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MRITSAR'S railway platform—the same where Kim was put off the train for want of a ticket to Ambala, and by his wits was soon on board again—was most picturesque the noonday we started for Simla. A man in a blue coat with yellow cuffs and a red shawl thrown over his shoulder was only first figure in the crowd of red, blue, orange, and green-shawled creatures, in turbans of red, pink, orange, lemon, and salmon, in blue and gray Ludhiana lungis with gold-striped ends. An ash-smeared fakir crouched gibbering by the wall near the tank labeled, "Water for Mohammedans," and a high-caste Brahman protected water sacred to his co-religionists' use. A woman whose jewelry was but half concealed by a thin sari held an umbrella down over her face as she squatted on the concrete, and her owner threw a sheet over the umbrella and fiercely guarded the beehive tent. From this retreat, the woman peered forth, clashed and jangled her jewels to attract our attention, and made eager signs for us to come near that she might inspect us.