DELHI
After a stay of about a week at the Guest House at Gwalior we took the
road again, or rather the railroad, Delhi being the next place on our
itinerary. We thought, however, to break the journey for a few hours at
Agra, and get a view of the entry of the Amir, which was fixed for the
9th of January.
It was a lowering, cloudy morning when we left our quarters and made
for the railway station, where we had a long wait in the darkness.
An enormous throng of natives filled the platform, squatting on the
ground or standing about in groups, talking or sleeping under covers
which hid them from head to foot. Most were closely wrapped up about
the shoulders, cloths being wound over the turban, even so that they
had generally a top-heavy look with bare legs. Their wraps were only
of cotton though, as a rule, and did not seem adequate against the
chill of the morning. One little swarthy man was busy writing, making
entries on sheets of paper or perhaps bills of lading. He squatted on
the platform against one of the piers of the arcade, writing by the aid
of a lantern’s light. I noticed only one European besides ourselves in
the throng, and he appeared to be an English official and wore a pith
helmet.
At last up came the train from Jhansi, and we got in, a slumbering
English officer occupying one of the berths. The sky, which was the
only gloomy and threatening one we had experienced in India, and
certainly looked leaden and hopeless enough, soon turned to rain, and
under such an aspect the country looked desolate in the extreme. The
tawny earth and fuzzy, dry grass, sparse trees of prickly acacia and
scrub bushes, the broken hillocks and mounds of clay, looked more
fruitless and forlorn under the steady, soaking rain; groups of poor
country folk in their thin cotton clothing huddled together, waiting at
the stations we passed, or could be seen splashing through the muddy
pools to catch the train.
Nearing Agra, we saw heavy artillery trains with field guns trailing
along the wet roads. Troops had been pouring into Agra for some time,
and while at Gwalior a native regiment of cavalry (lancers) rode by the
Guest House, preceded by their baggage on mules and camels.
At Agra Road Station the rain was pouring in torrents. There is an
immense, long, exposed platform, along which we made our way to cover
under the station shed, which was already crammed with people, mostly
English and American visitors, army officers, and officials.
The weather being quite hopeless, we gave up the idea of seeing
anything of the procession, which of course was a military one, and
then finding there was a dining-car in waiting, we had a scamper
through the rain again down the platform to reach it.
[Illustration: A DASH FOR THE DINING-CAR AT AGRA ROAD]
After tiffin we were just in time to catch a train on to Delhi—in fact
it had actually started, but the courteous station-master sent an
official to stop it for us, and to see us safely in with our baggage.
It was now nearly noon, but our train, a slow passenger one, was not
due at Delhi until 5.30. The rain continued steadily, and damp groups
of natives were gathered at the different stopping stations in various
stages of discomfort. They did not, however, appear to mind the wet so
much as one would have expected, but swathed themselves in all sorts of
curious wraps up to the eyes, leaving the legs and feet bare, and some
even squatted on the wet ground.
The country was again a plain for the most part, and extensively
cultivated under irrigation, several irrigation canals being crossed
by the railway. Green crops of young corn seemed almost hidden by
charlock, the yellow fields having almost the effect of our buttercup
meadows in May. Flocks of black and white cranes were seen, as well as
a large, blue, grey-plumaged kind, which are usually seen in pairs in
the green corn. Three superior-caste Hindus got into our compartment
and occupied the cross-bench at one end. One had a bad cough, but they
kept their windows open and did not seem to mind draughts. Coughs and
throat troubles seemed, indeed, too common in India, and we often heard
distressing coughs in the hotels at night.
The sky towards evening began to clear in the west, the whole solid
field of rain cloud gradually lifting like a curtain, and the sun
shining out while the rain continued, a brilliant rainbow appeared as
if painted on the black wall of cloud to the eastward.
The line passes through a part of old Delhi, a vast region of broken
tombs and ruined walls lying outside the walls of the present city, and
afar off we could see the domes and minarets of the Great Jama Musjid
Mosque.
We got in in good time, and collecting our heavy baggage sent on
from Gwalior, drove to Maiden’s Hotel, through streets dark with rain
and standing in pools of water, a stormy orange sunset casting a warm
glow over everything. The hotel was on the usual Indian plan, with a
centre and two arcaded wings enclosing a court, along which a series
of ground-floor, bungalow-like bed- and bath-rooms extended, chilly
enough at this time of year in the mornings and evenings, especially
in wet weather. The hotel itself was under English management, and
there were large open fires in the dining-room and salon, which looked
comfortable, and the cookery was superior to most of the others
we had experienced. Letters from England awaited us, and added to
our satisfaction. No doubt the mails are delivered with wonderful
regularity, and so long as the traveller can arrange his tour in
order that his letters shall meet him at certain places, and does not
leave before the mail arrives, no complications occur. It is only
when letters follow one about instead of preceding one that delay and
difficulties occur.
The next morning (January 10) was grey, chill, and damp, when we
started after breakfast to see Delhi. The hotels and the British
residential quarter lie quite outside the native town, as is usually
the case, amid spacious, park-like grounds, here pleasantly undulating,
and varied with gardens and fine groups of trees. The town is walled,
and has a broad dry ditch as a farther defence. We drove through the
famous Kashmir Gate, renowned for the British assault at the time of
the Mutiny, which remains in the battered condition in which it was
left after the siege, with great shot-holes in its masonry, as well
as in the walls each side. A tablet records the circumstances of the
siege, and the names of the officers and soldiers who distinguished
themselves at that terrific time.
The gate has two ogee-pointed arches, enclosed in rectangular mouldings
in the usual Mogul fashion. As one enters the city, inscribed tablets
recording incidents of the siege are numerous, and the British
authorities have certainly been most careful to preserve the memory of
their side of the fight along with the names of their military heroes,
and every noteworthy spot in the struggle is commemorated in this way.
In addition to such incidental monuments there is the Mutiny Memorial,
an important red-sandstone erection (110 feet high) outside the gates,
upon a rising ground, and so placed that a complete view can be
obtained from its summit of the lines of the siege.
At the fort, which was formerly the Imperial Palace of the Moguls
(built in A.D. 1628–58 by Shah Jehan), it is distressing to see the
ruthless destruction of superb buildings for which the British have
been responsible, and the barbarous way in which hideous barrack
structures have been substituted. The fort, or palace, is entered
through a noble, deep-red sandstone gate. The Lahore, or, as it is
now called, the Victoria Gate, and the fine court, is marred by these
ugly modern military barracks for which so much beauty was sacrificed.
We were shown two splendid halls, the Diwan-i-am, or public hall of
audience, and the Diwan-i-khas, or private hall of audience. This
is of white marble with beautiful inlays of precious stones, with
a richly decorated ceiling in colour and gold. A marble pedestal is
pointed out as the place whereon the wonderful peacock throne stood.
This must indeed have been gorgeous, the seat between two peacocks with
spread tails, and these encrusted with sapphires, diamonds, rubies,
and emeralds, representing the natural colours of the plumage, a true
emblem of oriental magnificence. Over the arches of the arcade in this
hall is a Persian inscription in raised and gilt characters, which
reads, “If there is a paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it
is this.” This costly “paradise,” again, was built by the builder of
the Taj Mahal, Shah Jehan, who seems to have outshone all the Mogul
emperors by the splendour of his buildings. Of course there are no
diamonds, or rubies, or emeralds left, and even the small stones used
in the decorative floral inlays have in many cases been picked out. It
is said that Lord Curzon employed Florentine workmen to replace some of
this work at his own expense.
The decoration of the walls and ceilings in the zenana rooms,
consisting of painted and gilded arabesques, was very lovely, and the
marble Akab Baths exquisite. The river (Jumna) formerly flowed up to
the walls of the palace on that side, and from a beautiful minaret we
could see the river beyond a belt of green foliage, and get a fine
perspective view up and down of the palace wall and buildings.
Near by, on the other side of the court, is the Rung Mahal, which
is distinguished by particularly fine pierced screen-work. The
vaulted rooms connected with this building were till recently used
as officers’ mess-rooms, when all their beautiful decoration were
obliterated with whitewash.
Opposite to the Akab Baths is the Moti Musjid, called the Pearl Mosque,
a most exquisite little building of white marble, a cluster of three
domes and many slender pinnacles terminated by lotus flowers. It has
many-cusped arches of Saracenic character, and a fine bronze door.
It is sad to think that these lovely buildings are after all only
remnants of what were once on this spot when this Imperial Palace
was complete in all its splendour. The Burj-i-Shameli, the great
marble bath-room; the Metiaz-Mehal, a huge quadrangle of palaces
enclosing a garden 300 feet square; the Nobatkhama or music gate, the
Golden Mosque, the hareem courts, and fifty other lovely pavilions,
fountains, and gardens—think of it! The late W. S. Caine, writing
in his “Picturesque India,” adds the following passage: “These and
other glories of the palace have all been swept away by successive
barbarians. Nadir Shah, Ahmed Khan, and the Maratha chiefs were content
to strip the buildings of their precious metals and jewelled thrones:
to the government of the Empress of India was left the last dregs of
vandalism, which, after the Mutiny, pulled down these perfect monuments
of Mughal art, to make room for the ugliest brick buildings from Simla
to Ceylon.”
The Jama Musjid at Delhi is on a splendid scale, a mosque of red
sandstone inlaid with white marble. There are four great gateways,
approached by long flights of steps, through which the great arcaded
square court, in which the mosque stands, is entered. Reputed relics
of Buddha are shown to visitors at a shrine at one corner of the
court. On the eastern side the mosque faces an open plain from which a
large slice of the native city, which once surrounded the mosque, had
been cleared by the Government. This gives a clear view of the noble
building on this side, but must have been rather distinctive of the
character of the place, and one would have thought the mosque, standing
so high as it does, would have easily dominated the native houses. In
fact, if it had been designed for a site on an open plain, there would
have been no necessity to raise it on such a lofty platform. Modern
improvers are apt to forget the logic of art.
We went up a side street in the native town on the other side of the
mosque to see the Jain temple, which is an interesting and richly
decorated small building in the Mogul style of architecture, approached
by a doorway in the street and reached by a flight of steps. It is
extremely beautiful in detail. In the curious street there were many
interesting Mogul doorways. We stopped at a stall to buy some specimens
of the glass and lacquered bracelets commonly worn by the native women
which only cost a few annas.
[Illustration: THE JAMA MUSJID MOSQUE, DELHI]
The Chandni Chowk (or silver street) is the main business street or
bazaar of Delhi. It is very wide, and has a sort of long island down
the middle planted with trees. This was said to have been originally
an aqueduct. It runs east and west, and we saw a striking effect one
evening—the glowing sunset behind the dark masses of the trees, the end
of the vista lost in mysterious gloom; twinkling lights, here and
there, about the white awnings of the stalls under the trees; white
turbaned figures of natives moving noiselessly up and down, ox-carts
and pony tongas, wandering sacred zebus, and all the mixed and varied
character of an Indian bazaar form a wonderful and picturesque ensemble.
Individualistic commercial competition is well illustrated in the
Chandni Chowk. The traveller is besieged by touts thrusting their cards
into his hand, or throwing them into his carriage, or surrounding it
with the most importunate solicitations to see their shops.
We visited an ivory carver’s workshop in a street leading out of the
Chowk. My impression was about this, as in regard to other native
handicrafts, that it was now a craft as distinct from an art. We saw
the carvers at work, quite a number. It was a species of factory. There
were draughtsmen and designers, and miniature painters and inlayers,
quite distinct from the carvers. The former draw the patterns on the
ivory with a pencil. There were some young boys learning to draw
from the craft; one was drawing a bird on a slate. The skill of the
ivory-carvers was very wonderful: they could carve a figure inside an
open scroll-work and leave it distinct, and there were feats of this
kind of which they seemed to be most proud; but these craftsmen seemed
to work almost mechanically, no doubt entirely to order, and without
any initiative of their own in the way of design. They sat cross-legged
on the floor, and more in one room than our factory inspectors would
probably approve. The works here were mostly produced for ready sale
to the tourist. Elephants and paper knives were—I was going to say,
walking hand in hand—all over the shop, and small models of the Taj
Mahal ran them close, models of native ox-carts, tongas, and palkis,
the native ploughman and his yoke of oxen, and such-like images of
familiar things of Indian life; elaborate chess-men, and inlaid caskets
with little miniatures of the Taj Mahal and the Jama Musjid inserted,
in fact all sorts of ivory toys were there, consciously prepared for
the Western eye, and too often the Western want of taste. A loquacious
Parsee-looking proprietor or manager showed us over this establishment.
He had the air of a general director of the works, etc. While not at
all pressing, he took care to show all his attractive things, beginning
at the most elaborate and costly articles, and skilfully grading
downwards, until in price they were within measurable distance of the
visitor’s purse.
My wife found that native home-spun linen and silks for embroidery were
difficult to find in the Chandni Chowk, where there were plenty of
European goods.
On January 11th there was a slight frost. The early morning was quite
misty, too, but the sun came out later, and there was a strong cold
wind from the east in spite of the clear, bright, blue sky and the
brilliant sunshine. It suited Delhi far better than the grey sky under
which we had seen it the first morning of our visit, and was favourable
for our excursion to the Kutab Minar, eleven miles out. Driving
through the Delhi and Kashmir Gates again, and along the road past the
Jama Musjid, and out again at a farther gate to the south-east, we
traversed the region known as Old Delhi, a wonderful tract of ruined
cities, shattered buildings, mingled with noble tombs, mosques, and
minarets, extending for many miles outside the present city. Domes of
tombs were seen on all sides, and broken walls, and the ground was
strewn with bricks and stones. Trees (acacias and tamarinds mostly)
bordered the road. Our native coachman (a good guide) spoke of No. 8
city, and pointed out its ruined gate, under which we passed. Farther
on we took a branch road and stopped before the noble gate of the
ancient city of Indrapat with its strong walls and bastions. Leaving
our carriage, we passed through the gate and on past a squalid group of
wretched huts, where poverty-stricken natives huddled together about
their tumble-down dwellings, and where native children were inclined to
be rude. Farther along the broken path we reached a spacious octagonal
mosque of red sandstone on a marble platform. This was the mosque
of Shir Shah (A.D. 1541). The contrast between the dignity of this
building and the squalor of the village was striking and saddening.
Resuming our road, we next reached the splendid tomb of Humayun (built
by Akbar the Great about 1560 A.D., in memory of his father the
Emperor Humayun). An important gateway led into a garden with long
tanks and flagged pathways, bordered by formal green hedges, which
led up to a spacious platform upon which the noble tomb was built. In
the central chamber under the tomb the actual tombstone was screened
by pierced marble. There was also a smaller chamber of tombs, each
side the central one. The building was of red sandstone, inlaid with
white marble with a central dome and four minarets. It seemed to be a
prototype of the great Akbar’s own tomb we had seen at Sikandra.
Then on again we went, making another short detour from the main road
to the cemetery of Nizam-ud-din. Entering through the gateway, we came
upon a deep tank, surrounded with buildings. On the flattened dome of
one—the Nizam’s well-house—sat a group of brown-skinned youths, ready
to dive into the water, a dive of about seventy feet, for backsheesh,
and the entertainment of the visitor. A passage from this led into
a marble court, in the centre of which was the white, marble-domed
tomb of the Nizam, brilliantly decorated with arabesques in colour.
It reminded one of the shrine of the Kwaja in the Dargarh at Ajmir.
There were also other tombs in the court, one to the poet Khusru, whose
songs are said to be still popular in India. An interesting one is
that of Jahanara Begum, daughter of the Emperor Shah Jehan, on which
is an inscription to the effect that she begs that nothing but grass
may cover her. Certainly her wishes are fulfilled, as the grass grows
freely in the marble-sided tomb which has no cover. Up some steps was
the modern tomb of Mirza Jahangir, but a beautiful marble one.
The carving in marble and ornaments of all these tombs were exceedingly
delicate and beautiful, and would compare well with the work on the Taj
Mahal.
The visitor on leaving is embarrassed by the number of claimants of
fees. There seemed to be a different custode for every tomb in the
place, and the crowd of hangers-on, hungry for backsheesh, rather
spoils the pleasure which the sight of so much beautiful work gives.
Returning to the road again and continuing our drive, it was not long
before we descried the great Kutab Minar rising up above the trees in
front of us. We had indeed caught a glimpse of it miles away, when the
tower was almost lost in the haze. There is a good little bungalow
close by where the traveller can get tiffin, or put up for the night if
so minded.
The Minar, tapering upwards to an astonishing height (238 feet),
piercing the clear blue sky, is of red sandstone with a white marble
top story. There are five stories, and the summit was formerly crowned
by a small cupola and open arcade, which was destroyed by a storm,
and a model of it has been placed near by. Successive bands of small
carving are carried across the deep flutings, both semicircular and
rectangular alternately on the lower storey, semicircular in the
second, rectangular in the third, a plain cylinder forming the fourth,
while the fifth and last is partly fluted and partly plain. These bands
are composed of texts from the Koran, the Arabic characters having
a rich ornamental effect, the carving being wonderfully sharp and
unimpaired, although it dates from the twelfth and the latter part of
the thirteenth century (A.D. 1210–20), having been built as a tower of
Victory, commenced by Kutab-ud-din, and completed by his successor,
Altamsh.
The tower was built in the centre of the old Hindu fortress of Lalkot
(A.D. 1060). At its foot are various ruins, the most extensive being
those of a fine Mohammedan mosque, constructed out of the materials of,
and incorporated with an ancient Hindu temple, the original columns of
the latter remaining to form the colonnade of the court.
The images of the Hindu gods have been mostly defaced when they
occurred in the carving.
There is a fine Mogul arch of red sandstone, similar in treatment and
style to “the mosque of two and a half days” at Ajmir. In front of
this, in the centre of the court, stands a remarkable pillar of solid
wrought iron, supposed to date from A.D. 300 to 400. It is dedicated to
Vishnu, and there are lines in Sanscrit inscribed around it. The wonder
is that such a massive thing in iron could have been forged at that
early period.
Returning to Delhi by a different road we passed another
important-looking tomb, also near the outskirts of the present city,
the ruins of the Observatories built by different rajahs in the
eighteenth century, which impress one as weighty evidences of the
philosophical knowledge and culture of these native princes. A moon
observatory was pointed out to us, and a vast circular building. The
groups of ruined buildings hereabout recalled to us the Roman Campagna
and its fragments.
Our coachman (who was perhaps more careful as a guide than as a Jehu)
collided rather violently with a tonga just outside the city, and the
consequences might have been serious, but the wheels were the chief
sufferers, and the tonga must have got the worst of the jolt, one of
the native passengers being thrown out. No bones were broken, and the
incident did not seem to be regarded as at all an unusual occurrence.
There seems no rule of the road in India, and so risks are constantly
run. In the crowded streets the drivers rely on the power of their
lungs to shout out warnings of their approach, and it is a marvel
people escape being run over, and that collisions are not more frequent
and worse than they are.
[Illustration: DELHI DRIVING. WANTED—A RULE OF THE ROAD]
At the hotel, where the custom of small, separate, circular
dining-tables obtained, we happened to meet a very agreeable
Anglo-American family from Ceylon, who were travelling in India, and
were returning to their home at Colombo, before visiting Japan and
Europe. We discovered we had several friends in common, and promised to
visit them when we came to Ceylon.
I got a coloured drawing of the Jama Musjid from the plain before
mentioned, where a few trees afforded a little shade, the sun being
very strong, although a cool wind was still blowing from the east.
The light was particularly clear and the shadows sharp, so that the
architecture looked remarkably distinct, the effect being almost hard.
We had a stroll in the park-like grounds near the Club. There was an
old and much overgrown Mogul archway here, which had been considerably
battered in the siege. There were fine cypresses and other trees, and
among them little flights of green parroquets flew with their shrill
scream—their flight and their notes reminding one of our swifts.
Toucans were also to be seen, and of course the palm squirrels. We
watched a whole colony of them sleeping in the hollow of a fine old
banyan tree.