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The sight of the Pinjarapala is less lugubrious and much more
amusing.
The Pinjarapala is the Bombay Hospital for decrepit animals, but
a
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 India. It is much older than Buddhism, which took its
rise
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 Ceylon. Jainas and Buddhists have the same
traditional
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
school of Kanada. They assert that the universe never had a
beginning
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,
Bombay, Konkan, and some other places.
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
Ark. In the first yard, however,
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 Bombay to
beg their bread. Thus,
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
India
s.v.p.). The oldest and best of all Sanskrit dramas, Hanuman-Natak,
is
ascribed to this talented forefather of ours.
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
(Ceylon) giants, the Rakshasas, and to present these Dravidian
beauties
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 Europe, where
they
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 Darwin, concedes this hypothesis to the wisdom of
ancient
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.
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 India, except
Mussulmans, agree that the universe
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.
Kama, the
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
Europe. Like
a huge flower bed, the women displayed the bright colors 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 India
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 island of Ormasd, and, some
time
later, having found a book of Zoroastrian prophecies, in obedience
to
one of them they set out for Hindustan. After many wanderings,
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.
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
Calcutta
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 Bombay
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 Baroda some
Gaikwars (a title of all the Baroda princes) still keep
in their stables
elephants and the less common giraffes, though the
former are strictly
forbidden in the streets of Bombay. We had an
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.
The
performance began at eight p.m. and, at half-past two, had only
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.
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.
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. |
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