One of the Marathas had somehow possessed
himself of a tom tom, and proved himself an excellent performer on that
weird instrument. While he tapped its sides, his fellow Maratha, in a
strange hard tuneless voice, chanted a song, repeating its single stanza
again and again without apparently wearying his hearers, and clapping his
hand to mark the time.
It was a song about a banya {merchant} with a beautiful young
daughter-in-law, whom he appointed to deal out the daily handful of flour
expected as alms by every beggar who passed his door. Her hands being
much smaller than his own, he pleased himself with the idea that, without
losing his reputation for charity, he would give away through her much
less grain than if he himself performed the charitable office. But it
turned out bad thrift, for so beautiful was she that she attracted to the
door not only the genuine beggars, but also many, both young and old, who
had disguised themselves in mendicant rags for the mere pleasure of
beholding her and getting from her a smile and a gentle word.
It was a popular song, and the warder himself was tempted to stay and
listen until, the hour for locking up being past, he at last recollected
his duty and bundled the prisoners into the shed.
"Sing inside if you must," he said, "but not too loud, lest the overseer
come with the bamboo."
Inside the shed, reclining on their charpoys, the men continued their
performance, changing their song, though not, as it seemed to Desmond,
the tune.
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