Gujarát and the Gujarátis/Surat
Surat:
Its Fabled Origin.
. . . . "Something ails it now."
We left Bombay for Surat—I and my old servant Rasul—on the 13th of March 1878. Rasul was lent to me by a friend with whom he had spent many years in pleasant travelling. Surat is as good as my "native land," I having lived there from two to fifteen years of age. Its genus loci has been hallowed to me by association. The bones of a hundred ancestors are this day bleaching in the awful chasms of the Towers of Silence. Memory is besieged by the shadows of a thousand incidents when I find myself in the midst of old haunts, where, for an hour or a day's pleasure, I have passed months or years of bitter privations. I know Surat intimately, from end to end, and notwithstanding the utmost ingenuity of patriotic bards and encomiasts, and the good-natured credulity of European savants, I do not think we can give Surat a fabled origin, linking her name with the glorious Souráshtra of old and making her one of the territorial galaxy which shed lustre on the arms of the valiant Rajput who swayed the destinies of, perhaps, twenty million human beings scattered over an area of more than fifty thousand square miles, and who traced his descent to the early Aryan fathers, the first discontented wanderers from the cradle land of our race. Vanity and self-love seek to identify this town of Surat with the far-famed Souráshtra which has been in existence time out of mind, and which embraced, perhaps, a hundred times the area of Surat. By some curious trickery of nomenclature, that which was known as Souráshtra is now come to be known as the peninsula of Káttywár, whilst others say that is Souráshtra on the site of which now stands Junághar, the capital of the Bábi Mahomedans. Surat may be a feeble and corrupt imitation of Souráshtra. Taking it any way, Surat was nowhere before the thirteenth century A.D.
Strange Vicissitudes.
It seems to have been built under Mahomedan auspices. It derived its former importance from its maritime situation, which afforded peculiar facilities not only for a vast sea-borne trade, but for hordes of well-to-do Mahomedan pilgrims sailing for Meccá. Surat has a curious and touching history; but this is not the time to call up visions of its past glory. Its career reads like that of the beautiful eastern slave, whom chance leads from one enamoured master to another, till the lovely captive has well-nigh lost her power to please. From the Ahmedábád Mahomedans, probably its first owners, it passed into the hands of Akbar, "first in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen." But the deputies of the Grand Mogul could not retain the prize long; it passed successively into the hands of the mercenary Dutch, the fiery Lusitanian, the marauding Maratta, till the same chance placed it in the hands of masters who, hailing from the land of the free, claim freedom and justice as the objects of their mission to the East.
Surat of To-day.
Surat was a right jolly place a century ago, though even then it was in the afternoon of its glory. But "something ails it now."
Its rapid ruin since can be traced to disastrous fires and floods, to the drying up of the Tápti, and to the rise and prosperity of the island town of Bombay. Surat of to-day is a shadow of its old self, its stout commercial spirit gone, the well-to-do of its citizens grovelling in indolence or pleasure, its social morality decayed and still decaying. The British are doing much to infuse new life into this prostrate capital of their original possessions in the Western Presidency. Enlightened and equitable administration of justice, well-worked medical and educational agencies, wise schemes of municipal impovement; these are all tangible reforms, and have a leavening tendency on the almost deadened national conscience. But the instincts of the people seek repose: it is incompatible with a true Surti[1] nature to keep pace with the march of progress. The labouring and agricultural classeshave ample security of person and property; but I doubt if they enjoy that progressive prosperity which is the true criterion of a settled and enlightened rule. The fact seems to be that England is losing India with too much of law. The laws are too many, and too fine to be equitable in a community of mutually antagonistic classes and conflicting interest unused to such laws. And worse than the laws themselves is the working of them. Except in this, I do not think the people have any real cause for grumbling; and I am sure they seldom grumble, my poor, primitive peace-loving Surtis.
A few Honest Growls
Coming to a class higher, I mean the middle class, what strikes the observer most is this: the rising generation are given every facility and inducement for acquirement of a fairly liberal education. Such education naturally widens their vision and gives play to their innate aspirations. But when they attempt to assert their position as politically and socially the equals of the ruling class, "these natives" are ridiculed for their presumption! Not only are our educated men so many political pariahs,[2] but even in ordinary social matters they are made to feel their inferiority. Those thousand little social charities, which might, perhaps, reconcile them to standing political disabilities, are withheld from them as a matter of course. In public, as well as in private, the best of natives must "know his place," when in the presence of the white Sahib. It is the old, old story, of might being the better of right. It may be allowed that some distinction of the sort is inevitable. But really, it is neither necessary nor expedient to keep up this spirit of exclusiveness which is growing into another Caste.
One more growl whilst I am in this stern preaching mood (I seldom preach) at the levelling policy of our officials. No doubt, there must be one law for rich and poor. This policy is unexceptionable in the abstract, and the higher sphere of affairs. But in practice, in the minor details of life, where the rich can feel and the poor cannot, it would be obvious injustice to make no distinction between the high-born and the low-born. This proposition may shock the philosopher; but as the world goes, I am afraid it holds good as much in Europe as in India. If it is the interest of a wise ruler to see the poor rise, it is equally his interest to see that the rich do not fall. Here in Gujarát we know of hundreds of young men of rank and talent who are treated by the officials with studied indifference. And what is the result? The flower of the generation, finding no scope for their talent, and no respect for their birth, degenerate, by degrees, into profligates and malcontents. In a country where rank and title are the prizes of life, those who claim a titled ancestry are literally worshipped by the masses. The people themselves are loyal to the core, though much puzzled by sudden and trying administrative changes; but the number of the educated high-born who feel they are neglected or despised, is on the increase. Let our Collectors and Judges see to this. I do not wish to meddle with politics here; but this particular complaint is so universal in Gujarat, and indeed throughout British India, that a mention of it could not well be avoided. A word to the wise.
Local Celebrities.
I made a very brief stay at Surat, and saw only a few of the local magnates. The most important amongst these may be considered the Náwab of Belá and Meer Gulám Bábá Khán, or as they are popularly called, Bará (big) Sáheb and Chotá (little) Sáheb. I made the latter's acquaintance under somewhat painful circumstances. Travelling together one day, I learnt by accident that my companion was Meer Gulám Bábá. There were four of us in the compartment—Meer Gulám, his secretary, a European, and myself. Now, it so happened that the European, not knowing Meer Gulám, went to sleep with his booted feet in Meer Gulám's lap. The Meer, unwilling to provoke a quarrel, quietly moved further from under the insulting encumbrance. The European hereupon accused him of having disturbed his rest, and fired off a volley of ear-splitting abuses. The poor Meer held his tongue, though I could see from the working of his face that his blood was up. But the European, some vulgar bully, thus emboldened, took the Meer by the arm and attempted to push him out of the carriage. Here I interfered, and after a good deal of explanation, I got the European to desist from annoying the nobleman. The man went to bed again, muttering "I don't care a hang who he is." I hinted to the Meer that he could have done better; but he mildly replied in Hindustani, "We have had our day; these people have their day now, you see." After this philosophic remark, we dropped the unpleasant subject, but became very fast friends for the day. We exchanged some fine oriental compliments at parting, but have never met since.
The other Meer, a rival, I never got to know except as a curiosity. He is said to be a good-natured, pleasant-spoken gentleman, much given to what may be called pleasures of the palate.
Amongst Parsi celebrities of Surat is Khán Báhádur Burjorji Merwánji Fraser, a fine, pleasant old gentleman, who has run through a fortune in a very fashionable way, but not without behaving handsomely in making gifts to his native city, as is duly described in Murray's new Handbook of India (Bombay), and other records of the time. Shett Burjorji is a Khán Bahadur, let the reader remember. Surat boasts of other Parsi notabilities too; but as I do not know them personally, I cannot introduce the reader to them.
Notable amongst the Hindus is my friend Ráo Báhádur Jugjiwandás Khusháldás, the Full Power Magistrate, a sturdy old gentleman, honest and plain-spoken, a terror to evil-doers. I should not, also, forget the Surat editors, celebrated throughout India by their connection with the great (License-tax) Riots Case. They appear to be the very embodiment of the "mild Hindu" type, but conceal a world of energy and determination under a rather unpromising exterior.
But my best friends at Surat are the Irish Presbyterian missionaries, Dixon, Wallace, Montgomery, Taylor—alas, they no longer are! William Dixon, my own revered master, died quite a young man. You could see at first sight that he was a scholar and a martyr. He effected much good at Surat; and though death too soon cut short a career of brilliant promise, his influence is felt even now to be at work.
William Wallace was our Bible teacher—a man of great benevolence and learning. I have never seen a man so gentle in spirit and so unruffled under provocation. His life was a blessed example to us all.
Much differing from Mr. Wallace, but actuated by the same motive, was the Rev. Robert Montgomery. Mr. Montgomery was, I believe, the oldest Presbyterian missionary to Gujarát, and spent the very best days of his life there. He died at home, in the fulness of time, at the patriarchal age of three score and ten, leaving behind the memory of a virtuous and well-spent life to be cherished by three generations of men. The deceased was a most successful preacher of the Gospel. He hated all underhand and dubious means; and rather than fire up the imagination of his audience by the glitter of false hopes and impossible promises, he preferred to reach their conscience by making Christianity a necessity of man's fallen nature. His Christianity was of a peculiar character, like himself, pleasant, practical, and conciliatory. Wherever he could, he cheerfully fell in with the views of his opponent; where he could not, he would not mind pulling Satan himself by the beard, keeping himself and the adversary all the while in the best of humours. An anecdote is current in Gujarát of how the good old man would sally forth of a Sabbath morning, enter an unknown village, preach against the stone-gods, be set upon by the mob, and incarcerated for his audacity: how he would hold forth from his prison—now in muscular Hindustáni, reminding the populace of their unlawful conduct and its consequences; now in suasive Gujaráti, laughing at their despicable mode of warfare; and then suddenly asking for a drink of water, and directly going off to take his forty winks; falling to the recital of some quaint but touching prayer on awaking; till at last he would win the hearts of the people, issue forth, all smiles and bows, snap his fingers at the heathen priest who had instigated the rabble, and set out for home, often after a supper of warm milk and bread, escorted by the very men who had, a few hours ago, put him into the cow-shed prison! Such was Mr. Montgomery, the missionary.
Yet one more. The Rev. Van Someren Taylor. This very day, 27th June 1881, as I am sitting down to record my sense of his worth, I hear of his sudden death at Edinburgh. I had not the honour of being one of his pupils. But Mr. Taylor did that for me which he scarcely could have had the opportunity of doing for many others. To him I am indebted for my success as a Gujaráti writer. He was my first literary guide and friend. He was the first to approve what had been neglected by many others; and but for his encouragement, I am not sure if I could at all have ventured to publish my works in the face of general discouragement from other friends.
Mr. Taylor was essentially a missionary, a devoted and indefatigable worker, a genuine scholar, and a genial friend. I believe that the success of the little colony of Christian converts at Borsad[3] is mainly due to Mr. Taylor's exertions and influence; at any rate, he is acknowledged its most faithful friend. To his many other acquirements, Mr. Taylor added a very intimate knowledge of the Gujaráti vernacular. His Gujaráti grammar is the best for students of all classes, and is, I believe, a standard book. He wrote excellent Gujaráti verses, and has published one or two volumes. Besides the fine Christian sentiment running through them, his lines are remarkable for purity, warmth, and simplicity. Many of them I have heard sung with very good effect. In his work as a missionary and a citizen, he won confidence and sympathy where-ever he went; and though very quiet and retiring by nature, he was ever ready to advance, by word and by deed, the cause of education and enlightenment. In the case of many a struggling young man, Mr. Taylor's kindly encouragement has been actually the making of a life of usefulness.
Another Gujarát missionary of much promise was the Rev. Mr. Wells, who also died at a comparatively early age. He, too, was a great Gujaráti scholar and has written several works in that vernacular, which are not only popular, but are recognised as first-rate school-books. Mr. Wells was a very zealous, active man, and known for his rough practical benevolence.
Of the European officials, the best remembered men by this generation are Mr. T. C. Fere, the collector par excellence, and Mr. H. M. Woodlark—the judge. Surat is greatly indebted to Mr. Fere for numerous practical reforms. Stern and almost overbearing in his official relations, he despised false popularity, and though sometimes carried away.by over-zeal, his honesty of purpose has never been questioned. Though smarting under some of his hasty measures, the Surtis readily acknowledge that "Fere Sáheb" has been the second founder of the city.
Mr. Woodlark is popularly known as "the Model Judge." He is no less a favourite with the official circle than with the public. He is "as good as a native, one of us," the people explain. I know of no greater compliment that could be paid to an official. And this praise is amply justified by Mr. Woodlark's love of the people, and his readiness to identify himself with every movement, private or public, for their advancement.
I must not forget two other popular officials—a Judge and a Collector again. The former, a native, Mr. Satyendranáth Tagore, is one of the ablest civilian judges, and his decisions are remarkable for their legal acumen and close reasoning. Coming of a race of reformers and benefactors, Mr. Tagore very well sustains the traditions of his family. Wherever he goes, he devotes his best endeavours to the enlightenment of his countrymen. He is the idol of the Gujaráti people. In private life he is simple and modest, quite a Sádhu[4] as a friend describes him. Mr. Tagore is, I believe, the first native Civilian who passed the competition in England.
Another official is Mr. A. Lendhill. A good deal of energy and good sense has characterised his administration of Gujarat. Mr. Lendhill has read the native character pretty accurately, and he seems to know equally well how to apply his knowledge. The first thing almost that he had to attend to on his arrival at Surat was a formidable conspiracy of the grain-dealers to run up prices. It was a sight to see the Collector walk up to the grain-market, button-hole the heading daláls,[5] and lecture them out of their unholy league. Nothing stronger passed between them than friendly remonstrance, but it had its effect; though the more forward of the brokers freely quoted Bentham, Mill, and other advocates of Free-Trade. Mr. Lendhill is an out-and-out Anglo-Indian, as was his learned and highly-respected father, Harry, of that ilk, who compiled a valuable work on the castes of this province.
Let me not omit here Sayed Edroos of Surat, who is an Honourable and a C.S.I. This Moslem of many titles was in the Governor's Council for some time, but his legislative career was blank as a sheet of blotting-paper—or at best imprinted with the impressions of others. He cannot discuss any subject (1) because he is ignorant of English, and (2) because his ideas of his duty are the reverse of original. He thinks he serves his country best by nodding assent to whatever falls from the Sáheb's lips. Is it strange, then, that the Sáheb should love him dearly? Is it strange, then, that the collectors should try to give Sayed Edroos another lease of life as councillor to Sir James Fergusson? But this sort of happy-family arrangement will not do in these days—at least, Itrust, not in the days of Sir James. The Sayed Sáheb is an exploded myth. He has ceased to believe in himself, and even his existence has become a matter of doubt. The Gujarát people, therefore, will have none of him. The Presidency protests against the contemplated jobbery of a second term for the Sayed. They say Let us have anybody else,—Mr. Cumu Sulliman,[6] or even Ismal Khán, butler to the Collector of Cobblington; but no Sayed Edroos—they have had enough of his name in official reports of "members present." Let him live,retired—
"The world forgetting, by the world forgot."
As worthy a man as the Sayed is a certain Mohlá[7] of this province. The Mohlaji is at present in hot water. He is the head of a Mahomedan sect very numerous in Gujarát and Bombay, and is, therefore, kept in good condition. For a long time he was considered the safest and most liberal banker in Gujarát; and people of all classes deemed it a privilege to leave money with the Mohláji. Many a poor widow disposed of a house or other property, and entrusted the assets to the Mohlá. About ten years ago something was found wrong with the Mohlá's affairs, and creditors flocked to his holiness to withdraw their money from under the Mohlá's trust. But this was no easy work. The Mohlá begged for a reprieve. After a good deal of bickering and yielding to threats of exposure, some of the Mohlá's friends undertook to wipe off the debt by eight annual instalments. But creditors allege they have not yet been paid back anything to speak of. The Mohláji again asks for time; but the creditors are indignant and threaten to "proceed." Poor old Mohlá! He is so much married! And that, too, on set purpose. He marries young ladies of fortune, so that he may be enabled to meet his heavy and long accumulating liabilities. But somehow or other the money seldom reaches the creditors. In the meantime, his reverence keeps up his personal establishment in grand style, though he has just issued orders for shutting up a religious academy hitherto working under his auspices. This is false economy, to be sure; but what can you expect of a poor beggar like the Mohlá when the Imperial British Government practises, sometimes, a similar method of retrenchment? The Mohláji is looking up and about; and, with the help of a few friends from Bombay, may again "tide over." But there is little fear of the creditors being paid in full. The Mohláji and his family are too "civilised" for any such folly. His holiness, now over eighty, has married another "wife "—a buxom widow with thirty-five thousand rupees. I forget if this is the Mohlá's eleventh or twenty-first "wife." But what matters it? So long as there is money, the Mohlá thinks, "Let the cry be, still they come."
Only one more good Surti, my dear and honoured friend, Moonshi Lutfullah Khán. To my acquaintance with him and his, I owe much of my chivalrous respect for the Mahomedan character. Moonshi Lutfullah is "a noticeable man, with large grey eyes." As scholar, linguist, and author, Mr. Lutfullah is well-knownin these parts, and even in England.[8] To the latter country he accompanied the late Meer Jáffer Ali Khan of Surat. Over twelve years ago I used to be almost an inmate, now and then, of the Lutfulláh family, thanks to an intimacy with his son, Fazal. I have enjoyed some of the happiest hours of my life under his hospitable roof. Moonshi Lutfulláh was an old man when I knew him; he must now have obtained the patriarchal age.
Sights.
There is not much to be seen at Surat, except, of course, the new Hope Bridge, the Cowasji Jehangir Hospital, the Killah (castle), the Park, perhaps the two cotton mills, the Band Stand, the High School, and the Andrew's Library.
The Tapti Bridge, or as it is popularly named, the Hope Bridge, in honour of that energetic Collector, is a recent construction. It connects Surat with Ránder on the opposite bank. The bridge is a fine strong structure, and is no doubt a great convenience to the people. It cost over seven lakhs. There are many larger bridges in India; but to the stick-at-home Surtis, their bridge is a marvel of human ingenuity. I am not surprised to be told that some of them worship it and offer sacrifices to the presiding genius.
The Hospital is an admirable building, due to the liberality of the late Sir Cowasji Jehangir Readymoney, the well-known Parsee benefactor of Bombay.
The Killáh is a glum bit of stone-work, which stands firm as a rock against the violence of the elements. It is a Mahomedan structure.
To the building of the fine High School, Mr. Sorabji Jamsetji Jeejeebhoy contributed a large sum. Mr. Kharsetji Furdoonji Párakh, too, has one or two charitable institutions at Surat standing to his credit—the Parakh Dispensary and the Industrial School.
The Andrew's Library is a very useful institution; but it is badly off for want of funds, I am told. It is apity that Bombay, knowing this to be so, will not save this institution from approaching difficulties.
The Band Stand is on a pretty pleasant site, to which gorá loke (white people) drive by one entrance and kálá loke (black people) by another.
Philanthropic Mill Management.
The local mills here were started on the most philanthropic and magnanimous principles, no end of interest on limited investments, and absolutely no future "calls." Even the wide-awake Bania (money-lending class) swallowed the bait; and it is a sight now to see him hauled up so tight and breathing so heavy. Matters have gone to the court, and that is no compliment to the management. Wise citizens, who detest every form of investment, except lending to impecunious artisans on the security of their families, are laughing slyly over this contretemps.
Scenes at a Mill Meeting.
The Directors of the Jáffer Ali Spinning Company at Surat seem determined to ruin the concern. They agreed to disagree among themselves. The division was unequal, having a majority on one side and a minority (but that with the president) on the other. The bone of contention is poor Vakil (Advocate) Goolábdás. This veteran Vakil, more sinned against than sinning, suspected a "leetle" underhand work, and with the instinct of the lawyer he set about ferreting out the game. He could do this best as a director; so a director he would be, swore Mr. Goolábdás, and a director was he after some strenuous opposition. Now, this detective director has been putting awkward questions to some of the Aryanmanagers, who had it all their own way, headed as they were by a Mahomedan nawab.[9] Well, the Aryans have their own arithmetic, and Mr. Goolábdás cannot reckon in it. At a recent meeting Goolábdás said so, plain and plump. I can well see that firm Mongolian face of his, immovable and unmoved by the loudest vituperation. He wanted facts; they gave him "abuses." He bowed, they kicked their shins against the benches; he grinned, they roared; he said "gentlemen," they replied "r————l"; and so on and on, till the president lost patience. They want not Vakeel Goolábdás, but he does want them. Strong are his opponents, leading luminaries of the law. But he minds them not, this servant of Gooláb[10]. He asks, "Why spend rupees fifteen on this? I know an old barber could set it to right for rupees three." But the answer is merely a cackle of denunciation. The end of it all is "in the womb of futurity," as Hindu graduates put it. Suffice to say, that it is a very pretty domestic quarrel in embryo, and that when the little dragon is born, it may, like the divine Sanishchar,[11] devour its own family. And that is what the Directors of the Jáffer Ali Mill want.[12]
A Season of Plenty.
Poor Surat shared the fate of all the neighbouring districts during the recent famines. Then again the water famine was proving too much for her when Jupiter Pluvius luckily became more favourable and more reasonable. His cloudy majesty is at present (latter part of 1881) exceedingly obliging. He comes and goes to order. The wise men of Surat wonder if the prospects of the khedu[13] could have been brighter even in the golden age. Everything is cheap, especially rice, ghee,[14] and tarkári.[15] The grain-dealers who, two months ago, entered into a secret compact to starve the poor, and who, only the other week, sat with all the insolence of "shop," are fearfully down in the mouth. They are now to be observed paring their nails, scratching their heads, and so on, and receive the ugliest customer with elaborate attention. In a word, they enjoy a season of plenty down here; and if my eyes have not deceived me, I have seen a well-defined smile lurking in the countenance of one of the municipal commissioners. When you see that, you may be sure the creature is in the best of moods; for in his normal frame of mind, you can trace not a sign of emotion in the commissioner's face, which is all cheek and chin. Indeed, the plenty is not so plentiful as in the days of the Nawáb, when my dear great-uncle used to maintain a family of fourteen, inpeace and comfort, on rupees seven a month. And even from this pittance, my good aunt, his wife, was able to buy him a boxful of snuff, a pocket-handkerchief, and a pair of goat-skin shoes every nine months. In those days ghee sold at fifteen pounds a rupee. Those are called "the fifteen-pound days." To-day, even though they look upon it as a very good year, ghee is less than four pounds the rupee. And ghee is everything to the Surti—his present happiness and his future bliss.
A Zealous Official.[16]
I was told the other day of our excellent young postmaster here. He is the very pink of a postmaster, and the way he stands on his dignity is stunning. His idea of asserting his authority is to fine the wretched peons right and left. These men are paid about seven rupees (fourteen shillings) a month, out of which the "paternal" Government makes it incumbent on each man to buy a red coat a year, a pair of shoes twice a year, turban, trousers, umbrellas, &c. Part of what remains goes towards the Good Conduct Fund. From the residue the peon has to maintain wife and family, father, mother, children, cousins, aunts, &c., in that irreproachable respectability which befits a servant of the Paternal British Government. "Hard lines," you will growl, reader. But I have not done. A peon tells me he is now fined about two rupees a month on an average. So what he earns is five rupees, out of which he has to attend to each one of the duties, private and public, that I have just enumerated. The postmaster is very likely a good man; but he overworks his men, and for the slightest error, such as he commits a thousand a day, he cuts the poor wretches in the tenderest, and, alas, the slenderest part! Sir Richard Temple could have made an excellent license-tax collector of my friend the postmaster. He is a typical instance of what we call here "a zealous official"—the man who, be he Native or European, brings the Government into utter disrepute by resorting to petty high-handedness like this, very often in order to curry favour with arbitrary and unscrupulous superiors. Such men are, unhappily, not few nor confined to a limited area. They are scattered over the whole Empire, and are doing damage to the préstige of the Government wherever they are.
- ↑ Native of Surat.
- ↑ Degraded homeless outcasts.
- ↑ A little town near Ahmedabad.
- ↑ An ascetic.
- ↑ Brokers.
- ↑ A wealthy and enterprising upholsterer, and good friend to impecunious subalterns.
- ↑ Mussulman leader.
- ↑ See his Autobiography,a remarkable political memoir, edited by the eminent Persian scholar,Mr. E. B. Eastwick, C.B.
- ↑ Generally, an innocent.
- ↑ Goolábdás =slave of the rose.
- ↑ Saturn.
- ↑ This was written two years ago.
- ↑ Cultivator.
- ↑ Clarified butter.
- ↑ Vegetables.
- ↑ Written two years ago.