From the Indus to the Tigris

by H. W. Bellew

From what we saw on this occasion, and from what we heard during our short stay here, there is no doubt that the condition of Kandahar, as regards population and prosperity, is even worse than it was when I was residing here fourteen years ago. The oppression of its successive governors, the frequent military operations in this direction, and the location of a strong body of troops in the city during the last ten or twelve years, has almost completely ruined the place, and has reduced the citizens to a state of poverty bordering on despair.

The discontent of the people is universal, and many a secret prayer is offered up for the speedy return of the British, and many a sigh expresses the regret that they ever left the country. Our just rule and humanity, our care of the friendless sick, our charitable treatment of the poor, and the wealth we scattered amongst the people, are now remembered with gratitude, and eager is the hope of our return. This is not an exaggerated picture, and speaks well for the philanthropic character of the short-lived British rule in this province, when we consider that our occupation of the country was but a military aggression. But even if they had never had a practical experience of British rule, the desire of the Kandaharis for the return of our authority and extension of the British government to their province, is explained by the glowing accounts they receive from their returning merchants of the prosperity, happiness, and liberty that reign in India, whilst they render them more impatient of the tyranny under which they are forced to groan.

Hundreds of families, it is said, have left the city during the last ten years, to seek their fortune under more favourable rulers. The city is said to contain five thousand houses, but fully a third part of it is either deserted or in ruins, and the population does not exceed eighteen thousand, if it even reaches that number. Indeed it is astonishing how the city holds out so long under the anomalous circumstances of its government and the ill-restrained license of an unpaid soldiery.

I was told by a non-commissioned officer of the Corps of Guides, who was now spending his furlough here amongst his relations, and whom I formerly knew when I was with that regiment, that the condition of the people was deplorable. Hearing of our approach, he came out to meet us at Mund Hissár, and attended daily at our quarters during our stay here. From him I learned that numbers of the citizens were anxious to see the General, and represent their grievances to him; and that hundreds, remembering the charitable dispensary I had opened here during my former visit, were daily endeavouring to gain admittance to our quarters for medicine and advice regarding their several ailments and afflictions, but that both classes were prohibited by the sentries posted round us with strict orders to prevent the people from holding any communication with us, lest we should hear their complaints, and what they had to say against our hosts.

The city is now governed by three sets of rulers, each independent of the other, but all answerable to the Amir. Thus General Safdar Ali is the military governor. His troops are six months in arrears of pay, and make up the deficiency by plundering the citizens. His nephew (sister’s son), Sultán Muhammad, is the civil governor. He has to pacify the townspeople under their troubles, and to screw from them the city dues or taxes. Then there is Núr Ali, the son of Sardár Sher Ali Khán, the late governor, who is himself just now at Kabul rendering an account of his recent charge. He is a luxurious youth, clad in rich velvets and cloth of gold, and on behalf of his father collects the revenues outside the city. The consequence of this triangular arrangement is that the people are effectually crushed and bewildered. They know not who are their rulers, and in vain seek redress from one to the other, only to find themselves fleeced by each in turn. As my informant pathetically remarked, “There is no pleasure in life here. The bazaar you saw to-day is not the everyday bazaar. There is no trade in the place. How should there be any? The people have no money. It has all been taken from them, and where it goes to nobody knows. There is no life (or spirits) left in the people. They are resigned to their fate, till God answers their prayers, and sends them a new set of rulers.”

Truly their condition is such as to call for pity. I observed, in our progress through the city, that the people had a sickly appearance compared with the generality of Afghans, and wore a subdued timid look, altogether at variance with the national character. They are, as we heard from more than one source, only waiting a change of masters. In their present temper, anybody would be welcomed by the Kandaharis, even a fresh set of their own rulers would afford them a temporary relief; but a foreigner, whether British, Persian, or Russian, they would hail with delight, and their city would fall to the invader without even much show of resistance, for the garrison could look for no support from the people they had so hardly oppressed.

The Government of Kandahar, besides the city and suburbs, includes about two hundred villages. Altogether they yield an annual revenue of about twenty-two laks of rupees to the Amir’s treasury. Of this total, about nine laks are derived from the city dues and taxes. Almost the whole of this sum is expended on the civil and military establishments of the government, so that very little finds its way to the imperial treasury. The revenue is not all collected in cash; on the contrary, a considerable proportion is taken in kind, such as corn, cattle, sheep, and so forth; and the collection of much of this last is avoided, as far as government is concerned, by the issue of bonds, or barát, on the peasantry and landholders, to the extent of their dues of revenue. These bonds are distributed amongst the civil and military officials in lieu of wages. They exact their full dues, and extort as much more as their official influence and the submission of the peasantry enable them to do. The system is one of the worst that can be imagined, leads to untold oppression, and is utterly destructive of the peace and prosperity of the country.

During the last two days a number of workmen have been employed in erecting palisades along the sides of the tank in front of our quarters, and along the cypress avenues on each side of it, preparatory to a grand illumination and display of fireworks, fixed for this evening, in honour of the General’s arrival here. At seven o’clock, darkness having set in, the performance of the evening commenced. Thousands of little lamps, which had been fixed with dabs of mud at short intervals along the cross poles of the palisading, were lighted, and produced a very pretty effect. Innumerable tapering flames reflected their long trembling shadows across the placid surface of the tank, and lighted the long rows of avenue on either side with a glare of brilliancy, highly intensified by the impenetrable gloom of the close-set sombre foliage above, and the darkness of the night-enshrouded vista of the garden beyond. We had not sufficiently feasted our eyes on this attractive scene, when its brilliancy was thrown into the shade by the noisy eruption of a whole series of “volcanoes,” the contents of which shot out in a rushing jet of yellow scintillating flakes, and finished up with a loud bang, that sometimes exploded, and always overturned the volcano. Flights of rockets, roman candles, wheels, &c., followed, whilst crackers thrown into the tank scud about its surface with an angry hissing, presently plunging into its depths, and anon rising with a suffocating gurgle jarring ungratefully on the ears, and finally expiring in the throes of a death-struggle. There were besides some elephants, horses, and other nondescript animals, that were fixed in the foremost places, as master-pieces of the pyrotechnist’s art, but the less said of them the better. They emitted jets of fire and volumes of smoke from the wrong places at the wrong moments, so that, when moved to combat against each other, their clumsy shells revealed, as they rocked from side to side in their efforts to fall, the bare limbs of the human machinery that struggled to support them in their proper positions against the shocks of the exploding combustibles embedded in their flanks and extremities. Altogether the display, though a grand effort, and perhaps a feat on the part of the pyrotechnists of Kandahar, was inferior to what one sees in India, and in any European capital would be hissed at as a downright failure. The purpose, however, was noways affected by the performance, and the honour was fully appreciated as a mark of good-will and respect for the Government it was our privilege to represent.

The next day was devoted to the final arrangements for our departure on the morrow. Fresh cattle had been purchased for our camp and baggage, some new servants had been entertained, and it was necessary now to see that all were properly equipped and provided for their journey. During the afternoon we had a long interview with some Hindu bankers of the city, from whom we took a small advance in exchange for notes of hand upon the Government treasury at Shikárpúr. They had correspondents at Herat, Kabul, Shikárpúr, and Amritsar, but not at Mashhad, Balkh, or Bukhára. They confirmed what we had heard from other sources regarding the oppressed state of the city, and the systematic plundering of the citizens that daily goes on, but said that their own community—the Hindu traders—were not interfered with. They assured us that the rich furniture of our apartments was mostly the confiscated property of Sardár Muhammad Sharíf Khán, the Amir’s rebel brother, who has just been deported to India as a state prisoner. With the timidity and suspicion common to their class here, they spoke in low tones and with uneasy furtive glances around; and presently, when the Saggid came in for his usual afternoon cup of tea, they were evidently discomposed, and quickly retired on the first symptoms of acquiescence in their departure. The Saggid brought us some fine nosegays of blue violets, the familiar scent of which quite perfumed the room. He found me busily penning notes, and jocularly remarked, “I know you people always write down everything you see and hear, and afterwards publish it to the world. Now pray, Doctor Sáhib, what have you been writing about me?” This was an unexpectedly home question; but following in his own merry mood, I evaded a direct reply by the remark that his observation was quite correct; that as a nation we were given to writing, and that with some of us the habit exceeded the bounds of moderation and utility, and was then called a cacoethes scribendi. “Very likely, very likely,” interposed the Saggid; “no doubt you people write a great deal more than is of any earthly use, but the habit is not without its merits. Now you will have doubtless written down all about the country you have come through, and will know it better than its own inhabitants,” I here observed that, with the most careful and leisurely inquiries, we could hardly expect to attain to such perfection. “Nay, but you do,” said the Saggid; “you go riding along and come to a village. To the first man you meet in it you say, ‘What’s the name of this village?’ He tells you, and then you say, ‘What do you call that hill?’ and he gives you its name. Out comes your note-book, and down go the names, and by and by all the world knows that there is such a hill near such a village, a fact nobody else in the country is aware of except the inhabitants of the actual locality.”

The Saggid was as much amused by this telling argumentum ad hominem as we were, and added, “Now, by way of illustration, I will tell you what occurred to me many years ago, when, as a young man, I went to Bangalore with a batch of horses for sale. An English officer who spoke Persian asked me one day about my country, and when I told him the name of my village, he turned it up in his map, and said, ‘Yes, I see. There is a place near it called Ganda China.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘there is no such place near it, nor even in the country.’ ‘There must be,’ maintained he. Well, considering I knew my own country best, I thought it useless arguing the point, so remained silent, allowing him to have his own way. When I returned home and recounted my adventures in the Deccan, amongst others I mentioned this circumstance, with no very flattering allusion to the English officer’s obstinacy. ‘You are wrong, Sháh Sáhib’ (the respectful title by which Saggids are addressed), said two or three voices. ‘Ganda China is the briny bog at the further end of the hollow behind our hill.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I never knew that before.’ So the English officer, you see, knew what I did not of my native place.”