CHAPTER XXXIX

SALAAM!

HOW shall I say good-bye to India and to all that I left there? I can’t say it. I say instead, “Salaam, burra salaam.”

Hopes are impotent things often; but I hope that some day I may go back to the East. I wish that I could have written more adequately of the Orient—I wish it very much.

There are many places to which my heart goes back eagerly, but of which I have not found time to write a sentence.

We passed some dreadful but delightful months in the cantonments of the Punjab, when the Punjab was hottest.

Murree was to me the most delightful spot in India. It is a hill place—a resting spot and a breathing station for soldiers who are worn out, or blessed with indulgent Colonels. The pleasantest friends that we made in India, we made in Murree. They were indefatigable amateurs in Murree. Ah, what performances we gave! Major Frere, the Commandant, played Hawtree faultlessly; and Major Chancellor (alas! he is dead now) gave a performance of Sir George Carlyon in _In Honour Bound_, that would have greatly credited any professional. We had a Talbot Champneys there who played the part better than I ever saw it played, and a Belinda who made me look to my laurels in my favourite part of Mary Melrose.

And the bazaars down the hill! What rugs! What skins! What phulkaris! Murree is up towards Kashmir; and the bazaar teemed with Afghans, and with ten thousand things that were lovely.

How we roamed at night over the mountain paths, and sang songs of home, and regretted that we were going away!

From Rawal Pindi we went on alone, my husband and I. We left our two children in Murree that they might stay in the cool, healthy place until we were ready to sail.

I felt very blue when we left for Pindi, for I knew that I was taking my last tonga ride.

Do you know what a tonga is? It is a unique vehicle that grows in India; and though it is somewhat lacking in comfort, you grow to like it, and learn to sit at your ease in it and not to fall out.

The tonga rides in India are delightful. For me no other scenery has so strong a fascination as that in the hills of India; and I recall no happier days than those when we left a cantonment at daylight, and drove over the wild hills to another—drove until dusk, perhaps into the starlight. Every few hours we drew up at a Dâk Bungalow; and when the bungalow proved good, and the curry was faultless,—which happened more often than not,—India had nothing more to offer us.

From Rawal Pindi we went to Lahore. But we did no work there. I remember writing my candid opinion in the book that was kept by the eating-house khansamah, and that he did not like what I wrote. We prowled about Lahore quite like leisure people. Then we went on to Mooltan. We went to stay two days, but we stayed two weeks. A friend who was stationed there took possession of us at the station. He took us home to his bungalow; and I often wonder how we ever left it. We pretended to play; but we really visited our friend and the brother officer with whom he chummed.

We did play one night with the help of the officers. But the heat was inexpressible; it was fearful. We panted. A few nights later we were to have played. We went to the theatre. Ayah was in tears, and Abdul was excited. Abdul said that he thought the balcony (we were going to give, need I say what scene from Shakespeare?) would tumble down when I stood upon it; and Ayah sobbed out that the dhobie hadn’t brought my gown, which she had given him to press, and that she didn’t know where he lived. My husband and one host addressed themselves to solidifying the balcony; and our other host and I drove off in search of the dhobie. We found that good and great native, but not until we had had a prolonged drive and sundry adventures. My companion was not as fond of the natives as I was, and I fancy he spoke rudely to the dhobie.

We bribed the gharri wallah to drive rapidly back to the theatre. We were very late, but when we reached the play-house, we found it almost as empty as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. My husband and three officers sat out in the compound calmly smoking; Ayah was packing up; and Abdul was pulling from off the balcony the pink roses that had been procured for me with a good deal of difficulty.

“Whatever’s the matter?” I said, remembering how packed we had had the theatre a few nights before.

“Cholera!” was the answer. It was answer enough. Cholera had broken out in the bazaar. The theatre had been put “out of bounds.” So I gathered my roses into my arms, and we drove back to the bungalow.

We were leaving Mooltan the next night; so this night we sat up even later than our late usual. There were six of us there, for two other officers had come home with us. It was Saturday night. We sat under the great punkahs, and we played poker a little. But that we soon gave up. My husband said I was cheating; but I think he was bored, because we were only playing for matches. Perhaps we all felt that we would rather chat away our last night in Mooltan.

I shall never forget Mooltan. I can see it now. I can see the 15th Bengal Lancers at their morning parade. I can hear their grave, courteous “Salaam.” Then a cloud of swift dust dashes the picture: the polo ponies are coming! The trees in Mooltan—I can see them too, and feel their grateful shadow. I can see an old ruin where the wild flowers twisted among the crumbling fragments of what was once some great Hindoo’s glory. It is growing dusk. I’m miles away from the bungalow; I’m in a dark little den. A native sits on the floor. He is making me something big and blue, something bright and beautiful. It is Mooltani ware. I’ve been here for hours, watching it grow beneath the skilful brown fingers. The potter is almost done now. In another moment I am driving home through the dusk with a tum-tum load of blue pottery.

I think the sais was indignant that I had refused to let a coolie bring it. And the _beau soldat_ who was driving had to drive very slowly—which I am sure he had never before in all his life done. But I wanted to carry home my spoils myself, because I wished to be sure that I had the identical pieces that I had seen made; and I have them—or at least some of them now. Part of them were slaughtered by the clumsy fingers of the Custom House officers at Liverpool. But I have some left, and when I look at them I think of Mooltan and our friends there.

There is something very charming about the home lives of the officers in India. Those who are unmarried seem to have a wonderful talent for making rooms pretty and home-like. I know of nothing nicer than the pride that those young officers take in their quarters, and of nothing more gentlemanly, nor more soldierly than the way they keep up their order and beauty.

The best housekeepers I have ever known have been soldiers. And the best cook I ever knew was a poet. I really think that we women need to look after the laurels we have or are supposed to have, rather than hunt for new ones.

We left Mooltan at dusk on Sunday. Our little ones had come down from Murree, and we had Ned, the monkey (whom a bold, bad subaltern had tried to steal), and Nizam, the dog, and Abdul and Ayah—so that with “Wadie” and ourselves we were a party of nine; quite a respectable number.

“Good-bye” we cried to one friend, and “_auf wiedersehen_” to the other; for one was to join us at Sukkur, and go on with us to Karachi. The rain came down in wild fury before the train started. The wind sobbed and the window glasses shivered and chattered. And I whispered “Salaam, burra Salaam” to the cantonment where I had been so much at home,—the last cantonment of many in which I was leaving friends,—the last cantonment in India that I loved.

We spent a dreadful day and an indescribable night at Sukkur. I am enthusiastic about the East—but I except a few places; Sukkur is emphatically one of them.

I shall never forget the Dâk Bungalow there; and I feel very sure that the khansamah will never forget me.

In the evening we gave a performance. It was the second time that we ever gave an entire performance by ourselves; and I remarked at the time that it would be the last. My husband says I lost my temper; but I deny it. I was calmly and justly furious—that was all.

Our recital in Canton had been bad enough, but this was worse. In Canton we gave a recital in evening dress. In Sukkur we gave a dramatic performance in costume. In Canton it was cool. In Sukkur it was horridly hot.

We played _Sweethearts_. Yes, we did, with two characters cut out. We played _A Happy Pair_, and we gave two scenes from _Macbeth_, a scene from _Hamlet_, and a scene from _Romeo and Juliet_.

The worst of it was they liked it—they really did, and the next morning a deputation asked us to stay another night and do it again; but I refused, on the ground that there was not room in the Dâk Bungalow for myself and the khansamah. My husband says that the heat and some of the cholera regulations, notably that which forbade us ice and soda-water, had made me ugly. He is mistaken—as he so often is. I was never ugly in my life. I was indignant.

The journey to Karachi was wonderfully interesting. We succeeded in getting ice, and life seemed brighter.

Karachi I liked less than any other important place in the East. And yet we spent long happy days out fishing, and the nights surpassed all the nights of my memory. The moon was matchless. I don’t know where it went to at dawn; there didn’t seem room for it in the sky. When the moon shone on the sands and the ocean at Karachi, it was a marvel in white, silver, and gold that I have never seen equalled.

Perhaps I saw Karachi unfortunately. I was not pleased with the Dâk Bungalow. If I expressed myself frankly and freely _re_ that Dâk Bungalow I might, I fear, find myself involved in a suit for libel. And the cholera was raging. Two of our dhobies died from it, and wherever we went, every few yards we came upon a fire—a bonfire built by the natives to burn up the poison fumes.

Everything comes to those who wait, and a great deal more comes to those who don’t. The day came when we left India; I, at least, was deeply sorry. Whatever home and the future might give me—I was leaving much in India. Much that was sacred and precious. I had buried hopes in the East and lost ambitions; but I had found much that was helpful and soothing. India, I cry you “Salaam,” and I throw mogree flowers at your feet!

We looked toward England with longing eyes. Yet we left the Orient with reluctant feet.

It rained viciously when we reached Liverpool. We did not care. We were home—home at last! We looked into each other’s eyes and were glad. We had come, hand in hand, out of the storied East. We were going, hand in hand, into London,—the actor’s Mecca.

As I glance back through my pages, I fear that I have written too personally; but it was the only way I could write.

I was born with a talent. Perhaps I will be forgiven for boasting of it, because I freely confess that it is the only talent I have ever had. I inherited it from my father, who had it to a very great degree. It is a talent that sometimes brings sorrow; but certainly no other talent brings half so much joy. And I venture to think that if a woman can have but one talent, it is the very best talent that she can have: the talent of loving. I have loved the East dearly. Unless I had written of the East as I saw it—unless I had written of my daily life there, I must have been silent. And I wanted to speak; I had something to say. I do so hope that I have said it. It is this, “Go East—go East!”

Every blemish in my little book belongs to me, and not one to my theme.

India is far from my feet, but close to my heart; and I would waft to Rangoon and to Kausali a message—a message borne on the breath of English wood violets.

GLOSSARY

_Note._—Only the utmost nicety of scholarship would justify one in feeling sure that any (English) spelling of a Hindustani word was correct. Indeed, one who is not a scholar, must, after some years’ residence in India, come to the conclusion that all spellings of a Hindustani word are correct.

In this dilemma I have tried to avoid spellings that were pedantic. But I have also tried to avoid spellings that were over-English.

In the following glossary, the definitions indicate the meanings in which the words have been used in the preceding pages. Many of the words have several other meanings. And Anglo-Indian Hindustani is not always exact Hindustani.

The Japanese, Chinese, and Burmese words are indicated by parenthetical initials.

L. J. M.

_Agni_ A Hindoo god. _Amah (C. and J.)_ A nurse, a maid, a female servant. _Anna_ A small coin; a sixteenth of a rupee. _Aryama_ A Hindoo god. _As’ma’rohana_ A division or part of the Brahmin marriage ceremony. _Ayah_ A nurse, a maid, a female servant.

_Baba_ Baby. _Babus_ Bengali clerks, or book-keepers. _Bazaar_ Native market. _Bearer_ A valet, a man who partly does ordinary housemaid’s work—usually a Mohammedan. _Betel-nut_ The nut of the areca palm. It is very hot. _Bhaga_ A Hindoo god. _Bhistie_ Water-carrier. _Bonzes (C. and J.)_ Priests. _Borri-wallah_ A pedlar of cloth, silk, etc. and of pins, needles, and all sorts of small necessaries. _Bourkha_ A wrapper used by the Mohammedan ladies of Peshawar when going through the streets. _Boy_ Any male servant. _Bukshish_ A present, a tip, anything given servants beyond their actual wages, etc., etc. _Bungalow_ A house, a residence. _Burra_ Large, great, foremost, or chief. _Burruf_ Ice, or iced.

_Cangue (C.)_ A square board, on the principle of a stock, into which the neck of a Chinese prisoner is locked. _Cash (C.)_ A coin of very small value. _Cedar jao_ Go straight ahead (_cedar_, straight; _jao_, go). _Chair (C.)_ A bamboo chair, slung on bamboo poles that are carried on the shoulders of Chinese coolies. _Chattee_ An earthen or metal vessel, usually used for carrying water. _Chicken-work_ Coarse native embroidery, usually on white cotton cloth. _Chin-chin (C.)_ How do you do! good-bye; thank you. _Chit_ A note, a bill, a written order for goods, refreshments, etc., a written recommendation. _Chokera_ A small boy-servant. _Chota_ Small, little. _Chota-haziri_ Little breakfast, a light breakfast, usually served very early, in the sleeping apartment. _Chow-chow (C.)_ Food. _Chowringhee_ A street in Calcutta. _Cinch_ Pull. _Coolie_ One who does the hardest and roughest and most nondescript work and receives the smallest pay; an unskilled, low-priced, day labourer. _Crab_ Bad. _Cue (C.)_ The long braid of hair and silk or cotton worn by a Chinaman.

_Dâk bungalow_ A resting-house for travellers. It is provided by the Government in parts of India where there are few or no hotels. The dâk bungalows of India vary as much in the character of their accommodation and their degrees of comfort as do the hotels of Europe. _Dhobie_ A washerman, very occasionally a washerwoman. _Dhurrumtollah_ A street in Calcutta. _Dhursi_ A tailor, a man-dressmaker. _Dhute_ Milk. _Doolies_ Rough wooden chairs or palanquins in which you are carried by coolies on the hills of India. _Durwan_ A lodge-keeper, a front-door keeper, a gate-keeper.

_Ekka_ A rude, peculiar native carriage. I have only once seen a European in an ekka. In Northern India Europeans use ekkas as carry-alls for luggage and servants.

_Fakir_ A religious mendicant, a holy man wandering or living under an extreme religious vow. _Fankwai (C.)_ Foreign devil.

_Gandharva_ A Hindoo god. _Gharri_ A carriage. _Gharri-wallah_ A coachman. _Ghât_ Literally, steps up to or down from a place. _Ghee_ Clarified butter. _Gram_ A leguminous seed much used by the natives. It tastes very like a pea-nut. _Gymkhana_ The place where sports are held. The holding of sports.

_Hara-kiri (J.)_ Ceremony of disembowelment. An honourable method of self-slaughter formerly exacted of Japanese criminals or victims of high rank. _Hookah_ An Oriental pipe in which the tobacco-smoke passes through water.

_Jao_ Go. _Jinrickshaw_ A two-wheeled vehicle pulled by a coolie or by coolies. _Joss (C.)_ A god. _Joss sticks (C. and Small incense sticks. J.)_

_Kali_ A Hindoo goddess. _Kamlo (C.)_ A prison. _Kanya-dana_ A part of the Brahmin marriage ceremony. _Kautukagara_ A room in which part of the Brahmin marriage ceremony is performed. _Khansamah_ A butler, a man housekeeper. _Khitmatgar_ A waiter, a dining-room servant, an under butler. _Khud_ A valley. _Kimono (J.)_ The principal or outer robe worn by both men and women. _Kither_ Where, which way. _Kusti_ A hollow woollen cord worn by Parsi men.

_Lakh_ One hundred thousand, one hundred thousand rupees. _La-la-lung (C.)_ A thief, a liar, etc. _Lal-coatie sahib_ A red-coat gentleman, a British soldier.

_Madhuparka_ A sweet mixture used at Brahmin marriages. _Maharajah_ A Hindoo sovereign prince. _Maharanee_ A Maharajah’s wife; his chief or queen wife if he has more than one wife. _Maidan_ A park, a common. _Mallie_ A gardener. _Mangal Fe’ra_ A portion of the Brahmin marriage ceremony. _Memsahib_ Lady, mistress. _Metrani_ One of the lowest, or sweeper caste. A low-caste Hindoo who removes slops and débris, and who does work which Hindoos of no other caste will do. _Missie Baba_ A girl baby, young lady. _Mistree_ A carpenter, a cook. _Mohurrum_ The chief of the Mohammedan festivals.

_Nautch_ A professional dance, an Oriental music-hall, a theatrical performance. A word so eastern that it cannot be translated into English. _Nautch ghât_ A theatre, the place where a nautch is held.

_Obi (J.)_ A narrow belt worn above the broad sash. A girdle. It fastens in front. _Okurina (J.)_ A new name given to the dead.

_Padre sahib_ Clergyman, chaplain. _Phulkaris_ Draperies embroidered, and with small, circular, slightly convex mirrors sewn in the pattern. _Pice_ A small coin equal in value to one-fourth of an anna. _Pie_ A very small coin worth a fraction of a pice.

_Potsoe (B.)_ Skirt cloth worn by a man. _Punkah_ A fan, also a large fan made of cloth and hung from the ceiling. _Punkah-wallah_ A man who pulls or swings a punkah. _Purandhi_ A Hindoo god. _Purdah_ A curtain.

_Rajah_ An Indian prince of a lower rank than a Maharajah. _’Rickshaw_ An abbreviation of jinrickshaw. _Rupee_ An Indian silver coin, originally worth two shillings. It is now worth one shilling and threepence.

_Sahib_ A gentleman, master, sir. _Sais_ A groom, a footman. _Saki (J.)_ A liquor made of rice. _Salaam_ This word has more meanings than any other word I know. It is used to express ceremonious and complimentary greeting. It means “thank you.” It means acquiescence. _Sampan (C.)_ A small, rude, native boat. _Saptapadi_ “Seven steps,” part of the Brahmin marriage ceremony. _Sari_ A cloth or garment worn by women. One end is wrapped about the hips, and, hanging to the ground, forms a skirt. The other end is brought up and worn over the head. _Satsuma (J.)_ A peculiarly beautiful and valuable pottery. It is especially noted for its high glaze, the exquisite painting with which it is decorated, and for its interesting history. _Savitá_ A Hindoo god. _Sayonara (J.)_ Good-bye. But it is also used by Europeans and to Europeans as a greeting or salutation. _Sen (C. and J.)_ A cent, one hundredth of a yen. _Sew-sew amahs (C.)_ Women who go from door to door and do mending. _Shástras_ A sacred book, considered to be of divine authority. _Snátaka_ A Brahmin who has finished his studies. _Soma_ A Hindoo god.

_Tali_ A cord or necklace on which talismans are strung. It is worn by all Hindoo married women. _Tamein (B.)_ Skirt cloth worn by a woman. _Tâzia_ A concoction of paper, tinsel, etc., carried in Mohammedan processions. _Tiffin_ Lunch. _Tom-tom (C.)_ A brass musical instrument, or rather instrument of noise. _Tonga_ A vehicle used on the hills. It will hold four, including the driver. _Topee_ A pith sun-hat or helmet. _Tum-tum_ A dogcart.

_Viváha-hôma_ The marriage sacrifice. Part of the Brahmin marriage ceremonial.

_Wallah_ A man.

_Yen (C. and J.)_ A dollar. It is worth a little more than three shillings.

THE END

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_

Transcriber’s Notes:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation and obvious typesetting errors have been corrected without note. Some illustrations have been moved slightly from their original positions to keep paragraphs intact. Glossary was added to the Contents for reader convenience.

[End of _When We Were Strolling Players in the East_ by Louise Jordan Miln]