Under the Big Dipper

INDIA the wonderful—India the home of Buddha and the land of mystery and misery. The country of glorious traditions and unsatisfied desires! What ambitions have not been dreamed, what visions not conjured in your cause! Assyrian and Greek, Mongol and Parsee, Portuguese rover, Dutch trader, Russian diplomat and English merchant prince—all have sought thee and thy wealth, all have fought and striven, chicaned and murdered, sneaked and schemed—for thy gold and dominion over thy people.

And the result? A land teeming with beings abject and low; a land where Paradise might have been nestling amongst the giant hills of the North, now laid waste and desolated of its ancient splendors—a land of dreams, but a land of unfulfilled desires. The country of caste and the grave of unborn ambitions; the country of dirt and superstition; the cradle of plagues and epidemics and famines; the land of the noblest palaces and temples, as well as of the meanest hovels which serve as dwellings for its sad-eyed patient inhabitants.

And over all rises and sets the sun of the tropics, over all shine the moon of Gautama and the stars of Zoroaster. Over all there rest the curses of disease, dirt and ignorance, the ready tools of greed and lust of power, the outcome of lack of coherence and the terrible rule of classes.

This cradle of humanity is still a couch of prodigious productiveness—and to our eternal shame be it confessed—these all-enduring, passive, gazelle-like creatures are really white—white like we are, of the same color as are the gay crowds of Hyde Park, or the Boulevards of Paris, Rome or Vienna, New York or Boston! And older as race and nearer to Eden than any of these. They pray to Brahma and many-armed Shiva, to Buddha and Mohammed, to the sun and fire of Zoroaster—and even to the cobra of the jungle; but forlorn and without hope as they seemingly are, they are still human beings.

Along the dusty highway leading from Madras to Pondisherry, well inland and therefore removed from the life-giving breezes of the Coromandel coast and the Bay of Bengal, under a straggling group of ficus, a native dwelling on low stilts raises its squalid roof above the yellow grime of its surroundings.

From the distant hills resounds the shrill blast of the locomotive; every once in a while the contour of gently rolling land permits a glimpse of a curious looking behatted smokestack, copied after the model of early Pacific days, belching soot and smoke, and pulling noisily amidst groans and creaks their little dingy cars. Along the highway the ungainly telegraph poles with their odd crosspieces copied after the favorite gallows-construction of remote rural England, bear witness to the encroaching hand of western civilization on the land. Even India is now but another source of supply for trade and commerce.

Near this native structure, in the shade of a clump of hybiscus and a few doleful fig trees, some saddle-horses and donkeys are tethered; sprawling in the deep weed-like grass and scrubby undergrowth a number of natives with swathed limbs and streaky, greasy turbans are contemplating with expressionless mien the cloudless sky in which float and soar buzzards and vultures upon seeming motionless wings. At some distance from this group and seated on a well-filled saddle-bag, a European is smoking a cigarette, as if unaware of the proximity of his humbler companions.

The stilted building itself, containing two compartments separated by a narrow hallway, is made accessible from the tangle of weeds and caked mud by a crude ladder-like few steps of filth-covered boards.

Even the bounty of the tropics and wealth of vegetation in this favored clime have not succeeded in hiding the unattractive nakedness of the mean dwelling. Straggling, unkempt brush and creepers but emphasize the wild condition of its near surroundings. Rough weathered beams, decaying boards, cracked dirty bamboo and sunbaked grayish clay afford the only protection against burning sun, heating wind and drifting rain.

In the larger of the two compartments, which hardly justify the appellation of rooms, two men are seated upon a low, rough-hewn bench. In the middle of the space an irregular heap of straw, covered with a torn and unclean sheet of unbleached muslin, serves as a couch upon which a man is lying prostrate—pale and evidently very ill.

One of the two seated men, a dark-skinned, bright-eyed native, heavily bearded and dressed in garments denoting a position of high standing, rises from the bench to kneel before the prostrate form. He holds the unresisting wrist in his capable brown hand and feels carefully with long prehensile fingers the pulse of the invalid.

The eyes of the sick man are covered by silky lashes; the features are calm and resigned; the nostrils expand and contract while the native physician, machine-like, listens and counts. Then the hand he holds is laid gently down on the coverlet and slowly rising he beckons to the other figure in the room to follow as he moves towards the door.

This other figure, until now silent and rigid in its vigil on the bench, sends a look of deep concern and pity upon the recumbent young man, and follows his companion into the adjoining space, where both retire to the wall farthest removed from the sick youth.

“There is no hope for your young friend, my lord. The ague has weakened his frame, the drug and excess have sapped his strength. He will die before the setting of the sun. I shall give him a draught that will ease his pain and hold the spirit to the last. Help I cannot; he is beyond the power of man.”

His companion, a tall, lean man of fine features, and even in his begrimed linens and dusty pith helmet a man of importance, gave the speaker a searching look and then bowed his head in evident grief.

“Doctor Saklava, I know you to be a physician of great judgment and equal skill. The governor vouches for you and I am more than grateful to have had your aid so promptly. If you say there is no hope, I must cease to indulge in any. But oh—if only something could be done!” Then in a calmer voice he continued: “The boy is young, his constitution strong, and after all youth clings to life! Is there truly no hope? It means so much to me!” The Parsee remained motionless and silent. The other went on:

“When I asked the governor for help he dispatched his chief surgeon at the same time he sent for you; Major Murdock might arrive at any moment. Will you not await him, pray, while I go in to the boy? How soon do you think will he awaken to consciousness?”

“In less than half an hour, my lord. And I think his mind will be clearer; indeed he may be perfectly rational. But his heart is very weak and his vitality low. The next attack of fever, which I beg to assure you cannot be prevented, will be his last, I fear. His temperature is now as high as any man can bear and live; his pulse is galloping and his lungs are under the maximum tension. I shall join your man in the grove and will await Major Murdock’s arrival. I presume he will bring a nurse and a cot?”