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Updated: August 27, 2024
At this point my two yaks, which I noticed had been marching with more than usual smartness, bolted while I was ordering Chanden Sing and Mansing to take down the loads, and went straight into the water. In attempting to make them turn back, Mansing threw a stone at them, which, instead of having the desired effect, sent them on all the faster.
Naturally my servants and myself were overjoyed at our unexpected luck, after sufferings and privations of all kinds, in finding ourselves confronted with abundance of everything we could possibly desire. Chanden Sing and Mansing, who were sportsmen of the very first order, delighted at the prospect of getting animals, rode first one pony and then another to suit themselves.
There were Humlis and Jumlis, mountain tribesmen living near the Tibetan border; they wore their long black hair tied into small braids and a topknot. There were Tibetans, Shokas, Rongbas, Nepalese all good mountaineers. Then there were Chanden Sing and Mansing belonging to the Rajiput caste. There were a Brahmin, two native Christians, and a Johari. Then Doctor Wilson. What a collection!
Mansing had been found sound asleep, several miles back, lying flat by the side of the empty butter-pot. He had eaten all the butter. When we discovered this every one in camp was angry. The natives valued fat and butter as helping to keep them warm when going over those cold passes.
"Hum murr, Maharaja!" This natural application for food seemed to afford intense amusement to our torturers. They formed a ring round us, and laughed at our appeal, while Mansing and I, both of us famished, were left bound in a most painful position. The day had now waned. Our torturers did not fail to constantly remind us that the following day our heads would be severed from our bodies.
At the latter place a conference was held on my case by the Lieutenant-Governor. I paid off my faithful coolie Mansing, giving him enough for a start in life. He accompanied me to Kathgodam, the northern terminus of the railway. Genuine grief showed on his face when Chanden Sing and I stepped into the train.
Chanden Sing and Mansing, the two Hindoos, without any clothing except a loincloth, were squatting near the edge of the lake having their heads shaved by Bijesing, the Johari. I must confess that I was somewhat annoyed when I saw them using my best razor for the purpose.
Mansing, the philosopher of our party, interrupted in his feed, but undisturbed by what was going on, picked up the fruit and cheese and pieces of butter scattered all over the ground, mumbling that it was a shame to throw away good food in such a reckless fashion.
We could not find sufficient dry fuel to make a fire, so we intrusted Mansing with the animal as far as our next camp, where we proposed to indulge in a feast. The Brahmaputra had here several ramifications, mostly ending in lakelets, and rendering the plain a regular swamp.
He had been pounced upon at the same moment that I was, and had fought gallantly until, like myself, he had been entangled, thrown down, and secured with ropes. During my struggle I heard him call out repeatedly: "Banduk, banduk, Mansing; jaldi, banduk!" Mansing was a philosopher.
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