I don't know very well how we did all our packing and got away from the
Taj Hotel to the train, but we did it somehow; and possibly may become
inured to the effort after six or seven more months travelling. Now we
are reaping the reward of our exertions. Within less than half an hour
from Bombay we are right into jungle! I thought of and looked for
tigers, and saw in a glade of palms and thorns where there should have
been tigers, hoardings with "The Western Indian Army-Equipment Factory"
and the like in big letters; so I had just to imagine the tigers, and
make studies from life of the Parsis as they wandered up and down the
corridor; I can see some point in their women wearing Saris, these
graceful veils hanging from the back of their hair, but why do they and
Mohammedan men wear their shirt tails outside their petticoats and
trousers?--I must look up "Murray."
To right and left we come on open country divided like an irregular
draught-board into little fields of less than an acre each, with dykes a
few inches high round them; paddy fields, I suppose--the place for snipe
and rice. Round those that have water on them are grey birds like small
herons, with white showing in their wings when they fly--paddy birds;
have I not heard and read of them from my youth up, and of the griffins'
bag of them. I have also read and heard of the Western Ghats[8], these
mountain slopes we have to climb up east of Bombay, that run right south
and which we are now approaching, but I had no idea they were so
fantastically like Norman ramparts and buttresses on mountain tops,
neither had I an idea that the trees and fields at their feet and up
their sides were so green. We rattle along at say fifty miles an hour,
not very comfortably, for there is heat and dust; but all along the line
are interesting groups of figures to look at. Here is a string of women
in red shawls against golden sunlit grass above a strip of blue water,
and there again, a man just stopped work sitting at the door of a dusty
hut of palm leaves and dry clay. He shades his eyes with his hand as he
watches the train pass; how his deep copper-coloured skin gleaming with
moisture, contrasts with the grey parched earth; then a group of
children bathing and paddling, at this distance they are perfectly
lovely. The young people are far more fairly formed than I expected them
to be--famine photographs probably account for this; they are black but
comely, though possibly closer inspection would dissolve the charm--here
are people, men and women, stacking corn or hay round a homestead, a
scene I have not heard described or read of in home letters or books
about India; how the pictures unfold themselves all hot and new to me,
and coloured, and at fifty to sixty miles an hour! Won't mental
indigestion wait on good appetite!
[8] Sanskrit "Gati" a way or path--Scottish "gate" is a way or path too.
We are going south-east now; Bombay away to our right over the bay, and
the Ghat we saw to the south in extended battlements and towers, now
shows in profile as one tower, on high and steep escarpments. We are
still in the low country. May I liken it to the Carse of Forth extended,
with the Kippens on either side, with the features and heat considerably
increased. I am told I should not compare homely places I know with
places unfamiliar, as it limits the reader's imagination; the Romans did
so--said, "Lo! The Tiber!" when they saw the Tay; I must try not to do
the same.
And as at home, the people at the stations become lustier and have
clearer eyes and are more powerfully built, as we get further from
town; that is not saying much here, for the strongest look as if a
breeze would blow them over; however, they may have their own particular
kind of strength. I know my boy surprised me last night when he started
to pack my various belongings; the way he sat down on his heels beside
each box and went through the work showed if not strength, its
equivalent in agility, and a method entirely his own. He told me, "Yes,
Sa, I do same whole camp one night, saddles, horses, bridles, whole lot
camp outfit while you sleep." He has been butler to two distinguished
generals, so I feel it must be rather a drop for him to valet a mere
cold-weather tourist, but he does not show it, which is a point in his
favour. It was a little awkward though the other day when he began to
beat up to find my profession; I forget what he said exactly. It was
something like, "Sahib General?" and I said, "No, no," as if Generals
were rather small fry in my estimation, and racked my brains how to
index myself. I've read you must "buck" in the East--isn't that the
expression?--so a happy inspiration came, and I said with solemnity, "I
am a J.P.,--a Justice of the Peace, you understand?" and I could see he
was greatly relieved, for unless you have some official position in
India you are no one. He went on packing perfectly satisfied, murmuring,
"Yes Sahib, I know, Sahib Lord Chief Justice, I know." Ought I to have
corrected him? Ought I to have told him seriously that I am an
artist!--a professional painter from choice, and necessity? He would
have left my ignoble service on the spot; why, even in Britain, Art is
reckoned after the Church, and in Belgium, though respectable, it is
still only a trade--Peter Paul notwithstanding.
After two or three hours in the train through this sunlit country, we
conclude it is worth coming to see; for the last hours have unfolded the
most interesting show that I have ever seen from a train in the time.
Outside all is new, and inside the train much is familiar; some English
people near us sit with their backs to the window and take no notice of
the outside world. What high head notes they speak with, and what
familiar ground they go over. "Oh! you know Bown, do you--such a good
fellah--good thot, I mean--went mad about golf--such a good gaime, you
know--what I mean is--you know it's," etc. Quite "good people" too,
probably keen on ridin' and shootin' though they may never have shot a
foxth or a goo'th, or have even seen a golden eagle. But they seem
almost happy, in a jog trot sort of a way, along the old trail--the
Midlands to Indiar, and Indiar to the Midlands, with bwidge between.
We swing round a curve south-westerly and into a tunnel and out again
and up from the plain--up and up--high rocky hills on either side with
bushes and trees growing amongst rocks; another Pass of Lennie, I'd like
to call it, on a larger scale. Out of the tunnel, we look down a long
valley to our right with little dried up fields all over the bottom of
it, fading into distant haze. Then another black tunnel opening into
grey rock, and on coming slowly out--we are climbing all the time one
foot in forty-two--we again look down a valley miles away to our left,
and we can see the station Karjat, from which we began this climb up the
Bore Ghat.
The aspect of this country makes me think of sport; the rocky hills, dry
grass, pools, and cover suggest stalking or waiting for game, but
perhaps there is still too much evidence of people--however, I must get
the glasses out and see what they will show up.
Kandala station--a white spot, the guard points out to us far above
us--then into a tunnel, and out, and we are there. To our right are
ridge beyond ridge of hill tops, stretching away into the sunset.
Reader, please draw a breath before this next paragraph.
"The length of the ascent is nearly 16 miles over which there are
26 tunnels with a length of 2,500 yards, eight viaducts, many
smaller bridges. The actual height accomplished by the ascent is
1,850 feet, and the cost of constructing the line was nearly
_L_600,000."
Fairly concentrated mental food, is it not? and only eight lines from
one page of "Murray," and there are one hundred and six lines in a page,
and six hundred and thirty nine pages in the book!!
The sun sets on our right beyond a plain of stubble fields and young
crops and distant hills, and in the sky a rich band of gold, veined with
vermillion, lies above a belt of violet, and higher still a star or two
begin to glitter in the cold blue. To us newcomers, this first sunset we
have seen in India in the open over the high plains filled us with new
and almost solemn interest. But why the feeling was new or strange would
be hard to say; sunsets the world over are alike in many ways, but the
feelings stirred are as different as the lands and the people over which
they set.
A little later we (I should say I, in this case) had quite an adventure
at a dusky siding in this tableland of the Dekkan. As I hastened to our
carriage a beautiful lady bowed to me, a stranger in a far land! And I
bowed too, and said, "How do you do, we met on the _Egypt_ of course!"
and she said, "You are not Mr Browning!" When I agreed it was only
"me"--she expressed some surprise, for she is shortly to visit my
brother down the line at Dharwar, and her chaperone had just been
staying there. One of us possibly remarked the world is small. Later we
all foregathered in an excellent little dining-car on the S. M. R.[9]
line, and discussed family histories, and the incident made us feel
quite at home. Everyone seems to know everyone else out here, and if
they don't they very soon do, and all seem sworn to make the best of
each other, and make things "go." It is so admirable; even though you
may feel as a newcomer, a little uncomfortable crawling out of the shell
of reserve you have brought all the way from home.
[9] Southern Maharatta Railway.
The air is much lighter up here than down in Bombay; even after a
bustling day getting into train, travelling, and seeing a hundred miles
of utterly new sights, we feel far less tired than after doing nothing
in particular all day on the coast. We stop at a station, Kirkee, three
and a half miles from Poona. Here, there is a glove left on the line by
the editor of "Murray's Guide," to be picked up by some Scot or
Irishman; I have not time just now. He says that Kirkee is interesting
as being the scene of a splendid victory over Baji Rao II; his account
is concentrated and interesting. The names of the officers mentioned in
the paragraph referring to the victory are Scottish and Irish, and he
calls it English, instead of British--a little more sand in the
machinery of the great Imperial idea.[10]
[10] First condition Treaty of Union 1707:--
"I. That the two Kingdoms of England and Scotland shall, upon the first
of May next ensuing the date hereof and for ever after, be united into
one Kingdom by the name of Great Britain...."
_Mais en voiture!_--This narrow gauge on which we now are, is not half
bad. We have a fore and aft carriage, the seats on either side we can
turn into beds, and there is a third folding up berth above one of
these. After the custom of the country, we have brought razais or thin
mattresses, and blankets--an excellent custom, for it is much nicer
turning into your own bedclothes at night in a train or hotel than into
unfamiliar properties.
... How pleasant it is in this morning light after the night journey to
look out on the rolling country. There are low trees, twelve to twenty
feet high, with scrub between, and the varied foliage shows an autumnal
touch of the dry season. Now we pass an open space with a small
whitewashed temple in the middle of a green patch of corn; a goatherd
walks on the sand between us and it with his black and white flock; he
is well wrapped up, head and all in cotton draperies, as if there was a
chill in the morning air, but it looks and feels very comfortable to us
in our carriage: the sky is dove coloured, streaked with pale blue. Now
some women show in the crops, the corn stands high over them, and from
this distance they are things of beauty. Their draperies are purple or
deep blue, and their skins rich brown, set off by white teeth and the
glint of silver bangles and brass pots. They have pretty naked children
beside them. Every hundred yards or so there is something fascinatingly
beautiful, so the early morning hours go past quickly.
Just before Belgaum Station, our delight in watching these new scenes is
brought to a fine point by the arrival of a boy with tea and toast, all
hot! Positively it is difficult to take it, for here comes a fort we
must look at--miles of sloping coppery-coloured crenellated stone wall
of moresque design. Graceful trees grow inside, and over its walls you
see an occasional turbaned native's head, one is vivid yellow another
rose; we pass so close we almost cross the moat, and the women stop
washing clothes and look up. More park scenes follow, then market
gardens and native cottages of dried mud, and we can see right into
their simple domestic arrangements.
At Belgaum our friends of last night get off with their camp equipment,
and I make a dive into a brand new suit in haste to bid them good-bye
and _au revoir_, and as I make finishing touches, we steam away and the
farewell is unsaid! These three lone ladies have gone to see jungle
life; the eldest only recently lost her husband in the jungle--killed
and eaten, by a tiger.
The soil in the railway cuttings gets gradually a deeper bronze colour
as we go south, about Bombay it was grey or light yellow. Now it is from
yellow ochre to red ochre, with a coppery sheen where it is
weather-worn. The trees become higher and the glades more like Watteau
or Corot scenes, but neither Watteau nor Corot ever saw more naturally
beautiful tinted figures; their many coloured draperies are so faded and
blended in the strong sun that it is difficult to tell where one
coloured cloth begins and another ends.
At Londa we stop half-an-hour or so, and our Boy rolls up our blankets,
and rugs, and we endeavour to concentrate attention on a dainty
breakfast in a neat little restaurant car of which we are sole
occupants. The car is made for two tables, each for four people, and a
man and a boy, both very neatly dressed, cook and serve, so you see the
line is not yet overrun, and it is still cheap, and comfortable. If I
might be so bold as to criticise what you, my Elder Brother, may be
responsible for, I'd suggest that the place to sleep on might be made a
shade softer.--Yes, we are becoming effeminate, I know--we were becoming
so alas, as far back as "the 45," when The M'Lean found his son with a
snowball for a pillow; still, we must go with the times, and even if the
berths must be hard, at least let them be level. Please note, all
soldier men who run railways in India, and receive my blessing in
advance.
Our little waiter is a delightful study with his big turban and red band
across it with the Southern Maharatta Railway initials in gold, white
tunic, and trousers, and red sash and bare feet; and can't he wait
neatly and quickly! We have figures to draw everywhere.--Here, within
arm's length, at a station, are women porteresses, each a fascinating
study of pose and drapery, and from a third class carriage just pulled
up, out gushes a whole family, the kids naked from the waist up, and the
men almost the same from the waist down. The women are in waspish yellow
and deep reds, and they group and chatter in the sun, then heave their
baggage, great soft baskets, on their heads--the women do this, the men
have turbans, so they can't, and away they all go smiling. But better
still, in the shade, there's a group of men and women seated, putting in
time eating from heaps of emerald green bananas and sanguine
pomegranates--how I wish I could stay for hours to paint!
Out of Londa the trees get finer and taller, and you see real live
bamboos in great masses of soft grey-green, their foliage a little like
willows at a distance. One cannot but think of big game; surely this is
the place for sambhur if not for tiger: and there are trees like Spanish
chestnuts with larger leaves and elms, and between the tall trunks are
breaks of under cover, over which we get a glimpse now and then of
rolling distant jungle and indigo blue hills against a soft grey sky.
Nacargali--Tavargatti--little stations one after the other all the way,
a station about every six miles--still through bamboo forest--I think
the bamboos must be 70 to 90 feet high. Now and then we pass glades with
water. At one pool little naked boys and girls are herding cattle, white
and cream coloured cows, and black hairless buffaloes, whose skins
reflect the blue sky. The mud banks are brown and the water yellow, and
there's bright green grass between the red mud and the soft green of the
bamboos. Put in the little brown-skinned herds, one with a pink rag on
his black hair, and that is as near as I can get it with the A.B.C., and
there is not time nor sufficient stillness for paint.
[Illustration]
With pencil in my journal I have little hasty scribbles--one half done
and the other begun. There is a group of women, with waistcloths only,
standing on a half-submerged tree trunk in greenish water washing
clothes, one stands the others squat, and beyond are cattle and bamboos.
Along the side of the track there are wild flowers, creepers, and thorns
with little violet flowers, and others of orange vermilion, and every
here and there are ant hills, three or four feet high, of reddish soil
shaped like rugged Gothic spires or Norman towers. On the telegraph wire
are butcher birds, hoopoos, kingfishers, and a vivid blue bird a little
like a jay, the roller bird I believe. The king crow I am sure of--I saw
and read about him in Bombay; he is the most independent and plucky
little bird in India, fears nothing with wings! He is black, between the
size of a swift and a blackbird, with a long drooping tail turned out
like a black cock's at the end. I don't think he troubles anyone unless
they trouble him and his wife, then he goes for them head first, and the
wife isn't very far behind and gets a dig in too. There are doves and
pigeons galore, and just before we came to Dharwar across a clear space
there cantered a whole family circle of large monkeys! What a lovely
action they have, between a thoroughbred's and a man's. They wore
yellowish beards and black faces and black ends to their tails, which
they carry high with a droop at the end.
[Illustration]
Alnaver.--We pass iron trucks with native occupants--not bad
looking--paler in colour I think than the natives at Bombay. Acres of
cut dry timber, long bits and short bits, are here for the engine's
fuel. The smoke of it makes a pleasant scent in the hot dry air. The
country becomes a little more open and not quite so interesting perhaps.
Kambarganvi--flatter and less picturesque--nullahs, open ground and
cattle, thin jungle on rolling ground extending to a distant edge of
table land. We pass a pool full of buffalo, only their heads are visible
above the muddy green water; on the shores and on their backs are little
brown nude girls with yellow flowers round their necks; then Dharwar and
the Elder Brother on the platform, and we heave a sigh of relief at the
end of the first chapter of our Pilgrimage in India.