th heavy
loads upon his head.

At length on the second storey a half-open door casts an arrow of light
upon your path. You hail it with joy after the Cimmerian gloom of the lower
floors; and, pushing the door further ajar, you find yourself in a square
low room lit by two windows which command a view of the street below. It is
carpeted with cheap date-leaf mats and a faded polychrome "dhurri"; dirty
white cushions are propped against the wall below the windows; a few square
desk-like boxes lie in front of the cushions; and in a semi-recumbent
attitude around the room are some 20 or 30 men--Bombay and Gujarat
Mahomedans, men from Hindustan and one or two Daudi Bohras, the regular
customers of the "Kasumba" saloon. There is one woman in the room--a member
of the frail sisterhood, now turned faithful, nursing an elderly and
peevish Lothario with a cup of sago-milk gruel, which opium-eaters consider
such a delicacy: while the other customers sit in groups talking with the
preternatural solemnity born of their favourite drug, and now and again
passing a remark to the cheery-looking landlord with the white skull-cap
and henna-tinged beard.

Each occupant of the room has been provided with a tiny glass of weak
opium-water from the large China jar on the landlord's desk, paying a pice
per glass for the beverage. Some drink one glass, some two, some three or
more; but as a rule the "kasumba" drinker confines himself to two glasses,
being ashamed to own even to a brother "Tiryaki" the real quantity of the
drug consumed by him: while a few, strengthened by prolonged habit, pay
somewhat more than the ordinary price for a thicker and stronger dilution.
When the glasses are empty the company calls for desert; for the
opium-drinker must always have his "_kharbhanjan_" or bitter taste
remover; and the landlord straightway produces sweets, fruit, parched
grain, or sago-gruel known as "_khir_" according to the taste of his
customers. Hardly has dessert ended when an elderly Mahomedan in shabby
garb falls out of the group and clearing his throat to attract attention
commences to recite a flowery prelude in verse. He is the "Dastan-Shah,"
own brother (professionally) of the "Sammar" or story-teller of Arabia and
the "Shayir" of Persia and Cairo: and his stories, which he delivers in
a quaint sing-song fashion, richly interspersed with quotations from the
poets of Persia, are usually culled from the immortal "Thousand and one
Nights" or ar