But I had come to see Ronnie—not carpets—and I think my companion instinctively felt that I had no wish to linger; so he soon escorted me out of the department into another section. As we proceeded, he informed me that at the moment they had five hundred inmates in the prison, mostly men, who did all the domestic and garden work, besides weaving carpets and making tents and gunny bags.
“This is the central jail,” he added, “the only one in the province; the rest are merely district jails and lock-ups. You would be surprised at the number of old people that are confined in India. They are sworn in by their families, in place of younger men, who are the real criminals, and they are fairly well provided for for the rest of their lives.”
To which statement—mentioned in the most casual manner—I listened with indignant horror.
I was also not a little moved by the number of convicts we encountered as we went along the stone passages. Every one of them wore irons on his legs, which clanked as he walked. Both prisoners and warders glanced at me furtively as I passed. Lady customers were no doubt occasionally to be seen in the carpet department, but I was in the division reserved for hard labour criminals and the most desperate characters. At last we reached a flight of steep steps, and climbed into a little room overlooking a yard, which was enclosed with high spiked walls. Here a number of prisoners were thumping coco-nuts with wooden mallets, “to make coir,” as my companion explained to me. They wore cotton coats, drawers, and caps stamped with that significant mark the broad arrow, and every man was fettered from ankle to knee. As my eyes roved anxiously among the crowd I realised that they were all natives of the country except one—one with a rigid white face, who was pounding away with a sort of mechanical ferocity.
At first I did not recognise him, and thought with a little dart of relief, “Here at least is a companion for Ronnie;” and then I realised that it was Ronnie himself! Changed, oh, incredibly changed, in two short weeks! I was so horrified and so suddenly unstrung that, almost in spite of myself, I screamed out “Ronnie!” I saw him look up, but I think the steady thumping of the wooden mallets had deadened my cry. My companion, who was extremely angry, seized me by the arm and drew me forcibly out of the room.
“There you see, that is what I get for my kindness!” he said indignantly. “It will be a lesson.”
“Oh, forgive me, do forgive me,” I sobbed. “I couldn’t help it.” And then I leant against the wall and wept. I think this was almost the bitterest moment of my whole life. There was my brother, the image of despair, working out his sentence within those tall ugly walls, out off from everything he had ever cared for. I believe my tears somewhat appeased the superintendent.
“Don’t take on, don’t take on. Come away down to my room,” he said, “and pull yourself together a bit.”
As soon as we had reached this haven, he offered me a chair and sent for a glass of water, and when I was more composed he said:
“I was afraid you might be upset.”