Favourable impressions of our new home—The Residency—The
Maharajah—His brother the Jubraj—Polo with the Princes—The
Senaputti a fine sportsman—Visits us on Sunday
afternoons—Shell-firing—Prince Zillah Singh—We try to learn the
Manipuri language.
I always think a great deal depends on one’s first impressions of
anything, be it place or people. One is struck with a house or a garden
if it looks pleasant at first sight, even though a closer acquaintance
with it may bring disappointment. My first impressions of our house and
surroundings on this occasion were of the most favourable description.
A long carriage-drive led up from the entrance-gate to the house. There
were trees each side, and a delightful stretch of grassland dotted about
with deodars and flowering shrubs, with a tennis-court in the centre on
the right. A hedge of cluster roses all in blossom divided the outer
grounds from the flower-garden surrounding the house, at the end of which
was a small lake with an island in the middle of it, where, late as it
was, a few wild-duck were still swimming about. We cantered our horses
up the drive to the entrance, a long flight of steps covered by a porch,
over which grew a beautiful Bougainvillia, whose gorgeous purple blossoms
entirely hid the thatch with which the porch was surmounted.
The Residency was a long low house with a thatched roof. The walls
were painted white, and the wood-work picked out in black. A veranda
surrounded it, comfortably matted and strewn about with rugs and skins.
In front of the house there was a circular lawn covered with flower-beds
blazing with colour, and at the end of the lawn was the flagstaff of my
dreams and the ensign of Old England waving proudly in the breeze. To
us, fresh from the jungles of the previous nine days, the place seemed
beautiful, and even after we had grown accustomed to it, we always
returned to it with a fresh sense of pleasure. The inside of the house
was equally charming, and after our little hut at Sylhet it seemed a
mansion. The red-coated servants were all in attendance, and a couple of
Ghoorka orderlies, so that my aspirations in that direction were amply
satisfied.
[Illustration: VIEW OF THE RESIDENCY AT MANIPUR.]
In a very few days we had shaken down most comfortably. We had brought
with us everything we possessed, and I soon had as pretty a drawing-room
as anyone could wish for. The next thing my husband had to do was to make
friends with the Maharajah. For this purpose a durbar was arranged, and
it took place about two days after we had been there, at eight in the
morning. It was a very imposing function indeed. Red cloth was spread
all over the veranda and on the front steps, and our whole escort of
sixty Ghoorkas was drawn up on the front lawn. The Maharajah arrived
with a grand flourish of trumpets, attended by all his brothers, and
accompanied also by a large following of Sepoys, slaves and ministers
of state, each of the latter with his own retinue. The Maharajah was a
short, fat, ugly little man, with a face something between that of a
Burmese and a Chinaman—rather fairer than the Bengal natives, but much
scarred with small-pox. He was dressed very simply in white—a white coat
with gold buttons, and a very fine white muslin Dhotee.[2] He had a large
white turban on his head, in which was stuck a spray of yellow orchids.
Gray woollen stockings covered his legs, fastened at the knee with blue
elastic garters with very fine brass buckles and little bows, and his
feet were encased in very large roughly-made laced boots, of which he
seemed supremely proud.
His eldest brother, the Jubraj, was a second edition of himself, only
stouter and uglier. Next in order rode the Senaputti, whom I have already
described, and he was followed by five younger brothers. My husband had
to go to the outer gate to meet his highness with his hat off, where he
shook hands with all the princes, and then walked with the Maharajah back
to the house and into the durbar hall, which was in the centre of the
Residency. The whole durbar, being only a complimentary ceremony, did not
last more than ten minutes, but before he left the Maharajah expressed a
wish to see me; so I appeared and shook hands with them all, and smiled
amiably, as I did not know enough of the language then to speak to them.
They all stared at me very solemnly, as though I were a curious kind of
animal, and shortly afterwards they took their departure.
I shall not attempt a detailed account of our life at Manipur, as it was
very monotonous and uneventful. We got to know the princes very well.
My husband played polo with them, and I frequently rode with them. The
Senaputti in particular was our very good friend. There was something
about him that is not generally found in the character of a native. He
was manly and generous to a fault, a good friend and a bitter enemy. We
liked him because he was much more broad-minded than the rest. If he
promised a thing, that thing would be done, and he would take the trouble
to see himself that it was done, and not be content with simply giving
the order. He was always doing little courteous acts to please us. On
one occasion I mentioned to him that I had been very much frightened
by a lunatic in the bazaar, who was perfectly harmless, but dreadfully
deformed as well as insane. He used to spring out upon you suddenly,
making terrible grimaces, which was not pleasant, and he frightened me
several times. I noticed after speaking to the Senaputti about him that
he had not been in the bazaar for a long time, and afterwards I was told
that the prince had ordered him to be kept at home in the evenings, at
the time we usually went out for a walk.
Another time I had been very ill, and when I was getting better, kind
inquiries came every day from the Senaputti, accompanied by half a
dozen small birds which he thought were eatable, as he had often seen
my husband bring snipe home. The birds were useless, of course, but I
valued the kind thoughts which prompted him to send them. If anything
went amiss with my husband’s polo-ponies, the Senaputti was quite ready
to send him as many as he wanted of his own, and he always mounted any
visitor who might be staying with us and wish for a game. He was a keen
sportsman and a capital shot. In the cold weather he often organized
a week’s deer-shooting for my husband, to which I always went, and
very good fun it was. The Senaputti would meet us at the place with a
number of elephants, and we used to start very early in the morning, and
generally returned with a good bag. Bigger game was scarcely known in the
valley. Occasionally a stray tiger would wander down and kill a bullock
or two, the news of which was immediately conveyed to the Maharajah and a
shooting-party organized.
A number of men kept for the purpose would start out to the spot where
the tiger was supposed to be with nets and enormous spears. They
surrounded the bit of jungle first with nets and afterwards with a strong
bamboo fence, which, when erected, enabled them to remove the nets. The
whole of the royal family then arrived and ourselves, and ascended into
little platforms built up very high off the ground to be safely out of
reach of the tiger should he escape; and then, with much blowing of
trumpets and shouting, the fun began. The jungle inside the fence was
then cut down, each cutter being protected by another man armed with an
enormous spear. By degrees all the jungle was cut and the tiger forced to
appear, when the occupants of the platforms all shot at him at once and
ended his career. Sometimes the tiger was speared by the men inside the
fence, but the poor beast always had ten or twelve wounds in him when we
came to examine him. It was exciting, but it was not sport, and I always
felt sorry for the tiger. Whenever I was present the Maharajah presented
me with the skin and claws, and I got quite a collection in my three
years at Manipur.
The princes always seemed to like our taking an interest in their
concerns, and they frequently visited us, even sometimes on Sundays with
a small following, and without any ceremony. Their people remained in the
veranda, and they used to come into the drawing-room and talk to us, and
look at our photographs and my husband’s guns.
Any new invention in the latter pleased them immensely, and they
immediately wished to know where the weapon was made and all particulars.
They generally stayed with us some time on these occasions. Two or three
days afterwards they would ask my husband to shoot or ride with them,
and we always saw something of them during the week. On one occasion
I mentioned to them that I had never seen a shell fired, so they got
the Maharajah to arrange for a field-day, and we rode out to their own
rifle-range, and saw their two mountain-guns brought out with different
kinds of shell, and fired by the Senaputti himself.
When I think over the events of the last few months, it seems difficult
to realize the friendly terms on which we had ever been with the Court at
Manipur. How little we could foresee the terrible destruction those same
guns were to bring upon our peaceful home in the near future! I was so
delighted that day at watching the effect of a shell on the hill we were
firing at, and the Manipuris got the range very well, almost every shot
taking effect. We were out that morning four or five hours, and all rode
back together. The Maharajah rode a beautiful pony on a gold saddle, with
large flaps on each side to protect his legs, also of gold. The pony’s
bridle was made of gold cord, and his head and back covered with balls of
soft white cotton. These saddles are really curiosities, and are peculiar
to Manipur. The balls of cotton are arranged to protect the pony’s sides
from being hit at polo, and the whole turn-out is very well made, though
rather heavy for the small steeds.
It was a fine sight to see the Senaputti play polo. He was very strong;
in fact, the Manipuris used to tell us that he was the strongest man in
the country. He could lift very heavy weights and throw long distances,
and to see him send the ball skimming half across the ground with one hit
was a very pretty sight. He could do strokes that few Manipuris knew,
which is saying a great deal, for an average player at Manipur can beat
most Englishmen. The Senaputti was a magnificent rider, and he was always
mounted on beautiful ponies. He wore a very picturesque dress for polo—a
green velvet zouave jacket edged with gold buttons, and a salmon-pink
silk Dhotee, with white leather leggings and a pink silk turban. He had
long hair, which he used to twist up into a knot at the back of his neck,
and he always looked very nice on these occasions. All the princes played
polo.
There was one called Zillah Singh, a boy of about seventeen, whom we
used to call the Poem. He was a slight, graceful-looking lad, and he
used to ride a tiny mite of a pony, and never troubled himself with too
many garments. His turban was always coming off, and his long black
hair streamed in the wind as he flew about all over the ground. Even
the little son of the Maharajah used to play. He was a dear little
fellow, of about eight years old, and once a week there was generally a
youngsters’ game, in which all the little royalties used to perform, and
remarkably well too, considering how young most of them were. My husband
played regularly twice a week, all the year round. The Senaputti liked
to play for stakes, which were generally muslin cloths or turbans. These
were all hung up at the end of the ground, and when the game was ended,
the winning side were presented with them, and the losers had to pay for
them, which gave an interest to the game, and made both sides play up.
I have said more about the Senaputti than the other princes, because
he was the one of them all that we knew intimately. He could speak
Hindostani well, while the other princes spoke nothing but their own
language, and when we first went to Manipur my husband, of course, didn’t
know a word of Manipuri, so had to speak to them through an interpreter.
He did not lose much time in setting to work to learn it, and he had
an old pundit[3] who used to come every day to give him lessons. This
old gentleman was rather a character. His name was Perundha Singh, and
he deprived Government of fifty rupees annually, by virtue of calling
himself ‘Burmese Interpreter to the Political Agent,’ which designation
he had engraved on a brass plate which he wore on the front of his belt.
Whether he really knew Burmese was another matter, but he had certainly
been in Burmah, and had seen some fighting there and even got wounded
himself. He never turned up on wet days, because the bullet, which, he
affirmed, had never been extracted, got affected by the damp and became
rusty, causing him much pain and preventing his sitting down.
I had a grand idea of learning Manipuri too, but the old pundit used to
pay me such florid compliments over the extreme rapidity with which I
was picking up the language, that my husband thought I should learn it
before he did, and said we must have our lessons at different times,
which I found rather dull work, so ceased them altogether. The old pundit
was a grand gossip. He had a thousand stories of the good and evil deeds
of all the Sahibs who had been before us, and I must honestly confess
the deeds seemed chiefly evil ones. He invariably ended by saying that
there never was, and never would be, such a good and excellent Sahib as
the present one, which judicious piece of flattery he hoped would be
productive of great pecuniary results.