Rhamon

Front matter

Rhamon A Boy of Kashmir

By Heluiz Washburne

Pictured by Roger Duvoisin

Fishing

RHAMON was fishing. Squatting carelessly on a narrow board that reached from the window of the houseboat to the river bank, he dropped his line into the clear water beneath. In the dark shadows of the overhanging bushes he could see the flash of a silvery fish as it glided past.

Rhamon was a small brown-skinned Indian boy. He had a little twisted foot, so he limped when he walked. But no one noticed his limp because Rhamon was always smiling. And when he smiled his big, brown eyes danced and his white teeth sparkled. His clothes were not very fine, but he wore a splendid turban, made of many yards of white cotton cloth, wound around and around his head.

Rhamon had spent all his life in the beautiful Valley of Kashmir, high up in the Himalaya Mountains. Happy Valley it was called, for here was a clear lake with many fish. Bright-colored birds flitted through the trees, fruits of all kinds grew on the grassy slopes, sweet-smelling flowers dotted the fields. And piled up on all sides were the mighty mountains.

A great old river wound its way through the narrow valley. Where the ground was low the river flooded over it and ran along in little winding canals. Small trees grew on the marshy banks and made feathery lace-like patterns

against the blue sky. On the lake, the river, and the canals were little houseboats where people lived. Rhamon's home was one of these houseboats on the water. It was not a large houseboat, and the roof was only a thick layer of woven reeds. Inside, it was barely high enough for his father to stand up straight without bumping his head. Ever since he could remember, Rhamon had been able to run along the narrow boards that stretched the length of the boat just outside the windows, and he had never fallen into the water.

Rhamon's father, Subro, was squatting on the deck of the houseboat, enjoying the sunshine and smoking his big water pipe that stood on the floor before him. As he puffed, the water in the glass jar bubbled and gurgled. And the blue smoke curled and twisted in the lazy breeze. Subro was a tall dark man with a black curly beard. He wore long white clothes that rustled as he walked. When he was angry his brown eyes were dark and fiery, but now as he smiled at Rhamon they twinkled and were full of fun.

Fishing was good today. Rhamon gave his pole a jerk, and up came a little silvery fish, twisting and wiggling and glittering in the sunlight. In went the hook again and up came another fish. And then another! Rhamon grew excited, for he had never known the fish to bite so fast. It wouldn't be long, he thought, before he had a good pailful all ready for supper.

He threw in his line again and waited. Soon he felt a fish take hold. He would land this fellow in a hurry. He gave a big jerk, and—splash! over he went backwards, line, fish and all! Subro jumped to his feet and ran to the rescue. When Rhamon was dragged to the deck, his turban was over one ear, and his clothes were wet and soggy. But his eyes were twinkling and his white teeth showed in a merry grin.

Cooking Supper

Rhamon's mother quickly stripped off his wet clothes and wrapped him in a warm blanket. Then he made himself comfortable in a corner of the houseboat and watched her cook the evening meal over a little charcoal fire.

First she lit one or two small pieces of charcoal and blew on them until they were glowing

red. Then she placed other pieces on top and kept on blowing. Soon the fire was going and she put a pot of rice over the burning coals.

Rhamon's mother was little and very pretty. Her large dark eyes were half shaded by long, black lashes. Big silver rings were fastened through her ears, and from these hung many silver bangles that touched her shoulders. She wore heavy silver bracelets around her slender wrists.

Below her baggy white trousers silver anklets clinked when she walked. She even wore rings on her toes, for she always went barefoot. While she worked she sang, and Rhamon loved to listen. Her voice made music like the soft lapping of the water and the throbbing song of the bulbul bird.

While the rice was boiling, Rhamon's mother made the chuppaties for supper. She pulled off a little wad of the dough she had mixed, and spread it out into a thin round cake. Then she rolled it up, twisted the roll around and patted it out flat once more. It was ready to be cooked then, so she dropped it on a dry hot griddle and set it over the fire. When the fire grew low she added more charcoal and blew on it to keep it hot. While the first chupatti was cooking she rolled out the next one. But always she watched theone on the fire. When it began to curl around the edge and turn brown, she quickly flopped it over to cook on the other side.

Rhamon liked these hot chupatties, and it made him hungry to smell them cooking. When supper was ready his mother set a tray before him on the floor. On it were a bowl of rice, a plate of the fish Rhamon had caught, and a second bowl filled with curded milk. Using his fingers and bits of chuppati to scoop up his food, he soon had finished it all. Subro, squatting beside him on the floor, had another tray. And while they ate, Rhamon's mother cooked more chuppaties.

That night when the sun went down, Rhamon watched the mountains change from gold to deep rose, then purple. And finally as night crept over the valley, they seemed to be draped in velvety blackness. Then he watched the stars come out one by one in the dark sky. Rhamon never felt alone when the stars were shining. The big moon slid up from behind the mountains and made a yellow path across the water to his very window.

Lying in his narrow bed, Rhamon listened to the night sounds—the evening call of the bulbul, the splash of the water against the boat, and the cry of the heron from the reed beds in the river. Before he went to sleep he watched for the one light that gleamed from a lonely temple on the top of a nearby hill.

Making a Garden

In the morning when Rhamon looked out of his window, he could see all around him the great peaks of the Himalaya Mountains. There were rows and rows of them, one beyond the other, till the last ones seemed like purple shadows in the distance.

In the winter they were snow-covered and dazzling in the sunlight. In the early spring the lower slopes were brown, and long white fingers of snow reached down their rocky sides. Sometimes they were bathed in rain and their tops were lost in the billowy clouds. Now they had turned a soft green, and pink and white fruit trees blossomed at their feet.

Rhamon loved to watch the morning sunlight paint the snowcaps in magic colors and creep down the mountainsides to light the valley.

Looking deep into the water, Rhamon thought there must be two worlds—the rightside-up world where the mountains and trees stretched up into the sky, and the upside-down world which he glimpsed in the water, mountains and trees reaching downward.

Through the window Rhamon could see Subro working on the family patch of floating garden. Ever since Rhamon could remember, a garden had floated beside their houseboat, but he was very proud of this one because he had helped his father to make it. First Subro had dragged the mud up from the bottom of the lake with long tongs. Then Rhamon had helped him mix the mud with twigs and shape it into big round clumps. They had let these dry in the sun. Later, when they had enough of them, they had bound the clumps together with long reeds to make a sort of raft. Now the garden was all finished, and ready to be planted.

So it would not drift away, Subro had stuck a great pole through it down into the muddy bottom of the lake. But if Subro grew tired of the river and the friendly little canals and wished to move his floating home to some more open spot, he could also move this floating garden. He would just take up the pole that held it fast and tie a rope around one end of the garden. The other end of the rope he would fasten to a ring in the deck of the houseboat.

Rhamon had often helped his father move their boat out into the lake. Standing at the front of the houseboat Subro would take a long pole and sink one end away down to the bottom of the river. Then, putting his shoulder against the pole, he would lean forward and shove and shove while walking along the boards toward the back end of the boat.

Slowly the boat would move forward, pulling the garden behind. Then he would take the pole out and go to the front, shove it in again and once more walk the length of the boat. Rhamon's pole was lighter than his father's, but he would follow along behind him, pushing with all his strength.

After a long time of poling like this the boat would be out in the big Dal Lake. Then Subro would always say, "Be careful, my son. The water here is very deep in places." And Rhamon would laugh. He would not fall in!

This morning Subro was planting cucumbers and melons in the garden. As soon as Rhamon had finished his breakfast, he ran out to help his father before the sun grew hot.

They worked until all the seeds were planted.

Then Subro looked up and said, "This morning I am going to the city. Would you like to go with me, Rhamon?" A broad smile was Rhamon's only answer, as he dashed for the houseboat to get his sandals and rewind his turban.

A Trip to the City

Subro had a small, flat boat called a shikara. He kept it tied to his houseboat. It was long and narrow, pointed at the ends, and lay close to the water. Instead of oars, it had long-handled paddles with heart-shaped ends. Subro used it to visit his friends on other houseboats or to go to the city of Srinagar. Usually he paddled it himself, but when he was in a hurry he took his brothers Ibrahim and Ramzana to help him.

This morning he was taking his son. When Rhamon came out he jumped down into the back end of the shikara beside his father. Taking up their paddles they worked together with long quick strokes. Each stroke ended with a jerk that shot the boat forward through the water.

Rhamon made up his mind that when he was a man he would have his very own shikara—a splendid big one with fine carving, soft cushions inside and a place for six oarsmen.

On their way down the river they passed boats of every description. There were shikaras like their own, skimming swiftly over the water, merchant boats, dugouts loaded with vegetables, slow-gliding grain barges, and some being poled along by a man or woman who stood balancing far out on the tip.

Rhamon enjoyed these trips with his father to Srinagar. There was much to see and do there, and today he had a few annas to spend for sweets in the bazaars. Subro took his bubbling water pipe with him, for he was sure to meet

his friends in the city. They would smoke and visit together before he returned.

Rhamon had his friends too. First he went to see Aziz, the old shoemaker, who had the little shop on the corner. Aziz made beautiful red leather slippers with curving pointed toes. Rhamon loved the nice leathery smell and the smooth feel of the big, colored skins that hung on the wall. He stayed a long time with the old man, listening to the stories he wove as he made wonderful patterns on a pair of shoes.

"These are for our great Rajah, the King," said Aziz, holding up the slippers and looking at them proudly. "He is coming here soon to his summer palace. There will be a great celebration in his honor. People will take him gifts of welcome. And these shall be my present. Allah be praised!"

The Rajah coming! The great King who lived in the beautiful palace! Rhamon stood silent. All his life he had heard of the Rajah. He wished he might see him—just once.

As Rhamon turned to limp from the shop, the old shoemaker smiled at him. "Some day," he said, "I shall make you a pair of slippers, and not even a king shall have a better pair!"

Before Subro returned to his home, he took Rhamon to the house of Subhanna, a rich merchant who lived down the river. The upper floors of Subhanna's big house hung out over the water and when Rhamon leaned from the high windows, he could see all that was happening on the water below.

Subhanna made beautiful articles out of silver. But he sold many other things besides the ones he made himself. There were shelves and shelves of bells, big elephant bells that made a deep "C-L-I-N-G, C-L-A-N-G" as the great beasts walked. There were pretty brass camel bells and even tiny tinkly ones for the goats that clambered on the mountainsides.

Rhamon saw an immense silver bowl standing on the table in one corner. Its handles were set with bits of gold and precious stones.

"This is a rare treasure," said Subhanna, touching it gently. "The Rajah is coming soon to his summer palace. There will be a great procession on the river, and hundreds of boats. People will bring him presents. And I shall take him this feasting bowl."

Rhamon sighed and turned to look at an old black gong that hung by the door. From a faraway temple it had come, where once it called the people to their prayers. Rhamon took up the padded stick and struck it. "Boo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-m-m-m-m!" The great sound filled the room and seemed to echo from every wall. The frightened birds on the window-sill spread their wings and flew away to quieter places.

Rhamon climbed after his father up some dark and narrow stairs to still higher rooms. The steps were steep and made of rough stone and earth. On every floor were rooms and rooms filled with old and precious goods, but all of them were grey with dust. Subro wished to see one of the copper bowls.

Subhanna clapped his hands to call a servant. Then the servant came with charcoal dust and water. Sitting on his heels on the floor he mixed these into a paste and spread it all over the bowl. Then he rubbed and rubbed with his hands until the copper sparkled and shone. Many bowls and vases the servant polished in this way for Subro. But before they left, Subro had finally bought a beautiful great perfume jar, made of copper worked with many colors.

"For whom do you buy that wondrous jar, my father?" asked Rhamon, as they paddled off in their shikara.

But Subro only smiled. Some day his son would know.

All the way home Rhamon was silent. He was looking ahead to the coming of the Rajah. If only he could think of some way by which he might see the great procession of boats on the river!

Thieves

Late the next afternoon Rhamon was sitting on the narrow walk that ran around the outside of the houseboat. He was feeling happy, for his mother had just given him a freshly cooked chuppati wrapped about a bit of meat. As he munched it he dabbled his toes in the water and listened to the distant chiming of a temple bell. A mist hung over the river and the sun had almost set.

Suddenly he saw two men coming up the river, poling their boat very slowly and looking from side to side. Rhamon knew all the men of his own little village, but these were strangers. He wondered what they were doing, why they were going so slowly and looking around so carefully. He decided to watch them.

In a moment he saw them slide up beside a big piece of floating garden. Rhamon knew that it belonged to his neighbors who were away on a picnic across the lake. One of the men pulled out the long pole that held it in place. The other tied a big rope to one end of the garden. Suddenly Rhamon realized that these men were thieves from another village, come to carry away the garden.

Stuffing the last bit of chupatti into his mouth, Rhamon jumped quickly from his seat and slipped into the shikara that lay alongside the walk. In a moment he had untied the rope that held it to the houseboat. Soon he was shooting down the river toward the city of Srinagar.

When he looked back he saw the men slowly poling their boat away. And the garden was going with them, back to their own village. He paddled with all his strength. At the landing by the big bridge, Rhamon pulled the boat up on the shore. He must find his uncle, the Chief of Police. He hurried down one little street, turned a corner and ran up another. His foot was beginning to hurt, but he did not stop. When he finally reached the office he was almost out of breath. "Quick, Uncle, quick!" he panted. "Some men are stealing a garden!"

The big Chief of Police twirled his fierce black moustache, and rubbed his nose. Then he called loudly for two of his men. Rhamon shivered at the sound of his voice. It seemed to come rumbling up from the soles of his big red slippers. Settling his huge turban farther on his head, the Chief took Rhamon's hand and started off with long strides. Rhamon could hardly keep step with him, but he felt very proud. Was he not walking down the streets of the city with the Chief of Police? Everyone made way for them and salaamed, touching his hands to his forehead and bowing low.

"Jump into my boat," said his uncle. "We shall catch these thieves! My two men will follow in your shikara."

Away they sped, paddling swiftly past all the other boats. Suddenly Rhamon dropped his paddle and pointing up the river, cried, "There they are!" By now the thieves had seen the police also. Quickly they untied the garden they were towing behind them. In another minute they had disappeared into one of the many little canals.

"Now we have lost them!" exclaimed the Chief of Police, rubbing his big nose. "But by the grace of Allah, we shall catch them yet!"

"By the help of Allah perhaps, but by my help, too," thought Rhamon, for he was sure he would know those two men again if ever he saw them.

"And you can be glad you have saved the man's garden, Rhamon," said his uncle, seeing the boy's disappointment. "You are clever. Some day you may be a policeman yourself."

"Yes," thought Rhamon. "Some day I shall be a Chief of Police, and have a big moustache like my uncle."

The Monarch

Subro owned five or six of the finest houseboats on the river. In the summer he often rented them to people who came up into the mountains from the hot parts of India. The most beautiful one of all his houseboats was called the Monarch. Subro's own little houseboat was anchored not far from this one. So Rhamon saw everything that happened on board the Monarch. This summer an American man and his wife came to live on it. Rhamon called them the Sahib and Mem Sahib. When they arrived he heard his father say, "Sahib, the Monarch is a little floating palace. You shall live like a king on that boat."

And indeed Rhamon thought so too, for he had often been inside. He had felt the soft, thick carpets under his little bare feet. He loved the pretty colors of the embroideries that hung from the windows and covered the beds. And he liked to trace with his fingers the patterns of the wood carvings around the windows and doors.

Almost every day the river merchants poled their boats slowly up alongside the Monarch and looked in through the windows. Holding up some special treasure they would begin, "Mem Sahib will look? In all the world Mem Sahib will not find beads like these. Lady Sahib not buy, only look!" Their soft voices kept on and on until Mem Sahib looked.

Rhamon loved to talk with these merchants and see all the beautiful things they had brought to sell to the American Mem Sahib. There were soft shawls, gay wool embroideries, dainty bits of hand-worked silver, lovely boxes made of brass and crushed turquoise, beads and bracelets and fine wood carvings. Sometimes the merchants came up onto the tiny deck of the Monarch. Then Rhamon feasted his eyes on the piles of wonderful things that came tumbling out of their packs.

One day the American Sahib and his wife, the Mem Sahib, wished to cross the lake to a wonderful Persian garden that was known to everyone for its beauty. It was called Nishat Bagh, the Garden of Happiness. Subro had made everything ready for the trip. A beautiful big shikara floated beside the Monarch. It was long and slim and its carved prow rose gracefully out of the water. An awning was stretched over the middle part of the boat to keep off the hot sun. Hanging from this were little white side curtains, gay with bright red embroidery.

The Sahib and Mem Sahib stepped down inside and settled themselves on the big springy cushions. Bundles of lunch were stowed in the bottom of the boat. Subro's brothers, Ibrahim and Ramzana, and two other boatmen climbed into the back part. Rhamon was not going to be left behind, so he scrambled over the edge and took his place beside them. Picking up their paddles, they sent the boat through the water with long swift strokes.

Rhamon loved to help. Although his paddle was smaller than the men's, he could work as well as any of them. He never missed a stroke and his black eyes danced with delight.

Slender willow trees lined the banks of the tiny canals through which they wound their way. Ducks were paddling in the water. On the bank a wedding party was feasting and merry-making. Other boats glided quickly past them. In one a boy had a load of tree branches he had cut for the family fire. In another an old man

squatted out on the front tip, lazily smoking his hubble-bubble pipe. Sometimes the boats were poled by women dressed in ragged clothes, wearing many silver bracelets and heavy earrings.

When Rhamon rested from his paddling he liked to trail his hands in the cool water or pull up the pink and white water lilies that floated on the river. He could see their long stems through the clear water reaching down, down to the muddy bottom.

The Garden of Happiness

The boat came out of the river and crossed the big lake to the Garden of Happiness. Here it was made fast and everyone jumped out. Rhamon wanted to skip and dance, for he had never seen anything so lovely. Fruit trees were in bloom everywhere, standing white against the background of rough brown mountains; as if the snow from the highest peaks had blown down and settled on their branches, he thought.

Forgetting his lame foot, he ran limping along the great stretches of green grass, stopping to smell of the purple and yellow pansies that grew on the borders. He looked at his reflection in the pools of clear water, felt the spray of the sparkling fountains on his face, and laughed for joy.

Then he saw Subro coming up the path and asked him, "Who made these great gardens, my father?"

Subro answered, "Long ago, there was a noble Emperor named Jahanjir. He had a wife whom he loved with all his heart. To please' her he made this beautiful garden. And here they often came to spend happy hours together. Players and singers filled the air with music. Dancing girls entertained them, slaves waited on them. And so it is called the Garden of Happiness."

A golden butterfly fluttered in the rainbow mist of the fountain and Rhamon started toward it.

"Come now," called Subro, "and help unpack the lunch."

Rhamon ran back to the boat, and a big silver teapot was placed in his arms. He carried it up the path between the rows of giant Chenar trees, and stopped in the shade of one, bigger than all the others. Here spring beauties bloomed in the grass and made a pink and white carpet on which to set out the lunch.

"You were here when the Great Emperor came to this garden," thought Rhamon, looking up at the king of trees. "Your spreading branches kept him cool when the sun was hot, as they will keep us cool today. And if it rains, not a drop will fall between your thick leaves to wet us."

Ibrahim brought up a big cake and Ramzana came with bundles of sandwiches. The others brought more things, and soon the feast was ready.

There was good food for Rhamon to eat too, sweet cakes and a cup of warm tea. He took them back to the boat and sat there enjoying them. The cool breeze ruffled his hair and the warm sun beat on his back.

Soon another shikara slid slowly up beside him. It was poled by a little girl, and in the far front end sat her baby brother. Her dark hair was braided in with heavy black yarn to make it thicker, and hung far down her back in many pigtails. She wore large silver earrings and a tiny embroidered cap.

The little girl's big black eyes gazed longingly at the cake Rhamon was eating. She did not say a word, but Rhamon guessed what she wanted. He looked at his cake. It was not often he had a treat like this. And he had been eating it slowly to make it last. Then he looked into the little girl's dark eyes. Breaking his cake in half, he put a piece into her eager hand.

Then his heart was glad, for suddenly her face broke into a shy smile showing a row of white teeth. She stuffed the bit of cake into her mouth as if she were afraid Rhamon would ask to have it back. Then pushing the long pole deep into the water she slid her boat out into the lake again.

It was nearly dark when the party started home. Rhamon watched the sunset colors changing on the snowy mountains. As night came on he tried to count the stars reflected in the black water. The boat slid silently past the shadowy trees. Tiny lights appeared in the houseboats anchored by the shores. Sometimes the good smell of food cooking for the evening meal made Rhamon sniff and wrinkle up his little nose. He would like a big dish of spicy curry and some fluffy white rice.

How quiet everything was! Hardly a leaf stirred in the trees. There was no sound but the swi-i-i-ish! swi-i-ish! swi-i-i-ish! of the paddles and the drip of the water as it fell away from the blades.

Suddenly the stillness was broken by the rich voice of one of the boatmen. It was Ibrahim, singing an old Kashmir boat song. One by one

the others joined him. Rhamon sang too, his voice rising clear and sweet above the men's deeper ones. Soon the night air was throbbing with the music. Then with his hands Subro began to beat the rhythm of the song on the side of the boat. Another boatman drummed on his paddle laid across his knees.

Sometimes their voices swelled to great shouts of joy. Then the boat sped swiftly through the water from the force of their strokes. But sometimes their song faded to a whisper of sadness and there were tears in their singing. Then the boat glided slowly through the darkness.

That evening the men gathered on Subro's little houseboat to sing together. They squatted on the floor in a circle and each held something to make music—a big red clay pot, a bell or a pair of homemade clappers. Ibrahim started a song. The others joined in, swaying from side to side. Then they began to ring the bells, clap the clappers, and beat on the pots.

Ramzana hit the open top of his pot with the palm of one hand, and tapped the rounded side with the fingers of the other. It made a hollow drumming sound. Subro wore heavy silver rings on the ends of his fingers to make the sound sharper.

Rhamon was there too, of course, singing his heart out and shaking his head under his huge white turban. He loved this strange sweet music. He did not have an instrument to play, but he beat time on his father's knee with his hands and wrists. "Some day," he thought, "I shall be a man and then I shall play on one of the big red pots, and have silver rings on my fingers."