Among the Burmans: A Record of Fifteen Years of Work and its Fruitage. Henry Park Cochrane
about as deep as the remark of one of our party who ran down the gangplank just ahead of us: "When you have been in the country as long as I have, etc.,"—an old expression, now under the ban. A few months later we began to take their advice. Experiences leading to such action will be described further on. Two days afterwards we reached our mission station, just as the sun was going down. While picking out our "luggage" (it was baggage when it left America) we received our first impressions as to the British Indian system of checking, or "booking," as it is called.
A luggage receipt given at the starting point, called for so many pieces. Then we found that to each article was glued a patch of paper on which its destination was marked, and also a number corresponding to the number on the receipt. All well so far. The luggage clerk seemed neither to know nor care, but left each passenger to claim his own.
We noticed too that everything imaginable was allowed to be booked, a certain number of viss in weight being allowed free on each ticket.
To our observing eyes, each passenger's luggage indicated about how long he had been in the country, or how much he had travelled.
Some evil spirit seems to possess the luggage clerk's assistant to glue the label in a new place each time, cancelling other bookings by tearing off loose corners of old labels. This custom is specially trying to spirituality when applied to bicycles, the railroad glue having such affinity for enamel that they stay or come off together. Another thing that impressed us was the suddenness with which the darkness of night came on, as if "darkness rather than light" reigned over this heathen land, and could hardly wait for the usurping sun to disappear behind the horizon. First impressions of our new home we gained late that night, by the dim light of a lantern. Home, did I say? As we peered through the shadows it did not strike us as being a place that could ever, by any stretch of imagination, seem like home. Bare, unpainted walls dingy with age; huge round posts, some of them running up through the rooms; no furniture except a teak bedstead, and a large round table so rickety that it actually bowed to us when we stepped into the room; lizards crawling on walls and ceiling—interesting and harmless things, as we afterwards found, but not specially attractive to a newcomer. Oh, no—it was not homesickness, only just lack of power to appreciate a good thing after the weary experiences of our long journey. In the night I was roused from sleep by hearing some one calling. Half awake, I was getting out from under the mosquito net, when my wife remarked, "Better get back into bed. It is only that taukteh, that Mrs. ——told us about." The taukteh is the "crowing," or "trout-spotted lizard." The English call it the tuctoo, from the sound it makes. The Burmans call it taukteh, for the same reason. Some declare that it says "doctor, doctor," as plain as day. Alarming stories are told of this terrible creature; how it loses its hold on the ceiling to alight in a lady's hair, and that nothing short of removing scalp and all will dislodge it. The worst thing we have known it to do was to wake the baby in the dead of the night, when we had got fairly settled to sleep after hours of sweltering. I have shot several for this unpardonable offense. The taukteh's sudden call in the night causes some children to suffer much from fright, though no harm is intended.
Our house was situated on a narrow strip of land with streets on three sides, and school dormitory in the rear. Just across one street was a native Police Guard, but we did not know what it was until next morning. We had come into our possessions after dark, so knew nothing of our environment. These were dacoit times. Disturbances were frequent. Of course our ears had been filled with exciting stories of dacoit atrocities. The incessant and unintelligible jabbering of the Paunjabby policemen, sometimes sounding as though they were on the verge of a fight, and the sharp call of the sentry as he challenged passers-by were anything but conducive to sleep through that first night in our mission bungalow.
The new missionary has many trying experiences while becoming accustomed to the changed conditions of life in the tropics. Judging from our own experience and observation, covering many years, it seems utterly impossible for the returned missionary to transmit to the new missionary, while yet in the home-land, anything like true conceptions of the life upon which he is about to enter, and how to prepare for it. Either the new missionary has theories of his own which he fondly imagines never have been tried, or he considers himself so unlike other mortals that rules of living, developed by long experience, do not apply to one of his own peculiar physical make-up. But whatever his attitude of mind towards the new life and work, the fact remains that he has dropped down in the midst of conditions so unlike anything in his past experience that he must learn to adapt himself to life as he finds it. The first place to apply his gift of adaptation is in the household. First experiences with native servants are decidedly interesting, to say the least. Our cook "Naraswamy," "Sammy" for short—came to us highly recommended, and neatly clothed. We had not yet learned that the poorer the cook, the better his recommendations (often borrowed from some other cook), and the neater his clothing—also borrowed for the purpose of securing a place, but never seen after the first day or two.
One day when "Missis" was giving directions about the dinner she called Sammy and said, "Sammy, how many eggs have you?" "Two egg, missis." "Very well, you make a pudding the best you can, with the two eggs." At dinner no pudding appeared. "Sammy, where is the pudding?" Putting on a sorrowful look Sammy replied, "I done break egg" (spreading out his hands to indicate the two eggs), "one got child, one got child." When Sammy felt fairly sure of keeping his place, his two little boys began to spend much of their time in and around the cook house. One of our first rules was that no child should be allowed to go naked on the mission compound. These two dusky youngsters had not a thread of clothing. Sammy was called up and instructed that if his children were coming to the mission premises, they must be properly clothed, at the same time presenting him with a suit for one child. The next day they came again, with smiles of satisfaction, one wearing the trousers, the other the jacket. Many of these Madrassi cooks are professing Christians, merely to secure a place in a missionary family. A small minority are Christians in fact. But whether a heathen cook sneaks off with a stuffed turban, or a professed Christian appropriates our food quietly humming "I love to steal——" the resulting loss to commissariat and spirituality is the same.
Madrassi cooks, almost without exception, are dishonest. They will jealously guard "Master's" property against the depredations of all comers, but help themselves to a liberal commission from the daily Bazar money—and catch them if you can. This has been their custom for many generations, and is their right, from their point of view.
When engaging a cook it may as well be kept in mind that his pay is so much a month, and——. He will fill out the blank to suit himself.
Take his Bazar-account every day, and make him show the articles charged for, but do not congratulate yourself that he has made nothing by the transaction. And yet his prices may be quite as low as his employer could get. Find fault with the quality of the meat, and he will bring a better article, but short weight. A stranger might conjecture that the meat was selected for its wearing qualities, as one would buy leather; or that they had heard of the mummified beef found with one of the Pharaohs, and decided that only such was kingly food.
The cook is supposed to board himself. He does, and all his family connections. Just how he does it may never be known, but "Master" pays the bill, in "cash or kind." Bengalee cooks are much more desirable, but hard to get. Mrs. Judson's testimony to the faithfulness of her Bengalee cook may well be repeated here.
"I just reached Aungpenla when my strength seemed entirely exhausted. The good native cook came out to help me into the house; but so altered and emaciated was my appearance that the poor fellow burst into tears at the first sight. I crawled on to the mat in the little room, to which I was confined for more than two months, and never perfectly recovered until I came to the English camp. At this period, when I was unable to take care of myself, or look after Mr. Judson, we must both have died had it not been for the faithful and affectionate care of our Bengalee cook. A common Bengalee cook will do nothing but the simple business of cooking; but he seemed to forget caste, and almost all his own wants in his efforts to serve us, … I have frequently known him not to taste food until near night, in consequence of having to go so far for wood and water, and in order to have Mr. Judson's dinner ready at the usual hour. He never complained, never asked for his wages, and never for a moment hesitated to go anywhere, or perform any act that we required."
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