Thank you Rhoda Alex for sharing this link to Southern India, written by F.E. Penny, with paintings by Lady Lawley, published 1914 by A. & C. Black in London. This book offers us a perceptive description of how caste is inscribed upon the colonised subject’s worldview and body and a glimpse of colonial Madras.
Chapter 1
Government House and the Mount Road, Madras
India is a land of contrasts. They are not far to seek. They stand out with startling vividness side by side in the streets of every large town. Poverty and wealth, squalor and splendour, the twice -born Brahman and the despised outcaste move together in the broad highway, never touching each other as they pass, nor mingling their lives. Poverty devoid of pride humbly steps aside, holding out the suppliant hand as splendour, mounted on an elephant or Arab horse, rides by. The outcaste Punchama, considered too degraded to tie the shoe-string of the caste man, shrinks under the shadow of the wall as the Brahman strolls on his way in the middle of the street. However thronged the road may be with traffic, the Brahman has no fear that he will be run over or jostled ; for it is well known that the unfortunate person who causes the death of a Brahman must expiate his sin by myriads of re-births on this earth, wherein he will find little joy and much sorrow.
Yet the Brahman does not have it all his own way. The street may be used by the Muhammadan, who regards every man not of his own faith as an infidel and therefore contemptible ; or by the European, who brings a good-natured indifference to the East which the oriental has never understood.
There is no greater contrast than that which is experienced on leaving the gates of Government House in Madras. The change is felt in the scene and moral atmosphere. The park in which the house stands, with its deer, its flowers and shrubs, its peaceful retirement, is exchanged at the very gateway itself for a wide dusty street full of life and noise.
The street is bordered by portia trees that bear a pale yellow tulip-shaped blossom. They grow readily and love the sea air ; and their bright green foliage is pleasant to look upon ; otherwise the portia is not altogether a desirable avenue tree. The banyan and tamarind are more graceful and give a deeper shade.
Under the trees not twenty yards from the gates may be seen the hawkers of rice-cakes, bananas, oranges, betel-leaf and areca-nut. Ten yards farther on squats a Valluvan, the astrologer and humble doctor-magician of one of the many hamlets of which Madras is composed. A bullock-cart with tired cattle halts under the very wall of the park. The bulls eat their provender of rice-straw, and the driver buys himself a rice-cake and a banana of the vendors near him.
Along the road pass bullock-carts, horses and carriages, motors and bicycles, ponies and jutkas – the two-wheeled conveyance of the country – and a constant stream of pedestrians. No one hurries in the East: yet for all that the drivers shout and gesticulate as they flog and goad their poor harried beasts, as if everything depended on the saving of time.
The soft red dust from the laterite road rises like powdered ochre and turns golden in the afternoon sun. The sea-breeze comes in from the Indian Ocean bringing with it the soft undertone of the falling surf; it brushes up the rustling fronds of the palms with a promise of refreshing coolness. The Cooum River that bounds on one side the Government House grounds, is spread in sheets of silver over its muddy bed. In the brackish water grows a weed that sets free the noxious phosphates of the mud. The air is polluted with a smell which even the double jasmine and Persian roses in the gardens cannot dominate.
The Governor’s carriage passes out with its servants in scarlet liveries, its prancing horses and its dignified coachman, whose likeness Lady Lawley has caught in her sketch. The equipage is accompanied by an escort of the bodyguard – selected native troopers in red uniforms with glittering steel accoutrements and pennoned lances. The cavalcade clatters by; the red dust dances madly in the sun, and every eye is turned to follow the gorgeous sight until it is swallowed up in the golden haze of the Mount road.
Muniswami, the butler, is left standing on the top of the steps of Government House. In his way and among his people he is an important person. He is the head of the domestic establishment, which he rules over with the strong hand of a despot. He has seen a long succession of notable Governors and notable guests at the Governor’s table. He understands the importance of his position, and maintains the dignity of it with acknowledged gravity. Butlers in private families pay him the highest compliment by imitating his manner and his tone.
One and all from the highest to the lowest are full of a curious wonder as they gaze after His Excellency; but this attitude does not spring from any feeling of envy. Among all classes there is covetousness of wealth and a desire to possess it; and this is shown in the usual ways of robbery and over-reaching; but the envy of social position is unknown in a country that is fast bound in the inexorable fetters of the caste system.
No one, from the Brahman passing along the road at his ease to the pariah widow selling betel-leaf and areca-nut under the portia trees, envies the Governor his high position; no one grudges him his brilliant escort of Lancers, his horses and carriages, his palace with its pillared verandahs and spacious rooms nor his numerous servants. But all alike, from the Brahman downwards, would have no objection to dip a hand into the Treasury chest, that the Governor helps to control.
Caste and the doctrine of fatalism in India combine to keep the units of humanity in their places, and to promote a contentment and resignation at which the European never ceases to marvel. Advocates of progress gird against the paralysing influence of caste. Were caste broken down tomorrow there would still be fatalism to deal with. “What is written on a man’s forehead cannot be rubbed off,” say Hindu and Muhammadan alike. The Governor’s fate has to be fulfilled to the letter. Rich as he seems to be and surrounded by magnificence, he cannot escape the fate “that is written on his forehead” and relegate his duties to any other person. He is as much bound to his position by birth and circumstances as the widowed betel-vendor is compelled by birth and circumstances to sell her wares just outside Government House gates.
The Governor has gone; the extra cloud of dust raised by the tramp of the escort’s horses settles down into its normal condition of haze; the attention of the staring open-mouthed people returns to the business of the day: they pass on; and we are left to watch the ways of the East on the high road.
One of the peculiarities of an Indian city, whether in the north or south, is the mixture of races that is to be seen at all times of the day. Possibly there is the same admixture in London, Paris, or Vienna, but it is not so marked, so obvious. It would be extremely difficult in Piccadilly to distinguish the different nationalities. Unless the ear caught the sound of the tongue, the eye could not decide with any certainty whether this man was a German and that a Frenchman. On the contrary, a Spaniard might be mistaken for an Italian, and a Greek for a Jew.
In an Indian city the identity of each nationality is plainly written on face and figure. The most casual observer can distinguish between a Muhammadan and a Hindu, an Afghan and a Singhalese, a Mahratta and an Armenian, an Arab and a Burmese; yet they are all of an oriental complexion and Asiatic type.
Among the Hindus themselves a distinction is visible. The Brahman and the Muckwa fisherman, the chetty and the syce, the coolie labourer and the clerk serving in a shop or office, the purohit or temple attendant and the domestic servant, are each to be recognised at a glance. Trade and caste have their marks and signs by which their followers may be known ; and it may be said with certainty : “There goes an Afghan ; he has come from the far north with horses ; he has sold them for money, which he will lay out on some product of the south that finds a ready sale up north – sandalwood oil, pearls, or perhaps a consignment of more bulky goods that will be sent by rail.” “Here comes a road coolie, a Wodiga by caste. He wears an unbleached loin-cloth bound tightly round his sinewy body, and an apology for a turban on his shaven head. Following at his heels are his wife and two daughters. They wear silver and brass ornaments set with shells instead of gems. They have been carrying baskets of laterite on their heads all day for road-mending ; for that is their trade.” “There stands a Muhammadan. He has been sitting at the tailor’s board in one of the little shops behind the English Club. All kinds of needlework are undertaken in that tiny den, from a ball-dress for an English lady to a chintz betel-bag for the horse-keeper’s wife.”
They all tell their tale of country, occupation, and, in most cases, of their faith as well. The Afghan trader and tailor are followers of the Prophet. The Hindu merchant, by the marks on his forehead, is a worshipper of Vishnu. The fisherman is a Christian belonging to the church founded in India by Xavier. The coolie and Wodiga are animists, and propitiate devils with blood sacrifices. The Singhalese is a Buddhist. From the lines drawn horizontally on his forehead the Hindu clerk proclaims himself a follower of the god Siva.
The oriental has no false shame about the profession of his religion. He exercises it without restraint, and respects the practice of it in others, whether they are of his own creed or of any other faith. This trait was exemplified at the visit of the King-Emperor, George V, to India. He openly observed Sunday as became a Christian; and attended the church service regularly. The action was regarded by the natives with approval; and His Majesty was honoured for his fidelity to his God. So impressed was a Sikh chief that he sent a gift to the church which the King attended in recognition of his sovereign’s profession of faith.
Read the rest of the book here.
