CHAPTER II
A land of clear colours and stories,
In a region of shadowless hours;
Where earth has a garment of glories,
And a murmur of music and flowers;
In woods where the spring half uncovers
The flush of her amorous face,
—Swinburne.
Of dak bungalows and doongas—A coachman without a soul—
And a boatman with imagination—Music on the water__
Housekeeping details and female fashions.
B a r a m u l a , of blessed memory! What a perfect haven
of rest did that long, low dak bungalow appear to me.
Still voiceless, aching from the chill of the previous day,
and with sufficient fever to make me feel my head a
curiously uncertain factor, the uncompromising whitewashed
walls of my room were strangely inviting. It
was clean; it was dry; best of all, it was warm, for
a pleasant wood fire was soon kindled on the hearth,
and a big bowl of soup having banished my vague
feelings of emptiness, resulting from my long fast since
the early cup of tea, I prepared to sleep soundly,
Next morning, when the sun streamed in, a new
woman rose up, inaudible but otherwise sound
and sane, and quite prepared to make her choice
among the innumerable boatmen who crowded on the
river bank, each answering for the perfections of his
own boats, each provided with a perfect library of
chits (recommendations) from their former employers.
They were amazingly alike in the loose white trousers
and coats, puttoo (homespun) overcoats, their heads
crowned with red caps or white pagris. Each was
ready to give all and everything—boat fittings and
Baramula
service—for a mere nominal price, to be paid any time,
anyhow. Their chits spoke of them as paragons, and
almost all looked amiable enough. “ See my boat,”
cried one, “my furniture is all good English, my
purdahs (curtains) are of the handsomest.” So I
stepped aboard and gazed with quite limited admiration
at the one camp stool and thin cotton curtains. No,
that boat would not do, the owner’s wife looked far