India, beloved of heaven

Contents

PAGH

Preface 7

Introduction 9

Preface

rriHIS is not a book of fiction, though ■■■ there are elements of fiction in some of the chapters. The chapters by Mr. Kingham are faithful records of what he himself has experienced in India. The stories by the two other writers are founded on fact, though in the matter of detail and treatment the prerogatives of the story-writer have been assumed.

The stories in these pages give some idea of the far-reaching changes in life and thought that are so rapidly coming over India. They have been written by three Lovers of Hindustan, seeking to bring America and India still closer together in the bonds of the most disinterested international friendship our world has yet known.

The unusually fine illustrations by Mr. Jack Flanagan, of New York, have been added through the generosity of friends of the author without cost to the pubHshers.

B. T. B.

Introduction

rilHE old India passes. The dreamy, puz- '- zling, lovable, lotus-eating land, with her beauty and tenderness, yet hiding much that hurts her children, is rapidly undergoing a new birth.

Not only do her forms change ; her brooding spirit within and all her outlook change — and yet her winsomeness remains. It increases.

The poison flowers wither, but the champadas and the jasmines bloom. Languorous odors fill the air, and the bulbul and the nightingales sing; but the hiss of the cobra dies down.

The healing Christ is somewhere around. His transforming touch is on India.

This sweet, strange land, with her baffling life, can be interpreted only by her lovers. The writers of these tales are such — two of them she bore on her bosom from helpless babyhood. All three have drunk of Ganga's

INTRODUCTION

water and have cried "Bande Mataram" — *'Hail, blessed mother!"

Who would learn a little more of India, the beloved of heaven, let him read.

W. F. Oldham.

T T was Gulab Singh's luck to run right into "*■ a good thing quite unexpectedly. He was in Bombay, on a trip from the docks to the hotel, having failed to get in touch with any prospective patrons among the several who had landed that day. He saw a sahib leaning out over a pile of luggage, shouting at the driver of the victoria. Just as the carriage came up to him a gust of wind blew the gentleman's sola topi off his head. Gulab Singh ran and picked it up, brushing it with his jharan as he handed it to the irate gentleman.

"Look here," exclaimed the handsome young sahib, "can you tell this blooming idiot to drive me to the Army and Navy Co-operative Stores?"

Now, Gulab Singh had picked up a little EngHsh, and the Army and Navy Stores he knew anyway. Accordingly, he jumped up on the coachman's box and enhghtened the driver, who happened to be a greenhorn, supplying for his brother for a day.

Gulab Singh was an up-country man, who had failed to secure service and was now in Bombay. He had had to borrow money to make the journey, for even the third-class ticket from Agra had cost him more than he could hope to earn in a month. He had been spending his time partly at the docks where the P. & O. liners come in, and partly at the Taj Mahal and other hotels, hoping that some young English officer just arrived from England, might take him on as "bearer" or valet.

Not that Gulab Singh — which, being interpreted, means "Rose Lion" — had had much experience. He had served a young lieutenant at Meerut for a few months, and at Agra had had a few transient nauharis — services. He was young, only twenty-four. His chief dependence was on some letters of recommendation — "chits" we call them in India — ^that he could borrow from an uncle who bore the same name and who had served many families, chiefly military, in Bombay.

Gulab Singh meets the Captan Sahib

A few of the best and most recent of these he now had in his possession for possible use !

After the sahib had bought what he needed at the Army and Navy Stores, he noticed that the extra man continued on the box with the driver to the hotel. When his luggage had all been placed on the veranda there, he was faced by the salaaming Gulab Singh, who, with "chits" in hand, offered his wilhng services to the huzur, "the Presence."

"Huziir is going up-country and will need a servant?"

"Yes, but I'm blowed if I know how you found it out!"

Gulab Singh was not the only Indian with a ready imagination and ability to make a shrewd guess!

By this time several of the "chits" had been opened up, ready for inspection. The young captain, for such he was, took one and read:

"Gulab Singh, bearer, has served me for several months. He knows how to take care of an officer's sword and uniform, and I found him very handy about the Mess and Polo grounds. He seems to have a knack of doing very well a variety of things that are a help to a military officer in this beastly land. He leaves my service as I have been posted to the hills and he prefers to remain on the plains."

This was signed by a lieutenant of the "Fom-th Ghurka Rifles." It sufficed our young captain, who pushed aside the rest of the letters, including most valuable ones that belonged to the elder Gulab Singh.

"I don't go much on letters. I'm willing to try you. Take charge of these things. Put those two bags," tapping them with his cane, "into my room here, and see that the rest of the stuff gets to the 'Victoria Terminus' for the Punjab mail this evening. I'm off to Meerut."

And so Gulab Singh was again an afsar's naukar — an officer's servant. Between twelve and two o'clock he made a hasty trip to his uncle's to return the borrowed letters.

"Ram's name be praised!" he exclaimed, "a young captan sahib has taken me on. We leave for Meerut this evening. Here are your letters."

Saying this, he produced all the letters, including several contained in a cloth-lined envelope, with "On His Majesty's Service" printed across the top left-hand corner. It was a stout covering, and showed long and hard usage. He had doubtless picked it up somewhere.

"You still carry those old letters of your father's that he got from the colonel sahib/'

"Yes," replied Gulab Singh. "Since my father died, I keep them with me when I am gone from home. Who knows when the old chappar (thatch) that covers us may not catch fire and burn up everything?"

He handled the envelope with reverence, and added: "It has also a letter that was given by the sahib whose life my grandfather saved in the time of the great gadr [the Indian Mutiny of 1857]. My father often told me to take special care of that."

Sentiment plays a great part in the lives of India's sons.

Now, it is not the object of this story to follow the brief career of Captain Clyde Boynton Stanhope in India. He had landed at Bombay in 1912, and in 1914 the great war broke out. That changed the career of hundi-eds of officers in the British army in India. He had come to love India, and though he had never been there before, he could not forget that both his father and grandfather, the one in civil, the other in military service, had given their best years to this land.

His first days in Meerut were lived as in a dream. How strange that he should be in this Indian city, where fifty-five years before his grandfather had been among the few who escaped in the sudden massacre that ushered in the tragic rebellion of the sepoys ! He visited the scenes of the massacre, and tried to imagine that hot and bloody Sunday of May, 1857, when the houses of the European residents had been set on fire, and men, women, and children had been butchered as they fled from the flaming, thatch-roofed bungalows.

The soldiers were at church — the parade service — and were there without their rifles! They had been set upon in the midst of the service. Never since that day have British soldiers attended a parade service without their rifles and bayonets.

Yet Meerut was quiet and beautiful now. What superb avenues of shady shisham trees ! What fine polo and parade grounds ! What pride and interest the officers took in their men — descendants of those who had shared in the massacre of the earlier day.

When the call came to England and France, Captain Stanhope's regiment was among the first to embark. He was again at Bombay. Again his luggage was on the veranda of the Taj Mahal hotel — but considerably less in amount. Gulab Singh was also there. The English officer had come to have a real regard for his "bearer." The young servant combined devotion and dignity in his service, and with many shortcomings — among which lying figured duly — still showed an undoubted and unusual attachment to his young master. He served with growing admiration the fine, strong, enthusiastic young officer. The fact was that the open, generous nature of his sahib had won his heart.

When it came to the question of his master's departure for Walayat (England), Gulab Singh steadily maintained that he would go along. As a first step, he came on to Bombay, and now he insisted that he should cross the seas. Was the sahib not able to arrange it?

"O, yes, that part of it is all right, Gulab Singh, for the colonel has permitted officers to take their servants as far as London, if they choose. But what will you do when you get there?'*

"Do, Sahib? Is the great larai [battle] not on? Are you not going to fight? Can I not be with you on the campaign there, as on the military excursions here?"

Now, Gulab Singh had no idea of what he talked about. He was imagining a whole lot, and had nothing to draw on except his limited Indian experience. The fact is, he longed to go. To him it seemed now like a question of personal loyalty to his sahib.

"Namak — halal" was the greatest word in the vocabulary of Gulab Singh. Literally it means "loyalty to one's salt."

"I have eaten the Sar^ars [government's] salt," said he. "I think I can help you there. Do not refuse me permission. Sahib!"

And so Gulab Singh crossed the great kdld pdnij the "black water" — ocean. Thousands and multiphed thousands of India's sons were soon to do the same. A new dayhad come for India. Indian troops were to go to Europe. They had fought under British leadership in Africa, Egypt, China — but who had expected to live to see this great new day? A mighty thrill swept through her ancient peoples. New dignity entered into their hfe; a new future began to open to their enlarged vision. India would never be the same again!

For Gulab Singh, the new exalted life had already begun. His wonder daily increased. The nearer he got to England the higher rose his pride. He was, at last, at a man's work! There was something else — he did not know it, but it was there nevertheless. The Aryan blood in him was astir.

We do well to think of this — the meeting in India, after thousands of years of separation, of the two branches of the great Aryan family. The gulf that has separated them has changed both from the type in the original family home in Western Asia, but there they stand at last again, brethren, side by side! Save for color, and certain admixtures of other blood, the two are still much ahke. The clear-cut features remain the same, the same fine sensitive nature marks the two. The Enghshman or the American, when face to face with either Chinese, Japanese, or African, cannot but feel that he sees a man radically different from himself. When he meets the Indian it is different — there is an instinctive resumption of the fellowship broken off in the dim past.

ISTeither Gulab Singh nor Captain Stanhope thought of these things, but it was interesting to note the growing regard of the sahib for his servant, and the increasing respect of the valet for his master. And so the voyage terminated. While the young Captain spent a brief period of leave with his people, Gulab Singh, as a matter of course, stayed on to serve him. When the young officer was ordered to camp, there still was no reason why his Indian servant should be separated from him. But when, a few weeks later, the regiment was ordered off to France, there was a real question to be settled.

Again Gulab Singh prevailed. He had come thus far — what was there now to do except to go on? Surely, if the sahib had need of him in England, he could make some use of him in France. Were the two countries, then, so utterly different?

Thus we find Gulab Singh at last on French soil, behind the British fighting lines. Many were the ways in which he made himself useful to his young captdn sahib during those strenuous and perilous days. Often did Captain Stanhope bless the day when he picked up the faithful Gulab Singh in the streets of Bombay. Had not his first, unasked, service of help been prophetic of all the assistance he had been rendering since?

After several weeks, during which Gulab Singh went through years of experience, there came a terrible day — one of those days that will go down in history. Gulab Singh and his beloved captain were in the retreat from Mons. Now, Gulab Singh did not know why a British army should have to retreat. He had not been brought up on that kind of tradition! He had yet to learn the glory of that wondrous feat of courage and endurance, whereby so slender an army was able to foil the purposes of the Prussian hordes, even in the act of falling back before the terrible onrush of their overwhelming numbers.

There came a perilous day toward the end of that almost impossible feat of arms by England, France, and Canada, when Gulab Singh's master had to hold a position with his company, covering the retreat of important detachments. It was evident to any man that it was a time to earn glory, but not to save life. The young captain explained the situation to his faithful Indian servant, and told him to fall back. Gulab Singh remonstrated.

"If there is danger for my Sahib, he will need me all the more," said he.

"It is not a question of danger merely, Gulab Singh," exclaimed the Captain, "it is a matter of death."

"If death is preferred by my Sahib, it is good enough for me," he said, earnestly, and refused to take the vanishing opportunity to withdraw.

We shall not be able to follow the fortunes of the fighting there during those fateful hours. The undying heroism of those who died in khaki that day may never be chronicled.

Captain Stanhope's company held their ground till the end, and saved the situation at that point. Only a few wounded men came out of that conflict to tell how the foe had been checked.

The last to fall was the captain himself. Gulab Singh, who had been in the thick of it all, came instantly to his side. He was only wounded.

"Go back, Gulab Singh. There is still time. Tell the Colonel Sahib that we did not yield."

Gulab Singh did not heed — he was concerned only over the stream of blood that flowed from the captain's wound. He bound it up as best he could, tearing long strips from his turban to do so. Then he said —

"Come, Sahib, I will help you back."

There was nothing to be done by remaining. The khaki forms on the ground moved not.

Slowly and painfully the two made their way back, Gulab Singh skillfully taking advantage of every bit of cover, and sometimes almost carrying his master.

It must have been a stirring sight — the Aryan brown and the Aryan white, on the battlefields of France! Typical too of India helping England in her hour of need. And Gulab Singh was only in the vanguard of the one million sons of India who were shortly to respond to the call of the empire, for the cause of justice, liberty, democracy. And Gulab Singh was typical in this, also, that he came as a volunteer. There has been no conscription in India ; no draft is needed to bring her miUions on to the scene of freedom's war against tyranny !

The dangerous strip of land had just been safely covered by the wounded, now almost fainting officer, and his faithful Indian servant. They had just got touch with a British column.

"You are safe, Sahib!" exclaim^ed the

"The Aryan white and the Aryan brown, on the battlefields of France"

proud and happy Gulab Singh, as he caught sight of British uniforms near, and saw some soldiers advance to their help.

The captain lost consciousness and Gulab Singh allowed his form to sink upon the ground. He kneeled beside him to adjust the bandages and stanch the flow of blood. They were still exposed to danger from an occasional enemy bullet.

"He, Parmeshwar," he exclaimed, "grant that he may live!"

The men coming forward to aid the officer had seen Gulab Singh kneel to help the wounded officer. The next instant they saw him fall forward on his face.

He did not move. Gulab Singh was dead!

The party coming up found that the Indian had been shot in the breast and killed instantly. The officer was still alive.

They carried them both to the rear of the lines.

The captain regained consciousness, but was delirious.

"Go back, Gulab Singh. . . . Bring the tea and toast. . . . I'm going to the Polo ground. . . . See, there's the jjaltan [regiment]. . . . Steady, boys — we can hold them!"

He was taken to the base hospital, where, with careful nursing, he recovered.

When he was able to understand things, he was told of the death of his Indian servant. They did not need to add that Gulab Singh had saved his life. He knew that.

Among the things found on Gulab Singh's body was an envelope. It contained a letter, said the nurse, signed by Colonel James Randolph Stanhope, and so it had been saved for Captain Stanhope.

"Perhaps it was an ancestor of yours in the British army of India?" asked the nurse.

"It is my grandfather's name. Let me see the letter."

A soiled, much worn, cloth-lined envelope was handed to him.

The first thing he noticed was that the top left-hand corner bore the familiar words in print — "On His Majesty's Service."

Carefully the young captain took out a faded, much-creased letter. He glanced first at the signature. It was that of his own grandfather, colonel of the 9th Sikh Cavahy. The date was October 30th, 1858. He read:

"On leaving India I take keen pleasure in writing this letter for Gulab Singh. For seven years he served me faithfully as bearer. His work was always satisfactory — a service that he crowned by helping me to escape death at the hands of the mutineers in Meerut. Had it not been for his timely and unhesitating assistance, both Mrs. Stanhope and myself must certainly have met a cruel death at the hands of the rebellious sepoys.

"I have made suitable provision for him and his family and am both proud and grateful to accede to his request for a personal letter. The Stanhopes must ever remain grateful to the house of Gulab Singh."

The captain lay motionless a long time, holding the letter in his hand. The thing was fairly overpowering. Gulab Singh's grandfather had saved his grandfather's life! And here he himself was lying safe in a base hospital, saved by the devotion of the grandson !

"Grateful to the house of Gulab Singh!" And he could not express his gratitude to his own Gulab Singh!

Then he read the letter once more. After that he folded it up and put it back in the old, cloth-lined envelope. This time he noticed that a hole had been torn in the top left-hand corner of the envelope, almost obliterating the word "His."

He turned the env^elope over. It was stained with blood. The hole was made by the bullet that killed Gulab Singh!

His eyes took on a far-off look. His thoughts went back to Meerut — to the bloodstained Meerut of 1857 — to the quiet and beautiful Meerut of 1914.

If he lived through the war, he would return to India, look up the family of Gulab Singh and honor and reward them.

The Stanhopes were still more indebted to "the house of Gulab Singh."

His gaze rested again on the envelope. He read, "On His Majesty's Service."

"Ay, Gulab Singh," he said aloud, "both you and I, both England and India, to the glorious end — *0n His Majesty's Service!' "

II

TN the classroom of the old Jesuit mission •*■ at Tuticorin a boy of sixteen was mulling ov^er his lessons, humming them aloud, and sometimes singing them in competition with the twenty-five others of his class whose nasal voices blended and discorded with his from time to time. His blue-black hair was luxuriant and gathered in a knot at the back of his shapely head, but tendrils escaped about the finely modeled forehead and he brushed them back from his brows without a moment's cessation of his reading, in his carefully modulated, expressive sing-song. Their Tamil lesson finished, at the teacher's word the pupils gathered up their books and placed them in small book-sacks, which they rolled up and tied to carry home. Ponniah remained to question his teacher, a Tamil man of the same caste as himself, presenting certain physical resemblances, though somewhat heavier and taller than the slim brown youth who stood before him.

"Sir, this lesson was most delightful, and I have been waiting to ask you a question on its application. Plere is a line in the stanza, about which Kasthuri and I argued. He said it was wrong, but I held it is right, and said I should ask you."

"Ponniah, there are some very remarkable expressions in the stanza, but the grammar is correct. Where did you find it?"

"Teacher, I am fascinated by the classic writers, and imitating their style, I wrote it myself."

"This is not bad for a boy. Let me have it to-night and you may get it in the morning."

So, the teacher took the roll of manuscript covered with Ponniah's somewhat irregular penmanship, and Ponniah with a low bow and the most respectful salaam passed out of the room into the open sunlight. As he stepped outside the building he walked almost into the arms of his uncle, who was waiting for him. Not taking time to let

Ponniah get his breath, the older man began speaking.

"Ponniah," he said, "everything is ready for your wedding to my daughter Pushpam. The guests are come, the wedding supper is cooking, the gifts are ready, the Brahmans wait, only the bridegroom is lacking. Come, enter my oxcart; let us get home to our village."

"But, uncle, I have told you again and again that I should not marry till I had completed my education. How can I study and succeed after taking a wife? If I spend much time on my books she will be jealous."

"Ponniah, who are you to argue with me? Your people and mine have arranged all things. You have but to obey. Come with me at once!"

But Ponniah merely looked a moment into the darkening face of his uncle, and then turned to run swiftly away. At the exit from the great stone-walled compound which contained the Jesuit mission buildings, he turned his head to see if he had gained upon his pursuing uncle, and at the same moment two heavy hands fell upon his slim figure and he was thrown to the ground by a man who had stood concealed by the great gateway. A moment later his uncle too was upon him and the two raised him to his feet. The struggle was in vain, so he allowed them to lead him to an oxcart standing in the street near by. They loaded him inside its capacious ribs and the uncle ascended behind him, while the opportune ally seized a goad and di*ove the oxen more rapidly than such great beasts generally travel, out through the narrow streets and at last into the open country. Then on and on till the stars shone out and the youthful prisoner was sound asleep in the bumping cart, between his two captors.

They reached their destination before midnight, a large prosperous village with towering palm trees and drooping plantains, great fields of grain waving under the moonlight which lighted the broad plains and even showed the far-off mountains. As they dismounted in the courtyard of a great brick dwelling they found the wedding guests asleep on mats and cots which filled and overflowed the surrounding sheds.

Their showy garments and the fihny white cloths spread over their heads gave them a mysterious appearance, but it was only a few minutes till the driver had unhitched his oxen, placed fodder before them in their stalls, and taken his place among the silent forms, while Ponniah's uncle merely relaxed beside the silent form he was watching.

A httle later he had fallen sound asleep and there was not a sound in the courtyard, except some snoring among the wedding guests and the cattle munching their fodder.

A mosquito lighting upon Ponniah's uncovered face awakened him, and he gazed about him. Everyone was asleep and he had no difficulty slipping out of the wagon without arousing his uncle. From the great open courtyard he passed into the house, which was even more completely full of people than the courtyard, but here were only women, women sleeping as soundly as the men outside. Ponniah looked about inside the building for a place of concealment. At first he thought there was none, but he remembered a great grain jar which reached nearly to the ceiling and was some eight feet in diameter. In the darkness he groped carefully till he found it, then, avoiding one of the sleepers whose shimmering white garments warned him of her presence, he climbed from a wooden mortar up to its rim and threw himself over the rim and inside the jar. It was half full of rice and he was soon sound asleep in that warm chamber.

When he awoke the whole house was in an uproar. Every one asked his neighbor, "Where is Ponniah?" They searched high and low for him, dragged the wells and cisterns, hunted in the woods, searched the neighboring houses, but Ponniah was not to be found. Secure in his hiding place, he listened to the comments and bewildered questions of the guests and of his own family. The day passed, but Hindu weddings are not a matter of a day, they require three days, and on the third day, because much treasure had been spent and because a bride whose wedding is postponed can never be married, they married his uncle's daughter to another cousin, one less fortunately endowed than Ponniah both by nature and by inheritance from his parents.

On the third day the wedding was over and the guests were feasted and bade farewell to the parents of the bride and the bridegroom. Ponniah, though within sound of the feasting, had had no part in it and was stiff with enforced movelessness and hungry with long fasting. When certain that all had left the room, he stood up and looked over the rim of the great jar. Something of the feast remained. He could eat and hide till evening, then steal away in the darkness. He climbed over the rim and lowered himself to the floor, dropping stiffly the last two feet of the distance, and almost at the same moment the door opened and his uncle entered.

"Ha!" he shouted. "Now I have you who caused me to marry my daughter to a poor man, you who escaped and deceived me. You will pay the penalty now. Scoundrel!"

And he seized Ponniah and tied him to a pillar that supported the roof, while he went out to look for a rod with which to beat him. While he was gone his nephew shpped his slim wrists out of the tight lashing, then placed them so that his uncle would not suspect him, remaining in the same posture with his arms raised and encircling the pillar.

The rod was a stout bamboo, and it whistled through the air as his uncle put his force into every blow. Ponniah could only bear two or three. He turned suddenly and, to his uncle's great surprise, seized the bamboo club and struck his assailant, almost stunning him. He then rushed from the house as fast as his young legs could carry him.

Ponniah was free! It was a long time before it was safe for him to return to his father's house. The whole village was related as only caste villages in India can be, family to family, and the hue and cry pursued him for many a day ; but at last he got home again, and remained there till his people were ready to send him to school again.