No nightingales ever sing for me, either in the neighboring groves,
or in my own heart. The latter least of all.
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Let us stroll along this wall of reddish stone. It will lead us
to a fortress once celebrated and drenched with blood, now harmless
and half ruined, like many another Indian fortress. Flocks of
green parrots, startled by our approach, fly from under every
cavity of the old wall, their wings shining in the sun like so
many flying emeralds. This territory is accursed by Englishmen.
This is Chandvad, where, during the Sepoy mutiny, the Bhils streamed
from their ambuscades like a mighty mountain torrent, and cut many
an English throat.
Tatva, an ancient Hindu book, treating of the geography of the
times of King Asoka (250-300 B.C.), teaches us that the Mahratti
territory spreads up to the wall of Chandvad or Chandor, and that
the Kandesh country begins on the other side of the river. But
English people do not believe in Tatva or in any other authority
and want us to learn that Kandesh begins right at the foot of
Chandor hillocks.
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Twelve miles south-east from Chandvad there is a whole town of
subterranean temples, known under the name of Enkay-Tenkay. Here,
again, the entrance is a hundred feet from the base, and the hill
is pyramidal. I must not attempt to give a full description of
these temples, as this subject must be worked out in a way quite
impossible in a newspaper article.
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