from the Caves and Jungles of Hindostan |
xxx | xx |
Chapter One -- In Bombay *the island
of Elephanta* -- *the island of Bombay*
-- *the temple of Valakeshvara* -- *millions
of crows* -- *the prudery of Athanasius*
-- *Swami Dayanand Saraswati* -- *Dayanand
as a Yogi* -- *the Theosophical Society* --
*an amalgamation between the Society and the Arya
Samaj* -- *the Tower of Silence* -- *the
Jainas*- *the Pinjarapala* -- *a
holy man feeding insects with his own blood* -- *the
role of Hanuman* -- *a performance of Sita-Rama*
-- *Parsee women* -- *turbans*
Late in the evening of the sixteenth of February, 1879, after a rough voyage which lasted thirty-two days, joyful exclamations were heard everywhere on deck. "Have you seen the lighthouse?" "There it is at last, the Bombay lighthouse. " Cards, books, music, everything was forgotten. Everyone rushed on deck. The moon had not risen as yet, and in spite of the starry tropical sky it was quite dark. The stars were so bright that at first it seemed hardly possible to distinguish, far away amongst them, a small fiery point lit by earthly hands. The stars winked at us like so many huge eyes in the black sky, on one side of which shone the Southern Cross. At last we distinguished the lighthouse on the distant horizon. It was nothing but a tiny fiery point diving in the phosphorescent waves. The tired travellers greeted it warmly. The rejoicing was general. What a glorious daybreak followed this dark night! The sea no longer tossed our ship. Under the skilled guidance of the pilot, who had just arrived, and whose bronze form was so sharply defined against the pale sky, our steamer, breathing heavily with its broken machinery, slipped over the quiet, transparent waters of the Indian Ocean straight to the harbour. We were only four miles from Bombay, and to us, who had trembled with cold only a few weeks ago in the Bay of Biscay which has been so glorified by many poets and so heartily cursed by all sailors, our surroundings simply seemed a magical dream. After the tropical nights of the Red Sea and the scorching hot days that had tortured us since Aden, we, people of the distant North, now experienced something strange and unwonted, as if the very fresh soft air had cast its spell over us. There was not a cloud in the sky, thickly strewn with dying stars. Even the moonlight, which till then had covered the sky with its silvery garb, was gradually vanishing; and the brighter grew the rosiness of dawn over the small island that lay before us in the East, the paler in the West grew the scattered rays of the moon that sprinkled with bright flakes of light the dark wake our ship left behind her, as if the glory of the West was bidding good-bye to us, while the light of the East welcomed the newcomers from faroff lands. Brighter and bluer grew the sky, swiftly absorbing the remaining pale stars one after the other, and we felt something touching in the sweet dignity with which the Queen of Night resigned her rights to the powerful usurper. At last, descending lower and lower, she disappeared completely. And suddenly, almost without interval between
darkness and light, the red-hot globe, emerging on the opposite side from
under the cape, leant his golden chin on the lower rocks of the island
and seemed to stop for a while, as if examining us. Then, with one powerful
effort, the torch of day rose high over the sea and gloriously proceeded
on its path, including in one mighty fiery embrace the blue waters of the
bay, the shore and the islands with their rocks and cocoanut forests.
His golden rays fell upon a crowd of Parsees, his rightful worshippers,
who stood on shore raising their arms towards the mighty "Eye of Ormuzd."
The sight was so impressive that everyone on deck became silent for a moment;
even a red-nosed old sailor, who was busy quite close to us over the cable,
stopped working and, clearing his throat, nodded at the sun.
How many generations of Hindus, how many races, have knelt in the dust before the Trimurti, your threefold deity, O Elephanta? How many centuries were spent by weak man in digging out in your stone bosom this town of temples and carving your gigantic idols? Who can say? Many years have elapsed since I saw you last, ancient, mysterious temple, and still the same restless thoughts, the same recurrent questions vex me snow as they did then, and still remain unanswered. In a few days we shall see each other again. Once more I shall gaze upon your stern image, upon your three huge granite faces, and shall feel as hopeless as ever of piercing the mystery of your being. This secret fell into safe hands three centuries before ours. It is not in vain that the old Portuguese historian Don Diego de Cuta boasts that "the big square stone fastened over the arch of the pagoda with a distinct inscription, having been torn out and sent as a present to the King Dom Juan III, disappeared mysteriously in the course of time...," and adds, further, "Close to this big pagoda there stood another, and farther on even a third one, the most wonderful of all in beauty, incredible size, and richness of material. All those pagodas and caves have been built by the Kings of Kanada (?), the most important of whom was Bonazur, and these buildings of Satan our (Portuguese) soldiers attacked with such vehemence that in a few years one stone was not left upon another...." And worst of all, they left no inscriptions that might have given a clue to so much. Thanks to the fanaticism of Portuguese soldiers, the chronology of the Indian cave temples must remain for ever an enigma to the archaeological world, beginning with the Brahmans, who say Elephanta is 374,000 years old, and ending with Fergusson, who tries to prove that it was carved only in the twelfth century of our era. Whenever one turns one's eyes to history, there is nothing to be found but hypotheses and darkness. And yet Gharipuri is mentioned in the epic Mahabharata, which was written, according to Colebrooke and Wilson, a good while before the reign of Cyrus. In another ancient legend it is said that the temple of Trimurti was built on Elephanta by the sons of Pandu, who took part in the war between the dynasties of the Sun and the Moon, and belonging to the latter, were expelled at the end of the war. The Rajputs, who are the descendants of the first, still sing of this victory; but even in their popular songs there is nothing positive. Centuries have passed and will pass, and the ancient secret will die in the rocky bosom of the cave still unrecorded. On the left side of the bay, exactly opposite
Elephanta, and as if in contrast with all its antiquity and greatness,
spreads the Malabar Hill, the residence of the modern Europeans
and rich natives. Their brightly painted bungalows are bathed in the greenery
of banyan, Indian fig, and various other trees, and the tall and straight
trunks of cocoanut palms cover with the fringe of their leaves the whole
ridge of the hilly headland. There, on the south-western end of the rock,
you see the almost transparent, lace-like Government House surrounded on
three sides by the ocean. This is the coolest and the most comfortable
part of Bombay, fanned by three different sea breezes.
In a fit of tourist exaltation some travellers have compared it to the Bay of Naples; but as a matter of fact, the one is as much like the other as a lazzaroni is like a Kuli. The whole resemblance between the former consists in the fact that there is water in both. In Bombay, as well as in its harbour, everything is original and does not in the least remind one of Southern Europe. Look at those coasting vessels and native boats; both are built in the likeness of the sea bird "sat," a kind of kingfisher. When in motion these boats are the personification of grace, with their long prows and rounded poops. They look as if they were gliding backwards, and one might mistake for wings the strangely shaped, long, lateen sails, their narrow angles fastened upwards to a yard. Filling these two wings with the wind, and careening so as almost to touch the surface of the water, these boats will fly along with astonishing swiftness. Unlike our European boats, they do not cut the waves, but glide over them like a sea-gull. The surroundings of the bay transported us
to some fairy land of the Arabian Nights. The ridge of the Western Ghats,
cut through here and there by some separate hills almost as high as themselves,
stretched all along the Eastern shore. From the base to their fantastic,
rocky tops, they are all overgrown with impenetrable forests and jungles
inhabited by wild animals. Every rock has been enriched by the popular
imagination with an independent legend. All over the slope of the mountain
are scattered the pagodas, mosques, and temples of numberless sects. Here
and there the hot rays of the sun strike upon an old fortress, once dreadful
and inaccessible, now half ruined and covered with prickly cactus. At every
step, some memorial of sanctity. Here a deep vihara, a cave cell of a Buddhist
bhikshu saint; there a rock protected by the symbol of Shiva; further on
a Jaina temple; or a holy tank all covered with sedge and filled with water,
once blessed by a Brahman and able to purify every sin, an indispensable
attribute of all pagodas. All the surroundings are covered with symbols
of gods and goddesses. Each of the three hundred and thirty millions of
deities of the Hindu Pantheon has its representative in something consecrated
to it, a stone, a flower, a tree, or a bird.
India is the land of legends, and of mysterious nooks and corners. There is not a ruin, not a monument, not a thicket, that has no story attached to it. Yet however they may be entangled in the cobweb of popular imagination, which becomes thicker with every generation, it is difficult to point out a single one that is not founded on fact. With patience and, still more, with the help of the learned Brahmans, you can always get at the truth, when once you have secured their trust and friendship. The same road leads to the temple of the Parsee fire-worshippers. At its altar burns an unquenchable fire, which daily consumes hundredweights of sandal wood and aromatic herbs. Lit three hundred years ago, the sacred fire has never been extinguished, notwithstanding many disorders, sectarian discords, and even wars. The Parsees are very proud of this temple of Zaratushta, as they call Zoroaster. Compared with it, the Hindu pagodas look like brightly painted Easter eggs. Generally they are consecrated to Hanuman, the monkey-god and the faithful ally of Rama, or to the elephant-headed Ganesha, the god of the occult wisdom, or to one of the Devis. You meet with these temples in every street. Before each there is a row of pipals (Ficus religiosa) centuries old, which no temple can dispense with, because these trees are the abode of the elementals and the sinful souls. All this is entangled, mixed, and scattered, appearing to one's eyes like a picture in a dream. Thirty centuries have left their traces here. The innate laziness and the strong conservative tendencies of the Hindus, even before the European invasion, preserved all kinds of monuments from the ruinous vengeance of the fanatics, whether those memorials were Buddhist, or belonged to some other unpopular sect. The Hindus are not naturally given to senseless vandalism, and a phrenologist would vainly look for a bump of destructiveness on their skulls. If you meet with antiquities that, having been spared by time, are nowadays either destroyed or disfigured, it is not they who are to blame, but either Mussulmans, or the Portuguese under the guidance of the Jesuits. At last we were anchored, and in a moment
were besieged, ourselves as well as our luggage, by numbers of naked skeleton-like
Hindus, Parsees, Moguls, and various other tribes. All this crowd emerged
as if from the bottom of the sea, and began to shout, to chatter, and to
yell, as only the tribes of Asia can. To get rid of this Babel confusion
of tongues as soon as possible, we took refuge in the first bunder boat
and made for the shore.
The deafening caw of the crows strikes every newcomer as uncanny, but after a while is explained very simply. Every tree of the numerous cocoa-nut forests round Bombay is provided with a hollow pumpkin. The sap of the tree drops into it, and after fermenting becomes a most intoxicating beverage, known in Bombay under the name of toddy. The naked toddy wallahs, generally half-caste Portuguese, modestly adorned with a single coral necklace, fetch this beverage twice a day, climbing the hundred and fifty feet high trunks like squirrels. The crows mostly build their nests on the tops of the cocoa-nut palms, and drink incessantly out of the open pumpkins. The result of this is the chronic intoxication of the birds. As soon as we went out in the garden of our new habitation, flocks of crows came down heavily from every tree. The noise they make whilst jumping about everywhere is indescribable. There seemed to be something positively human in the positions of the slyly bent heads of the drunken birds, and a fiendish light shone in their eyes while they were examining us from foot to head. = = = = = = = = = = = We occupied three small bungalows lost, like nests, in the garden, their roofs literally smothered in roses blossoming on bushes twenty feet high, and their windows covered only with muslin, instead of the usual panes of glass. The bungalows were situated in the native part of the town, so that we were transported all at once into the real India. We were living in India -- unlike English people, who are only surrounded by India at a certain distance. We were enabled to study her character and customs, her religion, superstitions, and rites, to learn her legends; in fact, to live among Hindus. Everything in India, this land of the elephant and the poisonous cobra, of the tiger and the unsuccessful English missionary, is original and strange. Everything seems unusual, unexpected, and striking, even to one who has travelled in Turkey, Egypt, Damascus, and Palestine. In these tropical regions the conditions of nature are so various that all the forms of the animal and vegetable kingdoms must radically differ from what we are used to in Europe. Look, for instance, at those women on their
way to a well through a garden, which is private and at the same time open
to anyone, because somebody's cows are grazing in it. To whom does it not
happen to meet with women, to see cows, and admire a garden? Doubtless
these are among the commonest of all things. But a single attentive glance
will suffice to show you the difference that exists between the same objects
in Europe and in India. Nowhere more than in India does a human being feel
his weakness and insignificance. The majesty of the tropical growth is
such that our highest trees would look dwarfed compared with banyans and
especially with palms. A European cow, mistaking at first sight her Indian
sister for a calf, would deny the existence of any kinship between them,
as neither the mouse-coloured wool, nor the straight goat-like horns, nor
the humped back of the latter would permit her to make such an error.
This opinion of the modern Russian woman is nothing but the echo of what was said in 1470 by a distinguished Russian traveler, "the sinful slave of God, Athanasius son of Nikita from Tver," as he styles himself. He describes India as follows: "This is the land of India. Its people are naked, never cover their heads, and wear their hair braided. Women have babies every year. Men and women are black. Their prince wears a veil round his head and wraps another veil round his legs. The noblemen wear a veil on one shoulder, and the noblewomen on the shoulders and round the loins, but everyone is barefooted. The women walk about with their hair spread and their breasts naked. The children, boys and girls, never cover their shame until they are seven years old...."This description is quite correct, but Athanasius Nikita's son is right only concerning the lowest and poorest classes. These really do "walk about" covered only with a veil, which often is so poor that, in fact, it is nothing but a rag. But still, even the poorest woman is clad in a piece of muslin at least ten yards long. One end serves as a sort of short petticoat, and the other covers the head and shoulders when out in the street, though the faces are always uncovered. The hair is erected into a kind of Greek chignon. The legs up to the knees, the arms, and the waist are never covered. There is not a single respectable woman who would consent to put on a pair of shoes. Shoes are the attribute and the prerogative of disreputable women. When some time ago the wife of the Madras governor thought of passing a law that should induce native women to cover their breasts, the place was actually threatened with a revolution. A kind of jacket is worn only by dancing girls. The Government recognized that it would be unreasonable to irritate women, who very often are more dangerous than their husbands and brothers; and the custom, based on the law of Manu and sanctified by three thousand years' observance, remained unchanged. = = = = = = = = = = =
From the first day of his appearance Dayanand Saraswati produced an immense impression, and got the surname of the "Luther of India." Wandering from one town to another, today in the South, tomorrow in the North, and transporting himself from one end of the country to another with incredible quickness, he has visited every part of India, from Cape Comorin to the Himalayas, and from Calcutta to Bombay. He preaches the One Deity and, "Vedas in hand," proves that in the ancient writings there was not a word that could justify polytheism. Thundering against idol worship, the great orator fights with all his might against caste, infant marriages, and superstitions. Chastising all the evils grafted on India by centuries of casuistry and false interpretation of the Vedas, he blames for them the Brahmans, who, as he openly says before masses of people, are alone guilty of the humiliation of their country, once great and independent, now fallen and enslaved. And yet Great Britain has in him not an enemy, but rather an ally. He says openly -- "If you expel the English, then no later than tomorrow, you and I and everyone who rises against idol worship will have our throats cut like mere sheep. The Mussulmans are stronger than the idol worshippers; but these last are stronger than we." The Pandit held many a warm dispute with the Brahmans, those treacherous enemies of the people, and has almost always been victorious. In Benares secret assassins were hired to slay him, but the attempt did not succeed. In a small town of Bengal, where he treated fetishism with more than his usual severity, some fanatic threw on his naked feet a huge cobra. There are two snakes deified by the Brahman mythology: the one which surrounds the neck of Shiva on his idols is called Vasuki; the other, Ananta, forms the couch of Vishnu. So the worshipper of Shiva, feeling sure that his cobra, trained purposely for the mysteries of a Shivaite pagoda, would at once make an end of the offender's life, triumphantly exclaimed, "Let the god Vasuki himself show which of us is right!" Dayanand jerked off the cobra twirling round his leg, and with a single vigorous movement, crushed the reptile's head. "Let him do so," he quietly assented. "Your god has been too slow. It is I who have decided the dispute. Now go," added he, addressing the crowd, "and tell everyone how easily perish the false gods." Thanks to his excellent knowledge of Sanskrit, the Pandit does a great service not only to the masses, clearing their ignorance about the monotheism of the Vedas, but to science too, showing who exactly are the Brahmans, the only caste in India which, during centuries, had the right to study Sanskrit literature and comment on the Vedas, and which used this right solely for its own advantage. Long before the time of such Orientalists as Burnouf, Colebrooke, and Max Muller, there have been in India many reformers who tried to prove the pure monotheism of the Vedic doctrines. There have even been founders of new religions who denied the revelations of these scriptures; for instance, the Raja Ram Mohun Roy, and after him Babu Keshub Chunder Sen, both Calcutta Bengalees. But neither of them had much success. They did nothing but add new denominations to the numberless sects existing in India. Ram Mohun Roy died in England, having done next to nothing; and Keshub Chunder Sen, having founded the community of "Brahmo-Samaj," which professes a religion extracted from the depths of the Babu's own imagination, became a mystic of the most pronounced type, and now is only a "berry from the same field" (as we say in Russia) as the Spiritualists -- by whom he is considered to be a medium, and a Calcutta Swedenborg. He spends his time in a dirty tank, singing praises to Chaitanya, Koran, Buddha, and his own person, proclaiming himself their prophet; and performs a mystical dance, dressed in woman's attire, which on his part is an attention to a "woman goddess" whom the Babu calls his "mother, father, and eldest brother." In short, all the attempts to reestablish
the pure primitive monotheism of Aryan India have been a failure. They
always got wrecked upon the double rock of Brahmanism and of prejudices
centuries old. But lo! here appears unexpectedly the pandit Dayanand. None,
even of the most beloved of his disciples, knows who he is and whence he
comes. He openly confesses before the crowds that the name under which
he is known is not his, but was given to him at the Yogi initiation.
Then, Dayanand's personal appearance is striking. He is immensely tall; his complexion is pale, rather European than Indian; his eyes are large and bright, and his greyish hair is long. The Yogis and Dikshatas (initiated) never cut either their hair or beard. His voice is clear and loud, well calculated to give expression to every shade of deep feeling, ranging from a sweet childish caressing whisper to thundering wrath against the evil doings and falsehoods of the priests. All this taken together produces an indescribable effect on the impressionable Hindu. Wherever Dayanand appears, crowds prostrate themselves in the dust over his footprints; but unlike Babu Keshub Chunder Sen, he does not teach a new religion, does not invent new dogmas. He only asks them to renew their half-forgotten Sanskrit studies and, having compared the doctrines of their forefathers with what they have become in the hands of Brahmans, to return to the pure conceptions of Deity taught by the primitive Rishis -- Agni, Vayu, Aditya, and Anghira -- the patriarchs who first gave the Vedas to humanity. He does not even claim that the Vedas are a heavenly revelation, but simply teaches that "every word in these scriptures belongs to the highest inspiration possible to the earthly man, an inspiration that is repeated in the history of humanity, and, when necessary, may happen to any nation...." During his five years of work Swami Dayanand made about two million proselytes, chiefly amongst the higher castes. Judging by appearances, they are all ready to sacrifice to him their lives and souls and even their earthly possessions, which are often more precious to them than their lives. But Dayanand is a real Yogi; he never touches money, and despises pecuniary affairs. He contents himself with a few handfuls of rice per day. One is inclined to think that this wonderful Hindu bears a charmed life, so careless is he of rousing the worst human passions, which are so dangerous in India. A marble statue could not be less moved by the raging wrath of the crowd. We saw him once at work. He sent away all his faithful followers and forbade them either to watch over him or to defend him, and stood alone before the infuriated crowd, facing calmly the monster ready to spring upon him and tear him to pieces. = = = = = = = = = = =
From the first days of its existence some of the most learned Americans joined the Society, which became known as the Theosophical Society. Its members differed on many points, much as do the members of any other Society, Geographical or Archeological, which fights for years over the sources of the Nile, or the Hieroglyphs of Egypt. But everyone is unanimously agreed that as long as there is water in the Nile, its sources must exist somewhere. So much [is also true] about the phenomena of spiritualism and mesmerism. These phenomena were still waiting their Champollion -- but the Rosetta stone was to be searched for neither in Europe nor in America, but in the far-away countries where they still believe in magic, where wonders are performed daily by the native priesthood, and where the cold materialism of science has never yet reached -- in one word, in the East. The Council of the Society knew that the Lama-Buddhists, for instance, though not believing in God and denying the personal immortality of the soul, are yet celebrated for their "phenomena"; and that mesmerism was known and daily practised in China from time immemorial under the name of "gina." In India they fear and hate the very name of the spirits whom the Spiritualists venerate so deeply, yet many an ignorant fakir can perform "miracles" calculated to turn upside-down all the notions of a scientist, and to be the despair of the most celebrated of European prestidigitateurs. Many members of the Society have visited India -- many were born there and have themselves witnessed the "sorceries" of the Brahmans. The founders of the Club, well aware of the depth of modern ignorance in regard to the spiritual man, were most anxious that Cuvier's method of comparative anatomy should acquire rights of citizenship among metaphysicians, and so progress from regions physical to regions psychological on its own inductive and deductive foundation. "Otherwise," they thought, "psychology will be unable to move forward a single step, and may even obstruct every other branch of Natural History." Instances have not been wanting of physiology poaching on the preserves of purely metaphysical and abstract knowledge; all the time feigning to ignore the latter absolutely, and seeking to class psychology with the positive sciences, having first bound it to a Bed of Procrustes, where it refuses to yield its secret to its clumsy tormentors. In a short time the Theosophical Society counted
its members not by hundreds, but by thousands. All the "malcontents" of
American Spiritualism -- and there were at that time twelve million Spiritualists
in America -- joined the Society. Collateral branches were formed in London,
Corfu, Australia, Spain, Cuba, California, etc. Everywhere experiments
were being performed, and the conviction that it is not spirits alone who
are the causes of the phenomena was becoming general.
It may easily be conceived that under these circumstances, the members of the delegation were better able to study the country and to make fruitful researches than might otherwise have been the case. Today they are looked upon as brothers, and aided, by the most influential natives of India. They count among the members of their society pandits of Benares and Calcutta, and Buddhist priests of the Ceylon Viharas -- amongst others the learned Sumangala, mentioned by Minayeff in the description of his visit to Adam's Peak -- and Lamas of Thibet, Burmah, Travancore, and elsewhere. The members of the delegation are admitted to sanctuaries where as yet no European has set his foot. Consequently they may hope to render many services to Humanity and Science, in spite of the ill-will which the representatives of positive science bear to them. As soon as the delegation landed, a telegram was despatched to Dayanand, as everyone was anxious to make his personal acquaintance. In reply, he said that he was obliged to go immediately to Hardwar, where hundreds of thousands of pilgrims were expected to assemble, but he insisted on our remaining behind, since cholera was certain to break out among the devotees. He appointed a certain spot at the foot of the Himalayas, in the Punjab, where we were to meet in a month's time. Alas! all this was written some time ago. Since then Swami Dayanand's countenance has changed completely toward us. He is now an enemy of the Theosophical Society and its two founders -- Colonel Olcott and the author of these letters. It appeared that on entering into an offensive and defensive alliance with the Society, Dayanand nourished the hope that all its members, Christians, Brahmans, and Buddhists, would acknowledge His supremacy, and become members of the Arya Samaj. Needless to say, this was impossible. The Theosophical Society rests on the principle of complete non-interference with the religious beliefs of its members. Toleration is its basis, and its aims are purely philosophical. This did not suit Dayanand. He wanted all the members either to become his disciples, or to be expelled from the Society. It was quite clear that neither the President nor the Council could assent to such a claim. Englishmen and Americans, whether they were Christians or Freethinkers; Buddhists; and especially Brahmans, revolted against Dayanand, and unanimously demanded that the league should be broken. However, all this happened later. At the time of which I speak we were friends and allies of the Swami, and we learned with deep interest that the Hardwar "mela," which he was to visit, takes place every twelve years, and is a kind of religious fair, which attracts representatives from all the numerous sects of India. Learned dissertations are read by the disputants in defence of their peculiar doctrines, and the debates are held in public. This year [1879] the Hardwar gathering was exceptionally numerous. The Sannyasis -- the mendicant monks of India -- alone numbered 35,000, and the cholera, foreseen by the Swami, actually broke out. = = = = = = = = = = = As we were not yet to start for the appointed
meeting, we had plenty of spare time before us; so we proceeded to
examine Bombay.
No one, not even the chief watcher, is allowed to approach within a distance of thirty paces of these towers. Of all living human beings, "nassesalars" -- corpse-carriers -- alone enter and leave the "Tower of Silence." The life these men lead is simply wretched. No European executioner's position is worse. They live quite apart from the rest of the world, in whose eyes they are the most abject of beings. Being forbidden to enter the markets, they must get their food as they can. They are born, marry, and die, perfect strangers to all except their own class, passing through the streets only to fetch the dead and carry them to the tower. Even to be near one of them is a degradation. Entering the tower with a corpse covered, whatever may have been its rank or position, with old white rags, they undress it and place it, in silence, on one of the three rows presently to be described. Then, still preserving the same silence, they come out, shut the gate, and burn the rags. Amongst the fire-worshippers, Death is divested of all his majesty, and is a mere object of disgust. As soon as the last hour of a sick person seems to approach, everyone leaves the chamber of death, as much to avoid impeding the departure of the soul from the body, as to shun the risk of polluting the living by contact with the dead. The mobed alone stays with the dying man for a while, and having whispered into his ear the Zend-Avesta precepts, "ashem-vohu" and "Yato-Ahuvarie," leaves the room while the patient is still alive. Then a dog is brought and made to look straight into his face. This ceremony is called "sas-did," the "dog's-stare." A dog is the only living creature that the "Drux-nassu" -- the evil one -- fears, and that is able to prevent him from taking possession of the body. It must be strictly observed that no one's shadow lies between the dying man and the dog, otherwise the whole strength of the dog's gaze will be lost, and the demon will profit by the occasion. The body remains on the spot where life left it until the nassesalars appear, their arms hidden to the shoulders under old bags, to take it away. Having deposited it in an iron coffin -- the same for everyone -- they carry it to the dakhma. If anyone who has once been carried thither should happen to regain consciousness, the nassesalars are bound to kill him; for such a person, who has been polluted by one touch of the dead bodies in the dakhma, has thereby lost all right to return to the living; by doing so he would contaminate the whole community. As some such cases have occurred, the Parsees are trying to get a new law passed that would allow the miserable ex-corpses to live again amongst their friends, and that would compel the nassesalars to leave the only gate of the dakhma unlocked, so that they might find a way of retreat open to them. It is very curious, but it is said that the vultures, which devour without hesitation the corpses, will never touch those who are only apparently dead, but fly away uttering loud shrieks. After a last prayer at the gate of the dakhma, pronounced from afar by the mobed and repeated in chorus by the nassesalars, the dog ceremony is repeated. In Bombay there is a dog, trained for this purpose, at the entrance to the tower. Finally, the body is taken inside and placed on one or other of the rows, according to its sex and age. We have twice been present at the ceremonies of dying, and once of burial, if I may be permitted to use such an incongruous term. In this respect the Parsees are much more tolerant than the Hindus, who are offended by the mere presence at their religious rites of an European. N. Bayranji, a chief official of the tower, invited us to his house to be present at the burial of some rich woman. So we witnessed all that was going on at a distance of about forty paces, sitting quietly on our obliging host's verandah. While the dog was staring into the dead woman's face, we were gazing as intently, but with much more disgust, at the huge flock of vultures above the dakhma that kept entering the tower, and flying out again with pieces of human flesh in their beaks. These birds, that build their nests in thousands round the Tower of Silence, have been purposely imported from Persia. Indian vultures proved to be too weak, and not sufficiently bloodthirsty, to perform the process of stripping the bones with the despatch prescribed by Zoroaster. We were told that the entire operation of denuding the bones occupies no more than a few minutes. As soon as the ceremony was over, we were led into another building, where a model of the dakhma was to be seen. We could now very easily imagine what was to take place presently inside the tower. In the centre there is a deep waterless well, covered with a grating like the opening into a drain. Around it are three broad circles, gradually sloping downwards. In each of them are coffin-like receptacles for the bodies. There are three hundred and sixty-five such places. The first and smallest row is destined for children, the second for women, and the third for men. This threefold circle is symbolical of three cardinal Zoroastrian virtues -- pure thoughts, kind words, and good actions. Thanks to the vultures, the bones are laid bare in less than an hour, and in two or three weeks the tropical sun scorches them into such a state of fragility that the slightest breath of wind is enough to reduce them to powder and to carry them down into the pit. No smell is left behind, no source of plagues and epidemics. I do not know that this way may not be preferable
to cremation, which leaves in the air about the Ghat a faint but disagreeable
odour. The Ghat is a place by the sea, or river shore, where Hindus burn
their dead. Instead of feeding the old Slavonic deity "Mother Wet Earth"
with carrion, Parsees give to Armasti pure dust. Armasti means literally
"fostering cow," and Zoroaster teaches that the cultivation of land is
the noblest of all occupations in the eyes of God. Accordingly, the worship
of Earth is so sacred among the Parsees that they take all possible precautions
against polluting the "fostering cow" that gives them "a hundred golden
grains for every single grain." In the season of the Monsoon, when during
four months the rain pours incessantly down and washes into the well everything
that is left by the vultures, the water absorbed by the earth is filtered;
for the bottom of the well, the walls of which are built of granite, is,
to this end, covered with sand and charcoal.
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.
But even the Pinjarapala roses are not without thorns. The graminivorous "subjects," of course, could not 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.
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?" [Where is science going to wrap itself up?} = = = = = = = = = = =
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 Hanuman, 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.
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.
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.
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 members 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 handsome 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 [=spoke] in pure English speech, in which he thanked us for the honour of our presence. Then new bouquets, pansuparis, 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. |
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