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The Company From end to end of India they trek unceasing. It is of the Road Hke a sort 0f nightmare to think of it. It is like the migration of ants one sees, no beginning, no end, unbroken, crowding, jostling, a whole mysterious way of life beyond all common comprehension. As they are creaking by, or resting with patient bullocks in the shade, I must always scan the faces of this vast company of the road. Some are wild and fanatical, some gentle and fine. The faces of women and children peer out from the frames of the oval basket-work hoods. I wonder at the great size and iron weight of the teak logs they carry and what else there is of cargo to keep them ever moving, moving. The patient bullocks are strong. Tipu Sultan with his bullocks had the better of the English with their horses. He could move forty miles while they moved twenty. Jungle Some five miles beyond Karapur the real jungle Villages viUages begin. They are exquisite. Thatched roofs nestle in banana groves at the forest edge, where the forest is cut like a slice, showing black behind the white boles of enormous trees, or tender green and fine as gossamer where giant bamboo fronds make a feathery screen and plume the sky higher than a palm. Before them gleams a great flat stretch of paddy fields, like a mirror-mosaic, flooded by the rains, viridescent where the rice seedlings are just sprouting; beautiful, slender figures of women with shining brass pots on their heads coming across them, thread
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[facing '. . . THE CONTINUOUS PROCESSION OF THE BULLOCK CARTS . . .'