III.CALCUTTA.
Illustrated letter
I MUST now close the interesting book, “Hunter’s Indian Empire,” which I was perusing. We are nearing our destination. Steamers, tugs, sailing ships, native crafts of various sizes and design, all give evidence that we are drawing near a great emporium of trade, and a metropolitan city.
As we turn the next bend a glorious panorama develops itself before us. The last rays of a tropical sun illuminate the distant city—the gilded domes, the church spires, the forest of masts, framed in gorgeous green foliage, disclose to our eyes the great Eastern city of Calcutta. A few moments more and our big ship is moored alongside the P. and O. Company’s Jetty at Garden Reach.
Thisdépôtof the great leviathan company is necessarily at some distance from the city. The great tonnage and immense length of the P. and O.’s ships, and their enormous consumption of coal, makes it imperative that they should stop at Garden Reach to land passengers, and coal prior to making their way up to town, whence they start on their outward-bound journey.
All is now bustle and confusion. The wharf is full of gharrys of every class seeking fares to the city. To the uninitiated the gharry is anythingbut a tempting vehicle; but throughout India it is, with the palanquin (or, as it is better known, the “palky”) the only public conveyance to be had. The latter, from its name, can be imagined; but the gharry is quite a specialty—a square, black box, some five feet in every face, more or less suspended on very indifferent springs (lessrather thanmore), perched on four very questionable wheels which, when in motion, waddle about as if every turn would be their last. I am now describing the best class of gharry. There arefour. I leave it to the reader to sketch out thefourth. What may be said of the conveyance pales into insignificance when a close inspection is bestowed on the horses, and more particularly the harness. In the latter there seemed to me to be a total absence of leather or buckles. Bits of rope, a good deal of rope-yarn, twisted rags, predominate; but all these are quite sufficient to hold the cattle and set the vehicle in motion. The poor, wretched brutes have not the least appearance of life in them. Thetout ensembleis complete when the Jehu is perched on the box. The “livery” consists of a few yards of dirty cotton stuff, sometimes wound round his loins—when not round his head as a turban. “Coachy” never has another vestige of clothing, but he is never without an umbrella!—blue, red, white, or green. This indispensable article he freely makes use of, either to poke the horses with, or to protect himself from the rain; and in order to do so effectually he squats on the box, umbrella in one hand and reins in the other. On such occasions the strip of cotton goods which constitutes his sole garment is carefully put underthe box cushion to be kept dry. His skin may get wet, but the “rag” never.
When one gets used to gharrys they are all right, but it takes some time to do it. Like many other Indian “dainties,” it is an acquired taste. Besides other shortcomings, the gharry driver is not only thoroughly ignorant of English; but, to make matters worse, has not the remotest knowledge of locality. When I got my valise safely tied on one of these charming conveyances, I told the driver to take me to the Great Eastern Hotel. We made a start, and after half-an-hour’s jostling from side to side I saw that I was not getting any nearer to town, and naturally attempted to argue the point with my driver, who was in high argument with his assistant—there are always two for a two-horse gharry, one for every horse. All the reply I could elicit was “Acha, sahib,” which I have learned since means “All right.” After several stoppages, and the invariable “Achas,” I found myself at Ballygunge, one of the suburbs of Calcutta, where, by sheer luck, I met that most useful of all British institutions—a policeman!—who administered a few cuts of his cane to my drivers, and a wholesome admonition, which caused them to land me at last at the door of the Great Eastern.
The first step into Eastern life—the most important, if one wishes to get on safely and peaceably in India—is the engagement of a “kitmugar.” This is the servant which onemusthave, even at an hotel, where food and a bed are provided, but no attendance whatever. Everyone needs this kitmugar, who makes your bed, waits on you hand and foot, and, if he be agood man, never leaves you, day or night. He has the privilege of robbing his “Barra sahib,” but he takes good care that nobody else does it; and this, let me assure you, is a very important matter in that most interesting country, where the European is looked upon as “fair game” by the three hundred and sixty odd millions of natives.
Next to the engagement of the kitmugar comes the hiring of a “Victoria” and the two other inevitable attendants, viz., coachman and groom. I was particularly lucky in this. An Assam tea planter had just left the hotel, and at the recommendation of the manager I secured the lot—kitmugar, victoria, and coachman—who proved excellent servants during the whole period of my first stay in Calcutta. Master Hassam was a fair English scholar, as sharp as they make them, knew every hole and corner in this immense city, and was a perfect “terror” at a dinner party, when he could fight his way amongst all other servants, and secure for his “Sahib” the daintiest tit-bits of every dish, the best brands of wine, and the biggest lumps of ice. He was quiteau faitat bargaining—knew the run of the bazaars—and nothing of any interest could be held within fifty miles without his being able to get us in as “dead-heads.” The amount of lying and romancing he must have had recourse to must have been something astounding.
Wherever I went the natives made way, and granted me a reception which surprised me, until I discovered that Hassam was trading on the “Exhibition ticket,” which was becoming the talk of India, and Calcutta in particular.Being the kitmugar of the “Barra sahib” of the Exhibition cast a lustre on him which he took good care to keep in the very highest state of polish, inasmuch as he had in view the perquisites of patronage from the hundreds of tradesmen, artisans, and others seeking employment. The rascal knew what he was about. If he did pluck a feather here and there off my back, he took them by handfuls off those who tried to interview me on business; and wherever we went amongst natives he made the most of his chance to “show off” his sahib, and get both his share of the honour and glory, as well as the whole of the “backsheesh.”
During the Doorgha Pooja and other great religious festivities, which in November keep the whole of India—but more particularly Calcutta and other cities on the banks of the sacred rivers—in a state of excitement and gorgeous displays, we had a pretty lively time of it. Day and night we had to attend processions, Nautch dances, fireworks, and gatherings the description of which would cast into the shade tales from the “Arabian Nights.” No one but those who have visited India during the period I am alluding to, can have the least conception of the scenes we witnessed. A city of upwards of a million of inhabitants—with an increase of more than double that number—all clad in gay colours, thronging the thoroughfares day and night in such dense crowds that one could almost walk on their heads; bands of music, heading hundreds of glittering pagodas; images of gods and goddesses of huge proportions being carried and paraded through the streets, followed by dancers, mimes, imps, and devils, elaborately paintedand going on with the most extraordinary antics; balconies and windows being loaded with people, gaily adorned in costly silks, and glittering with jewels, gold and silver lace, spangled banners, &c. For a whole fortnight this carnival continues incessantly, all business is stopped, the whole population perambulates the streets night and day, until at last the costly pagodas, the images of gods and goddesses, wend their way to the river, where, in the midst of the clanging noise of hundreds of bands of music, they are cast into the waters of the sacred river, and Calcutta once more resumes its every-day style of life.
Why Calcutta is called the city of palaces I never could realise. Truly the houses in Chowringhee and in the European portion of the city are large, lofty, and pretentious, but not in any way palatial. The Residence of the Viceroy, or that of the Governor of Bengal at Alipore—and, for the matter of that, all and every one of the public or private buildings—have a clean, gay appearance during the “cold season”: that is, from December till March; but as soon as the rains begin they all assume a dingy, woe-begone appearance, which casts quite a gloom over the whole place.
Calcutta, during the four months above-named, is bright, lively, enchanting—the climate most charming.
The Strand, after 4P.M., thronged with carriages and horsemen—a gay crowd, which, with the gay trappings of the four-in-hands and the Oriental costume of many of the native princes quite eclipses even Rotten Row or Longchamps.
But when the season is over—when vice-royalty and its cumbersomepersonnelhave gone to Simla and Darjeeling—the gay butterfly loses its bright colouring; nothing is left but the unsightly chrysalis. The heat, the damp, with the ills which follow, renders the city anything but a desirable place of residence.
British enterprise has got over the difficulty in some measure, and for those who have to stay in the plains it is now an easy matter to take an occasional run up into the hills—a truly wonderful piece of engineering having conquered the most inaccessible perpendicular walls of the Himalaya ranges. The Darjeeling railway—a 2ft. 6in. guage zig-zag line, carries a mail and passenger traffic daily from Calcutta to that sanatorium, 7000 feet above the sea level. This trip can be accomplished in sixteen hours, and is full of incidents which make it attractive. The first stage is on the broad guage railway to the banks of the Ganges, which is crossed by a large steamer, on board which dinner is served. On the other side begins the narrow guage line, which runs through tea plantations as far as Kurseong.