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CHAPTER IV FROM RYOTS TO
RAJAHS EVERY one knows what a rajah is, but the ryot is not such a widely recognised man. Yet two thirds of the population of the British Empire is composed of ryots, who outnumber the inhabitants of the British Isles by five to one. The ryot is, in short, the Indian peasant, and in the census papers he conies out easily top of the list with a score of over two hundred millions. He is the poorest man who owns allegiance to the King, and his average income is three halfpence a day. Oftentimes it comes to pass that between him and salvation only hovers a shower of rain. For a wage of twopence halfpenny or threepence a day, he will emigrate to distant parts of the Empire; offer him eightpence, and he will go to the West Indies or the islands of the Pacific. He is chronically in debt, and when his creditors sell him up they are lucky if his estate realises ten shillings. Of such is the ryot as a pecuniary asset of the Empire. He is
nominally a
civilised man, on whom caste has conferred an elaborate social system,
and he
has behind him a history from which he has evolved a policy — patience,
— and a
philosophy — fatalism. Khoda jáne!
(“God knows!”) and “Khoda ka
merzee”
(“It is the will of God”) sum up his speculations of the future, and
register
his resignation to the past. He has nothing more to say. And yet this
humble
creature produces rajahs — pages of them, as any Indian directory will
certify
— as penny fares produce railway kings, or the soil of a flower-bed
tulips. In
fact, the rajahs are the tulips that spring out of this sad clay of
humanity.
Without the ryot, there would be no Golden East. He is the atom of dust
which,
mingled with millions of other atoms, gives growth to those gorgeous
blossoms
that shed their lustre in England, when Jubilee or Coronation calls
them to her
shores. Those gems and jewels you see decorating the portly exteriors
of dusky
potentates are paid for with the sweat of the ryot’s brow. A large
portion of
the eighty million pounds of revenue annually extracted from India
comes from
the pockets of the peasantry. “The ryot
at home”
can be drawn with a piece of charcoal on a whitewashed wall. Item, a
single-roomed thatched hut, built by himself, without doors, windows,
or chimney;
item, a floor, plastered with cow-dung, and three or five bricks, set
like a
robin trap, to serve as fire-place; item, a rough framework of wood
with some
coir rope strung across it to act as a bed for the master of the house;
item, a
few earthenware pots to contain water, and ditto dishes to serve up
food in;
item, something which looks like a patchwork door-mat, but is in
reality his
bedclothes; item, a cloth for his loins, another for his shoulders, and
a third
for his head; item, his wife’s petticoat, bodice, and saree (into which, woman-like,
she manages
to get a dash of colour and look picturesque). The inventory is
complete. We
read in the Bible of a man taking up his bed and walking; the ryot can
in many
cases not only take up his bed, but all his family’s belongings, and
trot off
with them. His
uneventful life
is one of dreary monotony and labour, with a week of seven working
days.
Perhaps three or four times a year, he enjoys a holiday, when some
festival of
his caste permits the opportunity. If he has saved up fourpence to
squander on
sweetmeats, he is a jubilant man. But a little of this dissipation has
to go a
long way, and his eye is always on the sky, looking for that shower of
rain. If
it does not come, he is bankrupt. Nay, as like as not, the blue
firmament may
have his death-warrant written on it. The field
he tills
is not his own, for in India all land belongs to the ruler of the
territory,
and rent has to be paid for it; he is assessed from an eighth to half
his
produce. If he has mortgaged his land, and he nearly always has, it is
never
less than half. If he has
no land,
he must still be taxed. It is naturally rather difficult to levy on a
person
whose income is tenpence halfpenny a week; but still it must be done in
order
that the wheels of the chariot of British Empire may roll on. You would
think
that a man who was too poor to hold land under the conditions described
would
be too poor to tax. Excise cannot reach him; it would be positively
indecent to
demand tribute from his dress, although if in his vanity he demands
English
cotton goods he has to pay duty on them. But the Government of India in
its
infinite wisdom has discovered a method of bleeding stones. In the
economy of
nature, man is an animal who cannot avoid eating salt, and that
necessary
article of diet has been put under contribution, whereby even the
beggars of
the Empire pay their tribute to Cæsar. The salt-tax is one of the
soundest
fiscal resources in India. In the
district
where I lived there were some mines that yielded black salt, a
villainous-looking substance like dark sandstone. I have known natives
to
travel three days’ journey to those mines, to give a day’s free labour
for
quarrying, and go home again three days’ march, in order that they
might lay in
their year’s supply at the cheapest rate. It cost them a week’s travel,
plus a
shilling, and most of the shilling went to Government in the shape of
salt-tax.
I vow
there is no
more pathetic figure in the British Empire than the Indian ryot. His
masters
have ever been unjust to him, and ground and ground him until
everything has
been expressed, except the marrow of his bones. Even Nature has scant
pity on
him, for she constantly scourges him with famine, and (as happened
three years
ago) exterminates a million lives with a dry breath. A sword, like that
of
Damocles, hangs permanently suspended over the ryot, and every sowing
season,
he sees the hair that sustains it stretching like a piece of elastic.
Perhaps
it is a merciful thing for him that he is a fatalist, and that “the
will of
God” sufficiently explains for him the multitude of his hardships and
the
inequality of his state. As in
England, so
in India, it is a great step up from the agricultural labourer to the
artisan
class. The latter are a well-to-do folk, and you seldom see them
suffering the
pinch of poverty, except in the universal cataclysm of a famine. The
system of
caste has in practice made a trades-union of each calling, and very
definite
are the rules and conditions under which members work. A strike, in the
English
sense, does not enter into the policy of the Eastern artisan; but,
nevertheless, he has an acute appreciation of the exact amount of work
to be
rendered for his remuneration, which is regulated by custom, and not
individual
ability, and you cannot hurry him. He is
often an
ingenious fellow, and his æsthetic sense is proved by his ornamental
metal
work, his exquisite wood-carving, his elegant architecture, and his
masterly
moulding. Sir George Birdwood has it that he is a born artist. If you
let him
go to work his own way, he will often surmount difficulties you would
not give
him the credit of being able to overcome. I can remember a village
blacksmith
who was employed as an assistant handy-man to an engineer, and
eventually
stepped into his place, not only driving an engine, but keeping its
working
parts in repair. I have known a mason whose wage was sixpence a day to
build a
house from a plan, when he himself could neither read nor write; and a
carpenter on four shillings a week to copy most excellently well the
design of
a piece of English furniture from the illustration in an advertisement.
In many cases, not only is the calling of the artisan hereditary, but his particular appointment. Each village has its blacksmith, carpenter, and potter, who are communal functionaries, and bound by immemorial custom to render certain services, for which they get what is in effect a salary from the village, and each villager has a prescriptive right to have certain things done for him. But amongst these skilled folk you shall look in vain for a plumber, a painter, or a cabinetmaker, as you may for a chemist’s, a stationer’s, or a bookseller’s shop. On the other hand, you will find many more workers in brass, silver, and gold than in similar communities in England — for this reason, that all the native’s domestic utensils are made of brass, and most of his savings go to making silver or gold ornaments for his wife. That is his “capital.” The common
carrier
does a great business in India, though much less now than in the days
before
railways. In many parts, beasts of burden, chiefly oxen, are the
principal
means of transport, and the brinjari’s
life is much like that of the gipsy’s. You meet him everywhere, with
his droves
of pack-oxen, carrying grain and merchandise from distant places to
feed the
great lines of railway. He seems out of date in this age, and yet a
hundred
years ago his prototype was common enough in England, when the roads
there were
certainly not to be compared with those in India at the present day. Of all
classes in
Indian life there is no one who seems so admirably suited to his
setting as the
Indian tradesman. In the first place, he lives in an atmosphere of
money, be it
silver, copper, or cowrie shells, and that appeals to the national
character.
In the second place, he can be indolently industrious, that is to say,
put in a
long day’s work sitting on his hams. In a
calling where
competition largely enters, the Indian tradesman is curiously
conservative. He
does not go about looking for a good “pitch,” or trying to find a
neighbourhood
where he will have a monopoly of the article he deals in. Custom has
ordained
that in an Indian bazaar birds of a feather shall flock together, and
the
different streets become a sort of exclusive market for each commodity.
In this
place, you will see a row of grain sellers, in that, a congregation of
hardware
merchants; the butchers are all established cheek by jowl yonder, and
the cloth
merchants cluster in a quarter of their own. A morning’s miscellaneous
shopping
takes you “round the town.” The art of advertising is absolutely
unknown, and
the shopkeeper’s name is more often than not considered unnecessary
above his
shop. You would think that the communal system, which is so
characteristic of
the Indian village, had entered into the trade of the country, and that
it was
conducted on the principles of a trust, with no need to compete. The
shopkeeper sits
on the floor of his shop, surrounded by his various goods, and his
client
addresses him from the street or gutter. He never rises to serve a
customer,
for everything is within reach of his hand. He may solicit the passer-
by to
purchase, but if unsuccessfully, his philosophy is much the same as the
ryot’s
— it is the will of God. If, however, any one stops to deal, he will
haggle for
all time. Providence having sent a customer his way, the personal
equation
enters, and he must not be allowed to depart without buying. The shops
in a
bazaar all seem about the same size. There are no large establishments,
and a
Corner Grocery or Cash Stores are out of the question, because each man
sells
his particular wares and nothing else. There are no shop-assistants,
and,
needless to say, no early closing. Women never meddle with trade, which
is
solely in the hands of the men. Credit is universally given, and huge
interest
added. Short weights are common, and the milkman waters his milk to an
atrocious degree. Scales are made of wood and string, and before
weighment are
ostentatiously suspended to demonstrate that they hang evenly, whilst
when it
comes to the balance, the side of the hand is always on the side of the
commodity being weighed, and seldom idle. A native will brag that he
“saved” or
“made” so much in the process of weighing. Silversmiths require
particular
attention, or they will mix alloy with sterling metal. The ambition of
every
trader is to become a money-lender, for usury has an irresistible charm
to the
native mind. The
moneyed classes
in India are either landowners on a large scale or merchants trading in
a large
way. They form a small percentage of the population in point of
numbers. The
investment of wealth in India inclines to land, for in a country where
the soil
theoretically belongs to the ruler, to possess a share carries a
certain
prestige with it, and the instinct of the Hindu race is agricultural.
The
Indian system of registration makes land tenure far more safe and
simple than
in England, with its intricacies of titles and title-deeds. There is,
however,
a growing tendency to invest moneys in securities, and the Government
savings
banks are well patronised. In the head centres of commerce, the
mercantile
classes have been bitten with the mania of speculative investment, and
the
cotton market of Bombay and the industrial ventures in Calcutta supply
plenty
of media for gambling. When gold was discovered in Southern India some
years
ago, many companies were formed, and the wild speculation in their
shares was
quite Western in its intensity. The spirit of gambling is curiously
pronounced
in a race that is otherwise thrifty by instinct. The Marwarries, or native bankers
of Calcutta, wager wildly on
the rain when the monsoon is about to burst, and, to draw illustration
from a
trifle, in bargaining between Europeans and shopkeepers, a proposal to
toss to
fix the price is seldom declined, and sometimes proposed, “Hoarding”
is very
commonly adopted by those who have money, and mother earth is probably
the
principal of all Indian banks. To dig a hole in the floor of his house
and bury
his money there is still the favourite resource of many a native, and
could all
the buried treasure in the country be brought to light, it would
probably be
sufficient to pay off the national debt of the Empire. In my own
experience, I
have frequently, in the course of business transactions, had money
tendered me
in bags the shaking of which disclosed a very fair sample of the soil
from
which the rupees had recently been disinterred; and I have known much
wailing
and lamentation to follow the sudden death of an individual who had
omitted to
disclose the spot where his money was hidden from his own heirs. The homes
of the
moneyed classes do not, as a rule, display the striking contrast to the
homes
of the poor to which one is accustomed in England. Drawing and dining
rooms there
reflect the taste and indicate the care of English wives, but in India,
the
woman has no voice in these matters, for her apartments are separate
and
secluded. Then, again, there is no furniture; chairs and tables are
unknown in
Indian native life, not to mention glazed windows and chimneys. The
Indian has
no sense of surrounding himself with comfort, in English home phrase.
Cover the
floor with mats or carpets, and you have finished his house-furnishing.
He
would feel as awkward in a furnished room as Europeans would to live in
one of
his bare apartments. The love of display is a guiding principle in the
lives of
the wealthy, and if they squander money, they would much rather buy an
equipage
that will attract attention when they are abroad than furnish their
homes in a
way which only the occasional European visitor could appreciate, and to
adapt
themselves to which would be positive discomfort. You have but to see a
native
sitting on a chair to realise this, albeit the offer of one is the most
coveted
compliment you can pay him. He writhes in it much as an Englishman
would do
were he compelled to sit for any length of time on the floor. High, high on the top of the Indian social tree, whose roots draw nourishment from the two hundred millions of ryots, blossoms the rajah. How many there are of him, big, little, and middling, it would be hard to say (for the principle of petty principalities is as indigenous to Hindustan as to Germany), but it may safely be stated as not very far short of a thousand. How petty some of them are who are, nevertheless, entitled to the distinction of “Rajah” can scarce be credited. One I knew would hobnob with my servants, and his revenue from his hereditary kingdom was considerably less than £200 a year. He lived in a most picturesque old castle, inhabited chiefly by snakes, scorpions, and bats, but he spent most of his life in the neighbouring British law court defending actions for debt. I remember entering a walled town in Kattywar and seeing what looked like a loafer drinking gin out of a bottle as he squatted in the gateway. “Who are you?” I asked. “The King of this country,” he replied with perfect truth. He boasted an ancestry that was supposed to go back to the sun. And talking of ancestry, ill the published life of “Lútfullah,” a respectable Mahomedan gentleman, you may see in the beginning a pedigree extended back to Adam in sober pride and credulous satisfaction. From the
riffraff
of royalty, to whom I have alluded, it is a far cry to such potentates
as the
Nizam of Hyderabad, the Guicwar of Baroda, or the Maharajah of Mysore,
rulers
who govern kingdoms as extensive as the British Isles in whole or in
part. Nor
must mention be omitted of the Rajah of Udaipúr, whose proud boast is
that he
never bent the knee to the Great Mogul. His absence through
“indisposition”
from the Delhi durbar
ceremony of
January, 1903, when the King was proclaimed Emperor of India, was, I
make no
doubt, due to his disinclination to yield precedence to other rajahs
placed
above him. Officially
the nice
degrees of, what I may call, the superior kings are indicated by the
salutes
they are entitled to receive. Thus there are some three or four to whom
the
compliment of twenty-one guns is accorded on State occasions. From
this, by
diminutions of two guns, the salutes dwindle down to nine. The greatest
punishment that can be inflicted on an Indian king is to dock him a
couple of
guns in his salute. It sends him down a place in his class, and the
jealousy
amongst these sovereigns transcends description. Another
mode of
assessing a rajah is by his income, which is in practice the entire
revenue of
his state. As the English talk of six-pounders, twelve-ton guns, and
eighty-ton
guns, so they talk in India of one-lakh, ten-lakh, and thirty-lakh
rajahs, a lakh
being a hundred thousand rupees. The rajah fixes his own civil list,
and
expends the balance of his revenue on the expenses of his state, and
his life
is often one long struggle to keep the major portion to squander on
himself. The Indian
courtier
has brought the art of fawning and flattering to an acme, and words
would be
powerless to describe the atmosphere of adulation in which the rajah
lives. To
see him lost in self-indulgence is the one end and aim of his
ministers, in
order that they may be left a free hand. Thus every temptation is
spread before
him, and every snare set that safety permits. When a rajah takes to
vicious
ways, it may be said that what he does not do to disgrace humanity
leaves very
little to be done. Happily the power of life and death is not left in
his hands
by the suzerain power. There is a
school
for young rajahs, where they are trained in the way they should go, and
afforded an education on good wholesome public-school lines. It has
worked
wonders, and is turning out a new race of rajahs to take the place of
the old,
besotted, obese brutes, who have disgraced so many thrones in the East.
The new
rajah is a very decent fellow — certainly for some time after he has
left
school. He can ride, shoot, play polo, cricket, tennis, and other
games, and
comport himself like a man; dance, too, and behave in a drawing-room
like a
gentleman. If he avoids drink, and rises superior to the almost
overpowering
temptations of the zenana
or the
harem, he often becomes a first-rate governing man, especially if he
belongs to
one of the martial races. The power
for good
and evil vested in the hands of a rajah is enormous, even though he
have a
British official Resident at his court to keep an eye on how he is
conducting
himself. No Viceroy or Governor can appeal to the people of India like
one of
their own rulers. The Englishman is an impersonal potentate; no matter
what his
status, he is “unclean” to the Hindu, a “Kafir” to the Mahomedan. He
lacks
colour and picturesqueness, even though he be a Lord Curzon, and
altogether
fails to elicit the same genuine admiration in an Indian durbar that an Indian rajah
does in an
English assembly. On the other hand, the rajah is in accord with his
subjects
in sentiment, creed, and thought. He appeals to their instincts with
his
display. They love to see his elephants and gaily caparisoned horsemen,
his
silks and his jewels, his retainers and entourage.
His barbaric pleasures delight them; he tosses money to the multitudes
in his
progress; he feasts them at appropriate seasons; he is a link between
the
present and the past. What is the coming or going of a sober-coated
foreigner
to them? What, even, the marriage of a Viceroy? But when a rajah comes
into his
own, or marries, or has a son born to him, then is the whole kingdom
interested, entertained, and made happy in a round of feasting and
festivities
free to all. And if he “squeezes” his ryots to get money to build a new palace, or deck with jewels the latest favourite in his zenana, or to entertain a Viceroy, or — newest and most extravagant whim of all! — to make a summer trip to England, well, there is the land; it bears crops. There is the land-tiller; he is patient and long-suffering. He has paid the piper for ages, and never called the tune. He can go on paying! And whilst his liege lord and master is astonishing the richest city in the world with the glitter of his gems, and the magnificence of his establishment, the poorest subject in the world merely turns his eyes to the blue skies and sighs. |