Across India by Oliver Optic

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The party proceeded towards the caves, but had not gone far before they
were arrested by the screams of some of the ladies, who were wandering in
search of flowers. Louis Belgrave was with his mother and Miss Blanche. Sir
Modava, who was telling the rest of the company something more about the
banyan-tree, rushed to the spot from which the alarm came. There he found
Louis with his revolver in readiness to fire.

"Snakes!" screamed Mrs. Belgrave.

In front of them, asleep on a rock, were two large snakes. The Hindu
gentleman halted at the side of the lady, and burst out into a loud laugh.

"The snakes of India seem to be determined that you shall see them," said
he. "But you need not fire, Mr. Belgrave; for those snakes are as harmless
as barnyard fowls, and they don't know enough to bite."

"I see that they are not cobras," added Louis, as he returned the revolver
to his pocket. "But what are they?"

"Those are rock snakes."

"But I don't like the looks of them," said Mrs. Belgrave, as she continued
her retreat towards the path.

"I think they are horrid," added Miss Blanche.

"But they do no harm, and very likely they do some good in the world," said
Sir Modava; "but there are snakes enough that ought to be killed without
meddling with them."

"You see that rock," said the viscount; "and it is a very large one. Can
you make anything of its shape? I suppose not; nobody can. But that rock
gave a name to this island, applied by the Portuguese two or three hundred
years ago. It is said to have been in the form of an elephant. If it ever
had that shape it has lost it."

[Illustration: "'Snakes!' screamed Mrs. Belgrave."--Page 184.]

After penetrating a dense thicket, the tourists discovered a comely flight
of stairs, cut out of the solid rock of which the hill is composed,
extending to a considerable distance, and finally leading into the great
pillared chamber forming a Hindu temple, though a level space planted with
trees must first be crossed.

They entered the cave. On the left were two full columns, not yet crumbled
away as others were, which gave the observers a complete view of what a
vast number of others there were. Next beyond them were three pilasters
clinging to the ceiling. This part of the cavern was in the light from the
entrance; but farther along, considerably obscured in the darkness of the
subterranean temple, were scores, and perhaps hundreds, of others. The
pillars were not the graceful forms of modern times, and many of them had
lost all shape.

This temple is said to have been excavated in the ninth century. The walls
are covered with gigantic figures in relief. The temple is in the form of a
cross, the main hall being a hundred and forty-four feet in depth. The
ceiling is supported by twenty-six columns and eighteen pilasters, sixteen
to eighteen feet high. They look clumsy, but they have to bear up the
enormous weight of the hill of rock, and many of them have crumbled away.

At the end of the colonnade is a gigantic bust, representing a Hindu
divinity with three heads. Some say that this is Brahma, as the three
symbols of the creator, preserver, and destroyer, forming what is sometimes
named the Hindu trinity. But the best informed claim that the figure
represents Siva, the destroyer of the triad of gods. All the reliefs on the
walls relate to the worship of this divinity, while there is not a known
temple to Brahma.

The principal piece of sculpture is the marriage of Siva to the goddess
Parvati; and it is identified as such, wholly or in part, because the woman
stands on the right of the man, as no female is permitted to do except at
the marriage ceremony. The party wandered through the caverns for two
hours, and Sayad and Moro, the only servants brought with them, kindled
fires in the darker places, to enable them to see the sculpture. Sir Modava
explained what needed explanation. He conducted them to an opening, lighted
by a hole in the hill, where they found a staircase guarded by two lions,
leading into what is called the Lions' Cave.

The tourists at the end of the two hours were willing to vote that they had
seen enough of the caverns, and they returned to the hotel in season for
dinner. On his arrival Lord Tremlyn found a letter at the office. On
opening it, the missive proved to be an invitation for that evening to a
wedding for the whole party. They considered it for some time, and as it
afforded them an opportunity to see something of native life it was decided
to accept it.

CHAPTER XX

A JUVENILE WEDDING AND HINDU THEATRICALS

The note to Lord Tremlyn enclosed sixteen cards printed in gold letters,
one for each member of the company, and they were passed around to them.
They were to the effect that Perbut Lalleejee would celebrate the marriage
of his son that evening, and the favor of the recipient's attendance was
requested to a Grand Nautch at nine o'clock. The gentleman who sent out
these cards was one of the wealthiest of the Parsee community, with whom
the viscount was intimately acquainted, and he strongly recommended the
Americans to attend.

The Parsees kept their religious affairs to themselves, and the party were
not to "assist" at the ceremony, which would have been an extra inducement
to attend. Promptly at the hour named the carriages set the tourists and
their volunteer guides down at the magnificent mansion of the father of the
young man who was to enter the marriage state that evening.

The street in the vicinity of the house was brilliantly illuminated, and it
was covered over with an awning, from which no end of ornamental lamps were
suspended. Behind a mass of flowers--cartloads of them--a foreign orchestra
was placed. As the carriages stopped at the door, the band began a military
march, whose inspiring strains seemed to give an additional lustre to the
elaborate decorations. It was easy for the guests to believe that they had
been introduced into the midst of a fairy scene. Sahib Perbut appeared at
the door as soon as the vehicles stopped, and took his lordship by the
hand, and each of the guests were presented to him as they alighted. The
host was not an old man, as the strangers expected to find him, since he
had a son who was old enough to get married.

He was very richly dressed, and he was a gentleman of unbounded suavity.
Taking Mrs. Belgrave by the hand, he conducted her into the house, the rest
of the party forming a procession behind them. The Americans had been
obliged to make a trip to the Guardian-Mother, to obtain garments suitable
for such a "swell" occasion, and they were all dressed in their Sunday
clothes.

If the exterior of the splendid mansion had challenged the admiration of
the guests, the interior presented a scene of Oriental magnificence which
might have astonished even the Count of Monte Cristo. The party were
conducted to the grand and lofty apartment where the Nautch was to be
given. Immense mirrors reflected the brilliancy of a thousand lights; the
floor was covered with the richest of carpets, the luxurious divans and
sofas were overspread with the cloths of Cashmere; the elaborate richness
of the costumes of the Oriental guests, and the army of servants
manipulating _punkas_, or fans, formed a scene not unlike, while it
out-rivalled, the grand _denoument_ of a fairy spectacle on the stage.

The procession of foreign guests were all seated in the most conspicuous
divans; for if Lord Tremlyn had been the Prince of Wales, he and his
friends could hardly have been treated with greater distinction, as he was
the unofficial representative of the predominating influence in the affairs
of India near the throne of the United Kingdom and the Empire. The party
were immediately beset with servants offering them fruit and sherbets, and
they were sprinkled with rose-water from silver flagons.

The Nautch girls were not the same the tourists had seen earlier in the
day. There were more of them, and they were of a finer grain; in fact, the
gentlemen, who were judges, declared that most of them were really pretty.
They were seated on the floor in native fashion. They had great black eyes;
their complexion was only the least tawny, and was paler than it would have
been if they had lived on a more invigorating diet than rice and fruits.

There were half a dozen musicians, who played upon tom-toms, instruments
like a fiddle, and one that was very nearly a hurdy-gurdy, with lutes and
flutes. They gave the preliminary strains, and the dancers formed the
semicircle. The performance was similar to that the party had seen at the
hotel, though it was more finished, and the attitudes and posturing
appeared to belong to a higher school of art than the other. But the whole
was so nearly like what the strangers had seen before, that they were not
absorbed by it, and gave more attention to the people attending the feast;
for they were an exceedingly interesting study to them.

After the performance had continued about a quarter of an hour there was a
pause, and the dancers retreated to a corner of the room, seating
themselves again on the floor. At this moment Sahib Perbut came into the
grand saloon leading a boy, who did not appear to be more than ten years
old, by the hand. He was dressed in the most richly ornamented garments,
and he was an exceedingly pretty little fellow. He was conducted to the
viscount.

"Will your Lordship permit me to present to you and your friends my son
Dinshaw, in whose honor I am making this feast? This is Lord Tremlyn, my
son," said the father, who was evidently very proud of the boy.

"Sahib Dinshaw, I am very happy to make your acquaintance," replied his
lordship, as he rose and took the hand of the young gentleman, whom he
introduced to every member of his party.

They all followed the example of the viscount, and addressed him as "Sahib
Dinshaw," the title being equivalent to "Lord," or "Master," applied by the
natives to their employers, and to the English generally. All of them gazed
at him with intense interest, not unmingled with admiration. The hero of
the occasion spoke English as fluently as his father.

"How old are you, Sahib Dinshaw?" asked Mrs. Belgrave, who was strongly
tempted to kiss the little fellow; but she was afraid it would not be in
order, and she refrained.

"I am ten years old, madam," replied Dinshaw, with the sweetest of smiles.

"And you have been married this evening, sahib?" continued the lady.

"I should not ask him any questions in that direction," interposed Sir
Modava, afraid she would meddle with an interdicted subject; and the young
gentleman's father seemed to have a similar fear, for he gently led him
away.

He was introduced to the members of the "Big Four," who could hardly keep
their faces at the proper length after hearing what passed between the
youthful sahib and Mrs. Belgrave, at the idea of a ten-year-old bridegroom.

"Is it possible that this little fellow is married, Sir Modava?" exclaimed
the principal lady from Von Blonk Park.

"There can be no doubt of it," replied the Hindu gentleman. "But it is
hardly in the same sense that marriage takes place in England and America.
The bride will be received into this Parsee family, and the groom will
remain here; but everything in the domestic circle will continue very
nearly as it was before, and husband and wife will pursue their studies."

"It looks very strange to us," added the lady.

"It is the custom of the country. The British government does not interfere
unnecessarily with matters interwoven into the religion and habits of the
people, though it has greatly modified the manners of the natives, and
abolished some barbarous customs. The 'suttee,' as the English called the
Sanscrit word _sati_ meaning 'a virtuous wife,' was a Hindu
institution which required that a faithful wife should burn herself on the
funeral pyre with the body of her deceased husband; or if he died at a
distance from his home, that she should sacrifice herself on one of her
own."

"How horrible! I have read of it, but hardly believed it," added the lady;
and others who were listening expressed the same feeling.

"It was a custom in India before the time of Christ. Some of your American
Indians bury the weapons of the dead chief, food, and other articles with
him, as has been the custom of other nations, in the belief that they will
need these provisions in the 'happy hunting-ground.' The Hindus believed
that the dead husband would need his wife on the other shore; and this is
the meaning of the custom."

"It is not wholly a senseless custom," said Mrs. Woolridge, "barbarous as
it seems."

"In 1828, or a little later, Lord William Cavendish, then Governor-General
of Bengal, determined to abolish the custom, though he encountered the
fiercest opposition from the natives, and even from many Europeans, who
dreaded the effect of his action. He carried a law through the council,
making it punishable homicide, or manslaughter, to burn a widow. In 1823
there were five hundred and seventy-five of them burned in the Bengal
Presidency; but after the enactment of the law, the number began to
decrease. The treaties with the Indian princes contained a clause
forbidding it. The custom is really discontinued, though an occasional
instance of it comes to light."

The dancing had been renewed, and this conversation continued till later.
At this wedding Lord Tremlyn met a gentleman whom he introduced to some of
his party as Sahib Govind. This gentleman had just invited him to visit a
theatrical performance at a private house, such as a European can very
rarely witness.

"I never went to a theatre in my life!" protested Mrs. Belgrave.

"But this is a representation in connection with the religious traditions
of the Hindus," argued his lordship.

It was decided to go, the scruples of the Methodists being overcome by the
fact that it was a religious occasion, and not at all like the stage
performances of New York. The carriages conveyed them to the house
indicated by Sahib Govind, and they were conducted to a hall, at one end of
which was a stage, with a thin calico curtain in front of it. The
performance was just beginning.

A Brahmin came out in front of the curtain, with some musicians, and set up
an image of Ganesa, the god of wisdom; then he prayed this idol to
enlighten the minds of the actors, and enable them to perform their parts
well, which was certainly very untheatrical, the Americans thought, when
Sir Modava had translated the substance of the invocation. The Brahmin then
announced that the subject of the play was the loves of the god Krishna.

"Who is the hero of the piece, Sir Modava?" asked Mr. Woolridge, who was a
theatre-goer at home.

"He is really Vishnu, one of the Hindu trinity, known as the preserver.
Vishnu has a considerable number of forms, or incarnations, one of which is
Krishna, the most human of them all."

The curtain rose, and cut short the explanation. The scene, painted on
canvas, was an Indian temple. A figure with an enormous wig, his half-naked
body daubed all over with yellow paint, was seated before it, abstracted in
the deepest meditation. The interpreter told them it was Rishi, a
supernatural power, a genius who is a protector to those who need his
services. Then a crowd of gods and goddesses rushed on the stage, and each
of them made a long speech to the devotee-god, which Sir Modava had not
time to render into English, even with the aid of Sahib Govind.

The actors were fantastically dressed. One had an elephant's head, and all
of them wore high gilt mitres. Krishna enters, and the other divinities
make their exit. He is a nice-looking young man, painted blue, and dressed
like a king. His wife enters, and throws herself at his feet. Then she
reproaches him for forsaking her, in a soft and musical voice, her eyes
raining tears all the time. She embraces his knees.

Then appears the rival in her affections with Krishna, Rukmini, an
imperious woman, and tells by what artifices she has conquered the weak
husband. Then follows a spirited dialogue between the two women. The rival
boasts of her descent from Vishnu, and of her beauty and animation, and
reproaches Krishna with his unworthy love. Sir Modava wrote this down in
his memorandum book, and handed it to the Americans.

Satyavama, the wife, insists that her only crime was her love for her
divine husband. She narrates her early history, when she was a peasant girl
on the banks of the Jumna, with her companions, and drew upon herself the
attention of the god. Her life had been simple, and she had always been a
faithful wife. Yet Rukmini triumphs over her. Her pride is aroused; she
rushes off, and returns with her little son.

"Kill us both, since we cannot live without your love!" the interpreters
rendered her piteous cry. The rival ridicules her, and, urged on by her,
Krishna hands her a cup of poison, which she drinks, and sinks to the
ground.

"It is not the poison that rends me; it is that my heart is broken by the
ingratitude of one I have so dearly loved." She forgives him, and dies.

But not thus does the Indian love-story end; for the genie enters, and in
thundering tones calls Krishna to an account for his deeds. The festive god
is tortured with remorse, but has no excuse to offer. He drives Rukmini
from him, and implores the yellow-painted god for forgiveness; and, as he
is the preserver, it is granted. Satyavama is brought back to life. She
presents her son to her husband, who holds out his arms to embrace him; and
the curtain drops in a blaze of Bengal lights, and the "Wah! Wahs!" of the
Hindu audience.

The interpreters finished their explanations, and the company retired with
the salaams of the crowd. It was very late when they retired to rest that
night.

CHAPTER XXI

JUGGERNAUT AND JUGGLERS

The next day was Sunday, and none of the party appeared in the parlor till
quite late; not because it was the Sabbath, but because they were all very
tired, even the four lively boys, who had done more sightseeing than the
rest of the tourists. They were always on the wing, and while the older
ones rested, they always found some novelty which drew them away from the
hotel. Of the four servants only two attended upon them. They had
practically retired two of them with some difficulty when they were away
from the party, for they were a nuisance to them, so many of them.

Sayad and Moro were retained, however; for they were more intelligent than
the others, spoke English better, and were more enterprising, frequently
suggesting some means of amusement to them. They were interested in the
boys and girls, and Sayad told Louis and Felix all about them,--about their
homes, their schools, their sports; and Moro did the same for Scott and
Morris. On this Sunday they were conducted to a Sunday-school of two
hundred scholars, under the direction of the missionaries, though the
teachers are mostly natives.

It was a strange sight to them, the variety of races, the strange costumes,
and the absence of any considerable portion of costume at all. There were
Mohammedans, Chinamen, negroes, Jews, and a few Europeans. They fell in
with the missionary from England, who told them a good deal about their
work, and how interested they were in it, declaring that they could see the
fruits of their labors, detailing a number of instances of conversions.
They had a day-school also, and they hired a strict Hindu because he taught
English so well. He hated the Christians, and did his work only because he
was paid for it; but he had to listen to the prayers and exhortations, and
finally he yielded in spite of himself, and became a very useful Christian
minister.

This gentleman said that the number of Christians in India had doubled
within ten years. He invited the party to come to the church, and the boys
hastened back to the hotel to tell their friends about it. They all went to
this meeting, including their three distinguished guides. The service was
about the same as at home, the clergyman was a native of the Brahmin caste,
and he preached a very earnest and sensible sermon. The funds of the
mission were increased at least a thousand dollars by this visit.

In the evening the entire company attended the Church of England at the
invitation of Lord Tremlyn; and the sermon was preached by the Bishop of
Bombay. The Methodists were as much pleased with it as though it had been
delivered by one of their own fold. A portion of the day was passed in
writing letters to their friends at home, and quite a bundle of them was
collected for the post by Louis. They were all sealed, with stamps affixed,
and Morris's servant Mobarak was directed to put them in the mail-box. But
the fellow shook his head, and declined to obey.

His sahib was proceeding to give him a lecture in rather energetic terms,
when Sir Modava interposed, and explained that the servant had religious
scruples, knowing that the stamp had been wet on the tongues of the
senders, which made it unclean to him, and he could not touch it.

"I have heard of a young man not older than Mobarak who lost his life
rather than come in contact with the saliva of a foreigner; but I doubt if
many would carry their fanaticism to that extent," he added.

The next morning the party were up at six o'clock, and after they had taken
their coffee, carried up to them by their servants, went out to walk by two
and threes; but they returned by seven o'clock, and were assembled in the
parlor. The sights in the streets had become rather an old story by this
time, and there was not much to be said about them.

"Have you recovered from the fatigues of Saturday, Mrs. Belgrave?" asked
Lord Tremlyn.

"Entirely, my Lord. I am quite ready for the next item in your programme,"
replied the lady.

"How did you enjoy the play, madam?" inquired Sir Modava.

"As a religious exhibition, from my point of view, it was a failure."

"It does not convey much of an idea of even the mythology of the Hindus,"
added Professor Giroud. "If Krishna was a divinity, or even an incarnation
of one, he is a very bad representation of the piety and morality of the
gods. The affair was well enough as a love-story, but the conclusion looked
like a pleasant satire on those authors who insist that their tales and
novels shall have an agreeable ending;" and the professor indulged in a
hearty laugh as he recalled the manner in which Satyavama had been brought
back to life by the divinity in yellow paint.

"I like that kind of a winding up of a story, and I don't like the other
kind," added the magnate of the Fifth Avenue. "We read novels, if we read
them at all, for the fun of it, with some incidental information in the
right direction. When I was a young man I had a taste for the sea, as most
boys have, and I read Marryat's novels with immense pleasure. In 'The
King's Own,' after following the young fellow in his adventures all over
the world, his life terminated just as he was reaching home, and I was
disgusted. I have read most of this author's books again, but I never
looked into 'The King's Own' a second time."

"I think we all like to have a story 'end well,' though it was a rather
violent bringing up Saturday night," said Dr. Hawkes. "But the actresses in
that play were all exceedingly pretty girls, and I did not suppose so many
of them could be found in all India."

"That was just what I was saying to Govind after the performance, and he
laughed as though he would choke himself to death," interposed Lord
Tremlyn, laughing rather earnestly himself. "There was not a single female
on the stage; for the custom of the theatre here does not permit women to
appear, any more than it did in the time of Shakespeare."

"But I saw them!" exclaimed the surgeon. "I think I know a woman when I see
one, though I am an old bachelor, and rather a tough one at that."

"Not always, Doctor; for not one of those you call girls was a female. A
woman on the Hindu stage is a thing unknown," rallied the viscount.

"I suppose I must give it up, though I would not do so on any less
authority than that of your lordship," replied the surgeon good-naturedly.

All the rest of the party expressed their astonishment in terms hardly less
strong; and the ladies were even more incredulous than the gentlemen.

"As Govind told me, all the female parts were taken by boys remarkable for
their beauty and the sweetness of their voices," added his lordship. "But
this is understood to be our last day in Bombay, though the limitation of
time does not come from any suggestion of mine; and we must make the best
use of what remains. You have not half seen Bombay yet."

"We should need ten years for our trip if we were to exhaust every place we
visit," replied Captain Ringgold. "All we expect is to get a fair idea of a
city; and I think we have done that here, especially as we shall see the
same things, as far as manners and customs are concerned, many times before
we finally take our leave of the country at Colombo in Ceylon."

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