He did not go through
the pretense of calling it "khana"--man's victuals. He said "ratub," and that
means, among other things, "grub"--dog's rations. There was no insult in his
choice of the term. He had forgotten the other word, I suppose.
While he was cutting up the dead bodies of animals, I settled myself down,
after exploring the dak-bungalow. There were three rooms, beside my own, which
was a corner kennel, each giving into the other through dingy white doors
fastened with long iron bars. The bungalow was a very solid one, but the
partition walls of the rooms were almost jerry-built in their flimsiness.
Every step or bang of a trunk echoed from my room down the other three, and
every footfall came back tremulously from the far walls. For this reason I
shut the door. There were no lamps--only candles in long glass shades. An oil
wick was set in the bathroom.
For bleak, unadulterated misery that dak-bungalow was the worst of the many
that I had ever set foot in. There was no fireplace, and the windows would not
open; so a brazier of charcoal would have been useless. The rain and the wind
splashed and gurgled and moaned round the house, and the toddy palms rattled
and roared.
Half a dozen jackals went through the compound singing, and a hyena stood afar
off and mocked them.
Pages:
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210