For some reason or other, it struck me
that these pillars once belonged to some palace of the "dead town."
On close examination I only grew more convinced that I was right.
Their style bore no traces of Hindu taste; no gods, no fabulous
monster animals, only arabesques and elegant leaves and flowers
of nonexistent plants. The pillars stood very close to each other,
but the carvings prevented them from forming an uninterrupted wall,
so that the ventilation was a little too strong. All the time we
spent at the dinner table miniature hurricanes whistled from behind
every pillar, waking up all our old rheumatisms and toothaches,
which had peacefully slumbered since our arrival in India.
The front of the house was thickly covered with iron horseshoes--
the best precaution against evil spirits and evil eyes.
At the foot of a broad, carved staircase we came across a couch
or a cradle, hung from the ceiling by iron chains. I saw somebody
lying on it, whom, at first sight, I mistook for a sleeping Hindu,
and was going to retreat discreetly, but, recognizing my old friend
Hanuman, I grew bold and endeavored to examine him. Alas! the poor
idol possessed only a head and neck, the rest of his body was a
heap of old rags.
On the left side of the verandah there were many more lateral rooms,
each with a special destination, some of which I have mentioned
already. The largest of these rooms was called "vattan," and was
used exclusively by the fair sex.
Pages:
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180