Read Ebook: Bengal Dacoits and Tigers by Sunity Devee Maharani Of Cooch Behar

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Ebook has 333 lines and 22767 words, and 7 pages

The boy asked, "When shall we arrive?" again and again, but not a word answered the driver.

Bow-ma, now thoroughly alarmed, beat the shutters of the carriage and commanded her son to shout loudly. The boy screamed at the top of his voice, "Why don't you reply? What road is this?"

The driver now answered disrespectfully: "You will soon know where you are going," and laughed.

His rude gruff tone and evasive answer confirmed bow-ma's worst fears. The awful word dacoits stood out in her mind in letters of fire. Horror and dread filled her soul. Drawing her child towards her, she hushed his eager questioning and waited in silent anguish for the coming danger.

The carriage bumped and rattled over the uneven road. Presently it stopped. It was now almost dark. The door was jerked open and a harsh voice commanded: "Get out of the carriage." Bow-ma recognised the driver's voice and, realising the futility of objecting, without a word she stepped down and helped her little son to alight.

"Follow me" was the next rough order. Again she silently obeyed. The man left the road and led her a little distance away under the shadow of some trees. "Take off your jewels. Give them to me." A faint sigh of relief escaped her. Perhaps the jewels were all he wanted. Quickly she unclasped her handsome necklet and gave it him. He grasped it greedily with one hand and extended the other for more. One by one she stripped her wrists and arms of their lovely bracelets and bangles and handed them to him. "More" he growled. She pulled the rings from her fingers and added to them her ear and nose rings. "Your waist chain" he snapped. She unclasped and dropped its golden weight into those greedy hands. "Take off your anklets, I want all" he sneered. She knelt on the ground to unclasp them. Then, rising, handed them to him, wondering what more would follow.

Meanwhile the child wept bitterly, and angrily forbade the driver to take his mother's jewels, calling him robber and thief. "Yes, dacoit I am," the scoundrel replied to the boy's revilings, "and if you will not be quiet, I will teach you how to." Bow-ma gently strove to console and silence her son. "Fret not! Your father will give me more and better jewels."

"Take off your saree" was the next outrageous command. The boy's indignation flamed afresh. His mother took an unguarded step forward and asked: "Are not my jewels enough that you want the saree off my back?"

"Aye, your saree and all you have. Silence your child or I will kill him." Terrible was the harsh voice in its determination. Bow-ma's heart stood still. Entreaty would be of no avail. She unwound the richly-embroidered silken folds from about her and cast the gold and green saree at his feet: "Take it."

"You have stripped my mother," screamed the boy. The ruffian caught the saree with a fearful oath and turning on him said: "Now I can deal with you. I will fetch a brick from yonder kiln and pound the breath out of you," With these words he strode forward, tying the jewels in the saree as he went. Now her sorely-tried nerves gave way, and, distracted with grief, bow-ma caught her child in her arms, and their mingled cries rent the air. But the thief did not return.

About midnight a village policeman going his rounds heard their cries. At first he paid no heed to them: jackals swarmed and disturbed the night. Again the anguished voices quivered in the air. There was something human in the sound. He stopped to listen. The cries rose again. He walked forward in their direction. Clearer, as he advanced, shrilled the distressed voices, and he recognised they were those of a woman and a child. He quickened his steps and hastened to the spot. The light from his lantern revealed bow-ma and her son, clinging to each other and weeping piteously.

"Who are you? What ails you?" he asked. The distraught mother, unconscious of the flight of time, thinking him the heartless dacoit returned to kill her boy, fell at his feet in an agony of supplication: "Spare my son. Take my life instead."

"I am a chowkidar . What is up?" But so dulled were her ears with fear and grief that he was twice obliged to repeat his words. When the joyful intelligence reached her brain she burst into tears. "O! save my son." Then the consciousness that the danger was past reminded her of her own plight, and she sobbed: "Give me something to wear."

The policeman had noticed her semi-nude state. Dropping, his pugree at her feet he turned away. She shook out its many folds and draped it about her body. Then she related what had befallen her and pointed towards the direction the thief had taken.

The policeman walked cautiously forward, his lantern raised in one hand and his lathi tightly grasped in the other. A few yards ahead he came to an old brick kiln. Here, prone among the broken bricks, lay the robber in greater straits than his victims. A huge cobra was tightly coiled round his right arm, while on the left hung the saree and the jewels. The rays of the lantern disturbed the snake. With an angry hiss it uncoiled itself and disappeared. The dacoit, more dead than alive from simple fear of the snake's fatal sting, yielded himself a prisoner, and it was subsequently discovered that the whole gang, of whom he was a member, were licensed hackney drivers.

Saved by a Bear

The evening shadows and silence had settled on the river Hooghly as an old Brahman wended his way to one of the many ghats .

The dinghis--little boats which ply backwards and forwards all day carrying passengers to and from Calcutta--had all been made fast for the night. Some of the boatmen were cooking their evening meal, while others sat about on the decks smoking and singing. Many of the boats were wedged close together and drawn up on to the bank.

But one lay well in the water and some distance from its fellow-craft. Its manjhi stood on the stern deck, binding together the mat roof of his boat. His seemingly careless gaze took in the Brahman, about to descend the bank. He noted that the old man carried a parcel, partially concealed in his chadar , and, from the manner in which he hugged it, the observer concluded it contained something valuable. As the Brahman came nearer, the manjhi saw it was a bag of money.

The old man picked his way down the bank and called upon boat after boat to take him to a small village near Serampore, for in those days there was no railway. None were willing to go so far. Meanwhile a whispered consultation had taken place between the manjhi and dhars of the furthest dinghi. When the Brahman finally accosted them, they first demurred and then, as though still reluctant, consented to hire their boat.

Just as they were pushing off, a man with a performing bear ran down the bank. "Where goest thou?" he asked.

"Serampore" answered the Brahman before the boatman could reply.

"My home is near by," the man remarked gladly, and jumped into the boat, pulling his bear after him.

The boatmen scowled angrily: "Get out, we go not so far." But he would not. The manjhi warned him that he and his bear would gain nothing by forcing themselves into the boat.

"These boatmen are queer customers," he laughingly remarked to the Brahman, and to them: "Gain nothing! Why! I will reach my home."

"So you say," they answered.

The bear-man wondered within himself at their unwillingness to have him as a passenger. He and the old Brahman made a few remarks to each other. Then they fell silent.

They were near the end of their journey when the bear-man asked suddenly: "Manjhi, have we not passed Serampore?"

"Are you the guru of boatmen that you question me?" replied the manjhi, and then, in a more conciliatory tone, added: "We are going higher up for a crossing. The tide is strong." The explanation was reasonable. But the bear-man's suspicions had been awakened and he was on the alert. The Brahman sat placidly nursing his bag which the bear-man too had noticed contained money. He had also noticed that the manjhis kept glancing furtively at it and its owner.

The river crossed, the boat hugged the bank; after a time it came to a standstill. One of the manjhis jumped ashore with the rope and secured it to a tree. The Brahman and the bear-man both asked: "What is wrong? Why stop the boat in this strange place?"

"You will soon know, you will soon see," answered the boatmen and chuckled over some secret joke as, one after another, each stepped ashore and disappeared.

The aged Brahman gazed after them apprehensively. Then, placing his money between his knees, as he sat on the deck with crossed legs tucked under him, he folded his hands together and bent forward in prayer.

The bear-man thought within himself: "Prayer for him, action for me." And saying softly to the old man; "Brahman Thakoor, something is brewing. I follow to see," he too stepped ashore.

Not far from the tree he found a small thatched house and several men gathered behind it. Moving warily forward among the group he recognised the manjhis. "Dacoits!" he whispered to himself. Then an inspiration struck him.

He ran back to the boat, and asked the Brahman to change his seat to the stern and be ready to steer off when he gave him a signal. He took up a position in the prow and fondled his bear.

Within a few minutes a party of men appeared coming towards the dinghi. Some were boatmen; all were dacoits.

The actor loosed the bear's chain, saying: "Go! go! hug the life out of all of them!"

The sagacious animal responded to his master's order with a fierce charge right among the approaching band of robbers. With startled cries they fled in all directions. Quite sure they were effectively scattered, the bear-man called his animal back, secured its chain once more, and pushed from the shore.

With some difficulty he and the old Brahman navigated themselves back to Calcutta and informed the police authorities there. The police took possession of the dinghi which on inspection proved to be a dacoit's nest well-equipped with instruments fitted for murder and robbery. But none of this gang of river dacoits were captured.

The lives of the Brahman and the showman were certainly saved by the wonderful intelligence of the latter's bear.

Raghu Dacoit

Madhub Babu, a Calcutta gentleman, owned much property in that city and was known far and wide on account of his great wealth. To do him honour, the City Fathers had named a tank after him.

At that time there flourished a notorious dacoit, Raghu, for whose capture Government had offered a handsome reward. But like Robin Hood of old, Raghu Dacoit had caught popular fancy by his generosity to the poor. Though he looted the rich, to the needy, the famine-stricken and widows he was always kind. No one would inform against him.

Madhub Babu had a fine country house in Chandernagore, where he frequently entertained his friends. On one of these occasions, the latest doings of Raghu Dacoit were being discussed. The Babu remarked confidently: "He dare not visit me. He knows my house is well guarded."

One of the guests quickly rejoined: "Oh, don't say that. Raghu Dacoit is a dangerous and clever man."

A few days after, Madhub Babu received a letter from the famous outlaw saying that he would be pleased to visit the rich man's country house. Madhub Babu was amazed at the audacity of the fellow, and wondered how his remark had reached the robber's ears.

He immediately sent information to Calcutta and asked for a strong body of police to be sent at his expense. They arrived, and his country residence was extra well guarded for some time. But nothing happened! Madhub Babu concluded that the letter had been a hoax. So the police guard was withdrawn.

Madhub Babu's Chandernagore house stood on the bank of the river. One dark night a boat came quietly to the ghat. Its occupants silently landed and proceeded stealthily to the house. Every door and window was securely fastened, but what mattered that to Raghu and his band? Tall trees graced the grounds everywhere and many grew near the house. Climbing the nearest, some of the dacoits reached up a long and stout bamboo from it to the flat roof. A slim youth crawled over and fixed the other end securely. Then one by one some of the gang slid across. The door of the staircase leading down into the house stood open. Creeping like cats downstairs they gained the entrance hall. Here they found all the durwans fast asleep. The light of their lanterns showed the durwans' swords hanging on the wall. In a trice the dacoits had them down, unsheathed, and, oh, bitter blow! despatched Madhub Babu's men with their own weapons.

Then noiselessly opening the door they admitted the remainder of the band. For a few hours there was uproar, confusion and dismay while the burglars invaded room after room and collected all Madhub Babu's treasures with which they disappeared.

While still smarting under the loss of his valuables, the Babu received another letter from Raghu Dacoit asking, "Had his visit given Madhub Babu pleasure?"

Girl as Kali-Ma

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