When We Were Strolling Players in the East

by Louise Jordan Miln

I shall never forget Mooltan. I can see it now. I can see the 15th Bengal Lancers at their morning parade. I can hear their grave, courteous “Salaam.” Then a cloud of swift dust dashes the picture: the polo ponies are coming! The trees in Mooltan—I can see them too, and feel their grateful shadow. I can see an old ruin where the wild flowers twisted among the crumbling fragments of what was once some great Hindoo’s glory. It is growing dusk. I’m miles away from the bungalow; I’m in a dark little den. A native sits on the floor. He is making me something big and blue, something bright and beautiful. It is Mooltani ware. I’ve been here for hours, watching it grow beneath the skilful brown fingers. The potter is almost done now. In another moment I am driving home through the dusk with a tum-tum load of blue pottery.

I think the sais was indignant that I had refused to let a coolie bring it. And the beau soldat who was driving had to drive very slowly—which I am sure he had never before in all his life done. But I wanted to carry home my spoils myself, because I wished to be sure that I had the identical pieces that I had seen made; and I have them—or at least some of them now. Part of them were slaughtered by the clumsy fingers of the Custom House officers at Liverpool. But I have some left, and when I look at them I think of Mooltan and our friends there.

There is something very charming about the home lives of the officers in India. Those who are unmarried seem to have a wonderful talent for making rooms pretty and home-like. I know of nothing nicer than the pride that those young officers take in their quarters, and of nothing more gentlemanly, nor more soldierly than the way they keep up their order and beauty.

The best housekeepers I have ever known have been soldiers. And the best cook I ever knew was a poet. I really think that we women need to look after the laurels we have or are supposed to have, rather than hunt for new ones.

We left Mooltan at dusk on Sunday. Our little ones had come down from Murree, and we had Ned, the monkey (whom a bold, bad subaltern had tried to steal), and Nizam, the dog, and Abdul and Ayah—so that with “Wadie” and ourselves we were a party of nine; quite a respectable number.

“Good-bye” we cried to one friend, and “auf wiedersehen” to the other; for one was to join us at Sukkur, and go on with us to Karachi. The rain came down in wild fury before the train started. The wind sobbed and the window glasses shivered and chattered. And I whispered “Salaam, burra Salaam” to the cantonment where I had been so much at home,—the last cantonment of many in which I was leaving friends,—the last cantonment in India that I loved.

We spent a dreadful day and an indescribable night at Sukkur. I am enthusiastic about the East—but I except a few places; Sukkur is emphatically one of them.

I shall never forget the Dâk Bungalow there; and I feel very sure that the khansamah will never forget me.

In the evening we gave a performance. It was the second time that we ever gave an entire performance by ourselves; and I remarked at the time that it would be the last. My husband says I lost my temper; but I deny it. I was calmly and justly furious—that was all.

Our recital in Canton had been bad enough, but this was worse. In Canton we gave a recital in evening dress. In Sukkur we gave a dramatic performance in costume. In Canton it was cool. In Sukkur it was horridly hot.