7th February. Dungerkamaluma is a small village at the foot of a
low mountain. A short distance from the station lay a true Arabian
sand desert, but which was fortunately not of very great extent.
The sand plains of India are generally capable of being cultivated,
as it is only necessary to dig a few feet deep to reach water, with
which to irrigate the fields. Even in this little desert were a few
fine-looking wheat fields.
This evening I thought that I should have been obliged to make use
of my pistols. My waggoner always wanted every one to give him the
road; if they did not do so, he abused them. Today we came upon
half a dozen of armed traveller-waggoners, who took no notice of the
calls of my driver, upon which he was enraged, and threatened to
strike them with his whip. If it had come to blows, we should, no
doubt, in spite of my aid, have come off the worst; but they
contented themselves with mutual abuse and threats, and the fellows
got out of the way.
I have everywhere remarked that the Indians jangle and threaten a
great deal, but that they never go beyond that. I have lived a
great deal among the people and observed them, and have often seen
anger and quarrelling, but never fighting. Indeed, when their anger
lasts long, they sit down together.
