Sport & folklore in the Himalaya

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Preface

How many books, good, bad, and indifferent, have akeady been written on sport and travel in Kashmir, I wonder ? Such a prodigious number at any rate, that one naturally thinks twice about adding another to the already large collection. However, it has been my custom to keep a diary illustrated with rough sketches and photos, and, moreover, there are many wet days in camp to be '' got through," and long hours to be spent on the hillside waiting for an evening stalk, during which one may sketch and scribble notes. It was the suggestion of kind friends who took an interest in these notes and diaries that finally persuaded me to put them into book form.

With regard to the object of the book, I will only say that if it proves to be of any assistance to anyone shooting in Kashmir, and helps him to appreciate to the full the beauties and mysteries of Nature in the mountains, thus feeling the fascination and experiencing the almost indescribable joy which they never fail to afford me, I shall consider the object of the book achieved.

Most of the folklore stories are the outcome of long talks with shikaris, and even the most '^jungly" of coolies, on the hillside or over the camp fire. As &r as shikar is concerned, far be it from me to say that this or that is the correct way to do a thing. Each sportsman must first of all have the love of it bom in him, after which he vi SPORT AND FOLKLORE IN THE HIMALAYA

must please himself, and learn by his own experience. What suits me may not suit him, and at most it can be hoped that from the record of some of my experiences he may learn enough to base his own upon.

Animals vary as much in individual character as human beings do, and it is impossible to say exactly what any given animal may do in certain circumstances, though experience teaches us more or less what to expect. For the most part only the broadest of general rules can be laid down, and even these are not infallible. Likewise it is not pretended for a moment that anything in this book is infallible. The reader must take everything for what he considers it to be worth, and can then prove for himself the correctness, or the reverse, of the conclusions drawn by me.

Only one piece of advice will I presiune to give, with the assured feeling that I am absolutely correct, and that is, learn the language of the country you are going to shoot in, or at least some conmion language in which you can converse with the natives. It will not only add to your own pleasure, but will also make everything centper cent, easier for you.

H. L, H.

Sepiemher 1913,

Contents

GEAP. PiaK

II. The Legend of Aishmukah 11

m. Off the Beaten Teaok 17

Chapter I

Eyebt country in the world has its legends and superstitions, some purely of its own, others which at least have parallels in those of other countries, showing a Greek or Boman origin, or perhaps one still more ancient, dating back to the times of our original Aryan ancestors. In Europe these old folklore stories and superstitions have to a great extent been either entirely forgotten in the rush and whirl of modem matter-of-fact civilisation, or at least relegated to the nursery as pretty tales for the children. In the East, however, where the bulk of the population is still illiterate, and family and local traditions are handed down from father to son by word of mouth, superstition is still prevalent.

Indians as a whole — the poorer and uneducated classes that is — know remarkably little either of their own religion or their own history. The religion is whatever has been the custom as long as they can remember, and whatever their Brahmins or Mullahs tell them to do; this latter, sad to relate, only too often at variance with the pure doctrines of their original &.ith, be it Hinduism, Islam, or any other. Their historical knowledge is generally confined to

A such vague terms as '^ in the times of old " or *' a certain king of olden times," whose name they may or may not remember, and the accounts of deeds of valour and acts of wisdom or virtue which were accomplished, as handed down from generation to generation. So- much, too, is taken for granted that even such legends as might be thought important are forgotten.

I remember one day the Gnmthi {i.e. Sikh priest) of my own regiment coming to ask for a regimental holiday on account of the festival of the Holi. The holiday was granted, and out of curiosity I asked those present, native officers, non-commissioned officers, and men, why it should be a holiday. " Oh," they said, "it is the Holi." "But why," I asked, "should the Holi be a holiday?" "It is one of our festivals," answered they, " and it is the dastur (custom) to have a holiday." "And why, then," I continued, "is this day called the Holi, and on what account is it a festival ? " One native officer was prepared to answer, but I signed to him to be quiet. All I could get out of the rest was : " It is a Bara Din (big day) with us, and has always been a holiday." Not one of them, excepting the Grunthi and the old native officer, had ever heard of Harun Eashup the sacrilegious tyrant, or of Parlad his son and Holika his sister, and how the latter was burnt by her own brother, thus giving her name to the Holi Festival. No! to them the Holi was the Holi and a feast day; the Brahmins knew aU about it and when it should be kept: and that was sufficient.

Again, take any Kashmiri peasant to the ruins at Martund or Awantipur, and ask him who built them. He will at first probably answer elusively, "God knows," but if pressed, and sometimes indeed without pressing, he will tell you that none but djins or

&irie8 could have raised these huge blocks of stone and constructed a building so entirely different to his own tumble-down wooden house. ^ Then, if you have gained his confidence and he feels that you will not laugh at hint — for there is nothing, except open abuse, which the Oriental dislikes more than ridicule, or appreciates more at the expense of others — there may foUow a little fairy tale, '^some legend strange and vague/' through which peeps out the distorted visage of some old forgotten faith or custom, or that superstition so often found in the untutored children of Nature. Of the days gone by, when Kashmir boasted of many a fair city and building, he knows nothing. And nowhere are these quaint old-world stories and superstitions to be found in greater abundance than in the hills, where so many of the inhabitants are still Nature's children, roving the hill-sides with their flocks and herds. The vast solitudes of the higher mountain ranges, the dense forests, the dazzling snows of virgin peaks ; are they not indeed a fit setting for the supernatural!

He who has sat throughout a fine spring day on some lofty spur, with no living thing in sight perhaps but a herd of ibex and a soaring eagle or two, and has listened to the avalanches rumbling down with an almost continual roar from the giant mountains which rise, rank upon rank and peak upon peak, around him, has surely experienced that feeling of the overwhelming immensity of Nature of which, at the time, man seema but a puny particle. And this is all part of a hill-man's life, and he is in touch with Nature through every fibre of his body. Or again, let a man be once caught on the open hill-side, far above the forest line and human habitations, in a severe thunderstorm, and thus be, as

> He will probably describe them m PanclaT»>lari — Houses of the Ftodus.

it were, actually in the midst of the thunder and lightning, hearing and seeing their constant rumbling and dazzling flashes and the rushing of the winds, before the onslaught of which giant trees in the forest below go tumbling down like ninepins, so that the whole universe seems to be rushing and tmnbling about his ears ; let him be once caught in such a storm, and then he will probably no longer laugh at the simple-minded mountaineer who believes that fairies live in the eternal snows, and witches frolic before the storm.

And that same mountaineer's faith is so simple, and sometimes saves so much trouble; we Sahib-log see the vultures sailing up one after another, merging from tiny specks in the dim blue distance to settle on the remains of the animal which we have killed, and we commence arguing and speculating at once as to their prompt arrival. How do they know? Is it by their sense of smell ? Is it by abnormal sight ? Or is it by the use of both these senses aided by a wonderM Vste« rf eign^m.^. the ne™ bemg paid on from sentinel to sentinel as they circle so gracefully in the upper air ? Who knows for certain ? Our simple hill-man does, or thinks he does, which comes to much the same thing; for it saves him from all argument and speculation. It is, of course, the fairies who are at the bottom of the matter, spinning an invisible gossamer thread from the blood of the slain to the beaks of the vultures, and drawing them in unerring flight towards their meal.

Fair Kashmir, with its snowy mountains and lovely valleys, lends itself in its natural beauty, as well as through the medium of its ruins, to thoughts of the supernatural and of days long past. One can well imagine the joy and wonder of the old Buddhist pilgrims when they gained the Kashmir side of the 2k)jila Pass, after crossing the Earakorums and marching for days through the dry, sterile country of Ladakh, with its eerie monasteries perched up on the top of frowning precipices. The trials and dangers of the journey over, they might well offer up a prayer of thanks as they gaze over Kashmir with its waving forests and flower-spangled meadows ; that long-sought land in which lay their first great goal, the Buddhist shrines of the time of Asoka^ and other great ones who had learned to walk in the Way.

If we visit these old ruins known as the Peri Mahal ' (fairy palace), which overlook the Dal Lake, and are still impressive though overgrown with briars grass, and waving irises, we may picture to ourselves the astronomer priests of old gazing into a sky lit with a multitude of stars, which twinkle in the still waters of the lake with a beauty of reflection that rivals the reality. Now, the last of the priests has long since relinquished his midnight watching, but the stars twinkle on, and the moon lights up the snows of the Eaji Nag and Pir Punjal Ranges with a fairy-like softness, whilst the boom of the bittern and the hoarse cry of the heron are still wafted up from the reed-beds below on the cool night air to the deserted ruins where the priests once dwelt.

1 Afloks, 270 ao. : the greatest of the Buddhist rulers of India, whose kingdom included practically the whole of what we nowadays understand by the name India. He built the original Srinagar. Another of the great Buddhists connected with Kashmir was Eanishka, the famous King of Gandhara. It was he who caused some of the relics of Buddha to be buried in a crystal box near Peshawur about the year a.d. 40. The finding of this reliquary a short while ago caused a great stir throughout the Buddhist world. Jaloka, the son of Asoka, is said by some to have built the original building on the Takht-i-Suliman at Srinagar, about 200 ao.

' Peri Mahal : some authorities say that this building was erected by Prince Darah Shikoh for his tutor, Mullah Shah.

By the same fair lake still stand those magnificent chenar trees which gave their cool and inviting shade to Moghnl emperors in the gardens of Nishat and Shalimar ; what visions do not those old trees conjure up ? Visions of love and hate and court intrigue ; of Moghul emperors and beauteous courtesans ; of the times when the ankle-bells of pirouetting dancing-girls tinkled to the plashing of foim tains, and the rippling laughter of merry maidens chased the ripples of the wind-stirred waters over the lake, the flashes of their bright eyes vieing in quickness with that of the fish as they turned in the sunshine and darted amongst the lily-pads to avoid the fish-spearer's lance.

Can one wonder that peasant folk, born and bred in such surroundings, people the snow peaks with fairies, and, in default of historical knowledge, weave legends to suit their own romantic fancies ?

The waves of conquest which have roUed over the land, and the changes of religion which have taken place, cannot fail to leave some mark upon the country and people, though it may be so slight or so changed and altered as to be scarcely discernible; and the circumstances and time of its origin may be unknown to the Kashmiri of to-day.

The gentle faith of Buddha, early Hinduism, Islam, and ancient snake worship have all had their day ; and perhaps even more crude and ancient religions as well : and each has left, or is leaving, its mark. Hinduism in many a fine ruin ; Buddhism in records such as those of the Chinese pilgrims, and the site of Asoka's old capital ; Mahomedanism in the form of the summer palaces and gardens of the Moghuls ; and snake worship too ; is that not shown in the very place-names of the country?*

^ Snake worship : Abul Fasal in the Ain AkbaH says, '' In seven hundred places there are carved figures of snakes, which they worship."

F THE LAKE.

In a Moghul garden.

Anantnag, Y eshinag, Shishanag, and others ; do all these names ending in "nag" mean nothing? Yes, to-day ''Nag" is usually taken to imply that there is a lake, spring, or tarn at the place in the name of which this forms the final syllable. But does not ** Nag " also mean snake ? and, though the termination may have lost its original significance, can it be entirely ignored ? Let the more learned settle the question.

The writer will only attempt to give a little fable or two, in hopes of showing that the termination "nag" may still maintain, in some cases at least, its connection with snakes.

... •....•

It was on my first visit to Kashmir, when I had but short leave, and to slay a black bear was the height of my ambition, that I found one day an old man sitting under a large walnut tree by a little wayside shrine, where fluttered a few red and white flags in the cool morning breeze. The old fellow greeted us with a friendly '^Salam Aleikiun," and seemed to know my shikari well. He was spare and thin, with a long grey beard, aquiline nose, and deep-set eyes, which sparkled brightly under bushy eyebrows ; and he seemed the object of quite reverent respect on the part of my men. He spoke &st and somewhat indistinctly in that dialect of Punjabi generally known as "Pahari" (closely allied to Gujari), which I did not at that time understand; but, having a slight knowledge of ordinary Punjabi, I could at times follow the gist of the conversation, and gathered that he was asking why I did not go to the Eaji Nag and shoot markhor. My shikari explained that I had not the necessary permit to go there; whereat the old Pir, pointing with a skinny but steady finger towards the Eange, told me that I certainly ought to get a permit to shoot in the " Kali Nag," as there were to be found there markhor in untold numbers and of fabulous size. Even with my limited knowledge of the language I noticed that he called this range of hills, which we name the Eaji Nag, the Eali Nag, and that in talking to him my shikari did the same ; but I attributed this purely to a local or personal pronunciation, and thought no more about it.

Some years later, after several trips in Earnar and Drawa (said to be a contracted form of Diarwa, meaning " Land of Deodars "), where that curious Pahari, or hill dialect, is universally spoken, I met my old &iend. Fakir Shah, for such was his name, once more, and I was now able to converse with him in his own tongue. In the course of our conversation mention was again made of the Eaji Nag, and once more I noticed that the old man spoke of it as the Eali Nag ; on hearing which my memory sped back to our first meeting, and the fact that I had then noticed the same peculiarity; also I remembered having heard this pronunciation several times since. So, as Fakir Shah seemed to be in a friendly and talkative mood, and I was in no hurry, and quite glad to rest under his walnut tree for a while, 1 sat down on the green turf, and, after sundry casual remarks, said to him: ^'Baba! why is it that you call those hills the Eali Nag? I always thought the name was Eaji Nag, and indeed most people call it so."

"Certainly," he replied; "nowadays most people call it Eaji Nag, but I myself always call the hill by its old name, as my father and grandfather did before me." This was all spoken with that air of undoubted superiority so often claimed by the grey hairs of a confirmed Laudator temporis acti.

"Then Eaji Nag is not really the proper name?" I asked somewhat meekly.

" Not a bit of it ! When the Sahib-log first began to come to the country they commenced saying, ' Kaji Nag/ and, as more and more Sahibs came, those who accompanied them as shikaris gradually learned to speak of the place as their Sahibs did. It is in just the same way that nowadays every one speaks of * Barasingh,' ^ which is the name introduced by the Sahibs and adopted by their shikaris and followers. We people never call it ' Barasingh ' amongst ourselves, any more than the Kashmiris do; they call the animal ' Hangul,' and we call it * Changal,' which seems a good enough name to me. No 1 formerly that peak there " — and he pointed to the one he wished to indicate — ** was always called the ' Kali Nag,' and each other head and ^galli' had its own name, such as Gamalittar, Kafirkan, Tootmari, and others ; but now they speak of the whole as * Kaji Nag.' As I say, it should be Kali Nag, and for this reason :

" Up in the snow, just a little below that bare rockface, there is a lake ; so deep is it, that no man knows its depth, and its black sombre waters are such that any one gazing into them soon loses his senses. It is in this lake that the Kali Nag (black snake), who gives his name to the mountain, lives. I know not whether any man has ever seen him, but his tracks are sometimes seen ; for once in ten years the Kali Nag goes to visit his mate, who, they say, lives on the top of Nanga Parbat. When he has passed by, travelling at night, the villagers in the morning see his tracks through forest and field, as if someone had dragged a huge pine-tree through their crops. For this Kali Nag is a djin, and no ordinary snake, and is of vast size."

Thus the old Pir ended his story, and became pen-

^ The trae Barasingh, or Barasingha (meaning twelve-homed), is the swamp deer {Ctfvui dtwatteeU).

10 SPORT AND FOLKLORE IN THE HEtfALAYA

sive ; so, seeing my baggage coolies beginning to catch me up, I bade him farewell, and left him to his meditations. As we walked down the valley I asked my shikari about the man's story, and he told me it was well known, and that what Fakir Shah had said was quite true, adding that a certain Wazir — I forget his name — had actually tried to fit out an expedition to attack the Kali Nag in his watery home ; but that the men had never started, owing to the petitions of the local people, who said that an attempt against such a djin could not but fail, and that then the Kali Nag, being enraged by the act, would vent his wrath upon thein. Such is the story of the "Kali Nag" or "Kaji Nag." It may, of course, have nothing to do with snake worship, but it is at least a quaint legend accounting for a place-name.

Chapter II The Legend Of Aishmukam

Another story which is, to say the least of it, " snaky," is that of Pohar Pajjan and Aishmukam, which was only unearthed by me one day through my nearly stepping on a snake.

My shikari and I were climbing up one morning to the top of that ridge which divides the valley of Panjhair and Tral from the Liddar valley. It was autumn, and a suspicion of frost rendered the atmosphere as dear as crystal, whilst the air around us was pervaded with the pungent scent of balsams, the ripening seed-pods of which popped off like little bombs as we brushed past them, scattering their seeds in all direction& From below us came the noisy clucking of chukor and the chattering of a troop of monkeys feeding in the nut-bushes; and, as we topped the ridge, a couple of cock koklas pheasants, who had been basking and preening themselves in the morning sun, flew off in alarm.

Even if, on reaching the top of the hill, I did express a desire to stop and " admire the view," the reason that I wished to recover my breath was, in this case, not the only one ; for, indeed, such was the beauty of the ^cene, that it would have been a sin not to stop and admire it. Behind me lay the vale of Kashmir, stretching away in a watery plain to the great barrier formed by the Pir Punjal, Kaji Nag, and Shamshaberi Kanges. The whole land had an aspect of that mellowness which precedes the bare and grey old age of the closing year. The streams, reduced in volume, meandered through a plain of yellow grass and golden crops, like threads of silver in an oriental cloth of gold, each silver thread edged with green— those willows which, being amongst the first to put on their spring garment of delicate green leaves, are, however, the last to change it, when the rest of the tree world is adopting autunm fashions. Here and there a clump of chenar trees added a brilliant patch of colour to the scene, their leaves ranging through every shade of bronze to a deep, warm red, only outdone in brightness of colour by the little fields of red and yellow " gunhar " * growing on the lower slopes of the hills above the villages.

Even the houses of the villages themselves had assumed an autumn dress of golden yellow, covered as they were by the first firesh-picked maize spread out on the roofs to dry, with perhaps a string of red chillies as an extra ornament. The bright tones of the nut-bushes and other undergrowth made the pine forests look by contrast more dark and sombre than usual. To my left front rose the bare, precipitous hills which divide the heads of the Liddar and Sind valleys, each crag and precipice standing out sharp and clear in the crisp air and morning sunlight, bare and forbidding, yet softened by a sprinkling of soft snow and a faint pink tinge borrowed perhaps firom the withered grasses and redleaved saxifrages growing amongst the grey rocks. Below and in front of me lay the Liddar valley and stream, with Aishmukam and other villages forming another picture of mellow fertility; whilst to my right front rose the hills of Eishtwar and Sum, amongst which the twin peaks of Nimkun stood forth conspicuously.

^ Qunbar (Aramanihtu) : a late autnmn crop, the plant being very much like the " cock's comb " of Bnglish gardens.

THE LEGEND OF AISHMUKAM 18

Whilst sitting and enjoying this lovely view, the tinkling of a beU attracted my attention, and, looking in the direction whence the sound came, I saw a man coming down the ridge, driving two buffaloes before him. Thinking that he might turn down a little path which ran down a spur towards a village, and as my shikari wished also to question him upon the subject of stags, we rose and went to meet him. Just as we met, and the men were exchanfi^njr the usual '^ Salam Aleikums," a Bnake wriggled out of a patch of Bcrub near which I had stepped. Now when I see a snake my one idea is to slay it, my theory being, Kill it first and find out whether it is poisonous afterwards; ^'Pahil^ lat, pich^ bat," as the natives say, *' The blow first and talk about it later." According to my custom and inclination, I at once pursued the snake with stick uplifted to strike at it. What was my surprise, then, when I heard my Mend with the bufialoes shout to me, ** Mat maro. Sahib, mat maro ! " (Don't strike. Sahib, don't strike !) So astonished was I, indeed, that I hesitated and turned round towards the speaker, a hesitation which, of course, allowed the snake to make its escape. Eather indignant at being prevented from carrjring out an act so worthy — to my mind — ^as that of killing a snake, I said to the man somewhat brusquely, ^*Is that snake a pet of yours that you tell me not to kill it?"

" Oh no, Sahib," he said quite calmly, " but it won't hurt you though, if you don't hurt it."

** Perhaps not," I replied, ** but it may bite some one else, which it would not have had a chance of doing had I killed itl"

" No," said he, " the snakes here are not like that ; they never bite a man unless he wilfully molests them."

My experience of snakes in general had not taught me to place much &ith in their affitbility, and I saw no good reason for doing bo in the case of this particular reptile, which had appeared to me just about as nastylooking as any snake I had ever seen ; so I asked the protector of serpents how those of this district differed from others, " That's a long story," he replied, " but if your honour so wishes I will tell you." His honour did wish, so, having got out a pipe and seated myself on a rock, I listened with interest to the story of :

Zainudin-Walli op Fohab Pajjan

AND AlSHMUKAM

"Many, many years ago the Liddarwat was not inhabited, being given over to the beasts of the forest and djins and fairies. Gradually men moved up the valley, clearing jimgle, bringing water in little irrigation cuts from the river, and making little patches of cultivation near the huts which they built. But beyond a certain point, no man could establish himself on account of the enmity of numberless snakes, and that djin who, in the form of a snake, was the king of them all. Many had tried to build houses and settle there ; but all had either died of snake bites, or had been obliged to beat a retreat.

"At last there came to the country a very holy Pir, named Zainudin-Walli, who, on seeing the stream, the fertile valley, and the gently sloping hills, asked why it was that no one lived in such a spot, where but little labour might produce fine crops of rice and com, and where there was grazing for so many cattle. Then the people told him of the djin, who, assuming the form of a snake, lived in a cave on the side of the hill, and how that this evil one and all the snakes who were his subjects prevented them from settling and living there. So the Pir, who in his sanctity feared nought, desired

THE LEGEND OF AISHMUKAM 16

the people to show him the cave where the djin lived, and with several men as guides, set out for the spot.

" When they came near to the cave, the men who accompanied the saint pointed to the dwelling of the djin, but would not themselves go near. But Zainudin- Walli without hesitation entered the cave, and at once perceived a large serpent, which raised its crest and hissed at him with widespread hood. Nothing daunted, the Pir, calling upon Allah and the prophet, cursed the snake and turned him into stone. And thus he stands, a figure of stone to this day, and on his broad hooded head a lamp is kept burning in honour of the saint who overcame him. When Zainudin-Walli had disposed of this djin who was king of the snakes, he summoned to him all the rest, and ordered that in future they should bite no man unless he first attacked them and tried to harm them.