Shodipore, Kashmir

Sunday, May 26, 1929

Our fishing party was unsuccessful last night. Sat all wrapped up in a blanket a la Indian, fishing from the living room window, but we started too late.

After breakfast we slipped out into the swift Sind River and rapidly floated downstream. Couldn’t have been a more perfect day—in more ways than one. Abdulla actually got busy and swept the dining room rugs. Had lunch as we drifted through the green meadows. Lussoo had made a large bowl of mulberry jam and it was about the last word.

Shortly after noon we tied up at Shodipore at the mouth of the Sind River. Nearby a row of Chinar trees tower above the several houseboats and dungas. Across the low pastures one can trace the winding course of the river by the willows, the poplars, and the Chinars growing along the banks. In this little section there are some 105 canals along. Water everywhere—reflecting uncertainly the images of the trees and mountains. The sun is setting now (8PM) and only the high snowy ranges and peaks brilliantly reflect its rays. Below, the mountain is an indistinct misty gray. Delicate pink clouds hang low over the peaks, blending perfectly with the baby-blue sky. To the left massive cloud banks, half hidden by a white-capped range, are slowly fading from yellow to orange, to pink, to mauve, and to gray. Another billowy cloud bank is entirely pink, fading to a gray base. Farther on the pink and blue gradually blend to a green. I have never seen this before except in Egypt—this greenish sky—just before sunrise.

The peaks have faded now and are clothed in a purple cloud. All of the colors are fading—the most gorgeous sunset I have ever seen—and below, all the green meadows, darker trees, and placid waters mirroring every tint, every shade. As Mort says, “be still, here is God.”

It seems like a crime to return to earthly things so soon, even before the last delicate pinks have melted from cold gray mountains, but our latest fishing party must have its say.

Shortly after arriving here, a man in a shikara came by and had some scheme of taking us in his boat, letting us use his fishing tackle, and paying him an anna per pound of fish we caught. The catch was that we had to pay for any tackle that we lost on snags or fish. I thought the price was a little high for these latter, but Frank and I piled in and off we went to a river bank some 300 yards away. The current is very swift here. He sewed and tied a minnow on the hooks and within five minutes I had a pound-and-a-half fish. Frank had no luck for a long time, but finally hooked a half-pounder. In the meantime, he had lost the guts and hooks on a snag. Soon after I had lost the whole darned business, including lead weights, so we had to quit and go home. I would swear the man cut it to make some money, but I couldn’t prove it. The whole affair was suspicious, and it seems logical to believe that the gut would have broken first. Well, we had our fun, but had to pay 2-6-0 for it.

It is twelve o’clock and a near full moon is just rising over the mountain through some trees, reflecting in a wide portion of the canal.

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