KASHMIR VALLEYS 21 



boatmen still tell stories of the wicked city and its 

 inhabitants that are supposed to lie under the blue 

 waters, and, as proof of their veracity, tell you the 

 name signifies "the cave." Landing after tea, the 

 setting sun caught the distant white peaks of the snowy 

 Pir Panjal the great range that barricades the southern 

 side of the valley and turned them a rosy pink, while to 

 the north the snow heights stood out gaunt and stern 

 against the darkening sky. A scent of mint filled the 

 air, great droning moths flew by knocking clumsily 

 against the lonely traveller, and flocks of rough ponies 

 grazing on the coarse grass scampered away at the 

 sound of unaccustomed footsteps. Some pink light still 

 flushed the blue waters, darkened into deep patches 

 by the great cargo boats piled high with the laboriously 

 secured water nuts, while the shells were collected 

 together on the mainland in heaps. Occasional sombre 

 figures salaamed as they passed on the way to their 

 dark boats. A great peace reigned in this corner of 

 the earth so restful, so remote, so unreal in its shadowy 

 reality and I remembered sadly how differently the 

 scene must have appeared to an Englishman suffering, 

 almost overcome, with fever, who, lying on the deck of 

 his doonga, had looked across the wild, hurricane- 

 stirred waters of the inland sea some years before, and 

 realised that unless the boat could reach Baramula 

 that night all hope of reaching Bombay (and Bombay 

 meant England and renewed health) must be given up, 

 and, knowing this, had used up his little store of 

 strength, begging, threatening, encouraging his terrified 

 men to persevere, only to be driven back by the fierce 

 "tufan" after each attempt, so that at length, when 

 the further shore was attained, he could only be 



