Glimpses of Bengal — Shazadpur

_January_ 1891. We left the little river of Kaligram, sluggish as the circulation in a dying man, and dropped down the current of a briskly flowing stream which led to a region where land and water seemed to merge in each other, river and bank without distinction of garb, like brother and sister in infancy.

The river lost its coating of sliminess, scattered its current in many directions, and spread out, finally, into a _beel_ (marsh), with here a patch of grassy land and there a stretch of transparent water, reminding me of the youth of this globe when through the limitless waters land had just begun to raise its head, the separate provinces of solid and fluid as yet undefined.

Round about where we have moored, the bamboo poles of fishermen are planted.

Kites hover ready to snatch up fish from the nets.

On the ooze at the water's edge stand the saintly-looking paddy birds in meditation.

All kinds of waterfowl abound.

Patches of weeds float on the water.

Here and there rice-fields, untilled, untended,[1] rise from the moist, clay soil.

Mosquitoes swarm over the still waters....

[Footnote 1: On the rich river-side silt, rice seed is simply scattered and the harvest reaped when ripe; nothing else has to be done.

] We start again at dawn this morning and pass through Kachikata, where the waters of the _beel_ find an outlet in a winding channel only six or seven yards wide, through which they rush swiftly.

To get our unwieldy house-boat through is indeed an adventure.

The current hurries it along at lightning speed, keeping the crew busy using their oars as poles to prevent the boat being dashed against the banks.

We thus come out again into the open river.

The sky had been heavily clouded, a damp wind blowing, with occasional showers of rain.

The crew were all shivering with cold.

Such wet and gloomy days in the cold weather are eminently disagreeable, and I have spent a wretched lifeless morning.

At two in the afternoon the sun came out, and since then it has been delightful.

The banks are now high and covered with peaceful groves and the dwellings of men, secluded and full of beauty.

The river winds in and out, an unknown little stream in the inmost _zenana_ of Bengal, neither lazy nor fussy; lavishing the wealth of her affection on both sides, she prattles about common joys and sorrows and the household news of the village girls, who come for water, and sit by her side, assiduously rubbing their bodies to a glowing freshness with their moistened towels.

This evening we have moored our boat in a lonely bend.

The sky is clear.

The moon is at its full.

Not another boat is to be seen.

The moonlight glimmers on the ripples.

Solitude reigns on the banks.

The distant village sleeps, nestling within a thick fringe of trees.

The shrill, sustained chirp of the cicadas is the only sound.

SHAZADPUR,

_February_ 1891. Just in front of my window, on the other side of the stream, a band of gypsies have ensconced themselves, putting up bamboo frameworks covered over with split-bamboo mats and pieces of cloth.

There are only three of these little structures, so low that you cannot stand upright inside.

Their life is lived in the open, and they only creep under these shelters at night, to sleep huddled together.

That is always the gypsies' way: no home anywhere, no landlord to pay rent to, wandering about as it pleases them with their children, their pigs, and a dog or two; and on them the police keep a vigilant eye.

I frequently watch the doings of the family nearest me.

They are dark but good-looking, with fine, strongly-built bodies, like north-west country folk.

Their women are handsome, and have tall, slim, well-knit figures;

and with their free and easy movements, and natural independent airs, they look to me like swarthy Englishwomen.

The man has just put the cooking-pot on the fire, and is now splitting bamboos and weaving baskets.

The woman first holds up a little mirror to her face, then puts a deal of pains into wiping and rubbing it, over and over again, with a moist piece of cloth; and then, the folds of her upper garment adjusted and tidied, she goes, all spick and span, up to her man and sits beside him, helping him now and then in his work.

These are truly children of the soil, born on it somewhere, bred by the wayside, here, there, and everywhere, dying anywhere.

Night and day under the open sky, in the open air, on the bare ground, they lead a unique kind of life; and yet work, love, children, and household duties--everything is there.

They are not idle for a moment, but always doing something.

Her own particular task over, one woman plumps herself down behind another, unties the knot of her hair and cleans and arranges it for her; and whether at the same time they fall to talking over the domestic affairs of the three little mat-covered households I cannot say for certain from this distance, but shrewdly suspect it.

This morning a great disturbance invaded the peaceful gypsy settlement.

It was about half-past eight or nine.

They were spreading out over the mat roofs tattered quilts and sundry other rags, which serve them for beds, in order to sun and air them.

The pigs with their litters, lying in a hollow all of a heap and looking like a dab of mud, had been routed out by the two canine members of the family, who fell upon them and sent them roaming in search of their breakfasts, squealing their annoyance at being interrupted in enjoyment of the sun after the cold night.

I was writing my letter and absently looking out now and then when the hubbub suddenly commenced.

I rose and went to the window, and found a crowd gathered round the gypsy hermitage.

A superior-looking personage was flourishing a stick and indulging in the strongest language.

The headman of the gypsies, cowed and nervous, was apparently trying to offer explanations.

I gathered that some suspicious happenings in the locality had led to this visitation by a police officer.

The woman, so far, had remained sitting, busily scraping lengths of split bamboo as serenely as if she had been alone and no sort of row going on.

Suddenly, however, she sprang to her feet, advanced on the police officer, gesticulated violently with her arms right in his face, and gave him, in strident tones, a piece of her mind.

In the twinkling of an eye three-quarters of the officer's excitement had subsided; he tried to put in a word or two of mild protest but did not get a chance, and so departed crestfallen, a different man.

After he had retreated to a safe distance, he turned and shouted back: "All I say is, you'll have to clear out from here!"

I thought my neighbours opposite would forthwith pack up their mats and bamboos and move away with their bundles, pigs, and children.

But there is no sign of it yet.

They are still nonchalantly engaged in splitting bamboos, cooking food, or completing a toilet.

SHAZADPUR,

_February_ 1891. The post office is in a part of our estate office building,--this is very convenient, for we get our letters as soon as they arrive.

Some evenings the postmaster comes up to have a chat with me.

I enjoy listening to his yarns.

He talks of the most impossible things in the gravest possible manner.

Yesterday he was telling me in what great reverence people of this locality hold the sacred river Ganges.

If one of their relatives dies, he said, and they have not the means of taking the ashes to the Ganges, they powder a piece of bone from his funeral pyre and keep it till they come across some one who, some time or other, has drunk of the Ganges.

To him they administer some of this powder, hidden in the usual offering of _pán_[1], and thus are content to imagine that a portion of the remains of their deceased relative has gained purifying contact with the sacred water.

[Footnote 1: Spices wrapped in betel leaf.

] I smiled as I remarked: "This surely must be an invention."