foreign bhutas," which were supposed to
accompany
us wherever we went. The Hindus of our party asked us,
very
seriously, not to laugh at this performance, saying it would be
dangerous
in this out-of-the-way place.
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No
doubt they were right. We were in
all
kinds of superstitions, and were surrounded by Bhils. All along the
Vindya
ridge, from Yama, on the west of the "dead city," the country is
thickly
populated by this most daring, restless and superstitious of all
the
half-savage tribes of
The
Orientalists think that the naive Bhils comes from the Sanskrit root
bhid,
which means to separate. Sir J. Malcolm supposes accordingly that
the
Bhils are sectarians, who separated from the Brahmanical creed,
and
were excommunicated. All this looks very probable, but their tribal
traditions
say something different. Of course, in this case, as in every
other,
their history is strongly entangled with mythology; and one has
to
go through a thick shrubbery of fancy before reaching the tribe's
genealogical
tree.
The
relation of the absent dhani, who spent the evening with us, told
us
the following: The Bhils are the descendants of one of the sons of
Mahadeva,
or Shiva, and of a fair woman, with blue eyes and a white
face,
whom he met in some forest on the other side of the Kalapani,
"black
waters," or ocean. This pair had several sons, one of whom, as
handsome
as he was vicious, killed the favorite ox of his grandfather
Maha-deva,
and was banished by his father to the Jodpur desert. Banished
to
its remotest southern corner, he married; and soon his descendants
filled
the whole country. They scattered along the Vindya ridge, on
the
western frontier of Malva and Kandesh; and, later, in the woody
wilderness,
on the shores of the rivers Maha, Narmada and Tapti. And all
of
them, inheriting the beauty of their forefather, his blue eyes and
fair
complexion, inherited also his turbulent disposition and his vice.
"We
are thieves and robbers," naively explained the relative of the
Babu's
"chum," "but we can't help it, because this is the decree of our
mighty
forefather, the great Maha-deva-Shiva. Sending his grandson to
repent
his sins in the desert, he said to him: 'Go, wretched murderer of
my
son and your brother, the ox Nardi; go and live the life of an exile
and
a brigand, to be an everlasting warning to your brethren!... ' These
are
the very words of the great god. Now, do you think we could
disobey
his orders? The least of our actions is always regulated by our
Bhamyas--chieftains--who
are the direct descendants of Nadir-Sing, the
first
Bhil, the child of our exiled ancestor, and being this, it is only
natural
that the great god speaks to us through him."
Is
not it strange that Apis, the sacred ox of the Egyptians, is honored
by
the followers of Zoroaster, as well as by the Hindus? The ox Nardi,
the
emblem of life in nature, is the son of the creating father, or
rather
his life-giving breath. Ammianus Marcellinus mentions, in one of
his
works, that there exists a book which gives the exact age of Apis,
the
clue to the mystery of creation and the cyclic calculations. The
Brahmans
also explain the allegory of the ox Nardi by the continuation
of
life on our globe.
The
"mediators" between Shiva and the Bhils possess such unrestricted
authority
that the most awful crimes are accomplished at their lightest
word.
The tribe have thought it necessary to decrease their power to a
certain
extent by instituting a kind of council in every village. This
council
is called tarvi, and tries to cool down the hot-headed fancies
of
the dhanis, their brigand lords. However, the word of the Bhils is
sacred,
and their hospitality is boundless.
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The
history and the annals of the princes of Jodpur and Oodeypur confirm
the
legend of the Bhil emigration from their primitive desert, but how
they
happened to be there nobody knows. Colonel Tod is positive that the
Bhils,
together with the Merases and the Goands, are the aborigines of
India,
as well as the tribes who inhabit the Nerbuda forests. But why
the
Bhils should be almost fair and blue-eyed, whereas the rest of
the
hill-tribes are almost African in type, is a question that is not
answered
by this statement. The fact that all these aborigines call
themselves
Bhumaputra and Vanaputra, sons of the earth and sons of
the
forest, when the Rajputs, their first conquerors, call themselves
Surya-vansa
and the Brahmans Indu-putras, descendants of the sun and
the
moon, does not prove everything. It seems to me, that in the present
case,
their appearance, which confirms their legends, is of much greater
value
than philology. Dr. Clark, the author of Travels in Scandinavia,
is
very logical in saying that, "by directing our attention on the
traces
of the ancient superstitions of a tribe, we shall find out who
were
its primitive forefathers much more easily than by scientific
examination
of their tongue; the superstitions are grafted on the very
root,
whereas the tongue is subjected to all kinds of changes."
But,
unfortunately, everything we know about the history of the Bhils is
reduced
to the above-mentioned tradition, and to a few ancient songs
of
their bards. These bards or bhattas live in Rajistan, but visit
the
Bhils yearly, in order not to lose the leading thread of the
achievements
of their countrymen. Their songs are history, because the
bhattas
have existed from time immemorial, composing their lays for
future
generations, for this is their hereditary duty. And the songs of
the
remotest antiquity point to the lands over the Kalapani as the
place
whence the Bhils came; that is to say, some place in Europe. Some
Orientalists,
especially Colonel Tod, seek to prove that the Rajputs,
who
conquered the Bhils, were newcomers of Scythian origin, and that
the
Bhils are the true aborigines. To prove this, they put forward some
features
common to both peoples, Rajput and Scythian, for instance (1)
the
worship of the sword, the lance, the shield and the horse; (2) the
worship
of, and the sacrifice to, the sun (which, as far as I know,
never
was worshiped by the Scythians); (3) the passion of gambling
(which
again is as strong amongst the Chinese and the Japanese); (4)
the
custom of drinking blood out of the skull of an enemy (which is also
practised
by some aborigines of America), etc., etc.
I
do not intend entering here on a scientific ethnological discussion;
and,
besides, I am sure no one fails to see that the reasoning of
scientists
sometimes takes a very strange turn when they set to prove
some
favorite theory of theirs. It is enough to remember how entangled
and
obscure is the history of the ancient Scythians to abstain from
drawing
any positive conclusions whatsoever from it. The tribes that go
under
one general denomination of Scythians were many, and still it is
impossible
to deny that there is a good deal of similitude between the
customs
of the old Scandinavians, worshipers of Odin, whose land indeed
was
occupied by the Scythians more than five hundred years B.C. and the
customs
of the Rajputs. But this similitude gives as much right to the
Rajputs
to say that we are a colony of Surya-vansas settled in the West
as
to us to maintain that the Rajputs are the descendants of Scythians
who
emigrated to the East. The Scythians of Herodotus and the Scythians
of
Ptolemy, and some other classical writers, are two perfectly distinct
nationalities.
Under Scythia, Herodotus means the extension of land from
the
mouth of Danube to the Sea of Azoff, according to Niebuhr; and to
the
mouth of Don, according to Rawlinson; whereas the Scythia of Ptolemy
is
a country strictly Asiatic, including the whole space between the
river
Volga and Serika, or China. Besides this, Scythia was divided by
the
western Himalayas, which the Roman writers call Imaus, into Scythia
intra
Imaum, and Scythia extra Imaum. Given this lack of precision,
the
Rajputs may be called the Scythians of Asia, and the Scythians
the
Rajputs of Europe, with the same degree of likelihood. Pinkerton's
opinion
is that European contempt for the Tartars would not be half
so
strong if the European public learned how closely we are related
to
them; that our forefathers came from northern
primitive
customs, laws and mode of living were the same as theirs; in
a
word, that we are nothing but a Tartar colony... Cimbri, Kelts and
Gauls,
who conquered the northern part of
the
same tribe, whose origin is Tartary. Who were the Goths, the Swedes,
the
Vandals, the Huns and the Franks, if not separate swarms of the same
beehive?
The annals of
the
Swedes. The likeness between the languages of the Saxons and the
Kipchak-Tartars
is striking; and the Keltic, which still exists in
descendants
of the Tartar nation.
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Whatever
Pinkerton and others may say, the modern Rajput warriors do
not
answer in the least the description Hippocrates gives us of the
Scythians.
The "father of medicine" says: "The bodily structure of these
men
is thick, coarse and stunted; their joints are weak and flabby; they
have
almost no hair, and each of them resembles the other." No man,
who
has seen the handsome, gigantic warriors of Rajistan, with their
abundant
hair and beards, will ever recognize this portrait drawn by
Hippocrates
as theirs. Besides, the Scythians, whoever they may be,
buried
their dead, which the Rajputs never did, judging by the records
of
their most ancient MSS. The Scythians were a wandering nation, and
are
described by Hesiod as "living in covered carts and feeding on
mare's
milk." And the Rajputs have been a sedentary people from time
immemorial,
inhabiting towns, and having their history at least several
hundred
years before Christ--that is to say, earlier than the epoch of
Herodotus.
They do celebrate the Ashvamedha, the horse sacrifice; but
will
not touch mare's milk, and despise all Mongolians. Herodotus says
that
the Scythians, who called themselves Skoloti, hated foreigners, and
never
let any stranger in their country; and the Rajputs are one of
the
most hospitable peoples of the world. In the epoch of the wars of
Darius,
516 B.C., the Scythians were still in their own district, about
the
mouth of the Danube. And at the same epoch the Rajputs were already
known
in India and had their own kingdom. As to the Ashvamedha, which
Colonel
Tod thinks to be the chief illustration of his theory, the
custom
of killing horses in honor of the sun is mentioned in the
Rig-Veda,
as well as in the Aitareya-Brahmana. Martin Haug states that
the
latter has probably been in existence since 2000-2400 B.C.----
But
it strikes me that the digression from the Babu's chum to the
Scythians
and the Rajputs of the antediluvian epoch threatens to become
too
long, so I beg the reader's pardon and resume the thread of my
narrative.
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The
Banns Of Marriage
Next
day, early in the morning, the local shikaris went under the
leadership
of the warlike Akali, to hunt glamoured and real tigers
in
the caves. It took them longer than we expected. The old Bhil, who
represented
to us the absent dhani, proposed that in the meanwhile
we
should witness a Brahmanical wedding ceremony. Needless to say,
we
jumped at this. The ceremonies of betrothal and marriage have not
changed
in
performed
according to the directions of Manu, and the old theme has
no
new variations. India's religious rites have crystallized long ago.
Whoever
has seen a Hindu wedding in 1879, saw it as it was celebrated in
ancient
Aryavarta many centuries ago.----
A
few days before we left Bombay we read in a small local newspaper two
announcements
of marriages: the first the marriage of a Brahman heiress,
the
second of a daughter of the fire-worshipers. The first announcement
was
something to the following effect: "The family of Bimbay Mavlankar,
etc.,
etc., are preparing for a happy event. This respectable member
of
our community, unlike the rest of the less fortunate Brahmans of
his
caste, has found a husband for his grand-daughter in a rich Gujerat
family
of the same caste. The little Rama-bai is already five, her
future
husband is seven. The wedding is to take place in two months and
promises
to be brilliant."
The
second announcement referred to an accomplished fact. It appeared
in
a Parsi paper, which strongly insists on the necessity of giving up
"disgusting
superannuated customs," and especially the early marriage.
It
justly ridiculed a certain Gujerati newspaper, which had just
described
in very pompous expressions a recent wedding ceremony in
Poona.
The bridegroom, who had just entered his sixth year "pressed to
his
heart a blushing bride of two and a half!" The usual answers of this
couple
entering into matrimony proved so indistinct that the Mobed had
to
address the questions to their parents: "Are you willing to have him
for
your lawful husband, O daughter of Zaratushta?" and "Are you willing
to
be her husband, O son of Zoroaster?" "Everything went as well as it
could
be expected," continued the newspaper; "the bridegroom was led out
of
the room by the hand, and the bride, who was carried away in arms,
greeted
the guests, not with smiles, but with a tremendous howl, which
made
her forget the existence of such a thing as a pocket-handkerchief,
and
remember only her feeding-bottle; for the latter article she asked
repeatedly,
half choked with sobs, and throttled with the weight of the
family
diamonds. Taking it all in all, it was a Parsi marriage, which
shows
the progress of our speedily developing nation with the exactitude
of
a weather glass," added the satirical newspaper.
Having
read this we laughed heartily, though we did not give full credit
to
this description, and thought it a good deal exaggerated. We knew
Parsi
and Brahman families in which were husbands of ten years of
age;
but had never heard as yet of a bride who was a baby in
arms.----
It
is not without reason that the Brahmans are fervent upholders of
the
ancient law which prohibits to everyone, except the officiating
Brahmans,
the study of Sanskrit and the reading of the Vedas. The
Shudras
and even the high-born Vaishyas were in olden times to be
executed
for such an offence. The secret of this rigour lies in the fact
that
the Vedas do not permit matrimony for women under fifteen to twenty
years
of age, and for men under twenty-five, or even thirty. Eager
above
all that every religious ceremony should fill their pockets, the
Brahmans
never stopped at disfiguring their ancient sacred literature;
and
not to be caught, they pronounced its study accursed. Amongst other
"criminal
inventions," to use the expression of Swami Dayanand, there is
a
text in the Brahmanical books, which contradicts everything that is
to
be found in the Vedas on this particular matter: I speak of the Kudva
Kunbis,
the wedding season of all the agricultural classes of Central
it
appears to be a field from which Messieurs les Brahmans gathered
the
most abundant harvest. At this epoch, all the mothers have to seek
audiences
from the goddess Mata, the great mother--of course through her
rightful
oracles the Brahmans. Mata is the special patroness of all the
four
kinds of marriages practised in
children,
of babies, and of specimens of humanity that are as yet to be
born.
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The
latter is the queerest of all, because the feelings it excites are
so
very like gambling. In this case, the marriage ceremony is celebrated
between
the mothers of the future children. Many a curious incident is
the
result of these matrimonial parodies. But a true Brahman will
never
allow the derision of fate to shake his dignity, and the docile
population
never will doubt the infallibility of these "elect of the
gods."
An open antagonism to the Brahmanical institutions is more
than
rare; the feelings of reverence and dread the masses show to the
Brahmans
are so blind and so sincere, that an outsider cannot help
smiling
at them and respecting them at the same time.
If
both the mothers have children of the same sex, it will not upset the
Brahman
in the least; he will say this was the will of the goddess Mata,
it
shows that she desires the new-born babies to be two loving brothers,
or
two loving sisters, as the case may be, in future. And if the
children
grow up, they will be acknowledged heirs to the properties of
both
mothers. In this case, the Brahman breaks the bonds of the marriage
by
the order of the goddess, is paid for doing so, and the whole affair
is
dropped altogether. But if the children are of different sexes these
bonds
cannot be broken, even if they are born cripples or idiots.
While
I am dealing with the family life of India, I had better mention
some
other features, not to return to them any more. No Hindu has the
right
to remain single. The only exceptions are, in case the child is
destined
to monastic life from the first days of his existence, and in
case
the child is consecrated to the service of one of the gods of the
Trimurti
even before he is born. Religion insists on matrimony for the
sake
of having a son, whose duty it will be to perform every prescribed
rite,
in order that his departed father may enter Swarga, or paradise.
Even
the caste of Brahmacharyas, who take vows of chastity, but take a
part
and interest in worldly life--and so are the unique lay-celibates
of
India--are bound to adopt sons. The rest of the Hindus must remain
in
matrimony till the age of forty; after which they earn the right to
leave
the world, and to seek salvation, leading an ascetic life in some
jungle.
If a member of some Hindu family happens to be afflicted from
birth
with some organic defect, this will not be an impediment to his
marrying,
on the condition that his wife should be also a cripple, if
she
belongs to the same caste. The defects of husband and wife must be
different:
if he is blind, she must be hump-backed or lame, and vice
versa.
But if the young man in question is prejudiced, and wants a
healthy
wife, he must condescend to make a mesalliance; he must stoop to
choose
a wife in a caste that is exactly one degree lower than his own.
But
in this case his kinsmen and associates will not acknowledge her;
the
parvenue will not be received on any conditions whatever. Besides,
all
these exceptional instances depend entirely on the family Guru--on
the
priest who is inspired by the gods.
All
the above holds good as far as the men are concerned; but with the
women
it is quite different.
Only
the nautches--dancing girls consecrated to gods, and living
in
temples--can be said to be free and happy. Their occupation is
hereditary,
but they are vestals and daughters of vestals, however
strange
this may sound to a European ear. But the notions of the Hindus,
especially
on questions of morality, are quite independent, and even
anti-Western,
if I may use this expression. No one is more severe
and
exacting in the questions of feminine honor and chastity; but the
Brahmans
proved to be more cunning than even the Roman augurs. Rhea
Sylvia,
for instance, the mother of Romulus and Remus, was buried alive
by
the ancient Romans, in spite of the god Mars taking an active part in
her
faux pas. Numa and Tiberius took exceedingly good care that the good
morals
of their priestesses should not become merely nominal. But the
vestals
on the banks of the
differently
from those on the banks of the
nautch-girls
with the gods, which is generally accepted, cleanses them
from
every sin and makes them in every one's eyes irreproachable
and
infallible. A nautcha cannot sin, in spite of the crowd of the
"celestial
musicians" who swarm in every pagoda, in the form of
baby-vestals
and their little brothers. No virtuous Roman matron was
ever
so respected as the pretty little nautcha. This great reverence
for
the happy "brides of the gods" is especially striking in the purely
native
towns of
their
blind faith in the Brahmans.
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Every
nautcha can read, and receives the highest Hindu education. They
all
read and write in Sanskrit, and study the best literature of ancient
dancing.
Besides these "godborn" priestesses of the pagodas, there are
also
public nautches, who, like the Egyptian almeas, are within the
reach
of ordinary mortals, not only of gods; they also are in most cases
women
of a certain culture.
But
the fate of an honest woman of Hindostan is quite different; and a
bitter
and incredibly unjust fate it is. The life of a thoroughly good
woman,
especially if she happens to possess warm faith and unshaken
piety,
is simply a long chain of fatal misfortunes. And the higher her
family
and social position, the more wretched is her life. Married women
are
so afraid of resembling the professional dancing girls, that they
cannot
be persuaded to learn anything the latter are taught. If a
Brahman
woman is rich her life is spent in demoralizing idleness; if
she
is poor, so much the worse, her earthly existence is concentrated
in
monotonous performances of mechanical rites. There is no past, and no
future
for her; only a tedious present, from which there is no possible
escape.
And this only if everything be well, if her family be not
visited
by sad losses. Needless to say that, amongst Brahman women,
marriage
is not a question of free choice, and still less of affection.
Her
choice of a husband is restricted by the caste to which her father
and
mother happen to belong; and so, to find a suitable match for a girl
is
a matter of great difficulty, as well as of great expense. In India,
the
high-caste woman is not bought, but she has to buy the right to get
married.
Accordingly, the birth of a girl is not a joy, but a sorrow,
especially
if her parents are not rich. She must be married not later
than
when she is seven or eight; a little girl of ten is an old maid in
India,
she is a discredit to her parents and is the miser-able butt of
all
her more fortunate contemporaries.
One
of the few noble achievements of Englishmen in India which have
succeeded
is the decrease of infanticide, which some time ago was a
daily
practice, and still is not quite got rid of. Little girls were
killed
by their parents everywhere in India; but this dreadful custom
was
especially common amongst the tribes of Jadej, once so powerful in
Sindh,
and now reduced to petty brigandage. Probably these tribes were
the
first to spread this heartless practice. Obligatory marriage for
little
girls is a comparatively recent invention, and it alone is
responsible
for the parents' decision rather to see them dead than
unmarried.
The ancient Aryans knew nothing of it. Even the ancient
Brahmanical
literature shows that, amongst the pure Aryans, woman
enjoyed
the same privileges as man. Her voice was listened to by the
statesmen;
she was free either to choose a husband, or to remain single.
Many
a woman's name plays an important part in the chronicles of the
ancient
Aryan land; many women have come down to posterity as eminent
poets,
astronomers, philosophers, and even sages and lawyers.
But
with the invasion of the Persians, in the seventh century, and later
on
of the fanatical, all-destroying Mussulmans, all this changed. Woman
became
enslaved, and the Brahmans did everything to humiliate her.
In
towns, the position of the Hindu woman is still worse than amongst
agricultural
classes.
The
wedding ceremonies are very complicated and numerous. They are
divided
into three groups: the rites before the wedding; the rites
during
the ceremony; and the rites after the celebration has taken
place.
The first group consists of eleven ceremonies: the asking in
marriage;
the comparison of the two horoscopes; the sacrifice of a goat;
the
fixing of a propitious day; the building of the altar; the purchase
of
the sacred pots for household use; the invitation of guests; the
sacrifices
to the household gods; mutual presents and so on. All this
must
be accomplished as a religious duty, and is full of entangled
rites.
As soon as a little girl in some Hindu family is four years old,
her
father and mother send for the family Guru, give him her horoscope,
drawn
up previously by the astrologer of their caste (a very important
post),
and send the Guru to this or that inhabitant of the place who is
known
to have a son of appropriate age. The father of the little boy has
to
put the horoscope on the altar before the family gods and to answer:
"I
am well disposed towards the Panigrhana; let Rudra help us." The Guru
must
ask when the union is to take place, after which he is bowed out.
A
few days later the father of the little boy takes the horoscope of his
son
as well as of the little girl to the chief astrologer. If the latter
finds
them propitious to the intended marriage, it will take place; if
not,
his decision is immediately sent to the father of the little
girl,
and the whole affair is dropped. If the astrologer's opinion is
favorable,
however, the bargain is concluded on the spot. The astrologer
offers
a cocoa-nut and a handful of sugar to the father, after which
nothing
can be altered; otherwise a Hindu vendetta will be handed down
from
generation to generation. After the obligatory goat-sacrifice, the
couple
are irrevocably betrothed, and the astrologer fixes the day of
the
wedding.
The
sacrifice of the goat is very interesting, so I am going to describe
it
in detail.
A
child of the male sex is sent to invite several married ladies, old
women
of twenty or twenty-five, to witness the worship of the Lares and
Penates.
Each family has a household goddess of its own--which is not
impossible,
since the Hindu gods number thirty-three crores. On the eve
of
the sacrificial day, a kid is brought into the house, and all the
family
sleep round him. Next morning, the reception hall in the lower
story
is made ready for the ceremony. The floor is thickly covered with
cow-dung,
and, right in the middle of the room a square is traced with
white
chalk, in which is placed a high pedestal, with the statue of the
goddess.
The patriarch of the family brings the goat, and, holding him
by
the horns, lowers his head to salute the goddess. After this, the
"old"
and young women sing marriage hymns, tie the legs of the goat,
cover
his head with red powder, and make a lamp smoke under his nose,
to
banish the evil spirits from round him. When all this is done, the
female
element puts itself out of the way, and the patriarch comes again
upon
the stage. He treacherously puts a ration of rice before the goat,
and
as soon as the victim becomes innocently absorbed in gratifying his
appetite,
the old man chops his head off with a single stroke of his
sword,
and bathes the goddess in the smoking blood coming from the head
of
the animal, which he holds in his right arm, over the idol. The women
sing
in chorus, and the ceremony of betrothal is over.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
The
ceremonies with the astrologers, and the exchange of presents,
are
too long to be described. I shall mention only, that in all these
ceremonies
the astrologer plays the double part of an augur and a family
lawyer.
After a general invocation to the elephant-headed god Ganesha,
the
marriage contract is written on the reverse of the horoscopes and
sealed,
and a general blessing is pronounced over the assembly.
Needless
to say that all these ceremonies had been accomplished long ago
in
the family to whose marriage party we were invited in Bagh. All these
rites
are sacred, and most probably we, being mere strangers, would
not
have been allowed to witness them. We saw them all later on in
Benares--thanks
to the intercession of our Babu.
When
we arrived on the spot, where the Bagh cere-mony was celebrated,
the
festivity was at its height. The bridegroom was not more than
fourteen
years old, while the bride was only ten. Her small nose was
adorned
with a huge golden ring with some very brilliant stone, which
dragged
her nostril down. Her face looked comically piteous, and
sometimes
she cast furtive glances at us. The bridegroom, a stout,
healthy-looking
boy, attired in cloth of gold and wearing the many
storied
Indra hat, was on horseback, surrounded by a whole crowd of male
relations.
The
altar, especially erected for this occasion, presented a queer
sight.
Its regulation height is three times the length of the bride's
arm
from the shoulder down to the middle finger. Its materials are
bricks
and white-washed clay. Forty-six earthen pots painted with
red,
yellow and green stripes--the colors of the Trimurti--rose in two
pyramids
on both sides of the "god of marriages" on the altar, and all
round
it a crowd of little married girls were busy grinding ginger.
When
it was reduced to powder the whole crowd rushed on the bridegroom,
dragged
him from his horse, and, having undressed him, began rubbing him
with
wet ginger. As soon as the sun dried him he was dressed again by
some
of the little ladies, whilst one part of them sang and the other
sprinkled
his head with water from lotus leaves twisted into tubes. We
understood
that this was a delicate attention to the water gods.
We
were also told that the whole of the previous night had been given up
to
the worship of various spirits. The last rites, begun weeks ago,
were
hurriedly brought to an end during this last night. Invocations to
Ganesha,
to the god of marriages; to the gods of the elements, water,
fire,
air and earth; to the goddess of the smallpox and other illnesses;
to
the spirits of ancestors and planetary spirits, to the evil spirits,
good
spirits, family spirits, and so on, and so on. Suddenly our ears
were
struck by strains of music.... Good heavens! what a dreadful
symphony
it was! The ear-splitting sounds of Indian tom-toms, Tibetan
drunis,
Singalese pipes, Chinese trumpets, and Burmese gongs deafened us
on
all sides, awakening in our souls hatred for humanity and humanity's
inventions.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
"De
tous les bruits du monde celui de la musique est le plus
desagreable!"
was my ever-recurring thought. Happily, this agony did
not
last long, and was replaced by the choral singing of Brahmans and
nautches,
which was very original, but perfectly bearable. The wedding
was
a rich one, and so the "vestals" appeared in state. A moment of
silence,
of restrained whispering, and one of them, a tall, handsome
girl
with eyes literally filling half her forehead, began approaching
one
guest after the other in perfect silence, and rubbing their faces
with
her hand, leaving traces of sandal and saffron powders. She glided
towards
us also, noiselessly moving over the dusty road with her bare
feet;
and before we realized what she was doing she had daubed me as
well
as the colonel and Miss X----, which made the latter sneeze and
wipe
her face for at least ten minutes, with loud but vain utterances of
indignation.
The
Babu and Mulji offered their faces to the little hand, full of
saffron,
with smiles of condescending generosity. But the indomitable
Narayan
shrank from the vestal so unexpectedly at the precise moment
when,
with fiery glances at him, she stood on tiptoe to reach his face,
that
she quite lost countenance and sent a full dose of powder over his
shoulder,
whilst he turned away from her with knitted brow. Her forehead
also
showed several threatening lines, but in a moment she overcame her
anger
and glided towards Ram-Runjit-Das, sparkling with engaging
smiles.
But here she met with still less luck; offended at once in his
monotheism
and his chastity, the "God's warrior" pushed the vestal so
unceremoniously
that she nearly upset the elaborate pot-decoration of
the
altar. A dissatisfied murmur ran through the crowd, and we were
preparing
to be condemned to shameful banishment for the sins of the
warlike
Sikh, when the drums sounded again and the procession moved
on.
In front of everyone drove the trumpeters and the drummers in a car
gilded
from top to bottom, and dragged by bullocks loaded with garlands
of
flowers; next after them walked a whole detachment of pipers, and
then
a third body of musicians on horseback, who frantically hammered
huge
gongs. After them proceeded the cortege of the bridegroom's and
the
bride's relations on horses adorned with rich harness, feathers and
flowers;
they went in pairs. They were followed by a regiment of Bhils
in
full disarmour--because no weapons but bows and arrows had been left
to
them by the English Government. All these Bhils looked as if they had
tooth-ache,
because of the odd way they have of arranging the ends of
their
white pagris. After them walked clerical Brahmans, with aromatic
tapers
in their hands and surrounded by the flitting battalion of
nautches,
who amused themselves all the way by graceful glissades and
pas.
They were followed by the lay Brahmans--the "twice born." The
bridegroom
rode on a handsome horse; on both sides walked two couples
of
warriors, armed with yaks' tails to wave the flies away. They
were
accompanied by two more men on each side with silver fans. The
bridegroom's
group was wound up by a naked Brahman, perched on a donkey
and
holding over the head of the boy a huge red silk umbrella. After him
a
car loaded with a thousand cocoa-nuts and a hundred bamboo baskets,
tied
together by a red rope. The god who looks after marriages drove in
melancholy
isolation on the vast back of an elephant, whose mahout
led
him by a chain of flowers. Our humble party modestly advanced just
behind
the elephant's tail.
The
performance of rites on the way seemed endless.
We
had to stop before every tree, every pagoda, every sacred tank and
bush,
and at last before a sacred cow. When we came back to the house
of
the bride it was four in the afternoon, and we had started a little
after
six in the morning. We all were utterly exhausted, and Miss X----
literally
threatened to fall asleep on her feet. The indignant Sikh
had
left us long ago, and had persuaded Mr. Y---- and Mulji--whom the
colonel
had nicknamed the "mute general"--to keep him company. Our
respected
president was bathed in his own perspiration, and even Narayan
the
unchangeable yawned and sought consolation in a fan. But the Babu
was
simply astonishing. After a nine hours' walk under the sun, with his
head
unprotected, he looked fresher than ever, without a drop of sweat
on
his dark satin-like forehead. He showed his white teeth in an eternal
smile,
and chaffed us all, reciting the "Diamond Wedding" of Steadman.
We
struggled against our fatigue in our desire to wit-ness the last
ceremony,
after which the woman is forever cut off from the external
world.
It was just going to begin; and we kept our eyes and ears wide
open.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
The
bridegroom and the bride were placed before the altar. The
officiating
Brahman tied their hands with some kus-kus grass, and led
them
three times round the altar. Then their hands were untied, and the
Brahman
mumbled a mantram. When he had finished, the boy husband lifted
his
diminutive bride and carried her three times round the altar in his
arms,
then again three turns round the altar, but the boy preceding the
girl,
and she following him like an obedient slave. When this was over,
the
bridegroom was placed on a high chair by the entrance door, and the
bride
brought a basin of water, took off his shoes, and, having washed
his
feet, wiped them with her long hair. We learned that this was a very
ancient
custom. On the right side of the bridegroom sat his mother. The
bride
knelt before her also, and, having performed the same operation
over
her feet, she retired to the house. Then her mother came out of the
crowd
and repeated the same ceremony, but without using her hair as a
towel.
The young couple were married. The drums and the tom-toms rolled
once
more; and half-deaf we started for home.----
In
the tent we found the Akali in the middle of a sermon, delivered for
the
edification of the "mute general" and Mr. Y----. He was explaining
to
them the advantages of the Sikh religion, and comparing it with the
faith
of the "devil-worshipers," as he called the Brahmans.
It
was too late to go to the caves, and, besides, we had had enough
sights
for one day. So we sat down to rest, and to listen to the words
of
wisdom falling from the lips of the "God's warrior." In my humble
opinion,
he was right in more than one thing; in his most imaginative
moments
Satan himself could not have invented anything more unjust
and
more refinedly cruel than what was invented by these "twice-born"
egotists
in their relation to the weaker sex. An unconditioned civil
death
awaits her in case of widowhood--even if this sad fate befalls
her
when she is two or three years old. It is of no importance for the
Brahmans
if the marriage never actually took place; the goat sacrifice,
at
which the personal presence of the little girl is not even
required--she
being represented by the wretched victim--is considered
binding
for her. As for the man, not only is he permitted to have
several
lawful wives at a time, but he is even required by the law to
marry
again if his wife dies. Not to be unjust, I must mention that,
with
the exception of some vicious and depraved Rajas, we never heard
of
a Hindu availing himself of this privilege, and having more than one
wife.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
At
the present time, the whole of orthodox
struggle
in favor of the remarriage of widows. This agitation was begun
in
ten
years since Mulji-Taker-Sing and others raised this question; but
we
know only of three or four men who have dared as yet to marry widows.
This
struggle is carried on in silence and secrecy, but nevertheless it
is
fierce and obstinate.
In
the meanwhile, the fate of the widow is what the Brahmans wish it to
be.
As soon as the corpse of her husband is burned the widow must shave
her
head, and never let it grow again as long as she lives. Her bangles,
necklaces
and rings are broken to pieces and burned, together with her
hair
and her husband's remains. During the rest of her life she must
wear
nothing but white if she was less than twenty-five at her husband's
death,
and red if she was older. Temples, religious ceremonies, society,
are
closed to her for ever. She has no right to speak to any of her
relations,
and no right to eat with them. She sleeps, eats and works
separately;
her touch is considered impure for seven years. If a man,
going
out on business, meets a widow, he goes home again, abandoning
every
pursuit, because to see a widow is accounted an evil omen.
In
the past all this was seldom practised, and concerned only the rich
widows,
who refused to be burned; but now, since the Brahmans have
been
caught in the false interpretation of the Vedas, with the criminal
intention
of appropriating the widows' wealth, they insist on the
fulfilment
of this cruel precept, and make what once was the exception
the
rule. They are powerless against British law, and so they revenge
themselves
on the innocent and helpless women, whom fate has deprived of
their
natural protectors. Professor Wilson's demonstration of the means
by
which the Brahmans distorted the sense of the Vedas, in order to
justify
the practice of widow-burning, is well worth mentioning. During
the
many centuries that this terrible practice prevailed, the Brahmans
had
appealed to a certain Vedic text for their justification, and had
claimed
to be rigidly fulfilling the institutes of Manu, which contain
for
them the interpretation of Vedic law. When the East India Company's
Government
first turned its attention to the suppression of suttee,
the
whole country, from Cape Comorin to the Himalayas, rose in protest,
under
the influence of the Brahmans. "The English promised not to
interfere
in our religious affairs, and they must keep their word!" was
the
general outcry. Never was India so near revolution as in those days.
The
English saw the danger and gave up the task. But Professor Wilson,
the
best Sanskritist of the time, did not consider the battle lost. He
applied
himself to the study of the most ancient MSS., and gradually
became
convinced that the alleged precept did not exist in the
Vedas;
though in the Laws of Manu it was quite distinct, and had been
translated
accordingly by T. Colebrooke and other Orientalists. An
attempt
to prove to the fanatic population that Manu's interpretation
was
wrong would have been equivalent to an attempt to reduce water to
powder.
So
the
Vedas with the text of this law-giver. This was the result of his
labors:
the Rig Veda orders the Brahman to place the widow side by side
with
the corpse, and then, after the performance of certain rites, to
lead
her down from the funeral pyre and to sing the following verse from
Grhya
Sutra:
Arise, O woman! return to the world of
the living!
Having gone to sleep by the dead, awake
again!
Long enough thou hast been a faithful
wife
To the one who made thee mother of his
children.
Then
those present at the burning were to rub their eyes with collyrium,
and
the Brahman to address to them the following verse:
Approach, you married women, not
widows,
With your husbands bring ghi and
butter.
Let the mothers go up to the womb
first,
Dressed in festive garments and costly
adornments.
The
line before the last was misinterpreted by the Brahmans in the most
skillful
way. In Sanskrit it reads as follows:
Arohantu janayo yonim agre.....
Yonina
agre literally means to the womb first. Having changed only
one
letter of the last word agre, "first," in Sanskrit [script], the
Brahmans
wrote instead agneh, "fire's," in Sanskrit [script], and so
acquired
the right to send the wretched widows yonina agneh--to the womb
of
fire. It is difficult to find on the face of the world another such
fiendish
deception.
The
Vedas never permitted the burning of the widows, and there is a
place
in Taittiriya-Aranyaka, of the Yajur Veda, where the brother of
the
deceased, or his disciple, or even a trusted friend, is recommended
to
say to the widow, whilst the pyre is set on fire: "Arise, O woman! do
not
lie down any more beside the lifeless corpse; return to the world
of
the living, and become the wife of the one who holds you by the hand,
and
is willing to be your husband." This verse shows that during the
Vedic
period the remarriage of widows was allowed. Besides, in several
places
in the ancient books, pointed out to us by Swami Dayanand, we
found
orders to the widows "to keep the ashes of the husband for several
months
after his death and to perform over them certain final rituals."
However,
in spite of the scandal created by Professor Wilson's
discovery,
and of the fact that the Brahmans were put to shame before
the
double authority of the Vedas and of Manu, the custom of centuries
proved
so strong that some pious Hindu women still burn themselves
whenever
they can. Not more than two years ago the four widows of
Yung-Bahadur,
the chief minister of
had
no right to interfere.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
The
Caves Of Bagh
At
four o'clock in the morning we crossed the Vagrey and Girna, or
rather,
comme coloris local, Shiva and Parvati. Probably, following the
bad
example of the average mortal husband and wife, this divine couple
were
engaged in a quarrel, even at this early hour of the day. They were
frightfully
rough, and our ferry, striking on something at the bottom,
nearly
upset us into the cold embrace of the god and his irate better
half.
Like
all the cave temples of India, the Bagh caverns are dug out in the
middle
of a vertical rock--with the intention, as it seems to me, of
testing
the limits of human patience. Taking into consideration that
such
a height does not prevent either glamour or tigers reaching the
caves,
I cannot help thinking that the sole aim of the ascetic
builders
was to tempt weak mortals into the sin of irritation by the
inaccessibility
of their airy abodes. Seventy-two steps, cut out in the
rock,
and covered with thorny weeds and moss, are the beginning of the
ascent
to the Bagh caves. Footmarks worn in the stone through centuries
spoke
of the numberless pilgrims who had come here before us. The
roughness
of the steps, with deep holes here and there, and thorns,
added
attractions to this ascent; join to this a number of mountain
springs
exuding through the pores of the stone, and no one will be
astonished
if I say that we simply felt faint under the weight of
life
and our archeological difficulties. The Babu, who, taking off his
slippers,
scampered over the thorns as unconcernedly as if he had hoofs
instead
of vulnerable human heels, laughed at the "helplessness of
Europeans,"
and only made us feel worse.
But
on reaching the top of the mountain we stopped grumbling, realizing
at
the first glance that we should receive our reward. We saw a whole
enfilade
of dark caves, through regular square openings, six feet wide.
We
felt awestruck with the gloomy majesty of this deserted temple. There
was
a curious ceiling over the square platform that once served as a
verandah;
there was also a portico with broken pillars hanging over
our
heads; and two rooms on each side, one with a broken image of some
flat-nosed
goddess, the other containing a Ganesha; but we did not
stop
to examine all this in detail. Ordering the torches to be lit, we
stepped
into the first hall.
A
damp breath as of the tomb met us. At our first word we all shivered:
a
hollow, prolonged echoing howl, dying away in the distance, shook
the
ancient vaults and made us all lower our voices to a whisper. The
torch-bearers
shrieked "Devi!... Devi!..." and, kneeling in the dust,
performed
a fervent puja in honor of the voice of the invisible goddess
of
the caves, in spite of the angry protestations of Narayan and of the
"God's
warrior."
The
only light of the temple came from the entrance, and so two-thirds
of
it looked still gloomier by contrast. This hall, or the central
temple,
is very spacious, eighty--four feet square, and sixteen feet
high.
Twenty-four massive pillars form a square, six pillars at each
side,
including the corner ones, and four in the middle to prop up the
centre
of the ceiling; otherwise it could not be kept from falling,
as
the mass of the mountain which presses on it from the top is much
greater
than in Karli or Elephanta.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
There
are at least three different styles in the architecture of
these
pillars. Some of them are grooved in spirals, gradually and
imperceptibly
changing from round to sixteen sided, then octagonal and
square.
Others, plain for the first third of their height, gradually
finished
under the ceiling by a most elaborate display of ornamentation,
which
reminds one of the Corinthian style. The third with a square
plinth
and semi-circular friezes. Taking it all in all, they made a most
original
and graceful picture. Mr. Y----, an architect by profession,
assured
us that he never saw anything more striking. He said he could
not
imagine by the aid of what instruments the ancient builders could
accomplish
such wonders.
The
construction of the Bagh caves, as well as of all the cave temples
of
India, whose history is lost in the darkness of time, is ascribed by
the
European archeologists to the Buddhists, and by the native tradition
to
the Pandu brothers. Indian paleography protests in every one of its
new
discoveries against the hasty conclusions of the Orientalists.
And
much may be said against the intervention of Buddhists in this
particular
case. But I shall indicate only one particular. The theory
which
declares that all the cave temples of India are of Buddhist origin
is
wrong. The Orientalists may insist as much as they choose on the
hypothesis
that the Buddhists became again idol-worshipers; it will
explain
nothing, and contradicts the history of both Buddhists and
Brahmans.
The Brahmans began persecuting and banishing the Buddhists
precisely
because they had begun a crusade against idol-worship. The
few
Buddhist communities who remained in India and deserted the pure,
though,
maybe--for a shallow observer--somewhat atheistic teachings
of
Gautama Siddhartha, never joined Brahmanism, but coalesced with the
Jainas,
and gradually became absorbed in them. Then why not suppose that
if,
amongst hundreds of Brahmanical gods, we find one statue of Buddha,
it
only shows that the masses of half-converts to Buddhism added this
new
god to the ancient Brahmanical temple. This would be much more
sensible
than to think that the Buddhists of the two centuries before
and
after the beginning of the Christian era dared to fill their temples
with
idols, in defiance of the spirit of the reformer Gau-tama. The
figures
of Buddha are easily discerned in the swarm of heathen gods;
their
position is always the same, and the palm of its right hand is
always
turned upwards, blessing the worshipers with two fingers. We
examined
almost every remarkable vihara of the so-called Buddhist
temples,
and never met with one statue of Buddha which could not have
been
added in a later epoch than the construction of the temple; it does
not
matter whether it was a year or a thousand years later. Not being
perfectly
self-confident in this matter, we always took the opinion of
Mr.
Y----, who, as I said before, was an experienced architect; and he
invariably
came to the conclusion that the Brahmanical idols formed a
harmonic
and genuine part of the whole, pillars, decorations, and
the
general style of the temple; whereas the statue of Buddha was an
additional
and discordant patch. Out of thirty or forty caves of Ellora,
all
filled with idols, there is only one, the one called the
of
the Tri-Lokas, which contains nothing but statues of Buddha, and
of
Ananda, his favourite disciple. Of course, in this case it would be
perfectly
right to think it is a Buddhist vihara.
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
Most
probably, some of the Russian archeologists will protest against
the
opinions I maintain, that is to say, the opinions of the Hindu
archeologists,
and will treat me as an ignoramus, outraging science. In
self-defence,
and in order to show how unstable a ground to base one's
opinions
upon are the conclusions even of such a great authority as Mr.
Fergusson,
I must mention the following instance. This great architect,
but
very mediocre archeologist, proclaimed at the very beginning of
his
scientific career that "all the cave temples of Kanara, without
exception,
were built between the fifth and the tenth centuries." This
theory
became generally accepted, when suddenly Dr. Bird found a brass
plate
in a certain Kanara monument, called a tope. The plate announced
in
pure and distinct Sanskrit that this tope was erected as a homage
to
the old temple, at the beginning of 245 of the Hindu astronomical
(Samvat)
era. According to Prinsep and Dr. Stevenson, this date
coincides
with 189 A.D., and so it clearly settles the question of when
the
tope was built. But the question of the antiquity of the temple
itself
still remains open, though the inscription states that it was
an
old temple in 189 A.D., and contradicts the above-quoted opinion of
Fergusson.
However, this important discovery failed to shake Fergusson's
equanimity.
For him, ancient inscriptions are of no importance, because,
as
he says, "the antiquity of ruins must not be fixed on the basis
of
inscriptions, but on the basis of certain architectural canons and
rules,"
discovered by Mr. Fergusson in person. Fiat hypothesis, ruat
coelum!
And
now I shall return to my narrative.
Straight
before the entrance a door leads to another hall, which is
oblong,
with hexagonal pillars and niches, containing statues in a
tolerable
state of preservation; goddesses ten feet and gods nine feet
high.
After this hall there is a room with an altar, which is a regular
hexagon,
having sides each three feet long, and protected by a cupola
cut
in the rock. Nobody was admitted here, except the initiates of the
mysteries
of the adytum. All round this room there are about twenty
priests'
cells. Absorbed in the examination of the altar, we did not
notice
the absence of the colonel, till we heard his loud voice in the
distance
calling to us:
"I
have found a secret passage.... Come along, let us find where it
leads
to!"
Torch
in hand, the colonel was far ahead of us, and very eager to
proceed;
but each of us had a little plan of his own, and so we were
reluctant
to obey his summons. The Babu took upon himself to answer for
the
whole party:
"Take
care, colonel. This passage leads to the den of the glamour....
Mind
the tigers!"
But
once fairly started on the way to discoveries, our president was not
to
be stopped. Nolens volens we followed him.
He
was right; he had made a discovery; and on entering the cell we saw
a
most unexpected tableau. By the opposite wall stood two torch-bearers
with
their flaming torches, as motionless as if they were transformed
into
stone caryatides; and from the wall, about five feet above the
ground,
protruded two legs clad in white trousers. There was no body to
them;
the body had disappeared, and but that the legs were shaken by
a
convulsive effort to move on, we might have thought that the wicked
goddess
of this place had cut the colonel into two halves, and having
caused
the upper half instantly to evaporate, had stuck the lower half
to
the wall, as a kind of trophy.
"What
is become of you, Mr. President? Where are you?" were our alarmed
questions.
Instead
of an answer, the legs were convulsed still more violently,
and
soon disappeared completely, after which we heard the voice of the
colonel,
as if coming through a long tube:
"A
room... a secret cell.... Be quick! I see a whole row of rooms....
Confound
it! my torch is out! Bring some matches and another torch!" But
this
was easier said than done. The torch-bearers refused to go on;
as
it was, they were already frightened out of their wits. Miss X----
glanced
with apprehension at the wall thickly covered with soot and then
at
her pretty gown. Mr. Y---- sat down on a broken pillar and said he
would
go no farther, preferring to have a quiet smoke in the company of
the
timid torch-bearers.
There
were several vertical steps cut in the wall; and on the floor we
saw
a large stone of such a curiously irregular shape that it struck
me
that it could not be natural. The quick-eyed Babu was not long in
discovering
its peculiarities, and said he was sure "it was the stopper
of
the secret passage." We all hurried to examine the stone most
minutely,
and discovered that, though it imitated as closely as possible
the
irregularity of the rock, its under surface bore evident traces of
workmanship
and had a kind of hinge to be easily moved. The hole was
about
three feet high, but not more than two feet wide.
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The
muscular "God's warrior" was the first to follow the colonel. He was
so
tall that when he stood on a broken pillar the opening came down to
the
middle of his breast, and so he had no difficulty in transporting
himself
to the upper story. The slender Babu joined him with a single
monkey-like
jump. Then, with the Akali pulling from above and Narayan
pushing
from below, I safely made the passage, though the narrowness of
the
hole proved most disagreeable, and the roughness of the rock
left
considerable traces on my hands. However trying archeological
explorations
may be for a person afflicted by an unusually fine
presence,
I felt perfectly confident that with two such Hercules-like
helpers
as Narayan and Ram-Runjit-Das the ascent of the Himalayas would
be
perfectly possible for me. Miss X---- came next, under the escort of
Mulji,
but Mr. Y---- stayed behind.
The
secret cell was a room of twelve feet square. Straight above the
black
hole in the floor there was another in the ceiling, but this time
we
did not discover any "stopper." The cell was perfectly empty with
the
exception of black spiders as big as crabs. Our apparition,
and
especially the bright light of the torches, maddened them;
panic-stricken
they ran in hundreds over the walls, rushed down, and
tumbled
on our heads, tearing their thin ropes in their inconsiderate
haste.
The first movement of Miss X---- was to kill as many as she
could.
But the four Hindus protested strongly and unanimously. The old
lady
remonstrated in an offended voice:
"I
thought that at least you, Mulji, were a reformer, but you are as
superstitious
as any idol-worshiper."
"Above
everything I am a Hindu," answered the "mute general." "And
the
Hindus,
as you know, consider it sinful before nature and before their
own
consciences to kill an animal put to flight by the strength of man,
be
it even poisonous. As to the spiders, in spite of their ugliness,
they
are perfectly harmless."
"I
am sure all this is because you think you will transmigrate into a
black
spider!" she replied, her nostrils trembling with anger.
"I
cannot say I do," retorted Mulji; "but if all the English ladies are
as
unkind as you I should rather be a spider than an Englishman."
This
lively answer coming from the usually taciturn Mulji was
so
unexpected that we could not help laugh-ing. But to our great
discomfiture
Miss X---- was seriously angry, and, under pretext of
giddiness,
said she would rejoin Mr. Y---- below.
Her
constant bad spirits were becoming trying for our cosmopolitan
little
party, and so we did not press her to stay.
As
to us we climbed through the second opening, but this time under the
leadership
of Narayan. He disclosed to us that this place was not new to
him;
he had been here before, and confided to us that similar rooms, one
on
the top of the other, go up to the summit of the mountain. Then,
he
said, they take a sudden turn, and descend gradually to a whole
underground
palace, which is sometimes temporarily inhabited. Wishing
to
leave the world for a while and to spend a few days in isolation, the
Raj-Yogis
find perfect solitude in this underground abode. Our president
looked
askance at Narayan through his spectacles, but did not find
anything
to say. The Hindus also received this information in perfect
silence.
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The
second cell was exactly like the first one; we easily discovered the
hole
in its ceiling, and reached the third cell. There we sat down for a
while.
I felt that breathing was becoming difficult to me, but I thought
I
was simply out of breath and tired, and so did not mention to my
companions
that anything was wrong. The passage to the fourth cell was
almost
stopped by earth mixed with little stones, and the gentlemen of
the
party were busy clearing it out for about twenty minutes. Then we
reached
the fourth cell.
Narayan
was right, the cells were one straight over the other, and the
floor
of the one formed the ceiling of the other. The fourth cell was
in
ruins. Two broken pillars lying one on the other presented a very
convenient
stepping-stone to the fifth story. But the colonel stopped
our
zeal by saying that now was the time to smoke "the pipe of
deliberation"
after the fashion of red Indians.
"If
Narayan is not mistaken," he said, "this going up and up may
continue
till tomorrow morning."
"I
am not mistaken," said Narayan almost solemnly. But since my visit
here
I have heard that some of these passages were filled with earth,
so
that every communication is stopped; and, if I remember rightly, we
cannot
go further than the next story."
"In
that case there is no use trying to go any further. If the ruins are
so
shaky as to stop the passages, it would be dangerous for us."
"I
never said the passages were stopped by the hand of time.... They did
it
on purpose...."
"Who
they? Do you mean glamour?..."
"Colonel!"
said the Hindu with an effort. "Don't laugh at what I say.
...
I speak seriously."
"My
dear fellow, I assure you my intention is neither to offend you nor
to
ridicule a serious matter. I simply do not realize whom you mean when
you
say they."
"I
mean the brotherhood.... The Raj-Yogis. Some of them live quite close
to
here."
By
the dim light of the half-extinguished torches we saw that Narayan's
lips
trembled and that his face grew pale as he spoke. The colonel
coughed,
rearranged his spectacles and remained silent for a while.
"My
dear Narayan," at last said the colonel, "I do not want to believe
that
your intention is to make fun of our credulity. But I can't believe
either,
that you seriously mean to assure us that any living creature,
be
it an animal or an ascetic, could exist in a place where there is no
air.
I paid special attention to the fact, and so I am perfectly sure I
am
not mistaken: there is not a single bat in these cells, which shows
that
there is a lack of air. And just look at our torches! you see how
dim
they are growing. I am sure, that on climbing two or three more
rooms
like this, we should be suffocated!"
"And
in spite of all these facts, I speak the truth," repeated Narayan.
"The
caves further on are inhabited by them. And I have seen them with
my
own eyes."
The
colonel grew thoughtful, and stood glancing at the ceiling in a
perplexed
and undecided way. We all kept silent, breathing heavily.
"Let
us go back!" suddenly shouted the Akali. "My nose is bleeding."
At
this very moment I felt a strange and unexpected sensation, and
I
sank heavily on the ground. In a second I felt an indescribably
delicious,
heavenly sense of rest, in spite of a dull pain beating in my
temples.
I vaguely realized that I had really fainted, and that I should
die
if not taken out into the open air. I could not lift my finger; I
could
not utter a sound; and, in spite of it, there was no fear in my
soul--nothing
but an apathetic, but indescribably sweet feeling of rest,
and
a complete inactivity of all the senses except hearing. A moment
came
when even this sense forsook me, because I remember that I listened
with
imbecile intentness to the dead silence around me. Is this death?
was
my indistinct wondering thought. Then I felt as if mighty wings
were
fanning me. "Kind wings, caressing, kind wings!" were the recurring
words
in my brain, like the regular movements of a pendulum, and
interiorily
under an unreasoning impulse, I laughed at these words. Then
I
experienced a new sensation: I rather knew than felt that I was lifted
from
the floor, and fell down and down some unknown precipice, amongst
the
hollow rollings of a distant thunder-storm. Suddenly a loud voice
resounded
near me. And this time I think I did not hear, but felt it.
There
was something palpable in this voice, something that instantly
stopped
my helpless descent, and kept me from falling any further.
This
was a voice I knew well, but whose voice it was I could not in my
weakness
remember.
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In
what way I was dragged through all these narrow holes will remain an
eternal
mystery for me. I came to myself on the verandah below, fanned
by
fresh breezes, and as suddenly as I had fainted above in the impure
air
of the cell. When I recovered completely the first thing I saw was
a
powerful figure clad in white, with a raven black Rajput beard,
anxiously
leaning over me. As soon as I recognized the owner of this
beard,
I could not abstain from expressing my feelings by a joyful
exclamation:
"Where do you come from?" It was our friend Takur
Gulab-Lal-Sing,
who, having promised to join us in the North-West
Provinces,
now appeared to us in Bagh, as if falling from the sky or
coming
out of the ground.
But
my unfortunate accident, and the pitiable state of the rest of
the
daring explorers, were enough to stop any further questions and
expressions
of astonishment. On one side of me the frightened Miss
X----,
using my nose as a cork for her sal-volatile bottle; on the other
the
"God's warrior" covered with blood as if returning from a battle
with
the Afghans; further on, poor Mulji with a dreadful headache.
Narayan
and the colonel, happily for our party, did not experience
anything
worse than a slight vertigo. As to the Babu, no carbonic acid
gas
could inconvenience his wonderful Bengali nature. He said he was
safe
and comfortable enough, but awfully hungry.
At
last the outpour of entangled exclamations and unintelligible
explanations
stopped, and I collected my thoughts and tried to
understand
what had happened to me in the cave. Narayan was the first to
notice
that I had fainted, and hastened to drag me back to the passage.
And
this very moment they all heard the voice of Gulab-Sing coming from
the
upper cell: "Tum-hare iha aneka kya kam tha?" "What on earth
brought
you
here?" Even before they recovered from their astonishment he ran
quickly
past them, and descending to the cell beneath called to them to
"pass
him down the bai" (sister). This "passing down" of such a solid
object
as my body, and the picture of the proceeding, vividly imagined,
made
me laugh heartily, and I felt sorry I had not been able to witness
it.
Handing him over their half-dead load, they hastened to join the
Takur;
but he contrived to do without their help, though how he did it
they
were at a loss to understand. By the time they succeeded in getting
through
one passage Gulab-Sing was already at the next one, in spite of
the
heavy burden he carried; and they never were in time to be of any
assistance
to him. The colonel, whose main feature is the tendency to go
into
the details of everything, could not conceive by what proceedings
the
Takur had managed to pass my almost lifeless body so rapidly through
all
these narrow holes.
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"He
could not have thrown her down the passage before going in himself,
for
every single bone of her body would have been broken," mused the
colonel.
"And it is still less possible to suppose that, descending
first
himself, he dragged her down afterwards. It is simply
incomprehensible!"
These
questions harassed him for a long time afterwards, until they
became
something like the puzzle: Which was created first, the egg or
the
bird?
As
to the Takur, when closely questioned, he shrugged his shoulders,
and
answered that he really did not remember. He said that he simply
did
whatever he could to get me out into the open air; that all our
traveling
companions were there to watch his proceedings; he was under
their
eyes all the time, and that in circumstances when every second is
precious
people do not think, but act.
But
all these questions arose only in the course of the day. As to the
time
directly after I was laid down on the verandah, there were other
things
to puzzle all our party; no one could understand how the Takur
happened
to be on the spot exactly when his help was most needed, nor
where
he came from--and everyone was anxious to know. On the verandah
they
found me lying on a carpet, with the Takur busy restoring me to my
senses,
and Miss X---- with her eyes wide open at the Takur, whom she
decidedly
believed to be a materialized ghost.
However,
the explanations our friend gave us seemed perfectly
satisfactory,
and at first did not strike us as unnatural. He was in
Hardwar
when Swami Dayanand sent us the letter which postponed our going
to
him. On arriving at Kandua by the Indore railway, he had visited
Holkar;
and, learning that we were so near, he decided to join us sooner
than
he had expected. He had come to Bagh yesterday evening, but knowing
that
we were to start for the caves early in the morning he went there
before
us, and simply was waiting for us in the caves.
"There
is the whole mystery for you," said he.
"The
whole mystery?" exclaimed the colonel. "Did you know, then,
beforehand
that we would discover the cells, or what?"
"No,
I did not. I simply went there myself because it is a long time
since
I saw them last. Examining them took me longer than I expected,
and
so I was too late to meet you at the entrance."
"Probably
the Takur-Sahib was enjoying the freshness of the air in the
cells,"
suggested the mischievous Babu, showing all his white teeth in a
broad
grin.
Our
president uttered an energetic exclamation. "Exactly! How on earth
did
I not think of that before?... You could not possibly have any
breathing
air in the cells above the one you found us in.... And,
besides,...
how did you reach the fifth cell, when the entrance of the
fourth
was nearly stopped and we had to dig it out?"
"There
are other passages leading to them. I know all the turns and
corridors
of these caves, and everyone is free to choose his way,"
answered
Gulab-Sing; and I thought I saw a look of intelligence pass
between
him and Narayan, who simply cowered under his fiery eyes.
"However,
let us go to the cave where breakfast is ready for us. Fresh
air
will do all of you good."
On
our way we met with another cave, twenty or thirty steps south from
the
verandah, but the Takur did not let us go in, fearing new accidents
for
us. So we descended the stone steps I have already mentioned,
and
after descending about two hundred steps towards the foot of the
mountain,
made a short reascent again and entered the "dining-room,"
as
the Babu denominated it. In my role of "interesting invalid," I was
carried
to it, sitting in my folding chair, which never left me in all
my
travels.
This
temple is much the less gloomy of the two, in spite of considerable
signs
of decay. The frescoes of the ceiling are better preserved than in
the
first temple. The walls, the tumbled down pillars, the ceiling, and
even
the interior rooms, which were lighted by ventilators cut through
the
rock, were once covered by a varnished stucco, the secret of
which
is now known only to the Madrasis, and which gives the rock the
appearance
of pure marble.
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We
were met by the Takur's four servants, whom we remembered since our
stay
in Karli, and who bowed down in the dust to greet us. The carpets
were
spread, and the breakfast ready. Every trace of carbonic acid had
left
our brains, and we sat down to our meal in the best of spirits.
Our
conversation soon turned to the Hardwar Mela, which our
unexpectedly-recovered
friend had left exactly five days ago. All the
information
we got from Gulab-Lal-Sing was so interesting that I wrote
it
down at the first opportunity.
After
a few weeks we visited Hardwar ourselves, and since I saw it, my
memory
has never grown tired of recalling the charming picture of its
lovely
situation. It is as near a primitive picture of earthly Paradise
as
anything that can be imagined.
Every
twelfth year, which the Hindus call Kumbha, the planet Jupiter
enters
the constellation of Aquarius, and this event is considered very
propitious
for the beginning of the religious fair; for which this day
is
accordingly fixed by the astrologers of the pagodas. This gathering
attracts
the representatives of all sects, as I said before, from
princes
and maharajas down to the last fakir. The former come for the
sake
of religious discussions, the latter, simply to plunge into the
waters
of Ganges at its very source, which must be done at a certain
propitious
hour, fixed also by the position of the stars.
Ganges
is a name invented in Europe. The natives always say Ganga, and
consider
this river to belong strictly to the feminine sex. Ganges is
sacred
in the eyes of the Hindus, because she is the most important of
all
the fostering goddesses of the country, and a daughter of the old
Himavat
(Himalaya), from whose heart she springs for the salvation of
the
people. That is why she is worshiped, and why the city of Hardwar,
built
at her very source, is so sacred.
Hardwar
is written Hari-avara, the doorway of the sun-god, or Krishna,
and
is also often called Gangadvara, the doorway of Ganga; there is
still
a third name of the same town, which is the name of a certain
ascetic
Kapela, or rather Kapila, who once sought salvation on this
spot,
and left many miraculous traditions.
The
town is situated in a charming flowery valley, at the foot of the
southern
slope of the Sivalik ridge, between two mountain chains. In
this
valley, raised 1,024 feet above the sea-level, the northern nature
of
the Himalayas struggles with the tropical growth of the plains;
and,
in their efforts to excel each other, they have created the most
delightful
of all the delightful corners of India. The town itself is
a
quaint collection of castle-like turrets of the most fantastical
architecture;
of ancient viharas; of wooden fortresses, so gaily painted
that
they look like toys; of pagodas, with loopholes and overhanging
curved
little balconies; and all this over-grown by such abundance
of
roses, dahlias, aloes and blossoming cactuses, that it is hardly
possible
to tell a door from a window. The granite foundations of many
houses
are laid almost in the bed of the river, and so, during four
months
of the year, they are half covered with water. And behind
this
handful of scattered houses, higher up the mountain slope, crowd
snow-white,
stately temples. Some of them are low, with thick walls,
wide
wings and gilded cupolas; others rise in majestical many-storied
towers;
others again with shapely pointed roofs, which look like the
spires
of a bell tower. Strange and capricious is the architecture of
these
temples, the like of which is not to be seen anywhere else.
They
look as if they had suddenly dropped from the snowy abodes of the
mountain
spirits above, standing there in the shelter of the mother
mountain,
and timidly peeping over the head of the small town below at
their
own images reflected in the pure, untroubled waters of the sacred
river.
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Here
the
many
million adorers. Releasing her worshipers, cleansed from her icy
embrace,
the pure maiden of the mountains carries her transparent waves
through
the burning plains of Hindostan; and only three hundred and
forty-eight
miles lower down, on passing through Cawnpore, do her waters
begin
to grow thicker and darker, while, on reaching Benares, they
transform
themselves into a kind of peppery pea soup.
Once,
while talking to an old Hindu, who tried to convince us that his
compatriots
are the cleanest nation in the world, we asked him:
"Why
is it then that, in the less populous places, the Ganges is pure
and
transparent, whilst in Benares, especially towards evening, it looks
like
a mass of liquid mud?"
"O
sahibs!" answered he mournfully, "it is not the dirt of our bodies,
as
you think, it is not even the blackness of our sins, that the devi
(goddess)
washes away... Her waves are black with the sorrow and shame
of
her children. Her feelings are sad and sorrowful; hidden suffering,
burning
pain and humiliation, despair and shame at her own helplessness,
have
been her lot for many past centuries. She has suffered all this
till
her waters have become waves of black bile. Her waters are poisoned
and
black, but not from physical causes. She is our mother, and how
could
she help resenting the degradation we have brought ourselves to in
this
dark age."
This
sorrowful, poetical allegory made us feel very keenly for the poor
old
man; but, however great our sympathy, we could not but suppose that
probably
the woes of the maiden Ganga do not affect her sources. In
Hardwar
the color of Ganges is crystal aqua marina, and the waters run
gaily
murmuring to the shore-reeds about the wonders they saw on their
way
from the Himalayas.
The
beautiful river is the greatest and the purest of goddesses, in the
eyes
of the Hindus; and many are the honors given to her in Hardwar.
Besides
the Mela celebrated once every twelve years, there is a month in
every
year when the pilgrims flock together to the Harika-Paira, stairs
of
Vishnu. Whosoever succeeds in throwing himself first into the river,
at
the appointed day, hour and moment, will not only expiate all his
sins,
but also have all bodily sufferings removed. This zeal to be first
is
so great that, owing to a badly-constructed and narrow stair leading
to
the water, it used to cost many lives yearly, until, in 1819, the
East
India Company, taking pity upon the pilgrims, ordered this ancient
relic
to be removed, and a new stairway, one hundred feet wide, and
consisting
of sixty steps, to be constructed.
The
month when the waters of the Ganges are most salutary, falls,
according
to the Brahmanical computation, between March 12th and April
10th,
and is called Chaitra. The worst of it is that the waters are
at
their best only at the first moment of a certain propitious hour,
indicated
by the Brahmans, and which sometimes happens to be
You
can fancy what it must be when this moment comes, in the midst of a
crowd
which exceeds two millions. In 1819 more than four hundred people
were
crushed to death. But even after the new stairs were constructed,
the
goddess
corpse
of her worshipers. Nobody pitied the drowned, on the contrary,
they
were envied. Whoever happens to be killed during this purification
by
bathing, is sure to go straight to Swarga (heaven). In 1760, the
two
rival brotherhoods of Sannyasis and Bairagis had a regular battle
amongst
them on the sacred day of Purbi, the last day of the religious
fair.
The Bairagis were conquered, and there were eighteen thousand
people
slaughtered.
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"And
in 1796," proudly narrated our warlike friend the Akali, "the
pilgrims
from
insolence
of the Hossains, killed here about five hundred of these
heathens.
My own grandfather took part in the fight!"
Later
on we verified this in the Gazetteer of India, and the "God's
warrior"
was cleared of every suspicion of exaggeration and boasting.
In
1879, however, no one was drowned, or crushed to death, but a
dreadful
epidemic of cholera broke out. We were disgusted at this
impediment;
but had to keep at a distance in spite of our impatience
to
see Hardwar. And unable to behold distant summits of old Himavat
ourselves,
we had in the meanwhile to be contented with what we could
hear
about him from other people.
So
we talked long after our breakfast under the cave vault was finished.
But
our talk was not so gay as it might have been, because we had to
part
with Ram-Runjit-Das, who was going to Bombay. The worthy Sikh shook
hands
with us in the European way, and then raising his right hand gave
us
his blessing, after the fashion of all the followers of Nanaka.
But
when he approached the Takur to take leave of him, his countenance
suddenly
changed. This change was so evident that we all noted it. The
Takur
was sitting on the ground leaning on a saddle, which served him as
a
cushion. The Akali did not attempt either to give him his blessing or
to
shake hands with him. The proud expression of his face also
changed,
and showed confusion and anxious humility instead of the usual
self-respect
and self-sufficiency. The brave Sikh knelt down before
the
Takur, and instead of the ordinary "Namaste!"--"Salutation to
you,"
whispered
reverently, as if addressing the Guru of the Golden Lake: "I
am
your servant, Sadhu-Sahib! give me your blessing!"
Without
any apparent reason or cause, we all felt self-conscious and
ill
at ease, as if guilty of some indiscretion. But the face of the
mysterious
Rajput remained as calm and as dispassionate as ever. He was
looking
at the river before this scene took place, and slowly moved his
eyes
to the Akali, who lay prostrated before him. Then he touched the
head
of the Sikh with his index finger, and rose with the remark that we
also
had better start at once, because it was getting late.
We
drove in our carriage, moving very slowly because of the deep sand
which
covers all this locality, and the Takur followed us on horseback
all
the way. He told us the epic legends of
the
great deeds of the Hari-Kulas, the heroic princes of the solar race.
Hari
means sun, and Kula family. Some of the Rajput princes belong to
this
family, and the Maharanas of Oodeypur are especially proud of their
astronomical
origin.
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The
name of Hari-Kula gives to some Orientalists ground to suppose that
a
member of this family emigrated to
first
Pharaonic dynasties, and that the ancient Greeks, borrowing the
name
as well as the traditions, thus formed their legends about the
mythological
Hercules. It is believed that the ancient Egyptians adored
the
sphinx under the name of Hari-Mukh, or the "sun on the horizon." On
the
mountain chain which fringes Kashmir on the north, thirteen thousand
feet
above the sea, there is a huge summit, which is exactly like a
head,
and which bears the name of Harimukh. This name is also met with
in
the most ancient of the Puranas. Besides, popular tradition considers
this
Himalayan stone head to be the image of the setting sun.
Is
it possible, then, that all these coincidences are only accidental?
And
why is it that the Orientalists will not give it more serious
attention?
It seems to me that this is a rich soil for future research,
and
that it is no more to be explained by mere chance than the fact that
both
had
the same religious horror of killing certain animals, as the modern
Hindus.
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An
Isle of Mystery
When
evening began to draw on, we were driving beneath the trees of a
wild
jungle; arriving soon after at a large lake, we left the carriages.
The
shores were overgrown with reeds--not the reeds that answer our
European
notions, but rather such as Gulliver was likely to meet with in
his
travels to Brobdingnag. The place was perfectly deserted, but we saw
a
boat fastened close to the land. We had still about an hour and a
half
of daylight before us, and so we quietly sat down on some ruins and
enjoyed
the splendid view, whilst the servants of the Takur transported
our
bags, boxes and bundles of rugs from the carriages to the ferry
boat.
Mr. Y---- was preparing to paint the picture before us, which
indeed
was charming.
"Don't
be in a hurry to take down this view," said Gulab-Sing. "In half
an
hour we shall be on the islet, where the view is still lovelier. We
may
spend there the night and tomorrow morning as well."
"I
am afraid it will be too dark in an hour," said Mr. Y----, opening
his
color box. "And as for tomorrow, we shall probably have to start
very
early."
"Oh,
no! there is not the slightest need to start early. We may even
stay
here part of the afternoon. From here to the railway station it is
only
three hours, and the train only leaves for J ubbulpore at eight
in
the evening. And do you know," added the Takur, smiling in his usual
mysterious
way, "I am going to treat you to a concert. Tonight you shall
be
witness of a very interesting natural phenomenon connected with this
island."
We
all pricked up our ears with curiosity.
"Do
you mean that island there? and do you really think we must go?"
asked
the colonel. "Why should not we spend the night here, where we are
so
deliciously cool, and where..."
"Where
the forest swarms with playful leopards, and the reeds shelter
snug
family parties of the serpent race, were you going to say,
colonel?"
interrupted the Babu, with a broad grin. "Don't you admire
this
merry gathering, for instance? Look at them! There is the father
and
the mother, uncles, aunts, and children.... I am sure I could point
out
even a mother-in-law."
Miss
X---- looked in the direction he indicated and shrieked, till all
the
echoes of the forest groaned in answer. Not farther than three steps
from
her there were at least forty grown up serpents and baby snakes.
They
amused themselves by practising somersaults, coiled up, then
straightened
again and interlaced their tails, presenting to our dilated
eyes
a picture of perfect innocence and primitive contentment. Miss
X----
could not stand it any longer and fled to the carriage, whence she
showed
us a pale, horrified face. The Takur, who had arranged himself
comfortably
beside Mr. Y---- in order to watch the progress of his
paint-ing,
left his seat and looked attentively at the dangerous group,
quietly
smoking his gargari--Rajput narghile--the while.
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"If
you do not stop screaming you will attract all the wild animals of
the
forest in another ten minutes," said he. "None of you have anything
to
fear. If you do not excite an animal he is almost sure to leave you
alone,
and most probably will run away from you."
With
these words he lightly waved his pipe in the direction of the
serpentine
family-party. A thunderbolt falling in their midst could not
have
been more effectual. The whole living mass looked stunned for a
moment,
and then rapidly disappeared among the reeds with loud hissing
and
rustling.
"Now
this is pure mesmerism, I declare," said the colonel, on whom not a
gesture
of the Takur was lost. "How did you do it, Gulab-Sing? Where did
you
learn this science?"
"They
were simply frightened away by the sudden movement of my chibook,
and
there was no science and no mesmerism about it. Probably by this
fashionable
modern word you mean what we Hindus call vashi-karana
vidya--that
is to say, the science of charming people and animals by the
force
of will. However, as I have already said, this has nothing to do
with
what I did."
"But
you do not deny, do you, that you have studied this science and
possess
this gift?"
"Of
course I don't. Every Hindu of my sect is bound to study the
mysteries
of physiology and psychology amongst other secrets left to
us
by our ancestors. But what of that? I am very much afraid, my dear
colonel,"
said the Takur with a quiet smile, "that you are rather
inclined
to view the simplest of my acts through a mystical prism.
Narayan
has been telling you all kinds of things about me behind my
back....
Now, is it not so?"
And
he looked at Narayan, who sat at his feet, with an indescribable
mixture
of fondness and reproof. The Dekkan colossus dropped his eyes
and
remained silent.
"You
have guessed rightly," absently answered Mr. Y----, busy over his
drawing
apparatus. "Narayan sees in you something like his late deity
Shiva;
something just a little less than Parabrahm. Would you believe
it?
He seriously assured us--in Nassik it was--that the Raj-Yogis, and
amongst
them yourself--though I must own I still fail to understand what
a
Raj-Yogi is, precisely--can force any one to see, not what is before
his
eyes at the given moment, but what is only in the imagination of the
Raj-Yogi.
If I remember rightly he called it Maya.... Now, this seemed
to
me going a little too far!"
"Well!
You did not believe, of course, and laughed at Narayan?" asked
the
Takur, fathoming with his eyes the dark green deeps of the lake.
"Not
precisely... Though, I dare say, I did just a little bit," went on
Mr.
Y----, absently, being fully engrossed by the view, and trying to
fix
his eyes on the most effective part of it. "I dare say I am too
scep-tical
on this kind of question."
"And
knowing Mr. Y---- as I do," said the colonel, I can add, for
my
part, that even were any of these phenomena to happen to himself
personally,
he, like Dr. Carpenter, would doubt his own eyes rather than
believe."
"What
you say is a little bit exaggerated, but there is some truth in
it.
Maybe I would not trust myself in such an occurrence; and I tell you
why.
If I saw something that does not exist, or rather exists only for
me,
logic would interfere. However objective my vision may be, before
believing
in the materiality of a hallucination, I feel I am bound to
doubt
my own senses and sanity.... Besides, what bosh all this is! As
if
I ever will allow myself to believe in the reality of a thing that
I
alone saw; which belief implies also the admission of somebody else
governing
and dominating, for the time being, my optical nerves, as well
as
my brains."
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"However,
there are any number of people, who do not doubt, because they
have
had proof that this phenomenon really occurs," remarked the Takur,
in
a careless tone, which showed he had not the slightest desire to
insist
upon this topic.
However,
this remark only increased Mr. Y----'s excitement.
"No
doubt there are!" he exclaimed. "But what does that prove?
Besides
them, there are equal numbers of people who believe in the
materialization
of spirits. But do me the kindness of not including me
among
them!"
"Don't
you believe in animal magnetism?"
"To
a certain extent, I do. If a person suffering from some contagious
illness
can influence a person in good health, and make him ill, in his
turn,
I suppose somebody else's overflow of health can also affect the
sick
person, and, perhaps cure him. But between physiological contagion
and
mesmeric influence there is a great gulf, and I don't feel inclined
to
cross this gulf on the grounds of blind faith. It is perfectly
possible
that there are instances of thought-transference in cases of
somnambulism,
epilepsy, trance. I do not positively deny it, though I am
very
doubtful. Mediums and clairvoyants are a sickly lot, as a rule. But
I
bet you anything, a healthy man in perfectly normal conditions is not
to
be influenced by the tricks of mesmerists. I should like to see a
magnetizer,
or even a Raj-Yogi, inducing me to obey his will."
"Now,
my dear fellow, you really ought not to speak so rashly," said the
colonel,
who, till then, had not taken any part in the discussion.
"Ought
I not? Don't take it into your head that it is mere boastfulness
on
my part. I guarantee failure in my case, simply because every
renowned
European mesmerist has tried his luck with me, without any
result;
and that is why I defy the whole lot of them to try again, and
feel
perfectly safe about it. And why a Hindu Raj-Yogi should succeed
where
the strongest of European mesmerists failed, I do not quite
see...."
Mr.
Y---- was growing altogether too excited, and the Takur dropped the
subject,
and talked of something else.
For
my part, I also feel inclined to deviate once more from my subject,
and
give some necessary explanations.
Miss
X---- excepted, none of our party had ever been numbered amongst
the
spiritualists, least of all Mr. Y----. We Theosophists did not
believe
in the playfulness of departed souls, though we admitted the
possibility
of some mediumistic phenomena, while totally disagreeing
with
the spiritualists as to the cause and point of view. Refusing to
believe
in the interference, and even presence of the spirits, in the
so-called
spiritualistic phenomena, we nevertheless believe in the
living
spirit of man; we believe in the omnipotence of this spirit, and
in
its natural, though benumbed capacities. We also believe that, when
incarnated,
this spirit, this divine spark, may be apparently quenched,
if
it is not guarded, and if the life the man leads is unfavorable
to
its expansion, as it generally is; but, on the other hand, our
conviction
is that human beings can develop their potential spiritual
powers;
that, if they do, no phenomenon will be impossible for their
liberated
wills, and that they will perform what, in the eyes of the
uninitiated,
will be much more wondrous than the materialized forms of
the
spiritualists. If proper training can render the muscular strength
ten
times greater, as in the cases of renowned athletes, I do not see
why
proper training should fail in the case of moral capacities. We
have
also good grounds to believe that the secret of this proper
training--though
unknown to, and denied by, European physiologists
and
even psychologists--is known in some places in
knowledge
is hereditary, and entrusted to few.
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Mr.
Y---- was a novice in our Society and looked with distrust even on
such
phenomena as can be pro-duced by mesmerism. He had been trained
in
the Royal Institute of British Architects, which he left with a
gold
medal, and with a fund of scepticism that caused him to distrust
everything,
en dehors des mathematiques pures. So that no wonder he lost
his
temper when people tried to convince him that there existed things
which
he was inclined to treat as "mere bosh and fables."
Now
I return to my narrative.
The
Babu and Mulji left us to help the servants to transport our luggage
to
the ferry boat. The remainder of the party had grown very quiet and
silent.
Miss X---- dozed peacefully in the carriage, forgetting her
recent
fright. The colonel, stretched on the sand, amused himself by
throwing
stones into the water. Narayan sat motionless, with his hands
round
his knees, plunged as usual in the mute contemplation of Gulab
Lal-Sing.
Mr. Y---- sketched hurriedly and diligently, only raising his
head
from time to time to glance at the opposite shore, and knitting his
brow
in a preoccupied way. The Takur went on smoking, and as for me, I
sat
on my folding chair, looking lazily at everything round me, till my
eyes
rested on Gulab-Sing, and were fixed, as if by a spell.
"Who
and what is this mysterious Hindu?" I wondered in my uncertain
thoughts.
"Who is this man, who unites in himself two such distinct
personalities:
the one exterior, kept up for strangers, for the orld in
general,
the other interior, moral and spiritual, shown only to a few
intimate
friends? But even these intimate friends do they know much
beyond
what is generally known? And what do they know? They see in him a
Hindu
who differs very little from the rest of educated natives, perhaps
only
in his perfect contempt for the social conventions of India and the
demands
of Western civilization.... And that is all--unless I add that
he
is known in Central India as a sufficiently wealthy man, and a Takur,
a
feudal chieftain of a Raj, one of the hundreds of similar Rajes.
Besides,
he is a true friend of ours, who offered us his protection
in
our travels and volunteered to play the mediator between us and the
suspicious,
uncommunicative Hindus. Beyond all this, we know absolutely
nothing
about him. It is true, though, that I know a little more than
the
others; but I have promised silence, and silent I shall be. But the
little
I know is so strange, so unusual, that it is more like a dream
than
a reality."
A
good while ago, more than twenty-seven years, I met him in the house
of
a stranger in England, whither he came in the company of a certain
dethroned
Indian prince. Then our acquaintance was limited to two
conversations;
their unexpectedness, their gravity, and even severity,
produced
a strong impression on me then; but, in the course of time,
like
many other things, they sank into oblivion and Lethe. About seven
years
ago he wrote to me to America, reminding me of our conversation
and
of a certain promise I had made. Now we saw each other once more in
India,
his own country, and I failed to see any change wrought in his
appearance
by all these long years. I was, and looked, quite young, when
I
first saw him; but the passage of years had not failed to change me
into
an old woman. As to him, he appeared to me twenty-seven years ago
a
man of about thirty, and still looked no older, as if time were
powerless
against him. In
extraordinary
height and stature, together with his eccentric refusal to
be
presented to the Queen--an honour many a high-born Hindu has sought,
coming
over on purpose--excited the public notice and the attention of
the
newspapers. The newspapermen of those days, when the influence of
Byron
was still great, discussed the "wild Rajput" with untiring
pens,
calling him "Raja-Misanthrope" and " Prince Jalma-Samson,"
and
in-venting
fables about him all the time he stayed in
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All
this taken together was well calculated to fill me with consuming
curiosity,
and to absorb my thoughts till I forgot every exterior
circumstance,
sitting and staring at him in no wise less intensely than
Narayan.
I
gazed at the remarkable face of Gulab-Lal-Sing with a mixed feeling of
indescribable
fear and enthusiastic admiration; recalling the mysterious
death
of the Karli tiger, my own miraculous escape a few hours ago in
Bagh,
and many other incidents too many to relate. It was only a few
hours
since he appeared to us in the morning, and yet what a number of
strange
ideas, of puzzling occurrences, how many enigmas his presence
stirred
in our minds! The magic circle of my revolving thought grew too
much
for me. "What does all this mean!" I exclaimed to myself, trying
to
shake off my torpor, and struggling to find words for my meditation.
"Who
is this being whom I saw so many years ago, jubilant with manhood
and
life, and now see again, as young and as full of life, only still
more
austere, still more incomprehensible. After all, maybe it is his
brother,
or even his son?" thought I, trying to calm myself, but with no
result.
"No! there is no use doubting; it is he himself, it is the same
face,
the same little scar on the left temple. But, as a quarter of a
century
ago, so now: no wrinkles on those beautiful classic features;
not
a white hair in this thick jet-black mane; and, in moments of
silence,
the same expression of perfect rest on that face, calm as a
statue
of living bronze. What a strange expression, and what a wonderful
Sphinx-like
face!"
"Not
a very brilliant comparison, my old friend!" suddenly spoke the
Takur,
and a good-natured laughing note rung in his voice, whilst I
shuddered
and grew red like a naughty schoolgirl. "This comparison is
so
inaccurate that it decidedly sins against history in two important
points.
Primo, the Sphinx is a lion; so am I, as indicates the word Sing
in
my name; but the Sphinx is winged, and I am not. Secondo, the Sphinx
is
a woman as well as a winged lion, but the Rajput Sinhas never had
anything
effeminate in their characters. Besides, the Sphinx is the
daughter
of Chimera, or Echidna, who were neither beautiful nor good;
and
so you might have chosen a more flattering and a less inaccurate
comparison!"
I
simply gasped in my utter confusion, and he gave vent to his
merriment,
which by no means relieved me. "Shall I give you some good
advice?"
continued Gulab-Sing, changing his tone for a more serious one.
"Don't
trouble your head with such vain speculations. The day when this
riddle
yields its solution, the Rajput Sphinx will not seek destruction
in
the waves of the sea; but, believe me, it won't bring any profit to
the
Russian Oedipus either. You already know every detail you ever will
learn.
So leave the rest to our respective fates."
And
he rose because the Babu and Mulji had informed us that the ferry
boat
was ready to start, and were shouting and making signs to us to
hasten.
"Just
let me finish," said Mr. Y----, "I have nearly done. Just an
additional
touch or two."
"Let
us see your work. Hand it round!" insisted the colonel and Miss
X----,
who had just left her haven of refuge in the carriage, and joined
us
still half asleep.
Mr.
Y---- hurriedly added a few more touches to his drawing and rose to
collect
his brushes and pencils.
We
glanced at his fresh wet picture and opened our eyes in astonishment.
There
was no lake on it, no woody shores, and no velvety evening mists
that
covered the distant island at this moment. Instead of all this we
saw
a charming sea view; thick clusters of shapely palm-trees scattered
over
the chalky cliffs of the littoral; a fortress-like bungalow with
balconies
and a flat roof, an elephant standing at its entrance, and a
native
boat on the crest of a foaming billow.
"Now
what is this view, sir?" wondered the colonel. "As if it was worth
your
while to sit in the sun, and detain us all, to draw fancy pictures
out
of your own head!"
"What
on earth are you talking about?" exclaimed Mr. Y----. "Do you mean
to
say you do not recognize the lake?"
"Listen
to him--the lake! Where is the lake, if you please? Were you
asleep,
or what?"
By
this time all our party gathered round the colonel, who held the
drawing.
Narayan uttered an exclamation, and stood still, the very image
of
bewilderment past description.
"I
know the place!" said he, at last. "This is Dayri--Bol, the country
house
of the Takur-Sahib. I know it. Last year during the famine I lived
there
for two months."
I
was the first to grasp the meaning of it all, but something prevented
me
from speaking at once.
At
last Mr. Y---- finished arranging and packing his things, and
approached
us in his usual lazy, careless way, but his face showed
traces
of vexation. He was evidently bored by our persistency in seeing
a
sea, where there was nothing but the corner of a lake. But, at the
first
sight of his unlucky sketch, his countenance suddenly changed.
He
grew so pale, and the expression of his face became so piteously
distraught
that it was painful to see. He turned and returned the piece
of
Bristol board, then rushed like a madman to his drawing portfolio and
turned
the whole contents out, ransacking and scattering over the sand
hundreds
of sketches and of loose papers. Evidently failing to find
what
he was looking for, he glanced again at his sea-view, and suddenly
covering
his face with his hands totally collapsed.
We
all remained silent, exchanging glances of wonder and pity, and
heedless
of the Takur, who stood on the ferry boat, vainly calling to us
to
join him.
"Look
here, Y----!" timidly spoke the kind-hearted colonel, as if
addressing
a sick child. "Are you sure you remember drawing this view?"
Mr.
Y---- did not give any answer, as if gathering strength and thinking
it
over. After a few moments he answered in hoarse and tremulous tones:
"Yes,
I do remember. Of course I made this sketch, but I made it from
nature.
I painted only what I saw. And it is that very certainty that
upsets
me so."
"But
why should you be upset, my dear fellow? Collect yourself! What
happened
to you is neither shameful nor dreadful. It is only the result
of
the temporary influence of one dominant will over another, less
powerful.
You simply acted under 'biological influence,' to use the
expression
of Dr. Carpenter."
"That
is exactly what I am most afraid of.... I remember everything now.
I
have been busy over this view more than an hour. I saw it directly
I
chose the spot, and seeing it all the while on the opposite shore I
could
not suspect anything uncanny. I was perfectly conscious... or,
shall
I say, I fancied I was conscious of putting down on paper what
everyone
of you had before your eyes. I had lost every notion of the
place
as I saw it before I began my sketch, and as I see it now.... But
how
do you account for it? Good gracious! am I to believe that these
confounded
Hindus really possess the mystery of this trick? I tell you,
colonel,
I shall go mad if I don't understand it all!"
"No
fear of that, Mr. Y----," said Narayan, with a triumphant twinkle in
his
eyes. "You will simply lose the right to deny Yoga-Vidya, the great
ancient
science of my country."
Mr.
Y---- did not answer him. He made an effort to calm his feelings,
and
bravely stepped on the ferry boat with firm foot. Then he sat down,
apart
from us all, obstinately looking at the large surface of water
round
us, and struggling to seem his usual self.
Miss
X---- was the first to interrupt the silence.
"Ma
chere!" said she to me in a subdued, but triumphant voice. "Ma
chere,
Monsieur Y---- devient vraiment un medium de premiere force!"
In
moments of great excitement she always addressed me in French. But
I
also was too excited to control my feelings, and so I answered rather
unkindly:
"Please
stop this nonsense, Miss X----. You know I don't believe in
spiritualism.
Poor Mr. Y----, was not he upset?"
Receiving
this rebuke and no sympathy from me, she could not think
of
anything better than drawing out the Babu, who, for a wonder, had
managed
to keep quiet till then.
"What
do you say to all this? I for one am perfectly confident that no
one
but the disembodied soul of a great artist could have painted that
lovely
view. Who else is capable of such a wonderful achievement?"
"Why?
The old gentleman in person. Confess that at the bottom of your
soul
you firmly believe that the Hindus worship devils. To be sure it is
some
deity of ours of this kind that had his august paw in the matter."
"Il
est positivement malhonnete, ce Negre-la!" angrily muttered Miss
X----,
hurriedly withdrawing from him.
The
island was a tiny one, and so overgrown with tall reeds that, from
a
distance, it looked like a pyramidal basket of verdure. With the
exception
of a colony of monkeys, who bustled away to a few mango trees
at
our approach, the place seemed uninhabited. In this virgin forest of
thick
grass there was no trace of human life. Seeing the word grass the
reader
must not forget that it is not the grass of
grass
under which we stood, like insects under a rhubarb leaf, waved
its
feathery many-colored plumes much above the head of Gulab-Sing
(who
stood six feet and a half in his stockings), and of Narayan, who
measured
hardly an inch less. From a distance it looked like a waving
sea
of black, yellow, blue, and especially of rose and green. On
landing,
we discovered that it consisted of separate thickets of
bamboos,
mixed up with the gigantic sirka reeds, which rose as high as
the
tops of the mangos.
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It
is impossible to imagine anything prettier and more graceful than the
bamboos
and sirka. The isolated tufts of bamboos show, in spite of their
size,
that they are nothing but grass, because the least gush of wind
shakes
them, and their green crests begin to nod like heads adorned with
long
ostrich plumes. There were some bamboos there fifty or sixty feet
high.
From time to time we heard a light metallic rustle in the reeds,
but
none of us paid much attention to it.
Whilst
our coolies and servants were busy clearing a place for our
tents,
pitching them and preparing the supper, we went to pay
our
respects to the monkeys, the true hosts of the place. Without
exaggeration
there were at least two hundred. While preparing for their
nightly
rest the monkeys behaved like decorous and well-behaved people;
every
family chose a separate branch and defended it from the intrusion
of
strangers lodging on the same tree, but this defence never passed
the
limits of good manners, and generally took the shape of threatening
grimaces.
There were many mothers with babies in arms amongst them; some
of
them treated the children tenderly, and lifted them cautiously,
with
a perfectly human care; others, less thoughtful, ran up and
down,
heedless of the child hanging at their breasts, preoccupied with
something,
discussing something, and stopping every moment to quarrel
with
other monkey ladies--a true picture of chatty old gossips on a
market
day, repeated in the animal kingdom. The bachelors kept apart,
absorbed
in their athletic exercises, performed for the most part
with
the ends of their tails. One of them, especially, attracted our
attention
by dividing his amusement between sauts perilleux and teasing
a
respectable looking grandfather, who sat under a tree hugging two
little
monkeys. Swinging backward and forward from the branch, the
bachelor
jumped at him, bit his ear playfully and made faces at him,
chattering
all the time. We cautiously passed from one tree to another,
afraid
of frightening them away; but evidently the years spent by them
with
the fakirs, who left the island only a year ago, had accustomed
them
to human society. They were sacred monkeys, as we learned, and so
they
had nothing to fear from men. They showed no signs of alarm at our
approach,
and, having received our greeting, and some of them a piece of
sugar-cane,
they calmly stayed on their branch-thrones, crossing their
arms,
and looking at us with a good deal of dignified contempt in their
intelligent
hazel eyes.
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The
sun had set, and we were told that the supper was ready. We all
turned
"homewards," except the Babu. The main feature of his character,
in
the eyes of orthodox Hindus, being a tendency to blasphemy, he could
never
resist the temptation to justify their opinion of him. Climbing up
a
high branch he crouched there, imitating every gesture of the monkeys
and
answering their threatening grimaces by still uglier ones, to the
unconcealed
disgust of our pious coolies.
As
the last golden ray disappeared on the horizon, a gauze-like veil
of
pale lilac fell over the world. But as every moment decreased the
transparency
of this tropical twilight, the tint gradually lost its
softness
and became darker and darker. It looked as if an invisible
painter,
unceasingly moving his gigantic brush, swiftly laid one coat
of
paint over the other, ever changing the exquisite background of our
islet.
The phosphoric candles of the fireflies began to twinkle here and
there,
shining brightly against the black trunks of the trees, and lost
again
on the silvery background of opalescent evening sky. But in a
few
minutes more thousands of these living sparks, precursors of Queen
Night,
played round us, pouring like a golden cascade over the trees,
and
dancing in the air above the grass and the dark lake.
And
behold! here is the queen in person. Noiselessly descending upon
earth,
she reassumes her rights. With her approach, rest and peace
spread
over us; her cool breath calms the activities of day. Like a fond
mother,
she sings a lullaby to nature, lovingly wrapping her in her soft
black
mantle; and, when everything is asleep, she watches over nature's
dozing
powers till the first streaks of dawn.
Nature
sleeps; but man is awake, to be witness to the beauties of this
solemn
evening hour. Sitting round the fire we talked, lowering our
voices
as if afraid of awaking night. We were only six; the colonel,
the
four Hindus and myself, because Mr. Y---- and Miss X---- could
not
resist the fatigue of the day and had gone to sleep directly after
supper.
Snugly
sheltered by the high "grass," we had not the heart to spend this
magnificent
night in prosaic sleeping. Besides, we were waiting for the
"concert"
which the Takur had promised us.
"Be
patient," said he, "the musicians will not appear before the moon
rises."
The
fickle goddess was late; she kept us waiting till after ten o'clock.
Just
before her arrival, when the horizon began to grow perceptibly
brighter,
and the opposite shore to assume a milky, silvery tint, a
sudden
wind rose. The waves, that had gone quietly to sleep at the feet
of
gigantic reeds, awoke and tossed uneasily, till the reeds swayed
their
feathery heads and murmured to each other as if taking counsel
together
about some thing that was going to happen.... Suddenly, in the
general
stillness and silence, we heard again the same musical notes,
which
we had passed unheeded, when we first reached the island, as if
a
whole orchestra were trying their musical instruments before playing
some
great composition. All round us, and over our heads, vibrated
strings
of violins, and thrilled the separate notes of a flute. In a
few
moments came another gust of wind tearing through the reeds, and the
whole
island resounded with the strains of hundreds of Aeolian harps.
And
suddenly there began a wild unceasing symphony. It swelled in the
surrounding
woods, filling the air with an indescribable melody. Sad and
solemn
were its prolonged strains; they resounded like the arpeggios of
some
funeral march, then, changing into a trembling thrill, they shook
the
air like the song of a nightingale, and died away in a long sigh.
They
did not quite cease, but grew louder again, ringing like hundreds
of
silver bells, changing from the heartrending howl of a wolf, deprived
of
her young, to the precipitate rhythm of a gay tarantella, forgetful
of
every earthly sorrow; from the articulate song of a human voice, to
the
vague majestic accords of a violoncello, from merry child's laughter
to
angry sobbing. And all this was repeated in every direction by
mocking
echo, as if hundreds of fabulous forest maidens, disturbed in
their
green abodes, answered the appeal of the wild musical Saturnalia.
The
colonel and I glanced at each other in our great astonishment.
"How
delightful! What witchcraft is this?" we exclaimed at the same
time.
The
Hindus smiled, but did not answer us. The Takur smoked his gargari
as
peacefully as if he was deaf.
There
was a short interval, after which the invisible orchestra
started
again with renewed energy. The sounds poured and rolled in
unrestrainable,
overwhelming waves. We had never heard anything like
this
inconceivable wonder. Listen! A storm in the open sea, the wind
tearing
through the rigging, the swish of the maddened waves rushing
over
each other, or the whirling snow wreaths on the silent steppes.
Suddenly
the vision is changed; now it is a stately cathedral and the
thundering
strains of an organ rising under its vaults. The powerful
notes
now rush together, now spread out through space, break off,
intermingle,
and become entangled, like the fantastic melody of a
delirious
fever, some musical phantasy born of the howling and whistling
of
the wind.
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Alas!
the charm of these sounds is soon exhausted, and you begin to feel
that
they cut like knives through your brain. A horrid fancy haunts our
bewildered
heads; we imagine that the invisible artists strain our
own
veins, and not the strings of imaginary violins; their cold breath
freezes
us, blowing their imaginary trumpets, shaking our nerves and
impeding
our breathing.
"For
God's sake stop this, Takur! This is really too much," shouted
the
colonel, at the end of his patience, and covering his ears with his
hands.
"Gulab-Sing, I tell you you must stop this."
The
three Hindus burst out laughing; and even the grave face of the
Takur
lit up with a merry smile. "Upon my word," said he, "do you
really
take
me for the great Parabrahm? Do you think it is in my power to stop
the
wind, as if I were Marut, the lord of the storms, in person. Ask for
something
easier than the instantaneous uprooting of all these bamboos."
"I
beg your pardon; I thought these strange sounds also were some kind
of
psychologic influence."
"So
sorry to disappoint you, my dear colonel; but you really must think
less
of psychology and electrobiology. This develops into a mania
with
you. Don't you see that this wild music is a natural acoustic
phenomenon?
Each of the reeds around us--and there are thousands on this
island--contains
a natural musical instrument; and the musician, Wind,
comes
here daily to try his art after nightfall--especially during the
last
quarter of the moon."
"The
wind!" murmured the colonel. "Oh, yes! But this music begins to
change
into a dreadful roar. Is there no way out of it?"
"I
at least cannot help it. But keep up your patience, you will soon get
accustomed
to it. Besides, there will be intervals when the wind falls."
We
were told that there are many such natural orchestras in India. The
Brahmans
know well their wonderful properties, and calling this kind of
reed
vina-devi, the lute of the gods, keep up the popular superstition
and
say the sounds are divine oracles. The sirka grass and the bamboos
always
shelter a number of tiny beetles, which make considerable holes
in
the hollow reeds. The fakirs of the idol-worshipping sects add art to
this
natural beginning and work the plants into musical instruments. The
islet
we visited bore one of the most celebrated vina-devis, and so, of
course,
was proclaimed sacred.
"Tomorrow
morning," said the Takur, "you will see what deep knowledge
of
all the laws of acoustics was in the possession of the fakirs. They
enlarged
the holes made by the beetle according to the size of the reed,
sometimes
shaping it into a circle, sometimes into an oval. These
reeds
in their present state can be justly considered as the finest
illustration
of mechanism applied to acoustics. However, this is not to
be
wondered at, because some of the most ancient Sanskrit books about
music
minutely describe these laws, and mention many musical instruments
which
are not only forgotten, but totally incomprehensible in our days."
All
this was very interesting, but still, disturbed by the din, we could
not
listen attentively.
"Don't
worry yourselves," said the Takur, who soon understood our
uneasiness,
in spite of our attempts at composure. "After midnight the
wind
will fall, and you will sleep undisturbed. However, if the too
close
neighborhood of this musical grass is too much for you, we may as
well
go nearer to the shore. There is a spot from which you can see the
sacred
bonfires on the opposite shore."
We
followed him, but while walking through the thickets of reeds we did
not
leave off our conversation. "How is it that the Brahmans manage to
keep
up such an evident cheat?" asked the colonel. "The stupidest man
cannot
fail to see in the long run who made the holes in the reeds, and
how
they come to give forth music."
"In
America stupid men may be as clever as that; I don't know," answered
the
Takur, with a smile; "but not in
show,
to describe, and to explain how all this is done to any Hindu, be
he
even comparatively educated, he will still see nothing. He will tell
you
that he knows as well as yourself that the holes are made by the
beetles
and enlarged by the fakirs. But what of that? The beetle in his
eyes
is no ordinary beetle, but one of the gods incarnated in the insect
for
this special purpose; and the fakir is a holy ascetic, who has acted
in
this case by the order of the same god. That will be all you will
ever
get out of him. Fanaticism and superstition took centuries to
develop
in the masses, and now they are as strong as a necessary
physiological
function. Kill these two and the crowd will have its eyes
opened,
and will see truth, but not before. As to the Brahmans,
would
have been very fortunate if everything they have done were as
harmless.
Let the crowds adore the muse and the spirit of harmony. This
adoration
is not so very wicked, after all."
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
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The
Babu told us that in Dehra-Dun this kind of reed is planted on
both
sides of the central street, which is more than a mile long. The
buildings
prevent the free action of the wind, and so the sounds are
heard
only in time of east wind, which is very rare. A year ago Swami
Dayanand
happened to camp off Dehra-Dun. Crowds of people gathered round
him
every evening. One day he delivered a very powerful sermon against
superstition.
Tired out by this long, energetic speech, and, besides,
being
a little unwell, the Swami sat down on his carpet and shut his
eyes
to rest as soon as the sermon was finished. But the crowd, seeing
him
so unusually quiet and silent, all at once imagined that his soul,
abandoning
him in this prostration, entered the reeds--that had just
begun
to sing their fantastical rhapsody--and was now conversing
with
the gods through the bamboos. Many a pious man in this gathering,
anxious
to show the teacher in what fulness they grasped his teaching
and
how deep was their respect for him personally, knelt down before the
singing
reeds and performed a most ardent puja.
"What
did the Swami say to that?"
"He
did not say anything.... Your question shows that you don't know
our
Swami yet," laughed the Babu. "He simply jumped to his feet, and,
uprooting
the first sacred reed on his way, gave such a lively European
bakshish
(thrashing) to the pious puja-makers, that they instantly took
to
their heels. The Swami ran after them for a whole mile, giving it hot
to
everyone in his way. He is wonderfully strong is our Swami, and no
friend
to useless talk, I can tell you."
"But
it seems to me," said the colonel, "that that is not the right way
to
convert crowds. Dispersing and frightening is not converting."
"Not
a bit of it. The masses of our nation require peculiar
treatment....
Let me tell you the end of this story. Disappointed with
the
effect of his teachings on the inhabitants of Dehra-Dun, Dayanand
Saraswati
went to
before
he had even rested from the fatigues of his journey, he had to
receive
a deputation from Dehra-Dun, who on their knees entreated him to
come
back. The leaders of this deputation had their backs covered with
bruises,
made by the bamboo of the Swami! They brought him back with no
end
of pomp, mounting him on an elephant and spreading flowers all along
the
road. Once in Dehra-Dun, he immediately proceeded to found a Samaj,
a
society as you would say, and the Dehra-Dun Arya-Samaj now counts
at
least two hundred members, who have renounced idol-worship and
superstition
for ever."
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"I
was present," said Mulji, "two years ago in
broke
to pieces about a hundred idols in the bazaar, and the same stick
served
him to beat a Brahman with. He caught the latter in the hollow
idol
of a huge Shiva. The Brahman was quietly sitting there talking to
the
devotees in the name, and so to speak, with the voice of Shiva, and
asking
money for a new suit of clothes the idol wanted."
"Is
it possible the Swami had not to pay for this new achievement of
his?"
"Oh,
yes. The Brahman dragged him into a law court, but the judge had to
pronounce
the Swami in the right, because of the crowd of sympathizers
and
defenders who followed the Swami. But still he had to pay for all
the
idols he had broken. So far so good; but the Brahman died of cholera
that
very night, and of course, the opposers of the reform said his
death
was brought on by the sorcery of Dayanand Saraswati. This vexed us
all
a good deal."
"Now,
Narayan, it is your turn," said I. Have you no story to tell us
about
the Swami? And do you not look up to him as to your Guru?"
"I
have only one Guru and only one God on earth, as in heaven," answered
Narayan;
and I saw that he was very unwilling to speak. "And while I
live,
I shall not desert them."
"I
know who is his Guru and his God!" thoughtlessly exclaimed the
quick-tongued
Babu. "It is the Takur--Sahib. In his person both coincide
in
the eyes of Narayan."
"You
ought to be ashamed to talk such nonsense, Babu," coldly remarked
Gulab-Sing.
"I do not think myself worthy of being anybody's Guru. As to
my
being a god, the mere words are a blasphemy, and I must ask you not
to
repeat them... Here we are!" added he more cheerfully, pointing to
the
carpets spread by the servants on the shore, and evidently desirous
of
changing the topic. "Let us sit down!"
We
arrived at a small glade some distance from the bamboo forest.
The
sounds of the magic orchestra reached us still, but considerably
weakened,
and only from time to time. We sat to the windward of the
reeds,
and so the harmonic rustle we heard was exactly like the low
tones
of an Aeolian harp, and had nothing disagreeable in it. On the
contrary,
the distant murmur only added to the beauty of the whole scene
around
us.
We
sat down, and only then I realized how tired and sleepy I was--and
no
wonder, after being on foot since four in the morning, and after all
that
had happened to me on this memorable day. The gentlemen went
on
talking, and I soon became so absorbed in my thoughts that their
conversation
reached me only in fragments.
"Wake
up, wake up!" repeated the colonel, shaking me by the hand. "The
Takur
says that sleeping in the moonlight will do you harm."
I
was not asleep; I was simply thinking, though ex-hausted and sleepy.
But
wholly under the charm of this enchanting night, I could not shake
off
my drowsiness, and did not answer the colonel.
"Wake
up, for God's sake! Think of what you are risking!" continued the
colonel.
"Wake up and look at the landscape before us, at this wonderful
moon.
Have you ever seen anything to equal this magnificent panorama?"
I
looked up, and the familiar lines of Pushkin about the golden moon of
moment
she radiated rivers of golden light, poured forth liquid gold
into
the tossing lake at our feet, and sprinkled with golden dust every
blade
of grass, every pebble, as far as the eye could reach, all round
us.
Her disk of silvery yellow swiftly glided upward amongst the big
stars,
on their dark blue ground.
Many
a moonlit night have I seen in
was
new and unexpected. It is no use trying to describe these feerique
pictures,
they cannot be represented either in words or in colors on
canvas,
they can only be felt--so fugitive is their grandeur and beauty!
In
most
brilliant of the stars, so that hardly any can be seen for a
considerable
distance round her. In
looks
like a huge pearl surrounded by diamonds, rolling on a blue velvet
ground.
Her light is so intense that one can read a letter written in
small
handwriting; one even can perceive the different greens of the
trees
and bushes--a thing unheard of in
is
especially charming on tall palm trees. From the first moment of her
appearance
her rays glide over the tree downwards, beginning with
the
feathery crests, then lighting up the scales of the trunk, and
descending
lower and lower till the whole palm is literally bathing in
a
sea of light. Without any metaphor the surface of the leaves seems
to
tremble in liquid silver all the night long, whereas their under
surfaces
seem blacker and softer than black velvet. But woe to the
thoughtless
novice, woe to the mortal who gazes at the Indian moon with
his
head uncovered. It is very dangerous not only to sleep under, but
even
to gaze at the chaste Indian Diana. Fits of epilepsy, madness
and
death are the punishments wrought by her treacherous arrows on the
modern
Acteon who dares to contemplate the cruel daughter of Latona in
her
full beauty. The Hindus never go out in the moonlight without their
turbans
or pagris. Even our invulnerable Babu always wore a kind of
white
cap during the night.
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CF24-1DL
As
soon as the reeds concert reaches its height and the inhabitants of
the
neighborhood hear the distant "voices of the gods," whole villages
flock
together to the bank of the lake, light bonfires, and perform
their
pujas. The fires lit up one after the other, and the black
silhouettes
of the worshippers moved about on the opposite shore. Their
sacred
songs and loud exclamations, "Hari, Hari, Maha-deva!" resounded
with
a strange loudness and a wild emphasis in the pure air of the
night.
And the reeds, shaken in the wind, answered them with tender
musical
phrases. The whole stirred a vague feeling of uneasiness in
my
soul, a strange intoxication crept gradually over me, and in this
enchanting
place the idol-worship of these passionate, poetical souls,
sunk
in dark ignorance, seemed more intelligible and less repulsive. A
Hindu
is a born mystic, and the luxuriant nature of his country has made
of
him a zealous pantheist.
Sounds
of alguja, a kind of Pandean pipe with seven openings, struck
our
attention; their music was wafted by the wind quite distinctly from
somewhere
in the wood. They also startled a whole family of monkeys in
the
branches of a tree over our heads. Two or three monkeys carefully
slipped
down, and looked round as if waiting for something.
"What
is this new Orpheus, to whose voice these monkeys answer?" asked I
laughingly.
"Some
fakir probably. The alguja is generally used to invite the sacred
monkeys
to their meals. The community of fakirs, who once inhabited
this
island, have removed to an old pagoda in the forest. Their new
resting-place
brings them more profit, because there are many passers
by,
whereas the island is perfectly isolated."
"Probably
they were compelled to desert this dreadful place because they
were
threatened by chronic deafness," Miss X---- expressed her opinion.
She
could not help being out of temper at being prevented from enjoying
her
quiet slumber, our tents being right in the middle of the orchestra.
"A
propos of Orpheus," asked the Takur, "do you know that the lyre of
this
Greek demigod was not the first to cast spells over people, animals
and
even rivers? Kui, a certain Chinese musical artist, as they are
called,
expresses something to this effect: 'When I play my kyng the
wild
animals hasten to me, and range themselves into rows, spellbound by
my
melody.' This Kui lived one thousand years before the supposed era of
Orpheus."
"What
a funny coincidence!" exclaimed I. "Kui is the name of one of our
best
artists in St. Petersburg. Where did you read this?"
"Oh,
this is not a very rare piece of information. Some of your Western
Orientalists
have it in their books. But I personally found it in an
ancient
Sanskrit book, translated from the Chinese in the second century
before
your era. But the original is to be found in a very ancient work,
named
The Preserver of the Five Chief Virtues. It is a kind of chronicle
or
treatise on the development of music in China. It was written by the
order
of Emperor Hoang-Tee many hundred years before your era."
"Do
you think, then, that the Chinese ever understood anything about
music?"
said the colonel, with an incredulous smile. "In California and
other
places I heard some traveling artists of the celestial empire.
Well,
I think, that kind of musical entertainment would drive any one
mad."
"That
is exactly the opinion of many of your Western musicians on the
subject
of our ancient Aryan, as well as of modern Hindu, music. But, in
the
first instance, the idea of melody is perfectly arbitrary; and, in
the
second, there is a good deal of difference between the technical
knowledge
of music, and the creation of melodies fit to please the
educated,
as well as the uneducated, ear. According to technical theory,
a
musical piece may be perfect, but the melody, nevertheless, may be
above
the understanding of an untrained taste, or simply unpleasant.
Your
most renowned operas sound for us like a wild chaos, like a rush of
strident,
entangled sounds, in which we do not see any meaning at all,
and
which give us headaches. I have visited the
opera;
I have heard Rossini and Meyer-beer; I was resolved to render
myself
an account of my impressions, and listened with the greatest
attention.
But I own I prefer the simplest of our native melodies to the
productions
of the best European composers. Our popular songs speak to
me,
whereas they fail to produce any emotion in you. But leaving the
tunes
and songs out of question, I can assure you that our ancestors,
as
well as the ancestors of the Chinese, were far from inferior to the
modern
Europeans, if not in technical instrumentation, at least in their
abstract
notions of music."
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206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
"The
Aryan nations of antiquity, perhaps; but I hardly believe this in
the
case of the Turanian Chinese!" said our president doubtfully.
"But
the music of nature has been everywhere the first step to the
music
of art. This is a universal rule. But there are different ways of
following
it. Our musical system is the greatest art, if--pardon me this
seeming
paradox--avoiding all artificiality is art. We do not allow in
our
melodies any sounds that cannot be classified amongst the living
voices
of nature; whereas the modern Chinese tendencies are quite
different.
The Chinese system comprises eight chief tones, which serve
as
a tuning-fork to all derivatives; which are accordingly classified
under
the names of their generators. These eight sounds are: the notes
metal,
stone, silk, bamboo, pumpkin, earthenware, leather and wood. So
that
they have metallic sounds, wooden sounds, silk sounds, and so on.
Of
course, under these conditions they cannot produce any melody; their
music
consists of an entangled series of separate notes. Their imperial
hymn,
for instance, is a series of endless unisons. But we Hindus owe
our
music only to living nature, and in nowise to inanimate objects. In
a
higher sense of the word, we are pantheists, and so our music is, so
to
speak, pantheistic; but, at the same time, it is highly scientific.
Coming
from the cradle of humanity, the Aryan races, who were the first
to
attain manhood, listened to the voice of nature, and concluded that
melody
as well as harmony are both contained in our great common mother.
Nature
has no false and no artificial notes; and man, the crown of
creation,
felt desirous of imitating her sounds. In their multiplicity,
all
these sounds--according to the opinion of some of your Western
physicists--make
only one tone, which we all can hear, if we know how
to
listen, in the eternal rustle of the foliage of big forests, in the
murmur
of water, in the roar of the storming ocean, and even in the
distant
roll of a great city. This tone is the middle F, the fundamental
tone
of nature. In our melodies it serves as the starting point, which
we
embody in the key-note, and around which are grouped all the
other
sounds. Having noticed that every musical note has its typical
representative
in the animal kingdom, our ancestors found out that the
seven
chief tones correspond to the cries of the goat, the peacock, the
ox,
the parrot, the frog, the tiger, and the elephant. So the octave was
discovered
and founded. As to its subdivisions and measure, they also
found
their basis in the complicated sounds of the same animals."
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"I
am no judge of your ancient music," said the colonel, "nor do I know
whether
your ancestors did, or did not, work out any musical theories,
so
I cannot contradict you; but I must own that, listening to the songs
of
the modern Hindus, I could not give them any credit for musical
knowledge."
"No
doubt it is so, because you have never heard a professional singer.
When
you have visited
shall
resume our present conversation. The Gayan Samaj is a society
whose
aim is to restore the ancient national music."
Gulab-Lal-Sing
spoke in his usual calm voice, but the Babu was evidently
burning
to break forth for his country's honor, and at the same time, he
was
afraid of offending his seniors by interrupting their conversation.
At
last he lost patience.
"You
are unjust, colonel!" he exclaimed. "The music of the ancient
Aryans
is an antediluvian plant, no doubt, but nevertheless it is well
worth
studying, and deserves every consideration. This is perfectly
proved
now by a compatriot of mine, the Raja Surendronath Tagor.... He
is
a Mus. D., he has lots of decorations from all kinds of kings and
emperors
of
this
man has proved, as clear as daylight, that ancient
right
to be called the mother of music. Even the best musical critics of
the
light at a certain period, developed in a certain climate and in
perfectly
different circumstances. Every school has its characteristics,
and
its peculiar charm, at least for its followers; and our school is
no
exception. You Europeans are trained in the melodies of the West, and
acquainted
with Western schools of music; but our musical system, like
many
other things in
forgive
my boldness, colonel, when I say that you have no right to
judge!"
"Don't
get so excited, Babu," said the Takur. "Every one has the right,
if
not to discuss, then to ask questions about a new subject. Otherwise
no
one would ever get any information. If Hindu music belonged to an
epoch
as little distant from us as the European--which you seem to
suggest,
Babu, in your hot haste; and if, besides, it included all the
virtues
of all the previous musical systems, which the European music
assimilates;
then no doubt it would have been better understood, and
better
appreciated than it is. But our music belongs to prehistoric
times.
In one of the sarcophagi at Thebes, Bruce found a harp with
twenty
strings, and, judging by this instrument, we may safely say that
the
ancient inhabitants of Egypt were well acquainted with the
mysteries
of harmony. But, except the Egyptians, we were the only people
possessing
this art, in the remote epochs, when the rest of mankind
were
still struggling with the elements for bare existence. We possess
hundreds
of Sanskrit MSS. about music, which have never been translated,
even
into modern Indian dialects. Some of them are four thousand and
eight
thousand years old. Whatever your Orientalists may say to the
contrary,
we will persist in believing in their antiquity, because we
have
read and studied them, while the European scientists have never yet
set
their eyes on them. There are many of these musical treatises,
and
they have been written at different epochs; but they all, without
exception,
show that in
when
the modern civilized nations of
However
true, all this does not give us the right to grow indignant when
Europeans
say they do not like our music, as long as their ears are not
accustomed
to it, and their minds cannot understand its spirit.... To a
certain
extent we can explain to you its technical character, and give
you
a right idea of it as a science. But nobody can create in you, in
a
moment, what the Aryans used to call Rakti; the capacity of the human
soul
to receive and be moved by the combinations of the various sounds
of
nature. This capacity is the alpha and omega of our musical system,
but
you do not possess it, as we do not possess the possibility to fall
into
raptures over Bellini."
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"But
why should it be so? What are these mysterious virtues of your
music,
that can be understood only by yourselves? Our skins are of
different
colors, but our organic mechanism is the same. In other
words,
the physiological combination of bones, blood, nerves, veins and
muscles,
which forms a Hindu, has as many parts, combined exactly
after
the same model as the living mechanism known under the name of an
American,
Englishman, or any other European. They come into the world
from
the same workshop of nature; they have the same beginning and the
same
end. From a physiological point of view we are duplicates of each
other."
"Physiologically
yes. And it would be as true psychologically, if
education
did not interfere, which, after all is said and done, could
not
but influence the mental and the moral direction taken by a human
being.
Sometimes it extinguishes the divine spark; at other times it
only
increases it, transforming it into a lighthouse which becomes man's
lodestar
for life."
"No
doubt this is so. But the influence it has over the physiology of
the
ear cannot be so overpowering after all."
"Quite
the contrary. Only remember what a strong influence climatic
conditions,
food and everyday surroundings have on the complexion,
vitality,
capacity for reproduction, and so on, and you will see that
you
are mistaken. Apply this same law of gradual modification to the
purely
psychic element in man, and the results will be the same. Change
the
education and you will change the capacities of a human being....
For
instance, you believe in the powers of gymnastics, you believe that
special
exercise can almost transform the human body. We go one step
higher.
The experience of centuries shows that gymnastics exist for the
soul
as well as for the body. But what the soul's gymnastics are is our
secret.
What is it that gives to the sailor the sight of an eagle, that
endows
the acrobat with the skill of a monkey, and the wrestler with
muscles
of iron? Practice and habit. Then why should not we suppose
the
same possibilities in the soul of the man as well as in his body?
Perhaps
on the grounds of modern science--which either dispenses with
the
soul altogether, or does not acknowledge in it a life distinct from
the
life of the body...."
"Please
do not speak in this way, Takur. You, at least, ought to know
that
I believe in the soul and in its immortality!"
"We
believe in the immortality of spirit, not of soul, following the
triple
division of body, soul and spirit. However, this has nothing to
do
with the present discussion.... And so you agree to the proposition
that
every dormant possibility of the soul may be led to perfected
strength
and activity by practice, and also that if not properly used it
may
grow numb and even disappear altogether. Nature is so zealous
that
all her gifts should be used properly, that it is in our power to
develop
or to kill in our descendants any physical or mental gift. A
systematic
training or a total disregard will accomplish both in the
lifetime
of a few generations."
"Perfectly
true; but that does not explain to me the secret charm of
your
melodies...."
"These
are details and particulars. Why should I dwell on them when you
must
see for yourself that my reasoning gives you the clue, which will
solve
many similar problems? Centuries have accustomed the ear of
a
Hindu to be receptive only of certain combinations of atmospheric
vibrations;
whereas the ear of a European is used to perfectly different
combinations.
Hence the soul of the former will be enraptured where the
soul
of the latter will be perfectly indifferent. I hope my explanation
has
been simple and clear, and I might have ended it here were it not
that
I am anxious to give you something better than the feeling of
satisfied
curiosity. As yet I have solved only the physiological aspect
of
the secret, which is as easily admitted as the fact that we Hindus
eat
by the handful spices which would give you inflammation of the
intestines
if you happened to swallow a single grain. Our aural nerves,
which,
at the beginning, were identical with yours, have been changed
through
different training, and became as distinct from yours as our
complexion
and our stomachs. Add to this that the eyes of the
weavers,
men and women, are able to distinguish three hundred shades
more
than the eye of a European.... The force of habit, the law of
atavism,
if you like. But things of this kind practically solve the
apparent
difficulty. You have come all the way from
Hindus
and their religion; but you will never understand the latter if
you
do not realize how closely all our sciences are related, not to
the
modern ignorant Brahmanism, of course, but to the philosophy of our
primitive
Vedic religion."
"I
see. You mean that your music has something to do with the Vedas?"
"Exactly.
It has a good deal--almost everything--to do with the Vedas.
All
the sounds of nature, and, in consequence, of music, are directly
allied
to astronomy and mathematics; that is to say, to the planets,
the
signs of the zodiac, the sun and moon, and to rotation and numbers.
Above
all, they depend on the Akasha, the ether of space, of the
existence
of which your scientists have not made perfectly sure as yet.
This
was the teaching of the ancient Chinese and Egyptians, as well as
of
ancient Aryans. The doctrine of the 'music of the spheres' first
saw
the light here in India, and not in Greece or Italy, whither it
was
brought by Pythagoras after he had studied under the Indian
Gymnosophists.
And most certainly this great philosopher--who revealed
to
the world the heliocentric system before Copernicus and Galileo--knew
better
than anyone else how dependent are the least sounds in nature
on
Akasha and its interrelations. One of the four Vedas, namely, the
Sama-Veda,
entirely consists of hymns. This is a collection of mantrams
sung
during the sacrifices to the gods, that is to say, to the elements.
Our
ancient priests were hardly acquainted with the modern methods of
chemistry
and physics; but, to make up for it, they knew a good deal
which
has not as yet been thought of by modern scientists. So it is not
to
be wondered at that, sometimes, our priests, so perfectly acquainted
with
natural sciences as they were, forced the elementary gods, or
rather
the blind forces of nature, to answer their prayers by various
portents.
Every sound of these mantrams has its meaning, its importance,
and
stands exactly where it ought to stand; and, having a raison d'etre,
it
does not fail to produce its effect. Remember Professor Leslie, who
says
that the science of sound is the most subtle, the most unseizable
and
the most complicated of all the series of physical sciences. And if
ever
this teaching was worked out to perfection it was in the times of
the
Rishis, our philosophers and saints, who left to us the Vedas."
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"Now,
I think I begin to understand the origin of all the mythological
fables
of the Greek antiquity," thoughtfully said the colonel; "the
syrinx
of Pan, his pipe of seven reeds, the fauns, the satyrs, and the
lyre
of Orpheus himself. The ancient Greeks knew little about harmony;
and
the rhythmical declamations of their dramas, which probably never
reached
the pathos of the simplest of modern recitals, could hardly
suggest
to them the idea of the magic lyre of Orpheus. I feel strongly
inclined
to believe what was written by some of our great philologists:
Orpheus
must be an emigrant from India; his very name [greek script],
or
[greek script], shows that, even amongst the tawny Greeks, he was
remarkably
dark. This was the opinion of Lempriere and others."
"Some
day this opinion may become a certainty. There is not the
slightest
doubt that the purest and the highest of all the musical forms
of
antiquity belongs to India. All our legends ascribe magic powers to
music;
it is a gift and a science coming straight from the gods. As a
rule,
we ascribe all our arts to divine revelation, but music stands at
the
head of everything else. The invention of the vina, a kind of lute,
belongs
to Narada, the son of Brahma. You will probably laugh at me if I
tell
you that our ancient priests, whose duty it was to sing during
the
sacrifices, were able to produce phenomena that could not but be
considered
by the ignorant as signs from supernatural powers; and this,
remember,
without a shadow of trickery, but simply with the help of
their
perfect knowledge of nature and certain combinations well known
to
them. The phenomena produced by the priests and the Raj-Yogis are
perfectly
natural for the initiate--however miraculous they may seem to
the
masses."
"But
do you really mean that you have no faith what-ever in the spirits
of
the dead?" timidly asked Miss X----, who was always ill at ease in
the
presence of the Takur.
"With
your permission, I have none."
"And...
and have you no regard for mediums?"
"Still
less than for the spirits, my dear lady. I do believe in the
existence
of many psychic diseases, and, amongst their number, in
mediumism,
for which we have got a queer sounding name from time
immemorial.
We call it Bhuta-Dak, literally a bhuta-hostelry. I
sincerely
pity the real mediums, and do whatever is in my power to
help
them. As to the charlatans, I despise them, and never lose an
opportunity
of unmasking them."
The
witch's den near the "dead city" suddenly flashed into my mind;
the
fat Brahman, who played the oracle in the head of the Sivatherium,
caught
and rolling down the hole; the witch herself suddenly taking to
her
heels. And with this recollection also occurred to me what I had
never
thought of before: Narayan had acted under the orders of the
Takur--doing
his best to expose the witch and her ally.
"The
unknown power which possesses the mediums (which the spiritualists
believe
to be spirits of the dead, while the superstitious see in it the
devil,
and the sceptics deceit and infamous tricks), true men of science
suspect
to be a natural force, which has not as yet been discovered. It
is,
in reality, a terrible power. Those possessed by it are generally
weak
people, often women and children. Your beloved spiritualists, Miss
X----,
only help the growth of dreadful psychic diseases, but people who
know
better seek to save them from this force you know nothing whatever
about,
and it is no use discussing this matter now. I shall only add one
word:
the real living spirit of a human being is as free as Brahma;
and
even more than this for us, for, according to our religion and our
philosophy,
our spirit is Brahma himself, higher than whom there is only
the
unknowable, the all-pervading, the omnipotent essence of Parabrahm.
The
living spirit of man cannot be ordered about like the spirits of the
spiritualists,
it cannot be made a slave of... However, it is getting so
late
that we had better go to bed. Let us say good-bye for tonight."
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Gulab-Lal-Sing
would not talk any more that night, but I have gathered
from
our previous conversations many a point without which the above
conversation
would remain obscure. The Vedantins and the followers of
Shankaracharya's
philosophy, in talking of themselves, often avoid using
the
pronoun I, and say, "this body went," "this hand took," and
so on,
in
everything concerning the automatic actions of man. The personal
pronouns
are only used concerning mental and moral processes, such as,
"I
thought," "he desired." The body in their eyes is not the man,
but
only
a covering to the real man.
The
real interior man possesses many bodies; each of them more subtle
and
more pure than the preceding; and each of them bears a different
name
and is independent of the material body. After death, when the
earthly
vital principle disintegrates, together with the material body,
all
these interior bodies join together, and either advance on the way
to
Moksha, and are called Deva (divine), though it still has to pass
many
stadia before the final liberation, or is left on earth, to wander
and
to suffer in the invisible world, and, in this case, is called
bhuta.
But a Deva has no tangible intercourse with the living. Its only
link
with the earth is its posthumous affection for those it loved in
its
lifetime, and the power of protecting and influencing them. Love
outlives
every earthly feeling, and a Deva can appear to the beloved
ones
only in their dreams--unless it be as an illusion, which cannot
last,
because the body of a Deva undergoes a series of gradual changes
from
the moment it is freed from its earthly bonds; and, with every
change,
it grows more intangible, losing every time something of its
objective
nature. It is reborn; it lives and dies in new Lokas or
spheres,
which gradually become purer and more subjective. At last,
having
got rid of every shadow of earthly thoughts and desires, it
becomes
nothing from a material point of view. It is extinguished like
a
flame, and, having become one with Parabrahm, it lives the life of
spirit,
of which neither our material conception nor our language can
give
any idea. But the eternity of Parabrahm is not the eternity of the
soul.
The latter, according to a Vedanta expression, is an eternity in
eternity.
However holy, the life of a soul had its beginning and its
end,
and, consequently, no sins and no good actions can be punished
or
rewarded in the eternity of Parabrahm. This would be contrary to
justice,
disproportionate, to use an expression of Vedanta philosophy.
Spirit
alone lives in eternity, and has neither beginning nor end,
neither
limits nor central point. The Deva lives in Parabrahm, as a
drop
lives in the ocean, till the next regeneration of the universe
from
Pralaya; a periodical chaos, a disappearance of the worlds from the
region
of objectivity. With every new Maha-yuga (great cycle) the
Deva
separates from that which is eternal, attracted by existence in
objective
worlds, like a drop of water first drawn up by the sun,
then
starting again downwards, passing from one region to another, and
returning
at last to the dirt of our planet. Then, having dwelt there
whilst
a small cycle lasted, it proceeds again upwards on the other side
of
the circle. So it gravitates in the eternity of Parabrahm, passing
from
one minor eternity to another. Each of these "human," that is to
say
conceivable, eternities consists of 4,320,000,000 years of objective
life
and of as many years of subjective life in Parabrahm, altogether
8,640,000,000
years, which are enough, in the eyes of the Vedantins, to
redeem
any mortal sin, and also to reap the fruit of any good actions
performed
in such a short period as human life. The individuality of the
soul,
teaches the Vedanta, is not lost when plunged in Parabrahm, as is
supposed
by some of the European Orientalists.
Only
the souls of bhutas--when the last spark of repentance and of
tendency
to improvement are extinguished in them--will evaporate for
ever.
Then their divine spirit, the undying part of them, separates from
the
soul and returns to its primitive source; the soul is reduced to
its
primordial atoms, and the monad plunges into the darkness of
eternal
unconsciousness. This is the only case of total destruction of
personality.
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Such
is the Vedanta teaching concerning the spiritual man. And this
is
why no true Hindu believes in the disembodied souls voluntarily
returning
to earth, except in the case of bhutas.
Jubblepore
Leaving
Malva and Indore, the quasi-independent country of Holkar, we
found
ourselves once more on strictly British territory. We were going
to
Jubblepore by railway.
This
town is situated in the district of Saugor and Nerbudda; once
it
belonged to the Mahrattis, but, in 1817, the English army took
possession
of it. We stopped in the town only for a short time, being
anxious
to see the celebrated Marble Rocks. As it would have been a pity
to
lose a whole day, we hired a boat and started at 2 A.M., which gave
us
the double advantage of avoiding the heat, and enjoying a splendid
bit
of the river ten miles from the town.
The
neighborhood of Jubblepore is charming; and besides, both a
geologist
and a mineralogist would find here the richest field for
scientific
researches. The geological formation of the rocks offers an
infinite
variety of granites; and the long chains of mountains might
keep
a hundred of Cuviers busy for life. The limestone caves of
Jubblepore
are a true ossuary of antediluvian India; they are full of
skeletons
of monstrous animals, now disappeared for ever.
At
a considerable distance from the rest of the mountain ridges, and
perfectly
separate, stand the Marble Rocks, a most wonderful natural
phenomenon,
not very rare, though, in India. On the flattish banks of
the
Nerbudda, overgrown with thick bushes, you suddenly perceive a long
row
of strangely-shaped white cliffs.
They
are there without any apparent reason, as if they were a wart on
the
smooth cheek of mother nature. White and pure, they are heaped up
on
each other as if after some plan, and look exactly like a huge
paperweight
from the writing-table of a Titan. We saw them when we were
half-way
from the town. They appeared and disappeared with the sudden
capricious
turnings of the river; trembling in the early morning mist
like
a distant, deceitful mirage of the desert. Then we lost sight of
them
altogether. But just before sunrise they stood out once more before
our
charmed eyes, floating above their reflected image in the water. As
if
called forth by the wand of a sorcerer, they stood there on the green
bank
of the Nerbudda, mirroring their virgin beauty on the calm surface
of
the lazy stream, and promising us a cool and welcome shelter.... And
as
to the preciousness of every moment of the cool hours before sunrise,
it
can be appreciated only by those who have lived and traveled in this
fiery
land.
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Alas!
in spite of all our precautions, and our unusually early start,
our
enjoyment of this cool retreat was very short-lived. Our project was
to
have prosaic tea amid these poetic surroundings; but as soon as we
landed,
the sun leaped above the horizon, and began shooting his fiery
arrows
at the boat, and at our unfortunate heads. Persecuting us from
one
place to another, he banished us, at last, even from under a huge
rock
hanging over the water. There was literally no place where we
could
seek salvation. The snow-white marble beauties became golden red,
pouring
fire-sparks into the river, heating the sand and blinding our
eyes.
No
wonder that legend supposes in them something between the abode and
the
incarnation of Kali, the fiercest of all the goddesses of the Hindu
pantheon.
For
many Yugas this goddess has been engaged in a desperate contest
with
her lawful husband Shiva, who, in his shape of Trikutishvara, a
three-headed
lingam, has dishonestly claimed the rocks and the river for
his
own--the very rocks and the very river over which Kali presides in
person.
And this is why people hear dreadful moaning, coming from under
the
ground, every time that the hand of an irresponsible coolie, working
by
Government orders in Government quarries, breaks a stone from the
white
bosom of the goddess. The unhappy stone-breaker hears the cry and
trembles,
and his heart is torn between the expectations of a dreadful
punishment
from the bloodthirsty goddess and the fear of his implacably
exacting
inspector in case he disobeys his orders.
Kali
is the owner of the Marble Rocks, but she is the patroness of the
ex-Thugs
as well. Many a lonely traveler has shuddered on hearing this
name;
many a bloodless sacrifice has been offered on the marble altar
of
Kali. The country is full of horrible tales about the achievements
of
the Thugs, accomplished in the honor of this goddess. These tales
are
too recent and too fresh in the popular memory to become as yet
mere
highly-colored legends. They are mostly true, and many of them are
proved
by official documents of the law courts and inquest commissions.
If
England ever leaves India, the perfect suppression of Thugism will be
one
of the good memories that will linger in the country long after
her
departure. Under this name was practised in India during two long
centuries
the craftiest and the worst kind of homicide. Only after 1840
was
it discovered that its aim was simply robbery and brigandage.
The
falsely interpreted symbolical meaning of Kali was nothing but a
pretext,
otherwise there would not have been so many Mussulmans amongst
her
devotees. When they were caught at last, and had to answer before
justice,
most of these knights of the rumal--the handkerchief with which
the
operation of strangling was performed--proved to be Mussulmans. The
most
illustrious of their leaders were not Hindus, but followers of the
Prophet,
the celebrated Ahmed, for instance. Out of thirty-seven Thugs
caught
by the police there were twenty-two Mahometans. This proves
perfectly
clearly that their religion, having nothing in common with the
Hindu
gods, had nothing to do with their cruel profession; the reason
and
cause was robbery.
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It
is true though that the final initiation rite was performed in some
deserted
forest before an idol of Bhavani, or Kali, wearing a necklace
of
human skulls. Before this final initiation the candidates had to
undergo
a course of schooling, the most difficult part of which was
a
certain trick of throwing the rumal on the neck of the unsuspecting
victim
and strangling him, so that death might be instantaneous. In
the
initiation the part of the goddess was made manifest in the use of
certain
symbols, which are in common use amongst the Freemasons--for
instance,
an unsheathed dagger, a human skull, and the corpse of
Hiram-Abiff,
"son of the widow," brought back to life by the Grand
Master
of the lodge. Kali was nothing but the pretext for an imposing
scenarium.
Freemasonry and Thugism had many points of resemblance.
The
members of both recognized each other by certain signs, both had a
pass-word
and a jargon that no outsider could understand. The Freemason
lodges
receive among their members both Christians and Atheists; the
Thugs
used to receive the thieves and robbers of every nation without
any
distinction; and it is reported that amongst them there were some
Portuguese
and even Englishmen. The difference between the two is that
the
Thugs certainly were a criminal organization, whereas the Freemasons
of
our days do no harm, except to their own pockets.
Poor
Shiva, wretched Bhavani! What a mean interpretation popular
ignorance
has invented for these two poetical types, so deeply
philosophical
and so full of knowledge of the laws of nature. Shiva, in
his
primitive meaning is "Happy God"; then the all-destroying, as well
as
the all-regenerating force of nature. The Hindu trinity is, amongst
other
things, an allegorical representation of the three chief elements:
fire,
earth and water. Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva all represent these
elements
by turns, in their different phases; but Shiva is much more the
god
of the fire than either Brahma or Vishnu: he burns and purifies; at
the
same time creating out of the ashes new forms, full of fresh life.
Shiva-Sankarin
is the destroyer or rather the scatterer; Shiva-Rakshaka
is
the preserver, the regenerator. He is represented with flames on
his
left palm, and with the wand of death and resurrection in his right
hand.
His worshippers wear on their foreheads his sign traced with wet
ashes,
the ashes being called vibhuti, or purified substance, and the
sign
consisting of three horizontal parallel lines between the eyebrows.
The
color of Shiva's skin is rosy-yellow, gradually changing into a
flaming
red. His neck, head and arms are covered with snakes, emblems
of
eternity and eternal regeneration. "As a serpent, abandoning his old
slough,
reappears in new skin, so man after death reappears in a younger
and
a purer body," say the Puranas.
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In
her turn, Shiva's wife Kali is the allegory of earth, fructified
by
the flames of the sun. Her educated worshippers say they allow
themselves
to believe their goddess is fond of human sacrifices, only on
the
strength of the fact that earth is fond of organical decomposition,
which
fertilizes her, and helps her to call forth new forces from the
ashes
of the dead. The Shivaites, when burning their dead, put an idol
of
Shiva at the head of the corpse; but when beginning to scatter the
ashes
in the elements, they invoke Bhavani, in order that the goddess
may
receive the purified remains, and develop in them germs of new life.
But
what truth could bear the coarse touch of superstitious ignorance
without
being disfigured!
The
murdering Thugs laid their hands on this great philosophic emblem,
and,
having understood that the goddess loves human sacrifice, but hates
useless
blood-shed, they resolved to please her doubly: to kill, but
never
to soil their hands by the blood of their victims. The result of
it
was the knighthood of the rumal.
One
day we visited a very aged ex-Thug. In his young days he was
transported
to the Andaman Islands, but, owing to his sincere
repentance,
and to some services he had rendered to the Government,
he
was afterwards pardoned. Having returned to his native village, he
settled
down to earn his living by weaving ropes, a profession probably
suggested
to him by some sweet reminiscences of the achievements of his
youth.
He initiated us first into the mysteries of theoretic Thugism,
and
then extended his hospitality by a ready offer to show us the
practical
side of it, if we agreed to pay for a sheep. He said he would
gladly
show us how easy it was to send a living being ad patres in less
than
three seconds; the whole secret consisting in some skillful and
swift
movements of the righthand finger joints.
We
refused to buy the sheep for this old brigand, but we gave him
some
money. To show his gratitude he offered to demonstrate all the
preliminary
sensation of the rumal on any English or American neck that
was
willing. Of course, he said he would omit the final twist. But still
none
of us were willing; and the gratitude of the repentant criminal
found
issue in great volubility.
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The
owl is sacred to Bhavani Kali, and as soon as a band of Thugs,
awaiting
their victims, had been signalled by the conventional hooting,
each
of the travelers, let them be twenty and more, had a Thug behind
his
shoulders. One second more, and the rumal was on the neck of the
victim,
the well-trained iron fingers of the Thug tightly holding the
ends
of the sacred handkerchief; another second, the joints of the
fingers
performed their artistic twist, pressing the larynx, and the
victim
fell down lifeless. Not a sound, not a shriek! The Thugs worked,
as
swiftly as lightning. The strangled man was immediately carried to a
grave
prepared in some thick forest, usually under the bed of some brook
or
rivulet in their periodical state of drought. Every vestige of the
victim
disappeared. Who cared to know about him, except his own family
and
his very intimate friends? The inquests were especially difficult,
if
not impossible, thirty years ago [1879], when there were no regular
railway
communications, and no regular Government system. Besides, the
country
is full of tigers, whose sad fate it is to be responsible for
every
one else's sins as well as for their own. Whoever it was who
happened
to disappear, be it Hindu or Mussulman, the answer was
invariably
the same: tigers!
The
Thugs possessed a wonderfully good organization. Trained accomplices
used
to tramp all over India, stopping at the bazaars, those true clubs
of
Eastern nations, gathering information, scaring their listeners to
death
with tales of the Thugs, and then advising them to join this or
that
travelling party, who of course were Thugs playing the part of rich
merchants
or pilgrims. Having ensnared these wretches, they sent word
to
the Thugs, and got paid for the commission in proportion to the total
profit.
During
many long years these invisible bands, scattered all over the
country,
and working in parties of from ten to sixty men, enjoyed
perfect
freedom, but at last they were caught. The inquiries unveiled
horrid
and repulsive secrets: rich bankers, officiating Brahmans, Rajas
on
the brink of poverty, and a few English officials, all had to be
brought
before justice.
This
deed of the East India Company truly deserves the popular gratitude
which
it receives.----
On
our way back from the Marble Rocks we saw Muddun-Mahal, another
mysterious
curio; it is a house built--no one knows by whom, or with
what
purpose--on a huge boulder. This stone is probably some kind of
relative
to the cromlechs of the Celtic Druids. It shakes at the least
touch,
together with the house and the people who feel curious to see
inside
it. Of course we had this curiosity, and our noses remained safe
only
thanks to the Babu, Narayan and the Takur, who took as great care
of
us as if they had been nurses, and we their babies.
Natives
of India are truly a wonderful people. However unsteady the
thing
may be, they are sure to walk on it, and sit on it, with the
greatest
comfort. They think nothing of sitting whole hours on the top
of
a post--maybe a little thicker than an ordinary telegraph post. They
also
feel perfectly safe with their toes twisted round a thin branch
and
their bodies resting on nothing, as if they were crows perched on a
telegraph
wire.
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"Salam,
sahib!" said I once to an ancient, naked Hindu of a low caste,
seated
in the above described fashion. "Are you comfortable, uncle? And
are
you not afraid of falling down?"
"Why
should I fall?" seriously answered the "uncle," expectorating a
red
fountain--an unavoidable result of betel-chewing. "I do not breathe,
mam-sahib!"
"What
do you mean? A man cannot do without breathing!" exclaimed I, a
good
deal astonished by this wonderful bit of information.
"Oh
yes, he can. I do not breathe just now, and so I am perfectly safe.
But
soon I shall have to fill up my breast again with fresh air, and
then
I will hold on to the post, otherwise I should fall."
After
this astounding physiological information, we parted. He would not
talk
any more, evidently fearing to endanger his comfort. At that
time,
we did not receive any more explanations on the subject, but this
incident
was enough to disturb the scientific equanimity of our minds.
Till
then, we were so naive as to fancy that only sturgeons and similar
aquatic
acrobats were clever enough to learn how to fill up their
insides
with air in order to become lighter, and to rise to the surface
of
the water. What is possible to a sturgeon is impossible to man,
speculated
we in our ignorance. So we agreed to look upon the revelation
of
the above described "uncle" in the light of a brag, having no other
aim
but to chaff the "white sahibs." In those days, we were still
inexperienced,
and inclined to resent this kind of information,
as
coming very near to mockery. But, later on, we learned that his
description
of the process necessary to keep up this birdlike posture
was
perfectly accurate. In Jubblepore we saw much greater wonders.
Strolling
along the river bank, we reached the so-called Fakirs' Avenue;
and
the Takur invited us to visit the courtyard of the pagoda. This is a
sacred
place, and neither Europeans nor Mussulmans are admitted inside.
But
Gulab-Sing said something to the chief Brahman, and we entered
without
hindrance.
The
yard was full of devotees, and of ascetics. But our attention
was
especially attracted by three ancient, perfectly naked fakirs. As
wrinkled
as baked mushrooms, as thin as skeletons, crowned with twisted
masses
of white hair, they sat or rather stood in the most impossible
postures,
as we thought. One of them, literally leaning only on the
palm
of his right hand, was poised with his head downwards and his legs
upwards;
his body was as motionless as if he were the dry branch of a
tree.
Just a little above the ground his head rose in the most unnatural
position,
and his eyes were fixed on the glaring sun. I cannot guarantee
the
truthfulness of some talkative inhabitants of the town, who had
joined
our party, and who assured us that this fakir daily spends
in
this posture all the hours between noon and the sunset. But I can
guarantee
that not a muscle of his body moved during the hour and twenty
minutes
we spent amongst the fakirs. Another fakir stood on a "sacred
stone
of Shiva," a small stone about five inches in diameter. One of
his
legs was curled up under him, and the whole of his body was bent
backwards
into an arc; his eyes also were fixed on the sun. The palms of
his
hands were pressed together as if in prayer. He seemed glued to his
stone.
We were at a loss to imagine by what means this man came to be
master
of such equilibration.
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The
third of these wonderful people sat crossing his legs under him; but
how
he could sit was more than we could understand, because the thing on
which
he sat was a stone lingam, not higher than an ordinary street post
and
little wider than the "stone of Shiva," that is to say, hardly more
than
five or seven inches in diameter. His arms were crossed behind his
back,
and his nails had grown into the flesh of his shoulders.
"This
one never changes his position," said one of our companions. "At
least,
he has not changed for the last seven years."
His
usual food, or rather drink, is milk, which is brought to him once
in
every forty-eight hours and poured into his throat with the aid of a
bamboo.
Every ascetic has willing servants, who are also future fakirs,
whose
duty it is to attend on them; and so the disciples of this living
mummy
take him off his pedestal, wash him in the tank, and put him back
like
an inanimate object, because he can no longer stretch his limbs.
"And
what if I were to push one of these fakirs?" asked I. "I daresay
the
least touch would upset them."
"Try!"
laughingly advised the Takur. "In this state of religious trance
it
is easier to break a man to pieces than to remove him from his
place."
To
touch an ascetic in the state of trance is a sacrilege in the eyes of
the
Hindus; but evidently the Takur was well aware that, under certain
circumstances,
there may be exceptions to every Brahmanical rule. He
had
another aside with the chief Brahman, who followed us, darker than a
thundercloud;
the consultation did not last long, and after it was
over
Gulab-Sing declared to us that none of us was allowed to touch the
fakirs,
but that he personally had obtained this permission, and so was
going
to show us something still more astonishing.
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He
approached the fakir on the little stone, and, carefully holding him
by
his protruding ribs, he lifted him and put him on the ground. The
ascetic
remained as statuesque as before. Then Gulab-Sing took the stone
in
his hands and showed it to us, asking us, however, not to touch it
for
fear of offending the crowd. The stone was round, flattish, with
rather
an uneven surface. When laid on the ground it shook at the least
touch.
"Now,
you see that this pedestal is far from being steady. And also you
have
seen that, under the weight of the fakir, it is as immovable as if
it
were planted in the ground."
When
the fakir was put back on the stone, he and it at once resumed
their
appearance, as of one single body, solidly joined to the ground,
and
not a line of the fakir's body had changed. By all appearance, his
bending
body and his head thrown backward sought to bring him down; but
for
this fakir there was evidently no such thing as the law of gravity.
What
I have described is a fact, but I do not take upon myself to
explain
it. At the gates of the pagoda we found our shoes, which we had
been
told to take off before going in. We put them on again, and left
this
"holy of holies" of the secular mysteries, with our minds still
more
perplexed than before. In the Fakirs' Avenue we found Narayan,
Mulji
and the Babu, who were waiting for us. The chief Brahman would
not
hear of their entering the pagoda. All the three had long before
released
themselves from the iron claws of caste; they openly ate
and
drank with us, and for this offence they were regarded as
excommunicated,
and despised by their compatriots much more than the
Europeans
themselves. Their presence in the pagoda would have polluted
it
for ever, whereas the pollution brought by us was only temporary; it
would
evaporate in the smoke of cow-dung--the usual Brahmanical incense
of
purification--like a drop of muddy water in the rays of the sun.
India
is the country for originalities and everything unexpected and
unconventional.
From the point of view of an ordinary European observer
every
feature of Indian life is contrary to what could be expected.
Shaking
the head from one shoulder to another means no in every other
country,
but in India it means an emphatic yes. If you ask a Hindu
how
his wife is, even if you are well acquainted with her, or how many
children
he has, or whether he has any sisters, he will feel offended in
nine
cases out of ten. So long as the host does not point to the door,
having
previously sprinkled the guest with rose-water, the latter would
not
think of leaving. He would stay the whole day without tasting any
food,
and lose his time, rather than offend his host by an unauthorized
departure.
Everything contradicts our Western ideas. The Hindus are
strange
and original, but their religion is still more original. It has
its
dark points, of course. The rites of some sects are truly repulsive;
the
officiating Brahmans are far from being without reproach. But these
are
only superficialities. In spite of them the Hindu religion possesses
something
so deeply and mysteriously irresistible that it attracts and
subdues
even unimaginative Englishmen.
The
following incident is a curious instance of this fascination:
N.C.
Paul, G.B.M.C., wrote a small, but very interesting and very
scientific
pamphlet. He was only a regimental surgeon in Benares,
but
his name was well known amongst his compatriots as a very learned
specialist
in physiology. The pamphlet was called A Treatise on the
Yoga
Philosophy, and produced a sensation amongst the representatives
of
medicine in India, and a lively polemic between the Anglo-Indian and
native
journalists. Dr. Paul spent thirty-five years in studying the
extraordinary
facts of Yogism, the existence of which was, for him,
beyond
all doubt. He not only described them, but explained some of
the
most extraordinary phenomena, for instance, levitation, the seeming
evidence
to the contrary of some laws of nature, notwithstanding. With
perfect
sincerity, and evident regret, Dr. Paul says he could never
learn
anything from the Raj-Yogis. His experience was almost wholly
limited
to the facts that fakirs and Hatha-Yogis would consent to give
him.
It was his great friendship with Captain Seymour chiefly which
helped
him to penetrate some mysteries, which, till then, were supposed
to
be impenetrable.
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The
history of this English gentleman is truly incredible, and produced,
about
twenty-five years ago, an unprecedented scandal in the records of
the
British army in India. Captain Seymour, a wealthy and well-educated
officer,
accepted the Brahmanical creed and became a Yogi. Of course he
was
proclaimed mad, and, having been caught, was sent back to England.
Seymour
escaped, and returned to India in the dress of a Sannyasi. He
was
caught again, and shut up in some lunatic asylum in London. Three
days
after, in spite of the bolts and the watchmen, he disappeared from
the
establishment. Later on his acquaintances saw him in Benares, and
the
governor-general received a letter from him from the Himalayas. In
this
letter he declared that he never was mad, in spite of his being put
into
a hospital; he advised the governor-general not to interfere
with
what was strictly his own private concern, and announced his firm
resolve
never to return to civilized society. "I am a Yogi," wrote he,
"and
I hope to obtain before I die what is the aim of my life--to become
a
Raj-Yogi." After this letter he was left alone, and no European
ever
saw him except Dr. Paul, who, as it is reported, was in constant
correspondence
with him, and even went twice to see him in the Himalayas
under
the pretext of botanic excursions.
I
was told that the pamphlet of Dr. Paul was ordered to be burned "as
being
offensive to the science of physiology and pathology." At the
time
I visited India copies of it were very great rarities. Out of a few
copies
still extant, one is to be found in the library of the Maharaja
of
Benares, and another was given to me by the Takur.
This
evening we dined at the refreshment rooms of the railway station.
Our
arrival caused an evident sensation. Our party occupied the whole
end
of a table, at which were dining many first-class passengers, who
all
stared at us with undisguised astonishment. Europeans on an equal
footing
with Hindus! Hindus who condescended to dine with Europeans!
These
two were rare and wonderful sights indeed. The subdued whispers
grew
into loud exclamations. Two officers who happened to know the Takur
took
him aside, and, having shaken hands with him, began a very animated
conversation,
as if discussing some matter of business; but, as we
learned
afterwards, they simply wanted to gratify their curiosity about
us.
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Here
we learned, for the first time, that we were under police
supervision,
the police being represented by an individual clad in a
suit
of white clothes, and possessing a very fresh complexion, and a
pair
of long moustaches. He was an agent of the secret police, and had
followed
us from Bombay. On learning this flattering piece of news,
the
colonel burst into a loud laugh; which only made us still more
suspicious
in the eyes of all these Anglo-Indians, enjoying a quiet and
dignified
meal. As to me, I was very disagreeably impressed by this bit
of
news, I must confess, and wished this unpleasant dinner was over.
The
train for Allahabad was to leave at eight P.M., and we were to
spend
the night in the railway carriage. We had ten reserved seats in a
first-class
carriage, and had made sure that no strange passengers would
enter
it, but, nevertheless, there were many reasons which made me think
I
could not sleep this night. So I obtained a provision of candles
for
my reading lamp, and making myself comfortable on my couch, began
reading
the pamphlet of Dr. Paul, which interested me greatly.
Amongst
many other interesting things, Dr. Paul explains very fully and
learnedly
the mystery of the periodical suspension of breathing, and
some
other seemingly impossible phenomena, practised by the Yogis.
Here
is his theory in brief. The Yogis have discovered the reason of the
wondrous
capacity of the chameleon to assume the appearance of plumpness
or
of leanness. This animal looks enormous when his lungs are filled
with
air, but in his normal condition he is quite insignificant. Many
other
reptiles as well acquire the possibility of swimming across large
rivers
quite easily by the same process. And the air that remains in
their
lungs, after the blood has been fully oxygenated, makes them
extraordinarily
lively on dry land and in the water. The capacity of
storing
up an extraordinary provision of air is a characteristic feature
of
all the animals that are subjected to hibernation.
The
Hindu Yogis studied this capacity, and perfected and developed it in
themselves.
The
means by which they acquire it--known under the name of Bhastrika
Kumbhala--consist
of the following: The Yogi isolates himself in an
underground
cave, where the atmosphere is more uniform and more damp
than
on the surface of the earth: this causes the appetite to grow less.
Man's
appetite is proportionate to the quantity of carbonic acid he
exhales
in a certain period of time. The Yogis never use salt, and live
entirely
on milk, which they take only during the night. They move very
slowly
in order not to breathe too often. Movement increases the
exhaled
carbonic acid, and so the Yoga practice prescribes avoidance
of
movement. The quantity of exhaled carbonic acid is also increased by
loud
and lively talking: so the Yogis are taught to talk slowly and
in
subdued tones, and are even advised to take the vows of silence.
Physical
labor is propitious to the increase of carbonic acid, and
mental
to its decrease; accordingly the Yogi spends his life in
contemplation
and deep meditation. Padmasana and Siddhasana are the two
methods
by which a person is taught to breathe as little as possible.
Suka-Devi,
a well-known miracle-monger of the second century B.C. says:
"Place
the left foot upon the right thigh, and the right foot upon the
left
thigh; straighten the neck and back; make the palms of the hands
rest
upon the knees; shut the mouth; and expire forcibly through both
nostrils.
Next, inspire and expire quickly until you are fatigued. Then
inspire
through the right nostril, fill the abdomen with the inspired
air,
suspend the breath, and fix the sight on the tip of the nose. Then
expire
through the left nostril, and next, inspiring through the left
nostril,
suspend the breath..." and so on.
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"When
a Yogi, by practice, is enabled to maintain himself in one of the
above-mentioned
postures for the period of three hours, and to live upon
a
quantity of food proportional to the reduced condition of circulation
and
respiration, without inconvenience, he proceeds to the practice
of
Pranayama," writes Dr. Paul. "It is the fourth stage or division of
Yoga."
The
Pranayama consists of three parts. The first excites the secretion
of
sweat, the second is attended by convulsive movements of the
features,
the third gives to the Yogi a feeling of extraordinary
lightness
in his body.
After
this, the Yogi practises Pratyahara, a kind of voluntary trance,
which
is recognizable by the full suspension of all the senses. After
this
stage the Yogis study the process of Dharana; this not only stops
the
activity of physical senses, but also causes the mental capacities
to
be plunged into a deep torpor. This stage brings abundant suffering;
it
requires a good deal of firmness and resolution on the part of a
Yogi,
but it leads him to Dhayana, a state of perfect, indescribable
bliss.
According to their own description, in this state they swim in
the
ocean of eternal light, in Akasha, or Ananta Jyoti, which they
call
the "Soul of the Universe." Reaching the stage of Dhyana, the Yogi
becomes
a seer. The Dhyana of the Yogis is the same thing as Turiya
Avastha
of the Vedantins, in the number of whom are the Raj-Yogis.
"Samadhi
is the last stage of self-trance," says Dr. Paul. "In this
state
the Yogis, like the bat, the hedge-hog, the marmot, the hamster
and
the dormouse, acquire the power of supporting the abstraction of
atmospheric
air, and the privation of food and drink. Of Samadhi
or
human hibernation there have been three cases within the last
twenty-five
years. The first case occurred in Calcutta, the second in
Jesselmere,
and the third in the Punjab. I was an eyewitness of the
first
case. The Jesselmere, the Punjab, and the Calcutta Yogis assumed
a
death-like condition by swallowing the tongue. How the Punjabi fakir
(witnessed
by Dr. McGregor), by suspending his breath, lived forty days
without
food and drink, is a question which has puzzled a great many
learned
men of Europe.... It is on the principle of Laghima and Garima
(a
diminution of one's specific gravity by swallowing large draughts
of
air) that the Brahman of Madras maintained himself in an aerial
posture..."
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However,
all these are physical phenomena produced by Hatha-Yogis. Each
of
them ought to be investigated by physical science, but they are much
less
interesting than the phenomena of the region of psychology. But Dr.
Paul
has next to nothing to say on this subject. During the thirty-five
years
of his Indian career, he met only three Raj-Yogis; but in spite
of
the friendliness they showed to the English doctor, none of them
consented
to initiate him into the mysteries of nature, a knowledge of
which
is ascribed to them. One of them simply denied that he had any
power
at all; the other did not deny, and even showed Dr. Paul some very
wonderful
things, but refused to give any explanations whatever; the
third
said he would explain a few things on the condition that Dr. Paul
must
pledge himself never to repeat anything he learned from him. In
acquiring
this kind of information, Dr. Paul had only one aim--to give
these
secrets publicity, and to enlighten the public ignorance, and so
he
declined the honor.
However,
the gifts of the true Raj-Yogis are much more interesting, and
a
great deal more important for the world, than the phenomena of the
lay
Hatha-Yogis. These gifts are purely psychic: to the knowledge of
the
Hatha-Yogis the Raj-Yogis add the whole scale of mental phenomena.
Sacred
books ascribe to them the following gifts: foreseeing future
events;
understanding of all languages; the healing of all diseases; the
art
of reading other people's thoughts; witnessing at will everything
that
happens thousands of miles from them; understanding the language
of
animals and birds; Prakamya, or the power of keeping up youthful
appearance
during incredible periods of time; the power of abandoning
their
own bodies and entering other people's frames; Vashitva, or the
gift
to kill, and to tame wild animals with their eyes; and, lastly, the
mesmeric
power to subjugate any one, and to force any one to obey the
unexpressed
orders of the Raj-Yogi.
Dr.
Paul has witnessed the few phenomena of Hatha-Yoga already
described;
there are many others about which he has heard, and which
he
neither believes nor disbelieves. But he guarantees that a Yogi can
suspend
his breath for forty-three minutes and twelve seconds.
Nevertheless,
European scientific authorities maintain that no one can
suspend
the breath for more than two minutes. O science! Is it possible
then
that thy name is also vanitas vanitatum, like the other things of
this
world?
We
are forced to suppose that, in Europe, nothing is known about the
means
which enabled the philosophers of India, from times immemorial,
gradually
to transform their human frames.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
Here
are a few deep words of Professor Boutleroff, a Russian scientist
whom
I, in common with all Russians, greatly respect: "....All this
belongs
to knowledge; the increase of the mass of knowledge will
only
enrich and not abolish science. This must be accomplished on the
strength
of serious observation, of study, of experience, and under the
guidance
of positive scientific methods, by which people are taught to
acknowledge
every other phenomenon of nature. We do not call you blindly
to
accept hypotheses, after the example of bygone years, but to seek
after
knowledge; we do not invite you to give up science, but to enlarge
her
regions..."
This
was said about spiritualist phenomena. As to the rest of our
learned
physiologists, this is, approximately, what they have the
right
to say: "We know well certain phenomena of nature which we have
personally
studied and investigated, under certain conditions, which
we
call normal or abnormal, and we guarantee the accuracy of our
conclusions."
However,
it would be very well if they added:
"But
having no pretensions to assure the world that we are acquainted
with
all the forces of nature, known and unknown, we do not claim the
right
to hold back other people from bold investigations in regions
which
we have not reached as yet, owing to our great cautiousness and
also
to our moral timidity. Not being able to maintain that the human
organism
is utterly incapable of developing certain transcendental
powers,
which are rare, and observable only under certain conditions,
unknown
to science, we by no means wish to keep other explorers within
the
limits of our own scientific discoveries."
By
pronouncing this noble, and, at the same time, modest speech, our
physiologists
would doubtless gain the undying gratitude of posterity.
After
this speech there would be no fear of mockery, no danger of
losing
one's reputation for veracity and sound reason; and the learned
colleagues
of these broad-minded physiologists would investigate every
phenomenon
of nature seriously and openly. The phenomena of spiritualism
would
then transmigrate from the region of materialized
"mothers-in-law"
and half-witted fortune-telling to the regions of the
psycho-physiological
sciences. The celebrated "spirits" would probably
evaporate,
but in their stead the living spirit, which "belongeth not to
this
world," would become better known and better realized by humanity,
because
humanity will comprehend the harmony of the whole only after
learning
how closely the visible world is bound to the world invisible.
-------Cardiff Theosophical
Society in Wales-------
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK.
CF24-1DL
After
this speech, Haeckel at the head of the evolutionists, and Alfred
Russel
Wallace at the head of the spiritualists, would be relieved from
many
anxieties, and would shake hands in brotherhood.
Seriously
speaking, what is there to prevent humanity from acknowledging
two
active forces within itself; one purely animal, the other purely
divine?
It
does not behove even the greatest amongst scientists to try to
"bind
the sweet influences of the Pleiades," even if they have chosen
"Arcturus
with his sons" for their guides. Did it never occur to them
to
apply to their own intellectual pride the questions the "voice out of
the
whirlwind" once asked of long-suffering Job: "where were they when
were
laid the foundations of the earth? and have the gates of death been
opened
unto them?" If so, only then have they the right to maintain that
here
and not there is the abode of eternal light.
The
End
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