THE MAN WHO LOST CASTE
In those days, when the first wave of Hindu emigration struck the Pacific Littoral, I had a little Oriental shop down Yeslerway, in the city of Seattle. My tiny show-window was crammed with the mellow, scented things of the turbaned places. There were rugs and laces and shawls from many lands, carved ivories and soapstones, white jade and green jade; and finally there were a few Hindu gods and many and various daggers, bolos and barongs and kurkrees and khyberees.
Then came the day when he walked into my shop, all the six foot four of him, straight as a lance at rest, bearded, hook-nosed, pink-turbaned, patient-eyed, and silken-voiced. He handled with reverence the little peacock god and the cruel, scissor-like Scinde blade which lay on the counter. And so I knew that he was a Mahratta and a high-caste.
He told me that he was the servant of a retired Anglo-Indian officer who lived in the Queen Anne's
