MAHOMEDANS.
The Mahomedans were lords of Surat, and more or less of Gujarát. But at present, generally speaking, they are probably the poorest as a class. Their aristocracy live without aim or ambition, men crushed by their own "pride of birth," men who would borrow rather than earn, and starve rather than beg. They are ever ready to "grasp the skirts of happy chance." But that chance never comes to them. Their life is a round of inane pleasures and idle ceremonials, and the little substance now left to them is being exhausted in "playing the king." They are pining for the "good old times," and being desperate hopers they hope away life with astounding patience; they hope and hope and still they hope for "the good times coming." Many, finding time hanging heavy on their hands, abandon themselves to low gratifications of the sense—feasting and dancing and carousing—in such "fool's paradise" they wile away time. They have a horror of honest work. Poor fellows! As friends I have always found them faithful and true. Most of them are in abject poverty, and to keep up some show of gentility—dearer to them than life itself—the head of a family at times acquiesces in the sacrifice which a too-loving wife or daughter feels bound to undergo. One might well excuse this mistaking of duty—the practice is very limited—as an act of true martyrdom on the part of the female; but it is impossible to contemplate the husband or father's share in it without loathing. To him, a confirmed polygamist, the matter may not look quite so serious.
Latterly I believe this class has been "looking up." Hoping and dreaming has already given way, in some notable cases, to more sober, practical ideas of life. Altogether, I do believe "a change is coming over the spirit of their dreams."
The lower orders of Mahomedans are—"unspeakable." They are made up of brag and bluster; and "truth often sticks in their throats." Like their betters they despise work, but, unlike them, will beg, borrow, or steal, with the utmost pleasure in life. They live in a world of—wine and woman. Many of them sleep by day, and make the night hideous by their drunken revels. But against all these vices, common to the Mussalman "about town," they set off some very fine redeeming traits. As friends and servants they are invaluable; and if you treat them kindly they will lay down life in your service. As a rule they are above that meanness, that petty intriguing spirit and want of gratitude so common among their neighbours. Mussalmans in the villages around Gujarát present quite another picture. Their manners and habits correspond to those of Hindus of their position, naturally enough, as they were originally all Hindus, and have mostly to deal with Hindus even now.
Meer Bakhtáwar Khan.
A Romance in Real Life.
As an instance of how the Mahomedan gentry of Gujarát have sacrificed what remained to them after the loss of their supremacy to their pride of birth,and as explaining how the mean, insinuating Bania has risen on the ruin of his Moslem master, let me give here a leaf out of the unwritten autobiography of my Shráwak friend Nyalchand Nyálchand of Ahmedabad. Says Nyálchand:—
"I entered the service of Meer Bakhtáwar Khan in 1840. The Meer was then about nineteen years, and only recently married to the beautiful daughter of the Buxi. Meer Bakhtáwar was by nature very reserved, and as he did not agree with his step-mother, his father gave him, soon after his marriage, a separate establishment. He bestowed upon his only son all the ancestral property he could—including houses, lands, ornaments, books, and a little of cash. The doting father also gave to his son a few "disputed claims" against the British Government for compensation. This last doubtful gift was to be reserved to the last and utilised when there was no source of maintenance left. Thus prepared, and fortified by a very respectable fortune from the Buxi, his father-in-law, Meer Bakhtáwar removed to his new residence with his wife and servants. The day after his removal he formally installed me his head kárbhári,[1] presenting me with a valuable dress and the right to full management of all his affairs. He could not, and if he could would not, attend to any business—it was beneath him.
"The Meer passed his time in the zenana. He so devotedly loved his wife that he never gave her a rival. All the livelong day they were together, this infatuated pair, so absorbed in their new-born happiness. To me, an unmarried Hindu,the Meer's self-abandonment was shocking. He never left the side of his Bibi—she would not part with him. I had not the entree of the zenana, but learnt from the servants that the master and mistress were inseparable. The Meer stole out of his inner chamber once in a fortnight or so, when he had to ask me for a large sum of money, or to go to the mosque. About seven months passed this way, when one day my master's father and friends paid the family a visit. It was this day I learnt that Meer Bakhtáwar expected a son and heir. Great were the rejoicings on this occasion. One day the anxiously-expected heir came to gladden the hearts of the parents and, as it seems to me now, to darken their hitherto brilliant course of life. The demands for money became more frequent. I met every demand with a smile. Sometimes I had myself to go out with money for the purchase of some nick-nack for the mother or the child. At such times I was not slow to use discretion, you may be sure. I had not seen the Meer's beautiful wife up to now, though it was over two years; but the baby was now and then brought out for a peep at the outside world. It was the most lovely child I have ever seen. They said the mother was growing lovelier every day. They talked of her as The Angel. This was her favourite name. I tried many means of obtaining a glimpse of her divine beauty, but it was not to be for years to come.
"My position in the household improved with the progress of time. The master had implicit faith in me, and I rewarded him by improving my opportunities. Not a rupee passed from my hands out of which I did not withhold a fraction for my own pockets. Not a piece of cloth, not an ornament, not a single article of luxury crossed the threshold, of which part was not diverted to my house. Poor men must live, and, if possible, I had determined not only to live, but to live to the best purpose, as I could see as early as now, that my master was running out of his fortune very fast. But it was not my business to advise or warn him till the worst came. This way we lived for seven years. I had already to tell my master that we had no cash left. We had to part with some ornaments, and were living upon the rents of two or three shops which we had to mortgage. One of these shops was mortgaged to myself unknown to the Meer—it stood in my uncle's name. About this time I myself married. I need not say that my master and mistress paid the expenses—about Rs. 3,000—of my marriage. They parted with their ornaments—these people seem to me to part with things as cheerfully as when they buy them—to help me. They thought very highly of my honesty and diligence; they also knew that I was very useful in 'raising the wind' and disposing of superfluities. For the Rs. 1,000 my master had to borrow I would bring him 700, part of the rest being considered interest already deducted, the remaining part going to me. At home, too, not a single day passed when I did not earn something more than the stipulated pay. I had my black-mail upon everything bought or sold, borrowed or mortgaged.
"One day the master's son would come behind and ride on my back. In so doing he would do damage to my coat. Well, this coat I would show to the parents who, to encourage the boy to learn a little of fun and freedom, as they explained, would on no account scold him. But when I cried and said I was a poor man and had a family—I had become quite free with my master—they would laugh at my plight, and present me with a piece of longcloth, saying, by way of apology, that they would give away a thousand pieces of cloth rather than that their darling be checked in the free exercise of his faculties! One day the little urchin would empty the contents of an ink-bottle on my turban, and straightway would I go to the drawing-room, dripping with the liquid. The delighted father would clap his hands and describe my misery to the wife inside, who would laughingly order me to buy another turban! Well, I was nothing loth. Many a time since have I invited the boy to play me some such trick, and right handsomely have I got the parents to pay for it!
"But now Meer Bakhtawár was about Rs. 15,000 in debt. There was scarcely anything left to pledge or to sell. I prevailed upon him, therefore, to curtail his expenses. This he did. It was a trial to him not to be able to afford to his wife and child those thousand and one little luxuries they had enjoyed so long. But the wife was perfectly contented with his love and devotion. The boy was too young to notice the difference in their circumstances. But even now our monthly expenses were Rs. 200, my own pay Rs. 40, and we had no visible source of income. I was therefore told to dispose of such things as I could. This I did, carrying most of them to my house, and paying what price I liked. There were some splendidly mounted swords and daggers, some exquisite paintings, some rare and magnificently illuminated Persian manuscripts, which I thus transferred to my house. My mistress took her misfortune much to heart; but her husband was of good cheer. He knew that his father would not last long, and that he would be sure to leave him something. But the old man did not die. To add to the misery of suspense, the son and heir fell sick. The parents' anxiety was terrible. Night and day the Mahomedan doctor remained by the side of the little sufferer, and night and day prayed the priest for his recovery. The parents hovered over the child in agonised suspense. The mother gave me her last ring, her husband's wedding gift, to sell. But no earthly power could save the child—he sickened and died. The father's life seemed to go out with the son's. The mother suffered, too, but she had something still left to cherish in this life. A servant now came to ask for money; I had none to give. My master was too much prostrated to think of such things. In this her cruel extremity the mistress came to the door of the room (outside which we servants were assembled). She asked to see me. This was the first time I saw her. She was in her 'sleeping dress'; her beauty of person was truly divine, and recent sufferings had hallowed it with that dignified composure before which the most supercilious could not help bending his head. I bowed to her, trembling from a hundred little agitations in my heart. She swept a haughty glance over me, and asked if I could not bring money. I pleaded inability, but promised I would try. Then she whispered, 'See, Nyálchand, you must save your master's honour, so don't go to his father's house. But give my boy a decent burial; have you nothing, nothing left to sell?' She shut the door before receiving my reply, and I went out for money. I could spare none, nor borrow any; the only chance was with the old Meer. I went to him with the news of his grandson's death. He was himself sick' unto death, but without asking any question he ordered Rs. 100 to be given me.
"In two weeks more theold Meer died, leaving property to the extent of about Rs. 20,000 to his unhappy son. My master never recovered from his melancholy. I was given power to dispose of the property just inherited. I realised the value, paid off all standing debts, most of them in my favour, and put about Rs. 4,000 in my master's hands. I further undertook to appeal to the Government, but nothing seemed to rouse him. Friends advised my mistress to dispense with her establishment, and to live within her income, but she would not listen to it so long as her 'lord' lived. She accepted my resignation, agreeing that I should improve my prospects after so much suffering in their service! I assured her of my life-long devotion, and my daily prayers for the well-being of herself and her husband. Being a woman of singular abilities and resource, she wrote to the Governor's wife, in Persian, telling that lady of her misfortunes, and of the claims of her family. Her touching story moved the officials who heard of it. The case was not worth looking into, but Government sanctioned an annual grant of Rs. 500 to the Meer for his lifetime. He seems to have entirely forgotten the past. He scarcely recognised me. I am now a rich and highly-respected merchant—so high up in the world that I cannot visit my master any longer. My lady is said to have grown gray-haired; but neither premature age nor her past sufferings, the gloomy present nor the blank future, can lessen her devotion to her husband. She seems to live for and in him. She is his sole attendant—the servants attend to minor duties. She is charitable even now, and on every Jumá (Friday) she gives what she can to the needy and suffering. I do not feel quite satisfied with myself when reviewing the past, but then, you see, a poor man must live!"
- ↑ Manager.