Cicer arietinum (chickweed), is called arietinum because the young seed bears a very curious resemblance to a ram’s horn. The crops being favourable this year, this chickweed (chāna or gram) was sold in the city one mŭn twenty-two ser per rupee; and in the district, one mŭn thirty-five ser for the same.
March 8th.—At this time my husband was attacked with ague and fever, the consequence of our expedition to Benares.
There is a rumour of a central government being established, the location to be hereabouts, so that Allahabad may again become a city of repute.
We have had much annoyance of late from the servants stealing all sorts of little things, as also wine. Two of the khidmatgārs were the culprits: one has been rataned, and put in irons to work on the road; we could not punish the other, but it was a pleasure to get him out of the house. In India, amongst so many servants, it is very difficult to discover the thief.
May 31st.—How I rejoice this month is over!—this vile month! It appears almost wicked to abuse the merry merry month of May, so delightful at home, but so hot in India. Mr. M⸺ started from Calcutta to come up dāk on the 7th instant, and died in his pālkee of brain-fever only three days afterwards, in consequence of the intense heat! We spare no expense to keep the house cool, and have fourteen men whose sole business night and day is to throw water on tattīs to cool the rooms; unless the wind blows, the tattīs are useless. The heat makes you as sick as if you were to shut your head up in an oven.
A young bullock was standing in the stable to-day by the side of three horses, a snake bit the animal, and it died in a few minutes; the horses escaped,—and so did the snake, much to my sorrow.
July 19th.—The other evening Major P⸺ was with us, when Ram Din, a favourite Hindoo servant, brought into the room a piece of cotton cloth containing 150 rupees tightly tied up in it; the man placed it on the table by my side, and retired. Major P⸺, who thought the cloth looked dirty, took it up, and saying, “Oh the vile rupees!” let it drop upon the ground between his chair and mine. We took tea; and I retired to rest, entirely forgetting the bag of rupees. When I looked for it the following morning, of course it had disappeared. By the advice of the jāmadār of the office we sent for a gosāin, a holy personage, who lived in a most remarkable temple on the ruins of an old well by the side of the Jumna, close to our house. The gosāin came. He collected the Hindoos together, and made pooja. Having anointed a sacred piece of wood[43] with oil and turmeric, and placed it in a hut, he closed the door; and coming forth, said: “To show you that I am able to point out the thief, I have now left a gold ring in front of the idol in that house; go in and worship, every man of you. Each man must put his hand upon the idol. Let one amongst you take the ring, I will point out the man.”
The Hindoos looked at him with reverence; they all separately entered the dwelling, and did as they were ordered. The jāmadār performed the same ceremony, although he was a Mussulmān. On their appearing before the gosāin, he desired them all to show their hands, and having examined them with much attention, he exclaimed, looking at the hands of the jāmadār, “You are the thief!” The man held up his hands to heaven, exclaiming, “God is great, and you are a wonderful man! I, a Mussulmān, did not believe in your power; your words are words of truth; I took the ring, here it is: if it be your pleasure, you can, doubtless, point out the man who stole the rupees.”
The gosāin then told the people, that unless the money were forthcoming the next day, he would come and point out the thief. That evening the jāmadār roamed around the house, calling out in the most dismal voice imaginable, “You had better put back the rupees, you had better put back the rupees.” The police came, and wished to carry off Ram Din to prison, because he was the servant who had put the money by my side. The man looked at me. “Is it your will? I am a Rajpoot, and shall lose caste; I have served you faithfully, I am present.”
“Who will be security that you will not run away?” said the barkandāz. I replied, “I will be his security: Ram Din will remain with us, and when the magistrate sends for him, I will answer for it he will be present.” The man’s eyes filled with tears: it was the greatest compliment I could pay him: he made a deep sālām, saying, “Mem sāhiba! Mem sāhiba!” in an agitated and grateful tone. The next morning the jāmadār informed me that a bag was on the top of the wardrobe in my dressing-room, and none of the servants would touch it. I went to the spot, and desired Ram Din to take it down.