BOMBAY AND THE CAVES OF ELLORA
The first impression of Bombay from the sea is perhaps a little
disappointing from the pictorial point of view. The town spreads
along the low flat coast, lined with long quays without any great
domes or conspicuous noble buildings. One is aware of wharves and
factory chimneys, and even the palms and gardens of Malabar Hill, and
blue mountains inland do not altogether mitigate the commercial and
industrial aspects of the place; but the light and colour of the East
fuse all sorts of incongruities, and the feeling of touching a strange
land and of setting foot for the first time in India is sufficiently
exciting to throw a sort of glamour over everything.
The steamers cannot disembark their passengers at the quays, so they
have to be landed in boats which cluster about the sides of the big
liner. The official tug comes alongside first, and the official visit
is paid. We were due the evening before, and inquiries as to the why
and wherefore of the delay had to be satisfied. Busy agents and eager
hotel touts come on board, and all is bustle and preparation for
landing.
[Illustration: LANDING AT BOMBAY]
Our Indian friend had been unexpectedly called away and was unable to
meet us, but he committed us to the care of other friends at Bombay.
We landed, however, with our friend the French explorer, with all our
baggage, in a native boat, and by dint of a ragged lateen sail and oars
plied by a swarthy, wild-looking crew, soon reached the quay, where a
crowd of coolies waited to spring upon our belongings.
[Illustration: AWAITING THE CUSTOMS—BOMBAY]
Our French friend spoke Hindustanee fluently, fortunately for us; and
amid the clamour of tongues which surrounded us, was able to arrange
for an ox-cart to take our united baggage to the Custom-House, where,
after an interview with some languid English officials clad in white
drill and topis, having nothing contraband, we were duly passed, though
our friend, possessing firearms, was delayed longer, and of course had
to pay. The Bombay ox-carts are two-wheeled with high sides of timber,
forming a square open lattice, and drawn by a pair of oxen. Committing
our worldly goods to this delightful prehistoric vehicle, we took a
carriage—a little, one-horse, open victoria, which is the street cab of
Bombay, and similar to those in use in the towns of Italy—and drove to
the Taj Mahal Hotel, a vast, new, modern caravanserai—which, however,
was quite full, so we went on to the old-established “Watson’s” on the
Esplanade, where we got a good room with a balcony and a view. There
was also a pleasant covered terrace, or verandah, extending the whole
length of the building, which on the north side, always in shade,
faced a garden green with well-watered lawns and thickly planted with
umbrageous mango and banyan trees, amid which the ubiquitous crows of
India (resembling our hooded crow) kept up a continual cawing chorus
as they flitted about, now swooping down on some ill-considered trifle
in the street, or perching expectantly about the hotel precincts, on
the lookout for scattered crumbs. Great brown kites hovered in the
air, forming a second line of watchful but silent scavengers. The
terrace also commanded a view of the street with all its varied types
in costume, race, and colour and character. The prosperous, sleek
Parsee merchant in his curious shiny, sloping high hat, long black
alpaca or white tunic, and loose white nether garments and umbrella;
Europeans in white drill and grey or white pith helmets, which gave
a superficial family likeness to all who wore them; native servants,
Hindu, Portuguese, and half-caste, in every variety of turban and
costume, sitting or standing about in groups, waiting to be hired;
wandering minstrels, dancing women, and jugglers and tumblers trying to
catch the eye—and the small change—of the traveller; men with tom-toms
and performing monkeys, water-carriers with their dripping goat-skin
slung at their side, coolies and coolie women constantly passing to and
fro from the quays, bearing their burdens on their heads; the bearer
and the ayah in charge of faired-haired English children, passing in
and out of the gardens; the British soldier in khaki, and the native
policeman in blue with a flat yellow cap. These and such as these were
the prevailing types in the scene from the hotel balcony, from whence,
also, we could see the tram-cars, drawn by horses in big white topis,
trailing up and down the Esplanade, while motors flashed by, and smart
European ladies drove in their dog-carts. Beyond the trees of the
garden rose a modern clock tower which told the burning hours in the
familiar Westminster chimes.
[Illustration: STREET PERFORMERS—BOMBAY]
The modern British buildings of Bombay would probably in newspaper
language be described as “handsome.” There were many showy and
pretentious structures in a sort of Italian Gothic style, but they
looked imported, and were decidedly out of place in a country which
possesses such magnificent specimens of architecture of its own
growth—as one might say. The many balconied and shuttered fronts,
with projecting stories, the ridge-tiled roofs and plastered walls
that we saw in the older quarters of the town seemed, as types of
dwelling-houses at least, much more suitable and characteristic,
and such types would surely be capable of adaptation to modern
requirements. The Crawford Market is one of the sights of Bombay.
Outside, with its steep roofs, belfry, and projecting eaves it has a
rather English Gothic look, but inside the scene is entirely oriental,
crowded with natives in all sorts of colours, moving among fish, fruit,
grain, and provisions of all kinds, buying and selling amid a clamour
of tongues—a busy scene of colour and variety, in a symphony of smells,
dominated by that of the smoke of joss-sticks kept burning at some of
the stalls as well as a suspicion of opium, which pervades all the
native quarters in Indian cities. There is a sort of court or garden
enclosed by the buildings, and here the live stock is kept—all sorts of
birds and animals.
A drive through the native bazaar of Bombay is a revelation. The
carriage works its way with difficulty through the narrow, irregular
street, crowded with natives in every variety of costume (or next to
no costume), forming a wonderful moving pattern of brilliant colour,
punctuated by swarthy faces, gleaming eyes, and white teeth. Shops of
every kind line each side of the way, and these are rather dark and
cavernous openings, shaded by awnings and divided by posts or carved
pillars on the lowest story, but raised from the level of the streets
by low platforms which serve the purposes of counter and working bench
to the native merchant or craftsman who squats upon it, and often
unites the two functions in his own person. He generally carries
on his work in the presence of his whole family, apparently. All
ages and sexes crowd in and about the shops, carrying on a perpetual
conversazione, and the bazaar literally swarms with dusky, turbaned
faces, varied by the deep red sari of the Hindu women, with their
glittering armlets and anklets, or the veiled Mohammedan in her—well,
pyjamas!
The older house fronts above the shops were often rich with carving
and colour, the upper stories being generally supported over the
open shop by four columns. It reminded one of the arrangement of
a mediæval street, as also in its general aspect, the shops being
mostly workshops; and, as in the old days in Europe, could be seen
different crafts in full operation, while the finished products of
each were displayed for sale. There were tailors stitching away at
garments, coppersmiths hammering their metal into shape, leather
workers, jewellers, cook-shops, and many more, the little dark shops
in most cases being crowded with other figures besides those of the
workers—each like a miniature stage of life with an abundance of drama
going on in all. The whole bazaar, too, was gay with colour—white,
green, red, orange, yellow, and purple, of all sorts of shades and
tones, in turban or robe—a perfect feast for the eye.
In the course of our drive through the bazaar we met no less than
three wedding processions, though rather broken and interrupted by the
traffic. In one the bridegroom (who, with the Hindus and Mohammedans,
is considered the most important personage in the ceremony as well
as the spectacle) was in a carriage, on his way to fetch the bride,
in gorgeous raiment and with a crown upon his head. He was followed
by people bearing floral trophies, perhaps intended for decoration
afterwards. These consisted of gilt vases with artificial flowers
in them, arranged in rows close together, and carried in convenient
lengths on a plank or shelf by young men bearers.
Another of the bridegrooms was mounted on a horse, crowned and robed
like a Byzantine emperor with glittering caparisons and housings, a
tiny little dusky girl sitting behind him and holding on, who was said
to be his little sister.
The third bridegroom we saw was veiled, in addition to the bravery
of his glittering attire. Flowers were strewn by boys accompanying
him, and a little bunch fell into our carriage as we waited for the
procession to go by, in which, of course, the musicians went before.
We afterwards passed the house where the wedding was being celebrated,
the guests assembling in great numbers to the feast, a tremendous noise
going on, drums beating and trumpets blowing. In one of the processions
very antique-looking trumpets or horns were carried of a large size,
much resembling the military horns of ancient Roman times. These were
Hindu weddings.
We also had a glimpse of a Parsee wedding. This was in the open court
of a large house arcaded from the street, brilliantly illuminated,
where sat a great crowd of guests all attired in white.
Working right through the native bazaar we reached the Victoria
Gardens, a sort of Kew and Zoological rolled into one, being well
stocked with fine palms and many varieties of tropical trees, as well
as birds and animals, and all looking in good condition and well kept.
Many Eurasians were here walking about, looking very weird in European
dress. In these gardens are situated the Victoria and Albert Museum of
Bombay.
Sir George Birdwood had given me an introduction to H.H. the Aga
Khan and we drove out to his abode, only to find, however, that His
Highness had gone to Calcutta on his way to Japan. I was not much
more fortunate with my other introductions to the eminent Parsee Sir
Jamsetji Jijibhai, and Sir Cowasji Jehangir Readymoney. Although the
son of the latter magnate did call upon us and brought us an invitation
from Lady Jehangir, we were unable to accept it owing to the shortness
of our stay in Bombay. I understood that the Calcutta Races in December
attracted a great many of the rich Bombay residents, and this accounted
for the absence from their homes of many at that time.
We had a glimpse of some of the palaces on Malabar Hill, seeing
the latter first against a glowing sunset. Fringed with palms and
plantains, with its fantastic buildings silhouetted on the sky, it
recalled the banks of storm cloud I had seen on the voyage, with their
vaporous trees and aerial hanging gardens.
A closer acquaintance did not impress us with any conviction of the
healthiness of Malabar Hill, though of the sumptuousness of its houses,
and often their fantastic character, and the luxuriance of its palms
and gardens, there could be no doubt. We passed the grey wall of the
Tower of Silence, the burial (?) place of the Parsees, where the crows,
the kites, and the vultures were gathered together, but did not linger
there. From the hill there is certainly a magnificent view of the city
of Bombay: especially if seen just before sundown, when a golden glow
seems to transfigure the scene; and later, looking down on the vast
plain, the white houses partly hid in trees scattered along the shore,
the quays, and the ships at anchor in the bay, all seem to sink like a
dream into the roseate atmosphere of sunset. But even that lovely light
is darkened by a heavy smoke cloud drifting on the city from the forest
of gaunt factory chimneys rising in the East like the shadow of poverty
which is always cast by the riches of the West.
One rather wondered that Bombay was content to allow its best drive
to be disfigured by a continuous succession of hideous commercial
posters painted along the walls of one of its sides, the other being
lined with palms and open towards the sea. This is, however, not worse
indifference—in fact not so bad—as ours at home in allowing the posters
along the railway lines to disfigure the charming and varied landscape
of our own country.
[Illustration: INTERVIEW WITH CANDIDATES FOR THE POST OF BEARER—MOSTLY
UNBEARABLE!]
One of the first necessities to the traveller in India, especially if
he be ignorant of Hindustanee, is the engaging of a native bearer or
servant. There is always a large class of these seeking engagements.
They may be seen hanging about Messrs Cook’s Tourist Offices in groups.
They usually wear white clothes and turbans, but the half-caste
Portuguese are dressed in semi-European fashion with their cloth suits
and small, flat, round caps of the sort which used to be termed “pork
pie” in England, only lower. These are embroidered round the rim, and
a similar sort of head covering is also worn by superior caste Hindus.
For the post of bearer the traveller will find plenty of applicants
when he makes his requirements known, in fact their number is rather
embarrassing, and they all produce “chits” or letters of recommendation
from former employers. These, indeed, are the only references to go
upon, unless one happens to come with the personal testimony of a
friend. The bearers mostly register their names at Cook’s offices,
but they do not take any responsibility there for them in any way.
These native servants expect 35 rupees (and upwards) a month, with an
allowance for clothes, but out of this pay they find their own food.
If, however, their food is provided, they take less pay—about 25
rupees—but prices generally have an upward tendency. The engagement
may probably be for three or four months, which gives the ordinary
European tourist time to get round India, visiting the principal places
of interest _en route_. A rupee in India is now only worth one shilling
and four-pence, and fifteen rupees are the equivalent of a sovereign,
it should be remembered.
Of course the bearer’s travelling expenses and washing are paid as
long as he is with his master, and his fare home when his engagement
comes to an end, and then, too, probably he would get a present if
his conduct has been satisfactory. One does not generally expect
mirrors of virtue and trustiness on such terms. No doubt native
bearers vary considerably in capacity and experience as well as in
appearance, to say nothing of honesty and fidelity, and some are
better as couriers than as body or camp servants, or vice versa. Some
claim to be efficient _valets des places_ in addition to ordinary
services, but it should be remembered that the bearer caste are not
allowed to enter the sacred precincts of the great temples in India.
Our choice, influenced mainly by a personal recommendation, fell on
one Moonsawmy—a not unusual Hindu name. He had been in the service of
Sir Samuel Baker and had had some experience in tiger-shooting, or at
any rate had been out on such expeditions and in camp with the famous
traveller and sportsman, but he had also acted as courier to English
parties travelling in India, and professed to know the country well. We
had planned an excursion to the caves of Ellora from Bombay with our
friend M. Dauvergne, who had never seen them and was anxious to do so.
Having mapped out our route we started on our expedition on December
the 10th. Leaving Victoria Station, Bombay, at noon, we travelled by
the G. I. P. (Great Indian Peninsular Railway), making our first train
journey in India. The line crossed a cultivated plain at first, getting
clear of Bombay; groups of date palms here and there were suggestive of
Egypt. We passed native villages of different types, some with thatched
roofs and some with tile—brown ridge tiles not unlike what one sees in
Italy, and even corrugated iron was visible (alas!) here and there.
The low huts built of sun-dried bricks or mud with flat roofs were the
strangest and most eastern-looking. One could get glimpses, too, of the
inhabitants, the Hindu women in saris, often of red or purple or blue,
bearing on their heads water jars or bright brass or copper vessels,
with much natural grace, some also carrying little brown babies
supported by one arm on their hip.
[Illustration: A BED AT THE DAK BUNGALOW! MUNMAD (KEEP IT DA(R)K)]
Leaving the plains we entered a very interesting hill country covered
with jungle and forests where we saw many teak trees and banyans,
besides many varieties of acacia. Mountains of striking form came into
view, suggestive of castled crags. We soon afterwards passed the Thull
Ghat, where the line rises as much as 1050 feet in a distance of about
ten miles—which means a steep gradient. We passed rice fields, also
sugar canes, and a kind of Indian corn, but not maize, and castor-oil
plants which are cultivated extensively. There were interesting and
picturesque groups of natives at all the stations. Finally Munmad was
reached towards six o’clock in the evening. This was our first stage,
and the junction for Daulatabad our next, in the territory of the Nizam
of Hyderabad. We, however, decided to stay the night at Munmad and go
on the next morning—in fact, if I remember right, it was a case of
necessity, as there was no train on that evening. So we were conducted
to the Dak Bungalow, some little walk from the station, through a
native village, with our baggage carried on the heads of women coolies.
We found the bungalow a most inhospitable place of incredible bareness,
and nothing to sleep on but narrow wooden framed couches, having a sort
of stringy webbing full of holes. The gaunt draughty rooms were almost
destitute of other furniture and had no conveniences of any kind. The
native keeper of the place seemed helpless. There was no food to be
had, and he could not have cooked it if there had been, so we had to
make shift as best we could with what we had in our tea baskets. I
should not advise any one to travel in India, at least at all off the
track of hotels, without provisions and bedding. There was not much
sleep to be had that night. The beds were frightfully uncomfortable
and the room was cold. An Anglo-Indian official on the forest service
occupied the best room, we afterwards discovered, but he, as is usual,
travelled with his horses and several servants, including a cook,
and a supply of necessaries of all sorts. We left the inhospitable
bungalow early the next morning, processing through the village in
the same way as that in which we had come, with our baggage on the
heads of the coolie women. We made the acquaintance at Munmad of the
charming, frisky little palm squirrels which abound everywhere in
India—delightful little greenish-grey creatures with dark longitudinal
stripes extending from their noses to their tails. They play about the
dwellings quite familiarly, but are off like a shot up a tree and out
of sight at the smallest alarm. Scaling the trunk of a tree spirally,
they have almost the appearance of lizards, and they are certainly as
nimble.
The buffalo cow, too, is seen in every Indian village, a strange,
dusky, rough-coated beast, with a weird, half-human, but rather
sinister expression in its dark eyes, with long horns turned back upon
their necks. They walk scornfully along to be milked, with an air which
seems to say they thought the world but a poor place.
We took train to Daulatabad and entered the Nizam’s territory. A police
officer in his service was in the train, and was very intelligent
and gave us much useful information. We now passed through a more
arid-looking country than before, where cactuses and low trees grew
sparsely on burnt yellow slopes and rocky hills, often of strange form,
the country showing signs of a great upheaval from the sea.
At Daulatabad, a small road station, a tonga was waiting for us, drawn
by two poor broken-down ponies and a rather ragged red-turbaned driver.
Our destination was the town of Rozah, a drive of some ten miles and
mostly uphill, on a loose, rough road.
A conspicuous object in the landscape at Daulatabad is the ancient
fortress upon a steep hill rising abruptly from the plain. It was
a famous stronghold, but was conquered by the Mohammedans in the
thirteenth century. There are the ruins of the ancient city which it
once protected, and within the citadel are remains of Hindu temples,
one transformed into a mosque by the Moslems. Our road lay through
the shattered gates which still marked the extent of the city with
fragments of the outer walls, the whole area overgrown with trees and
herbage, and clusters of native huts here and there. The road to Rozah
is an almost continuous ascent, and in some places very steep, which
made it very hard work for the wretched ponies which dragged our tonga,
though, of course, we relieved it of our weight by walking up the worst
hills. The sun was blazing, but there was a little shade to be had
occasionally under the fine banyan trees which skirted the roadside.
Towards evening we saw the domes of Rozah on a high plateau in front
of us, and presently entered the town through a battlemented gate. It
was a Mohammedan town with many important domed tombs, but it had a
neglected and sparsely peopled aspect and a look of departed splendour.
We made our way along a straggling street, and, passing through another
gate, came out upon the other end of the plateau, from which we saw,
opening before us as far as the eye could reach towards the west, the
vast, green, fruitful plains of the Deccan. In command of this view we
found our quarters for the night—the Travellers’ Bungalow—but this,
the Nizam’s bungalow, was a great contrast to the one at Munmad, being
clean and comfortable, with good beds and sufficient furniture and
rugs, and a bath-room. The native in charge was able to provide food,
too, and to cook a dinner, which, if not exactly Parisian, was, at all
events, a vast improvement upon our last one. The sun set without a
cloud, the last golden light lingering upon the white and black domes
of the tombs around us. Then followed the afterglow, and then the
darkness fell like a curtain, but the stars were intensely bright in
the clear sky. The air was very pure and the silence of the place was
profound. We were glad to rest after our long, hot, dusty journey, but
I managed to get a sketch done before the light went.
After breakfast the next morning (December 12) we started to walk to
the caves at Ellora, which we found were only a short distance down the
hill. A winding road led us past another of the Nizam’s bungalows to a
sort of terrace in front of the first great cave, or, more properly,
rock-cut temple, the Kylas, which, coming down the hill from above, one
does not see until close upon it, and it is only on entering the court
through the great gateway that one slowly realises the wonder of it. A
huge temple of symmetric ground plan cut clean out of the great cliff,
the straight sides of which are seen rising like a vast wall above it.
A mass of intricate and richly carved detail, a veritable incrustation
of carving of extraordinary richness rises before one. Standing clear
in a spacious court, enclosed on three sides by a deep arcade cut in
the sheer sides of the cliff (which shows the tool marks), having an
outer row of massive detached columns and an inner row of engaged
columns, and deep recessed chambers.
[Illustration: THE KYLAS, CAVES OF ELLORA]
On each side of the entrance to the temple in the court stand two
isolated columns or pylons, and near these two great stone elephants.
These columns and elephants really flank a big pedestal of stone with
steps cut in it which lead up to a huge image of a Sacred Bull within a
square chamber, from which a bridge is crossed and the portico of the
temple is reached. Through this the great central hall, or nave, of
the temple is entered, divided into four parts by groups of pillars,
leaving an open passage up the middle and across to a portico on each
side. From this chamber a few steps lead to the shrine of the Lingam,
through a doorway. There are steps and doorways to each side of the
shrine which lead on to open platforms, where are five recesses richly
covered with sculptures of the Hindu mythology, as indeed is the whole
temple, both within and without. The carved treatment and the whole
idea of the scheme suggests that the original prototypes of such
temples must have been structures of wood, and the elaborate treatment
and small scale of some of the ornamental work seems reminiscent of
wood-carving.
[Illustration: WE ARE INTRODUCED TO THE CAVES OF ELLORA]
The carved work may be said to be of two kinds. There was a sort of
architectural or formal ornament in low relief resembling in style and
treatment Assyrian work, in which the lotus frequently appeared treated
as a flat rosette and used as pateræ, arranged in rows with intervals;
and there was a high relief treatment of figure sculpture. Among the
horizontal courses of carved decoration I noted a treatment of the
garland or swag, the ends being twisted through rings from which they
were represented as depending. These might have been of a Greek or
Roman pattern.
The exterior carving of the temple in the parts sheltered under eaves
and by doorways showed traces of painting—the colours being red and
green on white. The whole of the surfaces appear to have been coated
with plaster to receive colour, in the same way as may be seen at the
temple of Castor and Pollux at Girgenti.
The stone when exposed to the weather was very much blackened and
resembled the gritstone of Derbyshire in colour and texture.
The Temple was dedicated to Siva, but the whole Hindu pantheon of the
Vedic gods appeared to be sculptured in this marvellous place, as well
as the different avators of Siva.
The Hindu religion is really a great system of nature worship, all
the powers, forces, and influences being personified and symbolised,
nothing being accounted “common or unclean”—the elephant-headed Ganesha
and the monkey god Hunuman taking their place as “eligible deities”—the
whole scheme resting on the acknowledgment of the sexual origin of
life. The generative organs themselves being revered as sacred, and
symbolised in the mysterious Lingam which is enshrined in all the Hindu
temples, and the object of special devotion.
The god Siva and Parvati his spouse form the principal subject among
the sculptures of the Kylas. A striking design rather Egyptian in
feeling was to be seen in a large carved panel of Parvati represented
as seated on the water, or rather on a mass of lotus leaves and
flowers—the flower of life—with attendant elephants symmetrically
arranged on each side, showering water upon the goddess from their
trunks. In all countries religious symbols are taken from familiar
and characteristic objects common to each, although, as Count Goblet
d’Albiella points out in his most interesting and learned work on
the “Migration of Symbols,” there is also a process of exchange and
adaptation in ideas between different peoples and countries by means
of which we get imported types, which, however, become naturalised and
reappear in the form or convention peculiar to the country of their
adoption.
[Illustration: AND ITS WASPS!]
As we gazed up at the cliffs from which this wonderful structure had
been hewn, we noticed a number of green parrots fluttering about or
clinging to the sheer walls of rock—like vivid green flashes of light
upon the cold stone. Down in the court a number of extraordinarily
large-sized wasps came buzzing about us. They looked formidable enough
but did not do any damage, though their obtrusion did not facilitate
the process of a sketching against time.
Besides the Kylas, which is said to date from about 750–850 A.D., there
were a number of other and smaller temples, cut in the face of the
cliff at intervals extending along the hill on each side of the Kylas.
The most ancient is supposed to date from 200 B.C. and the latest from
the thirteenth century A.D. A guide on the spot showed us several
Buddhist temples and these were much more cave-like in character. One
had very fine massive carved and fluted columns.
The second temple we saw suggested in its plan and form an apsidal
basilica, and in detail wooden structure, the roof being carved in
close ribs, curved to the form of a pointed arch, supported by a
horizontal cornice and columns set very close together. A colossal
figure of the seated Buddha filled the view at the end of the nave, but
there was an ambulatory behind it. The figure was painted a dark red
with white drapery and black hair, the eyes, with strongly marked white
and black pupils, had a fixed stare which carried the whole length of
the Temple.
The next temple visited, also Buddhistic, was much plainer, and was
being supported by new buttresses of masonry to prevent the cliff from
falling. The third was larger but also quite plain and square cut, the
structure of the pillars and cornice being again on timber principles;
but none approached the Kylas in beauty and interest.
The village of Ellora lay on the plain among trees about a mile and a
half away from the foot of the cliff. Our guide pointed out some Jain
temples there half hidden in masses of foliage and suggested a walk
there, but by this time, between 10 and 11 o’clock in the morning, the
sun was very powerful and the heat great, and as there was no shade
till the village was reached and we had to get back to our bungalow,
we gave it up and climbed the hill again. As we left the Kylas a large
and most picturesque group of natives were squatted outside the gateway
having a sort of picnic, a day out with their wives and numerous
children, and they were wandering all over the temple chattering
and laughing as they examined the sculptures and seemingly enjoying
themselves much. They gazed at us curiously as we passed, as at some
strange animals from an unknown country.
M. Dauvergne took some photographs of the caves, while I managed to get
a coloured sketch of the Kylas, and a few notes.
We found the return journey to Daulatabad rather easier, being mostly
downhill, though it was so precipitous in places that it was a marvel
our poor ponies kept on their legs. We met many natives on the road,
both Mohammedans and Hindus, as well as herds of goats, and asses with
sacks of grain slung across their backs, black sheep and zebu carts.
We reached Daulatabad station about the middle of the day, or early
afternoon, and were fortunate enough (owing to the language at the
command of our friend who explained our wants) to get quite an
excellently cooked and nicely served tiffin in the waiting-room.
There were interesting native figures about the station, and a group
of figures at the village well not far off, where I got a sketch of
a Hindu girl in a blue sari with a water jar on her head. She had a
little round mark (Buddhist) like a red seal on her forehead, and her
name was Hashuma.
We got a train about 5.30 back to Munmad arriving there soon after
9 at night. After dining at the station we bade farewell to our
friend M. Dauvergne, who was travelling on to Bareilly, far up in the
north-western provinces to join his shooting companion. Our train from
Bombay did not leave until 3 A.M., but sleep was impossible owing to
the noise, although we had a waiting-room to ourselves. It was only
the usual conversazione which is carried on at every Indian station
by the natives who throng the platforms, often waiting all night for
a train, squatting in groups and keeping up a continual stream of
talk. We were relieved when a faithful coolie announced the arrival of
our train and carried in our bags. We had a compartment to ourselves
for the most part until nearing Bombay, our only fellow-passengers
being at different times a very quiet Hindu, and a British officer of
the Royal Scots who did not travel far. But, before we got in, the
carriage became crowded with every variety of costume, Parsee and Hindu
merchants getting in for Bombay, until we were quite full up and—oh!
so hot. Glad we were to get in at last, but not till noon—the hottest
time of day—feeling rather fagged after our long journey. The heat
in Bombay is very oppressive even in the so-called cool season. We
generally lived in a temperature of about 88°, this in the dining-room
being mitigated by electric fans; but it is always a relief when the
sun declines, and a drive in the cool of the evening is delightful.
We planned a rather extensive tour, and with the assistance of Messrs
Cook, worked out a complete itinerary through India, ending at Ceylon,
from whence we purposed to return in the following March.
[Illustration: ARRIVAL OF MR. DADABHAI NAOROJI AT BOMBAY, DEC. 14, 1906]
On December 14 M. Dadabhai Naoroji arrived by the _Arcadia_ at Bombay
on his way to the National Congress at Calcutta of which he had been
elected President. He had a great welcome. Flags and triumphal arches
were put up along the esplanade, and he was brought from the Taj Mahal
Hotel in a motor car decorated with flowers. An enormous crowd turned
out to welcome him, chiefly of the Parsee community, and Parsees were
conspicuous in the balconies of the houses and hotels along the route
of the procession and parsee inscriptions of welcome hung across the
streets. It was a striking scene from our balcony altogether. The
last golden rays of the sun were slanting across the open esplanade
alternating with broad luminous shadows and along the front streamed
a vast white clad crowd—so different to the black crowds we are
accustomed to in Europe—a white crowd varied with notes of bright
colour and black here and there, and the red bunting floating around
the bronze equestrian statue of King Edward VII. in the foreground:
while the balconies were gay with Parsee ladies in their delicate
embroidered silks, canary coloured, pink, blue, green, violet and
scarlet.