Beads of Water, Drops of Gold

5 ____________________ I t was mid-June when Younghusband set off in the torrential early monsoon rain from Darjeeling, heading north-eastwards. He was accompanied by a small escort and Mohammed Esa, mounted on his grey horse and with his pipe planted firmly in the corner of his mouth. “Drogpa”, as others affectionately called Mohammed, was a large, muscular man with a ready smile who always wore a loose black sheepskin over his broad shoulders and an old green velvet cap atop his mop of tousled black hair. As the Commissioner’s caravan bashi, Mohammed, together with a local Sikkimese syce, had the task of looking after the pack ponies. Though Darjeeling was a much more sedate town than Simla, Younghusband was happy to escape from yet another social whirl and be on horseback again, this time heading down into the almost tropical heat of the Teesta Valley. As they passed the flourishing tea plantations, each one marked by a well-kept bungalow with wickerwork table and chairs on its verandah, he admired the immaculate and beautifully trimmed hedges, lawns and rosegardens. The Teesta River carved its way down from the northern Himalayan foothills to the Indian plain further south. The lower valley, only a few hundred feet above sea level, was sweltering now, but at least he would enjoy the splendid variety of flora on its banks. To be able to spend time in the central valley of this natural hot-house was every botanist’s dream, he knew, and he wondered why he was not staying here, instead of going soldiering in a wild and remote land to the north. He carried his notebook with him, a temporary personal diary from which he could transfer to a more solid one when he returned from a journey. He had begun this one when he left Simla for Darjeeling and in it were his latest reflections on Lord Curzon, his doubts about taking on the Mission, and a few botanical observations on the train journey up to Darjeeling. He noted his impressions of the tea plantations he had just...