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Updated: April 30, 2025
My karki suit and underclothes hold almost as much moisture as though I had just been fished out of the river, and my dry-drained corporeal system is clamorous for the wherewithal to quench the fires of its feverish heat as I alight in the suburbs of Amritza and inquire for the dak bungalow.
Companies of tall Sikhs, magnificent-looking fellows, in their trim karki uniforms and monster turbans, are drilling within the native-infantry lines as I wheel through the broad avenues of one of the finest cantonments in all India, and English officers and their wives are taking the morning air on horseback.
At Karki it is said to be one thousand yards wide, and at Kilif perhaps a quarter of a mile.
My saturated karki clothing has been duly wrung out and hung up inside the dak bungalow, the only place where it will not get wetter instead of dryer, and my cook is searching the town in quest of meat, when an English lady and gentleman drive up in a dog-cart and halt before the bungalow. Unaware of the presence of English people in the place, I am taken completely by surprise.
The Wazir, or Prime Minister, of the Djam paid me a visit in the evening sans cérémonie 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. "Will the Russians ever take India?" asked the old fellow of Gerôme, as he left the tent.
"And yet," said Holcombe, after the first half-hour had passed, "there must be a few agreeable people here. I am sure I saw some very nice-looking women to-day coming in from the fox-hunt. And very well gotten up, too, in Karki habits. And the men were handsome, decent-looking chaps Englishmen, I think." "Who does he mean? Were you at the meet to-day?" asked Carroll.
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