CHAPTER XVII
THE INDIAN GARDEN
It is more easy to discover flowers on the sacred fig-tree, or a white crow, or the imprint of fishes' feet, than to know what a woman has in her heart.- SLOKA.
A house with no upper storey is familiarly known in India as a bungalow. If there is an upper storey it is called by the natives an 'upstair house.' In a Mofussil station there are many more bungalows than storied houses, and the latter are occupied by the senior men in the Services. All the houses of the Europeans stand in their own compounds, and the ground is surrounded by a mud wall or hedge. The wall is pierced by a gateway, but it is rare to see a gate or barrier of any kind. It would be useless as a means of keeping out intruders. There are gaps in every boundary made by the servants of the establishment, who have a natural aversion to using the legitimate approach; and ingress can be obtained from all the points of the compass. In many cases the masonry posts have no hinges upon which a gate could be hung. The only purpose of the posts seems to be a mark to show where the carriage-drive commences, and to support the black board on which is painted the name of the occupier of the house. It is a convenient custom to have the name ready at hand for the guidance of the caller, but it strikes the stranger as being odd. The compounds in which bungalows stand usually have one gateway. Storied houses, being larger and more pretentious in appearance, have bigger compounds with entrances at each end. The natives consider the second gateway a dignity rather than a convenience, for they dispense with the carriage-drive altogether when on foot themselves; and they term a residence thus favoured a two-gate house.
We had the honour of living in a two-gate house at Trichinopoly, although the building was only a bungalow. The compound was large and possessed some fine trees, as well as an excellent spring of water. This spring was called a well, but it had the character of a small tank, being square in shape with solid stone-walls. The bungalow was in ruins, but by an arrangement with the landlord we were permitted to put it in repair and repay ourselves the cost from the rent. As soon as the move had been effected my attention was turned to the garden. I had already had some horticultural experiences in Madras, and the garden was one of the regrets in leaving the Presidency town.
There are certain conditions about an Indian garden that are a distinct disappointment to the enthusiast fresh out from the temperate climate of England. In the first place there is no turf. Grass grows in abundance, green enough in the wet season, but coarse and rough without any resemblance to the cool, soft, velvety lawns of England. Beneath the grass are creeping things innumerable,' of dimensions that are appalling to the newcomer. They are content to live in the obscurity of their retreat under the green blades if unmolested. Should a blundering human being be tempted to take a seat upon the grass, they declare war and proceed to invest his person. Their feet cling, their tails sting; they tickle, and bite, and scratch until their unfortunate victim rushes headlong to the bathroom to dislodge and slay his enemies. Ants in England are not to be lightly trifled with, but they are mild compared with the Indian ant. This monster is half an inch in length, and if of the red variety that lives in the mango tree, it has all the courage and twice the ferocity of a tiger. When I watched the tawny hoopoes running hither and thither along the sunny gravelled paths, I earnestly hoped that each time they dipped their crested heads and snapped their long pliant bills a red ant was slain.
Another disappointment to the ardent lover is the necessity of allowing the gardener to do all the manual labour. To take a trowel and transplant, to weed the flower-beds, or to water the plants oneself, is impossible because of the heat. The mere effort of superintending and directing the compliant coolie makes one hot. The utmost I ever achieved in the way of manual labour in India was the occasional holding of the young plant in its place while the gardener filled in the soil. This privilege would not have been accorded, had it not been for the superstition of the gardener, who believed that I had a lucky hand, and that all plants touched by me would live and thrive.
A third feature of the Indian garden to which a lover of flowers must be reconciled is the pot-garden. In Madras, not having made the acquaintance of the white ant, I rebelled, and bade the man dig borders and make beds. The beds flourished, and became a wonderful blaze of colour with magnificent zinnias, marigolds, coreopsis, and other annuals. Under the fierce heat of the Indian sun they faded rapidly and ran to seed. Their glory lasted just three weeks, and then shabbiness marked the garden for its own. The borders were cleared and turned into a pot-garden of crotons, panaxes, coleus, caladiums, dracænas, ferns, and palms, which were permanent. The beds were filled with flowering shrubs, conspicuous among which was the oleander. Natives love the oleander, and make wreaths of the blossoms by stringing them upon a thread. Though they will garland their idols and their friends with the wreaths, they do not approve of the oleander as a cut flower for the decoration of the house. The scent is supposed to irritate the temper. They have a proverb that says: 'Whosoever causes quarrels is not a man, but he is like a porcupine quill, or the flower of an oleander in the house.'
The Hindu of the south has all the instincts of the agriculturalist planted deep within him. He works willingly among the plants committed to his charge, and comes to regard them as his own. He exchanges plants and cuttings with other gardeners, and supplies a certain number of bungalows with cut flowers for one rupee a month. Such is the nature of the creature that he is mentally incapable of seeing anything dishonest in the proceeding.
At Trichinopoly I had a man who threw himself heart and soul into his work. He was engaged as soon as we took up our residence in the repaired bungalow. In spite of the experience gained in Madras the man was directed to make flower-beds. The spot chosen for the garden was to all appearances a stony wilderness. In no way daunted, however, the gardener, dressed in nothing but a large white turban and loin cloth, set to work. He began with a stick stuck in the centre of the plot of ground. To this was attached a rope with which he drew a series of semicircular beds intersected by paths. The beds were excavated and filled with loam and manure.
There were no nurserymen in Trichinopoly of whom plants could be bought, so it was necessary to go begging. A lady living near kindly offered a few seedlings, an offer that was gladly accepted. The gardener was sent with a basket and was shown the seedlings which were intended to stock the new beds. Telling him to dig them up she moved to another part of the compound. Fifteen minutes later she returned, and discovered that he had not only removed all the seedlings but was digging up half the contents of the established beds. Sorely against his will he was made to replant them before he was allowed to depart.
Another friend promised a few rooted cuttings of crotons. The gardener was again despatched with a basket. This time he carried a letter as well. The pith of a lady's letter is said to lie in the postscript. At the bottom of this was the P.S.: Do not trust my man alone in your garden; and examine his basket before he leaves.' He brought back more than a hundred beautiful young plants, over which he grinned delightedly. When thanking the generous donor for his bountiful gift he smiled and made reply:
‘Fact of the matter, I was called away in the middle of the digging up of the plants and did not attend to your warning. Keep them and you will have a fine show of crotons.'
Indian gardeners have many strange superstitions besides the belief in a lucky hand. To ensure the prosperity of the plants they make a marriage of a copralite to some tulsi (sweet basil). The copralite is an emblem of Siva, just as the ammonite is an emblem of Vishnu. Tulsi (Ocymum sanctum) grows everywhere. It has small purple flowers, and is not unlike the wild basil of England or the common calamint. When the leaves are crushed they have an aromatic scent. As I walked about the compound I often trod it underfoot, and the air was filled with the sweet smell.
There is a legend which ascribes its origin to the Hindu deity Vishnu. A demon named Jalandhara obtained from Brahma the gift of being invulnerable, even should he be warred against by the gods themselves. Armed with this virtue he attacked Indra and the other deities. His excuse was their refusal to allow him to partake of the amritam (ambrosia, made by churning the ocean). The demon by virtue of his gift prevailed, and in their despair the gods appealed to Vishnu. He discovered that the secret of the demon's success lay, not so much in his invulnerable quality, as in the virtue of his wife Brinda. It was impossible to corrupt her fidelity by riches or cajolery. Vishnu had recourse to stratagem. He took upon himself the form of Jalandhara and lived with her while her husband was away fighting. The device was successful. Jalandhara fell on the field of battle mortally wounded. On learning the fate of her husband she was filled with sorrow and despair, and throwing herself upon his funeral pile she was burned with his body. Vishnu was so much impressed with her fidelity that to commemorate it be caused the tulsi to spring from her ashes. He furthermore enjoined upon his followers the worship of the plant in her honour.
In accordance with this command the Vishnuvite housewife tends the tulsi and makes obeisance to it before she begins the household duties of the day. At night she lights a lamp before the pot containing the plant and repeats her adoration, calling to mind the virtue of the lady represented by it. There are different versions of the legend. Some say that it sprang from the hair of a nymph beloved by Krishna (one of the incarnations of Vishnu).
The vervain, held sacred by the Romans and ancient Britons, was of the same modest character. Brooms made of vervain were used for cleansing the sacred places before the idols, or when any space was required for mystical ceremonies. A Hindu follower of Vishnu takes an oath upon the leaves of the tulsi, and swallows them afterwards to show that he will respect his oath. It enters into many of the domestic rites of the Hindus, and may always be found growing near their dwellings.
The gardener carried the copralite and a friend carried a plant of tulsi. The two were put in the ground together in a retired position where the presence of a weed would not offend. Muntrums were recited as the earth was filled in and pressed round the roots which embraced the copralite, and the tulsi was watered daily with the rest of the garden. The performance of this ceremony was supposed to render the garden fertile and to protect it from evil.
Some gardeners try to increase the production of flowers by strange superstitious devices and by worshipping the tulsi and pepul tree. Knowing the disbelief of the English in such practices they are careful not to perform the rites in their sight. Hindus are sensitive to ridicule. They can better bear reproach and abuse than a laugh turned against themselves. Ridicule 'puts a ball of fire in their bellies,’ as they plainly express the feeling. When the master and mistress are away strange proceedings take place in the compound. The aid of the gods is invoked on behalf of the house, the garden, the children, the horses, and the whole household.
Although I was not there to see it, no doubt the marriage of the tulsi was effected as soon as the garden was laid out; and probably the plants in the beds were treated with other dressings besides stable-manure. Milk, sugar, honey, blood, are all said to increase the fertility of the ground. It is believed that seeds soaked in blood or in the fat of animals will produce marvellous results. The native of the south has a proverb to the effect that ‘old muck and plenty of water' is good for the soil; but there is a lurking conviction at the bottom of every Hindu heart that the best of all manures is human blood. Blood is life, and when it is poured out upon the ground the life soaks in with it. It is this superstition that is at the bottom of occasional murders. A foolish woman who has no children will believe that her barrenness may be overcome by anointing herself with the blood of a child. A short time before Queen Victoria died her Majesty had an illness, and a rumour went through the bazaars of Madras that a number of men were to be slain to restore her to health. Some sepoys, belonging to one of the native regiments stationed at the time in the Presidency town, were ordered into camp for signalling practice. The men were greatly perturbed, and the officers had some difficulty in persuading them that their lives were not going to be sacrificed on behalf of the Queen.
The great trouble with the garden in India is the trespassing goat and the blundering buffalo. The animals rarely enter by the open gateway; they prefer the gaps. The invasion is aided and abetted by the owners of the animals. It is said of an English garden, where the pruning is not done with a liberal hand, that once in a way the visit of a sheep is beneficial. The Indian black goat does not come singly. It browses upon everything that is green and tender, and its agility is so great that it can almost climb a tree. What is spared by the goat is trodden underfoot by the buffalo.
Of all the domestic animals in India the buffalo is the stupidest. Like the carnel, it will eat anything that comes within its reach, sticks, leaves, rotten fruit, dead rats, and garbage of all sorts. In spite of its unwieldy horns and staring eyes, which give it a savage look, it is abject before its keeper, usually a small, black urchin with a shaven head and a piece of string tied tightly round his waist for clothing. The urchin goes to sleep under a tree, and his charges wander and trespass to the great distress of the gardener.
My man impounded wandering animals in an empty stall in the stables. It was illegal, but that fact did not seem to matter. An hour or two after the impounding the owner would appear, and there would be a long palaver with the gardener. If he was accompanied by any of the female members of his family, a good deal of feeling arose between them and the resident women in the stables. I once had the curiosity to watch one of these encounters that took place behind the buildings. There is something strangely fascinating, though it is by no means pleasing, in the display of uncontrolled emotion. In England it is seldom seen except in a baby, but in India extravagant joy, pleasure, grief, anger, and surprise may frequently be witnessed.
The women-there were four of them, two on each side-began with an animated conversation. Gradually they drew closer to each other, gesticulating and speaking with great rapidity in their incomprehensible tongue. It was like a thunderstorm, growing in intensity as they waxed warmer, until it culminated in a torrent of hysterical speech from all four at once. They shook their towsled heads and flourished their arms as though they were coming to blows. They stamped upon the ground with their feet, and beat the air with their fists. Bending their bodies forward they drew themselves up with a furious jerk as they fetched fresh breath to continue the wonderful outpouring of syllables. Occasionally they emphasised their words by spitting on the ground.
The whole thing came to a sudden and inconsequent end. The owner of the buffalo put a coin into the hand of the gardener after an amicable discussion, rose to his feet, and approached the women. In an ordinary businesslike manner he administered a thump with his fist upon the back of his wife and ordered her to fetch out the imprisoned animal. She meekly obeyed without any resentment, and after a few disjointed sentences the party disappeared down the road. The stable women retired into their godowns, and peace reigned in the compound. After a few impoundings the garden was troubled no more by trespassers.
Buffaloes in a road are unpleasant creatures to pass. They invariably cross over with a heavy porcine gait, without any warning, just in front of the horse. An officer in the Royal Artillery met with his death in that way when we were living in Madras. The horse was restive and collided with a buffalo. It fell heavily and crushed its rider beneath it. The Rev. H. P. James was chaplain at the Mount at that time. One evening we dined with him, and the conversation turned upon a topic that was being discussed in some of the newspapers. Was there a future state for animals? Mr. James remarked : ‘Well, if there is a future life for animals, I hope there is a hot place in store for buffaloes !’
The seedlings blossomed and faded, and were replaced by foliage plants in pots. Among these was the wax flower, a scentless gardenia, that was useful for decorative purposes in the church. Another interesting plant was the pas rose (Hibiscus mutabilis), a beautiful double hibiscus that unfolded at sunrise a creamy white. As the heat of the sun increased a delicate blush of pink ran through its petals, deepening as the day passed. By the evening the pas rose hung its drooping head on its slender stalk, withered and limp, and of a crimson wine colour. It is the rose of which the Persian poet sings:
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with ‘Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!’—the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers to' incarnadine.
In the compound were several tamarind trees that gave a thick shade. From seven to nine o'clock in the morning it was pleasant to sit beneath them with work or book. The eye often wandered to bird and butterfly, to the noisy squirrels, and the ugly bloodsucker.
Every tree had its barbet, a greeny brown bird with a long Latin name (Xantholæma hæmatocephala), better known as the coppersmith from its note. This is exactly like the beat of the blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil. A very industrious workman it is at its imaginary forge, for the tink-tink-tink continues from sunrise to sunset. Most birds adhere to the eight hours' labour movement, even when they are courting. The English thrush and blackbird sing two hours in the early morning, and then take an interval for breakfast; another spell of singing comes during the course of the forenoon until the luncheon hour. After lunch the birds have a snooze among the branches without putting themselves to bed with their heads under their wings. The last four hours of song are distributed through the afternoon and evening, and then the day's labour is done. The coppersmith works at his anvil the livelong day, irrespective of his courtship. When the nests are deserted in England the birds relapse into silence. The robin and the sparrow may be heard, but the 'unfinished song' of the blackbird and thrush sounds no more from the elm-trees. As long as the weather is warm the barbet never ceases. The climate of Trichinopoly is hot during the winter months, and hotter during the rest of the year, and the coppersmith is in full song all the year round.
A bird that was always with us was the green parrakeet. Flocks of them came bustling into the branches of the tamarind trees overhead with whistling skrieks, like a parcel of schoolboys just escaped from school. After raiding the fruit they left as abruptly as they came, flying off helter-skelter to their next playground with a chorus of screams.
Over the beds and among the grass of the compound hopped quiet little birds of an unassuming greyish brown tint, the babblers, or, as they are better known to Europeans, the seven sisters. They chirruped and twittered as they poked about for food, far too busy to find time for a song. I could never get near them. Although apparently absorbed in their search for ‘poochees,' there was purpose in that continuous hopping, and a respectful distance was maintained between themselves and the too curious stranger.
The mynas and the crows remained near the house for reasons of their own, chiefly connected with their commissariat. Among the crows I thought I distinguished the rook. Without his elm-tree he is an undignified degraded bird, with a mind given over entirely to the flesh-pots of the verandah. There is an Indian saying that a good Hindu wife should be like a crow. The unscrupulousness of the hen crow in her maternal solicitude qualifies that virtue. She is an incorrigible thief, bold, impudent, and utterly unashamed, and it is difficult to forgive her her sins on the strength of her being a good mother. The caw of the crow is strangely familiar to the newly arrived exile. Twining, in his diary of ‘Travels a Hundred Years Ago,' relates how he landed at Madras (1792) and walked into the fort to the office of Mr. Parry. He had to wait for the arrival of that gentleman from his garden-house 'on Choultry Plain.' As he stood in the shade of a small tree near the office, a crow came flying towards him with a familiar caw of welcome which made him feel in touch with the home he had left six months before.
Crows, like owls, lizards, and other creatures, are supposed by the natives to be indications of good and evil. A single bird cawing upon the roof or in the verandah before noon is telling good news or bad, according to the peculiar utterance of its note. After twelve o’clock if it comes 'to talk,' the servants say that it is only asking for food. The variety of expression in the caw of an Indian crow is remarkable. It seems to express curiosity, satisfaction, complaint, surprise, interspersed with wicked chuckles and bad words. Crows hold club meetings on the roof of the verandah for the ostensible purpose of talking scandal and relating naughty stories, but all the while their watchful eyes are upon the cookroom. If the kitchen boy is rash enough to bring a basket to the bungalow with any portion of its contents exposed, the crows swoop down upon it and clear off the contents in a very short time.
The opinion of the native concerning the bird is expressed in a Tamil saying. 'Put out the eyes of a young kurnam and a young crow. Both are bad.' A kurnam is a village accountant.