Sacrifice,
but hates useless blood-shed, they resolved to please her doubly:
to kill, but never to soil their hands by the blood of their victims.
The result of it was the knighthood of the rumal.
One day we visited a very aged ex-Thug. In his young days he was
transported to the Andaman Islands, but, owing to his sincere
repentance, and to some services he had rendered to the Government,
he was afterwards pardoned. Having returned to his native village,
he settled down to earn his living by weaving ropes, a profession
probably suggested to him by some sweet reminiscences of the
achievements of his youth. He initiated us first into the mysteries
of theoretic Thugism, and then extended his hospitality by a ready
offer to show us the practical side of it, if we agreed to pay for
a sheep. He said he would gladly show us how easy it was to send
a living being ad patres in less than three seconds; the whole
secret consisting in some skillful and swift movements of the
righthand finger joints.
We refused to buy the sheep for this old brigand, but we gave him
some money. To show his gratitude he offered to demonstrate all
the preliminary sensation of the rumal on any English or American
neck that was willing. Of course, he said he would omit the final
twist. But still none of us were willing; and the gratitude of
the repentant criminal found issue in great volubility.
The owl is sacred to Bhavani Kali, and as soon as a band of Thugs,
awaiting their victims, had been signalled by the conventional
hooting, each of the travelers, let them be twenty and more, had
a Thug behind his shoulders. One second more, and the rumal was
on the neck of the victim, the well-trained iron fingers of the
Thug tightly holding the ends of the sacred handkerchief; another
second, the joints of the fingers performed their artistic twist,
pressing the larynx, and the victim fell down lifeless. Not a
sound, not a shriek! The Thugs worked, as swiftly as lightning.
The strangled man was immediately carried to a grave prepared in
some thick forest, usually under the bed of some brook or rivulet
in their periodical state of drought. Every vestige of the victim
disappeared. Who cared to know about him, except his own family
and his very intimate friends? The inquests were especially
difficult, if not impossible, thirty years ago [1879], when there
were no regular railway communications, and no regular Government
system. Besides, the country is full of tigers, whose sad fate
it is to be responsible for every one else's sins as well as for
their own. Whoever it was who happened to disappear, be it
Hindu or Mussulman, the answer was invariably the same: tigers!
The Thugs possessed a wonderfully good organization. Trained
accomplices used to tramp all over India, stopping at the bazaars,
those true clubs of Eastern nations, gathering information, scaring
their listeners to death with tales of the Thugs, and then advising
them to join this or that travelling party, who of course were
Thugs playing the part of rich merchants or pilgrims. Having
ensnared these wretches, they sent word to the Thugs, and got
paid for the commission in proportion to the total profit.
During many long years these invisible bands, scattered all over
the country, and working in parties of from ten to sixty men,
enjoyed perfect freedom, but at last they were caught. The
inquiries unveiled horrid and repulsive secrets: rich bankers,
officiating Brahmans, Rajas on the brink of poverty, and a few
English officials, all had to be brought before justice.
This deed of the East India Company truly deserves the popular
gratitude which it receives.
- - - - - - -
On our way back from the Marble Rocks we saw Muddun-Mahal, another
mysterious curio; it is a house built - no one knows by whom, or
with what purpose - on a huge boulder. This stone is probably some
kind of relative to the cromlechs of the Celtic Druids. It shakes
at the least touch, together with the house and the people who feel
curious to see inside it. Of course we had this curiosity, and
our noses remained safe only thanks to the Babu, Narayan and the
Takur, who took as great care of us as if they had been nurses,
and we their babies.
Natives of India are truly a wonderful people. However unsteady
the thing may be, they are sure to walk on it, and sit on it, with
the greatest comfort. They think nothing of sitting whole hours
on the top of a post - maybe a little thicker than an ordinary
telegraph post. They also feel perfectly safe with their toes
twisted round a thin branch and their bodies resting on nothing,
as if they were crows perched on a telegraph wire.
"Salam, sahib!" said I once to an ancient, naked Hindu of a low
caste, seated in the above described fashion. "Are you comfortable,
uncle? And are you not afraid of falling down?"
"Why should I fall?" seriously answered the "uncle," expectorating
a red fountain - an unavoidable result of betel-chewing. "I do not
breathe, mam-sahib!"
"What do you mean? A man cannot do without breathing!" exclaimed I,
a good deal astonished by this wonderful bit of information.
"Oh yes, he can. I do not breathe just now, and so I am perfectly
safe. But soon I shall have to fill up my breast again with fresh
air, and then I will hold on to the post, otherwise I should fall."
After this astounding physiological information, we parted. He
would not talk any more, evidently fearing to endanger his comfort.
At that time, we did not receive any more explanations on the subject,
but this incident was enough to disturb the scientific equanimity
of our minds.
