CHAPTER XIII.TRAVELLING IN CASHMERE.
VISIT TO ISLAMABAD—AVANTIPORE—KUNBUL—PITCHING OUR CAMP—TRAVELLING CAMP FASHION—PALACE OF SIRKARI BAGH—ANUT NAG, THE SACRED SPRING—SHAWL MANUFACTORY—VISIT TO THE GARDEN AT ATCHIBUL—IRISH ACUTENESS—PLEASURE GARDEN—PICNIC IN THE RUINS OF MARTUND—SACRED SPRING OF THE BOWUN—A PUNDIT EAGER FOR BACKSHEESH—EXPEDITION TO THE LOLAB—REVIEW OF THE MAHARAJAH’S TROOPS.
VISIT TO ISLAMABAD—AVANTIPORE—KUNBUL—PITCHING OUR CAMP—TRAVELLING CAMP FASHION—PALACE OF SIRKARI BAGH—ANUT NAG, THE SACRED SPRING—SHAWL MANUFACTORY—VISIT TO THE GARDEN AT ATCHIBUL—IRISH ACUTENESS—PLEASURE GARDEN—PICNIC IN THE RUINS OF MARTUND—SACRED SPRING OF THE BOWUN—A PUNDIT EAGER FOR BACKSHEESH—EXPEDITION TO THE LOLAB—REVIEW OF THE MAHARAJAH’S TROOPS.
CHAPTER XIII.
The Khansama having announced that his part of the preparations for a fresh start were complete, after dinner on a fine summer’s evening, our squadron of boats left Srinagur. We had decided on paying a visit to Islamabad. Our crew, as usual composed of a whole family, towed our big boat up the winding river. Had we gone by land with the horses, we should in an hour have done what it took us by boat much longer to accomplish, the river twists and winds in such a tortuous manner. This is the part of the Jhellum that we looked on from the heights of Tukht Suliman, and whose serpented bends gave the idea for the well-known pattern on Cashmere shawls.
At night, as usual, we halted, and in the earlymorning continued our voyage, towed against the stream. We passed the day in a truly lazy manner, enjoying the balmy breeze as we glided noiselessly along, all Nature basking in soft repose. We passed green woods and rocky eminences, every now and then sighting the road. We got fresh fish from men who had merely to take the trouble of casting a net and hauling up lots of one-pounders. We came to a picturesque ruined village, all in decay, once the capital town of Cashmere, named Avantipore, after King Avante Verna. We passed under a fine old wood bridge at Bajahara, and floated past ruined mosques and gardens—for once upon a time it was a place of vast repute.
On the second day, in the afternoon, we arrived at Kunbul. There was more than usual fuss at that landing-place, for a great English lord was about to embark for Srinagur, and all honour was to be shown to him, by order of the Maharajah. Owing to this redoubtable party, we had some difficulty in getting coolies, and the ‘Gascon captain’ had to twirl his moustaches and look very fierce before we could get our proper number. My wife and I walked on in the cool eveninghour. Our road was along the banks of a stream hid by flowering shrubs and long grass. The fields looked well cultivated and green.
It was a pleasant walk, and we soon arrived at an orchard of fruit-trees, underneath the shade of which our camp was to be pitched. A venerable old fellow, the head man of the village, came up to us, and with profound salaams conducted us to our ground. In the twinkling of an eye the place was swept clean, and then began the clatter of tent-pegs being knocked into the ground. The servants placed every table and box in exactly the same corners of the tents as they had occupied when our camp was pitched at Gulmurg. No life can be more comfortable when travelling than camp-fashion, make as long or as short a day’s journey as you like. You sleep on your bed in your own room, and are waited on by your own servants. Now, however luxurious and well appointed an hotel may be, you have not your own odds and ends round you; the waiters do not know your ways, and the pillows are sometimes distracting.
We passed several pleasant days at Islamabad, making excursions in the neighbourhood, andvisiting the various objects of interest in the town. There is a palace here, called Sirkari-Bagh, in which the Maharajah and his ladies repose, on their way to Srinagur from Jumrood. It is not a very interesting building, but there is a nice fruit garden, surrounded by a high wall.
The Barradurrie of the town is close to the Anut Nag, and is encircled by a high wall, which encloses a vast space about sixty or seventy yards square. The sacred spring, Anut Nag, issues at the foot of a hill which overlooks the town, and is received into a tank, from whence it flows through a canal into a lower tank. It then continues its course by another canal to the outside of the high wall, where it rushes forth in a fine cascade about seven or eight feet high. The tanks and canals are full of tame fish, which are regularly fed by the faqueers, and are considered very sacred. The Sonur Pookur is a stone tank, not very far from Anut Nag, and the stream which flows to it has its source in the hill overlooking Islamabad. There are two other streams, one of which is sulphurous. The medicinal properties of this mineral water are peculiar in their effects.
The Barradurrie is a picturesque, though not over clean-looking wooden edifice, round the entrance of which numerous curious faqueers establish their bivouac. We preferred our camping-ground, and remained there.
Whilst here, we visited a shawl manufactory, the entrance to which was situated in an unwholesome quarter of the town. The perfume was not that of roses, and the workers were miserable-looking objects, with sore eyes. It was curious to see these squalid creatures employed at that intricate work, which in time produces shawls of great value. The small squares shown to us were of most beautiful fabric, and no doubt the weak eyes which gazed on us got the lacklustre look from hard work at the looms. The rugs and carpets made at Islamabad are much cheaper than those sold by the merchants at Srinagur, though in reality most of them are made here. We bought several handsome hearth-rugs, besides a long, warm blanket, called ‘loué,’ peculiar to Cashmere.
The old tickedar was very civil, and brought us to his house, where his wife and daughters came and gazed with smiling faces at my wife.After a great deal of good-will dumb-show, which reminded me of the ‘Bono Johnny’ of old Crimean days, we left the delighted family open-mouthed with admiration.
The environs of Islamabad are very pretty. There are pleasant rides through gardens near the river, and a long avenue of poplar-trees extends for more than a mile through green pastures.
Next day we determined to visit Atchibul, where there is a beautiful pleasure-garden, laid out by the Emperor Shah-Jehan, and we were told there was a summer-house in the centre of the grounds, where we could rest. The charm of our gipsy life was that we were enabled to start whenever we pleased. My wife and M’Kay made all arrangements for a picnic, and the amiable tickedar provided coolies on the shortest notice to carry our food. As our expedition was only to last one day, the tents were not struck. When M’Kay brought the tea at an early hour, we anxiously asked how the weather was looking, and felt proportionably delighted when we were informed that it was very fine. Clouds had been gathering the day before, and rainappeared imminent. We mounted our horses, and sallied forth. M’Kay accompanied us on foot, all our dogs, plus two puppies, came also. Our way lay through the rather dirty town, and we were very pleased when we emerged from narrow lanes to green orchards in the open country.
After crossing the river, we followed the right bank along which the road continued. Then our path lay through rice-fields, very treacherous to ride over. Our horses constantly sank in the boggy ground. In front of us were mountains, whose summits were covered with dark clouds when we started, but, as the day went on, rain and fleecy mist succeeded the lowering curtain, and, as if by magic, the mists faded away, and left the clear outline of the green hills painted on the autumn sky. As we advanced on Atchibul, a hill clothed with young deodars rose grandly before us, and, as we approached the gate of the gardens, we passed under magnificent chenars. The entrance is rather formal, but the Pavilion, situated in the centre of a tank of clear water, is very charming.
A civil old fellow bade us welcome in the nameof the Maharajah, and, after bringing us some fine peaches, left us to ourselves. In a short time thejets d’eauwhich surrounded us began to play, and continued doing so all the time we were there. The day was warm, as the sun had conquered the clouds, and the splashing music of the waters was soothing and thoroughly Eastern. The old gardener brought us grapes, peaches, and plums, so we passed a few hours very happily, having brought a supply of books. The fruit which is to be got in India is not equal to what we have cultivated at home in hot-houses. There are, of course, certain fruits peculiar to the country, such as mangoes, bananas, and oranges, which we cannot surpass, but as a cart-horse may be a very fine animal, yet in refinement cannot be compared with a thorough-bred, neither can the natural produce of the soil be compared with the highly-cultivated results of skill. In Cashmere there is an abundance of the fruits of the earth when they are in season. No high walls and locked doors are required to keep out thieves, or to prevent visitors from wandering about among the extensive garden-paths.
But at home it is different. A friend of minein the south of Ireland was taking some ladies to see his very fine hot-houses. When they reached the garden, the door was found to be locked, and the key was there, but in the inside. Great perplexity was felt on the part of the Irish host how to get in. He shouted to the gardener, and a voice answered, but not much to the purpose. There was much excitement and confabulation as to how the party outside the walls was to be admitted. Finally a happy thought struck the master. ‘Whisper, Pat!’ he shouted, ‘throw the key over the wall, and we shall let ourselves in.’ So, with many a ‘Stand clear—are ye ready?’ whiz the key came over the wall, and, with considerable triumph, our friend said, ‘Now we’ll get in!’ It had never occurred to any of them that the easiest way would have been to unlock the door on the inside.
Several notabilities of Islamabad came to pay their salaams, among them a Sikh officer from Peshawur, who went into ecstasies about the place, and concluded by saying, ‘Oh, if the English were possessors of this land, what a paradise it would be!’ The hill which rises in the background is covered with young deodars,which the Maharajah preserves most strictly, and which add very much to the quiet beauty of the scene. In the time of the Emperor Shah-Jehan, when this pleasure-garden was trimly kept, when the cascades were full of water, and everything was cared for, this place must have been unsurpassed in loveliness. The spring of water in this rare old garden is considered the finest in Cashmere, and the water sparkles in its clear purity when poured into a glass.
Atchibul only requires careful looking after, for the ground is fertile; peaches, quince, plums, and grapes grow in abundance in its orchards. The day was far spent as we rode away, and as we passed through the curious gate which divides Shah-Jehan’s garden from the outward world we both exclaimed, ‘How often shall we look back with pleasure on our day at Atchibul!’ Our path homewards was the same by which we came in the morning. The shades of night had closed round us before we reached the camp.
Our next picnic was to the wonderful ruins of Martund. M’Kay was left in charge of the camp, and we started in the morning towards the village of Bowun, which is about six milesfrom our ground, on the northern side of what is called in Cashmere a kuraywah, or table-land. These kuraywahs vary in height from three to four hundred feet, and in length from one to five miles. They are divided from each other by wide ravines, through which flow mountain streams. The upper part, which is generally bare and flat, is composed of very rich soil. The scenery is not very grand, and the path skirts along the foot of the kuraywah, on which the temple of Martund is built.
In due time we arrived at the sacred spring of Bowun, whose holy waters are received in a large tank full of tame fish. On the one side of this tank is a temple, from which emerged a very holy man, in search of backsheesh. We did not respond to his appeals, but a stout khansama belonging to an English family in Cashmere, seemed a great find; for he had to pay for everything. First he was mulcted of his coin to provide food for the fish, then he had to pay before he was allowed to kneel down to try to embrace a fish, which, as he was stout and rather old, I need not say he did not succeed in doing. I then saw him paying for admittance into thetemple, to be blessed by the holy man. The last I saw of him was when he was surrounded by little boys shouting for backsheesh. The limp state of his money-bag, however, showed that he had no more to give.
Yet why should we laugh at this poor Hindoo. It was faith that carried him on, faith as powerful as that which inspires the pilgrims of Russia to leave their homes, and crowd the Church of the Sepulchre at Jerusalem, and the same faith as that which caused the martyrs of old to smile as the fire was lit to consume their bodies. Magnificent old chenars are near the sacred spring.
There were so many faqueers here that we determined not to halt, as these gentlemen are not particular about wearing any clothes, and despise soap and water. We declined all offers of a guide, for our ancient tickedar had provided us with a coolie who knew the road. So we turned our backs on Bowun, fully convinced that Nature was most bountiful to this beautiful land, but that man ruined it by extortion and folly.
We proceeded by a very steep path to the top of the kuraywah, on which are the ruins ofMartund. The view was fine. In the far distance we saw the woods of Atchibul on one side, and in front the green entrance to Kunbul. Martund is a wonderful place. Vigne says in his ‘Travels in Cashmere,’ ‘As an isolated ruin, this deserves, on account of its solitary and massive grandeur, to be ranked, not only as the first ruin of the kind in Cashmere, but as one of the noblest among the architectural relics of antiquity that are to be seen in any country.’ And what did we see? We went out on a calm summer evening on a rocky coast, where Nature had cast about in endless confusion great rocks of ponderous size; that is what we seemed to see, but these massive blocks of stone and masonry, tumbled about in magnificent disorder, once on a time formed walls surrounding the temple. The temple still stands, in spite of the loss of its surroundings, which have succumbed to the gales and storms of ages. It rears its noble front in proud grandeur and disdain of overwhelming and destructive time. We entered this ancient edifice through a gateway. It seemed to us to be built on a cruciform plan. The aisle was there, and, towards the east, the altar recess,while at each corner the cross was completed by projecting spaces like chapels. On the walls of stone were strange figures cut, but the roof in most parts had failed, and the blue sky formed the canopy overhead.
There was something pathetic in finding ourselves alone in this monument of by-gone days. Those who once worshipped in this very grand building must have been some of the great ones of the world, and now their very existence is unknown. The knowledge of who they were is but dimly seen through the ages of the past. Were it not for these grand mementoes which outlived the memory of those who worshipped in them, who now would think of them?
We prepared to pass the hot hours of the day in this sacred retreat, delighted to be left alone to our thoughts, which must, under the circumstances, be somewhat solemn. Our hopes of solitude were doomed to disappointment, for, entering the portals of the temple, a salaaming figure advanced, and, having arrived at a respectful distance, squatted down on the ground before us. He was a young, well-dressed Pundit, and, as we were actually reposing in a Hindoo temple,we received him courteously, though, like many callers, his absence would have been preferable to his presence. He observed that the ruins were very large, to which undoubted fact we, of course, agreed. He produced a long roll of parchment signed by many names, and pointed with pride to the signature of Vigne. This roll had belonged to his father. He then brought out several ‘chits’ or characters, and requested me to give him one. Being rather puzzled what to write, I looked over the numerous sheets of note-paper, one of which particularly attracted my attention. ‘This is to certify that Pundit—is the greatest bore and nuisance I ever met. Signed ——.’ They were all to the same effect. Having never met this worthy man before in my life, and being most anxious to get rid of him, I wrote, ‘This to certify that Pundit—is the son of his own father,’ and signed it. He received this certificate with great pleasure; but, as he did not understand a word of English, I cannot make out what good he could possibly derive from it. I bowed him out, as is the custom in the East, and sincerely hoped we had seen the last of him.
We passed a very quiet day, and when thesun began to sink to rest we prepared to leave this grand old monument of ancient Cashmere. We sallied forth from the venerable ruin, and who should be there but the Pundit? He said a good deal, but all I could make out was backsheesh. So we gave him a small silver coin, and he asked for more, ‘as his day was spoilt.’ The quiet and the calm of the time-worn temple was forgotten, and with wrath we turned away from this extortionate beggar, and, with ruffled tempers, began our return march to Islamabad. Instead of retracing our steps to Bowun, we continued along the kuraywah on which Martund is built. After riding for two or three miles, we descended a steep path and entered again the road on which we had been in the morning.
As the evening was very close, we dismounted, and, seating ourselves under the shade of a wide-spreading tree, we made our syces take the horses to a clear, running stream close to our resting-place, and our thirsty nags enjoyed a cool drink. As there was no water to be had at the temple, a coolie carried a serai of drinking water for us. But the shades of night warned us to loiter no longer, so we remounted, and soon found ourselvesonce more in our pleasant camping-ground.
Our time in Cashmere was drawing very near to its end. We began to count the days of our holiday. One more expedition we resolved to make, to the Lolab, said to be a beautiful and fertile valley, situated on the north-western side of Cashmere. As the way to it was partly on our return journey, we sent off our horses to meet us at Sopoor. Our return to Srinagur was uneventful. We floated down the stream from Kunbul, where we embarked. There seemed to be a calm everywhere, and, as we stole past gardens, the perfume of flowers came to us on the breeze, and the sound of children’s voices was toned down to music by distance. We remained a day or two at Srinagur, during which time a grand parade of the Maharajah’s troops took place, and his army nearly came to grief, for somehow or other the ammunition in one of the men’s pouches took fire, and a most extraordinary scene ensued, as the fire went down the whole of one of the ranks, and some men were badly wounded. I daresay the men would do well enough if called on to fight,but their ideas of discipline are different from ours.
It came on to rain one day, and a sentry posted near where we were taking shelter coolly took off all his clothes and waited till the storm was over till he dressed again! Baboo Mohas Chander came to see us, and looked quite sorrowful at our departure; but he showed his white teeth with delight when we expressed our hopes of returning some day to Cashmere. He gave us some skinny fowls and a tray of sweetmeats, and then vanished from our sight. In all probability I shall never see the Baboo again, and can say with truth that he always was most courteous to us and attentive to our wants. But oh, how we loathed the skinny fowls! The very sight of chicken was enough to make us shudder. Now in England a chicken is a delicacy—not so, however, in Ireland.
Many years ago, the dépôt of the Rangers marched all through Ireland, and we never could get anything to eat at the inns on which we were billeted but cock and bacon. At length we really had cock and bacon on the brain. It was always our question, on arriving at the inn, whenthe waiter appeared, ‘Pat, what can we have for dinner?’ and the invariable answer was, ‘Anything yer honour chooses to order.’ ‘Well, then, we’ll have a roast leg of mutton.’ ‘Faith, sorr, there’s not a sheep been killed for the last month or two.’ ‘Oh, then,’ we frantically exclaimed, ‘roast beef.’ ‘Sorra a bit of beef at all, at all.’ ‘Whatcanwe have?’ we all shouted in despair. ‘Cock and bacon, sorr,’ triumphantly roared our present tormentor.
Fish at Srinagur was very difficult to be procured. The large mahseer are coarse food, and no fish were allowed to be caught between the two bridges on that part of the river on which the palace is situated, as the soul of the Maharajah’s father now dwells in a fish. The Maharajah, who is very attentive to his religious duties according to his light, visited the faqueer’s temple every day.