gave me the daily “ hisab ” or account. Then my
“ hukms ” (orders) for the morrow were given, and with
the straw blinds firmly secured all round, the fore part
lowered till all was taut and closed, I was ready
to turn in under my warm coverings, a kangar well
filled with glowing charcoal beside me, as cosy as
in the most comfortable home bedroom.
Early next morning the splash of water told
me we were moving, drifting down through the
city, moved by the swift tide. By the time 1
was up we were clear of Srinagar and its many
bridges, and were passing along iris-bordered banks,
the boat dragged by the brothers—the younger pair
this time—the tiny child acting as leader, with a
loop of the tow rope round its waist, the father
following to take off all strain. A pause for breakfast,
a meal shared by two dear little Kashmiri robins, who,
with the topsy-turvydom of the country, wore their red
under their tails, and then I too went ashore, and
during most of the day tramped along the bank ahead
of the boat. Masses of iris and branches of sweet
hawthorn were used to decorate my home, and late in
the afternoon the lonely sanghara collectors of the
Wular were surprised by the apparition of a floating
“ jack in the green.” These dwellers round the great
Kashmirian lake are strange, unsociable folk picking
up their living by harvesting the water nuts. We had
been luoky in meeting with no mishap crossing so late
in the day, for frequently wild storms sweep down
from the mountains, and are very dangerous to the
flat-bottomed native boats, and many an accident is
recorded as having taken place on this the largest
lake in India, fifteen miles by twelve broad. The
boatmen still tell stories of the wicked city and its
inhabitants that are supposed to lie under the blue
waters, and, as proof of their veracity, tell you the
name signifies “ the cave.” Landing after tea, the
setting sun caught the distant white peaks of the snowy
Pir Panjal—the great range that barricades the southern
side of the valley—and turned them a rosy pink, while to
the north the snow heights stood out gaunt and stem
against the darkening sky. A scent of mint filled the
air, great droning moths flew by knocking clumsily
against the lonely traveller, and flocks of rough ponies
grazing on the coarse grass scampered away at the
sound of unaccustomed footsteps. Some pink light still
flushed the blue waters, darkened into deep patches
by the great cargo boats piled high with the laboriously
secured water nuts, while the shells were collected
together on the mainland in heaps. Occasional sombre
figures salaamed as they passed on the way to their
dark boats. A great peace reigned in this corner of
the earth—so restful, so remote, so unreal in its shadowy
reality—and I remembered sadly how differently the
scene must have appeared to an Englishman suffering,
almost overcome, with fever, who, lying on the deck of
his doonga, had looked across the wild, hurricane-
stirred waters of the inland sea some years before, and
realised that unless the boat could reach Baramula
that night all hope of reaching Bombay (and Bombay
meant England and renewed health) must be given up,
and, knowing this, had used up his little store of
strength, begging, threatening, encouraging his terrified
men to persevere, only to be driven back by the fierce
“ tufan I after each attempt, so that at length, when
the further shore was attained, he could only be