Begums, Thugs and White Mughals

by Fanny Parkes

  January 13th – At eight o’clock the thermometer was 46°, by one o’clock 66°, a great difference in five hours. The peacocks, in the evening, were calling from the cliffs and came down to feed by the riverside, looking beautiful; there were four male birds on one spot, quite fearless, not taking any notice of the men on the goon. Anchored at Purrier.

  January 16th – A good day’s tracking; no obstacles; good water, i.e. deep water; anchored late at Dedowlee ke Nuggra.

  January 17th – Found a bar of sand directly across the river; about fourteen enormous boats all aground; numbers of vessels arriving hourly; every one going aground, as close as they could lie together; in the midst of the bar was one vessel which had been there four days. The sarang of the pinnace came to me and said, ‘Until that salt-boat gets off we cannot move; in all probability, we shall be utterly unable to cross the bar.’ The whole day, in the dinghy, did the men sound the river; in the evening I went with them to see and satisfy myself of the impossibility of crossing; even the dinghy grounded; where, then, could the pinnace find water?

  I determined to send on the servants, the baggage and food in the flat-bottomed cook-boat, to Agra; to write for a dāk for myself; and to remain quietly in the pinnace, until its arrival: went to bed out of spirits at the unlucky accident of the bar across the river. In the morning, hearing a great noise, I went on deck; the salt-boat was gone, all the vessels but one were off; and the crew were preparing to pull the pinnace by main force through the bar of sand; remembering the leak, I viewed these preparations with anxiety that leak being only stopped with mud and towels. They pulled her into the place from which the salt-boat had at last extricated herself; a little more exertion and the pretty Seagull slipped and slid out of the sandbank into deep water. Such a shout as arose from the crew! We shall see the Tāj bibi ke Rauza: it is our destiny; the memsāhib’s fate (kismat) is good: to be sure, what a number of rupees has not the memsāhib spent on the pinnace! Her luck is good; this her pilgrimage will be accomplished; and the sāhib will be pleased also!’

  And the memsāhib was pleased; for we had got over a bar in half an hour, that, the night before, we calculated might take two or three days to cross, with great risk to the vessel. I had determined to give up attempting to take the Seagull further, not liking the chance of straining the timbers so severely, the vessel not being a newly-built one. ‘Once more upon the waters!’ Thank God, we are not upon the sand!

  An acquaintance, the Hon. Mrs R—, has just arrived at Allahabad from England; nothing could exceed her astonishment when she heard I had gone up the Jumna alone, on a pilgrimage of perhaps two months or more to see the Tāj, not forced to make the voyage from necessity. I have books and employments of various sorts to beguile the loneliness; and the adventures I meet with give variety and interest to the monotony of life on the river. Could I follow my own inclinations I would proceed to Delhi, thence to the Hills, and on to the source of the Jumna; this would really be a good undertaking. Capt. Skinner’s Travels, which I have just read, have given me the most ardent desire to go to the source of the Jumna.

  January 18th – Stags, of the chicara sort with small straight horns, come down to drink by the riverside. Wild geese and cyrus are in flocks on the sandbanks. A slight but favourable breeze has sprung up, we are going gently and pleasantly before it. Narangee ghāt – what a beautiful scene! The river was turned from its channel by the Rajah Buddun Sing, and directed through a pass, cut straight through a very high cliff: the cut is sharp and steep; the cliffs abrupt and bold; some trees; native huts; a temple in the distance; numbers of boats floating down the stream, through the pass; the pinnace and patelī in full sail, going up it; ferryboats and passengers; cows and buffaloes swimming the ferry; a little beyond, before the white temple on a sandbank, are six great crocodiles, basking in the sun. Am I not pleased? One of the fairest views I have seen: what a contrast to yesterday, when my eyes only encountered the sandbank and the fixture of a salt-boat, our particular enemy! Anchored at Hurrier; fagged and ill from over-exertion.

  January 19th – We arrived at the city of Betaizor, which is built across the bed where the Jumna formerly flowed. The Rajah Buddun Sing built his ghāt, and very beautiful it is; a perfect crowd of beautiful Hindu temples clustered together, each a picture in itself, and the whole reflected in the bright pure waters of the Jumna. I stopped there for an hour to sketch the ghāt, and walked on the sands opposite, charmed with the scene – the high cliffs, the trees; no Europeans are there – a place is spoiled by European residence. In the evening we anchored off the little village of Kheil: rambling on the river’s bank, I saw five peacocks in the silk-cotton tree (shimoul), and called Jinghoo Bearer, who ran off to fetch a matchlock which he loaded with two bullets; the birds were so unmolested they showed no fear when I went under the tree with the dogs, and only flew away when Jinghoo fired at them; the report aroused two more peacocks from the next tree; a flock of wild geese and another of wild duck, sprang up from the sands; and the solitary chakwā screamed āw! āw! The shimoul is a fine high spreading tree, the flower a brilliant one; and the pod contains a sort of silky down, with which mattresses and pillows are often stuffed. The natives object to pillows stuffed with silk-cotton, saying it makes the head ache. The large silk-cotton tree (Bombax ceiba) is the seat of the gods who superintend districts and villages; these gods, although minor deities, are greatly feared. Panchayats, or native courts of justice, are held beneath the shimoul, under the eye of the deity in the branches. There are fields of the common white cotton plant (Gossypium herbaceum), on the side of the river; the cotton has just been gathered; a few pods, bursting with snowy down, are hanging here and there, the leavings of the cotton harvest: the plant is an annual. In my garden at Prāg are numerous specimens of the Bourbon cotton, remarkably fine, the down of which is of a brown colour.

  I have met hundreds of enormous boats laden with cotton, going down to Calcutta and other parts of the country; they are most remarkably picturesque. I said the report startled the solitary chakwā. The chakwā is a large sort of reddish-brown wild duck (Anas caesarca), very remarkable in its habits. You never see more than two of these birds together; during the day they are never separate – models of constancy; during the night they are invariably apart, always divided by the stream; the female bird flies to the other side of the river at night, remains there all solitary and in the morning returns to her mate, who during the livelong night has been sitting alone and crying āw! āw! The male calls āw! some ten or twelve times successively; at length the female gives a single response, ‘nā’īch!’ Leaving the people, some cooking and some eating their dinners, I rambled on alone, as was my custom, to some distance from the boats, listening to and thinking of the chakwā. The first man who finished his meal was the dhobee, a Hindu, and he started forth to find me. I questioned him respecting the birds, and he spake as follows: ‘When the beautiful Seeta was stolen away from the god Rām, he wandered all over the world seeking his love. He asked of the chakwā and his mate, “Where is Seeta, where is my love, have you seen her?” The chakwā made answer, “I am eating and attending to my own concerns; trouble me not, what do I know of Seeta?’ Rām, angry at these words, replied, “Every night henceforth your love shall be taken from you and divided by a stream; you shall bemoan her loss the livelong night; during the day she shall be restored.”

  ‘He asked of the stars, “Where is Seeta?” the silent stars hid their beams. He asked of the forest, “Where is my beloved?” the forest moaned and sighed, and could give him no intelligence. He asked of the antelope, “Where is she whom I seek, the lost, the beloved?” The antelope replied, “My mate is gone, my heart is bowed with grief, my own cares oppress me. Her whom you seek mine eyes have not beheld.”’

  It is true the birds invariably live after this fashion. They are great favourites of mine, the chakwās; and I never hear their cry but I think of Seeta Rām.

  [ … ]

  January 23rd – I could scarcel
y close my eyes during the night for the cold, and yet my covering consisted of four Indian shawls, a rezaī of quilted cotton, and a French blanket. A little pan of water having been put on deck, at eight o’clock the ayah brought it to me filled with ice. What fine strong ice they must be making at the pits, where every method to produce evaporation is adopted! I am sitting by the fire for the first time. At eight o’clock the thermometer was 46°; by ten o’clock 54°. The dāndis complain bitterly of the cold. Thirteen men on the goon are fagging, up to their knees in water, against the stream in this cold wind; this twist in the river will, however, allow of half an hour’s sail, and the poor creatures may then warm themselves. I will send each man a red Lascar’s cap and a black blanket, their Indian bodies feel the cold so bitterly. When the sails are up my spirits rise; this tracking day by day against wind and stream so many hundred miles is tiresome work. My solitude is agreeable, but the tracking detestable. I must go on deck, there is a breeze, and enjoy the variety of having a sail. At Pukkaghur eight peacocks were by the riverside, where they had come for water; on our approach they moved gently away. They roost on the largest trees they can find at night. I have just desired three pints of oil to be given to the dāndis, that they may rub their limbs. The cold wind, and being constantly in and out of the water, makes their skin split, although it is like the hide of the rhinoceros; they do not suffer so much when their legs have been well rubbed with oil. What a noise the men are making! They are all sitting on the deck whilst a bearer, with a great jar of oil, is doling out a chhāttak to each shivering dāndi.

  [ … ]

  January 25th – Was there ever anything so provoking! We are fast in the centre of a sandbank, cutting through it on a chain-cable: it will take the whole day to get through it – perhaps a day or two. There is a fine favourable wind, the first we have had for ages, and we should be at Agra by sunset could we cross this vile sandbank. I go on deck every now and then to see the progress: we advance about one yard in an hour! Then we leave off work, the stream loosens the sand, and the work begins again until another yard is accomplished, and then we wait for the stream. It is sadly tiresome work: however, the wind is a warm one, and we have only to contend with the stream and the sandbank.

  From seven in the morning till three in the afternoon we worked away on the bank; at last we cut through into deep water. I was delighted to see a chaprāsī from Agra, with a packet of letters for me. How little did the dear ones in England imagine their letters would find me all alone in my beautiful pinnace, fast stuck in a sandbank in the middle of the Jumna!

  January 26th – This morning from the cliff the white marble dome of the Tāj could just be discerned, and we made salam to it with great pleasure. The pinnace anchored below Kutoobpoor, unable to proceed in consequence of another great sandbank, a quarter of a mile broad. The sarang says, ‘To attempt to cut through this on a chain-cable would draw every bolt and nail out of her frame.’ The Ghāt Mānjhī is of the same opinion. I have been out in the dinghy sounding and, fearless as I am, I dare not attempt cutting through such a bank; it would injure the vessel. There are two more sandbanks besides this ahead. It is folly to injure the pinnace and I have made up my mind to quit her. Is it not provoking, only sixteen miles from Agra, and to be detained here? I have written to the Hon. H. D— to request him to send down my horses; they must have arrived long ago, and a palanquin: his answer I must await with due patience. What a pity I am not a shot! I saw three deer yesterday whilst I was amusing myself in an original fashion, digging porcupines out of their holes, or rather trying to do so for the dogs found the holes; but the men could not get the animals out of them. Picked up a chilamchī full of river-shells. Before us are thirteen large boats aground on this sandbank. In the evening I took a long walk to see the state of another shallow ahead, which they say is worse than the one we are off. Six of the great cotton boats have cut through the sand; perhaps they will deepen the channel and we shall be able to pass on tomorrow. There are peacocks in the fields: what a pity my husband is not here, or that I am not a shot!

  January 27th – Not being satisfied to quit the pinnace without having inspected the river myself, I went up to Bissowna in the patelī this morning and found it would be utter folly to think of taking the Seagull further; besides which, it is impossible. I might upset her, but to get her across a bank half a mile in length is out of the question. The water in the deepest parts is only as high as a man’s knee and she requires it up to the hipbone. It is very provoking. I am tired of this vile jungle – nothing to look at but the vessels aground; besides which the noise is eternal, night and day, from the shouts of the men trying to force their boats off the sand into deeper water.

  January 28th – My riding horses having arrived, I quitted the pinnace, desiring the sarang to return to Dharu-ke-Nuggeria, and await further orders.

  I sent off the cook-boat and attendants to Agra, and taking my little pet terrier in my arms cantered off on the black horse to meet the palanquin a friend had sent for me. Late at night I arrived at Agra, found a tent that had been pitched for me within the enclosure of the Tāj, in front of the Kālūn Dāwāzā or great gateway, and congratulated myself on having at length accomplished the pilgrimage in a voyage up the Jumna of fifty-one days! Over-exertion brought on illness, and severe pains in my head laid me up for several days.

  CHAPTER XXX

  THE TĀJ MAHAL

  I have paid two visits to Agra since I returned from Lucknow and thought of you and the sāhib whilst admiring the Tāj. Do not, for the sake of all that is elegant, think of going home without paying it a visit. I shall, with great delight, be your cicerone in these regions: if you put it off much longer (if alive), I shall scarce be able to crawl with old age. Do not think of quitting India; it is a country far preferable to the cold climate, and still colder hearts of Europe.

  W. L. G., Khasganj

  JANUARY 1835 – I have seen the Tāj Mahal; but how shall describe its loveliness? Its unearthly style of beauty! It is not its magnitude; but its elegance, its proportions, its exquisite workmanship, and the extreme delicacy of the whole, that render it the admiration of the world. The tomb, a fine building of white marble erected upwards of two centuries ago, is still in a most wonderful state of preservation, as pure and delicate as when first erected. The veins of grey in the marble give it a sort of pearl-like tint that adds to, rather than diminishes, its beauty. It stands on a square terrace of white marble, on each angle of which is a minaret of the same material. The whole is carved externally and internally, and inlaid with ornaments formed of blood-stones, agates, lapis lazuli, etc. etc. representing natural flowers. The inscriptions over all the arches are in the Arabic character, in black marble, inlaid on white. The dome itself, the four smaller domes and the cupolas on the roof, are all of the same white marble carved beautifully and inlaid with flowers in coloured stones.

  The dome of the Tāj, like all domes erected by the Mohammedans, is egg-shaped, a form greatly admired; the dome in Hindu architecture is always semicircular; and it is difficult to determine to which style of building should be awarded the palm of beauty.

  This magnificent monument was raised by Shāhjahān to the memory of his favourite Sultāna Arzumund Bānoo on whom, when he ascended the throne, he bestowed the title of Momtāza Zumāni (the Most Exalted of the age).

  On the death of Shāhjahān, his grandson Alumgeer placed his cenotaph in the Tāj, on the right hand and close to that of Arzumund Bānoo; this is rather a disfigurement, as the building was intended alone for the Lady of the Tāj, whose cenotaph rests in the centre. Formerly, a screen of silver and gold surrounded it; but when Alumgeer erected the tomb of Shāhjahān by the side of that of the Sultana, he removed the screen of gold and silver, and replaced it by an octagonal marble screen, which occupies about half the diameter of the building and encloses the tombs. The open fretwork and mosaic of this screen are most beautiful: each side is divided into three panels, pierced and carved with a delicacy equal
to the finest carving in ivory; and bordered with wreaths of flowers inlaid of agate, bloodstone, cornelian, and every variety of pebble. I had the curiosity to count the number contained in one of the flowers and found there were seventy-two; there are fifty flowers of the same pattern. The cenotaphs themselves are inlaid in the same manner; I never saw anything so elegant; the tombs, to be properly appreciated, must be seen, as all the native drawings make them exceedingly gaudy which they are not. The inscriptions on both are of black marble inlaid on white, ornamented with mosaic flowers of precious stones.

  The first glance on entering is imposing in the extreme: the dim religious light, the solemn echoes – at first I imagined that priests in the chambers above were offering up prayers for the soul of the departed, and the echo was the murmur of the requiem. When many persons spoke together it was like thunder – such a volume of powerful sounds; the natives compare it to the roar of many elephants. ‘Whatever you say to a dome it says to you again.’ A prayer repeated over the tomb is echoed and re-echoed above like the peal of an organ, or the distant and solemn chant in a cathedral.

  Each arch has a window, the frames of marble, with little panes of glass about three inches square. Underneath the cenotaphs is a vaulted apartment where the remains of the Emperor and the Sultana are buried in two sarcophagi, facsimiles of the cenotaphs above. The crypt is square and of plain marble; the tombs here are also beautifully inlaid, but sadly defaced in parts by plunderers. The small door by which you enter was formerly of solid silver: it is now formed of rough planks of mango wood.