IN SIGHT OF AFGHANISTAN
I left Lahore soon after eight o'clock one evening and when I woke in
the train next day found myself smothered in dust and traversing the
great Sind Desert, that almost rainless tract, which depends solely
for any possibility of cultivation on irrigation from the Indus.
An important trade route from Afghanistan and Persia coming through
the Bolan Pass has its base at Shikarpur, in Upper Sind, a few miles
from the great cantilever bridge, called the Lansdowne Bridge, which
joins Baluchistan to India crossing the Indus between Sukkur and Ruk.
An engineer was waiting at Sukkur railway station to show me the
great bridge, and as I had to continue my journey the same evening we
were obliged to face the heat of the sun and started back towards the
river on a trolley worked by hand levers. We passed a kite's nest
close to the railway on the perpendicular face of a mass of limestone
rock.
Sukkur is a good-sized town of more than 30,000 inhabitants, but its
buildings seemed {279} to be all of wattle and daub, though three and
even four storeys high, and they were grey in colour, uncomfortably
monotonous in the terrific heat.
A single span of the bridge joins the Sukkur side to Bhakkur Island,
a mass of limestone rock fortified centuries ago. The keys of the
gates were in charge of a signaller at the blockhouse and a bridge
inspector. While they were being obtained I read the inscription
upon the bridge--
"Erected by F. E. Robertson and M. S. N. Hecquet, 1887-1889. Girders
made by Westwood Baillie & Co., London. J. S. R., 1887."
It is one of the great monuments of Queen Victoria's reign, one among
the many bridges, waterworks and railroads that have so far
monopolized in modern India all architectural aspiration. Splendid
in its utility, an inspiring instrument of commercial development, it
looks like the creation of some great Arachnid but stretches its iron
network so far into the air that it is as much larger than any
spider's trap-net as the highest of the Himalayas exceeds an
ant-hill. I walked a little way on Bhakkur Island and stood on the
sand under some high walls looking at the Ruri end of the bridge.
They were the walls of an old nunnery called "Suttian," I think for
widows who had declined to be burned with their dead husbands. The
engineer told me in connection with "Suttian" that a man named {280}
Mosu Shah was said to have built a minaret we could see with the
object of spying upon one of the nuns with whom he was in love.
Out in the stream in front of us two men were "pala" fishing. They
had swum out each with an immense metal chattie to keep him afloat
and, resting upon these, fished the river with nets on long slender
poles, putting the fish inside the chattie as they took them from the
net. The fish come up to spawn and the men float down stream with
their nets in front of them.
They drifted through the very reflections of the vast cantilevers
just as a train was steaming over the bridge and made one more of the
innumerable contrasts of the old and new order I had seen in India.
Regaining the trolley we crossed to the Ruri shore and walked some
distance over the wide burning sand for the best view of the bridge.
A number of cattle were down upon the sand near the water-edge
seemingly well content, as I have seen great herds baking in summer
heat on level sand on the West Coast of Ireland at the edge of the
Atlantic. Here at Ruri, however, the sun beat with greater fury and
a group of Sindi boatmen and their families, who had been busy
mending sails spread out on the sand, had all stopped work till
cooler hours arrived.
In the summer, that engineer assured me, {281} the thermometer
reaches 240° and even 250° _in the shade_! "I have been here twelve
years," he said, "and during all that time we have had six
rainfalls." He pointed out to the right of the bridge the magazine
where dynamite was stored for blasting purposes, and, farther to the
right, another small island with a very old temple on it. This
island is called Khwajah Khisah and the temple shrine, although the
building is in the form of a mosque, is frequented by both Hindoos
and Mohammedans.
There is a very important project in hand for damming the Indus just
above this temple so as to raise the water-level and so feed the
canals during the dry season as well as at periods of flood. I could
make out the head of the Begari Canal, then quite dry, in the
distance between Khwajah Khisah and the island of Bhakkur.
When I returned by the trolley to Sukkur there was a local train in
the station and the carriage in front of the waiting-room where I sat
resting in the shade seemed to contain the most obviously authentic
prototypes of that famous Asiatic "forty," more celebrated even in
Europe than the French Academy. Red faces with large mouths agrin
between thick moustaches and short bushy black beards, blue turbans
and dirty finery--the very perfection of stage villains, but
Morgiana? No, I could not see her and the music of the opera, {282}
_The Barber of Baghdad_, with its superb iterations of that lady's
name came drifting through my head.
The reflections of the dull red girders of the bridge were now almost
green.
I again slept in the train that night and woke up in the Bolan Pass
in British Baluchistan. At half-past nine in the morning the sky was
very pale and although the shadows of the hill-clefts were clear they
were not hard. On each side of the line there was a flat
boulder-strewn plain which was stopped abruptly a quarter of a mile
away by steeply rising heights of rock. Then suddenly the flat plain
itself would be trenched and split into huge cañons, clefts going
deep down into the earth. A few grey dried plants, almost the same
colour as the stones, were the only visible signs of vegetation.
In the early morning at Sibi Junction I had branched off on the
Western (or Quetta) arm of the great loop which extends from Sibi to
Bostan Junction. By ten o'clock the train with two powerful engines
was ascending a gradient of one in twenty-five beyond Hirok. From
the window I could watch, upon the old Kandahar Road below, the old
slow-creeping progress of a camel caravan. The pass was now
narrowing, closing up on each side and the cliffs rose steeply where
at a sharp turn I caught sight of a square block-house perched on a
jutting crag.
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At Quetta I had the double annoyance of missing luggage and of being
taken, on account of my dark beard, for an expected French spy. The
latter misunderstanding was put right by a subdivisional officer from
Chaman (the present terminus of the railway beyond the end of the
Kojak Pass) whither I was bound and where, having left the loop at
Bostan Junction, I arrived the same evening to get a peep across the
border into Afghanistan--to set foot in the Amir's country, that land
of Mohammedan freebooters, waiting and waiting in vain for an
autonomous India whereunto their co-religionists would be able to
welcome an invading army.
Going out into the sunlight from the gloom of the dak bungalow
everything seemed at first only brightness, as if the external world
were like a cup brimmed with a throbbing intensity of light. Then,
as my eyes accustomed themselves, I saw that near the bungalow were
peach and apricot trees holding sprays of blossom, rose and white
against the pale blue of the sky, and that in the distance on every
side mountains rose out of the plain, not grey and cold but warm with
faint tints of amethyst and delicate red, and that snow lay upon
their higher peaks.
Chaman lies in the plain within a horseshoe of mountains, and the
space of clearly seen country is so vast that the mountains look
almost as if drawn upon a map. The little town is {284} entirely of
wattle and daub, a grey blanket colour with just a little paint and
whitewash about a Hindoo temple, and here and there a peach tree in
flush of blossom. The main street is very wide and in front of some
of the shops there are tiny enclosures, five or six feet square like
miniature front gardens. Two patriarchal looking old Pathans were
walking along in front of the shops. They wore the same kind of
stout leather boots, and from above the turban peeped the same type
of conical head-covering that I had seen worn by pedlars in Ceylon
and throughout the length and breadth of India. They were Achakzai
Pathans and one, whose name was Malik Samunder Khan, said he was
eighty years old.
Seeing the entrance of a caravanserai I was going in when Tambusami
demurred. It was a long way truly from his home near Tuticorin, and
he gave these Northern folk his favourite epithet calling them
"jungle people." Seeing that I was going into the sarai in spite of
his remonstrance, he said submissively, "Where you go I come," but
added, "Where you not go I not go."
There were not many camels within, but in one corner some Afghans
were pouring raisins into heaps, and inviting me to eat, gave me
larger and finer dried grapes than I had ever seen. The raisins were
called "abjush" and the men were {285} Popalzais (Candaharis). Alas!
we could exchange no talk but they made me welcome, and while we
squatted silent in the sunlight and the clear delicious air, one,
taking up a stringed instrument called a "rahab," sang to its
accompaniment. It was certainly not a song of fighting: there was
gladness in it--even passion now and then--but no fury--I think it
was a love-song. It was not a song of fatherland: there was pride in
it but no arrogance. Nor was it assuredly a song of religion: there
was faith in it and adoration, but no abasement. Yes, I'm sure it
was a love-song.
Quetta with its gardens and orchards, its fortified lines and its
command, by reason of natural position, of both the Kojak and the
Bolan Passes, is one of the most important of Indian Frontier posts.
I returned to it from Chaman and drove and walked about its wide and
well-metalled roads such as the "High School Road," the "Agent Road,"
and the "Kandahar Road." Trees, as yet bare of leaves, lined the
sides, and fruit blossom looked gaily over walls and fences.
The "Holi" festival of the Hindoos coloured these days. The throwing
of red powder or red-tinted water seemed pretty general, and hardly a
white dhoti was to be seen that was not blotched with crimson or
vermilion splashes. People danced in the streets, and one came
suddenly on {286} a crowd watching folk wild as bacchanals, both men
and women dressed in gay finery, garlanded with flowers and dancing
with strange fantastic gestures in obedience to the universal song of
spring's new advent. I went early to bed in another dak bungalow,
having somewhat of a fever about me since the blazing hours two days
before at the Lansdowne Bridge, and awoke in the early hours. My
great-coat had fallen down at one side of the charpoy, and I felt as
if a cold plaster lay upon my chest. Tambusami was crouched in front
of the fire and had fallen asleep covered in his blanket. From the
blackened broken hearth a little acrid smoke puffed fitfully into the
room. On the floor lay a torn and extremely dirty dhurrie which had
once been blue. Between the dhurrie and the damp earth mildewed
matting showed here and there through the holes. A decrepit
looking-glass in a broken frame stood upon one rickety table against
the wall, and on another an iron tray of uncleaned dinner-plates
added to the general air of dirt and squalor.
Leaving Quetta by a morning train I was again passing through a
region mountainous on either side beyond a plain white with
leprous-like tracts of salt. It resembled neither frost nor snow,
but was a strange blotchy incrustation as if the earth were smitten
with some fearful pestilence.
{287}
On one side the mountains were grey with violet shadows following
their clefts and scoriations, spotted in places by dark leafless
shrubs, and on their summits lay a little snow. On the other side
the hills were red with only soft warm hints of shadows, and beyond
them was a band of filmy blue almost as light as the sky. Soon, as
the train raced on, the intervening plain became strewn with small
loose boulders and isolated tufts of dry dead prickly bush. Two long
tents like giant slugs hugged the ground with their black bodies, and
near them a few scattered sheep hunted the sparse nourish of aridity.
Again I passed Bostan Junction, this time, however, instead of going
on towards Chaman, turning to follow round the Eastern arm of the
loop by what is called the Harnai Route. The landscape had quite
altered, but was still strange and unhealthy looking. A veritable
pigment seemed to exude from it, varying in different parts of the
same field of vision. The outlines were noble but the colour,
instead of being the effect of light and air upon masses either of
local uniformity or varied by differences as of flowers or
vegetation, was by this frequent change in the hue of the earth
itself too prismatic for majesty and too trivial for grandeur. A
rugged pile of grey rock will receive from the procession of the
hours indescribable glories, but a mass of mixed French fondants
squashed into the same shape {288} could never capture a tithe of
such beauty. In chalky half-tones the landscape ran the entire gamut
of reds, yellows, blues and greens, with an appearance of false
sweetness as if the face of earth had been smeared with pigment
destroying all natural glow.
And yet--and yet--as noon grew nearer and the hovering heat made all
things hazy and indistinct, where all merged and was lost, and
nothing began or ended, surely that was beautiful--earth
mother--mother-o'-pearl.
After leaving Mangi Station the train approached the famous Chappa
Rift where a vast and sudden break in the mountain makes a wide
stupendous chasm, with steep perpendicular sides. I was permitted to
ride upon the locomotive for this part of the journey and watch this
wild and desolate magnificence of nature's architecture unfold its
terrible titanic grandeur. At one point the railway crosses the rift
by an iron bridge called after the Duchess of Connaught. Entering a
tunnel in the vast wall of rock the train emerges again at one end of
the bridge, and after crossing the gulf turns along the other side so
that for some long time this narrowest part remains in sight, the
maroon red ironwork of the bridge staring dramatically in the centre
of a desolate landscape of silver grey. No patch of grass or shrub
or any other live thing is to be seen--only the immensity of the
scale is marked {289} by one small block-house, a minute sentinel
which shows against the sky on the tallest height of cliff.
As the journey continued, the rocks took more fantastic shapes and
above a steely gleaming river and its grey beach of stones, the cliff
became like serried rows of crumbling columns as if some cyclopean
Benares uplifted by earthquake reared its line of petrified palaces
against the sky.
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