Jungle Tales

Look around, and above, with your mind’s eye, and behold high hills and deep narrow valleys—valleys overflowing with corn, and hills speckled with flocks; no, these are not the Alps,—nor yet the Andes; the sturdy brown people have the Tartar type of face, their stubborn, shaggy ponies are of Thibetan breed. You stand on the borders of Nepaul, and among the lower slopes of the great Himalayas—a remote district, but tolerably populated and prosperous. There are many snug, flat-roofed houses scattered up and down the niches in these staircase-like heights, encompassed with cowsheds, melon gardens, groves of walnut trees, and a few almost perpendicular acres of murga (grain); their proprietors are well-to-do, their wants inconsiderable, the possession of a pony, half a dozen goats, and a couple of milch buffaloes, constitutes a man of means, who is as happy in his way as, perhaps happier than, the English or Irish owner of a great landed estate. Moreover, this pastoral life has its pleasures: there are holy festivals, fairs, feasts, wrestling-matches,—and occasionally a little gambling and cock-fighting. But even in these primitive mountain regions, life is not all Arcadian simplicity; there are black spots on the sun of its existence, such as envy, hatred, malice, jealousy, false-witness, and murder.

Peaceful, even to sleepiness, as the district appears, serene and immovable as the grand outline of its lofty white horizon, nevertheless this remote corner of the world has been the scene of a renowned trial—a trial which outrivalled many a notorious case in far-away Europe for exciting violent disputes, disturbances, and bloodshed—a trial which convulsed Kumaon, Kali Kumaon, and Gurwalh—whose effects, as it were the ripples from a stone cast into still waters, are experienced to the present hour in the shape of curses, collisions, and feuds. At the root of the trouble was, as usual, a woman.

Durali (which signifies ‘darling’) was the grandchild and only surviving relative of Ahmed Dutt, a thriftless, shrivelled old hill-man, who smoked serrus (or Indian hemp) until he brought himself into a condition of imbecility, and suffered his worldly affairs to go to ruin; his hungry cattle and goats strayed over his neighbours’ lands, he cared not for crops, nor yet for wor-hos (boundary marks), he cared for nought but his huka, and his warm padded quilt, and abandoned the beautiful Durali, like the cattle, to her own devices. Now, according to Durali, these devices were supremely innocent: she spun wool, kept fowl, laboured somewhat fitfully in the fields, and tended the jungle of dahlias and marigolds which threatened to swallow up the little slab-roofed dwelling—that was all. So said Ahmed Dutt’s granddaughter, but public opinion held a different view; it lifted up its voice (in a shrill treble), and declared that Durali, being by general consent the most beautiful woman in Kumaon, had wrung the hearts of half the young—ay, and old—men in the province; that of a truth her suitors were legion; but that she turned her back on all of them—as she would have fools to believe—no!

Her grandfather was indigent, as who could deny? Whence, then, the rich silver necklet, the bangles, the great belt of uncut turquoise, blue as the spring sky—whence the strong Bhootia pony? Had Ahmed Dutt been otherwise than a smoke-sodden idiot and a dotard, he had, according to custom, sold this valuable chattel a full year ago, and received as her price three hundred rupees, yea, and young asses, perchance, and buffaloes. As it was, Durali ruled him tyrannically, flouted all humble pretenders for her hand, and at eighteen years of age was her own mistress, fancy-free, poor, ambitious, and beautiful—miraculously beautiful! since her wondrous loveliness stirred even the leathern hearts of these hill-men; and she possessed a face, figure, craft, and coquetry, amply warranted to set the whole of Kumaon in a blaze. Yea, the saying that “to be her friend was unfortunate, to be her suitor beckoned death,” deterred but few. It was undeniable that Farid Khan had fallen over the khud, on the bad road to Pura; do not his bones lie, to this day, unburied and bleaching, at the foot of that awful precipice? Who said that his rival, Jye Bhan, had pushed him in the dark? Who could prove it? At any rate, he was no more. As was also Kalio Thapa, carried away by a mighty flood in the Sardah river—how it befell, who could say? And there was, moreover, Phulia, who had certainly hanged himself because Durali had spurned him.

Many were her adorers, and exceedingly bitter the hatred they bore to one another.

Durali was tall, erect, and Juno-like, with a skin like new wheat, features of a bold Greek type, abundant jet-black hair, and a pair of magnificent eyes. Other women declared that there was magic in these—certainly they spoke with tongues, they commanded, exhorted, entreated, dazzled, and bewitched.

But Durali owed nothing to the fine feathers which enhance the attractions of so many fine birds. She wore a dark-blue petticoat and short cotton jacket, a few bangles and a copper charm—the ordinary attire of an ordinary Pahari girl; dress could add but little to her superb personality.

The handsome granddaughter of Ahmed Dutt was well known by reputation in the surrounding villages, her name was in every one’s mouth, her fame had penetrated even as far as Almora itself. At the sacred feast of the Dusserah, where crowds assemble to behold the yearly sacrifice, there Durali appeared for the first time, and in gala costume, wearing a short-sleeved red velveteen bodice, an enviable silver necklet, and a flower behind each ear. The eyes of half the multitude were riveted on the hill beauty—instead of the devoted buffalo, which had been tied up for days, at the quarter guard of the Ghoorkas, and now innocently awaited its impending fate.

Yes, people actually thronged, and pressed, and pushed, and strove, in order to obtain a good look at the famous Durali, for whom men had contended, and fought—ay, and died.

There was a sudden lull in the loud hum of voluble Pahari tongues, and all attention was concentrated on a renowned athlete, who stepped forward with the huge Nepaulese sacrificial knife in his hand, and with one swift dexterous blow severed the buffalo’s ponderous head from his body. Immediately ensued a frenzied rush on the part of the spectators, in order to dip a piece of cloth in the smoking blood. There was also a determined, nay, a ferocious struggle between two young men, as to which should have the privilege of plunging Durali’s handkerchief, on her behalf, into the holy stream. This coveted office fell to Naim Sing, who wrung the cloth from the feebler grasp of Johar, the son of Turroo. This contest over a blood-stained rag was noted at the time. It was an evil omen, and more than one old crone shook her grey head, as she muttered, “Mark ye, my sisters, there will be yet more trouble between the strivers—yea, bloodshed.”

The victor was the son of Bhowan Sing, who lived in the village of Beebadak, and cultivated a considerable amount of fertile land. He had three sons—Umed Sing, Rattan Sing, and Naim Sing; the latter was the Benjamin of the family, a handsome youth, with a lithe, symmetrical figure, bold eloquent grey eyes, and crisp black locks, the champion wrestler of his pergunnah (and of the district); possessed not merely of an active and powerful body, but an active and powerful mind. His appearance, his age, and his stronger character, were not the only reasons that made him looked up to by his brethren and neighbours, and a ruler in his father’s house; some two years previously, whilst digging a well, he had discovered a pot of coins, and was now the owner of twenty pairs of pearls, fifty gold mohurs, four ponies, and a herd of milch buffaloes. Happy the woman whom Naim Sing would take to wife!

Johar, the son of Turroo, was a sturdy, square-faced youth, honest and cheerful, who had nought to cast into the balance against prowess, ponies, and pearls, save one slender accomplishment, and his heart—he played somewhat skilfully on a whistle, which was fashioned out of the thigh-bone of a man, and profusely studded with great rough turquoises. He was in much request at all the revellings within thirty miles—that is to say, Johar with his whistle.

Not long after the Dusserah, the venerable Ahmed Dutt smoked himself peacefully out of this world, and was duly burnt, with every necessary formality. His granddaughter being left forlorn, now took an old woman to live with her in the little stone house under the edge of the Almora road, as you go to Loher Ghât. Durali was in straitened circumstances; the murga crop had failed, three of her lean kine were dead, but she was befriended by Naim Sing, who evinced much sympathy for her desolate condition; and it was a matter of whispered gossip that Johar was also secretly performing acts of kindness—secretly, indeed, for none dared to put themselves into competition with the formidable Naim Sing,—and it was believed that he was the favoured suitor.

At harvest-time, Naim Sing was compelled to be absent for ten days, on an urgent mission to the foot of the hills. Immediately on his return, he hastened to Durali’s hut, and found her absent. Wearied by a rapid march of thirty miles, he cast himself down among the long rice stalks at the foot of a choora tree, and there impatiently awaited the reappearance of his divinity. As he lay half dozing in the heat, his practised ear heard steps and voices, and looking through the rice stalks he beheld a couple leisurely approaching. The man was playing on a bone whistle, and the woman carried sheaves of wheat upon her stately head. There was no difficulty in recognizing Durali and Johar. The jealous watcher lay still, listening eagerly with quick-coming breath. It appeared to him that the beguiling Durali by no means discouraged her companion’s advances, which were couched in the usual flowery terms of Oriental flattery. “Oh, woman, thou hast sheaves on thy head, but they appear like clusters of pomegranates on thy shoulders. There is none like thee. The light of thy beauty hath illumined my soul! As for Naim Sing, he is a seller of dog’s flesh! an owl, the son of an owl; he is vain as the sandpiper, who sleeps with his legs up, in order to support the sky at night. Listen, O core of my heart! it hath come to mine ears, that trade and barter have nought to do with his hasty excursions to the plains—he hath a wife at Huldwani—hence his journeys.”

This was too much for the endurance of his enraged listener, who, leaping furiously upon Johar, clove his head with his heavy tulwar (sword). Johar staggered, blinded with blood, and defenceless, then, turning, ran for his life; but his infuriated enemy, flinging the shrieking girl to one side, swiftly pursued the wounded wretch to where he had sought refuge in a cowshed, dashed in the frail door, and there despatched him. Presently he returned, fierce-eyed, savage, blood-stained, to confront the horror-stricken and trembling Durali.

“Woman,” he cried hoarsely, “I have slain him—thine the sin. His death be on thy head!”

But she, with many tears and vows, vociferously protested her innocence, and in a surprisingly short time appeased Naim Sing’s wrath. Now that the rage of his jealousy and vengeance had been satisfied, he began to realize the result of his passion; he had slain a man—not the first who had met his death at his hands. He had once killed an antagonist in a wrestling-match—that was a misadventure; this was—well, the Sirkar would call it—murder.

The shades of evening had not yet fallen, and until then he dared not set about concealing the corpse. He found Durali a cunning adviser and an unscrupulous accomplice. Men die hard, especially wiry hill-men, and Johar had not passed away in silence; his expiring groans were heard by Bucko, the old woman, and Naim Sing was therefore compelled to admit her into the secret.

When the moon rose, the three conspirators bound up the body and carried it down to one of the fields, there they carefully uprooted each stalk, each distinct plant, growing over the surface of what was to form the future grave, which was next excavated, and Johar, the son of Turroo, was dropped into the hole, his whistle flung contemptuously after him, and both were presently covered up with earth—and wheat.

The burying-party returned to the hut, where Naim Sing inflicted a small wound on his leg with a cut of his tulwar, in order to support the statement he proposed making to the authorities, that Johar had attacked him with murderous intent, and, having failed in his effort, fled. Next morning Naim Sing called on the Tehel-seldhar and made his report, and the Tehel-seldhar despatched a tokdar (responsible official for a cluster of villages) to take steps for the capture of Johar, the son of Turroo. But Johar was not to be found, or even heard of, and his own family became seriously alarmed, and suspected foul play. If he had fled and departed on a long journey, wherefore had he left his boots, clothes, and money behind? The connections of Naim Sing were powerful, their pirohet, or family priest, his personal friend—rumour and suspicion were strangled—but there were grave whispers round the fires in the huts, all over the hills: what had befallen Johar, the son of Turroo?

However, a murder was a common event. Blood-feuds were acknowledged, and soon the circumstance was allowed to fade into oblivion by all but Rateeban, a lame man, Johar’s twin brother, who took a solemn oath at Gutkoo temple to avenge him. He suspected Durali; he watched her and her house by stealth. Why was one small corner of the wheat-field uncut? He made her overtures of friendship, he flattered, he fawned; by dint of judicious questions, and even more judicious information, Rateeban gained his end. Oh, false love! Oh, treachery! Oh, woman! it was the beautiful Durali who led Rateeban to his brother’s grave, who showed him the blood splashes on the cowshed walls, who told him the truth. Yes, jealousy is doubtless as cruel as the grave. Durali had capitulated and given her long-beleaguered heart wholly to Naim Sing—his eloquence, good looks, prowess,—ay, and presents,—had carried the citadel, and lo! the dead man’s words were verified. Naim Sing had already a wife at Huldwani, a bold dark woman of the plains, to whom he was secretly wed by strictest and securest ceremonial.

To the amazement and indignation of himself and his kinsmen, Naim Sing was arrested and carried to Almora jail, there to await his trial; his friends and connections (who were many and powerful) made a desperate attempt to secure his release; bribes, and even threats, were used; but what could avail against the evidence of the treacherous Durali?—and the evidence of the dead body? Yes, Naim Sing, the champion wrestler, the leading youth in his district, handsome, popular, rich, in the full zenith of his days and vigour, was bound to be despatched to the dark muggy shores of the Salween river, and end his existence ingloriously in Moulmein jail. Never again would he take part in a wrestling-match, or breast his native mountains and chase the ibex and makor; his beloved hills, and his ancestral home, would know him no more. Rateeban, Johar’s lame brother, would have preferred the blood of his enemy, but was fain to be contented with his sentence, “Transportation for life.” He exulted savagely in his revenge, and actually accompanied the gang of wretched prisoners the whole march of ninety miles to the railroad—on foot—in order that he might enjoy the ecstasy of gloating over his foe in chains! Each day at sundown, when the party halted, Rateeban came and stood opposite to Naim Sing, and, leaning on his stick, mocked him. It was rumoured that Rateeban was not the sole voluntary escort, but that a woman, veiled, and riding a stout grey pony, stealthily followed the party afar off! It was Durali, who, when it was too late, was distracted with penitence and anguish. Her remorse was eating away her very heart—but to what avail now?

Huldwani is a large, populous native town on the edge of the Terai, a few miles from the foot of the hills, and here a frantic creature awaited the prisoners, or rather the prisoner Naim Sing. She tore her hair, she beat her head upon the ground, and Naim Sing was not unmoved—no. Then she lifted up her hands and her voice, and cursed with hideous screaming curses “that woman who had wrought this great shame and wickedness—that other woman on the hills!” And the other woman, having heard with her ears and seen with her eyes, turned back and retraced those weary ninety miles, now more in anger than in sorrow,—for such is human nature.

In less than twelve months, the news came to the hills that Naim Sing had died in Moulmein prison, the death certificate said of atrophia, but his father and brethren called it a broken heart. “He was ever too wild a bird for a cage,” proclaimed his kinsmen and friends; and within a short time he was as completely forgotten as Johar, whom he had slain, and Durali, whom he had deceived, and who had disappeared.

After a lapse of twenty years, two men belonging to the village where Rateeban lived, returned from a pilgrimage, and announced that at the great fair at Hardwar, on the Ganges, they had seen Naim Sing—who had saluted them as Brahmins. He had with him three horses, and a woman—his wife—and looked in good health, and prosperous. Rateeban, at first angrily incredulous, finally determined to investigate this matter in person, and once more travelled the wearisome ninety miles which lay between his home and the railway. Though every step was painful, he heeded it not, such is the power of hate! With inexhaustible patience, he followed clue after clue; he searched for nearly three months, and was at last rewarded by success. Back up to the hills, to a distant village in Gurwalh, among the spectators at a great wrestling-match, he tracked and found Naim Sing!—Naim Sing, surprisingly little changed. Where were the signs of convict labour, the marks of irons, and of that life that burns into a man’s soul? He looked somewhat older, his temples were bald, but his figure was as upright, his foot as firm, his eye as keen as ever. Rateeban swore to him, with fervour, as an escaped convict, and had him instantly arrested. There was no doubt of his identity; there was the self-inflicted scar on his leg, the bone in his arm which had been broken by wrestling. The criminal was brought back to Almora, in order to be arraigned for unlawful return from transportation, and tried under section 226 of the Indian Penal Code.

The tidings of the resurrection and return of Naim Sing was passed by word of mouth from village to village. His father and brethren, his friends and relations, and those of Johar and Rateeban, and, in short, everybody’s friends, flocked into Almora to attend the trial. The case was heard in the court-house, which stands within the old fort; and not only was the court itself crammed to suffocation, but the crowds overflowed the surrounding enclosure, even down the narrow stone steps, and away into the streets. Thousands and thousands were assembled, and as the days went on the interest quickened, and the case became a matter of furious contention between two factions—for and against: the party who declared the culprit was indeed the real, true, and only Naim Sing, and the party who swore that he was not. Fierce feuds were engendered, torrents of abuse and angry blows were exchanged,—blood was freely shed.

All Kumaon and Gurwalh had encompassed Almora like an invading army, and Kumaon, Gurwalh, and the respectable Goorka station itself, were in an uproar, and seething like a witches’ cauldron.

The prisoner stood up boldly, as befitted the namesake of the lion, and confronted his accusers with a haughty and impassive mien. But surely—surely those keen grey eyes were the eyes of Naim Sing!

“I am not the criminal,” he declared. “Who is this Naim Sing—this murderer? and what hath he to do with me? Behold I am Krookia, and my father is Rusool Sing, who lives in the village of Tolee; my star is Jeshta and Ras, and my horoscope is with Gunga Josh, if he be yet alive.”

Moreover, he brought witnesses, and the certificate of Naim Sing’s death in Moulmein jail.

“The people of the pergunnah, which you aver that you belong to, do not know you,” said the Crown prosecutor. “But Rateeban recognized you; how can you explain that?”

“There be two Rateebans,” was the glib answer, “and one is mine enemy.”

“Strange that Rateeban, the enemy of Naim Sing, is your enemy also.”

“I doubt not that the lame dog—may his race be exterminated!—hath many foes. I know him not. He hath been the means of sending one man to prison for life, and now, behold, he would despatch another. It is a vicious ambition. As for the people of my village, lo! many years ago, I found a treasure, and my neighbours quarrelled and beat and robbed me. They have no desire to recall their own black deeds, nor my face. I fled to the plains, where I have taken road contracts for the Sirkar, and prospered.”

“Naim Sing also found a treasure,” said the advocate. “Does the land in these hills yield so many of these crops?”

“By your honour’s favour, I cannot tell. I found one treasure, to my cost. Money is a man-slayer.”

Many witnesses recognized or repudiated the prisoner, and there was hard swearing on both sides.

At length a young Baboo from Allahabad was put forward—a keen, intelligent, brisk-looking youth, wearing a velvet cap and patent leather boots, embellished with mother-of-pearl buttons.

“Twenty years ago I dwelt in Bareilly,” he said. “There were four of us children, my mother, and my father, who was sick unto death. The jail daroga, who was his kinsman, came to him privily one night, and whispered long. I was awake, being an-hungered, and heard all that was said.

“‘Lo! Gunesheb, thou art my kinsman. Thou art poor and sick, thy days are numbered; wouldst thou die a rich man?’

“‘Would I die in Paradise?’ said my father.

“‘A gang of convicts pass here to-morrow, on their way to Calcutta and Moulmein beyond the sea. Wilt thou take the place of one of them? Thou art his size and height; thou hast not long to live, he has a strong young life; and in return for thy miserable body he will give four hundred rupees, ten pairs of pearls, one pair of gold bangles, and three ponies.’

“My father went forth that same hour with the jail daroga, and returned no more. Next day my mother wept sore; yea, even though she had gold bangles on her arms, very solid, and pearls and silver in a cloth; also there were three ponies, strong and fat, in our yard. Later, she took us to see when the convicts passed along the road, and we rode on the ponies beside them for two days. She told the warders she had a brother, falsely accused, who was in the gang. He wore a square cap pulled far over his eyes, and he coughed as he marched. As we left, he embraced me tenderly, by favour of the warders. I knew he was my father. Afterwards we went south, and returned to Bareilly no more.”

Thus Gunesheb had bartered away his few remaining months of life for the benefit of his family, and Naim Sing had spread a bold free wing, and enjoyed his liberty for twenty years! He had the ceaseless craving of a born hill-man to return to the mountains. The line of snows edging the burnt-up plains had drawn him like a magnet. Slowly but surely, becoming reckless with time and impunity, he had cast fear and caution to the winds, as once more the smell of the pine-needles and of the wood smoke crept into his blood!

As he sat in the dock, the prisoner deliberately scanned every face with an air of lofty indifference. He swore to the last that “he was Krookia, the son of Rusool Sing,” but no respectable land-owner identified him under that name. Moreover, the wife of Naim Sing had been recognized at her native place wearing her rings and bangles, sure and certain token that her husband was alive; and in the face of overwhelming evidence, the culprit was sentenced for the second time on the same spot to be transported beyond the seas for the term of his natural life.

Then Naim Sing arose, tall and erect, a dignified and impressive figure, carrying his two-score years with grace, and made a most powerful and thrilling appeal in his own defence—an appeal for an innocent man, who was about to be banished for ever from his home and country, because, forsooth, his features had the ill fortune to resemble those of a dead murderer!

During his speech, one could almost hear a leaf fall outside the court. The previous quiet had now changed to what resembled a hush of awe. The audience within and without—the windows and doors stood wide, and exhibited an immense sea of human heads—hung with avidity on each sonorous syllable. Not a gesture, not a glance was lost. So stirring and impassioned was his eloquence, that every heart was shaken, and many were moved to tears. But the condemned man pleaded his cause in vain; in fact, his silver tongue afforded but yet another proof of his identity. His fate was sealed. Fearing a public tumult, he was removed secretly ere dawn, marched down the mountain sides for the last time, despatched to the Andamans,—and there he died.

So ended a trial that lasted many days, that was more discussed and fought over than any law-suit of the period; a case which is fiercely argued and hotly debated even to the present hour; a cause which has divided scores of households and separated chief friends. For there are some who declare that the real Naim Sing expired in Moulmein jail khana nineteen years previously, and that the vengeance of Rateeban demanded two lives for one; also that the heavily bribed son of Gunesheb had borne black false witness, his father having died in his own house; and that, of a truth, an innocent man was condemned to transportation and death: but there be some who think otherwise.