CHAPTER XI

TWO TRAMPS IN INDIA

AT Calcutta we lived in comfort. We were the guests of college friends of Richardson's. In Japan and China we stayed in native hotels and were constantly in contact with the people. The caste system of India barred us from mingling with the Hindus, even if we had desired to do so. It was impossible for us to eat at their restaurants and the nearest approach we could make to it was to buy our food at the native shops. We often ate at the foreign hotels and cafés when these institutions were to be found. There was usually a restaurant connected with the station.

Harrison Road in Calcutta is one of the most interesting streets in the world. Thousands of people rove its sidewalks and scores of races are represented among them. Hundreds of moving or reclining bulls block the traffic. The natives pass around these sacred beasts and are careful not to disturb them. They belong to no one and wander aimlessly about, fed by the people.

Richardson and I moved along this bustling street. We had been out seeing the sights for several hours and were hungry. In a native shop before us was a show-case of cakes. We stepped in to purchase a couple. The merchant was putting the first cake in a paper bag when Richardson put out his hand to take one from the pile. The proprietor dropped the sack and dashed towards him. His wife threw her hands in the air and screamed, and two natives standing by shouted at the top of their voices. They were too late, Richardson had grabbed the cake and had part of it in his mouth. I thought the Hindus had gone insane. What they were saying I didn't know but it was something very important if one could judge from their numerous excited gestures. They gave us both a thorough scathing. One would have thought we had insulted the shop-keeper's wife or had set fire to his place. No, it was more serious. Richardson had contaminated every cake in the shop. By touching the top one he had charged them all with uncleanness. We were out-casts. Several hundred cakes--or about one-half the poor shop-keeper's stock--were ruined and could never be used.

This disastrous result of our little transaction caused no end of excitement and twenty or more natives gathered to see what we had done. The shop-keeper and his wife immediately set about to throw away the cakes and with long sharp-pointed sticks like hoe handles began casting the food into the street.

"Hold on!" I shouted, "I will buy the whole bunch for a _rupee_." We had contaminated the outfit and I thought this was an opportunity to get a bargain.

"Good idea," exclaimed Richardson. "I will get a cart. Let's haul away every biscuit the poor beggar has."

The word _rupee_ sounded good to the ears of the shop-keeper who had looked upon the cakes as a total loss, and he accepted my offer at once. The next minute, Richardson and I were in the bakery business. A two-wheeled cart had backed up to the shop and we were loading on cakes as though we had done nothing else all our lives. Scores of Hindus congregated to see us buy out the shop-keeper. The cart was soon heaped high with cakes. They packed like bricks, being more substantial than the same variety of food in America. Richardson and I climbed on the seat with the driver and pursued our way down Harrison Road. Our little bread wagon excited more comment and caused more commotion than a circus in an American country town. Every one was speculating on what we were going to do with all the cakes. We did not know ourselves. We couldn't give them to the poor, for the poor wouldn't eat them. I threw a couple at a group of natives on the street corner. They scattered like birds at the shot of a gun. We drove on. We came to our host's house. He thought we were crazy. We unloaded the cargo of cakes and placed them all in our bedroom. There they remained. We tried to eat them up but the job was too large. They finally found their way to the rubbish barrel.

Darjeerling is a beautiful settlement at an elevation of seven thousand feet. Here we had come to view the Himalaya Mountains. On a strange little train, which was as elastic as a snake, we wound in and out among the valleys, scaled the sides of the mountains and arrived at this little town among the clouds. The scenery was stupendous. The world's greatest peaks were about us like tremendous church spires.

Everything out of doors was wonderful and beautiful. Everything inside was wonderfully inconvenient, uncomfortable and unhealthful. We stayed at the "Rockhouse"--appropriately named--and it was one of the worst shelters I have ever occupied. The place was run by a woman with a dirty apron. I doubt if she had ever done up her hair since childhood. Her children were the most untidy white youngsters in the Indian Empire. That's a safe statement. The carpets were filthy with spots and dust; a couple of mangy dogs hung listlessly about; the guests of the house looked like a bunch of cripples; the food was poorly cooked and tasteless and the atmosphere of the place was stale and musty from lack of ventilation. If there is any other affliction a boarding house can have, I should like to know it.

With the "Rockhouse" as a background for comparison, the beauty of the Himalayas stood forth stronger than ever. We arose one morning at 2:30 o'clock and went on horseback to Tiger Hill to see the sunrise. It was a sight that no one can describe and one that I shall never forget. The world's greatest peaks, white with snow and tinged with the glistening gold of the sun, appeared one by one above the clouds at the break of dawn. First, Kinchenjanga with its 28,156 feet arose like a monster iceberg, and then, in turn, appeared Kaby (24,015 feet), Jannu (25,304), Pandim (22,017), and Jabanu (19,450). Last of all, far away, Mount Everest (29,002)--the giant of them all--thrust its gold-tipped summit into view. The sea of clouds shone like a vast sheet of light, and the rugged snowy peaks, aglow with the rays of the sun, stood like mighty towers of marble. It is one of the most beautiful scenes the world has to offer.

The native population of Darjeerling is a mixture of Paharis, Nepalese, Tibetans and Bhutians, people from the small kingdoms of the mountains. They look like a cross between a North American Indian and a Chinese--with their almond eyes and red skin. They are very fond of colours and jewelry. Some of them wore earrings two inches in diameter and others had ear ornaments six inches long which were so heavy that they had to be supported by a band over the head. The people of India adorn every part of their bodies with trinkets. I have seen women with rings on their toes, anklets all the way to their knees, bracelets up to their elbows, ear ornaments, rings in their noses and beads pinned to their foreheads. The whole outfit would hardly be worth a dollar.

At Benares, the Holy City of the Hindus, we put up at a _Dak Bungalow_, a small house with bedrooms, sitting room and kitchen, provided by the government for travellers. We were charged only eight annas (sixteen cents) a day for our accommodations.

We met a British missionary in the station and asked him to outline an itinerary for us to aid us in seeing Benares.

"Have you any business to attend to here?" he asked.

"No, why?" I said.

"There is an epidemic of cholera in Benares and twenty British soldiers in the cantonment within three hundred yards of us died last night. My advice to you is to leave town as soon as you can."

The missionary's warning had no effect on us for we had heard it before and expected to hear it again. Every Indian city generally has a number of cases of cholera and other contagious diseases. If we had taken the advice of every man who told us to move on because of an epidemic we should have been advised out of the country in a very short time. It was our custom to reduce our chances of getting cholera by drinking only bottled liquids and eating only thoroughly cooked food.

We drove about Benares in a _jutka_. This is one of the most picturesque vehicles in the world. If anybody had the courage to ride in one on Broadway he would at once be arrested. It is a two-wheeled cart drawn by a horse that seldom gets a chance to eat. There is no place for the driver or passenger to sit and they stick on as best they can, letting their feet drag in the street. Richardson and I mounted one of these carriages and took in the sights of the city.

Benares seemed to be the focal point for all the feeble-minded, crippled and destitute persons of India. Ascetics, beggars and religious fanatics were as numerous as were the flies. The temples were thronged with pilgrims from all parts of the empire and the Ganges was crowded with natives bathing in the muddy water and even drinking the filthy liquid. The _Jal Sain Ghat_ was a gruesome place. Here the dead bodies of the high caste Hindus are cremated. They are burned on piles of wood and the ashes are dumped into the river, adding to the pleasant character of the water.

Why is it that religion and filth so often travel together in this world? We visited the _Kalighat_, a temple in honour of the goddess Kali, the wife of Shiva. We were fortunate or unfortunate, I don't know which, to be present at the celebration of the chief annual festival held in this temple. Many thousands of half-clad people were making pilgrimages to the place. Bullocks and goats were being offered as sacrifices to the numerous Hindu gods. We came to the court where the animals were killed. The place looked more like a slaughter-house than a temple of worship. The dead bodies of a dozen bulls and goats were lying on the stone floor, reeking blood and filth, with their entrails exposed and protruding. This scene might have interested a butcher. To me it was revolting. We picked our way among these carcasses to another part of the temple. Here we saw a green, scummy, unsanitary pool of water. Several hundred people were bathing in it and drinking the putrid stuff. At the entrances to the temple hordes of deformed beggars--many half-eaten with leprosy--extended their partially decayed limbs, soliciting funds. It was a disgusting and depressing scene. I prefer an autopsy.

Our train arrived in Lucknow at two o'clock in the morning. We finished our night's sleep on the stone floor of the men's waiting room in the station. A man who looked like a missionary advised us to leave the city on account of an epidemic of cholera. We smiled at him.

Both Lucknow and Cawnpore are chiefly of interest on account of their connection with the sad events of the Indian Mutiny. These cities are full of monuments and memorials which are kept in excellent condition by the British Government.

My chief recollection of Lucknow is an intense thirst. It is the most difficult city in the world in which to get a drink of any kind. We rented bicycles and toured about the thirty-six square miles of the city. We had visited a number of places and ridden about ten miles when, hot and dusty, we were seized with an intolerable thirst. We were in the midst of the native shops. A sanitary glass of water was as rare as in the middle of the desert. We rode on, hoping to find a better part of the city. We went on for miles. The narrow streets were six inches in dust; the sun was so hot that we fairly simmered in perspiration and the odours from the native shops were enough to make a man faint. A naked ascetic, rolling over and over on the dusty road, would get in our way. In each block a dozen beggars would plead for funds and the rays of the sun would nearly burn us up. We got out of the native quarter into the British section. My throat was parched and Richardson said his tongue felt like a sharp stick in his mouth. We found an oasis. We had been in search of water for two hours.

At Cawnpore we made our beds in an empty box-car on a side track in the freight yards.

"What's up?" asked Richardson, awakening about midnight by a sudden jolt to the car.

"I suppose they're going to take this empty away," I said.

"Let's get out of here," suggested Richardson.

"No, stay in and see where they take us. We may get a free ride to some place."

We were banged back and forth on switches for nearly an hour. There was no chance to sleep. We sat up and smoked. At last the engine whistled and we started for some place: we didn't know or care where it was. With the even motion of going in one direction we were able to sleep. I never slept more comfortably in an American Pullman, when I knew my destination, than I did in that empty Indian freight car bound for I didn't know where.

When we awoke the old box-car was at a stand-still. I opened the door and peered out. We were in a freight yard and appeared to be on a siding. There were trains on both sides of us and I could see nothing but box-cars, flat-cars and engines. We grabbed our bags and in a minute were walking towards one end of our train. We came to the station.

"What are you doing in the yards?" a Britisher in uniform called out.

"Just walked in from Cawnpore," I replied, not knowing how far we had travelled. "That's a pretty good hike, isn't it?" I continued.

"Indeed, it is," said the Englishman. "When did you start?"

"Last night," I answered. "How far is it?"

"One hundred and sixty miles."

"What's the name of this town, anyway?" asked Richardson, changing the subject.

"Agra," said the Britisher, who appeared to take our story without doubting a word of it.

We got by him and in ten minutes were housed in a _Dak Bungalow_ where we cooked our own meals and lived a life of leisure at about fifty cents a day, each.

We were hardly settled in our new home when a missionary knocked at our door and advised us to leave the city on account of an epidemic of cholera. We smiled at him.

Agra is the home of the most beautiful building in the world--the _Taj Mahal_. Most of the magnificent structures which make Agra so interesting are in the Fort. The _Taj Mahal_ stands by itself about a mile away on the banks of the Junna River and its solitude prevents anything impairing its beauty.

Commenced in 1630 by Emperor Shah Jahan, as a tomb for his favourite wife, it is to-day as fresh and new looking as though it had just been taken out of the band-box. Surrounded by magnificent gardens and fountains, approached by imposing red sandstone gates, it is the perfection of beauty and symmetry. It is built of white marble and, with its huge dome and four stately minarets resting against the azure sky, presents a picture of wonderful colour and perfect harmony. I have never seen a more beautiful edifice.

The whole of India was talking Durbar. We had been told a dozen times that it would be impossible to obtain hotel accommodations in Delhi for less than ten dollars a day. We were advised to eliminate this city from our itinerary as only the rich could afford to stay there during the Coronation festivities.

We arrived in Delhi late in the evening and had a good meal at the station restaurant. This meal cost us only one-half the rate listed on the menu card. This pleasing reduction had happened several times before, during our travels in India, but we did not know the reason until the waiter in the Delhi restaurant asked what regiment we belonged to. We had been taken for British soldiers. It seems that in certain cities Tommy Atkins gets a discount of fifty per cent. in all eating places. India is no place for a woollen suit. White linen or duck are the clothes usually worn by foreigners. Richardson and I didn't have the time or the money to have white suits laundered. We solved the problem by wearing khaki with white suits for special occasions. With our khaki suits and brown pith helmets we looked like British soldiers.

In the Delhi restaurant we got a thirty cent meal for fifteen cents. This wasn't a bad beginning for a city in which ten dollars a day was the minimum expense for living. We went out of the station into the darkness of a large park near-by.

"Can you speak English?" said Richardson to the first passer-by. There was no response.

"Hey, there, do you understand English?" I shouted to a group of natives. They looked at me as though I were crazy.

A lone man strutted towards us. He looked like he might know something.

"Where can we find a good cheap hotel?" Richardson asked.

"The Coronation Hotel," the man replied in good English.

"What kind of a joint is it?" I interrupted.

"A good place. Just built for the Durbar."

"Lead us to it," said Richardson.

The native accompanied us to the hotel which was but a short distance away in the business section of Delhi. It was conducted by a Mohammedan and consisted of about twenty rooms on the roof of a large brick building. We were given a compartment which we had to share with two Moslems. We furnished our own bed-clothes, as is the custom in India. The common wash-basin was at the other end of the roof. The hotel's rates were one rupee (thirty-three cents) a day each! The expensiveness of Delhi was a myth.

The city was busy making preparations for the Durbar. Public buildings were being painted; flags were being hung; grand stands erected and streets paved. The Durbar grounds, about five miles from the city, covered hundreds of acres and consisted of thousands of tents which had been pitched to house the various maharajas, rajas and their retinue of attendants. Richardson and I explored the grounds. We visited the large amphitheatre, where King George was to be crowned emperor. It was a large semi-circular wooden building with a throne in the centre. The circle was completed by a mound of earth on which were placed seats. The structure would accommodate about twenty thousand people and the earthen mound would hold about eighty thousand more.

Preparations were being made on a large scale. A special Durbar Post Office of brick was erected. A new and imposing station, called "Kingsway," especially designed for King George, had been built. It was here we met the youthful Maharaja of Cooch Behar with his attractive little wife. They were wandering about the newly constructed station as naturally as though they were ordinary persons.

"You're afraid to break in on them," I said to Richardson.

"I beg your pardon, but would you kindly direct us to the amphitheatre where King George is to be crowned?" said Richardson, addressing his question to the Maharaja as he would to any other prospective informant. He answered at once. Our intrusion was so easy that it was a joke. The Maharaja was not a snob and with a clear voice and in good English, for he was a Cambridge man, told us how to find the theatre. He was a tall, rather slight fellow with a shady complexion and was dressed in a black European suit. His wife had on an ordinary dark dress and over her hat she wore a heavy black veil. They looked and acted like human beings.

Richardson and I were asleep in a third-class compartment of a train with four British soldiers. We were on our way to Lahore, nearly four hundred miles north of Delhi. Our train had been at a stand-still for a few minutes and when it started up I was awakened. I heard some one say "Lahore."

"Rich, this is Lahore. Get up." I shouted and gave him a punch in the ribs. The train was slowly pulling out of the station.

"Get out and catch our luggage as I throw it to you," I said.

We awakened the soldiers. Richardson jumped off the car. I scrambled about the compartment to collect our belongings. The train was increasing its speed. I threw out one suit case. Richardson didn't catch it. I threw out the other. Richardson missed it. I hurled the two hand bags out. I never moved so fast in my life. The soldiers helped me throw. Like a whirlwind we threw trousers, shoes, coats, shirts, hair-brushes, tooth-brushes, socks and toilet articles out through the compartment door. The train was now going about twenty miles an hour. I made a jump and landed on my face. There I was in my underclothes and bare feet. The passengers, looking out of the car windows, thought we were drunk. The train swept by and left us.

What a scene greeted us! Richardson and I stood in our underwear--with all our personal belongings scattered for a hundred yards along the cement platform of the station. A hundred or more natives looked on in profound silence. I surveyed the scene and began to laugh. Dozens of things from shoes, coats and hats to toilet articles stretched from the station for nearly a block and two foreigners arrayed in B.V.D's! Surely it was a rare situation to be in at seven o'clock in the morning. We sat down on the cement platform and laughed ourselves out.

We finally gathered ourselves together and dressed. The station master came out to give us assistance.

"Why doesn't some one announce the stations on these trains?" I enquired. "This is a fine way to land in Lahore."

"This isn't Lahore," said the station master.

"What?" cried Richardson and I together.

"No, Lahore is five miles farther."

"What in hell is the name of this place?"

"Lahore Cantonment."

All our scramble was for nothing. We had landed in the quarters of the British soldiers. There was no passenger train until evening. That was too long to wait, so we rode into Lahore proper on a freight which went by an hour later.

Lahore was not worth all the trouble it took to get there. I have a hazy recollection of thousands of native shops, many temples and a large museum. I remember, rather distinctly, a large cannon in front of this museum. It was called "Kim's Gun," as it was on this weapon that Kim was supposed to have been sitting when the Llama came along, as recorded by Kipling.

I do remember one other thing in Lahore. We met a shabbily dressed American who related a sad tale to us about being discharged from a theatrical company and how badly he had been treated. He said that he was broke and his appearance certainly indicated that he spoke the truth. The fellow being a countryman of ours, his speech moved us to the extent of ten rupees. One hour later our down-and-out American friend was reeling about the station so intoxicated that he didn't recognise me when I spoke to him. He was drunk at our expense.

We didn't know one soul among Bombay's million inhabitants when we arrived in that city. There were about twenty Americans living there and I think we met them all before we had been there a week. We lived at the Y.M.C.A. and received our board and room--for both of us--for five rupees ($1.65) a day. We met the acting American Consul and through him the American dentist, the Standard Oil crowd and a number of other young business men. They all entertained us royally. We went to their homes for dinner, had the privileges of their clubs and attended a number of social functions at their invitation.

We went to Poona and spent a night in the National Hotel. I will never forget that night if I live a thousand years. We retired at ten o'clock. By eleven I had killed forty-two bed-bugs. This is not an estimate: it is actual count. I didn't ask the proprietor for another bed for I thought all of them would be alike and I estimated that I had killed off nearly all the bugs in my present bed. At midnight I had slaughtered sixty-seven. This is not a parlour subject, I know. But we are not in a parlour. We are in an Indian bedroom. I would raise up the bed-clothes, light the lamp and they would flock in all directions, like the ribs of a fan, to get under cover. At one o'clock I had killed eighty-one. There seemed to be no end. I couldn't stand it any longer. I tried to rout out the proprietor but he was asleep and couldn't be found. I returned to my room and made my couch on the floor. The mosquitoes nearly finished me during the rest of the night. I venture the guess that this hotel entertains only transients. One night is enough.

We drove in a _tonga_, a two-wheeled cart, to the Karli Cave. This excavation is made out of a solid rock and is said to have been done two hundred years before Christ. It resembles an early Christian church in its arrangement and all the dimensions are similar to those of the choir of Norwich Cathedral.

It was our plan to catch the mail train for Bombay. On our return from the cave one of the shafts of the _tonga_ broke. The driver was unable to mend it. We had six miles to go to the station and we had but little time. We estimated what the _tonga_ had been worth, paid the driver and left him in the road. We ran the entire six miles through a heavy tropical rain. The heat was intense and the atmosphere was sultry and close. Drenched to the skin we arrived at the station only to see the rear-end of the train pulling out of the yards. Two hours later we took a slow train for Bombay.

Driving a bargain in India takes time, if nothing else. All merchants charge what the traffic will bear. Richardson and I wanted two deck chairs and made up our minds that we were going to get them at a fair price. One evening I dropped into a native shop to look over the stock.

"How much is this steamer chair?" I asked the shop-keeper.

"Twelve rupees." I started to walk out.

"How much will you give?" the native called out.

"Two rupees," I said emphatically.

"No. I will let you have it for eight."

"Two rupees are all I will give you," I said as I continued to walk towards the door.

"Six rupees." The native reduced his price. I took a few steps nearer the door.

"Four rupees," he uttered reluctantly. This figure began to interest me so I lingered to continue the negotiations.

"I will give you only two rupees," I said again. "That chair isn't worth an anna more."

"No. Four rupees or no sale." The old fellow had reached his rock bottom price.

"I will meet you half way and give you three rupees," I said.

"No, four rupees." He stood pat.

I finally left the shop telling the native that I had to consult a friend before making any purchase and that I would come again in the morning. I informed Richardson of the negotiations. I explained that I had worked the native from twelve rupees down to four and I suggested that he continue to beat down the price from that point.

That same evening we went to the shop and I waited on the sidewalk while Richardson entered to resume the battle with the poor shop-keeper.

"I will give you three rupees for that chair," he said to the native, pointing to the piece of furniture which was the subject of all the wrangle.

"No. I have a man coming in the morning who is going to buy it for four rupees." I was the man. I had made no promises.

Richardson struck a dead-lock at once. As he came out of the shop I went in. It seemed a heartless thing to brow-beat the poor native, but we were out for a record.

"Well, I have decided that I can't pay any more than three rupees for the chair," I said.

"All right, no sale then."

I walked out of the shop, joined Richardson on the sidewalk and started up the street. We hadn't gone half a block when the native came running after us.

"Three rupees, eight annas," he shouted.

"All right," I said. "I have some heart left. We have beaten the poor chap down far enough," I added to Richardson.

We returned and bought two chairs. Three rupees, eight annas, seems a big reduction from twelve rupees but even this figure was exorbitant. Both chairs collapsed before they ever saw the deck of a ship.