INDIAN VIGNETTES

Greymouth Evening Star, 8 April 1932, Page 9

INDIAN VIGNETTES

THE COLLECTOR-SAHIB. In some countries they would call him a Lieutenant-Governor. Our disiiict officer, with his cabinet of about six officials, like himself Public school and ’varsity men, administers, under Government, the affairs of nearly a million people (writes W- AshleyGrown, in the “Sydney Morning Herald”)- The impartiality, the. incorruptibility, the efficiency, and the devotion of the men of the service are never questioned even by the disafccted. In these days of Indianisation, ihe collector, the Judge, the policeman, the doctor, and the engineer, or .-.cine of the little band, might happen to be Indians, as are practically all their assistants of the subordinate services*

It is a big, comfortable place of sun-dried mud, with deep cool verandahs, and roofed with fluted country tiles that show all the . colours of the painter’s palette. Such tiles Virgil knew. Provence uses them still. The bungalow was built in far-off days when “John Company’s” officers rarely went home until they retired- “The Lady’s House” in the garden, little, self-contained, flat-roofed, with a stone swimming bath, was built a hundred and fifty years ago, to accommodate the Collector’s girl-wife, a lovely Brahmin widow he had saved ,rom her aged husband’s funeral pyre. Beyond the rambling garden, the groat river croons lazily as it rolls its leisurely way across the sub-continent. The shade is deep under the foliage of green ostrich plumes and lace, and flowers of crimson, and gold, that sweep earthward from the tall gold mohur trees. A fail’ little English girl stands in the shade, with her brown ayah, entranced by the picture just before her. It is the hour of midday prayer.

A tall old man in white, the Collector’s chief messenger, with silver .teard to his waist, is kneeling on a mat in the sun. His . rapt face, chiselled like that of Abraham, is turned towards Mecca. His uniform of scarlet and gold braid lies in a heap in a garden bed- To the edge of the prayer mat, a curious peacock has strutted from the deep shade of the gold mohur trees. He now stands, beside the old man, preening himself in the violent sunlight. The proud glory of his conscious body and spreading tail are in sharp contrast to the devout humility of the white-robed man.

THE CONGRESS-WALLAH. Two bullock ploughs have pulled up in the middle of a field. The ten men of the plough crews have been joined by as many village urchins. They squat in the sun. The lean peasants are listening to the talk of a fat man- ‘ . there will be Gandhi Raj and no more taxes. In England Mahatmaji has met with King George- . • and in the morning at the appointed time of testing King George did not come, but Gandhiji walked on the water. And so Mahatmaji and Congress will bear rule.” And in the evening the pensioner, Subadhur Shantar Mahadev Manu, luagbed loudly and long at the tale of the fat man; and the village elders said: “We wjill ask the CollectorSahib of the matter.”

The rough road fights for its life against the rude grasp of the jungle rolling down from the wild hills. Five minutes ago a panther had raced along before our car. We stop to speak to ?, company of wild-looking men on foot. Their bare arms and legs are nearly black. Their scanty clothes, once white, are putty-grey with age. “Oh brothers, you come from afar?” “Sahib: A long way indeed- We go to see the Governor Sahib who comes the day after to-morrow to K ” ••To k 1 A long march! And what do you want of him? Is it remission of taxes?”

“Nay, Sahib: We want nothing of him. But his face is good for us to see. And he stands in the place of the, Emperor. . ■ Salaam, Sahib!” We start off again. “H.E- was in Sydney with Admiral Rawson, wasn’t he?” “Yes, rather. Her Ex. is an Australian.”

EAST IS EAST? It was in the middle of a season of unrest. India had turned over in her long sleep, and hadn’t gone off again, in the heart of a disaffected city two ancient Brahmin families were being united by a wedding ceremony. Everyne was very orthodox, where orthodoxy meant' Congress and the last ditch- The pale, aristocratic features cl' the hundred and more guests present told of the nurity of their Aryan Wood. The pastel tones of the exquisite saris worn by the women were in perfect taste. In a large, low-ceiled room, heavy with the perfume of in-;-nse, a choir of Brahmin priests rang their Sanskrit mantras, while a handsome youth in the early twenties, and a college-bred girl of eighteen, tcod facing each other with a silk veil drawn between them. Suddenly, .ho bridegroom signalled his chosen t riend to stand beside him. It was the English garrison chaplain! Loud prayed the Hindu priests. Crime the destined second of all the ages- The veil was snatched away. The bride bowed her head in dutiful adoration before her lord. He gazed at the vision

;f maiden loveliness which was now his, and, according to the olden manner of the East, the guests showered rice on the wedded pair. The garrison chaplain drove back io cantonments with the two friends he had brought with him to the Hindu wedding. A major of gunners, and an English girl. “By jove,” said the major, “apparently friendship can bridge even East and West.’’

“And religion, too,” murmured the girl.

UNCLEAN

Two military officers who have been shooting, drink their belated afternoon tea while their orderlies pack the car with their bag of partridge and quail. The villagers, who have been beating their crops for the officers, gather round for their pay. The officers, presently, set the village boys racing for pence- Ono of the officers, seeing a little boy standing aloof beckons to him to join a line of runners drawn up for a race- There is a gasping cry of protest from the vi 1 a ge rs—“ U n t o u ch a bl e ’ ” Yes; the boy is a pariah, lie and sixty odd millions of fellow-Indians like himself may not join in the common life of the village, nor even drink at the common wellj The cider officer turns on the (peasants, teases them, chides them, laughs at them- Finally, they join in

the laugh against themselves and their prejudices, and the little untouchable joins the other boys in the race. I regret to say that truth compels me to say he is merely among the “alsp rans.”

The dust of the road, back to cantonments, glows rosy and golden in the parallel rays of the westering sun. From the dust suddenly looms the figure of a shepherd and goats. He calls a cheery “Salaam Sahib” to the officers in the car. He is not interested in politics, nor is the farmer who is driving his team at the water wheel of the well. The long drawn musical cry rings out in the gathering dusk. “Hurry on my little oxen, hurry on.” And the water, flushed with wine stains from the glowing sky, gurgles as it lushes down its runnels though the violet shadows of the mango tope to reach the lucerne field- The palm trees stand out stark and black against the crimson and the saffron glory of the sky.

SONGS OF'ZIONThe grey beauty of our garrison church might have been lifted bodily out of some quiet village at home. Norse gargoyles and Anglo-Saxon kings and queens, from their eyries near the high roof, seem to bless the churchyard below with stone lips that speak our northern tongue. The baptismal register records the Christening of a famous English general who wen the love of the Anzacs, as well as that of his British soldiers and Indian Sepoys; his family has given six generations to the service of India. Our favourite service is that of the Midnight Eucharist, the first communion of Christmas Day. The great church is packed with hundreds of kneeling soldiers and their families. Here and there among the officers is one in uniform who has been orderly officer for the day. Among the women some fur coats and swathed heads suggest that their fair owners have come on from the club or a dinner party. There are families from the civil lines; and Eurasians and Indian Christians kneel among their coreligionists of another race. A tew curious Hindus have found places near the doors. The stately Elizabethan of the English Liturgy rolls on in its supreme act of worship of One who was born under an Eastern star. The congregation catches up the music of the responses that was adapted by the great Tallis from the Latin rite to suit its new English garb in the sixteenth Century. The altar lights gleam on the gold and white of the priest’s vestments, on the sacred vessels, on the scarlet of the altar servers, on the white robes of the huge choir of soldiers and soldiers’ sons, on the tattered colours, hanging on the walls, of famous regiments that have won and held the Indian Empire through two hundred and fifty years, and on these other mural decorations, those of bronze.and brass which remind us “Because of the bones of the English, the English flag is stayed.” Loving hands have decked the churqh with palms and lilies and roses, with scarlet and gold poinsettias. Now and then the church seems to rock as hundreds of men’s voices thunder out the old Christmas hymns- But there is some heartache among those “who sing the songs of Zion in a strange land.”