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 in pure English speech,
in which he thanked us for the honour of our presence. Then new
bouquets, pansu-paris, 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.
On The Way To Karli
It is an early morning near the end of March. A light breeze
caresses with its velvety hand the sleepy faces of the pilgrims;
and the intoxicating perfume of tuberoses mingles with the pungent
odors of the bazaar. Crowds of barefooted Brahman women, stately
and well-formed, direct their steps, like the biblical Rachel, to
the well, with brass water pots bright as gold upon their heads.
On our way lie numerous sacred tanks, filled with stagnant water,
in which Hindus of both sexes perform their prescribed morning
ablutions. Under the hedge of a garden somebody's tame mongoose
is devouring the head of a cobra. The headless body of the
snake convulsively, but harmlessly, beats against the thin flanks
of the little animal, which regards these vain efforts with an
evident delight. Side by side with this group of animals
is a human figure; a naked mali (gardener), offering betel and
salt to a monstrous stone idol of Shiva, with the view of pacifying
the wrath of the "Destroyer," excited by the death of the cobra,
which is one of his favourite servants. A few steps before reaching
the railway station, we meet a modest Catholic procession, consisting
of a few newly converted pariahs and some of the native Portuguese.
Under a baldachin is a litter, on which swings to and fro a dusky
Madonna dressed after the fashion of the native goddesses, with
a ring in her nose. In her arms she carries the holy Babe,
clad in yellow pyjamas and a red Brah-manical turban. "Hari, hari,
devaki!" ("Glory to the holy Virgin!") exclaim the converts,
unconscious of any difference between the Devaki, mother of Krishna,
and the Catholic Madonna. All they know is that, excluded from
the temples by the Brahmans on account of their not belonging to
any of the Hindu castes, they are admitted sometimes into the
Christian pagodas, thanks to the "padris," a name adopted from
the Portuguese padre, and applied indiscriminately to the missionaries
of every European sect.
At last, our gharis - native two-wheeled vehicles drawn by a pair
of strong bullocks - arrived at the station. English employes open
wide their eyes at the sight of white-faced people travelling about
the town in gilded Hindu chariots. But we are true Americans, and
we have come hither to study, not Europe, but India and her products
on the spot.
If the tourist casts a glance on the shore opposite to the port
of Bombay, he will see a dark blue mass rising like a wall between
himself and the horizon. This is Parbul, a flat-topped mountain
2,250 feet high. Its right slope leans on two sharp rocks covered
with woods. The highest of them, Mataran, is the object of our trip.
From Bombay to Narel, a station situated at the foot of this mountain,
we are to travel four hours by railway, though, as the crow flies,
the distance is not more than twelve miles. The railroad wanders
round the foot of the most charming little hills, skirts hundreds
of pretty lakes, and pierces with more than twenty tunnels the
very heart of the rocky ghats.
We were accompanied by three Hindu friends. Two of them once
belonged to a high caste, but were excommunicated from their
pagoda for association and friendship with us, unworthy foreigners.
At the station our party was joined by two more natives, with whom
we had been in correspondence for many a year. All were members
of our Society, reformers of the Young India school, enemies of
Brahmans, castes, aid prejudices, and were to be our fellow-travelers
and visit with us the annual fair at the temple festivities of Karli,
stopping on the way at Mataran and Khanduli. One was a Brahman
from Poona, the second a moodeliar (landowner) from Madras, the
third a Singalese from Kegalla, the fourth a Bengali Zemindar, and
the fifth a gigantic Rajput, whom we had known for a long time by
the name of Gulab-Lal-Sing, and had called simply Gulab-Sing. I
shall dwell upon his personality more than on any of the others,
because the most wonderful and diverse stories were in circulation
about this strange man. It was asserted that he belonged to the
sect of Raj-Yogis, and was an initiate of the mysteries of magic,
alchemy, and various other occult sciences of India.
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