Glimpses of Bengal | Page 5

hair and cleans and arranges it for her; and
whether at the same time they fall to talking over the domestic affairs
of the three little mat-covered households I cannot say for certain from
this distance, but shrewdly suspect it.
This morning a great disturbance invaded the peaceful gypsy settlement.
It was about half-past eight or nine. They were spreading out over the
mat roofs tattered quilts and sundry other rags, which serve them for
beds, in order to sun and air them. The pigs with their litters, lying in a
hollow all of a heap and looking like a dab of mud, had been routed out
by the two canine members of the family, who fell upon them and sent
them roaming in search of their breakfasts, squealing their annoyance at
being interrupted in enjoyment of the sun after the cold night. I was
writing my letter and absently looking out now and then when the
hubbub suddenly commenced.
I rose and went to the window, and found a crowd gathered round the
gypsy hermitage. A superior-looking personage was flourishing a stick
and indulging in the strongest language. The headman of the gypsies,
cowed and nervous, was apparently trying to offer explanations. I

gathered that some suspicious happenings in the locality had led to this
visitation by a police officer.
The woman, so far, had remained sitting, busily scraping lengths of
split bamboo as serenely as if she had been alone and no sort of row
going on. Suddenly, however, she sprang to her feet, advanced on the
police officer, gesticulated violently with her arms right in his face, and
gave him, in strident tones, a piece of her mind. In the twinkling of an
eye three-quarters of the officer's excitement had subsided; he tried to
put in a word or two of mild protest but did not get a chance, and so
departed crestfallen, a different man.
After he had retreated to a safe distance, he turned and shouted back:
"All I say is, you'll have to clear out from here!"
I thought my neighbours opposite would forthwith pack up their mats
and bamboos and move away with their bundles, pigs, and children.
But there is no sign of it yet. They are still nonchalantly engaged in
splitting bamboos, cooking food, or completing a toilet.

SHAZADPUR,
February 1891.
The post office is in a part of our estate office building,--this is very
convenient, for we get our letters as soon as they arrive. Some evenings
the postmaster comes up to have a chat with me. I enjoy listening to his
yarns.
He talks of the most impossible things in the gravest possible manner.
Yesterday he was telling me in what great reverence people of this
locality hold the sacred river Ganges. If one of their relatives dies, he
said, and they have not the means of taking the ashes to the Ganges,
they powder a piece of bone from his funeral pyre and keep it till they
come across some one who, some time or other, has drunk of the
Ganges. To him they administer some of this powder, hidden in the

usual offering of pán[1], and thus are content to imagine that a portion
of the remains of their deceased relative has gained purifying contact
with the sacred water.
[Footnote 1: Spices wrapped in betel leaf.]
I smiled as I remarked: "This surely must be an invention."
He pondered deeply before he admitted after a pause: "Yes, it may be."

ON THE WAY.
February 1891.
We have got past the big rivers and just turned into a little one.
The village women are standing in the water, bathing or washing
clothes; and some, in their dripping saris, with veils pulled well over
their faces, move homeward with their water vessels filled and clasped
against the left flank, the right arm swinging free. Children, covered all
over with clay, are sporting boisterously, splashing water on each other,
while one of them shouts a song, regardless of the tune.
Over the high banks, the cottage roofs and the tops of the bamboo
clumps are visible. The sky has cleared and the sun is shining.
Remnants of clouds cling to the horizon like fluffs of cotton wool. The
breeze is warmer.
There are not many boats in this little river; only a few dinghies, laden
with dry branches and twigs, are moving leisurely along to the tired
plash! plash! of their oars. At the river's edge the fishermen's nets are
hung out to dry between bamboo poles. And work everywhere seems to
be over for the day.

CHUHALI.

June 1891.
I had been sitting out on the deck for more than a quarter of an hour
when heavy clouds rose in the west. They came up, black, tumbled, and
tattered,