My three years in Manipur

by Ethel St. Clair Grimwood

Early in November I returned from the hills, and went back to Manipur. Everything seemed changed by the alteration in the government of the state. There was little doubt that the new Jubraj was practically ruler of the roost, and the improvement was very great in everything. Roads that had been almost impassable in the ex-Maharajah’s reign were repaired and made good enough to drive on. Bridges that had been sadly needed were erected; some of them on first-class plans, which were calculated to last three times as long as the flimsy structures which existed previously. The people seemed happier and more contented, and my husband found it much easier to work with the Manipur durbar than he had done when there were eight opinions to be consulted instead of four. There were no more petty jealousies and quarrels among the princes, and I had no fears about asking them all at once to any festivity.

At Christmas they all came to a magic-lantern performance. My husband had got one out from England, and he made the slides himself from photographs, choosing as subjects groups of Manipuris, or photographs of the princes and bits of the country. A picture of Miss Maïpâkbi was greeted with much applause on the part of the Jubraj, who, by the way, had decided to add this young lady to his other nine wives. The performance concluded with a large representation of the ex-Maharajah in royal dress. Dead silence greeted it, and an awkward pause; but my husband changed the slide almost directly to one of a humorous character, which caused everyone much amusement.

I mentioned the royal dress in the Maharajah’s photograph. This was worn only on very great occasions, usually of a sacred nature. It consisted of a coat and Dhotee made of silk, of a grayish shade, embroidered all over in purple silk in a fleur-de-lis pattern. No one but a prince could wear this particular stuff; and if anyone was found with it on, whether in his house or on the public thoroughfare, he was immediately seized, and deprived of the garments in question, and everything else he happened to have on at the same time.

On one occasion the bandmaster expressed a wish to have his photograph taken, and my husband arranged to do it for him on a certain day. He arrived with a large bundle, saying that he wished to be allowed to change his attire in our grounds, as he desired to be taken in the royal dress, and could not walk from his house to ours without being subjected to the ignominious treatment I have already described. So he retreated to the largest tree he could find and retired behind it, where he hastily attired himself in the coveted robes, adding as extra adornment a cap of green satin embroidered in gold, shaped like a small tea-cosy, and curious sorts of pads, also of green satin, on the backs of his hands. He put a large red flower in his buttonhole, and borrowed my husband’s watch and chain, as he had none of his own. He looked a very queer character indeed, but the photograph turned out a great success and filled him with delight, which increased tenfold when I painted one for him. He divested himself, after the picture was done, of his fine feathers, and took them away in the same dirty, unsuspicious-looking bundle in which they had arrived.

I was sorry to find that this bandmaster had left Manipur when I returned there. He had gone down to Calcutta with the ex-Maharajah, with whom he had always been a great favourite, and left the band to the tender mercies of a havildar, who knew nothing of music.

Early in January of this year, 1891, we went to Kohima to meet the chief commissioner, Mr. Quinton, and spent a very pleasant four days there. It was always such a treat to see people. Life in the station at Manipur was so dreadfully monotonous, but I had been better off than my husband, who had not seen any white faces for several months. Not that that troubled him very much. He always adapted himself to whatever er were his circumstances, and made the best of them, never thinking of, and worrying himself for, the many things he had not got. But when the opportunity of getting anyone down to stay with us did arise, he was very keen about it, and while at Kohima we tried very hard to persuade the chief and his daughter to come to Manipur; but it could not be managed, as Mr. Quinton had then arranged his tour, and had not sufficient time to spare to enable him to come such a long distance out of his way. That journey was always the difficulty, and had it not been such a lengthy one, people at Kohima would often have come down to see us at Manipur. But as a rule the whole of their leave was swamped in coming and going.

From Kohima we went to Tummu, in Burmah, returning first to the Residency for a few days. This was my first visit to Burmah. My husband had gone down the year before, but I had been too ill to accompany him, and had stayed behind. We had lovely weather, and enjoyed the journey there immensely. The scenery on the way is lovely, and as the forests are not so dense as those on the Cachar road, one can get magnificent views of the surrounding country every now and then. Range after range of mountains rise gloriously around you, as you wend your way among the leafy glades and shimmering forests which clothe their rugged sides. Cool and green near you, growing purple as you leave them behind, and becoming faintly blue as they outline themselves on the far horizon, these mountains fill you with admiration. Forests of teak rise on each side of you as you get nearer Tummu, and the heat becomes much greater.

After five days we arrived at our camp, which was situated on the boundary between Manipur and Burmah, at a place called Mori Thana. Here we stayed, living in a pagoda, in company with several figures of Buddha and many other minor deities, indicating that the building was sacred. The Burmese are very fond of flowers, and they always place vases of gaily-coloured blossoms in front of their gods, and small punkahs to keep them cool. The pagoda we were lodged in was built, like all Burmese houses, on piles, about three feet from the ground. The climate is so damp that they are obliged to be raised, or the floor of the house would very soon become rotten. Everything at Tummu was quite different to Manipur: the women dressed in much gayer colours, and did their hair more picturesquely in large knobs on the top of their heads, into which they stuck tiny fans, or flowers, or brightly-coloured beads. All the women smoke, even the young ones, and one seldom sees them without a cigar in their mouths. These cigars are made of very mild tobacco, grown in their own gardens, and dried by themselves. They roll a quantity up tight in the dried leaf of the Indian corn-plant, and tie the ends round with fine silk. They are longer and fatter than those smoked in England, and the Burmese girls at Tummu did not approve at all of some from Belat which my husband gave them, as they were too strong for them.

The Myouk[13] came out to see us the day after we arrived. He was a Burman, of course, but spoke English very well indeed, and was most anxious to be of use to us. He was dressed in silk of the most delicate shade of pink, with a yellow turban, and he rode in on a charming bay pony, looking altogether very picturesque. We informed him that we intended riding into Tummu, so he politely offered to escort us and show us the way; and he rode back with us, and we found him a very pleasant companion. I was delighted with Tummu, and we wandered about in the village, looking at the pagodas, and investing in the curiosities to be got in the place. We bought some lovely pieces of silk, and some quaintly-carved wooden chessmen. The Burmese have a game of chess almost identical with ours—the same number of pieces, and a board marked out in black and white squares. The rules of the game, too, are almost exactly the same, but the pieces are named differently, and carved to represent elephants and pagodas, instead of castles and knights. The Manipuris also played chess, and I once saw a lovely set of chessmen carved in ivory and gold that the Maharajah possessed. The ones I got at Tummu at the time of which I write were made of oak, and were evidently ancient, which added a charm in my eyes, though the Myouk was very anxious to get a new set made for me. However, I went on the principle of a bird in the hand being better than two in the bush, and marched away with my trophies on the spot. We were returning to our camp for breakfast, when the Myouk informed us that there was another Sahib living in the place, a military Sahib of the name of Grant. This was news indeed to us, as we had had no idea when at Manipur that we had any neighbours nearer than Kohima, ninety-six miles away from us, and here was someone only sixty-five—quite a short journey.

My husband said he would go and look the ‘military Sahib’ up, but before he could do so the Sahib in question had looked us up. I do not think Mr. Grant, as he then was, ever expected to have a lady sprung on him unawares, and he seemed a little bothered over his clothes, which were those generally assumed by bachelors when they are safe from any possibility of female intrusion in the solitude of a jungle outpost. However, he soon remedied that. He went away to his bungalow after I had made him promise that he would come back later; and when he did return it was in attire worthy of better things than a camp dinner with camp discomforts. But he was so bright and jolly that he cheered us both up, and made all the difference during our four days at Tummu. We went to tea with him in his tiny quarters, and had great jokes over the ‘army ration’—sugar and butter—and the other etceteras of a temporary encampment. He was quartered at Tummu in charge of a part of his regiment, and considering the loneliness of his surroundings and the distance he was away from any sort of civilization, we marvelled that he was so cheery and full of spirits.