RESIDENCE AT PRĀG, AND RETURN TO CALCUTTA.
The Sibylline Temple—Mr. Berrill’s Hotel—A Barouche
drawn by Camels—The Murdār-khor—A Kharīta from the Bāiza
Bā’ī—Marriage of the Chimna Raja—Sultan Khusrū’s Garden—The
Tombs—Tamarind Trees—The Sarā’e—The Bāolī—Tattoos used for
Palanquins—Reasons for the Murder of a Wife and Child—The
Lāt—A Skilful Swordsman—An Eclipse—Tufāns—Death of Mr. James
Gardner—Quitted Allahabad—The Ganges—A Wreck—A Storm—Indian
Corn—Colgong—Terīyāgalī Hills and Ruins—Nuddea—Suspension
Bridge—Prinsep Ghāt at Calcutta—Engaged a passage in the
“Essex.”
_1844, Dec. 18th._—The whole day was employed in receiving visits from
our old acquaintances at the station, the mūnshī, the _’amala_ of the
office, and the natives whom we formerly employed. The pleasure they
testified at our return was very gratifying; and the delight of Lutchman,
my old _Barha’ī mistree_ (carpenter), was so genuine, it brought tears
from my eyes, as well as from his own. We have moored the boats just
below an old būrj (bastion) of the ancient city of Prāg; there is a
gateway below,—the water-gate, perhaps, of the old Fort: the Sibylline
temple crowns it. The old gossein who lives in the temple came this
evening to make salām; he reminded me of my having given him a present
of sixteen rupees for having aided in recovering two hundred, that had
been stolen from me; he was young, and good-looking then, now he is old
and wily: he brought his son, a fine young Brahmān, to introduce to me.
Many are the strange stories related respecting this old Brahmān and his
solitary temple; and I have before mentioned its curious resemblance
to that of the Sibyl. Having defended the truth and faithfulness of my
pencil in England, I was glad of an opportunity of again particularly
observing the Ionic style of architecture of this little building;
and while pondering on its singular appearance, Colonel Edward Smith
came on board, and solved the mystery by mentioning that General
Ouchterlony, finding the Jama Masjid seldom used as a place of worship,
took possession of it as his dwelling-place, and formed magnificent
rooms between the arches. He built the temple of the Sibyl on the top
of the ancient water-gate of the old city. The Muhammadans, some years
afterwards, petitioned Government not to allow the mosque to be used as a
dwelling-place; it was therefore restored to them, and is now used as a
masjid.
A pretty little modern building,—a small temple, dedicated to Mahadēo, is
near the ancient well of the water-gate.
I am quite fatigued with seeing old faces, and saying kind words to the
poor people. To my surprise an old woman, with a basket full of worsted
balls, came to make salām; she was fat and well,—I had left her a poor
wretched creature; she used to make worsted balls for my dog Nero to
fetch and carry. How many ānās a month the poor old woman got from Nero;
she used to throw her ball to the dog, and then come to ask for payment;
she was in fact a pensioner. The beautiful dog is dead; and the wretched
old hag is fat and well, and makes worsted balls as usual. She got her
little present, and went off quite happy.
The ghāt off which we are moored has been recently made by the Steam
Agency; and just above is an hotel, which has been established for the
convenience of the passengers from the steamers, and is well conducted
by Mr. Berrill. This little hotel on the banks of the Jumna-jee is well
described in the following curious lines, which were written in four
languages on the window of an inn in Russia.
“In questa casa troverte
Tout ce qu’on peut souhaiter,
Vinum, panem, pisces, carnes,
Coaches, chaises, horses, harness.”
_23rd._—We quitted the boats, and went up to stay with our friends, Mr.
and Mrs. M⸺; they received us with all that kindness and hospitality
for which India is renowned; their bungalow, a very fine one, is well
situated at the other end of the station. We met a barouche drawn by
two camels, harnessed like horses; they went along at a fine pace, and
I envied the possessor that pair of well broken-in carriage camels:
in double harness they look well; in single harness,—especially in a
Stanhope, or any other sort of buggy,—the animal appears too large for
the carriage.
_1845, Jan. 11th._—Saw a small comet, the nucleus of which was more
distinct than that of the immense comet I saw when at sea, although the
tail was so small, that it looked not unlike the thin switch tail of a
horse.
_18th._—Finding it necessary to remain up the country for a time, we dug
a tank and made a house for the wild ducks, and turned sixty-five birds
into it. It was amusing to see the delight with which the _murghabīs_
splashed into the water when freed from the baskets in which they had
been brought from the jangal, and such a confabulation as there was
amongst them!
I omitted to mention that during my former residence at this station, the
jamadar came to tell me that a _murdār-khor_ (an eater of carrion), who
had lately arrived, was anxious to perform before us. The man did not ask
for money, but requested to have a sheep given him; he said he would eat
the whole at one meal, body and entrails, leaving only the horns and the
skin, which he wished to carry away; the wretch said that he would kill
the sheep by tearing open its throat with his teeth, and would drink the
blood. This feat they told me he had performed before in the bazār. I saw
the man at a distance, and was so much disgusted that I ordered him to be
turned out of the _compound_ (the grounds around the house). In Colonel
Tod’s “Travels in Western India” there is a most interesting account of
the _murdi-khor_, or man-eaters; he made an attempt to visit the shrine
of Kalka, the dread mother, whose rites are performed by the hideous
_Aghori_, whose patroness she is, as _Aghoriswara Mata_. At one time they
existed in those regions, but were only found in the wildest retreats,
in the mountain-cave, or the dark recesses of the forest. Colonel Tod
saw a man perform pūja at the shrine of Goraknāth, whom he had every
reason to believe was one of these wretched people,—but whether he was a
murdi-khor he could not determine; although, as he went off direct to the
Aghori peak, said to be frequented only by his sect, it is probable that
he belonged to the fraternity. It appears that the _murdār-khor_ (the
carrion-eater) is almost the same as the _ādam-khor_ or cannibal.
_24th._—This life is very monotonous, and the only variety I have is a
nervous fever now and then.
_March 1st._—During a visit at the house of a friend I received a
kharīta from her Highness the Bāiza Bā’ī, and was greatly pleased to
see the signature of the dear old lady, and also felt much flattered
by her remembrance. After I quitted Allahabad for England her Highness
remained there some time; at last, on her positive refusal to live at
Bunarus, it was agreed that she should reside at Nassuk, a holy place,
about one hundred miles from Bombay. She quitted the Upper Provinces,
marched across the country, and established herself at Nassuk. Having
heard from some of her people of my return to India, and arrival at
Prāg, her Highness did me the honour to write to me, and after the usual
compliments with which a native letter always commences, the Bāiza Bā’ī
added, “I received your letter in which you acknowledged the receipt of
mine; but I have not since heard from you, and therefore beg you will
write and tell me how you and the sāhib are; do not be so long again
without writing, because it makes me anxious.”
I sent in answer a letter of thanks to her Highness for her kindness in
having borne me in remembrance; it was written by a mūnshī in the Persian
character, and enclosed in a kharīta. At the same time I sent a bunch of
the most beautiful artificial flowers to the Gaja Raja, to testify my
respect; it would have been incorrect to have sent the flowers to the
Bā’ī. They were Parisian, and remarkably well made; the Gaja Raja, being
fond of flowers, will be pleased. I gave the letter and bouquet to one of
her attendants, Bulwunt Rāo, who promised to send them across the country
to Nassuk. The title of _Gaja_, _i.e._ elephant, is curiously applied to
the young Princess, her form being fragile, delicate, and fairy-like.
In 1848 I received a letter from a friend at Gwalior, mentioning that
the Chimna Raja, the daughter of the Gaja Raja Sāhib, who was born at
Allahabad, and who was then about eight years of age, had been betrothed
by her great grandmother, the Bāiza Bā’ī, to Jhankī Rāo, the Maharaj of
Gwalior; after which ceremony the young bride returned to Oojein with
the ex-Queen. This intelligence pleased me greatly, because the marriage
of the great grand-daughter of Dāolut Rāo Scindia with the reigning
sovereign of the Mahrattas will give great satisfaction to her Highness;
and the wandering Hājī rejoices that her great grand-niece (by courtesy)
will share the throne of her ancestors with the Maharaj of Gwalior.
_5th._—This evening, while cantering at a sharp pace round the Mahratta
Bandh, my horse fell, and my companion thus described the accident in a
letter to his brother. “Kābul came down upon his nose and knees; nineteen
women out of twenty would have been spilt. The Mem Sāhiba sat her horse
splendidly, and pulled him up like a flash of lightning. The infernal
brute must have put his foot in a hole. The evening passed hearing music,
and talking philosophy.”
_9th._—I was invited to spend the day at Sultan Khusrū’s garden, to
which place a tent had been sent, which was pitched under the fine
tamarind trees in a most picturesque place. The garden is a large space
of ground, enclosed by a high wall, containing tombs and some very fine
trees: the entrance is through a lofty gateway. There are three tombs,
and a _Baithak-khāna_ or pavilion. The first and largest monument is
that of Sultan Khusrū, in which he is buried; it is a handsome building,
and within it is deposited a beautifully illuminated kurān, which the
dārogha showed us with great pride. Sultan Khusrū married a daughter of
the Wuzeer Azim Khan; he was the son of Jahāngīr, and his mother was the
daughter of the Rajpūt Prince Bagwandas of Amber. The next monument is
that of the Jodh Bā’ī, but in honour of which lady of that name I know
not. Akbar married a Jodh Bā’ī, the daughter of Oodi Singh, of Jodpoor;
she was the mother of Jahāngīr, and was buried on the _Chand-maree_,
near Fathīpūr Sicri. Jahāngīr married a Jodh Bā’ī, the daughter of Rae
Singh, of Bickaner; she was the mother of Shāhjahān, and her tomb is at
Secundra. I forget to whose memory the tomb in Sultan Khusrū’s _bāghīcha_
(_garden_) was erected.
There is also a third mausoleum, which is not so handsome as the two
before mentioned; and the fourth building is a pavilion, in which
visitors are allowed to live for a short time during a visit to the
garden. Around the tombs are some of the largest tamarind trees I ever
beheld: the _imlī_, as the natives call the tamarind tree, is one of
the finest and most beautiful in the world; and they are generally
found around or sheltering the tombs of revered or sacred characters.
The sherbet prepared from the fruit is excellent; the leaves and fruit
are used medicinally. The natives are impressed with a notion that it
is dangerous to sleep under the tamarind tree, especially during the
night; grass or vegetation of any kind is seldom seen growing in such
situations, and never with luxuriance. In times of scarcity the seeds are
eaten by the poor; they resemble a common field bean.
Part of Sultan Khusrū’s garden has been cultivated English fashion,
that is, for vegetables; seeds are given to the _mālīs_, (gardeners),
and rewards for the first, second, third, and fourth best _dālī_—that
is, basket of vegetables: this is good; the highest prize is fifty
rupees, which will be to natives worth the contest. The mālī in charge,
kneeling on one knee, presented me with a bouquet of flowers; it was
not ungracefully done,—nevertheless, it was bad taste to teach a man an
European style of reverence, which in gracefulness is far inferior to the
salām of the native.
The sarā’e (caravansary), with its gateways, and the handsome one through
which you pass to the garden, are well worth visiting; on the doors of
the latter a number of horse-shoes are nailed for good luck, and the
variety in shape and size is so great it is absolutely curious.
Just beyond the gates of the sarā’e is a _bāolī_, a magnificent well,
with underground apartments; it is a most remarkable and curious
place, and the well is a noble one. The top of the bāolī is level with
the ground, from which place water can be drawn up, as also from the
underground apartments, which open on the well. You descend by a long
broad flight of stone steps to the water’s edge, where there is an arch,
ornamented with two large fish, the arms of Oude. Half way down is a
pathway of stone that juts out from the wall, and communicates with the
third apartment, from which you ascend by small circular staircases to
the top. A nervous person might object to the walk along the pathway, it
being very narrow, and having no defence—no parapet on the inner side.
Parties of natives resort here during the hot winds, and spend the hours
in the coolness of the bāolī.
_March 15th._—Hired a large bungalow of a very respectable native for
eighty rupees a month, garden included, and removed into it.
_20th._—My husband received permission from Government to visit England
on furlough. A friend quitted us for the up-country in a palanquin placed
on a truck, and drawn by a tattoo (a pony), with relays on the road. In
former times a palanquin was always carried by bearers,—by the present
method a dāk trip is performed much more quickly than it was formerly by
relays of natives.
_26th._—The other day a native was brought before Mr. R. M⸺, the
magistrate of Allahabad, charged with the murder of his wife and
daughter. The man confessed to having cut their heads off with his sword;
he said he had reason to believe his wife unfaithful, therefore he killed
her; and as he supposed the magistrate would _murder_ him for the act,
and, as in that case, his young daughter would have no one to marry her,
and would be obliged to beg her bread, he killed her also. “But,” said
he to Mr. M⸺, “beware how you _murder_ me for having killed my wife. If
the women find their husbands are hung for killing them should they be
unfaithful, what man will be safe?” I know not the name of the frail
fair one who fell a sacrifice to jealousy; doubtless it was soft and
pleasing, for although her husband did not attend to the words of the
Hindū sage, who says, “Strike not even with a blossom a wife guilty of
a hundred faults!” still, in all probability, her parents bestowed an
harmonious name upon her, in obedience to the directions of Menu, who
suggests that “the names of women should be agreeable, soft, clear,
captivating the fancy, auspicious, ending in long vowels, resembling
words of benediction.” He also says, “Let _mutual fidelity_ continue to
death: this, in few words, may be considered as the supreme law between
husband and wife.” The conjugal duties of the Rajpūts are comprehended in
that single text.
_30th._—When I was formerly at Allahabad the Bāiza Bā’ī was anxious to
have leave from Government to erect a most remarkable pillar of stone,
that was prostrate in the Fort, near the gateway. This lāt, as before
mentioned, is covered with inscriptions in unknown characters, that
puzzle the learned. The design of her Highness was not carried into
execution, and the lāt was afterwards erected in the Fort at the expense
of the Asiatic Society, by Colonel Edward Smith, C.B. We drove to see it
in the evening, admired it very much, and thought it erected with great
judgment: it is highly ornamental to the Fort. Whilst we were examining
the pillar, the buggy horse took fright, became very violent, upset five
of the small stone pillars that support the chains that surround the lāt,
and broke his harness in divers places. The scene was good.
_April 1st._—I fell by accident on the stones in the verandah with
considerable force, and fainted away; the blow which I received on my
left shoulder was severe; painful and useless my arm hangs by my side,—I
have no power to move a finger.
The oriental proverb, that “A sharp sword will not cut raw silk[54],”
does not apply to silk when manufactured; as I this morning saw a
gentleman place a silk handkerchief upon his sword, and, with one skilful
drawing cut, divide it exactly and diagonally.
_27th._—Divine service was performed in the new church, that has been
erected at Allahabad at the expense of the inhabitants; it formerly took
place in the Circuit Bungalow, or in the Fort. The church is a very
handsome one, and the internal arrangements are good.
_29th._—About 3 P.M. a tufān came on,—rain in torrents, with heavy
hail,—dust in whirlwinds; in the course of a quarter of an hour the
thermometer fell ten degrees, from 88° to 78°. It was fine to witness
such a commotion. The roof of our house was under repair,—streams of
water came pouring into every room from all parts of the roof, until the
house was full of it; much damage was done to the pictures; and we were
obliged to quit the place, and take refuge at the house of a friend.
_May 11th._—The ice-pits opened, the allowance to each subscriber eight
seer per diem,—about sixteen pounds’ weight daily. The thermometer is
89°. There being no wind, the tattīs are useless, and in spite of the
thermantidote the heat is overpowering; we begin to long for the fresh
breezes of England; I shall rejoice when we are on board a good vessel
and out at sea again.
_21st._—About half-past 9 P.M. the moon was almost completely eclipsed,
and the night was so dark I could not see the way as I was driving home.
The natives were making offerings of rice, fruit, vegetables, &c., to
restore the light quickly, and to ward off impending calamities.
_22nd._—A tufān or a storm of dust blew furiously at night, succeeded
the next morning by heavy rain, thunder, and lightning; the day after
it was oppressively hot,—another storm cleared the atmosphere, and the
thermantidote became quite delicious, it poured in such a volume of cold
air.
_31st._—Went to the Bandh in the evening, but soon returned; the air was
so hot, it was like breathing liquid fire.
_June 1st._—The heat in church was so oppressive, I will not venture
there again; pankhas and thermantidotes are in full play during the time
of Divine service,—but even with their aid in cooling the air, the heat
is intolerable.
_26th._—The rains appear to have set in, accompanied with thunder and
lightning. The darkness was so great to-day at 4 P.M. that we were
obliged to dine by lamp-light; the evening is dull and heavy, the rain is
falling in torrents, and the darkness is relieved at intervals by forked
lightning; the thunder is distant.
_30th._—Very hot during the day, and very oppressive; this damp heat
is worse for the health than the dry heat of the hot winds. Heard with
regret of the death of Mr. James Gardner, at Khāsgunge.
_July 8th._—Engaged a fourteen-oared pinnace, a woolāk of 900 mŭns, a
pataila of 600, and a small cook-boat, to take us down to Calcutta.
_20th._—We quitted dear old Prāg at 6 A.M. under heavy rain and a
contrary wind. I bade adieu to a place in which I had spent so many happy
days with much sorrow, and without any prospect of ever revisiting the
spot.
_22nd._—Anchored at Rāj ghāt, Benares: the ghāts have lost much of their
picturesque beauty from the height of the river, the water having covered
the steps. The Hindū temples that have partially fallen merely show their
spiral domes above the waters; and the Ganges is as full of mud as a
river may well be; the water is quite thick, of a muddy colour, and a
small quantity in a tumbler gives a most marvellous sediment.
_24th._—A heavy wind against us; the waves were so high on the Ganga,
and the boats rolled so violently, that the natives on deck were quite
overcome by sea-sickness, and I was also suffering from _mal de mer_.
_31st._—Picked up a large heavy chest afloat from some wreck. It
contained fifty boxes of G. Davis’ Chinsurah cheroots, and was marked Jan
Mahomed Shah, in the Persian character: the cheroots were all destroyed
from having been in the water. Soon afterwards we picked up another chest
of the same size and description, with the bottom stove in; also a box
of cigars that was floating by the side of it, evidently from the same
wreck. Lugāoed off the bāstī of Tipperiah, in the midst of an expanse
of water. About 8 P.M. the strong easterly wind, which had been blowing
all day, veered and sunk; a deep silence fell around—the whole canopy of
heaven was covered with a pall of black clouds: there was not a gleam
of light excepting on the horizon in one part, where there was one low
gleam of whitish pale light, in form like a bow. The muddy colour of
the interminable river assumed an inky blackness, and united with the
horizon all around: a few minutes afterwards the light on the horizon
disappeared, and all was intense darkness,—a rushing sound then arose,
and the rain fell in torrents, the drops were of great size, it more
resembled the fall of sheets of water; soon afterwards the lightning
blazed over the river, and some peals of thunder like the roar of cannon
and the sharp discharge of fire-arms, added to the stormy scene. During
this time the wind rose, and suddenly changed to the opposite quarter
of the heavens. I made the dandīs look well to their moorings, as we
were fastened on a wet field, covered by the river, so that there was
a fear the bamboos would be torn out of the wet earth by the force of
the wind acting on the vessel, and that she would be carried down the
fierce stream; however, she stood it well, being in rather slack water,
therefore I went to bed and slept quietly through the gale, after I had
sufficiently enjoyed the first part of it.
_August 1st._—The rock of Dolepaharry, with its temple and beautiful
trees standing far distant inland and of very great height, was
a beautiful object—it is near Janghīra—the latter rock sank into
insignificance and appeared very low, in consequence of the height to
which the Ganges had risen. The whole country is overflowed—the river
appears like one vast sea with a number of fine trees in it—their trunks
rising out of the water, and the earth completely hidden.
Passed Sultangunge and anchored on a wet bank, just on the entrance of
that branch of the river that leads to Bhagulpūr. The Hindūs must go
without their dinners to-night; they will not cook on board, and in the
wet swamp they cannot make a fire: this is a wretched anchorage, and here
comes the rain in torrents again. Stolen goods cannot be digested, or
never thrive, and so it proved with a boy employed to pull the pankha. He
stole a great quantity of Indian corn; it was not ripe, but of full size;
abounding in milk, sweet, and tempting to eat when raw; but when fried
in butter, with pepper and salt, it is delicious. In spite of the caution
given by an old havildār, to whom the field belonged, the boy ate a great
quantity—his body swelled, he became in great pain, and is now ill with
fever.
_3rd._—Last night the distant roar of the waters as they rushed past
the rocks of Colgong lulled me to sleep. This morning, about 7 A.M., we
came up to the rocks, the stream was rushing past at a fearful rate,
and forming very large and powerful whirlpools. Two large patailas were
on before us; the first was twirled round by the eddy and carried back
against the other; they became entangled, and both were carried back with
great velocity for about three hundred yards. Our pinnace was flying
along aided by the cars on board, and also by the towing of her little
boat; but the powerful eddy turned the vessel straight across the stream,
and there she was stopped, the eddy pulling one way and the men the
other—just at this moment an immense pataila of about two thousand mŭns,
heavily laden with gram, was coming down upon us with full force, borne
on by the violent stream; it was a disagreeable sight, it appeared as
if the shock must sink the pinnace: fortunately a woolāk was between us
and the monster vessel; she came with great force first upon the woolāk,
and drove her against the pinnace in front of herself; the pinnace
reeled with the shock, but it saved us greatly, and the large vessel,
disengaging herself from us, went on shoving our stern right round in
her impetuous course. I ran on deck, having a dislike to be drowned in
a cabin, but escaped with only a fright. The dandīs recommenced their
exertions, and in a short time we were out of the eddies and whirlpools
around the rocks, and in calm water. Colgong is very beautiful, both
during the rains and the cold weather, and this is perhaps the most
beautiful part of the Ganges. At 11 A.M. passed the Terīyāgalī Hills. The
dandīs say there are fine ruins in the jangal on the largest hill, but no
road to them; and they speak of the immense doorways—entrances; I should
like to explore the place.
_8th._—At 1 P.M. passed Nuddea, eighty-two and a half miles from
Calcutta; at this spot the Jellingee unites with the Bhagirathī, and
they flow forward under the name of the Hoogly: the tide is perceptible
at Nuddea, it just comes so far.
_9th._—Anchored at Nyaserai to prepare anchors for the tide, which
detained us one hour and a half. Nyaserai is on the entrance of the old
Damooda river, over which there is a light iron suspension bridge. An
Up-country boy who was pulling the pankha told me it made his blood run
cold to see the people crossing on such a slight bridge; that his father
had never visited Calcutta, nor he himself, but that his grandfather had
made the voyage. He was charmed with some Ooria singers on the bank, and
thought they would make their fortunes if they were to visit Prāg:—what
a budget of wonders the boy will have to unfold on his return to the
Up-country! Moored off the residence of a friend at the powder-works at
Eeshapūr.
_10th._—Arrived in Calcutta—anchored off Prinsep ghāt, from which place
you have a fine view of the river and of the shipping, all the large
vessels lie just off the ghāt. Visited the “Madagascar” and the “Essex”
in the evening.
_19th._—Took our passage to England in the “Essex;” the price of the
larboard stern cabin on the poop was 2500 rupees, for ourselves, an ayha,
and my curiosities.
_28th._—Having settled all our affairs we came on board; fortunately the
ship will not sail until to-morrow—I am killed with fatigue.