In those days there were much fewer houses in Poona than there are now, and many more wandering gipsies, and such like. They were very troublesome, doing nothing but begging and stealing, but people gave them all they wanted, as it was believed that to incur their ill-will was very dangerous. It was not safe even to speak harshly of them. I remember one day, when I was quite a little girl, running along by my mother’s side, when she was on her way to the bazaar: we happened to pass the huts of some of these people, and I said to her “See, mother, what nasty, dirty people those are; they live in such ugly little houses, and they look as if they never combed their hair nor washed.” When I said this, my mother turned round quite sharply and boxed my ears, saying, “Because God has given you a comfortable home and good parents, is that any reason for you to laugh at others who are poorer and less happy?” “I meant no harm,” I said; and when we got home I told my father what my mother had done, and he said to her, “Why did you slap the child?” She answered, “If you want to know, ask your daughter why I punished her. You will then be able to judge whether I was right or not.” So I told my father what I had said about the gipsies, and when I told him, instead of pitying me, he also boxed my ears very hard. So that was all I got for telling tales against my mother!
But they both did it, fearing if I spoke evil of the gipsies and were not instantly punished, some dreadful evil would befall me.
It was after my granny that I was named “Anna Liberata.” She died after my father, and when I was eleven years old. Her eyes were quite bright, her hair black, and her teeth good to the last. If I’d been older then, I should have been able to remember more of her stories. Such a number as she used to tell! I’m afraid my sister would not be able to remember any of them. She has had much trouble; that puts those sort of things out of people’s heads; besides, she is a goose. She is younger than I am, although you would think her so much older, for her hair turned gray when she was very young, while mine is quite black still. She is almost bald too, now, as she pulled out her hair because it was gray. I always said to her, “Don’t do so; for you can’t make yourself any younger, and it is better, when you are getting old, to look old. Then people will do whatever you ask them! But however old you may be, if you look young, they’ll say to you, ‘You are young enough and strong enough to do your own work yourself.’”
My mother used to tell us stories too; but not so many as my granny. A few years ago there might be found several old people who knew those sorts of stories; but now children go to school, and nobody thinks of remembering or telling them—they’ll soon be all forgotten. It is true there are books with some stories something like these, but they always put them down wrong. Sometimes when I cannot remember a bit of a story, I ask some one about it; then they say, “There is a story of that name in my book. I don’t know it, but I’ll read.” Then they read it to me, but it is all wrong, so that I get quite cross, and make them shut up the book. For in the books they cut the stories quite short, and leave out the prettiest part, and they jumble up the beginning of one story with the end of another—so that it is altogether wrong.
When I was young, old people used to be very fond of telling these stories; but instead of that, it seems to me that now the old people are fond of nothing but making money.
Then I was married. I was twelve years old then. Our native people have a very happy life till we marry. The girls live with their father and mother and brothers and sisters, and have got nothing to do but amuse themselves, and got father and mother to take care of them; but after they’re married they go to live at their husband’s house, and the husband’s mother and sisters are often very unkind to them.
You English people can’t understand that sort of thing. When an Englishman marries, he goes to a new house, and his wife is the mistress of it; but our native people are very different. If the father is dead, the mother and unmarried sisters live in the son’s house, and rule it; his wife is nothing in the house. And the mother and sisters say to the son’s wife, “This is not your house—you’ve not always lived in it; you cannot be mistress here.” And if the wife complains to her husband, and he speaks about it, they say, “Very well, if you are such an unnatural son, you’d better turn your mother and sisters out of doors; but while we live here, we’ll rule the house.” So there is always plenty fighting. It’s not unkind of the mother and sisters—it’s custom.
My husband was a servant in Government House—that was when Lord Clare was governor here. When I was twenty years old, my husband died of a bad fever, and left me with two children—the boy and the girl, Rosie.
I had no money to keep them with, so I said, “I’ll go to service,” and my mother-in-law said, “How can you go with two children, and so young, and knowing nothing?” But I said, “I can learn, and I’ll go;” and a kind lady took me into her service. When I went to my first place, I hardly knew a word of English (though I knew our Calicut language, and Portuguese, and Hindostani, and Mahratti well enough), and I could not hold a needle. I was so stupid, like a Coolie-woman;[22] but my mistress was very kind to me, and I soon learnt; she did not mind the trouble of teaching me. I often think, “Where find such good Christian people in these days?” To take a poor, stupid woman and her two children into the house—for I had them both with me, Rosie and the boy. I was a sharp girl in those days; I did my mistress’ work and I looked after the children too. I never left them to any one else. If she wanted me for a long time, I used to bring the children into the room and set them down on the floor, so as to have them under my own eye whilst I did her work. My mistress was very fond of Rosie, and used to teach her to work and read. After some time my mistress went home, and since then I have been in eight places.
My brother-in-law was valet at that time to Napier Sahib, up in Sind. All the people and servants were very fond of that Sahib. My brother-in-law was with him for ten years; and he wanted me to go up there to get place as ayah, and said, “You quick, sharp girl, and know English very well; you easily get good place and make plenty money.” But I such a foolish woman I would not go. I write and tell him, “No, I can’t come, for Sind such a long way off, and I cannot leave the children.” I plenty proud then. I give up all for the children. But now what good? I know your language. What use? To blow the fire? I only a miserable woman, fit to go to cook-room and cook the dinner. So go down in the world, a poor woman (not much good to have plenty in head and empty pocket!) but if I’d been a man I might now be a Fouzdar.[23]