Alice Perrin, "An Eastern Echo" (1901) (Short Story)
Tags: Hindus and Muslims, Communal riots, Shia Islam, Murharram
An Eastern Echo
“Hasan! Husain! Hasan! Husain!”
The cry rose perpetually from hundreds of Mohammedan throats, hoarse with violent reiteration, yet ever strengthened by excitement and religious fervour.
It was the day of the great Muharram, one of the most important of Mohammedan religious festivals in northern India, when gorgeously decorated tazias (or models of the tomb of Hasan and Husain, the two martyred nephews of the Prophet) are annually borne in memorial procession through the city streets out into the country, where, with much ceremony and ostentatious lamentation, they are either buried or cast into a tank.
All through the long, hot midday, streams of frenzied mourners, with their gaudy pasteboard and tinsel sepulchres, had been pressing through the crowded, stifling streets of a small Mofussil town, and thence for half a mile along the white, glaring grand-trunk road to the temporary burying-ground. Fierce, fanatical Mohammedans shouted, howled and tore their clothes, beating their hairy chests and throwing themselves on the ground in a fervour of sorrow; others strode along half-naked, shrieking with ardent zeal, and dancing madly at intervals, while here and there passed groups of disapproving Hindus, sullen and silent, whose curiosity and love of excitement had drawn them irresistibly into the throng; women ran with fluttering clothes and wild eyes along the outskirts of the procession, and children clung to them, also echoing shrilly the universal cry, in tones of inconsolable lamentation: “Hasan! Husain! Hasan! Husain!”
High above the moving sea of turbans wobbled the tazias, incongruously gay with tinsel, paint, and coloured muslin, the bearers of these erections struggling manfully along, perspiring under their weight, jostling each other and still joining in the perpetual cry. Now and then a dispute would arise, often resulting in a free fight, as each possessor of a tazia hustled and pushed his neighbour in his efforts to secure a foremost position in which to display his tribute of respect to the dead, and his own violence of emotion.
The police had been hard at work from early dawn keeping order, protecting the weakly, regulating the processions, and nipping incipient battles in the bud. And as the afternoon wore on, the European police-inspector lifted his helmet many times from his hot, aching forehead, and sighed with weariness. Up and down, backwards and forwards, shouting, swearing, ordering, choked with dust, parched with heat, he had been on duty for hours, and as he rode past he threw an envious glance into the large, cool tent which had been erected by order of the magistrate of the district under a giant fig tree on the line of the procession. It contained a few ladies and one or two officials, comfortable wicker chairs, and a tempting refreshment table covered with fruit and iced drinks. The magistrate himself, who had also been in the city for the best part of the day, was now sitting cool and clean with a party he had invited to view the Muharram. He noticed how flushed and tired looked the inspector’s handsome face.
“Will you get down and have a whisky and soda, Somerton?” he called, with an involuntary tinge of patronage in his voice, for a police-inspector is a subordinate whose rank corresponds somewhat to that of a sergeant in the army.
There was a slight hesitation in Somerton’s manner before he replied. He glanced at the ladies, and his sunburned cheeks deepened in colour, but another glimpse of the refreshment-table behind their white skirts decided him.
“Thank you, sir,” he answered, dismounting, and followed Mr Sinclair into the tent. The ladies watched him with curiosity as he passed them, for they had heard, on good authority, that the inspector was a gentleman by birth.
“They say his grandfather was an earl,” whispered the police-officer’s wife to a girl who sat by her side.
“I can quite believe it,” answered the girl, fixing her blue eyes on the strongly-marked profile of the man who was lifting a tumbler to his lips.
“He has only come here on special duty, just for the Muharram, as my husband was so short of men,” continued the police-officer’s wife, “so I don’t suppose I shall have time to take any notice of him. I try to make a point of knowing something of my husband’s subordinates, though when they have no wives to go and see it makes it more difficult. I should think I might have him to dinner quite by himself, as he’s supposed to be a gentleman.”
“I should think so, indeed,” answered the girl, impetuously, “and I, for one, should be very glad to be asked to meet him.”
“Oh, Miss Murray, what would Mr Sinclair say if he heard you?” glancing in laughing reproof at the glittering engagement ring on the girl’s finger. “But it does seem absurd, I admit,” she added, ‘when a man is a gentleman, though my husband says discipline must be observed, and you cannot with any justice treat subordinates as equals. Perhaps he will get a commission some day, and then he will be all right. They say his present position is all his own fault. He wasted his money, and gambled, and drank, and ruined himself, and did all kinds of such dreadful things that a police-inspectorship in India was all his family influence could get for him.”
Meg Murray made no answer, but her eyes strayed again to the two men standing at the back of the tent. One so straight, so broad, so tall, with the peculiar, delicate lift of nostril and upper lip that betrays blue blood, the finely-poised head covered with slightly waving hair, and the long, well-bred hand holding the tumbler. The other, thin, spare, pale, with grizzled hair and moustache, and an habitual weary expression, due to long office hours and a heavy responsibility, yet with a certain air of dignified reserve and undoubted mental power that commanded respect, and made him the excellent ruler of a difficult district that he was.
Meg’s heart ached for a moment. The latter was the man she was to marry that day week. The former was just the type of man she would have— She checked the thought hurriedly, aghast at herself, and resolutely turned her mind to the widowed mother in a cheap country town, whose life had been a long, harassed struggle to educate her children on an inadequate income. Meg was well aware how great a sacrifice had been made in sending her out to relations in India, in the unspoken hope that there she might marry into her own class—which she would have little chance of doing in England.
She was an unusually lucky girl, hastily reflected Meg, to be marrying such a thoroughly good, nice man, who was also sufficiently well off to retire the instant he had earned his pension—which would be a month or two after their marriage. Yes, she was certainly very fortunate, and she liked and esteemed Henry Sinclair above all men, only— She looked again at the stalwart figure of the inspector, with its easy, distinguished carriage, turning to leave the tent, and as Somerton passed her and their eyes met, she forgot she was engaged, forgot he was a subordinate, forgot she was a self-respecting young lady, and smiled at him involuntarily. He put his hand to his helmet as though to raise it, but checked himself, and saluted instead; then passed out, leaving her flushed, breathless, and ashamed of herself.
“A fine-looking fellow,” she heard Sinclair saying in smooth, clear tones, “but a very regrettable case—every chance—plenty of money—good old family—all chucked to the winds. A great pity. However, he may do well yet. He has worked splendidly today, but those fellows always do when anything out of the ordinary is going on. It’s over the daily routine they fail one as a rule. Hallo!” with an apprehensive start, “What has happened?”
The monotonous shouts of the moving crowd had suddenly given place to an irregular, confused hubbub of sound, which presently rose to a roar, bearing down from the city. The portion of the procession then passing in front of the tent came to an abrupt halt and spread chaotically. Mr Sinclair hurried out and was met by an agitated native policeman, who incoherently announced that the Hindus had destroyed a tazia in the city, and that a desperate row had ensued. A tearing, fighting mob of raging Hindus and Mohammedans was advancing down the road, and the police, insufficient in number and worn out with the day’s work, were powerless to check it. Mr Sinclair rushed to his horse, and galloped towards the moving mass of infuriated, struggling people.
The ladies rose quickly, and asked with alarm if there was any danger? Was the tent likely to be thrown down? What were they to do? The few men who were with them told them to remain in their places, and assured them they were perfectly safe, then stationed themselves outside to avert any possible rush.
But Meg Murray had approached the front of the tent unnoticed, to look out. She felt nervous and apprehensive, and thought of the Mutiny and horrible tales of massacres. Would anyone be killed? She shivered at the idea. Somerton’s bold brown face rose before her, and immediately afterwards Sinclair’s tired eyes. She peered through the yellow clouds of dust and haze at the moving, indistinct mass that came nearer and nearer with a deafening turmoil—the thud of blows on flesh, the shouts, and clattering of hoofs, and above it all rang the fanatical yell, “Hasan! Husain! Hasan! Husain!” no longer in mournful lamentation, but with triumph and fury in its note.
“Keep back, keep back!” shouted someone to her. “Go inside!”
But at that moment there was a sudden break in the struggling crowd, then a rush of tazias as the Mohammedans gained the advantage, and Meg saw Somerton in the very front of the mêlée, urging his horse against it, and dealing blow after blow in his efforts to restore order.
“He will be killed!” she sobbed, under her breath, and ran blindly out into the road. The crowd overtook her at once, and she was swept down into the choking dust under myriads of trampling feet.
It was Somerton who, seeing what had happened, promptly dismounted, and, from sheer strength and determination, succeeded in dragging her out of danger before any real harm came to her. Faint, bruised, shaken, she lay in his arms sheltered behind a roadside tamarind tree, while the crowd surged past.
“You are all right,” he said protectingly, as she opened her frightened blue eyes and attempted to stand up. “Don’t move,” and taking out his handkerchief, he began to flick the dust from her hair and dress.
“What possessed you to leave the tent like that?” he inquired reproachfully, as her colour came slowly back.
“I hardly know,” she faltered. Then, with a sudden, overpowering impulse, she raised her eyes to his. “I was afraid you would be killed,” she said softly.
She heard his heart beat loudly, saw the blood rise above the line of sunburn across his forehead, and a quick flash light up his eyes; she noticed the long, dark eyelashes, the little golden ends to the dusty moustache, and the sharp curve of the lips as they opened to speak—then closed firmly without a word.
The next moment he had placed her gently against the tree, and was standing before her respectful and solicitous; the inspector again—the subordinate.
“I hope you feel better; could you walk to the tent? Or shall I fetch you something to drink? The worst of the row is over now, so you need not feel frightened. Ah! Here is Mr Sinclair, now you will be all right.”
As the magistrate approached in anxious haste, Somerton moved away, and Sinclair was too full of agitation and relief at finding Meg unhurt to think at the moment of calling the inspector back to thank him for having saved her.
However, the following morning he sent for Somerton, and in a becoming and well-considered little speech, conveyed to him his appreciation of his promptitude and courage.
“And I am sure Miss Murray would like to thank you herself,” he concluded.
“She is very kind, but I think she will forgive me when I say I would rather she did not. I am glad to have been of service.” Then he paused. “Do you know what induced her to leave the tent at that particular moment?” he added, the formality dropping out of his voice.
A slight colour rose in Sinclair’s pale face.
“I fancy she must have feared I was in danger,” he answered, somewhat consciously. “No doubt you have heard that Miss Murray is to become my wife very shortly.”
Somerton looked at the other man with a curious glance, and smiled furtively. Then, with a stifled sigh, he took up his helmet. “I wish you every happiness, sir,” he said, and, saluting, passed out into the verandah with his sword clanking after him.
* * *
Margaret Sinclair leaned lazily back in her comfortable garden chair, lulled by the soft English summer air, the drone of the bees in the lime blossoms above her head, the heavy scent from an adjacent petunia bed, and her husband’s voice reading sleepily aloud from a magazine. Two years of married life had passed very happily and peacefully for her. Prosperity, comfort, an increasing affection for her husband and the birth of her child had her existence completely, and the few months she had spent in India now seemed almost as far behind her as the days of her childhood. Sinclair himself had greatly improved in appearance, for rest, change and happiness had taken the weary expression from his eyes, and added flesh to his spare frame. It would have been hard to find a more peaceful picture than the well-kept English garden sloping towards the river from the substantial red brick house, and the happy, contented, sleepy couple under the trees on the lawn.
Presently Sinclair ceased reading, and smiled as he saw that his wife had fallen into a sound sleep. The smile was full of love and tenderness, and taking a light Indian shawl from a chair, he arranged it gently over her feet. Then he leant back and closed his eyes.
Half an hour slid by in the warm, uninterrupted silence of a summer’s afternoon, and then Mrs Sinclair stirred uneasily in her sleep. Her husband roused himself and bent over her laughingly. It was teatime, and she must be awakened.
“What did you say?” he inquired, as she murmured something.
Again a sleepy movement and an incoherent sentence. Then two words—loud, clear, and distinct—“Hasan! Husain!”
She sprang up startled and bewildered.
“What did you say, Henry?” she demanded nervously. “Did you speak, or did I?”
“You, Meg. You were talking in your sleep and dreaming about India. You shouted out, “Hasan! Husain!” as enthusiastically as any Mohammedan—which reminds me that the Muharram must just be on now. Last week’s papers said rows were expected, because the Hindu festival, the Dasahra, clashes with it this year. I wonder how my old district will get on.”
Mrs Sinclair smoothed her hair and shook a few leaves from her dress.
“I’m hardly awake yet,” she said. “I was not dreaming about India or the Muharram, and I can’t think why I should have called that out. Don’t talk about it. I hate being reminded of that day.”
But she was reminded of it again later, for while she was busy one morning with the coffee at breakfast, her husband opened the Indian weekly paper and began to scan the telegrams. Presently he uttered an exclamation.
“You remember Somerton, the police-inspector, who pulled you out of the Muharram row two years ago?” he inquired.
“Yes,” she replied quickly, with a little guilty blush. “What about him?”
“I see he has been killed in a Muharram-Dasahra riot. They seem to have had the devil’s own trouble. Poor fellow! What an awful thing! I shall always remember him with gratitude, for he undoubtedly saved your life.”
Mrs Sinclair sat white and silent. Killed—and probably at the very moment that the funeral cry had burst unconsciously from her lips! Instantly the scene of two years ago came vividly back. The well-appointed, comfortable English dining-room with the long French windows and the bright garden beyond, melted into a dusty yellow haze, and the bronzed face of the police-inspector rose before her. She saw the golden-tipped moustache, the little aristocratic lift of nostril and upper lip, and the suppressed emotion in the handsome eyes. She was alone with him again in the blinding glare of dust and heat, and ringing in her ears were the trampling of many feet, the rattle of tazias, the confused yells of rage and religious frenzy, and, above it all, the piercing cry, “Hasan! Husain! Hasan! Husain!”
“Margaret, what on earth is the matter with you? You look as if you had seen a ghost! Nurse has been at the window with baby for the last two minutes, and you haven’t taken the slightest notice of him. You unnatural little mother!”
She started, and passed her hand across her forehead.
“I was thinking of that poor fellow’s death,” she said, and going to the window, she took the laughing, radiant little boy in her arms and kissed him absently, her blue eyes full of tears.
The calm tranquility of her life had been suddenly stirred in its depths by the vague suspicion of something for ever missed and unattainable; and she felt that, though the surface might still shine on unruffled in the sun of a placid happiness, the undefined vibration of a regretful memory would lurk beneath, but deep down, covered over, and perchance in time almost forgotten.