Baburam Babu next set about searching for a Munshi to teach his son Persian. After a long search, the grandfather of Aladi the tailor, Habibala Hoshan by name, was appointed to the post on a salary of one rupee eight annas a month, together with oil and firewood. The Munshi Saheb was a man with toothless gums, a grey beard, and a moustache like tow: his eyes would get inflamed whenever he was teaching, and when he bade his pupils repeat the letters after him, his face became hideously distorted in pronouncing the guttural Persian letters kaph, gaph, ain, ghain. The benefit that Matilall derived from learning Persian was pretty much what might have been expected from his possessing no taste whatever for the pursuit of knowledge, and having such a preceptor. As the Munshi Saheb was one day stooping over his book, repeating the maxims of Masnavi in a sing-song manner and keeping time with his hand, Matilall seized the opportunity to drop a lighted match from behind onto his beard. The poor Munshi’s beard at once flared up, crackling as it blazed, upon which Matilall remarked: “How now, Mussulman? you will not teach me any more after this, I expect.” The Munshi Saheb left speedily, shaking his head and exclaiming “Tauba! Tauba!” Then as the pain of the burn intensified, he shrieked: “Never, never have I seen so mad and wicked a boy as this: of a surety field labour in my own country were better than such slavery: it is cruel work coming to a place like this! Tauba! Tauba!”
CHAPTER II.
MATILALL’S ENGLISH EDUCATION.
WHEN Baburam heard of the evil plight of the Munshi Saheb, the only remark he made was: “My boy, Matilall, is not a boy like that. What can you expect from such a low fellow as that Mussulman?” He then considered that as Persian was going out of fashion, it might be a good thing for the boy to learn English. Just as a madman has occasional glimmerings of sense, so even a man lacking in intelligence has occasional happy inspirations. When he had come to this decision, it occurred to Baburam Babu that he was a very indifferent English scholar himself: he only knew one or two English words: his neighbours too, he reflected, knew about as much of it as he himself did: he must consult with some man of learning and experience. As he went over in his mind the list of his kinsmen and relatives, it struck him that Beni Babu, of Bally, was a very competent person. Business habits generate promptness of action, and he proceeded without delay to the Vaidyabati Ghât, taking with him a servant and a messenger.
In the first two months of the rainy season, the months Ashar and Shravan, most of the boatmen occupy themselves in catching hilsa fish with circular nets, and at midday, are generally busy taking their meals.Thus it came about that there was not a boat of any description at the Vaidyabati Ghât. Baburam Babu, full-whiskered, the sacred mark on his nose, dressed in fine lawn with coloured borders, with smart shoes from Phulapukur, a front like the front of Ganesh, a delicate muslin shawl neatly folded over his shoulders, and his cheeks swollen with pán, was walking impatiently up and down, calling out to his servant: “Ho, there, Hari! I must get to Bally quick; you must hire a passing boat for me for fourpice.” Rich men’s servants are often very disrespectful, and Hari made answer: “Sir, that is just like you! I had only just sat down to take my food and I have now had to throw it away and leave it in order to attend to your repeated calls. If there had been any boat going down-stream, it might have been hired for a small sum, but it is flood-tide just now, and the boatmen will have to work hard rowing and steering. You might get across for three or four pice if you would arrange to go with others. I cannot possibly hire a passing boat for you for four pice; you might as well ask me to make barley-meal cakes without water.” Baburam Babu scowled and said: “You are a very insolent fellow; if you speak like that to me again, you get a sound smacking.” Now the lower orders of Bengalees tremble even if they make a slip, so Hari endured the rebuke, and quaking all over said to his master: “Sir, how can I possibly find a boat? I had no intention of being insolent to you”.
While he was still speaking, a green boat that was being towed up the river on its return journey, approached the ghât where they were. After a long argument with the steersman of the boat a bargain was struck, and he agreed to take them across for eight annas. Baburam then got into the boat with his servant and his messenger. When they had got some way on their journey, he began looking about him in every direction, and said to his servant: “Hari, this is a fine boat we have got! Hi, steersman! whose house is that over there? Ho! surely that is a sugar factory. Ha! Now prepare me a pipe of tobacco, and strike me a light.” Then he pulled away at the gurgling hooka, now and again raising himself to look at the porpoises tumbling in the water, and hummed a song of the loves of Krishna[5].:—
“When late to Brindabun, O Krishna! I came,”
“Your home there, alas! I found only a name.”
As it was the ebb, the boat dropped quickly down-stream and the boatmen had no occasion to exert themselves: one sat on the edge of the boat; another, bearded like an old billy-goat, keeping his look-out on the top of the cabin, sang in the Chittagong dialect the popular song which goes:—
“E’en the earring of gold shall loosen its hold,”
“By the lute-string’s languishing strain cajoled.”