To The Eden

The train steamed into the Rawalpindi station. The early morning crisp air braced Mr. Edward Nichols and Miss Dorothy Johnson as they alighted from a second class compartment of the Frontier Mail. Porters besieged them, pushing and jostling one another, "Sahib, see my number," "Sahib, coolie wanted," "Sahib, we two will carry luggage," and so on. Nichols selected two out of them, cheerful healthy Jats, gave one a pat on the shoulder, saying, "Hullo! you number 46, take our luggage to bus stand, in front of car number 3329. Get that? 3329. Ask the driver to get ready."

"Yes, Sahib. Thank you, Sahib!"

The 'Sahib' laughed at the broken English of the porter and threw him a nickel as an advance bakhsheesh.

"Let me have it, dear," Edward Nichols said to his fiancée, as he carried her attache case.

"You're a dear, Edward." She took his arm, feeling proud of walking by him-this most beautiful and talented specimen of the British race-as they hastened towards the Refreshment Room.

Tea over, Edward Nichols hurried Miss Johnson out, saying, "The car must be waiting, Dorothy. We must reach Srinagar by four or four thirty. The Guide Books call Srinagar 'the Venice of the East.' Oh! darling, we must see this Venice. I've been to the real Venice once which, I didn't like at all. But we'll still go there some day."

"Yes, Edward, we'll", she replied, as if lost in a day nap. Why did she feel queer? Why did that dark fear haunt her? The mysterious fear, surreptitiously tugging at her heart had allowed her no sleep for the night in the comfortable compartment. She had smoked endless cigarettes. She had heard him speak in his sleep, "Kashmir, lovely valley. The writer calls it 'the Eden of the East'. To the Eden...." She too loved to go there and escape the depressing heat of the Punjab. There, sure enough, was the car, with the luggage neatly mounted up.

The Pathan driver greeted them, "Sahib Salaam! Mem Sahib Salaam! A happy day! We start in a minute." He bustled about, ordering his assistant. The car agents stood by, with their books, expertly taking in the Sahib at a glance and deciding that any amount could be extorted from him, for he was apparently engrossed in his 'Mem Sahib' and anxious to go to the Happy Valley. They made capital out of that, "Sahib! car seats, seventy-five rupees. Reservation fee, fifteen rupees. Coolie charges, road toll --."

"Now shut up, give me that total plus ten rupees bakhsheesh and off you go, you Babus," authoritatively interrupted the Briton.

The overpaid porters and the agents salaamed the Sahibs as the luxurious Ford manoeuvred its way out of the crowded bus stand.

As an English boy, living in the West End, London, Edward Nichols had heard colourful descriptions of India from his uncle, who retired from service in Bombay as a military official. Nichols devoured his stories. He liked especially to hear his uncle's panther shooting escapades in Kashmir. He too learnt shooting in the Military School which he joined for a time after his public school career. He then swerved to I.C.S. examination and passed it with flying colours. His parents and his uncle were happy. His uncle patted him at the railway station, with, 'Boy, keep up your family's prestige in India.'
Here, in India, the sun-lit and sun-scorched land of strange contrasts, he was posted as Deputy Commissioner in Ludhiana. Not yet steeped in the imperialist, blue-blooded ways, he lived on easy terms with his subordinates and grew popular. His English friends, particularly Colonel Johnson, did not like his democratic ways but the Colonel did not dare to point it out to him and rationalised to his wife, "See, Mary, this Nichols is like a Yankee guy. What's the matter with him, God alone knows? He is spoiling these Indians with his familiar manners. But" -- more confidently, edging towards her rocking chair -- "he is really coming nearer our Dorothy. That's what matters."

She lit up with pride on the immense good fortune of her daughter in marrying a young I.C.S. officer and cooed obediently, "That's what matters, indeed. Now here comes Dorothy."

Soon after, the engagement of Miss Dorothy Johnson with Mr. Edward Nichols featured in the big society papers of India in headlines. The female members of the Civil Club, Ludhiana, stared at the printed photograph in utter amazement, jealous of the triumph of the Colonel's daughter.

But she was not elated. She took it as natural, for from the first day they met at the Club, Edward Nichol's had taken an interest in her. Her blonde beauty, her tall figure and dignified carriage, her deep blue eyes, ever so dreamy and exotic and her intelligence, had captured him. She admired him for his manly bearing his sporting spirit, his learning and his devotion to her. She loved him the first moment she saw him, young, cheerful fresh and robust.

And, now they were en route to the Happy Valley.

"Dorothy, I like this Guide Book to Kashmir. It's the latest, you know. Its title is excellent: 'Eden of the East.' How I've always longed to see this Earthly Eden! And, with you! to be married there..."

He affectionately fingered the book while she nestled closer to him. Her sweet presence intoxicated him. He drew her nearer still. He began again, opening a page, "Now, look here, there are two churches in Srinagar. Where shall we be married?"

Miss Johnson took the book from him and skimmed over the page. A sigh involuntarily escaped her, as she did so. A faint maidenly blush crossed her. Nichols saw it and kissed her. She fixed upon Protestant Church, picturing the wished-for scenes of the wedding -the big cake, the grand party, the crowded clubs and glamorous balls, honeymoon in Gulmarg, Pahalgam, Sonamarg and even higher up; towards the glaciers. The vision faded into the distant look of Murree. The distant view of the green woods refreshed them. She said, "Look there! Murree is approaching. What lovely pines!"

"Marvellous, my love!" He kissed her, over and over again, passionately, and yet he reflected, "Will this last, darling? This is a dream, a painted dream. After all we'll -the Eden of the East-I like the phrase - and there we'll have our honeymoon. A grand time, we must have. Now, I've fixed the place, from this Guide as to where we halt at Srinagar. Nagin Bagh," and to the Path, occupied with the wheel, whose face they saw in the central mirror, "do I pronounce it right, NAGIN BAGH? Yes? O.K. That is the beauty spot with bathing boats. The first thing I'd do there, darling, is have a cool dip while you'll manage things."

"No, no, dear, no diving. The lake must be full of weeds. And we'll have other things to do."

"Darling, do you think, I can resist the temptation when we reach Nagin Bagh?" Nichols protested, lighting a cigarette.

The car kissed the zigzag mountain road of Murree. Quite an English town, they agreed. "Lovely!" and "Marvellous!" escaped their lips as the car raced about Sunny Bank, the best upland spot of Murree. Edward Nichols threw a cigarette at the Pathan and said, "Driver, slow down. Let's enjoy the scenery of the town."

The road sloped down and, after many flitting mile-boards, it crossed over to the Kashmir boundary.

They walked over Kohala Bridge where the foamy blue water gurgled deep down under the dizzying suspension bridge.

"Lovely!" they declared.

Jhelum Valley Road running in beautiful curves about the mountains afforded them beautiful scenes of the roaring Jhelum, mountain hamlets, awesome precipices and slippery ravines.

"I feel some fear," said Dorothy, half to herself and half to Edward. "I don't know why."

"Why, dear? Have this." They drank from a bottle of wine and ate some biscuits. "My love, don't be afraid of the road and its curves. The driver is an expert."

Domel Toll Bar! Waiting, waiting, it made Edward Nichols fidgety. The customs official marked his impatient look and had the registers expedited. The toll bar lifted. Thank God!

The Valley of Kashmir opened out before them in shy parts. Snowcapped peaks, green maize fields, mountaineer-women raced by. Glimpses, yes, life is a show, thought Nichols. He must remind the Pathan.

"Driver, remember, don't take much time at the bus stand. Take us straight to Nagin Bagh."

"Yes, Huzoor."

That made them laugh and kiss each other.

"These hopeless Indians don't know there ought not to be a room of this number in a hotel," raved Miss Dorothy Johnson as she was conducted to Room No. 13 of King's Lodge, Nagin Bagh. The Assistant Manager, a Kashmiri, who had already sent her luggage to this room, did not know what to make out of her.

"Madam, no other room is vacant," he made polite reply. "You and Sahib will be allotted a house-boat tomorrow afternoon."

That was some satisfaction. But why did they not first tell her that Room No. 13 alone was unoccupied? Unlucky number; ominous! She must tell Edward. She must run to him. He had already hurried to the bathing house-boat. She liked the room all the same. The small window commanded a gorgeous scene: the fort-clad hill with almond orchards nestling round its base, just across the smooth arm of the Dal Lake, the banks lined with house-boats and Shikaras, and flanked with willows and poplars. True, it was an Eden she was in. And there, sure enough, were the bathing boats and the yachts moored in the centre of the lake. She saw the sprightly form of Edward Nichols moving about the open deck. She must be with him, she decided.

"How can I go to Sahib over there?" she said to the assistant manager, without looking back to where he stood, at a respectable distance from her.

"Mem Sahib, our Shikara will paddle you there, madam." 

"Mem" and "Madam" all rolled in one amused her. She said, "Get the Shikara ready?" The assistant manager hastened down with the errand.

Dorothy Johnson, still lost in gazing at the bathing boat, gave a hasty cosmetic touch to her face and she actually ran down the stairs. Why this hustle? She did not know.

The Shikara spring seat softly caressed her. Oh! it was delightful. For the first time, she rode this gondola of the East. The boatman with the heart-shaped car was drunk with the hookah that was yet smoking, off.

"Hurry up!" she shouted at him in her accented Urdu, as she looked into the water and saw the forest of weeds, intensely blue and treacherously beautiful.

"Achcha, Mem Sahib."

She jumped up the small gangway, forgetting to give a bakhsheesh to the boatman. No, but he would wait for her. Aloud splash. Her heart sank at the crashing noise. From the deck she saw ripples opening out in circles a few feet away from the boat. Sure, Edward had dived. But, he wasn't to be seen for a few agonized moments. Thank God! his head popped out. He smiled at her, waving water off from his eyes and hair with his hand and blowing a kiss at her.

"Dorothy! Darling!" came up from the disturbed water.

The bathing boat assistant helped Edward Nichols up the gang-board, that touched the rippled surface of the pleasantly cool water of the lake. He ran up to the deck to where, Dorothy, his Dorothy, sat in an arm-chair. He kissed her a wet kiss.

"How you gave me a fright!" she moaned, between a shade of a smile. Voluptuously, she wondered at his athletic form. The dive had sent blood rushing all over his beautiful, red body. His muscles shone. His face wore a halo like a Greek statue'. What hopes and fears played with her in that rapturous moment! But a memory struck her. Room No.13; she did'nt tell him about the hotel Manager's impertinence. She would. But she must listen, for he was bustling.

"My love! I like this diving. I always did. Just one more dip and then we've tea here in the boat restaurant."

"Oh! Dear." Before she knew what he meant, he ran up the small airy staircase to the high diving-boat and dived headlong.

Frightened like a mouse, she started up from the chair and saw his powerful body impetuously entering into the yielding, splashing water. Foam and ripples. Ripples, ripples, nothing but ripples. Where was he?

"Where is the Sahib?" went the cry. Boat assistants plunged in the water. So did a few Europeans from a nearby sailing boat.

Was it all a dream, a hideous dream? Dorothy Johnson sank down in a swoon as she heard, "Sahib is drowned."

The calm weedy lake was disturbed at many points by boatmen's long punts and by divers, salvaging what was left of Edward Nichols and his dreams.