Memoirs of a griffin

by Francis John Bellew

Behind arose, somewhat after the manner of those congregated architectural masses in Martin’s pictures, though of course inferior in the boldness of their proportions and general taste and magnificence of the outline, the closely-wedged masses of this most curious and old-world city; the continuity of buildings occasionally broken by masses of foliage, or a cuneiform temple, with its tapering bamboo and blood-red pennon.

High over all, in the centre of the city, on a natural eminence, towered the celebrated mosque of Aurungzebe, with its two lofty minarets, which command a magnificent prospect of the surrounding country. This mosque is erected, it is said, on the site of a Hindoo temple of great sanctity, which was previously desecrated by having the blood of a cow sprinkled over it.

When the Mahomedans and Hindoos have a serious flare-up, the cows and pigs are pretty sure to suffer for it. The one is held in the highest veneration by the Hindoo, the other in utter abomination by the Moslem; consequently, the killing of one in a mundil, and of the other in a mosque, in pursuance of the lex talionis, generally constitutes the crisis of a religious dispute.

Such is revenge, when passion and fanaticism are in the ascendant, and such the gusto with which, by contending religionists, the stab is given in the most tender and vital part.

Having nearly cleared the city, I landed, accompanied by Ramdial Sirdar, to take a peep at the interior of this strange place; and strange, indeed, I found it. Streets swarming with people, and some so narrow that one of our draymen could hardly work down them, unless edgeways. Here, in the crowded chowks, waddled the huge braminy bull, poking his nose into the bunyah’s grain basket, in disdainful exercise of his sanctified impunity; whilst byraggies, fakeers, pundits, and bawling mendicants, and much more, that I cannot here describe, made up a scene as curious in itself, as striking and interesting to me from its novelty.

In the course of my ramble, Ramdial gave me to understand that, if I was desirous of an hummaum, or bath, after the Indian fashion, I could have one at Benares for a rupee or two, which would purify my outer man, besides being wonderfully agreeable. I had heard much of such baths in the “Arabian Nights,” and in works of the like sort, and thought this a good occasion to compare facts with early impressions; in short, I determined to be parboiled, and having intimated the same to Ramdial, I departed with him and my kidmutgar, after an early dinner, to the hummaum, or Ghosul Kaneh.

This was a considerable distance from my boat, in a garden, in the outskirts of the city. We entered the building, and Ramdial having explained who I was and what I wanted, an attendant of the bath showed me a small apartment, in which I was requested to disrobe. Having peeled, a pair of curwah drawers, or pajammas, were given to me, which descend about half-way down the thigh, and are tied in front with a string.

All being ready, I, rather nervous, submitted myself to the guidance of an athletic native, similarly habited to myself.

We passed through a narrow dark passage, and I began to look out for adventures. The slave of the bath showed me into a little confined apartment, some ten feet by four, filled with steam, on one side of which were reservoirs of water of different temperatures, in separate compartments, about (as well as I can recollect) breast-high.

Here I found another attendant, who, after sluicing a bowl or two of water over my body, laid me out on a long board, occupying the centre of the narrow apartment, and, aided by his companion, commenced rubbing me with soap and pea-meal from head to foot.