Kashmir Part 2

Perspiration poured down head and neck. Dragon-flies, blue and red, large and small, with gauze-like wings and brilliant bodies, floated swiftly but noiselessly among the reeds. The purring of the crickets, the occasional twitter of birds, the swishing of high flights of duck far out of reach, the call of a goose and the bang of a distant gun at intervals broke the silence; but otherwise all was wrapped in dreamy noonday stillness. Then, of a sudden, another succession of flights of duck came whizzing past, and as fast as we could fire the gun was put to the shoulder. Another lull followed, only to be succeeded by more flights, and so on through the day. At 1.30, by previous arrangement, we stopped for lunch and to give the duck an opportunity of settling, then renewed the shooting till nightfall. At the end of the day Colonel Edwards, the Residency Surgeon, had himself shot 203, and others had shot well over the hundred.

From this time onward, on three or four days in each month, the duck-shooting on this famous lake continues. The weather now gets gradually colder, till by December there are sixteen degrees of frost.

All the leaves have now left the trees. The gra.s.s is quite brown. But the days are nearly always fine and clear; and though there will be thick ice and long icicles in the early morning, by ten or eleven all the ice not in the shade has disappeared, the air is pleasantly warm, and there is seldom any wind.

Christmas brings a round of festivities, dances, dinners, and children's parties, for even in the winter as many as seventy or eighty will a.s.semble at a dance, and occasional outside travellers or sportsmen drop in all through the winter. After Christmas a change in weather sets in. Clouds bank up and snow or rain falls. January and February are the worst months in the year.

But just before leaving the valley this last year I had one further attempt to shoot a Kashmir stag. Six miles out from Srinagar, up the valley, we had a little camp on the edge of the river--a lovely spot in summer when the rich foliage overhangs the water, and when the gra.s.sy banks are green and fresh, and the river is full up to the lip; but now when the trees were bare, the banks brown and bleak, and the water at its lowest, an uninviting-looking spot. Moreover, the sky was overcast and threatening. Women who came to draw water from the river were pale and shivering. Our servants were huddled up with the cold. A raw wind whistled down the valley, and snow threatened on the higher mountain.

This latter was precisely what I wanted, for it would drive the stag down to the lower ridges when I would be stalking next day. At four in the morning, therefore, I rose, and after a solid early breakfast mounted my faithful but naughty Tibetan pony, and, accompanied by a guide, rode for seven miles through the darkness and frosty but invigorating air to the foot of the hills, where the two shikaris awaited me.

Like their cla.s.s, they were hard, keen-looking men, accustomed to live on the mountain-side, to weather hardship and exposure, and live with Nature and wild animals--an altogether different type from the crafty townsman or indolent dwellers on boats. Rahem Sheikh, the chief, was a grizzled old man, with keen, far-seeing eyes, tough physique, and a grave, earnest demeanour as if the business of his life was of the most serious. This, indeed, as I have already said, is a special trait of head shikaris all India over; and during viceregal visits to Native States I have never been able to decide which takes himself most seriously--the head shikari or the European caterer. Both look upon the Viceroy, the Chief, and the Resident, in the way of children who are to be indulged. They have to be amused and fed. They no doubt have unimportant business of their own. But the really serious business in this life is--to the shikari to find game, and to the caterer to provide food. Things would rub along somehow or other without a Viceroy; but how would life be without the head shikari to show the stag, or the caterer to produce meat and drink?

Knowing the point of view of head shikaris I placed myself, therefore, with child-like but misplaced confidence in his hand. But, alas! snow had not fallen on the higher mountains. The clouds had cleared away, and the stags must have remained on the distant peaks--many miles away and thousands of feet higher. Two days of hard climbing and careful search produced no result.

On the third day, rising early and looking out of my tent, I saw a perfectly clear sky and the ground covered thick with h.o.a.r frost; a sharp crisp nip was in the air, the thermometer registered 16 Fahr., and away across the glistening reach in the river appeared a rose-pink range of mountains showing up sharply against the clear blue sky. Let the reader imagine a frosty morning in the Thames valley. Let him imagine, what we never have in England, a really clear blue sky. And then, filling up the distant end of one of its most beautiful reaches, let him imagine a lofty range of rose-coloured mountains; and he will then have a picture of the view from my camp at sunrise on the January morning.

Mounting my pony, I rode off in the now radiant sunshine to another hill-side nine miles distant. The frosty morning air at first nipped my ears and fingers, but the hard galloping soon sent the blood tingling through my veins, and in little over an hour I again joined the shikaris. With bated breath and significant glances at the mountain-side, they informed me that they had seen seven hinds and two stags, though the latter were both small.

I dismounted, and left the wicked little Tibetan with his head well buried in a bundle of gra.s.s; and then with a coolie to carry my tiffin, overcoat, and rifle, started up the hill-side. One quickly becomes fit in such a climate. This was my third day out, and now I climbed the mountain almost as easily as the shikaris themselves. What on the first day was a decided effort was now a scarcely perceptible strain. Perhaps, too, the greater expectation of finding a stag had something to do with the increased elasticity with which I ascended the mountain. Anyhow, taking off my coat, as with the exertion of climbing and in the brilliant sunshine it was now really hot, I was on the summit of the ridge 3000 feet above the valley, almost without noticing the climb.

At our feet on the opposite side lay a cosy little side-valley with villages nestling among the chenar and mulberry trees. Behind us lay the broad main valley with the great river gliding through it; and away in the distance the rugged Pir Panjal mountains were glistening in the noonday sun.

The scenery was perfect. But again no stags were seen. Till dark we scoured the mountain-side, but all we saw were the tracks of stags--or may be hinds--leading away to the higher mountains.

Then I had to hurry back to camp, and the next day to Srinagar, to prepare for a long journey down to Calcutta for the very dull object of giving evidence to a Royal Commission on Decentralisation.

The cycle of the seasons has been completed; and the aspect of the valley under the varying conditions of spring and summer, autumn and winter, has been depicted. In another chapter I will describe the means and methods of travel.

CHAPTER II

TRAVEL IN KASHMIR

I have known Kashmir for twenty-one years, and ever since I have known it people have said it is getting spoilt. "It is not now what it used to be" is so often said. When the cart-road was being built every one said it would be spoilt. And now, when the construction of a railway is in contemplation, exactly the same remark is made. The impression conveyed is that the pleasures of travel in Kashmir are surely and steadily deteriorating. And this, no doubt, is true in certain aspects. Supplies are dearer. Coolies demand higher wages. The visitor disposed to solitude more frequently encounters his fellow Britisher.

These are decided drawbacks, and the visitor who telegraphs to Danjhibhoy for a tonga, to Nedou's for a room in the hotel, and to c.o.c.kburn's for a house-boat, and has simply to pay his fare and his hotel bill, no doubt pines for the virgin time of Kashmir travel before the rattle of the tongas or the tooting of the motor car was heard in the valley.

Yet I doubt if all was bliss in those "good old days." Certainly Moorcroft, the first Englishman to visit Kashmir, had no very comfortable time, and must often in his turn have pined for a good hotel, a clean room, and a decent dinner--and, who knows, for a game of golf? Moorcroft visited Kashmir in 1823, and first had enormous difficulty in obtaining from Ranjit Singh, the ruler of the Punjab, to whom Kashmir was then subject, leave to come to Kashmir at all. He arrived there from the north in the autumn, and had fresh difficulty in obtaining permission to remain there for the winter. At the quarters he occupied he was "beset by crowds of people who not only filled the garden, but also came in boats." He was pursued wherever he went by inquisitive crowds, by importunate beggars, and by suspicious officials. When he wished to make short excursions from Srinagar objections were at once raised. When he was at length allowed to leave for the Lolab, officials were appointed to accompany him "to watch his proceedings and check inquisitiveness." And when he finally left Kashmir for the Punjab by the Jhelum valley he was stopped by a small semi-independent chief near Uri, who demanded Rs. 15,000 as customs duty on his caravan, and as Moorcroft refused to pay more than Rs. 500 he was compelled to return to Srinagar and reach the Punjab by another route.

These certainly were not the halcyon days of Kashmir travel. But I suppose there must have been an intermediate time between then and now when travelling in Kashmir was perfection to those who had time enough at their disposal to "march" in. In those delightful times the traveller pitched his little camp wherever he wished. Grain was ridiculously cheap. Fowls were considered dear at twopence each.

Coolies were thankful enough to get any payment at all. There were no game laws or game licences, so that the sportsman could shoot to his heart's content. The number of visitors for the year was restricted to 100, so that each had 700 or 800 square miles to himself, and there was no need of dress clothes, white shirts, or Ascot dresses.

When I first visited Kashmir in the autumn of 1887 its glory had already begun to depart, though as regards simplicity of travelling my methods were of the simplest. I had no other clothes but what I stood in, and only the under portion of these were of European origin. All my outer clothes, including my boots, were worn out long before I reached Kashmir, and I was accordingly clothed in a long Central Asian robe and high native boots, for I was at the end of a journey of nearly four thousand miles from Peking. I had crossed--and was the first European to accomplish the feat--the Mustagh Pa.s.s, 19,000 feet high, into Baltistan; and the "Pa.s.s" being nothing else than a hard ice slope and a rocky precipice, down which I and my five servants and coolies had to let ourselves by means of turbans and waist-clothes tied together, I had been able to carry with me little even of the scanty baggage I had brought up to the other side of the Pa.s.s. I had indeed only a roll of bedding, which was thrown down the precipice, and a big kettle. I had no tent and no money! I had slept in the open from one side of the Himalayas to the other, and my funds were entirely exhausted, so that when I landed in Kashmir territory I had to borrow money from the Governor of Baltistan, Pandit Rada Kishen Kol, a very popular and respected official who is still in the Maharaja's service, and is now Chief Judge.

Simplicity of travel was, then, at least possible twenty years ago, and I managed, after crossing the Pa.s.s, to get along with only one servant who cooked, performed every function of the numerous servants we employ in India, and carried a load himself in emergency. But he was the most faithful, and my favourite of all the servants I have ever had. His name was Shukar Ali, and I must ask my reader's indulgence for a digression to describe him. I picked him up in Yarkand, in Chinese Turkestan, but he was a native of Ladak. He was the most cheery, happy-go-lucky, easy-going man, who ever proved a good servant in spite of his carelessness. Always laughing, always chaffing with the pony-men or coolies, always losing something vitally necessary, but always ready to do the hardest and most dangerous piece of work when the crucial moment arrived, he was the only Ladaki who dared to cross the Mustagh Pa.s.s with me, and but for one incident I would have a most grateful recollection of his services then. That incident I have often since reminded him of. After crossing the Pa.s.s we had to cross a very full and rapid stream flowing straight out of a glacier. Immense blocks of ice were breaking off the glacier and floating down the stream. The bottom was also partly ice and partly boulder. Shukar Ali, with his usual readiness, volunteered to carry me across this stream on his back. But in mid-stream he slipped. I was precipitated into the icy water, while Shukar Ali, in his frantic efforts to regain his own footing, unknowingly kept pressing me under water. We both eventually gained the opposite bank all right. But I had no change of clothes, and every st.i.tch I had on was wringing wet with ice-cold water.

When, two years later, Government sent me to explore all the northern frontier of Kashmir from Ladak and the Karakoram Pa.s.s to the Pamirs and Hunza, I again sought out Shukar Ali; and yet a third time, when I was sent on a political mission to Chinese Turkestan and the Pamirs in 1890-91. On each of these occasions he rendered unfailing service, and once both he and I were nearly drowned in an avalanche. We had been hewing our way up the steep slopes of an ice pa.s.s in a snowstorm, when suddenly out of the snow-clouds above us we heard a roar like thunder approaching nearer and nearer. We could not run if we would, for we were on an ice slope. We could only await our doom, for we knew it was an avalanche. But with a mighty rush it crashed past a few paces in front of us, and we were safe.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A LADAKI IN SUMMER COSTUME]

After 1891 I did not see Shukar Ali for seventeen years, for my travels never took me to that frontier again. But I heard of him from Dr. Sven Hedin who employed him in Tibet, and who told me of the wonderful tales which the imaginative Shukar Ali related of the journeys we had made together. And last summer the dear old man suddenly appeared at the Residency. He had heard that I was now Resident, and had walked 240 miles across the mountains to see me, and he presented himself wearing the identical coat I had given him seventeen years ago. He kept jumping up and down, first kissing my feet, then touching my coat, then salaaming, and all the time e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. an unceasing flow of speech, calling me by every affectionate term. Then from under numerous folds of his clothing he produced a wooden bowl, a bag full of sweets, a pair of goat horns for my wife and myself, and a marvellous collection of showy-looking stones which he had picked up in Tibet for my little girl.

He remained with me for a few weeks. I gave him something to keep him comfortable at home, but which I am sure in his good nature he will let his relations squeeze out of him, and then I sent him off back to Ladak. But before he left I asked the Maharaja to give him an order exempting him from service in his village. His Highness, with his usual kindness, readily acceded. An order was made out with the Maharaja's own signature attached, and at a garden-party at the Residency Shukar Ali was had up and presented with the order. His Highness addressed him in a most kindly manner, and on the following day presented him in Durbar with a shawl of honour.

Poor Shukar Ali left with many tearful farewell expressions, and a few weeks later I received from him the following letter:--

Sir--I reached very well home, with very felt happy and found all my poor family very well and showed the all kindly of your they got very glad, and we all family thankfully to you to remember us so much, to little people and my all friends got very glad too, they said thank you, and hope you would not be angry with this English written, please you pardon for this, and could not write myself and could not get other munshi write you, because and found Ra.s.sul, he was my old friend and let him write this letter.

please give my salaam to Mem Sahib and Baby Baby Sahib.

--Your obedient servant SHUKAR ALI

from poor Ra.s.sul plenty salaam,

the mark of Shukar Ali _O_.

All this, however, is a digression, and I have to describe the normal modes of travel of the present day. Srinagar is 196 miles distant from the railway at Rawal Pindi, and is connected with it by a good cart-road--good, that is in its normal condition, but excessively bad after heavy rain, when at places the whole mountain-side slides down with the road into the river. The usual mode of conveyance is a tonga, a very common form of vehicle in the Indian "hills." It has two wheels, is drawn by a pair of ponies, has four seats back to back, and carries a mountain of luggage piled up on the splash-boards and on the roof. The ponies, when the season is not crowded and the road is good, gallop at full speed, and are changed every five or six miles. In the full part of the season, which generally coincides with the heaviest fall of rain, with much beating, pulling, and shouting they can scarcely be induced to reach a trot, and may think themselves lucky if they find a change at the end of their stage.

Other means of conveyance for which extra charge is made are landaus and victorias. These, though more comfortable, are heavier for the ponies, and are more difficult to manipulate over bad places in the rainy season.

Spare baggage and servants can be brought up in the ordinary Indian ckka which, with one pony without changes, takes six to eight days to reach Srinagar; or in bullock carts which take fourteen days.

Tongas will take two, three, four or more days according to the length of the day, the nature of the road, and the disposition of the traveller. The tonga carrying the English mail, travelling almost continuously, covers the distance in thirty-six hours. In the long summer days travellers, starting early, can accomplish the journey in two days.

Every fourteen miles or so is a dak bungalow, where for the payment of one rupee a furnished room is provided, and on further payment meals may be obtained at any time, but "bedding" must always be taken, as nothing but the bare bed is provided.

The stages from Rawal Pindi (1790 feet) at which these bungalows may be found, are:--

Tret 25 miles 25 miles Sunnybank (6000 feet) (for Murree, 2 miles distant) 11 " 36 "

Kohala (2000 feet) 27 " 64 "

Dulai (2180 feet) 12 " 76 "

Domel (2320 feet) 9 " 85 "

Garhi (2750 feet) 13 " 98 "

Chakoti (3780 feet) 21 miles 119 miles Uri (4425 feet) 13 " 133 "

Rampur (4825 feet) 13 " 146 "

Baramula (5150 feet) 16 " 162 "

Patan (5200 feet) 16 " 178 "

Srinagar (5250 feet) 17 " 196 "

The road is usually open all the year round except in January, February, and part of March, when it is liable to be blocked by snow over the Murree hill and between Rampur and Baramula. In such emergencies the alternative route by Abbotabad may be used, and the traveller must make up his mind to walk the few miles of bad road near Rampur.

Instead of going all the way by road, boat may be taken at Baramula for Srinagar. This, though longer, is much more comfortable and enjoyable. The time occupied is from two to three days.

At Srinagar there is no dak bungalow, but an hotel--Nedou's--which is open the whole year round. Srinagar is the central starting-point for all expeditions. Here house-boats, dunga-boats, camp equipage, and all the paraphernalia of Kashmir travel may be obtained, and shikaris and servants engaged. House-boats are not indigenous to Kashmir. They were introduced by Mr. M. T. Kennard some twenty years ago, but now they may be numbered by hundreds. Some are permanently occupied by Europeans, who live in them nearly the whole year round for years together, but most are let out at from Rs. 70 to Rs. 100 per mensem for the season. In midsummer they are hot abodes, but they form a most convenient and luxurious mode of travel. Each would contain, probably, a couple of sitting-rooms with fireplaces, bedrooms, and bath-rooms, and with a cook-boat attached for cooking and servants, the traveller launches forth complete, and either drifts lazily down the river to the many attractive spots along its banks, and to the Wular Lake, or else is towed upwards to Islamabad. The house-boat likewise forms a very convenient base from which short expeditions into the mountains can be made.

Dungas and dunga house-boats are not so luxurious and commodious as the fully developed house-boat; but they are lighter, they travel quicker, and they go up shallow tributaries where the larger boat would stick. They are also less expensive. The former have only loose matting for walls; the walls of the latter are wooden.