By The Middle Of June Mosquitos Were Rampant, The Grass Was Tawny, A
Brown Dust Haze Hung Over The Valley,
The camp-fires of a multitude
glared through the hot nights and misty moonlight of the Munshibagh,
English tents dotted
The landscape, there was no mountain, valley, or
plateau, however remote, free from the clatter of English voices and
the trained servility of Hindu servants, and even Sonamarg, at an
altitude of 8,000 feet and rough of access, had capitulated to lawn-
tennis. To a traveller this Anglo-Indian hubbub was intolerable, and
I left Srinagar and many kind friends on June 20 for the uplifted
plateaux of Lesser Tibet. My party consisted of myself, a thoroughly
competent servant and passable interpreter, Hassan Khan, a Panjabi; a
seis, of whom the less that is said the better; and Mando, a Kashmiri
lad, a common coolie, who, under Hassan Khan's training, developed
into an efficient travelling servant, and later into a smart
khitmatgar.
Gyalpo, my horse, must not be forgotten - indeed, he cannot be, for he
left the marks of his heels or teeth on every one. He was a
beautiful creature, Badakshani bred, of Arab blood, a silver-grey, as
light as a greyhound and as strong as a cart-horse. He was higher in
the scale of intellect than any horse of my acquaintance. His
cleverness at times suggested reasoning power, and his
mischievousness a sense of humour. He walked five miles an hour,
jumped like a deer, climbed like a yak, was strong and steady in
perilous fords, tireless, hardy, hungry, frolicked along ledges of
precipices and over crevassed glaciers, was absolutely fearless, and
his slender legs and the use he made of them were the marvel of all.
He was an enigma to the end.
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