My three years in Manipur

by Ethel St. Clair Grimwood

This band was composed of Nagas, and it was wonderful to hear how easily they learnt English music. Waltzes and any dance music came easiest to them, and they kept excellent time; but they could manage anything, and I have heard them play difficult selections from the great masters without a mistake. Their bandmaster was very talented. As a young man he had gone to Kohima to be taught by the bandmaster of the 44th Ghoorka Rifles, and he had a natural ear for music, and could even sing a little. He used to get very impatient at times when the bandsmen were more stupid than usual, and on one occasion he took to beating them, and they refused to work any longer under him. They were imprisoned, and many of them beaten, but at last, after a great deal of persuasion, backed by a few rupees, they were induced to begin again, and the bandmaster promised to cease from castigating them whenever they played a wrong note.

I shall never forget my first introduction to the bandmaster. He arrived dressed in what he called his ‘Calcutta clothes,’ of which he was immensely proud. They consisted of a white frock coat, made in a very old-fashioned way; black broadcloth continuations, rather short and very baggy; a red-corded silk waistcoat, with large white spots, and tie to match; turn-down collar and ancient top hat, constructed in the year 1800, I fancy. He had a small peony in his button-hole, and last, but not least, patent-leather boots stitched with white and covered with three rows of pearl buttons. He carried a light cane, surmounted by the head and shoulders of a depraved-looking female in oxidized silver as a handle. He showed this to me with great pride, and really it was a marvellous machine, for when you pressed the top of her head attar of roses came out of her mouth and nose, and if you were anywhere near you were covered with that pungent liquid. It was very difficult to avoid laughing at this curious get-up, and when he had safely embarked on a long overture from ‘William Tell,’ I disappeared for a few minutes to give vent to my amusement. He was quite a character, and always afforded me a weekly surprise, as he seldom appeared in the same clothes twice running, and his wardrobe seemed as endless as it was select.

Being able to have the band when we liked was very pleasant. It brought the officers over from Langthabal once a week at any rate, and we always rode out to see them every week. We were very gay there in those days, and we used to have dinner-parties, and I enjoyed the change of going to the mess to dinner now and then. Of course the four miles’ journey there was a little trying. The Manipur roads never admitted of driving, so I used to be carried in a long chair by hospital Kahars, and my husband used to ride. It was terribly cold coming back late at night, and often very wet, but we did not mind that very much to get an outing occasionally.

Terribly sorry we were when the decree went forth that we were to lose the regiment. We knew that they might go any day, and a Chin expedition cropped up in the winter of 1888, which took our only neighbours off on the warpath. We were very depressed at the idea of losing them, but perfectly desolated when a letter came saying that we ourselves were to go to another station. We were out in camp when it arrived, and I never shall forget the hopeless silence that fell upon us both at the news. We had counted upon being safely installed at Manipur for three years at the least, but, alas! a number of senior men were coming out from furlough, and had to be provided with districts before the juniors. We had taken so much pride in the place during our ten months’ residence there that we were very loath to go. We talked it over, trying to find some way of getting out of leaving, but came to the conclusion there was none. That was in December, but we did not really leave until February, as the officer who was to relieve us had to come a long distance from the other side of the Assam Valley, and he took as long as he possibly could in coming, being as loath to take the place as we were to give it up. Sadly we walked round our gardens, noted the rose-trees only lately arrived from Calcutta, which we had been counting on to make the place beautiful during the coming year, and gazed mournfully at the newly-made asparagus-bed that we hoped would have fed us in three years’ time. I almost felt inclined to destroy everything, but my husband was more magnanimous, and even went as far as to say he hoped Mr. Heath (our successor) would enjoy it all.

We made the most of our last two months in Manipur. Two shooting expeditions to the lake, and a journey to Cachar for the Christmas race-meet, occupied most of our remaining time; but, like all things, it came to an end—all too soon for us—and one morning the guns boomed out a salute to our successor. It was a case of ‘Le roi est mort. Vive le roi!’ The same elephants, covered with the same crimson coverings, welcomed him in the identical manner that they had welcomed us. The red-coated Chupprassies hastened to pay their respects to the new Sahib and attend to his wants, heedless of those of the old Sahib, and I think we both felt then what leaving the place would really mean to us.

Mr. Heath was much impressed by all the glories prepared for him, but he had not been in the house very long before he told us how much he disliked coming to Manipur. He hadn’t a good word to say for it, and I felt very sorry for him, as he really seemed to dread the loneliness terribly. Lonely it certainly was, and the outlook was worse for him than it had been for us, as we had each other, and the regiment was four miles off. He had no one. I knew well how the solitude would weigh on him before many days were over. It had been dreadful work for me at times, when my husband was kept in the office till late in the evening, and I had to amuse myself as best I could from eleven in the morning until dinner-time. There were no books or papers to be got under three weeks or a month’s post, and then one had to buy one’s books, as there was no going to a library for them. So I felt very sorry for poor Mr. Heath, as he seemed far from strong into the bargain. However, I did my best to cheer him up by taking him all round the gardens and over the house, and showing him that, as far as the place went, he could not wish for a better.

Then we went for a walk through the bazaar and on to the polo ground, and eventually, when we returned in the evening, he seemed in a happier frame of mind, and the band playing whilst we were at dinner cheered him up considerably. But next day, when the time came for us to depart, he was very gloomy, and as I was worse myself, I could not put on a pleasant outward appearance. It was very hard to leave the place, having to bid good-bye to all our pets, leaving them in the hands of the servants who might or might not look after them. I took the three little monkeys with me, as I would not part with them, and they were travellers already, as they had come to Manipur with us. My husband did suggest letting them loose in a large grove of mango-trees not far from the Residency that was filled with monkeys which we often used to go and feed with rice and plantains, but I knew how they fought amongst themselves, and how the big ones bullied the little ones, so I preferred taking my three with us. I took a last walk round the grounds, and almost directly after breakfast our horses came to the door and we had to make a start. All the servants that were remaining behind came and bid us good-bye, and some of the red-coated Chupprassies gave us little presents of dried fruits and nuts. We rode out of the place very slowly, but as soon as the quarter-guard gates had closed behind us we put our ponies into a gallop, and never stopped till three or four miles lay between us and the Residency, and neither of us spoke much for the rest of the ten that limited our journey that day.

We were going to a place over two hundred miles away called Jorehat, in the Assam Valley, near the Brahmapootra, and to get to it we had to pass through Kohima, in the Naga Hills, ninety-six miles from Manipur. It was my first visit there, and I enjoyed the eight days’ journey to it immensely. We were accompanied as far as Mao Thana (the boundary between the Manipur state and Kohima) by the eldest son of the Tongal General.

Before going on, I think some description of the latter officer will not be amiss, especially as he has played so important a part in the late rebellion. He was an old man, nearer eighty than seventy I should think, taller than the average Manipuri, and marvellously active for his age. He had a fine old face, much lined and wrinkled with age and the cares of state which had fallen upon him when he was quite a young man, and had in no wise lessened as his years increased. He had piercing black eyes, shaggy overhanging white eyebrows, and white hair. His nose was long and slightly hooked, and his mouth was finely cut and very determined. He was fond of bright colours, and I never remember seeing him in anything but a delicate pink silk dhotee, a dark coat made from a first-rate English pattern, and a pink turban, and when the orchids were in bloom, he seldom appeared without a large spray of some gorgeous-hued specimen in the top of his turban.