(Father of Dravidianism, the dangerous 18th century christian missionary Robert Caldwell describes about Travancore in one of his satirical poems (mocks as Coconutcore). He says it was a prosperous ‘model state’, where ‘Brahminical superiority’ prevailed & as heaven on earth. GAMMON Row refers to mAdhav rAv.)
WHO has not heard of that wonderful man,
SIR GAMMON Row, the great Dewan,
Who has ruled for the last ten years, or more,
The Protected State of Cocoanutcore ?
This State, if judged from “Reports” you read,
Is a very wonderful State indeed;
A “Model State,” in which you may see
Every thing is just as it should be.
Where dwells a worthy and well-oil’d nation,
Blest with a faultless administration;
The brightest land, with the lightest tax,
And an annual surplus of fifty lacs :
Where happy ryots, ne’er pester’d by famines,
Till fields, in subjection to blessed Brahmins.
A land of peace, a land of delight,
Where everyone, everywhere, always does right.
Where whitemen, living in meek minority,
Acknowledge Brahminical superiority.
In short, and I’m sure I cannot say more,
“Tis a heaven upon earth, this Cocoanutcore !
And in this terrestrial elysium the man
Who is most like an angel is the Dewan
From Comorin’s foam to Himmaleh’s snows
A man that’s his match sure nobody knows
In his gay free mien and his honied laugh
He is perfect yes almost too perfect by half
How courtly his bow his smile how sweet
And how soft is the tread of his cat like feet
Then how frank his look you might think you could view
The soul through the eye of this good Hindoo
How chaste his manners his English how choice
How liquid how mellow the tones of his voice
His whole demeanour seems to import
That doing good is his one great forte
But since tis beyond the powers of my pen
To pourtray as I should this most perfect of men
I’ll relate instead a remarkable story
Which will picture Sir Gammon in all his glory
His goodness the justice he loves and the claim
His deeds have to noto - I mean to fame
In the heart of the country of Cocoanutcore
Lies the Brahmin city of Brahminipore.
Though you search’d through India up and down,
You could never discover a holier town.
For the blessed Twice-born, who chance to live there,
By deigning to breathe it, have hallowed the air -
The houses are holy, and holy each street,
And even the dust has been blessed by their feet.
Each pot in each hut, of brass or of clay,
Has been sanctified in some wonderful way.
And the sacred carpets in every house
Are the daily gift of Brahminical cows !
A blessed brahmin named Rowdy Row
Once lived in this city He lives there now
A man whose success in life was complete
He had the best house in the very best street
He throve well on ghee he was worth I am told
A couple of lacs in lands and gold.
His youngest wife sweet BetelammAl
Was rich and fair and for thirteen tall
As his morals were so so but rigid his creed
Men thought him a very good Brahmin indeed
He said long mantras he strictly kept caste
Each pariah slunk from the road till he passed
Nothing was strange about his person
You might see a better you might see a worse
In short our Rowdy was happy and bore
A very good name in Brahminipore.
Now Ichabod Green a Quaker one day
Happened to travel along that way
A harmless soul with a fat little frame
Along the street he leisurely came
At the very first glance could be easily seen
What sort of person was Mr Green
In his mild meek eyes his heart you could trace
And PEACE was writ on his placid face
On he sauntered not thinking his feet
Would defile the mud of that sacred street
A street that seemed public to beast and to man
For right along it the highway ran
So on he came and came at last
To Rowdy Row’s house and would have passed
(He goes on to describe fate of a Britisher who defiled the Brahmin street with his presence. The local Brahmin beats up the britisher for defilement, calls him ‘white cow eater’ who defiled the sacred land.)
But the holy Brahmin rushed forth with a shout,
“You white cow-eater, get out, get out!
Go back! Quick ! Run! your low caste feet
Will defile the mud of this sacred street !”
But since poor Green, with a startled stare,
Said; “Sir, I thought this a thoroughfare.”
The righteous Brahmin gave him a kick,
And knocked him about the head with a stick.
Then while his applauding friends drew round,
He kicked him again as he lay on the ground.
He gave him a whack, he gave him a crack,
He smack’d his face, and sat on his back.
He thump’d him, he bump’d him, he tugged at his hair,
He tumbled him here, he pummelled him there.
He used his slipper, he used his fist,
Gave a tweak to his nose, to his ear a twist;
He laughed as he heard poor Ichabod’s cries,
And filled with sand poor Ichabod’s eyes.
Then set him again on his tottering feet,
And hooted him out of the sacred street.
With many a moan with many a groan
Poor Ichabod trudged on his way alone
For his servants when they beheld the fray
Had one and all skedaddled away.
That night on the road poor Ichabod spent
Next day to the Dewan Peischar went
Stated his case where when and how
He had got such a thrashing from Rowdy Row
And showed as witness his tattered clothes
His blackened eyes and his damaged nose
Now when the Peishcar with solemn face
Had gone right through this remarkable case
To his chief the Dewan for sentence due
He sent Mr Green and Rowdy too
Sir Gammon Row with his grandest bow
Received Mr Green and Rowdy Row
Mr Green had a chair but I really think
He gave friend Rowdy a nod and a wink
Then he read through the case and as he read
Adjusted the turban upon his head
Now turned his eyes up now turned his eyes down
Now smiled a sweet smile now frown’d a stern frown
Now sighed now his head sagaciously shook
And look’d in short as wise as a book
Then after many a hum and haw
Summ’d up and thus declared the law
You Mr Green were very wrong
In daring that street to venture along
You ought to have known that your low caste feet
Would defile the mud of that sacred street
As a neecha jathi karan you
Should render the Brahmins reverence due
For all know that Brahmins in every place
Are a quiet peaceful respectable race
Whilst Quakers - Sir Gammon here heavd a sigh
And turned up the greenish white of his eye
In the second place that street you declare
Was merely you thought a thoroughfare
Since straight along it the highway ran
Open to beast and public to man
You thought this did you Who ever heard
Of a thought so palpably absurd
Good Heavens Mr Green a Brahmin street
Public to every Englishman’s feet!
Thirdly you thought it a highway Then can
You wonder they thought you a highwayman
They acknowledge they gave you a thrashing
Hence I infer they did so in self defence
Fourthly who authorised you I pray
In daring to travel along that way
Twas a street of Brahmins a sacred spot
It might have been public yet it might not
You heeded this not you prejudged the case
And boldly ventured into the place
And frightened poor Rowdy a mild Hindoo
Into thrashing yes into half killing you
At Which in him since he thought he ought to use force
Was somewhat excusable conduct of course
So this is my final sentence - that he
Should pay the fine of one Rupee
Thus ended this wonderful case and now
You may judge my readers of Good Gammon Row
Oh hark to gay Rowdy’s jeer and scoff
At poor Green as from Court he sadly moves off
Moves off through an oily and turban’d crowd
Of Brahmins that laugh in their triumph aloud
(The incident ended up in local court, but the Brahmin only had to pay few sum as fine. He says Brahmins will keep on thrashing white men.)
- They shout “We may thrash these white men, for we
Shall be fined but lightly for such a grand spree.”
It is good to laugh! Say, is it not sport
To see such a glorious scene in a Court !
- Fair JUSTICE perverted, PUBLIC RIGHT
Shamed and insulted in all men’s sight.
Ha, Ha! Let us laugh! To respect what claim
Has an Englishman’s honour, an Englishman’s name?
A MORAL let us, like a foolscap, draw
O’er the bald grand head of ancient Law:
It is this :- All truth, all justice is fudge
When a Brahmin is judged by a Brahmin Judge !