THROUGH INDIA.
The heat is intense, being at the end of the heated term at the
commencement of the earliest monsoons. It is certainly not less than 130
deg. Fahr., in the sun, when at 3 p.m. I mount and shape my course toward
Amritza, some thirty-five miles down the Grand Trunk Road.
In such a temperature and beneath such a sun it behooves the discreet
Caucasian to dress as carefully for protection against the heat as he
would against the frost of an Arctic winter. The United States army
helmet which I have constantly worn since obtaining it at Fort Sydney,
Neb., has now to be discarded in favor of a huge pith solar topee an inch
thick and but little smaller than an umbrella. This overshadowing
head-dress imparts a cheerful, mushroom-like aspect to my person, and
casts a shadow on the smooth whitish surface of the road, as I ride
along, that well-nigh obliterates the shadow of the wheel and its rider.
Thus sheltered from the rays of the Indian sun, I wheel through the
beautifully shaded suburban streets of Lahore, past dense thickets of
fruitful plantains, across the broad switch-yard of the Scinde, Delhi &
Punjab Railway, and out on to the smooth, level surface of the Grand
Trunk Road. This road is, beyond a doubt, the finest highway in the whole
world. It extends for nearly sixteen hundred miles, an unbroken highway
of marvellous perfection, from Peshawur on the Afghan frontier to
Calcutta. It is metalled for much of its length with a substance peculiar
to the country, known as kunkah. Kunkah is obtained almost anywhere
throughout the Land of the Five Rivers, underlying the surface soil. It
is a sort of loose nodular limestone, which when wetted and rolled
cements together and forms a road-surface smooth and compact as an
asphaltum pavement, and of excellent wearing quality. It is a magnificent
road to bicycle over; not only is it broad, level, and smooth, but for
much of the way it is converted into a veritable avenue by spreading
shade-trees on either side. Far and near the rich Indian vegetation,
stimulated to wear its loveliest garb by the early monsoon rains, is
intensely green and luxuriant; and through the richly verdant landscape
stretches the wide, straight belt of the road, far as eye can reach, a
whitish streak, glaring and quivering with reflected heat.
The natives of the Punjab, the most loyal, perhaps, of the Indian races,
are beginning to regard the Christian Sabbath as a holiday, and happy
crowds of people in holiday attire are gathered at the Shalamar Mango
Gardens, a few miles out of Lahore. Beyond the gardens, I meet a native
in a big red turban and white clothes, en route to Lahore on a
bone-shaker. He is pedalling ambitiously along, with his umbrella under
his left arm. As we approach each other his swarthy countenance lights up
with a "glad, fraternal smile," and his hand touches his turban in
recognition of the mystic brotherhood of the wheel. There is a mysterious
bond of sympathy recognizable even between the old native-made
bone-shaker and its Punjabi rider and the pale-faced Ferenghi Sahib
mounted on his graceful triumph of Western ingenuity and mechanical
skill. The free display of ivories as we approach, the expectation of
fraternal recognition so plainly evident in his face, and the friendly
and respectful, rather than obsequious, manner of saluting, tell
something of that levelling tendency of the wheel we sometimes hear
spoken of.
The park-like expanse of country on either hand continues as mile after
mile is reeled off; the shady trees, the ruins, the villages, and the
roadside kos-minars, with the perfect highway leading through it all--what
more could wheelman ask than this. A wayside police-chowkee is now seen
ahead, a snug little edifice of brick beneath the sacred branches of a
spreading peepul. A six-foot Sikh, in the red-and-blue turban and neat
blue uniform of the Punjab soldier-police, stands at the door and
executes a stiff military salute as I wheel past. A row of conical white
pillars and a grass-grown plot of ground containing a few bungalows and
camping space for a regiment indicate a military reservation. These
spaces are reserved at intervals of ten or twelve miles all down the
Grand Trunk Road; the distance from each represents a day's march for
Indian troops in time of peace.
A bend in the road, and the bicycle sweeps over a substantial brick
bridge, spanning an irrigating canal large enough to float a three-masted
schooner. The bridge and the ditch convey early evidence of English
enterprise no less conspicuous than the road itself. Neatly trimmed banks
and a tropical luxuriance of overhanging vegetation give the long
straight reach of water the charming appearance of flowing through a
leafy tunnel. Under the stimulus of the monsoon rains and the more than
tropical heat, the soil seems bursting with fatness, and earth, air, and
water are teeming with life. The roadway itself is swarming with
pedestrians, trudging along in both directions; some there are with the
inevitable umbrellas held above their heads, but more are carrying them
under their arms, as though in lofty contempt of 130 deg. Fahr.
Vehicles jingle past by the hundred, filled with villagers who have been
visiting or shopping at Lahore or Amritza. Their light bamboo carts are
provided with numbers of little brass cymbals that clash together
musically in response to the motion of the vehicle; the occupants are
fairly loaded down with silver jewellery, and for color and
picturesqueness generally it is safe to assume that "not even Solomon in
all his glory was arrayed like one of these." The women particularly seem
to literally revel in the exuberance of bright coloring adorning their
dusky proportions, the profusion of jewellery, the merry jingle-jangle of
the cymbals, the more than generous heat, and the seeming bountifulness
of everything. These Sikh and Jatni merry-makers early impress me as
being particularly happy and light-hearted people.
Splendid wheeling though it be, it soon becomes distressingly apparent
that propelling a bicycle has now to be considered in connection with the
overpowering heat. Half the distance to Amritza is hardly covered, and
the riding time scarcely two hours, yet it finds me reclining beneath the
shade of a roadside tree more used up than five times the distance would
warrant in a less enervating climate. The greensward around me as I
recline in the shade is teeming with busy insects, and the trees are
swarming with the beautiful winged life of the tropical air. Flocks of
paroquets with most gorgeous plumage--blue, red, green, gold, and every
conceivable hue--flit hither and thither, or sweep past in whirring
flight.
Some of the native pedestrians pause for a moment and cast a wondering
look at the unaccustomed spectacle of a Sahib and a bicycle reclining
alone beneath a wayside tree. All salaam deferentially as they pass by,
but there is a refreshing absence of the spirit of obtrusion that
sometimes made life a burden among the Turks and Persians. In his disgust
at the aggressive curiosity of the Persians, Captain E, my companion from
Meshed to Constantinople, had told me, "You'll find, when you get to
India, that a Sahib there is a Sahib," and the strikingly deferential
demeanor of the natives I have encountered on the road to-day forcibly
reminds me of his remarks.
The myriads of soldier-ants crossing the road in solid phalanx or
climbing the trees, the winged jewels of the air flitting silently here
and there, the picturesque natives and their deferential salaams--all
these only serve to wean one's thoughts from the oppressive heat for a
moment. At times one fairly gasps for breath and looks involuntarily
about in forlorn search of some place of escape, if only for a moment,
from the stifling atmosphere. A feeling of utter lassitude and loss of
ambition comes over one; the importance of accomplishing one's object
diminishes, and the necessity of yielding to the pressure of the fearful
heat and taking things easy becomes the all-absorbing theme of the
imagination. A supreme and heroic effort of the will is necessary to
arouse one from the inclination to remain in the shade indefinitely,
regardless of everything else.
No sort of accommodation is to be obtained this side of Amritza, however,
so, waiting until the dreadful power of the sun is tempered somewhat by
his retirement beneath the trees, I resume my journey, making several
brief halts in deference to an overwhelming sense of lassitude ere
completing the thirty-five miles. Owing to these frequent halts, it is
after dark when I arrive at Amritza--a thoroughly wilted individual,
and suffering agonies from the prickly heat aggravated by the feverish
temperature superinduced by the exertion of the afternoon ride. My karki
suit and underclothes hold almost as much moisture as though I had just
been fished out of the river, and my dry-drained corporeal system is
clamorous for the wherewithal to quench the fires of its feverish heat as
I alight in the suburbs of Amritza and inquire for the dak bungalow.
A willing native guides me to a hotel where a smooth-mannered Parsee
Boniface accommodates Sahibs with supper, charpoy, and chota-hazari for
the small sum of Rs4; punkah-wallahs, pahnee-wallahs, sweepers, etc.,
extra. A cooling douche with water kept at a low temperature in the
celebrated porous bottles, a change of underclothing, and a punkah-wallah
vigorously engaged in creating an artificial breeze, soon change things
for the better. All these refreshing and renovating appliances, however,
barely suffice to stimulate one's energy up to the duty of jotting down
in one's diary a brief summary of the day's happenings.
The punkah of India is a long, narrow fan, suspended by cords from the
ceiling; attached to it is another cord which finds its way outside
through a convenient hole in the wall or window-frame. For the
magnificent sum of three annas (six cents) the hopeful punkah-wallah sits
outside and fills the room with soothing, sleep-inducing breezes for the
space of a day or night, by a constant seesawing motion of the string.
Few Europeans are able to sleep at night or exist during the day without
the punkah-wallah's services, for at least nine months in the year. The
slightest negligence on his part at night is sufficient to summon the
sleeper instantly from the land of dreams to the stern reality that the
dusky imp outside has himself dropped off to sleep. A pardonable
imprecation, delivered in loud, threatening tones; or, in the case of a
person vengefully inclined, or once too often made a victim, a stealthy
visit to the open door, a well-aimed boot, and the pendulous punkah again
swings to and fro, banishing the newly awakened prickly heat, and fanning
the recumbent figure on the charpoy with grateful breezes that quickly
send him off to sleep again.
A slight fall of rain during the night tempers somewhat the oppressive
heat, and the zephyrs of the prevailing monsoons blow stiffly against me
as I pedal southward in the early morning. The rain has improved rather
than injured the kunkah road, and it is, moreover, something of a toss-up
as to whether the adverse wind is advantageous or otherwise. On the one
hand it exacts increased muscular effort to ride against it, but on the
other, its beneficent services as a cooler are measurably apparent.
One needs only to traverse the Grand Trunk Road for a few days in order
to obtain a comprehensive idea of India's teeming population. Vehicles
and pedestrians throng the road again this morning, pouring into Amritza
as though to attend some great festival. The impression of some festive
occasion obtains additional color from parties of musicians who keep up a
perpetual tom-tom-ing on their drums as they trudge along; the object of
their noisiness is apparently to gratify their own love of the sounding
rattle of the drums.
At the police-chowkee of Ghundeala, ten miles from Amritza, a halt is
made for rest and a drink of water. To avoid trampling on the caste
prejudices, or the sanctimonious religious feelings of the natives,
everybody drinks from his hands, or from a cheap earthenware dish that
may afterward be smashed. The Sikhs and Mohammedans of the Punjab are far
more reasonable in this matter than are the Brahmans and other ultra-holy
idolaters of the country farther south. Among the Hindoos, where caste
prejudices exist throughout all the strata of society, to avoid the awful
consequences of touching their lips to a vessel out of which some
unworthy wretch a shade less holy has previously drunk, the fastidious
worshipper of Krishna, Vishnu, or Kamadeva always drinks from his hands,
unless possessed of a private drinking vessel of his own. The hands are
held in position to form a trough leading to the mouth; while an
assistant pours water in at one end, the recipient receives it at the
other. No little skill and care is required to prevent the water running
down one's sleeve: the average native seems to think the human throat a
gutter down which the water will flow as fast as he can pour it into the
hands.
The flowing yellow flood of Beas River, now at flood, and spreading
itself over the width of a mile, makes an impassable break in my road
soon after mid-day. A ferryboat usually plies across the stream, but by
reason of the broad area of overflow, and the consequent difficulty of
working it, it is moored up for the time being. Fortunately, the Scinde,
Punjab & Delhi Railroad crosses the river on a fine bridge near by, with
a regular ferry-train service in operation. Repairing thither, I find, in
charge of the ferry-train, an old Anglo-Indian engineer, who prevails
upon me to accept his hospitality for the night.
Hundreds of natives pass the night round about the railway-station,
waiting to cross the bridge on the first morning train. Nowhere else in
the world does a gathering of people present so picturesque and
interesting a sight as in sunny Hindostan. These people gathered about
the Beas River station look more like a company rigged out for the
spectacular stage than ordinary, everyday mortals attending to the
prosaic business of life. The nose-rings worn by many of the women are so
massive and heavy that silken cords are attached and carried to some
support on the head to relieve the nostril of the weight. The rims of the
ears are likewise grievously overburdened with ornaments. These
unoffending appendages are pierced with a number of holes all round the
rim from lobe to top; each hole contains a massive ring almost large and
heavy enough for a bracelet, the weight of which pulls the ear all out of
shape. Simple yet gaudy costumes prevail-garments of red, yellow, blue,
green, olive, and white, with gold tinsel, drape the graceful forms of
the dusky Sikh or Jatni belles; and not a whit less picturesque and
parti-colored are the costumes of their husbands, brothers, and
fathers-fine fellows mostly, tall, straight, military-looking men, with
handsome faces and fierce mustashios. Not a few thoroughbred Jats are
mingled in the crowd--the "stout-built, thick-limbed Jats," the
warlike race with the steel or silver discus surmounting their queer
pyramidal headdress. Under the independent government of their people by
the Gurus, or ruler-priests, of the last century, and particularly under
the regulations of the celebrated Guru Govind, every Sikh was considered
a warrior from his birth, and was always required to wear steel iri some
form or other about his person. The Jats, being the most enterprising and
warlike tribe of the territory acknowledging the rule of the Gurus and
the religious teachings of the Adi Granth as their faith, take especial
pride in commemorating the bravery and warlike qualities of their
ancestors by still wearing the distinguishing steel quoits on their
heads.
Seesum or banyan trees, shading twenty yards' width of luxuriant
greensward on either side of the road, and each and every tree
sheltering groups of natives, resting, idling, washing their clothes in
some silent pool, or tending a few grazing buffaloes, form a truly
Arcadian scene for mile after mile next day. These buffaloes are huge,
unwieldy animals with black, hairless hides, strong and heavy almost as
rhinoceroses. In striking contrast to them are the aristocratic little
cream-colored Brahmani cows, with the curious big "camel-hump" on their
withers. These latter animals are pampered and revered and made much of
among the Brahmans; mythology has it that Brahma created cows and
Brahmans at the same time, and the cow is therefore an object of worship
and veneration.
Taken all in all, the worship of the Hindoos has something eminently
rational about it; their worship is frequently bestowed upon some
tangible object that contributes directly to their material enjoyment. It
is very much like going back to the first principles of gratitude for
direct blessings received to worship "Mother Ganga," the noble stream
that brings down the moisture from the Himalayas to water their plains
and quicken into life their needy crops, or to worship the gentle bovine
that provides them daily with milk and cheese and ghee. Wonderful legends
are told of the cow in Hindoo mythology. The Ramayana tells of a certain
marvellous cow owned by a renowned hermit. The hermit being honored by a
visit from the king, who had with him a numerous retinue, was sorely
puzzled how to provide refreshments for his princely guests. The cow,
however, proved herself equal to the emergency, and--"Obedient to
her saintly lord, Viands to suit each taste outpoured. Honey she gave,
and roasted grain, Mead, sweet with flowers, and sugar-cane. Each
beverage of flavor rare, And food of every sort, were there. Hills of hot
rice, and sweetened cakes, And curdled milk, and soup in lakes. Vast
beakers flowing to the brim, With sugared drink prepared for him; And
dainty sweetmeats, deftly made, Before the hermit's guest were laid."
In all Brahman communities are sacred bulls, allowed to roam at their own
sweet will among the crops and help themselves.
Chowel and dood (rice-and-milk) is obtained at noon from a village
eating-stall; the rice is dished up to all customers in basins improvised
from a broad banyan-leaf, so that nobody's caste may be jeopardized by
handling spoons or dishes that others have touched. Most of the natives
manage to eat with their fingers, but they bring for the Sahib a stiff
green leaf which is bent into the form of a scoop and made to answer the
purpose of a spoon. The milk is served in valueless earthenware basins
that are tossed into the street and broken after being once used. There
is a regular caste of artisans in India whose hereditary profession is
the manufacture of this cheap pottery; almost every village has its
family of pottery-makers, who manufacture them for the use of the
community. The people are curious about the bicycle, and the Sahib's
peculiar manner of travelling without the usual native servant and eating
rice at an ordinary village stall. They are, however, far from being in
the least obtrusive or annoying; on the contrary, their respectfulness
and conservatism is something to admire; although they gather about the
bicycle in a compact ring, not a hand in all the company is meddlesome
enough to touch it.
Through the smooth kunkah-laid bazaars of Jullundar, so different from
the unridable bazaars we have heretofore been made familiar with, and I
wheel past the Queen's Gardens and into the cantonment along lovely
avenues and perfect roads. The detachment of Royal Artillery, whose
quarters my road leads directly past, is composed largely of the gallant
sons of Erin, and as I wheel into the cantonment, an artilleryman seated
on a eharpoy beneath a spreading neem-tree, sings out to his comrades,
"Be jabbers, bhoys; here's the Yankee phat's travellin' around the
worruld wid a bicycle."
I have with me a letter of introduction to an officer stationed at
Jullundar. Upon inquiry, however, I find that he is absent at Simla on
leave. Desirous of seeing something of Tommy Atkins in his Indian
quarters, I therefore accept an invitation to remain at the barracks of
the Royal Artillery until ready to resume my journey in the morning. At
this season of the year, an Indian cantonment presents the appearance of
a magnificent park. The barracks are large, commodious structures, built
with a view to securing the best results for the health and comfort of
the troops.
No soldiers in the world are so well fed, housed, and clothed as the
British soldiers in India, and none receive as much pay, except the
soldiers of the United States army. That they are justly entitled to
everything that can contribute to their happiness and welfare, goes
without saying. For actual service rendered, and the importance of the
responsibilities resting on their shoulders, it is little enough to say
that the British soldiers in India are entitled to a greater measure of
consideration than the soldiers of any other army in existence. This
little army of fifty or sixty thousand men is practically responsible for
the good behavior of one-sixth of the world's population, saying nothing
of affairs without. And in addition to this is the wearisome round of
existence in an Indian barrack, the enervating climate and the ennui, so
poisonous to the active Anglo-Saxon temperament.
After all that is said for or against the Anglo-Indian army, the
unprejudiced critic cannot fail to admit that they are the finest body of
fighting men in existence, a force against which it would be impossible
for an equal number of the soldiers of any other country to contend. That
the old dominant spirit of the British soldier is yet rampant as ever may
be seen, perhaps, plainer in the cantonments of India than anywhere else.
The manifest superiority of Tommy Atkins as a fighter stands out in bold
relief against the gentle populations of India, who regard him as the
very incarnation of war and warlike attributes. His own confidence in his
ability to whip all the multitudinous enemies of England put together, is
as great to-day as it ever was, and nothing would suit him better than a
campaign against the military colossus of the North in defence of the
British interests in India he now so faithfully guards.
The interest in my appearance is deepened by my recent adventures in
Afghanistan and letters partly descriptive of the same that have appeared
in late issues of the Indian press. A mile or so from the Artillery
barracks are the quarters of a detachment of the Connaught Rangers. A
couple of non-commissioned officers in the Rangers, I am happy to
discover, are wheelmen, and when the tidings of the Around the World
rider's arrival reaches them, they wheel over and endeavor to have me
become their guest. The Royal Artillery boys refuse to give their protege
up, however, and the rivalry is compromised by my paying the Rangers a
visit and then coming back to my first entertainers' quarters for the
night.
The evening is spent pleasantly in telling stories of camp-life in India
and Afghanistan. Some of the soldiers present have been recently
stationed at Peshawur and other points near the northern frontier, and
tell of the extraordinary precautions that had to be adopted to prevent
their rifles being stolen at night from the very racks within the
barrack-rooms where they were sleeping.
An officer at the cantonment claims to have cured himself of enlarged
spleen, the bane of so many Anglo-Indian officers, by daily riding on a
tricycle. He then disposed of it to advantage to a native gentleman who
had noted the marvellous improvement it had wrought in his health, and
who was also affected with the same disease. The native also cured
himself, and now firmly believes the tricycle possessed of some magic
properties.
Reliefs of punkah-wallahs are provided for the barracks, a number of
punkahs being connected so that one coolie fans the occupants of a dozen
or more charpoys. In talking about these useful and very necessary
servants, some of the comments indulged in by the gentleman who first
invited me into the barracks are well worth repeating: "Be jabbers, an'
yeez have to kape wide awake all night to swear at the lazy divils, in
orther to git a wink av shlape"--and--"The moment yeez dhrap
ashlape, yeez are awake," are choice specimens, heard in reference to the
punkah-wallahs' confirmed habit of dozing off in the silent watches of
the night.
The two wheelmen of the Connaught Rangers, accompany me five miles to the
Bane River ferry, in the cool of early morning. They would have escorted
me as far as Umballa, they say, had they known of my coming in time to
arrange leave' of absence. Twenty-five miles of continuously smooth and
level kunkah, bring me to Phillour, a Mohammedan town of several thousand
inhabitants. The fort of Phillour is a conspicuous object on the left of
the road; it was formerly an important depot of military supplies, and in
the time of Sikh independence was regarded by them as the key to the
Punjab. Since the mutiny it has dwindled in importance as a military
stronghold, but is held by a detachment of native infantry.
A mile or so from Phillour is a splendid girder railway bridge crossing
the River Sutlej. The overflow of the river extends for miles, converting
the depressions into lakes and the dry ditches into sloughs and creeks.
Resting under the shade of a peepul-tree, I while away a passing hour
watching native fishermen endeavoring to beguile the finny denizens of
the overflow into their custody. Their tactics are to stir up the water
and make it muddy for a space around, so that the fish cannot see them;
they then toss a flat disk of wood so that it falls with an audible
splash a few yards away. This manoeuvre is intended to deceive the fish
into thinking something eatable has fallen into the water. Woe betide the
guileless fish, however, whose innocent, confiding nature is thus imposed
upon, for "swish" goes a circular drop-net over the spot, from the meshes
of which the luckless captive tries in vain to struggle.
The River Sutlej has its source in the holy lake of Manas Saro-vara, in
Thibet's most mountainous regions, and for several hundred miles its
course leads through mighty canons, grand and rugged as the canons of the
Colorado and the Gunnison. It is on the upper reaches of the Sutlej that
the celebrated swing bridges called karorus are in operation. A karorus
consists of a bagar-grass or yak-hair rope, stretched from bank to bank,
across which passengers are pulled, suspended in a swinging chair or
basket. The karorus is also largely patronized by the swarms of monkeys
inhabitating the foot-hill jungles of the Himalayas; nothing could well
be more congenial to these festive animals than the Blondin-like
performance of crossing over some deep, roaring gorge along the swaying
rope of a karorus.
Like other rivers of the level Punjab plains, the Sutlej has at various
times meandered from its legitimate channel; eight miles south of its
present bed the large and flourishing city of Ludhiana once stood on its
bank. Ludhiana and its dak bungalow, provides refreshments and a three
hours' siesta beneath the cooling and seductive punkah, besides an
interesting and instructive tete-a-tete with a Eurasian civil officer
spending the day here. Among other startling confidences, this
olive-tinted gentleman declares that to him the punkah is unbearable, its
pendulous, swinging motion invariably making him "sea-sick."
Through a country of alternate sandy downs and grazing areas my road
leads at length through the territory of the Rajah of Sir-hind.
Picturesque and impressive fortresses, and high, crenellated stone walls
around the villages give the rajah's little dominion here a most decided
mediaeval appearance, and dark, dense patches of sugar-cane attest the
marvellous richness of the sandy soil, wherever water can be applied.
Moreover, as if to complete the interesting picture of a native prince's
rule, on the road is encountered a gayly dressed party in charge of some
youthful big-wig on a monster elephant. A thick, striped mattress makes a
soft platform on the elephant's broad back, and here the young voluptuary
squats as naturally as on the floor of his room. Some of the attendants
are dancing along before him, noisily knuckling tambourines and drums,
while others trudge alongside or behind. The elephant regards the bicycle
with symptoms of mild apprehension, and swerves slightly to one side.
The police-officer of Kermandalah chowkee, just off the Rajah of
Sirhind's territory, voluntarily tenders me the shelter of his quarters,
just as the sun is finishing his race for the day by painting the sky
with fanciful tints and streaks. The long, straight avenue which I have
wheeled down, for miles hereabout runs east and west. The sun, rotund and
fiery, sets immediately in the perspective of the avenue; and at his
disappearance there shoot from the same point iridescent javelins that
spread, fan-like, over the whole heavens. A sight never to be forgotten
is the long white road and the ribs of the glorious celestial fan meeting
together in the vista-like distance; and--oh, for the brush and
palette and genius of a Turner!--one of the rainbow-tinted javelins
spits the crescent moon and holds it to toast before the glowing sunset
fires, like a piece of green cheese.
The heat of the night is ominously suggestive of shed's popularly
conceived temperature, and, in the absence of the customary punkah and
nodding, see-sawing wallah, a villager is employed to sit beside my
charpoy and agitate the air immediately about my head with a big
palm-leaf fan. But sleep is next to impossible; the morning finds me
feeling but little refreshed and with a decided yearning to remain all
day long in the shade instead of taking to the road. Not a moment's
respite is possible from the oppressive heat; an hour in the saddle
develops a sensation of grogginess and an amphibian inclination for
wallowing in some road-side tank.
South of Sirhind the country develops into low, flat jungle, with much of
it partly overflowed. The road through these semi-submerged lowlands is
an embankment, rising many feet above the general level, and provided
with numerous culverts and bridges to prevent the damming of the waters
and the danger of washing away the road. The jungle is full of busy life.
The air is thick with the low, murmuring hum of busy insect-life, birds
shriek, whistle, call, hoot, peep, chirp, and sing among the intertwining
branches, and frogs croak hoarsely in the watery shallows beneath.
Noises, too, are heard, that would puzzle, I venture to say, many a
scholarly, book-wise and specimen-wise naturalist to define as coming
from the articulatory organs of bird, beast, or fish. The slow, measured
sweep of giant wings beating the air is heard above, and the next moment
a huge bustard floats down through the trees and alights in a moist
footing of jungle-grass and water.
A little Brahman village at the railway station of Rajpaira is reached in
the middle of the afternoon; but it provides little or nothing in the way
of accommodation for a European. The chow-keedar of the dak bungalow
blandly declares his inability to provide anything eatable for a Sahib,
and the Eurasian employes at the railway station are unaccommodating and
indifferent, owing to the travel-stained and ordinary appearance of my
apparel. The Eurasians, by the by, impress me far less favorably as a
race than do the better-class full-blood natives. It seems to be the
unfortunate fate of most mixed races to inherit the more undesirable
qualities of both progenitors, and the better characteristics of neither.
No less than the mongrel populations of certain West Indian islands, the
Spanish-speaking republics, and the mulattoes of the Southern States, do
the Eurasians of India present in their character eloquent argumentation
against the error of miscegenation.
A little Brahman village is anything but, an encouraging place for a
traveller to penetrate in search of eatables. A thin, yellow-skinned
Brahman, with a calico fig-leaf suspended from a cocoa-nut-fibre
waist-string, and the white-and-red tattooing of his holy caste on his
forehead, presides over a big lump of goodakoo (a preparation of tobacco,
rose-leaves, jaggeree, bananas, opium, and cardamom seed, used for
hookah-smoking), and his double performs the same office for sickly, warm
goats' milk and doughy, unleavened chup-patties. Uninviting as is the
prospect, one is compelled, by the total absence of any alternative, to
patronize the proprietor of the latter articles.
As I step inside his little shed-like establishment to see what he has,
he holds up his hands in holy trepidation at the unhallowed intrusion,
and begs me to be seated outside. My entrance causes as much
consternation as the traditional bull in the china shop, the explanation
of which is to be found in the fact that anything I might happen to touch
becomes at once defiled beyond redemption for the consumption of native
customers. With the weather wilting hot, doughy chuppaties and lukewarm,
unstrained, strong-tasting goats' milk can scarcely be called an
appetizing meal, and the latter is served in the usual cheap, earthenware
platter, which is at once tossed out and broken.
The natives of India are probably less concerned about their stomachs
than the people of any other country in the world. They seem to delight
in fasting, and growing thin and emaciated; their ordinary meal is a
handful of parched grain and a few swallows of milk or water. Among the
aesthetic Brahmans are many specimens reduced by habitual fasting and
general meagreness of diet to the condition of living skeletons; yet they
seem to enjoy splendid health, and live to a shrivelled old age. The
Brahman shop-keeper squats contentedly among his wares, passing the hours
in dreamy meditation and in consoling pipes of goodakoo. Nothing seems to
disturb his calm serenity, any more than the reposeful expression on the
countenance of a marble Buddha could be affected--nothing but the
approach of a Sahib toward his shop. It is interesting to observe the
mingled play of politeness, apprehension, and alarm in the actions of a
Brahman shopkeeper at the appearance of a blundering, but withal
well-meaning Sahib, among his wares. Knowing, from long experience, that
the Englishman would on no account wilfully injure his property or
trample wantonly on his caste prejudices, he is at his wits' end to
comport himself deferentially and at the same time prevent anything from
being handled. Money has to be placed where the Brahman can pick it up
without incurring the awful danger of personal contact with an unhallowed
kaffir.
The fifty miles, that from the splendid condition of the roads I have
thought little enough for the average day's run, is duly reeled off as I
ride into the splendid civil lines and cantonment of Um-balla at dusk.
But my few days' experience on the roads of India have sufficed to
convince me that fifty miles is entirely beyond the bounds of discretion.
It is, in fact, beyond the bounds of discretion to be riding any distance
in the present season here; fifty miles is overcome to-day only by the
exercise of almost superhuman will-power.
The average native, when asked for the dak bungalow, is quite as likely
to direct one to the post-office, the kutcherry, or any other government
building, from a seeming inability to discriminate between them. At the
entrance to Umballa one of these hopeful participants in the blessings of
enlightened government informs me, with sundry obsequious salaams, that
the dak bungalow is four miles farther. So thoroughly has my fifty-mile
ride used up my energy that even this four miles, on a most perfect road,
seems utterly impossible of accomplishment; besides which, experience has
taught that following the directions given would very likely bring me to
the post-office and farther away from the dak bungalow than ever.
Above the trees, not far away, is observed the weathercock of a
chapel-spire, plainly indicating the location of the European quarter.
Taking a branch road leading in that direction, I discover a party of
English and native gentlemen playing a game of lawn-tennis. Arriving on
the scene just as the game is breaking up, I am cordially invited to
"come in and take a peg." To the uninitiated a "peg" is a rather
ambiguous term, but to the Anglo-Indian its interpretation takes the
seductive form of a big tumbler of brandy and soda, a "long drink," than
which nothing could be more acceptable in my present fagged-out
condition. No hesitation is therefore made in accepting; and, under the
stimulating influence of the generous brandy and soda, exhausted nature
is quickly recuperated. While not an advocate of indiscriminate
indulgence in alcoholic stimulants, after an enervating ride through the
wilting heat of an Indian day I am convinced that nothing is more
beneficial than what Anglo-Indians laconically describe as a "peg."
This very opportune meeting results, naturally enough, in a pressing
invitation to stay over and recruit up for a day, a programme to which I
offer no objections, feeling rather overdone and in need of rest and
recuperation. Mine hosts are police-commissioners, having supervision
over the police-district of Uniballa. One of their number is on the eve
of departure for his summer vacation in the Himalayas and, in honor of
the event, several guests call round to partake of a champagne dinner,
the sparkling Pommery Sec being quaffed ad libitum from pint tumblers. At
the present time, no surer does water seek its level than the
after-dinner conversation of Anglo-Indian officials turns into the
discussion of the great depreciation of the silver rupee and its relation
to the exchange at home. As the rate of exchange goes lower and lower,
and no corresponding increase of salary takes place, the natural result
is a great deal of hardship and dissatisfaction among those who, from
various causes, have to send money to England. From the Anglo-Indians'
daily association with Orientals and their peculiarly subtle
understandings, it is perhaps not so surprising to find an occasional
flight of fancy brought to bear upon the subject that would do credit to
a professional romancer. One ingenious young civil officer present
evolves a deep, deep scheme to get even with the government for present
injustice that for far-reaching and persistent revenge speaks volumes for
the young gentleman's determination to carry his point. His brilliant
scheme is to retire on a pension at the proper time, live to the age of
eighty years, and then marry a healthy girl of sixteen. As the pension of
an Anglo-Indian government officer descends to his surviving widow, the
ingenuity and depth of this person's reasoning powers becomes at once
apparent. He proposes to take revenge for the present shortcomings of the
government by saddling it with a pension for a hundred years or more
after his retirement from active service.
Tusked and antlered trophies of the chase adorning the walls,
and panther and tiger skins scattered about the floor, attest the
police-commissioners' prowess with the rifle in the surrounding jungle.
The height of every young Englishman's ambition when he comes to India is
to kill a tiger; not until with his own rifle he has laid low a genuine
Tigris Indicus, and handed its striped pelt over to the taxidermist, does
he feel entitled to hold his chin at a becoming elevation and to indulge
in the luxury of talking about the big game of the jungle on an equality
with his fellows. Among the pets of the establishment are a youthful
black bear that spends much of its time in climbing up and down a post on
the lawn, a recently captured monkey that utters cries of alarm and looks
badly frightened when approached by a white person, and a pair of spotted
deer. These, together with several hunting dogs that delight in taking
wanton liberties with the bear and deer, form quite a happy, though not
altogether trustful family party in the grounds.
The day's rest does me a world of good, and upon resuming my journey the
voice of my own experience is augmented by the advice of my entertainers,
in warning me against overexertion and fatigue in so trying a climate as
India. It has rained during the night, and the early morning is signalled
by cooler weather than has yet been experienced from Lahore. Companies of
tall Sikhs, magnificent-looking fellows, in their trim karki uniforms and
monster turbans, are drilling within the native-infantry lines as I wheel
through the broad avenues of one of the finest cantonments in all India,
and English officers and their wives are taking the morning air on
horseback.
This splendid cantonment contains no less than seven thousand two hundred
and twenty acres and might well be termed a magnificent park throughout.
It is in the hilly tracts of the Umballa district that the curious custom
prevails of placing infants beneath little cascades of water so that the
stream of water shall steadily descend on the head. The cool water of
some mountain-rivulet is converted into a number of streams appropriate
for the purpose, by means of bamboo ducts or spouts. The infants are
brought thither in the morning by their mothers and placed in proper
position on beds of grass; the trickling water, pouring on their heads,
keeps the brain cool and is popularly supposed to be efficacious in the
prevention of many infantile diseases peculiar to the country. Children
not subjected to this curious hydropathic treatment are said to generally
die young, or grow up weaklings in comparison with the others.
A sudden freshet in the ordinarily shallow and partially dry bed of the
Donglee River tells of the heaviness of last night's rainstorm among the
hills, and compels a halt of a couple of hours until the rapidly
subsiding water gets low enough to admit of fording it with a native
bullock gharri. A branch of the same stream is crossed in a similar
manner, and yet a third river, a few miles farther, has to be crossed on
a curious raft made of a number of buoyant earthenware jars fixed in a
bamboo frame. A splendid bridge spans the swollen torrent of the more
formidable Markunda, and the well-metalled highway now cuts a wide
straight swath through inundated jungle. A big wild monkey, the first of
his species thus far encountered on the road, utters a shrill squeak of
apprehension at seeing the bicycle come bowling down the road, and in his
fright he leaps from the branches of a road-side tree into the shallow
water and escapes into the jungle with frantic leaps and bounds.
Travelling leisurely, and resting often, for thirty miles, the afternoon
brings me to the small town of Peepli, where a dak bungalow provides food
and shelter of a certain kind. The sleeping-accommodation of the dak
bungalow may hardly be described as luxurious; ants and other insects
swarm in myriads, and lizards drag their slimy length about the timber of
the walls and ceiling. The wild jungle encroaches on the village, and the
dak bungalow occupies an isolated position at one end. The jungle
resounds with the strange noises of animals and birds, and a friendly
native, who speaks a little English, confides the joyful information that
the deadly cobra everywhere abounds.
For the first time it is cool enough to sleep without the services of the
punkah-wallah, and not a soul remains about the dak bungalow after
nightfall. The night is dark and cloudy, but not by any means silent, for
the "noises of the night" are multitudinous and varied, ranging from the
tuneful croaking of innumerable frogs to the yelping chorus of the
jackals-the weird nocturnal concert of the Indian jungle, a musical
melange far easier to imagine than describe. About ten o'clock, out from
the gloomy depths of the jungle near by is suddenly heard the
unmistakable caterwauling of a panther, followed by that cunning
arch-dissembler's inimitable imitation of a child in distress. As though
awed and paralyzed by this revelation of the panther's dread presence,
the chirping and juggling and p-r-r-r-ring and yelping of inferior
creatures cease as if by mutual impulse moved, and the pitter-patter of
little feet are heard on the clay floor of my bungalow. The cry of the
forest prowler is repeated, nearer than before to my quarters, and
presently something hops up on the foot of the charpoy on which my
recumbent form is stretched; and still continues the pattering of feet on
the floor. It is pitchy dark within the bungalow, and, uncertain of the
nature of my strange visitant, I kick and "qu-e-e-k" at him and scare him
off; but, evidently terrorized by the appearance of the panther, the next
minute he again invades my couch.
To have one's room turned nolens volens into a place of refuge for timid
animals, hiding from a prowling panther which is not unlikely to follow
them inside, is anything but a desirable experience in the dark. Should
his panthership come nosing inside the bungalow, in his eagerness to
secure something for supper he might not pause to discriminate between
brute and human; and as his awe-inspiring voice is heard again,
apparently quite near by, I deem it expedient to warn him off. So
reaching my Smith & Wesson from under the pillow, I fire a shot up into
the thatched roof. The little intruders, whatever they may be, scamper
out of the bungalow, nor wait upon the order of their going, and a loud
scream some distance away a moment later tells of the panther's rapid
retreat into the depths of the jungle.
Soon a courageous bull-frog gives utterance to a subdued, hesitative
croak; his excellent example is quickly followed by others; answering
noises spring up in every direction, and ere long the midnight concert of
the jungle is again in full melody.
A comparatively cooling breeze blows across flooded jungle and rice-field
in the morning. The country around resembles a shallow lake from out of
which the rank vegetation of the jungle rears its multiform foliage; much
of the water is merely the temporary overflow of the Markunda, silently
moving through the shady forest, but over the more permanently submerged
areas is gathered a thick green scum. Not unlike a broad expanse of level
meadow-land do some of these open spaces seem, and the yellow, fallen
blossoms of the gum arabic trees, scattered thickly about, are the
buttercups spangling and beautifying the meadows.
Forty-eight miles from Umballa the Grand Trunk road leads through the
civil lines and past the towering walls of ancient Kurnaul. Formerly on
the banks of the river Jumna, Kurnaul is now removed several miles from
that stream, owing to the wayward trick of Indian rivers carving out for
themselves new channels during seasons of extraordinary flood. The city
is old beyond the records of history, its name and fame glimmering
faintly in the dim and distant perspective of ancient Hindostani legend
and mythical tales. Within the last few hundred years, Kurnaul has been
taken and retaken, plundered and destroyed, by Sikh, Rajput, Mogul, and
Mahratta freebooters, and was occupied in 1795 by the celebrated
adventurer George Thomas, who figured so largely in the military history
of India during the latter part of the last century. Here also was fought
the great battle between Nadir Shah and Mohammed Shah, the Emperor of
Delhi, that resulted in the defeat of the latter, the subsequent looting
of Delhi, and the carrying off to Persia of the famous peacock throne.
Splendid water-tanks, spreading banyans, feathery date-palms, and
toddy-palms render the suburbs of Kurnaul particularly attractive, these
days; but the place is unhealthy, being very low and the surrounding
country subject to the overflow that induces fever.
A letter of introduction from Umballa to Mr. D, deputy commissioner at
Kurnaul, insures me hospitable recognition and creature comforts upon
reaching the latter place at 9 a.m. Spending the heat of mid-day in Mr. D
's congenial society, recounting the incidents of my journey and learning
in return much valuable information in regard to India, I continue on my
journey again when the fiercest heat of the sun has subsided in favor of
the slightly more tolerable evening. The country grows more and more
interesting from various standpoints as my progression carries me
southward. Not only does it become intensely interesting by reason of its
historical associations in connection with the old Mogul Empire, but in
its peculiar aspect of Indian life to-day. Monkeys are hopping about all
over the place, moving leisurely about the roofs and walls of the
villages, or complacently examining one another's phrenological
peculiarities beneath the trees. About the streets, shops, and houses
these mischievous anthropoids are seen in droves, moving hither and
thither at their own sweet will, as much at home as the human occupants
and owners of the houses themselves.
Monkeys, being held sacred by the Hindoos, are allowed to remain in the
towns and villages unmolested, doing pretty much as they please.
Sometimes they swarm in such numbers that eternal vigilance alone keeps
them from devouring the fruit, grain, and other eatables displayed for
sale in front of the shops. When they get to be an insufferable nuisance,
although the pious Hindoos would suffer from their depredations even to
ruin rather than do them injury, they offer no objections to being
relieved of their charges by the government officials, so long as the
measures taken are not of a sanguinary nature. Sometimes the monkeys are
caught and shipped off in car-loads to some point miles away and turned
loose in the jungle. The appearance of a car-load of these exiles,
however, always excites the sympathies of the pious Hindoo, and instances
have been known when they have been stealthily liberated while the train
was waiting at some other town.
An effectual remedy has been recently discovered in cleaning out colonies
of the smaller varieties of monkeys and inducing them to remove somewhere
else, by introducing into their midst a certain warlike and aggressive
variety from somewhere in the Himalaya foot-hills. This particular race
of monkey, being a veritable anthropoidal Don Juan among his fellows,
when turned loose in a village commences making violent love to the wives
and sweethearts of the resident monkeys. The faithless fair, ever ready
for coquetry and flirtation, flattered beyond measure by the attentions
of the gallant stranger, forsake their first loves by the wholesale, and
bask shamelessly in the sunshine of his favor. The result is that the
outraged males, afraid to attack the warlike libertine so rudely
introduced into their peaceful community, gather up their erring spouses,
giddy daughters, and small children and betake themselves off forever.
Not far from Kurnaul I overtake an interesting party of gypsies, moving
with their bag and baggage piled on the backs of diminutive cows led by
strings. Numbers of the smaller children also bestride the gentle little
bovines, but the rest of the party are afoot. The ruling passion of the
Romany, the wide world over, asserts itself at my approach; brown-bodied
youngsters with sparkling, coal-black eyes race after the bicycle,
holding out their hands and begging, "pice, sahib, pice, pice."
Facsimile in cry and gesture almost, and in appearance, are these
Hindostani gypsies of their relatives in distant Hungary, who, fifteen
months before, raced alongside the bicycle, and begged for "kreuzer,
kreuzer." Many ethnologists believe India to have been the original
abiding place of the now widely scattered Romanies; certain it is that no
country and no clime would be so well adapted to their shiftless habits
and wandering tent-life as India. Their language, subjected to analysis,
has been traced in a measure to Sanscrit roots, and although spread
pretty much all over the surface of the globe, this strange, romantic
people are said to recognize one another by a common language, even
should the one hail from India and the other from the frozen North.
Certain professors claim to have discovered a connecting link between the
gypsies of the Occident and the Jats of the Punjab.
A boy tending a sacred cow undertakes to drive that worshipful animal out
of my way as he sees me come bowling briskly down the road. The bovine,
pampered and treated with the greatest deference and consideration from
her earliest calfhood, resents this treatment by making a short but
determined spurt after me as I sweep past. Whether the sacred cows of
India are spoiled by generations of overindulgence, or whether the
variety is constitutionally evil-tempered does not appear, but they one
and all take pugnacious exception to the bicycle. Spurting away from a
chasing Brahmani cow is an every-day experience.
Mr. D has kindly telegraphed from Kurnaul to Nawab Ali Ahmed Khan, a
hospitable Mohammedan gentleman at Paniput, apprising him of my coming.
More ancient even than Kurnaul, Paniput's vast antiquity is reputed to
extend back to the period of the great Pandava War described in the
Mahabharat, and supposed to have been fought nearly four thousand years
ago. The city occupies a commanding position to the left of the road, and
is rendered conspicuous by several white marble domes and minarets.
The nawab and another native gentleman, physician to the Paniput
Hospital, are seated in a dog-cart watching for my appearance, at a fork
in the road near one of the city gates. The nawab's place is a mile and a
half off the main road, but the smooth, level kunkah leads right up to
the fine, commodious bungalow, in which I am duly installed. A tepid
bath, prepared in deference to the nawab's anticipation of my preference,
is awaiting my pleasure, and from the moment of arrival I am the
recipient of unstinted attention. A large reclining chair is placed
immediately beneath the punkah, and a punkah-wallah, ambitious to please,
causes the frilled hangings of this desirable and necessary piece of
furniture to wave vigorously to and fro but a foot or eighteen inches
above my head. A smiling servant kneels at my feet and proceeds to knead
and "groom" the muscles of the legs. Judging from the attentions lavished
upon my pedal extremities, one might well imagine me to be a race-horse
that had just endeared himself to his groom and owner by winning the
Derby.
An ample supper is followed by a most refreshing sleep, and in the
morning, when ready to depart, my watchful attendants present themselves
with broad smiles and sheets of paper. Each one wants a certificate
showing that he has contributed to my comfort and entertainment, and
lastly comes the nawab himself and his bosom friend, the hospital doctor,
to bid me farewell and request the same favor. This certificate-foible is
one of the greatest bores in India; almost every native who performs any
service for a Sahib, whether in the capacity of a mere waiter at a native
hotel, or as retainer of some wealthy nabob--and not infrequently
the nabob himself, if a government official--wants a testimonial
expressing one's approval of his services. An old servitor who has
mingled much among Europeans must have whole reams of these useless
articles stowed away. What in the world they want with them is something
of a puzzler; though the idea is, probably, that they might come in
useful to obtain a situation some time or other.
South of Paniput the trees alongside the road are literally swarming with
monkeys; they file in long strings across the road, looking anxiously
behind, evidently frightened at the strange appearance of the bicycle.
Shinnying up the toddy-palms, they ensconce themselves among the foliage
and peer curiously down at me as I wheel past, giving vent to their
perturbation in excited cries. Twenty-five miles down the road, an hour
is spent beneath a grove of shady peepuls, watching the amusing antics of
a troop of monkeys in the branches. Their marvellous activity among the
trees is here displayed to perfection, as they quarrel and chase one
another from tree to tree. The old ones seem passively irritable and
decidedly averse to being bothered by the antics and mischievous activity
of the youngsters. Taking possession of some particular branch, they warn
away all would-be intruders with threatening grimaces and feints. The
youthful members of the party are skillful of pranks and didoes, carried
on to the great annoyance of their more aged and sedate relatives, who,
in revenge, put in no small portion of their time punishing or pursuing
them with angry cries for their deeds of wanton annoyance. One monkey,
that has very evidently been there many and many a time before on the
same thievish errand, with an air of amusing secrecy and roguishness,
slips quickly along a horizontal bough and thrusts its arm into a hole.
Its eyes wander guiltily around, as though expectant of detection and
attack--an apprehension that quickly justifies itself in the shape of a
blue-plumaged bird that flutters angrily about the robber's head, causing
it to beat a hasty retreat. Birds' eggs are the booty it expected to
find, and, me-thinks, as I note the number and activity of the
freebooters to whom birds' eggs would be most toothsome morsels, watchful
indeed must be the parent-bird whose maternal ambition bears its
legitimate fruit in this monkey-infested grove. In me the monkeys seem to
recognize a possible enemy, and at my first appearance hasten to hide
themselves among the thickest foliage; peering; cautiously down, they
yield themselves up to excited chattering and broad grimaces.
Peacocks, too, are strutting majestically about the greensward beneath
the trees, their gorgeous tails expanded, or, perched on some horizontal
branch, they awake the screaming echoes in reply to others of their
kindred calling in the jungle. In the same way that monkeys are regarded
and worshipped as the representatives of the great mythological
monkey-king Hanumiin, who assisted Kama, in his war with Havana for the
possession of Sita, so is the peacock revered and held sacred as the bird
upon which rode Kartikeya the god of war and commander-in-chief of the
armies of the Puranic gods. Thus do both these denizens of the jungle
obtain immunity from harm at the hands of the natives, by reason of
mythological association. English sportsmen shoot them, however, except
in certain specified districts where the government has made their
killing prohibitory, in deference to the religious prejudices of the
Hindoos. The Rajput warriors of Ulwar used to march to battle with a
peacock's feather in their turbans; they believe that the reason why this
fine-plumaged bird screams so loudly when it thunders is because it
mistakes the noise for the roll of war-drums. Large, two-storied
passenger-vans, drawn sometimes by one camel and sometimes two, are now
frequently encountered; they are regular two-storied cages, with iron
bars, like the animal-vans in a menagerie. The passengers squat on the
floors, and when travelling at night, or through wild districts, are
locked in between stages to guard against surprise and robbery.