“I was a Lamaist but went over to Islam; help me now, O Allah, out of this severe illness; let me recover; forgive me my sins and all the wrong I have done to others; let me live, O Allah, and I will always keep thy commandments and will never omit my prayers.”
Then he had admonished the others to do their duty as heretofore, and thanked them that they had so patiently assisted him in his misfortune. Now and then he had asked for cold water. He had felt his left arm with his right hand, and asked whose arm it was, and had also said that he did not feel the shoe on his left foot. The whole left side was quite paralysed. Sitting upright, and supported by cushions, he had made the following request to Guffaru: “Thou, who art old, and keepest the commandments of religion, wilt not pollute thy hands if thou takest a knife and cuttest my neck; cut deep down to the spine, for that will relieve my infernal headache.” In his fearful suffering he struck his right hand against a box. About an hour later another stroke deprived him of speech, and after that he had only made a sign with his right hand, as though in despair at the approach of death. Towards four o’clock Tsering had come and thrown himself over him, weeping loudly. Muhamed Isa had also wept, and pointed to his lips to intimate that he could not speak. When we entered his tent about five o’clock his consciousness was almost gone. He remained in the same condition for an hour and a half, breathing quietly, with his mouth closed. I went therefore to my dinner, which Adul had prepared for me.
Robert and I studied Burroughs and Wellcome’s medical handbook, to see that nothing had been omitted. About eight o’clock we returned to the sick-bed. Muhamed Isa was now breathing with his mouth open—a bad sign, showing that the muscles of the jaws were relaxed; the pulse beat 108, and was very weak. The despair of old Tsering when I told him all hope was gone, was heart-rending. Half an hour later the breathing became slower and weaker, and about nine o’clock the death-rattle commenced, and the struggle of the muscles of the chest to supply the lungs with sufficient air. About every fortieth respiration was deep, and then there was a pause before the next came. They were followed by moans. His feet grew cold in spite of the hot bottles, which were frequently changed. At a quarter-past nine the breathing became still slower and the intervals longer. A death spasm shook his body and slightly raised his shoulders; it was followed by another.
The Mohammedans whispered to Tsering that he should leave his place at the head, for a Mohammedan must hold the lower jaw and close the mouth after the last breath. But the sorrowing brother could only be brought to leave his place by force. A third and last spasm shook the dying man, produced by the cold of death. After a deep respiration he lay still for 20 seconds. We thought that life had flown, but he breathed again, and after another minute came the last feeble breath, and then old Guffaru bound a cloth under the chin and covered the face with a white kerchief. Then all was still, and, deeply moved, I bared my head before the awful majesty of Death.
| 217. The Corpse of Muhamed Isa. |
Horrified and dismayed, the Mohammedans poured into the tent, and the Lamaists after them, and I heard them from time to time call out in low tones, “La illaha il Allah!” Tsering was beside himself: he knelt by the dead, beat his forehead with his hands, wept aloud, nay, howled and bellowed, while large tears rolled down his furrowed sunburnt face. I patted him on the shoulder, and begged him to try and compose himself, go into his tent, drink tea, and lie down and rest. But he neither heard nor saw, and the others had to carry him to his tent, and I heard him wailing in the night as long as I lay awake. Yes, Death is an awful guest. We could hardly realize that he had so suddenly entered our peaceful camp.
I had a long conversation with Robert in my tent, and old Guffaru was sent for to receive my orders for the funeral. The Mohammedans were to watch in turn beside the body through the night. Early next morning the permission of the authorities would be obtained for the choice of a burying-place, and then the interment would take place.
At midnight I paid a last visit to my excellent, faithful caravan leader, who had fallen at his post in the prime of life. He lay long and straight, swathed in a shroud and a frieze rug, in the middle of his tent. At his head burned his oil-lamp, slightly flickering in the draught. The dead watch of five men sat mute and motionless, but rose when I entered. We uncovered his face; it was calm and dignified, and a slight smile played round the lips; the colour was pale, but slightly bronzed from the effect of wind and sun (Illust. 217). Arched over him was the half-dark bell of the tent—the tent which had fluttered in all the winds of heaven on the way through the Chang-tang, and from which Muhamed Isa’s merry jests had so often been heard in quiet cold Tibetan nights amidst the sound of flutes and guitars. Now depressing silence reigned around; only the stars sparkled with electric brilliancy.
How empty and dreary everything seemed when I woke on Sunday, June 2, the day of Muhamed Isa’s funeral! I went out and looked at the grave; it lay about 300 yards to the south-west of the camp. The Mohammedans had been early in the village to borrow a door, and had washed the body on it. Then they had wrapped it in Guffaru’s shroud, which was of thin linen, but quite white and clean. Muhamed Isa and I had often laughed together over the old man’s singular fancy of taking this death garment on the journey. Over the shroud (kafan) they had wrapped a grey frieze rug. The body lay now in the bright sunshine before the tent, on a bier consisting of the bottom of the two halves of the boat fastened together, and provided with four cross-poles for the bearers.
When all was ready the eight Mohammedans raised the bier on to their shoulders, and carried their chieftain and leader, royally tall, straight and cold, to his last resting-place. I walked immediately behind the bier, and then came Robert and some Lamaists; the rest were occupied at the grave, and only two remained in the camp, which could not be left unguarded. From Tsering’s tent a despairing wailing could still be heard. He had been persuaded not to come to the grave. He was heart and soul a Lamaist, and now he was troubled at the thought that he would never see his brother again, who had looked forward to the paradise of the Mohammedans. Some Tibetans stood at a distance. Slowly, solemnly, and mournfully the procession set itself in motion (Illust. 218). No ringing of bells, no strewn fir-branches, no chants spoke of an awakening beyond the valley of the shadow of death. But above us the turquoise-blue sky stretched its vault, and around us the lofty, desolate mountains held watch. In deep mournful voice the bearers sang, “La illaha il Allah,” in time with their heavy steps. They staggered under their burden, and had to change it frequently to the other shoulder, for Muhamed Isa was big, corpulent, and heavy.