From Egypt to Japan

CHAPTER X

Never did travellers open their eyes with more of wonder and curiosity than we, as we awoke the next morning and went on deck and turned to the unaccustomed shore. The sun had risen over the Ghauts, and now cast his light on the islands, covered with cocoanut palms, and on the forest of shipping that lay on the tranquil waters. Here were ships from all parts of the world, not only from the Mediterranean and from England, but from every part of Asia and Africa, and from Australia. A few weeks before had been witnessed here a brilliant sight at the landing of the Prince of Wales. A long arched way of trellis work, still hung with faded wreaths, marked the spot where the future Emperor of India first set foot upon its soil. Our ship, which had anchored off the mouth of the harbor, now steamed up to her moorings, a tug took us off to the Mazagon Bunder, the landing place of the Peninsular and Oriental Company, where we mounted a long flight of granite steps to the quay – and were in India.

Passing through the Custom House gates, we were greeted not by the donkey-boys of Egypt, but by a crowd of barefooted and barelegged Hindoos, clad in snowy white, and with mountainous turbans on their heads, who were ambitious of the honor of driving us into the city. The native carriage (or gharri, as it is called) is not a handsome equipage. It is a mere box, oblong in shape, set on wheels, having latticed windows like a palanquin, to admit the air and shut out the sun. Mounting into such a "State carriage," our solemn Hindoo gave rein to his steed, and we trotted off into Bombay. As our destination was Watson's Hotel, in the English quarter at the extreme end of the city, we traversed almost its whole extent. The streets seemed endless. On and on we rode for miles, till we were able to realize that we were in the second city in the British empire – larger than any in Great Britain except London – larger than Liverpool or Glasgow, or Manchester or Birmingham.

Of course the population is chiefly native, and this it is which excites my constant wonder. As I ride about I ask myself, Am I on the earth, or in the moon? Surely this must be some other planet than the one that I have known before. I see men as trees walking, but they are not of any familiar form or speech. Perhaps it is because we are on the other side of the world, and everything is turned topsy-turvy, and men are walking on their heads. We may have to adopt the Darwinian theory of the origin of man; for these seem to be of another species, to belong to another department of the animal kingdom. That old Hindoo that I see yonder, sitting against the wall, with his legs curled up under him, seems more like a chimpanzee than a man. He has a way of sitting on his heels (a posture which would be impossible for a European, but which he will keep for hours), which is more like an animal than a human creature.

Truly we have never been in such a state of bewilderment since we began our travels, as since we landed in Bombay. Constantinople seemed strange, and Egypt stranger still; but India is strangest of all. The streets are swarming with life, as a hive swarms with bees. The bazaars are like so many ant-hills, but the creatures that go in and out are not like any race that we have seen before. They are not white like Europeans, nor black like Africans, nor red like our American Indians; but are pure Asiatics, of a dark-brown color, the effect of which is the greater, as they are generally clad in the garments which nature gives them. The laboring class go half naked, or more than half. It is only the house-servants that wear anything that can be called a costume. The coolies, or common laborers, have only a strip of cloth around their loins, which they wear for decency, for in this climate they scarcely need any garment for warmth. One thing which is never omitted is the turban, or in its place a thick blanket, to shield the head from the direct rays of the sun. But there is nothing to hide the swarthy breast or limbs. Those of a better condition, who do put on clothing, show the Oriental fondness for gorgeous apparel by having the richest silk turbans and flowing robes. The women find a way to show their feminine vanity, being tricked out in many colors, dark red, crimson and scarlet, with yellow and orange and green and blue – the mingling of which produces a strange effect as one rides through the bazaars and crowded streets, which gleam with all the colors of the rainbow. The effect of this tawdry finery is heightened by the gewgaws which depend from different parts of their persons. Earrings are not sufficiently conspicuous for a Hindoo damsel, who has a ring of gold and pearl hung in her nose; which is considered a great addition to female beauty. Heavy bracelets of silver also adorn her wrists and ankles. Almost every woman who shows herself in the street, though of the lowest condition, and barefoot, still gratifies her pride by huge silver anklets clasping her naked feet.

But these Asiatic faces, strange as they are, would not be unattractive but for artificial disfigurements – if men did not chew the betel nut, which turns the lips to a brilliant red, and did not have their foreheads striped with coarse pigments, which are the badges of their different castes!

Imagine a whole city crowded with dark skinned men and women thus dressed – or not dressed – half naked on the one hand, or bedizened like harlequins on the other, walking about, or perchance riding in little carriages drawn by oxen– a small breed that trot off almost as fast as the donkeys we had in Cairo – and one may have some idea of the picturesque appearance of the streets of Bombay.

We are becoming accustomed to the manners and customs of this eastern world. We never sit down to dinner but with the punka swinging over us, and the "punka-walla," the coolie who swings it, is a recognized institution. In the hot months it is kept swinging all night, and Europeans sleep under it. These things strike us strangely at first, but we soon get used to these tropical devices, and in fact rather like them. In a few days we have become quite Oriental. To confess the truth, there are some things here in the East that are not at all disagreeable to the natural man, especially the devices for coolness and comfort, and the extreme deference to Europeans, which we begin to accept as naturally belonging to us.

At first I was surprised and amused at the manners of the people. It was a new sensation to be in this Asiatic atmosphere, to be surrounded and waited upon by soft-footed Hindoos, who glided about noiselessly like cats, watching every look, eager to anticipate every wish before they heard the word of command. I was never the object of such reverence before. Every one addressed me as "Sahib." I did not know at first what this meant, but took it for granted that it was a title of respect – an impression confirmed by the deferential manner of the attendants. I could not walk through the corridor of the hotel without a dozen servants rising to their feet, who remained standing till I had passed. I was a little taken aback when a turbaned Oriental, in flowing robe, approached me with an air of profound reverence, bending low, as if he would prostrate himself at my feet. If he desired to present a petition to my august majesty (which was, probably, that I would buy a cashmere shawl), he bowed himself almost to the ground, and reached down his hand very low, and then raising it, touched his forehead, as if he would take up the dust of the earth and cast it on his head, in token that he was unworthy to enter into such an awful presence. I never knew before how great a being I was. There is nothing like going far away from home, to the other side of the world, among Hindoos or Hottentots, to be fully appreciated.

After a little experience, one learns to accept these Hindoo salaams and obeisances. Now, when I walk down the passages of the hotel, and snowy turbans rise on either side in token of homage, I bow in acknowledgment, though very slightly, so as not to concede a particle of my dignity, or encourage any familiarity. When I open my door in the morning, I find half a dozen coolies in the passage, who have curled up on mats and slept there all night, as Napoleon's Mameluke slept before his master's door. It gives one a sense of dignity and importance to be thus served and guarded and defended! I suspect all of us have a little (or a good deal) of the Asiatic in our composition, and could easily play the pasha and drop into these soft Eastern ways, and find it not unpleasant to recline on a divan, and be waited on by dusky slaves!

We find that we are in a tropical climate by the heat that oppresses us. Although it is midwinter, we find it prudent as well as pleasant to remain indoors in the middle of the day (time which is very precious for writing), and make our excursions in the morning or evening.

Morning in the tropics is delightful. There is a dewy freshness in the air. Rising at daylight we take a small open carriage – a kind of "one horse shay" – for our ride. It has but one seat, but the Hindoo driver, nimble as a cat, crouches at our feet, with his legs dangling over the side in front of the wheels, and thus mounted we gallop off gayly.

One of our morning excursions was to the Flower Market, where the fruits and flowers of the country are displayed with truly tropical profusion. The building, designed with English taste, is of great extent, surrounding a spacious court, which is laid out like a garden, with fountains and ferns, and flowering shrubs and creepers growing luxuriantly. Here are offered for sale all kinds of poultry and birds, parrots, and even monkeys. The Flower Market is especially brilliant, as flowers are the customary offerings at temples. They are very cheap. Five cents bought a large bunch of roses. White jessamines and yellow marigolds are wrought into wreaths and garlands for their festivities. The fruits we liked less than the flowers. They were very tempting to the eye, but too rich for our appetite. The famous mango cloyed us with its sweetness. Indeed, I made the observation here, which I had to repeat afterwards in Java, that the tropical fruits, though large and luscious, had not the delicate flavor of our Northern fruits. A good New Jersey peach would have been far sweeter to my taste than the ripest orange or mango, or the longest string of bananas.

In the evening we ride out to Malabar Hill, or go to the public gardens which English taste has laid out in different parts of the city. Although Bombay is a city of Hindoos, yet the stamp of English rule is everywhere impressed upon it. Like the cities of Great Britain, it is thoroughly governed. The hand of a master is seen in its perfect police, its well ordered and well lighted streets. There are signs of its being gained by conquest and held by military power. The English quarter is still called the Fort, being on the site of an old fortress, the ramparts of which are all swept away, and in their place are wide streets (indeed too wide for shade), and a number of public buildings – Government offices, the Postoffice, and the Telegraph Building, and the University – which would be an ornament to any city in England. Here English taste comes in to add to its natural beauty in the laying out of open squares. Our windows at the Hotel look out upon the Esplanade, a large parade ground, the very spot where the Sepoys were shot away from the guns after the mutiny, and upon the sea, from which comes at evening a soft, delicious air from the Indian ocean. It is a pretty sight to go here at sunset, when the band is playing and there is a great turnout of carriages, bringing the fashion and wealth of Bombay to listen to the music and inhale the fresh breezes from the sea, that no doubt are sweeter to many in that they seem to come from their beloved England. In the crowd of well dressed people wealthy Parsees (distinguished by their high hats), and Hindoos by their turbans, mingle with English officers, and the children of all run about together on the lawn. My companion noticed particularly the Parsee children, whose dresses were gay with many colors – little fellows shining in pink trousers, blue shirts, green vests, and scarlet caps! Others had satin trousers and vests of some bright color, and over all white muslin or lace trimmings. The effect of such a variety of colors was as if parterres of flowers were laid out on the smooth shaven lawn. In another part of the city the Victoria Gardens are set out like a Botanical Garden, with all manner of plants and trees, especially with an endless variety of palms, under which crowds saunter along the avenues, admiring the wonders of tropical vegetation, and listening to the music that fills the evening air.

The environs of Bombay are very beautiful. Few cities have a more delightful suburb than Malabar Hill, where the English merchant, after the business of the day is over, retreats from the city to enjoy a home which, though Indian without, is English within. Hundreds of bungalows are clustered on these eminences, shaded with palms and embowered in tropical foliage, with steep roofs, always thatched as a better protection from the sun. Here the occupants sit at evening on the broad verandahs, stretched in their long bamboo chairs, enjoying the cool air that comes in from the sea, and talk of England or of America.

There are not many Americans in Bombay, although in one way the city is, or was, closely connected with our country. Nowhere was the effect of our civil war more felt than in India, as it gave a great impetus to its cotton production. Under the sudden and powerful stimulus, Bombay started up into an artificial prosperity. Fortunes were made rapidly. The close of the war brought a panic from which it has not yet recovered. But the impulse given has remained, and I am told that there is at this moment more cotton grown in India than ever before, although the fall in prices has cut off the great profits. But the cost of transportation is much less, as the railroads constructed within a few years afford the means of bringing it to market, where before it had to be drawn slowly over the mountains in ox-carts. This flow of cotton to the seaports has been turned to account by the erection of cotton mills (several of which have been started here in Bombay), which, under the direction of Englishmen, and having the double advantage of native cotton and native labor, may yet supplant English fabrics in the markets of India.

Though there are few Americans (except the missionaries) here, yet there is one who has all the enterprise of his countrymen, Mr. Kittredge, who came out to India many years ago, and is now the head of the old house of Stearns, Hobart & Co. He has introduced that peculiarly American institution, the street railway – or tramway, as it is called here – which is a great comfort in moving about the city, where transportation before was chiefly by little ox-carts. The cars run smoothly, and as they are open at the sides are delightfully cool. The Hindoos, though slow in adopting new ideas or new ways, take to these as an immense convenience. Not the least good effect is the pressure which they bring to bear on caste, by forcing those of different castes to sit side by side!

A very singular people, found in Bombay, and nowhere else in India, are the Parsees, who differ from the Hindoos both in race and religion. They are followers of Zoroaster, the philosopher of Persia, from which they were driven out centuries ago by the merciless followers of the Prophet, and took refuge in Western India, and being, as a class, of superior intelligence and education, they have risen to a high position. They are largely the merchants of Bombay, and among them are some of its wealthiest citizens, whose beautiful houses, surrounded with gardens, line the road to Parell, the residence of the Governor. They are fire-worshippers, adoring it as the principle of life. Morning and evening they may be seen uncovering their heads, and turning reverently to the rising or the setting sun, and offering their adoration to the great luminary, which they regard as the source of all life on earth. As I have seen them on the seashore, turning their faces to the setting sun, and lifting their hands as if in prayer, I have thought, that if this be idolatry, it is at least not so degrading as that of the Hindoos around them, for if they bow to a material object, it is at least the most glorious which they see in nature. The more intelligent of them, however, explain that it is not the sun itself they worship, but only regard it as the brightest symbol and manifestation of the Invisible Deity. But they seem to have an idolatrous reverence for fire, and keep a lamp always burning in their houses. It is never suffered to go out day nor night, from year to year. The same respect which they show to fire, they show also to the other elements – earth, air, and water.

A revolting application of their principles is seen in their mode of disposing of the dead. They cannot burn them, as do the Hindoos, lest the touch of death should pollute the flames; nor can they bury them in the earth, nor in the sea, for earth and water and air are all alike sacred. They therefore expose the bodies of their dead to be devoured by birds of the air. Outside of Bombay, on Malabar Hill, are three or four circular towers – called The Towers of Silence, which are enclosed by a high wall to keep observers at a distance. When a Parsee dies, his body is conveyed to the gates, and there received by the priests, by whom it is exposed on gratings constructed for the purpose.

Near at hand, perched in groves of palms, are the vultures. We saw them there in great numbers. As soon as a funeral procession approaches, they scent their prey, and begin to circle in the air; and no sooner is a body uncovered, and left by the attendants, than a cloud of black wings settles down upon it, and a hundred horned beaks are tearing at the flesh. Such are their numbers and voracity, that in a few minutes – so we are told – every particle is stripped from the bones, which are then slid down an inclined plane into a deep pit, where they mingle with common clay.

Compared with this, the Hindoo mode of disposing of the dead, by burning, seems almost like Christian burial. Yet it is done in a mode which is very offensive. In returning from Malabar Hill one evening, along the beautiful drive around the bay, we noticed a number of furnace-like openings, where fires were burning, from which proceeded a sickening smell, and were told that this was the burning of the bodies of the Hindoos!