Kashmir Part 1

Kashmir.

by Sir Francis Edward Younghusband.

PREFACE

When Major Molyneux asked me to combine with him in the production of a book on Kashmir I could not resist the temptation to describe what he had so faithfully depicted, though my official duties naturally leave me insufficient time to do real justice to the theme. I have not been able to write with the completeness that I should have wished; and I am aware of many sins of omission. I can only hope that when the description fails the reader will be fortunate to have his attention irresistibly diverted to one or other of my collaborator's beautiful pictures.

THE RESIDENCY, SRINAGAR, _September 1908_.

CHAPTER I

SCENERY AND SEASONS

Bernier, the first European to enter Kashmir, writing in 1665, says: "In truth, the kingdom surpa.s.ses in beauty all that my warmest imagination had antic.i.p.ated." This impression is not universally felt, for one of the very latest writers on Kashmir speaks of it as overrated, and calls the contour of the mountains commonplace and comparable to a second-rate Tyrolean valley. And fortunate it is that in this limited earth of ours we every one of us do not think alike.

But I have seen many visitors to Kashmir, and my experience is that the bulk of them are of the same view as the above-mentioned Frenchman. They have read in books, and they have heard from friends, glowing descriptions of the country; but the reality has, with most, exceeded the expectation. Some have found the expenses of living and the discomforts of travel greater than they had expected. And some have arrived when it was raining or cloudy, and the snows were not visible; or in the middle of summer when the valley is hazy, steamy, and filled with mosquitoes. But when the clouds have rolled by, the haze lifted, and a real Kashmir spring or autumn day disclosed itself, the heart of the hardest visitor melteth and he becomes as Bernier.

The present book will deal, not with the whole Kashmir State, which includes many outlying provinces, but with Kashmir Proper, with the world-renowned valley of Kashmir, a saucer-shaped vale with a length of 84 miles, a breadth of 20 to 25 miles, and a mean height of 5600 feet above sea-level, set in the very heart of the Himalaya, and corresponding in lat.i.tude to Damascus, to Fez in Morocco, and to South Carolina.

[Ill.u.s.tration: APPROACH TO SRINAGAR]

The country with which one is most apt to compare it is, naturally, Switzerland. And Switzerland, indeed, has many charms, and a combination of lake and mountain in which, I think, it excels Kashmir.

But it is built on a smaller scale. There is not the same wide sweep of snow-clad mountains. There is no place where one can see a complete _circle_ of snowy mountains surrounding a plain of anything like the length and breadth of the Kashmir valley, for the main valleys of Switzerland are like the side valleys of Kashmir. And above everything there is not behind Switzerland what there is at the back of Kashmir, and visible in glimpses from the southern side,--a region of stupendous mountains surpa.s.sing every other in the world.

By these Himalayan regions only, by the mountains of Baltistan and Hunza, and by those unequalled mountains seen from Darjiling, can Kashmir be excelled. There indeed one sees mountain majesty and sublimity at their very zenith. And with such as these Kashmir cannot compare. But it possesses a combination of quiet loveliness and mountain grandeur which has a fascination all its own. If one could imagine the smiling, peaceful Thames valley with a girdle of snowy mountains, he would have the nearest approach to a true idea of Kashmir it is possible to give. He would not expect the stern ruggedness and almost overwhelming majesty of the mighty mountains beyond Kashmir. But he would have the tranquil beauty and genial loveliness which to some are even preferable.

Of this, my collaborator's pictures will give a true and vivid impression, though every artist allows that it is impossible to give in a single picture the broad general effect of those wide-flung landscapes and of the snowy ranges stretching from one horizon to another. For that impression and for the varying effect of spring and autumn, of winter and summer, dependence must be on the pen alone.

Which is the most lovely season each must decide for himself. In the spring we think the spring the most exquisitely beautiful. In the autumn we say that nothing could exceed the charm of the brilliant autumn tints. But as it is in the spring that most visitors first arrive, and as it is the real beginning of the year, there will be some advantage in commencing in that season the delicate task of describing Kashmir.

In the first week in March I drove into Kashmir,--this last year, fortunately, in fine weather. In other years at this season I might not have been so fortunate, and the reader must take this possibility of drenching rain, of muddy roads, and dangerous landslips into account. For that purpose, however, there is no need to offer aid to his imagination, as rainy days are much the same all the world over.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LAND OF ROSES]

The long drive from the Railway Station at Rawal Pindi, 196 miles from Srinagar, was nearly ended. We had steadily ascended the valley of the Jhelum, with the river continually dashing past us on the left, a strong impetuous stream now being turned to useful ends, firstly, in generating electric power near Rampur, and secondly, in irrigating millions of acres in the plains of the Punjab below. We had pa.s.sed through the peaceful deodar forest on either side of Rampur, and the splendid limestone cliffs which rise precipitously from them. Just beyond we had pa.s.sed ma.s.sive ruins of the so-called Buddhist, but really Hindu temple, dating about 700 A.D. All the country had been blanketed with snow; the hill-sides forested with thousands of Christmas trees glistening in the brilliant sunshine, and the frozen road had been rattling under the ponies' feet. When gradually the narrow valley opened out. The enclosing hills widened apart. The river from a rushing torrent became as placid as the Thames, with numerous long-prowed boats gliding smoothly downward. The little town of Baramula, and the first distinctive chalet-like, but dirty, shaky habitations of Kashmir; a graceful Hindu temple; fine specimens of the famous chenar trees; and a typical log bridge, came into view; and then, as the hill-sides finally parted asunder, the glorious valley itself--a valley on so extensive a scale as really to be a plain amidst the mountains--was disclosed; and faintly mingling with the cloudless azure of the sky, on the far side stretched the great range of snowy mountains which bound Kashmir on the north, with the Haramokh peak, 16,900 feet high, standing boldly out 35 miles distant immediately in front; and from just beyond Baramula even Nanga Parbat itself, 26,600 feet, and 70 miles distant, towering n.o.bly over the lower ranges, the solitary representative of the many mountain giants which lay behind.

Then as we emerged into the open valley the snow disappeared and the first faint signs of spring were visible. All the trees were indeed still bare. Neither on the ma.s.sive chenar nor on the long lines of poplars which bordered the road continuously from Baramula to Srinagar was there a vestige of a leaf; and all the gra.s.s was absolutely brown.

But in the willows there was just the suspicion of yellow-green. The little leaf-buds were just preparing to burst. On the ground were frequent ma.s.ses of yellow crocuses and familiar bluebells. Here and there were clumps of violets. Occasionally a tortoise-sh.e.l.l or cabbage-white b.u.t.terfly would flutter by. Above all, the glorious brilliant sunshine, the open, clear blue sky, and the soft touch and gentle feel which at noonday replaced the crisp, frosty nip of the morning air gave certain promise of the approach of spring.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MOUTH OF THE SIND VALLEY]

Again, when at length Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir, was reached, and I was back in my much-loved garden, still other signs of spring's arrival were evident. Violets, pansies, wallflowers, narcissus, crocuses, and daisies were out. A few green blades were showing through the brown gra.s.s. Rose leaf-buds were bursting. In one garden near a few apricot blossoms had actually bloomed. And the whole garden was filled with the spring song of the birds lightly turning to thoughts of love--thrushes, minas, sparrows, blue-t.i.ts, hoopoes, starlings; bold, familiar crows, and, most delightful of them all, the charming little bulbuls with their coquettish top-knots--the friendly little beings who come confidingly in at the windows and perch on the curtain rails or chairs, and even on the table to peck sugar from the basin.

And so for many days the weather continued, the temperature a degree or two below freezing-point at night, and rising to a maximum of 55 in the shade and 105 in the sun in the day-time. Day after day cloudlessly clear. The snowy ranges standing out sharp and distinct.

The nearer mountains still covered with snow to within a thousand or two feet of the valley level. In the early morning all the valley-bottom glistening silvery-white with h.o.a.r frost. Then towards noon a curious struggle between summer and winter. The aspect of the country outside the garden entirely winter--leafless trees and frost-withered gra.s.s; but in the still air the sun's rays, with daily increasing power, having all the warmth of an early summer day in England; and under the noonday sun the mountains fading in a dreamy haze.

Then, of a sudden, came one of those complete and rapid changes which so enhance the charm of Kashmir. Dark ominous clouds settled on the near mountain-tops; here and there sweeping along their summits whirling snowstorms were driven along; the distant snows showed up with that steel-grey definition which in storm-ridden days replaces the dreamy indistinctness of more sunny times; now and then a glinting sun-ray breaking through the driving clouds would brighten up some solitary peak; and in the valley bottom periods of threatening stillness would alternate with gusty bursts of wind.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SUNSET ON THE WULAR LAKE]

Such signs are usually the presage of unpleasant weather. But in the present case rain did not fall; and this was fortunate, for I had gone into camp to shoot a bara-singh, the famous Kashmir stag. Rising at four on the following morning, and, as soon as I had had a hurried breakfast, mounting a s.h.a.ggy, naughty little pony captured in the fighting in Tibet, I followed the shadowy form of a shikari bestriding a still more diminutive country pony. Most of the clouds of the previous day had disappeared. The wind had died down, and the stars were shining out with that clear brilliance only seen amidst the mountains and in the desert. There was a sharp, bracing feeling in the air--not the same stinging cold I had felt when riding along this road at night in January, but strong and invigorating. We stumbled along on our ponies across fields and by paths which only a native could detect. At each village dogs howled dismally at us, but not a soul was astir. We gradually approached the dark outlines of the mountains, and near their base, while it was still pitch dark, we were joined by other shikaris who, like stage conspirators and with bated breath, explained where a stag had been seen on the previous day. I had then to dismount and walk; steadily and silently we ascended the mountain-side, and by sunrise were 3000 feet above the valley. The shikaris were now visible, and like their cla.s.s hard and keen-looking, clearly used to living on mountain-sides in cold and heat, and to be ever peering into distances. The head shikari was a grey, grizzled, old-looking man, though I daresay he was really not over fifty; hard and tough, and very grave and earnest--for to him all else in the world is play, and shikar is man's real work in life. Residents, no doubt, have some employments to amuse themselves with in ordinary times; but when the real business of life has to be done they come to him, and he takes them gently in hand like little children, and shows them the haunts of the Kashmir stag, his habits, where he wanders, and how to pursue him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: DAWN IN THE NULLA]

So now I put myself humbly in charge of the shikaris, for I make no pretence to be a sportsman. They thereupon proceed to whisper together with profound earnestness and dramatic action. They point out the exact spot where, on the previous afternoon, a stag was seen. They pick up little tufts of his hair brushed off, as they say, in fighting. They show his footsteps in the soft soil and on patches of snow. And they are full of marvellous conjectures as to where he can have gone. But gone he has, and that was the main fact which no amount of whispering could get over.

So on we went along the mountain-side, and now through deep snow, for we were on a northward-facing slope of an outlying spur--and all slopes which face northward are wooded, while southward-facing slopes are bare. The explanation was evident. For on the latter slopes the sun's rays fell directly and almost at right angles, and in consequence fallen snow quickly disappears: while on the northern slopes the sun's rays only slant across the surface; the snow remains much longer; the moisture in the soil is retained; vegetation flourishes; trees grow up; they in their turn still further shade the snow, and with their roots retain the moisture. And so as a net result one side of a mountain is clothed in dense forest, and on the other there may not be a single tree. Thus it is that on the southern side of Kashmir, that is, on the _northward_-facing slopes of the Pir Panjal range, there is, as at Gulmarg, dense and continuous forest, while on the northern side of the valley, on the slope of the hill that consequently faces southward, there is no forest except on the slopes of those subsidiary spurs which face northward.

We followed the tracks of the stag through this patch of forest, mostly of hazels, the shikaris pointing out where the stag had nibbled off the young leaf-buds and bark which seem to form the staple food of the deer at this time of year. At last we came to another shikari who said he had seen the stag that very morning. But I suspect this was merely a form of politeness to reinspire my lagging hope, for though I went down and up and along the mountain-side, and spent the whole day there, I saw no stag. Once we heard a rustling among the leaves, and hope revived, but it was merely a troop of monkeys. A little later a boar shuffled out; and again, on a distant spur, disporting himself in the sunshine, we saw a bear; but no stag.

[Ill.u.s.tration: KOTWAL FROM THE FOREST ABOVE KANGAN, SIND VALLEY]

Still, in spite of the exertion and in spite of the disappointment, a day like this on the mountain-side is felt as one of the days in which one lives. The air was fresh and bracing. There was something both soothing and inspiring in the quiet of the mountains and the immense distances before me. Far away to the south majestic clouds and snowstorms were sweeping along the snowy range of the Pir Panjal.

Beneath was the placid river wending its tortuous way through the peaceful valley. On one hand would be seen angry storm-clouds rolling threateningly across with numerous sun-rays piercing through and lighting up the serpentine course of the river. On the other, emerging from the black ma.s.ses, would appear the sunlit snowy range, not hard, defined, and clear, and rooted on earth, but to all appearances hung from the heavens like an ethereal transparency.

Hour after hour I alternately feasted on the changing scenes displayed across the valley, and with my field-gla.s.ses searched the mountain-side for bara-singh. When evening closed in I returned to camp, where business kept me on the following day, but on the day after I again rode out while it was yet dark. As the first faint signs of dawn appeared I began the ascent of the mountain with the shikaris.

The heavens were clear and cloudless. The bluey-black of the sky imperceptibly faded into grey. The mountain slowly turned from grey to brown as we steadily worked upward. The reposeful stillness which is the characteristic charm of the mountains was only broken by the cheerful chuckle of the chikor, or the occasional twitter of a bird calling to its mate. Then as we reached the summit of a ridge, and I looked out through the greys and browns, a sudden thrill struck through me as, all unexpectedly, my eye lit on the long flush of rosy pink which the yet unrisen sun had thrown upon the distant mountains, and which was the more p.r.o.nounced and striking because their skyey background and their base was still the grey of night. Not often does one see a range of _rosy_ mountains. And even now the effect lasted for a short time only. For rapidly a faint blue drowned the grey. The sky grew bluer and bluer. The valley became filled with light. But, alas! the rosy pink that had flushed the snowy summits faded imperceptibly away to barren whiteness. The whole long range of mountains showed themselves out with admirable clearness, but distinctly rooted in the unromantic brown of the valley.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ABOVE THE CAMPING-GROUND, SONAMARG, SIND VALLEY]

By seven we were at the summit of the mountain with the sun now shining full upon us, the air crisp and frosty-the very ideal of young and vigorous day. We marched steadily along the ridge searching the hollows on either side for stag, but all we saw was a boar breaking the ice in a pool on the ridge to get a morning drink. At length we halted for refreshment and rest still on the summit of the ridge with the most beautiful valley on earth spread out in all its loveliness 3000 feet below, and the heavenly snowy range bounding the horizon from end to end before us. Just faintly the sounds from some village below would be wafted to us through the clear still air. But otherwise we seemed serenely apart from the noisy turmoil of humanity; and bathed in the warm noonday sunlight I was able to drink in all the spirit of the loveliness around me.

And there came upon me this thought, which doubtless has occurred to many another besides myself--why the scene should so influence me and yet make no impression on the men about me. Here were men with far keener eyesight than my own, and around me were animals with eyesight keener still. Their eyes looked on the same scene as mine did, and could distinguish each detail with even greater accuracy. Yet while I lay entranced with its exquisite beauty the keen-eyed shikaris, the animals, and the soaring eagle above me, might have been stone blind for all the impression of beauty it left upon them. Clearly it is not the eye, but the soul that sees. But then comes the still further reflection--what may there not be staring _me_ straight in the face which I am as blind to as the Kashmir stags are to the beauties amidst which they spend their entire lives? The whole panorama may be vibrating with beauties man has not yet the soul to see. Some already living, no doubt, see beauties that we ordinary men cannot appreciate.

It is only a century ago that mountains were looked upon as hideous.

And in the long centuries to come may we not develop a soul for beauties unthought of now? Undoubtedly we must. And often in reverie on the mountains I have tried to imagine what still further loveliness they may yet possess for men.

From clambering over the high mountains in search of a solitary stag to sitting in a boat in the middle of a lake with thousands of ducks incessantly swishing round, is only one other example of the variety of scene and interest which Kashmir affords. There was just time before the end of the season for a final duck shoot, and eight of us rode or drove out six miles from Srinagar to the famous Hokrar Ghat, "jheel," which the Maharaja had so kindly placed at the disposal of the Resident for the season.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE KAJNAG FROM SOPUR, EARLY SPRING]

We meet at the edge of the lake and draw lots for the numbered b.u.t.ts.

The shikaris, boatmen, and boats are awaiting us, and as soon as we have decided where each is to go, and have fixed a time to cease shooting as an interval for lunch, and to give the ducks time to settle again for the further shooting in the afternoon, we embark each on a light shallow skiff with our guns, cartridges, and tiffin, and glide out through a narrow channel in the reeds to the open water beyond.

Hokrar is right in the centre of the valley, and from the lake a complete elliptical ring of snowy mountains can be seen. The nearest and most conspicuous peak is Haramokh, 16,903 feet, and 24 miles distant. From this the eye ranges from peak to peak to the Khagan range 70 miles distant in the extreme west of the valley; then along over the Kaj Nag mountains separated by the gorge of the Jhelum River valley from the Pir Panjal range, which forms the southern boundary of the valley with Gulmarg, 24 miles distant, on its southern slopes.

Then traversing the whole length of the Pir Panjal range from the highest point, Tatakute, 15,524 feet, the eye falls to the depression over which lies the Banihal Pa.s.s, and rising again meets the Kishtwar range 65 miles distant, closing in the valley on the east, from whence the eye wanders on snowy ranges till Haramokh in the north again is met.

The day was another of glorious sunshine, and in the noonday sun the southern range was bathed in dazzling light, the northern showed up sharp and clear with the sun's rays beating straight upon it, while the distant ranges right and left faded away in haze and dreamland.

Soft woolly clouds floated along the mountain-sides. A sharp, crisp air freshened one up and broke the water into dancing glittering ripples on which innumerable duck were bobbing up and down.

Here we shot for a couple of hours before tiffin, and afterwards till evening closed in. It was not one of the great shoots like we have in the autumn, and which I will describe later, but was none the less enjoyable, and being the last of the season each made the most of it.