When We Were Strolling Players in the East

by Louise Jordan Miln

From Rawal Pindi we went on alone, my husband and I. We left our two children in Murree that they might stay in the cool, healthy place until we were ready to sail.

I felt very blue when we left for Pindi, for I knew that I was taking my last tonga ride.

Do you know what a tonga is? It is a unique vehicle that grows in India; and though it is somewhat lacking in comfort, you grow to like it, and learn to sit at your ease in it and not to fall out.

The tonga rides in India are delightful. For me no other scenery has so strong a fascination as that in the hills of India; and I recall no happier days than those when we left a cantonment at daylight, and drove over the wild hills to another—drove until dusk, perhaps into the starlight. Every few hours we drew up at a Dâk Bungalow; and when the bungalow proved good, and the curry was faultless,—which happened more often than not,—India had nothing more to offer us.

From Rawal Pindi we went to Lahore. But we did no work there. I remember writing my candid opinion in the book that was kept by the eating-house khansamah, and that he did not like what I wrote. We prowled about Lahore quite like leisure people. Then we went on to Mooltan. We went to stay two days, but we stayed two weeks. A friend who was stationed there took possession of us at the station. He took us home to his bungalow; and I often wonder how we ever left it. We pretended to play; but we really visited our friend and the brother officer with whom he chummed.

We did play one night with the help of the officers. But the heat was inexpressible; it was fearful. We panted. A few nights later we were to have played. We went to the theatre. Ayah was in tears, and Abdul was excited. Abdul said that he thought the balcony (we were going to give, need I say what scene from Shakespeare?) would tumble down when I stood upon it; and Ayah sobbed out that the dhobie hadn’t brought my gown, which she had given him to press, and that she didn’t know where he lived. My husband and one host addressed themselves to solidifying the balcony; and our other host and I drove off in search of the dhobie. We found that good and great native, but not until we had had a prolonged drive and sundry adventures. My companion was not as fond of the natives as I was, and I fancy he spoke rudely to the dhobie.

We bribed the gharri wallah to drive rapidly back to the theatre. We were very late, but when we reached the play-house, we found it almost as empty as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. My husband and three officers sat out in the compound calmly smoking; Ayah was packing up; and Abdul was pulling from off the balcony the pink roses that had been procured for me with a good deal of difficulty.

“Whatever’s the matter?” I said, remembering how packed we had had the theatre a few nights before.

“Cholera!” was the answer. It was answer enough. Cholera had broken out in the bazaar. The theatre had been put “out of bounds.” So I gathered my roses into my arms, and we drove back to the bungalow.

We were leaving Mooltan the next night; so this night we sat up even later than our late usual. There were six of us there, for two other officers had come home with us. It was Saturday night. We sat under the great punkahs, and we played poker a little. But that we soon gave up. My husband said I was cheating; but I think he was bored, because we were only playing for matches. Perhaps we all felt that we would rather chat away our last night in Mooltan.