I heard the clock strike five, but this conveyed nothing to me, I was not really awake, just enough to realize how comfortable and warm a bed can be in the morning.
At half past five, we were up and packing - a camel cart outside was waiting to take our luggage to the station. At six thirty, we were on the station. There we found many natives, most of them wanted the same train as we were. Some were fast asleep on the floor, men, women and children outstretched everywhere, their little bit of luggage beside them. Looking up, gazing around, some of them too sleepy to realize what they were doing there, or even to realize where they were, they simply gazed absently around them. As realization dawned upon their fogged brain, and the time of the train drew near, they would up and make a frantic rush for their tickets. Most of the Indian people had not the slightest idea of a queue, it was all just a frantic scramble round the ticket office. The tall man at the back would try to reach over the heads of those in the front, while the short man pushed up against the office wall tried to get far enough back to be able to see the clerk through the window. It was laughable, yet pitiable. The porters, dressed like most Indian natives, but in red instead of white robes, dashed madly up and down the platform, carrying luggage on their heads. The train came in, and for three or four minutes chaos was the only word for it all. Porters yelled, travellers shouted, everyone talked loud enough for all to hear.
Our party had to split up, for Eddie, another Eddie this time, a navigator, and I got in together. The din and the shouting was gradually subsiding, order was developing amid all of the chaos, and very soon the whistle blew. We were on our way.
We drew out of Karachi - it was still dark, but we could see that in a period of minutes we were in the desert. Very shortly we stopped at Drigh Road, where one soldier got off. Once more we headed into the desert and very soon came to Malir, a new place built in an oasis or a very richly cultivated district. Palm trees and rich shrubs. Was this the end of the desert? Was it hell! It is now daylight, and I as I look through the window, I see sand and cactus, ninety nine per cent sand. The dull grey and bleakness of the sand is gradually changing - the sun is rising, greys turn to gold, coldness to warmth.
At the next station, a small building with "Water for Mohammedans" displayed on a board nearby rather puzzled me. This is drinking water from some main or well that Hindus will not, or are not allowed to drink owing to some religious belief. This is entirely surprising on my part. A fellow passenger whom I asked about this informed me that I am correct.
Just outside the station an elephant, the first I have seen in India; here is employed to move heavy cargo to the train. Nearby, on the road, there are a few camel drawn vehicles, so common in Karachi, that are heading for the desert, a wilderness of empty space, We pull out of the station again, and once more we are plunging ahead into the desert. It is a real thrill to sit back, completely lost in the desert, but with absolute faith in the navigation of the plate-layers.
At Jungshahi, where a great deal of pottery is made from the clay pits around, we got out, and walked up the platform. Hundreds of natives crowd onto the platform as well, to stretch their legs and to seek refreshments. The third class passengers, the Indian poor, are really third class. Talk about a raw deal, they have to sit or stand any where, the seats are occupied by a lucky minority, more are travelling without seats. A British train during August Bank Holiday could not compare with these, for overloading.
At Jhimpir, the people who sell refreshments carry the food in safe (meat) like boxes, upon their heads. Under their arm they carry a stand. When a customer comes along, the stand is put down, and the box of food is put to rest upon it. Much of this food has to be prepared in some strange way, I haven't the least idea what it is or what is done to it. Heavy bags of flour are taken off the train, and bare footed coolies carry them around. What a way of making a living, I am sure one of those bags would break my back. I should be on my knees in no time. In this desert waste, such a community as this little village, must, to a large extent, be self-supporting.
Once more we are in the desert, here, miles from everywhere, an occasional small field of maize or "Indian Corn" indicates the presence of water, and the presence of big beards reminded me of what the Wise Men of the East who came to Bethlehem must have looked like. The women are also dressed according to wealth, religion and creed, just as the men are. The poor woman is but slightly better dressed than a scare-crow, the rich are draped in clothing fit for a queen. We are near the Indus, and the land is cultivated from the water of the river. In the fields, some natives are harvesting a minute portion of India's great corn crop.
Our next stop is Hyderabad, where we have to change. From the train as we approach, it looks like a clean town, huge ventilation very conspicuous above the roof tops. After a good meal, we went to explore this wonderful city. What a welcome we had, beggars with outstretched arms were there to meet us, and greet us "Salaam Sahib" - but always followed with the word "Baksheesh".
We walked up through the native district, filth, stench, flies, open drains, dilapidated buildings, decrepit old buses, oxen and donkey carts, natives sitting in dust and garbage, fruit barrows, the fruit being almost hidden by flies, dogs, goats and cows eating garbage and waste thrown into the open drains. This is what we saw but it looked clean from the train. We only saw one scene that was encouraging, a small group of clean school children returning from school with their slates under their arms. We had two more hours to wait, the heat was terrific and were not interested so much in the European quarter. I am trying to see the India of the Indians - one can read about the other India in books and see it in pictures.
We had very good accommodation and bought some fruit to eat on the journey. Just before leaving Hyderabad, I noticed a wedding party getting on the train. The bride was in the coach, the groom outside talking to her and the friends that had gathered around. Just before pulling out, a man, presumably the groom's father, put a garland of beautiful flowers around the groom's neck. The groom then ran back, and got in the train a few coaches down. This may have been because he wished his bride to have the comfort of a "Ladies Only" coach, but more probable, it is an Indian custom - or religious custom that the do not travel together. How unlike weddings at home, where the bride and groom want to be together away from everyone else.
As we left the station, children ran alongside shouting for baksheesh until they were out of breath and could keep up the chase no longer. We were in the delta, or near enough for irrigation and on either side cotton fields are cultivated. The plant is not unlike the raspberry canes - but one cannot really tell from a moving train. Groups of pickers, usually young girls, stood waist deep in the fields of cotton. The cultivation is very primitive - oxen teams being used to till the land. It is not intensely cultivated either. Trees and shrubs grow everywhere - almost a half-hearted attempt to develop the district. Perhaps Britain would be more wise by giving them a few tractors and teaching these few natives how to grow bigger and better crops. This land is near enough to the river to be cultivated far more intensely, is it to somebody's interest that this is not done, or is it lack of foresight on somebody's part. I wonder if Mr. Amery has even thought of this, the increased crops would help us, the modern methods would help the Indians.
Again, this district is left, and once more we are in the desert. Occasionally, we find a few more cotton fields, water from wells sunk in the ground. It is primitive enough to use oxen and plough and draw water from these wells. I conclude that these wells were dug out and the soil removed by lifting out by hand. Some water runs through small channels from large canals fed from the rivers.
Tando Alahiar [Allahyar] is an Indian town in the centre of this region, and near the railway a large cotton warehouse with stacks of huge cotton bales indicate that the labour of this region, primitive as it may be, is not without some reward. This looks like any other town here, have houses without chimneys. These do not enter into the building of houses; if fires are needed for cooking, smoke, usually wood or charcoal smoke, has to find its own way out. The land we pass through is alternate desert and cultivation, probably due to the winding of the river sometimes brings it near the railway, at other times taking it far away.
In the semi-desert, a few small herd of oxen, or flocks of goats are seen, what they live on is a mystery, unless this half withered shrub and the cactus that grows in great quantity has some exceptional food properties. Suddenly we come to another station, crowded with natives. Everything springs to life, passengers, porters, baksheesh people, children, fruit sellers and cigarette and sweetmeat vendors. The length of turban is a mark of distinction, and one Indian, with enough cloth to make a ship's sail passed hurriedly by.
Outside the town, a large government fruit plantation, beautifully kept. To be able to do some real apple scrumping here would keep me happy while the fruit lasted. For the first time, I notice that the hard work of the porter is not only a man's job, but women and young boys also do it. It is incredible to see women, slaving away during such a mad rushed five minutes for a few annas.
In Britain, since the war has called upon so many men, women porters are employed, but not to carry heavy burdens upon their heads. They have trucks and barrows at home; here it is all physical labour and effort.
A large grain warehouse outside the station - the results of the labour of hundreds of land tillers. The land ploughed and being ploughed at the time must have had grain crops. Small landowners whose very existence depends upon what they get out of their small plot, are not going to let the land remain idle long.
Wake up Britain! You cannot get everything out of India without putting something back in. Give her the means to help herself to help us. The rich of India are not inexhaustible. By expecting more out of her, before long will solve the food problem - give the people the tools, and show them how to use them.
The answers one usually gets are that the farmer owns a small amount of land - the land is owned by millions of small holders. This may be so - but cultivate the land that is wasting, land that no poor land owner wants because he cannot till enough of it to make a living. To hear people say that it is impossible because it is a huge problem, let me say, England once was as primitive, once the rich wheat fields of East Anglia was a marsh, most of Nottingham was a forest, the Welsh Valleys were wild and uncultivated. The problem was solved. So it will be with India after hundreds of years one thinks; but India was cultivating its soil when we fought with spears, bow and arrows; yes, even with clubs. India still uses the oxen, the people still dig channels to irrigate the land, water is still drawn by ox or camel, occasionally by donkey. There is a difference in progress.
At eight o'clock, I went for dinner. This was my first meal on a train in India. Were the people of Bengal starving? Then why the variety of courses on the train? "You, White Sahib, rich man" - I began to see now. There may be starvation, but not due entirely to lack of food, but because some people could not afford to eat it. The rich Indian Sahib is to blame for this, but Britain should step in. India wants home rule but Britain is unwilling, but until we do relinquish our power, let us for God's sake teach them a little about food cultivation and distribution, and while helping India in this war, develop our distribution at home.
At dinner, I had the uncomfortable feeling that these waiters did not want you to eat too much. The service was good, but when the waiter looks at me as I take the food off the dish he is holding, he looks as though he wants you to stop. This may be first class service, but give me less service and don't spoil my appetite. It gives me the feeling that I eat which I have no right to eat, that I am robbing someone else who may be in more need of it.
When dinner was finally over, I returned to our compartment, it was now dark. We were entering the Sind Desert and to keep the windows open in case I might [?] something in the gloom was impossible. Dust raised by the passing of the train entered through every nook and cranny. I had to be content to read until it was time to retire.
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