Pictures And Pen-Pictures

PICTURES AND PEN-PICTURES

kook ST /)/^

EfiMO %■£ ffl rvcy/v/rtfi
M S- ® •

BY

P. V. PATHY

docteur-es-letires da Vunivcrsilc da Paris

PUBLISHED BY

THE MADRAS PREMIER CO.

SOLE DISTRIBUTORS :

TAMIL NAD PUBLICATIONS

33, BROADWAY, :a MADRAS.

Fibst Edition — inov.

mMm m tm mm§

*■

■NPwP* »* ®#•» • #«&«§«»%«

Rs- 31-

Cf'WTRAL »

%C.N»

^ i.

T«RLfPATf.

ry v rr Press 0* H„ No. MS ioo/B

“ sttj s '-

Blocks by courtesy of

FREE INDIA LTD.

FOREWORD

It was not without some hesitation that 1 approached the
present work for, writing books is not strictly within the cadre
of the profession of a cameraman and producer of short films.
Off and on I contributed to some journals of India, and the
reception given to my articles by the Editors greatly encouraged
me. While wandering in search of filmic material, at the back
of my mind I cherished the idea of writing a book of my
impressions and experiences. The vicissitudinous "career of a
short film Director and the nomadic life of a newsreeler denied
me the time to sit down to write a book.

Scarcity of rawstock material in. the recent .years- and the
difficulties in the way of film production greatly retarded my
activities. I employed hours of this enforced leisure in looking
into my photographs, travel notes, and scrap-book, and writing
afresh .of much that I had experienced—the result is this little
volume.

Some cities and places in which my sojourn was too brief to
justify my writing about them, I have deliberately omitted; others
of which I have records, I have refrained from including as I am
averse' to a lengthy publication by one, like me, who is a
debutant in the world of writers. ; *•

The sixteen chapters embodied in this volume can be aptly
termed as gleanings from my travel diary. The photographs
can claim to be illustrative of much that is interesting in India.
I present them for what they are worth—thoughts and impre-
sions, if nothing else, of a cameraman in search of documentary
material.

Madras, 1946

P. y. PATBY

CONTENTS

The Past in Visual Images ... I

At the Gate of the Ganges ... 5

Delhi, the City Imperial ... 8

An Epic Battlefield ... 15

Lahaur ... 18

The Wrinkled Image of Lost Cities ... 22

The Temple of the Gilded Dome ... 26

Rajput Realms ... 28

The Capitals of Akbar ... 32

The Garden of Sanscrit Legend ... 34

The City of the Great Poet ... 36

Gujarat ... 39

The Delta of the Krishna River ... 45

Capital of the Carnatic ... 50

Some Sketches of the South ... 55

Queen City of the Arabian Sea ... 60

In the Hall of Private Audience—the Diwan-i-Khas—stands this
pillar of red sandstone. Upon this pillar the emperor §at to
discuss with his courtiers,

olljt "pmi in Visual SnragES

< < CJf t may take you a hundred days to reach those
J heights and see the Ganges issuing from the
glaciers in all her mountain glory ”, sums up the words of
the hermit who dwells in the foothills of the Himalayas.
As he speaks the eye ascends in wonderment to the
snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas, the home of
eternal snow,where spring the two great rivers the Ganges
and the Indus—visions of the past float across the mind.
Was it not in the valley of the Indus that man lived in¬
dustriously long ages ago ? How many millenniums have
gone since the sages and seers sang hymns of the extant
sacred Sanskrit books, the Vedas, in these cool seques¬
tered vales of the Ganges ? The song of the soughing
wind and the melodious river carry the mind far
away into the past; the jingle of pack-mules moving

along the ridge recalls it to the present.the

reverie ends.

“ Here stood the most ancient city of a once great
kingdomit is an archaeologist that speaks, this time,
as he describes one of the mounds of Taxila. The many
treasures unearthed from these mounds in the Haro
Valley assist the mind to picture life twenty-five centuries
ago. Time had almost effaced from human memory the
existence of these cities.

This is the site where the epic battle was fought;
here, Krishna revealed to Arjuna the Song of Philo¬
sophy ”. A recluse utters words to this effect as the eye
gazes on the vast plain. For a fleeting moment there is

a virtual image of the battle as described in the Hindu
epic, the Mahabharata —in reality, there is only a
bare, vast plain.

Delhi has ever been imperial: as the Indraprastha
of the epics and the Delhi of history. Through the
ruins of seven Delhis the mind can conjure, like the
successive scenes of a moving picture, the events of
nearly two thousand years: sc enes of the days when
epic heroes wandered in exile and built their fort; of the
days when the first sultanate of Delhi was established
and Qutb-ud-din Aibak commanded the construction of
the Qutb Minar; of the days when the peacock throne
stood on the marble pedestal in the palace of the Red
Fort and an emperor gave private audience to his
courtiers. “ If there is a paradise on earth it is this, it
is this, it is this ”, reads the inscription in Persian;
inlaid walls, marble floors and water channels, filigreed
windows and finely worked ceilings, fill the mind with
pictures of the splendour and magnificence characteristic
of the life of the imperial Mughals.

Happy are they who come here to wash away their
sins in this river of the gods, the Ganges, at the ghats
of Benares. The scenes of philgrims bathing from the
ghats has changed but little, it seems, through the
centuries; for, from very ancient times, Benares has
been held sacred. How many millions of pilgrims have
bathed at these ghats ? How many rajas have ruled this
city? How many saints have found asylum in this
Benares ? Even the Buddha came here. Blurred visions
crowd upon the mind; the story in the Buddhist
scriptures of the Wise One flying across the river like
the King of Birds, translates itself into picture. To

The magnificent Fort of Gwalior is another instance of how
monuments bring the past into the present for mind and eye
to admire. Man Singh, the great Rajput general of Akbar
and Jus son, Jehangir, built this palace that crowns the steep
rocky hill above the city of Gwalior.

I

ii**'H

Filgreed windows, like this one in the Red .Fort of Delhi,
anrf finely decorated ceilings, tell of the splendour and magni¬
ficence characteristic of the life of the Imperial JVtushals.

Ruins of a Buddhist monastery in Sarnath near Benares. To
Sarnath the Buddha came after crossing the Ganges, and here
he first preached his^Gospel or, as the Buddhist Scriptures
say: ‘ The Wise One'set the Wheel of the Law in motion.’

barnatm me ±suaana went alter crossing tne Ganges.
From the ruins of the monasteries of Sarnath rises the
picture of the time when Buddhist monks from far and
wide followed in the footsteps of the Buddha.

“His Majesty plans splended edifices....” writes
Abul Fazl, the historian of Akbar’s court. The Great
Gateway of his deserted capital, Fatehpur-Sikri, is a
tangible proof of these words. Each monument, every
building, even the tanks and wells were built to a plan.
It was in this capital that, for many years, Akbar
cherished the hope of a united India and one religion
for all—a unity of religions he himself practised. Despite
the echoing emptiness of this dead capital, illusion
recreates the familiar scene of Akbar in the Hall of
Private Audience, and of a populous city. Visual images
come and vanish in a trice — only the emptiness
remains.

Cloud-filled South Indian skies form the background
to giant temple towers. Only some fifteen centuries ago
the artists chiselled these pyramidical summits that
crown the gateways to the shrines of cherished gods.
Sovereigns patronized these mighty works of art, artisans
achieved them. As the eye admires the beauty of the
carvings that skilled artists bequeathed to posterity, the
mind tries to conjecture the busy lives that were con¬
secrated to the embellishment of religion with art.

North, East, South, and West, beneath the bustle of
everyday Indian life an ever-present past is discernible.
Temples, mosques, sanctuaries, deserted towns and ruins,
and the traditional rites maintained in living cities
reflect the past in the tableau-vivcmt of the cities of India
today. The latest strokes of Time’s brush to this scene are

4

PICTURES AND PEN-PICTURES

.vivid in the busy cities with their industries and offices;
their automobiles and tramcars; and the railways and
■‘planes that link town, city, and country together. On
the canvas of an ancient civilization Time and history
have created the India of our day.

Some of.the impressions gathered by the mind and
the eye while roaming in India are recorded in the
chapters that follow—records which I owe to both Quill
and Camera.

Entrance to the tomb of Akbar at Sikandra, near Agra,

JLJL

Mf fyz date af Clangs

Cjrfj^HERE the Granges leaves the hills and comes to
'I r the plains is Rikkikesh, a grey little village
where hill-folk with narrow slit eyes and high cheek
bones come from their mountain homes over the great
suspension bridge called the Swing of Lakshmana
(Lakshmanjhula), to trade their simple wares. Baby
monkeys in their mothers’ wake race one another up
the thick steel cables of the bridge; yet, long before
the age of steel, the Swing of Lakshmana existed.
Here, tradition avers, the heroes of the epic, Bamayana,
passed through Hardwar and Rikkikesh, and in this
same spot did sling a bridge—was it of lianas or of
ropes ?

Just below this Rikkikesh the pale green trans¬
parent waters divide into channels that speed, powerful
and melodious, between wooded islands, down to
Hardwar where they once more unite. The temple-
crowned Silver Hill (Ohandi Pahad) watches over the
transformation of the Granges from a mountain torrent
into a powerful stream—transformed, as it were, from
tempestuous maidenhood into matronly grace.

Hardwar, ancient and holy pilgrim resort resting
on one of the channels, was built round the spot where,
occording to the followers of Vishnu, Lord Hari left the
imprint of his feet; or, as the followers of Siva would
have it, where Hara (Siva) trod this very spot.

Since ancient times this has been a station on the
pilgrim route to the Kumaon shrines; since ancient

times pilgrims have trodden the large flag-stones that
pave the narrow streets that change direction at abrupt
angles and lead into tiny, unsuspected squares made
bright by piles of rich and varied fruit. Pilgrims
have catered to their wants at one or the other of the
close-packed booths that sell tasty food, savoury tea,
sweet-scented flowers, or coloured baskets of graceful
shapes. Picturesque balconied houses with Ganges-
cleansed clothes hung out to dry, line the streets and
tower above the booths; yet, Hardwar streets are not
dark, for the limpid mountain air pervades the town
and the bright, joyful sun playfully catches and lights
up a sparkle from a polished apple, a brass vessel, or
from the glossy tresses of a maiden pilgrim. Down
in the crystaline waters all along the ghats, innumerable
fish, from the tiniest silver thread to arrogant black
giants the size of plantain trunks, sport and jostle one
another for favours from devotees. There are neither
fishermen nor fishing nets, for the fish of Hardwar
are sacred.

The first day of the Hindu solar year dawns—
it is the great religious fair of Hardwar. Every twelve
years this festival, the Great Kumbh Mela, takes place;
the Little, or Half Kumbh is every six. While Hardwar
prepares for this Kumbh Mela for months ahead,
pilgrims from every comer of India take the road to
this holy spot. Sadhus and ascetics, religious leaders
and leaders of every Hindu community meet in
Hardwar; here, caparisoned elephants carry them from
shrine to ghat and ghat to shrine during the festivities,
and elephant processions occur almost every day, just
as in ages gone by. Only the newsreel cameraman

Ancient and ho,y pH g ^

%g£Z kZ.Tm^, 'every twelve year., tire *!*"«- “»'" •

brings a twentieth century touch to the scene! On the
most important day of this festival, when Jupiter enters
the sign of Aquarius, the bathing ghats offer a stupen¬
dous spectacle: troops of pilgrims in their thousands
converge to the bank of the sacred river to cleanse
themselves and be fit to pray. This is every sixth and
twelfth year; but, festival or no festival, there are always
pilgrims in Hardwar.

With the earliest glimmerings of dawn a priest
entones the ancient Sanskrit prayers that mingle with
the never-ceasing gurgle of the river; a keen, invigo¬
rating breeze blows across the swift waters; the pale
moon fades back into the opalescent sky—a new day has
dawned over Hardwar. Already bathers hasten to the
ghats, already the sun’s rays warm the water-forzen
limbs—and so it was with the early Aryans, and so
it is today.

Mf|t, <£if£ Imperial

CJ[t was a descendant of Genghis Khan, the Lame
J Timur, “ one of the most formidable conquerors and
most terrible scourges the world has ever seen ”, who
crossed the Indus with a force of 90,000, proclaimed
himself King of Delhi, only to stay a fortnight in his
capital. Through Hardwar and the Punjab he left India
loaded with wealth, leaving in his wake anarchy,
famine, and pestilence.

It is a far cry to Delhi! Dilli dur ast, sighed,
perhaps, Babur the Lion as he crossed the Khyber into
India and sensed the great tremor and alarm in his
troops. None the less, he descended to the plains,
fought the Battle of Paniput, won the Battle of Bayana,
and established himself in Delhi. “ By the grace and
mercy of Almighty God ”, wrote Babur in his Memoirs,
“this difficult affair was made easy to me,....” Unlike
Timur, Babur had come to stay, and he breathed his
last in Agra; his body was taken to Kabul and laid in a
garden that he loved. What Timur did not leave
behind him, Babur left: a dynasty of brilliant emperors,
the Mughals, that ruled India from imperial Delhi.

Why did Babur come to Delhi? As a youthful
exile staying with the headman of a village in Turkestan,
he listened to his host’s aged mother recounting tales
of India related to her by her brother who had served in
the army of Timur during his invasion of India. Babur
heard these “glowing accounts of the wonders of
Hindustan, its fertile plains, magnificent cities, and

When Indraprastha was the name of Delhi, this
was the fort of the epic princes, the Pandavas.
It is the most ancient of all the forts in Delhi of
our day and is known, aptly, as the Parana Qilla,
or ancient fort. It was within the ruined walls
of this large fort that Humayun built his city,
the Din Panah , also now in ruins.

u jc/jLro jl j i nn, uu iivirjc^Kmiv

boundless wealth, ” and his young mind began to dream
of a dominion far greater than Samarkhand. So, when
he came to India, he came to Delhi, the Capital of this
country.

Like the beads in the rosary of history sis ruined
cities of Delhi, strewn haphazard on the right bank of
the Jumna, each tell the story of its successive phases
through the centuries; while Old Delhi and New Delhi
of our day form an unbroken link between Mughal
times and the British Raj. Most ancient of all is the
solitary Old Fort (Puran Qilla) of the epic age; the
Qutb Minar marks the site where the first Mohammedan
dynasty of kings boilt its seat over the ruins of the
capital of the last Hindu king of Delhi, Prithviraj.
Seven temples were used in the construction of the Qutb
Minar, and nothing now remains of the earlier city save
a few columns and arches, exquisitely carved, and a
stout metal pillar with ancient Hindu inscriptions, whose'
founding, erection, and durability puzzle archaeologist
and historian.

The ruined piles of Tughlukabad Fort and the
evocative peacefulness of the Kotla Gardens are filled
with the memory of the Tughlak dynasty, and the
scattered fragments of monuments that make the Delhi
golf links so unique and picturesque are all that remain
of the Lodi city. Siri was the name of Khilji Delhi,
but that city has now. completely disappeared ; only the
gigantic base of a column intended to surpass the Qutb
Minar tells of Khilji ambitions.

Delhi of the Mughals, the seventh Delhi, still
survives with its palaces, mosques, tombs and gardens—
tokens of the love of the Great Mughals for art and

architecture. Old Delhi still re-echos the magnificence
of Mughal times when the Eed Fort, in the days of its
prime under Shah Jehan, shone with the splendour
of the peacock throne and of the Light of the World,
the Koh-i-nur; and when Chandni Chowkh was the
fashionable road through which Emperor Aurangzeb
repaired to the Great Mosque on his richly decorated
elephant.

Chandni Chowkh is as busy as it has always been.
Its congested bazaars are full of colourfully clothed
people from everywhere. In the shops, boutiques , and
on the pavements are exhibited all kinds of wares:
soaps, beauty products, saris, sandals and shoes of
infinite variety; medicines, drugs and chemicals; brass
and metal ware, jewellery and ivory work; buttons^
buckles, and belts, betel-leaves and boiled lentils; steel
trunks and suitcases, and a hundred other articles
of Indian and foreign manufacture. In the narrow
streets, alleys, and by-lanes that run into Chandni
Chowkh, many still practise the decorative crafts for
which the city was once famed and throughout the day
flow streams of incessant traffic of automobiles, tongas,
and pedestrians. Motor horns and the clatter of horses’
hoofs swell the noise of hawkers shouting their wares
and of him who enumerates his marvellous cures for all
and any disease. At intervals comes the screech of
tram-car wheels and the clang-clang-clang of the
bell as the driver, the Delhi wattman with nerves
of steel, stamps the knob and, with wizard-like
dexterity, conducts his over-crowded yellow vehicle
through by-lanes, broad streets, and round the sharp
turnings.

The red ramparts of the great Red Fort of Delhi within which the
last emperor of the Mughal dynasty was captured on September 21,
1857. Bahadur Shah II was loved by his subjects for his sad verses ;
he died at the age of 87, an exile in Rangoon,

Rising above the motley, swarming scene of the
Chowkh is the clock tower—the dovecote of whole flocks
of flattering pigeons—that chimes every passing hour.
As the clamour-dazed people who tarried over-long at
their shopping trace weary steps towards their homes,
from overhead through some finely carved balcony may
come a sound of revelry by night!

Far away from the bustle and noise of the old city is
the new city—New Delhi that, at first sight, seems severe,
erect, and austere. In its Secretariat and Council Hall,
in its fountains, obelisks, vast lawns, and massive arched
memorial, is a panorama that seems an architectural pot¬
pourri of Place de la Concorde, Cleopatra’s Needle, Hyde
Park Corner, and Piazza di Roma. In a voice different
in tone to the ancient monuments or the din of Chandni
Chowkh, the latest Delhi in red sandstone seems to say:
I am the City Imperial.

Prettiest of all the reflections of buildings mirrored
in the waters of the stone basins of the fountains is that
of the Council Hall. What fervent speeches, what great
argument has this round building known since it was
built, for here it is that Council and Assembly meet to
confer or opine in eloquent manner.

What withAsoka Road and Akbar Road, Tughlak
Road and Jehangir Road, Windsor Place and Connaught
Circus, Khilji Road and Hardinge Avenue, Kingsway
and Queensway, Prithviraj Road and Parliament Street,
the roads of New Delhi certainly pay their tribute
to India’s chequered history. It is Parliament Street
that links the Council Hall to Connaught Circus and,
prominent along this broad road, is the central organi¬
zation of All India Radio—Broadcasting House. From

the sound-proof studios of this House equipped with
microphones and marvellous modern apparatus, the
broadcasts of Delhi originate.

Connaught Circus is more than just a circus—in
plan it is really a number of concentric circles. The
lawns are the inner circle, the arcades and surrounding
buildings are in elevation the arcs of another circle, and
the outer roads lie on the circumference of the largest
circle. Evening in this centre of New Delhi presents a
variegated scene. People lounge on the lawns, children
romp about or listen to the band; and the arcades
are full of people from every walk of life, from every
part of India, and from other lands at their evening
promenade or looking into shop windows where any¬
thing from a pin to the rarest curio is displayed. On
the roads leading into the Circus crowds enter the
picture houses.

At times this carefree and happy scene changes
into a pandemonium. Of a February evening ominous-
clouds appear, the sky gets charged with electricity,
thunder rends the air, and flashes of lighting reveal the
dazzling white buildings of the Circus. A torrential
rain pours, bringing with it utter darkness.

Or it happens on some afternoon in March that the
wind goes wild. .Thousands of gigantic propellers seem
to be at work; a gale hurls clouds of dust as it goes.
Some one cries aandhi !, and a hundred voices echo the¬
ory; “Ah then and there is hurrying to and fro” as the
people run away from the lawns towards the arcades,
their homes, or some shelter. Soon everything is hazy
and the wind shrieks along the streets; the tonga stand
is empty and the dust storm enshrouds the Circus.

The Council Hull in New Delhi. The reflections
in the stone tanks give a soft image and lend
charm to the scene.

Such can be the whims of Nature even in this
Imperial Capital.

It is dawn. The traffic through the Ajmere Gate
starts flowing towards New Delhi; the wheels of bullock
carts roll, slowly and heavily, over the dust-covered
road The clatter of horses’ hoofs awaken the tried
clerk who sleeps in the verandah of his official quarters;
the milkman bursts through the gate on his bicycle that
was primarily designed to carry only himself, but
actually carries also a multitude of milk pails. Another
day has definitely dawned in Delhi; a hazy sun appears
to rise above the row of buildings across the road.

The morning soon grows into day and the tide of
traffic swells. Earlier, the labourers—men, women, and
their children—had sung their way to work, and tourists
had come from everywhere in tongas heavily loaded
with suit-cases and hold-alls. The bright sun indicates
half past ten as the tide of traffic still swells—tongas,
ekkas, bicycles, buses, lorries, vans, clerks, head clerks,
and gazetted officers all movrng towards New Delhi. It
is past eleven and the shrill whistle of the steam train
tells of time, place, and distance—another train has
come from somewhere in India all the way to Delhi.
In New Delhi, a stream of cars runs up the broad road
that divides the Imperial Secretariat into two blocks,
North and South—the “ upper four hundred ” are
coming to their administrative work.

Older than New Delhi and newer than Old Delhi is
the quarter that lies beyond Kashmiri Gate. This part
of Delhi was, not so long ago, what the new city is
today. The avenues, parks, buildings and spacious
bungalows in colonial style, and the hotels with “ comfort

14

PICTURES AND PEN-PICTURES

modeme” all go to make this end of Delhi quite a
charming area. Some administrative offices are still
housed in this “ Middle Delhi ” that is marked at one
end by the Ridge through whose wooded slopes run
riding paths. A road descends to the gateway of the
University; here, before New Delhi had risen in red
stone, the Viceroys of India resided; today, the youth
of the Province strolls about the gardens or pursues its
studies in the halls where once was the routine and
splendour usually attendant on royal estate. An at¬
mosphere of youthful hopes pervades the scene.

On the brow of the Ridge rises an Asokan pillar;
spread out below is the magnificent prospect of living
Delhi and of the ruined cities that flowered and withered
on the banks of the J umiia.

A hundred miles north of Delhi lie the plains of the
(Jreat .Battle of the Hindu Epic,the Mahabhamt War.
Here Krishna's chariot stood, and here he preached
the Song of Philosophy, the Bkcujavat Gila, so tradi¬
tion avers.

Hn (Epic Battle Jietb

QT he road that links Delhi to Lahore is more than
^ three hundred miles long. Just off the hundredth
milestone lie the plains of Kurukshetra. The setting
sun bathes the plain in red, then disappears behind the
horizon. Black shadows to either side add loneliness
to the scene, while shapely silhouettes against the pale
indigo sky reveal the presence of temple towers. A few
yards from the brick embankment of an ancient tank,
the waters are lost to sight in the mist—mists of the
night and of time.

Gita Bhuvan was built for those who wish to
spend their days in thought and meditation, who wish
to read the Song Celestial in the surroundings where
it was first composed; Gita Bhuvan is for the simple of
taste who are content to draw their water from the
well, cook their food in the open air, wash their clothes
in the early morning sunlight, and sleep the sleep of
the mentally contented under the stars, or within the
white-washed walls of a bare and airy room. Gita
Bhuvan has a library in which are found all the
translations of the Gita that were ever made in over
a dozen languages.

It is true there is nothing much to see in Kuruk¬
shetra, but there is much to feel. The temples, though
some of them are in ruins, are not of ancient date;
the great tank alone has claims to some antiquity.
Memories of Mughal times are found in the vast
sarai, now used for housing cattle, and in the massive

fort whose well-planned keeps and courtyards and
countless rows of rooms suggest that it was built for
residence as much as for defence. The fort is now a
school for little children who clatter up the steep, narrow
stone stairways to reach their class-rooms over whose
doorways stand out in brutal incongruity the legends :
“ He who laughs last laughs best ”, “ A stitch in time
saves nine ”, “ Britannia rules the waves ”, and ‘other
white chalk inscriptions in Boman script. This fort of
Kurukshetra also has its tales of Akbar and Jehangir,
of generals who tried to defy imperial majesty, of sieges
and victories. From the top-most terrace adorned with
tiny Mughal kiosks, the wide panorama of the country¬
side shows here, the huddle of the little village, there the
tall spires of a Siva temple and, yonder, the rounded dome
of Gita Bhuvan rising from its nest of greenery.

To his hand, says the recluse of Kurukshetra, were
mustered the forces of the Pandavas; and to that, those
of the Kurus. To this hand is the gentle slope of a
knoll and, to that, a grassy stretch; nearby is the little
shrine under a banyan tree that commemorates the
spot where Krishna’s chariot stood, and where Lord
Vishnu left the imprint of his feet. The epic battle¬
ground whereon the code of morality and honour, of
truthfulness and right living, of honesty and righteous¬
ness (of dharma) was at stake, is now a grazing ground
for sheep. Where spears flashed in combat, steel shears
glint in the sun; whence rose the clangour of battle
cries now swells the irritatingly plaintive bleat of the
newly - shorn. Herdsmen in great, tangled turbans and
weathered blankets follow their rustic trade where once
the Pandavas fought the Kurus.

Close view of the shrine where Krishna left the
imprint of his feet,

Sitting on the brick embankment of the ancient
tank shaded by age-old trees, there is much to feel in
Kurukshetra. In the midday silence a porpoise becomes
bold enough to lift his horny^snout above the water and
slide noiselessly between reeds and lotus leaves to pick a
discriminating lunch from the surface of the water;
a deep-mauve splash of colour from a tree in bloom that
overhangs a little island temple, stands out against
dark-green mango trees and dark red walls; somewhere
a pilgrim chants and a rhythmic stanza of the Immortal
Song floats softly on the stilled air :

Never born, never dead;

Independent of the past, the present, or the
future;

Unborn, eternal, everlasting;

More ancient than the ancient;

The soul is immortal though the body succumb
to death.

This is a world saturated with peace, a world of
enchantment-

fafjaur

<jC econd to Delhi alone is the capital of the land of the
M-' Five Rivers, Lahore. It was for many hundred
years the centre from which revolts were started; it saw
the crowning of kings and the splendour of imperial
courts, the ravages of hordes from North and Central
Asia, and the rise and establishment of a fierce military
religious sect. Lahore traditionally dates back to
Lahaur of Hindu epic times, but history first records its
name about the first century after Christ. With its
treasure of Mughal architecture, its wonderful monu¬
ments—landmarks of a stormy and fascinating history ;
with its tales of great men and beautiful women, of
fierce soldiers and polished courtiers, of distress and
prosperity, Lahore is engrossing.

Whether in the famous fort and palaces, mausoleums
or gardens, the crowded bazaars, or the shrines and
imposing mosques, the city of Lahore and its suburbs
are a synthesis of the history and development of a'
whole region. In this city, a dozen times sacked and as
many rebuilt, architectural styles varying from the
severely utilitarian to the highly refined art of a powerful
and decadent court, from the austerely religious to the
unimaginative structures of warriors, are of absorbing
interest.

Lahore attained its two most powerful periods
under the Great Mughals and under the Sikh Lion,
Maharaja Ran jit Singh. One could well bracket together
Akbar the mason of Mughal unity and of the Mughal

aho

:1 citadel. Ea
lIs historical f<

empire, and Ranjit Singh, welder of Sikh unity and
strength, and founder of the short-lived Sikh kingdom.
The former occupied the town, fortified it by building
the present fort on the site of an earlier citadel, and by
surrounding ■ it with massive walls; while the Sikh,-
having conquered most of the Punjab, made Lahore his
capital, restored Akbar’s fort and rebuilt the city walls
over those of the Mughal. Two constructions that are
the oldest and the newest monuments of history preced¬
ing the annexation of the Punjab by the British.

The Golden Age of Lahore belongs to the age of
the Mughals. While Akbar and Ranjit Singh built
forts for their protection, two other emperors built them
for beauty and pleasure. The palace called “ The Sleep--
ing Place ”, with its perfect proportions, fine inlay work,
and careful planning against the intense dry heat of
Punjab summers, is demonstrative of Jehangir’s love of
art and comfort. Shah Jehan’s lovely Naulakha Palace
—so named because it is said to have cost nine “lakhs ”
of rupees to build—with inlays in semi-precious stones
and gems to represent the flowers of his charming
gardens and the birds that sported there, is significant
of the lavishness of this emperor. To this same emperor
posterity owes the Mirror Palace entirely decorated
with a mosaic of tiny mirrors, the Slush Mahal that was
used by Ranjit Singh as his hall of audience.

In white marble of straight and sober lines,
strangely chaste compared to the ornate style of the
period, the tomb of Anarkali is another landmark of
Lahore. Prince Salim, as the story goes, dared to
exchange a smile in his father’s court with his father’s
fa vourite. Akbar, catching sight of this smile, ordered

Anarkali to be cast from his harem and to be buried
alive. Many years later, Jehangir caused to be inscribed
on the tomb he built for her, the words: “ Ah! could I
behold the face of my beloved once more, I would give
thanks to God until the day of resurection.” Jehangir
must have been a sentimentalist, for he was, probably,
not as love-lorn as the inscription suggests; his queen,
Nur Jehan, ruled by his side, both well-loved and a
power in the Mughal empire for many long years.

Nur Jehan planned a garden for her own use, at
some distance from the fort of Lahore. Heart’s Delight
(Dilkhush) she called it. Jehangir, in 1627, was laid to
rest in this very garden in the beautiful mausoleum of
Shahdara.

Some miles from this city lie the famous gardens of
Shalimar, laid out by the order of Shah Jehan and created
by his celebrated engineer, Ali Mardan, in the seventeenth
century. The Shalimar of Lahore is a copy of the gardens
of the same name built by Jehangir, in far away Kashmir,

In different vein to the city of former times is the
Lahore which has grown in the last century into an
elegant city. The Lower and Upper Mall runs like an
artery through this modern capital. Distinctive from
the monuments of Mughal times or Sikh history are the
buildings that lie near or to either side of the Mall: the
Punjab University, the Museum, the Chief Courts,
banking and business houses of local, Indian, or foreign
origin; the imposing building of the Legislative As¬
sembly, the extensive grounds of Government House
and Lahore’s Lawrence Gardens; Salons de beauie,
newspaper offices, and book-sellers and newsagents
purveying journals from every part of the globe.

On some evenings, promena
an instance of life in the capital. St
from the horse-drawn tonga and tum-ti^ ^a g ^S * >i ^y bus,
to the most luxurious automobile. The restaurants and

coffee-houses attract a numerous clientele of plebeian
and aristocrat; along the sidewalks stroll the people.
Women are dressed in choice saris and elegant footwear
to match or in the Punjabi tunic and pyjama —hurta
and salwar —and the graceful thin veil. The menfolk
are in varied attire. There is the Sikh, faithful to his
turban, but immaculately dressed in western clothes;
cadets and officers in their khaki, gabardine, or Air
Force G-rey uniforms; some wear the long coat and
3 hoodidar pyjama—the pyjama somewhat like breeches
—with gay turbans or sober headgear; others come in
clothes of Tihacldar and a cap of homespun cloth, the
Gandhi Cap.

The city of busy bazaars and lofty houses, the Mall
and fashionable quarters, the pretty houses of Model
Town Extension, the Cantonement where British and
British Indian troops are stationed—the old and the
new, it is all there. With the changing times Lahore
has spread her boundaries and possesses many charact¬
eristics that come by tradition and others by adoption—
monuments, manners and customs—all a strange blend
of the Orient and the Occident. Mixed feelings does
this Lahore stir, gay and sad, but one feeling is upper¬
most: would that this sunny picture of the capital were
without its shadows. Shadows that grimly tell of poverty,
of the starved and the semi-starved, of the needy or
iebt-ridden, of those many who, both to honour and
fame unknown, eke out a mere existence,

DrtnWetr Srrtagq of lost CSTtticsf

A ruin—yet what ruin! from its mass
Walls, palaces, half-cities have been rear’d

Bybon

‘ < C|t is one of the tragedies of history”, writes Aldous
J Huxley when discussing the medieval tale of
Barlaam and Josaphat, “that Christendom should
never have known anything of Buddhism ” save a
garbled version of Gautama’s life. “ But alas! as far as t
the West was concerned the Enlightened One was
destined, until very recent times, to remain no more
than the hero of an edifying fairy tale

It is sad, too, perhaps, that the Enlightened One
was destined to have a greater following in other lands
than in the country of his birth and ministry. From
the great bulk of Buddhist scriptural literature, stories
and legends; out of the number of glowing accounts left
by Buddhist monks who came from far-off lands; in the
monuments and sculptures found everywhere in India;
and through the relics unearthed from some buried
cities, the mind can draw a picture of the days when
the Buddha’s doctrines and precepts bloomed in his
own country. Those were the times when Taxila was
a living city though it is a tomb of kingdoms, today.

Taxila was the first city which Asoka the Great,
who ranks amongst the powerful emperors of Indian
history, governed as a prince. As an emperor he
adopted Buddhism and, under his enlightened patronage,

Stupas like this were generally erected, by -Buddhists to en¬
shrine some relics of the Buddha. The emperor Asoka, the
Great adopted Buddhism. He was fond of Taxila where he had
governed as a Prince. ^ This great stupa— the Dharmarajika
Stupa—was built in his time. It is one of the most remarkable
and outstanding monuments of Taxila.

A soak-well ; one of the extremely interesting
discoveries of Taxila. This shows how-
drainage was managed in private houses in
those ancient times. These wells contained
many a valuable relic.

Taxila grew in beauty and celebrity. Asoka must have
recognized the importance of this city, for here he sent
his son as viceroy.

In the innumerable relics discovered in the mounds
of Taxila, and from the monasteries that once filled the
Haro Valley with life, can be traced the development
and blossoming of Buddhist art. Prom the dignified
simplicity of early Buddhist artistic expression to the
masterpieces of sculpture and decoration, Taxila displays
the whole story of a religious inspiration translated into
visible form. Taxila, however, was not only a centre of
Buddhism. Long ages before the birth of Gautama
the Buddha, the city figures in Sanskrit literature as a
famed university and a prosperous centre of international
trade.

In fact, Taxila is a number of ancient cities on
three separate sites. Bhir Mound, the earliest site, in
its successive layers of ruins, descloses the remains of
several cities—some of them believed to go back to the
seventh century before the Christian era.. Rich in
relics of the sojourn of Alexander the Macedonian in
Northern India is one of these cities. It was to Bhir
Mound that his missionaries came when Asoka made
Buddhism the State religion. The little that remains
of the cities of Bhir Mound show the haphazard design
of streets and houses in those ancient times.

The second site of Taxila, Sirkap, offers an amazingly
symmetrical ground-plan, with its Main Street that
runs wide and straight due north and south, bisecting
the city; its side streets meeting the main at right
angles, and its vast palace with well defined sections,
in The numerable finds of utensils, implements of

everyday life, coins, ornaments, and toys, the massive
city walls and gateway—all these demonstrate what
a fine city was this Sikrap of Taxila.

The temple of Janclial, believed to be for Zoroas-
trian worship, and a double-headed eagle—an emblem
that appears to have been known in Asia, Europe,
and India—are evidences of the foreign influences in
Taxila that was a centre of trade which linked Asia
and India.

Of the third site, Sirsukh, even less remains than of
Bhir Mound; only sufficient has been found to desig¬
nate it as the capital of the last powerful dynasty to
reign in Taxila—a capital destined to destruction at the
hands of the White Huns in the fifth century. To
Sirsukh must have come the first of the many Chinese
pilgrims who have left a record of their journeys into
Buddha-land. Two centuries after its annihilation, the
pilgrim-scholar, Yuan-chwang, found only a few dilapida¬
ted monasteries and some stupas where miracles still
took place.

The heyday of Sirsukh was probably, too, the
heyday of the magnificent monasteries, now in ruins, in
which the Haro Valley is so fascinatingly rich. From
the dry, bare heights of the Hathial Hills, the monks
in the monasteries of Mohr a Moradu and Jaulian
perhaps watched with sublime detachment the worldly
activities of the city in the valley below; with mystical
contentment they must have gone back to meditation in
the well-built cells, or to their precious manuscripts, or
to the completion of some stone representation of the
Buddha. Some of these images, now mutilated, still sit
and seem to meditate.

THE WRINKLED IMAGE OF LOST CITIES

25

The utter calm that reigns over the uncovered
ruins of Taxial’s cities and monasteries, the simple and
admirable repose instinct even in the mutilated
sculptures, seem to reflect the peace and renunciation
of the Buddha. They are eloquent of the transience of
this world and of the spiritual comfort attained by
Bight Thinking, Bight Living, and Bight Knowledge.

Like a beacon that throws much light on the past
of these ruins, on the summit of a hill not far from Bhir
Mound stands a modern building. Its walls guard the
priceless treasures that are a tribute to the men who
fashioned them, and to the men who discovered them,
archaeologists. From the lawns of this Museum spreads
the panorama of the Hathial Hills and the Haro river,
the valley with its mounds and ruined cities. The
prospect below bears that very peaceful expression so
characteristic of the images of the Buddha that had lain
buried since Taxila fell and faded out.

%\\t GltmpIt ditoir 3£mtt t

'YjTHE iris of the eye contracts as the gaze goes up to
M" the gilded dome that, shimmering and glistening,
reflects in myriad images the summer sun of the
Punjab. The golden temple of Tarn-Taran is reflected
in all its beauty by the waters of its sacred tank; the
liquid image of the phantom dome is real, soft, and
lovely, and the iris of the eye opens as it takes in its
beauty. Graceful trees overhang the margin of the tank
whose waters are said to restore health to lepers; any
comer under the shade of the trees on the steps of the
tank is a quiet spot, quiet except on days when the
fairs, so dear to the heart of the Sikh, take place.

It is true, perhaps, that Tarn-Taran with its temple
surpassingly beautiful both in architecture and setting is
not so far famed as the Golden Temple of Amritsar; this,
perhaps, because it lies off the beaten track. Religion
and relief to the poor are the main concern of the
inhabitants whose ancestors welcomed the great Ranjit
Singh, the Lion of the Punjab, to this temple. The Sikh
Lion came here because he revered it as much as the
Golden Temple of Amritsar. He gave it its gilded dome
and caused the walls and ceilings to be beautifully
decorated.

In Jehangir’s reign, it was at Tarn-Taran that
Prince Khusru sought shelter with Guru Arjun. The
Guru gave asylum to the Prince and a gift of money.
Later, when Khusru was captured, the Guru received
the supreme penalty at the hands of the Emperor. To

In these chariot-like vehicles, to say nothing of tongas, tum-
tums, and autobuses, come whole families of Sikhs to their

THE TEMPLE OF THE GILDED DOME

27

.ru Arjun Tam-Taran owes its sacred tank that,
varied images, mirrors the beauty of its famous
•ine.

■ As the eye gazes on the reflections, the mind goes
;k to the founder of Sikhism, the first and greatest
ru, Baba Nanak. • “India in the fifteenth century
i succeeding centuries”, writes Daljit Singh in his
FBU NANAK, “had experienced the march of invading
lies, ruthless beyond description, massacring men
bout mercy in the name of religion, and plundering
iii'th and home without distinction.” Guru Nanak,
ording to this same writer, himself said of his times;
he age is like a drawn sword; the Kings are
ohers. ”

The faithful that come to Tarn-Taran, remove their
fcgear and wash their Let in the tank before entering-
temple, are evidence of the wide-spread reverence
d to the teachings of Guru Nanak. In troublous and
ilous times he established his simple faith and pure
itrine—Sikhism that illustrates that “ The ages of
sword have been the ages of faith ”.

B a jjuti Bealm#

“ And if the following day they chanch. to find

A new repast, or an untasted sping

Will bless their stars, and think it luxury! ”

C||n the merciless glare of the desert sun that creates
J many a mirage, the camel with resignation and
patience carries its burden—the Rajput with his turban,
the wife in her bright costume, and the children. This
is a part of India where the many colours of flowers and
the green of 'foliage are seldom seen. Little wonder,
then, that the women of Rajaputana choose brightly
coloured costumes and glittering jewellery. As the sun
travels across the heavens, the changing light paints the
landscapes with varied hues, and even a barren land
becomes beautiful. Nature in her myraid moods and
the brightly clothed women make of Rajput realms a
land of colour—colour that always attracts the
human eye.

The traveller in Rajputana sees much that belongs
to the plateau of Algeria, and particularly the feature
common to all deserts, the camel—the ship of the desert,
as he is called, but really the king of the desert. The
Thar, geographically, occupies a large portion in the
regions of Rajputana; it is not all white sands, perhaps,
like the greater deserts, but barren land; barren in
vegetation, yet fertile in history and warriors. At one
time the chief capital of t his romantic land was
Chitorgarh, but it is today a deserted city-fort.

As in the desert, so even in the city, the camel is a means
oi transport.

Among the ruins is a modern palace that belongs to the
ruler of Me war, the Maharana of Udaipur.

The Tower of Victoi
built in the days when Chit
was a living city and Raj
Kumbha, ruled. On each oj
of the storeys of the tow
are inscribed texts ai
images pertaining to oi
religion : and, as Islam fa
bids representation by ii
ages, only the one wor
Allah, is inscribed on tl
story dedicated to the re
gion of the Prophet.

Narcissus, says the Greek legend, became enamoured
of his own reflection in the water and, unable to possess
himself of the shadow, died of grief. According to the
lore of Rajputana, Allah-ud-din Khilji, Sultan of Delhi,
on seeing her reflection in a mirror, fell in love with
the peerlessly beautiful Padmini, a Chohan princess and
the wife of the Regent of Chitor. Infatuated with her
beauty, Allah-ud-din invested the fort of Chitorgarh and
demanded the hand of fair Padmini as his price for
raising the siege. But the Chohan princess, loyal wife
and true to her Rajput tradition, preferred to perish in
the flames, while her husband fell fighting on the field
of battle. Two tragedies in legend and lore, it seems,
can be claimed by a mere reflection; but, in its grim,
bloody and ruthless sequel, the Hindu tale far out-beats
its legendary Greek parallel.

The tales of Rajputana tell of the lighting of the
sacrificial pyre, of the warriors of Chitor watching their
womenfolk, headed by Padmini, marching fearlessly
into the flames, and how “ the Rana ordered the gates
of Chitor to be thrown open and, calling his clans around
him, descended*to the plains, where he, and every man
with him hurled himself against the foe, and slew until
he himself was slain.” When the Sultan entered
Chitorgarh, writes a historian, he found nothing but a
silent and deserted town over which still hung a cloud
of foetid smoke arising from the vaults where all that he
had coveted lay smouldering. In his rage he destroyed
the whole city, sparing only the palace of Padmini.

In the reign of Udai Singh, the last of his line
to rule in Chitorgarh, the last and deadliest siege took
place; it was “the most famous and dramatic military

operation of Akbar’s reign”. It was the end of
Ckitorgarh.

Udai Singh founded Udaipur, the city to which the
Eajput chiefs came when they abandoned Chitorgarh.
It is, today, the premier capital of Rajputana; a city of
beautiful lakes and stately buildings and palaces, whose
rulers claim direct descent from the sun himself.

From Jaipur to Jaisahner, from Udaipur to Bikauir,
arteries of steel, the railways, ran across this desert of
India, linking historical capitals; while the airport of
Jodhpur links Rajputana to the capitals of lands outside
India.

The mile-long caravan leaves in its wake a whirl o:
dust; the people of Bikanir—Rajputs and Muslims—
are returning from the yearly fair of Nala. Homeward
they come in bullock carts, on horseback, on camels, and
in camel carts; neither the dust, the sand, nor the heat
affects them, for they are children of the desert.

Bikanir is one of the important States of Rajputana,
its capital was founded, long ago, by Rao Bikaji.' In the
old city fort hang the relics and panoplies that recall
historical battles, and the insignia presented by the
Mughals emperors to the Rajas of Bikanir in recognition
of their chivalry. Filigree windows and stone fretwork
over the walls lend charm to the solid architecture of
this ancient palace, now no longer inhabited. Today,
there are many palaces in Bikanir, with screens of
scented roots over the windows that keep the desert heat
from reaching the Rajas, and with apartments furnished
in European style—even the style of Louis XIV is not
foreign to the places of Bikanir. None the less, the old
Fort with its memories of heroism and trophies of war,'

The city of beautiful lakes and palaces, and present-day
capital of Mewar—Udaipur.

filled with romance. There hangs the sword, huge
Ld heavy, that Rao Bikaji wielded with his powerful
m—Bikaji, the builder of Bikanir.

Camels, people, oxen and cows, elephants and horses,
ey are all there in the market-place; the desert folk
e busy in their city. The purple heath and the
ra"van are no longer in the focus of the eye, instead it
the picturesque market-place filled with people in
lourful costumes, and narrow streets designed to keep
ray the torrid sun.

Be it in a street scene or in the market-place, be it
cities of palaces and forbidding forts or in the desert
bste, colour is ever present as in the many images of a
leidoscope; colour that brightens life and landscapes
Rajput realms.

(lilt of Hfrfrar

CjrjnnEN Babur won the Battle of Bayana, he probably
'I \r never imagined that Akbar, his grandson,
would rule a great empire only a few miles from his
field of victory. Though the Sultans had chosen Delhi,
Akbar chose Agra as his first capital; Fatehpur Sikri
as his second, and Agra again as his last. It was in
Agra that Akbar’s grandson was to build the world
renowned Taj Mahal.

Akbar, for very religious reasons, transfered his
seat of government from his first capital, Agra, to
Fatehpur Sikri, twenty-six miles away. He had long
yearned for a son, and the Saint of Sikri forecast the
birth of Salim, to be known later as the emperor Jehangir.
Sikri, therefore, became significant, and Akbar built
there a capital in red sand-stone. “ Here, we might say,
stood Troy ”, wrote Jerome Xavier, a leader of the third
Jesuit Mission, as he passed through this capital of
Akbar.

Fatehpur means “ City of Victory ”; so to Sikri,
Akbar added Fatehpur. The immense gateway to the
mosque of Fatehpur Silkri was erected to commomorate
Akbar’s conquest of Gujarat. Only pictures can convey
the lavishness and luxury, the solidity and design with
which Akbar the Great planned Fatehpur Sikri that, in
its time, was the centre of the eastern world. Bub
alas! Sikri lacked water and so, at last, Akbar abandoned
the capital built to his own plan. He left ostensibly,
for a compaign in Kabul, but he was never to return to

Ruins of the elephant stables. The Deer Tower and landscape
around Fatehpur Sikri.

THE CAPITALS OF AKBAR

33

the City of Victory that even now, deserted, speaks of
the great emperor who could plan magnificent edifices,
just as well as he could control the mightiest of beasts,
the elephant.

From the imposing red fort of Akbar’s last capital,
Agra, his grandson, Shah Jehan, gazed across the hot,
dry plains to the marble mausoleum' that he had built
to the memory of the Mumtaz that he loved. A broken
disappointed emperor, a prisoner of his ownson, Auranzeb,
in the very fort from which he had ruled his vast
domains, Shah Jehan bowed his aged forehead towards
the west—towards Mecca—to the red sunsets that
heralded his end and heralded, too, the sunset of the
Mughal Empire.

Exquisite as it is now, so it was when the sad
emperor gazed upon the beauty of the marble beneath
which, in eternal peace, rested the one he had loved so
much, The Ornament of the Palace, Mumtaz Muhal.
By a Persian poet was the dirge so poignantly suited
to the soliloquies of Shah Jehan: “ It was at this
fountain that she drank, she is dead but the fountain
flows on; it was of this honey that she tasted, she is
dead but the honey is still sweet; on this rose her head
she sank, she is dead but the rose tree grows on; my
heart she had taken in her hands, she is dead and my
heart in her tomb lies. ”

In Agra, the one-time capital of Akbar, Mumtaz
and Shah Jehan lie side by side in this fairest of
tombs, the marble Taj.

Cije dacben uf Sanskrit

CJT|^andering in the cities of India requires a certain
*1 r flexibility of mind. One city may be purely of
the living present; another, of the historical present;
and yet another may belong to the epic past and, at the
same time, be a city of our India. Chitorgrah, Delhi,
and Agra belong both to the historical present and the
present; Muttra, Brindhavan, and Gokul belong to the
epic ages and to the present. Between Delhi and Agra
lie these three towns, and the J umna that flows alongside
the Tajmahal, flows from Delhi through Muttra
towards Agra.

“ In the days when the gods came to the earth in
human form”, as a Brahmin priest would tell you,
Krishna was bom in Muttra. His childhood he spent
in Gokul, and a hundred happy days of boyhood in
Brindhavan. The Song of the Cowherd—the Gita
Govinda —narrates the lyrical life of Krishna; of the
milkmaids who danced to his flute, and of the
miracles he performed. In Krishna’s childhood days,
Brindhavan was a garden of forests, today it is a town of
temples.

The three towns of Muttra, Brindhavan, and Gokul
attract thousands of devotees from all parts of India,
for here is the land where Krishna stole butter, grazed
his cows, killed demons and played his flute for the
entertainment of his playmates, the Gopikas.

Where Krishna sported on its banks, to the Hindus
the river Jumna is especially holy and sacred. Of the

In the city of Muttra long, long ago, Krishna, incarnation of Vishnu,
was born to the sister of the then tyrant king Kamsa. Since epic
times Muttra and the neighbouring towns of Brindhaban, Gokul,
and Govardhan have been held as sacred cities. To this temple of
Muttra come all the devotees and followers of Krishna.

A doorway to a shrine in Gokul.
An oracle had warned the tyrant
king, Kamsa, that he would die
at the hands of his sister’s
eighth son, and so when Krishna
was born he was miraculously
transferred across the river
Jumna from Muttra to Gokul
and brought up as the son of
a cowherd. He was later to
fulfil the prophecy of the oracle
and slay the tyrant Kamsa.
Picturesque Gokul brings to the
mind many other legends of the
boyhood of Krishna.

The palace of Jodhbai in Brindhavan on the banks of Jumna.
It was in the Jumna, near Brindhavan, runs the tale, that
Krishna killed the mighty serpent, Ivalinga.

The river banks of the Jumna
at Gokul where pilgrims
bathe, for not only are the
waters of the Jumna sacred,
but here, where it passes
Gokul, long ages ago, the
divine Krishna spent his boy¬
hood days and performed
many miracles.

$te"

w

child and his rovings Jayadeva sings in his Song of the
Cowherd r

“ The firmament is obscured by clouds; the
woodlands are black with Tamala-trees
that youth, who roves in the forest, will
be fearful in the gloom of night: go, my
daughter; bring the wanderer home to my
rustic mansion ”,

said the cowherd, Nanda, to the milkmaid.

This youth who roved in the forests of Brindhavan
was one day to speak on an epic battlefield and deliver
his masterly message, the Song of Philosophy, the
Bhagavat Gita .

And so to Muttra, the birthplace of Krishna, unto
G-okul, his nursery, and towards Brindavan and
G-ovardhan, the playground of the growing lad that was
god incarnate, the devoted pilgrim turns his steps.

tlje fflttH of tfie ffiiflEii poet

“ What though to northern climes thy journey lay,
Consent to track a shortly devious way;

To fair Ujjaini’s palaces and pride,

And beauteous daughters, turn awhile aside;

Those glancing eyes, those lighting looks unseen,
Dark are thy days, and thou in vain hast been.

Megha Duta, or Cloud Messenger,

By Kalidasa,

(Trans. H. H. Wilson.)

ClftJST below the tropic of Cancer, at longitude 75'50, on
u) the banks of the Sipra river lies the city of Ujjain,
today a part of the State of Cwalior. The history of
Ujjain, like that of most of the cities of India, presents
a chequered pattern on which are contrasted times of
power and prosperity with times of sack and destruction;
but, unlike many another important place that has
vanished or faded away into insignificance, Ujjain still
stands where the Sipra flows—a busy town of Central
India.

The G-olden Age of India that coincides with the
Gupta Empire saw an amazing development of Sanskrit
literature; during this also flourshed the sciences and
the arts, painting and sculpture and architecture, and it
was at the court of Ujjain that lived and wrote the
greatest of Hindu poets and dramatists of ancient India,
Kalidasa. Although the exact place of Kalidasa’s

Here, in Ujjaim tradition goes, is
where Kalidasa was granted the
boom of poetry by the Goddess
Kali. His masterpieces are

enough to make Ujjain live for

birth—somewhere in the neighbourhood of Ujjain—is
not known, it is nevertheless generally believed that he
spent most of his life on the banks of the Sipra where,
as a boy praying in the temple of Kali, so the story goes,
the goddess granted him in a flash the gift of letters and
song. How the mortal thus favoured honoured his
Donor is seen in his classic works of drama and poetry
in language yet to be surpassed. Some verses of his
Cloud Messenger sing of Ujjain, verses that reveal the
poet’s fondness for this city.

From the thirteenth century onwards for many
hundred years, Ujjain knew but intermittant peace,
for not a wave of raiders came but did not destory idols
and bum temples and carry away the city’s wealth.
The treasures of the Golden Age and of far more ancient
times fell to the hands either of looters or bigots, so
that in the Ujjain of today little, if anything remains of
the beauties for which it was renowned.

With the passing centuries Ujjain ceased to rebuild
its temples, in their stead factories have been erected.
Motor roads and railway tracks lead to this centre and
carry away goods manufactured in the mills, and the
produce of the Malwa plateau. Large public buildings,
uneasy in their surroundings, contrast strangely with
the huddled old-fashioned houses along the narrow
streets. A few pilgrims still wander about and find their
way to the Sipra ghats, the brass-worker is busy with
his metal, the cloth-merchant on his snow-white bolster
is engrossed in his customer, and in the market-place
the peasants tender their produce to the townsfolk.

Something of the historical town, however, still
remains. In a very ancient and famous temple is

38

PICTURES AND PEN-PICTURES

enshrined an idol of Shiva endowed with special sanctity;
grey and weather-beaten, this temple is jealously
.guarded by priests and disciples. On the ghats along
the quietly flowing river, daily life is refreshingly
blended with religion. Outside the town, at the end of
a sandy track, the temple where Kalidasa is said to
have received his gift from the Goddess of Knowledge
slumbers peacefully on the edge of open fields.

Away to the left is the palace of Ujjain with its
pretty garden overlooking the river, and its artistically
arranged tanks and fountains. Across the town, once
more towards the open fields, is the observatory
constructed by the order of Kaja Jay Singh of Jay pur
■in the eighteenth century; the wierd geometrical shapes
of the masonry instruments are accurately graded and
marked for astronomers’ calculations. Already the
ancient Hindus reckoned their longitude from the
meridian of Ujjain.

The setting sun casts fantastic shadows across the
observatory buildings, soon the Polar Star will be seen
at the end of the narrow slanting wall, two hundred
years old and still accurate. Over the town chimneys
smoke where temple towers were once silhouetted against
the. evening skies, and factory hooters sound at the time
that temple bells were wont to call the people to
evening worship; a strident band rends the air announ¬
cing the latest screen-hit of Ujjain’s cinema—twilight
descends across the Malwa plateau.

unedabad. Sultan Ahmed Shal
Lded the construction of this fori
l of Asawal.

dujarat

outh of the Malwa plains, to the west of the Vindhya
^-r range, stretching from the foot'of the Aravalli hills
to the Arabian Sea, to the Rann of Cutch and to the
Gulf of Cambay, lie the rich lands of Gujarat saturated
with history.

It was to the far end of these regions that the
Ghaznavid ventured, a millenium ago, from his capital
in Ghazni; he sacked the temple of Somnath, famed for
its riches and much revered in the West of India; he
broke the gigantic idol and returned through the desert
of Sind immensely the more wealthy for his spoils which
included the fragments of Somnath’s idol. Like Mahmud
of Ghazni, others came, too, in the succeeding centuries
to Anhilwara, land of the Gujaratis—a terrain of wealthy
cities and temples that is, even today, rich in its dis¬
tricts of Ahmadabad, Broach, Surat, Baroda, Kathiawad,
and Bombay.

Four centuries after the incursion of the Ghazni and
the Somnath raid, Ahmad Shah the First, Sultan of
Gujarat, transferred his capital from Anhilwara Patan to
the banks of the Sabarmati where stood the town of
Asawal. He liked the air and climate of these regions,
and a new city was built to his command—Ahmadabad
came into being.

The growth of Ahmadabad was dynamic and, within
a few decades of its founding, it became renowned as the
chief city of Gujarat. The artisans of the land who were
skilled in Hindu and Jain styles of architecture, assimi-

lated with little difficulty the Mohamedan; in fact, as a
scholar puts it: “ The local craftsmen, during a century
of experiment, grew very expert in harmonizing the tra-
beated style of the Hindus and Jains with the arcuated
style of the Mohamedans.” Splendid specimens of such
work does Ahmadabad display in its historical fort, its
great gateways, its mosques and many monuments with
their exquisite stone lace-work. Numerous other arts
and crafts flourished, too, and an eye-witness has written
that the prodigious quantity of gold and silver cloth and
flowered silks made in Ahmadabad were much in
demand in all the courts of the Mughal empire.

To-day, an in f i n ite number of looms and labourers
fashion from just raw cotton the fine fabrics of pretty
designs that emerge daily from the many mills of the
city; but the. story of Ahmadabad itself is a fabric
fashioned by time, that took some centuries for men and
magnates—Sultans and statesmen, architects and crafts--
•men, artisans and industrialists—to weave into its
texture the pattern of a busy and interesting capital
that is-, as some one aptly called it, the Megapolis
Of Gujarat.

Across the river is the Sabarmati Ashram from
where Gandhiji began his historical Salt March that
adds yet another page in history of the city that
Ahmad built.

A time there was ere Ahmadabad was built when
trading ships from the Malabar and Coromandel coasts;
Arab dhows from Mecca, Basrah, and Persia; many
ships from Manilla, Malacca, and the Maldives, and
vessels from China and ports of the Par East called at
Swally, the port of Surat at the estuary of the Tapti,

It is on the banks of the river Sabarmati that stood the ancient town
of Asawal, where stands to-day “ The Megapolis of Gujarat/’ the
city that Ahmad built.

A private mansion of a mill magnate in Shahi-
bagh, the wealthy residential quarter of present
day Ahmedabad.

Those were the days when Surat was important, wealth}
and populous, and a western gateway to India.

Long before Surat fose to such power, Broach wa
the proud city of the western coast. When Camba;
was the island empire of the Arabian Sea, Broach was i
metropolis. “City of Cities” which saw the mariner;
of Nearchus’ fleet; the sons of Rome “when Romi
was ”;. men of the ages of the Pharaohs; and the earb
Indian travellers from Arabia. Full of classic associa
tions for the student and of proud memories for tin
merchant; over which has expired the strength o
Jaina, Muslim and Brahmanical power!” Such if
Briggs’ apostrophe to Broach in his work “ The Cities
of G-ujarastra ”.

Much more so than Surat, Broach is but a shadow
of its former self; it continues to be a well inhabited
town and an entrepot of a high grade cotton that
grows in the agricultural neighbourhood—the reputed
“ Broaches ” of the Cotton Exchanges.

A distant view of the city from across the river
Nerbadda presents a beautiful picture that stands out
against the skies like a bas-relief, while the flowing
waters of the river balance the composition and enhance
the pictorial effect of the entire scene.

Surat, however, retains its importance as a centre
of trade and activity, and sends many of its raw and
finished products to Bombay, unenvious, it seems, of
Bombay’s maritime greatness that, some centuries ago,
was its own monopoly. But like many a city, Broach
and Surat seem to take with dignity and resignation, so
characteristic of age and wisdom, the vagaries of
fortune,. How strange a parallel to the lives of men!

As an important station lying on the railroad that
runs from Bombay 'to Baroda, Ahmadabad, and Delhi,
Surat is fortunate in its situation; its neighbouring
regions are fertile, and there is no dearth of commercial
activity, for many Parsees and Gujaratis inhabit the
town—both communities that can claim keen and astute
business acumen.

The past is a permanent asset to Surat. The
bastion walls along the Tapti river are relics of times
when raids from ruling hordes were not uncommon.
The sites of the early European comptoirs and of the
first English Company in India tell of the years when
English, French, Dutch, and Portuguese vied with one
another for trade supremacy in this country. Of. the
past, of the dead, of significant and fateful events, the
few monuments of Surat remain, as it were, in
memoriam.

The river itself carries the mind back to times
when river boats laden with wares sailed to its estuary
and Surat merchants boarded ships from foreign lands
to buy or barter with traders from beyond the seas. Up
the Tapti with cargo for Surat, or downstream with
precious cargo for export, upstream and downstream
went the traffic, not unlike the traffic streams in the
congested streets or crowded bazaars of the Surat of
our century.

Present-day Surat teems with life, the streets are
full of people, tongas, buses, and luxurious cars. Only
the busy- river scenes are missing; neither the ship¬
wrights who built out of Indian timber their durable
boats and ships, nor the river-craft plying to and fro
can any more be seen; they belong to the history of

The sturdy peasant-women of Gujarat do not
shirk doing a man’s job.

Painted plaster work of Ramx, Sita, and Lakshmana ovei
a doorway of the palace of the Old Fort of Bikanir.

VjruJArtf*!

*±Q

Surat, or perhaps to its future—only the waters of the
Tapti river flow, as ever, unto Swally, into the sea.

When European factors were rivalling one another
in Surat, in the days when the British Baj in India was
in its embryo state as a Company of traders, not far
from Surat was a well-known weaving centre. Since
then, within twenty decades, it was destined to become
the capital of an Indian State and the seat of the ruling
house of Gaekwars.

A fairly large city, well populated, Baroda has its
palaces, parks, public buildings, administrative offices',
business houses, industries and bazaars. Some houses in
the city are strikingly representative of the architecture
of the regions; while some areas are dotted with bungalows
in colonial style, and some areas are quiet and clean,
■others can be said to be congested and stuffy.

The palace and its vast lawns are maintained in
princely fashion; the summer palace of Makarpura
could, in its interior decoration and its well-kept
gardens, be aptly called a chateau. On occasions Baroda
can present the picture of regal splendour with durbars,
kaleidoscopic processions, spectacular sports, gaily
decorated streets and brightly illuminated buildings—at
such times Baroda is eloquent representation of pomp
and glamour, or of “ the splendour that was Ind”, have
it the way you like. On such occasions the mind
realizes the wealth of this State of Gujarat that, in its
domains, includes the ancient city of Krishna, Dwaraka
of hallowed memory to the Hindus.

In the villages of Gujarat is a very good picture of
peasant life; every home has it spinning wheel, and
cottage industries are much in favour. The simple

44

PICTURES AND PEN-PICTURES

village folk are thrifty and' hardworking; and,
unless famine spreads its grim shadows, the large round
metal trays, the thalis, on which food is served and eaten
are seldom without enough even for the uninvited guest.
Be it towards the eastern borders near Baroda, or in
the regions of the G-irnar Range and the western States
of Kathiawad, the traditional dance of Gujarat, the
garba, performed by groups of girls and women in
flowered saris is an ever popular expression of the
happier side of their lives. Though most of life is rural,
there are times when whole crowds come from every¬
where and the scene, as it were, is a sea of Gandhi
Caps. Mute and reverent, thousands listen to their
leader preaching on' the philosophy of the charha, the
significance of non-violence, the advantages of abolish¬
ing untouchability, or on the greatness of the Gita.
These and many other traits give the villages
of Gujarat, east or west, a remarkable family
resemblance.

Such, in short, is the story of Gujarat gleaned
from written history; but the story would be incom¬
plete both for the historian of today and tomorrrow
were it not remembered that Gujarat is the land of
Gandhiji’s birth—a fact that gives Gujarat historical
immortality.

On the banks of the Sabarmati is also the Sabar-
niati Ashram. This commemorative plaque in
the ashram tells of great lives and great events.

cTThe Andhras, whose modern representatives, the
N" Telugu people, still occupy the region between the
Godavari and the Krishna, on the east coast of India,
are mentioned very early in Indian literature ”, reads
the Cambridge History of India. It is History that
links the Andhras with Gujarat; Andhra inscriptions
and coins have been found in eastern Malwa and
in Gujarat.

The fertile lands that lie between the rivers
Godavari and Krishna present yet another picture of
India. A cross-section of the people, twenty million
and more, who inhabit the Andhra regions reveals
lawyers and officials in government service; zamindars
and opulent land-lords possessing vast estates; priests,
poets and writers, editors of magazines and news¬
papers; political and religious leaders, all trying to
reform the people, or work for the Congress or other
organizations, or co-operate with the existing institu¬
tions in power.

The majority, the ryots, are the simple, humble and
hospitable peasants cultivating and living on the produce
of their mother earth. And then there are the weavers
who produce any cloth from the roughest khaddar to
the softest silks; the potters whose wheels shape the
vessels that are needed by every village home; the
village workmen with magic 'fingers who chisel from
mere chips of wood the pretty toys and models that
make the delight of children and grown-ups and the

boatmen who ply their crafts along the canals that
link the busy ports of the east coast to Madras—
artisans who struggle the entire day to earn a few
annas for their livelihood.

In 1611 the first Dutch factory in India was
established at Masulipatam; this port was, for decades
to come, a great centre for the export- of India’s spices
and textile products. After the Dutch, the French came
to power; then Clive came upon the scene. Yizagapatam
was raided by a local chief who appealed to Clive
for support against the French, and Clive was quick to
seize the opportunity thus presented to him. An
expedition which had come into the Northern Circars
under orders from Clive, inflicted a defeat on the superior
French force. Bussy and Lally were engaged at
Madras; Masulipatam was poorly defended, and the
storming of the town by Colonel Forde resulted in the
complete conquest of the Northern Circars.

Masulipatam slowly dwindled in importance as
Bezawada rose in prominence. Twelve miles inland to
Bundar (Masulipatam) is this busy trading town of
to-day. Freight boats, coastal craft, and railway
waggons bring and take away goods to and from
Bezawada. Through the town flows the Krishna river,
for Bezawada is a busy junction of railways and
waterways: from here the Buckingham Canal flows
towards Madras, and the Bundar Canal joins Bezawada
with Masulipatam.

Everywhere in the Delta are vast fields of crops—
rice, lentils, maize—and plantations of tobacco and
sugar-cane. In fact, the entire Krishna District is fertile.
Sometimes, right. in the midst of the fields, the. canals

The village workman with magic fingers chisels from mere chips of
wood the pretty toys and models that are the joy of the Telugus,
young and old.

At dawn [the doorways are swept dean and
sprinkledTwith water. The housewife or her
daughter deeorates the threshold.

pass and barges with huge, white sails like birds floating
over the greenery move up and down the waters.
Here, the peasants are reaping the lentils, and there,
they are filling paddy into bags; elsewhere they are
bundling straw, and now and then rows of peasants are
threshing dry lentil stalks to collect the grain.. Late in
the afternoon, when the east wind rises, a peasant
standing on a bullock cart empties his basket of paddy
from a height of about ten feet, thus letting nature do
the winnowing.

Life in the village homes is simple; at dawn, door¬
ways are cleaned and water is sprinkled by the house¬
wife or her daughter, who then decorates the threshold
by drawing pretty designs in white chalk, which resem¬
ble Lissajou’s figures. Evenings are whiled away in
prayer or song, and the peaceful silent nights seem
almost devoid of life:

The monotony of this routine existence is broken
by the roving bands of dramatists, or by monologuists
who chant and explain the epics. Basavanna, the
Nodding Bull, with his gay caparison and accompanied
by his master, the imposing mendicant, visits the
villages and goes from door to door.

Hundreds throng to some shady comer of the
village to watch, bet, and win or lose on their favourite
entrants, and to enjoy the fluttering contests between
the combatants, the cocks. Even the old ballads of the
Andhras tell of these battling chanticleers.

Five hundred rupees is the prize; from a neigh¬
bouring village a ram has come to fight the trained
pride of the hamlet, the winner of many laurels. Noise,
then murmurs and., suddeniv.. silence reipns. exoent for

the butt, butt, butt of ram against ram. Cheers from
those who have backed the victor; screams and
shouts of joy from the trainers of the winning ram,
and the hero of the day is garlanded and carried
away in triumph.

From petty hamlets and villages the crowds go to
some neighbouring town; tradition has filled their
calender with many festivals, and the people certainly do
celebrate on those occasions. They visit the temples,
watch dances or processions, make merry and feast, and
spend entire nights hearing a^ recital of the epics, or
watching shadow-plays. Others, of a gayer turn of mind
gaze at the gypsy belles, the Lambadis, who dance and
whirl in circles.

Day-time actors still frequent these provinces; they
are so called because they perform their plays during
the day and not, as is usual, after sunset. The hero
and an actor in woman’s clothes to represent the heroine,
a musician with tan instrument like a musette, and a
drummer are the four that usually form a troupe.
Modem times, of course, have brought them competition
in the screeching loud-speaker and the movies.

Zamindar and peasant, all work in the fields on the
first day of the full moon of the sowing season; this is a
great festival. Every peasant is busy from early dawn
cleaning the plough and other agricultural implements,
while the mistress of the family offers worship to the
plough, the yoke, and the oxen. One pair or many,
whether belonging to the rich or to the poor, the
bullocks are all decorated and smeared with auspicious
saffron and red spots. The underlying spirit of the
festival is the same for all: as the deep furrows are

Their stage is the street, their perform mces are in the day-time,
bheir make-up is their own technique. From village to village go
these “day-time” actors to earn their living. They arc called
'day-time actors*' precisely because they perform only in the
day-time.

A very popular mral entertainment is the
cock-fight-.

THE DELTA OF THE KRISHNA RIVER

49

made, every peasant silently prays for peace and plenty
in the coming year.

The rural evenings in these regions are calm and
restful. Somewhere a peasant sings on his way home;
elsewhere, a band of villagers entone a chorus; along the
canais fires in the freight boats are lighted and, if the
moon rises early, the boatman’s song lends charm to the
pale, white bulging sails that glide softly over the
canals fed by the waters of the Krishna and Godavari.

GFajrjfal of (Sarnafic

long a strip of the Coromandel stretches one of the
H' most beautiful Marinas—the Marina of Madras.

Parallel to this white strip of sand, more than three
miles long, runs the macadamized road of this Fort

St. George, one : of the early settlements of the British
in India.

Three hundred years ago a fortified factory and
a few villages stood here; one of them, the fishing
village, still lives and thrives. The fishermen have not
changed their profession since those times; they set out
in their midget riders of the waves, the catamarans , to
wrest a livelihood from the harvest of the sea. Accord¬
ing to a seventeenth century traveller,”....they seize 4, 5,
or 6 large pieces of buoyant timber together, and this
they call a catamaran upon which they can load 3 or
4 tons weight. When they go fishing, they are ready
with very small ones of the like kind, that will carry
four, three, two, or one man only, and upon these
sad things they will boldly adventure out of shore, but
indeed they swim as naturally as spaniel dogs.” Practi¬
cally nothing has changed in the lives of these fisherfolk
since the last two hundred and fifty years, except that
they have forgotten that their ancestors used ropes of
cocoanut fibre, for today, ropes are bought in the
market; while the picturesque little sails made of the
bark of trees come now from the local mills.

Thirty decades of history can be seen in the build¬
ings which line the Marina, and recall the days of

Crowning the Law Courts oJ Madras is the light¬
house. In World War I this light-house felt the
impact of the German ship, Emden’s shelling.
It continues to send a beam for miles into the
sea to guide the ships in the Bay of Bengal.

Arcot’s historical importai^Hj^d the Madras

from mere villages into a ^^tf^f!^aMFmetropolis.
Around the solitary fort the ; Chennapatna

became Black Town that flourished into the George
Town of our day. Commerce doveloped, business houses
flourished, the population increased and, like Bombay,
Karachi, and Calcutta, Madras became an important
city. North, south, and west the city expanded;
communications and transport grew; for eight miles
inland there was bustle and life. Capital of the
Presidency, Madras grew into Greater Madras. Tram¬
ways, buses, and suburban trains brought the farther
limits of Greater Madras within the reach of the
common man. Many of the colleges and private
residences moved from the heart of the town to more
pleasant surroundings in the environs. Prom Black
Town to present-day George Town, how Time has
changed Madras!

In the street-names of George Town still linger the
vestiges of old Madras. China Bazaar Boad was probably
the selling centre of goods imported from China.
Armenian Street got its name, perhaps, from a colony of
wealthy Armenian merchants that peopled this street;
and Coral Merchant Street was where those merchants
plied their trade. But the streets, too, have changed
their aspect since the days when Black Town was
the City and Fort St. George the settlement’s defense
and administrative centre. Prom old drawings alone
can the mind picture someting of the changes that have
taken place.

Changes, however, seem to have been slower in
the corridors of Government Offices where peons in

remarkable; liveries wander like phantoms of a past
age. The ankle-length skirts of immense width with
sash and erose-belt, and the stiff flat turbans are
reminiscent of the dress worn by the Mahratta king
of Tanjore, one hundred and fifty years ago—they
stand out in striking incongruity with the suits of
European- style and the dhoties and kurtas of the rest of
the population. These voluminous liveries seem to be a
fingering memory, of the original occupants of the palace
of the Nawabs of Arcot, before it became the Secretariat
of Madras.

The Indo - Saracenic architecture with broad -
curved domes, well-proportioned arches, and stone
screens has peculiar charm. Of more recent date
are the High Court buildings, the attendant Law
College, the Connemara Library wherein are kept
priceless ancient documents, and the Museum that
contains a wealth of historical, pre-historic, and
paleolithic finds.

In the cemetery of St. Mary’s church, behind the
Law College, the tomb of David Yale stands erect and
severe, a movement of special interest for its unexpected
connection with New England of the seventeenth century.
Elihu Yale, whose father had emigrated from Boston to
England, when a young man joined the service of the
East India Company as a writer. By 1661 he had
considerably bettered his position in Madras, and was
appointed acting Governor on several occasions. In
1687, he was confirmed as Governor. When he retired, he
sent home to his native town of Boston a cargo of gifts
that included books and East India goods; this cargo
was sold for £. 562-12s, which was donated to the

The house of the Madras Senate. Built in 1879, it is another of
the many interesting buildings in Indo-Saracenic style that
adorn the Marina.

Collegiate School of Connection—this led to the founda¬
tion of the University that bears the name of Yale. The
first marriage to be performed in St. Mary’s church was
that of Elihu Yale with the daughter of a local merchant;
the couple lost their small son, David, aged two. His
tomb in the old cemetery represents ' a link/ stretching
across an ocean and a continent, between Madras and
far-off Boston. ‘ ‘

Of the villages that once surrounded George Town
and that are now a part of the city, Triplicane was
famous for its beautiful temple to Vishnu already in the
eighth century. Mylapore is mentioned by the Graeco-
Roman geographer, Ptolemy, in the century immediately
after Christ—its temple is of great antiquity. Adyar is
famed for its Theosophical Society. Arab mariners of
the tenth century knew of San Thome that appears to
be the earliest place of Christian worship on the east
coast and its foundation is attributed to St. Thomas
the Apostle who suffered martyrdom on or near
St. Thomas’ Mount. Like a heartline broad Mount
Road runs from Port St. George to the Mount of
St. Thomas.

The vast artificial harbour of Madras occupies over
a mile of that long stretch of white sand of the beach.
In the shimmer of a summer’s day, the white, burning
sands conjure up the Sahara; but with the turn of the
breeze in the evening, crowds slowly come here to sit at
their favourite spots, to sing, or to stroll to the incessant
moaning of the wave. Almost at twilight the multi¬
coloured saris, the gaily dressed children, and the dark
green casuarinas dotted along the sands present an
enchanting scene.

Madras is a busy city, as were tbe many other ports
along this very Coromandel far back in Indian history;
within easy reach of this capital are all the ports and
trading centres and all the beautiful and historic centres
of South India—the South that is a paradise. for
the artist, the cameraman, the historian, and the
archaeologist; the picturesque and beautiful South
of India.

The light-house of Mahabalipuram ; known more
commonly as Seven Pagodas. In the days of yore
this was a great] port-town of the Coromandel
coast. The light-house is of modem construction,
but no more do ships come here, for it is now a
deserted shore.

The Elephant and the Lion. Rock sculptures are
seen in Seven Pagodas that were executed about
twelve centuries ago, if not more. They belong to
the period of the Pallavas. The sculptures and
temples at Seven Pagodas are acknowledged to be
some of the finest archaeological and artistic
specimens in India.

%>mxt Sketches

^ f \ time there was when ships with bulging sails came
^ from the Far East and far-off lands to this
deserted shore; great fleets of merchant ships were
fitted here, and from this forgotten port embassies were
sent to the Emperor of China. Silence reigns where
there was so much bustle, activity, trade and passenger
traffic. In the melancholy song of the casuarina pines
swaying in the soughing wind, and the distant sound of
waves that wash day and night a lonely shore temple,
Nature seems to mourn the fate of this solitary shore.
The Shore Temple is the last of the Seven Pagodas—
the other six, the story goes, lie under the sea. A
modern lighthouse warns ships off this part of the coast
that used to welcome them long before Madras
had a harbour.

Admidst the pines is a group of temples, each one
exquisitely carved and hewn out of a single rock. These
rock temples, and the cave temples further on, and the
monolithic animals—the lion, the elephant, and the
bull—were executed in the prosperous days of this
Seven Pagodas, between the third and eighth century—
when the dynasty of the Pallavas ruled in Southern
India. They built temples over a large portion of their
territories, but the monoliths are their best claim to
remembrance.

The seat of these Pallavas was Conjeevaram, Kanchi
of their times, and one of the seven sacred cities like
Hardwar and Ujjain—Kanchi, the Golden City of

Sanskrit literature. “Amongst flowers, the jasmine;
amongst cities, Kanchi”, runs an ancient verse and,
indeed, even today the eye perceives a well-planned city
rich in temples. Countless pilgrims still come to the
..annual Juggernaut festival; they wander through the
halls of a hundred pillars and the halls of a thousand
pillars, and they look with admiration upon the
gigantic towers that present a panorama of fifteen
centuries of architecture—centuries in which flourished
Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism, too, in Kanchi, the
great centre of learning.

South of Conjeevaram are the plains of the east
coast and the Delta of the Cauvery Biver, a region rich
in crops, studded with temples, and filled with history.
From Conjeevaram to Cape Comorin, since the early
' centuries of our era, the temples and monuments stand
evidence to the faith, the love of art, and the prosperity
of the successive dynasties that built them. The darus
across the Cauvery Biver—the oldest dams in India—
prove how much importance both people and monarchs
attached to the river that gives life to the soil of
their regions.

On an island of this Cauvery Biver is the Srirangam
temple to Yishnu, visited by devotees from everywhere
in India. In the crowded streets round the temple, like
the towers of the temple that soar high above the
buildings of the town, the elephant of Yishnu’s shrine
moves majestic and calm. Here, pilgrims buy their
offerings for the idol; there, they throng in the corridors
of- the pillared halls; and on the river, boatmen ply
their coracles for the faithful who go midstream to offer
flowers or leave lamps to float upon the waters of the

The Hall of Pillars in the temple of Siva in
Kan chi.

Temple towers and pillared halls are a feature of the many
temples of Kanchi. Inside the shrine of Kamakshi, one of
the celebrated temples of India.

sacred stream. Beyond the farther bank is the
Trichinopoly Bock which rises out of the plain to a
height of about two hundred and seventy feet. On the
summit of the Bock is a temple to Ganesh, the God of
Wisdom and the Bemover of Obstacles, that overlooks
Trichinopoly and its environs. Despite the torrid sun
of Tamilnad, pilgrims climb the steep hewn steps from
dawn to dusk, to visit this shrine of undiminished
sanctity.

Close to the foot of the Bock is a house that brings
back to mind some famous battles of South India and
the struggles and rise to power of a captain in the East
India Company forces—the house of Bobert Clive. The
reflection of a church steeple in the waters of the sacred
tank, for a moment creates the illusion that Nature
knows no difference of religious. Elsewhere, outside
the limits of the old town, a twentieth century
Trichinopoly is at work with the machinery of the
present age.'

Somewhere in the early eleventh century, a block
of stone weighing some eighty-five tons was dragged up
an inclined plane and set to crown the temple tower of
Tanjore. The gigantic carved tower with its rock dome
is still there, two hundred odd feet high. Like every
temple of Siva, this one has its stone hull—one of the
largest in India. Carvings in profusion cover' the tower,
the pillars, and the walls; and round the vast square of
the temple are the ramparts of the ancient fort.

For a time after the rule of the Tamil dynasties, a
line of kings who claimed descent from the house of
Shivaji the Mahratta, practically settled in Tanjore.
One prominent, relic .of these rulers is the. palace in

which a library has found a haven for its treasures, very
precious and ancient palm-leaf manscripts. Beminiscent
of the missionary who lived many years of toil in Tanjore
is the church of Schwarz.

In the town, the main thoroughfare is busy with its
little shops, its beggars, its scorpion-trainers, its hawkers,
and its tiny wayside stalls of fly-blackened fruit: oxen-
drawn hackney carts, awkward, blary-horned buses and
motor-cars, reckless cyclists, jostling pedestrians, and
streams of country folk carrying strange assortments of
sundry village produce all mingle with unconscious
incongruity in this Tanjore that is as old as it is
semi-new.

Dusty roads lead out of Tanjore to its environs and
neighbouring towns. Along the roads the eye perceives
a succession of ruined temples and wayside shrines:
bridges connect the towns of this tract through which
flow the many branches of the Cauvery. Every town
has its temples and its own history; for, it was in the
South that the historic houses of the Pallavas, the
Cholas, the Gheras, and the Pandyas ruled. The
Pandyas had Madura for their capital, an ancient city
where lived great Tamil scholars, and where Tamil
literature reached its meridian; Madura with its
wonderful temple to the Goddess of the Almond Eyes—
Meenakshi of Madura.

The peasants are busy in their fields; while the
men plough and the women sow, the children chase
away the crows. In the harvest season there is thresh¬
ing and winnowing of the grain. As the eye gazes
on these scenes and transmits them to 'the brain, the
mind is filled with questions. What would this region

A relief of Laxmi, the Goddess of Wealth. In the
Pallava temple of Conjeevaram, the haut-reliefs
speak of the fine chisel of artists who lived more
than a thousand years ago.

SOME SKETCHES OF THE SOUTH

59

have been if the five hundred mile long river had not
enriched the soil with its waters; why do the peasants, in
spite of all these rich crops and lands, give an impression
more of poverty than of contentment and happiness;
what would the towns have been if, through the
centuries, the ancestors of these peasants had not
cultivated the earth and contributed to their wealth and
their temples of antiquity.

O’er the hills that rise above the plains of Madura,
over the mountains on whose heights and slopes are
forests of teak and other timber; plantations of tapieca
bananas, pine-apples and wild flowers, and plams and
verdant trees; o’er these hills and beyond is the
territory of the kings—vassals of Sri Padmanabha—the
Yanchidasas of Travancore.

Long before engineers laid the winding railroads
uphill, down dale, and through tunnels, pilgrims from
the farthest north, too, trod their weary mountain road
to reach the land famed for its temple where the
preserver of the Hindu Pantheon, Vishnu, chose to rest
on his mighty serpent, Ananta. In Trivandrum, today,
stands the renowned shrine of Padmanabha. The
sculptors who carved this idol must have been master
craftsmen; for in its presence, the mind is calm and the
reposant attitude of Padmanabha inspires peace.

As the eye takes in the beauty of the landscapes of
Travancore—the red earth, the hills and the verdant
trees, the backwaters that reflect the glory of the setting
sun—a thought crosses the mind, and it is a question;
was it the beauty of this land that tempted even a
god to recline and weave the garland of repose ?

(fyVLttxi nf flji' Wtst CEtraBf

■C71f - >HEN Cambay was famed for its busy harbour,

, Bombay was a mere fishing village. When
Charles II of England married Catherine of Braganza
in 1663, the King of Spain and Portugal gave the site of
the seven little islands as part of the dowry with his
daughter—Bombay fetched, then, an income of £10 a
year to the Crown!

Today, many trains come from everywhere in
India to the serried platforms of Victoria Terminus
and into the vast and modern concrete-built station,
Bombay Central. Electrically propelled trains run to
and fro between Bombay and its suburbs and nearby
cities. Pylons of massive steel carry the lines of hydro¬
electric power supply from somewhere in the Western
■Ghats to the busiest city of the west coast for
distribution and supply to the inhabitants. Pipelines
bring water from the neighbouring lakes for a city
inhabited by millions and visited by hundreds of
thousands from many parts of the world. Broad roads
paved with concrete bear the burden of the traffic that
pours night and. day from suburban areas and far-off
places , into the city. The age-old bullock cart is till
there, but its pheunatie-tyred wheels tell of ox-power
harnessed to modernized methods—the march of time.

‘ City of many leading industial enterprises, home of
the foremost Commercial houses and textile mills
in the country, Bombay, the populous and busy habour •
city, pulsates with life of commoner and capitalist.

Like a costly pendent the island metropolis adorns the
peninsula; trading ships and ocean liners from all over
the world touch at its vast harbour and make of Bombay
the Queen City of the Arabian Sea.

Like most events in history, the story of this city
is simple; it shows a humble beginning and, in three
centuries, the achievement of importance and fame.
What a parallel to the lives of great men!

At the time that Surat became a prey to raiding
hordes, when European powers were contesting for,
supremacy in the City of the Tapti, the British happened
to make Bombay their headquarters for the west coast
factories. In spite of the repeated visits of Portuguese
men-o’-war, of Mahratta armies, and of pirate ships,
the harbour town of Bombay flourished with its
British factories.

Those were the decades when Salsette with Thana
as its chief port town was a centre of Jesuit activity.
Mahim came next in importance, and Parel was an
island of garden houses. Pydhoni was where people
were wont to stop and wash their feet in the stream
before entering Mumbadevi’s shrine; Colaba was where
the Koli fishermen had plied their fishing trade since
early times. This group of islands became, with the.
passing centuries, “ the island metropolis of our day ”
that counts with in its municipal limits Coloba,. the
Fort, Gamdevi, Mazagoan, Malabar Hill, Pydhoni,
Byculla, Parel, Dadar, Matunga, and Mahim. All these
names mean, perhaps, very little today when latest,
methods of transport take the people in their hundreds
from Mahim to Colaba; yet, time was when people in
small numbers sailed across the waters to get • from

one little island to the other—the seven little isles
that came to merge into the one island of Bombay, the
Queen City of the West Coast.

From sea to sea, from Apollo Bunder to Juhu, from
Marine Drive to Mahim, Bombay throbs with life in a
different way to any other Indian city. In its Stock
Exchange and its cotton godowns, in its mills that work
night and day, in its restaurants that open at dawn and
close in the early hours of the morning, in its business
areas and its bustling population, the quill dips to write
'of a Bombay with mansions and maidans , like Azad
Maidan where politicians have preached to millions of
men eager to follow the torch of freedom, and nearby
Boribunder and locality where, at times, lathi charges
were the law of the day; with many-storeyed buildings
and its variety of people from many parts of the world
and the provinces of India. Witnesses of olden times
still survive, however, be it in Colaba, Mahim, Danda,
or Versova—the fishing villages of Bombay.

Stand by the G. P. 0. and look skyward, and the
eye can perceive the message-carriers of ancient and
modern times, pigeons and telegraph wires. Stroll
through Dhobi Talao and the mind can sense the
association between the past and the present, with the
washing hanging out to dry in the nearby fields near
the imposing building of an air-conditioned cinema.
Gaze during lunch time at the men and women running
along the streets balancing baskets loaded with tiffin-
carriers on their heads to feel the fact that they
preserve a traditional method of bearing the burden.
Behold the fisherwomen in the afternoons in the full
vigour of their physical beauty carrying fresh fish from

A View of the Harbour of Bombay.

QUE&IN (Jr JLHU VV£,bI <J(JAb T

the villages to the city markets, and in this the mind
and the eye can perceive, perhaps, the growth of a mere
fishing village into a metropolis. Time passes though
traditions remain.

“To market, to market ”....to Crawford Market.
Crowds pass every day through the wungs of this spacious
structure; housewives and servants, city-dwellers and
tourists, Indians and foreigners; in brief, all sorts of
people from all sorts of places. Small wonder they
all come to Crawford Market, for here, everything is
available and everybody can be served; such a buying
and selling and bargaining and arguments. Here are
all things from the necessities of life to the articles
de luxe , from green cabbages to face creams.

Around the pretty Jumma Masjid with its
impresive minarets and white marble dome are the
streets lined with booths and shops that sell saris,
swadeshi goods, cotton piece-goods, wollen material,
ready-made articles, cutlery and crockery, footwear fit
for prince are peasant, and many thosands of things
manufactured all over the world.

Follow the crowds from these godowns and markets
to and through Bhuleshwar and they will lead to
perhaps the most congested quarter of Bombay.
Bhuleshwar’s narrow lanes and streets, paved with
flagstones, are crowded with hawkers and merchants
whose shops purvey anything that glitters, from tinsel
to pure gold lace. There are many small shrines and
many well-known temples in this area;' to them, since
Bhuleshwar was famous, have come the pilgrims
and pigeons that abound in temple, tower, and
building where the people of Bhuleshwar dwell. The

bolls of the temples and the bustling crowds eonbine
to make of this quarter a centre of noise, and vehicles
of all kinds from the humble hand-cart to the luxurious
limousine, add to the din and confusion, while hawkers
add tho last touch. Ear and mind gather impressions
of sight and sound in an indescribable confusion.

The finale is the spectacle of speculators who come
to try their hand at converting overnight the small
sum of money which they possess into a handsome
fortune. Cotton prices, their rise and fall, are closely
related to tho lives of these men. At times they work
themselves into a frenzy, or may be they are hounded
by the police—either way the scene is a pandenonium
best observed between the hours of six in the evening
and two after midnight!

Crowning a knoll whose rocky base is washed by
the waves of tho Arabian Sea that skirts the island of
Bombay stands the temple of the famed goddess,
Mahalakshmi; the site itself, obviously, gave its name
to the neighbourhood, the locality of Mahalaxmi of the
Bombay of our day. A panoramic view from the
temple presents to the eye the entire locality including
the modern race course of the Western India Turf Club,
popularly known as the Mahalaxmi Eace Course.
Pilgrims come to pay their homage to Mahalaxmi on
tho knoll, as they have always done; the race course of
Mahalaxmi draws crowds now as it has done since the
first meeting of the Turf Club. So, crowds come to the
locality of Mahalaxmi, but who gets the deeper content¬
ment, tho pilgrim or the punter, pray?

Tho concrete roads from Mahalaxmi lead either to
Worli Sea Face, Malabar Hill, or Chowpatty and Marine

Drive, and to Colaba and Apollo Bander. Every one
of those names belongs to picturesque Bombay. Look
upon the sun as it sets in the Arabian Sea from Worli
Hill, and nature can be seen in a glorious mood. Look
down from Malabar Hill and gaze upon the gigantic city
that is Bombay; drive up and down the Marine Drive
and mingle with the thousands who come for their share
of the refreshing breezes; walk under the massive Gate¬
way of India just to get the feeling that it is symbolic of
Bombay’s importance as a port of the Indian Ocean.
Walk up and down the strand and listen to the stream
of music from the “ finest hotel in the East ”, and other
hotels and restaurants—only then can the mind realize
why Bombay leads as a cosmopolitan city.

But this story must include the busy arts and
industries of the seven isles that are now one. It must
tell of film producers and studios and film laboratories;
of newspapers and newspapermen, of reporters and
chroniclers, of busy magnates in their offices of Ballard
Estate, and Mahatma Gandhi Boad; in brief, of Fort,
Bombay. It must tell, too, of Stocks and Share-Brokers,
pedlars, beggars, hawkers and merchants, lawyers,
statesmen, writers and hundreds of others with a
hundred other professions that crowd the streets and
roads of Bombay curing the hours of the day—they walk
along the pavements that are the beds of many at night!
As the eye sees the poor recline for the night on the
stone sidewalks, the mind wonders how men who in
comfort repose can forget the plight of those for whom
a crowded pavement during the day is a bed at night.
Bombay, too, presents the eternal question: where is
contentment and how is happiness gained ?

66

PICTURES AND PEN - PICTURES

To the documentalist list, however, and to the
historian, Bombay will ever remain a self-made city, a
city of modest beginnings that has grown up on its own
wide reputation, the city of millionaies, the city of cotton,
the city with the finest natural harbour in India, the
Queen of the West Coast.

And now the quill is dipped once again, this time
for ink to write the concluding paragraph of this brief
story of Bombay, and of this series; Pictures and Pen
Pictures of India. Two friends, the camera and the quill,
have facilitated the recording of many things that
the mind and the eye of a documentalist and camera¬
man have observed in his peregrinations in this country,
a country rich in its history, archaeology, art, romance,
and its cultural heritage. Fifteen stories the quill has
written round the many pictures that the camera has
faithfully photographed; but, until the camera brings
pictures for some more stories, the quill must rest for a
while until, perhaps, quill and camera co-operate again
to tell of some more of the many regions of this vast
and interesting country, this India.