# Life in India/A Morning Walk

A Morning Walk.
Early the next morning we left the house, impatient to have a look at the new world into which we had entered. The sun had not risen, and the air was soft and cool. The somewhat straggling oleanders and jessamines that adorned the compound bloomed bright and fragrant, and the soft green drapery of the margosa-tree had a peculiar charm for eyes that for months had seen no vegetation more brilliant than sprouting potatoes and turnips. Passing through the gate and by a few houses, we entered the main street of Chintadrepettah, with the mission church on our right.
Immediately opposite to it stands a small temple—a temple of the elephant-headed Ganesha or Pullyar; and a poor little house he has, not more than twelve feet square, built of brick ​plastered and whitewashed. Yet it is quite large enough for its purpose, and for the merits of the black stone whose abode it is. At a window-like opening in the front of the temple, sits the hideous misshapen block, ever ready to receive the adorations of passers-by. The poor god has an attentive priest who twines a robe around his black shoulders, greasy with oily libations, adorns his face with paint, and presents to him flowers, prayers, and incense. Beyond this he attracts little notice, except that now and then a wayfarer of more than ordinary piety stops, unites his hands before his forehead, mutters a prayer, and goes on his way, or, it may be, falls on his face to offer more humble worship.
Small Temple to Ganesha at Chintadrepettah. p.70
​for a dead body, and had some appropriate reflections upon the heathenish indifference with which the wife pursued her work around it.
Though their lords were sleeping, the wives were busy enough. One was sweeping out her dwelling, another her verandah, and another, having done her sweeping, was purifying the hard-beaten earth floor with a mixture of water and cow-dung—the best of all cleansing agents in the eyes of the Hindus, as a product of the holy cow, and really useful in keeping off vermin. After the purification is finished, the verandah is ornamented with white lacelike patterns of crossed and waved lines made with powdered lime, which is taken in the hand and suffered to run in narrow streams between the fingers, and when carried rapidly back and forth produces the desired figures. These are sometimes pretty and ornamental, and afford an opportunity for the display of female taste. By this time the men are up, and the sheet (resuming its duty as a coat) is loosely thrown over the shoulders, or wrapped around the waist, while the owner moves off to the tank or river side for his morning ablutions.
Near the church is a police station, and at the door stand the peons (native constables) in ​a little knot, discussing their last arrest. They wear wide Moorish pantaloons of red silk, and a white close-fitting robe, ending in a flowing skirt; over the shoulder they wear sashes as marks of office, and red turbans on their heads. They are usually tall fine-looking men, and very well dressed; their behaviour, however, does not commonly tally with their looks and pretensions. A rupee or two has a remarkable effect in blinding and deafening these ministers of the law. The poor, who cannot afford the bribe, have but a sorry chance in the race for justice, as the peon's eyes and ears are only open on the side that pays him the best fee.
Peon, or Policeman, p. 72.
Castor oil mill. p. 73.
​and bolted doors. The owners, if up, are dreamily squatting on their hams, cleaning their teeth, scraping their tongues with silver scrapers, or chatting with neighbours. The scavengers, a poor degraded caste, are busy with long wooden hoes, removing from the gutters the accumulated filth of the preceding day. There are no sidewalks, and man and beast go on their several errands together in the middle of the street. Cows going to pasture, donkeys bringing grain, men and boys, buffaloes, dogs, and peons jog quietly along in one track.
But the sun is up, and no sooner up than powerful. Turning back, we meet a long array, some going to the river for their morning duties, others starting for their business. The last lazy householder has been thawed out of his public bedroom, and the streets assume an air of life. The bazaar men are opening their shops, and in the lot over the way the creaking of the castor-oil mill has commenced. As the oxen move slowly round and round with the cross-beam, the great pestle grates out harsh music, and grinding the beans against the wooden mortar, expresses the oil. Castor-oil, as well as cocoanut-oil, is here used for burning in lamps. The priest is at work adorn​ing his idol, as we turn into our dwelling to unite with our friends in a morning tribute of praise to the one true God, maker of heaven and earth.