Bengal Dacoits and Tigers - Maharanee Sunity Devee
BENGAL DACOITS AND TIGERS
by
Maharanee Sunity Devee, C.I.
of Cooch Behar
Contents
Dacoit Stories
The Jhee's Discovery
Trapped by a Cobra
Saved by a Bear
Raghu Dacoit
Girl as Kali-Ma
The Deputy Magistrate
All for Nothing
A Punjabee Dacoit
A Child's Experience
Two Chinese Dacoits
An Unfaithful Servant
Tiger Stories
The Bearer's Fate
Through the Roof
Earning the Reward
A Burmese Monster
The Palki and the Tiger
An Assam Adventure
A Thrilling Story
A Cachar Tiger
A Maharajah's Adventures
PART I
Dacoit Stories
The Jhee's Discovery
It was the month of Jaishta (May-June) in Bengal, and the earth
languished under the scorching rays of the sun and sent up a voiceless
prayer to the Rain God to come soon and refresh the fields and jungles
with the welcome "barsat" (rainy season).
Yet, in spite of the intense heat, a young and delicately nurtured
Bengali lady was travelling. She was on her way to pay a visit to
her parents-in-law, for after marriage the bride returns to her
childhood's home and remains there, paying visits from time to time
to her husband's home until the day comes when she goes to live there.
It is a Bengali custom that ladies, especially young ladies, must
always wear their jewellery, even when travelling. Arms, wrists,
neck and ankles, bare of jewels, are a sign of widowhood or dire
poverty. Out young heroine was accordingly adorned with jewels and she
was also richly attired. Was she not the daughter of a wealthy man and
going to visit her mother-in-law? So her mother had lovingly dressed
her in an exquisite gold-embroidered Benares silk saree of finest
texture and superb workmanship, and the jewellery, which adorned her
graceful arms, neck and ankles, was in keeping with the richness of
her costume.
Twelve bearers took turns in carrying the covered palanquin or palki
in which she travelled. They had been in her father's service for
many years and were known, to be trustworthy. A faithful jhee (maid)
accompanied her, sometimes walking beside the palki and at other
times sitting within, to fan her young mistress and help to enliven
the weary journey with tales of former travels. Two men-servants,
whom in Bengal we call durwans and who are permitted to bear arms
in defence of their masters' goods, completed the party. One of
them walked on either side of the palanquin and each carried a naked
sword in his hand. These two men were tried and trusted retainers of
the young lady's father, and were prepared to defend their master's
daughter even at the cost of their lives.
The route lay through a lonely country district with stretches of
rice-fields scattered between, and villages nestling here and there
among groves of trees. At. one of these villages the party halted
awhile for rest and refreshment, and then on again in the fierce heat
of a close Indian day.
Thus many miles had been passed; and the evening shades were beginning
to cool the wearisome day, when the travellers drew near to a group of
trees not far from a small tank (artificial lake). The palki-bearers
sighted this ideal resting-place and asked the jhee to inform their
young mistress of it, and beseech that they might stop there and
refresh themselves with a draught of water, after which they would
be able to travel still faster,
A gracious consent was readily given by the fair one within the
palanquin. She had found the heat almost beyond endurance, and pitied
the bearers who had the weight of her palki and herself added to
their sufferings.
The palanquin was gently set down under a large and shady tree, and
the durwans respectfully withdrew a little distance to permit of the
jhee raising the covering, so that their kind mistress might also
enjoy the grateful shade and coolness of the grove.
The spot was lonely and their responsibility great, so the men decided
among themselves that they should divide into two parties. Six should
remain with the guard to protect their fair charge in case of any
untoward happening while the other six refreshed themselves at
the lake.
This plan was no sooner agreed upon than the first six trooped off
gleefully towards the tank. The others stretched themselves in the
shade and relaxed their limbs in the interval of waiting.
Time passed unheeded till it dawned upon some of those who waited that
they still thirsted and that the first six seemed too long away. They
asked the jhee to obtain leave for them to go and hurry the others up
and refresh themselves at the same time, so that the journey might
soon be resumed as the evening sun was nearing the horizon, and if
they delayed further night would overtake them. The young lady gave
the desired permission and the second six soon disappeared towards
the tank. They too were long away!
The jhee felt uneasy but kept her fears to herself. Suddenly she too
disappeared. Without a word to her mistress she had decided to see what
the bearers were doing at the tank. Climbing up a tree, she crept along
an overhanging branch and a dreadful sight met her horrified gaze. Some
of the bearers lay dead in the shallow water and the surviving ones
were fighting desperately for their lives with a small band of outlaws.
Rushing back to the palki with the utmost speed and regardless
of onlookers, she flung wide the door, screaming frantically,
"Dacoits! dacoits! run, didi (elder sister), run. With these eyes of
mine I saw them. I climbed a tree and saw them. Some of our bearers
lie dead and they are killing the others. Fly! fly for your life!" With
these words she turned and led the way with swiftness impelled by fear.
The lonely occupant of the palanquin received the awful tidings with
horror and dismay. Often had she heard tales of dacoits and their
ruthless deeds. For a fleeting instant the thought, that she must fall
a victim to such desperados, paralysed her with fear; but only for an
instant. Her woman's wit and ingenuity moved her to action. Quickly
she divested herself of her heavy jewelled anklets. How could she
run thus weighted? and might not their value satisfy the greed of the
highwaymen? Flinging them down in the palanquin, she hastily closed
the doors and dropped the covering over its sides. Let them think
she was within. The search of the palki would delay them awhile.
Then tucking up her rich satee she too started to run for her life. She
had gone but a few steps when the voices of the two durwans arrested
her. They had heard the jhee's distracted cry, and their only thought
was for their young mistress.
"Didi," they said, addressing her affectionately and respectfully by
the endearing name of sister, which is a custom permitted in Bengal to
the servants of every household. In the home of her girlhood a girl is
addressed as "didi" (sister) and in her father-in-law's house as "bow"
(son's wife). Sons of the family are addressed as "dada" (brother,
strictly elder brother) and sons-in-law as "jamai".
"Didi, fear not! As long as there is breath in these bodies we will
defend you. If the dacoits overtake us, we will guard you. No harm
shall come to you."
Encouraged by their presence and words, the girl made all possible
speed. But her delicate feet were unused to rough, hard roads,
and, despite her will and brave efforts, she tripped and stumbled
continually. In Bengal, in the hot dry weather, the country roads
are difficult to traverse. The deep ruts of the rainy season dry up
and the once muddy earth crumbles into thick heavy dust, into which
the feet of the wayfarers sink. Fast travelling is difficult even for
those who are used to journeying, so the poor young lady made little
headway and was soon overtaken by her pursuers. They had not been
long in discovering her flight and were soon racing after her from
under the tree. As she ran she heard their shouts, and then realised
that they had caught up with her guard who were resisting them.
The poor girl ran on and on alone, and presently saw a tiny hamlet
hidden among some trees. She made for this as fast as her trembling
limbs could carry her and rushed breathlessly into a small red
brick-house, the door of which stood slightly ajar, crying: "Shut
the door! Dacoits are following me!" Then, overcome with fear and
exhaustion, she sank unconscious upon the floor.
The ladies of the little household ran forward on hearing her cry and
shut the door promptly. Dacoits were known and feared everywhere. Then
they tenderly ministered to the stranger. As soon as she recovered
her senses, she related to them what had befallen her and implored
their protection.
The master of the house immediately despatched a messenger to a distant
police outpost for aid. Soothed and comforted, the girl eagerly hoped
and prayed for the arrival of her attendants.
After some time, word was brought in that a palki was approaching. Even
in the dark the approach of a palki is made known by the rhythmic cries
of the bearers. Soon it arrived in front of the red brick-house and
the bearers, halting, asked loudly if a strange lady, richly attired
and decked with jewels, was within. From an upper window the master
of the house answered them, while the girl and her kindly hostess
listened anxiously downstairs. The pseudo palki-bearers next informed
the listeners that they were the servants of a very wealthy man and
had been conveying his daughter to her parents-in-law's house.
"But" they boldly declared, "our master's daughter is such a
troublesome girl. She causes us much anxiety whenever she is sent to
visit her mother-in-law. She is so unwilling to go that it is with
great difficulty that we get her safely there."
The anxious listeners within felt sure these were the dacoits and
longed for the arrival of the police. The disguised thieves persisted
in their questioning for some time in spite of the house master's
repeated advice that they had better search elsewhere. At last they
departed carrying the palki with them. And the dwellers in the red
brick-house breathed more freely. But not for long.
The village was a tiny one and the pretended bearers soon returned
from their search. Planting the palki in the doorway, they shouted:
"We know for certain that our mistress is hiding somewhere. We feel
sure she is in your house. Here we will sit till you send her forth."
On hearing these words the poor pursued girl fell at the feet of her
host, calling herself his daughter and addressing him as "father", and
implored of him not to give her up to these awful dacoits. The good
man assured her of his protection while his wife raised her from the
floor, and, embracing her, said they would all sooner suffer death
than give her up.
The trying hours dragged on till past midnight. Then the dacoits
announced that the lady must be produced or they would force an
entrance into the house. No reply was given to this ultimatum. The
highwaymen waited awhile and then assailed the door with heavy blows.
The distraught girl besought her hostess to take her jewels and
hand them out to the burglars and thus ensure peace and safety for
all. The mistress of the house declared this would not satisfy the
ruffians and once more assured her guest that, whatever happened,
they would strive to protect her.
Presently the door gave way and, with coarse oaths and triumphant
threats, the dacoits entered. But unknown to them,--so busy had they
been hammering and swearing,--the police had arrived and now followed
in on their heels. The dacoits were all captured and confessed their
guilt as to the murder of the palki-bearers and the probable death
of the two durwans, who, they averred, had fought like tigers.
The bodies of these two devoted servants were found, all battered
and bruised, on the roadside and were given honourable cremation by
their master, whose daughter they had saved by their devotion.
The jhee was found close to the spot, hiding among the branches of a
tree. She had witnessed the fight between the durwans and dacoits and
the flight and pursuit of her mistress. When both reached home again,
the jhee filled up dull hours with vivid accounts of their adventure.
This little story is a true one and shows how difficult and dangerous
travel was in the old days in Bengal. Travelling by palki is now
in many parts a thing of the past, for the whole Province is being
linked together by a network of railways. Good roads and better police
arrangements also lessen the terrors of travelling in places where
railways are still wanting.
Trapped by a Cobra
Not many years ago a young married lady was journeying alone.
It is not customary in India for young women, even if married, to go
out by themselves. The purdah system unfits them for independence. Even
when going for a short distance by palanquin or just for a carriage
drive, a chaperon is necessary.
Yet occasions arise when it is imperative that they should journey,
but no suitable escort can be found or spared for the purpose. They
are then obliged to go with servants. It may seem strange that young
ladies should be permitted to travel alone with servants. But readers
who know India will not be surprised, for Indians treat their servants
after the patriarchal system, especially those who have served the
family for generations. Even hired attendants, like the driver in
this story, are thoroughly trusted when known to the family.
The young lady was on her way to visit her father and mother. Indian
parents-in-law cannot visit at the parental home of their
daughter-in-law. Therefore bow-ma journeyed alone with her little son,
a child of about five years of age.
The distance was not a long one, only from Calcutta to Durgapore, a
village a few miles away from the city. So a hackney-carriage was hired
with a driver who had often before been employed by her father-in-law,
and everyone felt assured bow-ma would reach her destination safely.
Her mother-in-law saw her into the carriage. Her little boy was lifted
up beside her, and, with many injunctions to drive carefully and with
speed ringing in his ears, the driver whipped up his horses and they
were off.
Bow-ma knew the road well. Often had she journeyed to and fro in
the early years of her married life, and even after the birth of her
little son her visits to her parents had been frequent.
The carriage was close and her heavy silken saree hot to wear, so
she opened the venetians and lazily watched the familiar landmarks
as they passed. She had started early so that the journey should be
accomplished in day-light, and still they did not reach home. She
noted the various trees and hedges and was puzzled. Surely, the road
seemed different. The sun, a ball of golden fire, sank to rest in
a bed of many-tinted clouds, and still they had not arrived. Bow-ma
felt strangely anxious.
The carriage suddenly swerved. To her dismay she saw they had turned
into a rough and untravelled road with paddy-fields on either side. The
place seemed lonely. It was now rapidly growing dark, for in India
after sun-set Night does not long delay her coming. A presentiment of
evil clutched bow-ma's heart. She whispered to her little boy to ask
the driver where they were and when they should arrive. In India it
is not permitted a woman to address any man save her husband, father,
and brothers.
The child obeyed but the driver made no reply. "Ask again," whispered
the mother, "he has not heard you,"
The boy asked, "When shall we arrive?" again and again, but not a
word answered the driver.
Bow-ma, now thoroughly alarmed, beat the shutters of the carriage
and commanded her son to shout loudly. The boy screamed at the top
of his voice, "Why don't you reply? What road is this?"
The driver now answered disrespectfully: "You will soon know where
you are going," and laughed.
His rude gruff tone and evasive answer confirmed bow-ma's worst
fears. The awful word dacoits stood out in her mind in letters of
fire. Horror and dread filled her soul. Drawing her child towards
her, she hushed his eager questioning and waited in silent anguish
for the coming danger.
The carriage bumped and rattled over the uneven road. Presently it
stopped. It was now almost dark. The door was jerked open and a harsh
voice commanded: "Get out of the carriage." Bow-ma recognised the
driver's voice and, realising the futility of objecting, without a
word she stepped down and helped her little son to alight.
"Follow me" was the next rough order. Again she silently obeyed. The
man left the road and led her a little distance away under the shadow
of some trees. "Take off your jewels. Give them to me." A faint sigh
of relief escaped her. Perhaps the jewels were all he wanted. Quickly
she unclasped her handsome necklet and gave it him. He grasped it
greedily with one hand and extended the other for more. One by one she
stripped her wrists and arms of their lovely bracelets and bangles and
handed them to him. "More" he growled. She pulled the rings from her
fingers and added to them her ear and nose rings. "Your waist chain"
he snapped. She unclasped and dropped its golden weight into those
greedy hands. "Take off your anklets, I want all" he sneered. She
knelt on the ground to unclasp them. Then, rising, handed them to him,
wondering what more would follow.
Meanwhile the child wept bitterly, and angrily forbade the driver
to take his mother's jewels, calling him robber and thief. "Yes,
dacoit I am," the scoundrel replied to the boy's revilings, "and if
you will not be quiet, I will teach you how to." Bow-ma gently strove
to console and silence her son. "Fret not! Your father will give me
more and better jewels."
"Take off your saree" was the next outrageous command. The boy's
indignation flamed afresh. His mother took an unguarded step forward
and asked: "Are not my jewels enough that you want the saree off
my back?"
"Aye, your saree and all you have. Silence your child or I will kill
him." Terrible was the harsh voice in its determination. Bow-ma's
heart stood still. Entreaty wonld be of no avail. She unwound the
richly-embroidered silken folds from about her and cast the gold and
green saree at his feet: "Take it."
"You have stripped my mother," screamed the boy. The ruffian caught
the saree with a fearful oath and turning on him said: "Now I can
deal with you. I will fetch a brick from yonder kiln and pound the
breath out of you," With these words he strode forward, tying the
jewels in the saree as he went. Now her sorely-tried nerves gave way,
and, distracted with grief, bow-ma caught her child in her arms,
and their mingled cries rent the air. But the thief did not return.
About midnight a village policeman going his rounds heard their
cries. At first he paid no heed to them: jackals swarmed and disturbed
the night. Again the anguished voices quivered in the air. There was
something human in the sound. He stopped to listen. The cries rose
again. He walked forward in their direction. Clearer, as he advanced,
shrilled the distressed voices, and he recognised they were those
of a woman and a child. He quickened his steps and hastened to
the spot. The light from his lantern revealed bow-ma and her son,
clinging to each other and weeping piteously.
"Who are you? What ails you?" he asked. The distraught mother,
unconscious of the flight of time, thinking him the heartless dacoit
returned to kill her boy, fell at his feet in an agony of supplication:
"Spare my son. Take my life instead."
"I am a chowkidar (watchman). What is up?" But so dulled were her
ears with fear and grief that he was twice obliged to repeat his
words. When the joyful intelligence reached her brain she burst into
tears. "O! save my son." Then the consciousness that the danger
was past reminded her of her own plight, and she sobbed: "Give me
something to wear."
The policeman had noticed her semi-nude state. Dropping, his pugree
at her feet he turned away. She shook out its many folds and draped
it about her body. Then she related what had befallen her and pointed
towards the direction the thief had taken.
The policeman walked cautiously forward, his lantern raised in one
hand and his lathi tightly grasped in the other. A few yards ahead
he came to an old brick kiln. Here, prone among the broken bricks,
lay the robber in greater straits than his victims. A huge cobra was
tightly coiled round his right arm, while on the left hung the saree
and the jewels. The rays of the lantern disturbed the snake. With
an angry hiss it uncoiled itself and disappeared. The dacoit, more
dead than alive from simple fear of the snake's fatal sting, yielded
himself a prisoner, and it was subsequently discovered that the whole
gang, of whom he was a member, were licensed hackney drivers.
Saved by a Bear
The evening shadows and silence had settled on the river Hooghly as an
old Brahman wended his way to one of the many ghats (landing places).
The dinghis--little boats which ply backwards and forwards all day
carrying passengers to and from Calcutta--had all been made fast
for the night. Some of the boatmen were cooking their evening meal,
while others sat about on the decks smoking and singing. Many of the
boats were wedged close together and drawn up on to the bank.
But one lay well in the water and some distance from its
fellow-craft. Its manjhi (headman) stood on the stern deck, binding
together the mat roof of his boat. His seemingly careless gaze took
in the Brahman, about to descend the bank. He noted that the old man
carried a parcel, partially concealed in his chadar (scarf), and,
from the manner in which he hugged it, the observer concluded it
contained something valuable. As the Brahman came nearer, the manjhi
saw it was a bag of money.
The old man picked his way down the bank and called upon boat after
boat to take him to a small village near Serampore, for in those days
there was no railway. None were willing to go so far. Meanwhile a
whispered consultation had taken place between the manjhi and dhars
(oarsmen) of the furthest dinghi. When the Brahman finally accosted
them, they first demurred and then, as though still reluctant,
consented to hire their boat.
Just as they were pushing off, a man with a performing bear ran down
the bank. "Where goest thou?" he asked.
"Serampore" answered the Brahman before the boatman could reply.
"My home is near by," the man remarked gladly, and jumped into the
boat, pulling his bear after him.
The boatmen scowled angrily: "Get out, we go not so far." But he
would not. The manjhi warned him that he and his bear would gain
nothing by forcing themselves into the boat.
"These boatmen are queer customers," he laughingly remarked to the
Brahman, and to them: "Gain nothing! Why! I will reach my home."
"So you say," they answered.
The bear-man wondered within himself at their unwillingness to have
him as a passenger. He and the old Brahman made a few remarks to each
other. Then they fell silent.
They were near the end of their journey when the bear-man asked
suddenly: "Manjhi, have we not passed Serampore?"
"Are you the guru of boatmen that you question me?" replied the
manjhi, and then, in a more conciliatory tone, added: "We are going
higher up for a crossing. The tide is strong." The explanation was
reasonable. But the bear-man's suspicions had been awakened and he
was on the alert. The Brahman sat placidly nursing his bag which the
bear-man too had noticed contained money. He had also noticed that
the manjhis kept glancing furtively at it and its owner.
The river crossed, the boat hugged the bank; after a time it came
to a standstill. One of the manjhis jumped ashore with the rope
and secured it to a tree. The Brahman and the bear-man both asked:
"What is wrong? Why stop the boat in this strange place?"
"You will soon know, you will soon see," answered the boatmen and
chuckled over some secret joke as, one after another, each stepped
ashore and disappeared.
The aged Brahman gazed after them apprehensively. Then, placing his
money between his knees, as he sat on the deck with crossed legs tucked
under him, he folded his hands together and bent forward in prayer.
The bearman thought within himself: "Prayer for him, action for
me." And saying softly to the old man; "Brahman Thakoor, something
is brewing. I follow to see," he too stepped ashore.
Not far from the tree he found a small thatched house and several
men gathered behind it. Moving warily forward among the group he
recognised the manjhis. "Dacoits!" he whispered to himself. Then an
inspiration struck him.
He ran back to the boat, and asked the Brahman to change his seat
to the stern and be ready to steer off when he gave him a signal. He
took up a position in the prow and fondled his bear.
Within a few minutes a party of men appeared coming towards the
dinghi. Some were boatmen; all were dacoits.