We were benighted again. Curiously enough, even within a mile or so from Sher-i-Nasrya, on asking some natives where the city of Nasirabad or Nasratabad, as it is marked in capital letters on English maps (even those of the Indian Trigonometrical Survey), nobody could tell me, and everybody protested that no such city existed. (The real name of it, Sher-i-Nasrya, of course, I only learnt later.)
This was puzzling, but not astonishing, for there is a deal of fancy nomenclature on English maps.
Eventually, when I had almost despaired of reaching the place that night, although I could not have been more than a stone-throw from it, I appealed to another passer-by, riding briskly on a donkey.
"How far are we from Nasratabad?"
"Never heard the name."
"Is there a town here called Nasirabad?"
"No, there is no such town—but you must have come through a small village by that name, two farsakhs off."
"Yes, I have. Do you happen to know where the English Consulate is?"
"Oh, yes, everybody knows the English Consulate. I will take you there. It is only a short distance from here, near the city of Sher-i-Nasrya!"
Thanks to this fellow, a few minutes later I found myself greeted most effusively by Major and Mrs. Benn in their charming mud Consulate. This was on the evening of December 6th.