FROM AGRA TO SINGAPORE.
A couple of miles from the cantonment, and the broad Jumna is crossed on
a pontoon bridge, the buoys of which are tubular iron floats instead of
boats. Crocodiles are observed floating, motionless as logs, their heads
turned up-stream and their snouts protruding from the water. The road is
undulating for a few miles and then perfectly level, as, indeed, it has
been most of the way from Lahore.
Pilgrims carrying little red flags, and sometimes bits of red paper tied
to sticks, are encountered by the hundred; mayhap they have come from
distant points to gaze upon the beauties of the Taj Mahal, the fame of
which resounds to the farthermost corners of India. They can now see it
across the Jumna, resting on the opposite bank, looking more like a
specimen of the architecture of the skies than anything produced by mere
earthly agency.
A partly dilapidated Mohammedan mosque in the middle of a forty-acre
walled reservoir, overgrown with water-lilies, forms a charming subject
for the attention of my camera. The mosque is approached from an adjacent
village by a viaduct of twenty arches; a propos of its peculiar
surroundings, one might easily fancy the muezzin's call to prayer taking
the appropriate form of, "Come where the water-lilies bloom," instead of
the orthodox, "Allah-il-allah."
Villages are now rows of shops lining the road on either side, sometimes
as much as half a mile in length. The entrance is usually marked by a
shrine containing a hideous idol, painted red and finished off with
cheap-looking patches of gold or silver tinsel. In the larger towns,
evidences of English philanthropy loom conspicuously above the hut-like
shops and inferior houses of the natives in the form of large and
substantial brick buildings, prominently labelled "Ferozabad Hospital" or
"Government Free Dispensary." A discouraging head-wind blows steadily all
day, and it is near sunset when the thirty-seven miles to Sbikarabad is
covered. A mile west of the town, I am told, is the Rohilcund Railway,
the dak bungalow, and the bungalow of an English Sahib. Quite suitable
for a one-mile race-track as regards surface is this little side-stretch,
and a spin along its smooth length is rewarded by a most comfortable
night at the bungalow of Mr. S, an engineer of the Ganges Canal, a
magnificent irrigating enterprise, on the banks of which his bungalow
stands. Several school-boys from Allahabad are here spending their
vacation, shooting peafowls and fishing. Wild boars abound in the tall
tiger-grass of the Shikobabad district and the silence of the gloaming is
broken by the shouting of natives driving them out of their cane-patches,
where, if not looked after pretty sharply, they do considerable damage in
the night.
A curious illustration of native vanity and love of fame is pointed out
here in the case of a wealthy gentleman who has spent some thousands of
rupees in making and maintaining a beautiful flower-garden in the midst
of a worthless piece of sandy land, close by the railway station. Close
by is an abundance of excellent ground, where his garden might have been
easily and inexpensively maintained. Asked the reason for this strange
preference and seemingly foolish choice, he replied: "When people see
this beautiful garden in the midst of the barren sand, they will ask,
'Whose garden is this?' and thus will my name become known among men.
If, on the other hand, it were planted on good soil, nobody would see
anything extraordinary in it, and nobody would trouble themselves to ask
to whom it belongs."
Youthful Davids, perched on frail platforms that rise above the
sugar-cane, indigo, or cotton crops, shout and wield slings with
dexterous aim and vigor, to keep away vagrant crows, parrots, and wild
pigs, all along the line of my next day's ride to Mainpuri. In many
fields these young slingers and their platforms are but a couple of
hundred yards apart, the range of their weapons covering the entire
crop-area around. Sometimes I endeavor to secure one of these excellent
subjects for my camera, but the youngsters invariably clamber down from
their perch at seeing me dismount, and become invisible among the thick
cane.
To the music of loud, rolling thunder, I speed swiftly over the last few
miles, and dash beneath the porch of the post-office just in the nick of
time to escape a tremendous downpour of rain. How it pours, sometimes, in
India, converting the roads into streams and the surrounding country into
a shallow lake in the space of a few minutes. Hundreds of youths, naked
save for the redeeming breech-cloth, disport themselves in the great warm
shower-bath, chasing one another sportively about and enjoying the
downpour immensely.
The rain ceases, and, with water flinging from my wheel, I seek the civil
lines and the dak bungalow three miles farther down the road. Very good
meals are dished up by the chowkee-dar at this bungalow, who seems an
intelligent and enterprising fellow; but the lean and slippered
punkah-wallah is a far less satisfactory part of the accommodation. Twice
during the night the punkah ceases to wave and the demon of prickly heat
instantly wakes me up; and both times do I have to turn out and arouse
him from the infolding arms of Morpheus. On the second occasion the old
fellow actually growls at being disturbed. He is wide-awake and
obsequious enough, however, at backsheesh-time in the morning.
The clock at the little English station-church chimes the hour of six as
I resume my journey next morning along a glorious avenue of overarching
shade-trees to Bhogan, where my road, which from Delhi has been a branch
road, again merges into the Grand Trunk. Groves of tall toddy-palms are a
distinguishing feature of Bhogan, and a very pretty little Hindoo temple
marks the southern extremity of the town. A striking red and gilt shrine
in a secluded grove of peepuls arrests my attention a few miles out of
town, and, repairing thither, my rude intrusion fills with silent
surprise a company of gentle Brahman youths and maidens paying their
matutinal respects to the representation of Kamadeva, the Hindoo cupid
and god of love. They seem overwhelmed with embarrassment at the
appearance of a Sahib, but they say nothing. I explain that my object is
merely a "tomasha" of the exquisitely carved shrine, and a young Brahman,
with his smooth, handsome face fantastically streaked with yellow,
follows silently behind as I walk around the building. His object is
evidently to satisfy himself that nothing is touched by my unhallowed
Christian hands.
Seven miles from Bhogan is the camping ground of Bheyo, where in
December, 1869, an English soldier was assassinated in the night while
standing sentry beneath a tree. His grave, beneath the gnarled mango
where he fell, is marked by two wooden crosses, and the tree-trunk is all
covered with memorial plates nailed there, from time to time, by the
various troops who have camped here on their winter marches.
Twenty-eight miles are duly reeled off when, just outside a village, I
seek the shade of a magnificent banyan. The kindly villagers,
unaccustomed to seeing a Sahib without someone attending to his comfort,
bring me a charpoy to recline on, and they inquire anxiously, "roti?
pahni? doctor." (am I hungry, thirsty, or ill?). Nor are these people
actuated by mercenary thoughts, for not a pice will they accept on my
departure. "Nay, Sahib, nay," they reply, eagerly, smiling and shaking
their heads, "pice, nay." The narrow-gauge Rohilcuud Railway now follows
along the Grand Trunk road, being built on one edge of the broad
road-bed. Miran Serai, a station on this road, is my destination for the
day; there, however, no friendly dak bungalow awaits my coming and no
hostelry of any kind is to be found.
The native station-master advises me to go to the superintendent of
police across the way; the police-officer, in turn, suggests applying to
the station-master. The police-thana here is a large establishment, and a
number of petty prisoners are occupying railed-off enclosures beneath the
arched entrance. They accost me through the bars of their temporary,
cage-like prison with smiles, and "Sahib" spoken in coaxing tones, as
though moved by the childish hope that I might perchance take pity on
them and order the police to set them at liberty.
A small and pardonable display of "bounce" at the railway station finally
secures me the quarters reserved for the accommodation of English
officers of the road, and a Mohammedan employe about the station procures
me a supply of curried rice and meat. The station-master himself is a
high-caste Hindoo and can speak English; he politely explains the
difficulty of his position, as an extra-holy person, in being unable to
personally attend to the wants of a Sahib. Upon discovering that I have
taken up my quarters in the station, the police-superintendent comes over
and begs permission to send over my supper, as he is evidently anxious to
cultivate my good opinion, or, at all events, to make sure of giving no
offence in failing to accommodate me with sleeping quarters at the thana.
He supplements the efforts of the Mohammedan employe, by sending over a
dish of sweetened chuppaties.
On the street leading out of Miran Serai is a very handsome and
elaborately ornamented temple. Passing by early in the morning, I pay it
a brief, unceremonious visit of inspection, kneeling on the steps and
thrusting my helmeted head in to look about, not caring to go to the
trouble of removing my shoes. Inside is an ancient Brahman, engaged in
sweeping out the floral offerings of the previous day; he favors me with
the first indignant glance I have yet received in India. When I have
satisfied my curiosity and withdrawn from the door-way, he comes out
himself and shuts the beautifully chased brazen door with quite an angry
slam. The day previous was the anniversary of Krishna's birth, and the
blood of sacrificial goats and bullocks is smeared profusely about the
altar. It is, probably, the enormity of an unhallowed unbeliever in one
god, thrusting his infidel head inside the temple at this unseemly hour
of the morning, while the blood of the mighty Krishna's sacrificial
victims is scarcely dry on the walls, that arouses the righteous wrath of
the old heathen priest--as well, indeed, it might.
Passing through a village abounding in toddy-palms, I avail myself of an
opportunity to investigate the merits of a beverage that I have been
somewhat curious about since reaching India, having heard it spoken of so
often. The famous "palm-wine" is merely the sap of the toddy-palm,
collected much as is the sap from the maple-sugar groves of America,
although the palm-juice is generally, if not always, obtained from the
upper part of the trunk. When fresh, its taste resembles sweetened water;
in a day or two fermentation sets in, and it changes to a beverage that,
except for slightly alcoholic properties, might readily be mistaken for
vinegar and water.
Every little village or hamlet one passes through, south of Agra, seems
laudably determined to own a god of some sort; those whose finances fail
to justify them in sporting a nice, red-painted god with gilt trimmings,
sometimes console themselves with a humble little two-dollar soapstone
deity that looks as if he has been rudely chipped into shape by some
unskilful prentice hand. God-making is a highly respectable and lucrative
profession in India, but only those able to afford it can expect the
luxury of a nice painted and varnished deity right to their hand every
day. People cannot expect a first-class deity for a couple of rupees;
although the best of everything is generally understood to be the
cheapest in the end, it takes money to buy marble, red paint, and
gold-leaf. A bowl of pulse porridge, sweet and gluey, is prepared and
served up in a big banyan-leaf at noon by a villager. In the same village
is one of those very old and shrivelled men peculiar to India. From
appearances, he must be nearly a hundred years old; his skin resembles
the epidermis of a mummy, and hangs in wrinkles about his attenuated
frame. He spends most of his time smoking goodakoo from a neat little
cocoa-nut hookah.
The evening hour brings me into Cawnpore, down a fine broad street
divided in the centre by a canal, with flights of stone steps for banks
and a double row of trees--a street far broader and finer than the Chandni
Chouk--and into an hotel kept by a Parsee gentleman named Byramjee. Life
at this hostelry is made of more than passing interest by the familiar
manner in which frogs, lizards, and birds invade the privacy of one's
apartments. Not one of these is harmful, but one naturally grows curious
about whether a cobra or some other less desirable member of the reptile
world is not likely at any time to join their interesting company. The
lizards scale the walls and ceiling in search of flies, frogs hop
sociably about the floor, and a sparrow now and then twitters in and out.
A two weeks' drought has filled the farmers of the Cawnpore district with
grave apprehensions concerning their crops; but enough rain falls
to-night to gladden all their hearts, and also to leak badly through the
roof of my bedroom.
My punkah-wallah here is a regular automaton--he has acquired the valuable
accomplishment of pulling the punkah-string back and forth in his sleep;
he keeps it up some time after I have quitted the room in the morning,
until a comrade comes round and wakes him up.
For three days the rains continue almost without interruption, raining as
much as seven inches in one night. Slight breaks occur in the downpour,
during which it is possible to get about and take a look at the Memorial
Gardens and the native town. The Memorial Gardens and the well enclosed
therein commemorate one of the most pathetic incidents of the mutiny--the
brutal massacre by Nana Sahib of about two hundred English women and
children. This arch-fiend held supreme sway over Cawnpore from June 6,
1857, till July 15th, and in that brief period committed some of the most
atrocious deeds of treachery and deviltry that have ever been, recorded.
Backed by a horde of blood-thirsty mutineers, he committed deeds the
memory of which causes tears of pity for his victims to come unbidden
into the eyes of the English tourist thirty years after. Delicate ladies,
who from infancy had been the recipients of tender care and
consideration, were herded together in stifling rooms with the
thermometer at 120 deg. in the shade, marched through the broiling sun
for miles, subjected to heart-rending privations, and at length finally
butchered, together with their helpless children. After the treacherous
massacre of the few surviving Englishmen at the Suttee Chowra Ghaut, the
remaining women and children were reserved for further cruelties, and the
final act of Nana's fiendish vengeance. From the graphic account of this
murderous period of Cawnpore's history contained in the "Tourists' Guide
to Cawnpore" is quoted the following brief account of Nana's consummate
deed of devilment.
But the Nana's reign of terror was now drawing to a close, though not to
terminate without a stroke destined to make the civilized world shudder
from end to end. He was now to put the finishing touch to his work of
mischief. The councils of the wicked were being troubled. Danger was on
its way. Stories were brought in by scouting Sepoys of terrible bronzed
men coming up the Grand Trunk Road, before whose advance the rebel hosts
were fleeing like chaff and dust before the fan of the threshing-floor,
Futtehpore had fallen, and disaster had overtaken the rebel forces at
Aoung. Reinforcements were despatched by Nana in rapid succession, but
all was of no avail--on came Havelock and his handful of heroes,
carrying everything before them in their determination to rescue the
hapless women and children imprisoned at Cawnpore. About noon on July
15th a few troopers came in from the south and informed Nana that his
last reinforcement had met the same fate as the others, and reported that
the English were coming up the road like mad horses, caring for neither
cannon nor musketry; nor did these appear to have any effect on them. The
guilty Nana, with the blood of the recent treacherous massacre on his
hands, grew desperate at the hopelessness of the situation, and called a
council of war. What plans could they devise to keep out the English?
what steps could they adopt to stay their advance. The conclusion arrived
at in that council of human tigers could have found expression nowhere
save in the brains of Asiatics, illogical, and diabolically cruel. "We
will destroy the maims and baba logues," they said, "and inform the
English force of it; they will then be disheartened, and go back, for
they are only a handful in number!"
How the unfortunate innocents were butchered in cold blood in the
beebeegurch where they were confined, by Sepoys who gloried in trying
their skill at severing the ladies' heads from their bodies at one cut,
in splitting little children in twain, and in smearing themselves with
the blood of their helpless victims, is too harrowing a tale to dwell
upon here. On the following morning "the mangled bodies of both dead and
dying" were cast into the well over which now hovers the marble
representation of the Pitying Angel. When the victorious relieving force
scattered Nana's remaining forces and entered the city, two days later,
instead of the living forms of those they had made such heroic efforts to
save, they looked down the well and saw their ghastly remains.
In this lovely garden, where all is now so calm and peaceful, scarcely
does it seem possible that beneath the marble figure of this Pitying
Angel repose the dust of two hundred of England's gentle martyrs, whose
murdered and mutilated forms, but thirty years ago, choked up the well
into which they were tossed. While I stand and read the sorrowful
inscription it rains a gentle, soft, unpattering shower. Are these gentle
droppings the tender tribute of angels' tears. I wonder, and does it
always rain so soft and noiselessly here as it does to-day?
No natives are permitted in this garden without special permission; and
an English soldier keeps sentinel at the entrance-gate instead of the
Sepoy usually found on such duty. The memory of this tragedy seems to
hang over Cawnpore like a cloud even to this day, and to cause a feeling
of bitterness in the minds of Englishmen, who everywhere else regard the
natives about them with no other feelings than of the kindliest possible
nature. Other monuments of the mutiny exist, notably the Memorial Church,
a splendid Lombard-Gothic structure erected in memoriam of those who fell
in the mutiny here. The church is full of tablets commemorating the death
of distinguished people, and the stained-glass windows are covered with
the names of the victims of Nana Sahib's treachery, and of those who fell
in action.
Cawnpore is celebrated for the number and extensiveness of its
manufactures, and might almost be called the Manchester of India;
woollen, cotton, and jute mills abound, leather factories, and various
kindred industries, giving employment to millions of capital and
thousands of hands.
A stroll through the native quarter of any Indian city is interesting,
and Cawnpore is no exception. One sees buildings and courts the
decorations and general appearance of which leave the beholder in doubt
as to whether they are theatre or temple. Music and tom-toming would seem
rather to suggest the former, but upon entering one sees fakirs and
Hindoo devotees, streaked with clay, fanciful paintings and hideous
idols, and all the cheap pomp and pageantry of idolatrous worship.
Strolling into one of these places, an attendant, noting my curious
gazing, presents himself and points to a sign-board containing characters
as meaningless to me as Aztec hieroglyphics.
In one narrow street a crowd of young men are struggling violently for
position about a door, where an old man is flinging handfuls of yellow
powder among the crowd. The struggling men are aspirants for the honor of
having a portion of the powder alight on their persons. I inquire of a
native by-stander what it all means; the explanation is politely given,
but being in the vernacular of the country, it is wasted on the
unprofitable soil of my own lingual ignorance.
Impatient to be getting along, I misinterpret a gleam of illusory
sunshine at noon on the third day of the rain-storm and pull out, taking
a cursory glance at the Memorial Church as I go. A drenching shower
overtakes me in the native military lines, compelling me to seek shelter
for an hour beneath the portico of their barracks. The road is perfectly
level and smooth, and well rounded, so that the water drains off and
leaves it better wheeling than ever; and with alternate showers and
sunshine I have no difficulty in covering thirty-four miles before
sunset. This brings me to a caravanserai, consisting of a quadrangular
enclosure with long rows of cell-like rooms. The whole structure is much
inferior to a Persian caravanserai, but there is probably no need of the
big brick structures of Shah Abbas in a winterless country like India.
Interesting subjects are not wanting for my camera through the day; but
the greatest difficulty is experienced about changing the negatives at
night. A small lantern with a very feeble light, made still more feeble
by interposing red paper, suffices for my own purpose; but the too
attentive chowkee-dar, observing that my room is in darkness, and
fancying that my light has gone out accidentally, comes flaring in with a
torch, threatening the sensitive negatives with destruction.
The morning opens with a fine drizzle or extra-heavy mist that is
penetrating and miserable, soaking freely into one's clothes, and
threatening every minute to change into a regular rain. It is fourteen
miles to Futtehpore, and thence two miles off the straight road to the
railway-station, where I understand refreshments are to be obtained. The
reward of my four-mile detour is a cup of sloppy tea and a few
weevil-burrowed biscuits, as the best the refreshment-room can produce on
short notice. The dense mist moves across the country in big banks,
between which are patches of comparatively decent atmosphere. The country
is perfectly flat, devoted chiefly to the cultivation of rice, and the
depressions alongside the road are, of course, filled with water.
Timid youngsters, fleeing from the road at my approach, in their
scrambling haste sometimes tumble "head-over-heels" in the water; but,
beyond a little extra terror lest the dreadful object they see coming
bowling along should overtake them, it doesn't matter--they haven't
any clothes to spoil or soil. Neither rain nor heat nor dense, reeking,
foggy atmosphere seems to diminish the swarms of people on the road, nor
the groups bathing or washing clothes beneath the trees. Some of these
latter make a very interesting picture. The reader has doubtless visited
the Zoo and observed one monkey gravely absorbed in a "phrenological
examination" of another's head. With equal gravity and indifference to
the world at large, dusky humans are performing a similar office for one
another beneath the roadside shade-trees.
Roasted ears of maize and a small muskmelon form my noontide repast, and
during its consumption quite a comedy is enacted down the street between
a fat, paunchy vender of goodakoo and the shiny-skinned proprietor of a
dhal-shop. The scene opens with a wordy controversy about something;
scene two shows the fat goodakoo merchant advanced midway between his own
and his adversary's premises, capering about, gesticulating, and uttering
dire threats; scene three finds him retreating and the valorous man of
dhal held in check by his wife to prevent him following after with
hostile intent. The men seem boiling over with rage and ready to chew
each other up; but, judging from the supreme indifference of everybody
else about, nobody expects anything serious, to happen. This is
mentionable as being the first quarrel I have seen in India; as a general
thing the people are gentleness personified.
Several tattooed Hindoo devotees are observed this afternoon paying
solemn devotions to bel-trees streaked with red paint, near the road.
Many of the trees also shelter rude earthenware animals, and
hemispherical vessels, which are also objects of worship, as representing
the linga. The bel-tree is sacred to Siva the Destroyer, and the third
person in the Hindoo Triad, whom Brahma himself is said to have
worshipped, although he is regarded as the Creator. In the absence of
Siva himself, the worship of the bel-tree is supposed to be as
efficacious as worshipping the idol direct.
Soon I overtake an individual doing penance for his sins by crawling on
his stomach all the way to Benares, the Mecca of the Hindoo religion. In
addition to crawling, he is dragging a truck containing his personal
effects by a rope tied about his waist. Every fifty yards or so he stands
up and stretches himself; then he lies prostrate again and worms his
wearisome way along the road like a snake. Benares is still about a
hundred miles distant, and not unlikely this determined devotee has
already been crawling in this manner for weeks. This painful sort of
penance was formerly indulged in by Hindoo fanatics very largely; but the
English Government has now all but abolished the practice by mild methods
of discouragement. The priests of the different idols in Benares annually
send out thousands of missionaries to travel throughout the length and
breadth of India to persuade people to make pilgrimages to that city.
Each missionary proclaims the great benefits to be derived by going to
worship the particular idol he represents; in this manner are the priests
enriched by the offerings presented. Not long since one of these zealous
pilgrim-hunters persuaded a wealthy rajah into journeying five hundred
miles in the same manner as the poor wretch passed on the road to-day.
The infatuated rajah completed the task, after months of torture, on
all-fours, accompanied the whole distance by a crowd of servants and
priests, all living on his bounty.
Many people now wear wooden sandals held on the feet by a spool-like
attachment, gripped between the big and second toes. Having no straps,
the solid sole of the sandal flaps up and mildly bastinadoes the wearer
every step that is taken.
Another night in a caravanserai, where rival proprietors of rows of
little chowkees contend for the privilege of supplying me char-poy, dood,
and chowel, and where thousands of cawing rooks blacken the trees and
alight in the quadrangular serai in noisy crowds, and I enter upon the
home-stretch to Allahabad.
In proof that the cycle is making its way in India it may be mentioned
that at both Cawnpore and Allahabad the native postmen are mounted on
strong, heavy bicycles, made and supplied from the post-office workshops
at Allighur. They are rude machines, only a slight improvement upon the
honored boneshaker; but their introduction is suggestive of what may be
looked for in the future. As evidence, also, of the oft-repeated saying
that "the world is small," I here have the good fortune to meet Mr.
Wingrave, a wheelman whom I met at the Barnes Common tricycle parade when
passing through London.
There is even a small cycle club in quasi existence at Allahabad; but it
is afflicted with chronic lassitude, as a result of the enervating
climate of the Indian plains. Young men who bring with them from England
all the Englishman's love of athletics soon become averse to exercise,
and prefer a quiet "peg" beneath the punkah to wheeling or cricket.
During the brief respite from the hades-like temperature afforded by
December and January, they sometimes take club runs down the Ganges and
indulge in the pastime of shooting at alligators with small-bore rifles.
The walks in the beautiful public gardens and every other place about
Allahabad are free to wheelmen, and afford most excellent riding.
Messrs. Wingrave and Gawke, the two most enterprising wheelmen, turn out
at 6 a.m. to escort me four miles to the Ganges ferry. Some idea of the
trying nature of the climate in August may be gathered from the fact that
one of my companions arrives at the river fairly exhausted, and is
compelled to seek the assistance of a native gharri to get back home. The
exposure and exercise I am taking daily is positively dangerous, I am
everywhere told, but thus far I have managed to keep free from actual
sickness.
The sacred river is at its highest flood, and hereabout not less than a
mile and half wide. The ferry service is rude and inefficient, being
under the management of natives, who reck little of the flight of time or
modern improvements. The superintendent will bestir himself, however, in
behalf of the Sahib who is riding the Ferenghi gharri around the world:
instead of putting me aboard the big slow ferry, he will man a smaller
and swifter boat to ferry me over. The "small boat" is accordingly
produced, and turns out to be a rude flat-boat sort of craft, capable of
carrying fully twenty tons, and it is manned by eight oarsmen. Their oars
are stout bamboo poles with bits of broad board nailed or tied on the
end.
Much of the Ganges' present width is mere overflow, shallow enough for
the men to wade and tow the boat. It is tugged a considerable distance
up-stream, to take advantage of the swift current in crossing the main
channel. The oars are plied vigorously to a weird refrain of "deelah,
sahlah-deelah, sahlah!" the stroke oarsman shouting "deelah" and the
others replying "sahlah" in chorus. Two hours are consumed in crossing
the river, but once across the road is perfection itself, right from the
river's brink.
Through the valley of the sacred river, the splendid kunkah road leads
onward to Benares, the great centre of Hindoo idolatry, a city that is
more to the Hindoo than is Mecca to the Mohammedans or Jerusalem to the
early Christians. Shrines and idols multiply by the roadside, and tanks
innumerable afford bathing and purifying facilities for the far-travelled
pilgrims who swarm the road in thousands. As the heathen devotee
approaches nearer and nearer to Benares he feels more and more
devotionally inclined, and these tanks of the semi-sacred water of the
Ganges Valley happily afford him opportunity to soften up the crust of
his accumulated transgressions, preparatory to washing them away entirely
by a plunge off the Kamnagar ghaut at Benares. Many of the people are
trudging their way homeward again, happy in the possession of bottles of
sacred water obtained from the river at the holy city. Precious liquid
this, that they are carrying in earthenware bottles hundreds of weary
miles to gladden the hearts of stay-at-home friends and relations.
At every tank scores of people are bathing, washing their clothes, or
scouring out the brass drinking vessel almost everyone carries for
pulling water up from the roadside wells. They are far less particular
about the quality of the water itself than about the cleanliness of the
vessel. Many wells for purely drinking purposes abound, and Brahmans
serve out cool water from little pahnee-chowkees through window-like
openings. Wealthy Hindoos, desirous of performing some meritorious act to
perpetuate their memory when dead, frequently build a pahnee-chowkee by
the roadside and endow it with sufficient land or money to employ a
Brahman to serve out drinking-water to travellers.
Thirty miles from Allahabad, I pause at a wayside well to obtain a drink.
It is high noon, and the well is on unshaded ground. For a brief moment
my broad-brimmed helmet is removed so that a native can pour water into
my hands while I hold them to my mouth. Momentary as is the experience,
it is followed by an ominous throbbing and ringing in the ears--the voice
of the sun's insinuating power. But a very short distance is covered when
I am compelled to seek the shelter of a little road-overseer's chowkee,
the symptoms of fever making their appearance with alarming severity.
The quinine that I provided myself with at Constantinople is brought into
requisition for the first time; it is found to be ruined from not being
kept in an air-tight vessel. A burning fever keeps me wide awake till 2
a.m., and in the absence of a punkah, prickly heat prevents my slumbering
afterward. This wakeful night by the roadside enlightens me to the
interesting fact that the road is teeming with people all night as well
as all day, many preferring to sleep in the shade during the day and
travel at night.
It is fifty miles from my chowkee to Benares, and the dread of being
overtaken with serious illness away from medical assistance urges upon me
the advisability of reaching there to-day, if possible. The morning is
ushered in with a stiff head-wind, and the fever leaves me feeling
anything but equal to pedalling against it when I mount my wheel at early
daybreak. By sheer strength of will I reel off mile after mile, stopping
to rest frequently at villages and under the trees.
A troop of big government elephants are having their hoofs trimmed at a
village where a halt is made to obtain a bite of bread and milk. The
elephants enter unmistakable objections to the process in the way of
trumpeting, and act pretty much like youngsters objecting to soap and
water. But a word and a gentle tap from the mahout's stick and the
monster brutes roll over on their sides and submit to the inevitable with
a shrill protesting trumpet.
Another diversion not less interesting than the elephants is a wrestling
tournament at the police-thana, where twenty stalwart policemen, stripped
as naked as the proprieties of a country where little clothing is worn
anyhow will permit, are struggling for honor in the arena. Vigorous
tom-toming encourages the combatants to do their best, and they flop one
another over merrily, in the dampened clay, to the applause of a
delighted crowd of lookers-on. The fifty miles are happily overcome by
four o'clock, and with the fever heaping additional fuel on the already
well-nigh unbearable heat, I arrive pretty thoroughly exhausted at
Clarke's Hotel, in the European quarter of Benares.
Of all the cities of the East, Benares is perhaps the most interesting at
the present day to the European tourist. Its fourteen hundred shivalas or
idol temples, and two hundred and eighty mosques, its wonderful bathing
ghauts swarming with pilgrims washing away their sins, the burning
bodies, the sacred Ganges, the hideous idols at every corner of the
streets, and its strange idolatrous population, make up a scene that
awakens one to a keen appreciation of its novelty. One realizes fully
that here the idolatry, the "bowing down before images" that in our
Sunday-school days used to seem so unutterably wicked and perverse, so
monstrous, and so far, far away, is a tangible fact. To keep up their
outward appearance on a par with the holiness of their city, men streak
their faces and women mark the parting in their hair with red. Sacred
bulls are allowed to roam the streets at will, and the chief business of
a large proportion of the population seems to be the keeping of religious
observances and paying devotion to the multitudinous idols scattered
about the city.
The presiding deity of Benares is the great Siva--"The Great God,"
"The Glorious," "The Three-Eyed," and lord of over one thousand similarly
grandiloquent titles, and he is represented by the Bishesharnath ka
shivala, a temple whose dome shines resplendent with gold-leaf, and which
is known to Europeans as the Golden Temple. Siva is considered the king
of all the Hindoo deities in the Benares Pauch-kos, and is consequently
honored above all other idols in the number of devotees that pay homage
to him daily. His income from offerings amounts to many thousands of
rupees annually: there is a reservoir for the reception of offerings
about three feet square by half that in depth. The Maharajah Ranjit
Singh, Rajah of the Punjab, once filled this place with gold mohurs; many
wealthy Hindoos have from time to time filled it with rupees.
The old guide whom I have employed to show me about then conducts me into
the "Cow Temple," a filthy court containing a number of pampered-looking
Brahman bulls, and several youthful bovines whose great privilege it is
to roam about the court-yard and accept tid-bits from the hands of
devotees. In the same court-yard-like shivala are several red idols, and
the numerous comers and goers make the place as animated as a vegetable
market at early morning. Priests, too, are here in numbers; seated on a
central elevation they make red marks on the faces of the devotees,
dipping in the mixture with their finger; in return they receive a small
coin, or a pinch of rice or grain is thrown into a vessel placed there for
the purpose.
In many stalls are big piles of flower-petals which devotees purchase to
present as offerings. Men and women by the hundred are encountered in the
narrow streets, passing briskly along with baskets containing a supply of
these petals, a dish of rice, and a bowl of water; one would think, from
their business-like manner, that they were going, or had been, marketing.
They are going the morning round of their favorite gods, or the gods
whose particular services they happen to stand in need of at the time;
before these idols they pause for a moment, mutter their supplications,
and sprinkle them with water and flower-petals, passing from one deity to
another in a most business-like, matter-of-fact manner. Women unblessed
with children throng to the idols of Sidheswari and Sankatadevi,
bestowing offerings and making supplication for sons and daughters;
pilgrims from afar are flocking to Sakhi-Banaik, whose office it is to
testify in the next world of their pilgrimage in this. No matter how far
a pilgrim has come, and how many offerings he has bestowed since his
arrival, unless he repair to the shivala of Sakhi Banaik and duly report
his appearance, his pilgrimage will have been performed in vain.
Everywhere, in niches of the walls, under trees, on pedestals at frequent
corners, are idols, hideously ugly; red idols, idols with silver faces
and stone bodies, some with mouths from ear to ear, big idols, little
idols, the worst omnium gatherum imaginable. Sati, nothing visible but
her curious silver face, beams over a black mother-hubbard sort of gown
that conceals whatever she may possess in the way of a body; Jagaddatri,
the Mother of the World, with four arms, seated on a lion; Brahma, with
five eyes and four mouths, curiously made to supply quadruple faces.
Karn-adeva, the handsome little God of Love (the Hindoo Cupid), whom the
cruel Siva once slew with a beam from his third eye--all these and
multitudinous others greet the curious sight-seer whichever way he turns.
Hanuman, too, is not forgotten, the great Monkey King who aided Kama in
his expedition to Ceylon; outside the city proper is the monkey temple,
where thousands of the sacred anthropoids do congregate and consider
themselves at home. Then there is the fakirs' temple, the most
beautifully carved shivala in Benares; here priests distribute handfuls
of soaked grain to all mendicants who present themselves. The grain is
supplied by wealthy Hindoos, and both priests and patrons consider it a
great sin to allow a religious mendicant to go away from the temple
empty-handed.
Conspicuous above all other buildings in the city is the mosque of
Aurungzebe, with its two shapely minarets towering high above everything
else. The view from the summit of the minarets is comprehensive and
magnificently lovely; the wonderful beauty of the trees and shivalas, the
green foliage, and the gilt and red temples, so beautifully carved and
gracefully tapering; the broad, flowing Ganges, the busy people, the
moving boats, the rajahs' palaces along the water-front, make up a truly
beautiful panorama of the Sacred City of the Hindoos. From here we take a
native boat and traverse the water-front to see the celebrated bathing
ghauts and the strange, animated scene of pilgrims bathing, bodies
burning, and swarms of people ascending and descending the broad flights
of steps. How intensely eager do these dusky believers in the efficacy of
"Mother Ganga" as a purifier of sin dip themselves beneath the yellow
water, rinse out their mouths, scrape their tongues, nib, duck, splash,
and disport; they fairly revel in the sacred water; happy, thrice happy
they look, as well indeed they might, for now are they certain of future
happiness. What the "fountain filled with blood" is to the Christian, so
is the precious water of dear Ganga to the sinful Hindoo: all sins, past,
present, and future, are washed away.
Next to washing in the sacred stream during life, the Hindoo's ambition
is to yield up the ghost on its bank, and then to be burned on the
Burning Ghaut and have his ashes cast adrift on the waters. On the
Manikarnika ghaut the Hindoos burn their dead. To the unbelieving
Ferenghi tourist there seems to be a "nigger in the fence" about all
these heathen ceremonies, and in the burning of the dead the wily
priesthood has managed to obtain a valuable monopoly on firewood, by
which they have accumulated immense wealth. No Hindoo, no matter how
pious he has been through life, how many offerings he has made to the
gods, or how thoroughly he has scoured his yellow hide in the Ganges, can
ever hope to reach Baikunt (heaven) unless the wood employed at his
funeral pyre come from a domra. Domras are the lowest and most despised
caste in India, a caste which no Hindoo would, under any consideration,
allow himself to touch during life, or administer food to him even if
starving to death; but after his holier brethren have yielded up the
ghost, then the despised domra has his innings. Then it is that the
relatives of the deceased have to humble themselves before the domra to
obtain firing to burn the body. Realizing that they now have the pull,
the wily domras sometimes bleed their mournful patrons unmercifully. As
many as a thousand rupees have been paid for a fire by wealthy rajahs.
The domra who holds the monopoly at the Manikarnika ghaut is one of the
richest men in Benares.
Two or three bodies swathed in white are observed waiting their turn to
be burned, others are already burning, and in another spot is the corpse
of some wealthier person wrapped in silver tinsel. Not the least
interesting of the sights is that of men and boys here and there engaged
in dipping up mud from the bottom and washing it in pans similar to the
gold-pans of placer-miners; they make their livelihood by finding
occasional coins and ornaments, accidentally lost by bathers. A very
unique and beautifully carved edifice is the Nepaulese temple; but the
carvings are unfit for popular inspection.
The whole river-front above the ghauts is occupied by temples and the
palaces of rajahs, who spend a portion of their time here preparing
themselves for happiness hereafter, by drinking Ganges water and
propitiating the gods. On festival occasions, and particularly during an
eclipse, as many as one hundred thousand people bathe in the Ganges at
once; formerly many were drowned in the great crush to obtain the
peculiar blessings of bathing during an eclipse, but now a large force of
police is employed to regulate the movements of the people on such
occasions. Formerly, also, fights were very frequent between the
Mohammedans and Hindoos, owing to the clashing of their religious
beliefs, but under the tolerant and conciliatory system of the British
Government they now get along very well together.
A rest of two days and a few doses of quinine subdue the fever and put me
in condition to resume my journey. Twelve miles from Benares, on the East
Indian Kail way, is Mogul Serai, to which I deem it advisable to wheel in
the evening, by way of getting started without over-exertion at first.
Two English railroad engineers are stationed at Mogul Serai, and each of
them is a wheelman. They, of course, are delighted to offer me the
hospitality of their quarters for the night, and, moreover, put forth
various inducements for a longer stay; but being anxious to reach
Calcutta, I decide to pull out again next morning.
My entertainers accompany me for a few miles out. Mogul Serai is four
hundred and twelve miles from Calcutta, and at the four hundred and
fourth milestone my companions bid me hearty bon voyage and return.
Splendid as are the roads round about Mogul Serai, this eight-mile stone
is farther down the road than they have ever ridden before.
Twenty-five miles farther, and a sub-inspector of police begs my
acceptance of curried chicken and rice. He is a five-named Mohammedan,
and tells me a long story about his grandfather having been a reminder of
a hundred and fifty villages, and an officer in the East India Company's
army. On the pinions of his grandparents' virtues, his Oriental soul
soars ambitiously after present promotion; on the strength of sundry
eulogistic remarks contained in certificates already in his possession,
he wants one from myself recommending him to the powers that be for their
favorable consideration. He is the worst "certificate fiend" that I have
met.
Near Sassaram I meet a most picturesque subject for my camera, a Kajput
hill-man in all the glory of shield, spear, and gayly feathered helmet.
He is leading a pack-pony laden with his travelling kit, and mechanically
obeys when I motion for him to halt. He remains stationary, and regards
my movements with much curiosity while I arrange the camera. When the
tube is drawn out, however, and pointed at him, and I commence peeping
through to arrange the focus, he gets uneasy, and when I am about ready
to perpetuate the memory of his fantastic figure forever, he moves away.
Nor will any amount of beckoning obtain for me another "sitting," nor the
production and holding aloft of a rupee. Whether he fancied the camera in
danger of going off, or dreaded the "evil eye," can only be surmised.
The famous fleet-footed mail-carriers of Bengal are now frequently
encountered on the road; they are invariably going at a bounding trot of
eight or ten miles an hour. The letter-bag is attached to the end of a
stick carried over the shoulder, which is also provided with rings that
jingle merrily in response to the motions of the runner. The day is not
far distant when all these men will be mounted on bicycles, judging from
the beginning already made at Allahabad and Cawnpore. The village women
hereabouts wear massive brass ankle-ornaments, six inches broad, and
which are apparently pounds in weight.
A deluge of rain during the night at Dilli converts the road into
streams, and covers the low, flat land with a sheet of water. The ground
is soaked full, like a wet sponge, and can absorb no more; rivers are
overflowing, every weed, every blade of grass, and every tree-leaf is
jewelled with glistening drops. The splendid kunkah is now gradually
giving place to ordinary macadam, which is far less desirable, the heavy,
pelting rain washing away the clay and leaving the surface rough.
Not less than four hours are consumed in crossing the River Sone at Dilli
in a native punt, so swiftly runs the current and so broad is the
overflow. The frequent drenching rains, the lowering clouds, and the
persistent southern wind betoken the full vigor of the monsoons. One can
only dodge from shelter to shelter between violent showers, and pedal
vigorously against the stiff breeze. The prevailing weather is stormy,
and inky clouds gather in massy banks at all points of the compass,
culminating in violent outbursts of thunder and lightning, wind and rain.
Occasionally, by some unaccountable freak of the elements, the monsoon
veers completely around, and blowing a gale from the north, hustles me
along over the cobbly surface at great speed.
Just before reaching Shergotti, on the evening of the third day from
Benares, a glimpse is obtained of hills on the right. They are the first
relief from the dead level of the landscape all the way from Lahore;
their appearance signifies that I am approaching the Bengal Hills. From
Mogul Serai my road has been through territory not yet invaded by the
revolutionizing influence of the railway, and consequently the dak
bungalows are still kept up in form to provide travellers with
accommodation. Chowkeedar, punkah-wallah, and sweeper are in regular
attendance, and one can usually obtain curried rice, chicken, dhal, and
chuppatties. An official regulation of prices is posted conspicuously in
the bungalow: For room and charpoy, Rs 1; dinner, Rs 1-8; chota-hazari,
Rs 1, and so on through the scale. The prices are moderate enough, even
when it is considered that a dinner consists of a crow-like chicken,
curried rice, and unleavened chuppatties. The chowkeedar is usually an
old Sepoy pensioner, who obtains, in addition to his pension, a
percentage on the money charged for the rooms--a book is kept in
which travellers are required to enter their names and the amount paid.
The sweepers and punkah-wallahs are rewarded separately by the recipient
of their attentions. Sometimes, if a Mohammedan, and not prohibited by
caste obligations from performing these menial services, the old
pensioner brings water for bathing and sweeps out one's own room himself,
in which case he of course pockets the backsheesh appertaining to these
duties also.
A few miles south of Shergotti the bridge spanning a tributary of the
Sone is broken down, and no ferry is in operation. The stream, however,
is fordable, and four stalwart Bengalis carry me across on a charpoy,
hoisted on their shoulders; they stem the torrent bravely, and keep up
their strength and courage by singing a refrain. From this point the road
becomes undulating, and of indifferent surface; the macadam is badly
washed by the soaking monsoon rains, and the low, level country is
gradually merging into the jungle-covered hills of Bengal.
The character of the people has undergone a decided change since leaving
Delhi and Agra, and the Bengalis impress one decidedly unfavorably in
comparison with the more manly and warlike races of the Punjab. Abject
servility marks the demeanor of many, and utter uselessness for any
purpose whatsoever, characterizes one's intuitive opinion of a large
percentage of the population of the villages. Except for the pressing
nature of one's needs, the look of unutterable perplexity that comes over
the face of a Bengali villager, to-day, when I ask him to obtain me
something to eat, would be laughable in the extreme. "N-a-y, Sahib,
n-a-y." he replies, with a show of mental distraction as great as though
ordered to fetch me the moon. An appeal for rice, milk, dhal,
chuppatties, at several stalls results in the same failure; everybody
seems utterly bewildered at the appearance of a Sahib among them
searching for something to eat. The village policeman is on duty in the
land of dreams, a not unusual circumstance, by the way; but a youth
scuttles off and wakes him up, and notifies him of my arrival. Anxious to
atone for his shortcomings in slumbering at his post, he bestirs himself
to obtain the wherewithal to satisfy my hunger, his authoritative efforts
culminating in the appearance of a big dish of dhal.
The country becomes hillier, and the wild, jungle-covered hills and dark
ravines alongside the road are highly suggestive of royal Bengal tigers.
The striped monsters infest these jungles in plenty; during the afternoon
I pass through a village where a depredatory man-eater has been carrying
off women and children within the last few days.
The chowkeedar at Burhee, my stopping-place for the night in the hill
country, is a helpless old duffer, who replies "nay-hee, Sahib, nay-hee,"
with a decidedly woe-begone utterance in response to all queries about
refreshments. A youth capable of understanding a little English turns up
shortly, and improves the situation by agreeing to undertake the
preparation of supper. Still more hopeful is the outlook when a Eurasian
and a native school-master appear upon the scene, the former acting as
interpreter to the genial pedagogue, who is desirous of contributing to
my comfort by impressing upon my impromptu cook the importance of his
duties. They become deeply interested in my tour of the world, which the
scholarly pedagogue has learned of through the medium of the vernacular
press. The Eurasian, not being a newspaper-reader, has not heard anything
of the journey. But he has casually heard of the River Thames, and his
first wondering question is as to "how I managed to cross the Thames!"
My saturated karki clothing has been duly wrung out and hung up inside
the dak bungalow, the only place where it will not get wetter instead of
dryer, and my cook is searching the town in quest of meat, when an
English lady and gentleman drive up in a dog-cart and halt before the
bungalow. Unaware of the presence of English people in the place, I am
taken completely by surprise.
They are Mr. and Mrs. B, an internal revenue officer and his wife, who,
having heard of my arrival, have come to invite me to dinner. Of course I
am delighted, and they are equally pleased to entertain one about whose
adventures they have recently been reading. Their ayah saw me ride in,
and went and told her mistress of seeing a "wonderful Sahib on wheels,"
and already the report has spread that I have come down from Lahore in
four days!
A very agreeable evening is spent at Mr. E 's house, talking about the
incidents of my journey, Mr. E 's tiger-hunting exploits in the
neighborhood, and kindred topics. Mr. R devotes a good deal of time in
the winter season to hunting tigers in the jungle round about his
station, and numerous fine trophies of his prowess adorn the rooms of his
house. He knows of the man-eater's depredations in the village I passed
to-day, and also of another one ahead which I shall go through to-morrow;
he declares his intention of bagging them both next season.
Mrs. R arrived from Merrie England but eighteen months ago, a romantic
girl whose knowledge of royal Bengal tigers was confined to the subdued
habitues of sundry iron-barred cages in the Zoo. She is one of those dear
confiding souls that we sometimes find out whose confidence in the
omnipotent character of their husbands' ability is nothing if not
charming and sublime. Upon her arrival in the wilds of Bengal she was
fascinated with the loveliness of the country, and wanted her liege lord
to take her into the depths of the jungle and show her a "real wild
tiger." She had seen tigers in cages, but wanted to see how a real wild
one looked in his native lair. One day they were out taking horseback
exercise together, when, a short distance from the road, the horrible
roar of a tiger awoke the echoes of the jungle and reverberated through
the hills like rolling thunder. Now was the long-looked-for opportunity,
and her husband playfully invited her to ride with him toward the spot
whence came the roars. Mrs. R, however, had suddenly changed her mind.
Mrs. R was the first white lady the people of many of the outlying
villages had ever seen on horseback, or perhaps had ever seen at all, and
the timidest of them would invariably bolt into the jungle at her
appearance. When her husband or any other Englishman went among them
alone, the native women would only turn away their faces, but from the
lady herself they would hastily run and hide. Here, also, I learn that
the natives in this district are dying by the hundred with a malignant
type of fever; that the present season is an exceptionally sickly one,
all of which gives reason for congratulation at my own health being so
good.
It is all but a sub-aqueous performance pedalling along the road next
morning; the air is laden with a penetrating drizzle, the watery clouds
fairly hover on the tree-tops and roll in dark masses among the hills,
while the soaked and saturated earth reeks with steam. The road is
macadamized with white granite, and after one of those tremendous
downpourings that occur every hour or so the wheel-worn depressions on
either side become narrow streams, divided by the white central ridge.
Down the long, straight slopes these twin rivulets course right merrily,
the whirling wheels of the bicycle flinging the water up higher than my
head. The ravines are roaring, muddy torrents, but they are all well
bridged, and although the road is lumpy, an unridable spot is very rarely
encountered. For days I have not had a really dry thread of clothing,
from the impossibility of drying anything by hanging it out. Under these
trying conditions, a relapse of the fever is matter for daily and hourly
apprehension.
The driving drizzle to-day is very uncomfortable, but less warm than
usual; it is anything but acceptable to the natives; thousands are seen
along the road, shivering behind their sheltering sun-shields, from which
they dismally essay to extract a ray of comfort. These sun-shields are
umbrella-like affairs made of thin strips of bamboo and broad leaves;
they are without handles, and for protection against the sun or rain are
balanced on the head like an inverted sieve. When carried in the hand
they may readily be mistaken for shields. In addition to this, the men
carry bamboo spears with iron points as a slipshod measure of defence
against possible attacks from wild animals. When viewed from a
respectable distance these articles invest the ultra-gentle Bengali with
a suggestion of being on the war-path, a delusion that is really absurd
in connection with the meek Bengali ryot.
The houses of the villages are now heavily thatched, and mostly enclosed
with high bamboo fencing, prettily trailed with creepers; the bazaars are
merely two rows of shed-like stalls between which runs the road. In lieu
of the frequent painted idol, these jungle villagers bestow their
devotional exercises upon rude and primitive representations of
impossible men and animals made of twisted straw. These are sometimes set
up in the open air on big horseshoe-shaped frames, and sometimes they are
beneath a shed. In the privacy of their own dwellings the Bengali ryot
bows the knee and solemnly worships a bowl of rice or a cup of arrack.
The bland and childlike native of Hindostan falls down and worships
almost everything that he recognizes as being essential to his happiness
and welfare, embracing a wide range of subjects, from Brahma, who created
all things, to the denkhi with which their women hull the rice. This
denkhi is merely a log of wood fixed on a pivot and with a hammer-like
head-piece. The women manipulate it by standing on the lever end and then
stepping off, letting it fall of its own weight, the hammer striking into
a stone bowl of rice. The denkhi is said to have been blessed by Brahma's
son Narada, the god who is distinguished as having cursed his venerable
and all-creating sire and changed him from an object of worship and
adoration to a luster after forbidden things.
The country continues hilly, with the dense jungle fringing the road; all
along the way are little covered platforms erected on easily climbed
poles from twelve to twenty feet high. These are apparently places of
refuge where benighted wayfarers can seek protection from wild animals.
Occasionally are met the fleet-footed postmen, their rings jangling
merrily as they bound briskly along; perhaps the little platforms are
built expressly for their benefit, as they are not infrequently the
victims of stealthy attack, the jingle of their rings attracting Mr.
Tiger instead of repelling him.
Mount Parisnath, four thousand five hundred and thirty feet high, the
highest peak of the Bengal hills, overlooks my dak bungalow at Doomree,
and also a region of splendid tropical scenery, dark wooded ridges, deep
ravines, and rolling masses of dark-green vegetation.
During the night the weather actually grows chilly, a raw wind laden with
moisture driving me off the porch into the shelter of the bungalow. No
portion of Parisnath is visible in the morning but the base, nine-tenths
of its proportions being above the line of the cloud-masses that roll
along just above the trees. Another day through the hilly country and, a
hundred and fifty miles from Calcutta, the flourishing coal-mining
district of Asansol brings me again to the East India Railway and
semi-European society and accommodation. Instead of doughy chuppatties,
throat-blistering curry, and octogenarian chicken, I this morning
breakfast off a welcome bottle of Bass's ale, baker's bread, and American
cheese.
My experience of hotels and hotel proprietors has certainly been somewhat
wide and varied within the last two years; but it remains for Rannegunj
to produce something entirely novel in the matter of tariff even to one
of my experience. The cuisine and service of the hotel is excellent, and
well worth the charges; but the tariff is arranged so that it costs more
to stay part of a day than a whole one, and more to take two meals than
to take three. If a person remains a whole day, including room and three
meals, it is Rs 4, and he can, of course, suit himself about staying or
going if he engages or pays in advance; but should he only take dinner,
room, and chota-hazari, his bill reads: Dinner, Rs 2; room, Rs 1, 8
annas; chota-hazari, rupees 1; total, Rs 4, 8 annas, or 8 annas more than
if he had remained and taken another square meal. The subtle-minded
proprietor of this establishment should undoubtedly take out a patent on
this very unique arrangement and issue licences throughout all
Bonifacedom; there would be more "millions in it" than in anything
Colonel Sellers ever dreamed of.
And now, beyond Rannegunj, comes again the glorious kunkah road, after
nearly three hundred miles of variable surface. Level, smooth, and broad
it continues the whole sixty-five miles to Burd-wan. Notwithstanding an
adverse wind, this is covered by three o'clock. The road leads through
the marvellously fertile valley of the Dammoodah, an interesting region
where groves of cocoa-nut palms, bamboo thickets, and thatched villages
give the scenery a more decidedly tropical character than that north of
the Bengal hills. Rice is still the prevailing crop, and the overflow of
the Dammoodah is everywhere. Men and women are busily engaged among the
pools, fishing for land-crabs, mussels, and other freshwater shell-fish,
with triangular nets.
As my southward course brings me next day into the valley of the Hooghli
River, the road partakes almost of the character of a tunnel burrowing
through a mass of dense tropical vegetation. Cocoa-nut and toddy-palms
mingle their feathery foliage with the dark-green of the mango, the wild
pomolo, giant bamboo, and other vegetable exuberances characteristic of a
hot and humid climate, and giant creepers swing from tree to tree and
wind among the mass in inextricable confusion.
In this magnificent conservatory of nature big, black-faced monkeys, with
tails four feet long, romp and revel through the trees, nimbly climb the
creepers, and thoroughly enjoy the life amid the sylvan scenes about
them. It is a curious sight to see these big anthropoids, almost as large
as human beings, swing themselves deftly up among the festooned creepers
at my approach--to see their queer, impish black faces peering
cautiously out of their hiding-place, and to hear their peculiar squeak
of surprise and apprehension as they note the strange character of my
conveyance. Sometimes a gang of them will lope awkwardly along ahead of
the bicycle, looking every inch like veritable imps of darkness pursuing
their silent course through the chastened twilight of green-grown,
subterranean passageways, their ridiculously long tails raised aloft, and
their faces most of the time looking over their shoulders.
Youthful lotus-eaters, sauntering lazily about in the vicinity of some
toddy-gatherer's hamlet, hidden behind the road's impenetrable
environment of green, regard with supreme indifference the evil-looking
apes, bigger far than themselves, romping past; but at seeing me they
scurry off the road and disappear as suddenly as the burrow-like openings
in the green banks will admit.
Women are sometimes met carrying baskets of plantains or mangoes to the
village bazaars; sometimes I endeavor to purchase fruit of them, but they
shake their heads in silence, and seem anxious to hurry away. These women
are fruit-gatherers and not fruit-sellers, consequently they cannot sell
a retail quantity to me without violating their caste.
My experiences in India have been singularly free from snakes; nothing
have I seen of the dreaded cobra, and about the only reminder of Eve's
guileful tempter I encounter is on the road this morning. He is only a
two-foot specimen of his species, and is basking in a streak of sunshine
that penetrates the green arcade above. Remembering the judgment
pronounced upon him in the Garden of Eden, I attempt to acquit myself of
the duty of bruising his head, by riding over him. To avoid this
indignity his snakeship performs the astonishing feat of leaping entirely
clear of the ground, something quite extraordinary, I believe, for a
snake. The popular belief is that a snake never lifts more than
two-thirds of his length from the ground.
From the city of Hooghli southward, the road might with equal propriety
be termed a street; it follows down the west side of the Hooghli River
and links together a chain of populous towns and villages, the straggling
streets of which sometimes fairly come together. Fruit-gardens, crowded
with big golden pomolos, delicious custard, apples, and bananas abound;
in the Hooghli villages the latter can be bought for two pice a dozen.
Depots for the accumulation and shipment of cocoa-nuts, where tons and
tons of freshly gathered nuts are stacked up like measured mounds of
earth, are frequent along the river. Jute factories with thousands of
whirring spindles and the clackety-clack of bobbins fill the morning air
with the buzz and clatter of vigorous industrial life. Juggernaut cars,
huge and gorgeous, occupy central places in many of the towns passed
through. The stalls and bazaars display a variety of European beverages
very gratifying from the stand-point of a hot and thirsty wayfarer,
ranging from Dublin ginger ale to Pommery Sec. California Bartlett pears,
with seductive and appetizing labels on their tin coverings, are seen in
plenty, and shiny wrappers envelop oblong cakes of Limburger cheese.
For a few minutes my wheel turns through a district where the names of
the streets are French, and where an atmosphere of sleepy Catholic
respectability pervades the streets. This is Chandernagor, a wee bit of
territory that the French have been permitted to retain here, a rosebud
in the button-hole of la belle France's national vanity. Chanderuagor is
a bite of two thousand acres out of the rich cake of the lower Hooghli
Valley; but it is invested with all the dignity of a governor-general's
court, and is gallantly defended by a standing army of ten men. The
Governor-General of Chandernagor fully makes up in dignity what the place
lacks in size and importance; when the East India Railway was being built
he refused permission for it to pass through his territory. There is no
doubt but that the land forces of Chandernagor would resist like bantams
any wanton or arbitrary violation of its territorial prerogatives by any
mercenary railroad company, or even by perfide Albion herself, if need
be. The standing army of Chandernagor hovers over peaceful India, a
perpetual menace to the free and liberal government established by
England. Some day the military spirit of Chandernagor will break loose,
and those ten soldiers will spread death and devastation in some peaceful
neighboring meadow, or ruthlessly loot some happy, pastoral melon-garden.
Let the Indian Government be warned in time and increase its army.
By nine o'clock the bicycle is threading its way among the moving throngs
on the pontoon bridge that spans the Hooghli between Howrah and Calcutta,
and half an hour later I am enjoying a refreshing bath in Cook's Adelphi
Hotel.
I have no hesitation in saying that, except for the heat, my tour down
the Grand Trunk Road of India has been the most enjoyable part of the
whole journey, thus far. What a delightful trip a-wheel it would be, to
be sure, were the temperature only milder!
My reception in Calcutta is very gratifying. A banquet by the Dalhousie
Athletic Club is set on foot the moment my arrival is announced. With
such enthusiasm do the members respond that the banquet takes place the
very next day, and over forty applicants for cards have to be refused for
want of room. For genuine, hearty hospitality, and thoroughness in
carrying out the interpretation of the term as understood in its real
home, the East, I unhesitatingly yield the palm to Anglo-Indians. Time
and again, on my ride through India, have I experienced Anglo-Indian
hospitality broad and generous as that of an Arab chief, enriched and
rendered more acceptable by a feast of good-fellowship as well as
creature considerations.
The City of Palaces is hardly to be seen at its best in September, for
the Viceregal Court is now at Simla, and with it all the government
officials and high life. Two months later and Calcutta is more brilliant,
in at least one particular, than any city in the world. Every evening in
"the season" there is a turn-out of splendid equipages on the bund road
known as the Strand, the like of which is not to be seen elsewhere, East
or West. It is the Rotten Row of Calcutta embellished with the
gorgeousness of India. Wealthy natives display their luxuriousness in
vying with one another and with the government officials in the splendor
of their carriages, horses, and liveries.
Mr. P, a gentleman long resident in Calcutta, and a prominent member of
the Dalhousie Club, drives me in his dog-cart to the famous Botanical
Gardens, whose wealth of unique vegetation, gathered from all quarters of
the world, would take volumes to do it justice should one attempt a
description. Its magnificent banyan is justly entitled to be called one
of the wonders of the world. Not less striking, however, in their way,
are the avenues of palms; so straight, so symmetrical are these that they
look like rows of matched columns rather than works of nature. Fort
William, the original name of the city, and the foundation-stone of the
British Indian Empire, is visited with Mr. B, the American Consul, a
gentleman from Oregon. The glory of Calcutta, its magnificent Maidan, is
overlooked by the American Consulate, and one of the most conspicuous
objects in the daytime is the stars and stripes floating from the
consulate flag-staff.
On the 18th sails the opium steamer Wing-sang to Hong-Kong, aboard which
I have been intending to take passage, and whose date of departure has
somewhat influenced my speed in coming toward Calcutta. To cross overland
from India to China with a bicycle is not to be thought of. This I was
not long in finding out after reaching India. Fearful as the task would
be to reach the Chinese frontier, with at least nine chances out of ten
against being able to reach it, the difficulties would then have only
commenced.
The day before sailing, the bicycle branch of the Dalhousie Athletic Club
turns out for a club run around the Maidan, to the number of seventeen.
It is in the evening; the long rows of electric lamps stretching across
the immense square shed a moon-like light over our ride, and the smooth,
broad roads are well worthy the metropolitan terminus of the Grand Trunk.
My stay of five days in the City of Palaces has been very enjoyable, and
it is with real regret that I bid farewell to those who come down to the
shipping ghaut to see me off.
The voyage to the Andamans is characterized by fine weather enough; but
from that onward we steam through a succession of heavy rain-storms; and
down in the Strait of Malacca it can pour quite as heavily as on the
Gangetic plains. At Penang it keeps up such an incessant downpour that
the beauties of that lovely port are viewed only from beneath the ship's
awning. But it is lovely enough even as seen through the drenching rain.
Dense groves of cocoa-nut palms line the shores, seemingly hugging the
very sands of the beach. Solid cliffs of vegetation they look, almost, so
tall, dark, and straight, and withal so lovely, are these forests of
palms. Cocoa-nut palms flourish best, I am told, close to the sea, a
certain amount of salt being necessary for their healthful growth.
The weather is more propitious as we steam into Singapore, at which point
we remain for half a day, on the tenth day out from Calcutta. Singapore
is indeed a lovely port. Within a stone's-throw of where the Wing-sang
ties up to discharge freight the dark-green mangrove bushes are bathing
in the salt waves. Very seldom does one see green vegetation mingling
familiarly with the blue water of the sea--there is usually a strip of
sand or other verdureless shore--but one sees it at lovely
Singapore.
A fellow-passenger and I spend an hour or two ashore, riding in the first
jiniriksha that has come under my notice, from the wharf into town, about
half a mile. We are impressed by the commercial activity of the city; as
well as by the cosmopolitan character of its population. Chinese
predominate, and thrifty, well-conditioned citizens these Celestials
look, too, here in Singapore. "Wherever John Chinaman gets half a show,
as under the liberal and honest government of the Straits Settlements or
Hong-Kong, there you may be sure of finding him prosperous and happy."
Hindoos, Parsees, Armenians, Jews, Siamese, Klings, and all the various
Eurasian types, with Europeans of all nationalities, make up the
conglomerate population of Singapore. Here, on the streets, too, one sees
the strange cosmopolitan police force of the English Eastern ports, made
up of Chinese, Sikhs, and Englishmen.