[Illustration: The "Pan" Seller.]

As the sun sinks low in the west, a stream of worshippers flows through the
mosque-gates--rich black-coated Persian merchants, picturesque full-bearded
Moulvis, smart sepoys from Hindustan, gold-turbaned shrewd-eyed Memon
traders, ruddy Jats from Multan, high-cheeked Sidis, heavily dressed
Bukharans, Arabs, Afghans and pallid embroiderers from Surat, who grudge
the half-hour stolen from the daylight. At the main entrance of the mosques
gather groups of men and women with sick children in their arms, waiting
until the prayers are over and the worshippers file out; for the
prayer-laden breath of the truly devout is powerful to exorcise the demons
of disease, and the child over whom the breath of the worshipper has passed
has fairer surety of recovery than can be gained from all the nostrums and
charms of the Syed and Hakim. Just before and after sunset the streets wear
their busiest air. Here are millhands and other labourers returning from
their daily labours, merchants faring home from their offices, beggars,
hawkers, fruit-sellers and sweetmeat-vendors, while crowds enter the
cookshops and sherbet shops, and groups of Arabs and others settle
themselves for recreation on the threshold of the coffee-sellers' domain.

There in a quiet backwater of traffic a small crowd gathers round a
shabbily-dressed Panjabi, who, producing a roll of pink papers and waving
them before his audience, describes them as the Prayer-treasure of the
Heavenly Throne ("Duai Ganjul Arsh"), Allah's greatest gift to the Prophet.
"The Prophet and his children," he continues, "treasured this prayer; for
before it fled the evil spirits of possession, disease and difficulty. Nor
hath its virtue faded in these later days. In Saharanpur, hark ye, dwelt a
woman, rich, prosperous and childless, and unto her I gave this prayer
telling her to soak it in water once a month and drink thereafter. And lo!
in two months by the favour of Allah she conceived, and my fame was spread