The night had been chilly, the rocking of the train magnified by the long wakefulness of some of the early morning hours did not go by un-noticed as during the day time.
The train was at a standstill when day was breaking. A waiter inquired whether we wanted some tea. What a reception hot tea and toast had. We were at Luni Junction, and having finished the tea, got out to stretch our legs.
A little chap, about eight or nine years, asked for some "char". By some good fortune, we managed to get him a cup full, it was still warm. He drank it, and stood outside our carriage window for some time, singing away. He was cold, poor devil, and the clothes he had on would not help him much. They were little better than bits of rag tied around his naked body.
What surprised me so much about the beggars, they always came to where the service men travelled, never to the "First Class" where the rich Indians sat. It seems the same everywhere, the money one has makes one's heart hard, or the person with a hardened heart is the one who is able to save. The poor, however poor they may be, are kinder, show more human feeling, and are more prepared to help one who might be worse off. I am not condemning all the wealthy class, many of whom are real human Christians, but there is a general tending towards this way.
We waited at this station for almost an hour - but as soon as we were on our way again, we saw greenery - the desert was behind us. Most of this countryside appeared to be poor grassland, land that was not cared for thro' poor quality soil, lack of labour or of enterprise. Singe trees growing everywhere in this golden, sun-baked grass how like parts of England after a few weeks' dry weather in June.
I had bought myself a packet of Indian cigarettes, which I was going to try. The taste is not very pleasant compared with the cigarettes we have become accustomed to, but without the paper, they might be healthier to smoke. they are hot to the taste, and smell like a smouldering leaf fire a gardener might have when he is burning up the leaves and weeds in the garden. A box of matches is most essential, the cigarettes go out continually.
After breakfast, served in the same way as last night's dinner, we all returned to our coach. There were six of us in the party, Nobby Hall, Ron, Jock, Eddie, Loftie and myself.
Around Marwar Pali, grass huts, mud built houses, semi-cultivated land amid the strangely formed volcanic rocks, primitive life in every way, and in the middle, a modern factory. One never knows what to expect next in India. At the station, a choir of native children sing for us, accompanied by one of the tiny ones playing a crude, very primitive, hand-made violin - or something resembling one. A tiny bunch of small bells on the bow added harmony to the music from the strings. Having no change, I gave one a packet of Indian cigarettes to them to share. The boy who had them kept them all. The only other packet I had, I shared between them by handing them out. One boy, standing away from the rest, refused a cigarette - he was very interested in the choir, but was certainly not one of them. Several people enjoyed the antics and music of these kids, many natives gathered round, but when they were asking for baksheesh, no one, not even the well-to-do offered to put a hand in his pocket. I thought it a poor show.
Beyond here, the trees became less in number, until the countryside becomes one mass of yellow shades, burnt, shrivelled up grass in which large flocks of goats and cows seem to thrive. The only inhabitants of this region appear to be shepherds or cowmen, tending their flock. What a lonely life it must be, they must either talk to their animals or go mad after a time. Here and there, a well is sunk, and the water is used to irrigate corn and rice fields. On many farms, the peacock seems as common as geese do in Britain. Their beauty is lost in such desolate regions where hardly a soul sees them. These peacocks must feel like the man who shaves and dresses to go out during the black-out hours. Someone might turn up, and if nobody does, it is still grand to be clean and well-dressed, even in the dark.
On a hill, a temple stands, probably a Hindu temple to "Light", one of their Gods. This, I suppose, is the centre of communal like of the whole neighbourhood.
Water is drawn from the wells, by oxen. Generations ago, this would have to be resorted to anywhere, but today, with all the modern machinery, is India so behind because the old system is good enough, or is it because the people are so ignorant of modern methods and too poor to afford it. Even if Britain cannot step in, surely the Indian government can, and should.
God helps man who helps himself, but by God help the man who doesn't, and cannot. At Marwar Junction, the water supply on the train is replenished. Like most Indian communities, this was not without those that seek baksheesh. One boy had some less familiar Indian slate coins which he sold. Although their actual money value was very little, the addition to the collection made them well worth the money. I was on the platform but for a few minutes before I was hemmed in with children from six years of age to ten. I must have looked something strange to them, they only wanted to talk. I picked out the smallest chap and taught him the English Salaam, i.e. the handshake. They they all wanted to do it. When this was finally over, they all wanted to do it again. I felt like some hero might have felt when everyone within distance wanted to shake him by the hand. The kids enjoyed it and so did I. I pity the man who is so aloof that he cannot sometimes become a child again.
Approaching Rani - we cross several dried up rivers and streams. The land is dry, and before the next rain, the soil must be parched and cracked for lack of moisture. Fields of rice and corn are grow where water may be found, otherwise the land is almost without value. Rani itself is a very odd collection of buildings; everything is incongruous, houses with good stone walls have old thatched roofs, badly built places have good roofs. There is not street as we know it, simply a collection of individual buildings, most of the facing the station. The turbans worn by the few people on the station are massive things.
At Falna, I managed to buy some oranges, the fruit on this station is much more expensive than at Hyderabad. At first the boy refused my rupee because there was a small tear in it, but on second thoughts, he took it. I had started to walk away thinking he might try to accepting it at half its value as some had offered to do before. I do not mind giving, but to be robbed and be thought a fool, never, if I can help it.
Erinpura Road, a station amid a cluster of mud huts, a few with tiled roofs, in a grain farming district. The farms, as we came down the line, got bigger and more frequent, the kinds of animals became larger. Nearby is a river, a source of water supply, but the supply is indeed low, the river is almost dry and most of the bed being nothing but hard baked mud. Occasionally an Indian town or village can be seen from the train, several miles away from the railway. Life is primitive, trains are not necessary. Life is slow, if one had to meet a train, why do as we in Britain do, rush madly at the last minute and dive into a train that gets us to a station in time to clamber into a packed carriage as the train is drawing out. To start an hour earlier is all that is necessary for them, and what is that when it must take weeks to cultivate a field that could be ploughed by machinery in a few hours.
Several hills, the most strange and picturesque I have ever seen, appear like magnified castles of pebbles and sand that a child might have built, this is probably a mixture of volcanic lava and ash, and the countryside becomes rocky, and poor.
Nana, a station, but nothing else. I had wondered where the millions of Indians live, a country so densely populated but very little indication of this. In the distance there is a large town. The lonely shepherds we see, the children playing around, the few girls in the fields, all have homes somewhere, so there must be tiny villages hidden from view. The villages, I imagine are near the foot of the hills that have the temples built on them. Several hills have such temples built at their summit. In many ways, the landscape resembles parts of England or Wales, but the heat of the afternoon always reminds one that it is not so.
Sarup Ganj [Swaroopganj], a few stone built houses with wood tiles on the roof. Most of these are warped, and for a country like India, they must be useless, such roof must leak badly.
Kivarali, where the land becomes more level, where the land is cultivated, and strangely enough, divided into fields, is a station near a small village almost completely hidden in trees. The land is watered from wells, drawn by oxen. Amid these fields that are cultivated more scientifically than I had seen before in India, is a few acres of trees, and among these trees, a complete village, difficult to see although only about fifty yards from the train. To complete this picture of beauty, near the stream stands a woman dressed in scarlet, two men in white with brilliant pink turbans, and the colours are reflected in the still water near the stream.
Dirty tenements, filthy little hovels form the approach to Abu Road. The size of the station indicates that there must be a town of a few thousands somewhere near. The station building has a roof of many little domes, a crude imitation of the domes on some of the great Indian temples. This is a closed in station. One good humoured Indian elderly chap came down the train saying "hello" to everybody. He did not ask for baksheesh, or wait to see if any was forthcoming, but seemed to be there to make everyone feel he was welcomed. There are no beggars on the station, not because the district has no beggars, beggars are professional men in India and live amongst all communities. This seems to be a district of hardworking people, and their pride perhaps, or their determination to prevent scroungers living around prevents beggars on the station. This is not a railway ruling, otherwise no beggars would be found at any station and most beggars would willingly pay for a platform. they are simply not allowed at the station. Those people that are there are pleasant, friendly, speak quietly, and seem more civilized in every way.
Beyond the station, although there exists much ground that is of little value, that which is tilled and cultivated, is done more scientifically. Huge fields of rice are harvested, and cattle graze in fields that but a short while ago had been grain fields. Was this a rotation of crops, it looked like it. The trees that grow in these fields are left, maybe in the middle of a rice or corn field. Pruning is done quite frequently but why the trees are left is difficult to understand. The best way to find out would be to ask, but the natives speak no English, I speak no Hindustani.
Half an hour's run from Abu Road, the railway line enters a plain, the land becomes nicer, and acres of rice, corn and a little sugar cane stretch away to the distance for miles.
Palanpur, another pleasant district. The station, like the surrounding countryside, is clean and fresh. The people go about their work quietly, there is no mad shouting or wild rushing around. Flowers grow up lattice work showing the pride these people take in the station, where everybody can see. On the roof of this station, sit many monkeys, waiting for food to be thrown to them. These monkeys are regarded with great favour by the Hindus - a harmless animal and a pet. They are not regarded as sacred.
As we leave this district behind, in the distance, I noticed a huge modern farm and outhouses - surrounded by several small houses. Was this communal work? - or was it a farm owned by a landowner, employing many people to work for him. The land was well cared for, and the ripening crops showed that labour was not in vain. If this farming gives better results, and the people are paid well for their work, are housed and clothed decently, then why only an occasional sign of it. Most of India could be farmed by the Indian government employing all the agricultural workers a better wage, and giving them better food and clothing. Housing might also be solved in this way, and contented workers always turn out better work than a man who is dissatisfied and worried.
In the centre of this small community, a beautiful white temple. These simple people do not keep worship out of their daily life. Life is toil and hard work, yet they must be thankful to some supreme being, even for their hard lot. As to their work, any farmer might pride himself for such meticulous care that these simple folk take in their irrigation of these small "paddy" fields. Wells are dotted around everywhere, man and beast are continually at work, their reward being the pleasure of seeing the harvests gathered in.
At the next station, the majority of the men and boys were a black fez. These are Mohammedans, their mosque in the town cannot be seen from the station. Many of the older men grow long beards. An old woman came round selling small buttonholes or posies of flowers. It was the first time I had seen flowers sold in India. Mingling with the crowd, but very soon worming their way to the front, the little "baksheesh" kiddies got busy again. It is not necessary to see them, not even to hear the words "Salaam Sahib - baksheesh" - that high-pitched monotonous continuous sounds of voices is sufficient.
This is at Siddphur Station, the town being mostly built of stone, but the tenements would hardly stand up to the weight of smoke from a smoke bomb. An epidemic of flu' and continuous sneezing would just about batter that district to hell. Where ever a large town is, we might expect a river, towns are built near rivers, the water supply being of prime importance then a man decides to settle down on the land.
Some fields of cut sugar cane, tied in bunches to dry, look like a Red Indian camp without the canvas and skins thrown over the base skeleton of each wigwam. In the field stands a large leafy tree, perched on its topmost branch the dark mass of a huge ugly vulture, waiting for death to over take something that it might have a meal. On its way from the fields to the town, a caravan of oxen-drawn vehicles, laden with grain, slowly drags along. The crude vehicles must hamper the animals taking the load they might, some of the vehicles, built of massive wood planks, look a heavy load in themselves. At the next station, where monkeys again are seen to climb all over the station, stands a huge warehouse. Outside this warehouse are huge bales of cotton seed and sugar ready for the refinery. The people who knew very little about the rest of the world, their own world being their dirty little hovel, the paddy field and the temple; were clothing us and feeding us. Their cotton would be made into articles of clothing which their small means could not afford, their sugar would make cakes, chocolate sweetmeats etc. which would probably be a luxury beyond their pocket.
The sun had set, dusk fast falling over everywhere was hiding the huge fields of grain that stretched as far as eye could see. India was being lost in darkness of night, but the train ploughed on. Some of the secrets of India were being hidden from our sight, so to speak, and we had to be content with the little peep into the life of the people.
It was night when we drew into Ahmedabad, where we had to change trains for Bombay.
We had fifteen minutes in which to change. At home, we could manage it easily in this time, but here in India, where we are the foreigners, it was not easy, especially with all the kit we had to move. We got our stuff and hurriedly caught a couple of porters and made several inquiries for the train. Hundreds were after the same train, and it was almost panic. People were shouting and dashing backwards and forwards frantically in search of friends, luggage, porters, railway officials and trains. Porters, having to do much in a short time ran up the platform, high sided luggage on their heads, some-time crashing and skidding along the ground. This would be followed by the mad yells of annoyed travellers, and the officious shouting of railway men and officers. But we caught the train. We could now settle down to sleep. It had been a grand day.
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