# Rhamon/Chapter 8

Seven great wooden bridges crossed the wide river that wound through the Valley. And the old, old city of Srinagar was spread along its banks. For hundreds of years people had walked across these bridges, or driven their wagons over them. For hundreds of years river boats of all sorts had been passing under them.
​Rickety wooden houses clung to the river bank. The water lapped against their basements. Grass and red poppies grew out of their mouldy earth-covered roofs. Narrow little streets found their crooked way between the houses, down to the river's edge. Here they ended in crumbling wide stone steps.
Many of the streets in this old city were waterways, but the big river was the main street. Funny little shops faced the water front. Some of them had balconies where the merchants hung out their wares. Long strips of brightly dyed woolen cloth fluttered in the breeze. Silken carpets hung over the railings and glistened in the sunlight.
Here and there a temple or a royal palace rose above the tiny shops and dingy houses. Just beyond the third bridge and almost tumbling into the water stood an old wood-carving factory. Here Rhamon came the next morning with his father, who was to buy goods for the American Sahib.
​There was great excitement all over the city of Srinagar this day. People were talking together everywhere—girls filling their water jars, men passing in boats on the river, women on the doorsteps. As Rhamon and his father paddled along they could hear what people said:
"Have you heard? Our King, the great Rajah, arrives tomorrow from his winter palace at Jammu. He comes up the river with a big procession of boats."
"Yes. My brother is his chief oarsman, and from him I have heard the Rajah has a new boat, larger and more beautiful than any before."
"For weeks I have seen men working in the gardens of the Summer Palace to make things ready for his coming."
"Tomorrow I shall go early and stand on the bridge, that I may see His Highness as the boats pass under. I shall be near enough to catch the sparkle of the big jewel on the front of his turban."
The shikara was made fast to the landing. Then ​Rhamon and his father climbed up a steep flight of steps from the water and entered a dark and dingy building. It seemed hundreds of years old. An aged man led them between dusty piles of wonderful carved wood.
When Rhamon's eyes became used to the dim light, he saw half-naked men sitting cross-legged on the earth floor, busily carving. The boy stopped to watch one old man in the doorway. He was working on a large tray which he propped against the split log that served for a table. The pattern was so fine that he used a magnifying glass to see what he was doing.
"My child," he told Rhamon, "for many months have I worked on this tray. But now, praise Allah, it is about finished, and it shall be given to our King—the great Rajah—as a gift from one of his humble subjects."
"Everyone is making ready for the coming of the Rajah," thought Rhamon sadly, "everyone but me. And I shall not even see him."
Going home Rhamon helped his father
​paddle the boat. They passed back under the big bridges, one by one, gliding into the darkness and shooting out again into the golden sunlight. Rhamon watched the busy life on the shore and listened to the many sounds across the water.
He saw women coming down to the river's edge with great jars on their shoulders, and he heard them laughing and talking as they filled these jars with water.
"Slosh, slosh; whack, whack!" That was the laundryman washing his clothes in the river and beating them clean against the stone steps.
"Thud—thud—thud—thud!" That was a slow sound that Rhamon knew well, for he heard it every day. It came from a group of women on the shore who were pounding their rice. He watched them as they raised the heavy wooden poles and let them fall on the rice in the big stone bowls. It was hard and tiresome work. Often he wished he were big and strong enough to help his mother grind their daily rice.
The boat slid along and Rhamon did not ​speak. "What troubles you, my son?" asked Subro, noticing his silence.
"Father, I should like to see the Rajah and take him a present," said Rhamon, with a great sigh.
"Allah is wise, and understanding. He is good to those who worship him faithfully," said Subro, smiling into his black beard.
Rhamon did not understand exactly what his father meant, but he was sure he had said all his prayers.
When they reached home, Rhamon was weary and his foot ached from climbing many stairs. So he sat down in his favorite corner to watch his mother cook the evening supper. As she rolled out the chuppaties she sang, and Rhamon, listening, dropped off to sleep. He dreamed of the great Rajah with the blazing jewel on his turban. When his mother gently shook his shoulder to wake him for supper, he was happy, for in his dream the Rajah had smiled to him, to Rhamon, the little lame boy.