# On the Coromandel Coast/Chapter 2

CHAPTER II
FAMINE
We may descend into hell, establish our dwelling in the abode of Brahma or in the paradise of Indra, throw ourselves into the depths of the sea, ascend to the summit of the highest mountain, take up our habitation in the howling desert… yet our destiny will be none the less accomplished. All that will happen to us will be such as it is not in our power to avoid.–Sloka.
The year in which we arrived in India, 1877, was a dark epoch for the country. A severe famine extended throughout the length and breadth of the land. The news of it reached us before we arrived. They who have never been in a tropical land nor have travelled through a desert have no conception of what drought can do. Drooping vegetation and a parched soil may be imagined, but the suffering which a prolonged absence of rain can inflict on man and beast is not easily realised except by personal contact.
England knows nothing of gaunt raging famine. The nearest approach to such a calamity within modern times has been dearth or dearness of provisions. Under these conditions the poorest classes of Great Britain have experienced semi-starvation, or perhaps even actual starvation, causing death in some cases. But the scarcity has only affected food. Such a thing as a famine of water has happily never touched the British Isles.
Water famines are confined mostly to the countries lying under a tropical sun. It is an appalling misfortune ​when springs dry up and the rivers cease to flow; when every vestige of green grass and other vegetation disappears; when the trees stand bare, as in winter, amidst their own fallen leaves, lifting skeleton branches against the fiery sky. The hot winds sweep across the burned ground, carrying the shrivelled leaves along with a crisp rustle, and whirling them up into the columns of red dust that are raised. The village people in the south believe that devils use these whirlwinds as chariots to ride abroad over the land they have cursed, and that they rejoice in the misery of nature. Birds fly away to the foot of the hills and depths of the jungles, where a little moisture may be found. Even the ubiquitous jackal departs. A heavy silence settles down upon the afflicted land, broken only by the clicking of the lizard's tongue. Men, weakened by privation, dig holes with despairing energy in the beds of tanks and rivers, and emaciated dispirited women sit and wait for the oozing of a few precious drops of muddy liquid at the bottom of the hole, and take their turn at scooping it out. The dogs and the cattle, mere skin and bone, sniff with parched tongues and eager eyes; and though they may receive their share of the muddy liquid, yet man and beast lie down at the end of the burning day with parched throats to be tantalised with dreams of the flowing streams and wide pools of the monsoon.
Although we had been told of the famine there was no visible sign of it when we landed. The beach presented an unusual sight, but of that we were not aware at the time. As a rule the sandy shore is deserted during the day, except by the fishermen and cargo coolies at work with the masulah boats. Just before sunset natives as well as Europeans come down to the sea to 'eat the air,' as the Hindu aptly terms it; but at this time the beach was thronged with people all day long. They gathered round the new arrivals, who had appeared so suddenly through ​the surf, to gaze upon them with eager curiosity. Their faces bore no trace of starvation, but were smiling with the content and happiness that belonged to a successful picnic-party. Plump and well-nourished, they seemed to give the lie direct to the tales that had reached us. They were the villagers of the districts round Madras, herdsmen and small cultivators, who had been drawn to the Presidency town to seek the charity of a benevolent Government. Their excellent condition was a testimony to the liberality with which that charity had been dispensed. A merry ragged crew it was that circled round me, pressing too close to be pleasant, and with difficulty kept at arm's length by the umbrella that I had unfurled. If this was India, where was the much-talked-of famine?
Far inland it held the country in its paralysing grip. Millions of human beings, dying by inches, waited in vain for the rain that did not come. The cattle died or were sold because their owners had no water for them. The dogs and jackals, gaunt and maddened with thirst, searched the bare countryside in vain for food, and traversed the dry beds of the rivers and tanks for a drop of water. Finding none they fell exhausted, and died by the blasted bushes which could no longer shelter them from the burning rays of the sun. Their sufferings from thirst far exceeded the pangs caused by hunger.
The grain that should have brought relief was heaped upon the shore in sacks. It had arrived thus far by ship, but could get no further for want of means of transport. The railway on which the Government depended did its utmost, sending out freight trains as fast as they could be loaded. But its rolling-stock was limited, and the supply of rice brought by sea far exceeded its capabilities.
It was sad to see food lying there when thousands were dying a few hundred miles away. It is sadder still to have to relate that much of it never reached the ​hungering multitude at all. Train after train left Madras and many hundreds of sacks were duly deposited at the different wayside stations. But the bullocks that should have drawn the carts with the grain to the distant villages were dead, and their owners were too enfeebled to do the work of their cattle and draw the carts themselves. They had not even the strength to crawl to the spots where the sacks lay, but died in their villages just as their cattle had died. The railway was unable to remove the whole of the grain. Damaged by exposure to the weather and rendered unfit for food, the rest of it was eventually thrown into the sea, its presence in its putrefying condition being a menace to the sanitation of the beach. Could it have been forwarded into the heart of the country, it is by no means certain that it would have brought relief to the drought-stricken people. Of what use is meat without drink? Frenzied human beings and panting animals may stand knee-deep in corn and yet die in agony if they have not water.
Terrible stories were told by historians of the straits to which the people were reduced by famines in the old days before there were railways to distribute the grain, or to carry the multitudes to the water-springs that were not exhausted. Men and women in the throes of starvation were like beasts, ready to tear each other to pieces in the madness of their hunger, and to slay each other for a cup of water. They even cast hungry glances upon their own offspring, whom they would have robbed of their portion or even murdered to lessen the number of clamouring mouths if they dared. Details too horrible for repetition remain on record in the letters written to the Board of Directors by the Englishmen who served in the East India Company. In 1630-1 and again in 1647 accounts were sent to England of a desolate land, of dead bodies lying unburied and unburned outside the ​towns, breeding pestilence for the miserable remnant that survived.
An epidemic in some form or other invariably followed at the heels of a famine, and was more dreaded by the Europeans than the famine itself. In 1630 a letter from the council at the Company's settlement at Surat pathetically relates that the President and eleven of the factors had died of the pestilence. Having more than decimated the Company's servants, it attacked the soldiers and other subordinates, and the letter further informs the Honourable Board that 'divers inferiors are now taken into Abraham's bosom.'
In 1781-2 there was a severe famine lasting two years. The English colony at Madras, who pitied the natives for their sufferings, resolved to extend their charity to them as well as to the poor Europeans and Eurasians. The churchwardens of St. Mary's Church opened a subscription list and collected a large sum of money. The native merchants were invited to contribute to it, but they did not respond with the same liberality as was shown by the English. The fund was known as the Native Poor Fund, and it was administered by the St. Mary's vestry until 1809, when it was developed into a standing relief fund under other trustees for the permanent benefit of the natives. Part of the money was employed in the purchase of the Monegar Choultry, the present poorhouse for the natives of Madras.
Again, in 1807, a severe famine afflicted the Madras Presidency. The report of the endeavours made by the charitable and compassionate English to assist the people penetrated to the distant villages, and the inhabitants forsook their homes in a body in the vain hope of reaching those benevolent 'Fathers of the Poor.' The result was sad, and was thus described by a contemporary writer : 'Not a tree near the sides of the roads leading to Madras ​but has the dead bodies of the famished natives lying underneath it.'
India possesses no poor law such as is in force in Great Britain to provide for her paupers. Each family looks after its own poor; and the natives who have sufficient wealth feed others, doing it as an act of charity, which will bring them benefits in their next incarnation. In the old days the efforts of the charitable were curtailed by the want of transport. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries Englishmen and Brahmins alike had the will, but there was no means of carrying it out. It was not every district that was fortunate in having men rich enough to relieve the distress in times of scarcity. This fact, combined with the transport difficulty, caused all efforts at relief to fail, and the Government began to see the necessity of taking up the matter. The result is that in the present day the duty of feeding the starving multitude is no longer borne by private individuals. A system of relief works has been inaugurated, and those who are willing to go to the centres established where water is procurable. and who are also willing to work for a daily wage, need not starve. The rice will not rot again upon the beach, for there are adequate means now of transporting the bags inland.
The natives of the south know the principal famines of their generation by certain names. The one previous to 1877 was called 'the red wind famine.' No one could say why it received that name. The famine of 1877 was 'the great famine,' so termed on account of its unusually wide extent. The famine of 1890-2, when the relief works were established all over the country, was known as 'the fat coolie famine.' The word coolie has much the same meaning as journeyman. It implies a day labourer, one who is paid by the day. The people who earned a daily wage on the relief works were coolies. They grew ​fat upon the excellent rice doled out to them in payment of their labour. Their appearance showed that they had availed themselves of the help offered by Government. Many of them would fain have kept it a secret from the more rigid members of their caste, who looked upon the work as beneath their dignity, but there was no hiding the fact. The pariahs and some of the lower castes were not troubled with any scruples ; but the higher castes shrank from doing manual labour which was shared with the lower castes, although there was nothing in the tasks that was contrary to their rules. The difficulty, hoary with age, is the same that has ever separated the people of India into factions. It exists in the present day and prevents them from uniting in any common cause. It has been said by the more thoughtful Hindus themselves that India is held not so much by the power of the British sword as by the strength of the divisions between the different castes and peoples of the continent. As for some of the higher castes, they refuse to labour on relief works, though they may be hard working agriculturists in their own stricken districts. They prefer to starve rather than turn labourer, and they do starve and die. It is not easy to sympathise with a people who deliberately choose starvation and death in preference to performing an easy task for a liberal remuneration, more especially as the reason for their refusal is founded on contempt for their fellow-workers. The iron rules of caste do not appeal to the freedom-loving Englishman; he has small patience with the credulity of the Hindu, who believes that dire misfortune will overtake him after death in the shape of inferior incarnations if he breaks his rules. Yet all is done that is possible to keep the most foolish person alive by the benevolent rulers who watch over the interests of the millions committed to their care. And some who comprehend the enormous hold which caste has upon the ​Hindu are moved to pity rather than to anger. Tragic tales are told of the endurance and voluntary sufferings of some of the higher castes in the 'fat cooly famine.'
A Brahmin woman in moderately good circumstances lost her husband just before the famine set in. Gradually she and her children were brought to the verge of starvation. She parted with her jewels one by one until there remained only the thali, her marriage badge. This, too, had to be sold like the rest, and there was absolutely nothing else left upon which she could raise money to buy food. The proceeds of the thali were very small, and with the sum she purchased sufficient grain for one meal and some sweetmeat. Mixing opium with the sweet- stuff, she divided it between herself and her family, saying: What is the use of life to us who have no food?'
One of her children died, but she and the rest recovered. The matter reached the ears of the police and she was prosecuted for the murder of her baby. The eldest son, a lad of eleven, made a noble attempt to save his mother. He was examined by the magistrate, an Englishman.
'Did you know that the sweetstuff contained poison?'
'I knew it, sir,' replied the boy.
'Do you know that opium is a poison that kills?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And your mother gave you the sweetstuff to eat?'
The boy glanced at the silent despondent woman as though to reassure her, and answered :
'My mother did not give me the sweetstuff to eat. I took it with my own hand and ate it of my own free will.'
'Knowing that there was death in it?'
'Knowing that I should die,' lied the boy firmly and without hesitation in his gallant endeavour to save his ​mother from punishment. Needless to say the law did not deal severely with the poor creature.
To an English mind that has had no experience of the East the term sea-beach conjures up visions of yellow sand, bathing-machines, groups of happy children, idle men and women taking a well-earned holiday. The long straight shore at Madras has nothing in common with the English beach. Yellow sand there is in abundance, in far greater abundance now than when my foot first touched it. As late as the beginning of the nineteenth century the spray of the waves fell upon the old walls of Fort St. George, and there was no driving road between the beach and the sea-gate. In 1877 the road had been made. At only a few yards distance from it the skeleton of a wreck lay half buried in the sand. As the building of the southern arm of the harbour progressed the sea retreated, throwing up broad stretches of sand behind it, until now in the present day the waves break more than half a mile from the spot where I passed through the surf. Patches of vegetation are finding foothold in the sand; and that prince of sandbinders, the goat's-foot creeper (Ipomwa pes-caprce), is extending its strong arms, adorned with blue-green foliage and wine-coloured flowers of the convolvulus form, over the very spot where the rolling wave sent our boat ashore with a mad rush of tumbling water. Another marked feature has made its appearance since that time, altering the very character of the beach and modifying its desolate look. Groves of casuarina trees the Tinian pine (Casuarina muricata) have been planted. The tree grows readily in the loose yellow sand which even the sandbinder takes time to conquer. The fine drooping pine-like foliage is of a soft sea-green, and the wind soughs through it with an answering echo to the moan of the sea. The plantations at Madras are sufficiently thick and well-grown to mask ​large guns that sometimes boom across the water at a floating target.
In 1877 there was not a tree to be seen but the cocoanut palm which grew further inland on the edge of the marshes of the river Cooum. The glare upon the beach under the midday sun was an unpleasant experience as I landed, and I looked in vain for some kind of shelter. To the right was Blacktown, now called Georgetown ; to the left was the fort with its low thick walls concealing the terraced houses within. As I waited, while my husband was carried through the surf as I had been, my curiosity was not unmingled with a touch of dismay. The heat of the sun, the dazzling light, the dusty sand stirred by the feet of the famine-wallahs, the crowd of dark creatures staring at me with a greater curiosity than my own, the clamouring porters and noisy touts for carriages, above all the discordant foreign tongue, produced a sensation of helplessness and bewilderment that can never be forgotten. When the luggage reached the shore it was seized by a horde of gesticulating Hindus, who seemed to hurry away to the four points of the compass with it. However, we succeeded in gathering it together, and it was placed upon a hired gharry, one of those antiquated conveyances which are now relegated to the exclusive use of the native. The coachman sat upon the roof, and his large bare feet almost filled up the front window that should have let in air. He was directed to drive to the Capper House Hotel, chosen on account of its proximity to the sea. It was a long drive by a road that ran parallel with the sea. We passed under the walls of the fort and by Cupid's Bow, a fine open space with a band- stand enclosure in the centre. Here the English residents came every evening in their carriages to enjoy the sea- breezes and the music. Here the matches were said to be made, and hence the name by which the spot was ​known. Now it is deserted by the sea and by Cupid. The band no longer plays there and the matches are made elsewhere.
Capper House still stands upon the beach near the sea, but it is buried in a casuarina grove that has sprung up since we spent our first night in India. The house was named after Colonel Capper, who built it at the end of the eighteenth century as a private dwelling-house when he retired from the command of the Madras Artillery at St. Thomas's Mount. It is a fine building, pillared with polished chunam columns that look like marble. Here, apparently, the famine had actually penetrated, for the native manager of the hotel came to us an hour after our arrival and borrowed two rupees with which to purchase provisions so he said for dinner that evening and break- fast the next morning. He boldly pleaded the famine as a reason for his destitution and the necessity for a loan. Subsequent experience with the natives and poor Eurasians raised a doubt in our minds as to the truth of his statement.
Indeed, the famine entered into every topic of conversation, and served as an excuse for all kinds of actions. Well-to-do Eurasians came to beg because of the famine. They lost their employment and pleaded for help because of the famine. They could not come to church or send their children to school because of the famine. It even penetrated to the Europeans, and ladies excused themselves from offering hospitality because of the famine. I was given to understand that Madras was a very different sort of place before it was overshadowed by the calamity.
At that time Frederick Gell was the bishop of the diocese, and Charles B. Drury was the archdeacon. The former, who was away on tour at the time, was tall and very thin in figure, a great contrast to the archdeacon, ​who had a fine presence which his archidiaconal dress displayed to advantage. A little later, when I had made some acquaintances in Madras, I remarked on his handsome face and admirable proportions to a lady of the cathedral congregation. I observed that his calves were worthy of his gaiters. She replied with a sigh, as though regretting departed glories, 'Ah! you should have seen them before the famine.'