The Parsee, accustomed to this fancied solution of the transit problem of Agra, fell into that half doze of dreamy contentment typical of the home-coming suburbanite the world over, and roused himself only when the rattle of the cobble stones of his own courtyard disturbed his ruminations. We alighted equi-distant from two squat bungalows, of which the fire-worshiper gave me leave to enter the former, ere he retired to the bosom of his family in the other. My new home housed a band of servants and a lodger. The deep veranda was curtained by a network of creeping vines that the drought had touched with autumn colors. As I mounted the steps, a long-drawn groan sounded from the semi-darkness, and I was greeted by the sight of the lodger tossing deliriously on one of two dilapidated willow armchairs with which the piazza was furnished. A fever raged within him—the first symptoms, he was convinced, of the plague that would carry him off before dawn. Plainly he did not care to go. The charpoys within were all occupied. I preëmpted the unoccupied chair and listened through the night to the Eurasian’s frenzied endeavor to frighten off the grim visitor.
To the grief of the Parsee, I fled from his sweat-box the next afternoon, and, having visited Agra and her incomparable Taj Mahal, took night train to Delhi. The traveler who journeys slowly northward through this land of strange scenes and superstitions loses sight, oftentimes, of the fact that no other political entity includes within its borders so many heterogeneous elements. India is not the dwelling place of one people. The Punjabi of the north differs as much from the Maduran as the Scotchman from the Neapolitan. The hillman and the man of the plains prove on close acquaintance to have little more in common than their brown skins and their misery. Shake your fist at a Madrasi and he will take to his heels. Deny a Gurka the privilege of fighting and you have robbed him of all that makes life worth living.
The casual tourist, noting only slight changes from day to day, may not realize this diversity of population. But let him push on to Shahjehanabad, the city of King John, which they who dwell elsewhere call Delhi. Here is a different world, an Arab world almost, to remind him that Islam once held vast sway in the land of Hind. Easily might he fancy himself again in Damascus. As in “Shaam,” here are labyrinthian streets, each given up to a single trade. In shaded nooks and corners the black-bearded scribe plies his art; from many a minaret sounds the chant of the muezzin; the fez vies with the turban for supremacy. Lean-faced Bedouins and files of cushion-shod camels bring with them a suggestion of the wild sweep of the desert; and, if another touch is needed, over all hovers those crowning symbols of Mohammedan civilization,—filth and pariah dogs.
But with the squalor came new privileges to sahib wanderers. Of Mohammedan eating-shops there were plenty, and never a protest rose against me when I paused to choose from the steaming kettles framed in the doorway. The messes, if the blear-eyed Islamite who stirred the fires under them was to be believed, contained no other flesh than mutton. There were bones in more than one dish that looked suspiciously small for those of the sheep; and the rabbit is not indigenous to India. But quién sabe? The light-skinned vagrant is too thankful, certainly, for an opportunity to satisfy his carnivorous tastes to appoint himself a committee of investigation or to inquire into the status of the pure food law.
It was this scent of a more western world perhaps, which soon brought upon me the realization that our unplanned excursion “up country” had carried me a thousand miles afield. I awoke one morning resolved to turn eastward once more. Unfortunately the turning lacked impetus, for in my pocket were four lonely coppers. A half-day’s search in the native city failed to bring to light any demand for white-skinned labor, and I concluded to make public my offer of services through the district commissioner.
The afternoon siesta was ended and the élite of Delhi were awakening to new life when I crossed the bridge spanning the railway yards and entered the cantonment and the European section. Over miles of rolling country, thinly streaked by the shade of those few withered trees that had outlived the drought, were scattered the barracks, government offices, and the bungalows of white residents. At the district court a lonely babu clerk welcomed me with the information that the government force was enjoying a Mohammedan holiday, that the next day was sacred to some Hindu saint or sacred ape, and the third, the Christian day of rest. The road to the commissioner’s residence passed those of a score of English officials, each situated in a private park, on the lodge gate of which an ensign set forth the name of the owner and the titles which a grateful monarch permitted him to attach thereto. An hour beyond the court, I was confronted by the astonishing pedigree of the ruler of the district and turned aside with bated breath into his estate. The honorable commissioner sahib was not at home, asserted the native butler who was whitewashing canvas shoes on the back veranda; he had gone to the honorable Englishmen’s club.
A market-day in Delhi, India. Many castes of Hindus and Mohammedans are represented
The Hindu street-sprinkler does not lay much dust