CHRISTMAS IN A DÂK BUNGALOW.

I have spent Christmas Day in England and abroad, in my own family, in mess, and with three commanding officers; but till the year 1883, I had never spent one absolutely alone. I had on this occasion another opportunity of spending the day in mess, for I was in India at the time; but I came to the conclusion that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; and three days’ leave for certain is better than a fortnight’s in prospect; and having had rather a trying share of work for some time before Christmas, I decided to forego the usual ‘going round the men’s dinners,’ with its concomitant drinking of curious and, I hope, rare liquors, eating pieces of Christmas pudding, and subsequently getting through the day in a manner more Sunday-like than actually amusing. So, on the 23d December I found myself about seven P.M. in the dâk bungalow of a river-side station in the Punjab, to which I had been recommended by a messmate as a good spot for a few days’ duck-shooting. My servant, a Madrassi, rejoicing in the name of Zacharias—the ‘Madras-man every time liking Christian name, sah’—had preceded me, and had got the principal agent for my three days’ shooting in the shape of a shikaree, who bore the very unchristian name of Rukkum (Rook’em) Deen, in attendance to make arrangements for the morrow.

Now, I am not going to enter into a discussion on the subject of duck-shooting, for many reasons, of which I will mention, first, that I might have conducted such operations on any other three days of the year, if I could have got leave; second, that I am not very proud of my own prowess with a gun; third, that I didn’t get much, though I saw a great deal; and fourth, that the subject of wildfowl shooting is not one to enter into in a light and frivolous spirit, but must be approached with awe, and with a due appreciation of nice distinctions of weights and measures, and a ready desire to hear all manner of extraordinary asseverations, however fond of truth the listener may be. Mine is a true story, and is only a collection of jottings and thoughts. After this explanation, I can safely skip over my doings on the 24th, which were confined solely to the region of the river and the somewhat distant society of the wildfowl.

Christmas Day opened fine and clear. That is a matter not of much note in India, where the weather is remarkable for its succession of fine clear days; but in England, Christmas Day—if my recollection serves me true—does not always open fine and clear. I was called at half-past six A.M.; and by eight had put my cartridges together, dispensed with a tub, had breakfast, and started for the river again. Outside the dâk bungalow, as luck would have it, I met an Englishman—a terrible thing on the continent, I know; but somehow in India we are not so painfully exclusive. I wished him good-morning and the compliments of the season; he returned the sentiments; and that was all the conversation I had with a fellow-countryman on that day. I was on the river from half-past eight till four; but skip that period for the third of my reasons for making this no wildfowler’s story. Soon after getting in, cleaning my gun, having my tub, and generally assuming a more civilised appearance, I heard the church bells ringing; and hurried off to find a children’s service being conducted by a very nice, benevolent-looking clergyman, who had for his congregation about twenty children and a round dozen of adults, parents and so on. The reverend gentleman was giving the children a simple address as I entered, and I felt at home and happy. The little voices joined in singing hymns and saying prayers; and when the lines, ‘Guard the sailors tossing on the deep blue sea,’ were sung, I let my thoughts wander over a good many leagues of land and sea to where others were, as I felt sure, thinking of me in the midst of their Christmas doings.

On my return to the bungalow, I found that there was an Englishman living under the same roof, and felt that I should very much like to have a companion at my dinner. I accordingly sent Zacharias to find out who the Englishman was and what he was doing here; for I did not want to bore him with an invitation if he had come here for the express purpose of being alone with his thoughts. I imagine my faithful valet found the inquiry difficult of prosecution, or, what is more likely, that he gave it up in favour of seeing ‘master’s Christmas dinner’ being properly cooked. Anyway, it was not till Zacharias brought me my soup that he brought the intelligence that ‘the English gentleman having joint;’ so my intentions were frustrated, and the only attention I could pay the mysterious stranger was to send him the following note:

Dâk Bungalow, Christmas Day.

Dear Sir—I should be very proud if you would accept a glass of wine from my bottle, which I send by bearer, and drink with me to Absent Friends. I am very sorry I did not find out till too late that there was an Englishman in the bungalow, or I would have done myself the pleasure of asking if you would care to dine with a fellow-countryman on this occasion. Hoping you will excuse my intrusion, I am, sir, with all the compliments of the season, yours truly,

H. S.

I sent him at the same time an open bottle of ‘Sparkling Wine,’ and soon after received my bottle back, with but very little gone, and at the same time the following answer:

Dear Sir—Thanks very many. A merry Christmas to you. I drink your health.—Yours sincerely,

——.

I am very sorry I cannot put in the name of an eminent politician or other dignitary, by way of completing the story; but as I couldn’t read it, my curiosity must remain for ever unsatisfied, and the mysterious stranger of Christmas Day, 1883, will remain wrapped up in his mystery, unless he chances to peruse these lines, and, remembering the incident, discloses himself.

As for my Christmas dinner, I must say it was as good as any government establishment, and much better than most dâk bungalows could produce. The hand of Zacharias was betrayed in potato chips and cunning sauces. I can here fairly bring in that I had a duck of my own shooting, and the only thing wanting was bread. The forgetful khansamah or housekeeper had not warned the native baker, and I had to make the best I could of chupatties, a poor substitute; and I am convinced that its permanent institution on the English diet table would soon reduce us to a very low ebb indeed. But being in a properly Christmas frame of mind, good-will to all men, &c., I determined to make the best of a bad business, and toasted them before a wood-fire, thus giving myself an opportunity of introducing to Zacharias’ notice, à la Mr Barlow, of Sandford and Merton fame, ‘The Story of King Alfred and the Chupattie, or the Indigent Monarch and the Haughty Swineherd’s Wife.’ Wishing to be understood, I endeavoured to put the simple narrative in a somewhat Indianised language, and the following was the result:

‘One time in Englishman’s place, one King Alfred living.—Do you understand “king?” Mr Queen subse burra rajah’ (the biggest swell of all).

Zacharias. Yes, sah.

‘One time Alfred Sahib young man, and wanting to study how the newly franchised ones would vote.—No; I mean liking to see how his people’s getting on mallum.—Do you understand?’

Zach. Yes, sah.

‘Very well; he went to house of one man looking after pigs (Suir ke kubberdarwallah). That right?’

Zach. Yes, sah.

‘Pigman’s wife not knowing Alfred Sahib have much Burra Bahadur (Great Panjandrum), giving him some chupatties to toast before fire, same like Master doing now. Then pigman’s wife going out to see pigs. Alfred Sahib besides being king of England, was a bit of a Bajawallah (music-man). When pigman’s wife going out, Alfred Sahib playing on his baja same like Master on banjo. Chupatties getting burned; pigman’s wife coming back, getting plenty angry, then stick-striking (Lackri-marta) Alfred Sahib.—Now, Zacharias, you understand all that?’

Zach. Yes, sah.

‘What do you understand?’

Zach. Master not liking raw chupatties.

‘Yes; and I would take this opportunity of impressing on you the many advantages to be gained by entirely giving up chupatties in favour of bread. Look at that piece of garbage I have got to eat! I warn you that so long as you and your fellow-men in India continue to eat chupatties and such-like nastiness, so long will you remain in that state of degradation and darkness that England was in, in the days of Alfred Sahib.—Do you understand?’

Zach. Yes, sah.

After this expression of sentiment, I went to dinner, and really enjoyed my toasted chupattie, as I had converted it into a sort of ship’s biscuit, than which there is nothing better. When I felt the influence, benign and benevolent, of doing myself well, creeping over me, I was at the stage of my first glass of wine, and this was a bumper to Absent Friends. What a host of faces passed before my eyes as I shut them and quaffed the time-honoured toast! How I could have moralised, and become sentimental and maudlin! But as that was not my intention at all, I wished all the dear good souls the ‘Best of luck—lots of it, and may I soon be there to see!’ and resumed my lessons in civilisation to Zacharias. I never before appreciated so thoroughly what a capital thing it is to have an English-speaking servant in India. Did I say English-speaking? I am afraid I did; but English-understanding would be a better expression, for I never gave Zacharias a chance of speaking till after dinner, when he came in capitally. I told him how shameful it was that his fellows would use the poisonous dekskai (cooking-pot), with its bi-monthly demand for tinning or for a substitute ‘leading,’ when kind English people tried to introduce the more familiar saucepan of iron and enamel. I told him how much better a slow-burning moderate fire was for cooking purposes than the pot-destroying furnaces of charcoal over which everything is cooked in India; how nothing was cooked through, but everything sodden inside and burned outside. I ingratiated myself again by drinking his health. I then attacked him on another point, and told him confidentially that if it was not for his fellows’ silly ideas on the subject of caste, that we should never have taken the country; and was rather glad that he put a stop to this unwise disclosure and counsel by saying: ‘God is good, sah. Gentlemens never knowing why caste, and not liking.’

At last I finished dinner; and then gave a few directions for the morning—to be called at half-past six, to have breakfast ready at seven A.M., and to shut up rooms and come with me. But the demon of speechifying was on me, the cacoëthes loquendi, and nothing under an eighteen-hundred horse-power steam fire-engine could quench the raging fire that had mastered the movements of my tongue. The only consolation was that I gave Zacharias more chances. I asked him questions. ‘When Master going to the war’ (there was none in prospect), ‘what will Zacharias do?’

‘I will always come with Master. Master good to me, sah.’

‘Has Zacharias ever heard of Russian peoples?’

‘Yes, sah. I was always hearing when I was little child in i-school, Russian peoples coming—never come. God is good, and Russian peoples bad peoples. If Russian peoples coming, then Queen’s peoples putting them back to their own land; but never coming, sah.’

‘But the Baboos say they are not well treated sometimes; and they make a lot of bobbery, and do plenty bad talking, and not liking English peoples. I tell you, Zacharias, if the Russian people came, the Baboos won’t have a chance of holding their silly meetings; they’ll be put to clean the Russian gentlemen’s backyards, and do all the dirty work that can be found for them.’

‘Yes, sah. These Baboos are fools. If English gentlemens not coming, where is got Baboo? Only Bengal people talking that way. Madras peoples always right.’

‘Bravo, Zacharias! Here’s a toast to Madras, the benighted presidency, and may she always have as staunch countrymen as you!’

‘Thank you, sah.’

‘But about these Russians—tell me some more.’

‘Russian peoples got no money; Queen got plenty money. English soldiers plenty strong, so Russian peoples not coming.’

‘That’s right. You stick to that; and when you hear the silly Baboos saying they are downtrodden, you tell them, with my compliments, that they are a pack of fools, and that they had better not wait for anybody else to tread on them, when they hear the Sahiblogues [Englishmen] are going.’

‘Yes, sah; that is right. If English peoples not coming here, I would never be wearing such clothes as these.’ (Zacharias is very well pleased with himself when he has got on his clean dinner clothes, as he had, to celebrate Christmas Day of 1883.)

‘Now, you understand what I say, eh?’

‘Yes, sah.’ (Here came the crushing blow, the long-deserved snub to my loquacity.) ‘Master wants calling at half-past six, and breakfast at seven.—Good-night, sah.’

I couldn’t help but take a hint so gently given; and so, bidding my faithful Zacharias—I sincerely believe he is faithful—‘good-night,’ I knocked the ashes out of my pipe, and brought to a conclusion my Christmas Day.