# Life in India/Chintadrepettah

PART II.
Chintadrepettah.
The devoted and lamented Henry Martyn, when touching at Madras, on his way to Northern India, in 1806, made the following entry in his journal:—
“April 26th. Towards night I walked out with Samee, my servant, in a pensive mood, and went through his native village of Chindaput. Here all was Indian; no vestige of any thing European. It consisted of about two hundred houses; those on the main street connected; and those on either side of the street separated from one another by little winding paths. Every thing presented the appearance of wretchedness. I thought of my future labours among them with despondency; yet I am willing, I trust, through grace, to pass my days among them, if by any means these poor people may be brought to God. The sight of men, women, and children, all idolaters, makes me shudder as if in the dominions of the prince of darkness. But what surprises me is the change of views I have here from what I had ​in England. There my heart expanded with hope and joy at the prospect of the speedy conversion of the heathen; but here the sight of the apparent impossibility requires a strong faith to support the spirits.”
It was in this suburb of “Chindaput," or, more properly, Chintadrepettah, that we found our first Indian home. At the present day, more than forty years since Henry Martyn visited Madras, and walked in the streets of Chintadrepettah, a great change is seen to have taken place. From a village of two hundred houses, it has grown into a large and flourishing district with fifteen thousand inhabitants. On the corner of the main street (through which he so sadly walked, seeing nothing but unbroken and unopposed heathenism) now stand, in a wellenclosed compound, (or enclosure,) a neat Christian church, a commodious school-house, and a small open bungalow for preaching.
Not only Chintadrepettah, but the whole city, is rapidly increasing in population. Rather more than two hundred years ago, (in 1639,) a company of English merchants received the grant of Madras, as a spot of ground ​upon which to build a fort and factories, from the Rajah of Chandgherry, a petty prince of the interior. It was then a small fishing village. But as the power of this company of English merchants increased, and its influence widened, it acquired more territory. The little village, with its fort for the protection of traders, grew into a walled town, the centre of extended possessions. As the work of acquisition went on, its importance rapidly increased, until now it is a city of seven hundred thousand inhabitants, the great and growing metropolis of the possessions of the East India Company in Southern India. The native princes who then held courts and ruled in these lands are forgotten; and their descendants, sunk into insignificance, live upon pensions granted them by the English rulers of the realms of their ancestors.
Madras lies upon the Coromandel or eastern coast of Hindustan, thirteen degrees north of the equator. It stretches for several miles along the shore of the Bay of Bengal, upon a flat sandy plain, raised but a few feet above the level of the sea. The old walled city is known as Black Town, from its being densely populated by Hindus. On its southern side, the ​large and strong Fort St. George takes the place of its wall. Around this central town and fort, an unoccupied and beautifully level space, seven hundred yards wide, is kept as an esplanade. Stretching around the city from north to south, it prevents the approach of an enemy to the walls under cover. The rapidly-increasing population finding no room within the walls, has spread itself in a continuous semicircle of suburbs beyond the esplanade and around the old town. The residences of the English are without the town, and almost entirely in the districts south of the fort.
Chintadrepettah is the suburb lying southwest of the city. A few hundred yards from the church, which stands upon the main street, is the American mission-house, with school-bungalows, houses for native teachers, and outhouses. Driving up to the door upon the morning of our disembarkation, we found ourselves in front of a neatly-plastered house, one story in height, with a verandah (portico) supported by pillars; mats hanging between the pillars, defended the house in front from the glare of the sun. The carriage door was soon opened by Chinnatamby, a Hindu servant, and with a profusion of salutations we were welcomed to ​India. Lifting the tat, (mat-screen,) we entered the central hall, and found ourselves in an airy room, with a lofty ceiling, in which the brown rafters were uncovered, but neatly painted. It was plainly furnished with chairs, tables, and sideboard. This is used as a dining, sitting, and receiving room; on each side of the hall are smaller apartments, used as sleeping-rooms and study. On the floor was a rattan mat, neat and cool, though rough; and over the table hung the Indian punkah, a swinging fan suspended from the ceiling. After our little six-feet square apartments on shipboard, it seemed a luxury indeed to have room enough to turn in, and to be able to raise our arms without fear of striking the ceiling over our heads; and, after tossing nineteen weeks upon the deep, doubly pleasant was it to be shown to a quiet chamber, with a little bath-room attached, to be all our own. And when we sat down at our table to send to anxious friends the news of our safe arrival, with a cup of tropical flowers before us; the margosa-tree, waving its branches without our venetian blinds; the loud cawing of crows, and the plaintive whistle of the Brahminee kite, coming to us from a cocoanut-tree hard by; the squirrels ​shrilly squeaking in an adjoining room, and the voices of Hindu men and women sounding in our ears,—we felt that of a truth we were in India.
The first call we received, after the salutations of the dwellers in the compound, was from a company of jugglers, who are always on the alert for new-comers. They were four in number, dressed only in the indispensable turban, and a piece of cotton cloth wrapped around their loins. Approaching the house with two or three baskets and bags containing their apparatus, they, with low salaams, (made by raising the united hands to the forehead, and bending the body,) begged permission to exhibit their wonders before their royal highnesses, the gentlemen and ladies. Having received permission, they seated themselves cross-legged upon the brick floor of the verandah. Opening their bags, they produced a few trumpery articles, balls, covers, knives, &c., and commenced their performances. They had no distance and darkness to help them; no tables with false tops and drawers with false bottoms; yet, seated on the floor, and under our very eyes, they fully equalled the wonderful magicians who astonish the youth of our ​cities with their feats. Balls put upon the floor disappeared and were produced from their naked arms; pigeons, emerging from empty baskets, lit upon their shoulders, and many other wondrous things were shown. Among others, the dried skin of a cobra di capella (a snake whose bite is death) was laid down before us, and a small piece of dirty cloth thrown over it; on removing the rag, a huge living cobra lay coiled at our feet. They piped to it, and the venomous serpent, rearing itself, gracefully balanced and undulated before us with glistening eyes and head flattened to the shape and almost the size of a tea-plate. It seemed just ready to spring and plant its fangs; but the juggler, coolly stroking it, took it up, wound it about his neck, and then put it away in his bag. A few cents paid them for their trouble.
These visitors had not been long gone, when a loud and doleful cry of “Awkey ma! Awkey ma! fine things got, ma!” told us that some new friends were at hand. “What is this?” we asked. “Oh! the hawkers have found out that there is a new arrival, and have come to exhibit their goods," was the reply. The hawker (travelling merchant) drawing near, respectfully raising his right hand to his fore​head, which is bowed to meet it, in broken English asks leave to show his stock of goods. He is far too great a man, pedlar-like, to carry a pack himself; rustling in white robes, he calls with a lordly air to the almost naked coolies (hired men) who follow him, streaming with perspiration, and bending under the huge green trunks which they carry on their heads.
“Well, hawker, what have you?"
“Plenty fine things, ma'am; mistress only look," and the trunks are lowered from the coolies' heads to the floor. They are opened, and the merchant begins to take out and show every article, enlarging upon its beauty and excellence. The lady interrupts him with—“Have you any jaconet muslin?”
“Plenty got, ma'am! mistress only wait! mistress don't want any collar? very fine collar, this! only ten rupees; very fine, this!"
"No! no! hawker; I have no time; let me see the muslin.” But Mr. Hawker well knows that temptation enters by the eye, and he exhibits all things supposed to be attractive to a lady's heart, until the customer's patience is just exhausted, when, with wonderful quickness, the desired article is produced. The next thing is to settle the price; no easy mat​ter. “Two rupees," says the hawker. “How much?” cries the lady. “Two rupees yard, ma’am; plenty cheap, ma'am.”
“Two rupees! I will give you eight annas.” (Sixteen annas make a rupee, which is worth a little less than half a dollar.)
“Mistress shall have for rupee and half; very cheap, that; cost price, one rupee quarter;" (i. e. one rupee and a quarter.)
“No! hawker, no! half rupee is plenty."
“Can't give,” says the hawker, and begins to repack his goods, quite accidentally, of course, leaving the article under discussion for the last. “Mistress, give one rupee?” he asks in his most insinuating tone. "No! I will give eight annas," answers the lady, rising to go. “Take, ma'am! take!" cries the hawker, and the sale is made. The great chests are packed, tied, and remounted on the coolies' heads, the hawker makes his salaam, and with his suite departs.
These men are a great convenience, not only to persons residing in the city, but also in the inland towns, as they make long journeys with their goods, calling at every station in which there are foreign residents. In Madras, not only clothing, but glass, china, fruit, fowls, ​stationery, and a great variety of useful articles, are thus brought to your door, and sold at very reasonable prices. As they always ask three or four times the proper price, the purchaser must offer what in his judgment is fair, and stick to it. If it is too little, the hawker goes off; if too much, he profits by your ignorance. They are as provoking and amusing as useful. In some cases their superstition gets the better of their craft. If they come to you in the morning before making any sale, you can make your first purchase pretty much at your own price; this insures them good luck through the day. Receiving the money from your right hand, (they will not take it from the left, they strike it on their box, crack all their knuckles, and go off quite contented.
As a race, the Hindus are devoted lovers of money. It is commonly said, if you would touch a Hindu, you must touch his pocket; it is strictly true. They will do almost any thing for money, and suffer any thing rather than give it up. But it ill becomes the American or Englishman to upbraid them with this. When a Hindu was once taunted by an Englishman with their love of money, and told that they would do any thing for a pice, (a small copper ​coin,) he replied, “The English are a great people, a very great people; they do not care for the pice; oh, no; they do not care for the dirty pice; what they care for is the rupee!”