My three years in Manipur

by Ethel St. Clair Grimwood

The next thing to be done was to start myself. Mr. A⸺ kindly offered to go with me half-way, as it was then four o’clock, and only two hours of daylight left. Off we started, he on the most extraordinary pony I have ever seen, that looked as though it might fall down at any moment, and I on a small Manipuri pony I had taken with me up in the hills. We started off galloping, and went as hard as we could for six miles. I hoped that about seven miles from Sylhet I should find a pony-trap waiting for me which a planter had offered to send to meet me, so I did not spare my small steed, as I knew he would not think anything of twelve miles.

By the time we got to the river, where I expected the cart to meet me, it was almost dark. My poor pony was terribly tired and hot, but Mr. A⸺’s curious old beast seemed none the worse. We crossed the river on a ferry, and then found there was no cart on the opposite side. It was a terrible blow, for our ponies had done enough as it was. Night was rapidly overtaking us, and seven miles of the road lay before us to be got over somehow. I had passed all my coolies three miles away on the road from the railway, and knew that they would not be in for hours. There was nothing to be done but to go on as best we could. There were tracks of the cart-wheels in the road, so I knew it had been there, and it made it all the more annoying. It was no good trying to gallop on, as my pony was so tired he could scarcely crawl.

We proceeded slowly for about two miles. It was getting darker every minute, and at length we could see nothing at all, but knew that we had still five more weary miles to travel over. Mr. A⸺ suggested our urging our horses into a canter, which ended disastrously for me, as my pony caught his foot in something on the road and landed on his head. That was the end of all idea of riding, so I got off, hauled him up on his legs by dint of much persuasion, and started off walking. The road was ankle-deep in loose sand, jackals hurried by us at every moment, and noises startled me at every turn. At last I remembered that the planter who had sent the cart out lived somewhere in that neighbourhood. When we had been quartered in Sylhet, I had often ridden past his house, though I had never been actually up to it, and I told Mr. A⸺ that I thought we had better steer for his bungalow, if we could only find the road up to it. We went on as fast as we could, considering, and at length saw the lights of the house standing some distance to our left away from the road.

The next thing was to find the way up to it. My companion asked me to look after the ponies—a rather unnecessary precaution, as they were too tired to need any looking after—and he proceeded to try and find the road. After a little while I heard a stifled call in the distance, which was repeated, and then I discovered that poor Mr. A⸺ had fallen into a horribly wet, slushy rice-field, and needed my help to extricate him. Having given him the necessary aid, and hauled him out, we decided that any more searching for the road up to the house would be a futile waste of energy, and were preparing to make the best of our way into Sylhet, when a coolie woman came by, and we rushed at her and asked if she could show us the way to the Sahib’s bungalow. She seemed very much alarmed at our sudden appearance, as we were then only dimly visible by the light of the rising moon. However, she said after a little that she would not mind conveying us up to the house, provided that we would allow her a fair start in front of us, as she professed to be much alarmed at our horses.

We proceeded slowly and solemnly behind her, and at length found ourselves not at the bungalow, but at the tea-house, an erection made of corrugated iron in which the tea was manufactured. All round this building there were wire stays which were fastened in the ground and attached to the roof, to prevent the latter being blown off in storms of wind. My poor tired pony caught his feet in one of these wires and tumbled down; so, thinking that it was better to take what rest he could, he did not trouble himself to get up again. It was not much good scolding our guide, but we seemed no better off than we had been in the road below, and the lights of the bungalow gleamed just as far away as before. Mr. A⸺ suggested shouting, so simultaneously we all lifted up our voices and shouted as loud as we could.

At length, after doing this a great many times, a light appeared in the door of the bungalow; and a few minutes afterwards the figure of my friend the planter became visible descending the hill upon which his house was situated, and coming armed with a big stick to see what evil spirits were in possession of his tea-house.

Very much surprised was he when he found there was a lady in the case, and not a little disconcerted over his own appearance, as he was not clad in raiment suitable to the entertaining of female visitors.

I was much too tired, however, to notice whether he was got up for the occasion or not, and he seemed a perfect godsend to us both after all we had gone through.

He soon took us up to his house, and in half an hour gave us dinner. Real dinner, too—not a shadowy make-belief; but soup, entrée, and joint, just as though we had come by invitation, and this had been the result of some days’ preparation.