Chapter 7

FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF SRINAGAR

We learnt that the earthquake of this morning was far more than the ordinary affair that we had taken it to be. The hotel showed signs of a struggle for existence. Large cracks in the plaster, spanned by strips of paper gummed across to show if they widened, and little heaps of crumbled mortar on the floors, betrayed that the grip of mother earth had been no feeble one.

Telegrams from Lahore inquired if the rumour was true that Srinagar had been much damaged, and reported an awful destruction and loss of life at Dharmsala. I think if we had fully known what an earthquake really meant, we should not have so calmly gone back to bed again!

The advent of Mrs. Smithson upon the scene relieved a certain anxiety which we had felt as to immediate plans. The idea of rushing into Astor had been given up, we found—not so much on account of our tardy arrival, permits being still obtainable, but on account of the impossibility—at any rate for ladies—of forcing the high passes which the late season has kept safely sealed.

Walter, having pawed the ground in feverish impatience for some days, had gone off into a region said to be full of bara singh; so we decided to possess our souls in patience for a little time, and remain quietly in Srinagar. Accordingly, instead of unpacking our “detonating musquetoons,” we exhumed our evening clothes, and began life in Srinagar with a cheerful dinner at the Residency.

_Friday, April 7th_.—We are evidently somewhat premature here as far as climate goes. The weather since our arrival has become cold and grey, and we have seemed on the verge of another snowfall. However, the clerk of the weather has refrained from such an insult, contenting himself with sending a breeze down upon us fresh from the “Roof of the World,” and laden with the chilly moisture of the snows. We have consumed great quantities of wood, vainly endeavouring to warm up the den which Mr. Nedou has let to us as a sitting-room. Fires are not the fashion in the public rooms—probably because the only “public” besides ourselves consist of one or two enterprising sportsmen, who doubtless are acclimatising themselves to camp life amid the snows, and have implored the proprietor to save his fuel and keep the outer doors open.

Yesterday, we went on a shopping excursion down the river, our “hansom” being a long narrow sort of canoe, propelled and dexterously steered by four or five paddlers, whose mode of _digging_ along by means of their heart-shaped blades reminded me not a little of the Kroo boys paddling a fish-canoe off Elmina on the Gold Coast.

We embarked close to the back of the hotel, at the Chenar Bagh, and went gaily enough down the strong current of what we took to be an affluent of the Jhelum. As a matter of fact, the European quarter forms an island, low and perfectly flat, the banks of which are heaped into a high dyke or “bund,” washed on one side (the south) by the main river, and on the other by the Sunt-i-kul Canal, down which we have been paddling.

The river life was most fascinating—crowds of heavy doungas lay moored along the banks—their long, low bodies covered in by matting, and their extremities sloping up into long peaked platforms for the crew. These—many of them women and children—were all clothed in neutral-tinted gowns, the only bit of colour being an occasional note of red or white in the puggaree of the men or skull-cap of the children. The married women invariably wore whity-brown veils over the head. The wooden houses that lined the banks were all in the general low scheme of colour, but a peculiar charm was added by the roofs covered in thick, green turf.

Srinagar has been called the “Venice of the East,” and, inasmuch as waterways form the main thoroughfares in both, there is a certain resemblance. Shikaras (the Kashmiri canoes) are first-cousins to gondolas—rather poor relations perhaps; both are dingy and clumsy in appearance, and both are managed with an extraordinary dexterity by their navigators.

Both cities are “smelly,” though Venice, even at its worst, stands many degrees above the incredible filth of Srinagar.

Finally—both cities are within sight of snowy ranges; although it seems hardly fair to place in comparison the majestic range that overhangs Srinagar and the somewhat distant and sketchy view of the Alps as seen from Venice.

Here, I think, all resemblance ceases. The charm of Venice lies in its architecture, its art treasures, its historical memories, and its interesting people.

Srinagar has no architecture in particular, being but a picturesque chaos of tumble-down wooden shanties. It has no history worth speaking of, and its inhabitants are—and apparently have always been—a poor lot.

Shopping in Srinagar is not pure and unadulterated joy. Down the river, spanned by its seven bridges, amidst a network of foul-smelling alleys, you are dragged to the emporiums of the native merchants whose advertisements flare upon the river banks, and who, armed with cards, and possessed of a wonderful supply of the English language, swarm around the victim at every landing-place, and almost tear one another in pieces while striving to obtain your custom.

Samad Shall, in a conspicuous hoarding, announces that he can—and will—supply you with anything you may desire, including money—for he proclaims himself to be a banker.

Ganymede, in his own opinion, is the only wood-carver worth attention.

Suffering Moses is the prince of workers in lacquer, according to his own showing.

The nose of the boat grates up against the slimy step of the landing-place, and you plunge forthwith into Babel.

“Will you come to my shop?”

“No—you are going somewhere else.”

“After?”

“Perhaps!”

“To-day, master?”

“No—no time to-day.”

“To-morrow, then—I got very naice kyriasity [curiosity]—to-morrow, master—what time?”

“Oh! get out! and leave me alone.”

“I send boat for you—ten o’clock to-morrow?”

“No.”

“Twelve o’clock?” &c. &c.

After a short experience of Kashmiri pertinacity and business methods, you cease from politeness and curtly threaten the river.

Certainly the Kashmiri are exceedingly clever and excellent workers in many ways. Their modern embroideries (the old shawl manufacture is totally extinct) are beautiful and artistic. Their wood-carving, almost always executed in rich brown walnut, is excellent; and their _old_ papier-mâché lacquer is very good. The tendency, however, is unfortunately to abandon their own admirable designs, and assimilate or copy Western ideas as conveyed in very doubtful taste by English visitors.

The embroidery has perhaps kept its individuality the best, although the trail of the serpent as revealed in “quaint” Liberty or South Kensington designs is sometimes only too apparent. Certain plants—Lotus, Iris, Chenar leaf, and so-called Dal Lake leaves, as well as various designs taken from the old Kashmir shawls, give scope to the nimble brains and fingers of the embroiderers, who, by-the-bye, are all male.

Their colours, almost invariably obtained from native dyes, are excellent, and they rarely make a mistake in taste.

The coarser work in wool on cushions, curtains, and thick white numdahs is most effective and cheap.

Curiously enough, the best of these numdahs (which make capital rugs or bath blankets) are made in Yarkand; and Stein, in his _Sand-Buried Cities of Kotan_, found in ancient documents, of the third century or so, “the earliest mention of the felt-rugs or ‘numdahs’ so familiar to Anglo-Indian use, which to this day form a special product of Kotan home industry, and of which large consignments are annually exported to Ladak and Kashmir.”

The manufacture of carpets is receiving attention, and Messrs. Mitchell own a large carpet factory. Designs and colours are good, but the prices are not low enough to enable them to compete with the cheap Indian makes; nor, I make bold to say, is the quality such as to justify high prices. The shop of Mohamed Jan is well worth a visit, for three good reasons—first, because his Oriental carpets from Penjdeh and Khiva are of the best; second, because his house is one of the first specimens of a high-class native dwelling existing; and third, because he never worries his customers nor touts for orders—but, then, he is a Persian, and not a Kashmiri!

The famous shawls which fetched such prices in England in early Victorian days are no longer valued, having suffered an eclipse similar to that undergone by the pictures of certain early Victorian Royal Academicians, and the loss of the shawl trade was a severe blow to Kashmir. With the exception of occasional specimens of these shawls, which, however, can be bought cheaper at sales in London, there are no _old_ embroideries to be got.

The wood-carving industry, too, is quite modern; but, although of great excellence and ingenuity in manipulation, it does not appeal to me, being too florid and copious in its application of design. A restless confusion of dragons from Leh, lotus from the Dal Lake, and the ever-present chenar leaf, hobnob together with British—very British—crests and monograms on the tops of tables and the seats of chairs—portions of the furniture that should be left severely plain.

British taste is usually bad, and to it, and not to Kashmiri initiative, must be ascribed the production of such exotic works as bellows embellished with chaste designs of lotus-buds, and afternoon tea-tables flaunting coats-of-arms (doubtless dating from the Conquest), beautifully carved in high relief just where the tray—the bottom of which is probably ornamented with a flowing design of raised flowers—should rest!

The lacquered papier-maché work—often extremely pretty when left to its own proper Cabul pattern or other native design—aims too often at attracting the eye of the mighty hunter by introducing an inappropriate markhor’s head. The old lacquer-work is difficult to get, and, when obtained, is high in price; but comparison between the old and the new shows the gulf that lies between the loving and skilful labour of the artist and the stupid and generally “scamped” achievement of him who merely “knocks off” candlesticks and tobacco-boxes by the score, to sell to the English visitor—papier-maché being superseded by wood, and lacquer by paint.

The workers in silver, copper, and brass are many, but their productions are usually rough and inartistic. Genuine old beaten metal-work is almost unobtainable, although occasionally desirable specimens from Leh do find their way into the Srinagar shops.

Chinese porcelain is to be got, usually in the form of small bowls; but it is not of remarkably good quality, and the prices asked for it are higher than in London.

The jewellers’ work is very far behind that of India. Amethysts of pale colour and yellow topaz are cheap. Fine turquoise do not come into Kashmir, but plenty of the rough stones (as well as imitations) are to be found, which, owing to a transitory fashion, are priced far above their intrinsic value. They come from Thibet.

A great deal of a somewhat soft and ugly-coloured jade is sent from Yarkand, also agates and carnelian; beads of these are strung into rather uncouth necklets, which may be bought for half the sum first asked.

Bargaining is an invariable necessity in all shopping in Kashmir, as everywhere else in the East, where the market value of an article is not what it costs to produce, but what can be squeezed for it out of the purse of the—usually—ignorant purchaser.

Three things are essential to the successful prosecution of shopping in Srinagar:—

(1) Unlimited time.

(2) A command of emphatic language, sufficient to impress the native mind with the need for keeping to the point.

(3) A liver in such thorough working order as to insure an extraordinary supply of good temper.

Without all these attributes the acquisition of objects of “bigotry and vertue” in Srinagar is attended with pain and tribulation.

The descent of the river is accomplished with ease and rapidity, but _revocare gradum_ involves much hard paddling, with many pants and grunts; and it was both cold and dark when we again lay alongside the bank of the Chenar Bagh, and scurried up the slippery bund to the hotel, with scarcely time to dress for dinner.

_Sunday, 9th April_.—Friday was a horrible day—rainy, dull, and cold; but a thrill of excitement was sent through us by the news that Walter has shot two fine bara singh! Charlotte (who is nothing if not a keen sportswoman) was filled with zeal and the spirit of emulation, so we resolved to dash off down the river to Bandipur, join Walter—who has now presumably joined the ranks of the unemployed, being only permitted by the Game Laws to kill two stags—and take our pick of the remaining “Royals,” which, in our vivid imaginations, roamed in dense flocks through the nullahs beyond Bandipur!

All Friday and yesterday, therefore, were devoted to preparation. I had already, through the kindness of Major Wigram, secured a shikari, who immediately demonstrated his zeal and efficiency by purchasing a couple of bloodthirsty knives and a huge bottle of Rangoon oil at my expense. I pointed out that one “skian-dhu” seemed to me sufficient for “gralloching” purposes, but he said two were better for bears. My acquaintance with bears being hitherto confined to Regent’s Park, I bowed to his superior knowledge and forethought.

A visit to Cockburn’s agency resulted in the hire of the “boarded dounga” _Cruiser_, which the helpful Mr. Cockburn procured for us, in which to go down the river; also a couple of tents for ourselves with tent furniture, one for the servants, and a cooking tent.

The local bootmaker or “chaplie-wallah” appeared, as by magic, on the scene, and chaplies were ordered. These consist of a sort of leather sandal strapped over soft leather boots or moccasins. They are extremely comfortable for walking on ordinary ground, but perfectly useless for hill work, even when the soles are studded with nails. The hideous but necessary grass shoe is then your only wear. The grass shoe, which is made as required by the native, is an intricate contrivance of rice straw, kept in position by a straw twist which is hauled taut between the big and next toe, and the end expended round some of the side webbing. The cleft sock and woollen boot worn underneath keep the feet warm, but do not always prevent discomfort and even much pain if the cords are not properly adjusted. However, the remedy is simple. Tear off the shoe, using such language as may seem appropriate to the occasion, throw it at the shikari’s head, and order another pair to be made “ek dam”! Jane and I each purchased a yakdan, a sort of roughly-made leather box or trunk, strong, and of suitable size for either pony or coolie transport. Our wardrobe was stowed in these and secured by padlocks, and the cooking gear, together with a certain amount of stores in the shape of grocery, bread, and a couple of bottles of whisky were safely housed in a pair of large covered creels or “kiltas.”

Each of the party provided him or herself with a khudstick, consisting of a strong and tough shaft about five feet long, tapering slightly towards the base, where it is shod with a chisel-shaped iron end.

Our staff of retainers had now been brought up to five—the shikari, Ahmed Bot, having procured a satellite, known as the chota shikari, a youth of not unprepossessing appearance, but whose necessity in our scheme of existence I had not quite determined. Ahmed Bot, however, was of opinion that all sahibs who wanted sport required two shikaris, so I imagined that while I was to be engaged with one in pursuit of bara singh, the other would employ himself in “rounding up” a few tigers for the next day’s sport in another direction. Ahmed Bot agreed with me in the main, but did not feel at all sure about the tigers—he proposed ibex.

The fifth wheel to our coach was a strikingly ugly person, like a hippopotamus, whose plainness was not diminished by a pair of enormous goggles; this was the harmless necessary sweeper, that pariah among domestics, whose usefulness is undreamed of out of India.

After dinner last night we left the hotel, truly thankful to shake the dust of its gloomy precincts from our feet, and sought our boats, which were moored in the Chenar Bagh. How snug and bright the “ship” seemed after the murky corridors of Nedou! And yet the _Cruiser_ was not much to boast of, really, in the way of luxury.

Let me describe a typical boarded dounga. Upon a long, low, flat-bottomed hull, which tapered to a sharp point at bow and stern, was raised a light wooden superstructure with a flat roof, upon which the passengers could sit. The interior was divided off into some half-a-dozen compartments, a vestibule or outer cabin held boxes, &c., and through it one passed into the dining or parlour cabin, which opened again to two little bedrooms and a couple of bathrooms. There was no furniture to speak of, but we had hired from Cockburn all that we required for the trip.

The servants, as well as the crew of the dounga, were all stowed in a “tender” known as the cook boat—no one, except for navigating duties, having any business on board the “flagship.”

Charlotte Smithson had a smaller ship than ours—a light wooden frame, which supported movable matting screens or curtains, taking the place of our wooden cabins. The matted dounga looked as though it might be chilly, particularly if a strong wind came to play among the rather draughty-looking mats which were all that our poor friend had between her and a cold world!