The heat increases as we reach Rohri and Sukhar, where passengers are
transferred by ferry across the Indus; the country seems a veritable
furnace, cracking and blistering with heat. At Sukhar our train glides
through some rich date-palms, the origin of which, legend says, were the
date-stones thrown away by the soldiers of Alexander the Great. They seem
to have taken root in congenial soil, anyway, for every tree is heavily
laden with ripe and ripening dates. Reclining under the date-trees or
wandering about are many dusky sons and daughters of Scinde, the latter
in bright raiment and with children in no raiment whatever. The heat, the
fruitful date-palms, and the lotus-eating natives combine to make up a
truly tropical scene.
Much of the country population seems to be nomadic, or semi-nomadic,
dwelling in tents with which they remove to the higher ground when the
Indus becomes inundated, and return again to the valley to cultivate and
harvest their crops. They seem a picturesque people mostly, sometimes
strangely incongruous in the matter of apparel, as, for instance, one I
saw wearing a white breech-cloth and a hussar coat. This was the whole
extent of his wardrobe, for he had neither shoes, shirt, nor hat.
Water-buffaloes are wading and swimming about in the overflowed jungle,
browsing off bulrushes and rank grass.
Pages:
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454