Glimpses of Bengal | Page 4

of a briskly flowing stream
which led to a region where land and water seemed to merge in each
other, river and bank without distinction of garb, like brother and sister
in infancy.
The river lost its coating of sliminess, scattered its current in many
directions, and spread out, finally, into a beel (marsh), with here a patch
of grassy land and there a stretch of transparent water, reminding me of
the youth of this globe when through the limitless waters land had just
begun to raise its head, the separate provinces of solid and fluid as yet
undefined.
Round about where we have moored, the bamboo poles of fishermen
are planted. Kites hover ready to snatch up fish from the nets. On the
ooze at the water's edge stand the saintly-looking paddy birds in
meditation. All kinds of waterfowl abound. Patches of weeds float on
the water. Here and there rice-fields, untilled, untended,[1] rise from
the moist, clay soil. Mosquitoes swarm over the still waters....
[Footnote 1: On the rich river-side silt, rice seed is simply scattered and
the harvest reaped when ripe; nothing else has to be done.]
We start again at dawn this morning and pass through Kachikata, where
the waters of the beel find an outlet in a winding channel only six or
seven yards wide, through which they rush swiftly. To get our
unwieldy house-boat through is indeed an adventure. The current
hurries it along at lightning speed, keeping the crew busy using their
oars as poles to prevent the boat being dashed against the banks. We
thus come out again into the open river.
The sky had been heavily clouded, a damp wind blowing, with
occasional showers of rain. The crew were all shivering with cold. Such

wet and gloomy days in the cold weather are eminently disagreeable,
and I have spent a wretched lifeless morning. At two in the afternoon
the sun came out, and since then it has been delightful. The banks are
now high and covered with peaceful groves and the dwellings of men,
secluded and full of beauty.
The river winds in and out, an unknown little stream in the inmost
zenana of Bengal, neither lazy nor fussy; lavishing the wealth of her
affection on both sides, she prattles about common joys and sorrows
and the household news of the village girls, who come for water, and
sit by her side, assiduously rubbing their bodies to a glowing freshness
with their moistened towels.
This evening we have moored our boat in a lonely bend. The sky is
clear. The moon is at its full. Not another boat is to be seen. The
moonlight glimmers on the ripples. Solitude reigns on the banks. The
distant village sleeps, nestling within a thick fringe of trees. The shrill,
sustained chirp of the cicadas is the only sound.

SHAZADPUR,
February 1891.
Just in front of my window, on the other side of the stream, a band of
gypsies have ensconced themselves, putting up bamboo frameworks
covered over with split-bamboo mats and pieces of cloth. There are
only three of these little structures, so low that you cannot stand upright
inside. Their life is lived in the open, and they only creep under these
shelters at night, to sleep huddled together.
That is always the gypsies' way: no home anywhere, no landlord to pay
rent to, wandering about as it pleases them with their children, their
pigs, and a dog or two; and on them the police keep a vigilant eye.
I frequently watch the doings of the family nearest me. They are dark
but good-looking, with fine, strongly-built bodies, like north-west
country folk. Their women are handsome, and have tall, slim, well-knit

figures; and with their free and easy movements, and natural
independent airs, they look to me like swarthy Englishwomen.
The man has just put the cooking-pot on the fire, and is now splitting
bamboos and weaving baskets. The woman first holds up a little mirror
to her face, then puts a deal of pains into wiping and rubbing it, over
and over again, with a moist piece of cloth; and then, the folds of her
upper garment adjusted and tidied, she goes, all spick and span, up to
her man and sits beside him, helping him now and then in his work.
These are truly children of the soil, born on it somewhere, bred by the
wayside, here, there, and everywhere, dying anywhere. Night and day
under the open sky, in the open air, on the bare ground, they lead a
unique kind of life; and yet work, love, children, and household
duties--everything is there.
They are not idle for a moment, but always doing something. Her own
particular task over, one woman plumps herself down behind another,
unties the knot of her