Djam Ali Khan, The Present Ruler Of The State Of Las Beila, Is About
Fifty Years Of Age, And Is A Firm Ally Of England.
The Djam is a
vassal of the Khan of Kelat, but, like most independent Baluch chiefs,
only nominally so.
So far as I could glean, the court of Kelat has no
influence whatsoever beyond a radius of twenty miles or so from that
city. The provinces of Sarawan, Jhalawan, Kach-Gandava, Mekran, [D] and
Las Beila, which constitute the vast tract of country known as Kalati
Baluchistan, are all governed by independent chiefs, nominally
viceroys of the Khan of Kelat. Practically, however, the latter
has little or no supremacy over them, nor indeed over any part of
Baluchistan, Kelat and its suburbs excepted.
Prince Kumal Khan received me in his father's durbar-chamber, a
cheerless, whitewashed apartment, bare of furniture save for a
somewhat rickety "throne" of painted wood, and a huge white linen
punkah, overlooking a dreary landscape of barren desert and mud roofs.
The prince, a tall, slim young man, about twenty-five years of
age, has weak but not unpleasing features. He was dressed in a
close-fitting tunic of dark-blue cloth, heavily trimmed with gold
braid, baggy white linen trousers, and a pair of European side-spring
boots, very dirty and down at heel. A light-blue turban completed his
attire.
The interview was not interesting. Notwithstanding all my efforts and
the services of the interpreter, Kumal was evidently shy and ill at
ease, and resolutely refused to enter into conversation. One thing,
however, roused him. Hearing that I was accompanied by a Russian,
Kumal eagerly demanded that he should be sent for. Gerome presently
made his appearance, and was stared at, much to his discomfiture and
annoyance, as if he had been a wild beast. A pair of white-linen
drawers, no socks, carpet slippers, and a thin jersey, were my
faithful follower's idea of a costume suitable to the Indian
climate - surmounted by the somewhat inappropriate head-dress of a
huge astrakhan cap, which for no earthly consideration could he be
persuaded to exchange for a turban. "So that is a Russian!" said the
prince, curiously surveying him from head to foot. "I thought they
were all big men!" But patience has limits, and, with a muttered
"Dourak," [E] poor Gerome turned and left the princely presence in
anything but a respectful manner.
Coffee and nargileh discussed, my host moved an adjournment to the
roof of the palace, where, he said, I should obtain a better view of
his father's city. This ceremony concluded, the trumpets sounded, a
gentle hint that the audience was at an end, and I took leave, and
returned to camp outside the walls of the town.
The Wazir, or Prime Minister, of the Djam paid me a visit in the
evening _sans ceremonie_ - a jolly-looking, fresh-complexioned old
fellow, dressed in a suit of karki, cut European fashion, and with
nothing Oriental about him save a huge white linen turban. The Wazir
spoke English fairly well, and, waxing confidential over a cigar and
whisky-and-water (like my Sonmiani friend, the Wazir was no strict
Mussulman), entertained me with an account of the doings of the
Court in Beila and the _aventures galantes_ of Kumal, who, from all
accounts, was a veritable Don Juan. "Will the Russians ever take
India?" asked the old fellow of Gerome, as he left the tent. "You can
tell them they shall never get it so long as _we_ can prevent them;"
but the next moment the poor Wazir, to Gerome's delight, had measured
his length on the ground. Either the night was very dark, or the
whisky very strong; a tent-rope had avenged the taunt levelled at my
companion's countrymen.
Early next morning came a message from Prince Kumal, inviting me
to visit the caves of Shahr-Rogan, an excavated village of great
antiquity, about ten miles from Beila. I gladly accepted. The camels
were tired; the men of the caravan unwilling to proceed for another
day, and time hung heavily on one's hands, with nothing to vary the
monotony but an occasional shot at a wood-pigeon (which swarm about
Beila), or a game of _ecarte_ (for nuts) with Gerome.
The caves were well worth a visit. I could gain no information at
Beila, Quetta, or even Karachi, as to the origin of this curious
cave-city, though there can be no doubt that it is of great antiquity.
Carless the traveller's account is perhaps the most authentic.
"About nine miles to the northward of Beila a range of low hills
sweeps in a semicircle from one side of the valley to the other, and
forms its head. The Purali river issues from a deep ravine on the
western side, and rushes down (in the wet season) about two hundred
yards broad. It is bounded on one side by steep cliffs, forty or
fifty feet high, on the summit of which is an ancient burial-ground.
Following the stream, we gained the narrow ravine through which
it flows, and, turning into one of the lateral branches, entered
Shahr-Rogan."
Here, on the day in question, Prince Kumal called a halt. A couple
of small tents were pitched, and a meal, consisting of an excellent
curry, stewed pigeons, beer, and claret, served. Leaving the Prince
to amuse himself and delight his followers with his skill in
rifle-shooting at a mark chalked out on the rocks, I continued my
explorations. The result is, perhaps, better explained to the reader
in the words of an older and more experienced observer. Carless
says - "The scene was singular. On either side of a wild broken ravine
the rocks rise perpendicularly to the height of four or five hundred
feet, and are excavated, as far as there is footing to ascend, up to
the summit. The excavations are most numerous along the lower part
of the hills, and form distinct houses, most of which are uninjured
by-time.
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