CHAPTER VIII

GWALIOR

We left Agra for Gwalior on the 2nd of January. Departing from Agra Road about 11 in the morning we arrived at Gwalior between 3 and 4 o’clock in the afternoon. We hoped to meet an Indian friend here, who was a doctor in the suite of the Maharajah, and whom we had known in London when he was studying for his degree. He was, however, absent at Calcutta, so we had to shift for ourselves. There was, however, an excellent guest-house built by the Maharajah for the use of visitors to Gwalior, not far from the station, where we found comfortable quarters, very superior to most of the hotels we had had experience of. The building itself was a charming pavilion in the Mogul style, with domes, arcades, and pierced stone work balconies, and elaborately carved doorways, the material of which it was built being a sort of yellow sandstone. We were allotted a spacious room opening on to a pleasant terrace and connected with balconies which extended entirely around the house, and from here we could see the famous Rock of Gwalior with its fort and Temples and the old palace of Man Mandir conspicuous at its further end. There was a large central hall or living room, and in this was a blazing fire which shed its cheery light and welcome warmth. There was a good piano and English furniture. There was a sort of clerestory high in the lofty wall, but no direct light, so that in the daytime this room was in comparative gloom, by no means ungrateful after the glare of the sun. The dining-room was fully lighted and opened on to a portico. In front of the building was a garden with a rather burnt up piece of lawn encircled by a carriage drive.

We found a singular silent and reserved company of Anglo-Indians at dinner—a lady and three gentleman—only one of the latter manifesting the slightest interest in us. No one appeared at breakfast the following morning but an English governess and a child she was in charge of.

We started in a carriage to drive to the fort, stopping on the way to see the tomb of Mohammed Ghaus, the dome of which is visible from the guest-house. It is a noble tomb of yellow sandstone, with fine screen-work. It dates from the early part of Akbar’s reign. We crossed a river by a bridge and entered a decayed-looking native town, passing up a straggling street of low houses to the first gate of the fortress. There we might have hired an elephant to take us up the steep road to the fort, but the elephant had been already bespoke by a party of British officers. A palanquin (or jhampan) was produced, however, in which my wife seated herself and was carried up the hill by four bearers, four more accompanying them as relays. As for me I preferred to walk up, and our Moonsawmy went with us. We passed through several gateways. The Hindu carvings of one called the Ganesha Gate had been defaced by the Mohammedans. Soon the towers of the old palace of Man Mandir rose in view near the summit, each crowned with a circular cupola. It is a striking building of remarkable character in reddish-yellow sandstone, faced in parts by turquoise blue and yellow tiles, courses of these tiles running across the façade. The angle tower and some of the tile-work at the top had been restored. There was a frieze of geese in yellow on a turquoise-blue ground, the birds in profile, each showing an expanded wing and set close together. The design resembled the carved figures of birds often seen on the Jain temples. The architecture here being Hindu, was much more massive than the Mogul work hitherto seen, and showed much variety and invention in the carved corbels and brackets in the interior. I made a note of a peacock bracket in which the tail is effectively treated, the bird being considerably formalised in adapting it to its architectural purpose. There was another of a fantastic elephant. Elephant heads with their uplifted trunks, by the way, were carved as brackets to support the balconies at the Guest House, where also I noted that the detail of some of the carved work of the door heads at the old palace had been reproduced. The doorways were rather low and small, and the whole building had more the character of a castle than a palace. On the flat table land on the summit of the rock there were several Jain temples, masses of carving within and without. The Sas Bahu is the principal Jain temple, and there is also a Hindu temple on the rock—near the farther end from Man Mandir—the Teli-ka Mandir. This stands in a graveyard, full of carved fragments and upright stones. The elephant bearing the party of British officers passed us as we were exploring the temples. There are some ugly barracks, which are very much out of keeping with the historic architecture of the Rock. The old fort has stood many a siege. Caine calls it “the cockpit of Central India,” and “it has been stormed or starved into submission a dozen times at least.” It seems to have been originally fortified in 773 A.D., and at various periods since to have alternately fallen into the hands of Hindu or Mussulman, as now one and now the other prevailed. Akbar the Great took it in 1556, and we find the East India Company in possession in 1780, who took it from Sindhia and gave it to the Rana of Gohad. Then Sindhia retook it, and so it has remained with the Sindhias (to which family the present Maharajah belongs) practically ever since. The Rock has always been well supplied with water and has many tanks.

We had a commanding prospect of the country, stretching in a vast plain for miles around. We could see the Maharajah’s palace amidst its parks and gardens—a white building among the green foliage, and nearer the foot of the Rock the new town of Gwalior, called Lashkar. We descended on the farther (northern) side of the rock by a winding road, and from here we saw some huge carved figures cut in the face of the sandstone cliffs in bold relief. Most of these are said to represent Adinath, the first Jain pontiff, but there is a seated figure of Nemnath, the twenty-second pontiff. Each bear their symbols, that of the first being a bull and of the second a shell. There are life-size as well as small figures cut on the lower parts of the cliff. The effect of these strange carvings is very weird. They have an impersonal and unrelated look, and give one the impression of being more ancient than they really are; but they only date from A.D. 1441 to 1474.

We found our carriage waiting for us at the foot of the hill, having driven round the Rock from the old town, and we got back to the Guest House about noon.

In the late afternoon we drove to the Maharajah’s palace, and presenting our cards, were shown over the rooms by a very polite English officer. The building is in a sort of late Italian Renaissance style, all white outside, with a great display of pilasters and columned porticoes. We entered a vast durbar hall in white and gold, with modern French-looking furniture with curly legs upholstered in green. There were many photographs of recent English Governor-Generals on the walls, as well as indifferent full-length, life-sized portraits in oil of the late Maharajah. The best of these was said to have been painted by one Scott—a landscape painter (!). In one of the smaller rooms there was an English water-colour drawing of Sussex Downs by A. F. Grace (whom I remember at Heatherly’s in student days), and several photographic official groups of the usual type, in which the Maharajah is seated by the Prince of Wales, surrounded by rows of officials and notabilities, all with “eyes front.” We wrote our names in the visitors’ book, and then drove through the grounds, which are very extensive. In one part lions are kept—apparently in a most insecure way, as they not unfrequently escape and ravage the country round. In fact, this had quite recently happened, and natives had been killed by them. A very taciturn gentleman at the Guest House had been pointed out to us by the more genial of our fellow-countrymen there as the official who had been sent by the Maharajah to fetch the wandering lions back, and he had been over a distance of about three hundred miles before he succeeded in “rounding them up.” He did not tell us, however, how it was done, though he had a look as of one who “could a tale unfold”—not to speak of a lion’s tail! When we saw the place where these lions were kept we were not surprised that they should have been able to escape if they had a mind to. We looked down on them as they were gnawing some bones. They were loose in a sort of open court, overgrown with grass, and enclosed within four plastered walls which any cat could have scaled, no palisading or iron railing at the top. There were five lions and one lioness visible. The remains of their repast of meat was pounced on by kites and crows with much clamour.

We next saw the Maharajah’s elephants, and passed down a long line of them, chained by the fore-legs, down one side of an open courtyard, all eating what looked like the stalks of Indian corn. There were about thirty elephants here. One of them was handsomely painted on the forehead in a similar way to the state elephant we saw at Jaipur, but none of them had quite such big tusks. Returning through the gardens, we passed the older palace; also a white building, but in the Mogul style, with many domes and minarets, and facing a large tank with marble steps.

Our party at the Guest House was increased at dinner by two very pleasant American ladies, who, owing to their powers of conversation, caused the very reserved Anglo-Indians to melt a little and show some signs of human interest, especially when one of the ladies related her thrilling experiences during the San Francisco earthquake.

The next morning we visited the newer city of Gwalior, which we had seen from the fort. The streets were fairly wide, and some had varied and picturesque fronts in plaster-work. We were driven to the gate of a big and rather new Hindu temple, spoiled by the insertion of crude pieces of coloured glass, of the commonest European make, in the fan-lights of the doors on each side. A sacred bull of black marble and a snake fetish were the most interesting things there.

In the same court was an older temple raised on a flight of steps. To approach this, one’s shoes had to be taken off, and from the door only a peep was allowed into the dark interior, which, as far as I could see was painted all over with figures of deities and emblems in a barbaric way in coarse and crude colours. The thing to look at, it appeared, was a portrait of the late Maharajah in his jewels, on what we should call the high altar, which was suddenly illuminated by artificial light by one of the native attendants.

Zebu cows were wandering freely about in the court of the temple, and here for a wonder no fees were taken.

We went into the new market, which had been opened by the Prince of Wales on his visit the previous year. It was not, however, very busy, and many of the stalls were empty. It seemed of doubtful advantage to the natives, who preferred to do business in the bazaars. There appeared to be a good supply of fresh vegetables, but very few buyers. The most interesting stalls were those of the bead sellers. There were beads of every variety of colour and size. The stalls were about the height of ordinary shop-counters, and on these platforms, which extended without divisions along the centre and sides of the market hall, the native traders squatted with their wares in front of them, women as well as men. Some of them were engaged in stringing the beads, and one man was plaiting a cord, the strands of which were fixed to a hook fixed on an upright stick supported on a stand. He used his toes like fingers to hold out and divide the strands as he worked. With the assistance of our bearer we made some purchases, and again later in the bazaar, when, as the carriage was stopped, I made a sketch of the scene in front of us, but under difficulties, as we were immediately surrounded on all sides by an eager concourse of swarthy, interested spectators, who refused to budge in spite of the rather mild remonstrances or commands of a native policeman, who, I imagine, used the Hindu equivalent for “Pass along” or “Move on,” but they didn’t. Under this “crowd of witnesses” I endeavoured to complete my sketch, and then we moved on.

Extending our drive on the Morar Road, we passed the camp of the Maharajah’s soldiers in waiting for the Amir’s coming, as after the Agra reception was over he was to pay a visit to the palace at Gwalior for tiger-shooting. We enjoyed a quiet life at Gwalior, and I was able to make several drawings unhindered by too curious crowds. The Guest House was one of the quietest places imaginable, although visitors came and went and even motor-cars were seen. There was something almost mysterious in the way guests would appear and disappear—at table one day and vanished the next; covers would be laid too for guests who never appeared.

Tents which were pitched on the ground outside the Guest House for other unseen visitors would be clean gone as we looked out in the morning. Everything seemed so transitory; even a native boy, when I wanted to make a drawing of him, was nowhere to be found, and I had to make the best of it with an unwilling and quite inferior substitute, who had no idea of keeping still, and even ended the seance by squatting on the ground with his back to one!

It struck me that the natives do not like being drawn or painted, as a rule, to judge by the various attempts one made to secure models. The one wanted always disappeared when the time came, and another, but not a better and without the same characteristics, offered.

The little palm squirrels were very numerous here, and would scamper about the terraces and balconies of the Guest House, and even chase each other into our rooms, or come up for the crumbs we scattered, sitting up on their haunches to nibble at them, held in their fore-paws in true squirrel fashion. Equally familiar were the sparrows which flew in and out, unmolested and fearless, even perching sometimes on the breakfast table. The crows too would congregate on the balcony rails if any feeding was going on, frequently joining us at afternoon tea, at a respectful distance, though within short range of the scattered crumbs.

We witnessed several very lovely sunsets over the Rock of Gwalior, a type of frequent occurrence being an arrangement of long, low stratus clouds, brilliantly illuminated on their under edges as the sun sank below the horizon, the light deepening from orange into crimson. Another type consisted of golden fleeces of high cirrus clouds, rippling out over spaces of turquoise.

We paid another visit to the old town of Gwalior and climbed the hill as far as the third gate, where I made a sketch showing the towers of the Man Mandir Palace through the arch.

From a terrace extending along the hill near this gate there is a fine panoramic view, the old town lying below, partly ruined and deserted, a mass of crumbling walls and complicated roof plans mingled with trees and gardens.

The first gate at the foot of the hill, where is the guard-house, is interesting as showing the inlaid enamelled tile-work which decorates it partially. Deep turquoise is the prevailing colour, and it is used for the field or background of the designs, and is inlaid in pieces cut to fit the interstices of the pattern in the yellow sandstone. In a frieze of geese in close formal procession, the birds were cut in sunk relief, and the spaces between were filled with turquoise pieces. The tile decoration on the Man Mandir Palace has been done in the same way, yellow and green tiles being also used.

We drove through the bazaar of the old town, a queer, half-ruined, and ragged place, but exceedingly picturesque, the natives squatting on their stalls, presiding over curious preparations of food and other wares, with chatting, many-coloured groups crowding around. Some of the people would look curiously at us, some would salaam, some were indifferent, others were derisive or sullen.

There was rather an important-looking mosque with minarets in the town, but many of the houses were roofless and deserted.

In crossing the bridge over the river we noted the people washing clothes, and a pretty pattern of colour was formed when the stuffs were spread out over the sandbanks to dry. Here, in central India, we were able to see more of the everyday life of the people, and had more opportunities of quiet observation of country life than usual. The peasants did not seem to have the curiosity of the natives in the towns, when one sat down to make a drawing, but they went on their way, bearing their burdens, or driving ox-carts, or herds of goats, or buffalo cows, or asses.

It was quite a change to get a grey cloudy effect which occurred one morning when I had found an interesting subject by the river side. On the way thither we passed a village burning-place, strewn with heaps of ashes where the dead had been burned. The river had shrunk to a small, shallow stream, and at the spot where I sat was crossed by stepping-stones, over which groups of natives constantly passed to and fro. Cattle and ox-carts splashed through a shallow ford at intervals, and higher up natives bathed their brown bodies in the water. We were on the outskirts of the old town of Gwalior, and could see above on the rock the dark shapes of the Jain temples looming up against the sky, while around us were domes of cenotaphs, fragments of tombs, and broken walls, overshadowed by groups of fine banyan trees and mangoes. At an old draw-well near by groups of native women were continually coming and going, bearing their water-jars on their heads, their draperies forming delightful schemes of colour.

A dark thin Hindu in a white turban and waist-cloth was ploughing up his small patch of land near the river for potatoes, which members of his family working with him were preparing to sow. There were several sons—youths—two women, and some small children, all working on the land.

I made a note of the plough, a very primitive implement, having a single shaft fixed at a right angle to the share, with a cross-handle at the top. This the ploughman held with one hand—his left—guiding the plough, while with his right he drove a small pair of zebus under a yoke, who dragged it along. The share was a wedge-shaped piece of wood, tipped with iron at the point and along its edge.

Moonsawmy talked to the man while I made my notes, and he told me afterwards that the ploughman never managed to earn as much as 200 rupees in the year, though he and his family—I suppose about ten or a dozen all told—were constantly at work. His patch of land being near the river, one would have thought favourable for raising crops; but it appeared the river not infrequently was completely dry, and they were hard put to it for water for the soil. The income of the whole family worked out at about thirteen pounds a year at the most, which, taking into consideration that it had to be the support of about a dozen people, seemed narrow enough, and one could easily understand that the slightest failure of the crops would mean something like famine.

This state of things bears out the estimates of the average income of the Indian ryot, calculated by the late William Digby, C.I.E., after long residence and experience in India, the results of whose study of the question are given in detail, from undisputed authorities, in his striking work, “Prosperous British India,” in which is accumulated an appalling mass of evidence, all pointing to the conclusion that for famine should very largely be read _poverty_, which is also the root cause of bubonic plague. The railways, of course, might convey corn to the starving districts, but where the people have no money to pay for it they must starve all the same, Government relief-works being the only alternative; but this sort of relief must often be too late for poor creatures reduced by hunger and too weak to work.

The ordinary unprejudiced observer is naturally inclined to ask, Why this desperate poverty in an industrious population, supposed to be under beneficent British rule and administration? The answer must be sought in the fact that thirty millions and upwards are annually extracted from the country without any equivalent return, and this must necessarily mean a heavy burden of taxation on the chief sources of wealth, land and labour.

One of the greatest principles of our Constitution of which our public men are never tired of boasting is, “No taxation without representation,” or, “Taxation and representation must go hand in hand.” This principle is, however, entirely ignored in India, where British rule is as autocratic as that of Russia. Is it surprising in these circumstances that there should be “unrest”?

The educated Hindu or Mohammedan—the many who come to England and are trained in English Universities, or read for the Bar, or study for their degrees in medicine, feel that there is no part or lot for them in the administration of the affairs of their own country except in a very subordinate way. I understand that the highest Government post a native can attain to is the office of assistant-commissioner.

Time was when, after the great upheaval of the Mutiny—which was really an attempt to regain possession of the reins of government by the native princes of Oude, the principle of native representation under British administration was advocated by leading English politicians. Nothing, however, came of it, and the policy of the India Office has remained unchanged through all the changes of party government, there being no difference in this matter between Liberals and Conservatives. A Liberal like Mr John Morley, when in office as Indian Secretary, promptly orders the arrest and deportation without trial of Indian agitators under an old law of the East India Company which has never been ratified by the English Parliament.

Mr Laipat Rai, however, appears to be a self-sacrificing and devoted advocate of the cause of his people, and as editor certainly cannot have written so strongly against the English Government as Mr H. M. Hyndman, who has for years past denounced the conduct of the India Office, while challenging attention to and redress of the system under which the people of India are impoverished.

The attenuated ploughman who has been the occasion of these remarks was a typical figure. Looking on such figures, able only to secure a bare subsistence, so common throughout India, one cannot but feel that all the magnificence and luxury of the Maharajahs, as well as the heavy burden of the cost of the British Government, is maintained by the sweat of the brows and the ceaseless toil of such as these.