Osman can scarcely be called
imperturbable, for he has his daily and hourly moods, and is of varying
temper; but he carries himself always as though conscious of being an
outcast, whom nothing can either elevate or defile. When his fellow
Mussulmans are piously prostrating themselves and uttering religious
sighs sincere as fanaticism can make them, Osman is either curled up
beneath a pomegranate bush asleep, feeding the horse, or attending to the
pee-wit.
Observing this, I often wonder whether he is considered, or considers
himself, too small a potato in this world to hope for any attention from
the Prophet in the next. The paradise of the Mohammedans, its shady
groves, marble fountains, walled gardens, and cool retreats, its kara
ghuz kiz and wealth of material pleasures, no doubt seem to poor Osman,
with his one tattered garment and unhappy servility, far beyond the
aspirations of such as he. Like the gutter-snipe of London or New York
who gazes into the brilliant shop windows, he feels privileged to feast
his imagination, perchance, but that is all.
Big bouquets of roses are gathered for me every morning, and when the
store in our own little garden is exhausted they are procured from
somewhere else. The efforts of those about me to render my forced
detention as pleasant as possible is very gratifying, and all the time I
am buoyed up by the hope that the Boundary Commissioners will be able to
do something to help me get through to India.
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