of the Hereafter ? We shriek aloud our little convictions.
The Hindu if it is, indeed, knowledge that he holds—
holds it in silence; and who shall say where as yet
truth has been found?
Apropos of clues, the following of a most prosaic
one led me to the Tah Dak (telegraph office), and
incidentally to two other forms of religion. No one
in the place appeared to have any knowledge of any
office or house from which telegrams could be sent, and
it was only the sudden appearance of a guiding wire
emerging from a high wall which led me to a sacred
tank, and skirting that to a highly-carved door, above
which the “ guiding line ” disappeared without ceremony.
I opened the door, and was nonplussed by the
warlike appearance of a huge goat—horns well forward,
eyes gleaming, long, grey beard pendant. What next?
I held my ground; the goat his. Was this a method of
protecting Her Majesty’s Imperial telegraphs,* or was
it a mere domestic pet broken loose? A voice from
above, coming muffled through wooden shutters, bade
me “ go u p ; do not notice goat.” I obeyed the first
part of the order, trying to observe a strict neutrality
to the nanny. Possibly the latter had heard the voice
of its master, for, standing aside, it allowed me to pass,
and engage in what looked to me like a carefully-
concealed trap. I t was only a staircase, but rickety,
and redolent of quite unique perfumes. By it I reached
a low, dark doorway, behind which was seated a severe-
looking individual in portentous pagri. Possibly no
one before had ever wished to despatch a telegram;
probably he hoped to deter me from the practice of
* The telegraph service in Kashmir and Imperial post are under British
control.
sending them, for his manner was alarmingly stern,
and my modest message was made the subject of so
much query and answer that the importance of the
transaction was thoroughly brought home to me, and
I departed, crushed with the mightiness of the
machinery set in motion by my small requirements. I t
really is a curious fact worthy of some consideration
that from that tiny spot in the heart of Asia, a dirty
room, under the charge of a native and a he-goat, a
message in a few short hours could be sent to a home
in a little island in the North Sea.
Outside again I pursued my inspection of local
faiths, and admired the clear waters that rush out
from a spring here, filling a great stone tank built by
Jehangir. On two sides stretched the buildings which
originally formed his palace. The telegraph office was
a small part. Vast chenaars shaded the spot. The
tank was full of fishes that came greedily to the surface
to swallow the great chupatties we threw to them. So
large and fat were these great carp, they threw themselves
upon the coveted morsel with a sound of gobbling
worthy of an alderman’s orgy in their greed, refusing
a poor little yellow fish—quite a pariah, from its strange
colour—any part of the feast. Ash-smeared fakirs sat
round the tank, an evil smile curling their lips, eyes
that glittered in snaky, restless fashion, a fine contempt
in their general attitude for the religion that devotes
gifts to such poor representatives of Vishnu Mahadeo
as the fishes. From the tank I strayed round to
another form of religion, and examined the Mahomedan
shrine, which I had noticed at a distance, with a crown
of pure white iris softly draping the deep, brown
walnut wood of the roof that was further ornamented