The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 110, December, 1866: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and PoliticsVarious
History
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 110, December, 1866: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
So far little Karlee had been lucky. This house, where he was born, was
lucky,--no one had ever died in it. When his dear mother could not spin
any more, they carried her to the Hooghly on a charpoy, and she had
breathed her last on the banks of the sacred river. Besides, his
grandfather had immediately stuck up a cooking-pot, striped with
perpendicular white lines, on a pole at the side of the house; so _he_
had never been in any danger from malicious incantations and the Evil
Eye. His education had been begun on a propitious day, else he might
have died or turned out a dunce. The very day he was born, a Brahmin--O
_so_ pious!--had hung a charm round his neck, and only charged grandpa
fifty rupees for it; when he went to the bazaar with his grandmother he
was always dressed in rags, to avert envy, and no one out of the family
knew his real name except his gooroo; all the other boys, and the
neighbors, called him Teencowry (three cowries[20]),--such a nice mean
name against spells and cross-eyed people! Once a strange Melican Sahib
had said, "Hello, Buster!" to him; but he wasn't at all frightened, for
his gooroo had taught him how to say a holy _mautra_[21] backwards; and
when the Melican Sahib passed on, he spat on his shadow and said it.
Last week a lizard dropped on his foot, and yesterday he saw a cow on
his right hand three times,--he had always been so lucky!
Now, time, place, and mood being favorable, I called for the company
hookah, and, extending the long Chinese chair, smoked myself to sleep
under the punka. My nap was a long one, and when I awoke there watched
and waited Karlee, tenderly patient, with the fly-flapper.
In the hospitalities thus far so handsomely extended to me, the reader
will recognize and appreciate an extraordinary display of liberal ideas,
for which, however, considering the sound common sense of my
affectionate old bhearer, I was not altogether unprepared; but when, his
little grandson being gone, he conducted me into another room, to
partake of what he humbly styled a _chota khana_, a trifle of luncheon,
my astonishment exceeded my gratification. I doubt if such a thing had
ever before happened in the life of a bhearer.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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