You hazard the question whether any of the customers ever die in this paradise of smoke-begotten dreams; and the answer comes:  “Not often; for they that smoke opium are immune from plague and other sudden diseases.  But the parrot which you see in the cage overhead was left to me by one who died just where the saheb now stands.  He was a merchant of some status and used to travel to Singapore and South Africa before he came here.  But once, after a longer journey than usual, he returned to find that his only son had died of the plague and that his wife had forgotten him for another.  Therefore he cast aside his business and came hither in quest of forgetfulness.  Here he daily smoked until his money was well-nigh spent, and then one night he died quietly, leaving me the parrot.”  You peer up through the fumes and discern one bright black eye fixed upon you half in anger, half in inquiry.  The bird’s plumage is soiled and smoke-darkened; but the eye is clear, wickedly clear, suggesting that its owner is the one creature in this languid atmosphere that never sleeps.  What stories it could tell, if it could but speak-stories of sorrow, stories of evil, tales of the little kindnesses which the freemasonry of the opium-club teaches men to do unto one another.  But, as if it shunned inquiry, it retreats to the back of its perch and drops a film over its eye, just as the smoke-film shutters in the consciousness of those over whom it mounts guard.

Further down the indescribable passage is a similar room, the occupants of which are engaged in a novel game.  Two men squat against the wall on either side, surrounded by their adherents, each holding between his knees a long-stemmed pipe built somewhat on the German fashion.  Into the bowls they push at intervals a round ball of lighted opium or some other drug, and then after a long pull blow with all the force of their lungs down the stem, so that the lighted ball leaps forth in the direction of the adversary.  The game is to make seven points by hitting the adversary as many times, and he who wins receives the exiguous stakes for which they play.  “What do you call this game,” you ask; and an obvious Sidi in the corner replies:—­“This Russian and Japanese war, Sar; Japanese winning!” The game moves very slowly, for both the players and onlookers are in a condition of semi-coma, but the interest which they take in an occasional coup is by no means feigned, and is perhaps natural to people whose daily lives are fraught with little joy.  Round the corner lies a third room or club, likewise filled with starved and sleepy humanity.  Near the door squats a figure without arms, who can scratch his head with his toes without altering his position, “What do you do for a living, Baba?” you ask; “I beg, saheb.  I beg from sunrise until noon, wandering about the streets and past the “pedhis” of the rich merchants, and with luck I obtain six or eight annas.  That gives me the one meal I need, for I am a small man; and the balance I spend in the club, where I may smoke and lie at peace.  No, I am not a Maratha; I am a Panchkalshi; but I reck nothing of caste now.  That belongs to the past.”