A slave mart is a rare thing these days, but at the time these scenes
were being enacted there existed many of them here and there across the
face of the globe. Men buy and sell men and women these
times--enlightened, so they say--but they do it by legal contract or
from vile hiding places.
Allaha had been a famous mart in its prime. It had drawn the agents of
princes from all over India. Persia, Beloochistan, Afghanistan, and
even southern Russia had been rifled of their beauties to adorn the
zenanas of the slothful Hindu princes.
The slave mart in the capital town of Allaha stood in the center of the
bazaars, a great square platform with a roof, but open on all four
sides. Here the slaves were exhibited, the poor things intended for
dalliance and those who were to struggle and sweat and die under the
overseer's lash.
Every fortnight a day was set aside for the business of the mart.
Owners and prospective buyers met, chewed betel-nut, smoked their
hookas, sipped coffee and tea, and exchanged the tattle of the hour.
It was as much an amusement as a business; indeed, it was the oriental
idea of a club, and much the same things were discussed. Thus, Appaji
bought a beautiful girl at the last barter and Roya found a male who
was a good juggler, and only night before last they had traded. The
bazaars were not what they used to be. Dewan Ali had sold his wife to
a Punjab opium merchant. Aunut Singh's daughter had run away with the
son of a bheestee. All white people ate pig. And no one read the
slokas, or moral, stanzas, any more. Yes, the English would come some
day, when there would be enough money to warrant it.
All about there were barkers, and fruit sellers, and bangle wallas (for
slave girls should have rings of rupee silver about their ankles and
wrists), and solemn Brahmins, and men who painted red and ocher caste
marks on one's forehead, and ash covered fakirs with withered hands,
Nautch girls, girls from the bazaars, peripatetic jewelers, kites, and
red-headed vultures--this being a proper place for them.
The chief mahout purchased for Kathlyn a beautiful saree, or veil,
which partially concealed her face and hair.
"Chalu!" he said, touching Kathlyn's shoulder, whenever she lagged, for
they had dispensed with the litter, "Go on!"
She understood. Outwardly she appeared passive enough, but her soul
was on fire and her eyes as brilliant as those of the circling,
whooping kites, watching that moment which was to offer some loophole.
On through the noisy bazaars, the object of many a curious remark,
sometimes insulted by the painted women at the windows, sometimes
jested at by the idlers around the merchants' booths. Vaguely she
wondered if some one of her ancestors had not been terribly wicked and
that she was paying the penalty.