THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 
 
 c/ 
 
 PRIZE PUBLICATION FUND. 
 
 Founded by the generosity of 
 
 H.H. THE RAJA OF COCHIN. K.C.S.I. 
 
 THE MAHARAJA GAJAPATI RAO. C.I.E.. 
 
 THE RAJA OF PARLAKIMEDI, 
 and other Chiefs and Gentlemen of Southern India.
 
 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUf
 
 PRIZE PUBLICATION FUND 
 VOL. IV. 
 
 THE LIFE-HISTORY 
 OF A BRAHUI 
 
 BY 
 
 DENYS BRAY, I.G.S. 
 
 PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY THE 
 
 ROYAL ASIATIC SOCIETY 
 
 AND SOLD AT 
 
 22. ALBEMARLE STREET. LONDON, W 
 1913
 
 OS 
 3$o 
 
 B7B73 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 I SHALL tell the tale as it was told to me, jealously pre- 
 serving its refreshing naivete, its intimacy, and boldness 
 of detail. Mirza Sher Muhammad, who told it me, is 
 himself a Brahui a member of the Zahri tribe, and 
 hence a Jhalawan. He began life, like several of his fore- 
 fathers before him, in the service of the Khan of Kalat, 
 the head of the Brahui Confederacy ; he is now in our 
 Government service. He has travelled the length and 
 breadth of the Brahui country, cunningly stocking 
 his mind, wherever he went, with the curious lore 
 of his people. His knowledge of all that concerns the 
 Brahuis* and their country is remarkably rich; more 
 remarkable to me are his power of giving expression to 
 it, and the detached attitude he is able to adopt towards 
 his own customs. He is, by-the-by, one of the very few 
 Brahuis who are literate. 
 
 The story, of course, was not told to me in the flow- 
 ing form in which it now appears. It was told piecemeal 
 and at odd moments, sometimes spontaneously, some- 
 times in answer to my questions. Though it has taken 
 many months in the telling, it is not complete. How, 
 indeed, could it be ? The Brahuis are scattered over a 
 wide stretch of country. Little as we know of their 
 
 * I have given some account of this Dravidian-speaking people of 
 Baluchistan, and the curious problem connected with their lan- 
 guage in " The Brahui Language, Part I. Introduction and 
 Grammar," and in the Baluchistan Census Report, 1911. 
 
 v 
 
 1353173
 
 vi PREFACE 
 
 early history, we know that they are not of one race, but 
 a' medley of peoples, inheriting divers traditions and 
 customs from the various stocks from which they origin- 
 ally sprung. Moreover, in the East, much more than in 
 the West, it is the woman who is the true guardian of 
 ancient custom, and a Brahui himself cannot lift the 
 veil save from the few women who live within the narrow 
 circle of his family life. As my friend quaintly puts it, it 
 would cost even a Brahui of 'tact considerable time 
 and no little money to mix himself among the women of 
 the country and win their secrets, by pretending to be a 
 holy man versed in charms, a wise man cunning in 
 herbs, or a grave and a pious man. 
 
 Yet if the story is incomplete, it is lengthy enough, but 
 surely not wearisome to those who care for such things. 
 To those who have practical dealings with the Brahuis, it 
 can hardly fail to be a document of singular interest, and 
 it is with a godfatherly pride that I usher it into a wider 
 world. There is one point on which I may be allowed 
 to forestall and, if possible, to disarm criticism. The 
 spirit of the story seemed to evaporate as soon as I 
 attempted to couch it in the matter-of-fact English of 
 to-day, and it became almost impossible to prevent my 
 own comments from unconsciously creeping in. With 
 the somewhat fanciful style I have adopted, these difficul- 
 ties disappear. Whatever its disadvantages, it is at any 
 rate akin to the homespun language of the original, and 
 lends itself throughout to an almost literal translation 
 into Brahui. Nor does it seem out of keeping with the 
 subject. It helps, I think, to give a glimpse into the 
 workings of the Brahul mind, not merely a peep behind 
 the scenes of Brahui home-life. And, finally, it has 
 enabled me to keep out of the story altogether, and to 
 confine myself to the tasks of listening, questioning,
 
 PKEFACE vii 
 
 arranging, repeating. At this stage I have attempted 
 neither to analyze nor to explain, preferring to leave the 
 story in its simplicity, undefaced by the jargon of science. 
 But questions, suggestions, and criticisms will be alike 
 welcome from any whose interest this essay in Brahiu 
 autobiography may awaken. 
 
 QUETTA, 
 
 May 1, 1918.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PREFACE ...... v 
 
 BIRTH ....... 1 
 
 CHILDHOOD . . . . . .21 
 
 BETROTHAL ... ... 34 
 
 MARRIAGE . .... 52 
 
 SICKNESS . . . . - . .88 
 
 POSSESSION BY EVIL SPIRITS . . . .112 
 
 DEATH . . . . . .120 
 
 BURIAL . . . . . . .127 
 
 MOURNING . . . . . .137 
 
 THE SOULS OF THE DEAD . . .154 
 
 INDEX 161
 
 THE 
 
 LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 BIRTH 
 
 1. In the wide world there's naught man and wife set Desire for 
 their hearts on more than the birth of a son. For who a 
 would be content to quit this world and leave no son 
 behind ? As for a daughter a daughter is little more 
 
 than a gift to your neighbour. Yet something is better 
 than nothing, when all's said and done. For it is in 
 truth a sorry mockery for two to wed and have never a 
 child to show for it. 
 
 2. So when the months steal by after a bridal and i- 
 there is still no sign of a birth in the house, it sets folks 
 a-gossiping. And if the wife lose her bloom and grow 
 scraggy and lean, we can make a shrewd guess at the 
 one that is at fault. Her mother's tongue will soon wag 
 
 to some purpose, despite the love she bore her son-in-law 
 in the first six months after the bridal : there now ! 
 didn't she always say he was little more than half a 
 man ? a pretty business this for her poor girl ! she 
 might have lived and died unwed, for all the offspring 
 she'd ever get from the loins of such a paltry fellow. 
 And she goes from house to house with her whispers 
 and grumbles, and you may be sure it won't be long 
 before they reach the ears of the husband. So if he's wise, 
 he'll hie him to a physician. But if the physician fails 
 to drug manhood into him, it were best he hasten to the 
 mulla, to see what a mulla can do. Now for a piece of 
 silver or a sheep or the like, the mulla will give him 
 
 1
 
 2 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 an amulet or a charm that may yet make a man of him. 
 One or other, let's hope, will compass his end. Not 
 that the mulla will be at a loss for a reason, if all will 
 not do. " So 'tis a Jinn that's at the bottom of the 
 mischief after all !" says he, and shakes his head ever 
 so gravely. 
 
 B- 3. But if the wife wax fat and fatter, 'tis on her 
 the womenfolk will lay the blame for a barren wife. 
 And for a wife to be sant, or barren, is a very grievous 
 reproach. 'Tis bad enough for her to be rant barren, 
 that is, after she has once been brought to bed : poor soul, 
 her case is then past praying for ; for her womb has got 
 twisted upwards, and no power on earth can put it back 
 in place. Nevertheless, she has borne a child to stay 
 her with comfort in her distress. But where's the 
 comfort that shall avail a childless wife in her barren- 
 ness ? No comfort, but scoldings are her daily portion. 
 Her husband maybe will keep silence for very pride. 
 But his mother will gird at her the more, nor stint her 
 wrathful tongue. A childless wife is a costly guest to 
 have in the house, says the adage, and they let her 
 know it with a vengeance. Hers is a pitiful plight ; 
 yet worse lies ahead. For she knows full well that as 
 soon as her husband can scrape the wherewithal to- 
 gether, he will get him another wife to bear him children 
 and rid him of the mockery of his neighbours. 
 
 Circum. ^ rp^ ver ~. thought will fill the poor woman with 
 
 cision one . . 
 
 device to such piteous yearnings as may well stir her womb to 
 
 i er conceive. But if her womb is not opened for all her 
 
 yearnings, she will beseech some wise old woman or 
 
 midwife to help her for pity's sake. Divers are the 
 
 cures they have to offer. Says the one : " Take a pellet 
 
 of opium an hour or two before your husband goes in 
 
 unto you, and you shall see what you shall see." But 
 
 the other says : no ; there's nothing for it but to 
 
 circumcise her.* So they circumcise her secretly in her 
 
 * In circumcisione feminarum abscinditur pars extrema clitoris.
 
 BIRTH 3 
 
 mother's house, hiding the thing from her husband's 
 kinsfolk. 
 
 5. But if all is in vain, she will pitifully entreat a 
 mulla, or holy man, or some wandering beggar to give 
 her amulet or charm for her nsed. And many a pretty 
 penny does she spend thereon. Or she makes a vow 
 that she will sacrifice such and such a number of sheep, 
 or shave the child's head, or shear off one of her own 
 tresses aye, one of those tresses that are the glory of a 
 woman or do this or that at the shrine of a saint, if so 
 be the saint will fulfil the prayer of her heart. Or she 
 will turn to the Prophet, and covenant that the child 
 born of her shall wear naught but blue or green during 
 the first ten days of the Muharram, in token of mourning 
 for his grandsons the Imams. 
 
 6. Or she will make a vow that if the Almighty will 
 but remember her and open her womb, she will sell the God. 
 child as a slave in His name. She may covenant to do 
 
 it once and for all on the last Wednesday of the first 
 month of Safar after the birth. Or she may covenant to 
 do it yearly on that day for as many as seven years 
 or more, or even until she die. And the child is sold 
 and bought back. But the money for which it was 
 bought and sold is given in alms in the name of God. 
 
 7. The Khan of Kalat himself has been sold by his 
 mother and redeemed in this wise for the last four i 
 generations. Methinks a mighty vow must once have been Khan' 8 
 made when the line was in jeopardy for lack of a male 
 child in the ruling family. Now, fifteen years back it 
 
 was I myself that sold His Highness, for I was then in 
 his private service. Early on the morning of the last 
 Wednesday of Safar I was summoned into the presence, 
 and the Khan's mother put a halter round the Khan's 
 neck, and the end thereof she placed in my hand, and 
 bade me go forth and sell the Khan, for he was a slave 
 that God had bestowed upon her. So I took the rope, 
 and forth I led my ruler, for all the world as if I had a
 
 4 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 camel in tow, and with us went the Khan's brother. To 
 the mosque which is at the gates of the castle I led him, 
 and entered therein. And we sat down, the mulla sitting 
 over against us. So I turned to him, and said I had 
 brought one of God's slaves to market that I would fain 
 sell for a fair price. And for eight pounds of salt and a 
 measure of wheat did the mulla bargain to purchase him 
 and then free him in the name of God. Thrice did I 
 address the mulla, and thrice did the mulla make answer 
 after this fashion. And he loosened the noose from off 
 the neck of the ruler. But the salt and the wheat are 
 not given in kind. Nevertheless, something is given to 
 the mulla and something to the servant for their pains. 
 Yet nowadays 'tis a plaguey scurvy price that the Khan 
 puts upon his head, for five rupees was all we shared 
 between us. 
 
 The first 8. Well, Heaven grant that the poor wife may reap the 
 
 COT DS reward for all her amulets and vows and prayers. And 
 
 ception. ft forty days go by since her last monthly course, she 
 
 looks upon herself as great with child at last, and 
 
 hastens to tell the glad news to her husband, to her 
 
 mother and to his. Eagerly they keep a tally of the 
 
 days as they pass ; but, doubtful still, they nurse 
 
 their hopes among themselves. But once another month 
 
 is safely over, they spread the tidings among the kith 
 
 and kin. 
 
 The . 9. Great is now their concern that no food is brought 
 
 period of into the house without a bite being given to the wife, lest 
 drohur. harm befall her or her unborn babe. During these early 
 months drohur we call them she often craves for 
 curious things, whether sweet or sour; and if her 
 craving is not appeased though it be but an apple or a 
 pomegranate that wins her eye her womb may fall 
 and the babe be born out of due time, or its eyes will 
 squint, and that we think as ugly as ugly can be. Even 
 a waterskin that is being tanned or a piece of cloth that 
 is being dyed should not come under her eye ; for if her
 
 BIKTH 5 
 
 heart should lust after the one or the other, the cloth 
 would surely lose colour or get spotted, or parts of the 
 skin be left untanned. In like manner a mare or a she- 
 ass that is in foal must be given, be it ever so little, of 
 the grass or grain that is the portion of a beast that is 
 standing by, lest desire for it should provoke her to drop 
 her foal out of due season. 
 
 10. Now there's scarce a woman in the country that Earth- 
 does not crave for earth during her drohur. So she is 
 
 for ever munching met, or fuller's earth, that is brought up 
 from Sind. And, like enough, her ravening for it will 
 grow so great that she will toss sleepless on her bed the 
 livelong night if she cannot come by it. Yet there's 
 danger in the craze, for it breeds spleen or con- 
 sumption in the poor woman ; and though she herself 
 escape scot-free, the babe that is in her womb will surely 
 suffer in her stead. Nevertheless, her kinsfolk dare lift 
 never a finger to stay her, lest her womb drop. But the . 
 woman herself, maybe, will go to a mulla or a Sayyad 
 and beseech him to read a charm over a piece of met, that 
 she may eat thereof, and so be quit of the gnawing 
 hunger ever after. 
 
 11. Yet with all the care in the world drohur is an Earl 7 mis- 
 anxious time. And should a woman miscarry when she 
 
 is not yet full three months gone with child, she takes 
 that khdm or unripe thing that comes out of her, and, 
 powdering it all over with antimony, she swallows it 
 whole ; for she believes that in such wise will it be given 
 new life, and with luck be born anew in due time. Now, 
 when I first heard of this thing, I couldn't believe my 
 ears, and thought it an old wife's tale ; but not once 
 have I heard of it, but again and again, and you may 
 take my word for it that it's common enough. And 
 that it isol some avail, you may guess from the existence 
 of men among us with marks on their nose like the 
 marks of teeth marks that were left by the mother at 
 the swallowing.
 
 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 Signs of 
 the sex 
 of the 
 unborn 
 babe. 
 
 Various 
 pre- 
 cautions. 
 
 12. If after three months the wife's flesh is firm and 
 strong and her teats are red, they hold she is great with 
 a female child ; but if she grows weak, and her teats are 
 purple and dark, they look to the birth of a son, and 
 surely even from her very weakness does she draw com- 
 fort. Others, to make doubly sure, take a louse and 
 plunge it into a little milk drawn off her breasts, and 
 eagerly they watch it as it struggles ; for if it dies forth- 
 with, 'tis a sign that a male child will soon lie sucking at 
 those breasts, but if it battles back to life, they must 
 just resign themselves to a girl. And the eyes of the 
 Black Snake, they tell me, are blinded when his path is 
 crossed by a woman great with a male child, and he is 
 powerless to stir or do her harm ; but if 'tis a female 
 child that is in her womb, there's no saying what mis- 
 chief the Black Snake may do. Howbeit, if a wasp or a 
 scorpion sting the poor woman, the child that is born of 
 her, be it male or be it female, will all its life long 
 account the sting of wasp or scorpion as harmless as the 
 settling of a fly. 
 
 13. After she is three months gone with child, the wife 
 no longer does the hard work of the house. Drugs she 
 may not take, nor may she eat food that has been baked 
 overnight, lest the one or the other weaken the babe or 
 impart to it some disease. Into a dark room should she 
 never go alone, for fear of the Jinns. Aye, and it were 
 well she burn some rue night and morning, and let the 
 smoke go up into her clothes, for this will surely keep 
 the evil spirits at a distance. And if there's a death in 
 the house, she must not view the body or set foot within 
 the room where it lies ; for should her eye light on a 
 corpse, the babe would sicken in the womb and be 
 born a weakling, craving for overmuch milk nay, it 
 might even die in the womb, or, if it came to the birth, 
 fade soon away. Against this wasting sickness badald 
 we call it they strip a little piece of cloth off the shroud 
 and tie it to the wife's shirt-string. But if a child be
 
 BIRTH 7 
 
 brought to the birth stricken with badald, and there be 
 yet another death in the house, they measure a stick 
 according to the measure of the child, and give it to the 
 dead to take with him to the grave ; and this has been 
 the saving of many a child, I'm told. 'Tis an ill omen 
 should the teats drop milk within the first seven months ; 
 it is as though they shed tears for the sufferings pray 
 Heaven it be not for the death of the mother or her 
 babe. And should the womb drop before the seventh 
 month, in haste they send to the mulla for a written 
 charm to stay the birth. 
 
 14. On the new moon of the seventh month seven Distribu- 
 kinds of grain to wit, barley, wheat, Indian corn, peas, kohai 
 millet, pulse, and judrl * are boiled together uncrushed m the ' 
 in a large cauldron. Seven kinds of grain there must month 
 surely be in all ; so if they have no judrl, they must 
 needs look round for something else. Small dishes of 
 
 this pottage kohal we call it are sent out to the kins- 
 folk and lady friends of the family in token of the coming 
 birth. The dishes are never sent away empty ; each 
 comes back with some trifle for the looked-for babe a bead 
 it may be, or a strip of cloth, or a small piece of money. 
 
 15. The following night is the shab-zinda, the living J. 
 night, when the women make merry among themselves. 
 Howbeit the wild folk of the hills know naught of the 
 shab-zinda; ill could they afford such merry-makings, 
 poor beggars. But among villagers there's much jollity 
 that night. Till peep of day the women beat the drum 
 sturdily, and the female ddnib, or serving-woman, of the 
 family sings lustily the while. The dombs, you must 
 know, are minstrels and midwives. Lori they are by race, 
 an alien people who have been tinkers and blacksmiths for 
 generations and generations. At least one family of them 
 is attached to every clan or section amongst us, for they 
 are useful folk, ready to turn a hand to all sorts of lowly 
 work. 
 
 * Andropogon Sorghum.
 
 8 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 Sexual 16. The wife is now tended with even greater care. 
 
 course is Threads of blue cotton are tied round her thumbs and 
 
 bidden 1 kig * 068 * sn * e ^ ner against the wiles of evil spirits. 
 Henceforth she must live apart from her husband. 
 Though freed from the drudgery of the house, she is 
 not left to sit idle or at her needlework all day long, 
 but is called upon ever and anon, in kindly joking 
 manner, to be up and about her household duties ; for 
 overmuch sitting, they say, turns the face of the babe 
 from the right path, and brings trouble in the hour of 
 the birth. In such wise do the last two months pass 
 over her. 
 
 Preparing 17. At the new moon of the tenth and last month 
 birth. they call the midwife in. Every day she rubs the wife's 
 limbs slowly and subtly with oil, to make them supple 
 against the hour of the birth. Every morning she gives 
 her a few sips of cold water wherewith to break her fast, 
 that it may wash and cleanse the babe's body. 
 Hastening is. If the birth be stayed beyond the due season of 
 birth. nine full months and nine days,* they pour water in a 
 pail and set it before a mare. And when the mare has 
 drunk her fill, they fill a cup with the water that is left 
 over, and give it to the wife to drink. Or, better still, 
 they make her pass under the belly of a mare that is in 
 foal. Either way there's a speedy issue for her out of 
 her trouble. And the reason is plain as a pikestaff. If 
 a woman oversteps the natural term of womankind, ten 
 to one she is cursed to go through the twelve weary 
 months of a mare. But it's easy enough to pass on the 
 curse from her to the mare, if only you know the 
 secret. 
 
 The 19- As soon as the pains of labour are upon her, they 
 
 beginning ^id ner d ec k herself out, by putting antimony to her 
 
 labour. eyes and walnut-bark to her lips, to redden them withal. 
 
 Else might the wind strike her, and her eyes be afflicted 
 
 and her teeth fall out. The midwife comes bustling in, 
 
 * Thirty days go to each month.
 
 BIETH 9 
 
 and sits by her side. She never allows her to fall into 
 drowsiness, but rubs her limbs ; the belly is not rubbed, 
 nor even touched. No woman great with child may 
 now enter the house or speak aloud. Nor may a virgin 
 come nigh, for the very sound of her voice would hamper 
 the birth, and heighten the wife's pains. Nor may any 
 val* needlework be done in the house, lest the womb 
 twist the neck of the child after the same pattern. 
 
 20. Should difficulties attend the birth, they throw the Over .- 
 blame on the goodman of the house : he's surely on difficult 
 bad terms with his wife, they will say, or harbours a labour - 
 grudge agp : ust her in his heart. But if the labour be 
 
 long drawn-out and their fears wax great, they dip the 
 hoary beard of some reverend old gaffer in a pail of 
 water and give thereof to the sufferer to drink. But if 
 all will not do, they seek the aid of a mulla's charm. 
 And this is the most potent charm they know : 
 
 " I have no place to dwell in, and my ass hath none ; 
 Spouse of a farmer, give birth, give birth to a son!" 
 
 These lines are writ in Persian on two bits of paper; 
 the one they tie to the wife's thigh, and make her gaze 
 on the other. Many a time has this charm wrought 
 its purpose so well that the babe has been born within 
 half an hour. 
 
 21. At the moment of giving birth the wife is made The birth - 
 to sit on sand. A son, I've been told, is born with his 
 
 face towards the ground, a daughter with her face 
 towards the mother. As soon as the babe is born, the 
 midwife catches it in her hands. But if it be a boy, she 
 hides the glad news from the mother for a while, calling 
 it a girl ; for the birth of a son is of all things the most 
 glorious to a woman, and the joy might prove too much 
 for the mother before she recovers her strength. 
 
 22. Now, if some poor mother has lost babe after babe, Vicarious 
 and is brought to bed yet again, the wise old women a twig. 
 
 * Somewhat similar to featherstitch or herring-bone.
 
 10 THE LIFE-HISTOBY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 The 
 
 severing 
 of the 
 umbilical 
 cord. 
 
 Coins 
 used to 
 prevent 
 
 will put their heads together and will seek to save the 
 life of the new-born in this fashion. When the pains 
 of labour come upon the woman, they cut a slender twig 
 off some green tree and place it by her side. And as 
 soon as the babe is born, they measure the length of the 
 twig against the measure of the babe, and whittle it 
 down till it is neither too long nor yet too short. Then 
 they raise the cry that the babe is dead. And they take 
 the twig and lay it out and wash it and wrap it in a 
 shroud, and bear it forth to the burial and lay it to rest 
 in the graveyard, for all the world as if it were in truth 
 a dead child. So they return to the house, full sure 
 that the evil spirits have been befooled, and that the 
 new-born is safe from their malice. 
 
 23. Now comes the hour of the greedy midwife, 
 who pounces on the right ear of the mother, and 
 takes off the ear-ring, precious and costly though 
 it may be. Then she holds the babe with her left 
 hand, and in her right she takes a razor, calling 
 on the old people (the grandfather standing without) 
 to pay her money in abundance for the work she has 
 in hand. Yet is she paid according to the rate that 
 is set a rupee, or maybe two, for a boy, and half 
 the sum for a girl. When she has been given her 
 dues, she severs the cord, crooning the while, " Darling 
 mine, I sever thy cord for all kinds of sweetmeats 
 and pleasant foods," and the like. She cleans the 
 matter away right cunningly, for therein, say old 
 midwives, lurk the seeds of smallpox, and shrewdly 
 she sees to it that no blood falls on the babe. The 
 navel is bound with a thread of blue cotton. But the 
 cord that is severed is taken away and buried where 
 no dog may hap upon it ; for should it, for lack of care, 
 fall a prey to a dog or other beast, the babe grows 
 restless and a lusty squaller. 
 
 24. Now it sometimes so happens when a woman 
 is delivered, that her womb issues forth and will not
 
 BIETH 11 
 
 return to its place. At the birth of a first-born there's the womb 
 some danger of it, and still more when the babe is a 
 sturdy rogue and a stubborn that will not be coaxed 
 forth into the light of day. For the midwife urges the 
 poor woman to choke down her breath, that the babe 
 may be forced to quit his lodging within her. And the 
 womb comes forth with her straining, and there's a 
 mighty pother to get it back to place. So the midwife 
 takes some pice and other copper coins, to the value 
 of a rupee maybe, and washes them and ties them 
 together into a ball with a bit of thread or a thin 
 rag. Then she thrusts the womb up, and thrusts the 
 coins in after it, that they may press on the womb, 
 nor suffer it to fall forth. And the woman is made 
 to lie quiet on her back, with her legs raised two feet 
 or even three above the level of her head. There 
 must she lie for three full days, poor soul, nor ever 
 turn on this side or that, nor lower her legs from their 
 perch. For if the womb drop again, she will be in sorry 
 case indeed. 
 
 25. As soon as a son is born, they break the news Aunounc- 
 and a deal of fuss they make over it to the father }f tll *[ 
 who is waiting without. Forthwith he fires three shots a son - 
 with his gun, or haply five or seven or nine or eleven. 
 Hearing the shots, the serving-men know that a son 
 
 is born, and rush off to the neighbours with the news. 
 He that is beforehand is given mistal, the reward for 
 good news a robe of honour it may be, or a piece of 
 money, a rupee or more. But he that comes lagging 
 when the news is stale is given naught. 
 
 26. At the birth of a daughter no shots are fired How to 
 
 . avoid a 
 
 and there are no rewards. Now if the first-born is a second 
 girl, they hold that the wife is stronger than her 
 husband. This, to be sure, does her little harm. But 
 the husband in the Zahri and other parts is laughed 
 at by his fellows, and is beaten seven times with a 
 shoe, or is made to furnish a feast, as a fine for his
 
 12 THE LIFE-HISTOBY OF A BKAHUI 
 
 first failure to beget a son. And the midwives have 
 this device to turn the womb for the birth of a male 
 child. As soon as a daughter is born, they give the 
 mother a broth made of a fresh-killed chicken, spiced 
 with cinnamon, pepper, and the like ; and in due course, 
 they vow, will she be blessed with a son. But if nothing 
 be done, she will bear daughter after daughter ; and if 
 there be no change at the third, seven daughters will 
 be the lot of the unhappy father. This is what the 
 midwives say, and surely they should know; but how 
 far a man of science may believe them, let the man 
 of science up and say for himself. 
 
 Dem- 27. Forthwith they wash the babe and put it in a 
 
 kafanl a cloth that is cut like a winding-sheet and 
 swathe it round so that only its face can be seen. But 
 before the father or the old folk or the aunts may 
 have a peep, each must promise the mother some 
 trinket for her new-born, or give her money wherewith 
 to make it an ornament hereafter. This gift we 
 call dem-dlddrl, or the seeing of the face. And if a 
 kinsman be absent and comes back after many days, 
 he will have to pay dem-dlddrl for all that. And they 
 call in a mulla or some wise old man to whisper the 
 azdn in the right ear of the babe, and in its left ear 
 the takblr, those holy Arabic words that are the 
 summons and prelude to our prayers. 
 
 The first 28. And now they bring the babe to the wife, who 
 smg ' has been laid on her back in a bed covered with warm 
 bedding. Henceforth they hail her as " mother of the 
 child." And they bathe her breasts with warm water, 
 and draw off a little milk. First she suckles her 
 babe on her right breast. If it takes the teat with 
 a will, it is well. But if not, mother, father, grand- 
 father, coax it in turn, saying : " Suck the breast, 
 there's a dear, and I'll give thee a nose-ring of gold 
 or an ear-ring, or this or that," proffering it trinket 
 after trinket that a child may wear. And at whatsoever
 
 BIRTH 13 
 
 trinket the babe first sucks the breast, the same it 
 shall receive hereafter from him or her who promised 
 it. Now most good parents keep their babe for the 
 first six days in a chaj, or winnowing-basket, that God 
 may vouchsafe them full as many children as the 
 basket can hold grain. Over the basket they throw 
 a light cloth, and place it at the mother's side under a 
 pddenk, the three-legged iron stand whereon the kettle 
 is boiled. But some folk will have nothing to do with 
 a winnowing-basket; it harbours epilepsy, they say, 
 though how or why I am at a loss to think. So they 
 lay the child in a sieve, that good luck may pour upon 
 him as abundantly as grain pours through a sieve. 
 
 29. Meanwhile kinsfolk and neighbours hurry to the The 
 house to offer their good wishes, each with a dish of s 
 sweetmeats, and a rupee to boot if it be a son, but no 
 more than half if it be a daughter. Now this gift is 
 called sar-gasht, or passing round the head ; for sweet- 
 meats are taken from each dish and flung over the 
 heads of the mother and her babe. The children in 
 the room scramble for the sweets in high glee, and 
 even the ddmb, or serving-maid, joins in the frolic. In 
 the end they part the money and such of the sweets 
 
 as are left over into four shares : one they give to 
 the midwife, another to the child's nurse, a third to 
 the serving-maid, while the fourth is set aside for the 
 poor. This, to be sure, is the seemly thing to do. 
 But some folks may be too poor to afford it, and some 
 have no nurse or serving-maid at all. So these give 
 a rupee or two to the midwife, and keep the rest for 
 themselves. Nor are the neighbours to go home empty- 
 handed ; each is given chilla-bdl* a present of a little 
 aniseed and some sweetmeats. 
 
 30. During the first five nights the house fires and' Thewake - 
 
 * Literally, apparently, "the forty days' impurity srnell " ; but 
 this compound word has lost its original meaning. The chilla is 
 the forty days of a woman's impurity after child-birth.
 
 14 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 lights are kept alive, night in, night out, and the kins- 
 folk hold a wake and all for fear of the evil spirits. 
 The women watch turn by turn at the mother's side, for 
 she must never lie alone. The men sit without, making 
 merry and cracking jokes. The serving-maid sings, 
 and the womenfolk join in. All the fifth day they are 
 busy making clothes for the new-born : a shirt (and let 
 it be of silk), a head-dress of red cloth, a thick binder, 
 and a long narrow bandage. Before sunset they truss 
 the babe up in the garments, and lay it under a drungl 
 a wooden frame one or two feet high and over it they 
 spread a quilt to keep off the cold. 
 
 Passing 31. At nightfall they place a cup filled with milk at 
 round the the babe's head, and into it each of the women puts a 
 circle. piece of silver according to her means. The cup, money 
 and all, falls in the end to the lot of the midwife. There 
 she sits by the side of the babe, and keeps up a fire of 
 banter as each lady steps forward, promising her a deal 
 of trouble when her time for childbirth comes. Seven 
 kinswomen seat themselves in a ring round the babe. 
 In that circle, I warrant, no place will be found for a 
 widow or one that has been married twice. Nay, loyal 
 wives of loving husbands and happy mothers of many 
 children must they be. Each in turn takes the babe for 
 a while on her lap, and offers up a prayer for its long life 
 and the welfare of the parents. And after the babe has 
 gone the round, it is placed last of all in the mother's 
 lap. But the men sit without, listening to the music of 
 the rabab* the sirozj the punzik,l and the drum, for 
 these have now ousted the homely dambura, save in the 
 wilder parts. 
 
 * An Afghan stringed instrument, the strings of which are 
 plucked by a small piece of wood, called shabdz, held in the right 
 hand. 
 
 t A Lori stringed instrument played with a bow. 
 
 J A reed instrument. 
 
 A three-stringed instrument played with the fingers.
 
 BIKTH 15 
 
 32. In honour of a son two sheep are slaughtered, but Preparing 
 only one, you may be sure, if it be a daughter. Some of feLt. * 
 the blood is caught in a cup, and in it they dip the babe's 
 finger, and make the mother do likewise to herself. The 
 
 flesh is then cooked, but the neck is set apart, with the 
 bone unbroken. 
 
 33. When night comes on, they give the child its name. Choosing 
 
 XT *U U -11 1 i. u- the cMld ' S 
 
 Now they can choose whatsoever name they will, but tis name, 
 a seemly custom to give it the name of some worthy fore- 
 father who is no more. And if there's no one in the 
 family of that name alive, 'tis so much the better. Some 
 there be who give their child during his tender years the 
 name of a bitter plant, such as Kabar, Heshu, Poghi for 
 a boy, and Manguli or Jauii for a girl. And their reason 
 for this is two-fold. If a child be got after anxious 
 prayer, they give it a bitter name that God, who is the 
 sweetest of all things, may spare it to them. Moreover, 
 while the child is yet young, he will, sure enough, often 
 vex his father and mother, and perforce they must rebuke 
 and chastise him ; and truly it were ill done should 
 they chastise and rebuke by name one who bore a name 
 time-honoured in the family. And if a child is beset by 
 misfortune from his birth, we sometimes lay the blame 
 on the name, and seek better fortune in another. Even 
 men of ripe years, dogged by ill-luck, often change their 
 name, in the hope that they will thereby change their 
 luck. 
 
 34. So they give the child its name, and all the friends Tlie . 
 and kinsfolk gathered in the room lift up their hands, of the" 
 calling down God's blessing on it. And the name is chlld * 
 announced to the mother, who is lying in her chamber 
 apart with the ladies ; and these also offer up prayers to 
 
 the Almighty. And congratulations are shouted from all 
 sides to the father and mother. 
 
 35. The livelong night is passed in mirth and merry- The feast - 
 making, in singing and joking, smoking and the drinking 
 
 of tea. The meat that was set on the spit is cooked by
 
 16 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 the grey of the morning, and is brought and placed 
 before the guests, who sit and feast, and when they are 
 filled, go each man to his own house. But the neck that 
 was set aside is cooked and brought to the mother. And 
 when she has eaten her fill of the meat, the neckbone, 
 still unbroken, is hung up by the door or in a corner, 
 that the child may hold his neck straight and walk 
 upright through life. But the other bones are gathered 
 together with care and placed in the skins of the sheep, 
 to be hereafter buried in the village graveyard. Howbeit 
 some folk are giving up this good old custom. 
 Preserving 36. But while all these ceremonies are afoot among 
 and babe the kith and kin, there's a deal of fuss made over the 
 from evil m other and her babe in the birth-chamber. As soon as 
 the child is born, they paint a mark in indigo on all 
 four walls after this fashion 4fr, that no evil spirit may 
 venture nigh. Some there are who strew p'ipal* about 
 the house, for a witch will never visit a dwelling where 
 plpal is. And at the head of the child they stick a knife 
 point downwards in the earth, and there it must remain 
 during the chilla, the forty days of a woman's impurity 
 after childbed. And should the woman chance to go 
 alone out of doors, she must be sure to take a knife with 
 her. For witches and Jinns are ever on the look-out to 
 do mischief. But a sharp knife or a sword is a safe 
 defence, or rak, against them. 
 Guarding 37. From the first the babe must be hedged round 
 
 the babe 
 
 from kaj- with watchfulness. The treasured things of the house 
 beads, jewels, charms, and the like are dipped in a cup 
 of water, and drops of the water from the cup are 
 sprinkled in the babe's mouth. If a tired wayfarer 
 chances .to come along, his little finger is straightway 
 washed ; if a string of camels pass by the house, or a 
 caravan laden with treasure, a bit of the rein of the 
 leading camel, or a lock off a box filled with the treasure, 
 is washed, and a drop of the water is put in the babe's 
 
 * Ficus religiosa.
 
 BIRTH 17 
 
 mouth. The old granny or the aunts must ever be on 
 the watch in this matter : for if they act not in such wise, 
 the babe, they say, is stricken with kajjenging, and in a 
 trice it turns blue and is dead before long. Even until 
 the new moon must they keep guard over the babe. And 
 if a man should come in from his travels and would fain 
 see the babe, he must first wash his face. For should 
 he have passed a corpse or carcase on the way, and look 
 upon the new-born with face unwashed, it sickens 
 and grows weak. Hence it is that grandmothers are 
 ever loth to show off a new-born till full fourteen days 
 have passed. 
 
 38. Now our babes are born with light blue patches, Blue 
 three or four inches across, on the buttocks and at the "n l ' a new*- 
 back of the leg above the knee. On some babes there born babe - 
 are patches also above the waist and under the shoulder- 
 blades ; but patches on the buttocks and above the 
 knees there are on every babe. But in a month or so 
 they fade away and are gone. Now once I asked a wise 
 old dame the why and the wherefore of these patches, 
 and this is what she told me. As soon as a woman 
 conceives, said she, her monthly flow is stopped. And 
 all that is pure therein forms food for the babe in the 
 womb. But the noisome and poisonous portion thereof 
 gathers in and round the womb. And oftentimes it stains 
 the woman's cheeks and forehead with dullish patches 
 that we call ram, and darkens the colour of her teats. 
 And do what one will, one cannot hinder some of it 
 from falling on the babe when it is brought to the birth. 
 But Heaven be praised, careful wiping will soon wipe 
 the patches away ; and in a month or six weeks they 
 are gone. Else were there danger that they would 
 ripen into boils before long. Well, this is what she told 
 me, and I know her for a wise old lady. But whether 
 she is right herein or whether she is wrong, the man of 
 science must be the judge. Now some of the refuse will 
 surely find its way into the babe's belly, and sore will 
 
 2
 
 18 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 be the trouble if it be not dislodged. So they lose no 
 time in giving the babe some gugul, or bdellium gum, 
 mixed up in sugar and ghee. Within three days will 
 this purge rid its belly of the kaldgbo, as we call it, 
 for it is black like kaldgh, the crow. 
 
 Head- 39. Now our womenfolk think an egg-shaped head so 
 
 ugly that there's no end to its ugliness. So it's a bless- 
 ing that the whole body of a new-born babe is so soft 
 and tender that they can shape it to their will. First 
 they bind a bandage round the babe's forehead as 
 smooth as smooth can be, and underneath its head they 
 lay a soft pillow, stuffed with uncrushed millet or peas. 
 For if the pillow were hard, the babe would never lie 
 on the back of its head, but would be ever turning on 
 this side or that. But on a soft pillow the head lies flat 
 on its back, and in time is rounded to shape. Well, as 
 for the shape of a boy's head some folk care little. A 
 boy is a jewel after all, be the shape of his head what it 
 may: all the same a boy with a mortar-shaped head 
 like a Pathan is mighty uncomely. But the rounding 
 of a girl's head is the concern of one and all. And to 
 make matters doubly sure they bore three or four holes 
 in her ears and thread them with blue cotton. And 
 with ears bored she will not toss her head from side 
 to side, I warrant, but will lie quiet with her head set 
 plumb on the pillow of millet. Now the rounding of the 
 head must be taken in hand betimes, and for the first 
 forty days at least must it be kept up. Yet the saying 
 goes that the bones of the head are not wholly set until 
 the child can say " khal," or stone, with the best of them. 
 Moulding 40. But though a good round head counts for much, 
 features, it doesn't count for all. Throughout those first forty 
 days they never let the babe's features alone. Even at 
 the dem-dlddn, the first viewing of the face, they 
 anxiously measure the babe's mouth, and if it be bigger 
 than the span of a finger-joint, they take a small ring 
 and press it to the lips to bring the mouth within ita
 
 BIETH 19 
 
 compass. The lips themselves they rub to make them 
 thin. And the nose is pinched and pressed softly 
 upwards. For there are few things more unsightly than 
 a large mouth and blubber lips and an overhanging nose. 
 Yet in a maiden I wot of something that is worse still. 
 For a maiden had sooner be deaf or blind or halt than 
 have her launrl, or the whorl of her hair, at all forward 
 on her head. In very truth there's no more unlucky thing 
 in the whole wide world than this. And if the nurse's 
 shrewd fingers cannot coax the baunrl towards the back 
 of the head, that maiden will die an old maid, a kalmant 
 as we say, you may take my word for it. 
 
 41. Nor is it on the head and face alone that they Shaping 
 try their cunning. Twice a day, when they give the 
 babe its hill drugs in a little ghee, they rub its body 
 deftly with oil, and press the palm of its foot upwards. 
 For a foot should be mdza^dd, or shaped like a boot, 
 with instep well-arched not flat like the ugly flat foot 
 of a bear. For though a large head is the mark of a 
 noble, a large foot is the mark of a slave, as the saying 
 is. And kamdn-pdd, or bowlegs, are just about as bad. 
 So we stretch the babe's legs out straight and bind them 
 together, and stuff wads of rag in between, that the 
 limbs may grow straight as an arrow, not curved like a 
 bow. Likewise are the arms bound straight to the body- 
 Nay, the whole body is trussed up, so that only the face 
 peeps out from the swaddling bands. And in this 
 fashion the babe must remain for nine months, or for 
 four at the least. Howbeit the bands are unloosed 
 twice a day, in the morning and again in the afternoon, 
 that the babe may kick its chubby limbs about. Now it 
 is not only to straighten the limbs that we truss a babe 
 up in this fashion. For should a babe be scared out of 
 its wits by some malicious demon, its limbs would get 
 twisted from sheer fright if they were free from their 
 bands, and would never return to place. So you see 
 there's work enough in our nurseries to keep the women-
 
 20 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 folk busy. But best leave it all in the hands of one 
 wise dame. For what says the good old proverb? 
 Too many nurses spoil the babe's head. 
 
 42. Nor is the mother forgotten. If the season is 
 days of warm, they give her a bath after the birth. She must 
 
 after my e ^ se wa ^ a ^ or ^ n ig n ^ before she is bathed; yet is she 
 child-bed, rubbed down twice a day with oil. And as soon as she 
 is delivered, she is given some garmana a heating food 
 made of ghee and molasses boiled with drugs midwives 
 wot of, but will never, never tell to others. And of this 
 garmana all the womenfolk in the room partake. Then for 
 the first six days she lives on wheaten bread and a little 
 ghee. Full fourteen days must she lie in the birth- 
 chamber, one or other of the women watching at her 
 bedside, lest she lose heart or be assailed by evil spirits. 
 But when the fourteen days are out, she is bathed in 
 a bath of warm water. And while her head is being 
 washed, she keeps a clove in her mouth to ward off 
 a cold. And after her bath she dons clean clothes, 
 and the clothes she has worn are given to the midwife. 
 Then, if there is nothing amiss, the midwife leaves the 
 house, only coming in every other day to rub her limbs 
 and bind her up, that her womb may not drop. And 
 when another week is over, the mother is bathed yet 
 again, and may now issue abroad from the house. And 
 on the fortieth day she takes her last bath of all, and 
 is clean of her uncleanness, and may live once more 
 with her husband.
 
 CHILDHOOD 
 
 43. A man who would search out the spirit of the Lullabies. 
 people may well learn more from one of the lullabies 
 with which our mothers rock their babes to sleep, than 
 from a wilderness of ballads. Not that their lullabies 
 are in the Brahui tongue any more than our ballads. 
 Brahui, I suppose, lends itself ill to verse, for poets 
 we have none among us. To be sure, some mother 
 or shepherd may string together a few words in our 
 own tongue, but it's sorry doggerel at the best. So 
 we go to Baluchi for our songs. Now here is a lullaby 
 a mother sings to her baby girl. And therein I would 
 have you note that, though she duly thanks God who 
 has bestowed a daughter upon her, she cannot hide 
 her pitiful longing for a son. Then, motherlike, she 
 weaves dreams of that which is to come. And she 
 praises her daughter for her flocks and herds, for her 
 beauty and the beauty of her hair, for the bounty of 
 her table, and the long wooing and wealth of her lord : 
 
 Lnll't, lulla, lullaby, 
 Lulla, Moon-face, lullaby. 
 
 God bestowed thee, God the Giver : 
 May His gift be mine for ever I 
 
 Lulla, lulla, lullaby, 
 
 Lulla, Moon-face, lullaby. 
 
 Sons and colts are in God's hand, 
 God's to keep and God's to send; 
 Were tliey goods on a market-stall, 
 Princes would buy one and all ; 
 Beggars would have none at all! 
 
 Lulla, lulla, lullaby, 
 
 Lulla, Moon-face, lullaby. 
 21
 
 22 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 Mistress art thou over damsels, 
 Mistress over kids and lambkins, 
 Over fatted kine and camels. 
 
 Lulla, lulla, lullaby, 
 
 Lulla, Moon-face, lullaby. 
 
 Thou art Queen among thy sisters, 
 Like the moon 'mid starry clusters. 
 
 Lulla, lulla, lullaby, 
 
 Lulla, Moon-face, lullaby. 
 
 My lady's locks are plaited strands. 
 Thick as a camel's hobbling -bands. 
 
 Lulla, lulla, lullaby, 
 
 Lulla, Moon-face, lullaby. 
 
 My lady's tent is high and wide, 
 And thirty faces long beside ; 
 It heads tJie cam^i, and from afar 
 Guests come from Blidg and Kandahar. 
 
 Lulla, lulla, lullaby, 
 
 Lulla, Moon-face, lullaby. 
 
 Her lord owns flocks and herds that thrive, 
 Proud lord of Kech or chief of tribe. 
 Three weary years he comes to woo, 
 Aye, thrice he ivears out either shoe. 
 Close packed as dates his gifts are stored, 
 Like barley stacks his golden hoard. 
 
 Lulla, lulla, lullaby, 
 
 Lulla, Moon-face, lullaby. 
 
 And here's one of sterner stuff she sings to her infant 
 son : 
 
 Dear-heart, True-heart, 
 
 God make thee Brave-heart ! 
 Thine be a steed of fiery mettle, 
 Thine be a seat firm in the saddle. 
 Four fair wives mayst thou embrace : 
 Milk-white, Honey-sweet, Sun-bright, Moon-face. 
 Thine be no death on the bed of a craven, 
 For death on the field is the road to Heaven. 
 
 Dear-heart, True-heart, 
 
 God make thee Brave-heart /
 
 CHILDHOOD 23 
 
 44. And when a youth comes to manhood, he will Their 
 often boast among his fellows that with his mother's after-life. 
 milk he sucked in the songs she sang songs of a 
 manly life and a warrior's death, fronting the foe. 
 
 And if a man turn tail in the day of battle, we hold 
 him no true son of his father, but the bastard son of 
 a faithless woman who foisted a knave upon the world. 
 
 45. Now if a babe is born with teeth cut even within Dand&n- 
 its mother's womb, it's a sorry look-out for its parents, cutting of 
 Many are the alms they bestow in the name of the the teeth * 
 saints, for if the ill-luck be not turned aside, theirs 
 
 is like to be an untimely end. And should such a babe 
 die in babyhood and oftentimes it so falls out folks 
 will shrug their shoulders : 'twas a luckless child 
 after all ; what a mercy its bad luck fell on itself, 
 and not on another ! Nor will the mother or father 
 be wroth if they hear what folks say. For in their 
 heart of hearts they are not over-grieved that the ill- 
 luck has been taken from them. And if a babe cut 
 its teeth before it is six months old, there's ill-luck 
 in that also. And though matters are not so grave, 
 'twere best to offer up sacrifices at the shrines of the 
 saints. For we hold that a girl should not cut her 
 teeth before the seventh month nor a boy before the 
 ninth. Girls are ever ahead of boys on the road to 
 youth. A girl, we say, is like barley that sprouts up 
 apace ; but a boy is like the more precious wheat that 
 is slow of growth. But if the cutting of the teeth 
 be stayed a month or more beyond the due season, 
 the neighbours will say that the child is sickly and 
 its bones are cold. But the mother will turn on them 
 with the proud rebuke, "Nay! 'tis the noble blood 
 in his veins." 
 
 46. Now were I asked what our womenfolk hold the Ominous 
 unluckiest thing in the world for a child, I should be hard 
 
 put to it to think of aught more unlucky than for a child to teeth first 
 cut its upper teeth first. The very hint of it upsets our
 
 24 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BKAHUI 
 
 women. And should one question a mother touching 
 
 her own child in this matter, out of malice or maybe in 
 
 sheer innocence for menfolk are often ill- versed in such 
 
 things she will stand aghast. And in hot anger she 
 
 will cry out : " Peace ! May a stone strike you on the 
 
 mouth ! How dare you utter so evil a thing ?" 
 
 Mother 47^ ]^ ow & ^ fa e danddn-rddl, or cutting of the first 
 
 child go teeth, some good mothers and in Jhalawan it's common 
 
 a-beggmg. cug ^ om j^d a fi\\ e ^ O f raw woo } roun( j the child's head, 
 
 and take him beggar-fashion from door to door among 
 the neighbours. At seven doors do they come a-begging, 
 and the neighbours of their kindness dole out grain 
 and money into the bargain if they have the wherewithal. 
 The grain she gets is cooked uncrushed and given in 
 alms. And we call this pottage kohal, the name we give 
 the pottage that is sent out before the birth. 
 Gam- 48. "When the child begins to toddle, they do not as yet 
 
 the first make it known abroad, but set a day and call in a few of the 
 steps. ladies of the family and others of the kin. Early in the 
 morning they bake a baby loaf, and bring the child in, 
 decked out in new clothes, and make it stand before the 
 mother and the company that is assembled. Then they 
 throw the loaf, and with loving words bid the child go 
 and pick it up. So off it toddles after it. And the loaf 
 is broken, and each of the company is given a piece 
 thereof. Then they sit them down to a meal, and 
 food is also given in alms to the poor and among the 
 serving-men. This custom we call gdm-burrl, or space- 
 cutting. 
 
 Weaning. 49. Eighteen months is the term for suckling a boy 
 a girl is suckled full a year longer. One afternoon 
 towards the close of the term on a Friday, if it be 
 possible they put seven dates in a pot, and bid the child 
 take from it as many as it please. And according to the 
 number of dates it takes do they reckon the number of 
 days it will still trouble its mother for milk. And the 
 mother dips some wool in that black and exceeding bitter
 
 CHILDHOOD 25 
 
 drug sabr, and places it over her breasts. And if the 
 child comes pestering her for milk, she puts it off, saying 
 that a cat or a dog has bitten her teats, and that they are 
 of use no more. To quench its thirst they give it water 
 ever and anon, and they roast a piece of meat and steep 
 it in vinegar, and give it the child to stay its hunger 
 withal. And this is khadan kishking, or thrusting from 
 the breast. 
 
 50. Now when the child is two years of age, it's high Preparing 
 time for sar-ktltl, or the first shaving of the head. Some feast of 
 there are who do it earlier, and some perforce later sar - ku !'- 
 each according to his means, for there's money to be 
 spent. It will cost a man of rank two hundred rupees or 
 thereabouts, and a man in the middle walk of life half 
 
 that or perhaps a trifle less, while even a poor man can- 
 not escape for less than thirty rupees. On the morning 
 before the appointed day one of the kin attended by a 
 serving -man goes from house to house, calling the 
 neighbours and kinsfolk to the feast. So the guests 
 assemble in the afternoon, and all that night is passed in 
 mirth and merry-making. 
 
 51. At nightfall a large pot of henna, that we call Smearing 
 
 7- u 1.4. J A u ru i. the child 
 
 hmnam, is brought in, and with the henna they smear with 
 the hands and feet of the child. And if it's a girl, this henna - 
 is done in the assembly of the women, as she lies in the 
 grandmother's lap, or if the grandmother be dead in 
 the lap of the mother or some lady of the holy race of 
 Sayyad. And after the child has been daubed with the 
 henna, they take the pot to the ladies who are foremost 
 in honour among them. But if it's a boy, a company of 
 aged dames and serving-maids carry the henna, covered 
 with a silken kerchief, into the assembly of the men. 
 They come bearing lights in their hands, and all the way 
 they sing the marriage song, " Halo ! halo ! halo ! vashen 
 halo !" In the midst of the assembly is seated the 
 urchin on the lap of his grandsire or of his father or 
 some reverend Sayyad. And when they have smeared
 
 26 THE LIFE-HISTOEY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 his hands and feet with the henna, they pass the pot 
 round the room, first to the honoured guests and there- 
 after to the others in order. But when it comes to the 
 younger men, they grab enough and to spare of the henna 
 and hide it in their hands. And as soon as the company 
 of ladies take their leave, they pounce on the father, aye, 
 and the grandsire too if his age but allow of it, and bedaub 
 them, beard and garments and all, with many a merry 
 irick and jolly quip. For youth will have its joke. And 
 now they call for the minstrel to gladden the night 
 hours with music and song. And the company listens 
 at its ease, smoking and drinking tea, until with the 
 dawn they sit them down to the food that has been got 
 ready overnight. 
 
 The 52. Then with drums and other music they take the 
 
 of the child to the shrine of the saint to whom the family is 
 head at wonfc f rom O f old to devote the first locks of their 
 
 the shrine. 
 
 children. For each tribe, nay, each clan, each family, 
 has its own peculiar saint. At the shrine they shave 
 the child's head, and offer up their prayers. And leaving 
 sweetmeats and money for the attendants at the shrine, 
 they make their way back to the house for the feast 
 that awaits them. But if the shrine be a goodly way 
 off, so that the company cannot visit it, they shave the 
 locks at home, and send them in a bag to the shrine. 
 So now you know what is in those tiny bags you see 
 hanging to the poles at the shrines of the saints. 
 The 53. It is our pious and bounden duty to circumcise 
 
 a m &le child betimes. For until he be circumcised, he 
 
 or cir- j s no true Musalman ; and a goat or a bird he kills is 
 ' unclean albeit, if the need be great, and there be no 
 Musalman to hand, he may kill and eat. Hence, if 
 money's not lacking, some perform the ceremony even 
 on the sixth day after the birth, and some at the sixth 
 month. But these for the most part are men of sub- 
 stance. For though it costs less than a marriage, the 
 feast of the circumcision costs more than the first
 
 CHILDHOOD 27 
 
 shaving of the head. Full four hundred rupees may be 
 spent by a man of rank over it ; a well-to-do man will 
 spend nigh half, and even poorer folk must rake together 
 close on five score rupees. Thus it is that two or three 
 or four years may pass with the rite unperformed, or 
 even ten or twelve. Each father must consult his own 
 purse. Yet the sooner 'tis over the better ; and if a boy 
 come to the vigour of youth uncircumcised, it is surely 
 an offence against God. 
 
 54. A month or so before the day appointed for the #<*- 
 ceremony, the ladies of the kin and neighbourhood meet t h e ' 
 together in the house for the q ad-burrl, or the cutting =tting 
 
 out of the 
 
 out of the clothes. And when they are assembled and clothes. 
 the serving-maids fall a-singing, cloth is brought in to 
 be fashioned into garments for the boy. Garment by 
 garment they measure off the cloth ; and as they measure 
 .each guest flings a handful of sweetmeats over the cloth, 
 according to the custom we call shinikl. And the serving- 
 maids and children scramble among themselves for the 
 spoil. Each lady takes to herself a garment shirt or 
 trousers or whatever it be which she shall sew for the 
 lad, nor ask payment for the sewing. But there's other 
 work for their fair hands to do. There's a new quilt 
 to be measured for the lad's bed, and there's hinndin to 
 be ground on the hand-mills for the ceremony, and 
 there's the wheat to be cleaned for the feast and sent to 
 the mill. And when the work is done, if the master of 
 the house is a man of some estate, a sheep is killed and 
 roasted and set before the guests. So when they have 
 eaten and are filled, they go each to her own home with 
 the garment she is to sew. 
 
 55. Nor is the father to sit all day with idle hands. Other 
 He and his brothers must busy themselves henceforth 
 getting things together for the feast, and setting all in 
 readiness for the ceremony. And when the lad's clothes 
 
 are made, they appoint a day according to the new moon, 
 and it is seemly that the day should be a Friday.
 
 28 
 
 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 Duzzl 
 
 hinnam, 
 
 the 
 
 private 
 
 ceremony 
 
 The chap, 
 or 
 
 country, 
 dance. 
 
 56. Two nights before the great day there's a private 
 gathering of the family and near friends. And when 
 the sun is set, the father brings the lad in, and seats 
 him between a Sayyad and some old friend of the family 
 who has himself children in plenty. Now the lad is 
 perched on a bed but they call it his takht, or throne 
 and one is chosen his shd-balav, or the King's body- 
 guard, to bear his dagger or sword and attend him 
 wherever he goes. And tea is passed round. Then while 
 the shdd-mdnl, or wedding measure, is played on drum 
 and surna, a serving-maid ushers in a company of old 
 ladies bearing the henna and singing, " Halo ! halo !" 
 In their midst is the mother herself, if so be her age 
 allow her to quit her seclusion. And all lift up their 
 hands and pray for the lad and his parents. Then an old 
 worthy from among them takes the henna and smears 
 it on the hands and feet of the lad, beginning with the 
 right hand. And that the henna may not drop to the 
 ground, they wrap his hands and feet with red cloth. 
 So the henna goes the round, each putting a little on 
 his finger. And the young bloods again filch more than 
 their share and make merry with the father. And, truth 
 to tell, the mother fares no better in her assembly at the 
 hands of the younger among the women. 
 
 57. The fun grows fast and furious late into the night. 
 They beat on the drum and play on the surna, and dance 
 right merrily, the ladies dancing in one ring, the men 
 apart in another. Now the dance of the country is 
 called chap, and in olden days men set great store by 
 it. Up to the reign of Khudadad Khan it was accounted 
 no small thing in a young man to be master of the art. 
 But times are changed, and though the Khan and his 
 brother are fond enough of the dance, and can foot it 
 nimbly with the best of them, folk at large have grown 
 careless and are giving it up. Howbeit to this day you 
 may see goodly dancing among the alien Dehwar of Kalat 
 and the people of Mastung and Zahri and Ziarat Nichara.
 
 CHILDHOOD 29 
 
 And indeed it's a pleasant sight in those parts, and a 
 pleasant noise too, for there's much clapping of the 
 hands. You must never call it ndch, for nach is the 
 dance of the dancing-girl. 
 
 58. On the morrow there's ever so much bustle in 
 the house, for all the friends and kinsfolk are bidden 
 
 to the feast in the evening. And that which was done ceremony, 
 in the bosom of the family the night before is now 
 done openly in the assembly of the people. The lad is 
 anointed with the henna, and the night is passed in 
 singing and dancing, smoking and tea-drinking. A few 
 friends stay to see the night out, and break their fast 
 in the house right early in the morning. 
 
 59. Towards noon, when all the guests are assembled Stdvat, or 
 once more, they sit them down to the feast. And it's well father's 
 on in the afternoon before they rise, for many a fat sheep gift> 
 has been killed that morning in their honour. Then 
 
 forth they bring the youngster, clad in the brave clothes 
 the womenfolk have wrought him, and stand him on a 
 karsdn, or wooden pot. And the father, according to 
 his means, makes over to his son a plot of land or a 
 horse or a sword or a gun. And if he be old enough, 
 they bid the lad, still standing on the pot, thrice 
 repeat these words that all may hear : " Be it known to 
 one and all that such and such a horse or sword or plot 
 of land that once was my father's is now mine !" This 
 is that gift we call salvdt, and that which is given in 
 this wise remains to the boy for his very own, nor have 
 his brothers part or parcel therein. To be sure, if a 
 man has no land, and is too poor to make any such gift, 
 he must needs leave the salvdt alone. And indeed the 
 custom is everywhere on the wane. 
 
 60. Then they make the lad to sit down on the karsan The cir- 
 with his face to the north. At his side stands his shd- u 
 bdlav, or King's bodyguard some good friend of the 
 family, or maybe an elder brother with a drawn sword 
 in his hand, the edge thereof turned to the sky and the
 
 80 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 back towards the boy. And they bid the boy gaze stead- 
 fastly at the sky : there'll be a mighty curious bird 
 hovering overhead by-and-by, with the prettiest of green 
 feathers that ever were ; and though no one else may see 
 it, he'll see it, never fear, only he must mind and keep a 
 sharp look-out all the time. So as soon as the youngster 
 gapes at the sky, the barber whips out his razor, and off 
 goes the foreskin. Then with one accord they all urge 
 the boy to give the barber (in Jhalawan it's a serving- 
 man who does the deed) a good thwack. And so he does, 
 if he can for fright ; but if he whimpers, one of the com- 
 pany thwacks the barber in his stead, but it's all in fun. 
 And the barber picks up the foreskin, and, running a 
 red thread through it, ties it round the boy's ankle. 
 There it remains till his wound be healed, and thereafter 
 it is buried under a green tree, that the lad may be fruit- 
 ful in his generation. But many folks do not tie the 
 foreskin round the lad's ankle, but bury it forthwith in 
 damp earth, thinking thereby to cool the burning of the 
 wound. 
 
 The 61. All the while the mother is waiting anxiously 
 
 prayers. 8 within the house surrounded by her womenfolk. On her 
 head she puts a hand-mill, and her sisters and daughters 
 put on theirs a Koran, and with faces turned to the west 
 they pray for the lad. But as soon as the circumcision 
 is over and done with, and congratulations are shouted 
 on all sides, the hand-mill and the Korans are laid aside. 
 More 62. Then they carry the lad indoors, and guest 
 
 after guest comes with his sargasht, or offering of 
 money. It may be as little as four annas, it may 
 be as much as ten rupees. For a man will con- 
 sider his means in this matter, and be moreover 
 mindful of what he himself got aforetime in like case 
 from his host, or what he may look to get hereafter. 
 And as each comes up with his offering, some old gentle- 
 man of the party, other than the father, stands by to 
 receive it, bawling: "Mr. So-and-So has very kindly
 
 CHILDHOOD 31 
 
 offered such and such a sum." Then sweetmeats and 
 dates are handed round, and the guests take their leave. 
 
 63. And when the guests have departed, the lad is The boy's 
 brought inside to his mother and laid on his bed, the treatment, 
 womenfolk fussing around. And until he's whole, the 
 kindred watch at his bed a-nights, singing songs to pass 
 
 the time. He may eat no meat nor take salt with his 
 food, but lives on wheaten bread with a deal of sugar and 
 ghee. And the barber attends him with his simples and 
 drugs, and gets board and lodging for his pains. But 
 within a week, or maybe ten days, the lad is surely him- 
 self once more. And first of all as ever is, he's bathed 
 and taken to a shrine, and thereafter to his grandfather's 
 house or the house of some other near kin. And there, 
 I warrant, they stuff him well with sweetmeats before 
 they send him home. 
 
 64. When a lad is three years old or thereabouts, he's Children's 
 given his first shalvar, or trousers. Not that the wilder 
 
 folk think anything of it if he remain unbreeched till he 
 sheds his first teeth. A girl should be put into trousers 
 as soon as she is two, or at the most four. Nomads, to 
 be sure, think there's naught unseemly if their women- 
 folk never wear trousers at all save, of course, at their 
 marriage, for there the shalvar has no small part to play. 
 But whether lad or lass, they do not wear white, nor are 
 the skirts of their shirts hemmed, until they begin to 
 shed their first teeth. Thereafter the colour of a lad's 
 trousers is white or blue. But the colour of a girl's 
 trousers is red or yellow or green, but never blue or white. 
 And whatever be the colour of her trousers, her shift will 
 be of another colour, and her head-dress of yet another, 
 for womenfolk take delight in wearing divers colours. 
 Yet black is the colour of a woman's shift in Jhalawan. 
 
 65. There's some to-do when a child's teeth begin to The 
 drop out, be it boy or girl. The mother must get out 
 
 her needlework, for there are fine new clothes to be first tceth 
 made. And at the shedding of the first tooth they wash
 
 32 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BKAHUI 
 
 The 
 
 shedding 
 of the 
 double 
 teeth. 
 
 Close of 
 boyhood. 
 
 Close of 
 girlhood. 
 
 the child's mouth with salt and bitter oil, that the teeth 
 to come may be white and shapely. The child is then 
 sent out of doors, and is made to jump, tooth in hand, 
 shouting at each jump : 
 
 Oh crow, thy teeth are black ! look, mine are white ! 
 Oh crow, thy teeth are crooked, mine aright ! 
 Oh crow, thy teeth are ugly, mine how bright ! 
 
 Then they bury the tooth under a green plant or 
 treasure it up in the house. 
 
 66. Well-to-do folk now set their boys to learn the 
 Koran, and their girls to needlework. But nomads send 
 their lads out to tend the sheep, and as for needlework, 
 little do they reck of it. The two double teeth which are 
 the last but one on either side of the upper jaw are 
 called akll, or wisdom teeth. For we hold that a child 
 that has shed them and shed them he should after his 
 eleventh year has reached years of discretion. And 
 henceforth we rebuke and punish him, as one that 
 knows right and wrong. 
 
 67. With the cracking of his voice the lad has won the 
 first stage to youth, and the goal is reached when sex 
 overcomes his dreams o' night. 'Tis now high time for 
 the old folk to bestir themselves and seek him out a wife. 
 No ceremonies mark this change of life. Nevertheless, 
 here and there may be found a mother who will pass 
 sweetmeats round among the women of the house, and 
 chaff and have her laugh, when the lad first puts hand to 
 razor to shave the hair about his middle. 
 
 68. When a girl's breasts begin to round themselves 
 full, the mother milks them, so they tell me, to press 
 them down that they may not swell big ; and if they 
 hold milk, she takes a little ash and mixes it with salt to 
 rub them withal. Twice or thrice does a careful mother 
 act in this wise before her daughter ripens to youth. 
 And with her first monthly course she is girl no more. 
 Forewarned, she tells the thing betimes to her mother. 
 And at the setting of the sun the mother takes three
 
 CHILDHOOD 33 
 
 small stones and places them thus : , and bids her 
 leap over them thrice ; for if this be done duly and in 
 order, three days and no more will be the span of her 
 monthly issue. Now and then, to be sure, she may be 
 troubled longer, but that it never lasts beyond five or at 
 the most six days, I have the warrant of an old dame 
 who knows all about it. And surely to a man who 
 ponders over such things, 'tis strange to find three stones 
 on the threshold of womanhood, for it's three stones a 
 husband throws when he banishes a wife from bed and 
 board.
 
 BETROTHAL 
 
 ^' ^' 8 common enough for a girl to be betrothed 
 and while she's yet a child. Once she has blossomed into 
 riage ' youth, her parents have neither peace nor rest till 
 one comes along to ask for her hand. For 'tis a 
 dangerous thing to keep a daughter over-long in her 
 father's house. If they marry her off before she has 
 left her childhood behind her, there's no great harm, 
 so she be at least twelve. But most folk bide their 
 time. It's rare as rare can be for a slip of a boy to 
 marry ; one should surely wait for youth. Nevertheless, 
 mere boys are married from time to time witness the 
 infant marriage which the Musiam chief arranged for 
 his little son Zahri Khan, so great was his fatherly 
 love. And a youth should not take his elder to wife. 
 For how shall a stripling and an old. dame live together 
 in unity ? Mockery and scorn will be their portion. 
 inter- 70. Best of all is wedlock of cousin with cousin, 
 
 mamage ^ ^ . g ^ S t ck kept pure. And if two brothers are 
 iamily. on g 00( j terms the one with the other, gladly do they 
 draw the bonds together by the marriage of their 
 offspring. Even if their brotherly love has waxed cold,, 
 small wonder should a man fain heal the breach by 
 wedding his son to his brother's daughter. In such 
 case he will put others off with a soft answer, should 
 they hint at a match. To be sure, a brother, if he 
 will, may at times get out of such a marriage for 
 his girl, yet cause no offence. Thus, if his nephew 
 has already taken another wife, or is still unripe for 
 marriage, a man may marry his daughter where he 
 will, and welcome. 
 
 34
 
 BETEOTHAL 85 
 
 71. And if a youth marry not his cousin, let him 
 
 , , . . ., , .. , , . , . marriage 
 
 at least marry into a family knit to his own by marriage i n the 
 from generation to generation. A man calls such a shall '" r - 
 family his shalvdr, for trousers are, as it were, the 
 wedding-dress of a woman. In Jhalawan there is 
 scarce a clan or family without its own shalvdr ; some 
 may have but one, others may have several. Thus the 
 ruling family, the Ahmadzei, have three shalvdr: the 
 Iltazei of Baghbana and Kotra, the Gichki of Panjgur, 
 and since the days of Mir Naslr Khan II. the Nau- 
 sherwam of Kharan. The Shahlzei Mengal of Wad 
 are the shalvdr of the Jam of Las Bela ; they are also 
 the shalvdr of the Hamalari Bizanjav of Nal ; and these 
 again are the shalvdr of the Gichki of Kech. The 
 Zarakzei and the Bohirzei of Zahri are shalvdr ; so are 
 the Bohirzei and the Khanzei of the Mula Pass. The 
 Sassoll Hotmanzei are shalvdr both of the Shahozei 
 Khidram and the family of the chief of the Bajoi. 
 
 72. But gone are the days when a man would never The 
 look beyond his shalvdr for a wife. The ancient shalvdr (\e 
 is out of fashion : men look on it askance. In the good 
 
 old days a man's first thought was for family, and 
 money was an afterthought of the over- canny. His 
 dearest aim was to marry within his own ancestral 
 shalvdr, or worm himself into one still better. For 
 blue blood, not common blood, makes good fighting 
 stuff, they used to say. But when Naslr Khan II. 
 died, the old feudal days died with him. For KJbudadad 
 Khan, who came after, was never happy save when in 
 arms against his own people. And all unwittingly has 
 British rule hastened on the decline. It has given 
 peace in our time, but with peace the folk of Jhalawan 
 have lost their martial spirit and found a marriage- 
 mart for their women in the rich land of Sind. And 
 the shali'dr, once so fair, so honoured, so cherished, 
 is now a sorry patchwork of rents and tatters. Of 
 a truth it barely holds together at all !
 
 36 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BBAHUI 
 The ideal 73. Before matters come to a betrothal, the youth 
 
 bride- 
 groom. 
 
 and the maiden must pass muster before the jealous 
 
 eyes of the womenfolk of either family. And there's 
 a world of talk this way and that over the good and the 
 bad they see in them. Thus he who would take unto 
 himself a wife must have the wherewithal to support 
 her. He must have land or flocks or herds or camels, 
 or he should follow the plough, or make his living one 
 way or other. And if he would find favour in the eyes 
 of the maiden's family, his hair should be long and 
 his beard thick, the bridge of his nose should be high, 
 his eyes like twin almonds, his countenance fair. A 
 sure shot, a rider who can ride a good race, a skilled 
 player on the lute and the harp and he's all that a 
 man should be. 
 
 The ideal 74. And above all things, let the maiden be a maiden 
 
 modesty, that's modest : not over-brisk, nor a gadabout, bold of 
 
 face, of proud temper, nor one who is for ever on the 
 
 laugh. The Balochi proverb, methinks, is not far 
 
 wrong : 
 
 A laughing girl and a frisky bay 
 Will both soon weary of their play. 
 
 And that a girl may grow up to modest womanhood, 
 we do not let her play with the boys after she's 
 ten. Nor may she join in rough games games where 
 it's all romping and shouting. Bather let her stick 
 to her shashshuk, that merry game the girls play with 
 six stones, or let her play with her dolls. Mighty 
 fine dolls they are, and dressed up ever so bravely. 
 And one who would learn the customs of the people 
 may well do worse than watch the little lassies playing 
 with their dolls. For the whole of life, from the cradle 
 to the grave, is enacted in small on this puppet-stage. 
 And for modesty's sake a girl may seldom look at 
 herself in a glass. Nor may she redden her lips or 
 put antimony to her eyes before she marry. And 
 they tie her hair in ugly fashion on her head ; for a
 
 BETROTHAL 37 
 
 girl's beauty should be treasured up for her lord. So 
 careful are we of the modesty of our women. 
 
 75. Yet we think the world of a comely woman. Her look9 - 
 And that you may know what we deem comeliness, 
 
 here's a Dehwari couplet the Lori sing : 
 
 Look at her eyes, when you go, first of all, 
 Then at her lips, and her teeth last of all. 
 
 Black and large and shaped like almonds should her 
 eyes be. The lips should be thin, and the teeth small 
 and white. And long black hair is the glory of a 
 woman. Then, if brow be broad and open, face round 
 and fair of colour, nose high, hands and feet tiny, 
 fingers long and slender and what more should a man 
 want? Unhappy, and thrice unhappy the girl, whose 
 hair is scant and brown, whose chin is long, whose 
 forehead is narrow. In whose eyes, I ask you, shall 
 she find favour? But still worse is the plight of the 
 wench, the swirl of whose hair is forward on her head. 
 There'll be no husband for her, I'm thinking. 
 
 76. And among the well-to-do they look to a girl Her 
 
 b J accom- 
 
 to be nimble with her needle, and cunning in the piish- 
 weaving of carpets. But nomads care little for such mente - 
 things, poor beggars : so she be sound of lung and 
 limb, a hard worker, one that can grind corn, pitch 
 tents, load up an ass well and briskly, put a good foot 
 forward, who cares whether she be fair or ugly, modest 
 or brazen ? 
 
 77. Now if a lad's marked out for marriage with his 
 cousin, it's all settled from the first. He's betrothed, 
 
 he's married, and there's an end to it. There's no sailin s- 
 beating about the bush, no weighing of the charms 
 of the lass or the prowess of the lad. He must just 
 put up with his lot. Why, it may all be over and done 
 with before they are born. For if the wives of two 
 brothers are great with child, there's often a sweet 
 covenant between them to wed son to daughter, so
 
 38 
 
 THE LIFE-HISTOBY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 Prelimin- 
 ary visits 
 of the 
 lad's 
 mother. 
 
 A domb 
 woman 
 acts as go 
 between. 
 
 God bless them in this wise. Very dear friends will 
 often show their lovingness in the selfsame way. It's 
 even done when the one has a boy a few years old, 
 and the other is great with child. And on the sixth 
 night after a daughter is born, they throw a red head- 
 dress over her cradle in token of the betrothal. 
 
 78. But a marriage outside the family is no such 
 simple affair. Folks then go soft and warily to business. 
 The mother of the girl, to be sure, must needs possess 
 her soul in patience till one approach her with a pro- 
 posal for a match. Yet if a nod or a wink can smooth 
 the way, an anxious mother is neither backward nor 
 bashful, I reckon. But the mother of a son must 
 bestir herself as soon as he comes to the vigour of 
 youth. Whenever she goes forth to a wedding or a 
 mourning, she keeps her wits about her, and shrewdly 
 scans the maidens of meet age and rank. Once she 
 has lit on a helpmate worthy of her son, she'll find 
 some excuse or other for going to the girl's house 
 day by day. And she brings with her some trifling 
 gift, and decks herself out in all the finery and jewels 
 her house can afford, that all the world may see what 
 great folk they are. And by-and-by she will get her 
 chance, and with a passing jest she will let the maiden's 
 mother see which way the wind blows. Then, if she 
 finds her of like mind, she will break off her visits, 
 for they have served their purpose. 
 
 79. Home she goes and tells the father how the land 
 lies. Now a dutiful wife can soon mould her lord to her 
 will. So if he agrees, she sends a serving-maid to sound 
 the girl's mother on the match, but still in a roundabout 
 manner. Off bustles the serving-maid, and praising 
 her master and mistress to the skies, she broaches 
 her errand at the end of her rigmarole. And if she 
 finds the lady of the house on her part not unwilling, 
 she saunters back home. At the door stands her 
 mistress, anxiously awaiting her, and vowing all sorts of
 
 BETROTHAL 39 
 
 gifts to the saints in whom she puts her trust. " Are 
 you a lion or a fox ?" is her eager greeting. And, for- 
 asmuch as she comes crowned with success, the serving- 
 maid replies : " A lion ! and want a lion's share !" 
 Together they enter the house, but she's much too high 
 and mighty to do aught but grumble at all her toil and 
 moil, until she's appeased with some gift. But a gift 
 soon sets her tongue a-wagging : " I ups and says this 
 and that, says I, and what-d'you-call-her says this and 
 that and t'other, says she." And it's all repeated over 
 again to the master of the house. So they frame yet 
 another message for the serving-maid to take ; for a 
 single visit, you must know, can never bring matters to 
 a close. Even so do the mother and father of the girl 
 talk over the happenings of the day. But on both sides 
 it's all done in whispers, and the thing is kept dark, 
 lest someone hear of it and put a spoke in their wheel. 
 
 80. So the serving-maid trudges off once more on her The go- 
 errand. And this time she returns with a plain answer : pays more 
 let them furnish jewels and carpets and what not, and yisite - 
 find money in plenty for the wedding and we shall see 
 what we shall see. And to put the good faith of the 
 lad's people shrewdly to the test they pitch their claims 
 monstrous high. Thus Jhalawans of estate will stand 
 out for a couple of handmaids, all kinds of ornaments, 
 and a set of furniture for the house : to wit, six carpets ; 
 a shift, or hanging carpet; two pairs of kkartlr (large 
 saddle-bags they are, that do service as boxes) ; two pairs 
 of quilts ; as many felt coverings ; a set of vessels ; and 
 ever so much more. And there's often a deal of heart- 
 burning in the matter. For with a lass of tender years, 
 it's a mighty chancy affair : if she die before the 
 wedding, there's a grim loss of handmaids and all. 
 Well, the lad's mother talks things over with his father, 
 and if all goes well, they pack the serving-maid off with 
 their answer. But all the message she's given to take 
 ' back is that she might look in again on the morrow.
 
 40 
 
 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BKAHUI 
 
 The girl's 
 family 
 consult 
 together. 
 
 A friend 
 is sent to 
 negotiate. 
 
 Of shlr- 
 paill, the 
 mother's 
 milk- 
 share. 
 
 OS lab, or 
 bride- 
 price. 
 
 81. When she's gone, the mother of the maiden takes 
 counsel with her husband, and in whispers presses him 
 for his consent. And if there are grown-up sons, they 
 are suffered to have their say. Yet with the old folk of 
 one mind in the matter, small wonder if the sons chime 
 in. For a mother, as I have found myself, can wean a 
 son of his stubbornness in her own good time. And 
 when all are of one consent, the master of the house 
 calls together his brothers and other weighty men of 
 the kin, that matters may now go forward in due order. 
 So they let the lad's father know that they await the 
 coming of some friend who would speak to them further 
 touching the thing he wots of. 
 
 82. On this hint he sends some worthy to make sure 
 that the maiden's father will verily take the lad for his 
 son-in-law. Now on the first visit the only answer they 
 vouchsafe him is that he'd better come anon ; but mind 
 he doesn't forget to tell his friend that the young lady's 
 father is as good a man as he. And curt though the 
 answer, he takes cheer from it. So when two days 
 have passed, off he goes again, and is told yes, the 
 lad's a likely lad, that they'll not gainsay ; oh yes, 
 they'd be pleased enough to take him in the family; 
 and so, if his father's ready to put hand in pocket, let 
 him come forward openly like a man ; if not, there's an 
 end of it, and let's waste no more talk about it. 
 
 83. Now every Brahui, whosoever he be, looks to the 
 groom's family to stand the wedding feast, and to furnish 
 clothing and ornaments. And every mother in the 
 length and breadth of the country claims shir-paili, her 
 milk-share, or wage for the suckling of the bride. 
 Never does she forgo it, or abate a jot or a tittle of her 
 dues ; so jealous are womenfolk of their ancient rights. 
 
 84. But nowadays we take lab, or bride-price, into the 
 bargain. Two generations back the very word was 
 unknown. 'Twas in Mastung that the custom had its 
 birth, I'll be bound ; for the folk of Mastung are all
 
 BETEOTHAL 41 
 
 traders at heart, never above picking up a trick of the 
 trade from their Pathan neighbours. From Mastung 
 it spread through Sara wan, and from Sara wan it spread 
 to Jhalawan. And now all the world goes haggling for 
 the price of his daughter. In olden times a man of 
 Jhalawan would have held his manhood cheap to have 
 done the like : was his daughter a slave to be sold in 
 bondage? nay, with honour should she enter her 
 husband's house, and with honour should she there be 
 entreated. But in these latter days the Jhalawan has 
 grown ashamed of his threadbare shalvar, and doffing 
 his old rags, he hunts and grasps for a fat bride-price 
 with the best of 'em. And, forasmuch as it's a new- 
 fangled custom, there are as yet no rates set. So there's 
 much ado bargaining for lands or money or flocks or 
 herds. The higher a man's rank and the greater his 
 substance, the more will he claim. As for poorer folk, 
 ill-content with what they may look to get from one 
 of themselves, they bundle their women off to Sind for 
 all the world as if they were taking them to market. 
 
 85. And it's not only the poor folk either. For I A famous 
 could a tale unfold, how one of the proudest families in 
 
 all Jhalawan packed away its ancient shaludr, and 
 stooped to give its daughter in marriage to Sind, all in 
 the hope of getting a fair round sum out of the bargain. 
 'Twas in sooth a princely bride-price that the greedy 
 father claimed ten thousand rupees, so I've been told. 
 And ten thousand rupees the suitor covenanted to give 
 him. But when the betrothal was over, not ten but one 
 thousand was what the funny fellow sent along. And 
 the father was so wroth, he would take never a penny 
 of it. Nay, for very pride he even paid the marriage 
 expenses himself, down to the uttermost farthing. 
 
 86. Now, the Mamasam, the Bizanjav and the Of nisMn 
 
 * among 
 
 SajidI differ herein from other Jhalawans, for they certain 
 have taken on the customs of the people of Makran, 
 whose language they commonly speak. Instead of lab
 
 42 
 
 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 Arranging 
 a depu- 
 tation to 
 the girl's 
 family. 
 
 The 
 
 rabbalar, 
 or depu- 
 tation, 
 arrives. 
 
 they claim nishdn. Twelve household servants or their 
 value in land and water is the rate among the chiefly 
 houses for both shlr-paill and nishdn. To be sure, some 
 portion thereof is surrendered back again by-and-by ; 
 but the rest is the property of the bride in her husband's 
 house, to do with it as she please. And when she dies, it 
 falls to her issue or other heirs. Such indeed are the 
 rights of her heirs in the matter, but God knows, there's 
 often enough a mighty lot of quarrelling over it. 
 
 87. But we left the lad's father all agog for the return 
 of his friend. Now as soon as he hears his news, he 
 sends back word that it's all one to him how much the 
 maiden's father may think fit or his counsellors either ; 
 his purse is very much at his service ; but he'd like to 
 send a few gentlemen to receive his open consent in the 
 matter, if he'd honour them with a welcome. For you 
 must know that a consent given to one man, and couched 
 in guarded whispers at that, is not enough. An injured 
 family would fare ill in a suit, as you may guess, were 
 that all the promise that had been breached. 
 
 88. So when the afternoon is drawing to a close, three 
 or four gentlemen (and a pious man will take good care 
 a Sayyad heads them) set out as rabbdlav, or ambassadors, 
 for the maiden's house. And one receives them well and 
 graciously some paces from the gate, and leads them 
 within, where the maiden's father is seated with his sons 
 and brothers and one or two elders. And salam alaik 
 being answered by v'alaik, they sit them down, the guests 
 ranged on one side, their hosts over against them on the 
 other. Thrice do they ask after the health of each other 
 and the health of their sons and their brothers and the 
 rest. Tea is then brought in. And not until they have 
 drunk of the sweet green tea, do they pass the pipe 
 around. For smoke is a bitter thing, and 'twere ill 
 should it come foremost in an affair of marriage. But if 
 a man be poor and cannot offer tea, he gives them dir-o- 
 chilum, water and a smoke, instead.
 
 BETEOTHAL 48 
 
 89. Then one on the host's part asks the guests to give T1 \ e 
 their ahval, o* news. So up speaks the Sayyad or other change of 
 spokesman of the party. " Great is God," says he, " and news - 
 our Faith is secure. Much mention of you do we make 
 
 in our prayers. Well, Mr. So-and-So bade us come 
 hither to talk at large regarding this kdr-i-khair, this 
 matter of peace. Glad were we to be bidden on such an 
 errand ; and right glad are we to see you face to face. 
 As for the rest, all's well !" And again inquiries after 
 their health are bandied to and fro. Then the spokes- 
 man on the other side for the master of the house holds 
 his peace turns to his fellows and craves leave to give 
 the news in return. And with one voice they bid him 
 speak on. So he begins, using the selfsame set words. 
 " Our good friend here," he continues, " has called us in 
 likewise to talk over this kdr-i-khair. Surely it was God 
 brought you hither to our great content. Furthermore, 
 all's well !" And twice again each asks with a smile 
 after the health of the others. 
 
 90. So with a friendly laugh they set them to the The 
 business they have in hand. " And now, sir," says the wnsent. 
 Sayyad, " what think you ? Give us, I pray you, a 
 straight answer in the matter." " Aye, let us hear, sir, 
 
 what you truly think," says he who has up to now 
 spoken for the master of the house. And the master of 
 the house makes answer in this wise : " Glad indeed am 
 I that you, reverend sir, and you, worthy gentlemen, 
 have honoured my humble roof with your presence. The 
 bonds of fellowship betwixt Mr. So-and-So and myself are 
 strong and steadfast. Yet, my friends, you know me well 
 of old. Never would I have lent ear to such a request, 
 were it not for the holy Sayyad and these our well-wishers 
 and dearly beloved. 'Tis for their sake alone that I lay 
 this heavy burden upon me, in that I take the lad unto 
 me for my son. Nevertheless, other matters 'there be 
 that you wot of, and these I leave to you to dispose as 
 you will." So the spokesman turns him to the Sayyad.
 
 44 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BKAHUI 
 
 " Eeverend sir," says he, "to you we offer our con- 
 gratulations, and to our host we offer our thanks, that he 
 has thus entreated you with honour, and has not turned 
 you ungraciously from his door. Yet those other matters 
 concerning which we must presently speak will need no 
 end of careful thought." " We thank you kindly," says 
 the Sayyad. " Were our host other than he is, we would 
 never have crossed his threshold on such an errand. But 
 he's all you have said, and more also. Much as we've 
 heard of his courtesy, it falls short of what we have now 
 seen with our own eyes. But with your leave we will 
 depart and offer our congratulations to our friend, who is 
 also, we would have you know, a fine gentleman and a 
 worthy. And so set your hearts at rest." "All very 
 well !" says the master of the house, " but a man utters 
 one thing aloud, and whispers another in his heart. Is 
 it fools you're making of us ?" " Tut ! tut !" says the 
 Sayyad, " where's the wit that could befool your own ? 
 'Twas only for a straight answer that we came at all." 
 " Then sit you down again and eat," says the host, "for 
 all that's in the house is yours." "Excuse us now, I 
 prithee," says the Sayyad, " we shall be coming day after 
 day to your house over this matter, and much will it 
 please us to eat of your food anon. But now give us 
 leave to depart, lest our friend grow over-anxious." So 
 off they go, and tell the lad's father all that has passed. 
 betroth*] 16 ^' O nce ^ e maiden's father has thus given his assent 
 expenses, in open assembly, the betrothal is accounted firm-set. 
 Yet it's not so very firm-set either, as many a one has 
 learnt to his cost. Even though nothing be meant amiss, 
 yet for his honour's sake and the sake of his daughter a 
 man may still make some show of wavering. And the 
 lad's father must go hereafter ever and again to the 
 maiden's house, accompanied maybe by a friend or two, 
 to consult with the elders concerning the expenses of the 
 betrothal. And the elders, I warrant, never leave his 
 elbow : had he allowed for this ? had not that been for-
 
 BETROTHAL 45 
 
 gotten ? For it rests with them to see that he stray not 
 from the beaten track in the matter. Now you may 
 reckon the cost of a betrothal at a fourth of the cost of a 
 marriage. Thus a marriage will cost workaday folk in 
 Kalat five hundred rupees or thereabouts ; so such will 
 have to spend a hundred rupees and upwards on the 
 betrothal. It soon mounts up what with the ring, and 
 the silken head-dress, and the raiment, and all the good 
 cheer that has to be furnished. For be a man never so 
 mean, he will have to covenant for a couple of sheep, 
 four maunds of flour, as much sweetmeats or more, 
 twenty pounds of sugar, and a pound of green tea, to say 
 nothing of the tobacco, firewood, and all. And they run 
 the tale over again and again ; and when they find that 
 naught has been overlooked, they bid him get everything 
 together, that a day may be appointed for the assembling 
 of the kith and kin. 
 
 92. He's now on his mettle, raking together the where- The lad's 
 withal in hot haste, that all the world may see he's not g * ts ei 
 the pauper they thought him. Nor dare he allow the thi gs 
 maiden's father time to alter his mind. And when all's 
 ready, he sends him word, and sets a day and a time for 
 
 their coming. So early on the morning of the appointed 
 day he summons one of the other party as kdl-khwah, or 
 master of the feast, and in his presence he buys the 
 sweetmeats and the sugar and what else there may be to 
 buy. And he sends the good store over to the maiden's 
 house with the message that he and his friends will 
 follow before dusk. Then he passes word the round of 
 his kin and near friends to bear him company at the 
 meeting. And the maiden's father does the like on his 
 part. Yet both keep their following down to a score or 
 so on either side, with an eye to the money that will 
 have to be spent. 
 
 93. That afternoon the father sets out for the maiden's d ey meet 
 house with his son and the rabbdlav and other followers, discuss the 
 At the door stands one or more to bid them well-met and
 
 46 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 lead them within. Then follow inquiries after their 
 health, and tea-drinking and smoking, and the giving of 
 news on this side and that in short, all the ceremony of 
 the first visit of the ambassadors. Then up speak the 
 spokesmen of the parties, each of the two fathers holding 
 his peace, lest the other take offence. A mighty deal 
 they talk of the marriage, and what it will cost the 
 lad's father. And in their talk they set it double and 
 treble the true sum, but all for show and to do honour 
 to the maiden's father. For thus men may know that 
 he's no happy-go-lucky man of low degree, glad enough 
 to welcome the first-comer, so he come to woo. And the 
 spokesmen on the other side fall to, urging them to abate 
 their demands : this might surely be left out, or that cut 
 down a bit. But it's all make-believe ; for the true cost is 
 reckoned out when the parents and the rabbdlav meet 
 together in private hereafter. 
 
 Sharbat- 94. And when they have talked so much about it and 
 rti e ' about, that they can talk no more, they lift up their hands 
 
 in prayer, beseeching the Almighty to bless the parents. 
 loving- And congratulations are shouted all round the room to 
 cnp " the lad and his father, who are seated between two 
 Sayyads or other old worthies. Then loving-cups filled 
 with syrup are brought in, and offered first, as is meet, 
 to the Sayyads, then to the lad, and thereafter to the 
 assembly in order. Each takes the cup, sips it twice, 
 and passes it on to his neighbour. Not haphazard has 
 been the brewing of the syrup. All that morning were 
 the womenfolk of the house at work on it, summoning to 
 their aid true wives of loving husbands and good mothers 
 of many children. And as they mixed the sugar witli 
 water and spiced it with cardamoms and cloves, the 
 domb for a while sang snatches of the jolly wedding-song, 
 " Halo ! halo /" Never may friend of mine drink from a 
 loving-cup brewed by a widow or one forsaken of her 
 husband, for the fate of the young bride will surely be 
 the like.
 
 BETROTHAL 47 
 
 95. Then they bring in dishes of sweetmeats covered p a rt f . 
 
 with a fair kerchief, and place one before each of the handed 
 
 company ; but nomads and needy folks give dates in ovcr - 
 
 their stead. Now the sweetmeats or dates are not eaten 
 
 in the assembly ; each guest clears his dish and stows the 
 
 dainties in his napkin, to take them home anon. And 
 
 lo ! the dish that was set before the lad is not sent empty 
 
 away, for this is the hour when his father must pay over 
 
 a portion of the bride-price ; and the sum he puts in the 
 
 dish will vary according to his estate, his rank, and his 
 
 tribe. A Sarawan of high degree will give a thousand 
 
 rupees ; fifty may have to suffice if he's poor ; in Kalat 
 
 it may range from a hundred to twenty, and in Jhalawan 
 
 from fifty to five, each spending according to his means. 
 
 And one of the maiden's household takes up the coins 
 
 and drops them again into the dish one by one, so that 
 
 all may know by the clatter how much the dish contained. 
 
 And the maiden's father takes it away and gives a portion 
 
 of the money to the mother, to have some ornament made 
 
 withal, or some garment, which shall be her offering to 
 
 the bride at the bridal. And having paid up like a man, 
 
 the lad's father takes his leave and departs home with 
 
 his following. 
 
 96. Now although there's always much ado in settling Recurring 
 a betrothal feast, it does not always take place ; it rests expenses. 
 with the maiden's father to demand or forgo it. And 
 if the two households are close friends, he will surely 
 forgo it if the wedding comes off within six months. 
 Otherwise the lad's father will have to put his hand in 
 his purse. And it must needs be a long purse, for 
 two to eight sacks of wheat and ten to forty sheep will 
 not be overmuch for a feast among the well-to-do. But 
 though he finds the good cheer, the feast is always held 
 in the maiden's house. Yet are the ladies of his house 
 bidden thereto, if the two houses are not over far apart. 
 But even so, one at least should come to bring the 
 festal raiment for the maiden : shirt, trousers, head-dress,
 
 48 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 shoes, and a pair of ear-rings of the kind we call 
 panard. And every six months henceforth until the 
 marriage the lad's household must furnish the maiden 
 with a full set of raiment. And on every high day and 
 holiday they must send her food, receiving food in return. 
 And whenever the lad's mother comes a-visiting, she 
 must come with some small gift, though it be but fruit, 
 for to come empty-handed would lack courtesy. And 
 the maiden's mother will surely choose to do the like in 
 return, though less is expected of her. 
 
 Of the 97. Little enough have I said of the maiden herself ; 
 
 herself, but whafs the need ? Hers is no voice in the matter. 
 When her father and mother talk the betrothal over, she 
 should be neither seen nor heard. A wise and gentle 
 mother will doubtless break silence when alone with her 
 daughter, and will tell her of the virtues of the chosen 
 youth aye, and of his blemishes too, I reckon admon- 
 ishing her how she should bear herself in her new estate 
 of life. And among folk of high degree and substance a 
 kindly father will be glad enough to hear that the mother 
 has won an assenting smile from his little maiden. But 
 after all is said and done, it matters little what she 
 thinks ; and if she demurs, they pinch her for her pains. 
 (Never take stick to a girl ! it makes her mulish and 
 stubborn.) And whenever the women talk of the 
 betrothal in her hearing, she hides her face for very 
 shame, and runs from the room, leaving them all laugh- 
 ing at her. And should some lady of the lad's house 
 come on a visit, the maiden asks prettily after her 
 health, and then goes out on some household errand ; if 
 she dawdle, her mother soon sends her packing with a 
 frown. Not until the third day after the wedding does 
 she lay aside her bashfulness. 
 
 Cere- 93. g when the men assemble together for the 
 
 among the betrothal, the maiden leaves the house or hides herself 
 
 women, where none can see her; for the chaff of the ladies 
 
 covers her with confusion, albeit she's not a little
 
 BETROTHAL 49 
 
 proud to find herself betrothed. Now in settled villages 
 it's the custom for the womenfolk to pass the day after 
 the betrothal feasting in the maiden's house. The lad's 
 mother comes along early in the morning, with the 
 ladies of the kindred and neighbourhood in her train. 
 And she brings with her some sweetmeats and a silken 
 head-dress and a ring. Best of all is a golden ring set 
 with an emerald ; but a silver ring will just have to do, 
 if one's too poor. So they come to the house, and are 
 greeted by the maiden's mother and her ladies. And 
 presently they beg her bring the maiden in. Reluctantly 
 she goes out, the lad's mother at her heels. And 
 together they usher in the maiden ; but she's so 
 bashful, there's a deal of dragging and pushing. So 
 they seat her between them, and the lad's mother does 
 all she knows to coax her to unveil her face. And when 
 at last the veil is laid aside, she covers her head with 
 kisses, blessing her a thousandfold, with many a tender 
 questioning touching her health. But all the answer 
 the maiden can summon up is a modest moving of the 
 lips. Then the old lady decks her with the silken head- 
 dress, and on her little finger she places the ring but 
 it's a mighty tug she has to give before she can get hold 
 of her hand. And it's the custom here and there for 
 each of the near kin to take a ring from her hand and 
 give it to the maiden. And so, showering congratula- 
 tions on both mothers alike, they sit them down and 
 eat, for two sheep have been slaughtered for their 
 pleasure. 
 
 99. And here's a custom Sarawan folk have borrowed T . h ? lafl 
 from the Afghans. The maiden's mother gets ready a gM's* 
 feast for a small company, and lays in piles of sweet- mother - 
 meats and walnuts and cocoanuts and boiled eggs, 
 painted ever so prettily. Then she sends word over to 
 the youth : please, won't he come and pay her a little 
 visit ? So he comes with a few comrades. And when 
 they have feasted on the good things set before them, 
 
 4
 
 50 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 he goes alone into the mother's apartment. Right 
 gallantly he kisses her on head and hands; but it's 
 his hands only that she kisses in return. And they sit 
 and chat for half an hour or so. Then back he goes to 
 the company of the men. And the dish of sweetmeats 
 and eggs and nuts is brought in, meetly covered with a 
 kerchief and a lungl t or scarf. One of his comrades 
 takes the gifts on his behalf, but he himself piles pieces 
 of money on the empty dish. And some worthy in 
 the room counts out the money with a lusty voice. 
 It may be ten rupees or twenty or forty, but it 
 f should surely overtop the worth of the lungl and 
 
 kerchief and all. Now the lungl and kerchief are 
 called klsa, a scrip or pocket, and the money that the 
 youth gives the lady of the house is called drotl. But 
 the visit is called pai-vazl, or the loosening of the feet, 
 for the youth may henceforth come to the house when 
 he will. 
 
 Hedoesu't 100. Yet he never sees his bride before the night of 
 bride 13 the bridal, however much he may yearn for a peep, 
 before Wandering nomads, to be sure, have no parda, and a 
 nomad youth will not be hard put to it for an excuse to 
 be off to the encampment, when betrothals are in the 
 air, and so win sight of the girl. But even though the 
 sight please him ill, he must just make the best of a 
 bad bargain. Not but what you won't find doting 
 parents once in a way giving in to their son's whimsies. 
 But most parents will make short work of them. And 
 how they bend a rebellious son to their will needs no 
 telling from me, I suppose. If the young folk ever 
 chance on one another, when the households are on the 
 march maybe, the youth will strive to get a good stare 
 at the girl, and trick her into laughter. But she hides 
 her face in shame, and runs away sobbing, leaving the 
 youth gaping after her. For the maiden is fearful of 
 her parents. But methinks there's another fear in her 
 heart : haply he'll espy some fault in her that shall eat
 
 BETBOTHAL 51 
 
 into his soul, or ever they are knit together and love 
 has a chance to grow. So there's a world of difference, 
 you see, between us and those that practise that loose 
 custom of palaghut, whereby a youth, once he's be- 
 trothed, is free to live with his wench.
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 101. A month or so before the day appointed for the 
 cutting wedding, the ladies of the kin on both sides and a few of 
 brid[ the *^ e ne ighbourhood are summoned to the youth's house 
 clothes, for the gud-burrl, or the cutting out of the clothes of the 
 bridal pair. Now this ceremony must fall on a day of 
 happy omen : not on a Saturday, for goodness' sake, nor 
 on a Tuesday, nor yet at the kam-nokl, or end of a month. 
 And the ladies assemble, bringing sweetmeats with them 
 howbeit in Jhalawan sweetmeats play no part in the 
 ceremony. Then one in their midst, far-famed as a 
 faithful wife and a proud mother of many children, is 
 called upon to begin the task God wot, they never call 
 upon a widow, love she her children never so dearly. 
 Forth she steps, and with many a pious " Bismilla /" she 
 takes up the cloth, first for the bride's raiment, then for 
 the raiment of the groom. And the serving-maid beats 
 the drum, and with " Halo.' halo /" she sets the wedding 
 hymn a-ringing round the room. As each garment is 
 measured off, the ladies scatter their sweetmeats over 
 the cloth. And the scattering of the sweatmeats is 
 called shinikl. All the while they are on their guard 
 that they snip off nothing into the fire. For should the 
 tiniest bit of the cloth get burnt, it will bode ill for the 
 happiness of the pair. And each of the kin picks out 
 a garment, promising to fashion it against the day of 
 the bridal. Yet I'm thinking the lad's mother will not 
 get off scot-free, for she will have to see to any garments 
 that are left over. 
 
 The 102. Not that it's all work and no play at the meeting. 
 
 1 lty For a sheep was killed that morning to give them good 
 
 52
 
 MARRIAGE 53 
 
 cheer. There's jollity enough, what with the singing of the 
 and the chattering and the laughter. Many a merry m 
 jest is aimed at the lad's mother, and much merry abuse 
 into the bargain, the maiden's folk being ever readiest 
 with their shafts. Jest she parries with jest, but abuse 
 she must parry as best as she may, with never an un- 
 kind word. For is she not the mother of the groom, 
 the strong one of the pair ? Now if the two households 
 dwell far apart, there's no need for the maiden's kindred 
 to embark on a journey, and all to attend this ceremony ; 
 the lad's folk will just have to make shift by themselves. 
 And the poor, to be sure, may be too poor to find the 
 wherewithal for such a merry-meeting. Yet even they 
 will have to scrape something or other together, for go 
 forward the ceremony must. 
 
 103. So the days pass on towards the wedding. And Deputa- 
 if the maiden ripen to womanhood, there'll be no long maiden's 6 
 tarrying, I'm thinking. Howbeit a death in the house- house, 
 hold or among the kin will stay a wedding forty days 
 perforce, and maybe much longer. Now when all's ready 
 
 and a day has been appointed between them, the two 
 fathers summon around them their kin and their friends 
 and their well-wishers in the neighbourhood. And the 
 lad's father sends forth his company, with a Sayyad fore- 
 most among them, to the maiden's house ; but he himself 
 stays behind. Eight graciously are they greeted by the 
 maiden's father and his following, and with customary 
 courtesy the news is given on this side and on that. 
 
 104. Then the Sayyad broaches the errand of the 
 day: "Kind sirs," says he, "Mr. So-and-So, like other 
 good fathers all the world over, would fain see his son 
 
 marriage 
 
 married and settled down. And it's on this behalf that 
 he's sent us hither. Now what think you ? Is it your 
 will that the stripling should marry at this season? 
 And the wedding expenses, what of them?" And the 
 spokesman on the other side makes answer after this 
 fashion : " Right glad are we to bid you welcome, and
 
 54 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BKAHUI 
 
 to hear all you have to say on this kar-i-khair. And if 
 herein we may speak for our good friend, you need fear no 
 let or hindrance from him, for willy-nilly the grain must 
 to the mill, as the proverb says. Yet you know the way 
 of the world. Our friend is a man of high degree ; his is 
 a proud family that has spread itself abroad ; his friends 
 are well-to-do and many. In sooth, 'twill be a goodly 
 throng that will flock to the wedding. But you would 
 never have come here at all, I take it, if you hadn't first 
 totted up the cost." "Very true," says the Sayyad, 
 " very true indeed ; to be sure, it will cost a pretty 
 penny. But first let's hear what you have to say about 
 it." So the other turns to his comrades for their 
 counsel : as men of the world, they could make a shrewd 
 guess at the cost, he should think ; times had changed 
 for the worse ; things were not as they used to be ; 
 everything had grown plaguey dear ; otherwise, for all 
 their friend would have cared, the lad might have 
 married his maiden and welcome, though all Mr. So-and- 
 So brought were a coarse-spun shirt and a cup of cold 
 water ; as it was, both were men of estate, hide-bound 
 by the time-worn customs, whether they liked 'em or 
 not; a truce then to talking, and so to business like 
 men of the world. 
 Of 105. So they go over the old story ; all about the 
 
 mother's milk-share and the bride-price and the good 
 cheer that must be furnished without fail. And when 
 the spokesman begins to prate of the wedding feast, the 
 more he talks, the more he piles on the cost, until it 
 amounts to double and treble the true sum. But the 
 Sayyad and the elders on either side put in their 
 word, and entreat him until he comes down to the 
 sum that will verily have to be spent. And it's no 
 small sum either. Why ! be a man's estate never 
 so lowly, he must furnish ten sheep at the least, some 
 twenty maunds of wheaten flour, ten seers of ghee, ten 
 seers of tobacco, half that of sugar and of oil and of
 
 MAEEIAGE 55 
 
 henna, ten camel loads of firewood, a seer of muzvak 
 the walnut bark for reddening the lips and a seer of 
 gum for the womenfolk, to say nothing of turbans for 
 the dombs, head -coverings for the ladies, barley for the 
 horses, and all the sweetmeats and dates. And men of 
 rank will furnish twice and thrice as much again, with 
 tea and rice and other dainties to boot. But even that 
 is but a tithe of what some lord might lavish on a feast. 
 
 106. So the company goes back to the lad's father, 
 and if he finds that what he's made ready falls short of 
 the mark, he's all of a fluster, and hurries around to 
 borrow wherever he can, money or grain or what not. 
 Now in Jhalawan it's the custom for a man to go from 
 house to house among his kin and his friends, his chief 
 and his tribesmen, gathering contributions towards the 
 marriage. This is the custom we call bijjar. And 
 whatever bijjdrl he gets from his friend now, his friend 
 will call upon him hereafter to pay a like sum and a 
 little besides for honour's sake when his turn comes to 
 go out on bijjar for a marriage. For what says the 
 proverb? Feast on the sheep he gives you, but keep 
 the bones on the shelf as a reminder. Nowadays they 
 carry the custom to such a pitch that they go on asking 
 for bijjdrl even after a wedding's over. And if a man 
 ever gave his friend bijjdrl before, he now collects it like 
 a debt. Why ! he may even take it by force, should the 
 other demur and plead his poverty : let him come anon, 
 and hell see what can be done. For if upbraiding is of 
 no avail, he'll bide his time ; but when he falls in with 
 the other's flocks, he will lift a sheep or two, according 
 to whatever he gave him before as bijjar. Howbeit in 
 Sarawan and Kalat the custom has taken little root. 
 
 107. This is a grand time for a chief in Jhalawan to 
 lord it over his tribesmen, whether they are such as pay 
 him revenue or not. On the betrothal of a son or a 
 brother he sallies forth, he and his steward and hie 
 following and his serving-men, and journeying from
 
 56 
 
 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 Sending 
 the good 
 cheer to 
 the 
 
 bride's 
 house. 
 
 The 
 youth's 
 mother 
 gives the 
 bride a 
 quilt and 
 a curtain. 
 
 place to place, he searches out his tribesmen, and levies 
 contributions according to his pleasure, by the right of 
 his chiefship and the might of his chiefly following and 
 power. Sheep and oxen he carries off, and even camels, 
 if his tribesmen are weak. I could, an I would, tell a 
 story how once on a time a Sopak Sassoll did himself to 
 death, so sorely beset was he, when the chief's son came 
 harrying his people for bijjdr. 
 
 108. Now when the youth's father has raked together 
 all that is needed, he appoints a day on which it shall 
 be sent to the maiden's house. And a procession sets 
 forth with drums beating. The sheep are driven before, 
 and behind are the camels laden with the good things. 
 The camels and the stores are called artl, the flock of 
 sheep is called jalab. And ever and anon they halt by 
 the way and dance. So they come to the house. Now 
 in Kalat the young men have a merry custom : for they 
 stealthily grab a handful of flour, and with roars of 
 laughter they fling it at the men of the procession full in 
 the face. Then the maiden's father takes the sheep and 
 the stores, and hands them over to him we call kal- 
 khwah, the one chosen for his thrift to act as master of 
 the feast. And those that manned the procession are 
 given food, and sent back whence they came. 
 
 109. That selfsame night the mother of the bride- 
 groom, attended by a train of ladies, sets out for the 
 bride's house, taking with her a long red cloth we call 
 a killa, and a new bed-quilt. But when they reach the 
 house, the door of the bride's chamber is shut and 
 barred. For a while they stand without, begging that 
 it may be opened unto them. And when at last the 
 door is flung open, they enter in, singing the wedding 
 hymn, " Halo ! halo /" There sits the bride, surrounded 
 by three or four maidens of like age. Jdnl they are 
 called, for these bridesmaids are her bosom friends; 
 but in some parts you may hear the Balochi word 
 dast-guhdr, or " hand-sister." Henceforth they never
 
 MARRIAGE 57 
 
 leave her side, lest the Jinns and evil spirits, catching 
 her alone, throw their blight over her. And they hang 
 the curtain up, and make the bride to sleep behind it on 
 the quilt. And for food they give her mdlista, a wheaten 
 bread mixed with sugar and ghee. The groom is given 
 the same bridal fare, for neither may henceforth eat 
 meat until the wedding. It would breed strife between 
 them, if one may believe the old wives. 
 
 110. On the morrow there's the duzzl hinnam, when 4 nc ? n H ng 
 the henna is daubed on in the family circle. But on 
 the following night it's done with pomp in the open 
 assembly of the kith and kin and the neighbourhood. 
 In Jhalawan the groom is anointed first, and after him 
 the bride. But in Kalat it's the other way about, 
 and this is how they set to work. The bridegroom's 
 mother issues forth from her house with the domb and 
 a train of ladies. They bear the henna, and sing as 
 they go. And when they are come to the maiden's 
 house, lo ! she is lying on the quilt that was brought 
 her overnight, curtained off by the killa, with her maids 
 of honour around her. The bridegroom's mother steps 
 forth with the henna, to anoint her withal. But the 
 bridesmaids gather round and thrust her back, and will 
 not suffer her to come nigh. So she pushes and pushes, 
 and at the last wins her way to the bride. But the bride 
 herself now wards her off, with both arms outstretched 
 against her. And the old dame has to coax her with a 
 thousand sweet words and entreaties, before she suffers 
 her to do her will. Then forth steps one who is a good 
 wife and a good mother, and anoints her with the henna, 
 beginning with the right hand and ending with the left 
 foot ; for this is always the order in the anointing with 
 the henna. And the dish of henna is passed the round, 
 and each lady takes thereof and smears it on her hands. 
 But the younger among them privily take more than 
 their share, and think it fine fun to daub it on the face 
 of the mother and sisters of the groom. And they leave
 
 58 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 the henna on the bride for a few hours, the bridesmaids 
 never quitting her side, lest some enemy in jealous spite 
 take ever so tiny a bit off hand or foot, and throw it in 
 the fire. For that would mean a loveless wedlock with 
 a vengeance. And when the time is come to take the 
 henna off, they bear it away right carefully, and scatter 
 it abroad in some running stream. 
 
 m * Then the mother of the bride takes a dish of 
 henna, and goes with her train to the bridegroom's 
 
 house. But if she lives behind the veil, she does not 
 enter the assembly of the men, but stands afar off, while 
 the henna is taken on by the ddmb and the older ladies. 
 There sits the groom on a cushion for his takht, or 
 throne ; for from this day forth until the wedding-night 
 he is hailed as bddsha, or king. He sits with his face 
 towards the north or the west howbeit it is better it 
 should be to the north. And by him stands his slid- 
 balat, the bodyguard that bears his sword. And at the 
 coming of the henna one and all lift up their hands, 
 praying that God may grant the young couple long life 
 and lovingness. Then out steps some old worthy whom 
 fortune has blessed above his fellows, and in the name 
 of the Almighty he anoints the king with the henna on 
 hands and feet. And the king, unlike his consort, makes 
 no show of resistance, but takes the henna right gladly. 
 Then follows the shinikl, or the showering of comfits 
 over his head. And those around him vie with the 
 children in the room in scrambling after them. Then 
 the henna is passed round, and each in the assembly 
 takes a little and smears it on his hands. But rude 
 youth will not be robbed of its frolic, never resting until 
 the groom's father and brothers have been well smeared 
 on face and beard. And when all have taken of the 
 henna, the dish is sent back to the bride's mother, with 
 pieces of money piled on it, ten rupees or twenty maybe. 
 But the henna is left on the king for the space of a few 
 hours, and the shd-balav and others keep watch and
 
 MARRIAGE 59 
 
 ward, lest some mischief befall it. And when his hands 
 and feet are washed clean, they gather up the henna 
 with care and put it in running water. By-and-by 
 platters arrive from the bride's house, laden with mdlista, 
 the bridal food. And the king eats thereof, with some 
 of his company. And they send the platters back 
 with five rupees or more as a gift to the mother of the 
 bride. 
 
 112. That night there's singing and dancing in both 
 households. In the bride's house, to be sure, all men houses. 
 are barred from the revels. But in the house of the 
 groom men and womenfolk alike sing and dance the 
 whole night through. Howbeit they dance apart, the 
 men in one ring, the womenfolk in a ring of their own. 
 
 And at midnight they kill a sheep or two to be cooked 
 by the grey of the morning. And at sunrise those who 
 have attended on the groom through the night watches 
 sit them down and eat. 
 
 113. That forenoon the father of the bride and the The 
 father of the groom call a few of the kith and kin each 
 
 to his own house, that they may help at the slaughtering 
 of the sheep and goats for the feasting. And when they 
 are gathered together at the two houses, they lift up 
 their hands in prayer, beseeching God's blessing on the 
 young couple. Then they fall a-slaughtering, and the 
 number of beasts that are slaughtered must be even, 
 not odd. So they take their leave, but only to return 
 with many others that selfsame afternoon for the feast. 
 And the revelry begins anew. In the bride's house the 
 men depart once the feasting is over, while the ladies 
 cease not from dance and song till the coming of the 
 groom. But in the house of the groom both the men 
 and the womenfolk hold their revels till the setting of 
 the sun, when the groom shall don his bridal apparel 
 and wend his way in state to the maiden's house. 
 H4. Now if the two fathers are near neighbours and lt is . 
 
 i -i i i i i 11 i sometimes 
 
 close friends withal, they may choose to club together
 
 60 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 done and make one feast of it, to the end that the cost may be 
 jointly. cu |. down. j n gugh case the father of the groom would 
 himself bring the drtl, he and his kinsfolk and his friends 
 and his neighbours. And they would come along sing- 
 ing, stopping once or twice on the road for a dance. And 
 when they arrived at the bride's dwelling, there would be 
 a big dance, the ladies of both parties joining in, and all 
 the men, save only the next-of-kin to the bride. And a 
 house would be cleared for the groom and his father and 
 his following. And on the morrow all the kith and kin 
 and friends of both houses would be bidden to the feast. 
 And he who went forth to call them in would say to each 
 and every one of them : " The master of the house and 
 the father of the groom together entreat your presence 
 at the feast." By this they would know that the feast 
 was the feast of both houses. 
 
 Procedure 115. But if the two houses are some marches apart, 
 twoho^ses the groom's father will send the drtl on ahead, letting 
 are far them know on what day he will himself follow with his 
 
 lT)ftI*t 
 
 company. Then must he set to work ; for the hinndm 
 has to be duly performed, and there's the feasting of his 
 friends and kin, and the dancing and all. And when the 
 time comes, he sets out with his company of riders. And 
 ever and anon they halt by the roadside, and dance for 
 the space of an hour or so. And on the place where they 
 dance, they set a circle of stones as a memorial thereof. 
 Such chdp-jahl, or dancing-grounds, you may see along 
 any road in Jhalawan. So they reach the house that has 
 been set in readiness for them. And here a hearty wel- 
 come awaits them, and a jocund dance and a goodly feast 
 for one and all. And the father of the bride makes no 
 long tarrying, for he too has performed the hinndm 
 betimes. So there's nothing to hinder them from celebra- 
 ting the marriage the very night after the groom arrives. 
 Arraying 116. At the hour of afternoon prayer a L5n beats the 
 drum to the shddmdm measure. By this all the world 
 knows that the time has come to deck the bride out for
 
 MARRIAGE 61 
 
 the bridal. So they take the bride apart, and wash her 
 and bathe her. Then they bring her into an apartment 
 where all the ladies of rank are assembled, and seat her 
 behind the killa. And the domb comes bustling along 
 and tires her hair. Two hours at least does she spend 
 over the tiring of the bride's hair, and a rupee is the 
 wage for her task. But the donning of the bridal array 
 is not yet. For when it is nigh to the going down of the 
 sun, the Lori without again beats the sliddmanl on his 
 drum, and at the sound some lady of honour (not a 
 widow, you may be sure) is called upon to deck the bride 
 for the bridal. Forth she steps, but she has to entreat 
 the bride and her ladies-in-waiting ever so long and 
 prettily, before she is suffered to draw nigh, and can coax 
 her to don the shirt and the head-dress and the trousers. 
 If the bridal apparel is red, so much the better. And 
 the shirt will surely be red, whatever the rest may be. 
 Black, as you may guess, is never worn by a bride. And 
 the skirts of her shirt are unhemmed, and unhemmed 
 they must remain till the third day of the wedding. For 
 a hemmed skirt would surely hem the way of the groom. 
 
 117. And when this task is over, the domb sets forth Dressing 
 with the womenfolk of the bride's kindred, bearing the 
 groom's apparel and a dish full of met, the washing clay, 
 mingled with fine oil and sweet perfumes. On they 
 march to the assembly of the men, singing " Halo ! halo!" 
 while the drum beats out the wedding march right 
 bravely. Now at the sound of the drum, the groom 
 arises with his slia-balav and a whole host of the kin. 
 And they take him without, and seat him on a flat stone 
 or some wooden plank. But his shd-balav stands before 
 him with a drawn sword, holding it upright with the back 
 turned to the groom, and the sharp edge fronting the 
 sky. And some worthy who has gotten him many 
 children by a loving wife is set to wash the groom's 
 head. So he takes the dish of met from the hands of the 
 domb, and places it before the groom. Uttering "Bis-
 
 62 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 milla /" lie takes a little from the dish, and turns it thrice 
 round the groom's head, and then flings it towards the 
 west. Four times does he act in this wise, for the clay 
 must be flung to all four quarters of the earth. Then he 
 falls a-washing the long locks of the groom, for it's 
 seldom they suffer a groom to wash his own head. And 
 when his hair is washed, each of the kindred lends a hand 
 and rubs his body and washes it clean. And when he is 
 thoroughly cleansed, the bride's mother brings forward his 
 apparel. First is he made to don his shirt and then his 
 trousers. And some folk make a fuss that his trousers 
 should be worn inside out ; for this, they say, will bring 
 to naught any magic or sorcery that else might stay him 
 from playing a man's part, when he first goes in unto his 
 bride. Then the groom bows his head, and a Sayyad or 
 some other gentleman who is honoured among them folds 
 the turban about his temples. Next he dons his waist- 
 coat and his lungl, or scarf. And his shoes are brought 
 and placed before him. Now in some parts and they 
 are not the wildest parts either it's the custom to pour 
 a little millet into each shoe; and he puts them on, 
 millet and all. For this will bring him both wealth and 
 children. And never does he doff his shoes, however 
 rich the carpet on which he treads, until he is left alone 
 with his bride. Now when he has donned all his fine 
 array, they give turbans or robes of honour to the others 
 of the party ; nor is the Lori forgotten. And forth they 
 lead the groom, and seat him on his cushion. There he 
 sits on his takht, or throne, for is he not their bddshd, or 
 king, for the nonce ? 
 
 Racing 118. But among the well-to-do there's a pause for 
 shooting, sport. The king is mounted on a charger, and he and 
 his following sally forth to the racing-place. And the 
 horsemen are set to ride a race, and he who comes in 
 first is given a piece of money or a sheep or a cloth of 
 silk. Then those that can shcot a good shot step forth 
 for a match. And among the ruder folk of Jhalawan it's
 
 MARRIAGE 63 
 
 a goat that is set up as a mark, poor creature ! And he 
 who brings it down carries it off for his prize. Else- 
 where they are content with a stone for a target, and the 
 prize for the master marksman is a sheep. 
 
 119. And when the fun is over, they bring the bddshd 
 back and seat him on his throne, his bodyguard standing 
 before him. Each of the kin and well-wishers takes a few 
 comfits and flings them over his head. But hill folk and 
 nomad makes shift with grains of wheat and judrl for 
 their shinikl, for comfits they have none. Then the com- 
 pany comes forward man by man, and each in turn hands 
 a few annas or a rupee or two or more to some reverend 
 gentleman that takes his stand before the king. And he 
 takes the coin, and twirling it round the head of the king, 
 he calls aloud : "It is a rupee or whatever may be the 
 sum that Mr. So-and-So has granted." Nor does this 
 sargasht, or passing round the head, come to a close until 
 each of the company has stepped up with his offering. 
 
 120. Then the female domb comes forward with a The groom 
 mirror and oil and antimony and muzvdk, or bits of wal- histoilet. 
 nut bark, all on a dish, and sets it before the king. With 
 
 the oil the bridegroom dresses his locks and his beard. 
 With the antimony he paints his eyes, and his lips he 
 reddens with the muzvdk. And he peers into the mirror 
 the while, to see that all is in goodly order. Then the 
 dish is handed round the room. And each of the com- 
 pany takes a little oil and anoints his locks and beard. 
 Now when they have oiled themselves to their liking, all 
 save the nearest kin and dearest friends depart to their 
 homes. The bridegroom sits on in silence. But around 
 him there's a merry uproar of jest and song and pleasant 
 talk. And though the groom himself sits silent, his boon 
 companions make free enough with their tongues : he'd 
 better not sit so calm and glum by-and-by, or the night 
 would end in nothingness, and things would come to a 
 pretty pass ; so mind he show his true mettle, and prove 
 his manhood right valiantly before the morning.
 
 64 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BKAHUI 
 
 Finishing 121. All this time there's a deal of fuss going on in 
 toilet" S the bride's chamber. The donib is busy painting the 
 bride's forehead with divers colours ; red and green 
 and yellow will she use, but never black. From this 
 time forth until she is handed over to her groom, 
 the bride may not open her eyes, or utter a word, but 
 must sit mute, and hold a handkerchief to her eyes. 
 Her ladies-in-waiting sit around her, doing her service. 
 And at her side sits some old dame, staying her with 
 wise words of comfort. And whenever she can get in 
 her say unheard and unseen, she whispers in her ear 
 how she should bear herself by-and-by. But as soon as 
 they begin to deck the bride with her ornaments, the 
 old dame speaks out boldly, and says aloud that this 
 jewel or that is the gift of the father or the groom. 
 And the saying goes among the women, that whichever 
 of the bridal couple first puts on a golden ring or other 
 jewel on the wedding day, shall excel the other in 
 beauty. 
 
 \Vorship- 122. Now when the bride's adornment is Over, they 
 bride's tik. take and seat her in lonely state on a big cushion. 
 And shinikl and sargasht are performed, even as they 
 were performed over the bridegroom in the assembly 
 of the men. Then all the ladies who have daughters 
 of their own yet unmarried, come forward and do 
 worship to the tik, or bridal markings, on the bride's 
 forehead. Thus do they pray : " Oh, God ! forasmuch 
 as we have beheld the tik of this Thy favoured servant, 
 even so in Thy grace grant unto us that we may yet 
 live to behold the marriage marks of our daughters." 
 For this they account a moment lucky above all 
 others, and they believe that whatsoever they ask of 
 God at this hour will verily be vouchsafed to them. 
 Two 123. At about ten o'clock that night the groom comes 
 
 witnesses 
 
 seek access along with his procession, bringing with him the mulla 
 
 to the to celebrate the marriage. And two worthies are 
 
 chosen out of the company, to the end that they may
 
 MARKIAGE 65 
 
 serve as giuah, or witnesses, at the wedding. They 
 are sent to the women's apartment to learn whom 
 the bride appoints as her nikdnd bava, or marriage- 
 father. At their coming the door is shut in their 
 face. And it's often a plaguey long business before 
 they are let in and can say their say. In Nichara 
 they stand and knock and knock, but never a soul 
 moves to open the door. " Begone !" they tell them, 
 "begone! and pound naromb '"* Now naromb is a 
 plant that grows in the colder parts of the country, 
 and tanning's all that it's good for. With this dry 
 answer they must rest content, for it's as much as 
 they'll get. So they wend their way back to the 
 assembly of the men, and seek to hide their shame 
 unseen in a corner. But the young fellows are at 
 them at once. "What's the news, my masters?" they 
 cry. "What's the news?" repeat the two, stammering 
 and stuttering. " Why ! all they said was that we should 
 be off, and pound naromb!" And this is hailed with 
 peals of laughter, and joke chases joke all round the 
 room. But by-and-by the jollity flags, and the wit- 
 nesses must be off to try their luck once more. And 
 they stand at the door of the women's apartment and 
 knock and knock, cursing the whole tribe of women 
 softly to themselves. "Begone!" the proud mother 
 calls out from within, " begone ! the hide is not yet 
 tanned, nor will be till two more years are out." So 
 back they go and slink into the assembly of the men, 
 hoping in vain to escape the fire of questions. There 
 they sit amid roars of ribald laughter, the butt of every 
 joker. But the men soon have enough of it, and pack 
 the witnesses off yet a third time. And they go with 
 heavy heart and faltering steps, and stand at the 
 door of the women's apartment, and knock and knock 
 and knock. And they have to put up with a hundred 
 excuses from the mother, and a deal of mockery from 
 
 * Ephedra pachyclada. 
 
 5
 
 66 
 
 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 The bride 
 nominates 
 her 
 
 nikana 
 bdva, or 
 wedding- 
 father. 
 
 Different 
 customs. 
 
 The 
 
 witnesses 
 give their 
 evidence. 
 
 the women, and must beg ever so long and piteously, 
 before they are suffered to come within. 
 
 124. Then they stand close up to the killa, or curtain, 
 which screens off the bride, and ask her to recite the 
 kalima, the confession of the faith. This she does, but 
 in a whisper so soft they can scarce hear a word. So 
 they bid her speak up. And yet again she recites the 
 holy words. But the witnesses feign not to have heard 
 her, and she has to recite the kalima yet a third time, 
 and in a loud and hearty voice. Now comes their 
 question: "Mother," they ask, "whom do you appoint 
 to be your marriage-father?" And she makes answer: 
 " Such and such a one do I appoint to be my marriage- 
 father." And the name she utters is never the name 
 of her real father, but the name of some old gentleman. 
 
 125. Well, this is how things are done in Nichara and 
 elsewhere. Nevertheless customs vary. Among the 
 Mengal and others, though the witnesses have much 
 the same trouble, and have to come thrice to the door 
 before they can approach the bride, the mother doesn't 
 talk in parables and prate of naroinb, but tells them 
 roundly that the maiden is still too young to marry: 
 they had better come again in a few years' time. In 
 Kalat it's a simple affair. There the witnesses come 
 once only, are let into the room without further ado, 
 put their questions, hear what the bride has to say, 
 go off' with the answer, and it's all over and done with. 
 
 126. Now when the witnesses have got what they 
 want, they lose no further time, but hurry back to 
 the assembly of the men. No more do they slink off 
 and seek to hide their face in a corner, but stand as 
 bold as brass before the mulla. And when they have 
 made obeisance before him, he calls upon them to 
 give their evidence one by one. And notwithstanding 
 they may know no Persian, it's in that tongue that 
 they reply. Yet, seeing that the mulla was at pains 
 to drill them beforehand in what they must say, it's
 
 MARRIAGE 67 
 
 not so surprising after all. So up speaks the first 
 and delivers him of this set speech : "I am verily 
 a witness, and it's all for the glory of God that I hereby 
 testify that such and such a maiden, the issue of such 
 and such a lady, who has no other daughter of that 
 name, has appointed such and such a man to be her 
 marriage-father." Now you will note that though the 
 maiden and her mother are duly named in this speech, 
 there's never a word about her real father. Indeed in 
 olden days it would have been thought unseemly if he 
 did not absent himself a day or two before the wedding, 
 leaving the house to his wife's brother or a son. Now- 
 adays things are so lax, it doesn't matter much whether 
 he stays or goes. But he should at least be spared the 
 rude jests of the young men. Well, the first witness 
 says his say, and passes on, and the second takes his 
 place. He gives his testimony in the selfsame words, 
 and he too passes on. 
 
 127. Then he who has thus been appointed the The 
 marriage-father, steps forward and seats himself over ma hr, or 
 against the mulla. And the mulla calls upon him and dower - 
 says : " Well, sir, let us now hear what mahr, or dower, 
 you would have settled on your daughter." "One 
 lak of golden mohurs, and not a penny less !" is the 
 proud reply. So the mulla turns to the groom, who 
 is seated at his side, and asks whether he will truly 
 take the maiden and dower her in this wise. But the 
 groom will not hear of it : the sum is enormous, he 
 had never heard the like ; the matter would have to 
 be thrashed out anew ; there was no doubt about that. 
 And some worthy glib and persuasive of tongue comes 
 forward and seats him at his side, to take up the cudgels 
 on his behalf. Right manfully does he plead his cause, 
 and wrangle with the marriage-father : something he 
 would surely abate in the name of God? So in the 
 name of God the marriage-father abates one-half of the 
 huge sum he stood out for at the first. Then the spokes-
 
 68 THE LIFE -HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 man returns to the charge : " Now that you've abated 
 half in the name of the Almighty, what, pray, will you 
 abate in the name of our Prophet aye ! and in the name 
 of all the other prophets? And please to remember 
 that they are one hundred and twenty-four thousand in 
 number." So the marriage-father abates yet more of 
 the dower, and cuts it down little by little, until it 
 stands at the sum that is current among them. But 
 the haggling and the wrangling may go on for hours ; 
 yet folk of sense and courtesy will soon come to terms 
 in the matter. 
 
 The rates 128. Now the customary rate for dower is the rate 
 that has been current from of old in the bride's family. 
 Thus if the father of the bride settled twenty rupees 
 on her mother, likely enough he will claim the same 
 for his daughter, no more, no less. Yet at times they 
 go by the rate that may have been granted to her 
 married sisters if this was different ; and now and then 
 they take their stand according to the custom in the 
 family of the groom. In olden days folk took pride 
 in keeping to the ancient family dower, but in these 
 latter days customs are so higgledy-piggledy, there's no 
 knowing what they are. However here are some of the 
 rates : among the Ahmadzei a thousand gold rnohurs ; 
 among the Mullazei, or Akhundzei, four hundred ; 
 among the Khan's courtiers, or Khanzad as they are 
 called, twenty ; among the alien Dehwar of Kalat, five 
 to fifteen; while workaday Brahms give ten to twenty 
 rupees of silver in dower. 
 
 Of makr 129. Men of rank sometimes bestow a piece of land 
 
 in general. . 
 
 on their brides. Indeed you may come across many 
 a curious dower custom up and down the country. 
 But it's none too easy to find one's way about them, 
 for dower as a rule is a mere promise after all. So long 
 as his wife's alive, a man need fear little from her on 
 this score. Nay, he may soon wheedle her into making 
 the dower over to him again, in return for a one-fourth
 
 MAKEIAGE 69 
 
 share in his hearth. Then, whatsoever is cooked on his 
 hearth in the name of God, one-fourth thereof may she 
 claim before God. And seldom do her issue lodge a claim 
 against their father at her death. To be sure, if she die 
 without issue, there are all the makings of a very pretty 
 quarrel at shariat, or religious law. But the heirs may 
 look to the-husband to put up a mighty shrewd fight for 
 it, before they wring a penny of the dower out of him. 
 
 130. Well, once the mahr is settled, the mulla turns The 
 
 , , . i i TI 1.11 marriage 
 
 to the groom, and thrice asks him in Persian whether service. 
 he verily and indeed accepts such and such a maiden, 
 the issue of such and such a lady, who has no other 
 daughter of that name, to be his true and lawful wife 
 for such and such a dower. And thrice the groom 
 must make answer in Persian : " I do." Then the 
 mulla, speaking in the Arabic tongue, reads the nikd, 
 or marriage service, and lifts up his hands in prayer for 
 the welfare of the young couple, the whole assembly 
 likewise lifting up their hands and praying with him. 
 Then congratulations are showered on the bridegroom and 
 his father. And after dates and sweetmeats have been 
 distributed amongst them, all take their leave, save 
 only an old gentleman and one or two of the near kin, 
 who wait on the groom. But before they depart, those 
 who would fain marry but have not the wherewithal, 
 bow themselves before the king and crave of him a 
 boon, saying, " Oh King ! pray unto God for my early 
 marriage." And he lays his hand on their shoulders, 
 and prays for the fulfilment of their desire. For he 
 is king that night, and surely to the prayers of a king 
 God will not turn a deaf ear. 
 
 131. But it's not the solemn ceremony you may think Buf - 
 it. For the young bloods are ever on the watch to catch a t the 
 the mulla tripping, and they plague him and tease him weddin g- 
 and chaff him as he reads the service. I could tell you 
 many a merry tale about a rustic wedding. Did you 
 
 ever hear the answer of the simple fellow, when the
 
 70 THE LIFE-HISTOEY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 mulla put the question whether he verily and indeed 
 accepted the maiden to be his true and lawful wife ? 
 "Well! my old father accepted her all right!" he 
 stuttered, so full had his father been of the young 
 lady's charms. But this is nothing to the lubberly 
 bumpkin who blurted out : " Accept her, forsooth ? Why ! 
 I'm like a mad dog after her !" 
 
 132. Now when the nika is over, and the guests have 
 The bridal departed, one or two of the near kin lead the groom to 
 drink the the bride's dwelling. To the door of the house they 
 shakkal escor * him, and there they leave him, for he must go 
 forward alone, with only one old gentleman of the kin 
 a man of wealth and many children to bear him com- 
 pany. But the door of the bride's apartment is barred 
 against him by the mother and married sisters of the 
 bride. The bridesmaids, you must know, quitted the 
 bride before his coming, for their service is at an end. 
 But the groom stands without and knocks; for pity's 
 sake they should let him in, and bounteously he'd repay 
 each and all for the kindness. So the door is opened at 
 last, and in he enters, and the old gentleman enters 
 with him. And the mother and her daughters rise up 
 and bid him welcome, heaping blessings on him. But 
 the bride remains perched on her throne. So he seats 
 himself at the right hand of his bride ; yet mounted on 
 the throne itself he still keeps on his shoes. And he 
 must listen with good grace, while the ladies chaff him 
 merrily about what the night will bring forth. Soon a 
 cup of milk sweetened with sugar shlr-shakkal we call 
 it is brought in. The bride it is who first puts cup to 
 lip, and sips ; then the cup is handed to the groom, and 
 he in turn takes a few sips, and hands it back to his 
 bride. She sips it yet a second time, and hands it again 
 to the groom ; and after he has sipped it once more, he 
 hands the cup to the old lady. But she passes it on to 
 one of the others to drink dry. For it would never do 
 for any of the shlr-shakkal to be thrown away.
 
 MARKIAGE 71 
 
 133. Then a Koran is brought in and placed, with the Dak 
 first page open, before the groom and his bride. Now at 
 last does the bride open her eyes, for hitherto she has 
 kept them tight shut with the kerchief. First she looks , 
 at the Holy Writ, and so plucks up heart to peep at her 
 groom. Then they set a big mirror before them, and 
 the bride is coaxed to lay her veil aside and gaze at 
 herself and her groom mirrored in the glass. As for the 
 groom, it's little coaxing he needs, I warrant, for he has 
 longed and longed for this sight many's the weary day. 
 Then the old worthy of the kin lays hands on their 
 heads, and thrice knocks them together, head against 
 head. This is what we mean by dak lining. With that 
 
 all depart their several ways. And bride and groom are 
 left alone at last. And first as ever is, the groom stands 
 on a corner of the bride's head-dress, his shoes still on 
 his feet, and offers up a prayer of thanksgiving to the 
 Almighty. 
 
 134. But without sit the two mothers with a few old T . he bridal 
 ladies of the kindred, keeping watch and ward to the end 
 
 that they may be as witnesses hereafter. They are all 
 on the alert for the call that shall summon them within. 
 And they wait and wait, and still maybe there is no call. 
 And the bride's mother twits the groom's mother touch- 
 ing the sluggishness of her son : by her troth ! his 
 feebleness is passing strange. God forbid it be nothing 
 worse ! But the other is not at a loss for the reason : 
 there must be magic abroad ; it could not be else ; she'll 
 be bound some knave has been at his scurvy tricks and 
 bewitched the poor fellow, or he would have played the 
 man ages before this, they may take her word for it. 
 And sure enough, the groom may presently call out in 
 distress to his mother, to hurry to the priest for some 
 holy water to quicken his flagging spirits. Off bustles 
 the old dame post-haste, and the priest takes some water, 
 breathes a potent charm over it, and she's back with it as 
 fast as her legs can carry her. And let's hope the charm
 
 72 THE LIFE-HISTOEY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 will work this night or the next. For the longer the 
 delay, the greater the disgrace to the groom. 
 The 135. And the moment it's all over, he calls the old 
 
 virginity, ladies in. They don't stand on the order of their 
 coming, I'll be bound, but hasten in and eagerly scan 
 the bridal apparel for the tokens of virginity. And if 
 the stains are all she could wish, great is the exaltation 
 of the mother of the bride. Aloft she holds the cloth in 
 triumph, and displays it with pride to each lady in turn, 
 saying : " Look on this, my sister look on this ! and 
 rejoice with me. You know right well how my days 
 were spent, watching over this my dear child. Best I 
 had not, neither by night nor yet by day, for truly the 
 times are out of joint. But now, praise be to God, who 
 has not suffered my labour to be in vain. And you, 
 madam," she adds, turning to the mother of the groom, 
 " I congratulate ten hundred times, for your son's bride 
 is all, thank God, that a bride should be. And so I 
 leave her to your keeping." Nor do the ladies stint 
 their congratulations. And the cloth is treasured up by 
 the mother, for it is her glory. 
 
 Ante- 136. N OW it's a mighty ticklish matter to speak touch- 
 
 loss of the m g the tokens of virginity. Yet say something I must, 
 maiden- f or wna t' s to be done, say you, if there be none at all ? 
 Aye ! if there were none at all, it would be a grisly business 
 for the bride : many a one has been slain on her bridal 
 bed in the past, and all because there were no tokens of 
 virginity to display. Now a maiden, so old wives have 
 told me, may lose her maidenhead in more ways than 
 one. ' For the mischief may be done, if a girl is left free 
 to romp and skip and jump and run wild. And it's 
 . madness to let her carry heavy loads or strain at heavy 
 weights. And one wise old midwife never have I met a 
 wiser tells me that she has known many a maiden of 
 high birth owe the loss of her maidenhead to soap. No 
 matter, says she, whether she swallows a bit of the soap 
 or washes her private parts withal, the mischief is done.
 
 MARRIAGE 73 
 
 Let her but do the one or the other, and the tender 
 fabric's marred. Yet even though one guard a maiden 
 ever so carefully from soap and strains and romps, the case 
 may be just about as parlous, if twenty years and more go 
 by before she wed. For at her ripe years the tokens of 
 virginity may be nothing but a few pale drops after all, 
 very unlike the rich red flow of a younger maiden. And 
 alas ! in these latter days, when girls are given freedom 
 such as their grandmothers never dreamt of, the maiden- 
 head may be gone before the bridal past recall only the 
 shameless wench and her lover know when and where. 
 
 137. So it's for the mother to make sure before the How con- 
 
 cealed . 
 
 wedding night how matters stand. And 'tis strange if 
 she and some old midwife cannot put things to rights 
 between the two of them. They've many a trick to befool 
 the groom more I wager than ever I heard of. Thus 
 they'll bid the bride baffle him all she can, and tie knots 
 in the string of her shalvdr, when he seeks to make his 
 \\B,J to her. So there's a mighty fine tussle between 
 them, what with the one striving to play the man, lest 
 he be mocked on the morrow by his comrades, and the 
 other struggling and pushing and kicking and straining ' 
 to escape his embraces. Small wonder, then, if blood is 
 spilt in the scuffle. Nor will the groom think there's 
 aught amiss in such maidenly coyness. And maybe 
 there is naught amiss after all ; for a bride is often taught 
 to act in this wise, nor suffer the groom to have his will, 
 until he promise her fine clothes or some jewel of price. 
 But if the mother fears her daughter is so old, that the 
 tokens of virginity will be dim and scant, she sets the 
 wedding on a day that the monthly course is due. 
 And when the faint tokens of virginity mingle with the 
 flow of uncleanness, small blame to the poor groom if he 
 is well content. But should the womenfolk see through 
 the mother's fraud, she's quick to turn the blame on to 
 the groom with a chuckle : could he not bide his time, 
 the lusty rogue ? but must needs break through the Holy
 
 74 THE LIFE-HISTOEY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 Law to get at his bride ? But if the worst has come to 
 the worst, and some thief has stolen away that which the 
 bridegroom alone should enjoy, the mother and the mid- 
 wife will put their heads together, and give the bride 
 some drugs that womenfolk wot of. And the drugs will 
 make the privy parts shrink together, so that all is as 
 before. And enough blood will be spilt at the bridal to 
 satisfy the groom and to boot. In such wise are men 
 befooled by their women. 
 
 Dem- 138. The groom's father comes betimes on the morrow, 
 
 for he would fain congratulate his son. But the bride 
 will not suffer him to have so much as a glimpse of her 
 face, until he has given her some ornament or other 
 goodly gift. In like fashion the uncles and brothers and 
 cousins of the groom must come with a gift, if they come 
 for dem-diddri, or the seeing of the face. Yet the gift of 
 one of these is less costly than the gift of the father, and 
 a dish of sweetmeats and a head-dress will suffice. 
 
 Getting 139. But now is the hour for the bridegroom to taste 
 e sw eets of revenge for all the bride-price and the milk- 
 
 lab and share that the father and mother of his bride have wrung 
 
 shlr-paill. , . . . . 
 
 from him. As soon as he rises in the morning, he tells 
 the old lady roundly that he will stay not another 
 moment under their roof, but will be off with his bride 
 then and there. And the more she entreats him to stay, 
 the more he hardens his heart, upbraiding her for their 
 greed. 'Twould be a lasting disgrace, says she, were 
 they not to abide at least three full days in their house. 
 More shame to them, he retorts, for extorting all that lab 
 and slilr-paill out of him. So off she goes and chides the 
 master of the house, and entreats him to assuage the 
 ruffled bridegroom. Now some fathers are so churlish, 
 they'll let a young couple go, and lift never a finger to 
 stay them. But where will you find a mother so un- 
 motherly as not to give back some of her milk-share, if 
 this will make the bridegroom yield ? And most fathers 
 will seek to make peace by the surrender of some portion
 
 MAERIAGE 75 
 
 of the lab land or arms or money or whatever it be. 
 Well, the bridegroom stays on for that day, but on the 
 morrow he's at it again : not another moment will he 
 stay under their roof. So it goes on, day after day, and 
 the bride-price and the milk-share dwindle away little by 
 little. For it is accounted a shameful thing if the bridal 
 couple stay not full three days under the bride's roof. 
 This is the common custom in Jhalawan, as elsewhere. 
 But among the Zarakzei and other great families of 
 Jhalawan it's a point of honour for the bride's father to 
 keep his daughter and her groom for three months or 
 even a year under his roof. 
 
 140. So it's at least three days they are pent up in the Three days 
 
 . are spent 
 
 house of the bridal after the marriage. Not that they in the 
 are left alone the whole day long. For the friends and the 
 kinsfolk come and sit with them a few hours each morn- 
 ing. Eagerly the young men greet the groom, saying : 
 " Are you a lion or a jackal ?" Not a word does he 
 answer in his pride, but carelessly spreads out his skirt, 
 that they may see the tokens of virginity wherewith he 
 took pains to stain it. And while the men sit with the 
 groom, the ladies bear the bride company. And they 
 sing and they joke, while she looks on with a calm smile 
 on her face. And after the company have supped, they 
 leave the couple alone once more. But in the afternoon 
 some ladies come again to cheer the bride. Now during 
 these three days when the womenfolk come a-visiting, 
 they bring with them a few uncrushed grains of wheat. 
 These they fling over the bride and her groom, and they 
 make the couple crush the grain and throw them down 
 again. This is called paid. And the womenfolk gather 
 the broken grains and treasure them up, for they look 
 upon them as a sovereign cure against the fever that 
 attacks a man every three days. 
 
 141. Early on the morning of the third day after the The 
 wedding the domb sallies forth with his wife. And they their 
 beat the drum and play on the surnd, and sing the shad- share -
 
 76 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 mdnl rhyme. And hearing the beat of the drum, all the 
 kin and the neighbours come flocking out of doors, and 
 the women bring with them a dish of wheat and flour. 
 And the dishes they place on a sheet that the domb 
 spreads out before him. And when all have given their 
 offering, he carries off sheet and dishes and all, to his 
 great content. For this is his share, this alld-der, God's 
 heap, as we call it. 
 
 Display 142. And on the fourth day the groom makes ready to 
 gifts on depart with his bride to his own home. But before they 
 the fourth are suffered to go, the bride's mother calls the ladies of 
 the kindred together, and brings out all the ornaments 
 and apparel and carpets and vessels and other pretty 
 things for the household that she and her husband have 
 bestowed on the bride. Each thing must be viewed in 
 turn, and one by one they must all admire it. And the 
 mother's heart swells with pride, as she looks first to this 
 lady and then to that, pricking up her ears to hear what 
 they whisper the one to the other about the gift and the 
 master and the lady of the house. The word for these 
 gifts is vaddam. But there's yet another thing that 
 must be viewed and admired withal the cloth with the 
 tokens of virginity. And at the sight thereof the mother's 
 pride is greater than ever. 
 The home- 143. Now if they are folk of means, they take the 
 
 coming. i . -i i i - , i i 7 
 
 bride to her new home mounted on a camel in a kajava, 
 or litter, while the bridegroom rides along astride a 
 horse. Otherwise they must needs trudge along as best 
 they may afoot. And as soon as they reach the dwell- 
 ing, a sheep is slaughtered on the threshold, and the 
 bride is made to step on the blood that is sprinkled, in 
 such wise that one of the heels of her shoe is marked 
 therewith. A little of the blood is caught in a cup, and 
 a bunch of green grass is dropped therein, and the 
 mother of the groom stains the bride's forehead with the 
 blood as she steps over the threshold. And the cup is 
 taken to a running stream, and the green grass and the
 
 MARRIAGE 77 
 
 blood are then flung out; or if there be no running 
 stream hard by, they pour the blood underneath a green 
 tree, and there they leave the green grass. But nowa- 
 days, among fine folk who have learnt more of the ways 
 oi the true Faith, the bride's forehead is not stained with 
 the blood. The groom's mother hands her a cup of milk 
 with a bunch of green grass in it, and the bride dips her 
 little finger in the milk, and the milk and the green grass 
 are then thrown into a stream or flung under a green 
 tree. As for the groom, he doesn't concern himself with 
 the blood at all nay, he leaves the bride at the threshold. 
 So the bride enters her new abode with the womenfolk, 
 and the whole day is passed in singing in honour of the 
 home-coming. 
 
 144. But before the bridegroom may enter into the The groom 
 house, he must visit the shrine of some saint. There he shrine, 
 does worship, and leaving sweetmeats behind for the 
 attendants of the shrine, he wends his way back home. 
 
 But first he goes to the bride's old house, if it's in the 
 same village as his, with his shd-ldlav in his train, and 
 her father gives him a dish of sweetmeats and a brave 
 kerchief. And thanking him prettily, he sets off again, 
 and goes to the house of some other near kin, and there 
 too a kerchief and a dish of sweets await him. So he 
 goes from house to house among the kindred and friends, 
 and it is with a fine store of sweets and kerchiefs and 
 other knick-knacks that he reaches his home that day. 
 And the shd-bdlav is given his share of the sweetmeats 
 and a kerchief and something into the bargain, and is 
 then quit of his service. And the day is wound up with 
 a feast to the near kin. 
 
 145. Now once the bride has departed to her new fai-vazi, 
 home, she may not come under her father's roof, until visit to 
 she and her groom have been bidden there to a feast. ^ t> nde ' s 
 
 . old home. 
 
 J Tis a goodly feast that is furnished in their honour. 
 Thereto are summoned the womenfolk of the near kin, 
 aye, and many a kinsman more also. And after the
 
 78 THE LIFE-HISTOEY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 feast the bridal couple return to their own home laden 
 with gifts. From that day henceforth may the young 
 wife go to her old home whenever she lists, for this 
 is the ceremony of pai-vdzl, the loosening of the feet. 
 Wedding 145. Now a wedding goes forward somewhat other- 
 nomads, wise among nomads who have no fixed abode but live 
 in a giddn, or tent of goats' hair. The maiden's folk 
 pitch a giddn all by itself for the groom and his bride a 
 goodly step from the encampment. In the middle of 
 the giddn they hang up a killa, to curtain the one half 
 off from the other. When the sun has set and all is 
 dark, they take the bride thither, and leave her in the 
 giddn, screened off with her bridesmaids behind the 
 curtain. And after they have settled the malir and the 
 rest of it, they bring the groom to the giddn. And if 
 the night be cold, they come right in. And though the 
 groom cannot see the bride for the curtain, they are 
 so close they can hear all that goes on. So the mulla 
 reads the nikd, and he and his company depart. Not 
 that the mulla leaves the encampment ; he remains 
 a guest there for the night. 
 
 The bridal 147. And finding himself alone, the groom makes 
 among the no long tarrying, I reckon, but lifts up the curtain to 
 nomads. g j n un ^ hj s Dr icl e< But the bridesmaids block the 
 way, and will not let him in until he has given each 
 a gift a sheep or a piece of money or a head-dress. 
 And as soon as he wins his way to her, he takes hold 
 of the bride by the wrist and draws her towards him. 
 Forthwith the bridesmaids quit the bride and go quietly 
 to their own homes, for their watch is over. And the 
 groom and the bride seat them on a cushion. And the 
 bride's mother brings in the shlr-shakkal, and they take 
 a few sips of the milk, drinking from the selfsame cup. 
 Whatever is left over is given to the domb or some 
 handmaid to drink off. So groom and bride are left 
 alone in the tent. But the old dames wait without 
 listening for the call. And when at last they go in, their
 
 MAEEIAGE 79 
 
 first thought is for the tokens of virginity on the bride's 
 garments. And they stick the cloth up aloft to the top 
 of the gidan or other place where it will catch the eye of 
 any women who come to visit the bride. Three full 
 days is it kept in the gidan, and when it is taken down, 
 it is treasured up as a cherished relic for years. But 
 the groom on his part takes pains to stain the skirt 
 of his shirt or the end of his turban with the tokens 
 of virginity. And when the kindred and the friends 
 come to congratulate him on the morrow, he sits him 
 down spreading the garment before him, that all the 
 world may see the stain. Three whole days must the 
 couple abide in the lonely little gidan. And on the 
 fourth day the bridegroom sallies out to some shrine, 
 and goes among his friends and kin in the encampment, 
 and gathers presents as he goes. And the womenfolk 
 take the bride to her new home. And at the entrance 
 of her husband's gidan a sheep is slaughtered, and the 
 bride is stained with the warm blood on heel and fore- 
 head. But if the husband's encampment be afar off, 
 they may delay the home-coming a few days longer. 
 So the bride is taken by the women to the gidan of her 
 father. But before she may enter therein, a sheep is 
 slain at the entrance, and drops of blood are sprinkled 
 on her forehead. Howbeit the heel of her shoe is not 
 stained. Yet is it stained, and her forehead also is 
 stained yet again, when she is taken at the last to her 
 new home. 
 
 148. And let's hope the young couple will live happily Wedded 
 ever after. But seeing that neither had a say in the ie ' 
 matter, and that the one may never have clapped eyes 
 on the other before the bridal, it's a mighty chancy 
 business after all. Not but what a marriage between 
 strangers is not often enough the happiest of the lot ; 
 and as it costs more than a marriage among the kin, 
 maybe it's only as it should be. For a young girl, torn 
 from her kindred, will surely strive to win her husband's
 
 80 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 love. And with husband on her side, whom has she to 
 fear ? But if he is against her, her life will become a 
 burden. For all his folk will round on her, and his 
 women will sneer and pull faces at her, as only women 
 can. So if she's wise, a girl that is parted from her kin 
 will be a dutiful wife for her own sake, I warrant. 
 Howbeit a girl married to a kinsman will start her 
 wedded life loving her husband with a twofold love. 
 She will love him for that he is her husband, and 
 she will love him for that he is of her kin. Yet the 
 temptation may be all the greater to thwart him ever 
 and anon and vex him with disobedience, for the rogue 
 fancies she can always look to her own people to back 
 her, if the worst comes to the worst. 
 
 Incpm- 149. But when married folk fall out, be they kin or 
 
 of temper be they strangers, 'tis a sorry business at best. And 
 one if the husband does not find favour in the wife's eyes, 
 
 cause of 
 
 polygamy, she will turn shrewish, take my word for it. But if the 
 wife fails to win the husband's heart, I'll be bound 
 his heart will soon go a-roaming. Surely it's the same 
 the wide world over. But those of the true Faith have 
 their cure to hand. What says the old saw? Don't 
 take stick to your wife, take another wife to beat her 
 withal. 
 
 Ambition 150. To be sure, it's not only distaste for a wife that 
 
 barrenness drives men to try their luck again. For one may seek 
 
 other to better his estate by marrying into a high family. 
 
 And another may covet the treasure that the only 
 
 daughter of rich parents may bring him. And a third 
 
 may have no children by his wife, or nothing but a 
 
 daughter or two ; and a daughter, after all, is little more 
 
 than a gift to your neighbour. So small blame to him 
 
 if he takes another to bed and board. For who would 
 
 wish to die and leave no son behind him ? 
 
 Old age 151. Yet even though a wife be the mother of a 
 the chief swarm of strapping sons, she stands in greater jeopardy 
 cause. O f a r i va i every hour. For this is how the lasses put
 
 MARRIAGE . 81 
 
 it, when they gossip among themselves : Bear your lord a 
 couple of sons, and he'll love you as a sister ; bear him 
 four, and he'll like you as a mother ; but bear him 
 five and he'll call you granny, and wed some wench to 
 keep him company. And here's a Dehwari song the 
 serving-woman loves to sing, when the womenfolk are 
 gathered together and sit chattering. And great is the 
 delight of the maidens when they hear it, and sour the 
 looks of the old. For it hits the mark shrewdly : 
 
 Thirty years old 
 A wife's a scold. 
 
 Best rid of lier life, 
 
 To be rid of her strife. 
 
 For ten years more, 
 She's worse than before. 
 
 No graveyard will hold her, 
 
 Though hell takes 'em older ! 
 
 Ten more ? LacJcaday, 
 There's the devil to pay / 
 
 For sJie'll lead by the nose 
 
 E'en the devil, God knows .' 
 
 152. Yes, marriage is a sorry gamble at the best of The four 
 times. For good wives don't grow on bushes, as far as the 
 
 I know. And there's truth and wit to boot in the proverb P roverb - 
 wherewith the court jester put off one of the rulers of the 
 olden time, when he urged him to take a wife to his 
 widowed bed. " Wives," quoth he, " there be four : 
 there's Bedfellow, Muckheap, Gadabout, and Queen-o'- 
 women. The more's the pity that the last is one in a 
 hundred. So a single life's the life for me thank you 
 all the same," he added ever so prettily. And if the 
 old Khan didn't feel the point of the jest, I don't know 
 who would. For His Highness had thirty wives and 
 five times thirty concubines. And I guess there were 
 precious few Queens-o'-women in the whole bunch. 
 
 153. Well, these are the four. Now Bedfellow isn't Tlieil 
 the true name of the first, for what Tang-tartln really characters. 
 
 6
 
 82 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 means, I should blush to tell. You must just guess for 
 yourself. Once out of bed, she's no use at all. Little 
 does she care for her husband; for her household she 
 cares still less. As for Muckheap, she doesn't care for 
 her household a whit. The whole place may be topsy- 
 turvy for all she worries about it. Where a thing falls, 
 there let it lie, is her motto. But Gadabout's as different 
 as different can be. She's always on the fidget. Never 
 was there a body so busy at doing nothing. She bustles 
 from room to room, as merry as a cricket, and just about 
 as helpful. And if she can find some one to chat with, 
 Lord ! how her voice will clack ! All about nothing, I'll 
 be bound. But by-and-by she will sit her down to her 
 needlework. Yet she hasn't threaded her needle, before 
 she's up and out of doors. Some one, I suppose, has 
 beaten a drum in the village ; or it may only be neigh- 
 bour's wife passing the house. But as for Queen-o'- 
 women, who can praise her enough ? Let the man who 
 has her to wife, thank his Maker for her daily. 
 Struggle 154. But the best of wives is like to turn shrewish, 
 
 for 
 
 supremacy when an apok, or rival, comes into the house. The 
 thea 8 ok wa * ers * j ea l us y are exceeding bitter, and she drinks 
 or rivals.' them to the dregs. For where's the man that can hold 
 the balance true betwixt his wives ? Sooner or later the 
 one will surely worm her way into his heart to the 
 other's undoing. And if the one is young and blooming 
 and the other old and shrivelled, it needs no wizard to 
 tell which will be which, I'm thinking. Not that a wife 
 will surrender her place in bed and house without a 
 struggle. She tries all her wiles, that once were so win- 
 ning. But if she finds that their power is fled, in despair 
 she turns to amulets and charms, poor, silly thing. And 
 a deal of money she wastes over their getting. But her 
 rival forestalls amulet with amulet, and charm she fore- 
 stalls with charm. So they fight it out to the end. 
 And then woe to the vanquished ! 
 Triumph 155. For the radar, or wife in favour, will lord it
 
 MABRIAGE 83 
 
 despitefully over the beru, or wife in disgrace. Yet if and 
 the vanquished has sons to comfort her, she will arm tion> 
 herself about with pride, and bear herself ever so high 
 and mighty to her husband. But her pride will often 
 be sorely wounded. For should a guest come along to 
 the encampment, he will first find out on the quiet 
 which tent is the tent of the favoured wife. For he 
 knows better than to put up in the tent of the wife in 
 disgrace, with cold water and dry bread for his fare. 
 And this is why the fate of a vanquished wife is better 
 in the house of a villager than in the tent of a nomad. 
 But it's worst of all in the house of a chief, for here 
 jealousy has ample scope and to spare. 
 
 156. Small wonder that folk will not marry their The 
 daughter to a man who has one of their kinswomen in wife 
 
 his house already. And even though the father be ^ d to 
 nothing loth, the mother will never let the thing be the first. 
 done. " What ?" she will cry. " Shall all the world 
 make mock of me and say : ' There goes the woman 
 who stripped her kinsman's daughter of her shift to 
 clothe her own daughter withal ?' ' : And in truth such 
 a marriage were a shameful thing and a disgrace. And 
 if folk flaunt it before the world, there's many a kinsman 
 that will not dance at the wedding, I reckon. 
 
 157. Aye, the word apok has an ugly sound in the ears Enmity 
 
 of riv&ls 
 
 of our women. And when a fire won't burn for all their proverbial. 
 pumng and blowing, one of the children at a hint from 
 the mother maybe will sing out : " If it won't burn, 
 just fetch a rival to it !" And the threat may yet 
 frighten the fire into a blaze. But if it still sulks, they 
 bring in a glowing faggot from neighbour's house. And 
 great is their amazement and delight, should the glow of 
 the faggot die down before it is cast on the fire. For it is 
 as though their innermost thoughts had been fulfilled. 
 And " God save us from all rivals !" is the mother's 
 pious prayer. And when two women fall out and come 
 to angry words, the one will taunt the other with the
 
 84 
 
 THE LIFE-HISTOEY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 So is the 
 step- 
 mother's 
 hatred. 
 
 No peace 
 in the 
 house. 
 
 cry : " Well I never ! You must be my apok, my 
 husband's wife you're so bitter against me ! It could 
 not be else !" And words more biting never left a 
 woman's lips. 
 
 158. But if apok is an ugly word, mdtuna, or step- 
 mother, is own sister to it. And when the children 
 gather round the fire on a winter's night, and plague 
 their mother to tell them a story, many is the grisly tale 
 she has to tell of the Jealous Eival and the Wicked Step- 
 mother. And when the little lassies take out their dolls, 
 and weary of playing at weddings and mournings, they 
 will play at being stepmother. And all at once you may 
 hear them cry out in chorus : " Stepmother's peevish ! 
 Dry bread and hot pinches !" And they roar with 
 laughter as if it were a huge joke, and the little lips 
 curse the stepmother again and again. Not without 
 reason has the saying become a byword in the country. 
 For a stepmother is in truth a mighty hard taskmistress. 
 And when she's angry, as is her wont, it's " Oh, children 
 of my rival !" the whole day long. But when she's in a 
 good humour, it's " Oh, children of my husband !" But 
 she only wants something out of them, I'll be bound ; for 
 it's a dog's life she leads them. 
 
 159. Of a truth, when a rival comes in at the door, 
 peace flies out of the window. For a flouted woman will 
 stick at nothing. She will set her children against 
 their father. And at every turn she will seek the 
 undoing of her rival. If her child should sicken and 
 die, she will pour her woes into everybody's ear : it was 
 all her doing, with her wicked sorcery. And in these 
 evil days a lying tongue can do a world of mischief. She 
 has only to whisper it abroad that her rival is no better 
 than she should be ; oh yes, she could give his name, an 
 she would. For a breath of scandal means death to wife 
 and lover alike, so jealous are we of the honour of our 
 women. And on the long roll of women killed for 
 adultery and never was the recording angel more busy
 
 MAKBIAGE 85 
 
 than nowadays there's many a poor woman foully done 
 to death by the slanderous tongue of her rival. To such 
 a pass has our nice sense of honour brought us in these 
 latter days. 
 
 160. Well may a husband mourn the hour he ever Polygamy 
 took another wife to bed and board. And ruefully will 
 
 he call to mind that old saw his granny used to mumble : 
 
 Wed two for your pleasure, 
 And repent at your leisure. 
 Take a third to your bed, 
 Horns will sprout on your head. 
 But if you wed four, 
 You're damned evermore. 
 
 And as long as he lives, there's another old saw that will 
 buzz in his ears : 
 
 Oh ! what a Paradise were life 
 If one could wed but half a wife .' 
 
 161. But there's nothing to scare a widower from Re- 
 marrying again. And if he so choose, the betrothal and ^ a 8 
 wedding will be accompanied by all the pomp and widower, 
 circumstance of his first marriage. 
 
 162. But it's otherwise with a widow. For a full year Position 
 after her husband's death she lives on in his house in ^ia ow . 
 sorrowing widowhood, under the guardianship of his 
 father or brothers. And if she's well advanced in years, 
 there'll be no marrying in the question, as you may 
 guess. Nor, if she has grown-up sons, would it be a 
 seemly thing. But if her sons be tiny mites, and if she 
 
 be too weak or poor to support them, small blame to her 
 if she seeks to marry again. 
 
 163. Now when the year of mourning is over, death- The 
 feast and all, one of her husband's brothers younger or i n .i aw ' s 
 elder, it matters not a whit will come forward first and first claim - 
 foremost, if he have a mind to take her to wife. And if 
 
 she's willing, it's a very simple affair. He merely tells 
 her parents how things lie, and gives her a new set of 
 raiment, and a few womenfolk help her to don it. And
 
 86 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 he furnishes two or three sheep for a small feast, and 
 a few friends assemble to eat it and be present at the 
 marriage. Then with a mulla to read the service, it's all 
 over and done with. So you see, there's little fuss and 
 little money spent, when a man marries his brother's 
 widow. 
 
 If she 164. But if the widow eyes her husband's brothers 
 
 she seeks w ^^ disfavour, she says no to their courting. And she 
 to leave looks about her for an excuse to leave the house. Now 
 it's for her husband's heirs to support her and her 
 children in meet fashion. So she won't be long in pick- 
 ing a quarrel over the scanty fare or clothing that they 
 furnish, and sooner or later she'll part company and 
 return to her parents' roof. A child at the breast she 
 will take with her, and keep for a time. But grown-up 
 children she must leave behind. 
 
 Re- . 165. And with her parents she remains, till one comes 
 
 with one forward that would fain have her to wife. And if she 
 who is not 8a y S veg f or ma tters cannot go forward without a 
 
 a brother- * J 
 
 in-law. widow s consent there s a sliarlat-khdrl, or drinking 
 from a loving-cup in honour of the match, among a few 
 of the kin. But there's no feasting, nor ring, nor all 
 that fuss they make over the betrothal of a maiden. 
 And as for the marriage, it's no lengthy affair either. 
 The feasts and the drumming and the dancing all pass 
 off quietly. For has not the widow lost that which is 
 the pride of a maiden? Howbeit hi these latter days 
 extravagance is in the air, and our seemly customs are 
 going awry. And at times there's so much fuss made 
 over the marriage of a widow, you might think she 
 was a virgin with the best of them. The bride-price is 
 set low few would else stoop to marry a widow, I'm 
 thinking. And it goes to the heirs of her husband, as a 
 recompense for all she cost him. Yet if her mahr, or 
 dower, was never restored back to her husband, this, to 
 be sure, should be set off in part against the bride-price 
 that must be paid to his heirs.
 
 MARRIAGE 87 
 
 166. I said that the marriage of a widow cannot go The 
 forward if she withhold her consent. And this is true ofwdow 
 
 enough, should she stand up staunchly for her rights. a fruitful 
 Contrariwise, a brother-in-law can find the way to bar a quarrel. 
 widow from marriage for ever methinks, if he be a man 
 of estate and rank. The truth of the matter is that widows 
 and their remarriage are often the cause of plaguey angry 
 quarrels between two houses. And a quarrel between 
 two houses is like to grow into a feud that shall set the 
 whole countryside by the ears. Witness that bitter feud 
 which sprang up between the Mengal and the Khidrani. 
 And in that bloody feud four hundred precious lives were 
 sent to their doom, and all over a widow.
 
 SICKNESS 
 
 Natural 167. Man that is born of woman is verily born to die. 
 Yet God takes not the blame thereof on Himself, for He 
 has made disease the scapegoat. Now of some diseases 
 man is the rightful heir, by reason of the frailty and 
 sinf ulness of his nature. And of these will I speak first. 
 Touching the poor souls who are possessed with evil 
 spirits I will speak anon. 
 
 Treat- 168. Now I would not have you think that we sit idle 
 
 with folded hands when illness comes into our midst. 
 We have our cures that have been handed down from 
 generation to generation. And we have physicians 
 amongst us, and many an old granny that is cunning in 
 the use of herbs and simples. And for inoculation and 
 charms and amulets we have Sayyads and mullas and 
 other holy men. 
 
 Branding. 169. Foremost and first among our cures are the sil-d- 
 dagh, the hide and the brand. Tramp the country from 
 end to end, and find me a man with never a brand on 
 his body, if you can. Men branded all over, you'll find 
 in plenty. On what vein the brand should be set, is 
 best left to those that are wise in such things. So much 
 I know: on the left side of the belly there are more 
 brands set than elsewhere. And this is how the branding 
 is done. The sick is made to lie down, and the spot for 
 the brand is marked in black. And if there's no physician 
 at hand, an old dame takes a bit of blue rag and twists it 
 round, until it is of the fashion of a wick. To one end 
 she sets a light, and therewith she slowly dabs the vein 
 again and yet again. Though the sick man shrink with the 
 smart of the burning, the dabbing must go on for all his
 
 SICKNESS 89 
 
 moans and groans. But as soon as the smart thrills his 
 flesh no more, 'tis a sign that the brand is all that a 
 brand should be. And there she leaves it, till it blisters 
 to an open sore. Then she makes an ointment with 
 sundur* and murddsiny] and wax and ghee, and smearing 
 it on a rag anoints the wound withal. 
 
 170. And lives without number have been saved with The hide 
 
 BBH 
 
 a sil, or hide, in this wise. In the morning we slaughter 
 a sheep or goat, and flay it. Then we strip the sick 
 man of his clothes in a room screened from every breath 
 of wind. Forthwith we wrap him in the hide, still warm 
 from the flaying. And over him we pile blankets and 
 rugs, that the hide may suck out the distemper in the 
 sweat of his body, as he lies in a sound slumber. But 
 the beast that was slaughtered is roasted, and the 
 flesh is given to his kin and neighbours and friends. 
 Yet a morsel thereof is surely first roasted and given to 
 him that is sick; else would the flesh lose its savour. 
 And at midday or sunset he issues from the hide and 
 dons his clothes all unwashed ; and unwashed he must 
 remain for full three days. 
 
 171. This is that cure we call sil; and a mighty fine ^? s rent 
 cure it is. Yet it must not be used blindly, but subtly according 
 according to the sex of the sick and the season of the year, 
 
 For if it be a man or a lad that is sick, 'tis a she-goat or 
 a ewe that should be flayed ; but the hide of a he-goat or 
 a ram must be taken for one of the womenfolk. A sheep 
 in the winter, a goat in the summer that's the way of 
 the wise : for all the world knows that a sheep is as 
 heating as a goat is cooling. And from among the goats 
 better pick out one that's ruddy or bluish, for these are 
 the most medicinal of all. But you'll have to pay all 
 the more for them on that score, I warn you. 
 
 172. The wilder folk, aye, and others too, sometimes Kh 
 seek to drive away the disease by fright. For as the or 
 poor fellow lies on his bed, dreaming of nothing but his 
 
 * Bed lead. t Litharge.
 
 90 THE LIFE-HISTOEY OF A BKAHUI 
 
 own sorry plight, up rushes one of the kin pursued by 
 another with sword in hand and wrath on face ; or a 
 gun is fired in his ears ; or there's a sudden cry of 
 "Fire!" or "Snake!" or "Murder!" Or, without a 
 word of warning, we topple him over into an icy stream. 
 And he's scared out of his wits and breaks forth into a 
 great sweat, please God, and is quit of his disease of 
 his fever or wasting sickness or whatever it be. 
 tortoise 173. Touching our drugs and simples, I will say 
 egg cure, somewhat when I treat of the divnrs ailments. But 
 haply you've never dreamt of borrowing strength from 
 the sarkuk, or tortoise. Now though the tortoise hides 
 her eggs in the bushes, she's lucky indeed if they escape 
 the shepherd's keen eye. For he pounces on them 
 greedily, and sells them in the village. And they 
 are stored in the huts against the day of sickness. 
 Now a tortoise egg zartol we call it by-the-by is 
 cooked as soon as it's gathered, for fear the young 
 should hatch out. And when the need arises, we 
 pound it to powder, and mix a pinch thereof with a 
 pinch of pounded dill. Thrice a day for full three days 
 do we give the sick a dose in water or melted ghee. And 
 for full seven lei after the last dose and two bel, you 
 must know, go to a day he may eat nothing save un- 
 salted bread with ghee or butter. Of a truth the 
 tortoise egg is a food that lends strength to them that 
 are weak and wasting away. 
 
 Amulets 174. Nevertheless, forasmuch as the labour of sinful 
 charms. man i s often labour lost, we arm ourselves with hudda, or 
 charms ; with tavlz, or amulets ; and with band, or knotted 
 threads, got from holy men. Now as soon as a man falls 
 sick, folks think that some enemy is at the bottom of it 
 with his sorcery. For sorcery is abroad in the land ; 
 and of all the artful sorcerers in the world a ZikrI 
 mulla is the worst of the lot, I assure you. And the 
 best safeguard against sorcery is surely some charm. 
 Now in the old days, Heaven knows where our
 
 SICKNESS 91 
 
 fathers got their charms from. For they used to dabble 
 in dark and unholy charms ; but the knowledge of 
 such has all but died out of the country, and the man 
 that would seek them out had best go seeking in far-off 
 Bengal. In these days our charms are holy charms, 
 verses from the Koran, or sayings of the saints, or the 
 like. Well, some pious man mumbles a charm over the 
 sick ; and having so done, he breathes heavily upon him, 
 as though he were puffing the calamity away. But if the 
 sick man be at a distance, he takes a cup of water, and 
 breathes over it instead, as he utters the charm. As for 
 amulets, they are charms that are written down, and tied 
 round wrist or neck or waist or other part of the body. But 
 many holy men who can neither write nor yet read would 
 have us believe that a band is better than all the amulets 
 and charms put together. So they take a thread and a 
 blue thread they think the best for their purpose and 
 in it they knot some knots, mumbling magic words the 
 while. And the knotted thread is given to the sick, to be 
 tied round his neck. 
 
 175. Furthermore we bestow alms in the hope that we Kha-irat, 
 may purchase therewith health for him that is sick. And if 
 
 the sickness is a grievous sickness, those that have riches 
 often bid their handmaids and serfs be free in God's name, 
 and go whithersoever they will. Such charity, they are 
 assured, will verily win favour in the sight of God. Yet 
 have I heard of serfs who are loth to quit their masters 
 in this fashion : on the Day of Judgment they would have 
 trouble enough with their own sins, they should think, 
 without having the sins of their masters bundled on to 
 their shoulders into the bargain. 
 
 176. Moreover, we have an advocate with God in the Lr**. 
 
 earth 
 
 ptr, or saint, of the household. Nay, rather, most folks taken 
 worship their saint with greater awe than they worship Jjrin^of 
 God. For ask a man to swear by God, and he'll swear the family 
 briskly enough. Yet ask him to swear by his saint, and S 
 he'll go all of a tremble, and there'll be a mighty pother
 
 92 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 to get the oath out of him. So 'tis to the saints we turn 
 whenever it goes ill with us. Now in every house the 
 womenfolk keep some earth we call Miwarda or Jchurda, 
 taken from the shrine of the saint of the family against 
 their hour of need. And the first cure the troubled 
 housewife will essay is to give the sick a bit thereof to 
 swallow. And she prays to the saint to grant them his 
 aid, vowing to offer up to his holiness this or that in 
 return. Now if the father of the house has one saint and 
 the mother yet another, they worship severally. But 
 the children must follow the father's saint first and fore- 
 most ; and thereafter 'tis meet they show reverence 
 to the saint of the mother. Thus the first shaving of the 
 head must be dedicated to the saint of the father, but 
 the second shaving or a portion thereof should surely be 
 dedicated to the saint of the mother. So if a child be 
 sick and the father's saint seem of no avail, the mother 
 will not be backward to see what her saint can do. And 
 should the child be made whole, she won't let the neigh- 
 bours hear the last of it for many a long day. 
 Sacrifice 177. Not that we content ourselves with prayers and 
 saints. vows. For as soon as illness comes into the house, 
 knives are whetted for the slaughter of a beast from our 
 flocks as a sacrifice and peace-offering. Now there are 
 shrines dotted up and down the country ; and hard by 
 every shrine of holiness there's a kosh-jahl, or altar, for 
 the sacrifice of blood. And one serves at the shrine and 
 sees to the sacrifice, flaying the beast and dividing the 
 flesh. To him is allotted a set portion of the sacrifice. 
 One fpre-leg, the breast-piece, four ribs, and the hide are 
 commonly his portion. And though he may be covetous 
 of filthy lucre, and demand more money than the wor- 
 shippers may offer, yet for more than his allotted portion 
 of the flesh does he never ask. And the flesh that is left 
 over is carved into as many shares as there are folk pre- 
 sent at the sacrifice. And lots are cast, and each takes 
 the share that falls to his lot. But at the shrine of Plr
 
 SICKNESS 93 
 
 Dopasi in Dhadar, the keeper of the shrine cries : 
 "Lutt e !" It's free spoil ! as soon as he has flayed the 
 beast ; and those that stand around pounce upon it, as 
 though it were loot. 
 
 178. But if the sick seem sorely nigh unto death, we 
 are not over-hasty to slaughter our beasts. Despair itself 
 cannot rob us of our wits. We make a compact with God vow f 
 that should the sick be indeed spared unto us, such and 
 such a beast will be sacrificed in His honour. One of the 
 
 kin takes in his hand a tal or a shank, a green stalk 
 or a green twig, and strikes the beast therewith, saying : 
 "Even as I strike thee thus, even so will I surely 
 sacrifice thee in God's Name, let but tjhe sick become 
 whole. Prove then an acceptable sacrifice unto God 
 and take this calamity from us." Thrice is the beast 
 struck, and thrice is the vow uttered. And if it be a 
 goat or a sheep that is struck, it is tethered apart from 
 the flock. But on the ear of a bullock we tie a bit of 
 cotton, in token that it is vowed unto God. 
 
 179. And if our prayers are heard and the sick The sick 
 becomes whole, the beast is sacrificed, and its flesh is O f thf *' 
 given to the poor and the neighbours. Yet he that was sacrifice, 
 sick and is now whole may not eat thereof, nor may any 
 other that was lately in like case, or the sickness will 
 surely cleave unto him again. And it were well if the 
 
 kin refrain from the flesh, lest the scourge of which 
 they are quit come upon them once more. 
 
 180. Now if it be a horse or a camel or other beast Making, or 
 of great value that we would vow unto God, we do not ^i, il" 
 vow to sacrifice it, but vow to sell it at a price and to P lae . e of 
 give the money in alms to the poor. And if the* sick be 
 restored to health, we sell the beast sure enough. Yet 
 
 we sell it at a false price that falls far short of its value ; 
 and for a like sum we buy it back, and spend as much 
 on alms, or on sheep or goats for sacrifice. 
 
 181. Now from some of the diseases to which man Inevitable 
 is heir, he may, God willing, escape. But from some lseases>
 
 94 THE LIFE-HISTOBY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 there is no escape, and these we call dein. These 
 are diseases that will surely overtake a man, be it soon 
 or be it late. And the most dread of all such is smallpox ; 
 for even if a man live his life unscathed by the scourge, 
 it will verily pursue him to the grave and feast to the 
 full on his vile body. Nay, the very stones cannot 
 escape its clutches : witness the pock-marks on such 
 you learned folk call fossils. 
 
 Ptitau 182. At the first approach of smallpox in the neigh- 
 
 p? " bourhood a mother has no rest until her children are 
 inoculated at the hands of some holy man. Happily there 
 are always Sayyads moving up and down the country, 
 inoculating as they go. And there are people we call 
 Shai or Kaherl, who often visit the camps in the summer 
 season on the same quest. In some parts indeed are 
 these holy men eyed askance, and there be folks that 
 call them the harbingers of the dread disease. Fools 
 they are and ingrates, little better than those impious 
 Zikrl of Makran, who will have nothing to do with Say- 
 yads at all, so froward are they and deaf to the true 
 Faith. 
 
 Inocula- 183. Now in Kalat there's a lady, a Chishtl Sayyad 
 of great holiness, whose inoculation is prized above all. 
 Womenfolk and lads are inoculated in her very presence 
 by her khalifa, or disciple, and are then touched with the 
 hem of her head-dress. But men may not come into 
 her presence, and must perforce go without the healing 
 blessing of her touch. And this is how the inoculation 
 is done. On the right wrist the khalifa makes a small 
 cut with a razor. Into the cut he puts some pullur, 
 or smallpox husks, and wraps it round with a white 
 bandage. And if you ask where the husks come from, 
 why, he that is inoculated is straitly enjoined to bring 
 some in, when he or any of his household are attacked. 
 Hence it is that the stock never runs low. 
 
 Sayyad 184. And those of Jhalawan can boast of a mighty 
 wonderful razor to inoculate withal. For in the olden
 
 SICKNESS 95 
 
 time there was a right holy man, Sayyad Sallm Sha. Sha's 
 
 r&7or 
 
 And daily there came about him a great throng of people, 
 that he should rid the smallpox out of their midst. And 
 being sore beset by their entreaties, he called to one of 
 his disciples, and put a razor in his hand, and bade him 
 go forth and inoculate the people. But the disciple 
 would not take the razor ; for he was a man of little 
 faith, and feared the people. So the saint spake unto 
 the razor ; and lo ! poxes came out upon it. And he 
 spake yet again ; and lo ! the razor became whole, save 
 only for the pock-marks, which endure to this day. For 
 to this day is the razor in use, and Shakar, Shawani, is 
 the proud man that owns it. And this is the virtue 
 thereof as many pock-marks as there be thereon, so 
 many poxes and no more will appear on him that is 
 inoculated therewith. 
 
 185. Now as soon as the scourge enters a household, Tveat- 
 the mother bustles off in alarm to the village shop, and ra 
 entreats the Hindu lady of the house to come and look 
 upon the sick, that they may know of a surety whether 
 he is sick of the smallpox or no. So the Hindu dame 
 goes back with her to the house. And she sniffs the hot 
 hands of the sick ; and if she smells the smell of small- 
 pox, she straitly orders the sick to be curtained off 
 behind a killa, that none may come nigh him. In the 
 room where he lies no food may be cooked. Nor, until 
 he be whole, may the people of the household wash their 
 heads or put on a change of apparel ; for the Hindu dame 
 knows well that this would surely displease the small- 
 pox goddess. On the morrow she looks in again. And 
 if she finds pocks on the body, she calls the mother 
 in, that she may gaze thereon, and lay her warnings to 
 heart. Yet if the pocks are reddish, she bids her be of 
 good cheer ; all will be well in the end. But if they 
 seem blackish to her eye, she shakes her head sadly ; for 
 black is the colour of mourning and death. Now if it's 
 a babe at the breast that's stricken down, we feed the
 
 96 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 mother on mutton and other heating diet. For with 
 smallpox all cooling foods must be eschewed. And 
 there's nothing like boiled juniper berries for those that 
 are grown-up, unless it be draughts of scalding tea, 
 spiced with ginger and cinnamon and pepper and sugar. 
 But this, to be sure, only the rich can afford. Now when 
 the Hindu lady comes to visit the sick for the third time, 
 she sits her down before him, and in her Hindki tongue 
 she sings hymns in praise of the smallpox goddess. 
 And on the seventh day she smears the sick all over with 
 butter, and bathes him down with lukewarm water, 
 never ceasing from hymning the praises of the goddess, 
 while she's busied over the task. And in due course, by 
 God's leave, the sick becomes whole. Well, this is what 
 the villagers do. But the people of the wilds, far away 
 from shops and Hindus, must just get along as best as 
 they may with their own old ladies, with never a Hindu 
 dame to help them. And woe to the poor wretch in 
 Makran who falls a victim to smallpox, or grumpuk as 
 they call it there. For he's driven out of house and 
 home, and out of the village, and is left to languish 
 alone. None will come nigh him, save only such as have 
 been stricken with smallpox before. 
 Trinzuk jgg. Now if a child is for ever picking its nose, 'tis a 
 
 (chicken- . . . 
 
 pox). sure sign to the anxious mother that it's ailing. So she 
 scratches its nose with the lower end of the collar of her 
 shift. And if this is of no avail, she will essay to stop the 
 mischief by scratching its nose with the sole of her shoe. 
 But should the child nevertheless have fever for three days 
 running and grow peevish and fretful, she dreads some 
 grim clein or other. If it's only trlnzuk, or chicken-pox, 
 after all, she makes light of it. The child, to be sure, is 
 kept apart, but less for fear it pass on the distemper to 
 another, than for fear the sight of some one unclean should 
 make the fever worse. And a sheep is slaughtered, and 
 the heart and liver and lungs are roasted and given to the 
 sick child to bring out the rash. But if this fails, ewe's
 
 SICKNESS 97 
 
 milk is boiled and given well sweetened. And once the 
 rash is out, we feed the child with a cooling diet. 
 
 187. But if the poor mite has burning fever and a Surkhuk 
 running nose and a vexing cough, it looks mighty like 
 surkkuk, which is a very different matter. So it's best to 
 
 call in a Hindu lady for her counsel. And though all 
 others say no, take her word for it, should she say yes. 
 And if there's no rash, seek to bring it out with the heating 
 diet used for trlnzuk. But if the red rash comes out of 
 its own accord, forbear. For now's the time for a cooling 
 diet ; and if the poor thing is thirsty, give it a cup of 
 goat's milk. And on the seventh day its body should be 
 smeared with butter and bathed down with lukewarm 
 water. And the bedding and the clothes must be 
 changed, for the disease has run its course. Yet so 
 heating is surkhuk, there's danger it may have pierced 
 holes in the bowels. Hence best give the child for three 
 days before breakfast an ounce of antimony wrapped in 
 the fat of a goat's guts, to patch up the holes withal. 
 And though the child be now restored to health, he 
 must feed on rice and milk and slops for full forty days. 
 Yet how many have been nursed through surkhuk back 
 to life, only to be killed by kindness with sweetmeats and 
 dainties ! 
 
 188. Among the ailments that are the common lot of Kh 
 man is the cough we call khartitd. Happy is he who 
 escapes it in childhood, for in the fullness of age it's of cou g'')- 
 little account. Among the young it works havoc. At 
 
 the first no drugs are given the child, lest the cough be 
 checked and seek an exit by piercing the lungs. Yet is 
 he kept apart, he and his bedding and his platters. Nor 
 may he eat cold food or rice or any oily substance. The 
 poor mite coughs and whoops, and whoops and coughs. 
 Lord, how he whoops ! Nevertheless, the worse the 
 cough, the better. And if it ends in a whoop like the 
 crow of a cock, the mother's hopes run high. And if it 
 so racks him that he breaks wind, the worst is surely 
 
 7
 
 98 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 over. Not that he is left to struggle unaided. Once or 
 twice in the day we give him a draught of water mixed 
 with the juice of walnut bark, and khushdar, or liquorice. 
 But best of all is a handful of powder made from the 
 dried head of a hare, given each morning for three days. 
 So now you know the meaning of those hares' heads you 
 see stored up in our huts. 
 
 Kazar 189. Most babes have to pass through a bout of kazar. 
 
 theria?). It begins with low fever and purging. The tiny body 
 becomes frailer and frailer, but the head larger and yet 
 more large: And if the pit in the nape of the neck 
 grows deep, 'tis a sign to any old granny that overmuch 
 crying has brought about the dropping of the addl, or 
 tonsils. So at dawn she dips her second finger in salt 
 and ashes or powdered thyme, and thrusts it down the 
 babe's throat and lifts the addl up. Thrice is this done, 
 but always right early in the morning. But if the fever 
 does not abate, the kin slaughter a bullock or a goat, and 
 take out the stomach, guts and all. And in the stomach 
 they slit a hole and stuff the babe within, that only head 
 and neck peep out. There it nestles for four hours, or 
 maybe more. And when it is taken out, it is wiped 
 with a rag ; for three full days there must be no washing. 
 And they soak some thyme or other cold herb overnight, 
 and the babe is given the water to drink on the morrow. 
 And in a fortnight, God willing, it is free of the kazar. 
 Nevertheless, the poor thing may well be frail after all 
 its trouble. So they fatten it with tortoise eggs, powdered 
 up with a little dill. And if it is still at the breast, the 
 mother may eat no salt with her bread for full five days. 
 So the babe waxes fat, and once whole is like to be free 
 from kazar ever after. 
 
 pfishar 190. "What with the biting winter and the cool summer 
 
 1 *'' nights, a cold is common any time of the year. For 
 
 three days a man suffers his cold to run its course. Yet 
 
 he eats and drinks by himself, and keeps his platters 
 
 apart. On the fourth day he takes dallda, a pottage of
 
 SICKNESS 99 
 
 kharrumen, or parched green wheat, for supper, but 
 never a drop of water. And if he sinks off into a sound 
 slumber, with luck he will soon be himself again. 
 Another fine old cure is made of the herb gandarem, 
 which is stocked in most houses by the ruder folk. A 
 few leaves are boiled in water and given just before bed- 
 time. Then, with a good sleep and a good sweat, a 
 man should shake off the cold. But many of our old 
 herbs have been ousted by tea ever since the last Afghan 
 war ; for a caravan laden with bales and bales of tea was 
 looted in the Bolan, and tea passed from hand to hand 
 throughout the country. And the hill-folk use it as a 
 cure for colds to this day. But the villagers, and those 
 of Sarawan above all, learnt to drink it for their pleasure, 
 and had to turn elsewhere for a physic. So they took 
 to barsh, a drug made of opium, pellitory, ginger, saffron, 
 pepper, and other spices, taken in honey and green tea, 
 often with a pinch of the powdered testicles of an otter. 
 But the drug, though pleasant enough, is mighty costly, 
 and has been the rum of many a man that has been 
 seized with a craving for it. So most folks who have 
 colds and scoff at the old-fashioned cures use opium 
 instead. 
 
 191. But let a man physic his cold never so much, it 
 may turn to a cough. Then may he eat neither goat's 
 flesh nor rice, for both are cold foods. Three nights 
 running must he take a draught of water in which the 
 plant charmaing has been well boiled, leaves and stumps 
 and all. And if this fail to ease his pain, we boil 
 faushdar roots and walnut bark, and give him the potion 
 sweetened with sugar. But if all will not do, we try yet 
 another potion, made of the gum of the tamarisk, well 
 seasoned with pepper. 
 
 192. Any old body in the country can tell you how to Khan bash 
 escape sore eyes. Just pluck a kunchit, or sesame flower, (^hthai'- 
 and say: "Oh kunchit, keep my eyes in your keeping mia - etc ) 
 for one whole year, I conjure you." And so sajing,
 
 100 THE LIFE-HISTOEY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 Kdtumna 
 khalh 
 (neural- 
 gia, etc.). 
 
 Dandan 
 nusing, 
 grinding 
 the teeth 
 in one's 
 sleep. 
 
 Kahv 
 
 (dyspep- 
 sia, etc.). 
 
 swallow the flower whole, and never let it touch the 
 teeth. And as many flowers as you charm and gulp 
 down in this wise, for so many years will you be safe. 
 Now should one of your eyes be afflicted, never look in 
 the glass, or the eye that is afflicted will surely afflict 
 the eye that is sound from jealousy, old wives say. If 
 your brother has sore eyes, don't play with him. And 
 every time you come nigh him, mind you sing out : " Your 
 eyes are of gold, and mine are of dung!" if you would 
 avert the evil. It's all so simple, that one wonders why 
 sore eyes are so common throughout the country. 
 
 193. "Womenfolk often suffer from aching heads, yet 
 they oil them and bandage them and take snuff, and 
 the ache is gone. Or if their own devices are in vain, 
 they can go to a holy man for a charm or an amulet. 
 But in the winter even a hardy man may be racked with 
 a pain in his head. Then had he best sit facing the sun 
 as it rises, and snuff up some powder made from crushed 
 kaifal bark, that he may sneeze the ache away. 
 
 194. Perhaps you may not account it an illness to 
 grind the teeth in one's sleep. And indeed in a boy or 
 a man 'tis a mighty lucky token ; for he will surely grind 
 his teeth on the head of his enemy. But it's far other- 
 wise with a girl or a woman. And it were best to stop it 
 betimes, lest grievous misfortunes befall the household. 
 Now the first cure we essay is that the girl must drink 
 out of a kettle for some days. And the mother keeps 
 watch at her bed by night, and at the first grinding she 
 slaps her soundly as she sleeps. But if this be of no 
 avail, we see what amulets and charms will do. Yet to 
 tie a broken harp-string round the girl's neck is the 
 safest cure of all. 
 
 195. Common enough is the ailment we call kahv, 
 which bears down like a weight on the belly, and racks 
 it with pain. Many a child has it carried off, and many 
 a young mother after the agony of childbirth. We have 
 a physic for it we call kahvl, an ounce of crushed pepper
 
 SICKNESS 101 
 
 in five times as much of ghee. And yet the hide and the 
 brand are the best after all, I dare say. Even full-grown 
 men fall victims to kahv, mostly when the mulberries 
 are ripe. For old wives know well that it comes from 
 gorging on mulberries and the swilling of milk. And if 
 the pain waxes great, and hides and brands and the rest 
 prove of no avail, it will haply turn to that deadly colic 
 of which I shall presently speak. 
 
 196. Aches and pains there be without number. Yet Kb 
 when a man says he's suffering from khalh, or pain, he 
 means the griping pain of colic. So common is it, that 
 many a man carries about with him a dose of kahvl, 
 
 to give him ease. Or he keeps by him a dose of kavall, 
 a powder made by pounding plun-pidll,* bo-i-madran,-f 
 inarm utk, I noshadir, chashsham, jaukdr, zaghmana-be,\\ 
 and maund-pilpil.^i But a shepherd never troubles 
 himself about such drugs. He has but to pluck wild thyme 
 from the nearest bush and chew it, till the pain is gone. 
 
 197. Yet for all our drugs and herbs, colic and kahv JQ 
 
 asi 
 
 alike may turn to khalh-i-dsl, that deadly colic when 
 hands and feet grow icy cold. Then indeed the kin fear 
 the worst, and that right early. Howbeit they rest not 
 from their ministrations. With a draught of pounded 
 yiuach mixed with water they seek to make the sufferer 
 vomit. And if this be of no avail, they kill a fowl and 
 rend it asunder and tie it around his belly, guts and 
 feathers and all. But if the physician thinks that it is 
 kahv that has brought the wretch to such a plight, he 
 acts in this wise. First he rubs the kahvana ragh, the 
 vein that runs down the left side of the belly not with 
 oil, for that would cause the greater mischief but with 
 water. But if this brings no relief, neither from motions 
 nor from vomiting, the vein must be branded. Yet the 
 time methinks has come to sacrifice sheep and goats, 
 
 * Matricaria lusiocarpa. f Acliillea santolina, Stocks. 
 
 I Boucerosia aucheriana. Sal ammoniac. 
 
 || Rock-salt. ^1 Black pepper.
 
 102 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 nay, rather so piteous is the case to dedicate them to 
 God, if haply it will please Him to snatch the poor 
 wretch from the very jaws of death. 
 
 198. If a man wash down rice or oily food with a 
 attack), draught of water, or munch sweetmeats after filling his 
 belly with vegetables, he may look to a bout of kaval. 
 His face will turn yellow, his mouth will taste bitter, 
 desire for food will fail, and drowsiness will overpower 
 him. Then he had best take a pinch of kavall thrice a 
 day in a little water. Or let him take the juice 
 squeezed from green karkdva with a little pitki, or 
 alum, the first thing in the morning for three days. 
 If these fail, brand him lightly behind the ear. Others 
 pour a little oil and water in a pot at sunrise, and 
 put it on his head, and stir it with some green plant. 
 And as soon as the oil and water mingle, they throw the 
 mess into a running stream ; and thereby he should find 
 relief. 
 
 Zardoi 199. But if nothing be done, and the sickness runs its 
 jau ice . courge ^ ft w ju surely turn to zardol. Everything grows 
 
 yellow, face and eyes and body, and his water is as 
 blood. Round his neck we tie a red onion, and there 
 we leave it till he becomes whole. And when it dries 
 and turns yellow, 'tis a sign that the sickness is slacken- 
 ing its grip. Many and divers are the cures we essay. 
 Among wild folk, the sick is given the urine of a rutting 
 camel mixed with alum, to break his fast withal. Others 
 give him draughts of vinegar and water. But those who 
 have seen something of the world soak two dry figs over- 
 night in vinegar, and give them to the sick man at 
 dawn. On the morrow he must take three, and the day 
 after four, until the dose rises to nine. Then it drops 
 one by one, day by day, until at the last it drops to 
 nothing. And if he isn't whole by then, 'tis passing 
 strange. 
 
 200. But the weirdest cure of all have I kept to the 
 jaundice- last. Folks search for a nest of new-born vultures. 
 
 stone.
 
 SICKNESS 103 
 
 And as soon as the mother's back is turned, they smear 
 the nestlings with turmeric. And when the mother 
 finds her young as yellow as yellow can be, small blame 
 to her if she thinks them stricken with zardoi. Off she 
 flies for the zardolnd khal, a stone whose whereabouts she 
 alone knows. And into the nest she pops it, the silly bird. 
 And sure enough, the yellow drops off the young ones 
 as the days go by. But after a week back come the 
 villagers to the nest, and pick out the stone, and go on 
 their way rejoicing. And they tie it round the sick 
 man's neck to his great comfort and speedy health. A 
 wondrous stone this, say you ; and so say I though truth 
 to tell, Fve not clapped eyes on it yet. 
 
 201. Dilol often follows on the heels of zardoi if it be DUm 
 not checked betimes. And the body wastes away, save ^ sp 
 only the spleen, which waxes fat. Now the disease is as 
 common among those that live on rice, as it is rare among 
 those that drink the milk of the camel. Hence it is that 
 
 we withhold rice from one that is sick of the spleen, 
 and give him camel's milk to drink. But first we 
 make the camel thrice swish her tail in the milk, for this 
 lends virtue to the draught, and makes the sick man 
 purge. (So if you're hale and hearty and ask a camel- 
 man for a drink, best keep your eyes open, or he'll dip 
 the camel's tail in the pail to your vast discomfort.) 
 But there are other cures. Some try vinegar or figs, 
 as for zardoi. And others gather a great pile of ripe 
 radishes, and peel them and chop them up, and salt 
 them well, and put them in a pot, and leave the pot over- 
 night on the house-top. And in the morning the sick 
 man must break his fast by eating the whole pile. 
 Thrice is he given this diet, once every other day. 
 
 202. Yet those maybe are wisest after all who call a Spleen- 
 Chishtl Sayyad to aid. In his holy hands they place a ^the 8 
 keen sword. And he makes him that is sick lie down Sayyads. 
 before him, with belly bared to the air. Then uttering 
 strange charms on the blade, he presses it with both
 
 104 THE LIFE-HISTOBY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 hands firmly against the belly, and keeps it thus for a 
 space, before he suffers him to arise. For three days is 
 this done, or ever the sick man breaks his fast. In this 
 wise is his spleen cut down. Indeed thereafter he some- 
 times passes blood with his water, which is surely proof 
 and to spare of the saint's powers. 
 
 Heart 203. Now if the kin fear that the sick is suffering from 
 
 a weak heart, or peradventure has 'lost heart altogether, 
 they make him lie down. And they take a cup of water, 
 and hold it over his left breast. Then they melt a 
 leaden bullet and drop the molten lead into the cup. 
 And eagerly they look at the shape of the lead in the 
 water. For if it has taken on the fashion of a heart, 
 with the man's heart there can be little amiss. Other- 
 wise they must make essay over and over again. And if 
 they still fail, the man is surely in evil case. 
 
 Hiih 204. Fever we have always with us. But in the 
 
 ( fever ) 
 
 spring and the fall of the year it's at its worst, and some 
 parts, like Kh5zdar and Baghwana and Zahri, have an 
 evil name above all others. Divers though the fevers, 
 one and all are left to run their course for the first three 
 days. No drugs are given. The sick man lies on his 
 bed, with blanket piled upon blanket, to bring him out 
 into a sweat. But when the three days are over, we 
 drug him with a will. Nowadays there's never a man 
 that has not heard of quinine, and does not try to come 
 by it. Howbeit it has not wholly ousted the good old 
 drugs and herbs of our fathers, and it is of these that I 
 would speak. First among them is the piun-pulll* It 
 is soaked overnight, and a draught of the water is given 
 to the sick at dawn and every three hours thereafter. If 
 he suffers from the cold fever hilh-larza, that is, or 
 ague the water is first boiled. This indeed is the 
 common way drugs are given : in scalding water in the 
 winter, and in cold water in the summer, and surely 
 there is sense in it. But if the fever does not break, we 
 
 * Matricaria lusiocarpa.
 
 ;. SICKNESS 105 
 
 take two pots. In the one we put a little riish,* and 
 in the other some cold water. Seven times is water 
 poured from the one pot and shaken in the other, to 
 cleanse the rush withal. And neither pot may touch the 
 ground, lest virtue go out of the rush. And after the 
 nlsJi has been seven times drenched, it is handed to the 
 sick to drink. And if this be of no avail, I guess we 
 will not be slack to try the hide and the brand. 
 
 205. There's a strange old cure we call kaltdp for a fever 
 that follows on a chill. The kin take seven stones, as 
 large maybe as apricots, and fling them in the fire. And 
 on the fire they put a kettle of water. And when the 
 kettle begins to sing, they add some chopped straw or 
 some simsok.^ And so they leave it to boil. But the sick 
 man is wrapped in a blanket, and made to sit in front of 
 a cauldron. Therein they pour the boiling water, and 
 into the water they plunge one by one the stones that 
 are now red hot. And the smoke and the heat rise up 
 into his nostrils, as he crouches and sniffs over the 
 cauldron. And after the space of about five minutes 
 they lay him back in his bed, and pile on the rugs. And 
 if he comes out into a muck sweat, so that even his feet 
 are moist, they rejoice, for the fever has left him. 
 
 206. But for two or three days he may not issue forth Pre - 
 
 . , ,, . , T , ill cautions 
 
 into the air. Nor may he eat parched wheat nor any during 
 boiled flesh till the new moon appear, lest the fever convales - 
 
 cence. 
 
 overtake him anew. Yet to stay that ravening hunger 
 that comes upon a man after fever and is called chuh, 
 they slaughter a sheep in the summer, as you may 
 guess, a goat and roast the flesh, and let him eat his 
 fill. But if he eat of the flesh of a fowl within a fort- 
 night, he will verily be stricken with sitdnl, the fever 
 that strikes a man every third day. 
 
 207. Now all fevers, for aught I know, may well be the Sitani, or 
 invention of the Jinns. At least so folk say. But that (quintan 
 the Jinns are at the bottom of sitanl, hardly a man fever )- 
 
 * Sisymbrium SopJiia. t Nepeta glomerulosa.
 
 106 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 could be found to doubt. So why trouble about drugs ? 
 Best go to some holy man for an amulet ; unless, to be 
 sure, you've some pdto grains in the house, whereof 
 I spoke when I spoke of the bridal. 
 
 Yak-tski 208. As for the fever that comes on every other day, 
 fever*" we treat it at first like any other fever. But if it clings 
 to the man, we go to one that was born a twin, and 
 give him a blue thread, and bid him knot it in five or 
 seven places. And the knotted thread is hung round 
 the sick man's neck, and keeps the fever at a distance. 
 Howbeit some folks think it better to make a doll, and 
 dress it up in gaudy colours, for all the world like a lady 
 of honour. And early on the morrow when the fever is 
 due, one of the kin rouses the sick man from his 
 slumber, and making him take the doll and some parched 
 wheat in his hand, he leads him to a lonely tree, where 
 none can see him, and there he leaves him. And 
 beneath the tree the sick man seats the doll, and in her 
 lap he pours the parched wheat, and says : " Poor thing, 
 keep my fever with you, I pray you." And having so 
 said, he hurries away with never a backward look, lest 
 the fever come upon him again. 
 
 Nanans. 209. Amulets are best against the nanand liilh, or duz- 
 (night- ' n '^ as some call it, that fever that comes like a thief in 
 fever). foe night, and is gone before the rising of the sun. 
 Howbeit a mother will not fail to try her hand at a 
 cure. When the sick is wrapped in slumber, she lays a 
 wooden ladle in the bed by his side, so stealthily that he 
 knows naught of it. And with luck the fever leaves 
 him. Or haply she will go to work more cunningly still. 
 She will pilfer some little thing from the house of 
 some peppery old neighbour. For, says she, he will fly 
 into a rage when he finds the thing gone, and will abuse 
 the thief roundly, and the abuse will scare the fever 
 away. But once the fever has gone for good and all, 
 she will send the thing back to her neighbour with many 
 a pretty word of thanks. Now in Kalat there are fakirs
 
 SICKNESS 107 
 
 of the Saint Bed, past-masters at ridding a man of the 
 night-fever. At nightfall one of them comes to the sick- 
 bed, stick in hand, and cries aloud this Dehwari doggerel : 
 
 That villain, that bastard, 
 
 Whom asses have fostered, 
 
 Whose dam's Hindustani, 
 
 Whose sire's Khorasdnl, 
 
 Who works mischief by night ! 
 
 Here lie shall not, he shall not alight/ 
 
 At each of the four corners of the bed he calls out the 
 charm. Then with a dole of bread for his wage he 
 straightway leaves the house, and never looks behind 
 him, lest the charm be broken. But if a Bed fakir be 
 not to hand, some man in the household who knows the 
 charm takes his place, and gets his dole of bread, just as 
 if he were one of the holy men himself. Three nights 
 running must folks act in this wise to fulfil the charm. 
 
 210. Of all fevers the most dread is balld-hilh, ih Q 
 
 . , m . . ..... (typhus). 
 
 great fever. Tis a very grievous visitation from on 
 
 high, and meet is it indeed to beseech God's pardon, 
 offering up sacrifices of sheep and goats, and propitiating 
 the Sayyads and saints and holy men. And these are 
 the signs thereof. The man rolls about, racked in a 
 burning fever, his eyes all bloodshot, his talk witless and 
 wild. At these signs we take him up and lay him 
 alone in a room, where none but those who nurse him 
 may enter. Or if needs must, we curtain him off in a 
 corner of the common room. And not only the sick-bed, 
 but the house and the very village are shunned by the 
 neighbourhood. For it is in truth a very deadly disease, 
 that passes lightly from one man to another. Now for 
 the first three days, as is our wont, we do not physic 
 the poor wretch. Small wonder then, if he die outright, 
 so swift and sudden is the disease. But when the three 
 days are out, we give him some heating food and drugs. 
 And a fatted sheep is slaughtered, and the heart and the 
 liver and the lungs are boiled and given him to eat. For 
 were they not given to the sick, the disease would batten
 
 108 THE LIFE-HISTOEY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 on his heart and his liver and his lungs, you may take 
 my word for it. This is what we believe, but if the man 
 of science scoffs at us, we must just let him scoff. Then 
 we pile blankets and rugs on him, that he may sleep 
 and sweat. And in the evening we give him a draught 
 of water in which seeds of the juniper have been 
 drenched, to make him sweat the more. Now this is 
 the course of the disease. On the third day it presses a 
 man sore ; on the seventh it waxes in strength, until on 
 the ninth it is at its height. And if the sick can battle 
 through that day, there's hope he may battle through 
 to the end. Yet must his kin be ever on the watch. 
 For on the fifteenth day the disease seizes him very 
 grievously, and on the twenty-first it makes a last effort 
 to snatch the life away. And even though the man 
 escape the jaws of death that day, it is many a weary 
 month before he recovers his strength. But whether he 
 live or whether he die, his clothes and his bedding and his 
 vessels are bundled out of the house, and burnt to ashes. 
 Howbeit some witless folks, accounting it unthrift to do 
 the like, cleanse the vessels with hot ashes again and 
 again, and wash the bedding and clothes throughly in a 
 running stream far away from the village. Fools ! have 
 they never heard of what happened in Nichara, where 
 men drank of the water of a stream that had been 
 defiled with the clothing of a man sick with the great 
 fever, and drinking died ? 
 
 211. Less dread than the great fever, yet the same in 
 (enteric). ^^ ig ttie fever we call mu ba ra kl, " the lucky." Now 
 
 mubdrakl is of two kinds : red or yellow, according as the 
 eyes turn ; this colour or that ; and the red mubdrakl is 
 the worse of the two. Against mubdrakl we fight with 
 heating drugs, seeking to drive it forth in the sick man's 
 sweat. And if all goes well, puslak, or pimples, break 
 out on chest and shoulders and back. And now we 
 must guard the sick against a chill, lest it bring on the 
 bddsdr fever, which will cling to him for many a long
 
 SICKNESS 109 
 
 day, or strike him down \vith the pitiful madness we 
 call sarsam. And if the disease be not stayed within 
 three weeks or shortly after, the poor wretch becomes so 
 wasted with the lowering drugs and the sweating, that 
 haply he will fall into the wasting sickness. And then 
 a long farewell to him ! 
 
 212. If a man issues forth into the open when he is Tah 
 in a great sweat after fever, likely enough the wind will paralysis, 
 
 strike him, and cripple him of a limb or even of one 
 whole side of his body. Then we lay him in a warm 
 bed behind a killa, or curtain, to ward off women with 
 their monthly course or others suffering from unclean- 
 ness. And forth goes one to shoot as many wild pigeons 
 as he may. For until the sick is cured of his sickness, 
 one pigeon a day must he eat, whether roast or boiled. 
 Seven at the least he will surely need. And let the man 
 who knows a better cure for wind-stroke, bring it forward 
 if he can. I guess there's none to match it. And men well 
 stricken in years often suffer from wind- stroke, and these 
 in truth are in evil case. And a woman sometimes quits 
 her bed after childbirth lamed by the wind of one leg. 
 Poor thing ! she is crippled for such a weary while, that 
 her kin in despair drug her with many drugs, which in 
 the end ease her of her pain by easing her of life. 
 
 213. The visits of cholera are few and short.- The ?***> or 
 
 TT vaoa, or 
 
 country, Heaven be praised, is too dry for its liking, bava 
 Some villages, less lucky than others, are stricken down ( cholera )- 
 one year in every ten, maybe for their sins or because 
 they lie on the King's highway. For some folk say that 
 it stalks up from Sind or the coast, and some say that it 
 is sent by God for the punishment of sins and the 
 slighting of holy men or of the souls of saints that are 
 dead. As for me, who am I that I should judge between 
 them ? Haply both are right. But howsoever it come, 
 folk take to the hills when come it does. And they 
 entreat God's pardon for their sins, and offer up sacrifices 
 of sheep and goats at the shrines of the saints. And
 
 110 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 those that are still whole tie an onion round their necks, 
 and eat raw onions with their bread. To the sick they 
 give the juice of onions mingled with vinegar. Those 
 that die of the scourge are accounted martyrs of the 
 lesser order in the next world ; yet are they buried after 
 the manner of the common dead. But those that live in 
 villages that are clear of the scourge never come nigh a 
 village that is stricken. 
 
 Prevalence 214. Hapless the house that is smitten with ranj. 
 (OOJBK The very word breathes of blank despair and death, and 
 sumption, j B never uttered in the hearing of the victim or his kin. 
 
 etc.). 
 
 Many a house has this wasting sickness laid desolate. 
 Some there be that are for ever in its grip from one 
 generation to another. Alas ! it waxes in strength as 
 the years roll on. Who indeed may think himself 
 safe ? For it lurks in the clothing and ornaments the 
 sick may once have worn. It is abroad in the land. It 
 stalks among the young men and takes to itself the pick : 
 lads of wit and high birth are taken, and those who taste 
 too freely of the joys of life; the shepherd and the 
 ploughboy are left. Among the womenfolk it lays low 
 the mothers after childbirth and young maidens who 
 brood over the late coming of wedlock. 
 
 its treat- 215. Yet so soft is its tread and stealthy, that none can 
 mark -its first approach. But when a fever clings about 
 a sick man for days and days, and the flesh begins to 
 part company with the bones, we fear the worst. Now 
 must the young folk in the house hold aloof from him, 
 nor may they eat off the vessels he has touched. But the 
 old folk bustle around him the more, lest he get an 
 inkling of the dread that is in their hearts. And in the 
 early days we seek to put new life in him by physicking 
 him with the eggs of the tortoise, touching which I have 
 already spoken. But if the wasting be not stayed thereby, 
 with his food we mix things unclean, but never let him 
 reck of it. For three days he gulps down a bit of wolf's 
 guts with his morning meal, and is none the wiser. And
 
 SICKNESS 111 
 
 should this avail naught, for three days we try the 
 flesh of a shakuk, or magpie. But if both these fail, we 
 are not yet at our wits' end, for the flesh of the porcu- 
 pine is the best of all. But should the poor wretch 
 waste and waste away notwithstanding, and should hides 
 and brands and frights prove all in vain, God help him ; 
 man cannot.
 
 POSSESSION BY EVIL SPIRITS 
 
 r 216. These, then, are among the most common of the 
 byevil 10n i^ 8 ^ai come by nature and by nature are combated, 
 spirits. But many a strange disease and many a strange death 
 must be laid at the door of the Jinns. For in the length 
 and breadth of the land you will scarce find a home 
 where a Jinn has not got a footing. 
 
 The 217. In truth the Jinns are a mischievous and 
 
 malicious crew, always up to some prank. They love to 
 perch on the topmost bough of some old mulberry-tree, 
 so it's as well to set a light beneath it to humour them. 
 And they tie knots in a horse's mane, and think it fine 
 fun to swing themselves to and fro, hanging on to the 
 strands. And when there's a wedding on foot among 
 them, they set fire to our houses, that they may have a 
 cheerful blaze at their wedding jollity. Night and day 
 they are on the look-out to do us a mischief. They eat 
 with us when we eat if ever we forget to say Bismilla as 
 grace ; they lure us on like a will-o'-the-wisp when we 
 go abroad ; they dog us even in our dreams. At noon 
 and from sunset to sunrise, these are the hours when we 
 have to be on our guard. And dusk is the most perilous 
 time of all. Foolhardy the man that then ventures nigh 
 a graveyard, or a ruined house, or an altar of sacrifice, 
 or some gnarled old tree, or some spot that is unclean. 
 The Jinns will surely pounce upon him unawares, and do 
 him grievous harm. Pray Heaven, he live to tell the tale. 
 Beatings 218. From earliest childhood one must be on one's 
 of^cMld guard against them. Until the first shaving of the head 
 with a no child should go out alone after dusk. And if it 
 sickens, all the neighbourhood will chide the mother for 
 
 112
 
 POSSESSION BY EVIL SPIKITS 113 
 
 her carelessness : couldn't she keep an eye on the poor 
 little mite, but must needs give the Jinns a chance to 
 work their wicked will? No matter what the mother 
 may say, or what oath she may take, they will not listen: 
 it's as plain as a pikestaff that a Jinn got hold of the 
 child while her back was turned. So in the end there's 
 nothing for it; the poor mother must just take all the 
 blame on herself. And first some wise old crone tries 
 her hand, to see what she can do to make the Jinn quit 
 his hold. So at sunrise she takes the mother and the 
 child apart, and sits down with her face towards the sun. 
 And she stretches out her legs and lays the child along 
 them, face downwards, with its feet towards her. And 
 mumbling some weird words, she strikes it across the 
 buttocks with a shoe. Then she lifts it up with her legs 
 and turns it over, so that it lies with its face turned to 
 the sky. And again she mumbles a few words, and then 
 lays the child out as it was before, and belabours it 
 afresh with the shoe. This she does for three days, at 
 the uprising and the going-down of the sun, in the hope 
 that the Jinn may be affrighted by the chastisement, and 
 take to its heels. This is one of the treatments we call 
 sugun 6 sat. 
 
 219. And here's another treatment of the same kind. If Another 
 
 , ., , ii -\i . . sugun 
 
 a child tosses sleepless on its bed or starts screaming in treatment. 
 its sleep, it's clear a Jinn has scared it out of its wits. 
 So the womenfolk gather round it, and soothe it as best 
 as they may. And when at last it falls off to sleep, they 
 get three lumps of live charcoal and fill a cup with 
 water. And one holds the cup over the child's heart, and 
 another takes up a lump of charcoal with a pair of tongs, 
 and turns it round the child's head, saying: " Turso! 
 turso ! turso.'" Then she drops the charcoal into the cup 
 of water. Likewise she takes up the other two lumps one 
 by one, and turns them round the child's head, and pops 
 them in the water. And the cup is left by the bedside 
 till the child wakes, and then is thrown away. This they 
 
 8
 
 114 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 Other 
 devices. 
 
 Kill or 
 cure 
 belief in 
 the Jinns 
 deepens. 
 
 do thrice for three nights running. Now turs in the 
 Balochi tongue means "fear." And the women think 
 that in this wise they draw out the fear that is in the 
 child, and make it pass into the live charcoal and so 
 die away, even as the live charcoal dies away when it is 
 plunged into water. 
 
 220. But if all will not do, the poor mother goes off to 
 a mulla, to wheedle out of him some charm or amulet. 
 And first he asks her when and where and how the 
 calamity befell her child. And when he has asked many 
 another shrewd question, he peers ever so gravely into his 
 book. And likely enough, he will tell her to go home 
 again, and come back with such and such a thing: seven 
 kinds of grain maybe, or some raw flesh, or a hen that 
 is black or white or speckled, or a strip of cloth as long 
 as her child. So off she goes, and gets together what- 
 soever the mulla commanded her. But before she brings 
 it back to the mulla, she takes good care to pass it thrice 
 round the child's head, that the calamity may pass into 
 it. So she presents it humbly to the mulla, but with 
 never a word, you may be sure, of the cunning thing she 
 has done. And the mulla in return gives her an amulet, 
 and this advice to boot : that she should light an earthen 
 lamp at some mosque for three nights running, on a 
 Wednesday, a Thursday, and a Friday. 
 
 221. Well, time alone can show whether the child will 
 recover or whether it will die. But either way the 
 womenfolk will be the more assured of the awesomeness 
 of the Jinns. For if it recover, the old crone and the 
 mulla will pride themselves mightily on their dominion 
 over the Jinn. And if it die, both will wag their heads 
 ever so wisely : didn't they know it all along ? never 
 in all their born days had they encountered so perverse 
 a spirit ! careless indeed must the mother have been 
 to allow it to get so firm a foothold in her child ; 'twas 
 only to soothe the poor soul little though she deserved 
 it that they had made a show of fighting the Jinn at all.
 
 POSSESSION BY EVIL SPIRITS 115 
 
 And the womenfolk go home thrilled to their very 
 marrow. For months they can talk of nothing else but 
 the sad fate of the poor little mite, that was done to 
 death by so powerful a Jinn. And I warrant it's a 
 shrewd eye they keep on their own children ever after. 
 
 222. But there's no lodging that a Jinn likes better 
 than the body of a young woman. Indeed there's many victims, 
 a man that has never lived in wedlock with his wife, all 
 because some Jinn has fallen in love with her, and 
 smites him to the earth whenever he seeks to come nigh 
 her. Aye, and I have heard of a woman who bitterly 
 complains that a Jinn is forever lying with her ; there's 
 no mistake about it, says she, for she feels her body 
 pricking all over. Well, well, this is as may be. Wild 
 folk, to be sure, have wild fancies. But so much is cer- 
 tain : womenfolk have more to fear from Jinns than all 
 the world beside. Hence it is that a woman should 
 never venture abroad by herself in the days of her weak- 
 ness when she's great with child or has just brought 
 a child to the birth, lest an evil spirit pounce on her un- 
 awares. Now as soon as a Jinn enters within her, she 
 falls to the ground, poor thing, in a dead faint, shiver- 
 ing and trembling, with eyes fast shut, with teeth 
 clenched, and arms and legs flung this side and that. 
 And for the space of an hour or more she can utter never 
 a word, and is deaf to the cries of her sorrowing kin. By 
 these signs we know full well that a Jinn has got the 
 mastery over her, and our one thought is to summon 
 some holy man who shall drive the evil spirit forth. 
 
 223. So a mulla or a Sayyad hastens to the house. A holy 
 And first he reads from the Holy Writ, or recites in the Sl 
 Arabic tongue the many names of the Almighty, that 
 the poor woman may be strengthened with comfort. But 
 if her tongue is still unloosened, he reads his beads, and 
 takes up his books, and writes down a charm we call 
 dildl, or smoke-charm ; for he sets thereto a light and 
 holds it before her face, that the smoke thereof may pass
 
 Driving 
 the devil 
 out with 
 blood- 
 sacrifice. 
 
 116 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 up into her nostrils. Then will her tongue verily be 
 loosened and fall a-babbling. And he calls upon the 
 Jinn, saying : " Sir, wherefore hast thou taken hold of 
 this poor lady ? And what is thy need ? I charge thee 
 speak, or I will surely burn thee to ashes." And out of 
 the maiden's mouth will the Jinn make answer, haply 
 after this wise : " Grievous is the hurt that she has done 
 me, in that she trampled on my child this very evening. 
 And now that I am lodged herein, I will not budge, no ! 
 not I, until some blood has been given me." Or he may 
 say that she mightily incensed him by passing his dwell- 
 ing, day in, day out, all unwashed. Or he may change 
 his tone and speak of his exceeding great love for her : 
 were ever two peas more alike than she and his poor dead 
 wife ? from the hour he saw her bathing in the stream, 
 he had longed for her unceasingly. But whatever he 
 may say on this score or that, when all is said and done, 
 blood is what he hankers after. 
 
 224. Forthwith the kin sacrifice a lamb or a kid, and 
 fill a cup with the blood thereof, and set it at a distance 
 from her that is possessed of the devil. And the mulla 
 calls upon the Jinn to take the blood and be gone, and 
 to give them some sure sign of his going. And the 
 Jinn, please God, will go out of the woman without more 
 ado. But at times he hedges round his going with terms 
 and conditions : he will visit her but once a month, or 
 maybe once a year; yet let her eat no beef nor the flesh 
 of fowls, by the prophet Solomon, he will visit her 
 no more. So he departs, and, sure enough, they often 
 find that he has knocked over the cup of blood in 
 token of his going. And the woman falls into a peaceful 
 slumber. But by-and-by she awakes, and is all amazed 
 to see the anxious crowd around her. Naught of what 
 has passed does she know. So much she remembers 
 and no more : that some monster caught hold of her 
 of a sudden, and that she fled homewards more dead 
 than alive. The rest is one blank.
 
 POSSESSION BY EVIL SPIRITS 117 
 
 225. Well, it's not for me to decry the skill of The 
 mulla and Sayyad in casting out devils. In truth the ^JviT' 
 efficacy of their amulets and charms is the measure of dancer, 
 their power among the people. But old-fashioned folks 
 
 set more store by the Shekh and his dancing. Now a 
 Shekh is not a member of any one tribe or race. You 
 may come across one here and there all up and down the 
 country. By his long, long hair you will know him, and 
 his skill on instruments of music, and his power over the 
 Jinns. Some Jinns he has forever under his spell, and 
 with these to do his bidding he can win the mastery 
 over others. And 'tis the Jinns, I'm thinking, who teach 
 him how to read the future, and who whisper in his ear 
 when he tells fortunes. 
 
 226. So when some poor woman has been seized by Devil- 
 a Jinn, and mulla and Sayyad maybe have failed to free 
 
 her from his spell, we call in a Shekh at dead of night. 
 But first we gather together men who are cunning on 
 the siroz and the dambura. And when the Shekh enters 
 the assembly where the woman is laid, the minstrels 
 strike up a measure, and play right lustily. And as he 
 listens to the strains, the Shekh's limbs tremble beneath 
 him ; and he rocks to and fro, and his face is as the face 
 of a man in agony. For the wild music breeds a mad- 
 ness within him, so that he becomes like one possessed. 
 And lo ! he starts to his feet, and dances madly, whirling 
 round and round and ever round. And his long, long 
 hair now floats in the air, and anon it sweeps the ground. 
 On he dances, and the music grows yet more wild and 
 the dance yet more crazy. And when he is so spent 
 with his whirlings that the sweat drips from him in great 
 drops, he cries aloud on All Bezat and Laka and his other 
 saints, to help him in this his hour of bitter stress. 
 
 227. Now while the frenzy is upon him, men and The 
 women gather round him eagerly the old ladies fore- frenzy, 
 most in the press and question him touching this or 
 that, bidding him prophesy : is it a boy or a girl that
 
 118 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 neighbour's wife will bear him? is there rain in the air? 
 will father return this month or the next from his 
 travels ? and how will his business speed, for good or for 
 ill ? And to all their questions he will make answer, if 
 so be the Jinns are in the humour to prophesy. And 
 haply some old crone will totter forward with a blue 
 thread in her hand, mumbling up many a prayer that a 
 son may be vouchsafed her daughter, and will piteously 
 entreat the Shekh to tie a knot in the thread, that it 
 may safeguard the child against the Jinns. And the 
 Shekh will tie the knot, sure enough, but a deal he will 
 mutter of the sacrifices she must offer, and the rich 
 presents she should give him. Then one in the company 
 will cry out for sweetmeats ; and all the assembly take 
 up the chorus. So with a wild toss of the head, the 
 Shekh calls upon the Jinns, and lo ! at a whisk of his 
 hand sweetmeats come tumbling from the air. Or he 
 takes an empty bowl and waves it aloft, and then shows 
 it to the people all brimming with blood. And oftentimes 
 he goes apart and talks aloud, as though he were hold- 
 ing communion with the spirits of darkness. And the 
 hairs bristle on the heads of all that hear him. For 'tis 
 in truth a gruesome thing to hear strange talk and 
 weird sounds in the dead of night. 
 
 Driving 228. And by- and-by the Shekh returns to the assembly, 
 Tvi!* 16 an ^ 8 P ea> k m g like one who speaks in his sleep, he tells 
 how he has wrestled long and manfully with the spirits 
 of darkness. Maybe he will say that the Jinn must be 
 appeased with the sacrifice of a he-goat or a ram of this 
 colour or that. Or he will say there's nothing for it 
 but alej. Now alej is a sacrifice that is made after this 
 fashion. The beast must be slaughtered before the very 
 eyes of her that is seized of the devil. And a little wool 
 is soaked in its blood, and smeared on her hands and 
 feet and forehead. But the flesh is cooked and served 
 among the assembly. And so, please God, the devil 
 is cast out for good and all.
 
 POSSESSION BY EVIL SPIRITS 119 
 
 229. But often enough it all begins over again before Recurring 
 long, for some women seem never free from the Jinns. shim- 1 "" 
 They are always flying into a rage and beating their min & 
 faces and plucking out their hair, Heaven alone knows 
 why. Nothing sets them off like the smell of roasting 
 meat. So no one is surprised if a neighbour pops in 
 when a joint is on the roast, and begs for a bit to soothe 
 some Jinn-ridden woman next-door. But truth to tell, 
 there are women so lost to shame as to put on the 
 airs of one that is possessed of a devil, and all to com- 
 pass some private end. One, I dare say, has a grudge to 
 pay off against her husband. Another may fancy that 
 folk will eye her with reverence when they know that she 
 is in league with the Jinns. But of such idle women, 
 and their tantrums, and the airs they put on, and the 
 nuisance they are, I will say naught. The Jinns are of 
 a surety a dread and awesome company. Trouble enough 
 do they give us, and small's the need to add thereto 
 trouble that is mockery and vanity.
 
 DEATH 
 
 Signs of 230. Now when a man is stricken low with sickness, 
 approach, the grey-heads of the family can often see the shadow 
 of death full three days before its grim approach. For if 
 his nose droop to one side, or tears dribble from one of his 
 eyes, they make ready for the worst, and send betimes 
 to a neighbouring village for a mulla to read chapters 
 from the Koran. But if the sick man can no longer 
 move his tongue, and if he gape at his kin as though he 
 knew them not, the mulla is like to come too late for 
 aught but the burial. For by these signs old folk know 
 that the soul is passing away. And silently they set 
 about them to gather the wherewithal for the funeral 
 meats, but hide their errand from those that are nearest 
 and dearest to him that soon will be no more. 
 
 231. And when life has departed, we drive the 
 womenfolk from the chamber, wife and mother and all. 
 None but the nearest kinsmen may stay by the dead. 
 But from the death-chamber of a woman all the men 
 are barred. The husband, above all, may not look upon 
 the face of his dead. For many and heavy are the 
 rights of a husband over a wife. And should he look 
 upon her face, haply the desire might enter his soul 
 that she should arise and do such and such a thing. 
 There she would lie, helpless to do his bidding, and her 
 helplessness maybe would be accounted unto her for sin. 
 And if a child be sick unto death and the end be nigh, 
 they lift it from the mother's lap. Forth must she go, 
 poor thing ! nor may she look on her loved one more, 
 lest she rob it of peace at the last. And though the 
 other women weep silently, she must surely check her 
 
 120
 
 DEATH 121 
 
 grief. For from every tear she sheds will spring a pool 
 to block the path that her little one must travel. 
 
 232. Now if a man has been lucky in this world above Preserving 
 his fellows, we rub a silver coin on his forehead, as man's 
 soon as he sighs forth his last gasp. For the luck that luck 
 has been his in life passes thereby into the coin, and 
 
 will surely cleave to his children and children's child- 
 ren, as long as the coin is treasured up in the house- 
 hold. 
 
 233. Forthwith the near kinsmen close the dead man's La y in x 
 eyes with their hands. And on each eye they lay a ball body of 
 of cotton, and keep the cotton in place with a strip of a mau> 
 rag bound about the temples. And they place a hand 
 under the chin to shut fast his mouth ; and round head 
 
 and chin they bind a rag to keep it from gaping anew. 
 His legs they stretch out to their full length, and lay his 
 arms across his middle, with hands folded. The big toes 
 they tie together with a rag, and likewise the thumbs. 
 And if hands or feet are begrimed, straightway they 
 cleanse them. And they pare the nails of hands and 
 feet, and shave the hair about the privy parts, and 
 change the apparel. For great is the disgrace, should 
 the body not be laid out decently and in order, or eyes or 
 mouth be left open. 
 
 234. And in the death-chamber of a woman the La y in s 
 womenfolk do the like to their dead. Eyes and mouth body of a 
 are fast shut ; limbs are stretched out ; nails are pared ; woman - 
 grime is washed off hands and feet. But the hair about 
 
 her middle do they not shave. And they clothe her body 
 in fine apparel, and deck it out with brave ornaments, for 
 all the world as if she were faring forth to a wedding. 
 
 235. And in the old days they would anoint with Anointing 
 henna, as though for a bridal, the hands and feet of the prime 
 man or woman cut off in their prime, in token that J^ 11 ^ 1 
 death had come upon them before the fulness of their henna, 
 days, or ever they had drunk deep of the sweet joys of 
 
 this world. But the custom is on the wane, and it's
 
 122 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 only in noble houses and among the well-to-do you will 
 now see the like. 
 
 outfor rtie 236. On the belly of the dead we lay an iron bar to 
 shroud, keep down the swelling, for the mulla may be late in 
 coming. And by the head we place a pot of rice, or, 
 if needs must, of wheat or other grain. And the pot is 
 the portion of him or her that shall by-and-by wash the 
 body for the burial. And hi haste we send for a shroud 
 from the village. Though there be cloth in plenty in 
 the house, yet will we not use it, or death will surely 
 take to itself another victim from among the household. 
 
 fng m tbe n " 237 - Now when the dead has been meetly laid out, 
 friends, and the task of the kin is o'er, they raise the sad cry. 
 " His work is done ! He has surrendered himself to 
 God !" But when the neighbours hear it, they sit for 
 a while and do not stir abroad. For they know full well 
 that some ill will befall the man that answers the first 
 summons of death. And those that live hard by hasten 
 to fling all their water out of doors. For as soon as the 
 Angel of Death has done his dread task, he washes his 
 fatal sword in their houses as he passes on, and woe to 
 the man or woman that tastes of the waters of death ! 
 Not until they have heard the cry again and yet again, 
 do they come together to the house. But first they send 
 out messengers to carry the pitiful news to the kith and 
 kin who live afar off. For this is their task and not the 
 task of the stricken family. And the messengers go 
 forth, and in the ear of the eldest of each household 
 they whisper : " He has surrendered himself to God." 
 gathering 238. So the kith and kin forgather in the house of 
 of the sorrow. And silently they greet one another and the 
 heirs of the dead. Or if they speak, they speak in 
 whispers. But the women sit apart and do not weep 
 aloud or mourn, till the body is carried forth to the 
 graveyard. 
 
 239. Now when the mulla is come and the shroud is 
 in readiness, we bear the body from the house to the
 
 DEATH 123 
 
 tan-shod, or place of washing. And on the spot where from the 
 the head of the body lay, there we set an exceeding 
 heavy stone, in the hope that the dead may be accept- 
 able to God nor draw another into the valley of death. 
 Howbeit for a little child no stone is set. 
 
 240. But with some folks there's a plaguey to-do about Consult- 
 moving the body from the house. Have I spoken some- star. 
 what already touching the Star, I wonder, and how the 
 
 wild folk of the hills, aye and many others more also, 
 account it the worst of ill-luck to follow after it ? Well, 
 when a man dies, it's not long before they bethink them 
 of the whereabouts of the Star. And if the door of 
 the house or tent be towards the south, and if it be the 
 third or fourth day of the new moon, it's clear as clear 
 can be that they can't get the body out by the door that 
 day, for the Star like the door is then towards the south. 
 So there's nothing for it but to break through the 
 wall that is over against the door, and to carry the body 
 out through the breach. This is bad enough in all con- 
 science, but it's worse to have to keep the body above- 
 ground on the ninth or the nineteenth or the twenty- 
 ninth, and all because the Star is then underground. 
 
 241. If there's a running stream in the village, folk The 
 carry the body thither, and pile up a fire and set water O f the 
 on the boil. For warm water must be used for the wash- bod y of 
 
 a male. 
 
 ing of the dead. And in the water they put some leaves 
 of the ber, or wild plum-tree, if they have any in the 
 house. And the body is laid on a wooden plank, such as 
 are kept in the mosque against this sad day. But away 
 in the hills they lay the body on matting made of dwarf- 
 palm or other green leaves, for planks they have none. 
 And the body is curtained off. Now if it be the body of 
 a male, all depart save only the mulla and two of the 
 nearest kinsmen. And the mulla strips the dead of its 
 clothes, and round its middle he ties a white loin-cloth, 
 and falls a- washing the body. Three jugs of water he 
 uses at the washing ; but the head he cleanses with clay.
 
 124 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 And he anoints the body with rose-water and sweet- 
 smelling spices ; yet the poor will rest content with 
 sprinkling face and armpits with pounded camphor. 
 Then he wraps the body in a shroud. And when his 
 task is done, the kinsmen lift the body in their hands 
 and lay it on a bedstead. And underneath they spread a 
 clean quilt, that it may lie in comfort. But in the hills 
 they have perchance no bedstead. So they lay the 
 body on a manjav, or hurdle, meetly covered with green 
 leaves. 
 The . . 242. But the washing of the body of a woman is the 
 
 washing 
 
 of the task of the womenfolk. The mulla's wife should see to it 
 female f * ^7 rights, albeit any pious old lady may take her place. 
 And the kinswomen and neighbours busy themselves with 
 fetching the water and setting it to boil. Now when the 
 body is brought to the place of washing and all is in 
 readiness, they curtain it off. Most of the womenfolk 
 stand without, but a few remain within to aid the mulla's 
 wife at her task. And she washes the body after the 
 selfsame fashion as the mulla washes the body of a man. 
 Yet the head she washes with water in which the stumps 
 and leaves of the Idra, or soda plant, have been boiled. 
 Howbeit those that have no Idra will make shift with 
 the washing clay. The hair is unplaited and left to hang 
 down in front. The clothes are stripped off the body, and 
 so are the ornaments, save maybe a ear-ring, which the 
 well-to-do will surely leave in token of the love they bear 
 the dead. To the washing comes the female domb. And in 
 Kalat and Mastung, while the womenfolk are busied over 
 their task, she sings the funeral song: "Halo! halo! 
 zahren halo!" For the funeral song is zahr, or bitter, 
 even as the wedding song is vash, or sweet. And as soon 
 as she has sung a line, the womenfolk sing it after her, 
 making sad music. But nomads to be sure and other 
 poor folk do their work in silence. 
 
 The 243. So the washing of the body of a man is done by 
 
 of^he 118 the mulla, and the washing of the body of a woman by
 
 DEATH 125 
 
 the mulla's wife. But the body of a child we entrust body of 
 
 'i child 
 
 to an old man or an old lady for the washing, according 
 as it is the body of a boy or a girl. And if it be a tiny 
 mite less than three years old, we lay it on a shield. An 
 older child is carried forth to the graveyard in our hands, 
 but one that is past seven is laid out on a bedstead or 
 a hurdle like a full-grown man or woman. 
 
 244. And when the body has been washed and is laid Pad'ko 
 
 diddr, the 
 
 out, the men and women and grown-up children of the last look. 
 kin are bidden to come one by one and take their last look 
 at the dead. But on the face of a dead woman no man 
 may look save a son or a father or a brother and others 
 of her blood. A husband, above all, may not join the 
 throng. Nor may a lady that is great with child look 
 upon the dead, lest her babe be stricken with badalo even 
 in the womb, or be born out of due time. And if there's 
 a mother to mourn the dead, they call upon her thrice 
 to forgo the milk-dues and other mother-dues that are 
 hers by right, and sadly she makes answer : " Freely do 
 I bestow them all." Thrice is she bidden to forgo her 
 dues, and thrice does she sob out her answer in this wise. 
 
 245. And in olden days it was the custom for the kins- Tan 
 folk and men of rank to spread robes of honour and ' 
 
 pieces of cloth over the body as it lay in state. The th . e bod y 
 Khan himself was wont to pay this honour to one who O f honour. 
 had done him true and loyal service. By the hand of a 
 servant he would send a strip of brocade or a shawl or 
 other robe of honour, the value thereof being apportioned 
 to the rank of him that was dead. And the chiefs and 
 the headmen would show like honour, each in his 
 order : first the Khan, then the chief, and after them 
 the kinsmen, each giving according to his means and 
 the rank of the dead. And as the robes were laid on 
 the body, some old and reverend gentleman would take 
 his stand close by, and cry aloud, yet in a voice broken 
 with grief : " This is the robe of honour sent by the 
 Khan ! This is given by the chief ! This by the
 
 126 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BKAHUI 
 
 father ! And this by the brother !" And the more 
 the robes of honour, the greater the honour shown to the 
 dead. As far as the graveyard were they taken with the 
 body, and there given to the raulla. But the custom is 
 now going the way of all too many customs of the good 
 old days. 
 
 Waiting 246. All is now ready for the burial. Howbeit if one 
 arrival of * the near kin is abroad and is looked to return within 
 absent the space of a night and a day, we build a mosque that 
 the body may rest therein. For a mosque, you must 
 know, is made in the twinkling of an eye. Set some 
 stones in a ring, with a small arch to the west and an 
 opening to the east, and it's done. Of such mosques 
 every roadside in the country is full. And in a mosque 
 the body lies till the absent kinsman comes and takes his 
 last look at the face of the dead. And while it remains 
 above-ground, folk watch over it, nor ever leave it 
 alone. Some think that evil spirits would scare it if no 
 one were looking. Others say that the place where it 
 lies would be haunted thereafter. Yet in a mosque 
 methinks there's no fear of one or other. 
 
 Saiam 247. And when the time is come to carry the body to 
 
 timing, its last abode, many folks there be who will not suffer it 
 sending to <j e p ar t without a greeting to the shades that have 
 
 messages 
 
 to the gone before. Haply some mother who has long since 
 the < dead >y ^ os ^ ^ er son w ^ draw nigh, and whisper her message in 
 the ear of the dead : " Heart of mine, give my dear boy, 
 I prithee, my sweet greeting and this my message. 
 Fondly have we yearned for him many's the weary day. 
 But now shall we make no long tarrying, for soon must 
 we travel the selfsame road. Grant us therefore the 
 help of thy prayers for the Faith's sake." Among the 
 menfolk the custom is dying out, even in the hills. Yet 
 women would surely be loth to forgo a greeting to their 
 dear ones. And if the dead be a woman, many are the 
 messages of love that are whispered in her ear.
 
 BURIAL 
 
 248. But all the while strong men from among the The grave- 
 kin and neighbours have been toiling in the graveyard. 
 
 Now every family, or at the least every group of tribesmen, 
 has its own graveyard where they bury their dead. And 
 great is their disgrace if a man is not laid to rest among 
 his fathers. To be sure, if they bury their dead near 
 the shrine of some saint, 'tis piously done. But who 
 would be one of the gharlb-gor, or lonely dead, buried in 
 an alien land, with no kin to bear him company ? 
 
 249. And the grave must be dug before dusk, for it Burial 
 would never do to bury a body at night. Some say that y day. 
 the dead would curse his kin that took him from the house 
 
 in the dark. But others say the dead that lie already in 
 the graveyard would be disturbed, should another be 
 brought by night to bear them company, and would call 
 down God's wrath on the disturbers. Be it as it may, 
 any woman will tell you that those that bury their dead 
 by night do so at their peril. Jinns will surely meet 
 them on their way to the grave, and will scare one of 
 their number out of his wits and peradventure out of 
 his life. 
 
 250. Now villagers bury their children in graves two Burial of 
 feet deep at the least ; but the older the child the deeper c 
 
 the grave. But those who live in the hills and other wild 
 folk lay them in caves or on the shelves of ancient vaults 
 beyond the reach of ravening beasts. Or if they bury 
 them for the old customs are truly dying out they 
 bury them in shallow graves, and cover them ever so 
 lightly with earth. For graves, they say, are for those 
 who have lived their life and sinned their sins. But the 
 
 127
 
 128 THE LIFE-HISTOBY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 little innocents have no need of graves, for the}' are bihishtl 
 and bihisht or Paradise is their home. Nay rather, they 
 should be left free and unfettered to speed their flight into 
 the presence of the Almighty on the Day of Judgment 
 to entreat His pardon for the sins of their fathers. A 
 pious thought this methinks, and as wise as pious. But 
 whether there's wit in their belief that a mother whose 
 babe lies imprisoned deep below the earth will live child- 
 less for the rest of her days, I am hard put to it to say. 
 
 The Jcabr, 251. The grave of a man should reach to a man's 
 middle, but the grave of a woman should reach to a 
 man's breast. And if folks find the earth soft and 
 yielding as they dig, 'tis a sign that the dead is pleasing 
 to God. But if the ground is hard and stubborn, or if 
 they come upon rock, they are affrighted. For 'tis a 
 sign that the earth is loth to take to its bosom a burden 
 so sinful. And they hide the thing for very shame from 
 the heirs of the dead. Yet it passes from mouth to 
 mouth in scared whispers, and those that hear of it 
 mutter a prayer for God's mercy. 
 
 The lakd, 252. Now when they have dug a grave from north to 
 south, on the western side thereof they hollow out a 
 shelf. It must be the length of the dead and a little 
 more, and two feet across and two feet high, for herein 
 is the body laid. And though this task is done, they 
 must still look about them for big stones to block the 
 mouth of the shelf, and for slabs to raise over the grave. 
 And it may take time to find them. Yet the mulla 
 has haply stored plenty and to spare in the mosque 
 against this woeful day. Hill folk, God wot, have never 
 far to seek for their stones. 
 
 Carrying 253. And when all is at last ready, four of the kin 
 
 to the raise the bier on their shoulders and set out for the 
 graveyard ; but a husband, you may be sure, does not 
 lay hands on the bier of his wife. And the going is slow 
 and solemn. Three paces they carry their sad burden, 
 and then rest it on the ground for the space of a minute.
 
 BURIAL 129 
 
 Again they lift it up and go three paces, and again they 
 set it down. Yet a third time do they act in this wise, 
 and then step forward in real earnest. And those that 
 follow after recite the kalima of the true Faith all the 
 way. Nevertheless they do not shirk their share in the 
 labour, but take their turn every few paces to bear the 
 bier. And each first shoulders the front leg of the bed- 
 stead on the left, and then goes to the left leg at the 
 back, and thereafter to the right leg in front, and so 
 again to the rear. And when he has gone the round, 
 he is free for a breathing-space. And the greater the 
 burden he has to bear, the greater his comfort, for it is 
 unto us a sign that God has looked down with mercy 
 upon His servant, who has departed this life in His 
 faith and fear. And if the bier gives way, or if one 
 of the legs breaks, we are the more assured that the 
 sins of the dead have been forgiven him. 
 
 254. And in the Khan's family and among other Zarafshsn 
 nobility like the Iltazei and the chiefs, silver coins and showering 
 
 pieces of gold we call butkl are showered over the c " ln ^ , ve 
 body as it is carried forth to the burial. The custom is 
 dying out ; yet you may still see hundreds of coins 
 scattered by one of the kin or some trusty servant at a 
 stately burial. And beggars gather around from far and 
 near, and scramble greedily with lads and lasses for the 
 coins up to the very entry to the graveyard. 
 
 255. And when the company are come to the grave- 
 yard, the mulla offers up the numaz-jandza, the prayer f or 
 
 the dead. And if the grave is not yet ready to welcome Py er - 
 the dead, they sit them down and wait, reciting verses 
 from the Holy Writ. But so long as the body remains 
 above ground, they say never a word to the stricken family. 
 
 256. Then two or maybe three of the kinsmen but Laying 
 
 th.6 bodv 
 
 not the next-of-kin carry the body in their hands to in the 
 the grave. But a husband may not carry the body of lahd - 
 his wife; nor may he touch it or look upon the face. 
 And be it body of man or woman, they lay it in the shelf 
 
 9
 
 130 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 of the grave, with head to the north and feet to the south. 
 And under the head they lay a few stones for a pillow, 
 and turn the face to the west. But first they uncover 
 the eyes of the dead that the dead may have a peep at its 
 resting-place. Then the mulla takes two stones, and 
 with the one he scratches the kalima on the other, and 
 lays it before the face of the dead, that the dead may read 
 the holy words and make meet answer to the two Angels 
 that shall by-and-by come to hold their dread question- 
 ings. Howbeit for one who is still a child no kalima is 
 needed. Then they cover the face over lightly. And 
 they block the mouth of the shelf with stones and plaster 
 it over. And back into the grave they shovel the 
 earth, so that the mound rises somewhat above the 
 ground. 
 257. And on the mound they set up two long stones 
 
 stones. we ca -ll shakkl, one at the north and one at the south ; 
 but for a female a third is set midway betwixt the two. 
 And the higher a man's rank, the higher should be the 
 stones set on his grave. Nay, be a man's rank never 
 so humble, those that loved him well will rear in his 
 honour as lofty stones as they can find. In some parts 
 like Zahri, to be sure, long slabs of stone there are 
 none, and even the greatest must needs rest content 
 with lowly stones on his grave. And here and there no 
 stones are used at all. And in Mashkai and Ornach 
 you may see branches of palm stuck up instead. 
 
 Protecting 258. And between the stones they tie a strip of rag 
 torn from the shroud, in the humble hope that as the 
 wind blows it to and fro, God may look down with 
 compassion and blot out the sins of him that lies 
 underneath. But hill-folk strew pebbles over the grave. 
 For they say that a pebble, so long as it is not crushed, 
 has life in it, and to boot a holy life, spent in one long 
 prayer to God. Small wonder, then, that those who 
 believe such things lay their dead to rest under a 
 coverlet of prayers. And if the ground be soft, thorn
 
 BURIAL 131 
 
 bushes must be set round the grave to ward off ravening 
 beasts and above all the gor-pat*, the grave-digger, that 
 beast bigger than a cat yet smaller than a dog, that 
 battens on the bodies of the dead. For forty days are 
 the bushes kept round the grave, and are then taken 
 away. 
 
 259. Now a death far from home is a plaguey trouble- Death 
 some business. And a man will think twice before K 
 setting out on a tramp with his household and all, if 
 every man and woman and child be not hale and hearty. 
 
 For if one of them sicken and die in an alien land, they 
 must surely carry the body home, that it may rest at 
 peace among its own kin. Nevertheless it may well 
 be that they will have to bide their time. For if the 
 season be hot, the body would rot and the stench be 
 noisome. Or the homeward road may be long, and the 
 food they brought with them be scant. Or their errand 
 may be urgent and brook no delay. 
 
 260. So where their dead dies, there they will dig a 
 grave, and in it they will lay the body. And by-and-by O r tem- 
 they will return and bear it away. Now such a burial P rar y 
 
 J J burial on 
 
 we call anamat, or trust, for the body is as a trust com- trust. 
 mitted to the earth. And the burial is in this wise. 
 When they have dug the grave, shelf and all, they 
 stand around it, and set a Koran in their midst. And 
 the chief mourner calls the assembly to witness, saying : 
 " Oh Musalmans, hearken to my words, and be witness 
 thereof ! Thus do I deliver up my dead in trust to the 
 flowering earth, and within six months or whatever 
 the term may be do I vow to redeem it." Then three 
 men step forward and lift the body in their hands. 
 And the mulla, or some other reverend man, takes up 
 the Koran, and cries aloud : " Be ye witness one and 
 all, you Musalmans, and you God's book, and you sun 
 and heavens and angels. Be witness that even as the 
 heavens above and the earth beneath and the whole 
 * Possibly a badger ?
 
 132 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 world are set firm in their God-appointed spheres, even 
 so do I in the sight of all these deliver unto you, oh 
 flowering earth, this dear pledge of mine ! Verily within 
 six months will I come and bear it away. But if I come 
 not, then indeed is it yours to waste or to devour. But 
 if, or ever the six long months are out, you despoil it, 
 before God and before His Prophet I will surely demand 
 of you in the Day of Judgment the price of your 
 despoiling down to the last hair of his head." This he 
 says thrice, and he turns to the assembly to bear him 
 witness. And with one voice they reply: "Aye, we 
 are witnesses indeed." Then they lay the body in the 
 shelf of the grave; but before they close the mouth 
 of the shelf, they cry thrice : " Andmat, saldmat ! " safe 
 bind, safe find. And if they have food and to spare 
 with them, they will halt in that place for three days to 
 hold mourning. Or they will turn their face back home- 
 wards, or set out once more on the road, and hold the 
 mourning at their journey's end. Touching the stately 
 mournings held for the dead, I will speak at large 
 hereafter. But a mourning held for those that die 
 on the march and are buried as a trust is no such 
 lengthy matter. And poor folk do not bury children 
 under twelve on trust at all, but lay them to rest in 
 the place where they die. 
 
 Exhuming 261. Now before the set time is out, the kin must 
 10 y ' surely return to redeem their trust. And if the land 
 be dry and hot, six months in the grave will rid the 
 body of its noisomeness. In a damp and cool land 
 it should lie three months more. But you may be sure 
 they thought all this out, before they set the time of 
 trust. And with them they bring a new shroud and 
 some sweet-smelling spices, and a sheep or a goat. 
 And if they are well-to-do, they will bring with them a 
 wooden coffin. Yet most folk are content with a bed- 
 stead ; and some make shift with a hurdle made of 
 branches. And when they are come to the spot, they
 
 BUEIAL 133 
 
 open up the grave, and anxiously scan the face and 
 limbs of the dead, to see whether the earth has been 
 true to its trust. And if they find the nose maybe 
 sunken in or the body wasted, they are sore afraid. 
 For it betokens methinks that the dead sinned grievously 
 in this life. But others there be who would read therein 
 a sign that the end of the world is nigh. 
 
 262. And they sprinkle the body with sweet-smelling Removing 
 spices and wrap it in a shroud, and place it on the burial, 
 bedstead or hurdle. But the sheep or goat they brought 
 
 with them is straightway slaughtered, and its carcase is 
 flung into the empty grave, and there buried. Then 
 they bind the bedstead, body and all, to a camel, and 
 set out homewards. Wheresoever they make a halt, 
 they take the body down from the camel, and 
 build a mosque, that it may pass the night therein. 
 And when they are come to their journey's end, they 
 lay it in the tribal graveyard to rest in peace. For 
 the space of one day they hold mourning. And food is 
 cooked and given in alms. 
 
 263. Saints who die a natural death are buried like f l } ri * 1 of 
 other men. To be sure, if a saint leave behind him a 
 request that he should be buried in his clothes, or that 
 so-and-so should see to the washing of his body, or 
 
 that his grave should be dug in such and such a place, 
 we act according to his will, as though it were an 
 order from God. Thus the holy saint Abdulla Sha of 
 Baghwana died five years back in Shadadpur. And 
 before he died, he bade his disciples wash his body, 
 and wrap it in a shroud, and place it on a camel ; and 
 the camel they should suffer to go whithersoever it 
 listed ; but on the spot where it first knelt down, there 
 they should bury his body. And, as the saint had com- 
 manded, so it fell out. For the camel set forth, and 
 crossed the Kirthar Eange, nor ever halted for two days 
 until it reached Firozabad. Now this is accounted a 
 miracle like to the miracles of the saints of old. For
 
 134 THE LIFE-HISTOEY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 The 
 
 graves of 
 saints. 
 
 The 
 
 sanctity 
 of the 
 shrines. 
 
 Offerings 
 at a 
 shrine. 
 
 The 
 thwarda 
 
 Firozabad is full eighty miles from Shadadpur. And 
 in Firozabad was the saint buried. 
 
 264. Now the grave of a saint is of the selfsame fashion 
 as the graves of other men. Howbeit it is raised higher 
 and plastered over with mud. And if we leave it open 
 to the air, we set a wall around it. But if the 
 saint was of great renown and his disciples many, we 
 build a chamber over the grave. And at the head of 
 the grave or the door of the chamber we set up a lakkar, 
 or pole, and deck it with a flag. So all may know that 
 'tis a saint that lies beneath. And on the pole we hang 
 a bell or two, and bells are hung from the lintel of the 
 door, that all who come to worship at the shrine may 
 set them a-ringing and warn the saint of their coming. 
 
 265. Eight holy are these shrines, for the saints are 
 held in great reverence. In such awe do the villagers 
 of Ziarat near Kalat hold the shrine of the virgin 
 saint that is in their midst, that no bedstead may ever 
 be used in the village. And they say that the un- 
 believer who slept on a bedstead would find bedstead 
 on top of him before dawn broke. And some shrines 
 there are, the tombs whereof are empty. For many 
 saints of olden time did not die like other men, but 
 vanished beneath the earth. And over the place where 
 they vanished were their tombs set. 
 
 266. Divers are the offerings you may see strewn 
 about a shrine. There are horns maybe that a hunter 
 has hung up as a thanksgiving for his luck in the 
 chase, and tiny cradles left by glad mothers whose 
 children have been snatched from death. And on the 
 poles you may see flags and kerchiefs and tiny bags 
 stuffed with the first shavings of the head, and tresses 
 of hair left by women whom the saint has blessed with 
 children, or the leading-string of a camel that some 
 master of a caravan has offered up after his journey. 
 
 267. And at the head and the foot of the tomb there 
 are two small mangers, wherein are kept some clods of
 
 BUEIAL 135 
 
 earth we call Wiurda, or Mtwarda, touching which I in the 
 have spoken before. And when the worshippers have 
 done their worship, they take some earth from the 
 mangers, and eat thereof, and bedaub their face and 
 body withal. This they do to show reverence to 
 the saint, and as a cure against disease. But woe 
 betide the man that eats of the earth of a saint whose 
 follower he is not, for the saint will verily be pro- 
 voked to anger. Yet folk pay visits to every saint in 
 the country, but of the earth in the manger may 
 they not eat save at the shrine of their own saint. 
 And when they take of the earth, they must leave 
 an offering for the keeper of the shrine. 
 
 268. Now the man that dies for the Faith's sake is Burial of 
 a shahld, or martyr. Yet such martyrs are few among or martyr, 
 us, for we wait the coming of the Mdhdi, when shall 
 indeed come the time for martyrdom. But those that 
 
 fight in tribal warfare and are killed on the field are 
 accounted martyrs also, and as such are buried. For 
 their bodies are not washed, nor are they wrapped in 
 a shroud, but are buried in their clothes. And the 
 rites of a martyr's burial and the fashion of his grave 
 are the same as for the common dead, save that there 
 is no numaz-jandza, nor is the kalima writ on a stone. 
 But the body of a man that is mortally wounded in 
 battle, yet lingers on and speaks to his folk before 
 he die, is washed and furnished with a shroud. For 
 who can tell what sinful thoughts may not have passed 
 through his brain 'twixt his wounding and his 
 death ? 
 
 269. Now 'tis a shameful thing to leave one's dead Honour- 
 on the field of battle. Yet if the vanquished are driven ^fin foe. 
 off and perforce leave their dead behind, the victor will 
 surely entreat the dead with honour, if so be he is 
 
 a chief or a man of knightly courtesy. He will send 
 his men forth to lay the dead on bedsteads and bring 
 them before him. And he will bid them spread robes
 
 136 THE LIFE-HISTOEY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 Burial of 
 
 adui &1 of 
 terers. 
 
 of honour over the bodies and bear them off in state 
 to their kinsmen. 
 
 270. And if a man lose a finger or a hand or 
 other limb in the fight, it is of all things shameful 
 should he leave it to lie unhonoured and unburied 
 on the field. Cost it never so much, he must risk 
 all to save it from the foe. For great is the disgrace 
 should he not bear it from the field, that it may be 
 washed and wrapped in a shroud and meetly buried 
 in the graveyard. Nay, if one of your surgeons carve 
 a limb off one of us, we bear it away and bury it after 
 the same fashion. 
 
 271. As for wife and lover taken in adultery and done 
 to death, there's precious little fuss made over their 
 burial, you may be sure. Folks tie their bodies on camels 
 or asses or bullocks, and bundle them off to the grave- 
 yard. There they fling them into pits, and cover them 
 over with loose earth. In the clothes the sinners died in, 
 are they buried ; howbeit the woman is stripped of her 
 ornaments. No winding-sheet swathes them, nor are 
 they laid to rest in a shelf. Like dogs are their carcasses 
 east into the pits, unmourned and with never a prayer. 
 Nay, some men will ban them from the tribal graveyard, 
 so great is their wrath. And they dig pits for them far 
 from the haunts of men, and there let them rot in their 
 solitude.
 
 MOUKNING 
 
 272. And in their pit let us leave the sinners, and hie Leaving 
 back to the graveyard, to watch the mourners as they 
 gather for the last time round the grave of their dear 
 dead. Solemnly the mulla recites from the Holy Book, 
 
 and one and all lift up their hands in prayer, beseeching 
 the Almighty to pardon the sins of the dead. Then they 
 wend their way homewards. But once quit of the grave- 
 yard, they do not fare far, but sit them down in a ring. 
 
 273. For it's time for the sargorl, or division of Sargon, or 
 funeral meats. Dates are commonly served out for this 
 
 purpose ; but those that live in villages furnish sweet- the 
 meats or loaves in their stead. The dates or sweets are meats. 
 set in readiness by the stricken household before they 
 go forth to the burial. And while the last sad rite is 
 being performed, they are brought silently from the 
 house and laid out near the graveyard. But among the 
 Mengal and others of Jhalawan who have neither sweets 
 nor dates, some of the kith and kin run to their flocks 
 as soon as the body is carried forth for the burial, and 
 each takes a sheep or goat from his flock. For a 
 male the number of sheep and goats must be odd ; for a 
 female it must verily be even. And the beasts are 
 slaughtered near the graveyard and the flesh roasted 
 forthwith. And when the company issue from the grave- 
 yard, the funeral meats are served out, each man getting 
 no more, no less, than his neighbour. The roast flesh is 
 eaten then and there. But as for sweets and dates, it 
 rests with each to do therewith as he please to eat his 
 share where he sits, or to take it home. 
 
 137
 
 138 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 Taking 274. Then they make their way to the house of sorrow. 
 thTnext- Here a room or a tent has been set apart, strewn with 
 of-kin. carpets and rugs. All enter in. The next-of-kin to the 
 dead sits him down in a corner, and the company sit 
 them down over against him. And they greet him with 
 the usual greetings, as though they were new-comers that 
 had not yet seen him that day. And he answers greeting 
 with greeting in the selfsame fashion. Then a grey- 
 beard or some man of rank in their midst lifts up his 
 voice and says : " Bow yourself to the will of God!" or 
 " May God forgive him !" And the next-of-kin makes 
 answer : " Aye, God forgive him indeed !" or " God's 
 will be done !" Then each in turn comforts the next- 
 of-kin in like fashion, and for his greater comfort they 
 dub him " Mir," or " Sir." For be a man never so 
 humble in rank, due honour must be shown him this 
 day. And to one and all he makes answer : " God's 
 will be done !" or " God forgive him indeed !" And 
 after they have sat there a while, they arise, and 
 lifting up their hands, they pray for the eternal peace of 
 the dead. So they depart, making way for others that 
 come to offer their comfort. But before they enter their 
 own houses, their womenfolk will surely see to it that 
 they wash their face, and shake the dust off their shoes. 
 For though the men may think light of it, the women- 
 folk fear death or calamity if one comes in from a burial 
 with unwashed face or dusty shoes. 
 
 Fattha or 275. But the next-of-kin to the dead sits on in the 
 
 mourning 6 nouse f sorrow as fdtiha-khwqja, or chief mourner, with 
 
 among the stricken family around him, to hold the mourning, or 
 
 fiitiha, which those of Jhalawan call patar. And by his 
 
 side sits an old friend of the family who shall support 
 
 him in his sad task. And when the neighbours are 
 
 come, and saldm alaikum and v'alaik have been uttered, 
 
 one and all sit them down. And they lift up their 
 
 hands and whisper prayers for the peace of the departed. 
 
 Then some greybeard among the neighbours bids the
 
 MOUKNING 139 
 
 next-of-kin bow himself to God's will. And he greets 
 the stricken ones in turn, asking after their health and 
 welfare. And having done this yet again, he heaves a 
 deep sigh of sorrow. 
 
 276. Then up speaks the old friend of the family, Exchange 
 calling upon the new-comers to give their hdvdl or news. of news ' 
 And the greybeard with a "By your good leave" to 
 
 his comrades makes answer in this wise on behalf of 
 one and all : " The mercy of God, the safety of the 
 Faith, and your well-being, for all these do we pray. 
 Of this sad happening have we heard, and have hurried 
 hither to pay our respects to our honoured friend. No 
 other news have we. All else is well." And " God grant 
 him His peace !" is the reply. Then with a heavy sigh the 
 greybeard greets the stricken ones, and begs the old friend 
 of the family for the news. And the old friend makes 
 answer in the selfsame way touching the mercy of God, 
 the safety of the Faith, and their well-being. " Here we 
 are seated," he goes on, " to mourn with our honoured 
 friend in his dire calamity ; and God has brought 
 you to us. All else is well." And greetings go the 
 round once more. But in Jhalawan they cut the news 
 short with "By God's grace, there are no new tidings. 
 All's well." As for the folk of Kalat and the neighbour- 
 hood, they don't give and take the news at all. 
 
 277. Then the greybeard turns to the mourners and Describ- 
 asks touching the last illness of the dead. So they tell eml. 
 how he suffered and lingered, and how they hoped against 
 hope, until at the last he gave up the ghost. And the 
 
 talk turns to other matters, for the neighbours strive to 
 cheer the stricken family. And so they take their leave. 
 
 278. But some stay behind to break food in the house Aval- 
 of mourning. Now so long as the body remains above 
 
 ground, never a morsel may pass the lips of the stricken the first 
 
 ni63il after 
 
 family. Nor for three full days after the death may the burial. 
 any food be cooked in the house. Verily it would be 
 unclean. Moreover in these three days there's such a
 
 140 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 deal to be done, there would be little enough time for 
 the cooking of food. Hence it is that the kith or kin 
 must see to the feeding of the mourners. So when the 
 body is carried forth to the burial, another household of 
 the kindred makes ready a meal. Now this meal they 
 of Sarawan call aval-sham, or the first evening; but in 
 Jhalawan it's called langarl, or fasting. Yet there's little 
 fasting in the matter. For one sheep or goat at least is 
 slain, whatever the sex of the dead ; howbeit no blood is 
 spilt over a dead child that has not shed its first teeth. 
 And if a large company is gathered together, three sheep 
 or goats are slaughtered or maybe five ; for their number 
 must be odd, not even. From the flocks of the stricken 
 family they should not be taken ; but Heaven knows, the 
 wild men of the hills care little one way or the other- 
 And for every beast that is slaughtered, they take forty 
 pounds of wheaten flour, and bake bannocks for the 
 meal. 
 
 Da she/ 279. And when all is in readiness, one of the kin steps 
 lowering U P * foe fdtiha-khwdja, or chief mourner, and would fain 
 hand to \vash his hands. For it were ill done, should the wash- 
 mourning, ing of the hands of the chief mourner and the guests of 
 honour at a funeral feast be left to serving-men. But 
 the chief mourner with a sigh waves him aside : please 
 let him wash the hands of the others first ; as for him- 
 self, he has no heart to eat. Then some man of rank 
 catches him by the wrist and bids them pour water over 
 his hands : what ! would he starve, and fight with God 
 Himself ? So with a heavy sigh the chief mourner 
 suffers them to do their will. And all the guests wash 
 their hands after him. Then the food is brought in. 
 But the chief mourner brushes the food aside, nor will 
 he touch it. So the man of rank again takes him by the 
 wrist and draws his hand to the platter. And the chief 
 mourner gulps down a few small morsels with many a 
 bitter sigh. And all in the room partake of the food. Now 
 this custom we call die she/ kanning, or lowering hand to
 
 MOURNING 141 
 
 food, and those that share in the meal will say : " We 
 lowered hands this day at so-and-so's house of mourn- 
 ing." And the selfsame scene is enacted apart among 
 the women. 
 
 280. But there's an idea abroad that one should not Avoiding 
 join in these burial feasts too freely. For the women say ance at an 
 
 that it will bring death into one's own house before long. 
 And those that are suffering from fever will be the first 
 to make their excuses and stay away, lest their fever wax 
 in strength or be ousted by a fever still more grievous. 
 Hence but few, and those the near kin and the dear 
 friends of the dead, stay behind for the aral-sham. 
 
 281. For full three days do the kith and the kinsmen 
 come and sit and mourn ; howbeit for a child that 
 has not shed its first teeth, one day may suffice for the the ru ? of 
 mourning among the men. But on the afternoon of the 
 third day they come a-visiting for the last time. And 
 they speak to the chief mourner words of comfort and 
 wisdom : death must come to one and all, come it soon 
 or come it late ; a truce then to mourning ; let him bear 
 himself like a man, and be up and about his worldly 
 business. Long do they entreat him, and at the last he 
 gives way and arises and quits the room. Thereupon 
 one of the neighbours rolls up a corner of the rug on 
 which he was seated, in token that the mourning is over, 
 and that the mourners now go about their business. A 
 chief will surely send a son or some other to roll up the 
 rug in the house of one of his tribesmen. And in Kalat 
 itself the Khan will send one of his servants or a 
 headman to pay this honour in the house of one who has 
 done him true and loyal service. And if the graveyard 
 be close by, the chief mourner wends his way thither 
 with a few of the kith and kin. And standing by the 
 grave they lift up their hands, beseeching God's blessing 
 and praying for the peace of the dead. So they go each 
 man to his own home, and the mourning among the men 
 is over.
 
 142 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 or 282. On the morrow the stricken family make ready a 
 th/death- ^ eas ^ * n their house. Sheep and goats are slaughtered, 
 
 feast given as ma ny as their means can afford. Yet their number 
 
 bereaved, should be odd, just as the number of sheep and goats 
 
 slain for a wedding-feast should surely be even ; how- 
 
 beit some folks of Jhalawan say that for a male dead the 
 
 number should be odd, and for a female even. And 
 
 they call the serving-women and others to come with 
 
 their iron pans and sit and bake bread the whole day 
 
 long. And they summon the mulla and the kith and 
 
 the poor and the needy to the feast. So they come and 
 
 eat their fill, the men together and the womenfolk apart. 
 
 Purs, or 283. Thus at last is food cooked in the house of 
 
 offerings sorrow. For three full days have the mourners and 
 
 made at; their visitors eaten naught save that which was 
 
 con- furnished by the kith and kin and cooked in other 
 
 dolence. houses. But those that live at a distance bring in a kid 
 
 or a lamb or a rupee or two, or maybe more, to help the 
 
 chief mourner, when they come to offer him comfort ; for 
 
 a death brings heavy losses in its train. Methinks one 
 
 who came with empty hands would touch nothing of the 
 
 food in the house, whether it were furnished by the 
 
 kinsmen or the stricken family. And tribesmen who 
 
 come in a body will together offer a sheep or the like, 
 
 when they come on their errand of comfort. And one 
 
 of the company will keep a careful tally of the offerings, 
 
 that the chief mourner may know what he should offer 
 
 in return, when death in time shall enter the houses of 
 
 others. This is the custom we call purs. It is known 
 
 throughout the length and breadth of the country. 
 
 Even the chiefs pay purs to the Khan of Kalat, the 
 
 Eaisani and the Shawam paying one hundred rupees and 
 
 one over, and the rest in the order of their rank. And 
 
 the Khan makes due return. Yet folk who herd together 
 
 in Kalat and Mastung and other townships are giving up 
 
 purs like many another good old custom. For in the town- 
 
 ships men of one tribe live higgledy-piggledy with men
 
 MOUENING 143 
 
 of another : nay, they rub shoulders with folk that are 
 not tribesmen at all. In Jhalawan the custom is common 
 everywhere. But, alas ! it is growing out of all know- 
 ledge. For the chiefs have twisted it to their own selfish 
 uses. As soon as death enters the house of a chief, 
 he sends his servants abroad among his tribesmen, 
 more especially among such as pay him tribute, to 
 gather in the purs, not as a mark of sympathy offered 
 graciously, but by force as the rightful due of the strong. 
 And what is yet worse, the chief forgets all too often to 
 make return when death stalks among his tribesmen. 
 Thus have our good old customs gone awry, on such evil 
 days are we fallen. 
 
 284. Now the womenfolk make much to-do over their 
 mourning. As soon as the dead is carried forth to the 
 burial, a room is set apart for the sorrowing ladies of the face , 
 
 mi ! -i i i among the 
 
 the house. They sit in a row, and in their midst sits women, 
 the nearest of the kin, as mdtan-godl, the mistress of the 
 mourning. And when the ladies of the neighbourhood 
 come in to offer comfort, the kinswomen do not rise, nor 
 do they greet them, but cover their faces with their head- 
 dress. And the neighbours sit them down, and cover 
 their faces in like fashion, weeping and wailing. 
 
 285. And songs in praise of the dead are sung. Moda Moda, or 
 we call them. Doleful dirges they are, full of grief and 
 mournful sounds, so that tears flow from every eye ; how- 
 
 beit the dirges are all in the Balochi tongue. And if it 
 be a male for whom they mourn, they lament him in 
 song as the bravest of his time, the most comely of his 
 race with his raven locks and his raven beard ; as one 
 who stood by the fatherless and the widow, a cheerful 
 giver to the poor and needy, and a bountiful host to all 
 who came as guests. As the staunch rider of a fleet bay 
 steed they praise him, notwithstanding that never in his 
 life did he throw leg over the sorriest of nags. And if 
 they mourn for maid or matron, they sing the praises of 
 her long black tresses, and of her countenance as fair as
 
 144 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 the pale face of the moon ; though her hair maybe was 
 scant, and her face as black as pitch. So they lament, 
 and cease not from their sad dirges for a goodly 
 space. 
 
 Unveiling 286. Then some dame of reverend age and rank 
 entreats the mistress of the mourning, saying : " Mis- 
 tress, uncover now your face, we beseech you. God's 
 mercy rest on your dead, the untimely dead, and may 
 long life be the portion of those that are left behind. 
 But as for those that are gone, in truth they are gone 
 whence there is no return, weep you never so pitifully. 
 Nor are these your sad tears acceptable unto God. 
 Uncover then your face, for it is meet and right to bow 
 yourself to His will." And the mistress of the mourning 
 makes answer, saying : " Not for him do I weep, but for 
 myself and the sad days that are mine. For he has 
 gone hence and found peace. But me he has left to my 
 anguish, and his sons has he made wanderers on the 
 face of the earth." Then the old dame lifts the veil 
 from the face of the mistress of the mourning, and all in 
 the room lay their head-dress aside. 
 
 Lamenta- 287. So they wipe the tears from their eyes. And the 
 thTdead. ^ darne turns to the mistress of the mourning, saying : 
 " Mistress mine, is it well with you and with yours? May I 
 be your sacrifice !" And the mistress of the mourning 
 makes answer in the selfsame w 7 ords. Then the other 
 lifts up her voice in lamentation : " Alas ! for his youth,'' 
 she wails, " alas ! a hundred times alas for his untimely 
 end, cut off from the living before the fulfilment of his 
 purpose !" And the mistress of the mourning sobs out : 
 " Heart of mine, lo ! he is gone and is at rest. But I 
 what can I do for all my grief ? Broken is my heart, 
 and my tears spring forth unbidden. Yet what do they 
 avail? Die I cannot." Then the two fall a-talking 
 of the illness and the last words and the end of it all. 
 And the others chat together in whispers of this or that, 
 but with never a laugh or a smile.
 
 MOURNING 145 
 
 288. But by-and-by their voices are hushed as other Fixing the 
 neighbours come in. And the veiling of the face and the Mourning, 
 droning of dirges begin anew. And so it goes on till the 
 evening. But before they depart, one of the neighbours 
 
 turns to the mistress of the mourning, saying : " Dear 
 lady, no one, I ween, has yet prayed God to bestow sorrow 
 upon him. But when sorrow comes, 'tis meet to face it 
 with a stout heart. Moreover we must needs bow to the 
 way of the world. Tell us then the period you set for 
 the matan, or mourning, and the day you appoint for the 
 washing of the head." Thereupon the mistress of the 
 mourning lifts up her voice, railing against new times 
 and new customs. And the other presses her yet the 
 more to set a limit to the mourning. For a while she 
 will hear none of it, but babbles of the good old days and 
 the love she bore her dead. Yet at the last she gives way. 
 " Friends !" she sobs, " the light of my eyes has been 
 taken from me, and sorrow will quit my sad heart never- 
 more. Ask what you will of me, and freely will I grant 
 it. But for eleven livelong days will I hold full mourn- 
 ing, nor will I abate a day thereof." And so they 
 depart, each lady going to her own home and noising 
 abroad the number of days that have been set. 
 
 289. Now according to good old custom, the terms of Modem 
 the full mourning ampng the womenfolk that is called to n cu e t nc3 
 mdtan are these. Eleven days they mourn for a man cut down 
 
 M> ' f ,1 * T-. , . mournint' 
 
 off in his prime ; for a woman they mourn nine. But if 
 the dead go down to the grave in the fulness of years, 
 the mourning is two days shorter. For a youth they 
 mourn seven days, and for a maid five. For lads and 
 lasses that have not passed over the threshold of child- 
 hood, they mourn two days less. Three days they 
 mourn for tiny tots, or five maybe for a male child 
 over three ; but for such there is no covering of the 
 face nor singing of dirges. For a babe of six days old 
 they mourn one day. But as for a newborn babe, they 
 mourn not at all. Such are the periods according to 
 
 10
 
 146 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BBAHUI 
 
 bygone custom. But in these days the Mengal and the 
 Bizanjav and other folk of lower Jhalawan think it 
 enough to mourn even those cut off in their prime for 
 three short days. But old ladies shake their heads sadly 
 over the new-fangled fashion. 
 
 290. And when the sun is set and all the ladies of the 
 the J neighbourhood have departed to their homes, the nearest 
 condole' 1 kinsmen 8 * g r eet the mistress of mourning. And 
 with the they find her sitting in despair, with head swathed round. 
 mistress -g^ ft Berv i n g. ma i ( 3 ) or S0 me lady of the kin, bids her arise, 
 mourning and lay her veil aside, and answer the greeting of her 
 
 kinsmen. And so she does after a deal of tender pressing. 
 And they speak to her words of comfort, and by-and-by 
 they take their leave. 
 
 291. And in high families, like the Ahmadzei and 
 
 mourning Htazei, it's an old custom, now dying out, to mourn by 
 by beat of b ea t of drum. As soon as the body is laid in the grave, 
 a doinb is blindfolded and sent with his drum into the 
 assembly of the women. Thither comes the mistress of 
 the mourning with the ladies of the kin and her serving- 
 maids and handmaids around her. Bareheaded, with 
 head-dress flung back and bound round their middle, 
 they stand in a ring. And the drummer takes his stand 
 in their midst and beats a mournful roll on his drum. 
 And in token of mourning the drum is dyed blue, even 
 as it is smeared red with henna for a wedding jollity. 
 As he beats the drum, a serving-maid lifts up her 
 voice and wails out a dirge in praise of the dead. And 
 when she has sung a verse, the mistress of the mourning 
 and the ladies of the kin sing it after her, sobbing and 
 wailing. And they clap their hands against their face 
 and then against their thighs, and whirl around. And 
 behind each lady stands a handmaid, holding her with 
 both hands about the middle, lest she sink to the ground 
 for grief. Three days do they thus mourn to the beat of 
 the drum, unless maybe the mistress of the mourning 
 give way to those who urge her to rest content with one
 
 MOURNING 147 
 
 day's mourning, lest the Almighty wax wroth at their 
 exceeding bitter lamentation. But the custom is dying 
 out, and it's only in the Khan's family that it's likely to 
 be heard of in these new-fashioned times. Yet I warrant 
 it will live long on the tongues of angry women. For 
 " May your drums turn blue !" is a taunt both bitter 
 and common. One might as well say outright, " May 
 your wedding-bed be your bier !" 
 
 292. Now during the days appointed for the full Sarshcdi, 
 mourning, the mistress of the mourning and those that was hiug 
 come to stay her with comfort change not their clothes, 
 
 nor redden their lips, nor put antimony to their 
 eyes. But when the last day of mourning is come, each 
 brings to the assembly soap and washing clay and oil 
 and a pound or two of wheat. And they sit in the house 
 and weep and wail till noon. But some go apart and 
 set the water a-boiling. And when all is in readiness, a 
 reverend dame steps forward and with sweet words 
 entreats the mistress of the mourning. " Dear lady !" 
 she will say, "this time of trouble comes not to you 
 alone. For the angel of Death stands knocking at the 
 door of prince and beggar-boy alike. And the road 
 whither he beckons, one and all must tread. God grant 
 that the time of those that are yet young may be far, 
 far off ! But after all, we must follow the way of this 
 sorry world. Arise, therefore, and wash your head." But 
 the mistress of the mourning will surely seek to wave 
 her aside, as though it were all too soon after the death 
 of her loved one. But the other will catch her by the 
 wrist and draw her with tender words of comfort to the 
 courtyard. And there the mistress of the mourning will 
 suffer her to unplait her hair, and wash her head with the 
 washing clay, and comb her tresses. And by-and-by she 
 will pluck up heart and comb her tresses herself. 
 
 293. Now when the old lady leads the mistress of the Those who 
 mourning forth for the sarshodl, or washing of the head, j n it l * 
 she turns to the company, saying : " Who will wash her
 
 148 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 head with the mistress of the mourning, who ? But 
 friends, we would drive no one against her will. For it 
 is all a matter of graciousness and good fellowship. 
 Yet the mistress has ever been foremost and right 
 gracious in acts of fellowship, when weal or woe befell us. 
 Step forward, then, all ye who would bear her company!" 
 Now of the stricken family all the matrons will verily 
 step forth, and one lady from each family of the near 
 kin. But maidens and children are not suffered to join 
 in the washing of the head, be their grief never so great, 
 save maybe if the number of matrons be too small. So 
 the women come forward and sit by the side of the mis- 
 tress of the mourning, unplaiting their hair. But if their 
 number be found to be even, yet another lady will surely 
 come forward to join the throng. Or, if needs must, 
 they will entreat one of the mourners ever so prettily to 
 forgo the washing of the hair : 'twas kindly meant, and 
 will never be forgotten ; but she sees how matters stand ; 
 so please, won't she give way, and let the will be taken 
 for the deed ? 
 
 The 294. So not until the number of the mourners is odd, do 
 
 ny ' they unplait their hair and cleanse their heads with the 
 clay. And the other ladies and the serving-maid help them 
 with service. And the mistress of the mourning is given 
 clean apparel, and walnut-bark to redden her lips withal, 
 and antimony for her eyes, and oil for her hair. But all 
 the while she seeks to thrust the things aside, and often 
 has the old lady to catch her by the wrist, before she 
 suffers herself to be decked out. And the mourners 
 array themselves after the selfsame fashion. 
 
 Fixing the 295. Then they sit them down to a feast, for a 
 
 kdtum- * 
 
 gu-afing, sheep has surely been slam for the purpose, and maybe 
 
 offhe itingthree - And When theV hftVe 6aten ftnd aie filled ' the 
 
 hair. old lady bids the mistress of the mourning set a day for 
 the kdtum gwqfing, or plaiting of the hair. So she sets a 
 time a week or ten days hence. But the soap which the 
 ladies brought with them is put in a heap, with soap
 
 MOUBNING 149 
 
 furnished by the mistress of the mourning. And a share 
 is given to each of the ladies, whether they are to join in 
 the half-mourning or not. So they depart, taking with 
 them moreover jushdnda, or boiled dates, the gift of the 
 mistress of the mourning. But the wheat they brought 
 is given to the serving-maid who did them service at the 
 washing of the head. 
 
 296. Such is the washing of the head. But hill-folk Lit t le 
 
 ccrGnionv 
 
 and nomads, poor creatures, can ill afford to do the thing among 
 in this fine fashion. Yet do something they must, by hook nomads - 
 or by crook. 
 
 297. Henceforth till the plaiting of the hair the 
 ladies ply their needles right busily, for the mourning the 
 apparel must be got ready. And on the appointed day 
 they assemble once more in the house, each bringing a hair, 
 little oil and a little gum and one or two or three pounds 
 
 of wheat. And when they have sat a while weeping and 
 wailing, the old lady takes the mistress of the mourning 
 by the wrist, and after much ado is suffered to plait her 
 hair, the serving-maid aiding her in the task. Not until 
 the hair of the mistress of the mourning is oiled and 
 smeared with gum and scented and plaited, is it time for 
 the plaiting of the hair of the mourners. But the hair 
 of the other ladies they do not plait. 
 
 298. Then they bring in the sug, or mourning apparel. Donning 
 Heaven knows, the mistress of the mourning needs no mourning 
 pressing to don the gloomy garb. Nay rather, 'tis with a PP arel - 
 
 a cold sigh that the old lady proffers her the apparel. 
 " Mother !" she says, " never did we look to see this sad 
 day befall you. And yet, methinks, what God sends 
 must needs be acceptable in our eyes." And it's all so 
 piteous, the mourners can scarce see to put on the 
 apparel for their stream of tears. 
 
 299. Then they ask the mistress of the mourning for Fixing the 
 how long she will ordain the wearing of the mourning F e r ri t Qe 
 apparel. And she answers them roundly, that the good Bearing of 
 old rule is good enough for her : twelve months for a
 
 150 THE LIFE-HISTOEY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 male, and for a female nine. Thereupon they entreat 
 her to abate somewhat of the term, for sooth to tell, the 
 old rule is out of date. And if she has a husband and 
 sons and brothers to think of, she will soon give way. 
 Five weeks maybe will suffice her, though she may stand 
 out for three months, or even for six. But if it be a 
 chief that is dead, full twelve months will go by before 
 they doff the garb of mourning. All this while no other 
 dress is worn ; howbeit they wash the mourning apparel 
 every now and then. Nor when they plait their hair, do 
 they smear it with gum or scent it, until such time as 
 they issue forth from the mourning. 
 Modem 3QO. Times have changed, even among the Mengal 
 
 tendency 
 
 to cut and the BIzanjav and the Mamasam, who used to drag 
 it short. ou the term for the wearing of mourning two sad 
 years and more. In truth, they now look upon over- 
 long mourning as a mighty unlucky business. For in 
 the old days it happened often enough that a mourning 
 dress once donned was never doffed. They mourned so 
 long, that Death would be on his rounds again, and they 
 would have to mourn afresh. Small wonder then, that 
 they have grown content to lay the gloomy apparel aside 
 betimes. 
 
 Different 301. Now the mourning apparel is of divers fashion. 
 mourning Well-to-do ladies of Sarawan wear white head-dress and 
 apparel, shift. Eed, you may be sure, is never worn in mourning : 
 it is the marriage colour ; and a widow may not wear it 
 even though her mourning be over. The shift is em- 
 broidered with plain embroidery, but with many of the 
 points and marks and patterns left out. Thus a mother 
 who has lost an only son will have no chat or lar or 
 nidm-tik on her shift. And the shift of a widow who has 
 lost her eldest son will be embroidered with plain thread. 
 But a widow who is the mother of children will keep the 
 nidm-tik and the gul-gulchik on her shift, in token that she 
 is the mother of sons despite her widowhood. Moreover, 
 she fears that she might be bereft of children into the
 
 MOURNING 151 
 
 bargain, should she wear her shift quite plain, for all 
 the world like a childless widow. In Jhalawan the colour 
 of mourning is black. Yet as the workaday woman in 
 Jhalawan wears black at all times, you will have to peer 
 mighty close for the embroidery, to see whether she's in 
 mourning or not. 
 
 302. And a widow must discard her bandok, that cord Si g nin - 
 
 ' . cancc 
 
 of red silk with its pretty silver tassels wherewith the of the 
 
 VI 
 
 collar is fastened. In its stead she will use a fastener n( 
 made of plain thread, white or black, so long as she's in 
 mourning. And here's a bit of gossip not many know of. 
 Among the Raisam, in the chief's branch at any rate, a 
 widow will still wear a fastener of white thread even after 
 the mourning is over, whether she have children or no. 
 But should she put on her red bundok after all, 'tis a sign 
 to announce that she has it in mind to marry again. 
 
 303. And a widow who is left without sons to cheer piscard- 
 her widowhood must strip her jewellery off hands and jewellery, 
 arms and ears and nose and feet. But if she has a son 
 
 to mourn her loss with her, she will wear her cliallav, or 
 finger-rings, and her vat, the small ring in her nose, and 
 panara, or ear-rings. And the ornaments that she strips 
 off on her widowhood, she lays aside for life, so be she 
 marries not again. 
 
 304. Now so long as the mourning apparel is worn, the Seclusion 
 mourners keep themselves aloof from all gatherings of mourners, 
 company. If there be a wedding among the kin, the 
 merry-makers will bid the mistress of the mourning and 
 
 her mourners to the feast right graciously. Yet great 
 would be the scandal if they came. But should a dear 
 one be stricken down with disease, the mistress of the 
 mourning will step over to the house in the dead of night. 
 A few whispered inquiries, and she is gone under cover of 
 the dark. Even though there's a death among the kin, 
 she will not go to offer comfort. But there's naught 
 amiss should she send one of the mourners in her stead. 
 And if she does not hold herself aloof, but gads about
 
 152 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 shameless!} 7 , the women will point the finger of scorn at 
 her, and say : " God preserve us from trampling our 
 dear ones under foot, in our hurry to be after strangers!" 
 Yet the mistress of the mourning looks to others to come 
 and comfort her. And should one be late in coming, 
 there'll be a sting in the courtesy of her greeting : no 
 doubt it was the henna on her feet that kept her so long 
 in coming ; ah, yes ! she quite understood. And the 
 shaft strikes home, I warrant, if the visitor is one that 
 has long looked for marriage in vain. 
 
 No 305. Such is the wearing of mourning apparel among 
 
 apparel" 8 ^ ne womenfolk. But neither in Sarawan nor in upper 
 
 worn by Jhalawan do the men don any mourning. To be sure, 
 
 among the Mengal or Bizanjav, or others of lower 
 
 Jhalawan, a man will sometimes wear a black turban for 
 
 a month or two ; but the custom is borrowed from the 
 
 folk of Makran. And if a son or a brother or some other 
 
 dear kinsman be foully done to death, a man in lower 
 
 Jhalawan will wear a black turban, till such time as he 
 
 can wipe out blood with blood. 
 
 Sal tinbig, 306. Carefully do we count the months from the day 
 
 the anm" 8 n which the dead died. For twelve months hence on 
 
 versary of the selfsame day do we keep holiday, and hold a feast 
 
 for the kith and kin. And the widow, I reckon, will 
 
 remember the day, though all forget ; for on that day is 
 
 she free to marry again. Howbeit the longer the time 
 
 she passes in mourning widowhood, the greater is her 
 
 pride. 
 
 The feast 307. And the wilder folk in Jhalawan make a great 
 
 Side? thC to - do over the feast > above a11 if the dead died without 
 Jhala- issue or heir. In the morning they take a number of 
 
 sheep and goats and drive them to the graveyard. There 
 they visit the grave of their dead, and then go a little way 
 apart, and slaughter the sheep and the goats. They 
 slaughter as many as they list ; howbeit the number, to 
 be sure, must be odd. And by the roadside they set 
 three cooking-stones we call a kiitagh, and by the side of
 
 MOUKNING 153 
 
 one kutagh they set another, and yet another and another. 
 And when they have set the cooking-stones all in a row, 
 they set yet a second row alongside the first. Now if you 
 chanced to pass by, you could tell how many beasts had 
 been slain for the feast. For the one row of stones is for 
 cauldrons for the boiling of the flesh, and the other for 
 pans for the baking of the bread ; and for each sheep or goat 
 that is slaughtered there must be one cauldron and one 
 pan. And when the flesh is cooked and the bread is baked, 
 they sit them down to the feast. And on the spot they 
 build a mosque or two in memory of the dead. In the 
 middle thereof they pile up a few stones, and upright on 
 the pile they set another stone in honour of a male ; 
 howbeit for a female no upright stone is set. Now 
 this custom was once common in Jhalawan, as you 
 may guess from the rows of stones by the roadside and 
 the mosques and all. Yet in these days it's only the 
 wilder folk among the Zahn and Mengal that keep 
 it up. 
 
 308. Early on the morning of the first Id after a death 
 in the house, the kith and kin come to the chief mourner fi r st id 
 and bid him rise and keep holiday. But he makes demur, ^ fter , a 
 till one among them takes him by the wrist and entreats 
 him. So with much ado he dons his holiday clothes and 
 puts antimony to his eyes. OS go the kinsmen and 
 deck themselves out for the merry-making ; for until 
 the chief mourner has donned his holiday clothes, it 
 would ill beseem them to don theirs. Nevertheless in the 
 house of the dead there is no holiday feasting ; yet the 
 daily meal is surely eked out with dishes sent by the kin. 
 But the womenfolk keep no holiday nor change their 
 clothes that day. For the space of half an hour do they 
 drone out dirges with the mistress of the mourning, not- 
 withstanding that the mourning may be over and done 
 with. And when they urge her to keep holiday, she bids 
 them wait till the morrow.
 
 THE SOULS OF THE DEAD 
 
 309. But we must hark back to the soul of the dead that 
 setting a was laid to rest in the graveyard. Now for the first three 
 
 watch at n *& n * 8 after the burial, and maybe longer, a mulla is set 
 
 the grave, to watch at the grave. With him watch his disciples. 
 
 And for their comfort the kinsmen furnish food and a 
 
 tent or other shelter, and pay them well for their pains. 
 
 Night and day they watch by the grave, reciting the 
 
 Holy Writ. For during the first three nights those 
 
 dread angels, Munkir and Nakir, come to the grave and 
 
 tax the soul shrewdly touching his faith and all that he 
 
 has done in this world. And the poor sinner takes com- 
 
 fort from the presence of the mulla and the sound of the 
 
 holy words, and is stayed in the awful inquest. 
 
 Preseuta- 310. And on the evening of the first day the mulla is 
 
 clothes to called into a room, where such of the womenfolk who do 
 
 the mulla. not jj ve }j en i n( j t ne ve ji are assembled. And they bestow 
 
 upon him the clothes that the dead wore, and a new set of 
 raiment and a cup, as part of his recompense for the 
 washing of the body. And as he takes them, he lifts up 
 his hands and prays the Almighty to bless the soul of 
 the dead with peace everlasting. 
 
 Lighting 31 1. Now every evening when the sun is set, the soul 
 tan-shod, of the departed comes to the place where its body was 
 washed for the burial, and then passes on to see how the 
 kith and kin are faring. Hence it is that night after 
 night for three nights they keep a lamp burning in the 
 place of washing, and thereafter every Thursday night 
 for the space of forty days. For it were churlish to 
 leave the poor soul to grope its way thither in the dark, 
 when it came on its rounds. Moreover, if the dead was a 
 
 154
 
 155 
 
 man of rank or honour in this world, we set a wall round 
 the place where his body was washed, or mark it out 
 with stones. Folk might else come trampling over the 
 ground, not knowing that the ground on which they trod 
 was holy ground. 
 
 312. And for the better comfort of the soul for they 
 would not have him think that he is lightly forgotten meals for 
 the kin cook some meat and rice and sweetmeats in the 
 house, and set as much in readiness as a man would eat soul. 
 at a meal. This we call the fdtihand iragh, and it is 
 fetched away by the mulla or one of his disciples. Every 
 evening after sunset for at least forty days do they spread 
 out the meal, and thereafter every Thursday for at least 
 six months. And whatever the poor soul may think of 
 it, the mulla or some beggar or other is glad enough of 
 it, I warrant. 
 
 313. And every Thursday afternoon for the first seven Kh 
 weeks they summon the mulla with his disciples. To be recitation 
 
 sure, if they be poor folk, three or five times will suffice, 
 for the ceremony costs somewhat. And the holy men 
 sit them down in the nearest mosque and fall to reading 
 the Koran. And the mulla reads one chapter and his 
 disciples read others. So small wonder if the Koran is 
 read from cover to cover before the sun sinks. Then 
 the mulla and the disciples and other holy men go with 
 the near kin into the house ; for a sheep was s lain and 
 roasted while they were at their task. But before they 
 break bread, they raise hands and pray for the peace of 
 the soul of the departed. So they sit them down to the 
 feast. 
 
 314. Now the eve of most high festivals in the year Murdaita 
 but not of the two Ids is All Souls' Eve. And the holiest '^} 8 . 
 of all is the eve of the tenth day of the Muharram, that Eve - 
 we call Imamak. In the morning the ladies of the house 
 cook the daintiest of dishes of rice and meat and what not. 
 And towards sunset they call in the mulla, and the kith 
 and kin forgather together. And something from each
 
 156 THE LIFE-HISTOBY OF A BKAHUI 
 
 dish is placed on a platter before the mulla. And he reads 
 a chapter from the Holy Writ, and lifts up his hands in 
 prayer. He prays that the heavenly recompense for 
 their charity may fall on the soul of the Prophet and of 
 the saints and of all the dead of the household. Each 
 he calls by name, and that there may be no mistake, he 
 adds thereto the name of the mother. And he prays for 
 the peace of the martyrs who fought and died for the true 
 Faith. And he prays for the remission of the sins of the 
 dead of the household, both of those whose names he 
 remembers, and of those whose names he has forgotten, 
 but God must know. But the old ladies and the children 
 in the room leave the poor man no peace : " Don't forget 
 granny!" "Please put in uncle's name!" "There 
 now, if he hasn't forgotten father !" For they long for 
 the dainty fare spread before them, but until the mulla 
 has done his prayer, it must lie untouched. But 
 when at last he has rehearsed the roll of the dead, 
 the food allotted to the souls of the dead is made 
 over to him. Yet is he not suffered to take his leave 
 until he has offered up prayers apart for the souls of the 
 little children ; but for them no rice nor meat is allotted 
 naught save a little milk and fruit and sweetmeats. 
 Then they send out dishes to the neighbours and kins- 
 folk. And many a dish is sent to the house in return. 
 visiting 315. And early on the morrow the head of the house 
 on t sets forth to the graveyard, one or two of the kinsmen 
 tenth of bearing him company. With him he takes some red 
 Muhar- pulse and a jar full to the brim with rose petals and 
 mart leaves and water. And at the grave of one of his 
 dead he stands, and raising his hands he prays for the 
 peace of the soul. Then he scatters half a handful of 
 red pulse over the head of the grave, and all around he 
 sprinkles water and leaves from the jar. So he passes 
 on to the grave of another of his dead. And after 
 he has gone the round of his departed kin, he honours 
 the graves of others in like fashion. But here, as he
 
 THE SOULS OF THE DEAD 157 
 
 sprinkles the pulse and the water, he prays, saying : 
 "God grant to thee, oh strange dead, the heavenly 
 recompense for this my act, but oh ! let it fall moreover 
 on my dear ones who lie buried in a far-off land." 
 
 316. Very keen are the villagers and others who have L . es . 8 . 
 seen somewhat of the world over the reading of the f ik 
 Koran and the keeping of All Souls, and the furnishing dl . s ,? e ^ e 
 
 with these 
 
 of the evening meal for the departed soul, and the other cere- 
 customs touching which I have spoken. But hill-men monie8 - 
 and other wild folk can ill afford the like. Nor, to tell 
 the truth, do they care for souls to be forever hanging 
 about the house or encampment. 
 
 317. And it's not alone the wild folk either that would They are, 
 
 in I f l ( ' t 
 
 discourage these visits from the dead. For old-fashioned modern, 
 ladies are very much of the same mind. Now men who 
 live in villages and hobnob cheek by jowl with strange 
 peoples, turn lightly to other ways and new-fangled 
 manners. But among the womenfolk old ideas die hard. 
 Surely they are not only the mothers of our children, but 
 the jealous nurses of our customs from one generation to 
 another. And it is to them you must go, if you would learn 
 the ancient ways of our people. For as to the men, they live 
 hi the present. But the women are never more happy than 
 when living the past over and over again. And they are 
 ever railing at their men for catching at some new thing. 
 
 318. Now if a child should strike a metal cup in the Bells not 
 house after dusk and make it ring, the mother would rung a f ter 
 scold him for a thoughtless rascal. For when the dead dark - 
 hear the sound of a bell in the stillness of night, they 
 
 think the bells are ringing for the Day of Judgment, and 
 raise themselves all agog at the sound. But when they 
 find that the world is still moving in humdrum fashion, 
 they curse the ringer of the bell that made a mock of 
 them and roused them from their slumber for nothing. 
 
 319. And womenfolk and men, too, for the matter Averting 
 of that, think it a plaguey unlucky business to take the mention- 
 name of. the dead lightly on the lips. So if you have
 
 158 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 Avoiding 
 
 the 
 
 mention 
 
 of the 
 
 dead's 
 
 name. 
 
 Mis- 
 chievous 
 souls. 
 
 to mention the dead and the living in the same breath, 
 you should mind and add, " God pardon his sins !" or 
 " The peace of the Faith be upon him !" after the name 
 of the one, and " God grant him long life !" or " Let his 
 name be apart !" or " Let his name remain long with his 
 friends !" after the other. For the names of the living 
 should not be numbered among the dead. Thus we 
 will say : " May Sher Khan's name long remain with 
 his friends ! What a fine shot that uncle of his was ! 
 Rahim Khan, God pardon his sins !" 
 
 320. But many women will have it that one should 
 never speak of the dead by name at all, once the sei-shdm, 
 or the third day's meal, is over. If needs must, one 
 should talk in a roundabout manner of the untimely 
 dead or the like. And anyone who blurts out the name 
 will come in for a scolding, I'll be bound. In the day- 
 light, to be sure, small's the harm. Yet the old 
 granny of the house will rebuke the careless one and 
 say : " Now don't you take his name again. Heaven 
 pardon his sins ! He lived his life, and what more does 
 he want, I should like to know ?" But if one of the 
 young folk speak of the dead by name after the sun's 
 gone down, there's a pretty to-do. The thoughtless 
 babbler will get a taste of her tongue and a taste of her 
 arm too, I warrant : " Let the nameless one be name- 
 less and keep his face to himself, and not come poking 
 his nose where he's not wanted. But as for you take 
 that, and don't you dare mention his name again after 
 dark and all. God bless us ! Does he want to scare the 
 little ones out of their wits?" 
 
 321. For the truth is that souls are mischievous 
 folk, and the souls of the aged are the worst of the lot. 
 And if disease hangs about a house after the death of 
 some old crone, it's on her the women will lay the blame : 
 didn't they always say she was a mischief -monger ? Now 
 the best way to be rid of the bane is to strike four iron 
 pegs at the four corners of the grave when none is look-
 
 THE SOULS OF THE DEAD . 159 
 
 ing. And if death enters the house again, they will do 
 it without thinking twice about it, I reckon. 
 
 322. Nothing pleases the soul of some malicious old The 
 hag more than to haunt the dreams of a lad or lass in O f dreams, 
 the house : won't he come to his old granny that loved 
 
 him so dearly ? And if the dreamer tells his dream to 
 his mother and asks the interpretation thereof, she is 
 mighty upset. "Drat the old meddler!" she says. 
 " Never in all my born days have I seen the like ! Can't 
 she let things be, even in the grave?" And she bustles 
 off to slaughter a sheep as a sacrifice to the saint of the 
 house ; and all of a tremble she mutters up a prayer to 
 the saint of the house, beseeching him for pity's sake to 
 preserve them from mischief. Not that she will let 
 folks know there's aught amiss. " 'Tis a sacrifice to the 
 saint that I had vowed," is all she says. And the flesh 
 is carved and given to the kinsfolk and neighbours. 
 
 323. But if the old crone still haunts the lad's dreams Various 
 for all that, he should take an onion and set it before 
 
 him, and lift up his hands and whisper this prayer : 
 " Almighty God, on the soul of So-and-So, the daughter 
 of So-and-So " for it's as well to give the mother's name 
 that there may be no mistake about it " do I bestow 
 this onion, to the intent that never again may she 
 trouble my dreams. Convey it to her, therefore, I pray 
 you." And the prayer, let's hope, will be heard. Yet 
 even so, the soul may be so pestilent, he won't be quit 
 of her. So what must the old women of the house do, 
 but gravely offer her a bit of dung, when they are alone 
 out of doors. 
 
 324. Yet, strange to say, even this may not suffice. The last 
 And if disease and death are busy in the household, the re 
 
 old women will whisper among themselves that the old 
 hag must be feasting on her winding-sheet. And the men- 
 folk are let into the secret before long, and they aren't 
 left a moment's peace after that, you may be sure. All 
 will not do. They must just open up the grave and see
 
 160 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 who's right. Yes, you may laugh, and small blame to 
 you. Yet he who laughs last, laughs loudest all the 
 world over. And though I myself have never seen the 
 sight, there are folk who can tell how they have found 
 an old hag with a strip of the shroud stuffed in her 
 mouth, and rags thereof clenched in her hands. And old 
 wives say there's nothing for it then but to sell all the 
 dead had in this world and give the money in alms 
 to the poor. " God preserve us all !" say you. And 
 "Amen to that!" say I.
 
 INDEX 
 
 A 
 
 ABDXILLA SHA, burial of, 133-4 
 
 Abortion among animals, one cause 
 of, 5 
 
 Address, mode of, to : a mother, 12 ; 
 a bridegroom, 58 ; step-children, 84 ; 
 the next-of-kin at a burial, 138 
 
 Aildi, tonsils, 98 
 
 Adulterers : punished with death, 84, 
 136 ; burial of, 136 
 
 Ague, 104 
 
 Ahmadzei, the family of the Khans of 
 Kalat : their shalvdr, 35 ; dower rate 
 among, 68 ; custom of dad toning 
 among, 146-7 
 
 Ahval (haval), the customary inter- 
 change of news, 43, 139 
 
 Akli, wisdom teeth, 32 
 
 Alej, a peculiar form of sacrifice to 
 exorcise Jinns, 118 
 
 All Souls' Eve, feast held on, 155-6 
 
 Alla-der, God's heap, the dombs' 
 wedding perquisite, 76 
 
 Alms : to purchase recovery from sick- 
 ness, 91 ; given at a funeral, 133 ; 
 to quiet mischievous souls, 160 
 
 Amcinat (anamat), temporary burial, 
 131-2 
 
 Amulets : worn as cures, 91 ; for 
 impotency, 2 ; barrenness, 3 ; diffi- 
 cult labour, 9 ; marital indifference, 
 82 ; diseases, 88, 90, 91, 100, 106 ; 
 grinding the teeth, 100 ; evil spirits, 
 114 
 
 Anniversary of a death, 152-3 
 
 Antimony, why given after measles, 
 97 
 
 Apuk: a rival wife, 82; a term of 
 reproach, 83-4 
 
 Arabic, 12, 69, 115 
 
 Artl, camels and provisions for a 
 wedding feast, 56, 60 
 
 Avalikij Id, the first Id after a death, 
 153 
 
 Aval-sham: the first meal after a 
 burial, 139, 140 ; attendance at, 
 avoided, 141 
 
 Azan, the call to prayers, uttered in 
 new-born's ears, 12 
 
 B 
 
 Babes : dedicated to God, 3 ; an- 
 nouncing the birth of, 11; clothing 
 of, 12 ; the seeing of the face of, 12 ; 
 the first suckling of, 12-13; how 
 cradled, 13; naming of, 15; how 
 guarded, 16-7; markings on, 17; 
 head and limbs, how shaped, 18-9 ; 
 lullabies of, 21-2 ; cutting of teeth 
 of, 23 ; weaning of, 24-5 
 
 Badalo, a pre-natal wasting sickness : 
 how avoided, 6, 125 ; how cured, 7 
 
 Badsdr fever, an after-effect of enteric, 
 108 
 
 Badsha, title given to a bridegroom, 58, 
 62, 63, 69 
 
 Balla-hilh, typhus, 107 
 
 Balochi, 21, 36, 56, 114, 143 
 
 Band, knotted threads, worn by the 
 sick, 90, 91, 118 
 
 Bandok, neck-cord, significance of the, 
 151 
 
 Baram khwahing, demanding the 
 marriage, 53 
 
 Barber, performs circumcisions, 30, 31 
 
 Barrenness : how diagnosed, 2 ; methods 
 to overcome, 2, 3 ; one cause of poly- 
 gamy, 2, 80 
 
 Barsh, an expensive drug, 99 
 
 Bathing: of mothers after childbirth, 
 20 ; of boys after circumcision, 31. 
 See also Washing 
 
 Baunrl, the whorl of the hair, im- 
 portance of the position of, 19, 37 
 
 Beard, an old man's, used to hasten 
 labour, 9 
 
 Beauty: ideas regarding, 18-9; in a 
 youth, 36, 143; in a maiden, 37. 
 143-4 
 
 Bed fakirs, their charm against night- 
 fever, 107 
 
 Begging by mother and child at the 
 first teeth, 24 
 
 Bel, a measure of time, 90 
 
 161 
 
 11
 
 162 
 
 THE LIFE-HISTOEY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 Bells: hung up at shrines, 134; never 
 rung after dark, 157 
 
 Beru, the wife in disfavour, 83 
 
 Betrothal, 34-51 ; age, 34 ; no fuss in 
 the case of cousins, 37 ; first mooted 
 by the boy's mother, 38; a doinb 
 woman acts as go-between at, 38-40 ; 
 a friend of the family acts as go- 
 between at, 40, 42 ; expenses con- 
 nected with, 40, 41, 44. 45, 47-8; 
 consent to, given before a deputation, 
 42, 43-4; discussed before the two 
 fathers, 45-6 ; the loving-cup at, 
 46; ceremonies among the women, 
 49 ; the girl's mother visited by the 
 lad after, 49-50 
 
 Bijjar, collecting subscriptions to- 
 wards a marriage, 55-6 
 
 Bijjarl, subscriptions collected as bijjdr, 
 55 
 
 Bilious attacks, 102 
 
 Birth, 1-20; premature, how avoided, 
 7 ; how hastened, 8 ; ceremonies 
 preceding the, 8, 9 ; customs at 
 the, 9-20 ; how announced, 11 
 
 Birthmarks, how caused, 5,17 
 
 Bitter plants, naming children after, 15 
 
 Blzanjav, the, one of the JhalawSn 
 tribes, 41, 146, 150, 152 
 
 Black : the colour of mourning, 95, 
 151; never worn at a wedding, 61, 
 64; worn by Jhalawan women, 31, 
 151 ; a bad symptom in smallpox, 
 95 ; turban, when worn by JhalawSn 
 men, 152 
 
 Black snake, the, 6 
 
 Blood : finger of mother and babe 
 smeared with, 15 ; bride's heel and 
 forehead smeared with, 76-7, 79 ; 
 woman possessed of a Jinn smeared 
 with, 118 ; Jinns appeased with, 116 
 
 Blue : cotton used for branding, 88 ; 
 animal used for the hide cure, 89 ; 
 threads used as talismans, etc., 
 8, 10, 18, 91, 106, 118; mourning 
 drums dyed, 146-7 
 
 Blue markings on babies, 17 
 
 Brahui language unsuitable for poetry, 
 21. 143 
 
 Branding, a remedy for sickness, 88-9, 
 101, 102, 105, 111 
 
 Breast : babes suckled first at the 
 right, 12 ; covered with sabr at 
 weaning, 24 ; of a young girl rubbed 
 by the mother, 32 
 
 Bride : the ideal, 36-7 ; accomplish- 
 ments of a, 37 ; bartering of a, for 
 money, 41 ; ignored, in betrothal 
 arrangements, 48 ; unseen by her 
 
 betrothed before marriage, 50; special 
 food of a, 57 ; anointing of a, 57 ; 
 arraying a, 60-1, 64 ; appoints her 
 marriage-father, 65-6 ; recites the 
 kalima, 66 ; dower of a, 68-9, 78 ; 
 the going home of a, 76-7, 79 
 
 Bridegroom : the ideal. 36 ; wedding 
 feast supplied by family of the, 40 ; 
 betrothal gifts demanded from the 
 father of the, 40, 41, 42; his be- 
 trothal, how arranged, 41-44, 45. 47 ; 
 special food for, 57 ; anointing of, 
 57, 58-9 ; arraying of, 61-2, 63 ; 
 takes his bride home, 76-7 
 
 Bride-price, the, 40-1, 42, 47, 54; 
 variation in value of, 47; getting 
 back a portion of, 74-5 : of a widow, 
 86 
 
 Bridesmaids : guard the bride against 
 Jinns, 56-7 ; try to prevent her being 
 anointed, 57 ; try to prevent her 
 arrayal, 61 ; ordinarily leave before 
 the groom's entrance, 70 ; among 
 nomads try to prevent his entrance, 
 78 
 
 British rule, influence of, on marriage 
 customs, 35 
 
 Burial, 127-136; preparations for, 
 126 ; place of, 127 ; time of, 127 ; 
 of children, 127-8 ; ceremonies con- 
 nected with, 129-131 ; temporary, 
 how conducted, 131-2 ; of saints* 
 133; of martyrs, 135; of adulterers,. 
 136 
 
 Burying : the umbilical cord, 10 ; a 
 stick with a corpse in cases of bddalo, 
 7 ; a twig to save a new-born babe, 
 10 ; the bones and skin of the sheep 
 killed for a naming feast, 16 ; the 
 foreskin, 30 ; the first tooth, 32 ; a 
 sheep or goat after exhuming a body 
 buried temporarily, 133; limbs lost 
 in battle, 136 
 
 Butki, gold coins thrown over a dead 
 body, 129 
 
 Camel, a : vowed to God, how re- 
 deemed, 93; urine of, a cure for 
 jaundice, 102 ; milk of, rendered pur- 
 gative by swishing her tail in it, 
 103 
 Chaj, a winnowing-basket, used as a 
 
 cradle, 13 
 
 Challav, finger-rings, 151 
 Chap, the country dance. See Dancing 
 Chdp-jahl, dancing-grounds, 60 
 Charcoal used in a cure by magic, 113-4 
 Charmding, a remedy for coughs, 99
 
 INDEX 
 
 163 
 
 Charms, faidda: their general char- 
 acter. 90-1 ; for impotency, 2 ; 
 barrenness, 3 ; earth -eating, 5 ; diffi- 
 cult labour, 9 ; marital indifference, 
 82 ; sickness and sorcery, 90 ; neu- 
 ralgia, 100 ; teeth-grinding, 100 ; 
 night-fever, 107 ; Jinns, 114 
 
 Chicken-pox, 96-7 
 
 Childhood, 21-33 ; dress during, 31 ; 
 education during, 32 ; close of period 
 of, 32 
 
 Childlessness, 1, 2; one cause of, 128 
 
 Chilla, the forty days of impurity after 
 childbirth, 16, 20 
 
 Chilla-boi, gifts in return for birth- 
 congratulations. 13 
 
 Chishti Sayyad, 94, 103-4 
 
 Cholera, 109-10 
 
 Circumcision, 26-31 ; female, a cure 
 for barrenness, 2 
 
 Clothes : of a newborn babe, 12, 14, 
 19 ; of a lad at circumcision, 27 ; of 
 children, 31 ; of a betrothed maiden, 
 45, 47-8 ; of a bride, 35. 52, 61 ; of 
 a groom, 52, 62 ; of mourners, 149-52 
 
 Cloves sucked while bathing to keep 
 off colds. 20 
 
 Coffins, when used, 132 
 
 Coins : copper, used to prevent pro- 
 lapsus uteri, 11 ; silver, rubbed on a 
 dead man's forehead, 121 ; gold and 
 silver, thrown over the bier, 129 
 
 Colds, 20, 98-9 
 
 Colic, 101 
 
 Colour, the : of children's dress, 31 ; 
 of the bridal apparel, 61 ; of the 
 bridal tik, 64 ; sex-divination from, 
 of the teats, 6. See also Black, Blue, 
 Red 
 
 Conception, symptoms of, 4 
 
 Consumption, 5, 110-1 
 
 Corpse, a, the sight of, avoided by : 
 pregnant women, 6, 125 ; those who 
 view a new-born, 17 ; the husband, 
 120, 125; and other males not of 
 the blood, 125 
 
 Coughs, 99 
 
 Cousin-marriage : preferred, 34 ; little 
 fuss over, 37-8 ; not always a suc- 
 cess, 80 
 
 Cowards reckoned as bastards, 23 
 
 Cravings of pregnant women, 4-5 
 
 Crows and teeth-shedding, 32 
 
 Cures for diseases, 88-111 
 
 D 
 Datl toning, mourning by beat of drum, 
 
 146-7 
 Dakl, cholera, 109 
 
 Dalida, a remedy for colds, 98-9 
 
 Dambura, a stringed instrument, 14, 
 117 
 
 Dancing : at the circumcision, 28 ; at 
 the wedding ceremonies, 66, 59, 60 ; 
 at the mourning by beat of drum, 
 146 ; by the two sexes separately, 
 28, 59; by devil-dancers, 117-8 
 
 Dancing-grounds, 60 
 
 Danddn nusing, grinding the teeth, 
 100 
 
 Dandan-rodl, cutting the teeth, 23-4 
 
 Dast-guJuir, bridesmaids, 56 
 
 Dates : at a weaning, 24 ; at nomad 
 betrothals, 47 ; at weddings, 55, 69 ; 
 for funeral meats, 137 ; boiled, given 
 at mourning ceremonies, 149 
 
 Daughters : gifts to your neighbours, 
 1, 80 ; no rejoicings at the birth of, 
 11 ; smaller tips, etc., at the birth 
 of, 10, 13, 15 
 
 Dead, the : preserving the luck of, 
 121 ; laying out of, 121 ; anointing 
 of, 121-2 ; how removed from the 
 house, 123 ; washing of, 123-5 ; the 
 last look at, 125 ; sometimes covered 
 with robes of honour, 125; entrusted 
 with messages, 126 ; protected from 
 evil spirits, 126 ; how carried to the 
 grave, 125, 128-9 ; temporary burial of, 
 131-2; exhumation of, 132; re-burial 
 of, 133 ; on a battle-field, 135 ; souls 
 of the, watched, fed, and protected, 
 154-6; their clothes given to mullas, 
 154 ; visits from, discouraged, 157 ; 
 roused by bells, 157 ; ill-luck to 
 mention the names of, 157-8 ; mis- 
 chief wrought by the souls of, 158-60 
 
 Death, 120-6 ; signs of, 120 ; cere- 
 monies connected with, 120-1 : treat- 
 ment of the body after, 121 -6 ; news 
 of a, how announced, 122 ; the angel 
 of, 122; away from home, 13] ; how 
 occasionally brought to the house, 
 141 ; feasts at the anniversary of a, 
 152-3 
 
 Dedication : of unborn children, 3 ; oi 
 children's hair, 26, 92 ; of animals, 
 93, 102 
 
 Dehwar, an alien people living in the 
 Brahui country : good dancers, 28 ; 
 dower rate among, 68 ; songs of, 37, 
 81, 107 
 
 DehwarT, 37. 81, 107 
 
 Dein, inevitable diseases, 94 
 
 Dem-dldarl, the first viewing of the 
 face : after birth, 12, 18 ; on the 
 morrow after the bridal, 74 
 
 Devil-dancing, 117-8
 
 164 
 
 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 Diet : during pregnancy, 6 ; after child- 
 birth, 20 ; after circumcision, 31 ; 
 of the bridal couple, 57, 59 ; with the 
 hide cure, 89 ; with the tortoise egg 
 cure, 90 ; smallpox, 95-6 ; chicken- 
 pox, 96-7 ; measles, 97 ; whooping- 
 cough, 97 ; kazar, 98 ; colds, 99 ; 
 coughs, 99; spleen, 103; convales- 
 cence after fever, 105 ; typhus, 107 ; 
 consumption, 110-1 
 
 Ditil, spleen, 103 
 
 Dirges for the dead, 143, 144, 146, 
 153 
 
 Dlr-o-chilum offered to the betrothal 
 deputation, 42 
 
 Diseases of the body : remedies and 
 treatment for, 88-111 ; inevitable, 
 93-4 
 
 Diseases of the mind, 112-9 
 
 Disinfection after typhus, 108 
 
 Dolls : reflect domestic customs, 36, 
 84 ; used in a cure for tertian fever, 
 106 
 
 Dombs: act as minstrels and musicians, 
 7, 46, 52, 75, 124, 146; serving- 
 maids, 13, 57, 58, 61, 63, 64 ; act as 
 go-betweens for betrothals, 38-9 ; 
 wedding and mourning perquisites 
 of, 55, 76, 78, 149 
 
 Doors shut against : the groom's 
 mother at the presentation of the 
 bridal killa, 56 ; the marriage wit- 
 nesses, 65-6 ; the bridegroom, 70, 78 
 
 Dower: the bride's, 67-8, 78, 86; how 
 fixed, 68 ; special customs regarding, 
 68-9 ; quarrels over, 69 
 
 Dress. See Clothes 
 
 Drohur, the critical period of preg- 
 nancy, 4, 5 
 
 Drot tininy, the condoling with the 
 mistress of the mourning by the 
 kinsmen, 146 
 
 Drotl, the groom's betrothal offering 
 to the bride's mother, 50 
 
 Drum, mourning by beat of, 146 
 
 Drungl, a wooden frame, under which 
 six days' old babes are laid, 14 
 
 Du she/ kanning, lowering hands to 
 food at a mourning, 140-1 
 
 Dudi, a smoke-charm, 115-6 
 
 jy&k-tining, head-knocking, at wed- 
 dings, 71 
 
 Duz-hilh, night-fever, 106 
 
 Duzzl-hinndm, the private anointing 
 with henna : at circumcision, 28 ; 
 at a wedding, 57 
 
 Dyeing not done in front of pregnant 
 women, 4-5 
 
 Dyspepsia, 100-1 
 
 E 
 
 Earth-eating, 5 
 
 Eggs: dyed, 49-50; tortoise, 90, 98, 
 
 110 
 
 Embroideries, 150-1 
 Enteric, 108-9 
 
 Even numbers. See Numbers 
 Evil spirits. See Jinns 
 Eyes : sore, how avoided, 99, 100 ; 
 
 of the dead, how closed, 121 
 
 Fakirs of Saint Bed, 106-7 
 
 Fdshi hinnam, the public anointing 
 with henna: at the circumcision, 
 29 ; at the bridal, 57-8 
 
 Father, the: blamed at difficult labour, 
 9 ; fires shots at his son's birth, 11 ; 
 punished if his firstborn is a daugh- 
 ter, 11 ; makes a gift to his son at 
 circumcision, 29 ; used to be absent 
 at his daughter's wedding, 67 ; name 
 of, omitted in the marriage services, 
 67, 69 ; and in speaking of the dead, 
 156, 159 
 
 Fatiha, the mourning among the men, 
 138-41 
 
 F&iha-t&wdja, the chief mourner : his 
 part in the mourning ceremonies, 
 138-41 ; offerings made to the,_ 142 ; 
 makes holiday on the Avallko Id, 153 
 
 Fatihatia iragh, meals for the departed 
 soul, 155 
 
 Feastings : at a birth, 15, 16 ; at the 
 first steps, 24 ; at the first shaving, 
 25, 26 ; at the circumcision c/ud- 
 burrl, 27 ; at the circumcision, 27- 
 30; at a betrothal, 45, 46, 47, 48, 
 49, 50 ; at the wedding gud-burrl, 
 52-3 ; at a wedding, 54, 59, 60, 69 ; 
 at the home-coming of bride and 
 bridegroom, 77 ; at the bride's old 
 home, 77-8 ; after a burial, 137 ; at the 
 aval-sham, 139-40; at the sei-shiim, 
 142 ;. at the termination of the full 
 mourning, 148; at the anniversary 
 of a death, 152-3 ; on the first Id 
 after a death, 153 ; on All Souls' 
 Eve, 155 6 
 
 Feet: how shaped in infancy, 19; the 
 loosening of the, 50, 78 
 
 Fevers, 104-9 
 
 Figs, a cure : for jaundice, 102 ; for 
 spleen, 103 
 
 Fire, cloth for the wedding garments 
 must not fall into the, 52 ; nor must 
 any of the bridal henna, 58 
 
 First-born, a father punished for having 
 a daughter as his. 11-12
 
 INDEX 
 
 165 
 
 Flour flung in the faces of a wedding 
 
 procession, 56 
 
 Foreskin, how disposed of after circum- 
 cision, 30 
 Fossils supposed to be pock-marked, 
 
 94 
 Fowls : tied round the belly for colic, 
 
 101 ; forbidden during convalescence 
 
 after fever, 105 
 Fox (jackal) or lion ? 39, 75 
 Friday, the proper day for weaning 
 
 ceremonies, 24; and circumcisions, 
 
 27 
 
 Fright as a cure, 89-90, 111 
 Fuller's earth : expectant mother's 
 
 craving for, 5; flung to the four 
 
 winds at the groom's arrayal, 61-2; 
 
 a dead man's head washed with, 123 ; 
 
 the heads of lady mourners washed 
 
 with, 147-8 
 Funeral song, the, 124 
 
 G 
 
 Gdm-burri, the first steps, 24 
 
 Gandarein, a remedy for colds, 99 
 
 Garmana, composition of, 20 
 
 Giddn, the goats' hair tent of the 
 nomads, 78, 79 
 
 Goats : hides of, used as cures in the 
 summer, 89, 105; vowed and sacri- 
 ficed in sickness, 93, 101, 107, 109; 
 placed in a grave after a body has 
 been exhumed, 133 
 
 Gor-pat, the "grave-digging" animal, 
 131 ' 
 
 Graves: when dug, 127; of children, 
 127-8 ; of adults, 128; a shelf made 
 in, 128, 129-30; how protected, 
 130-1 ; temporary, 131-2 ; of saints, 
 134 ; of martyrs, 135; when re- 
 visited, 152, 156; the mulla's watch 
 at, 154 ; the four corners of, when 
 pegged down, 158 ; when opened up, 
 159-60 
 
 Graveyards, tribal, 127, 133 
 
 Grumpuk, smallpox, 96 
 
 G^ul-burrl, the cutting out of the 
 clothes: fora circumcision, 27; for | 
 a marriage, 52 
 
 Gugul, a purgative, 18 
 
 Gioach, pounded, an emetic, 101 
 
 Gwah, the witnesses for the wedding, 
 64-7 
 
 H 
 
 Hair : of mothers offered to the saints, 
 3, 134 ; unlucky formation of, in a 
 girl, 19, 37; of children dedicated 
 to saints, 26, 92; stuffed in bags at 
 
 shrines, 26, 134 ; of unmarried 
 maidens, how tired, 36 ; tiring the 
 bride's, 61 ; the washing of the 
 mourners', 147-8 ; the plaiting of 
 the mourners', 148-9 ; unscented 
 during mourning, 150 
 
 Halo, halo, vashen halo, the shadmanl 
 or wedding-song, sung : at the sar- 
 kutl hinnam, 25 ; at the circumcision 
 hinndm, 28 ; at the betrothal sharbat- 
 khorl, 46 ; at the marriage gud- 
 burri, 52 ; at the presentation of the 
 wedding curtain, 56 ; at the bride's 
 arrayal, 60-1 ; at the washing of the 
 groom, 61 ; on the third day after 
 the wedding, 75-6 
 
 Halo, halo, zahren halo, the funeral 
 song, 124 
 
 Hand -mill, a, carried by a mother at a 
 circumcision, 30 
 
 Hares' heads, dried, a cure for whoop- 
 ing-cough, 98 
 
 Harp-string, a broken, a cure for teeth- 
 grinding, 100 
 
 Havdl (ahvdl), the customary inter- 
 change of news, 43, 1 39 
 
 Heads of babies, how shaped, 18 
 
 Heart disease, how diagnosed, 104 
 
 Hearth, one- fourth share in the, 68-9 
 
 Henna, anointing with : at the first 
 shaving of the head, 25-6 ; circum- 
 cision, 28-9; the bridal, 57-60; the 
 burial of youths, 121 
 
 Hide cure, the, 89, 101, 105, 111 
 
 Hilh, fever, 104 
 
 Hilh-larza, ague, 104 
 
 Hindu women consulted for small- 
 pox, 95-6 ; and measles, 97 
 
 Hinnam, henna, scattered in running 
 water after use, 58-9. See Henna 
 
 Horses vowed to God, how redeemed, 
 93 
 
 Hot and cold, considerations of, in 
 disease and cures, 89, 96, 97, 98, 99, 
 104, 105, 107 
 
 Hudda, charms, q.v. 
 
 I 
 
 Ill-luck : averted by change of name, 
 15 ; from premature teeth-cutting, 
 23 ; from cutting the upper teeth 
 first, 23-4 ; from over-long mourn- 
 ing, 150; from mentioning the dead, 
 157-8 
 
 Iltiizei. the, collaterals of the Ahmadzei, 
 35, 129, 146 
 
 Iiiuimak, the eve of the tenth day of 
 the Muharram, 155 
 
 Iniiims, the, 3
 
 166 
 
 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 Impotency and its cure, 1-2, 71 
 Inoculation for smallpox, 88, 94-5 
 Inside out, bridegroom's trousers worn, 
 
 62 
 
 Inter- marriage, the old custom of, 35 
 Iron bar, an, laid on the belly of the 
 
 dead, 122 
 
 J 
 
 Jackal (fox) or liou ? 39, 75 
 
 Jalab, sheep for a wedding feast, 56 
 
 Jani, bridesmaids, q.v. 
 
 Jaundice, 102-3 
 
 Jaundice-stone, the, 102-3 
 
 Jewels : of a betrothed maiden, 48, 
 49 ; of a bride, 64 ; of a widow, 151 
 
 Jhala wan , one of the two great divisions 
 of the Brahui country: particular 
 customs, etc., in, 24, 30, 31, 35, 52, 55, 
 57, 62-3, 75, 137, 138, 139, 140, 142, 
 152, 153 ; ruling families in, 35 ; 
 loss of martial spirit in, 35 ; value 
 of the lab in, 47 ; dancing grounds 
 in, 60 ; perversion of custom of purs 
 in, 143 ; shortening of the period 
 for mourning in, 146 ; mourning 
 apparel sometimes worn by men in , 
 152 
 
 Jhalawans, the : high demands of, in 
 betrothal negotiations, 39 ; deteri- 
 oration of, in matrimonial matters, 
 4 1 ; special betrothal customs among 
 certain, 41-2 ; levying of bijjar by, 
 55-6 ; possess Sallm Sha's razor, 94 
 
 Jiuns : dangers from, 2, 6, 16, 19, 
 105, 112-5, 127 ; precautions taken 
 against, 6, 8, 10, 14, 16, 19, 20, 57, 
 112-3, 126; possession by, 1129; 
 malice of, 112-4, 127 ; women their 
 chief victims, 115, 119 ; how exor- 
 cised, 116-8 
 
 Judrl : used in making kohal, 7 ; a 
 substitute for comfits, 63 
 
 Jushanda, boiled dates, 149 
 
 K 
 
 Kabr, a grave, q.v. 
 
 Kafanl, swaddling clothes, 12 
 
 Kaherl, inoculators, 94 
 
 Kahv, dyspepsia, 100 
 
 Kahvl, a remedy for kahv and Malh, 
 100-1 
 
 Kaifal bark, a remedy for neuralgia 
 100 
 
 Kajjenying, guarding the babe against, 
 16-7 
 
 Kalaghfi, poisonous matter in a new- 
 born babe, 18 
 
 Kalat, the Brahui capital : dancing 
 in, 28 ; cost of a betrothal in, 45, 
 47 ; bijjar little! practised in, 55 ; 
 wedding customs in, 56, 57, 66 ; a 
 holy lady of, 94 ; healing fakirs in, 
 106; mourning customs in, 139, 
 141, 142 
 
 Kalima, the confession of faith, 66, 
 129, 130, 135 
 
 Jfal-khm'th, master of the feast : at a 
 betrothal, 45 ; at a wedding, 56 
 
 Kalmant, an old maid, 19 
 
 Kaltap cure, the, 105 
 
 Kaman-pad, bowlegs, how avoided, 
 19 
 
 Kam-n6kl, end ol a month, inaus- 
 picious, 52 
 
 Kar-i-Miair, "matter of peace" i.e., 
 betrothal, 43 ; or marriage, 54 
 
 Karsan. a wooden pot used at circum- 
 cisions, 29 
 
 Kdtum-gwafing, plaiting of the hair, 
 148, 149 
 
 KafMmna kha[h, neuralgic pains, 100 
 
 Kaval, bilious attack, 102 
 
 Kavati, a remedy for colic and bilious- 
 ness, 101, 102 
 
 Kazar, 98 
 
 Khaddn kishking, weaning, 25 
 
 Khairat, alms, 91 
 
 Khal, stone, pronunciation of, a sign 
 that the bones of the head are set, 
 18 
 
 Khalh, colic, 101 
 
 Khilh-i-dsl, the deadly colic, 101-2 
 
 Khtlifa, the disciple of a Sayyad, 94 
 
 Kham, aborted foetus, 5 
 
 Khan bash manning, sore eyes, 99 
 
 Khans of Kalat, the, 3-4, 28, 35, 125, 
 129, 141, 142 
 
 Khanzad, the Khan's courtiers, dower 
 rate among, 68 
 
 Kharrumen, parched green wheat, 99 
 
 Khartir, saddle-bags, 39 
 
 Khartito, whooping-cough, 97 
 
 Khatma, recitation of the Koran, 155 
 
 Khulifing, shock, as a cure. 89, 90 
 
 Khurda, Khicarda, holy earth, 91-2 
 135 
 
 Khushdar, liquorice, a remedy for colds 
 and coughs, 98, 99 
 
 Killa, a curtain, 95 ; especially the 
 red bridal curtain, 56, 57, 61, 66, 78 
 
 Kisa, a scrip or pocket, 50 
 
 Knife as a protection against Jinns, 
 16 
 
 Kohal, a pottage, distributed at the 
 seventh month of pregnancy, 7; and 
 at the cutting of the first teeth, 24
 
 INDEX 
 
 167 
 
 Kont harfing, rolling up the rug of 
 mourning, 141 
 
 Koran, the : carried by kinswomen at 
 a circumcision, 30 ; learning of, by 
 boys, 32 ; placed open before the 
 bridal couple, 71 ; verses from, used 
 as charms, 91 ; recited to a Jinn- 
 stricken woman, 115; read at burial 
 services, 120, 129, 131, 137; read to 
 comfort the souls of the dead, 154-6 
 
 Kosh-jahl, sacrificial altars, 92 
 
 Kubenl, possession by evil spirits, 
 112-9 
 
 Kulla, cough, 99 
 
 Kunchit. flower, a charm against oph- 
 thalmia, 99, 100 
 
 Kutagh, cooking-stones, 152-3 
 
 Lab, bride-price, q.v. 
 Labour, precautions taken during, 8, 9 
 LaM, the shelf of a grave, 128-30 
 Lakkar, poles at shrines, 134 
 Langarl, the first meal after a burial, 
 
 139-40 ; attendance at, avoided, 141 
 Lara, soda plant, 124 
 Laying out a corpse, 121-2 
 Lead, molten, for diagnosing heart 
 
 disease, 104 
 
 Lice used for sex-divination, 6 
 Lion or fox (jackal) ? 39, 75 
 Liquorice for colds and coughs, 98, 99 
 Loaf, a, broken at the first steps, 24 
 Look : the first, after birth, 12, 18 ; the 
 
 first, after a bridal, 74 ; the last, 
 
 before burial, 125 
 Lori, tinkers, minstrels, midwives, 7. 
 
 See >omb 
 
 Loving-cup, a, at a betrothal, 46, 86 
 Luck, preserving a dead man's, 121 
 Lullabies : language of, 21 ; examples 
 
 of, 21-2 ; effect on youths of, 23 
 Lunyl, a scarf, 50, 62 
 
 M 
 
 Magpies as a cure for consumption, 
 
 111 
 
 Mahdl. the coming of the, 135 
 Mahr, the bride's dower, 67-9, 78, 86 
 Makran, 41, 96, 152 
 Malista, the bridal food, 57, 59 
 Mamasanl, one of the Jhalawan tribes, 
 
 41, 150 
 
 Manjav, a hurdle, used as a bier, 124 
 Mare, a, employed to facilitate difficult 
 
 labour, 8 
 Marriage, 52-87 ; age, 34 ; within the 
 
 same family, 34, 37-8 ; within the 
 
 shalvar, 35 ; cost of a, 45, 53-6 ; 
 ceremonies leading up to, 52-69, 78 ; 
 the service, 69-70, 78 ; the consum- 
 mation, 71-2, 78-9 ; customs sub- 
 sequent to, 74-9 ; comments on 
 single and plural, 80-5 ; of widowers, 
 85 ; of widows, 85-7 
 
 Marriage-father, the, 65-8 
 
 Martyrs, 135, 156; those who die of 
 cholera accounted lesser, 110 
 
 Mastung, the largest township in the 
 Brahui country : good dancing in, 
 28 ; custom of lab first started in, 
 40-1 ; deterioration of customs in, 
 142-3 
 
 Matan, mourning among the women, 
 145 
 
 Matan-gddl, the mistress of the mourn- 
 ing, 143-53 
 
 Maternal uncle, his former prominence 
 at the wedding, 67 
 
 Sfdtitna, stepmother, her proverbial 
 unkindness, 84 
 
 Measles, 97 
 
 Mengal, one of the Jhalawan tribes, 
 66, 87, 146, 150, 152, 153 
 
 Menstruation : stoppage of, a sign of 
 conception, 4 ; stoppage of, causes 
 blue birth -markings, 17 ; custom at 
 the first, 32-3 ; on the bridal night, 
 73 ; one sick of the wind-stroke cur- 
 tained ott' from Avomen in their, 109 
 
 Met, fuller's earth, q.v. 
 
 Midwives : their cures for barrenness, 
 2, 3 ; are Lori by race, 7 ; their 
 midwifery, 8-12, 20 ; their per- 
 quisites, 10, 13, 14; their device to 
 break a run of daughters, 12 ; their 
 views on the loss of the tokens of 
 virginity, 72-3 ; and how to rectify 
 it, 73-4 
 
 Milk : used in sex-divination, 6 ; drip- 
 ping of, within the first seven 
 months of pregnancy ill-omened, 
 7 ; a maiden s breasts massaged if 
 they hold, 32 
 
 Milk-share : the mother's, 40, 42, 54 ; 
 partly restored at marriage, 74-5; 
 foregone at the child's death, 125 
 
 Mirror, a : free use of, by a maiden 
 forbidden, 36 ; used at the groom's 
 arrayal, 63 ; the groom first seen by 
 the bride in, 71 ; looking in, with 
 one sore eye affects the other, 100 
 
 Miscarriage, its prevention, 4, 5; and 
 cure, 5 
 
 Mistdl, the reward for good news, 11 
 
 Moda, dirges for the dead, 143, 144. 
 145. 153
 
 168 
 
 THE LIFE-HISTORY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 Moking, a fictitious sale in place of 
 sacrifice, 93 
 
 Mon sMghing, veiling the face at the 
 women's mourning, 143 
 
 Mart leaves sprinkled over graves, 156 
 
 Mosques, 114. 123, 128, 155 ; temporary 
 resting-places for the dead, 126, 
 133 ; set up in memory of the dead, 
 153 
 
 Mourning, 137-53 ; at a temporary 
 burial, 132-3 ; among the men, 138- 
 41 ; offerings at a, 142 ; among the 
 women, 143-52; by beat of drum, 
 146 ; apparel, 149-52 
 
 Moza-pad, foot shaped like a boot, 19 
 
 Mubdrakl, the "lucky" fever, enteric, 
 108 
 
 Muharram, the, 3, 155 
 
 Mv.Ua tulifing, setting a mulla to watch 
 a grave, 154 
 
 Mullas : their amulets and charms, 
 1-2, 3, 5, 7, 9, 88, 114, 115 ; their 
 part in birth ceremonies, 12 ; their 
 part in marriage ceremonies, 64, 66, 
 67, 69-70, 78, 86; their part in 
 death and burial ceremonies, 120, 
 122, 123-4, 128, 129, 130, 131, 137, 
 142, 154, 155, 156 ; the wives of, 
 124-5 ; perquisites of, 122, 126, 154, 
 155, 156 
 
 Mullazei, the, dower rate among, 68 
 
 Munkir, the angel, 154 
 
 Murdaltd nan, All Souls' Eve, 155 
 
 Murddsing, litharge, 89 
 
 Muzvdk, walnut bark, 55, 63 
 
 Nakir, the angel, 154 
 
 Naming, the : the ceremony of, 15 ; 
 of the father, avoided in the mar- 
 riage service, 67, 69 ; and in speak- 
 ing of the dead, 156,159 
 
 Nanand hilh, night fever, 106 
 
 Naromb, a plant, 65-6 
 
 Neckbone, the, of the sheep killed for 
 the naming feast preserved intact, 
 15, 16 
 
 Needlework, 8. 9, 32, 37, 150 
 
 Neuralgia, 100 
 
 Night-fever, 106 
 
 Nika, the marriage service, 69, 70, 78 
 
 Nikdnd bdva, the marriage-father, 65-8 
 
 Nishdn, a Makranl custom, 42 
 
 North, the, faced : by a boy at circum- 
 cision, 29 ; by the groom at his 
 hinndm, 58; by the head in the 
 grave, 130; by the head tombstone, 
 130 
 
 Nose-picking, 96 
 
 Numaz-jandza, the burial prayers, 129, 
 135 
 
 Number : odd, of shots fired by the 
 father at the birth of a son, 11 ; 
 beasts for a sargorl for a male, 137 ; 
 beasts for an aval-sham, 140 ; beasts 
 for a sei sham, 142 ; witli some 
 Jhalawans, beasts for a sei-sliam for 
 a male only, 142 ; ladies at a sar- 
 shddl, 148; beasts for a sal lining, 
 152 ; even, of beasts for a wedding- 
 feast, 59, 142 ; beasts for a sargorl 
 for a female, 137 ; with some Jhala- 
 wans, beasts for a sei-sliam for a 
 female, 142. See also Three, Seven 
 
 
 
 Odd numbers. See Number 
 
 Offerings by the kith and kin : at the 
 seventh month of pregnancy, 7 ; at a 
 birth, 13 ; at a circumcision, 30 ; at 
 a wedding. 63, 64 ; at a mourning, 
 142, 149' 
 
 Oil : pregnant women rubbed with, 8 ; 
 newborn babes rubbed with, 19 ; 
 young mothers rubbed with, 20 ; 
 child's mouth rubbed with bitter, 
 after the shedding of the first teeth, 
 31 ; required for thewedding, 54 ; used 
 by the groom and his comrades at 
 their arrayal, 63 ; for headaches, 
 100 ; used in a cure for kaval, 102 
 
 Ointment applied after branding, 89 
 
 Omens : during pregnancy, 7 ; from 
 the whorl of a maiden's hair, 19, 
 37 ; from teeth-cutting, 23-4 ; days 
 of evil, 52; from teeth-grinding, 
 100 ; at the grave-digging, 128 ; at 
 the carrying of the bier, 129 ; at the 
 exhuming of a body temporarily 
 buried, 133 
 
 Onions: for jaundice, 102; for cholera, 
 110 ; offered to importunate souls, 
 159 
 
 Ophthalmia, 99 
 
 Opium : for barrenness, 2 ; for colds, 99 
 
 Padenk, a tripod, 13 
 
 Padlko dlddr, the last look at the 
 
 dead, 125 
 Pal vdzl, ceremonial visit : of the 
 
 groom after betrothal, 50 ; of the 
 
 bride after marriage, 77-8 
 Palagkut, prenuptial licence, unknown 
 
 51 
 
 Panard, ear-rings, 48. 151 
 Paralysis, 109
 
 INDEX 
 
 169 
 
 Patar, the mourning among the men, 
 138-41 
 
 Pathans : their mortar-shaped heads, 
 18 ; bride-price custom borrowed 
 from, 41 ; betrothal paivazl custom 
 borrowed from, 49 
 
 Pdto, grain crushed by a bridal couple, 
 75, 106 
 
 Pegs, iron, sometimes fixed at the four 
 corners of a grave, 158 
 
 Persian, 9, 66, 69 
 
 Pigeons, a cure for wind -stroke, 109 
 
 Pilfering in cases of night-fever, 106 
 
 Pillows : soft, used to round babes' 
 heads, 18 ; stones used as, in the 
 grave, 130 
 
 Plpal tree used to ward off Jinns, 16 
 Plr, saint, q.v. 
 
 PIr Dopasi's shrine, 92-3 
 
 Plun-pulll, a remedy for fever, 104 
 
 Polygyny : causes of, 2, 80-1 ; incon- 
 veniences of, 82-5 
 
 Prayers : for a newborn babe, 1 4 ; at 
 the shaving of the head, 26 ; at the 
 least of circumcision, 28, 30 ; at a 
 betrothal ceremony, 46 ; at the 
 anointing of a bridegroom, 58 ; at 
 the wedding feast, 59 ; at the mark- 
 ing of the bride. 64 ; at the marriage 
 service, 69 ; the bridegroom's, 71 ; 
 to saints for recovery from sickness, 
 92, 93; for the dead, 129, 130, 136, 
 137, 138, 141, 154, 155, 156, 157 ; to 
 saints for protection from malicious 
 souls, 159 
 
 Precautions : during pregnancy, 4-8 ; 
 during labour, 8, 9 ; in infancy, 10, 
 15-9 ; at the first menstruation, 32- 
 3 ; at the bridal gud-burrl, 52 ; at 
 the bridal hinnam, 58-9 ; at the 
 groom's arrayal, 62 ; after a burial, 
 138 ; at the mentioning of the dead, 
 157-8; against Jinns, 6, 8, 10, 14, 
 16, 19, 20, 57, 112-3, 126; against 
 disease, 6-7, 10, 16, 17, 94, 99, 100, 
 105, 110 
 
 Pregnancy, 4-9 
 
 Prolapsus uteri, 10-11 
 
 Prophet, the, 3, 68, 132, 156 
 
 Prophets, the, 68 
 
 Proverbs and proverbial sayings re- 
 garding : daughters, 1 ; childless 
 wives, 2 ; the shape of the feet, 19 ; 
 too many nurses, 20 ; female pre- 
 cocity, 23 ; laughing girls, 36 ; never 
 beating a girl, 48 ; the grain and the 
 mill, 54 ; keeping a note of the 
 amount of gifts received, 55 ; jewelry 
 donned by the bridal couple, 64 ; 
 
 beating your wife with a second 
 wife, 80 ; husband's love declining 
 with the number of children, 81 
 Pullur, smallpox husks, 94 
 Pulse scattered on graves, 156-7 
 Punzik, a reed instrument, 14 
 Purs, death subscriptions, 142-3 
 Pushar, colds, 98-9 
 Puslak, pimples, 108 
 Putau, smallpox, 94 
 
 Q 
 
 Quartan fever, 105-6 
 Quilt, a new : at circumcision, 27 ; at 
 the bridal, 56-7 ; at the burial, 124 
 
 R 
 
 Rabab, a stringed instrument, 14 
 Rabbalav, a betrothal deputation, 42, 
 
 45-6 
 
 Races at a wedding, 62 
 Radishes, a cure for spleen, 103 
 Raisani, the premier tribe of Sarawan, 
 
 142, 151 
 Earn, dark marks on pregnant women, 
 
 17 
 
 Manj, consumption, 110 
 Rant, explanation of, 2 
 Razor : the umbilical cord severed with 
 a, 10; used for circumcision, 30; 
 used for shaving about the middle, 
 32 ; Sayyad SalTm Sha's, 94-5 
 Rebirth of abortions, how procured, 5 
 Red : cloth used to cover up the cir- 
 cumcision henna, 28 ; bead dress 
 flung over a betrothed babe's cradle, 
 38 ; the colour of the bride's dress, 
 61 ; animal used for the hide cure, 
 89 ; a good sign at smallpox, 95 ; 
 wedding drums dyed, 146; the 
 marriage colour, 150 ; the colour of 
 the bandok, 151 
 
 Rings : the betrothal, 45, 49 ; none at a 
 widow's betrothal, 86 ; a widow's, 151 
 Roast meat, smell of, bad for Jinn- 
 ridden women, 119 
 
 Rose petals, scattered over graves, 156 
 Rudar, the wife in favour, 82-3 
 Rue burnt to ward off Jinns. 6 
 Rush, a remedy for fever, 105 
 
 S 
 
 Sabr, a bitter drug, 24 
 
 Sacrifice : to the saints, 3. 92-3. 107, 
 109, 159 ; conditional, on recovery 
 of the sick, 93. 101-2 ; the sick do 
 not eat of the, 93 ; fictitious sale in 
 place of, 93 ; of blood to exorcise 
 Jinns, 116, 118
 
 170 
 
 THE LIFE-HISTOKY OF A BRAHUI 
 
 Safar, the month of, 3 
 
 Saints : worship of the family, 26, 
 91-2, 134-5 ; offerings to, 3, 26, 92, 
 134 ; sacrifices to, 3, 92, 109, 159 ; 
 invoked by childless women, 3 ; 
 invoked in sickness, 91-2, 107, 109 ; 
 their shrines visited at the first 
 shaving, 26 ; and after the wedding, 
 77 ; and on ordinary occasions, 135 ; 
 their holy earth, 92, 134-5 ; their 
 burial, 133-4 
 
 Sdjidl, one of the Jhalawan tribes, 41 
 
 Sal fining, keeping the anniversary of 
 a death, 152 
 
 Saldm man tining, sending messages 
 by the dead, 126 
 
 Sale : fictitious, of children, 3-4 ; in 
 place of sacrifice, 93 
 
 Salim Sha, Sayyad, his wonderful 
 razor, 94-5 
 
 Salvdt, the father's gift at circum- 
 cision, 29 
 
 Sand, women sit on, at childbirth, 9 
 
 Sant, barren, 2 
 
 Sarawan, one of the two chief divisions 
 of the Brahul country : bride-price 
 started in, 41 ; amount of bride- 
 price in, 47 ; a betrothal custom in, 
 49-50; bijjdr little practised in, 55; 
 funeral feasts in, 140 ; mourning ap- 
 parel in, 150, 152 
 
 Sar-gasht, the passing of gifts round 
 the head : at birth, 13 ; at a circum- 
 cision, 30 ; at a wedding, 63, 64 
 
 Sargorl, distribution of the funeral 
 meats, 137 
 
 Sarkuk, tortoise, eggs of, a household 
 remedy, 90 
 
 Sar-kuti, the first shaving of the head, 
 25-6' 
 
 Sarsdm, insanity following enteric, 109 
 
 Sarshodl, the washing of the head by 
 mourning ladies, 147, 148 
 
 Saturday, an inauspicious day, 52 
 
 Sayyads : supply amulets and charms, 
 5. 88, 115 ; attend the sar-kuti 
 hinndm, 25 ; attend the circum- 
 cision hinndm, 28 ; attend the be- 
 trothal sharbat-khdrl, 46 ; act as 
 betrothal ambassadors, 42-4 ; act as 
 wedding ambassadors, 53-4 ; help to 
 array the groom, 62; inoculate for 
 smallpox, 94 ; their spleen-cutting, 
 103-4 ; propitiated in sickness, 107 ; 
 exorcise Jinns, 115-7 
 
 Scorpions, effect of the sting of, on 
 pregnant women, 6 
 
 Segregation : in cases of smallpox, 95 ; 
 chicken-pox, 96 ; whooping-cough, 
 
 97 ; eolds, 98 ; ophthalmia, 100 ; 
 typhus, 107 ; cholera, 110 ; consump- 
 tion, 110 
 
 Sei-shdm, the first meal in the house 
 after a burial, H2, 158 
 
 Sei-tdkl, quartan fever, 105 
 
 Seven : pottage made of, kinds of 
 grain, 7 ; father of a female first-born 
 beaten, times with a shoe, 11 ; a run 
 of, daughters, how avoided, 12 ; ring 
 of, ladies at the passing round of a 
 new-born, 14 ; begging at, doors by 
 mother and infant, 24 ; dates to 
 determine date of weaning, 24 ; 
 stones in the kaltap cure, 105 ; 
 drenchings, in the rush cure, 105 
 
 Seventh month of pregnancy, 7 
 
 Sex : of an unborn babe, how divined, 
 6 ; how determined, 12 
 
 Shd-bdlav : attendant on a lad at cir- 
 cumcision, 28, 29 ; attendant on a 
 bridegroom, 58, 61, 63 ; how re- 
 warded, 77 
 
 Shab'zinda, the, how observed, 7 
 
 Shdd-mdnl, the wedding measure, 28, 
 60, 61, 75, 76 
 
 Shahld, martyr, burial of a, 135 
 
 Shai, inoculators, 94 
 
 Shakkl, tombstones, 130 
 
 Shakuk, magpie, flesh of the, a remedy 
 for consumption, 111 
 
 Shalrdr, trousers, 31, 35, 73; the 
 ancestral marriage circle, 35, 41 
 
 Shank Mailing, marking a beast out 
 for sacrifice, 93 
 
 Sharbat khorl, the drinking of the be- 
 trothal loving-cup, 46, 86 
 
 Shashshuk, a game for girls, 36 
 
 Shaving of the head, the first, 25-6, 92 
 
 ShawanI, one of the Sarawan tribes, 
 95, 142 
 
 Sheep : bones and skin of a, killed for 
 the naming feast buried, 16 ; stain- 
 ing the bride with the blood of a, 
 76-7, 79 ; hide of a, used as a cure 
 in the winter, 89, 105 ; vowed and 
 sacrificed in illness, 93,101, 107, 109; 
 placed in a grave after a body has 
 been exhumed, 133 
 
 Shekh. devil-dancers, 117-8 
 
 Shields, infants carried to the grave on, 
 125 
 
 Shift, a hanging carpet. 39 
 
 Shinikl, the scattering of sweetmeats : 
 at the circumcision gud-burrl, 27 ; 
 at the marriage gud-burrl, 52 ; at 
 the marriage hinndm. 58 ; before the 
 bridal arrayal, 63, 64 
 
 Shir-paill, milk-share, q.v.
 
 INDEX 
 
 171 
 
 Shlr-shakkal, the bridal-cup, 70, 78 
 
 Shoe-beating : of the father of a female 
 first-born, 1 1 ; of a child to drive out 
 a Jinn, 113 
 
 Shoes : millet put into a bridegroom's, 
 62 ; not taken off by him till the 
 bridal, 62. 70, 71 ; dust wiped off 
 the, after a burial, 138 
 
 Shots fired as the birth of a son, 11 
 
 Shrines : children's heads shaved at, 
 26; visited after circumcision, 31 ; 
 visited by the groom after the bridal, 
 77 ; offerings at, 26, 92, 1 34 ; sacrifi- 
 cial altars at, 92 ; holy earth at, 92, 
 134-5 ; the dead sometimes buried 
 near, 127 
 
 Shroud : bit of a, a preventive of 
 badalo, 6 ; must be got from outside, 
 122; wrapped round by the mulla, 
 124 ; bit of a, tied between the tomb- 
 stones, 130 ; a new, for bodies on re- 
 burial, 132-3 ; none for martyrs, 135 ; 
 used for amputated limbs, 136 ; none 
 for adulterers, 136; dead hags feast 
 on their, 159-60 
 
 Sickness, 88-111 
 
 Sieve, a, used as a cradle, 13 
 
 Sil, a hide, used as a cure for illness, 89 
 
 Sil-o-dagh, the hide and brand cure, 
 88-9 
 
 Sind, 35, 41, 109 
 
 Siroz, a stringed instrument, 14, 117 
 
 Sitanl, quartan fever, 105 
 
 Smallpox : seeds of, in the umbilical 
 cord, 10 ; an inevitable disease, 94 ; 
 inoculation for, 94-5; treatment of, 
 by Hindu ladies, 95 6 
 
 Smoke, a bitter thing, 42 
 
 Smoke-charms, 115 
 
 Soap : dangerous for maidens, 72 ; used 
 at the sarshodl, 147, 148, 149 
 
 Son, a: desire for, 1, 21 ; how divined 
 in the womb, 6 ; birth of, hidden at 
 first from the mother, 9 ; birth of, 
 announced with shots by the father, 
 11 ; turning the womb for the birth 
 of, 12 ; preference for, over a daughter 
 shown in increased tips, etc., 10, 13,15 
 
 Souls of the dead, 154-60 
 
 Spleen, 5, 103-4 
 
 Spleen-cutting by the Sayyads, 103-4 
 
 Squinting, how caused, 4 
 
 Star, the, 123 
 
 Stepmothers, their proverbial unkind- 
 ness, 84 
 
 Stick, a, buried with a corpse in cases of 
 badalo, 7 
 
 Stomach, sick child stuffed into a 
 beast's, 98 
 
 Stones: jumping over three, at th e 
 first menstruation, 33 ; the three, of 
 divorce, 33 ; circles of, to mark danc- 
 ing-grounds, 60 ; fossil, really pock- 
 marked, 94; jaundice, 102-3; seven, 
 in the kultap cure, 105 ; heavy, laid 
 on the tan-shod, 123; mosques made 
 of a ring of, 126, 153; the mouth of 
 the grave blocked with, 128, 130; 
 used as a pillow in the grave, 130 ; the 
 kalima scratched on, shown to the 
 dead in the grave, 130 ; as tomb- 
 stones, 130 ; strewn over the grave, 
 130 ; cooking, at a sal fining, 152-3 
 
 Suckling, the first, 12-3; duration of, 
 24-5 ; mother's wage for, 40 
 
 Sug, mourning apparel, 149 
 
 Sugun, treatment by magic, 113-4 
 
 Sundur, red lead, 89 
 
 Sunnat, circumcision, 26-31 
 
 Surkhuk, measles, 97 
 
 Surnd, a musical instrument, 28, 75 
 
 Sweetmeats used in various ceremonies, 
 13, 27, 30, 45. 47, 49, 52, 55, 58, 63, 
 69, 74, 77, 156 
 
 Sword, a : a protection against Jinns, 
 16 ; used in the circumcision cere- 
 mony, 29 ; used at the washing of 
 the groom, 61 ; used by Sayj'ads at 
 spleen-cutting, 103-4; of the Angel 
 of Death, 122 
 
 Tahd khalling, paralysis, 109 
 
 Takblr, the, 12 
 
 Takht : of the candidate for circum- 
 cision, 28 ; of a bridegroom, 58, 62 
 
 Tal khalling, marking a beast out for 
 sacrifice, 93 
 
 Tanning : not done in front of pregnant 
 women, 4-5 ; used euphemistically of 
 nubility, 65 
 
 Tan shutting, covering a corpse with 
 robes cf honour, 125-6 
 
 Tan-shod, the place where the corpse is 
 washed, 123, 154-5 
 
 Tdvlz, amulets, q.v. 
 
 Tea : used in social ceremonies, 15, 29, 
 42, 45, 46, 55 ; a remedy for small- 
 pox, 96 ; for colds, 99 ; in common 
 use since the last Afghan war, 99 
 
 Teats, the : sex-divination from, 6 ; ill- 
 omened dripping from, 7 
 
 Teeth: unlucky to be born with, 23; 
 unlucky to cut the upper, first, 23-4 ; 
 shedding of the first, 31-2 ; grinding 
 the, 100 
 
 Teeth-marks on noses, 5 
 
 Tertian fever, 106
 
 172 
 
 THE LIFE-HISTOEY OF A BEAHUI 
 
 Three : stones of womanhood and 
 divorce, 33 ; nights spent ill the 
 bride's house, 74-5, 79 ; days, no 
 drugs for fever during the first, 104, 
 107 ; jugs of water used for washing 
 a corpse, 123 ; days, no cooking in 
 the bereaved house for the first, 139, 
 142 ; days of mourning among the 
 men, 141 
 
 Thursday, 154, 155 
 
 Tik of a bride, 64 
 
 tokens of virginity, 72-4, 75, 76, 79 
 
 Tombstones, 130 
 
 Tooth, the first, buried, 32 
 
 Tortoise eggs, a remedy for disease, 
 90, 98, 110 
 
 Trlnzuk, chicken-pox, 96 
 
 Tuesday, an inauspicious day, 52 
 
 Twig, a, buried to save a new-born, 10 
 
 Twins and tertian fever, 106 
 
 Typhus, 107-8 
 
 U 
 
 Umbilical cord, the severing of, 10 
 Unclean food, a cure for consumption, 
 
 110-1 
 Unhemmed : young children's skirts, 
 
 31 ; the bride's skirts, 61 
 
 Vabd, cholera, 109-10 
 
 Vatlfjam, the wedding gifts of the 
 bride's parents, 76 
 
 Val needlework tabooed at child- 
 birth, 9 
 
 Varagh, the first meal in the house 
 after a burial, 142 
 
 Vat, nose-ring, 151 
 
 Virginity, tokens of, 72-4, 75, 76, 79 
 
 Virgins barred from the birth-cham- 
 ber, 9 
 
 Voice-cracking, 32 
 
 Vows : in barrenness, 3 ; in sickness, 
 92, 93 ; at a temporary burial, 131-2 
 
 Vultures and the jaundice-stone, 102-3 
 
 w 
 
 Wake, a, held at the birth, 13-4 
 Washing : the face by travellers before 
 seeing a new-born, 17; the, of a 
 
 dead body, 123-5 ; the hands of the 
 chief mourner, 140 ; the, of the head 
 by the lady mourners, 145, 147-8 
 
 Wasp-stings, effect of, on pregnant 
 women, 6 
 
 Water flung out of doors at a neigh- 
 bour's death, 122 
 
 Weaning, 24-5 
 
 Wedding curtain, the, 56, 57, 61, 66, 
 78 
 
 Wedding feast, the: supplied by the 
 groom's family, 40 ; material for, 
 54-5 ; sent to the bride's house, 56 ; 
 how celebrated, 59-60 
 
 Wedding garments, 35, 52, 61, 62 
 
 Wedding tent, the, 78-9 
 
 Weeping by the mother for her dead 
 babe prohibited, 120-1 
 
 Whooping-cough, 97-8 
 
 Widowers, remarriage of, 85 
 
 Widows : tabooed at ceremonial gather- 
 ings, 14, 46, 52, 61 ; period of seclu- 
 sion of, 85, 152; remarriage of, 85- 
 6 ; the cause of family quarrels, 87 ; 
 their dress, 150-1 
 
 Wind-stroke, 8, 109 
 
 Witnesses : at weddings, 64-7 ; at 
 temporary burials, 131-2 
 
 Womb, the: gets twisted up, 2; pre- 
 venting the dropping of, 10-1 ; turn- 
 ing, for the birth of a son, 12 
 
 Yak-takl, tertian fever, 106 
 
 Zahri, the premier tribe of Jhalawan, 
 and their country, 11, 28, 104 130, 
 153 
 
 Zarafshdn kanning, showering coins 
 over the bier, 129 
 
 Zarakzei, the premier clan of the 
 Zahri, the premier tribe of Jhala- 
 wan, 75 
 
 Zardol, jaundice, 102-3 
 
 Zardolnd khal } the jaundice-stone, 
 102-3 
 
 Zartol, a tortoise egg, used as a cure, 90 
 
 ZikrI, sectarians of Makran, 90, 94 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
 
 - 
 
 University of California 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 
 
 Return this material to the library 
 
 from which it was borrowed. 
 
 :D LO-URI 
 
 1 3 1998 
 JUN 1 7 1998 
 
 Form I
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 000 884 027 4 
 
 DS 
 
 380 
 
 B?B73 
 
 
 .