My three years in Manipur

by Ethel St. Clair Grimwood

Cachar, or rather Silchar, deserves a description, as it has been of such importance during the recent troubles at Manipur. The town is about one hundred and thirty miles from the Manipur capital, but only twenty-four miles from the boundary. The state of Manipur is separated from the Cachar district by a river called the Jhiri, where we have outposts garrisoned by troops. Silchar itself is not a very large station, though it boasts of more Europeans than most Assam districts, there being a regiment always quartered there besides the usual civil authorities. The district has a very large planting community, and abounds in tea-gardens; and as the planters are constantly in and out, there is a very fair amount of gaiety, especially in the winter months, when there are always two or three race meets, each lasting for a week, which bring people in from far and near.

Silchar has seen much trouble during the last year. In September, 1890, the Lushai disaster occupied everyone’s attention, and troops poured through the place on their way to the hills about Fort Aïjal to avenge the treachery of the tribes inhabiting those regions—treachery which resulted in the loss of two valuable lives. A few weeks later curiosity was rife to see the ex-Maharajah of Manipur, who had been driven from his throne by his brother the Senaputti, and was passing through on his self-imposed pilgrimage to the sacred city of Brindhaban on the Ganges, accompanied by three of his brothers. Christmas brought the usual round of races, dances, and dinners with it; but the sound of the Christmas bells had scarcely ceased when the New Year brought tidings of a disaster which caused men’s faces to pale, and almost out-rivalled the horrors of the mutiny. But I am anticipating events, and must return to ourselves and our experiences three years earlier.

We stayed two or three days in Silchar on our first arrival there and made some new friends, and were fêted, as is the custom when new-comers arrive at a station in India. Hospitality is a law, and you have only to be English to be assured of a welcome from your fellow-countrymen, who are ready to put themselves, their houses, and possessions all at your service. There are disadvantages, maybe, to be met with in India which are many and great, and one loses much by having to live out there; but one never meets with such true-hearted kindness anywhere else as in India. The narrow prejudices and questioning doubts as to who you are, and what your station in life is, which assail you at home, vanish entirely when you need hospitality out there. The civil list or the army list will tell your position and income, and for the rest you are English, you come from the old country, and all are glad to see you and be kind to you. I am happy to think of the good friends made when I was out there too—friends who were ready to share their pleasures with me, and who were still more ready to help me when the dark days of trouble came and human sympathy was so needed. Their names will ever live in my heart, and may all good luck be theirs!

Our short stay in Silchar came to an end very soon, and we were on our way to Manipur in real earnest by the end of the third day. The first two marches out to the Jhiri were uneventful, and we then found ourselves on the banks of the river, with a vast expanse of forest jungle before us to be traversed the following day. Unluckily, it rained all that night, and when the morning arrived it was still damp and drizzling. We changed our coolies here, and got Nagas (hillmen) to carry the baggage. They were fine-looking men, belonging to the various hill tribes about Manipur. There were Kukis, Tongkhuls, and Kupoës, and they seemed to my uninitiated eyes very alarming people indeed. They wore very few clothes, and their necks were adorned with many necklaces made of gaudily-coloured glass beads. Their ears were split to a hideous extent, and in the loops thus formed they stuffed all kinds of things—rolls of paper (of which they are particularly fond), and rings of bamboo, which stretched them out and made them look enormous.

Their hair was cut in different ways. The Tongkhuls’ heads were shaved with the exception of a ridge along the top, which extended to the nape of the neck, and gave them the appearance of cockatoos.

The Kukis’ hair was long, and gathered up into a loose and very untidy knot at the back of their heads, and the Kupoës had theirs cut so that it stuck out all round their heads and made them look as though they had fur hats on. They made no fuss over the Memsahib’s trunks, and I was much amused at the way they all rushed for the bath, which had a flat cover to it, and was easy to carry and cool against their backs. It was a muggy kind of day in the middle of April—a day that invariably brings out legions of horse-flies and gnats and things of that species to worry you and your horses. Worry us they most certainly did. They collected in rows under the brims of our hats and stung our faces, and they settled in swarms on our horses, and what with the dreadful state of the so-called road, and the heat and the flies, we were dreadfully tormented. We had a guard of Manipuri Sepoys with us, who marched along in front of us and helped to lead our horses through the sea of deep mud which covered the road. For seven miles we plodded on like this, and then we came to the first range of high hills and got out of the mud. These hills are the backbone of Assam, and the Manipur ranges are a continuation of those known as the Naga Hills. The highest range on the road to Manipur is about 6,000 feet, but they are all steep, and the road over them is very rough, making riding difficult in places. They are covered with bamboo jungle, and here and there you come across villages, but they are not numerous.

At every five miles the Manipuris had Thanas for the purpose of keeping a look-out against enemies, and acting as stages for the dak-runners. These Thanas were not always fortified, but the larger ones were, and they had been attacked more than once by Lushais out on a head-hunting expedition. There was great excitement at our advent at all the Thanas, and the Sepoys on guard at each stage turned out in style and gave us the ‘General’s salute.’ They had a particular fondness for bugling, and they exercised it on every possible occasion; but I’m afraid they were not struck with our appearance that day, as we were very tired and hungry, and covered with mud.

We did not get to the end of our march till late in the evening, and we then found we had to cross a river, as our camping-place was on the left bank, and our horses had to be left on the other side. We crossed by means of a bamboo suspension-bridge—a most alarming-looking erection. These bridges are really curiosities. They are made of wire twisted into thick ropes, and stretched from trees on either side of the river at different heights. Bamboos are hung on to the wires close together to form a kind of railing on each side, and these are fastened with cane to the floor of the bridge, which is made of bamboo also, woven into a kind of coarse matting, and although they look most flimsy and airy erections, they are really very strong, and can carry any number of men on them at once, and animals too, if necessary. They are a great height from the water, which you can see between the chinks of the matting as you walk across, and they have an unpleasant fashion of swinging violently when you are in the middle of them, making it very difficult to keep your footing. I did not like going over it at all, and tumbled down in the most awkward fashion more than once, much to the amusement of the Manipuris, who laughed very heartily.

It began to rain shortly after we had arrived at the rest-house, a large barn-like place built of bamboo also, with one doorway and no windows of any kind, and a mud floor. Not an atom of furniture graced this abode, and there was nothing to be done but to sit down on the ground and wait until our luggage should arrive—very hungry, and generally out of sorts. Nothing came in until nine at night, when the cook arrived with the kitchen paraphernalia, and we had a sort of dinner on the floor, and then had to wait until two in the morning for our heavy baggage and beds, which were travelling on elephants. It was a dreadful four hours, for in the meanwhile swarms of mosquitoes and sandflies came out and attacked us—hands, faces, and, in fact, any part of us that was not covered. The delay was caused by the road being too steep and slippery for the elephants, and their having to be unloaded five or six times—a most tedious operation.