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THE INDIAN ANTIQUARY.
[JUNE 7, 1872.
stand adorned with coloured glass globes, can
gently strikes the open palm upon it—just as I
dlesticks with glass drops, handsome water
have seen a European father do when he was
jugs, and everything else that can make it look
dazed and broken with the loss of his darling son. There was no display, no shouting, or any thing else that could invite attention, but it was plain to see how deeply moved he was.
tempting and gorgeous. On this stand are vessels of water and sherbet, sufficient to relieve the
thirst of a couple of hundred people.
With
Presently the singer narrated the death of
these exceptions the room is quite bare. One of the most beautiful features of the Mu harram is the charitable and free distribution of
water and sherbet to all comers.
In
every
street in Triplicane (the Musalman quarter of Madras) during the ten days of the feast, there were water pandals, to which any thirsty passer by might go and drink to his heart's content.
During the evenings, when the streets are crowded with eager sight-seers,
these water
stands are much frequented, and are of great service. It will be seen that the martyrs were greatly tortured by thirst, as they were for three days cut off from the Euphrates—their only supply of water. In pity for their sufferings, the water is thus freely distributed to all that ask, whatever their creed or nationality.
The court and its verandas are well filled by men, besides the women we cannot see. They are friends of the family who have provided the
Husain, here the Arab's fortitude gave way altogether, he buried his face in both his hands, bowed down upon his knees, and wept as if his heart would break. It was no mean study of human nature to see this Arab, who would pro bably think it no wrong to rob and perhaps murder the lonely traveller in the desert, and yet he had a place so soft somewhere within that stormy heart, that he could not listen to
the story—most skilfully related be it remem bered—of agony and shameful death without being as much melted as any tender mother. There were many here more unmoved than we
were and seemed very perfunctory mourners, but the greater part of the assembly were like our Arab.
Two songs were thus sung, and then one of the assembly mounted the pulpit and delivered
an extempore address, dwelling mainly on the
house. All sit upon the floor in the mode most comfortable to them. We can see all, for
incidents in the life and death of Ali Akbar,
the place is well lighted with handsome chan deliers, while two candles are fixed to the pulpit, and others glisten on the water-stand.
the details with which a loving reverence has
Seated in the middle of the floor is a band
of about six singers.
In the centre is the chief
Husain's eldest son. He entered minutely into all surrounded the true probably. they were true, with every pain
story—few of them historically But he preached them as if and as if he fully sympathized that befel his hero. One inci
performer, and he is chanting line by line a song
dent out of many can alone be given here to
describing the conduct and sufferings of Husain
show both the kind of myth which has envelop ed the history and the pathos which renders it so touching. Ali Akbar went to the fight by his father's side, and fought, as he had promised, like ten men. In the tide of battle he was separated from his father, but fought on. No water had passed his lips for three days, a blazing sun burnt overhead, his raging energy in the fight had increased the torment of his thirst, and at length he is tired of killing. Unable longer to lift his wearied arm, he forces his way back to his father who, too, has for
at the battle of Kerbela.
The verses are rather
long, but each is closed by a sort of chorus, in which all the performers join, the audience taking no part in the actual song. They have an important duty, however, the painful and trying one of listening to the harrowing details of the death of their beloved chief. With every passage of the song, come cries, shrieks, and every sign of deepest sorrow from behind the cloth that hides the women. How they beat their breasts and weep, as the more touch
ing passages are recited . The men are less noisy, but are evidently very deeply impressed.
the moment driven back his foes.
Just in front of us is an old and weather-beaten
water. In a moment he revives somewhat, and says, “O father, I said that I could fight for
Arab–a most truculent looking fellow. He sits in an attitude of eager listening, resting his chin
upon his knees. As the singer proceeds, he is more and more engrossed. At the more touching pas sages he raises his hand to his forehead, and
Ali Akbar
falls fainting at Husain's feet, crying for
you and die with you, and see how God hath helped us this day. No arrow hath hurt me, no sword has prevailed against mine, I cannot let them slay me. Yet would God I could, for it is
