CHAPTER II
BOMBAY AND THE CAVES OF ELLORA
The first impression of Bombay from the sea is perhaps a little disappointing from the pictorial point of view. The town spreads along the low flat coast, lined with long quays without any great domes or conspicuous noble buildings. One is aware of wharves and factory chimneys, and even the palms and gardens of Malabar Hill, and blue mountains inland do not altogether mitigate the commercial and industrial aspects of the place; but the light and colour of the East fuse all sorts of incongruities, and the feeling of touching a strange land and of setting foot for the first time in India is sufficiently exciting to throw a sort of glamour over everything.
The steamers cannot disembark their passengers at the quays, so they have to be landed in boats which cluster about the sides of the big liner. The official tug comes alongside first, and the official visit is paid. We were due the evening before, and inquiries as to the why and wherefore of the delay had to be satisfied. Busy agents and eager hotel touts come on board, and all is bustle and preparation for landing.
LANDING AT BOMBAY
Our Indian friend had been unexpectedly called away and was unable to meet us, but he committed us to the care of other friends at Bombay. We landed, however, with our friend the French explorer, with all our baggage, in a native boat, and by dint of a ragged lateen sail and oars plied by a swarthy, wild-looking crew, soon reached the quay, where a crowd of coolies waited to spring upon our belongings.
AWAITING THE CUSTOMS—BOMBAY
Our French friend spoke Hindustanee fluently, fortunately for us; and amid the clamour of tongues which surrounded us, was able to arrange for an ox-cart to take our united baggage to the Custom-House, where, after an interview with some languid English officials clad in white drill and topis, having nothing contraband, we were duly passed, though our friend, possessing firearms, was delayed longer, and of course had to pay. The Bombay ox-carts are two-wheeled with high sides of timber, forming a square open lattice, and drawn by a pair of oxen. Committing our worldly goods to this delightful prehistoric vehicle, we took a carriage—a little, one-horse, open victoria, which is the street cab of Bombay, and similar to those in use in the towns of Italy—and drove to the Taj Mahal Hotel, a vast, new, modern caravanserai—which, however, was quite full, so we went on to the old-established “Watson’s” on the Esplanade, where we got a good room with a balcony and a view. There was also a pleasant covered terrace, or verandah, extending the whole length of the building, which on the north side, always in shade, faced a garden green with well-watered lawns and thickly planted with umbrageous mango and banyan trees, amid which the ubiquitous crows of India (resembling our hooded crow) kept up a continual cawing chorus as they flitted about, now swooping down on some ill-considered trifle in the street, or perching expectantly about the hotel precincts, on the lookout for scattered crumbs. Great brown kites hovered in the air, forming a second line of watchful but silent scavengers. The terrace also commanded a view of the street with all its varied types in costume, race, and colour and character. The prosperous, sleek Parsee merchant in his curious shiny, sloping high hat, long black alpaca or white tunic, and loose white nether garments and umbrella; Europeans in white drill and grey or white pith helmets, which gave a superficial family likeness to all who wore them; native servants, Hindu, Portuguese, and half-caste, in every variety of turban and costume, sitting or standing about in groups, waiting to be hired; wandering minstrels, dancing women, and jugglers and tumblers trying to catch the eye—and the small change—of the traveller; men with tom-toms and performing monkeys, water-carriers with their dripping goat-skin slung at their side, coolies and coolie women constantly passing to and fro from the quays, bearing their burdens on their heads; the bearer and the ayah in charge of faired-haired English children, passing in and out of the gardens; the British soldier in khaki, and the native policeman in blue with a flat yellow cap. These and such as these were the prevailing types in the scene from the hotel balcony, from whence, also, we could see the tram-cars, drawn by horses in big white topis, trailing up and down the Esplanade, while motors flashed by, and smart European ladies drove in their dog-carts. Beyond the trees of the garden rose a modern clock tower which told the burning hours in the familiar Westminster chimes.
