CHAPTER X.THE MAHARAJAH.
CHOWNI—SRINAGUR—WOODEN BATHING-HOUSES—BABOO MOHAS CHANDER—OUR FUTURE DOMICILE—‘ME COME UP’—OUR SHIKARRAH—SUMMUD SHAH, THE SHAWL-MERCHANT—ANCIENT TEMPLES—THE MANUFACTURE OF CASHMERE SHAWLS—DINNER WITH THE MAHARAJAH—A NAUTCH—THE MAHARAJAH’S ‘HOOKEM’—LORD MAYO’S FETE AT AGRA—UNINVITED GUESTS—RISING OF THE LAKE—THE POPLAR AVENUE—THE PARIAH DOG—CAUSE OF THE FLOOD.
CHOWNI—SRINAGUR—WOODEN BATHING-HOUSES—BABOO MOHAS CHANDER—OUR FUTURE DOMICILE—‘ME COME UP’—OUR SHIKARRAH—SUMMUD SHAH, THE SHAWL-MERCHANT—ANCIENT TEMPLES—THE MANUFACTURE OF CASHMERE SHAWLS—DINNER WITH THE MAHARAJAH—A NAUTCH—THE MAHARAJAH’S ‘HOOKEM’—LORD MAYO’S FETE AT AGRA—UNINVITED GUESTS—RISING OF THE LAKE—THE POPLAR AVENUE—THE PARIAH DOG—CAUSE OF THE FLOOD.
CHAPTER X.
When morning broke we continued our voyage. As we had left the lake the day before, the river was now more narrow, and twisted and turned like a serpent in the green fields through which it made its way. And then we came to Chowni, which was intended by Golab Sing to be the dwelling-place of English visitors, but, owing to want of good drinking-water, was never used.
We breakfasted under the shade of a grove of poplars, and then, entering our gondolas again, we were towed up to Srinagur, the capital of Cashmere. As we glided along, we had to pass the old gallows on which many a mortal has suffered in days of yore; now it is seldom used, but during our visit to Cashmere a culprit wasexecuted on it, and was left to hang there for days, filling the air with his horrid presence. But when we passed the gallows was empty, and a weird-looking old raven was perched on the cross-beam of the gibbet, croaking dismally to itself about the good times of Golab Sing, which were changed completely now. We had pictured this city to ourselves as a scene of ruined palaces, but all we saw were crazy wooden houses with pent roofs overlaid with earth and covered with grass and plants.
We passed some ancient temples, which seemed in their ruin to mark the difference between the rotten buildings of the present day and the massive architecture of a gone-by age. We glanced for a moment at splendid marble cause-ways, hanging over hideous wooden bathing-places, and dwellings erected on wooden piles close to gardens full of fruit and flowers. As we struggled up the stream, and with difficulty got under and past the wooden bridges which span the river, boats like our own, but not so large, shot by us. In some were reclining the English sahib, exploring. In others, larger and more crowded, were soldiers, country people, and busylookingmen. On each side of this centre thoroughfare of the town were men and boys swimming and bathing. Not a house but had a wooden bathing-place, and these were always full of splashing human beings, while crowding the banks were female figures washing clothes and children alternately. We swept past the Maharajah’s palace, the golden roof of its temple being the only attraction there.
Leaving the last bridge, called Ameeri Kudal, we came to a wider part of the river, and the place where the visitors’ bungalows are situated opened out. It was a pleasant sight, the calm and placid Jhellum, on the right bank of which were grand chenars—the Oriental plane—overshadowing the curious little houses built for the accommodation of the Maharajah’s British guests. As we toiled on, a swift and smart-looking gondola drew up alongside, and the Baboo welcomed us in the name of His Highness the Maharajah of Cashmere.
Baboo Mohas Chander was a courteous, smiling man. When he spoke, his white teeth sparkled in the sunlight, but, when he ceased to address us, a sudden darkness seemed to overspread hisface, all because the Baboo had shut his mouth. He informed us our house was ready, and we found him always civil and attentive.
Ah, me! what a house! Our future domicile was like a square box divided in the centre, the division being the floor of the upper story. Up a rickety stair we ascended to our three rooms. The windows had no glass, but had diamond-cut shutters, the peculiarity of which was that, when tampered with, they invariably fell on the toes of the unwary. However, we were delighted with our apartments. Hearing the sound of riders passing by, we rushed to the window; the effect of which energetic movement was to make everything in the room dance, as the floor was very elastic.
As we gazed on the river so near us, and watched the gondolas skimming past, we became aware that a crowd had assembled in front of our house. ‘Me papier-maché man—me show you fine things—me come up.’ ‘Me Soubona jeweller—very cheap—me come up.’ ‘Me leather man—me bring shot-bags, sandals—me come up.’ ‘Me shawl man—very fine, very cheap—me come up,’ and so on, the ‘me come ups’ becomingreally alarming by the constant repetition of the words. So I assumed the attitude of a popular candidate for parliamentary honours and requested them to ‘retire till a future occasion,’ and, finding they were losing time, they vanished.
Gradually the boats, riders, and pedestrians became fewer, night came on apace, and we were glad to say ‘Good night.’ Next morning we engaged a shikarrah, a miniature of the boat in which we had come up the river. It was thirty-six feet long, by three and a half wide, and one foot deep. Our shikarrah had a flush deck and awning. The crew consisted of six men, who propelled the boat with heart-shaped paddles. These craft, which are used by everyone like gondolas at Venice, seem to fly through the water. My wife and I reclined on rugs and pillows, and gave the word to proceed to Summud Shah, the great shawl-merchant. The entrance to this great man’s house is by a flight of stone steps, which are washed by the river. Through a fine gateway we passed into a courtyard, and then, ascending stairs, we were ushered into the shawl-room. Summud Shah received us arrayed in an ample gown, like a night-dress. He could not speak aword of English, but by his courteous actions seemed to say: ‘All I have is yours—if you pay me well.’ We were handed to chairs placed on a divan, and then business began.
What a collection of magnificent shawls! But oh, how wearisome! Our host gave us Ladok tea, which is not unpleasant to the taste. Instead of cream, a slice of lemon floats in the cup. Summud Shah was the banker at Srinagur, and was most attentive to our wants during the whole of our stay in Cashmere. We saw two kinds of shawls. Those made by loom, and those by hand.
Some time after this visit, we were wandering through a poor part of the town, when we observed a number of men with very weak eyes. Our guide informed us that these were workers of Cashmere shawls, and that the work they were engaged in was the cause of the weakness of their eyes, and in some of total loss of sight. We visited some of their houses, and found them occupied sewing the graceful patterns on small patches of canvas. When these are completed, they are all united together, and form the beautiful shawls, some of which we had been admiring. We were also told that, when the shawls werefirst introduced, the inventors were in the custom of ascending the hill above the town, from which there is a fine view of the Jhellum, winding and turning in the valley beneath, and that the tortuous pattern of the Cashmere shawls is a copy of the river’s windings.
I received an invitation to dine with the Maharajah. My wife was also asked to accompany the Resident’s party, to see the fireworks which were to be exhibited in the evening. So far as dinner was concerned, there was amply sufficient to eat and drink, but on an occasion of that sort one goes with rather a wish to be introduced to the host. My experience of that one dinner party did not afford me an opportunity of having that desire gratified. We had been requested to come camp fashion, which means that each guest is expected to bring his own plates, knives, forks, tumblers, napkins, &c. I landed at the mean and dirty entrance to the palace, where the shouting boatmen seemed at war with each other. I clambered up the steep stairs, but there was no one to receive me, or to show me the way. I found myself at length in a large dining-hall, in which some eighty khitmegars were making asgreat a noise as the boatmen below, each servant endeavouring to secure the best place for his master.
After getting past this pandemonium of waiters, I was shown a door, through which I proceeded to an open terrace, where a number of chairs were placed in a semicircle, many of them already appropriated by other guests like myself—their occupants being officers on leave from British territory—so I took possession of one of them.
In the open space in front of the seats two or three nautch girls were going through that dreary and unmusical performance called a ‘nautch.’ In the meantime, I discovered some old friends, stranded like myself. At length, as, somehow or other, everybody intuitively knew that dinner was ready, a rush was made towards the door. Excited khitmegars seized their masters and dragged them to the place they had secured for them. I was charmed to find myself situated between a brother officer and an old friend I had not met since the Crimean days. The table was groaning with really a good dinner, for everything had been placed on it at once. The champagne was Cutler’s best, and our littlecoterie had our dinner and jokes in a very pleasant way. We had some fun about the Maharajah’s hookem (order). I wanted a glass of iced water, and I desired my servant to bring the water, and pour it into my silver mug. A great man, clad in red, came behind my chair and informed me ‘that it was the Maharajah’s hookem (order) that the tumblers were to be taken to the water, and not the water to the tumblers.’ Verily it was a jovial party. Then the Resident rose, and proposed the health of the Maharajah. We cheered uproariously. Some one then proposed the health of the Resident, ‘the representative of our beloved Queen,’ we soldiers cheering loudly for our sovereign, more than for her representative. The costumes worn by His Highness’s guests were peculiar; some appearing in uniform, others in evening dress, while a number wore ancient shooting-coats which bore testimony to hard work among the mountains of Cashmere.
Had the head constable of Agra been present, he would have been sorely puzzled. That functionary was on duty one evening at the Taj, when the Governor-General, Earl Mayo, gave a fête,with kind hospitality, to the residents at Agra. Several uninvited guests had tried to enter the precincts of Viceroyalty on a former occasion, and a police officer, by order of the civil authorities, determined that these intruders should not force their way again into a private party given by the Governor-General.
‘How shall I know the guests of his lordship?’ asked the anxious constable.
‘Allow no one to enter who is not dressed in uniform or in evening costume, like Mr. T——,’ replied the police officer, pointing to the officiating collector, a tall, handsome man, dressed as an English gentleman.
In the evening we were all assembled in the garden near the gate, where a sound of voices in altercation was heard at the entrance. The police officer proceeded to inquire into the disturbance, and found, to his dismay and our delight, that Mr. A——, one of the leading swells in Lord Mayo’s suite, had been stopped because he had a coat differing very much from Mr. T——; in fact, a political costume.
The weather was so fine and warm that we decided on pitching our camp not very far fromour rickety bungalow. The site where our tents were placed was on a green knoll, on whose flat surface our whole encampment found ample room. There were trees dotted all round us, and a straight path led down to the river, where we usually embarked.
For a day or two after our change of quarters the sun shone brightly, and there was a balmy breeze blowing; but it came on to rain suddenly, and never stopped doing so for thirty-six hours. Our tents were thoroughly waterproof, but to say the best of it we found our space rather confined, and the time hang somewhat heavily on our hands. My wife was sitting in the verandah of our tent, and I was not far off smoking a cigar. For some time I had observed the water round a tree gradually rising, and in a lazy kind of manner kept watching it growing deeper and deeper, and felt very pleased that we had pitched our camp on the green knoll, and not in the grass field below us. All of a sudden a nativeemployéof the Maharajah came running from the landing-stage.
‘To the boats, sahib—to the boats! The Maharajah has sent three—the river is rising.’
We could not understand what had happened,but to hear was to obey, and then a wild scene of excitement ensued. Everyone began to pack up something; the servants struck the camp; M’Kay was everywhere, working hard. The only unconcerned man was an orderly sent by Baboo Mohas Chander, who was placed at our disposal when we first arrived at Srinagur. This valiant warrior divested himself of all his clothes, and, wrapping them in a bundle, squatted in a way which is possible only to natives, holding over his head an umbrella made of broad leaves. He had fixed his position at the edge of the green platform on which our tents were pitched. His apathy was very irritating to M’Kay, and she managed, when flying from one place to another, to give our sepoy a gentle push, and bundle, man, and umbrella rolled down the bank into the water.
At length everything had been transported into the dongahs, which resembled the craft in which we had travelled from Barramula, so the same arrangements held good as those which we had adopted in our former boats. Our horses had been moved at once up to high hills, and they were in safety. To our repeated question,‘What does all this mean?’ the answer was astounding. The river was rising from some unknown reason, and the great danger was that the embankment, which prevented the lake from overflowing its boundaries, might give way, and, if such an accident happened, the whole valley would be inundated.
Yes, the river had already risen twenty feet, the green bank on which our tents had been pitched was gradually becoming covered with water. The path along which we had hurried was no longer visible. The flood was entering our old, rickety bungalow, and the walls soon collapsed like a building of cards. It was a strange and anxious position to be placed in, for there was nobody to tell us what to do; our real danger was unknown. My wife and M’Kay having made our big boat quite comfortable, we trusted ourselves to the care of Providence, whose good angels had watched over us in many an equally momentous adventure.
The afternoon passed and the river was still rising. The rain, however, ceased, and evening became night. Our boats just floated on the waters. The moon rose in its splendour, and the stillnessof the hour was only broken by the howling of homeless dogs, and that fearful sound—once heard, never to be forgotten—a house crumbling to the ground. Then all was quiet again, and we were left to imagine scenes of death and dismay, which in time proved to be too true.
When morning broke, the sun shone forth on a scene of desolation. ‘The waters covered the earth.’ There was no trace of gardens left. Many of the visitors’ bungalows had subsided, and all of them had some depth of water in the lower floors. Our boatmen poled us along through places which, two days before, were dry land, and into gardens, over which a mass of water was tearing. Our crew aided their progress by holding on to cherry-trees, and freely helped themselves to the fruit, which a few hours previous they would not have reached without the aid of a ladder.
We passed through the poplar avenue, one of the walks near the city, the tall trees of which had been planted by the Sikhs many years ago. Now a torrent rushed along the favourite ride. As we glided on, we saw a poor Pariah dog seated on a door, floating anywhere, and howling piteously.My wife was most anxious to save the forlorn animal, and made the boatmen take us near to it. She spoke to it kindly, and coaxed it to be good; but when its enemy, man, came nearer and nearer, it distrusted us, and sprang from its door, and was swept away. As we looked on the vast expanse of waters our wonder was great; but how much was it increased when we both saw a rat and a serpent swimming close together, too intent on getting to dry land to take any heed of each other. As we continued on, we picked up a chicken, which was in great dismay, but soon fraternised with us, and, being named Nourmahal, became our companion for a long time after she had been saved.
It would be tedious to enumerate all our adventures. It was an experience never to be forgotten. We spent several days in our boats, but it was some time before the waters subsided, and the full extent of the damage to life and property could be ascertained. The peril most dreaded—the rising of the lake and the bursting of the water-gate—when the town of Srinagur would have been, most probably, swept away, and the whole valley destroyed, was mercifullyaverted. A broad embankment is built for protection, and the water-gate is so formed that, when the lake rises, the gate closes itself; but when at its proper level the huge wooden doors open.
Our crew brought our squadron to anchor at the base of Tukht Suliman, on whose sides our horses were picketed. We climbed to its summit to the little temple where King Solomon once sat, so says tradition. The view of the valley is the most extensive that can be had, and from where we stood we saw the full length of the poplar avenue of magnificent trees. There are in all one thousand seven hundred and fourteen trees, of which one thousand six hundred and ninety-nine are poplars, and fifteen chenars (so I find noted down).
The scene presented to us was most interesting. Very many dongahs, like our own, had taken refuge here, out of which appeared mothers with children in all states of undress. These poor ladies, like ourselves, had been obliged to embark in a hurry, and found, no doubt, that a nursery was an inconvenient obstacle to overcome. But, like true women, they bowed to the inevitable, and made the best of everything.
We remained a few days near the friendly rocks, till the waters had subsided. During that time the great Baboo Mohas Chander had often paid us visits. He informed me that the cause of the flood was the melting of a glacier in the mountains, which had forced its way in volumes of water down to the river. I never heard this information contradicted, so I suppose it was true.