Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

But there was no sign of recognition on Barbu’s part. He bent over the boy, peering at him in evident amazement. He demanded: ‘What you doing, boy, in my birdie net?’ Then he raised his head and looked sharply across the way, up and down that rise over which Prindy had come, and asked, ‘You got other blackfeller wit’ you, eh? Where t’at other one?’

  Prindy heaved up into sitting posture. Barbu looked at him again, bent closer: ‘But you not blackfeller . . . you not halfcaste. You got t’e fair hair, t’e fair heye. But you not white poy. What you, golden poy, do t’is lonely place? What you do in my birdie net?’

  Prindy began to struggle again, got an arm out, began tearing at the string. Barbu cried, ‘Stop . . . you bugger-up my net. Vait . . . I let you free. Ho, you mek properly mess my goot net . . . Mera jal alia krah!’

  The boy lay still. He had to be rolled over several times for disentanglement; while the old man whimpered of the damage to this net, speaking a mixture of his own language and his own kind of English, complaining that now his bird-catching was over for the season, and he had lost for ever the bird he had always been looking for, a Golden Finchee he was sure he had been flying with the flocks: ‘Ho, Sunerhi Piddi, my Golden Finchee to mek my fortune . . . and you come bugger-up my net! Who going to pay for damage? I t’e poor-man number-one . . .’

  As the last of the entanglement was peeled off Prindy’s legs he leapt up. But a long black claw slipped round the thin ankle: ‘No, my lil poy . . . you stop . . . you tell me where from you come?’ Prindy stared at the black face level with his own as Barbu knelt, still maintaining that bracelet grip. The black crack of a mouth opened to reveal a few wide-spaced large teeth: ‘What’s t’e matter . . . you are deafy? Still silence. ‘You not spik English?’ Only that grave grey stare. ‘Haf you tongue? Show me . . . show me tongue.’

  A tip of tongue showed.

  ‘Ho . . . so you haf tongue and English you can understand. Den vy you not spik?’

  Prindy, the pupil-escapologist, deftly snatched his foot free, leapt back out of reach. Still Barbu held his kneeling posture. He cried, ‘Ho, lil poy . . . you no fright me! I am simple man. I am Barbu Ram, t’e bird-catcher. I do not net for lil poy . . . eeeeeee!’ He giggled. Then he asked, ‘How come you in my net? It is great mystery to me. Vun lil naked poy on edge of desert, come from novheres, vill not spik. You vont somet’ing from me?’

  Prindy swallowed, perhaps with effort to overcome the long ban of speech to other humans, then said, low and vibrantly, ‘Musics.’ Barbu sank back on his haunches: ‘Ho, ho! It vos my music call you to me . . . all-same t’e lil birdie?’ The toothy grin grew wider: ‘I call on my bansari for t’e Sunheri Piddi . . . and vot I get? I get a lil Golden Poy! Eeeeeee!’ Then the smile faded and the thin voice came doubtfully. ‘But tonight I am not calling to tempt t’e birdie. I do not at night, because birdie in bush sleep. At night I play only to mek my poor lil catched birdie ’appy. Zey do not sleep so vell in cage at first. I play to t’em and I sing of what ’appy days for t’em in India later . . . might be in palace of Maharaja. I am sorry for my vork as bird-catcher . . . but vot is for me in t’is land where I, who am educate at middle school, am clerk and reader . . . vere I am only poor blackman, rubbish?’

  Prindy sank to haunches too. Barbu said, ‘You are very peautiful poy.’

  Prindy said again in that same intense tone, ‘Musics.’

  But Barbu was staring at him now with dark eyes wide and luminous with some sudden exciting thought. A moment, when he cried in a breathless voice, ‘Ap pereshwar tu nehi, ho?’

  When the grey eyes grew round and luminous too at the music of the strange lilting language, Barbu came to his knees, and leaning forward, gasped, ‘You are a god come to me?’

  For some reason Prindy nodded.

  Barbu leapt to his feet, took one piercing look at the boy, then turned towards his camp, crying in that high-pitched voice, ‘Ho, Savitra . . . Savitra . . . I haf call a god from Paradise . . . a lil golden god . . . Ho, come you, come, my daughter!’

  The old man turned back to Prindy, to sink again to haunches and place his hands in attitude of prayer, and bowed his head, saying, ‘Ah nehi samaj-saktey meri zaban.’ He looked up again: ‘You do not understand me, Master?’

  The golden head, so golden to the magic touch of Igulgul, shook.

  ‘My poor Hindustani is not fit for ears of god. But I am your servant, Lord. Vot can I do for you?’

  Prindy murmured, ‘Musics.’

  ‘Music you vill haf, my Lord. Come you, please, to my ’umble camp. Lil haf I to offer. I haf tell you, I am poor man . . . and long time from my ’ome . . . even my holy language my tongue is losing. Come . . . come . . . come, Meharban!’

  Barbu rose, and with hands still pressing, body bent in continual deference, walking sideways mostly, he urged the boy to follow him. Prindy went warily. Proximity revealed the well-known Barbu hawker’s van, with tarpaulin rigged over it to form a tent. There was another similarly rigged fly, covering piled boxes evidently screened with hessian and housing the little captives that Barbu had excused himself for taking, judging by the sleepy twittering that greeted their arrival at the fireside. Barbu slipped in by the tented van, spoke softly and urgently there to someone who did not answer, and came out with a cushion, which he placed for Prindy, who staring in astonishment though he was, nevertheless sank down to it, to sit in exactly the right pose for the occasion, that is with legs doubled under him, which was an Aboriginal way of making oneself comfortable, as well as Indian. Barbu, with hands together again, made an obeisance: ‘A Khunda kia mai ap key leay khurak laoon.’

  Prindy, looking up at him, said, ‘Musics.’

  Barbu spoke in English again: ‘Musics you vill haf, Master . . . but you ’ungry must be. How far haf you come?’ Prindy nodded northward. ‘Of course, of course, from our Mother India. How how, Meharban . . . you not valk so far?’

  Prindy said, ‘I walk.’

  ‘Ah, yas . . . ah, yas . . . over sea, over mountain, over desert. Not’ing is it to you, a god, But let me gif you tea. Poor man am I . . . but alvays t’e best of Assam tea. I vill mek. You vill play. You vill play to me, t’e musics of Paradise. Bansari, Lord.’ He snatched up a bamboo flute from a kerosene case beside the fire, and wiping it on the tail of his shirt, handed it to the boy. Prindy looked at it eagerly.

  Barbu dashed back to the van, this time to get things from inside it, mounting the step at the rear, at the same time calling to his daughter breathlessly, ‘Savitra . . . daughter, you must come . . . I tell you I haf a god for guest.’ The answer was a childish moan.

  Barbu came back with china tea-pot and things, set them up, puffing with excitement, filled a billy from a water-bag, stirred up the fire. He asked, ‘A khunda kia ap bja sakkey ho?’

  For answer Prindy handed the flute to him, saying, ‘Mek musics, please.’

  Barbu took it, but with a cry, ‘Oh master . . . I haf talent so poor. I can play you only from my place of ’umble origins. It vill please you . . . a Kota song?’

  From the van tent a child’s voice said querulously, ‘Papa . . . you go sleep . . . you wake me . . . I dream happy dream.’

  Barbu cried, ‘Daughter, I tell you, I haf lil golden god for guest.’

  ‘Papa . . . you gettin’ jitty again. Go sleep.’

  ‘If I am mad, child, come ’ere to prove to me. He sit by our fire now.’ Barbu flung out his hands towards Prindy: ‘O, Mery piarey! Jitty. It mean mad. I am mad Indian, to everyboty . . . even to my daughter!’

  He raised the pipe, trilled a few notes in the minor key, then began to play. A couple of stanzas. Then the child’s voice within the tent rose in quavering song:

  Sandiramo vago, indaramaline dego,

  Mainin moline anig amge puvine verigo . . .

  The voice stopped. The flute continued. Again the voice:

  Rajammo vago, indaramaline dego,

  Ainmolle ainigo alar sayine verigo.

  Dari dari dari dari dari dar
i

  Dan dari dari dari dari daro . . .

  Barbu stopped playing, called, ‘Ao jigar key tukrey permeshwar key wastey foa.’

  ‘Talk me Henglish, Papa. I don’ like it silly lingo.’

  Barbu groaned, addressing Prindy: ‘Maharaj meri jigir ki yukri Hindi mey charti hey! Meharban. It is t’e vay of t’e country, vich contempt for all t’ing but race’orse and beer and bull.’ He called to his daughter, peremptorily now, ‘Daughter . . . you come ven your fader call . . . at vonce!’

  A heavy sigh within, then: ‘All right, I come . . . but you got ’o come bed after ve sing lil bits . . . I too sleepy.’ A yawn; then the shuffle of feet. Out into the moonlight came a diminutive form wrapped in yellow Indian sari against which her face and bare arms appeared all but black. The child, about Prindy’s age, stopped dead, staring at the naked golden figure on the cushion. Prindy stared back.

  Barbu giggled, said, ‘I am jitty, is it, my lil Savitra?’

  After a moment Savitra answered in a toneless voice, while still her dark eyes kept on Prindy, ‘Yas . . . Papa, you jitty all right. Dat no god . . . dat Prindy Ah Loy.’

  Barbu cried, ‘Ho, ho . . . vot you say? Ah Loy? He not Chinee!’

  The girl sighed, spoke as if used to dealing here with patience: ‘Not Chinee Ah Loy . . . but belong to dat halfcaste Nelly . . . muddrin bijnitch Catfish Creek.’

  For a moment Barbu gaped in his gap-toothed way at the little figure sitting cross-legged on the cushion, then struck his brow, crying brokenly, ‘Ruba! . . . Indeed to gootness, I am t’e mad old Indian!’

  But he stared and stared. So god-like was the figure in its slender beauty, all shiny gold of skin and towselled hair, so luminous of eye, so calm. He persisted, ‘But if you are just colour poy . . . how come you ’ere . . . from desert . . . from novhere?

  The luminous eyes regarded him.

  ‘You haf somevone t’ere in bush . . . your mumma?’

  The golden head shook.

  ‘You are all by youself?’

  Nod.

  ‘T’en vere you come from?’ The strained voice rose: ‘Vy you not spik, poy?’

  The little girl answered in that same dry tone, ‘He runned away from Compound.’

  Barbu demanded corroboration. When none was forthcoming, nothing but that shiny-eyed stare, Savitra put in her practical little spoke again: ‘He been in Compound wit’ his mumma. I been hear-’bout.’

  ‘But t’at Compound two hunneret mile from ’ere . . . and t’e vild, vild desert and t’e mountain in betveens! How vone lil poy . . . if he not a god . . . if a god don’t ’elp him . . . Ho!’ Barbu became all excitement again: ‘I haf it . . . Mother Shasti, Goddess of Children, haf bring him for you, my daughter!’

  ‘Jitty Indian talk!’

  ‘Vot is jitty? Vos not I veeping for my harlot daughters, and crying to t’e gods . . . “Vere, vere in t’is land of red, white and blue, and blackman, can I get ’usband for my malli flower?” Did ve not toget’er sing old Kadar song you like so much . . . Talinjurdali?’

  Savita’s eyes glowed now, her head cocked. Her father demanded, ‘Did ve not sing of your marriage . . . did I not say if ve ketch t’e golden finchee I vill buy t’e golden tali, t’e sacred necklace for your marriage . . . and sing toget’er, ve?’

  Savita breathed, ‘Yas, Papa.’

  ‘Vell . . . vot you talk about Jitty Indian? It is true. T’is god-like poy is prought to us . . . he is your ’usband . . . tek his ’and . . . daughter, tek ’and of your ’usband!’

  Savita giggled, ‘He got no pants on . . . eeeeee!’ She hid her dusky face.

  Barbu stared a moment, then went leaping to the tent again, rummaged in the van, came back with a white dhoti. He said to Prindy, ‘Stand, Jowatra . . . my peautiful son-in-law, my son . . . and let me dress you to meet your Dulhan . . . your bride, my daughter.’ As Prindy rose, the old man slipped the simple garment over a slim shoulder, knotted it. Then, taking the boy’s hand, he reached for his daughter’s, and as she gave it, passed it into Prindy’s, ‘From now you are marry in Gandharva . . . t’e plessing of all t’e gods be on you!’

  The children looked at one another in surprise, in wonder, even — till Savitra dropped her head to giggle, ‘Eeeeeee!’

  Prindy smiled.

  ‘Peautiful, peautiful!’ cried Barbu, flinging out his arms. Then he snatched up his flute again, tootled a few notes, said, ‘My daughter . . . you sing to your ’usband now . . . ve vill sing t’e Talinjurdali.’ He rippled a flourish of notes, then began the sweet simple piece. The little girl began to sing:

  Tana nana nana, tana nana nana,

  Nana, nana nana, nana nana nana, coru.

  Tomorrow We’n’sd’y . . . wit de flower going to my mother-huncle ’ouse.

  De lil Tali, de lil gold Tali,

  Is for my neck, de bride.

  All pipple going my marriage feast.

  De road stony and thorny.

  My bridegroom come.

  Must he be careful of way he go.

  Other pipples wear cotton clothes,

  Me and my ’usband wear silk from Palghat.

  Tana nana nana, tana nana nana.

  Tomorrow wit’ de flower I go.

  As the flute notes and the singing died away, Barbu sank to the kerosene case, dropped head into hands so that his long nose protruded through them, and wept without restraint. The youngsters stared at him. Then Savitra looked at Prindy. He looked at her. She giggled — ‘Eeeeeeee!’, snatched her hand away and rushed into the tent, there to cast herself onto a camp stretcher, and with face in pillow, gave herself up to mirth as liberal in expression as her father’s weeping.

  Prindy simply stood and stared, with that serenity of his in the midst of other people’s twittering which had provoked some of those others to their several learnt theories concerning his state of mind. What was preoccupying him was disclosed as soon as Barbu was able to control himself again, and looked at him with swimming eyes. He simply said, ‘Musics.’

  Barbu leapt up, snatching his flute, crying, ‘Musics you vill haf, my poy, my son . . . musics all t’rough your ’appy life!’ He played quite madly.

  Prindy was obviously fascinated. Then Barbu finished, panting, he said, ‘Ve vill haf music and feast and dance all t’is night of nights, your marriage night. But first ve must heat. I vill prepare t’e feast. You vill play to your bride. She vill sing to you . . . Savitra, my loved daughter . . . come to you ’usband . . . come, come, come!’

  She came out still giggling.

  Barbu said to Prindy, pointing to the kerosene case, ‘T’at is your seat of boss. Tek t’e flute. Daughter, you sit on t’e pillow at your ’usband’s feet.’ The children obeyed. Barbu leapt away to the van to get food.

  Savitra giggled, ‘You can’t play dat.’

  Prindy put the pipe to his lips, blew a single note. She answered it with a scornful little laugh. But he had been watching Barbu’s fingers. He moved his own. The sounds came sweetly. The laughter faded from the chocolate face looking up at him. He tried for scales. They were different here, but came in a minor run.

  Barbu came running out with canned food — a curry. He cried, ‘Sing him . . . sing t’e child song . . . t’e Kabootran da Rag. English if you want.’ Prindy stopped, looking at her. For a moment she drooped her dark head under its slip of saffron cloth, then raising her eyes to Igulgul, who was beaming all his magic now from almost directly above, she sang in that sweet little voice:

  Oh, Pigeon, I look-out you dat time of famine

  Feed you de milk-curd, de milk and boil’ rice.

  But now plenty everyfing,

  You wan’ ’o go . . . tchinekin away.

  But I not let you go, my Pigeon.

  Where you go I foller him-you-hup.

  No matter how high you fly,

  By’n’by I gitchim you at Beatrice.

  It was a simple little tune. Barbu, spreading canvas on the ground and making quite madly hasty preparations
for the feast, panted, ‘Sing to him slow, so he can ketch him.’

  She did so. In no time Prindy had it. Again and again they went through it, she in the lingo belonging to it.

  She sang other things, more difficult, and he tried with those, while Barbu, all the while at work on the strange smelling but savoury meal, kept saying that here was proof of all he’d said, of all he’d dreamt of: ‘Ve vill sometay ketch t’e golden finchee for t’e Maharanee, and go to India and be so rich and ’appy, my children . . . ho, my peautiful children!’

  The great meal of curry and rice and spices and sweets was too much for the children. They danced a little to Barbu’s directing and fluting; but soon, falling against each other, fell asleep. Barbu, muting his flute, played to them, while staring at them and the sinking winking Igulgul, tears making his black face shine. At last he sighed, put down the flute, took the children gently apart, carried first his daughter in to her stretcher, and then his son-in-law, laying them side by side; but only to have them promptly turn their backs on one another. He sighed, went out, bowed down to the Moon, saying, ‘Hey Chandarma Devta jerey ko Iambi omar do!’

  Old Chandra Devta was well down the sky and showing the first sign of his seasonal decline, and no sound in the world but the far-off calling of a mopoke that all was well, when Prindy began to sing in that strained voice, My Rown Road: the usual words, but to something like an Indian tune. It lasted long enough to bring Barbu leaping out of his sleeping quarters with the birds and set there twittering. But then it was stopped by a sleepy little girl’s groaning and saying, ‘Oh, shut up . . . and go sleep!’

  II

  There was now no hope of snaring that Golden Finchee with the net so badly bugger-up as Barbu Ram declared it to be. Not that there was rancour in his declaration. The contrary. ‘Haf I not ketch t’e Golden Poy?’ he asked. Anyway, the lost bird might well have been a figment of the old man’s yearning for the wonderful, there being no such creature as an Australian Golden Finch, the so-called Goldfinch being a rather mean importation like the Cockney Sparrow, and the only truly golden feathered Australian the delicate little Sunbird, which could never live in that harsh environment. This could have been confessed in some degree by his saying to Prindy, ‘No matter, no matter . . . we got plenty ot’er t’ing do,’ when the boy, perhaps by way of compensation, insisted on going looking for the bird while the others packed up during that day following the magic night of their coming together.