n their frail
white bodies the souls of the previous guardians of the shrine are
believed to be reincarnated.

In another temple we found the Lamas holding service in worship of the
many-handed Buddha, Avalokitesvara. The picture of the god hung from
pillars by the altar. The chief Lamas were wearing peaked caps
picturesquely coloured with subdued blue and gold, and vestments of the
same hue. The lesser Lamas were bare-headed, and their hair was cropped.

When we first entered, an acolyte was pouring tea out of a massive
copper pot with a turquoise on the spout. Each monk received his tea in
a wooden bowl, and poured in barley-flour to make a paste.

During this interval no one spoke or whispered. The footsteps of the
acolytes were noiseless. Only the younger ones looked up at us
self-consciously as we watched them from a latticed window in the
corridor above.

Centuries ago this service was ordained, and the intervals appointed to
further the pursuit of truth through silence and abstraction. The monks
sat there quiet as stone. They had seen us, but they were seemingly
oblivious.

One wondered, were they pursuing truth or were they petrified by ritual
and routine? Did they regard us as immaterial reflexes, unsubstantial
and illusory, passing shadows of the world cast upon them by an
instant's illusion, to pass away again into the unreal, while they were
absorbed in the contemplation of changeless and universal truths? Or
were we noted as food for gossip and criticism when their self-imposed
ordeal was done?

The reek of the candles was almost suffocating. 'Thank God I am not a
Lama!' said a subaltern by my side. An Afridi Subadar let the butt of
his rifle clank from his boot to the pavement.

At these calls to sanity we clattered out of this unholy atmosphere of
dreams as if by an unquestioned impulse into the bright sunshine
outside.

In the bazaar there is a gay crowd. The streets are thronged by as
good-natured a mob as I have met anywhere. Sullenness and distrust have
vanished. Officers and men, Tommies, Gurkhas, Sikhs, and Pathans, are
stared at and criticised good-humouredly, and their accoutrements
fingered and examined. It is a bright and interesting crowd, full of
colour. In a corner of the square a street singer with a guitar and
dancing children attracts a small crowd. His voice is a rich baritone,
and he yodels like the Tyrolese. The crowd is parted by a Shape riding
past in gorgeous yellow silks