The Indian Equator by Ian Strathcarron

Author:Ian Strathcarron
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Twain, India, travelogue, south asia, American literature
ISBN: 9781908493927
Publisher: Andrews UK
Published: 2013-08-19T16:00:00+00:00

Darjeeling

The Twain party made the twenty-four-hour train journey from Calcutta to Darjeeling from 14 to 15 February. It was a delightful trip, the first half through the beautiful fertile upper plains of Bengal and then the 6,000-foot climb up to Darjeeling on the toy train. We can see equally now what he saw then:

The plain is perfectly level, and seems to stretch away and away and away, dimming and softening, to the uttermost bounds of nowhere.

What a soaring, strenuous, gushing fountain spray of delicate greenery a bunch of bamboo is! As far as the eye can reach, these grand vegetable geysers grace the view, their spoutings refined to steam by distance. And there are fields of bananas, with the sunshine glancing from the varnished surface of their drooping vast leaves. And there are frequent groves of palm; and an effective accent is given to the landscape by isolated individuals of this picturesque family, towering, clean-stemmed, their plumes broken and hanging ragged, Nature’s imitation of an umbrella that has been out to see what a cyclone is like and is trying not to look disappointed.

Smythe was feeling particularly gleeful, having some payback for being bounced out of his lower bunk by the English cavalry officer’s servant on the way in to Calcutta:

When we arrived, the usual immense turmoil and confusion of a great Indian station were in full blast. It was an immoderately long train, for all the natives of India were going by it somewhither, and the native officials were being pestered to frenzy by belated and anxious people. They didn’t know where our car was, and couldn’t remember having received any orders about it. Then Satan came running and said he had found a compartment with one shelf and one sofa unoccupied, and had made our beds and had stowed our baggage.

The train started and Mr. Smythe’s opportunity was come. His bedding, on the upper shelf, at once changed places with the bedding - a stranger’s - that was occupying the lower sofa that was opposite to mine. About ten o’clock we stopped somewhere, and a large Englishman of official military bearing stepped in. We pretended to be asleep. The lamps were covered, but there was light enough for us to note his look of surprise. He stood there, grand and fine, peering down at Smythe, and wondering in silence at the situation. After a bit be said:

‘“Well!” And that was all.

But that was enough. It was easy to understand. It meant: “This is extraordinary. This is high-handed. I haven’t had an experience like this before.”

He sat down on his baggage, and for twenty minutes we watched him through our eyelashes, rocking and swaying there to the motion of the train. Then we came to a station, and he got up and went out, muttering: “I must find a lower berth, or wait over.” His servant came presently and carried away his things.

Mr. Smythe’s sore place was healed, his hunger for revenge was satisfied. But the next day the English gentleman asked to travel with us, and he did.

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