As she talked I watched the bheesti and a mali working in the garden; the former with his great mussick filling waterpots and the latter sitting on his heels, wrapped in a cumblie, digging very deliberately among tomato plants. My hostess explained to me that our lines were what is called “in the entrenchment,” although the officers’ quarters were outside the fosse and the barracks. These were built back to back, thus ensuring absolute privacy, and each had its own large compound. She pointed out the double-storey mess-house, which faced us across a maidan, and was dimly seen through clumps of flaming “gold mohur” and other trees. Not far to the left of the mess-house lay the jail, which was castellated, and known by the name of “Windsor Castle.” Then, taking me by the arm, she led me to a corner of the veranda and introduced me to yet another scene. Behind our quarters lay the Trimulgherry bazaar, overlooked by its celebrated “Gun Rock.” This was merely a large piece of granite, shaped precisely like a cannon, and apparently laid and ready to blow the place to pieces. Presumably it had been in this position for hundreds of years.
On his way from parade Ronnie dashed in to visit me. This was the first time I had seen him in his uniform. He looked very smart and soldierly and was riding a perfect darling of a pony, a bright bay with black points.
“I just dropped in to find out if you were alive after yesterday,” he said. “You look all right. I believe Mrs. Soames is taking you to call on the ladies of the regiment this morning. Only Mrs. Mills, the major’s wife, and the quartermaster’s old woman; afterwards, she is sure to bring you down to the club and show you who’s who. I am playing polo up at Bolarum, but keep your pecker up—I’ll see you again before dinner,” and he wheeled about his pony, and was gone.
CHAPTER XIV
THE CLUB
The station club, “the very heart of the community,” as described by Mrs. Soames, lay about two miles from our lines. As we drove down there behind our spanking Australian cabs, my chaperon, who was a great talker, enlarged upon the subject.
“Our club,” she remarked, “is capitally situated just half way between the cantonments and Hyderabad city, close to the parade ground, shops and cemetery, with roads diverging in every direction; a modern but not very dignified building, as you see. Its businesslike outline and platform verandas have led scoffers to compare it to a railway station, and hint that it is the work of a railway engineer, who desired to raise a monument to the glory of his line! In this idea there may be a touch of professional jealousy; anyway, ‘handsome is that handsome does.’ The club is supplied with the latest improvements in the matter of ventilation and comfort. No London club has better billiard tables, more luxurious armchairs, or a superior cook. We women are not suffered to set foot in it, except on special occasions, such as receptions and balls; mankind are a greedy, selfish pack, who keep the best of everything for themselves! Well, here we are!” as we turned abruptly into a large enclosure. “It’s rather early,” she continued, “I see the bullock bandy with the band has only just arrived, so we may as well sit in the carriage for a little longer and I will point you out the chief objects of interest.”
“Yes, please do,” I said, “everything, as you may suppose, is new to me. What is the small building where I see so many ladies on the veranda?”
“That, my dear, is the ‘morghi-khana,’ or hen house; a humble offshoot of the larger establishment, where the ladies of the station forgather to read papers, exchange news and play bridge, for, as I have already told you, we are sternly debarred from the parent premises—so amusing!”
“And what,” I inquired, “is the round raised platform with the tea table and chairs? It looks like a large white cake.”
“It is called a ‘chabutra,’ and was originally intended for a bandstand—you see one in every station. People make use of them for tea and talk; they are raised a foot or two off the ground, and keep you nicely out of the way of snakes. Thank goodness we don’t have many in Secunderabad—the dry climate doesn’t suit them.”