THE NERBUDDA 293 



To return to personal experiences during the time that 

 I was in charge of the Western Division, as then desig- 

 nated. Leaving Hoshangabad on May 24, I proceeded 

 by train to Harda station, on the Great Indian Peninsula, 

 to inspect a report upon the little-known forest of Chand- 

 garh, a jungle on the north of the Nerbudda, cut out of 

 the Indore district. The hot winds were blowing with 

 a force quite exceptional, a steady and furnace-like 

 draught ever pressing from west to east. The train, 

 bearing invalids to Bombay on sick leave to England, 

 some of whom would never reach their homes, steamed 

 lazily along, the steam from the funnel of the engine 

 being quite invisible, the dust and dry leaves flying and 

 curling and crackling along. The engine seemed over- 

 come by the heat, and people's eyes were closed up and 

 sore from the smoke and glare. There were coffins ready 

 on the platforms of the stations, and the engine-driver's 

 bottle of brandy in the tender was empty. The guard, 

 in whose van I travelled for company, was cheery, saying 

 that a man had had heat apoplexy, and was taken out 

 of a first-class carriage dead at a previous station. To 

 put one's hand out and let the hot wind strike the back 

 of it meant getting burnt ; to sit with one's head un- 

 protected meant sunstroke. Luckily, the journey to 

 Harda was not long, and camp had been sent on to Beera. 

 Getting on a beautiful chestnut Arab at the sleepy-looking 

 row of sheds constituting the Harda station, a smart 

 canter along a smooth white road, shaded by nim-trees, 

 brought me to camp under a glorious banian. The white 

 tent looked home-like, and elephants and camels picketed 

 around were like a travelling menagerie. The bheesty 

 had the tattis at the western door of the tent well soused 

 with water, and inside was cool and pleasant. When the 

 welcome sundown came, and only with it a lull of the 



