by Ruskin Bond
"There is a foot-courier at a distance of every mile," wrote lbn Batuta, "and at every three miles there is an inhabited village, and outside it three sentry boxes where the couriers sit prepared for motion with their loins girded. In the hands of each is a whip about two cubits long, and upon the head of this are small bells. Whenever one of the couriers leaves any city, he takes his despatches in one hand and the whip, which he keeps constantly shaking, in the other. In this manner he proceeds to the nearest foot-courier and, as he approaches, shakes his whip. Upon this out comes another who takes the despatches and so proceeds to the next. It is for this reason that the Sultan receives his despatches in so short a time."
This system was of course established for the convenience of the Emperor, and was continued with various innovations by successive Moghul Emperors. In the eighteenth century the East India Company established a postal system of its own to facilitate the conveyance of letters between different factories; but it was only during Warren Hastings' administration that a Postmaster-General was appointed, and the general public could avail of the service, paying a fee on their letters.
Letters were then carried in leather wallets on the backs of runners, who were changed at stages of eight miles. At night the runners were accompanied by torch-bearers — in wilder parts, by drummers called dug-dugi-wallas — to frighten away wild animals.
In places where tigers were known to be active, mail runners were armed with bows and arrows; but these were seldom effective, and the mail carrier often fell victim to a man-eating tiger. In the Hazaribagh district (through which the mail had to be carried on its way from Calcutta to Allahabad) there appears to have been a concentration of man-eating tigers.
There were four passes through this district, and the tigers had them well covered. We are told that "day after day, for nearly a fortnight, some of the mail runners were carried off."
Postal runners were largely drawn from the tribal races, many of whom were animist by religion. They were ready to face wild beasts and wandering criminals, but would go miles to avoid an evil spirit in a tree.
Mail robberies were frequent, and in 1808 the mail between Kanpur and Fatehgarh was looted once a week on an average. The mail runner had to be fleet of foot, not only for the purpose of delivering the mail speedily, but also for outpacing any dacoits he might encounter on the road. Twelve rupees a month was the runner's salary, not very much even in those years. His courage and honesty were, therefore, qualities to be admired. Seldom did a runner abscond with a mail-bag, though it nearly always contained valuables and registered articles.
In 1822 horsemen were substituted for mail runners, but they proved uneconomical, because it meant feeding both horses and men. More surprising, horses took twelve days from Calcutta to Meerut, compared to ten days taken by runners, who covered the distance in shorter stages. Eventually the dak-ghari — the equivalent of the English "coach and pair" — was introduced, and gradually established itself. Runners were, of course, still used, because the coach could only keep to the principal highways.
After Younghusband's expedition to Tibet in 1904, the British established a postal system between India and Lhasa, through Sikkim.
The mail runners — in this case drawn from Indo-Tibetan border tribes — faced snow-covered passes, swift rivers which could be crossed only in yak-skin canoes or on crude ropeways, Himalayan bears and snow-leopards, and perhaps even Abominable Snowmen!
The mails were first carried by train in 1855 when the East Indian Railway was opened between Calcutta and Raniganj, a distance of 122 miles. Today, the principal cities of India are connected by fast air mail services.
But even now, in remote parts of the country, in isolated hill areas where there are no roads, the mail is carried on foot, the postman often covering five to six miles every day.
He never runs, true, and he might occasionally stop at a village to share a hookah with a friend, but he is a reminder of those early pioneers of the postal system, the mail runners of India.
ZOFFANY'S LAST SUPPER
N THE YEAR 1787, when St. John's Church in Calcutta was nearing completion, the Royal Academician John Zoffany presented the church with a painting of The Last Supper which he had completed in Calcutta that year. The story of this painting and Zoffany's own career makes interesting reading for those who like digging into the history of minor but colourful figures of the past.
John Zoffany was one of the earliest Royal Academicians. It was said that he was obliged to leave England due to the ill-feeling he had roused because of his indulgence in the habit of introducing the likenesses of his friends and acquaintances into his paintings without their permission, very often presenting them in an unflattering light. Arriving in India in 1781, he went first to Lucknow, where an eccentric Nawab appreciated people like Zoffany. He was made Court Painter, and in a few years amassed a fortune by painting the portraits of members of the Nawab's family and retinue. One of his subjects was Claude Martine, military adventurer, trader, money-lender to the Nawabs and, through his last will and testament, public benefactor. The two were great friends, and Zoffany did some attractive portraits of Martine, his mistress and his friends.
In 1787 Zoffany was residing in Calcutta. His name is found in an almanac of that year, under the profession "Artist and Portrait Painter". The Calcutta Gazette of 12 April 1787 announced: "We hear that Mr. Zoffany is employed in painting a large historical picture, 'The Last Supper': he has already made considerable progress in the work, which promises to equal any production which has yet appeared from the brush of this able artist; and, with that spirit of liberality for which he has ever been distinguished, we understand he means to present it to the public as an altar-piece for the new church."
The church accepted the gift, and were anxious to compensate the artist, but had no funds left at their disposal. Instead, they sent him an enthusiastic letter of thanks. When the church was consecrated and the painting hung in its place, the latter caused quite a sensation in Calcutta society. It was found that the figures in the picture were more or less faithful likenesses of members of the community. The three principal figures in the picture, Jesus, St. John, and Judas Iscariot, were easily recognizable. The original for Jesus was a Greek priest, Father Por-thenio, who was well-known in Calcutta for his good works. St. John was represented by Mr. Blaquiere, a well-known magistrate; and Judas Iscariot was recognized as an old resident of Calcutta, Tulloh, the auctioneer. The names of those who were models for the other disciples have not come down to us.
Calcutta society was scandalised by Zoffany's sense of humour but he was not disconcerted; and when, some years later, he was asked to paint an altar-piece for a church at Brentford in England, he did the same thing. Again it was a picture of the Last Supper, and again he took his friends and neighbours for models.
Both pictures can still be seen — one in St. George's Church at Brentford, the other in St. John's, Calcutta. "The painting is there," writes a friend from Calcutta, "over the left side of the altar, perhaps 8 ft. by 8 ft., framed in gilt; in the foreground is Judas, looking like Alan Hale,* except that Hale never played villains, and this chap has his face turned away from the group and has a very guilty expression. He also has curly red hair and a curly red beard. Nearly all the painters from early Italians downwards have given Judas red hair. Sometimes it's curly, sometimes it's straight, but it's almost always red."
Zoffany is still considered an able portrait painter. And he has one distinction. On the voyage home to England, his ship was wrecked on a lonely island. To avoid starvation the survivors, Zoffany among them, cast lots, and a young seaman was duly eaten. Thus, Zoffany was the first and, it is hoped, the last Royal Academician to become a cannibal.
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* A star of the early talkies.
CLAUDE MARTINE: A FRENCHMAN
AT THE COURT OF OUDH
TILL ONE OF THE MORE conspicuous landmarks in Luck-now — capital of the Indian Union's Uttar Pradesh State,
and formerly chief city of the fabulous kings of Oudh — is the building of the Martiniere School: a strange edifice, a palace that is a mixture of Gothic and Moghul architecture. When its builder and owner, Major-General Claude Martine, died at Lucknow in 1800, he bequeathed it as a school "for the instruction of the English language and religion"; and the story of Constantia, as the palace was named, is the story of an unusual adventurer, a businessman who became a Major-General without seeing a major battle.
Martine was a Frenchman. Born at Lyons in 1732, his father expected that he would follow the family business, manufacturing silk, but the boy had other ambitions, and plans of his own. He ran away from home when he was fifteen and still at school, and enlisted in the French army. In 1757, the year of Plassey, the Count de Lally was appointed French Governor of Pondicherry, and Martine, who had always dreamt of sailing to India, volunteered for the Count's bodyguard. He was taken on without many questions being asked. The bodyguard consisted of deserters, military criminals and other choice rascals; but it went to India, bringing Martine to Pondicherry in 1758.
Lally was a severe, almost tyrannical disciplinarian, unpopular with his men; and when the British laid siege to Pondicherry, the bodyguard with Martine in tow deserted and went over to the English. Martine returned with the British troops to Madras, where — something of the opportunist — he volunteered to raise a corps of French cavalry from among the prisoners, to serve under the British. His offer was accepted, and he was commissioned as an ensign.
Shortly after Martine had formed his corps, he was ordered to Bengal. The journey had to be made by sea, up the Bay of Bengal. During the voyage the ship sprang a leak, and he and his men were lucky to get away in boats and land safely at Calcutta.
In Calcutta, in the middle of the eighteenth century, it was necessary to enter "society" if an officer wished to advance his prospects. This Martine did with zest. Wining and dining was then practised as an art, and the young Frenchman soon made himself at home with the cream of Calcutta's English society, especially its women. One of them, Mrs. Fay, has left us an amusing account of a Calcutta dinner of that time;
"We were frequently told in England," she wrote home, "that the heat in Bengal destroyed the appetite. I must own that I never yet saw any proof of that: on the contrary, I cannot help thinking that I never saw an equal quantity of victuals consumed. We dine, too, at two o'clock, in the very heat of the day. At this moment Mr. F. is looking out with a hawk's eye for his dinner, and, though still much of an invalid, I have no doubt of being able to pick a bit myself. I will give you our bill of fare, and the general prices of things: a soup, a roast fowl, curry and rice, a mutton pie, a forequarter of lamb, a rice pudding, tarts, very good cheese, fresh churned butter, fine bread, excellent Madeira (that is expensive, but eatables are very cheap). A whole sheep costs but two rupees, a lamb one rupee, six good fowls or ducks ditto, twelve pigeons ditto, and twelve pounds of bread ditto."
In due course Martine became a captain, but in 1764 his corps was disbanded, as his men — most of them professional deserters — had mutinied. Martine, however, was popular with the English. Finding that he was a good draughtsman, they sent him as a surveyor to the north-eastern districts of Bengal; then to the province of Oudh, still an independent kingdom, though under the influence of the East India Company. Its annexation in 1856 was to be one of the causes of the 1857 uprising.
From the time he arrived at Lucknow, capital of Oudh, Martine never had to look back. His life, till then, had been eventful: now it became profitable.
It was not long before his talents came to the notice of the Nawab, Asaf-ud-daula, a bulky, benevolent-looking despot with long walrus moustaches, who was attracted to anyone with unusual tastes or accomplishments. The fact that Martine "manufactured the first balloons that ever floated in the air of Asia" was sufficient recommendation for him. The Nawab was fascinated by balloons. Once, as punishment to a barber (one of the fifty personal barbers) who had nicked him, he attached the unfortunate man to one of the balloons with which Martine was experimenting. "Borne rapidly aloft and carried off at a great pace across country", the barber landed safely on an Englishman's property, but took to his heels and was never seen again.
If fifty personal barbers should be considered superfluous, what can be said for the four thousand gardeners who looked after the palace gardens, and the several hundred cooks in the royal kitchens? The Nawab was also a man of sporting tastes: he kept a thousand dogs trained for hunting, and 300,000 fighting cocks and pigeons. One of his favourite sports, introduced by a certain Colonel Mordaunt, was the racing of old women in sacks. The Nawab said he had never found anything so enjoyable.
Asaf-ud-daula was considered benevolent for his time, and there was a verse about him that went:
To whom Heaven does not give
Asaf-ud-daula will.
He was certainly liberal with the money extracted from his subjects who, thanks to the rapacity of the Nawab's revenue collectors, were in a miserable condition.
One of the recipients of the Nawab's generosity was Claude Martine. Apart from his ability with balloons, Martine was also a skilled gunner, and this gave Asaf-ud-daula a more solid reason for requesting the Bengal government for the Frenchman's services. Calcutta approving, Martine was appointed superintendent of the Nawab's arsenal and artillery.
It was not long before he became confidential adviser to the Nawab and, during the next twenty years, he was often the chief negotiator between the king and the Company. It says something for his diplomacy that throughout this period he retained the trust and confidence of both the Nawab and the English, neither of whom trusted each other. And again it says something for his shrewd opportunism that in these twenty years he was able to amass a fortune amounting to nearly half a million sterling.
How did he make his money?
Judicious investments in the indigo and saltpetre industries was one method. Vast fortunes were made by the indigo planters until the manufacture of synthetic dyes killed the industry. But apart from this, Martine was the "recognized channel" for petitions from all who desired any favour from the government, and in this capacity enormous bribes and presents of great value found their way into his hands. He educated the Nawab into an appreciadon of the products of Europe, and then acted as his agent in procuring them. Finally his position at court was esteemed so secure that, in a country distracted by war and internal troubles, he soon became a sort of "safe deposit" for the valuables of the Nawab's subjects, charging a commission of 12 per cent for the custody of articles committed to his care.
It is not surprising that Martine acquired an immense fortune during his long stay in Lucknow. He was helped in this by his beautiful Persian mistress, "Lise" as he called her, who, having access to the royal harem, also had access to much of the palace intrigue. But Martine was considered honest according to the standards of his dine, which were very different to present-day standards. He would have been considered a fool not to take commission on everything he supplied, when everyone else did so. And what he did supply — tapestries, pictures, chandeliers from Europe — were the best that could be bought. Due to his efforts, the Royal Academician, John Zoffany, was appointed Court Painter to the Nawab, and during his stay in India painted many valuable portraits of various Indian rulers and their families.
One of Martine's closest friends — though they met only occasionally — was General de Boigne, the French adventurer who had trained Madhavji Sindhia's Maratha army, and had done much to make Sindhia master of most of northern India. Martine helped de Boigne to make some useful investments. De Boigne returned to Europe with his wealth, where a disastrous marriage spoilt his enjoyment of it; but Martine never seriously considered leaving India.
Though wealthier than most generals, one of Martine's principal ambitions was to achieve a high rank in the British Army; and in 1790 he was able to have his wish fulfilled, through a clever move on his own part. War had broken out in the South between the Briti
sh and Tippu Sultan and as his contribution to it Martine presented the Company with a number of fine horses, sufficient for a cavalry regiment. For this, he was made a colonel. Six years later he became a major-general. He was still on a captain's pay, but obviously this did not worry him. Prestige appears to have mattered a great deal then, as it does today.
Perhaps the most remarkable achievement of Claude Martine was the building of his house, Constantia, now the Martiniere school. It was a castle, built on the banks of the river Gomti "on scientific and hygienic principles" as they would say today. It contained a series of flats adapted to cope with the varying temperatures of Lucknow, which knows extremes of heat and cold. In die hot weather Martine lived in a subterranean suite, cool and sheltered from the fierce glare of the sun. During the monsoon he ascended to the upper storey, as the underground chambers and often the ground floor would be flooded by the swollen Gomti. (Lucknow's worst floods in 1960 touched the 8-foot mark on Constantia's walls, and the boys had to be evacuated in boats.) During the cold weather, Martine remained on the ground floor.
When Warren Hastings, as Governor-General, visited Luck-now in 1814, he wrote this of Constantia:
"The house, built in the English style, stands upon a gentle elevation with some extent of lawn about it. The idea of it was probably taken from those castles of pastry which used to adorn desserts in former days. . . . The doors of the principal floor were plated with iron, and each window was protected by an iron grate. Loopholes from passages above gave the means of firing in perfect security upon any persons who should force their way into these lower apartments. The spiral stone staircases were blocked at intervals with iron doors; in short, the whole was framed for protracted and desperate resistance. The parapets and pinnacles were decorated with a profusion of plaster lions, Grecian gods, and Chinese figures, forming the most whimsical assemblage imaginable. Still, the magnitude of the buildings, with its cupolas and spires, gave it a certain magnificence."