No More Learning

"There's the Afghan, and, as
a highlander, he despises all the dwellers in Hindoostan--with the
exception of the Sikh, whom he hates as cordially as the Sikh hates him.
The Hindu loathes Sikh and Afghan, and the Rajput--that's a little lower
down across this yellow blot of desert--has a strong objection, to put
it mildly, to the Maratha who, by the way, poisonously hates the Afghan.
Let's go North a minute. The Sindhi hates everybody I've mentioned. Very
good, we'll take less warlike races. The cultivator of Northern India
domineers over the man in the next province, and the Behari of the
Northwest ridicules the Bengali. They are all at one on that point.
I'm giving you merely the roughest possible outlines of the facts, of
course. "

Bishen Singh, his clean cut nostrils still quivering, watched the large
sweep of the whip as it traveled from the frontier, through Sindh, the
Punjab and Rajputana, till it rested by the valley of the Jumna.

"Hate--eternal and inextinguishable hate," concluded Orde, flicking the
lash of the whip across the large map from East to West as he sat down.
"Remember Canning's advice to Lord Granville, 'Never write or speak of
Indian things without looking at a map. '"

Pagett opened his eyes, Orde resumed. "And the race-hatred is only a
part of it. What's really the matter with Bishen Singh is class-hatred,
which, unfortunately, is even more intense and more widely spread.
That's one of the little drawbacks of caste, which some of your recent
English writers find an impeccable system.
"

The wood-carver was glad to be recalled to the business of his craft,
and his eyes shone as he received instructions for a carved wooden
doorway for Pagett, which he promised should be splendidly executed and
despatched to England in six months. It is an irrelevant detail, but in
spite of Orde's reminders, fourteen months elapsed before the work was
finished. Business over, Bishen Singh hung about, reluctant to take his
leave, and at last joining his hands and approaching Orde with bated
breath and whispering humbleness, said he had a petition to make. Orde's
face suddenly lost all trace of expression. "Speak on, Bishen Singh,"
said he, and the carver in a whining tone explained that his case
against his brothers was fixed for hearing before a native judge
and--here he dropped his voice still lower till he was summarily stopped
by Orde, who sternly pointed to the gate with an emphatic Begone!

Bishen Singh, showing but little sign of discomposure, salaamed
respectfully to the friends and departed.

Pagett looked inquiry; Orde, with complete recovery of his usual
urbanity, replied: "It's nothing, only the old story, he wants his case
to be tried by an English judge--they all do that--but when he began
to hint that the other side were in improper relations with the native
judge I had to shut him up. Gunga Ram, the man he wanted to make
insinuations about, may not be very bright; but he's as honest as
daylight on the bench. But that's just what one can't get a native to
believe. "

"Do you really mean to say these people prefer to have their cases tried
by English judges? "

"Why, certainly. "

Pagett drew a long breath. "I didn't know that before. " At this point a
phaeton entered the compound, and Orde rose with "Confound it, there's
old Rasul Ali Khan come to pay one of his tiresome duty calls. I'm
afraid we shall never get through our little Congress discussion. "

Pagett was an almost silent spectator of the grave formalities of
a visit paid by a punctilious old Mahommedan gentleman to an Indian
official; and was much impressed by the distinction of manner and fine
appearance of the Mohammedan landholder.