India

Pierre Loti

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN: 9781138972537
• eBook ISBN: 9781317847366
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Anthropology
• Index: Social Sciences

First published in 2002. This book on India is by Pierre Loti, perhaps the world's most prolific, romantic and exotic travel writer, takes in the Rock Temple, the Buried City, Home of the Maharajah of Travancore, the land of the great palms in Tanjore, Bernares and the towards Hyderabad, the land he calls famished India.

IN FAMISHED INDIA

CHAPTER V

IN FAMISHED INDIA

I

TOWARDS HYDERABAD

IT is no longer green, there are no more great palms; the earth is no longer red, and it is quite chilly…. These are the surprises that attend my first awakening in Nizam after having journeyed all the night from the regions of Madras and Pondicherry, where yesterday everything was still so green. We have now reached the central plateau of India, and are in the midst of a stony wilderness where all is different—save the croaking of the eternal crows.

Parched lands and grayish plains alternate with millet fields that are vast as little seas. In place of superb coco-nut palms a few sparse aloes and some miserable date trees, almost withered up by the drought, cluster round villages that have also changed their aspect, and that now resemble those of Arabia. Islam has placed its mark on all these things—Islam that seems to love gloomy regions and gleaming deserts.

The costumes have changed too. Men no longer go about with naked chests, but are swathed in white, and they do not wear long hair, but wrap their heads in turbans.

The dryness increases hourly as we penetrate farther among the weary sameness of the plains. Rice patches, whose furrows can still be seen, have been destroyed as if by fire. The millet fields, which hold out longer, are for the most part yellow and hopelessly damaged.

In those which are still alive watchers, perched on platforms made of branches, are to be seen everywhere trying to scare away the rats and birds that would eat everything; poor humanity in the clutches of famine, trying to guard a few ears of corn from the ravages of famished animals.

The night chills have vanished, and the sun pitilessly pours a furnace-like heat on the earth, whilst the sky extends above our heads, limpid and blue as a great sapphire.

The scenery towards the end of the day becomes strange and wonderful. Scattered amidst fields of burnt-up millet and parched jungles there are heaps of monstrous brown stones, great blocks with polished sides and fantastic outlines that have wandered here somehow. They seem to have been purposely piled up into strange and unstable postures; some are upright, and some lean so strangely that these groupings, which are often of great height, have always the most absurdly improbable appearance.

The sun is setting, and Hyderabad is at last visible, very white amidst clouds of white dust, and very Mohammedan with its terraced roofs and slender minarets. The trees, fast dying of drought, are shedding their leaves and give the false impression of the decline of the year. The river that flows in a large bed at the foot of the town is almost dried up, and the water is so low as to be nearly imperceptible. Troups of elephants of the same grayish colour as the mud banks are slowly wandering along, trying to bathe and drink.

The day declines and the Eastern sky is lighted by a burning glow; the whiteness of the town fades slowly into an ashy blue, and huge bats commence to flit silently through the cloudless sky.

II

HYDERABAD AWAITS THE NIZAM

The inhabitants of this country, however, have not felt the tortures of famine that tread at the heels of their neighbours of Rajput, and the glittering splendour of their capital is at its brightest now that they await the return of their king, of the Nizam as he is called here.

“Long Live the Nizam, Our Prince,” is seen in great gold letters on all the floating banners and at the top of the many triumphal arches, decked with silk and muslin, that cross the roads and streets.

Hyderabad, the white city that overhangs the almost dried-up river, in whose fresh mud the hordes of elephants are wandering, Hyderabad, beflagged and gay, has been waiting day by day for a week for the king who does not come.

“Welcome to the Nizam, Our Ruler,” is the inscription written above the archway thrown over the great stone bridge leading to the town, an archway gaily decked with red crape and covered with gold spangles.

There is a constant stream of passengers dressed in many colours, of horses, waggons, and attendants, passing over the bridge. I am surprised after journeying through such a succession of sad plains to find hidden amongst these gray and stony steppes a city so teeming with life and colour.

The streets extend before us, white, broad, and straight, thronged by a crowd that glitters with all the colours of a flower-bed. First of all we are astonished by the luxury and the infinite variety of the turbans. There are rose, salmon, and cherry-coloured ones, and some with the tints of peach blossom; here lilac, amaranth, yellow, or golden ones are seen. All are worn large, immoderately large, wrapped round the little pointed caps with their free ends hanging loosely behind on the wearer’s robes.

The streets extend white, broad, and straight, crossed here and there by triumphal arches, which are taller than the houses, and from which spring minarets crowned with golden crescents. In addition to these stone arches several others, made of silk stretched over bamboo frames, have been raised in honour of the prince who does not come. In the middle of the town there is an archway of enormous proportions, a four-sided arch with four minarets which tower above all the others near, tower, too, above the tapering spires of the mosques and dart into the air, far above the dust of Hyderabad, into the purity of the unchanging sky.

The Arabian ogive, as it is seen here, has been much complicated by festoons and indentations, the Indians having even enriched the fanciful beauty of the original models. On the ground floors of all the houses rows of arches succeed one another in infinite variety, either very pointed or very obtuse, the rose-pattern predominating, although the many-leaved trefoil is often seen. Along the whole length of the street merchants are seated on cushions and carpets, under the shelter of the porches, the arches of which have been elaborated with such studied refinement. The back of their shops is in open-work masonry like the front, and the blue, green, and gold with which it is painted make it resemble the outspread tail of some huge bird of the peacock tribe. Here is the jewellers’ quarter, where collars, bracelets, and glass trinkets glitter in every shop, side by side with precious gems, and tinsel glitters next to virgin gold. Here is the quarter of the perfumers, where the essences of all the flowers are stored in ancient Chinese vases, brought here long ago by caravans. There is also the sparkling street where slippers are sold, all gilt and bespangled, with the tips bent backwards like the prow of a gondola. Intermingled everywhere, as if by chance, are the stalls of the flower-sellers, where masses of roses, broken from their stems, are piled up into tiny mountains. There are piles of jasmine flowers, too, that children thread as they would thread beads. We pass by sellers of arms, lances, and the great two-handed swords of olden days, knives for tiger-hunting, these of a special shape and destined to be flung into the tiger’s gaping jaws as it leaps upon its victim. Marriage robes for men, gilt all over, are on sale, and marriage turbans glittering with spangles. Here is a quarter where the space between the houses and the middle of the street is occupied by people engaged in printing light muslins, some of which seem transparent as the mist. Little designs in silver and gold are strewn over green, rose, or yellow grounds. The fabric may not be lasting, for the first drop of rain would spoil all, but the colouring is always admirable, and the smallest piece that issues from the hands of these artists of the street looks like the magic veil of some peri. Gold, gold, there must be gold everywhere, or, failing that, tinsel or gilt paper, or anything that will glitter in the gorgeous sunlight and fascinate the eye.

The dust is white, the houses white, and the garments of the people white; a snowy whiteness is the prevailing note of the streets and their moving multitudes, and it is from the whiteness of the robes that the glowing colours of the muslin turbans stand out in such relief.

“Honour to the Nizam!” The amount of silks, muslins, and velvets hung out in honour of the long-absent prince is quite incredible. Hyderabad glories in the expectation of its king, and for the last eight days everything has been ready, even the flowers that the sun has now withered. But the Nizam is at Calcutta, driving through the streets with Asiatic pomp, followed by a dozen gilded carriages. He neither returns nor sends any news, but drifts at the mercy of his inclinations. The Indians, who would do exactly the same in his place, are not at all surprised at his proceedings, and merely continue to expect him. Alas! however, there is no danger that the rain will come to spoil the light draperies, to wash away the gildings of the triumphal arches, for there is never a cloud in the sky.

Each day, as the hours advance, there is an increasing bustle, and from an ever-thickening cloud of dust a volume of sound arises, the cries of the streets, the braying of the bands, that swells and swells, until nightfall comes and silence returns.

There is a constant stream of horse-drawn carriages and of carts to which trotting zebus are yoked. These are skiff-shaped coaches of basket-work in which mysterious ladies sit, enveloped in hanging curtains pierced with holes, through which these painted beauties can gaze upon the crowd. There are splendid horsemen, with pointed caps and streaming turbans, riding with couched lances. Long strings of dromedaries belonging to some caravan, elephants of burden returning from their work, all covered with dust or mud, elephants of state marching to the sound of bagpipes in wedding processions, with little towers on their backs in which the bridal pair are concealed behind curtains drawn close.

The monotonous chaunt of the palanquin bearers is heard, as, running with nimble steps, they carry on piles of embroidered cushions some important and bespectacled old gentleman, or some grave priest lost in prayers. Beggars in rags, covered with shells, drag themselves along, and there are mad folk of disquieting aspect, who are sacred, and whose eyes have the far-off look of those who discern other worlds. Long-haired old dervishes, all bedabbled with ashes, hurry along ringing bells, seeing nothing as they forge ahead, while people respectfully stand aside to let them pass. We meet bands of Yemen Arabs, whose presence the Nizam is pleased to encourage. Now the chief of some far-off province advances, a man of savage and magnificent mien, who dashes along at a breakneck pace, followed by horsemen bearing lances.

The air is filled with the scent of burning perfumes, scented, too, by the red roses which are heaped up before the sellers of wreaths, scented by the white jasmine flowers that overflow their baskets and fall like snow into the dusty street. Who would think that famine is approaching from the west, or that it had already made its voracious presence felt on this side of the frontier? And with what water and in what sheltered gardens have all these flowers been brought to bloom?

Towards sundown the characters of the Thousand and One Nights begin to appear, dandies whose eyes are painted with blue and whose beards are tinged vermilion; they wear robes of brocade, or of velvet trimmed with lavish gold, many necklaces of pearls or of precious stones, and carry tamed birds of prey upon their right hands.

“Welcome to His Highness the Nizam” is seen once more: this time over an archway hung with orange-yellow crape, decked with citron- and sulphur-coloured streamers of the same material, and spangles of gold. This archway is outlined against a large and snowy mosque, adorned with crescents and with points of gold, and as it is the hour of evening prayer the mosque engulfs the white-robed crowd of worshippers, whose heads are wrapped in muslin, and who from afar look like great flowers of many hues that have been scattered over the ground.

However, the news circulates that the Nizam is not yet returning; certainly that he will not be back till after the moon of Ramadan. At the next moon perhaps he may return … or it may be later. Allah alone can say.

III

GOLCONDA

AT the corner of one of the outlying streets of Hyderabad, this inscription can be read upon an old wall—“Road to Golconda.” It would have been equally true to have written up “Road to Silence and Ruin.”

Passing along the deserted road, from which our horses’ feet raise clouds of dust, we first see a number of abandoned little mosques, and many crumbling little minarets of rare elegance and exquisitely beautiful design. Then nothing more. We plunge into the parched and ashy-coloured steppes and see heaps of granitic blocks of such strange shapes that it seems as if they could not belong to our terrestrial sphere.

After driving for an hour we arrive on the banks of a lake, whose waters are so low that its muddy bed is exposed to view. Behind the lake the whole horizon is walled out by a phantom town of the same ashy-gray colour as the surrounding plain. This is Golconda, the city which for three centuries was one of the marvels of India.

It is well known that all cities, palaces, and monuments that man has erected look larger when they are in ruins; but really these ruins are too overwhelming. First there is a crested rampart, at least thirty feet high, furnished with bastions, parapets, and stone watch-towers, which appears to extend for miles into the desert country; then above this already formidable inclosure there is a cyclopean fortress tower. It is made out of a mountain, one of those strange mountains, one of those agglomerations of granite blocks that give the country its appearance of fantastic unreality. The desire for what is gigantic and superhuman which possessed the kings and peoples of the olden days must surely have found here everything to its heart’s wish. Amongst the monstrous blocks walls have been built, inclosed within each other and poised one above another, whilst their crested ramparts intermingle bewilderingly. Close to the edge of the boldest rocks bastions have been thrown out that overhang terrible precipices; mosques have been poised at various heights, and there are complicated arches and prodigious buttresses. The topmost stone of all, from superstition or the whim of design, has been left in its natural state, looking like some great round-backed beast crouching on the highest summit.

At the gates of the dead city, near piles of cannon balls of stone or metal, and of implements from many an ancient siege and battle, there are modern repeating rifles stacked in sheaves. The soldiers of the Nizam and many sentries are on guard, and we have to show a special permit. Access to these ruins is not granted to any comer, for they still constitute an impregnable fortress, and it is reported that the sovereign conceals his treasures here.

Terrible gates, those of Golconda, which will only swing round under the combined efforts of many men. The double leaves of the doors, now lying back in the recesses hollowed out in the thickness of the ramparts, are armed with long and pointed, dart-like, iron spikes, a formidable armature which serves to ward off the elephants, who used to delight in destroying the huge beams with their trunks as they filed past into the city.

As we enter, my little convoy suddenly assumes the appearance of European shabbiness in spite of my two drivers with their gilded turbans and the runners who wave large fly-fans round the horses’ flanks.

The first street that we come upon after passing through the thick walls is the only one that is at all inhabited. A few poor wretches live here in ruined palaces, and keep modest booths for the benefit of the soldiers.

The rest of the immense inclosure is occupied only by silence and a feeling of emptiness. Golconda is but an ashy plain, bestrewn with fallen stones and ruins of all sorts, from amongst which the rounded and polished backs of primitive blocks, that look like slumbering beasts, are seen to rise. The entire country is covered with such blocks of stone, which sometimes rise to the height of mountains, which dwarf and outlive the puny constructions of man.

The Indian story about these stones of Nizam is that after God had finished the creation of the world He found Himself in possession of a quantity of superfluous material, which He then rolled up in His fingers and cast haphazard down upon the earth.

The doors of the citadel, fiercely sheeted with iron spikes, like the gates in the city walls, give access to confused masses of granite, from which one ascends to the open air by roadways or by dismal staircases that lead through fortifications and passages cut out of the naked rock. The whole building is of a vastness which fills us with stupefaction, even in this land of India where colossal things are passed unnoticed. The crested walls, intermingling with the rocks, form, even to the very summit, a series of impregnable positions. There are cisterns, consisting of deep caves hollowed out from the bare rock, in which water can be kept during times of siege. There are dark holes leading to subterranean passages, which descend to the very heart of this fortified mountain and through which the open country may be reached in cases of supreme danger or of despairing flight.

Mosques are built at various heights, so that when danger is nigh prayers may be said to the very last. All has been foreseen and prepared, as if for indefinite resistance against a race of giants, and it is not possible to understand how, some three centuries before our modern guns were invented, the sultans of Golconda could ever have been driven from such a stronghold.

As we ascend, an ever-widening circle of desolation—bathed in a glare of sunlight—lies before us. The masonry becomes more bold and terrifying, but ever more ruined; towers and walls bend and lean, so that our heads reel; great masses seem ready to fall, and we see arches riven by gigantic cracks. There are also the remains of monuments which we cannot comprehend, of which neither the use nor the age is known; and in the caverns there are gods who ruled before Islam, monkey-headed images of Hanouman, that live among the bats, before whom tiny flames flicker and smoke, doubtless lighted here from time to time by some mysterious worshippers.

On the last terrace, at the topmost height of all, there is a mosque and kiosk from which the sultans in the olden days used to overlook the land and watch for armies approaching from the remotest distances. The view from here, the gardens and the shady nooks, was celebrated in bygone days, but now life has departed from these plains.

The climate has changed and rain is wanting, and it would even seem as if India becomes more parched as the forces of its people wither and deca...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Table of Contents
• INTRODUCTION
• I. THE BURIED CITY
• II. THE ROCK TEMPLE
• III. THE HOME OF THE MAHARAJAH OF TRAVANCORE
• IV. IN THE LAND OF THE GREAT PALMS
• V. IN FAMISHED INDIA
• VI. TOWARDS BENARES
• INDEX