Gujarát and the Gujarátis/Characters—The Márwári
CHARACTERS.—THE MÁRWÁRI.
In going through Gujarát the traveller is sure to come across a character who offers much scope for observation and study. Who has not seen the Marwari?—the professional usurer, so useful and so execrable!
His Infancy.
He hails from Márwár, and is a Vaishnava Hindu. At home, and up to eight years of age, the Márwári is the sprightliest little animal that ever kicked the mother who suckled him. He skips about like a wild kangaroo in the wantonness of unlimited freedom, returning at brief intervals to the warmth of the maternal breast. The little Márwári is kept at the breast till he is eight—till then parental affection is literally lavished on him. Eight is his weaning time; and with true insight, as soon as he is weaned, he is sent off to these parts in company of an honest acquaintance.
His 'Prenticeship.
The little suckling is destined to be a merchant, and to a shopkeeper he is apprenticed at the first start in life. He is bound to serve the Shett for a number of years, to serve his person and his shop, to help at cooking the meals; he is bound to serve diligently and well, he is bound to keep secrets. If he give satisfaction for one year, he may expect a salary of eight annas[1] a month from the beginning of next year. Meantime he looks upon himself as a lucky dog if he can have for his two meals what remains after the master has dined—barely enough to keep body and soul together. But the boy who, only a month ago, led the life of an infant epicure, indulging every pleasure and every liberty dear to childhood, repines not at the change that has come over his bright young life. He slaves at his work heroically, bent upon learning the craft by which his master has raised a fortune. This alchemy the young apprentice is determined to master, and to that end he strives with incredible diligence to ingratiate himself with his employer, and he succeeds. His half rupee pay is increased to Rs. 3 a month. He becomes the confidential moonim, the factotum, the alter ego of his master, and is entrusted with the sole business when the latter goes home for a holiday. The return of the chief marks a new era in the existence of our Márwári. He who was only the other day a thoroughly mercurial being, has now changed into a staid, sober shopkeeper. He opens a shop on his own account. His earnings of so many years will suffice for the purpose; if not, he can borrow of his master, whose interest in him is not nominal. He can borrow from Rs. 50 to Rs. 100. Under more favourable circumstances he can borrow Rs. 500, though he seldom needs so much to start with.
The Márwári his own Master.
And now our Márwári has his own shop. He generally begins with salt, oil, grain, fuel, or other cheap nick-nacks. The Márwári never deals in anything which will not bring at least cent, per cent, profit. One might ask how he can have the courage, though his conscience is up to it, to ask double for such articles as oil, rice, fuel, &c. Well, it is thus:—The Márwári buys his articles of the poorest quality at the cheapest market. He buys when things go merely for the asking. He buys in the lump, and charges a heavy discount. He keeps shop in a locality from which the nearest market measures by the mile. He sells his goods on credit, and, of course, in retail. He weighs and measures as he likes, and the customer has only to smile and accept the article held out. His weights and measures are not of the latest make, and he often substitutes pieces of stone for standard weights. It is easy now to see how the Márwári earns at least cent, per cent, at his shop.
His Modus Operandi.
He allows credit to the customers till it has reached, say, a rupee; then begins the interest at two annas a month; then it becomes a book debt; then is required a security—an old ring, a few cooking utensils, some wearing apparel, &c. These are lodged with the Márwári till the lodger has drawn upon the shop for about half their value. Fresh security is now required if fresh supplies of rotten grain, adulterated oil, wet fuel, &c. are applied for. On all "reasonable" security he is ready to give, says the Márwári, but the customers must know that he has to meet his own liabilities. He charges heavy interest for the credit money, on the plea that he has to replace the goods disposed of on credit by new supplies for which he has to tell down cash, which he is forced to borrow. Besides, he turns to account the security lodged with him. He lends the ring, the clothes, the utensils, or the furniture to others, and charges for the use. He is not responsible for the wear and tear; if those who have lodged the articles with him object to their being used, why, they must close the account with him! He must live somehow! 'and so on, and so on. It is no use arguing with the Márwári, he will circumvent you everywhere. He lends and you borrow; it follows he should command and you obey.
His Mode of Recovery.
The Márwári will lend and sell on credit to the last pie compatible with safety. Infinite is his power of lending, so is his power of recovering. He manages to meet the debtor on pay day, on the very threshold of his office. He offers every facility to the debtor to earn money enough to repay. If the debtor seems to bear the Marwari's exactions with ease, he may be sure he will not be out of his debt. But the moment the Márwári finds difficulty in repayment, he sets about squeezing the last drop out of the unhappy wretch. He removes from the house everything worth removing. He appeals to the debtor's employers to give him the month's wages; he puts himself in communication with the debtor's rich relatives. He appeals to their abru.[2] He takes the debtor's wife and sisters and daughters in hand. He opens out new avenues of income for them. He sends some of them to factory work, others into domestic service. The Márwári does not scruple to put his victims to the vilest uses, so he can recover what he thinks to be his due. It is suspected that full half of the inmates of the brothels of Bombay are the victims of the Márwári's cruel persecutions, the female friends of the wretch who began his acquaintance with the Márwári with buying a pound of sugar on credit, and has ended that ill-fated acquaintance in the ruin of his manhood. When all this fails to satisfy the relentless fiend, he resorts to the Small Causes Court. He is a great friend of some of the underlings there, and those who know what a summary suit is, need not be told that the Marwari has the power to sell by auction everything the debtor may possess. He often buys up everything himself.
The Márwári's Victims
The Márwári feeds upon the poorer classes of Hindus—our factory hands, house servants, and small handicraftsmen. His policy is the policy of the "long rope." He lends and lends till the man is completely in his power. There are Musulmans, too, in the Marwari's debt; and when he finds it is impossible to get anything out of a poor beggar, he sets him to steal. There may be many a notorious Musulman thief who is driven to the trade by the Márwári, who is his instigator and accomplice. The Márwári is invariably the repository of stolen goods. Parsis and Portuguese, too, the Márwári lays under contribution, especially clerks and mechanics. But these victims are apparently getting used up, so thinks the Márwári, and he scorns to deal with them. Europeans and Eurasians are not without the pale of Márwári's influence. He will lend when the banks fail a poor fellow. When the manager dismisses Augustus Hardup, of the G. I. P. Railway, the Márwári is his refuge. It is with the Márwári's money that Augustus applies for another place; it is with Márwári's money that Augustus woos and wins the widow Pereira with Rs. 10,000 under trust, left by the ugly old apothecary, her first husband. It is also with the Márwári's money that Augustus goes to Poona, Jubbulpore, and other likely places in search of employment—never to return. But the Márwári has security at least in the person of a friend of Augustus decamped. This worthy, an inmate of the workhouse, generally pays the Marwari with kicks and cuffs. He shakes off the "reptile" once for all, and after that is never troubled by the dun.
The Márwári as a Member of Society.
Thus lives the Márwári, buying and selling, lending and recovering, scheming, bullying, and going to court. His life is a continued struggle with his better part. But so successfully does he wrestle with himself, that before thirty he has ceased to be a human being. Before thirty he is a money-grubbing machine. He will do anything for money, get money from everything. He works greater havoc in the mofussil than in the Presidency towns. More minutes and reports have been written on the Márwári than on all the wild beasts and venemous reptiles put together. But the Márwári still flourishes. He threatens to be an evergreen.
The Marwari at Home.
Next to money the Márwári loves his home in Márwár, then his mother, then his wife and children, then his national music. The Márwári seldom smiles under Rs. 100, but the loss of a pie will bring tears into his eyes. He has not much religion in him; and though as a Vaishnava he is bound to visit the Máhárájás, he seldom does so, unless under inducement of a dinner or a loan. He has not much respect for his gods, and will prefer a Queen's coin to the best of them. In all his habits of life simplicity, that is, a love of cheapness, is the leading trait. He loves his holidays, and during the Holi the Márwári abandons himself to full indulgence of the senses, but he takes care that the carousals do not cost him much in money. "Anything but money, unless it is for me"—that is the Márwári's motto. The Márwári makes a good friend so far as his advice goes. He marries late in life, and makes a loving husband and father, so far as love is love without money. He is too fond of hoarding to part with anything unless forced to.
A Solemn Warning.
There is hope for the wildest scapegrace buried in debt, if he has not gone to the Márwári; but once in the Márwári's clutches, not the wealthiest and the goutiest uncle can save him. The man who has escaped the Márwári's grip with a whole coat on may fairly claim to be the Finance Minister of Turkey.