A drenching shower
overtakes me in the native military lines, compelling me to seek shelter
for an hour beneath the portico of their barracks. The road is perfectly
level and smooth, and well rounded, so that the water drains off and
leaves it better wheeling than ever; and with alternate showers and
sunshine I have no difficulty in covering thirty-four miles before
sunset. This brings me to a caravanserai, consisting of a quadrangular
enclosure with long rows of cell-like rooms. The whole structure is much
inferior to a Persian caravanserai, but there is probably no need of the
big brick structures of Shah Abbas in a winterless country like India.
Interesting subjects are not wanting for my camera through the day; but
the greatest difficulty is experienced about changing the negatives at
night. A small lantern with a very feeble light, made still more feeble
by interposing red paper, suffices for my own purpose; but the too
attentive chowkee-dar, observing that my room is in darkness, and
fancying that my light has gone out accidentally, comes flaring in with a
torch, threatening the sensitive negatives with destruction.
The morning opens with a fine drizzle or extra-heavy mist that is
penetrating and miserable, soaking freely into one's clothes, and
threatening every minute to change into a regular rain.
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