By-Ways of Bombay | Page 3

waves.

Thence, after a pause and a final prayer, they bear him homeward, as
men bear a corpse, nor leave him until he has regained consciousness
and his very self. For with that last shrill cry the ghost of Chandrabai
fled across the waste waters to meet the pale ancestral dead and dwell
with them for evermore: and the house of Vishnu the fisherman was
freed from the curse of her vagrant and unpropitiated spirit. "She has
never troubled me since that day," says Vishnu; "but at times when I
am out in my fishing-boat and the wind blows softly from the west, I
hear her voice calling to me across the waters. And one day, if the gods
are kind, I shall sail westward to meet her!"

* * * * *

II.
BOMBAY SCENES.
MORNING.
"Binishin bar sari juyo guzari umr bibin kin isharat zi jahani guzeran
mara bas."
So wrote the great poet of Persia: "Sit thou on the bank of a stream and
in the flow of its waters watch the passing of thy life. Than this a vain
and fleeting world can grant thee no higher lesson." Of the human tides
which roll through the streets of the cities of the world, none are
brighter or more varied than that which fills the streets of Bombay.
Here are Memon and Khoja women in shirt and trousers ("kurta" and
"izzar") of green and gold or pink or yellow, with dark blue sheets used
as veils, wandering along with their children dressed in all the hues of
the rainbow. Here are sleek Hindus from northern India in soft muslin
and neat coloured turbans: Gujarathis in red head-gear and close-fitting
white garments; Cutchi sea-farers, descendants of the pirates of dead
centuries, with clear-cut bronzed features that show a lingering strain of
Med or Jat, clad in white turbans, tight jackets, and waist cloths girded

tightly over trousers that button at the ankle. There, mark you, are
many Bombay Mahomedans of the lower class with their long white
shirts, white trousers and skull-caps of silk or brocade: there too is
every type of European from the almost albino Finn to the swarthy
Italian,--sailors most of them, accompanied by a few Bombay roughs as
land-pilots; petty officers of merchant ships, in black or blue dress,
making up a small private cargo of Indian goods with the help of a
Native broker; English sailors of the Royal Navy; English soldiers in
khaki; Arabs from Syria and the valley of the Euphrates; half-Arab,
half-Persian traders from the Gulf, in Arab or old Persian costumes and
black turbans with a red border. Here again comes a Persian of the old
school with arched embroidered turban of white silk, white "aba" or
undercoat reaching to the ankles, open grey "shaya," and soft yellow
leather shoes; and he is followed by Persians of the modern school in
small stiff black hats, dark coats drawn in at the waist, and English
trousers and boots. After them come tall Afghans, their hair well-oiled,
in the baggiest of trousers; Makranis dressed like Afghans but
distinguished by their sharper nose and more closely-set eyes; Sindis in
many-buttoned waistcoats; Negroes from Africa clad in striped waist
cloths, creeping slowly through the streets and pausing in wonder at
every new sight; Negroes in the Bombay Mahomedan dress and red fez;
Chinese with pig-tails: Japanese in the latest European attire; Malays in
English jackets and loose turbans; Bukharans in tall sheep skin caps
and woollen gabardines, begging their way from Mecca to to their
Central Asian homes, singing hymns in honour of the Prophet, or
showing plans of the Ka'aba or of the shrine of the saint of saints,
Maulana Abdul Kadir Gilani, at Baghdad.
[Illustration: A Millhand.]
[Illustration: A Marwari selling Batassa.]
The ebb and flow of life remains much the same from day to day. The
earliest street sound, before the dawn breaks, is the rattle of the trams,
the meat-carts on their way to the markets, the dust-carts and the
watering-carts; and then, just as the grey thread of the dawn fringes the
horizon, the hymn of the Fakir rings forth, praising the open-handed

Ali and imploring the charity of the early-riser who knows full well that
a copper bestowed unseen during the morning watch is worth far more
than silver bestowed in the sight of men. On a sudden while the
penurious widows and broken respectables are yet prosecuting their
rounds of begging, the great cry "Allaho Akbar" breaks from the
mosques and the Faithful troop forth from their homes to
prayer--prayer which is better than sleep. More commonplace sounds
now fill the air, the hoarse "Batasaa, Batasaa" of the fat Marwari with
the cakes, the "Lo phote, lo phote" (Buy my cocoa-cakes) of a little old
Malabari woman,