towards the door, a fat Mughal rises slowly from the ground and makes
obeisance, saying that he is the proprietor. "Your club seems to pay,
shet-ji! Is it always as well patronised as it is this evening?" "Aye,
always," comes the sleepy answer, "for my opium is good, the daily
subscription but small; and there be many whom trouble and sorrow have
taught the road to peace. They come hither daily about sundown and dream
till day-break, and again set forth upon their day's work. But they return,
they always return until Sonapur claims them. They are of all kinds, my
customers. There, mark you, is a Sikh embroiderer from Lahore; here is a
Mahomedan fitter from the railway work-shops; this one keeps a tea shop in
the Nall Bazaar, that one is a pedlar; and him you see smiling in his
sleep, he is a seaman just arrived from a long voyage."
You hazard the question whether any of the customers ever die in this
paradise of smoke-begotten dreams; and the answer comes: "Not often; for
they that smoke opium are immune from plague and other sudden diseases. But
the parrot which you see in the cage overhead was left to me by one who
died just where the saheb now stands. He was a merchant of some status and
used to travel to Singapore and South Africa before he came here. But once,
after a longer journey than usual, he returned to find that his only son
had died of the plague and that his wife had forgotten him for another.
Therefore he cast aside his business and came hither in quest of
forgetfulness. Here he daily smoked until his money was well-nigh spent,
and then one night he died quietly, leaving me the parrot." You peer up
through the fumes and discern one bright black eye fixed upon you half in
anger, half in inquiry. The bird's plumage is soiled and smoke-darkened;
but the eye is clear, wickedly clear, suggesting that its owner is the one
creature in this languid atmosphere that never sleeps. What stories it
could tell, if it could but speak-stories of sorrow, stories of evil, tales
of the little kindnesses which the freemasonry of the opium-club teaches
men to do unto one another. But, as if it shunned inquiry, it retreats to
the back of its perch and drops a film over its eye, just as the smoke-film
shutters in the consciousness of those over whom it mounts guard.
Further down the indescribable passage is a similar room, the occupants of
which are engaged in a novel game. Two men squat against the wall on either
side, surrounded by their adherents, each holding between his knees a
long-stemmed pipe built somewhat on the German fashion. Into the bowls
they push at intervals a round ball of lighted opium or some other drug,
and then after a long pull blow with all the force of their lungs down the
stem, so that the lighted ball leaps forth in the direction of the
adversary. The game is to make seven points by hitting the adversary as
many times, and he who wins receives the exiguous stakes for which they
play. "What do you call this game," you ask; and an obvious Sidi in
the corner replies:--"This Russian and Japanese war, Sar; Japanese
winning!" The game moves very slowly, for both the players and onlookers
are in a condition of semi-coma, but the interest which they take in an
occasional coup is by no means feigned, and is perhaps natural to people
whose daily lives are fraught with little joy. Round the corner lies
a third room or club, likewise filled with starved and sleepy humanity.
Near the door squats a figure without arms, who can scratch his head
with his toes without altering his position, "What do you do for a living,
Baba?" you ask; "I beg, saheb. I beg from sunrise until noon, wandering
about the streets and past the "pedhis" of the rich merchants, and with
luck I obtain six or eight annas. That gives me the one meal I need,
for I am a small man; and the balance I spend in the club, where
I may smoke and lie at peace. No, I am not a Maratha; I am a Panchkalshi;
but I reck nothing of caste now. That belongs to the past."