CHAPTER III
In paths untrodden,
In the growth by margins of pond-waters,
Escaped from the life th a t exhibits itself.
Here by myself, away from the clank of the world,
Talking and talk’d to by tongues aromatic.
— W. Whitman.
Lazy hours—I cry “ Excelsior,” but the snows say “ N o ”—Back
to towns—A sheep is sacrificed—-Shrines passed—And the
chapter ends with song.
Two or three days were passed at Bandipura strolling
about, for I scarcely felt at first up to very long marches,
painting collections of flowers, trying to realise that I was
“ living ” in this stageland, that all the folk around me
were passing their time in their natural associations
among their usual surroundings, not merely posin g and
“ acting pretty ” on a painted scene for the benefit of
the lady in the stalls! Day after day the sun shone
brilliantly, the snows retreated slowly up the mountains,
fresh flowers came out, trees showed a brighter green,
the serious business of the rice crop, the “ kushaba ” was
begun upon. Passing through the villages, where the
wooden houses were almost hidden by the huge walnut
and chenaar trees, or resting on ±he edge -of one-of the
fields, it was seldom that I was not addressed by one
of the villagers. They are a fine, swarthy race of men,
with features of a slightly Jewish type, far heavier in
build than the native of India, and possessed of a
curiosity quite unknown to their confreres on the other
side of the Himalayas.
“ Salaam, Sahib,” they would begin, not touching
the forehead, merely saying the words and never using
the incorrect “ Memsahib.” “ Where do you come from ?
Where are you going ? How far have you been V There
was no impertinence in the questioning, but a very real
interest in something apart from their narrow lives.
They nearly always spoke a little Hindustani, a talent
quite unshared by the women, who, awkward and shy,
seldom ventured away from their great wooden mortars,
where during the most of the day they worked hard
with their pestles breaking the grain, to take part in
the conversation. The men would profess great
astonishment at my walking powers. One old fellow,
who several times addressed me, could not believe in
them. “ How far have you been to-day ? ” he would ask.
“ Seven coss” (coss is about two miles), I would
reply. The answer would send him into paroxysms of
laughter. “ Haw, haw, that the Sahib should be
able to walk so much ground; doubtless the Sahib’s
pony waits a little further along for her? No pony?
Hee, hee, when I was young I walked, now I only
ride. But for the Sahib to walk when she might
be carried—what strange ways, what strange people! ”
I found that a little snuff was a much-valued gift,
and in return a handful of walnuts or a bunch of
flowers from the podgy fingers of some shy child would
be presented. Merry little things they were, girls and