" I am now in the
Opposition.
We will call the bungalow Katmal dak-bungalow. But THAT was the smallest part
of the horror. A man with a sensitive hide has no right to sleep in dak-
bungalows. He should marry. Katmal dak-bungalow was old and rotten and
unrepaired. The floor was of worn brick, the walls were filthy, and the
windows were nearly black with grime. It stood on a bypath largely used by
native Sub-Deputy Assistants of all kinds, from Finance to Forests; but real
Sahibs were rare. The khansamah, who was nearly bent double with old age, said
so.
When I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided rain on the face of the land,
accompanied by a restless wind, and every gust made a noise like the rattling
of dry bones in the stiff toddy palms outside. The khansamah completely lost
his head on my arrival. He had served a Sahib once. Did I know that Sahib? He
gave me the name of a well-known man who has been buried for more than a
quarter of a century, and showed me an ancient daguerreotype of that man in
his prehistoric youth. I had seen a steel engraving of him at the head of a
double volume of Memoirs a month before, and I felt ancient beyond telling.
The day shut in and the khansamah went to get me food.
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