On the Coromandel Coast/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII
TRICHINOPOLY
Take heed not to trust yourself to the current of a river, to the claws or orns of an animal, or to the promises of kings.— Sloka.
Eighteen months passed and my husband received orders to go to Trichinopoly to relieve a chaplain who was going on leave. With all the social and pastoral duties that were expected of us, the time had passed quickly, and it was with mixed feelings that we took our leave of the Presidency town.
The South Indian Railway was not opened then as far as Madras, and the journey to Trichinopoly had to be made via Erode, where the Madras Railway connected with the South Indian. The heat was great— it was February—but as it was my first journey inland I looked forward to it with pleasure.
We started in the evening and began our travels in the darkness of the night. For hours the train seemed to be running through a vast plain devoid of town or village. Here and there a single light flickered in the distance, suggestive of a solitary watcher. At long intervals we ran into noisy little stations. A halt of eight or ten minutes ended in the shrill familiar whistle of the guard, and we glided out again into the loneliness and darkness of the plain. In the early hours of the morning the air grew perceptibly cooler. I looked out of the window and saw the rugged outline of hills on both sides of the line. No light was visible, and the scene was more desolate than the plain. A little later a grey light on the eastern horizon heralded the Indian day. We passed over the Cauvery River, its silvery waters broken by dark water- worn boulders and its banks covered with elephant-grass and tangled jungle. Before the sun touched the distant hills, which we had left behind, the train pulled up at Erode, where we were more occupied in the consumption of the welcome cup of morning tea than in studying the beauties of nature.
The run from Erode to Trichinopoly at that period took about five hours. 'Haste is of the devil,' says the Hindu, who hates to be hurried. The leisurely pace at which we travelled gave ample time to enjoy the charms of tropical nature displayed in the full light of the morning sun.
The line passes down the fertile valley of the Cauvery. Twice a year the river comes down in flood from the hills, bringing with it a fertilising deposit. At each over- flow the land yields a bountiful crop without requiring the assistance of artificial manures.
In all directions nature, whether under cultivation or in a wild state, was prolific. The trees and flowering shrubs, the scarlet gloriosa lily festooning the thorny arms of the cactus, the weaver-birds' nests hanging from the boughs above the water channels, the green parrakeets and bronze honeysuckers and sunbirds, the blue roller jay-bird, and golden oriole playing about the foliage in the sunshine 'like a yellow lambent flame,' were sights that reconciled me with parting from Madras.
At every station a crowd of happy, chattering people climbed into the train, taking the seats of others who left the overflowing carriages. The object of their journey was a feast at some temple, a visit of ceremony to a friend or relative, or to be present at a wedding. The high castes jostled the low castes as they pushed their way in or out of the compartments. Everybody talked at the top of his voice and no one listened; and all wore, whether high or low caste, their best clothes. Blue and white, red and gold, green and yellow, they rivalled gorgeous nature and outshone the gay plumaged bird and painted butterfly. A number of Brahmin women and children, unveiled except for the cloth being drawn over the head, were travelling to Trichinopoly to attend a feast at the temple of Srirungam. Their silken draperies were of a rich tawny red, highly becoming to their glowing brown skins. Some of them were loaded with ornaments of gold, their necklaces, strung with many sovereigns, seeming to weigh them down. Green emeralds and blood-red rubies gleamed in ear and nostril, and their sarees were girdled with belts of the precious metal cunningly wrought into the suppleness of a linen band. The vision of colour and wealth was striking.
A hundred years ago the display of rich garments and jewels would have brought a calamity upon the wearers by attracting attention to their wealth. If they dared to venture out at all they clothed themselves in rags and exhibited every sign of poverty. At the smallest hint that they possessed any riches, the agents of the native princes who ruled the country descended upon them, armed with official authority, and spoiled them of their goods. It mattered not who the ruler might be, whether the Hindu Rajah or his enemy, the Mohammedan Viceroy of the Mogul, oppression was the lot of the villager, the weaver and dyer, the metalworker and the agriculturist. Heyne describes how the taxes were gathered in native territory. Peons were quartered in the villages and maintained at the expense of the villagers until the demands made in the name of the ruler, Hindu or Mohammedan, were paid. If there was a delay the peons resorted to torture, or pulled down the houses and drove away the cattle. The inhabitants of one of the districts through which Heyne passed asked 'When will the Dharma Company (East India Company) take care of us also? 'Some of the villages were deserted, the people having fled to escape the cruelty of the tax-gatherer. When Heyne asked an old woman to provide him with a fowl, for which he would have paid her, she replied bitterly 'Fowl? What sort of an animal is a fowl? The Moors take care that we never see any.'
This state of fatal oppression ended when the English took over the administration of the different districts and pensioned the native princes. Even at the dawn of better times the villagers could not at first believe that the old system had been swept away, and that justice for the future was to be meted out to the industrious worker. When their crops were harvested and the tax became due, they left their homes to hide in fear lest they should be spoiled of all they possessed. It took some years to foster the confidence which is so marked a feature of the happy, contented dwellers in the Cauvery Valley to-day.
It is not among these peaceful people of the land that political agitators are to be found. It is true that the villagers are credulous and their fears may be played upon. They are foolish enough to believe that the sacrificial blood of their children will be needed to ensure the firm foundation of bridges, and that a disease like the plague is due to the wholesale poisoning of their wells by the British ; but of politics they know nothing and care less. From time immemorial the Hindu village system has remained unchanged, surviving every political convulsion and every change of government down to the present time.
Each village is complete with its different trades and professions. To the former belong the washerman, carpenter, potter, barber, sweeper, shopkeeper, and several others. Among the latter are the schoolmaster, doctor, accountant, moneylender, and the religious teacher, who sometimes practises fortune-telling as well. The village has its own court or panchayet, composed of five members elected by the villagers, to settle disputes over boundaries, debts, and inheritance; and a savings bank that is conducted upon a system of its own. There are amusements of all kinds, feasts at the temple, and sports outside the village, wherein the young men have an opportunity of exhibiting their strength and prowess. The community, perfect in itself, continues the daily tasks of sowing, planting, and reaping, without paying any attention to the political situations that agitate cities. The villagers do not see a newspaper from one year's end to another. After work is over they take their intellectual recreation by listening to the recitations of the professional poet and story-teller. Day by day the men and boys go to work in the fields, ploughing with the bullocks or thrashing out the corn. The cows and goats are milked. The women fetch water from the well and gossip over their brass pots, finding ample to interest and excite them in a prospective wedding, in the death of a member of the community, or in a cause celebre in the panchayet. The sole link between the powers that be and the villager is the periodical visit of the English official, whose duty it is to collect the revenue and see that peace and order prevail.
The marked feature of the Hindu village is contentment and the desire to have no interference with their established internal government. The only source of trouble is one not connected with politics, but with religious and caste disputes. Their conservatism is such that they regard with suspicion any advance in civilisation or education that is made by one caste and not by another. A few years ago the Vellalans of South India, who claim to be next to the Brahmins, although they are of Sudra origin, were under the impression that the Shanars were becoming too prosperous and advanced. The Vellalans gathered together from their various villages, descended upon the unfortunate Shanars, killed a number of them and burned their houses. Having administered what they considered a necessary lesson to a lower caste, the Vellalans returned to their homes, leaving the Shanars to understand that the lesson would be repeated if they did not mend their rapid ways and advance more slowly.
In the old days the native ruler would not have troubled himself over a caste affair that did not materially affect his revenues, and the Vellalans would have gone unpunished. It was a surprise to find that the English Government disapproved of their action to the extent of punishing the ringleaders. To prevent a repetition of the assault, a punitive force of police was placed in the disturbed districts. The indifference of the villagers to events outside their own little world is great, but it is nothing compared with the ignorance of the jungle tribes of the hills, which is almost incredible.
As an illustration of the ignorance of some of the inhabitants of Tinnevelly, Bishop Caldwell used to tell the following story. The King of South India, seven or eight hundred years ago, was called the Pandyan. A descendant of his, a petty landowner, lived at Singampatti, not far from Courtallam. The bishop met some of the hillmen one day ; and out of curiosity he asked them who governed the country at the present time. The reply was—'The Pandyan.'
'Where does he live?'
'At Singampatti.'
'What about the white men? Have they nothing to do with the government of the country?' 'Oh, no!' replied the hillmen. 'They often come here, but only to shoot. They have nothing to do with the government of the country.'
Some time before we reached our destination we saw the wonderful rock, brooding in the valley with the town clustering at its feet. Trichinopoly is one of the largest towns of South India and is famous for its temples. The rock is a natural fortress easy of defence. From the time when men first cultivated the swamp-loving rice it must have been an object of attraction to rulers who desired to retain possession of their lands. Gold and grain might be safely stored and guarded there, and workers in the fields might retire there to find a secure refuge from marauders.
In the middle of the sixteenth century Trichinopoly was deserted, and the fertile land of the Cauvery Valley was overgrown with jungle.
Various causes contribute to the desertion of cities in the East. One is epidemic disease, such as plague or cholera, which even the skill of modern science cannot control or subdue. It sweeps down upon a place, sparing neither palace nor hovel. The terrified people appeal to their gods with bloodshed and beat of drum. Perhaps it dies out; but if, on the other hand, it continues in unabated fury the miserable remnant of the people creep away, carrying what they are able of their household goods, and silence reigns over the city. Vegetation is rapid in growth. The deserted streets are soon covered with a mantle of green, which rises above the low houses and hides them from view. White ants assist in the decay of beams. Roofs fall in and floors give way, and the ruined town is known only to the jackal and the tiger. Sometimes gaunt famine has been the destroyer and driven the inhabitants away. Occasionally the devastating troops of an enemy have done the work of destruction. When there was nothing more to be stolen the marauder departed, leaving death and desolation behind him. It was probably through the avariciousness of man that the rock was deserted and the neighbouring town of Worriore reduced to an impoverished hamlet.
About 1560 a Hindu adventurer took undisputed possession of the fortress. He had men and money, and he fortified the rock with a double wall round its base. Houses sprang up within the walls, and the land outside was brought under cultivation. The King, as he is termed by historians, built a palace for himself, where he lived in state with a large retinue of followers. Building was a passion with him. The evidence of it may be seen to this day in the huge pile of the temple of Srirungam. The small village temple that he found there dedicated to Siva and his consort, he surrounded by walls which were pierced with gateways and surmounted with handsome towers called goparums. Within the walls were chambers and dwellings for the pujaris and attendants of the temple; and pillared halls for the assembling of worshippers at the shrine. He did not complete the work as it stands at the present day with its seven enclosing walls; but he built a great portion of it. Tirumal, one of his successors, added more walls and gateways (1650). The principal gateway is unfinished. It is constructed of enormous blocks of stone, which are put together without mortar. The wonder is how the heavy blocks were lifted into position without the appliances of modern machinery.
The story of the payment of the workmen is kept alive in the name of the north arm of the river which forms the island. The wages were to be paid in rice, but when they became due the King's granaries were empty. The people became clamorous and turbulent, and the King feared that they would commit some violence. He invited them over to the north side of the island and persuaded them with false promises to embark on rafts. In the middle of the stream they were overturned and drowned, and the river was called Colladam, the place of slaughter, corrupted into Colleroon. There is probably some truth in the tradition. A sacrifice of life at that period would have been considered necessary to ensure the stability of the building.
A full and complete history of India has never been written by a native historian. The history of the country as we know it has been compiled from the records left by Europeans who have visited it since the discovery by the Portuguese of the route to the East. Portuguese, Dutch, French, and English have given accounts in the past of what they saw and heard. As far as is known Trichinopoly flourished from the time of the building of the fort until 1736.
At that date the King died and left the government in the hands of his widow. Her right was disputed by a Hindu prince of the royal blood. The Mohammedan Nawab of Arcot, Chunda Sahib, seized the opportunity given by this internal strife to appear before the city with the secret intention of obtaining possession of it. He gained his end by craft. Tradition says that he made love to the widow and persuaded her to admit him and a body of troops into the town. Having effected an entrance he took no pains to hide his designs. The poor queen was thrown into prison, where she died, and Trichinopoly was occupied by the army of the usurper.
From this moment the city had no peace until the English, under Clive, defeated the French. Even after the power of the French was broken the country round the town was troubled by Haider and his son Tippoo. The Mysoreans overran the Island of Srirungam, plundered the peaceful inhabitants, and burned their villages as late as 1790.
The story of Chunda Sahib is full of tragedy. He joined his fortunes with those of the French, and during the early part of the war he had every hope of seeing himself master of the Carnatic. Later, when the French were suffering defeat at the hands of Clive and Lawrence, Chunda Sahib recognised that his cause was lost. It was after the English had taken the Island of Srirungam and defeated Law that the Nabob's officers and most of his troops forsook him, leaving him broken in health and spirit without the means of flight. Law, the French Commandant, seeing the hopelessness of protecting his ally any longer, recommended him, as the only means of saving his life, to give himself up to Monackgee, the general of the Tanjore army, who had been fighting on the side of the English.
Law's hope of safety for his ally by this means was unfulfilled. There were old scores against the Nabob that had to be wiped off—acts of violence committed by his troops at the siege of Tanjore and elsewhere when the victory had been on the side of the French. At the bottom of his heart Chunda Sahib must have known that his chance of escape into honourable captivity was small. Monackgee swore by all he held sacred that he would give the Nabob a safe escort to the French settlement. As soon as the various native allies—the Mysoreans, the rival Nabob whose claims were supported by the English, and the General of the Mahrattas—were aware that Chunda Sahib was in the power of Monackgee, there was a clamour for the possession of his person. The demands coming from his superiors took the form of commands accompanied by threats if the Tanjore general refused to comply. Stringer Lawrence also asked for the prisoner, proposing to keep him at one of the English settlements. To this the disputants would not consent. In his perplexity and dread of bringing down the wrath of those who were stronger than himself, Monackgee violated his oath and solved his dilemma by ordering the head of Chunda Sahib to be struck off.
Orme says that the black deed was done by a Pathan who served the Tanjore general in the capacity of executioner. The Nabob, now an old man (1752), was stretched upon the ground, unable through sickness to rise. When he saw the Pathan enter he guessed what his mission was. Nothing else, indeed, could be expected from his enemies. He lifted his hand as though to stop the assassin, and begged that he might have a few words with Monackgee, saying that he had something of great importance to communicate. The 'man of blood' paid no attention to the request. He stabbed the prince to the heart and cut off his head.
Monackgee sent the head to the Nabob at Trichinopoly, who thus saw his rival for the first time. The head was tied to the neck of a camel and carried five times round the walls of the city that all might see how the enemy had fallen. The horrible procession, accompanied by thousands of excited people, passed the palace where, as a young man, Chunda Sahib, decked in bright array, had won the heart of the widowed queen ; and went through the gateway which he had once entered to take possession of the town. On all sides the lifeless features, ghastly in death, were greeted with insulting epithets.
Although his methods of warfare did not differ from those of the period when treachery and cruelty marked every campaign, he stood out above the princes of the day in courage and military qualities. Orme says that he was a brave, benevolent, humane and generous man as princes went in Hindustan ; and he pays a tribute to his ability as a leader, venturing to suggest that if the French had listened to the counsels of the Nabob and placed their army under his direction, their power might not have been so completely crushed, nor need the prince have met with such an ignoble end.
Every foot of the country round Trichinopoly is associated with this struggle between the French and the English for supremacy in South India. There are battlefields in all directions. The cantonment stands upon an old battlefield over which the cannon-balls have roared. It is no uncommon thing for an iron shot to be turned up in the gardens by the marmotty of the gardener. Trade jealousy was at the bottom of the strife, although the ostensible reason for the presence of the Europeans was the support of the rival claims of the native rulers. It was during these wars that Clive distinguished himself. He seems to have borne a charmed life. Men on either side of him were shot dead, while he remained untouched. His presence of mind and intrepid courage carried him safely through every difficulty.
It is said that he often climbed to the top of the rock to study the surrounding country. The view towards all points of the compass is grand. The country lies like a map below ; every rock and landmark mentioned by Orme in his fascinating history is distinguishable through the clear atmosphere. During the nine years that we were at Trichinopoly I frequently went to the top, sometimes in the early morning, sometimes at sunset. The greys and golds and pale-blue haze of the early hours of the Indian day had a beauty of their own, but the time to feast the eye in colour was in the evening when the sun had just disappeared below the horizon. Crimson, orange, and purple flooded the heavens in the west, and the green vegetation took on a richer tint. If the moon were floating in the east, the picture was complete.
At all times of the day Olive's presence haunted the rock, especially in the narrow space at the summit where the temple of Ganesa stands. From that very spot he must have looked down upon the old fort with its walls and towers. His keen eye must have travelled over the narrow streets and the closely packed houses stretching up the skirts of the rock, and have searched the luxuriant island of Srirungam to the north and the thickly wooded country to the south for signs of the enemy. The island to the north remains the same with its brown goparums, but the woods on the south are gone. All that is left of them is a solitary giant banyan on the borders of Puducottah, and a few old trees by the roadside and in the compounds of the houses occupied by the Europeans. The cantonment stands on part of the ground once covered by the wood, and most of the trees that ornament it, now in the full beauty of their growth, were planted when the houses were built.
All through the wars the Tondiman or ruler of Puducottah remained faithful to the English, who drew their food supplies from his country. In vain the French tried to intercept the coolies and capture the convoys. There were occasions when they were successful, and the unfortunate coolies lost their noses; but Stringer Lawrence put an end to the blockade by two hard-fought battles that drove the French from the field (1754). No amount of bribery, or threats, or persuasion could deflect the fidelity of the Tondiman's people or their prince. They reap the reward in the present day. They pay no tribute, and possess certain privileges of self-government enjoyed by very few Indian States. The inhabitants of Puducottah belong to the thief-caste. Every householder in the cantonment employs one of them as a watchman. He is a useful, industrious member of the household, working hard all day, a willing servant of the servants, and shouting during the watches of the night to let his fellow-thieves know that he is at his post, and that they must pass by the dwelling in his charge on their nocturnal prowls.
The old fort is no more. Its sixty square turrets mentioned by the Jesuit father (Bouchet) who visited Trichinopoly in the sixteenth century, and the eighteen towers where grain and ammunition were stored, have vanished. Nothing remains but the mainguard gateway , a portion of the wall on the west, and Dalton's bastion on the north, which have been preserved as a memorial of British valour under Clive, Stringer Lawrence, Dalton, and other officers.
The house in which Clive lived was to be seen in 1879 when I arrived. It had once been a chuttram or native rest-house. The front was adorned with handsome carved stone pillars, on which were the figures of prancing horses, similar, but on a smaller scale, to the pillars in the temple of Srirungam. It stood facing the west in front of the tank at the corner. Since then it has been built over and absorbed into the Jesuit College.
The rock itself is unchanged. The street that runs-round its base is intact. The only access is by stairs cut in the living stone. The temple elephant swings slowly up the steps every day bringing water from the sacred Cauvery for use in the service of the idol. Right and left of the stairs higher up are halls and chambers belonging to the rock temple. At the top of the stairs is a room cut out of the rock. It was formerly used as an arsenal, but is now furnished with a shrine before which lamps burn. When I paid my first visit to the rock the attendant did not trouble to come forward and open the door, but in these days when globe-trotters abound he, with two or three companions, is very much in evidence. Offerings are asked for, and in return the sightseers are allowed to gaze through the open doorway into the murky atmosphere of the windowless hall. They may also enjoy, as I did, the real smell of a heathen temple, wherein the stale smoke from burning incense and the odour of bats and rancid oil are mingled.