PREFACE
I observe that it is customary to begin a book by an Introduction,
Preface, or Foreword. In the good old days of the eighteenth century
this generally took the form of a burst of grovelling adoration aimed
at some most noble or otherwise highly important person. This fulsome
fawning on the great was later changed into propitiation of the British
public, and unknown authors revelled in excuses for publishing their
earlier efforts.
But now that every one has written a book, or is about to do so, I feel
that my apologies are rather due to the public for not having rushed
into print before. I have really spared it because I had nothing in
particular to write about, and I confess I am somewhat doubtful as to
whether I am even now justified in invoking the kind offices of a
publisher with a view to bringing forth this literary mouse in due
form!
No admiring (if partial) relatives have hung upon my lips as I read
them my journal, imploring me with tears in their eyes to waste not an
instant, but give to a longing world this literary treasure. I have no
illusions as regards my literary powers, and I do not imagine that I
shall depose the gifted author of _Eöthen_ from his pride of place.
I claim, however, the merit of truth. The journal was written day by
day, and the sketches were all done on the spot; and if this
account—bald and inadequate as I know it to be—of a very happy time
spent in rambling among some of the finest scenery of this lovely
earth, may induce any one to betake himself to Kashmir, he will achieve
something worth living for, and I shall not have spilt ink in vain.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE JHELUM AT SRINAGAR (Frontispiece)
A SOLUTION OF CONTINUITY
A SRINAGAR BYE-WAY—EARLY SPRING
ON THE JHELUM—EARLY SPRING
THE BUND SRINAGAR—EARLY SPRING
THE DAL
IN THE NISHAT BAGH
THE PIR PANJAL FROM ALSU—MORNING
ON THE DAL—SUNSET
NATIVE BOATS
PANDRETTAN
KOLAHOI
LIDARWAT
THE RAMPARTS OF KASHMIR
GANGABAL
HARAMOK
A TARN ABOVE TRONKOL
ON THE CIRCULAR ROAD, GULMARG
IN SRINAGAR—TWILIGHT
SRINAGAR FLOODED
HARI PARBAT—EVENING
NANGA PARBAT FROM KITARDAJI
MIXED BATHING (UDAIPUR)
UDAIPUR
MAP OF KASHMIR
A HOLIDAY IN THE HAPPY VALLEY
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
A journey to Kashmir now—in these days of cheap and rapid locomotion—is
in nowise serious. It takes time, I grant you, but to any one with a
few months to spare—and there are many in that happy position—there can
be few pleasanter ways of spending a summer holiday.
It would be as well to start from England not later than the middle of
March, as the Red Sea and the Sind Desert begin to warm up
uncomfortably in spring. Srinagar would then be reached fairly early in
April, and the visitor should arrange, if possible, to remain in the
country until the middle of October. We had to leave just as the
gorgeous autumn colouring was beginning to blaze in the woods, and the
first duck were wheeling over the Wular Lake.
The climate of Kashmir is fairly similar to that of many parts of
Southern Europe. There is a good deal of snow in the valley in winter.
Spring is charming, the brilliant days only varied by frequent
thunderstorms—which, however, are almost invariable in keeping their
pyrotechnics till about five in the afternoon. July and August are hot
and steamy in the valley, and it is necessary to seek one of the cool
“Margs” which form ideal camping-grounds on all the lofty mountain
slopes which surround the valley.
Gulmarg is the most frequented and amusing resort in summer of the
English colony and contingent from the broiling plains of the Punjab.
Here the happy fugitive from the sweltering heat of the lower regions
will find a climate as glorious as the scenery. He can enjoy the best
of polo and golf, and, if he be not a misogynist, he will vary the
‘daily round’ with picnics and scrambles on foot or on horseback, in
exploring the endless beauty of the place, coming home to his hut or
tent as the sun sinks behind the great pines that screen the Rampur
Road, to wind up the happy day with a cheery dinner and game of bridge.
But if Gulmarg does not appeal to him, let him go with his camping
outfit to Sonamarg or Pahlgam—he will find neither polo nor golf nor
the gay little society of Gulmarg, but he will find equally charming
scenery and, perhaps, a drier climate—for it must in fairness be
admitted that Gulmarg is a rainy place. Likewise his pocket will
benefit, as his expenses will surely be less, and he will still find
neighbours dotted about in white tents under the pine trees.
Towards the middle of September the exodus from the high ‘Margs’ takes
place—many returning sadly to Pindi and Sealkote—others merely to
Srinagar, while those who yearn after Bara Singh and Bear, decamp
quietly for their selected nullahs, to be in readiness for the opening
of the autumn season.
Thus, from April to October, a more or less perfect climate may be
obtained by watching the mercury in the thermometer, and rising or
descending the mountain slopes in direct ratio with it.
It is quite unnecessary to take out a large and expensive wardrobe.
Thin garments for the Red Sea and Indian Ocean, such as one wears in a
fine English summer, and for Kashmir the same sort of things that one
would take up to Scotland. For men—knickerbockers and flannel
shirts—and for ladies, short tweed skirts and some flannel blouses. The
native tailors in Srinagar are clever and cheap, and will copy an
English shooting suit in fairly good material for about eleven rupees,
or 14s. 8d.! One pair of strong shooting boots (plentifully studded
with aluminium nails) is enough. For all mountain work, the invaluable
but uncomfortable grass shoes must be worn, and both my wife and I
invariably wore the native chaplies for ordinary marching. Foot-gear
for golf, tennis, and general service at Srinagar and Gulmarg must be
laid in, according to the traveller’s fancy, in England.
Underwear to suit both hot and cold weather should be purchased at
home—not on any account omitting cholera belts.
Shirts and collars should be taken freely, as it is well to remember
that the native washerman—the well-abused “Dobie”—has a marvellous
skill in producing a saw-like rim to the starched collar and cuff of
the newest shirt; while the elegant and delicate lace and embroidery,
with which the fair are wont to embellish their underwear, take strange
and unforeseen patterns at the hands of the skilled workmen. It is
surprising what an effect can be obtained by tying up the neck and
sleeves of a garment, inserting a few smooth pebbles from the brook,
and then banging the moist bundle on the bank!
The arrangement of clothing for the voyage is rather complicated, as it
will probably be necessary to wear warm things while crossing Europe,
and possibly even until Egypt is reached. Then an assortment of summer
flannels, sufficient to last as far as India, must be available. We
were unable to get any washing done from the date we left London, on
the 22nd of February, until we reached Rawal Pindi, on the 21st March.
Capacious canvas kit-bags are excellent things for cramming with grist
for the dobie’s mill.
In arranging for luggage, it should be borne in mind that large trunks
and dress boxes are inadmissible. From Pindi to Srinagar everything
must be transported by wheeled conveyance, and, in Kashmir itself, all
luggage must be selected with a view to its adaptability to the backs
of coolies or ponies. In Srinagar one can buy native trunks—or
yakdans—which are cheap, strong, and portable; and the covered creels
or “kiltas” serve admirably for the stowage of kitchen utensils, food,
and oddments.
The following list may prove useful to any one who has not already been
“east of Suez,” and who may therefore not be too proud to profit by
another’s experience:—
1. “Compactum” camp-bed with case, and fitted with sockets to take
mosquito netting.
2. Campaigning bedding-bag in Willesden canvas, with bedding complete.
3. Waterproof sheet.
4. Indiarubber bath.
If shooting in the higher mountains is anticipated, a Wolseley
sleeping-bag should be taken.
5. Small stable-lantern.
6. Rug or plaid—light and warm.
7. Half-a-dozen towels.
8. Deck chair (with name painted on it).
We had also a couple of Roorkhee chairs, and found them most useful.
9. A couple of compressed cane cabin trunks.
9_a_. The “Ranelagh Pack” is a most useful form of “luggage.”
10. Camp kit-bag.
11. Soiled-linen bag, with square mouth, large size. This is an
excellent “general service” bag, and invaluable for holding boots, &c.
12. Large “brief-bag,” most useful for stowing guide-books, flasks,
binoculars, biscuits, and such like, that one wants when travelling,
and never knows where to put. Our “yellow bag” carried even tea things,
and was greatly beloved. Like the leather bottèl in its later stage,
“it served to put hinges and odd things in”!
13. Luncheon basket, fitted according to the number of the party.
The above articles can all be bought at the Army and Navy Stores.
14. A light canvas box, fitted as a dressing-case.
Ours were made, according to our own wishes and possessions, by
Williams, of 41 Bond Street. The innumerable glass bottles, so highly
prized by the makers of dressing-cases, should be strictly limited in
number. They are exceedingly heavy, and, as the dressing-case should be
carried by its owner, the less it weighs the more he (or she) will
esteem it.
15. A set of aluminium cooking-utensils is much to be recommended. They
can easily be sold on leaving Kashmir for, at least, their cost price.
16. Pocket flask. This may be of aluminium also, although personally I
dislike a metal flask.
17. Umbrella—strong, but cheap, as it is sure to be lost or stolen.
There are few things your native loves more than a nice umbrella,
unless it be
18. A knife fitted with corkscrew and screwdriver; therefore take two,
and try to keep one carefully locked up.
19. Pair of good field-glasses.
I took a stalking telescope, but it was useless to my shikari, who
always borrowed my wife’s binoculars until she lost them—or he stole
them!
20. Hats. It is obviously a matter of taste what hats a man should
take. The glossy silk may repose with the frock-coat till its owner
returns to find it hopelessly out of date, its brim being a thought too
curly, or its top impossibly wide; but the “bowler” or Homburg hat will
serve his turn according to his fancy, until, at Aden, he invests in a
hideous, but shady “topee,” for one-third of the price he would pay in
London; and this will be his only wear, before sunset, until he again
reaches a temperate climate. Ladies, who are rightly more particular as
to the appearance of even so unlovely a thing as a sola topee, would do
well, perhaps, to buy theirs before starting. Really becoming pith
helmets seem very scarce in the East!
After sunset, or under awnings, any sort of cap may be worn.
21. Shirts and collars are obviously matters of taste. A good supply of
white shirts and collars must be taken to cope with the destruction and
loss which may be expected at the hands of the dobie. Flannel shirts
can be made easily enough from English models in Srinagar.
22. Under-garments should be of Indian gauze for hot weather, with a
supply of thicker articles for camping in the hills.
Cholera belts should on no account be omitted.
23. Socks, according to taste—very few knickerbocker stockings need be
taken, as putties are cheap and usual in Srinagar.
24. Ties—the white ones of the cheap sort that can be thrown away after
use, with a light heart. Handkerchiefs, and a few pairs of white
gloves.
25. Sleeping-suits, both thick for camp work and light for hot weather,
should be taken.
26. Dress suit and dinner-jacket.
27. Knickerbocker or knee-breeches, which can be copied in Kashmir by
the native tailor.
Riding-breeches are not in the least necessary unless the traveller
contemplates any special riding expedition. Ordinary shooting
continuations do quite well for all the mounted work the tourist is
likely to do. A pair of stohwasser gaiters may be taken, but even they
are not necessary, neither is a saddle.
A lady, however, should take out a short riding-skirt, or habit, and a
side-saddle.
28. A tweed suit of medium warmth for travelling, and a couple of
flannel suits, will bring the wearer to Srinagar, where he can increase
his stock at a ridiculously low price—about 22 rupees or £1, 9s. 4d.
per suit.
29. Boots. Here, again, the wayfarer is at full liberty to please
himself. A pair of strong shooting-boots, with plenty of spare laces
and, say, a hundred aluminium nails, is a _sine quâ non_. A pair of
rubbers, or what are known as “gouties” in Swiss winter circles, are
not to be despised. Otherwise, boots, shoes, slippers, and pumps,
according to taste.
30. A large “regulation” waterproof, a rain-coat or Burberry, and a
warm greatcoat will all be required.
It is hard to give definite advice to a lady as to the details of her
outfit. Let her conform in a general way to the instructions given
above, always remembering that both Srinagar and Gulmarg are gay and
festive places, where she will dine and dance, and have ample
opportunity for displaying a well-chosen wardrobe.
Let her also take heed that she leaves the family diamonds at home. The
gentle Kashmiri is an inveterate and skilful thief, and the less
jewellery she can make up her mind to “do with,” the more at ease will
her mind be. But if she must needs copy the lady of whom we read, that
“Rich and rare were the gems she wore,”
then why not line the jewel-case—or rather the secret bag, which she
will sew into some mysterious garment—with the diamonds of Gophir and
the pearls of Rome?
If the intending visitor to Kashmir be a sportsman who has already had
experience in big-game shooting, he will not need any advice from me
(which, indeed, he would utterly disdain) as to the lethal weapons
which should form his battery; but if the wayfarer be a humble
performer who has never slain anything more formidable than a wary old
stag, or more nerve-shattering than a meteoric cock pheasant rising
clamorously from behind a turnip, he may not be too proud to learn that
he will find an ordinary “fowling piece” the most useful weapon which
he can take with him. If his gun is not choked, he should be provided
with a dozen or more ball cartridge for bear.
If the pursuit of markhor and ibex is contemplated, a small-bore rifle
will be required, but a heavy express is wanted to stop a bear. I had a
“Mannlicher” and an ordinary shot-gun, with a few ball cartridges for
the latter.
Duty has to be paid on taking firearms into India, and this may be
refunded on leaving the country. This is not always done, however, as I
found to my cost, my application for a refund being refused on the
quibble that my guns were taken back to England by a friend, although I
was able to prove their identity.
cartridges out, as it is exceedingly unlikely that the tyro will be
able to shoot all the beasts allowed him by his game licence.[1]
Smooth-bore cartridges of fair quality can be bought in Srinagar, and
I certainly do not consider it worth the trouble and expense to convey
them out from England.
[1] See Appendix 1.
To the amateur artist I would say: Be well supplied with brushes and
paper—the latter sealed in tin for passage through the Red Sea and
India. Colours, and indeed all materials can he got from Treacher &
Co., Bombay, and also from the branch of the Army and Navy Stores
there.
Paper is, however, difficult to get in good condition, being frequently
spoilt by mildew.
It is almost impossible to get anything satisfactory in the way of
painting materials in Kashmir itself; therefore I say: Be well supplied
before leaving home.
Finally, a small stock of medicines should certainly be taken, not
omitting a copious supply of quinine (best in powder form for this
purpose), and also of strong peppermint or something of the sort, to
give to the native servants and others who are always falling sick of a
fever or complaining of an internal pain, which is generally quite
cured by a dose of peppermint.
Neither Jane nor I love guide-books; we found however, in Kashmir, the
little book written by Dr. Neve an invaluable companion;[2] while
Murray’s _Guide to India_ afforded much useful information when
wandering in that country.
[2] _The Tourist’s Guide to Kashmir, Ladakh, Skardo, &c._, edited by
Arthur Neve, F.R.G.S.
The best book on Kashmir that I know is Sir Walter Lawrence’s _Valley
of Kashmir_.
Any one going out as we did, absolutely ignorant of the language,
should certainly take an elementary phrase-book or something of the
sort to study on the voyage. We forgot to do this, and had infinite
trouble afterwards in getting what we wanted, and lost much time in
acquiring the rudimentary knowledge of Hindustani which enabled us to
worry along with our native servants, &c. No mere “globe-trotter” need
attempt to learn any Kashmiri, as Hindustani is “understanded of the
people” as a rule, and the tradesmen in Srinagar know quite as much
English as is good for them.
CHAPTER II
THE VOYAGE OUT
It seems extraordinary to me that every day throughout the winter,
crowds of people should throng the railway stations whence they can
hurry south in search of warmth and sunshine, and yet London remains
apparently as full as ever! We plunged into a seething mass of
outward-bound humanity at Victoria Station on the 22nd of February,
and, having wrestled our way into the Continental express, were whirled
across the sad and sodden country to Dover amidst hundreds of our
shivering fellow-countrymen.
Truly we are beyond measure conservative in our railway discomforts.
With a bitter easterly wind searching out the chinks of door and
window, we sat shivering in our unwarmed compartment—unwarmed, I say,
in spite of the clumsy tin of quickly-cooled hot water procured by
favour—and a gratuity—from a porter!
The Channel showed even more disagreeable than usual. A grey, cold sky,
with swift-flying clouds from the east hung over a grey, cold sea, the
waves showing their wicked white teeth under the lash of the strong
wind. The patient lightship off the pier was swinging drearily as we
throbbed past into the gust-swept open and set our bows for the unseen
coast of France.
The tumult of passengers was speedily reduced to a limp and inert swarm
of cold, wet, and sea-sick humanity.
The cold and miserable weather clung to us long. In Paris it snowed
heavily, and I was constrained to betake myself in a cab—“chauffé,” it
is needless to remark—to seek out a kindly dentist, the bitter east
wind having sought out and found a weak spot wherein to implant an
abscess.
At Bâle it was freezing, but clear and bright, and a good breakfast and
a breath of clean, fresh air was truly enjoyable after the overheated
sleeping-car in which we had come from Paris.
It may seem unreasonable to grumble at the overheating of the “Sleeper”
after abusing the under-heating of our British railways. Surely,
though, there is a golden mean? I wish neither to be frozen nor boiled,
and there can be no doubt but that the heating of most Continental
trains is excellent, the power of application being left to the
traveller.
The journey by the St. Gotthard was delightful, the day brilliant, and
the frost keen, while we watched the fleeting panorama of icebound
peaks and snow-powdered pines from the cushions of our comfortable
carriage.
The glory of winter left us as we left the Swiss mountains and dropped
down into the fertile flats of Northern Italy, and at Milan all was raw
chilliness and mud.
Nothing can well be more depressing than wet and cheerless weather in a
land obviously intended for sunshine.
We slept at Milan, and the next day set forth in heavy rain towards
Venice. The miserable ranks of distorted and pollarded trees stood
sadly in pools of yellow-stained water, or stuck out of heaps of
half-melted and uncleanly snow.
No colour; no life anywhere, excepting an occasional peasant plodding
along a muddy road, sheltering himself under the characteristic flat
and bony umbrella of the country.
At Peschiera we had promise of better things. The weather cleared
somewhat, revealing ranges of white-clad hills around Garda…. But,
alas! at Verona it rained as hard as ever, and we made our way from the
railway station at Venice, cowering in the coffin-like cabin of a damp
and extremely draughty gondola, while cold flurries of an Alpine-born
wind swept across the Grand Canal.
Sunshine is absolutely necessary to bring out the real beauty of Italy.
This is particularly the case in Venice, where light and life are
required to dispel the feeling of sadness so sure to creep over one
amid the signs of long-past grandeur and decaying magnificence.
On a grey and wintry day one is chiefly impressed by the dank
chilliness of the palaces on the Grand Canal, whose feet lie lapped in
slimy water; the lovely tracery of whose windows shows ragged and
broken, whose stately guest-chambers are in the sordid occupation of
the dealer in false antiques, and whose motto might be “Ichabod,” for
their glory has departed.
It is five-and-twenty years since I was last in Venice, and I can truly
say that it has not improved in that long time. The loss of the great
Campanile of St. Mark is not compensated for by the gain of the penny
steamer which frets and fusses its prosaic way along the Grand Canal,
or blurts its noisome smoke in the very face of the Palace of the
Doges.
Well! A steady downpour is dispiriting at any time, excepting when one
is snugly at home with plenty to do, and it is particularly so to the
unlucky traveller who has to live through half-a-dozen long hours
intervening between arrival at and departure from Venice on a cold,
dull, wintry afternoon.
The sombre gondola writhed its sinuous course and deposited us all
forlorn in the near neighbourhood of the Piazza San Marco. Splashing
our way across, and pushing through the crowd of greedy fat pigeons, we
entered the world-famous church. I know my Ruskin, and I feel that I
should be lost in wonder and admiration—I am not.
The gloom—rich golden gloom if you will—of the interior oppresses me;
it is cavernous. A service is being held in one of the transepts, and
the congregation seems noisier and less devout than I could have
believed possible. My thoughts fly far to where, on its solitary hill,
the noble pile of Chartres soars majestic, its heaven-piercing spires
dominating the wide plain of La Beauce. In fancy I enter by the
splendid north door and find myself in the pillared dimness softly
lighted by the great window in the west. This seems to me to be the
greatest achievement of the Christian architect, noble alike in
conception and in execution.
There is no means of procuring a cold more certain than lingering too
long in a cold and vault-like church or picture gallery, so we
adjourned to the Palazzo Daniele, now a mere hotel, where we browsed on
the literature—chiefly cosmopolitan newspapers—until it was time to
start for Trieste.
The journey is not an attractive one, as we seemed to be perpetually
worried by Custom-house authorities and inquisitive ticket-collectors!
If possible, the wary traveller should so time his sojourn at Venice as
to allow him to go to Trieste by steamer. The Hôtel de la Ville at
Trieste is not quite excellent, but ’twill serve, and we were
remarkably glad to reach it, somewhere about midnight, having left
Milan soon after seven in the morning!
Trieste itself is rather an engaging town; at least so it seemed to us
when we awakened to a fresh, bright morning, a blue-and-white sky
overhead, and a copious allowance of yellow mud under foot!
There were various final purchases to be made. Our deck chairs were
with the heavy luggage, which the passenger by Austrian Lloyd only gets
at Port Saïd, as it is sent from London by sea; so a deck chair had to
be got, also a stock of light literature wherewith to beguile the long
sea hours.
A visit to our ship—the _Marie Valerie_—showed her to be a
comfortable-looking vessel of some 4500 tons. She was busily engaged in
taking in a large cargo, principally for Japan, and she showed no signs
of an early departure. Her nominal hour for starting was 4 P.M., but
the captain told us that he should not sail until next morning. So we
descended to examine our cabin, and found it to be large and airy, but
totally deficient in the matter of drawers or lockers.
Well! we shall have to keep everything in cabin trunks, and “live in
our boxes” for the next three weeks.
There was cabin accommodation for twenty passengers, but at dinner we
mustered but nine. This is, of course, the season when all right-minded
folks are coming home from India, and we never expected to find a
crowd; still, nine individuals scattered abroad over the wide decks
make but a poor show.
The first meal on board a big steamer is always interesting. Every one
is quietly “taking stock” of his, or her, neighbours, and forming
estimates of their social value, which are generally entirely upset by
after experience.
Of our fellow-passengers there were only five whose presence affected
us in any way. A young Austrian, Herr Otto Frantz, with his wife, going
out as first secretary of legation to Tokio; Major Twining, R.E., and
his wife; and Miss Lungley, a cosmopolitan lady, who makes Kashmir her
headquarters and Rome her _annexe_.
We became acquainted with each other sooner than might have been
expected, by reason of an exploit of the stewardess—a gibbering idiot.
The night was cold, so several of the ladies, following an evil custom,
sent forth from their cabins those vile inventions called hot bottles.
Only two came back…, and then the fun began. The stewardess, who speaks
no known tongue, played “hunt the slipper” for the missing bottles
through all the cabins, whence she was shot out by the enraged
inhabitants until she was reduced to absolute imbecility, and the
harassed stewards to gesticular despair.
The missing articles were, I believe, finally discovered and routed out
of an unoccupied bed, where they had been laid and forgotten by the
addle-pated lady, and peace reigned.
We sailed from Trieste early on the morning of the 28th of February,
and steamed leisurely on our way. The Austrian Lloyd’s “unaccelerated”
steamers are not too active in their movements, being wont to travel at
purely “economical speed,” and so we were given an excellent view of
some of the Ionian Islands, steaming through the Ithaca channel, with
the snow-tipped peak of Cephalonia close on our starboard hand.
Then, leaving the far white hills of the Albanian coast to fade into
the blue mists, we sped
“Over the sea past Crete,”
until the tall lighthouse of Port Saïd rose on the horizon, followed by
the spars of much shipping, and the roofs of the houses dotted
apparently over the waters of the Mediterranean. At length the low
mudbanks which represent the two continents of Africa and Asia spread
their dull monotony on either hand, and the good ship sat quietly down
for a happy day’s coaling.
Port Saïd has grown out of all knowledge since I first made its
acquaintance in 1877. It was then a cluster of evil-looking shanties,
the abode of the scum of the Levant, who waxed fat by the profits of
the gambling hells and the sale of pornographic photographs. It has now
donned the outwardly respectable look of middle age; it has laid itself
out in streets; the gambling dens have disappeared, and the robbers
have betaken themselves to the sale of the worst class of Japanese and
Indian “curios,” ostrich feathers from East Africa, and tobacco in all
its forms.
Port Saïd has undoubtedly improved, but still it is not a nice place,
and we were unfeignedly glad to repair on board the _Marie Valerie_ as
soon as we noted the cessation of the black coaly cloud, through the
murkiness of which a chattering stream of gnome-like figures passed
their burthens of “Cardiff” into the bowels of the ship.
Port Saïd was cold, and Suez was cold, and we started down the Red Sea
followed by a strong north wind, which kept us clad in greatcoats for a
day or two, and, as we got down into wider waters, obliged us to keep
our ports closed.
An object-lesson on the subject of closed ports was given in our cabin,
where the fair chatelaine was reclining in her berth reading, fanned by
the genial air which floated in at the open port,—a truculent Red Sea
billow, meeting a slight roll of the ship, entered the cabin in an
unbroken fall on the lady’s head. A damp tigress flew out through the
door, wildly demanding the steward, a set of dry bedding, and the
instant execution of the captain, the officer of the watch, and the man
at the wheel!
How dull we should be without these little incidents!
A hoopoe took deck, or rather rigging, passage for a while, and evoked
the greatest interest. Stalking glasses and binoculars were levelled at
the unconcerned fowl, who sat by the “cathead” with perfect composure,
and preened himself after his long flight.
The striking of “four bells” just under his beak unnerved him somewhat,
and he departed in a great fuss and pother.
Our roomy decks afford many quiet corners in which to read or doze, and
now that the weather is rapidly warming up we spend many hours in these
peaceful pastimes, varied by an occasional constitutional—none of your
fisherman’s walks, “three steps and overboard”—but a good, clear tramp,
unimpeded by the innumerable deck-chairs, protruding feet, and
ubiquitous children which cover all free space on board a P. & O.
Then comes dinner, followed by a rubber of bridge, and so to bed.
On Saturday the 11th we passed the group of islands commonly known as
the Twelve Apostles.
First, a tiny rock, rising lonely from the blue—brilliantly blue—waves;
then a yellow crag of sandstone, looking like a haystack; and then a
whole group of wild and fantastic islands, evidently of volcanic
origin, and varying in rough peaks and abrupt cliffs of the strangest
colours—brick-red, purple-black, grey, and yellow—utterly bare and
desolate:
“Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower,
Nor aught of vegetative power,
The weary eye may ken,”
save only the white lighthouse, which, perched on its arid hill, serves
to emphasise the desolation of earth and sky.
The Red Sea is remarkably well supplied with lighthouses; and,
considering the narrowness of the channel in parts, the strong and
variable currents, and the innumerable islands and shoals, the supply
does no more than equal the demand.
I cannot imagine a more grievous death in life than the existence of a
lighthouse-keeper in the Red Sea!
_Sunday, 12th_.—We passed through the Gate of Tears this morning—the
dismal, flat, and unprofitable island of Perim being scanned by me from
the bathroom port, while exchanging an atmosphere of sticky salt air
for an unrefreshing dip in sticky salt water.
The hoopoe is again with us; in fact I do not think he really left the
ship, but simply sought a secluded perch, secure from prying
observation. He reappeared upon the port stay, and proceeded to preen
himself and observe the ship’s course. He is evidently bound for Aden,
casting glances of quiet unconcern on Perim and the coast of Araby the
blest.
Towards sunset we passed the fantastic peaks of little Aden, and,
drawing up to Steamer Point, cast anchor under the “Barren Rocks of
Aden.”
_Monday, 13th_.—We had a shocking time last night. All ports closed for
coaling left us gasping, whilst a fiendish din arose from the bowels of
the ship, whence cargo was being extracted. The stifling air, reeking
with damp, developed in the early morning a steady rain, which dripped
mournfully on the grimy decks. Rain in Aden! We are told on the best
authority that this is most unusual.
Aden, to the passing stranger, shows few attractions. We went on shore
when the rain showed signs of ceasing, and after buying a few odds and
ends, such as a pith hat and some cigarettes, we betook ourselves to
the principal hotel, where an excessively bad breakfast was served to
us, after which we were not sorry to shake the mud of Aden off our
feet, so we chartered a shore boat amid a fearful clamour for extra pay
and backshish, and set forth to rejoin our ship, now swept and
garnished, and showing little trace of the coal she had swallowed.
_Monday, 20th_.—We reached Karachi yesterday morning after a quiet,
calm, and utterly uneventful passage across the Indian Ocean.
It was never hot—merely calm, grey, and even showery, our only
excitements being an occasional school of porpoises or the sight of a
passing tramp steamer.
Some time before leaving England I had written to my old friend General
Woon, commanding the troops at Abbotabad, asking him to provide me with
a servant capable of dry-nursing a pair of Babes in the Wood throughout
their sojourn in a strange land. The General promised to supply us with
such an one, who, he said, would rob us to a certain extent himself,
but would take good care that nobody else did so!
Immediately, then, upon our arrival in Karachi roads, a dark and
swarthy person, with a black beard and gleaming white teeth, appeared
on board, and reported himself as Sabz Ali, our servant and our master!
His knowledge of English “as she is spoke” was scanty and of strange
quality, but his masterful methods of dealing with the boatmen and
Custom-house subordinates inspired us with awe and a blind confidence
that he could—and would—pull us through.
There was no difficulty at the Custom-house until it transpired that I
wanted to take three firearms into the country. This appeared to be a
most unusual and reprehensible desire, and my statement that one weapon
was a rifle which I was taking charge of for a friend did not improve
the situation. It being Sunday, the principal authorities were sunning
themselves in their back parlours, and the thing in charge (called a
Baboo, I understand) became exceedingly fussy, and desired that the
guns should be unpacked and exhibited lest they should be of service
pattern. This was simple, as far as my battery was concerned, and I
promptly laid bare the beauties of my Mannlicher and ancient 12-bore;
but, alas! Mrs. Smithson’s rifle was soldered like a sardine into a
strong tin case, and no cold-chisel or screwdriver was forthcoming.
Messengers were sent forth to seek the needful instruments, while I
proceeded to cut another Gordian knot…. An acquaintance of mine,
hearing that I was coming to India, suggested that I should take charge
of a parcel for a friend of hers, who wanted to send it to her fiancé
in Bombay. As all the heavy baggage was sent from London to join us at
Port Saïd, I had not seen the “parcel,” and, finding no case or box
addressed to any one but myself, I had to select one that seemed most
likely to be right, and forward that.
At last the needful appliances were got and the rifle unpacked; but,
although it proved to be (as I had said) a large-bore Express, the
Baboo refused, like a very Pharaoh, to let it go, and I, after a
two-hour vexatious delay, paid the duty on my own guns, and, leaving a
note for the chief Customs official, explaining the case and begging
him to send the rifle on forthwith, packed myself—hot, hungry, and
angry—into a “gharri,” and set forth to the Devon Place Hotel, whither
the rest of the party had preceded me.
I have gone into this little episode somewhat at length in order to
impress upon the voyager to India the necessity for limiting the number
of firearms or getting a friend to father the extra ones through the
Customs—a perfectly simple matter had one foreseen the difficulty. Also
the danger of taking parcels for friends—of which more anon![1]
[1] A big deal case which we unpacked at Srinagar proved to contain a
“life-sized” work-table. The package holding our camp beds and bedding,
having a humbler aspect, had been sent to Bombay and cost as a world of
worry and expense to recover!
The Devon Place Hotel may be the best in Karachi, but it is pretty
bad…. I am told that all Indian hotels are bad—still, the breakfast was
a considerable improvement on the _Marie Valerie_, and we sallied forth
as giants refreshed to have a look at Karachi and do a little shopping.
It being Sunday, the banks were closed, but a kindly shopman cashed me
a cheque for twenty pounds in the most confiding manner, and enabled us
to get the few odds and ends we wanted before going up country—among
them a couple of “resais” or quilted cotton wraps and a sola topee for
Jane.
Karachi did not strike us as being a particularly interesting town, but
that may be to a great extent because we did not see the best part of
it. On landing at Kiamari we had only driven along a hot and glaring
mole, bordered by swamps and slimy-looking flats for some two miles.
Then, on reaching the city proper, a dusty road, bordered by somewhat
suburban-looking houses, brought us to the Devon Place Hotel, near the
Frere station. After breakfast we merely drove into the bazaars to shop
before betaking ourselves to the station, in good time for the 6.30
train.
Passengers—at least first-class passengers—were not numerous, and Major
Twining and I had no difficulty in securing two compartments—one for
our wives and one for ourselves.
An Indian first-class carriage is roomy, but bare, being arranged with
a view to heat rather than cold Two long seats run “fore and aft” on
either side, and upon them your servant makes your bed at night. Two
upper berths can be let down in case of a crowd. At the end of each
compartment is a small toilet-room.
It was unexpectedly chilly at night, and Twining and I were glad to
roll ourselves up in as many rugs and “resais” as we could persuade the
ladies to leave to us.
CHAPTER III
KARACHI TO ABBOTABAD
This morning we awoke to find ourselves rattling and shaking our way
through the Sind Desert—an interminable waste of sand, barren and
thirsty-looking, covered with a patchy scrub of yellowish and
grey-purple bushes.
I can well imagine how hatefully hot it can be here, but to-day it has
been merely pleasantly warm.
Jane and I were deeply interested in the novel scenes we passed
through, which, while new and strange to us, were yet made familiar by
what we had read and heard. The quiet-eyed cattle, with their queer
humps, were just what we expected to see in the dusty landscape. The
chattering crowds in the wayside stations, their bright-coloured
garments flaunting in the white sunlight—the fruit-sellers, the
water-carriers, were all as though they had stepped out of the pages of
_Kim_—that most excellent of Indian stories.
And so all day we rattled and shook through the Sind Desert in the hot
sunlight till the dust lay thick upon us, and our eyes grew tired of
watching the flying landscape.
In the afternoon we reached Samasata junction, where the Twinings
parted company with us, being bound for Faridkot.
Sorry were we to lose such charming companions, especially as now
indeed we become as Babes in the Wood, knowing nothing of the land, its
customs, or its language!
Henceforward, Sabz Ali shall be our sheet-anchor, and I think he will
not fail us. His English is truly remarkable, so much so that I regret
to say I have more than once supposed him to be talking Hindustani when
he was discoursing in my own mother-tongue. But he certainly is
extraordinarily sharp in taking up what I and the “Mem-sahib” say.
He presented to me to-day a remarkable letter, of which the following
is an exact copy. I presume it is a sort of statement as to his general
duties:—
“_To the_ MAGER SAHIB.
“Sir,—I beg to say that General ’Oon Sahib send me to you. He order me
that the arrangement of Mager Sahib do.
“To give pice to porter kuli this is my work. This is usefull to you.
“You give him many pice.
“Your work is order and to do it my work. You give me Rupee at once.
Then I will write it on my book, from which you will see it is right or
wrong. Now I am going to Cashmir with you and Cashmiree are thief.
“If you will give me one man other it will usefull to you. I ask one
cloth. All Sahib give cloth to Servant on going to Cashmir.
“If will give cloth then all men say that this Sahib is good. I am fear
from General ’Oon Sahib. It is order to give cloth.
“I can do all work of cook and bearer. I wish that you will happy on
me, also your lady, and say to General ’Oon Sahib that this man is good
and honest man.
“I have servant to many Sahib.
“I have more certificate.
“You are rich man and king. I am poor man. I will take two annas
allowance per day in Cashmir, you will do who you wish.
“I wish that you and lady will happy on me. This is begging you will.—I
remain, Sir, your most obedient Servant,
“SABAZ ALI, _Bearer_.”
_Wednesday, March_ 22.—We slept again in the train on Monday night, and
arrived in Lahore about 6 o’clock yesterday morning.
We had been advised to tub and dress in the waiting-rooms at the
station, as we had a break of some six hours before going on to Pindi;
but, upon investigation, Jane found her waiting-room already fully
occupied by an uninviting company of Chi-chis (Eurasians), and several
men—their husbands and brothers presumably—were sleeping the sleep of
the just in mine, so we left all our luggage stacked on the platform
under the eye of Sabz Ali, and hurried off to Nedou’s Hotel. Ye gods!
What a cold drive it was, and how bitterly we regretted that we had not
brought our wraps from their bundle.
I was fearfully afraid that Jane would get a chill—an evil always to be
specially guarded against in a tropical climate, but a very hot tub and
a good breakfast averted all calamity, and we set forth in a funny
little trap to inspect Lahore.
This is the first large and thoroughly Indian city that we have
seen—Karachi being merely a thriving modern seaport and garrison
town—and we set to work to see what we could in the limited time at our
disposal. We whisked along a road—bumpy withal in parts, and somewhat
dusty, but broad. On either hand rose substantial stone mansions, half
hidden by trees and flowering shrubs. Many of these fine-looking
buildings were shops. I was impressed by their importance, for they
were quite what would be described by an auctioneer or agent as “most
desirable family mansions, approached by a carriage drive … standing
within their own beautifully wooded and secluded grounds in an
excellent residential neighbourhood,” &c. &c.
Anon we whirled round a corner, and plunged into the seething life of
the native city. The road was crammed with an apparently impenetrable
crowd of men and beasts, the latter—water-buffaloes, humpy cattle, and
donkeys—strolling about and getting in everybody’s way with perfect
nonchalance, while men in strange raiment of gaudy hue pursued their
lawful occupations with much clamour. The variety of smells—all bad—was
quite remarkable.
We could only go at a walk, as the streets were very narrow and the
inhabitants thereof—particularly the cows—seemed very deaf and
difficult to arouse to a sense of the need for making room, though our
good driver yelled himself hoarse and employed language which I feel
sure was highly flavoured. Our progress was a succession of marvellous
escapes for human toes and bovine shoulders, but our “helmsman steered
us through,” and we emerged from the kaleidoscopic labyrinth into the
open space before the Fort of Lahore, whose pinkish brick walls and
ponderous bastions rose above us.
The last thing I would desire would be to usurp in any way the
functions of grave Mr. Murray or well-informed Herr Baedeker, but there
are certain points to which I will draw attention, and which it seems
to me very necessary to keep in mind.
To the ordinary traveller in the Punjab and Northern India no buildings
are more attractive, no ruins more interesting, than those of the Mogul
dynasty, and the rule of the Mogul princes marks the high-water limit
of Indian magnificence. It was but for a short time, too, that the
highest level of grandeur was maintained.
For generations the Moguls had poured in intermittent hordes into
Northern India, but it was only in 1556 that Akbar, by defeating the
Pathans at Panipat, laid India at his feet. Following up his success he
overthrew the Rajputs, and extended his dominion from Afghanistan to
Benares. Having conquered the country as a great warrior, he proceeded
to rule it as a noble statesman, being “one of the few sovereigns
entitled to the appellation both of Great and Good, and the only one of
Mohammedan race whose mind appears to have arisen so far above all the
illiberal prejudices of that fanatical religion in which he was
educated, as to be capable of forming a plan worthy of a monarch who
loved his people and was solicitous to render them happy.”[1] This
“plan” was to study the religion, laws, and institutions of his Hindu
subjects in order that he might govern as far as possible in conformity
with Hindu usage. The Emperor Akbar was the first of the Mogul monarchs
who was a great architect. The city of Fattepur Sikri being raised by
him as a stately dwelling-place until want of water and the
unhealthiness of the locality caused him to move into Agra, leaving the
whole city of Fattepur Sikri to the owls and jackals, and later to the
admiration of the Sahib logue.
[1] Robertson’s _India_, Appendix.
A palace in Lahore, the fort at Allahabad, and much lovely work in the
city of Agra testify to the creative genius of that contemporary of our
own Good Queen Bess, the first “Great” Mogul. Jehangir, his son and
successor, has left few buildings of note, but his grandson, Shah
Jehan, was undoubtedly the most splendid builder of the Mogul
Mohammedan period. To him Delhi owes its stately palace and vast
mosque—the Jama Masjid—and Agra would be famous for its wonderful
palace of dark red stone and fretted marble, even without that
masterpiece of Mohammedan inspiration, the world-famed Taj Mahal. The
brief period of supreme magnificence came to an end with the last of
the “Great” Moguls—Aurungzeb, died in 1707—having only blazed in
fullest glory for some century and a half, but leaving behind it some
of the noblest works of man.
It seemed somehow very curious, as we drove up through the stately
entrance of the Hathi Paon, or Elephant Gate of the fort, to be saluted
with a “present arms” by British Tommies clad in unobtrusive khaki, and
to reflect that we are the inheritors of the fallen grandeur of the
Mogul Emperors; that we in our turn, on many a hard-fought field,
asserted our power to conquer; and that since then we have (I trust) so
far followed the sound principles of Akbar as to keep by justice and
wise rule the broad lands with their teeming millions in a state of
peace and security unknown before in India.
Opposite the entrance rise the walls of the Palace of Akbar, curiously
decorated with brilliant blue mosaics of animals and arabesques.
We visited the armoury—a remarkably fine collection of weapons—not the
least interesting being those taken from the Sikhs and French in the
earlier part of the last century. Opposite the armoury, and across a
small beautifully-paved court, were the private apartments of Shah
Jehan. They reminded me very much of the Alhambra, only, instead of the
honeycomb vaulted ceilings, and arches decorated in stucco by the
Moors, the Eastern architect inlaid his ceilings with an extraordinary
incrustation of glass, usually silvered on the back, but also
frequently coloured, and giving a strange effect of mother-o’-pearl
inlay, bordering on tawdriness when examined in detail.
It is possible that this coloured glass actually had its intended
effect of inlaid jewels, and that the gem-encrusted walls, so
enthusiastically described by Tavernier and others, as almost matching
the peacock throne itself, may have been but imitation.
Many of the pilasters were, however, very beautiful—of white marble
inlaid with flower patterns of coloured stones—while the arched window
openings were filled in with creamy tracery of fair white marble.
Leaving the fort after an all too short visit, we crossed to the great
mosque built by Aurungzeb. Ascending—from a garden bright with flowers
and blossoming trees—a flight of broad steps, we found ourselves at the
end of a rectangular enclosure, at each corner of which stood a red
column not altogether unlike a factory chimney. In the centre was a
circular basin, very wide, and full of clear water, while in front,
three white marble domes rose like great pearls gleaming against the
cloudless blue. The mosque itself is built of red—dark red—sandstone,
decorated with floral designs in white marble.
We climbed one of the minarets, and had a view of the city at our feet,
and the green and fertile plains stretching dim into the shimmering
haze beyond the Ravee River.
Then back to the hotel through the teeming alleys and down to the
station—the road, that we had found so bitterly cold in the early
morning, now a blaze of sunlight, where the dust stirred up by the
shuffling feet of the wayfarers quivered in the heat, and the shadows
of men and beasts lay short and black beneath them.
We were not sorry to seek coolness in the bare railway carriage, and
let the fresh wind fan us as we sat by the open window and watched the
flat, monotonous landscape sliding past.
The journey from Lahore to Rawal Pindi is not a very long one—only
about 170 miles, or less than the distance from London to York; but an
Indian train being more leisurely in its movement than the Great
Northern Express, gave us ample time to contemplate the frequent little
villages—all very much alike—all provided with a noisy population,
among which dogs and children were extremely prevalent; the level
plains, broken here and there by clumps of unfamiliar trees, and
inhabited by scattered herds of water buffaloes, cattle, and
under-sized sheep, all busily engaged in picking up a precarious
livelihood, chiefly roast straw, as far as one could see!
We had grown so accustomed to the monotony of the plains, that when we
suddenly became aware of a faint blue line of mountains paling to snow,
where they melted into the sky, the Himalayas came upon us almost with
a shock of surprise.
As we drew nearer, the rampart of mountains that guards India on the
north, took form and substance, until at Jhelum we fairly left the
plain and began to ascend the lower foothills.
Between Jhelum and Rawal Pindi the line runs through a country that can
best be described by that much abused word “weird.” Originally a
succession of clayey plateaux, the erosion of water has worn and
honeycombed a tortuous maze of abrupt clefts and ravines, leaving in
many cases mere shafts and pinnacles, whose fantastic tops stand level
with the surrounding country. The sun set while we were still winding
through a labyrinth of peaks and pits, and the effect of the
contrasting red gold lights and purple shadows in this strange confused
landscape was a thing to be remembered.
We rolled and bumped into Pindi at 8 P.M., having travelled nearly 1000
miles during our two days and nights in the train.
Our friends the Smithsons were on the platform waiting to receive us
and welcome us as strangers and pilgrims in an unknown land. They have
only remained here to meet us, and they proceed to Kashmir to-morrow,
sleeping in a carriage in the quiet backwater of a siding, to save
themselves the worry of a desperately early start to-morrow morning.
The direct route into Kashmir by Murree is impassable, the snow being
still deep owing to a very late spring following a severe winter. This
will oblige us to go round by Abbotabad, so I wired to my friend
General Woon to warn him that we propose to invade his peaceful home.
_Sunday, March 26._—We stayed a couple of days at Pindi, in order to
make arrangements for transporting ourselves and our luggage into
Kashmir. The journey can be made _viâ_ Murree in about a couple of days
by mail tonga, but it is a joyless and horribly wearing mode of travel.
The tonga, a two-wheeled cart covered by an arched canvas hood and
drawn by two half-broken horses, holds a couple of passengers
comfortably, who sit behind and stare at the flying white ribbon of
road for long, long hours, while the driver urges his wild career. The
horses are changed every ten miles or so, and horrible and
blood-curdling tales are extant of the villainy and wrong-headedness of
some of these tonga ponies, how they jib for sheer pleasure, and leap
over the low parapet that guards them from the precipice merely to vex
the helpless traveller. When we suggested that to sit facing the past
might be conducive to a sort of sea-sickness and certainly to headache,
and that a total absence of view was to be deprecated, it was impressed
upon us that if the horses darted over the “khud,” we could slip out
suddenly and easily, leaving the driver and the ponies to be dashed to
pieces by themselves! This appeared sound, but, upon inquiry I could
not hear that any accident had ever happened to any traveller going
into Kashmir by tonga.
Besides the tonga, there are other modes of going into Kashmir. For
instance, the sluggish bullock-cart—safe, deliberate, and affording
ample leisure for admiring the scenery; the light native cart, or ekka,
consisting of a somewhat small body screened by a wide white hood, and
capable of holding far more luggage than would at first sight seem
possible, and drawn by a scraggy-looking but much enduring little horse
tied up by a wild and complicated system of harness (chiefly consisting
of bits of old rope) between a pair of odd V-shaped shafts.
Finally, there is the landau—a civilised and luxurious method of
conveyance which greatly appealed to us. We decided upon chartering a
landau for ourselves and servant, and two ekkas to carry the heavy
baggage.
Mr. de Mars, the landlord of the hotel, was most obliging in helping us
to arrange for our journey, promising to provide us with carriage and
ekkas for a sum which did not seem to me to be at all exorbitant.
I soon found, however, that the worthy Sabz Ali did not at all approve
of the arrangement. It was extremely hard to find out by means of his
scant English what he proposed to do; but I decided that here was an
excellent opportunity of finding out what he was good for, so we
determined to give him his head, and let him make his own arrangements.
A smile broke over his swarthy face for a moment, and he disappeared,
coming back shortly afterwards just as the already ordered ekkas made
their appearance.
These he promptly dismissed—much to the vexation of Mr. de Mars; but I
explained to him that I intended to see if my man was really to be
depended upon as an organiser, and that I should allow him to work upon
his own lines.
We had arranged to sleep in a carriage drawn into a siding at the
station, to avoid a very early start next morning. So after dinner we
strolled down towards our bedroom to find our henchman on the platform,
full of zeal and energy. I found out (with difficulty) that he proposed
to go on to Hassan Abdal with the luggage that night by goods train;
that we should find him there next morning, and that all would be
right. So he departed, and we rolled ourselves up in our “resais,” and
wondered how it would all turn out.
On Friday morning we rattled out of Rawal Pindi about seven, and slowly
wound through a rather stony and uninteresting country, until we
arrived at the end of our railway journey about ten o’clock, and
scrambled out at the little roadside station.
Our excellent factotum, Sabz Ali, awaited us with a capacious landau,
and informed us that the heavy baggage had gone on in the ekkas. So we
set forth at once on our 42-mile drive to Abbotabad without “reposing
for a time in the rich valley of Hussun Abdaul, which had always been a
favourite resting-place of the Emperors in their annual migrations to
Cashmere” (_Lalla Rookh_).
The landau, though roomy and comfortable, was, like Una’s lion, a “most
unhasty beast,” and we rolled quite slowly and deliberately over a
distinctly uninteresting plain for about twenty miles, until we came to
Haripur, a pretty village enclosed in a perfect mass of fruit trees in
full bloom.
Here we changed horses, and lunched at the dâk bungalow—a first and
favourable experience of that useful institution. The dâk bungalow
generally consists of a simple wooden building containing a dining-room
and several bedrooms opening on to a verandah, which usually runs round
three sides of the house. The furniture is strong and simple,
consisting of tables, bedsteads, and some long chairs. A khansamah or
cook provides food and liquor at a fixed and reasonable rate.
Travellers are only permitted to remain for twenty-four hours if the
rooms are wanted, each person paying one rupee (1s. 4d.) for a night,
or half that amount for a mere day halt.
The khansamah would appear to be the only functionary in residence
until the hour of departure draws near, when a whole party of
underlings—chowkidars, bheesties, and sweepers—appear from nowhere in
particular; and the lordly traveller, having presented them with about
twopence apiece, rolls off along the dusty white road, leaving the
khansamah and his myrmidons salaaming on the verandah.
We made the mistake of over-tipping at first in India, not realising
that a couple of annas out here go as far as a shilling at home; but it
is a mistake which should be rectified as soon as possible, for you get
no credit for lavishness, but are merely regarded as a first-class
idiot. No sane man would ever expend two annas where one would do!
On leaving Haripur the road began to ascend a little, and at the
village of Sultanpur we entered a valley, through which a shrunken
stream ran, and which we crossed more than once.
Then a long ascent of about eleven miles brought us near our
destination.
It had been threatening rain all the afternoon, and now the weather
made its threat good, and the rain fell in earnest. It grew dark, too;
and, finally, not having had any reply to my telegram to General Woon,
we did not know whether we were expected or not.
Sabz Ali, however, had no doubts on the matter. We were approaching his
own particular country, and whether “Gen’l ’Oon Sahib” was there to
entertain us or not, _he_ was; and so it was “alright.”
Our poor horses were done to a turn, a heavy landau with five people in
it, as well as a fair amount of luggage, being no trifle to drag up so
long and steep a hill. So we had to walk up the last rise to the
General’s house in the dark and rain, mildly cheered, however, by
finding the two ekkas just arrived with the baggage.
A most hearty greeting from my old friend and his charming wife awaited
us, and after a hasty toilet and an excellent dinner we felt at peace
with all the world.
Both yesterday (Saturday) and to-day it has been cold and disagreeable.
The past winter, I am told, has been a very severe one, and the
melancholy brown skeletons of all the eucalyptus trees in the place
show the dismal results of the frost.
This forenoon the day darkened, and a very severe thunderstorm broke.
So dark was it at lunch that candles had to be lighted in haste, and
even now (4 P.M.) I can barely see to write.
_Thursday, March_ 30.—Monday was showery, and Tuesday decidedly wet;
but, in spite of the hospitable blandishments of our kind hosts, we
were most anxious to get on, as, having arranged with the Smithsons to
go into the Astor district to shoot, it was most important to reach
Srinagar before the first of April—the day upon which the shooting
passes were to be issued to sportsmen in rotation of application.
Knowing that only ten passes were to be given for Astor, and that
several men were ahead of me, I felt that we were running it somewhat
fine to leave only three days for the journey.
General Woon, who knew Kashmir well, did his very best to dissuade us
from attempting the passes into Astor, reading to us gloomy extracts
from his journal, and pointing out that it was no fit country for a
lady in early spring.
He did much to shake our enthusiasm, but still I felt we must do our
best to “keep tryst” with the Smithsons. So, on Tuesday, we sent on the
heavy luggage in two ekkas which Sabz Ali had procured, the two others
being only hired from Hassan Abdal to Abbotabad.
Sabz Ali had pointed out that, although he himself was a wonderful man,
and could do almost, if not quite, everything, a second servant would
be greatly to our (and his) advantage. So, acting on my permission, he
engaged one Ayata—a gentle person of a sheep-like disposition, who did
everything he was told, and nothing that he was told not to, during our
sojourn in Kashmir.
CHAPTER IV
ABBOTABAD TO SRINAGAR
Dismal tidings came in of floods and storms on the Hassan Abdal road.
The river had swollen, and both men and beasts had been swept away
while trying to cross. Undeterred, however, by such news, even when
backed by warnings and persuasions from our friends, we set forth in
the rain yesterday morning. The prospect was not cheerful—a grey veil
of cloud lay over all the surrounding hills, here and there deepening
into dark and angry thunder-clouds. The road was desperately heavy, but
the General had most kindly sent on a pair of mules ahead, and, with
another pair in the shafts, our own nags took a holiday as far as
Manserah.
The weather grew worse. It rained very heavily and thundered with great
vigour, and as we straggled up the deeply-muddied slope to the dâk
bungalow at Manserah we felt somewhat low; but we did not in the least
realise what was before us!
Our road had lain through fairly level plains, with low cuttings here
and there, where the saturated soil was already beginning to give way
and fall upon the road in untidy heaps; but this did not foreshadow
what might occur later.
At Manserah we met Hill and Hunt, two young gunners, _en route_ for
Astor. They left in a tonga soon after we arrived, and we did not
expect to see their speedier outfit again.
Being pressed for time, we only had a cup of cocoa, and then hastened
on our dismal career.
The road grew steeper, winding over some low hills, but we could not
see very much, as the whirling cloud masses blotted out all the view.
By-and-by it bent towards a pine-clad hill, and began to ascend
steeply. By this time we were very wet, as we had to walk up the hills
to ease the horses. The scene was extraordinary, as the great
thunder-clouds boiled up and over us—tawny yellow, and even orange in
the lights, and dull and solid lead colour in the depths. The distance
was invisible, but gleams now and again revealed, through the drifts of
rain, wide stretches of cultivated land lying below us, and a ragged
forest of pines piercing the mist above.
Dripping, we walked by our wet horses up to the top of the pass, hoping
for a swift and easy descent on the farther side to Ghari Habibullah,
where we intended to sleep, as we had given up all idea of being able
to get on to Domel.
Presently the horses were pulled up sharply as a ton or two of rock and
earth came crashing upon the road in front of us.
More fallen masses encumbering the way farther on made us feel rather
anxious, until, on rounding a corner, we found the whole road barred by
a huge mass of rock and soil.
It was blowing hard, the stormy wind striking chill and bleak through
the bending pines; it was raining in torrents; it was 5 P.M., and we
were still some six miles from the haven where we would be; so, after a
short and utterly ineffectual attempt to get the carriage past the
obstacle, Jane and I set off to walk down the hill and seek help.
It was exciting, as we had to dodge the rock-falls and run past the
shaky-looking places! At a turn of the road we came upon the gunners’
tonga, embedded in a mud-slide. The occupants had had an escape from
total wreck, as one of the ponies had swerved over the khud, but the
other saved the situation by lying down in the mud! Hunt had gone off
into the landscape to try for a village and help, while Hill remained
to wrestle with the tonga, which, however, remained obstinately
immovable. We could do nothing to mend matters, so we fled on, meeting
Hunt, with a few natives and a shovel, on his way back to the scene of
action.
After an hour and a half of very anxious work, we emerged at dusk from
the wood, hoping our troubles were over. We could dimly see, and hear,
through the mist a stream below us; but, alas! no bridge was visible. I
commandeered a man from the first hut we came to, and tried by signs to
make him understand that he was to carry the lady across the river;
but, luckily, just as we reached the bank of what was a very
nasty-looking stream in full spate, the liberated tonga overtook us,
and Jane was bundled into it, while we three men waded. The stream was
strong and up to our knees, and level with the tonga floor, and the
horses getting frightened began to jib. Hill seized one by the head,
and Jane was safely drawn to shore and sent on her way under guidance
of the driver, while we tramped on in the dark until a second torrent
barred our way. Here, in the gloom, we made out the tonga empty, and
stuck fast against the far bank. It was all right though, for Jane had
crawled out at the front and wandered on in search of the dâk bungalow,
leaving the driver squatting helplessly beside the water.
It was so dark that she missed the bungalow, which stands a little
above the road, and struggled on till she came to a small cluster of
native huts. One of the inhabitants, on being boldly accosted, was good
enough to point out the way, and so the re-united party—tired, wet, and
with no prospect of dry clothing—took possession of the
cheerless-looking dâk bungalow. Things now began to improve. To our joy
we found our ekkas with their contents drawn up in the yard. And while
a fire was being encouraged into a blaze, and the lean fowl was being
captured and slain on the back premises, we obtained dry garments—of
sorts—from the baggage.
Madame’s dinner costume consisted of a blue flannel garment—nocturnal
by design—delicately covered by a quilted dressing-gown, and the rest
of us were _en suite_, a great lack of detail as to collars and
foot-wear being apparent! Nevertheless, the fire blazed royally, and we
ate up all the old hen and called for more, and prepared to make a
night of it until, about ten o’clock, our bearer Sabz Ali appeared,
with a train of coolies carrying our bedding and the other contents of
the derelict carriage.
This morning the two young gunners departed on foot, leaving their
tonga, as the road to Domel is reported to be quite impassable. They
intend to walk by a short cut over the hills, and get on as best they
may, the race for Astor being a keen one.
We decided to remain here, the weather being still gloomy and
unsettled, and the road being impossible for a lady.
At noon the landau was brought in, minus a step and very dirty, but
otherwise “unwounded from the dreadful close.”
Ghari Habibullah is not at all a cheerful spot, as it appears, the
centre of a grey haze, with dense mist low down on the surrounding
mountains. Sabz Ali, too, complains of fever, which is not surprising
after the wetting and exposure of yesterday; and when a native gets
“fever” he curls up and is fit for nothing, and won’t try.
The dâk bungalow stands on a little plateau overlooking the road and a
swift river, whose tawny waves were loaded with mud washed from the
hills by recent storms. On a slope opposite, the queer, flat-roofed
native village perched, and above it swirled a misty pall which hid all
but the bases of the hills. To this village we strolled, but it was not
interesting; the inhabitants did not seem wildly friendly, and the mud
and dirt and dogs were discouraging. So we roamed along the Domel road
till we came to a high cliff of conglomerate, which had recently been
shedding boulders over the track to an alarming extent; so, deciding
that it would be merely silly to risk getting our heads cracked, we
turned back, and, re-crossing the river, clambered up a steep path
above the right bank. Here we soon found great rents and rifts where
falling rocks had come bounding down the steeps from above, so once
more we turned tail, and, giving up the idea of any more country walks
in that region, betook ourselves to the gloomy and chilly bungalow. The
only really delightful things we saw during our doleful excursion were
a lovely clump of big, rose-coloured primula, drooping from the clefts
of a steep rock, and a pair of large and handsome kingfishers,[1]
pursuing their graceful avocations by a roadside pool—their white
breasts, ruddy flanks, and gleaming blue backs giving a welcome note of
colour to the sedate and misty grey of the landscape.
[1] _N. Smyrnensis_ (?).
_Tuesday, April_ 4.—Thirty-six hours of Ghari Habibullah give ample
time for the loneliest recluse to pant for the bustle of a livelier
world. We were so bored on Thursday that we determined to push on,
_coûte que coûte_, on Friday morning, although a note sent back by one
of the gunners from Domel, by a coolie, informed us that the road about
a mile short of that place was completely blocked by a fallen mass of
some hundreds of tons.
Our henchman having somewhat recovered of his fever, thanks to a
generous exhibition of quinine, we gave the order to pack and start,
hoping to achieve the twelve miles which separated us from Domel, even
though the last bit had to be done on foot. About two miles from Ghari
Habibullah we came to the Kashmir custom-house, presided over by a
polite gentleman, whose brilliant purple beard was a joy to look upon.
Most of the elderly natives dye their beards with, I think, henna,
producing a fine orange effect, but purple…!
_Bottom_. What beard were I best to play it in?
_Quince_. Why, what you will.
_Bottom_. I will discharge it in either your straw-coloured beard, your
orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your
French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow
_Midsummer Night’s Dream_,
Act I. Sc. 2.
“What _coloured beard_ comes next by the window?”
“A black man’s, I think.”
“I think a _red_: for that is most in fashion.”
RAM ALLY.
Truly, until I beheld that tax-gatherer of the Orient, I had no idea
that the “purple-in-grain” beard existed outside a poet’s fancy!
The road took us along the left bank of the river, whose soil-stained
waters churned their way through a wild and rocky gorge. On our left
the mountain rose bare and steep, fringed with a few straggling bushes,
and here and there a clinging patch of rose-coloured primula. Part of
the conglomerate cliff had come down and obliterated the road, but a
party of coolies was busily at work, and, after about an hour’s delay,
we triumphantly bumped our way past.
The road now led steadily upward, leaving an ever-increasing slope (or
khud) between it and the river, until it attained a height of over a
thousand feet, when, turning to the left, it swung over the watershed,
and began to descend into the valley of the Kishenganga. Through the
haze we could make out Domel, our goal, lying far below, and then the
old Sikh fort of Musafferabad.
The road was so encumbered with rock-falls that we walked the greater
part of it, until we came to the new bridge over the Kishenganga, whose
dark red waters rush into the Jhelum about a mile below.
Here was Musafferabad, the whole place a confused jumble of wheeled
traffic caught up by the big landslip in front. Passing, amid the
chatter and clamour of men and beasts, through the medley of
bullock-carts and ekkas that crowded every available space, we hauled
the carriage through the bed of a watercourse whose bridge was broken.
Up over the prostrate trunk of a fallen tree we regained the road, to
find ourselves in front of the big landslip of which we had been
warned. It consisted of some thousands of tons of dark red mud and
loose boulders, and it blocked the road for fully a couple of hundred
yards.
A large and energetic swarm of coolies was busily engaged in “tidying
up.” This was apparently to be achieved by means of shovels, each
little shovel worked by two men—one to shovel, and the other to assist
in raising it when full by means of a little rope round the head. This
labour had to be lubricated by much conversation.
It seemed upon the whole unlikely that a path could be made for a
considerable time, so we lunched peacefully in the carriage, a pair of
extremely friendly crows assisting at the feast, and then, leaving our
landau to follow as best it might, we walked into Domel, crossing the
Jhelum by a fine bridge.
The dâk bungalow, prettily placed in a clump of trees, seemed the abode
of luxury to us after the discomfort of Ghari Habibullah, and we fondly
hoped that, being now upon the main road which runs from Rawal Pindi to
Srinagar, our troubles were over.
Saturday was the 1st of April, the day upon which I should have applied
for my pass for Astor. Wiring to Srinagar to explain that I was in
Kashmir territory (which I subsequently found was enough to entitle me
to a pass), and also to Smithson to say that we were making the best of
our way to join him, we “took the road” after breakfast.
The carriage and the two ekkas had come in early, having been unloaded
and then carried bodily over the “slide.”
A broad and smooth road, whose gentle gradient of ascent was merely
sufficient to keep us level with the river bank, opened up an alluring
prospect of ease and comfort. We lay back on our comfortable cushions
and watched the clouds as they swept over the mountains, hiding all but
occasional glimpses of snow-streaked slopes and steep and barren
ridges.
The valley of the Jhelum between Domel and Ghari is not
beautiful—merely wide and desolate, with steep hills rising from the
river, their lower slopes sparsely clad with leafless scrub, their
shoulders merging into the dull mist which hangs around their invisible
summits.
Alas! it soon became apparent that our troubles were not over. The
cliffs above us became steeper, and the familiar boulder reappeared
upon the road. Small landslips gave us a good deal of trouble, although
we had no serious difficulty before reaching Ghari. Here we were told
that a complete “solution of continuity” in the road at Mile 46 would
prevent our reaching Chakhoti, so we reluctantly decided to remain
where we were for the night. Although a cold and dull spring afternoon
is not exciting at Ghari, where distractions are decidedly scanty, we
found interest in the discovery of the Smithsons’ heavy luggage, which
had been sent on from Rawal Pindi ages ago. Here it lay in the peaceful
backwater of a native caravansary, piled high on a bullock-cart, whose
placid team lay near pensively chewing the “cud of sweet and bitter
fancy,” and apparently quite innocent of any intention of moving for a
week or two!
We extracted the charioteers from a neighbouring hut, and gave them to
understand, by means of Sabz Ali, that hanging was the least annoyance
they would suffer if they didn’t get under way “ek dam” at once. They
promptly promised that their oxen—like Pegasus—should fly on the wings
of the wind, and, having seen us safely round a corner, departed
peacefully to eat another lotus.
The luggage arrived in Srinagar towards the end of the month.
Sunday morning saw us again battling with a perfect coruscation of
landslips; so “jumpy” was it in many places that we sat with the
carriage doors ajar, in hopes that a timely dart out might enable us to
evade a falling rock. At Mile 46 we were held up for an hour until a
ramp was made over a bad slide, and the carriage and ekkas were
unloaded and got across. The landau looked for all the world like a
great dead beetle surrounded by ants, as, man-handled by a swarm of
coolies, it was hauled, step by step, over the improvised track. A
landau is not at all a suitable or convenient carriage for this sort of
work, and had we guessed what was before us we should most certainly
have employed the handier tonga.
The road to-day, cut as it was out of the steep flank of the mountain,
was magnificent, but, in its present condition, nerve-shattering.
Fallen boulders and innumerable mud-slides constantly forced us to get
out and walk, while the sturdy little horses tugged the carriage
through places where the near wheels were frequently within a few
inches of the broken edge of the road, while far below Jhelum roared
hungrily as he foamed by the foot of a sheer precipice.
Reaching Chakhoti about four o’clock, we decided to remain there for
the night, as it was growing late and the weather looked gloomy and
threatening. Although we had only achieved a short stage of twenty-one
miles, there was no suitable place for a night’s halt until Uri,
distant some thirteen miles and all uphill.
About half a mile above Chakhoti there is a rope bridge over the
Jhelum, and after tea we set forth to inspect it.
The river is here about 150 yards wide and extremely swift, and I
confess the means of crossing it, although practised with perfect
confidence by the natives, did not appeal to me.
From two great uprights, formed from solid tree-trunks, three strong
ropes were stretched—the upper two parallel, and the third, about four
feet lower, was equidistant from each.
These three ropes were kept in their relative positions by wooden
stretchers—something like great merrythoughts, lashed at intervals of a
few yards—
“And up and down the people go,”
stepping delicately upon the lower rope, and holding on to the upper
ones with their hands. The uncomfortable part seemed to the unpractised
European to be where the graceful sweep of the long ropes brought the
traveller to within a painfully close distance of the hurrying, hungry
water, before he began to slither circumspectly up the farther slope!
We stood for some little time watching the natives going to and fro,
passing one another with perfect ease by means of a dexterous squirm,
and carrying loads on their backs, or live fowls under their arms, with
the utmost unconcern.
We left Chakhoti early this morning—Tuesday—with the intention of
getting right through to Baramula. The road was of course extremely
bad, and the long ascent to Uri very hard upon our willing little nags.
Of course they have had a remarkably easy time of it lately, as we have
been limited to very short stages, and they are in excellent hard
condition, so that we felt it no great hardship to ask them to do
forty-two miles: albeit to drag a heavy landau containing five people
and a good deal of luggage for that distance, with a rise of over 2000
feet, is a heavy demand upon a single pair of horses!
The scenery was very fine as we toiled up the gorge, in which Uri
stands on a plateau over the river and guards the pass into Kashmir
valley.
The ruins of an ancient fort rose on the near edge of the little plain.
The Jhelum tore through a rocky gorge far below, and a dark semi-circle
of mountains stood steeply up, their cloud-hidden summits giving
fleeting glimpses of snow and precipice and pine-clad corries as the
sun now and again shot through the clinging vapours.
The dâk bungalow of Uri, white and clean, was most attractive, and I
should imagine the place to be charming in summer, but as yet the short
crisp turf is still brown from recent snow, and although hot in the
sun, which now began to shine steadily, it was extremely cold in the
shade, while lunch (or should I say “tiffin”?) was being got ready. I
strolled over to the post-office to find—as usual—another urgent wire
from Smithson several days old, beseeching me to secure my pass for
Astor at once. Directly after lunch we set forward, and as the road on
leaving Uri takes a long bend of some miles to the right to a point
where the Haji Pir River is crossed, and then sweeps back along its
right hank to a spot almost opposite the dâk bungalow, we thought that
a short cut down to the water, which from our height seemed quite
insignificant, and thence up to the road on the other side, would be a
desirable stroll. As we walked down the steep path into the nullah a
brace of red-legged partridges (chikor) rose in a great fuss, and
sailed gaily across the river, whose roaring gained ominously in volume
as we drew near. It soon became plain to us that everything is on a
very big scale in this country, and that the clearness of the
atmosphere helps to delude the unwary stranger. The little stream that
seemed to require but an occasional stepping-stone to enable us to pass
over dry-shod, proved in the first place to be much farther off than we
had supposed, and when, after a hot scramble, we found ourselves on the
bank, the stepping-stones were no more, but only here and there we saw
the shoulders of huge rocks which doggedly threw aside the flying foam
of a fair-sized river. It was obviously impossible to cross except by
deep wading, but, being unwilling to own defeat, I yelled to a brown
native on the far bank, and made signs that he should come and do beast
of burthen. He, however, stolidly shook his head, pointed to the water,
and then to his chest, and finally we sadly and wrathfully toiled back
to the road we had so lightly left, and expended all our energies on
attracting the notice of the carriage, which, having crossed the
bridge, was crawling along the opposite face of the nullah, and when,
after a hot three miles, we once more embedded ourselves amongst the
cushions with a sigh of relief, we swore off short cuts for the future.
We had been warned at Uri that there was a “bad place” at Mile 73, and
sure enough, on rounding a bend, we came upon the familiar mass of
semi-liquid red earth and a pile of boulders heaped across the road,
the khud side of which had entirely given way. The usual crowd of
coolies was busily engaged in trying to clear the obstruction by means
of toothpicks and teaspoons.
We quitted the carriage with a celerity engendered of much practice,
and, having crossed the obstacle on foot, sat down to await the coming
of our conveyance.
It seemed perfectly marvellous that the heavy vehicle could be safely
got over a jagged avalanche of earth and rock piled some eight or ten
feet above the roadway, and having an almost sheer drop to the river
entirely unguarded for some hundred yards, where the retaining parapet
and even some of the road itself had gone.
Amid much apparent confusion and tremendous chattering, a sort of rough
ramp was engineered up the slip, and presently the horseless landau
appeared borne in triumph by a mob of coolies superintended by our
priceless Sabz Ali.
For a minute we held our breath as one of the near wheels lipped the
edge of the chasm, but the thing was judged to an inch, and in due time
the sturdy chestnuts, the two ekkas, and all the luggage were assembled
on the right side of what proved to be the last of the really bad
slips.
The road engineer, who arrived in great state on a motor cycle while we
were executing the portage, told us that there were no more
difficulties, but an officer who was going out, and whose tonga was
checked also at the big slip, informed us that about a mile farther
were two great boulders on the road, lying so that although a short
vehicle such as a tonga or motor cycle could wriggle round, yet a long
four-wheeled landau could not possibly execute the serpentine curve
required.
We therefore requisitioned a few coolies with crowbars, and set forward
to attack the boulders. Sure enough there were two beauties, placed so
that we could not possibly get by, until a large slice was chipped from
the inner side of each.
This done, our most excellent and skilful driver piloted his ponies
through the narrow strait, and we felt that, at last, our troubles were
over, and that we could breathe freely and admire at leisure the snowy
peaks of the Kaj-nag beyond the Jhelum, and the rough wooded heights
that frowned upon our right.
I confess the relief was great, as we had endured six days of incessant
strain on our nerves, never knowing when a turn of the road might bring
us to an impassable break, or when the conglomerate cliffs beetling
above might shed a boulder or two upon us!
Passing the somewhat uninviting little village of Rampur, we crossed a
torrent pouring out of a dark pine-clad gorge, and halted for tea by
the curious ruined temple of Bhanyar. The building consists of a
rectangular wall, cloistered on two sides of the interior and
surrounding a small temple approached by a dilapidated flight of stone
steps. I regret to be obliged to own that I know but a mere smattering
of architecture. I do not feel competent therefore to discuss this, the
first Kashmiri temple I have seen, upon its architectural merits. I
only know that it struck me as being extremely small, and principally
interesting from its magnificent background of shaggy forest and
snow-capped mountain.
Tea on a short smooth sward, starred with yellow colchicum, while the
carriage, travel-stained and with one step lacking, stood on the road
hard by, and the horses nibbled invigorating lumps of “gram” and
molasses. Then the etna was returned to the “allo bagh” (yellow bag)
and the tea things to the tiffin basket, and away we went along the now
smooth and level road with only fifteen easy miles between us and
Baramula.
The vegetation had gradually grown much richer. The sparse and
storm-buffeted pines and the rough scrub merged into a tangled mass of
undergrowth and forest, where silver firs and deodars rose conspicuous.
The little streams that rushed down the hillsides were fringed with
maidenhair fern, lighted up here and there with a bunch of pink primula
or a tiny cluster of dog violets.
Jhelum had ceased from roaring, pursuing his placid path unwitting of
the rush and fury that would befall him lower down, and by-and-by we
emerged from the dark and forest-covered gorge into a wide basin where
the river, now smooth and oily, reflected tall poplars and the red
shoots of young dogwood.
Through a village, round a sweep to the left, over a tract said to be
much frequented by serpents, and then in the deepening and chilly dusk
we made out Baramula, lying engirdled by a belt of poplars about a mile
away.
Glad were we, and probably gladder still our weary horses, to draw up
before the uninviting-looking dâk bungalow, knowing that only
thirty-five miles of level and open road lay now between us and
Srinagar.
The dâk bungalow of Baramula is, upon the whole, the worst we have yet
sampled. No fire seemed able to impart any cheerfulness to the gloomy
den we were shown into, and the dinner finally produced by the
khansamah-kitmaghar-chowkidar (for a single tawny-bearded ruffian
represented all these functionaries when the morning tip fell due) was
not of an exhilarating nature. Strolling out to have a look at the town
of Baramula, I shivered to see a heap of snow piled up against the
wall. It snowed here, heavily, three days ago, I am told.
We have not been, so far, altogether lucky in the weather. Bitter cold
in Europe, cold at Port Saïd and Suez, chilly in the Red Sea, and wet
at Aden! Distinctly chilly in India, excepting during the day; we seem
to have hit off the most backward spring known here for many years. The
Murree route, which was closed to us by snow, should have been clear a
month earlier, and spring here seems not yet to have begun.
_April_ 5.—We crept shivering to our beds last night, to be awakened at
6 A.M. by an earthquake!
I had just realised what the untoward commotion meant when I heard Jane
from under her “resai” ask, “What _is_ the matter—is it an earthquake?”
Almost before I could reply, she was up and away, in a fearful hurry
and very little else, towards the open country.
I followed, but finding hoar-frost on the ground and a nipping
eagerness in the air, I went back for a “resai.” The feeling was that
of going into one’s cabin in a breeze of wind, and the door was
flapping about. Seizing the wrap in some haste, as I was afraid of the
door jamming, I rejoined Jane in the open, to watch the poplars swaying
like drunken men and the solid earth bulging unpleasantly. The shock
lasted for three minutes, and when it seemed quite over we retired to
our beds to try to get warm again.
The morning at breakfast-time was perfectly beautiful. Baramula lay
serenely mirrored in the silver waters of the Jhelum, its picturesque
brown wooden houses clustering on both banks, and joining hands by
means of a long brown wooden bridge. No signs of any unusual
disturbance could be seen among the chattering crews of the snaky
little boats and deep-laden “doungas” that lined the banks or furrowed
the waters of the shining river.
We left Baramula in high spirits to accomplish the five-and-thirty
miles which still stretched between us and Srinagar. The scenery was
quite different from anything we had yet known, for now we were in the
broad flat valley of Kashmir, which stretches for some eighty miles
from beyond Islamabad, on the N.E., to Baramula, planted at the neck
where the Jhelum River, after spreading itself abroad through the
fertile plain, concentrates to pour its many waters through the
mountain barrier until it joins the Indus far away in Sind.
A broad and level road stretched straight and white between a double
row of stark poplars, reminding one of the poplar-guarded ways of
Picardy; also (as in France) not only were the miles marked, but also
the thirty-two subdivisions thereof. On the right hand the ground
sloped slowly up in a succession of wooded heights, the foothills of
the Pir Panjal, whose snow-crowned peaks enclose the Kashmir valley on
the south. Opposite, through a maze of leafless trees, one caught
occasional gleams of water where the winding reaches of the river
flowed gently from the turquoise haze where lay the Wular Lake, and
beyond—clear and pale in the clear, crisp air—shone a glorious range of
snow mountains, stretching away past where we knew Srinagar must lie,
to be lost in the distant haze where sky and mountain merged in the
north-east.
By the roadside we passed many small lakes, or “jheels,” full of duck,
but as there was never any cover by the sides I could not see how the
duck were to be approached.
We lunched at the fascinating little bungalow at Patan (pronounced
“Puttun”), about half-way between Baramula and Srinagar. The Rest House
stands back from an apparently extremely populous and thriving village,
the inhabitants whereof were all engaged in conversation of a highly
animated kind! In the compound stood a fine group of chenar trees
(_Platanus orientalis_) whose noble trunks and graceful branches showed
in striking contrast to the slender stems of the poplars. The
guide-book informed us that an ancient temple lay in ruins near by, but
we trusted to a later visit and determined to push on. By-and-by a
fort-crowned hill rose above the tree-tops. This we took to be Hari
Parbat, the ancient citadel of Srinagar, and presently, through the
poplars and the willows queer wooden huts or châlets began to appear,
and the increasing number of men and beasts upon the road showed the
proximity of the city.
Ekkas, white-hooded, with jingling bells hung round the scraggy necks
of their lean ponies; brown men clad in sort of night-shirts composed
of mud-coloured rags; brown dogs, humpy cattle, and children
innumerable, swarmed upon the causeway in ever-increasing density until
we drew up at the custom-house, and the usual jabber took place among
Sabz Ali, the driver, and the officials.
All appeared satisfactory, however, and we were presented with bits of
brown paper scrawled over with hieroglyphics which we took to be
passes, and drove on, leaving the native town apparently on our left
and making a détour through level fields and between rows of poplars,
until we swung round and crossed the river by a fine bridge. Here we
first got some idea of the city of Srinagar, which lay spread around
us, bisected by the broad, but apparently far from sluggish river,
which seems here to be about the width of the Thames at Westminster at
high water.
Tier upon tier, the rickety wooden houses crowded either bank, the
prevailing brown being oddly lighted up by the roofs, which were
frequently covered with deep green turf. Here and there the steep and
peculiar dome of a Hindu temple flashed like polished silver in the
keen sunlight, while around and beyond all rose the ring of the
everlasting hills, their peaks clear, yet soft, against a background of
cloudless blue.
Close below us stood a remarkably picturesque pile of buildings, of a
mixed style of architecture, yet harmonising well enough as a whole
with its surroundings. Over it flew a great “banner with a strange
device,” and we assumed (and rightly) that we looked upon the palace of
His Highness Sir Pratab Singh, Maharajah of Jammu and Kashmir.
Crossing the river, we dived into a bit of the native town, and were
much struck by the want of colour as compared with an Indian street.
Everything seemed steeped in the same neutral brown—houses, boats,
people, and dogs! Emerging from the native street, with its open
shop-fronts and teeming life, we drove for some little way along a
straight level road, flanked, as usual, on either side by poplars of
great size which ran through a brown, flat field, showing traces of
recent snow, and finally finished our two-hundred-mile drive in front
of the one and only hotel in all Kashmir.
Our two little chestnuts, which had brought us right through from
Chakhoti to Srinagar—a distance of about seventy-eight miles—in two
days, were as lively and fit as possible, and playfully nibbled at each
other’s noses as they were walked off to their well-earned rest.
The ekka horses, too, had brought our heavy luggage all the way from
Abbotabad over a shocking road in the most admirable manner, and we had
every reason to congratulate ourselves on having entrusted the
arrangement of the whole business—the “bandobast” in native parlance—to
our henchman Sabz Ali, who had thus proved himself an energetic and
trustworthy organiser, and saving financier to the extent of some
twenty rupees.
I may emphasise here the importance of keeping one’s heavy baggage in
sight, herding on the ekkas in front, if possible, and keeping a wary
eye and a firm hand on the drivers at all halts. The Smithsons, who had
sent on their gear from Rawal Pindi some days before we got there, did
not receive it in Srinagar until the 22nd of April. It took about five
weeks to do the journey, and the rifle which I was obliged to leave in
Karachi on the 19th of March finally turned up in Srinagar, after an
infuriating and vain expenditure of telegrams, on the 1st of May!
Of course, part of the delay was due, and all was attributed, to the
unusually bad state of the roads. The heavy storms and floods which, by
wrecking the road, had delayed us so much, naturally checked the heavy
transport still more; and severe congestion of bullock-carts resulted
at all the halting-places along the route. Still, the main cause of
delay lies in the fact that the monopoly of transport has been granted
by the Maharajah to one Danjibhoy, who charges what he pleases, and
takes such time over his arrangements as suits his Oriental mind.
The motto over the Transport Office door might well be “_Ohne Hast—mit
Rast_!”
The other (much-cherished) monopoly in this favoured land is that
enjoyed by Mr. Nedou, the owner of THE HOTEL in Kashmir.
We were advised when at Lahore to approach Mr. Nedou (who winters in
his branch there) with many salaams and much “kow-towing,” in order to
make a certainty of being received into his select circle in Kashmir.
The great man was quite kind, and promised that he would do his best
for us; and he was as good as his word, as we were immediately welcomed
and permitted to add two to the four persons already inhabiting the
hostelry. I confess that, even after a dâk bungalow of the most
inferior quality—such as that at Ghari Habibullah or Baramula—Mr.
Nedou’s hotel fails to impress one with an undue sense of luxury. In
fact, it presented an even desolate and forlorn appearance with its
gloomy and chilly passages and cheerless bed-vaults.
CHAPTER V
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF SRINAGAR
We learnt that the earthquake of this morning was far more than the
ordinary affair that we had taken it to be. The hotel showed signs of a
struggle for existence. Large cracks in the plaster, spanned by strips
of paper gummed across to show if they widened, and little heaps of
crumbled mortar on the floors, betrayed that the grip of mother earth
had been no feeble one.
Telegrams from Lahore inquired if the rumour was true that Srinagar had
been much damaged, and reported an awful destruction and loss of life
at Dharmsala. I think if we had fully known what an earthquake really
meant, we should not have so calmly gone back to bed again!
The advent of Mrs. Smithson upon the scene relieved a certain anxiety
which we had felt as to immediate plans. The idea of rushing into Astor
had been given up, we found—not so much on account of our tardy
arrival, permits being still obtainable, but on account of the
impossibility—at any rate for ladies—of forcing the high passes which
the late season has kept safely sealed.
Walter, having pawed the ground in feverish impatience for some days,
had gone off into a region said to be full of bara singh; so we decided
to possess our souls in patience for a little time, and remain quietly
in Srinagar. Accordingly, instead of unpacking our “detonating
musquetoons,” we exhumed our evening clothes, and began life in
Srinagar with a cheerful dinner at the Residency.