With the Connaught Rangers

by Edward Herbert Maxwell

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 his face, 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’ becoming really 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 a word 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 were first 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 as great 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 little coterie 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.