still the tonga; uphill and down, over the hilly country, with a horizon of dull, low mountains, and the horses worse and worse, impossible to start but by a storm of blows. towards evening a particularly vicious pair ended by overturning us into a ditch full of liquid mud. the sais alone was completely immersed, and appealed loudly to rama with shrieks of terror. abibulla on his part, after making sure that the sahibs and baggage were all safe and sound, took off his shoes, spread his dhoti on the ground, and made the introductory salaams of thanksgiving to the prophet, while the coolie driver returned thanks to rama.
the hills are left behind us; the plateau of cashmere spreads as far as the eye can see, traversed by the glistening jellum, that slowly rolling stream, spreading here and there into lakes.
trees shut in the flat, interminable road, and it was midnight before we reached srinagar, where i found, as a surprise, a comfortable house-boat with inlaid panels, and a fragrant fire of mango-wood smelling of orris-root.
the large town lies along the bank of the jellum; the houses are of wood, grey and satiny with old age, and almost all tottering to their end on the strand unprotected by an embankment. the windows are latticed with bent wood in fanciful designs. large houses built of brick have thrown out covered balconies and verandahs, supported on tall piles in the water, and on brackets carved to represent monsters or flowering creepers.
the ugliest of these palaces is that of the maharajah, with galleries of varnished wood, of which the windows overlooking the river are filled with gaudy stained glass. in the garden is a pagoda painted in crude colours crowned with a gilt cupola; the zenana has bright red walls striped with green, and in the grounds there is a cottage exactly copied from a villa in the suburbs of london.
the muddy waters reflected the grey houses and the roofs of unbaked clay, on which the winter snows were melting in black trickling drops.
in the streets the people, all wrapped in long shawls of a neutral brown, were only distinguishable amid the all-pervading greyness by their white head-dress. men and women alike wear the same costume—a full robe of dirty woollen stuff with[pg 258] long hanging sleeves, and under this they are perfectly naked. the rich put on several such garments one over another; the poor shiver under a cotton wrapper. and all, even the children, look as if they had the most extraordinary deformed angular stomachs, quite low down—charcoal warmers that they carry next their skin under their robe.
at the bazaar we were positively hunted as customers; the clamour was harassing, and everything was displayed for sale in the open street, while the owner and his family crowded round us and hindered us from going a single step further.
inside the shops everything was piled together. the same man is at once a banker, a maker of papier-maché boxes—papi-machi they call it here—and of carpets, a goldsmith, tailor, upholsterer—and never lets you go till you have bought something.
the bargaining was interminable, something in this manner:—
"how much for this stuff?"
"you know it is pashmina?"
"yes, i know. how much?"
"it is made at thirty-five, twenty, fifteen rupees."
"yes. but how much is this?"
then follows a long discussion in hindi with the bystanders, who always escort a foreigner in a mob, ending in the question—
"would you be willing to pay thirty-five rupees?"
"no."
"then twenty-eight?"
and the figures go down after long discussions, till at last the question as to whether i know the worth of pashmina begins all over again—endless.
this morning, at peshawur, down come the police on my houseboat—three of them—and their leader explains matters. abibulla interprets.
i have no right to stay in cashmere without the authorization of the anglo-indian government, and ought to have handed such a permit to the police on arriving. i have none—no papers whatever.
the matter was evidently very serious. the three constables consulted together in an undertone, and then went off after desiring that i would forthwith telegraph to sealkote and bring the reply to the police office.
abibulla saw them off with great deference and a contrite air, and watched their retreat; then, as[pg 260] i was about to send him to despatch the message, he was indignant. the police! what could they do to a sahib like me? it was all very well to frighten poor folks—it was a sin to waste money in asking for a reply which i should never be called upon to show—and so he went on, till i made up my mind to think no more of the matter. and whenever i met the chief at the bazaar or by the jellum, he only asked after my health and my amusements.
so, after waiting for the reply of the gentleman whose business it was to give me this free pass, seeing that he could not make up his mind, i left the town without it.
at srinagar you live under the impression that the scene before you is a panorama, painted to cheat the eye. in the foreground is the river; beyond it spreads the plain, shut in by the giant mountains, just so far away as to harmonize as a whole, while over their summits, in the perpetually pure air, hues fleet like kisses of colour, the faintest shades reflected on the snow in tints going from lilac through every shade of blue and pale rose down to dead white.
at the back of the shops, which lie lower than the street, we could see men trampling in vats all[pg 261] day long; they were stamping and treading on old woollen shawls, fulling them to take off the shiny traces of wear, to sell them again as new goods.
"export business!" says abibulla.
on the sloping bank to the river stood a large wooden mosque falling into ruins. in front of this building was a plot full of tombstones, some overthrown, some still standing on the declivity.
in the evening, lamps shining out through latticed windows lighted the faithful in their pious gymnastics. a moollah's chant in the distance rose high overhead, and very shrill, and in the darkness the stars shed pale light on the tombstones mirrored in the black water; a plaintive flute softly carried on the sound of the priests' prayers. down the dark streets the folk, walking barefoot without a sound, and wrapped in white, looked like ghosts.
our boat stole slowly past the palaces, where there were no lights, through the haze rising from the river, and all things assumed a dissolving appearance as though they were about to vanish; all was shrouded and dim with mystery.
to-day a religious festival; from the earliest hour everybody had donned new clothes, and in the [pg 262]afternoon in the bazaar there was a masquerade of the lowest class—embroidered dhotis, white robes, light-coloured turbans displaying large discs of green, red or blue. the men, even old men, ran after each other with bottles of coloured water, which they sprinkled far and near. one indeed had neither more nor less than a phial of violet ink, which, on the face and hands of a little black boy, shone with metallic lustre. one boy, in a clean garment, fled from a man who was a constant beggar from me, and who was pursuing him with some yellow fluid; and the fugitive was quite seriously blamed for disregarding the will of the gods and goddesses, whose festival it was.
two days after, the people would burn in great state, on an enormous wood pile, an image of time, to ensure the return next year of the festival of colours.
all day long in front of the houses the women were busy clumsily pounding grain with wooden pestles in a hollow made in a log; stamping much too hard with violent energy, they scattered much of the grain, which the half-tamed birds seized as they flew, almost under the women's hands. and then the wind carried away quite half the meal. but they pounded on all day for the birds and the[pg 263] wind, and were quite happy so long as they could make a noise.
two old women had a quarrel, and all the neighbourhood came out to look on.
words and more words for an hour, till one of them stooping down took up a handful of sand and flung it to the earth again at her feet. the other, at this crowning insult, which, being interpreted, conveys, "there, that is how i treat you! like sand thrown down to be trodden on," covered her face with her sleeves and fled howling.
two days later the roofs were covered with tulips of sheeny white and red, as light as feathers swaying on their slender stems; and the crowd, all in bright colours, went about in muslins in the clean, dry streets. only a few very pious persons still wore the garments stained at the festival.
in the depths of a deserted temple in the bazaar, amid heaps of rags, bones, and colourless debris, dwelt an old man, a very highly venerated fakir, motionless in his den, while around him were gathered all the masterless dogs of srinagar, who allowed no one to come near him and flew at anybody who tried to enter the temple.
at a goldsmith's i stood to watch a native making a silver box. he had no pattern, no design drawn on the surface, but he chased it with incredible confidence, and all his tools were shapeless iron pegs that looked like nails: first a circle round the box, and then letters and flowers outlined with a firm touch that bit into the metal. he had no bench, no shop—nothing. he sat at work on the threshold of his stall, would pause to chat or to look at something, and then, still talking, went on with his business, finishing it quite simply at once without any retouching.
in the coppersmiths' street was a booth that seemed to be a school of art, where little fellows of seven or eight were engraving platters and pots with the decision of practised craftsmen.
some more small boys, a little way off, were doing embroidery, mingling gold thread and coloured silks in patterns on shawls. they were extremely fair, with long-shaped black eyes under their bright-hued pointed caps, and their dresses were gay and pretty, mingling with the glistening shades of silks and gold. and they were all chattering, laughing, and twittering as they worked, hardly needing the master's supervision.
a man by the roadside was mixing mud with[pg 265] chopped straw; then when his mortar was of the right consistency he began to build the walls of his house between the four corner posts, with no tools but his hands. a woman and child helped him, patting the concrete with their hands until it began to look almost smooth.
we set out from srinagar in an ekka, drawn at a trot by our only horse. the driver, perched on the shaft almost by his steed's side, dressed in green with an enormous pink pugaree, flogged and shouted incessantly. the monotonous landscape went on and on between the poplars that border the road, extending as far as the blue circle of distant himalayas. the valley was green with the first growth of spring; as yet there were no flowers. and till evening fell, the same horizon shut us in with mountains that seemed to recede from us.
we stopped at a bungalow by a creek of the jellum that was paved with broad lotus-leaves, among which the buds were already opening their pink hearts.
