"There's the Afghan, and, as a
highlander, he despises all the dwellers in Hindoostan--with the exception of
the Sikh, whom he hates as cordially as the Sikh hates him. The Hindu loathes
Sikh and Afghan, and the Rajput--that's a little lower down across this yellow
blot of desert--has a strong objection, to put it mildly, to the Maratha who,
by the way, poisonously hates the Afghan. Let's go North a minute. The Sindhi
hates everybody I've mentioned. Very good, we'll take less warlike races. The
cultivator of Northern India domineers over the man in the next province, and
the Behari of the Northwest ridicules the Bengali. They are all at one on that
point. I'm giving you merely the roughest possible outlines of the facts, of
course."
Bishen Singh, his clean cut nostrils still quivering, watched the large sweep
of the whip as it traveled from the frontier, through Sindh, the Punjab and
Rajputana, till it rested by the valley of the Jumna.
"Hate -eternal and inextinguishable hate," concluded Orde, flicking the lash
of the whip across the large map from East to West as he sat down. "Remember
Canning's advice to Lord Granville, 'Never write or speak of Indian things
without looking at a map.'"
Pagett opened his eyes, Orde resumed.
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