The man was not sure, but suggested the Jallianwalla Bagh.
“What is that place?”
“It is a maidan,” the man said, “a big open square, a public place.”
“Public square,” Dicky muttered. “Turn in short after the armored cars,” he commanded the driver. “Follow close.”
“Ram Bagh is not so.”
It is a difficult proceeding, requiring formalities, to alter one’s orders in Asia.
“Listen. I am changing my purpose. Not Ram Bagh, but Jallianwalla. Turn in after the soldiers—now!”
The driver obeyed, but was hurt and murmuring.
To Dicky, that afternoon, Amritsar was a place of heated and offensive stenches. As they passed through hot and narrow streets, certain of these odors startled his comprehension, because they were so subtly vindictive. The thought occurred to him, as he watched the naked children playing in the wet shadows, of what a correspondent had remarked in Cawnpore: that it was hard to tell whether the streets soiled the children, or the children soiled the streets. The movement forward was very slow, and Dicky bent to inquire at length if they were still moving toward Jallianwalla Bagh.
“Yes, it is very near,” said the driver, churning at the lines with both hands.