Society at Manipur—Band of the Ghoorkas—The bandmaster—His
peculiar attire—The regiment ordered away to our regret—Worse
news—We are ordered to leave—Parting views—Mr. Heath
appointed—Son of the Tongal general—His good and bad
qualities—Magnificent scenery—The Ungamis—Their quarrelsome
character.
When we first went to Manipur we had a certain amount of society, as it
was then the headquarters of a Ghoorka regiment, which was stationed four
miles away from us, at a place called Langthabal; not a pleasant spot by
any means, as it had only been roughly cleared for a cantonment, and the
roads about it were little better than paths. The officers lived in huts
made of bamboo, and the walls had a thin covering of mud on the outside,
which some of the more enterprising inmates had painted with whitewash,
making them look a little more like the habitations of civilized folks.
Some of the huts had very pretty gardens round them, but small, of
course, though the flowers there seemed to do twice as well as ours did
in the Residency garden. We saw a good deal of the officers in the 44th
Ghoorka Rifles, the regiment there when we arrived. They used to come in
for polo twice a week, and to what I was pleased to call my ‘at home’
every Thursday, when we played tennis and had the Maharajah’s band from
four o’clock till six.
This band was composed of Nagas, and it was wonderful to hear how easily
they learnt English music. Waltzes and any dance music came easiest to
them, and they kept excellent time; but they could manage anything, and I
have heard them play difficult selections from the great masters without
a mistake. Their bandmaster was very talented. As a young man he had gone
to Kohima to be taught by the bandmaster of the 44th Ghoorka Rifles, and
he had a natural ear for music, and could even sing a little. He used
to get very impatient at times when the bandsmen were more stupid than
usual, and on one occasion he took to beating them, and they refused to
work any longer under him. They were imprisoned, and many of them beaten,
but at last, after a great deal of persuasion, backed by a few rupees,
they were induced to begin again, and the bandmaster promised to cease
from castigating them whenever they played a wrong note.
I shall never forget my first introduction to the bandmaster. He arrived
dressed in what he called his ‘Calcutta clothes,’ of which he was
immensely proud. They consisted of a white frock coat, made in a very
old-fashioned way; black broadcloth continuations, rather short and very
baggy; a red-corded silk waistcoat, with large white spots, and tie to
match; turn-down collar and ancient top hat, constructed in the year
1800, I fancy. He had a small peony in his button-hole, and last, but
not least, patent-leather boots stitched with white and covered with
three rows of pearl buttons. He carried a light cane, surmounted by the
head and shoulders of a depraved-looking female in oxidized silver as
a handle. He showed this to me with great pride, and really it was a
marvellous machine, for when you pressed the top of her head attar of
roses came out of her mouth and nose, and if you were anywhere near you
were covered with that pungent liquid. It was very difficult to avoid
laughing at this curious get-up, and when he had safely embarked on a
long overture from ‘William Tell,’ I disappeared for a few minutes to
give vent to my amusement. He was quite a character, and always afforded
me a weekly surprise, as he seldom appeared in the same clothes twice
running, and his wardrobe seemed as endless as it was select.
Being able to have the band when we liked was very pleasant. It brought
the officers over from Langthabal once a week at any rate, and we always
rode out to see them every week. We were very gay there in those days,
and we used to have dinner-parties, and I enjoyed the change of going
to the mess to dinner now and then. Of course the four miles’ journey
there was a little trying. The Manipur roads never admitted of driving,
so I used to be carried in a long chair by hospital Kahars, and my
husband used to ride. It was terribly cold coming back late at night,
and often very wet, but we did not mind that very much to get an outing
occasionally.
Terribly sorry we were when the decree went forth that we were to lose
the regiment. We knew that they might go any day, and a Chin expedition
cropped up in the winter of 1888, which took our only neighbours off
on the warpath. We were very depressed at the idea of losing them, but
perfectly desolated when a letter came saying that we ourselves were to
go to another station. We were out in camp when it arrived, and I never
shall forget the hopeless silence that fell upon us both at the news.
We had counted upon being safely installed at Manipur for three years
at the least, but, alas! a number of senior men were coming out from
furlough, and had to be provided with districts before the juniors. We
had taken so much pride in the place during our ten months’ residence
there that we were very loath to go. We talked it over, trying to find
some way of getting out of leaving, but came to the conclusion there was
none. That was in December, but we did not really leave until February,
as the officer who was to relieve us had to come a long distance from
the other side of the Assam Valley, and he took as long as he possibly
could in coming, being as loath to take the place as we were to give
it up. Sadly we walked round our gardens, noted the rose-trees only
lately arrived from Calcutta, which we had been counting on to make
the place beautiful during the coming year, and gazed mournfully at the
newly-made asparagus-bed that we hoped would have fed us in three years’
time. I almost felt inclined to destroy everything, but my husband was
more magnanimous, and even went as far as to say he hoped Mr. Heath (our
successor) would enjoy it all.
We made the most of our last two months in Manipur. Two shooting
expeditions to the lake, and a journey to Cachar for the Christmas
race-meet, occupied most of our remaining time; but, like all things, it
came to an end—all too soon for us—and one morning the guns boomed out a
salute to our successor. It was a case of ‘Le roi est mort. Vive le roi!’
The same elephants, covered with the same crimson coverings, welcomed
him in the identical manner that they had welcomed us. The red-coated
Chupprassies hastened to pay their respects to the new Sahib and attend
to his wants, heedless of those of the old Sahib, and I think we both
felt then what leaving the place would really mean to us.
Mr. Heath was much impressed by all the glories prepared for him, but
he had not been in the house very long before he told us how much he
disliked coming to Manipur. He hadn’t a good word to say for it, and I
felt very sorry for him, as he really seemed to dread the loneliness
terribly. Lonely it certainly was, and the outlook was worse for him
than it had been for us, as we had each other, and the regiment was four
miles off. He had no one. I knew well how the solitude would weigh on him
before many days were over. It had been dreadful work for me at times,
when my husband was kept in the office till late in the evening, and I
had to amuse myself as best I could from eleven in the morning until
dinner-time. There were no books or papers to be got under three weeks
or a month’s post, and then one had to buy one’s books, as there was no
going to a library for them. So I felt very sorry for poor Mr. Heath,
as he seemed far from strong into the bargain. However, I did my best
to cheer him up by taking him all round the gardens and over the house,
and showing him that, as far as the place went, he could not wish for a
better.
Then we went for a walk through the bazaar and on to the polo ground,
and eventually, when we returned in the evening, he seemed in a happier
frame of mind, and the band playing whilst we were at dinner cheered him
up considerably. But next day, when the time came for us to depart, he
was very gloomy, and as I was worse myself, I could not put on a pleasant
outward appearance. It was very hard to leave the place, having to bid
good-bye to all our pets, leaving them in the hands of the servants who
might or might not look after them. I took the three little monkeys with
me, as I would not part with them, and they were travellers already, as
they had come to Manipur with us. My husband did suggest letting them
loose in a large grove of mango-trees not far from the Residency that
was filled with monkeys which we often used to go and feed with rice and
plantains, but I knew how they fought amongst themselves, and how the big
ones bullied the little ones, so I preferred taking my three with us. I
took a last walk round the grounds, and almost directly after breakfast
our horses came to the door and we had to make a start. All the servants
that were remaining behind came and bid us good-bye, and some of the
red-coated Chupprassies gave us little presents of dried fruits and nuts.
We rode out of the place very slowly, but as soon as the quarter-guard
gates had closed behind us we put our ponies into a gallop, and never
stopped till three or four miles lay between us and the Residency, and
neither of us spoke much for the rest of the ten that limited our journey
that day.
We were going to a place over two hundred miles away called Jorehat,
in the Assam Valley, near the Brahmapootra, and to get to it we had to
pass through Kohima, in the Naga Hills, ninety-six miles from Manipur.
It was my first visit there, and I enjoyed the eight days’ journey to it
immensely. We were accompanied as far as Mao Thana (the boundary between
the Manipur state and Kohima) by the eldest son of the Tongal General.
Before going on, I think some description of the latter officer will not
be amiss, especially as he has played so important a part in the late
rebellion. He was an old man, nearer eighty than seventy I should think,
taller than the average Manipuri, and marvellously active for his age. He
had a fine old face, much lined and wrinkled with age and the cares of
state which had fallen upon him when he was quite a young man, and had
in no wise lessened as his years increased. He had piercing black eyes,
shaggy overhanging white eyebrows, and white hair. His nose was long and
slightly hooked, and his mouth was finely cut and very determined. He was
fond of bright colours, and I never remember seeing him in anything but
a delicate pink silk dhotee, a dark coat made from a first-rate English
pattern, and a pink turban, and when the orchids were in bloom, he seldom
appeared without a large spray of some gorgeous-hued specimen in the top
of his turban.
The Tongal always reminded me of an eagle. He had the same keen, rugged
expression and deep-set, glowing eyes. Few things happened without
his knowledge and consent, and if he withheld his approbation from
any matter, there would invariably be a hitch in it somewhere. He was
credited with more bloodshed than any man in the kingdom. If a village
had misbehaved itself, raided on another, or refused to pay revenue or
do Lalup, the Tongal would travel out to that village and wipe it off
the face of the earth. Men, women, and children were cut down without the
slightest compunction. Few escaped, and these travelled away and joined
other villages; but every house and barn and shed was burnt, pigs and
fowls destroyed, and ruin and devastation reigned where prosperity and
plenty had held sway before. I believe in later years restrictions were
brought to bear upon the Manipur durbar which prevented such wholesale
slaughter; but in earlier days the Tongal had, as he expressed it,
‘nautched through many villages’ in the style described, and brought
desolation into many a hillman’s peaceful home.
If he had his faults, he had his virtues also. He was very enterprising,
fond of building bridges, and improving the roads about the capital. Like
the Senaputti, he was a keen soldier, enjoyed watching good shooting,
and had been in his younger days a first-rate shot himself. He was an
obstinate old man, and it was very difficult to get him to listen to
any proposition if it did not please him at the outset; but when once he
had promised to get anything done, he did not go back from his word, and
one knew it was reliable. He lived in a large house some distance to the
south of the palace, with his family. Of these, only two sons were of any
importance—the eldest, called Yaima, and the second son, a very handsome
young fellow, named Lumphel Singh. The latter was perhaps the most
influential, and my husband always said he thought that he would take
his father’s place in the state when anything happened to the old man.
Lumphel was the favourite aide-de-camp of the Maharajah, and he was the
officer in charge of the hundred and twenty-eight miles of road between
Manipur and Cachar. At durbars he used to stand behind the Maharajah’s
chair with a very magnificent uniform covered with gold lace, and a gold
turban.
Yaima, the eldest brother, was not good-looking at all, but a nice young
fellow, and very hard-working. He came with us on our journey to Kohima
at the time of which I write, and was very obliging, and ready to put
himself out in any way in order that we might be comfortable, which,
considering that we were departing, as we then thought, for good from the
place, was very courteous on his part. We were very sorry to part with
him at Mao Thana.
The scenery on the road between Kohima and Manipur is magnificent. Some
of the hills run as high as nine thousand feet, and yet until you are
within three days’ journey of Kohima the road is almost level, winding
in and out along a narrow valley. Forests of oak abound the whole way,
and in the cold weather the trees lose their foliage, making it look very
English-like and wintry.
Sometimes you find yourself riding along a narrow path which skirts round
the side of a steep hill, while below you is the river, clear and blue
and deep, with an occasional rapid disturbing the calm serenity of its
flow. The hills around are studded with villages, and peopled by various
tribes. The Nagas in the immediate vicinity of Kohima are perhaps a finer
race than any hillmen to be found in Assam. They are called Ungamis, and
are very fine men, most of them six feet high at least, broad shouldered,
and powerfully built. Their dress is curious, and quite different to any
of the Nagas about Manipur. It consists of a kind of very short kilt made
of coarse black cloth, trimmed with three or four rows of shells like
cowries. In old days, before Kohima was as settled and quiet as it is in
these days, these rows of shells are said to have borne a meaning—a man
who had never taken a human head was not allowed to sew them on to his
kilt. For every head taken they affixed so many cowries, five or six at a
time, as the case might be, and a warrior with three rows on his kilt was
considered a great gun indeed.
The Mao Nagas were Ungamis, and used to be rather a handful for the
Manipuris to manage. They were always getting up feuds with the villagers
over the border, and the Manipuris were very often afraid of hauling
them over the coals for it, for fear of getting the worst of the fray.
We stayed two days at Kohima on our way to Jorehat, and travelled after
leaving there through the Namba forest to the next station, called
Golaghat. We took eight days to do this bit of our journey, as the
weather was delicious, and we wanted to make the most of our time on the
road, being in no hurry to arrive at our destination. This Namba forest
covers an enormous area. It extends hundreds of miles each side of the
road, which is constructed right through the middle of it. The scenery
is wonderful. High forest jungle rises each side of you as you ride
along. Here and there you come across a river, whose sandy banks show the
footprints of many a wild beast. Bears, tigers, leopards, and elephants
swarm in the jungle around, but one seldom sees anything more exciting
than a harmless deer browsing by the wayside, or a troop of long-tailed
monkeys crossing the road. It is all very wild and beautiful, and when we
eventually came to the end of our eight days’ march through the Namba,
and reached cultivated regions once more, we were quite sorry. We stayed
two days at Golaghat, the first station reached after leaving the forest,
and then proceeded to our new subdivision, arriving there at the end of
three days.