coffee seller's cups. A happy, orderly crowd it is, free from all signs of
quarrelling and excess, packed more densely than usual around the shrine of
Mama Hajiyani, where every little vacant space is monopolised by merry-go-
rounds and by the booths of bakers and pastry-sellers. Here are men playing
cards; others are flying kites; many are thronging the tea, coffee, and
cold drink stalls; while in the very heart of the crowd wander Jewish,
Panjabi and Hindustani dancing-girls, who have driven hither in hired
carriages to display their beauty and their jewels. Mendicants elbow one at
every step,--Mahomedan and Jewish beggars and gipsy-like Wagri women from
North Gujarat, who persistently turn a deaf ear to the "Maf-karo" or
"Pardon" of those whom they persecute for alms.

* * * * *

Many of the holiday-makers carry packets of basil leaves and flowers, which
they place upon the grave of the Mother Pilgrim, silently repeating as they
do so the 'Fatiha' or prayers for the dead. Others more Puritanical,
perchance more sceptical, utter not their prayers to the grave; but as the
words pass their lips, turn their faces seawards, remembering Holy Mecca in
the far west. Glance for a minute within the room that enshrines the tomb,
and you will see the walls hung with tiny toy cradles,--the votive
offerings of heartsick women from whom the grace of Mama Hajiyani has
lifted the curse of childlessness. So, as the sun sinks, you pass back from
the peace of the Mother Pilgrim's grave to the noise of the holiday-making
crowd; and turning homewards you hear above you the message of the green
parrakeets skimming towards the tomb "like a flight of emerald arrows
stolen from the golden quiver of the Twilight."

* * * * *