British -- India -- Fiction; India -- Fiction; Inheritance and succession -- Fiction
sunlight round and round the narrow courtyard in order to set the ink.
Something there was infinitely pathetic about it all; especially on
the days when, with the look of a St. Sebastian in his young face, the
lad could stay his hard labour for a while, and rest himself by
folding the flimsy sheets within the orthodox green wrapper where a
remarkably crooked crescent was depicted as surrounded by the beams of
the rising sun. False astronomy, but excellent sentiment! Then there
was the addressing for the post. Most of the packets bore the
inscription _bearing_; but one, chosen with care, and cunningly
corrected with a deft pen, never failed to carry the requisite stamp
above the quaint address: _To my respectable and respected father,
Khân Mahommed Lateef Khân, in the house of the Khân of Khurtpore, Sudr
Bazaar, Faizapore_. Which is much as though one should address a
Prince of the Blood to Tottenham Court Road.
Then, with the precious parcels in his arms, and one copy in his
bosom, he would joyfully lock the door above which "Press of the Jehâd
Newspaper" was emblazoned in English, and make his way to some cheap
cook-house, where, in honour of the occasion, he would purchase a
farthing's worth of fried stuff to eat with his dry dough cakes.
Thereafter he would repair to the steps of a mosque, or to one of the
shady wells which still linger in the heart of cities in India, in
order to discuss his own views and writings with a group of young men
of his own age. For in that large town, with its strange undercurrents
of new thoughts and aims underlying the steady stream of humanity
towards the old beliefs, Murghub Ahmad was not without his audience,
nor even his following. He had the sometimes fatal gift, greater than
mere eloquence, of leading the minds of his hearers blindfold by some
strange charm of voice and personality; and when, as often happened,
discussion took the form of harangue, the slow-gathering, stolid crowd
used to wake up into muttered approbation as the familiar watchwords
of their faith were presented to them in new and bewildering forms.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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