Here let me point out that life is but a series of neglected opportunities.
We were within a couple of miles of Martand, the principal temple in
Kashmir, and we did not go to see it! I blush as I write this, knowing
that hereafter no well-conducted globe-trotter will own to my acquaintance,
and, indeed, the case requires explanation. Well, then, it was excessively
hot; we were both in bad condition, and I had ten miles more to march, so
we decided to visit Martand on our way down the valley. Alas! we came this
way no more.
Little knowing how much we were missing, we sat contented in the shade
while the hot hours went by, merely strolling down to visit a sacred tank
full of cool green water and swarming with holy carp, which scrambled in a
solid mass for bits of the chupatty which Jane threw to them.
A clear stream gushed out of a bank overhung by a tangle of wild plants.
To the left was a weird figure of the presiding deity, painted red, and
frankly hideous.
We were truly sorry to feel obliged, at four o'clock, to leave Bawan with
its massy trees and abundance of clear running water, and step out into
the heat and glare of the afternoon.
I found it a trying march. The road led along a fairly good track among
rice-fields, whence the sloping sun glinted its maddening reflection, but
here and there clumps of walnuts--the fruit just at the pickling
stage--cast a broad cool shadow, in which one lingered to pant and mop a
heated brow e'er plunging out again into the grievous white sunlight.
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