Calcutta is very hot. The punkahs go all day--not the flapping kind of
Mofussil punkahs, but things like bits of windmills fastened to poles.
I never like to sit or sleep exactly underneath one, they look so
insecure; besides, they make one so untidy. At a dinner-party it is
really dreadful to have the things flap-flapping above one's carefully
done hair. My hair needs no encouragement to get untidy, and I have
quite an Ophelia-like air before we get to the fish. It is too hot to
go out much except very early in the morning and again after tea. We
read and write and work till luncheon, then go to bed and try to sleep
till tea-time. We waken hot and very cross, and it is the horridest
thing to get up and get into a dress that seems to fasten with
millions of hooks and buttons. My old Bella is back with me, but she
has found a mistress whose temper has shortened as the temperature has
risen. Yesterday she fumbled so fastening my dress that I jumped round
on her, stamped my foot, and said, "Bella, I shall slap you in a
minute," She replied in such a reproving tone, "Oh! Missee Baba." Tea
makes one feel better, and then there is tennis and a drive in the
cool of the evening.
Mosquitoes are a great trial. They don't worry so much through the
day, but at night--at night, when one with infinite care has examined
the inside of the mosquito-curtains to make sure none are lurking, and
then, satisfied, has dived into bed and tucked the curtain carefully
round, and is just going off to sleep--buzz-z-z sounds the hateful
thing, and all hope of a quiet night is gone.
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