Читать книгу Gujarat and the Gujaratis - Behramji Merwanji Malabari - Страница 7
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BROACH.
We left Surat on the 16th March, my friend Rasul and I, and arrived at Broach after two hours' journey by the B. B. Railway. Close to the station we found the Rustomji Jamsetji Dharamsálá,[1] and here we put down ourselves and our baggage.
Rustomji Jamsetji Jeejeebhoy.
Poor Mr. Rustomji! His princely progress through Gujarat is still remembered by the people, who fervently bless his name for numerous quiet charities. In spontaneous and hearty good-will towards man, he was no way inferior to his sire.[2] Talk as one will of his "blindly lavish expenditure" and that sort of cold-blooded philosophy, one cannot divest oneself of the thought that the unhappy gentleman was shamefully jilted by fortune. What is a matter of more poignant regret to a generous heart is that his own people were far from grateful to him in his fallen fortunes. Ifail to see the wisdom of the policy of the Parsi friends and others when they voted him a sectarian memorial. To my knowledge several Hindu and Mahomedan friends were ready and anxious, in fact they offered, to mark substantially their sense of admiration for this truly catholic lover of men. But his Parsi friends set themselves resolutely against all such proposals; no one can tell for what reason. It were foolish to conceal what is not a secret, that poor Rustomji Jamsetji had a greater claim to the gratitude of all sections of society than his late lamented and handsomely endowed baronet brother. But there is a proverb among us—"All bow to the rising sun—none to the setting." Rustomji Jamsetji most resembles the late Sir Cowasji Jehangir, with this difference, that the former had nothing of the cold, at times almost sordid, spirit of calculation which characterised the princely donations of the latter. All his charities were the offspring of generous impulse and an almost reckless disregard of consequences. Many "philanthropic" Parsis have died, and many may die hereafter (God have mercy on their souls!), but none probably have died so widely regretted and so long remembered as poor Rustomji.
The Rustomji Dharamsálá, though a really handsome, well-divided building, has not a piece of furniture it can call its own—not one single chair or piece of bedding. Could not some Bombay Parsi buy the Dharamsálá, say, three hundred rupees' worth of small conveniences?
The Great Man of Little Broach.
Seeing that the Dharamsala was merely an enclosure of bare walls, with hard chunam flooring, Iwrote to my friend Désái Kaliánrái Hukumatrái, to help me with a few chairs. Desai Kaliánrai is the greatest among the Broach gentry, a municipal commissioner, a leading shett, a public-spirited citizen, and a general favourite with friends. The Desái is a man of taste, and keeps his house and grounds in excellent order. The worthy Desái came to my help with chairs, tables, and beddings, and so kindly did we take to each other, that I refused to make the acquaintance of others at Broach. My first impressions of Broach are thus recorded:—
The Address.
Broach, thou venerable relic of departed commercial activity, father of far-famed Gujarát, once the proud emporium of the trade of Gujarát, Káttywár, and Rajputáná, cradled by the holy Narbadá and sanctified by the presence of the sacred Sukaltirth, I walk thy dusty, musty, spongy surface with a gentle gingerly tread! Hail land of pugilists and prudes, hail hoary dust-town, miniature Cottonopolis, all hail to thee!
An Afternoon Pastime
One cannot help loving this dear old town with all its drawbacks. While a man is there, he feels as if he were treading his grandpapa's well-preserved stomach after tiffin. This is a favourite pastime among natives: their afternoon meal is the most copious of all, after which, feeling a little uneasy on having swallowed about two pounds of rice and the other concomitants, the elders of the family lie flat on the back, and invite the young hopefuls to pommel and promenade on their ample, capacious, middle regions. Their version is, that they give that exhilarating exercise to their progeny out of love (the venerable sinners!), but everybody knows it is all a sham. Well, then, one feels while walking the streets of Broach that he is hugging an old welcome friend, as if he were clasped in the arms of old Father Christmas, with a cloak of dust on his shoulders. Dear old hen-pecked Broach!
Characteristics
Yes, the science of henpeckery is carried here to perfection. It is studied universally. The town itself is henpecked by that termagant of a river, the Narbadá; the husbands are henpecked by their better-halves. Even the lower creation share the same fate; the dog, the horse, the bull, are tame as—a Turkish pasha; the other sex, bold, pushing, forward. Nay, even high Government officials do not escape this terrible discipline; their mistress, the Bombay Government, sits heavy on them.
A Prude
I went a-marketing here, once upon a day, "in the merry month of May"; I approached a dairy-shop, and seeing a pot of boiling milk (rather partial to this liquor), asked the woman sitting there how much she would take for a ser[3] of her milk. She glared at me in answer, got up from her crouching posture—I could see she was a short woman, with a shorter petticoat, and a shorter temper still—she got up, Isay, and asked, in gasping tones, "Is it asking for the milk you are after ? And asking me! Ar'n't you ashamed? Ask my this." Her "this," I saw, was her "old man," sitting in the inmost recesses of the shop, and eating curds on the sly, if I guessed aright. A Hindu woman will die rather than address or speak of her husband by his name; she will say "I say," or "my this." If they are an elderly pair, the wife will describe her husband as "father of my" (naming her eldest born). The husband does the same by her; and it is delicious to hear these old creatures chatting cosily of an evening, "I say, mother of———" "Yes, father of———,whatisit?"
But to return to the milk-maid. I humbly said, "I only ask if this milk is to sell." "Don't ask me," she shrieked; "milk and no milk. Marry come up, asking a stranger woman! Ask my this, did you hear ?" Her "this" was inside, I said, and there he remained. I listened to her with Socratic patience, and then left her, merely remarking, "Pray thee, good woman, do remove the milk from under thy glance; it is turning sour." I need not add that I walked very fast after this towards my lodgings. The encounter took place last year. I hope there are not many such women at Broach as my sweet-tempered milk-maid.
Sights, Natural and Unnatural
The visitor will be struck here by the number, more so by the noise, of the ginning (cotton-cleaning) factories. There is not much of other business to be noticed. Amongst sights, the best are the river Narbadá, the Kabir Bur, some old Dutch tombs, the band-stand, and recreation-grounds. Perhaps the most noticeable sight in the streets is the snobbery of men and the prudery of women, also the happy family relations between the cart-driver and his bullock. The animal is kissed, embraced, lashed, and imprecated by turn. "Go on, bullock of my heart, go on, thy mother-in-law's darling"; "Will you go or not? you lazy widower, you son of a widow." These are the sounds the ear continually catches, interspersed with whacking sounds, twisting of tails, cutting of flesh, &c. Broach badly wants a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.
But for its ginning factories, mostly under Parsi management—besides the large one of Messrs. Greaves and Co.— Broach would be an unspeakably dull place. Dulness is the prevailing characteristic of most Gujarát towns; at least, to one who has lived in Bombay] it feels so.
Broach was recovering from the effects of the Gujarát famine at this time. It was piteous to see hundreds of villagers—men, women, and children—begging from door to door, and swallowing anything that came in their way. Some of these famished wanderers were, I was told, substantial farmers only a few years ago, but successive failures of crops and the inexorable demand of the Sirkár[4] had driven them into voluntary exile. In the document I give below, a copy of which I picked up at Broach, and
which document must be read between the lines, may be found the views of the Collector, the Revenue Commissioner, and the Government, as regards remission of taxes in bad seasons.
A Remarkable Official Document.
From the Collector to the Eevenue Commissioner, N.D.
"Sir,
"Looking at the wide-spread misery of the ryots, their distressing past and hopeless future, I respectfully submit that their arrearsbe remitted them, or at least the payment deferred till better times.
"I have the honour to be,
"Etc. Etc."
From the Commissioner, N.D., to the Collector.
"Memo. 2,085,677 of February 1877."
"The undersigned read the Collector's insane' letter with pity and disgust; and has done his duty by forwarding the same to head-quarters. Undersigned is afraid the Collector will have to pass a bad half hour with His Excellency,but it will serve him right."
______ ______.
From Chief Secretary to Government to ____ ____ Esq., Collector, ____
"Sir,
"Your strange communication, forwarded by the Commissioner of your Division,has excited much amusement. His Excellency in Council vows and declares such unpatriotic proceeding on your part is highly reprehensible. But in consideration of your past meritorious services, your folly is forgiven; should you, however, repeat it, His Excellency will be forced to make an example of you. If you have so much sentiment about you, why don't you resign? You will have a crust of bread for your old age.
"I am sir, yours, Etc."
"Memo.—Whereas a certain District Eevenue Official (name withheld out of consideration for long service) has dared to suggest the remission of our just and lawful dues, it is hereby notified for the general information of the whole Civil Service that His Excellency will visit with his utmost displeasure any such weakness, which may lead at any time, but for the vigilance of the Police, to gross crimes, such as riot, burglary, dacoity, and murder, and ultimately tarnish the fair fame of Britain. Times change, and with them must we. The people may die, that is the only means to the salvation of this conquered land. They may starve, languish, sell their children, or eat them. That is no concern of such high-minded Christian rulers as we are. We must look to the remote future. There we descry hoards of Afghans and Cossacks overrunning the fair fields of Cashmere. (Is not he our neighbour? and what is our duty by our neighbour?) And would it be Christian of us to rest before we have made a trans-Himalayan tramway,and till we take our formidable future foes home to Afghanistan and Siberia, wash the one and put the other to bed? Think over these complications before you talk of remission and this and that remedy."
This official memorandum, or, as they call it, "resolution," and the other brief but expressive epistles which accompany it, may not be found on Government records ;but they will give to the uninitiated some idea of what we know as demi-semi-official arrangements, in which our newly developed "Imperial" policy finds occasional play. The imperial politician always looks to the "remotest future."
1 ↑ A resting-place, literally "a house of charity."
2 ↑ Sir Jamsetji Jeejeebhoy, first baronet, the world renowned philanthropist.
3 ↑ About one pound, more or less.
4 ↑ Government
