Chapter Six, Section *** III
With Keith in prison, I was not entirely alone. Fifteen months earlier, Bruce, our youngest son, was born. That made three children to care for; no easy task in a very primitive community. Bruce, in particular, required much attention in his early years because he was prone to infections and allergies. With Robert home from school over Christmas vacation, lovable Paul getting into all sorts of mischief and Bruce requiring much extra care, I didn't have much time to worry about what was happening to my husband.
Along with all the many family responsibilities, there were those involved in running a busy mission station with its schools, hostels, clinics, women's work, outstation programs and accounts. We, as ' a family, so much wanted to visit Keith, but, although the Mission had two vehicles, I never was to travel in them to Mandya!. Our family of four, along with our British colleagues and their stores, could not be accommodated in the small Jeep. It was Moussie Dube and her sisters, Sundabeti and Premi who, by hiring a Jeep with driver, at their own considerable expense, made it possible for us to visit him. It was to be two weeks, however, before we could make that trip.
Imagine how we felt, with a husband/father in prison, Mission transport available, the roads open, petrol in store, but no one prepared to drive us to Mandya. It was all so unreal but such is the price one has to pay for being 'junior" missionaries!
As could be expected, it was at this time that we came into a very close relationship with our Indian friends; at heart, we became Indians. The cultural barriers, which often separate expatriates from nationals, were broken down due to Keith's jail experience. It was the first night of his absence that was most traumatic. We as a family missed him so very much after Lionel had passed through on his way to Surgapam to inform that he had left Keith in jail. It would have been so easy for us to have given up and allowed grief to dominate our family life but we had to be courageous because so many really needy people depended upon us. So, determining to be brave, come what may, we resolved to carry on a normal family life as best we could. There were the children to feed and bathe, followed by bedtime stories, before I could think of my own immediate problems.
As I was preparing to turn in for the night, there was a gentle knock on the door and when I opened it, in filed a number of our Indian Christian friends, led by Zackius, one of our leading pastors. After seating themselves in a circle on the floor of our lounge-room, they said, "We knew you would be troubled." In fact, they were just as much troubled, as though their own big brother had gone to jail. And so we prayed and shared in fellowship to assure us that we were all in the struggle together. That was the most wonderful thing they could have done for us at this anxious time.
While I tried to re-assure them that, ultimately
truth would triumph, they were supporting me in the most gracious way they
could. Oh, it was a most precious experience of togetherness that really only
can be known within the loving family of the
As it happened, it was coming on to Christmas. Because of the persecutions, Keith had prepared a lot of "extras" to make the festive season a time of encouragement, to buck up the spirits of those who were feeling the strain. It was Tilia Babu's son Marchan, who, with a group of other high school student’s home for Christmas, took the initiative in helping us "forget the blues". Marchan, as a gifted comedian, dressed up as Father Christmas with a pillow to enlarge his tummy and a bell dangling from his belt. On his wrist he had tied an alarm clock, which he used as a mobile phone to ring up the prison. The alarm would ring and Marchan would take the call, pretending to be in touch with Keith. The whole conversation was most hilarious, with all the messages from prison assuring us that Keith was happy and bright, in good health and really enjoying life in custody! And so it was that Christmas became the joyous occasion it was meant to be.
It was Boxing Day when Moussie and her sister, Sundabeti, lovingly arrived in their hired Jeep. Earlier, they had visited Keith and were shocked to learn that I had not been able to meet him. Because the Komela River at Daulatapur was in light flood due to rain in the hills, they had to take the long route to Bhavnagar, a distance of over seventy miles. Quite apart from the expense of hiring the vehicle and driver, petrol-wise, the cost of all this travel must have been quite a burden for the Dube family, but such was their love and concern; no burden was too great for them to bear.
After a long winding drive through the jungle, we arrived at Mandya, where we met Premi, the third sister of the Dube family, who, only recently, had been posted to the town as Head Nurse of the local Government Hospital. As she was the only person 'we really knew in the town, it fell to her to daily provide Keith with supplement food, boiled drinking water and other necessities, as already mentioned. We could never repay her for all she did to make his confinement less harrowing - a loving service that drew us even closer to this beautiful family. No time was lost in applying to the Superintendent of the jail for permission to see Keith, and it was readily given for a visit the following day.
The two nights we spent at Mandya was an unforgettable experience. The only available place where we could stay was in Premi's small nurses' quarters at the rear of the hospital. Although there were seven of us in all, there was only one bed which our dear Indian sisters set aside for Bruce and me, while they, Robert and Paul, slept on straw, on the floor. We were all so exhausted by the travel and the anxiety of the occasion, that we slept well, overwhelmed by the gracious, though simple hospitality. These are experiences which decades of time have not been able to erase from our memory.
Sundabeti had been a dedicated Congress worker for many years and finally rose to the rank of M.L.C. and Deputy Chairperson of the Bihar Congress Ministry. Although fluent in English, she had taken a vow, with Mahatma Gandhi, to speak it no further until India was free of foreign oppression. Even after Independence, it was only on rare occasions that she spoke other than Hindi. She also had suffered cruel imprisonment during the occupation of India and, at one stage, was force-fed by the British Authorities. In this way, she came to know intimately, many of India's great freedom strugglers, among them the Mahatma himself, also Jawaharlal Nehru and his sister, Vijaya Laxshmi Pundit, Indira Gandhi, Rajkumari Amrit Kaur, Jayprakash Narayan and his wife Paravati Devi. It was with the latter that Sundabeti suffered terribly in the same prison.
There was certain secret information about the case that Sundbeti wanted to convey to Keith. To achieve this, her plan was to take our three children along to the prison to keep the warders amused and thus distract their attention, while she revealed to Keith a plot to further implicate him in violence. It appeared that the authorities were most embarrassed because he had called their bluff. They never thought for one moment that he would not sign the bond to keep the peace. As it would mean loss of face for them to absolve him completely of all guilt, the plot was to make it easier for him to sign and, following release, further entangle him in other charges. Sundabeti wanted to warn Keith not to sign under any circumstances.
Gossiping wives of Mandy a officials had "let the cat out of the bag". The lawyer's wife was a friend of the doctor's wife and the doctor was the Superintendent of the jail. The doctor's wife had another friend who was the wife of one of the Magistrates. So the Magistrate's wife revealed the plot to the doctor's wife, who told the lawyer's wife, who told Premi, who told Sundabeti, who told Keith! .
We arrived at the jail without knowing that, from time to time, Keith had been visited by many other women, besides Premi. These were expatriates from neighbouring Missions - Swedish Baptist, American Mennonite and British Emmanuel.
When one Memsahib would call, the prisoners would ask Keith, "Is that your wife?" to which he would reply, "No, that is another man's wife." This was repeated several times until the prisoners said to Keith, "Sahib, your wife no longer loves you because you have come to jail."
At last, it was my turn. When the big gates were opened, the Jailer Sahib proudly heralded my arrival, "This is the Sahib's wife and these are his children." At first there was a hush then, when it was known that the real wife had arrived at last, there was a rousing, almost triumphant shout of acclamation from the exercise yard as all the prisoners raised their voices in Hindi, :'She's come at , last; the Sahib's wife has arrived!"
It was almost as though Rajkurnariji herself had come to visit. Sundabeti and Keith lost no time in getting their heads together while Robert, Paul and Bruce performed the required tricks. In spite of Dad being in the lock-up, the children had a lovely Christmas, receiving many presents, which they so much wanted to take to Mandya to show Keith. Even early in life, Robert had a good ear for music and, within a few days, had learned to play all the popular Christmas carols on the mouth- organ Keith had bought him. When Robert gave a musical recital in the jail, he delighted not only his proud father but also the whole group of inmates.
Paul also thrilled the prisoners by climbing to the
top of the main prison gate, then over the top and down the other side, to the
applause of his spectators, who could now see just how easy it would be to
escape! Even little Bruce captured the audience, especially when they heard so
small a boy speaking such good Hindi. That meeting as a family was all too
brief and was to be the only occasion when I visited the jail. It wasn't the
type of meeting that most prisoners dream of having with their wives because
the whole contact was in public and it was with Sundabeti that Keith spent most
of the time. But I was happy, knowing that the vital information had reached
Keith, who was now on the alert, prepared for what was to follow.
Chapter Six, Section IV
Before returning to my cell after farewelling Ruth, our sons and the Dube sisters, I asked the Jailer Sahib why the Hindi New Testament had not been sent to me along with my other books.
"It is being censored," was the reply.
"But two weeks have passed," I said. "Surely it doesn't take all that time to check it out. Besides, the book is printed in India and sold publicly on the open market." It didn't dawn on me at the time, that the Jailer Sahib was reading it - and enjoying its message! It was obvious that he was embarrassed by my query. To find an excuse to avoid such further conversation, he said, "As it is five o'clock, you may as well take your camp-stretcher and bedding back to your cell."
I was glad that this gear was kept in the office during the day because then there was less chance of it becoming infested with bed bugs from the adjacent cells. The bugs are less migratory at night when there is plenty of blood upon which to feed. The disadvantage was that, during day rest periods, I had nothing upon which to sit, except my National Geographic Magazines, Reader's Digests and the like, to insulate me from the cold concrete floor which brought with it the fear of developing haemorrhoids.
Although my "guardian" no longer harassed me at night, there were other reasons why sleep did not come easily. The cold air after sunset had a lot to do with it because it stimulated urination. Throughout the whole night there was the loud clanging of the metal latrine doors attached to our cells. Prior to relieving himself and before entering a contaminated area, the Hindu must call on the gods for protection. This appeal - "RAM - RAM" - was expressed in most audible terms. I guess that, judging by the degree of faecal pollution that constantly impinged upon our nostrils, he had to be quite sure the gods got the message. "Ram - Ram" would cry one prisoner, loud enough to wake up his mates. "Bang Bang" would go the door, arousing another and so on, right through the night. And there was never an opportunity for "forty winks" before breakfast because those prisoners who were more devout, had to start their incantations and drumming well before dawn to usher the sun into a new day.
The morning following Ruth's visit brought me much joy because the Jailer Sahib had finished "censoring" my Hindi New Testament. When the "orderly-prisoner" returned from the office, after' delivering my bedding, he brought with him the Precious Book. Because of the intense cold during the night, the practice was for us to be paraded in the sun to thaw out before breakfast. Also, in the corner of the exercise yard, we took a "cold" bath at the deep well from which issued wisps of steam. Relatively, it was a delightfully warm bath, because of the frosty ground temperature. Those early mornings in the sun were so pleasant that I thought this the most appropriate time for personal meditation, which could now be with the help of my Hindi New Testament.
While in prison, I was kept under constant surveillance and refused any close relationship with the other prisoners. For this reason, my cell was the only one occupied by just one person. It was strictly forbidden that I should pass on anything to the other inmates. I could speak with them, though only under the watchful eye of a warder and with his firm approval. Between his rounds, as we sat in the sun, five feet apart with our backs to the wall, I would grasp at any opportunity for a whispered word or two with the prisoners on either side.
One of these was Mustafadimiya, a Muslim, who happened to occupy a cell adjacent to mine. He was an educated person who inquired concerning the book I was reading. After nine months in confinement, he was desperate to get his eyes on any sort of reading material. He told of being indefinitely under trial on an alleged charge of being in possession of an unlicensed gun.
As a member of a minority group in his predominately Hindu village, Mustafadimiya found life such a struggle, that his business eventually failed. The threat of poverty forced him to take even the most menial work. One such job was to be a coolie in a group of fifty-odd men engaged to carry furniture for a local well-to-do Hindu family. He was given a large carpet to shoulder from one house to another on the opposite side of the village. According to his story, it was while moving this load that he was stopped by a police officer.
"May I see what you have in that carpet?" the policeman inquired. When he discovered the gun, Mustafadimiya was placed under arrest for not being in possession of a license.
"But I know nothing about the gun. I am only a porter. The carpet is not mine." protested Musta, as I came to call my friend. It seemed that his story was genuine and, after all, Hindus in Pakistan are victimized in similar ways. Probably the gun had been deliberately planted and the police informed of the matter. But no amount of remonstrating could free him from the clutches of the law.
I had a soft spot for Musta who, though being short in stature and of slight build, had considerable courage. Occasionally he dared to stand up for the weaker prisoners who, being unable to fight for their rights, were deprived of their fair share of rice by the more powerful inmates. One huge, obviously mentally disturbed prisoner, struck terror at the heart. He would confront one of his victims, almost eyeball to eyeball. Breathing out putrid sexual obscenities from a mouth full of rotten teeth, he would hold up his hands, look at them, shake them with a gleam in his eye and, with a frightening laugh, boast, "See these hands; I've killed three men with these hands!"
Strange as it may seem, not once did I, personally, really feel frightened in Mandya Prison. I think I would be more scared of confinement in some of Australia's cosy jails where powerful homosexual rapists and drug pushers are most to be feared.
While I was not afraid for myself, my heart ached for Musta who put his neck out so often for the underdog that I feared he might someday have it broken. I looked forward to those early morning contacts with my Muslim friend as he opened up his heart to tell of previous contacts with file Gospel. During the days of the British "Raj", he had worked in a civilian capacity as table-bearer to a British army officer. It was during this service that he expressed interest in the Christian faith, which prompted his employer to present him with a copy of the New Testament.
What a shock it was for Musta's family to find their own kin in possession of the Book of the Infidels. Hastily they married him off into a conservative Muslim family in an attempt to discourage his religious desires. But it was not a happy marriage for Musta who finally was freed when his wife died of Tuberculosis. By this time, his family had lost control over their freethinking son.
And so it was fruitful soil upon which the seeds of the Gospel fell when Musta and I talked over the wonderful love of God in Christ during brief moments we shared together in the exercise yard. I had a deep feeling that Musta already had accepted Jesus Christ though, at this stage, he had not the courage to express his faith apart from his practical concern for the weaker prisoners at risk.
I believe that it was because of his trust in Christ that he dared to challenge the big bullies, but Musta was not to be satisfied until once again he had read the Book for himself. A few mornings later, he requested that I loan him my Hindi New Testament. At first I tried to dissuade him, fearing the bloody consequences for violating strict prison rules, however, so great was his desire that I considered the risk worth taking, especially when he assured me he had a secret place to hide the precious document.
For two whole days, Musta managed to conceal his secret, but on the third day, during cell inspection, his world threatened to burst around him. I agonized for him, fearing he would lose a lot of skin but strangely enough, not a hand was laid on him. They blasted both him and me and I was told, "With permission, you may loan any of THOSE books (pointing to the National Geographic Magazines), but make very sure that you give no one THAT BOOK!"
Never before have I trembled so much as on that day. I know now why Musta was not punished at the time. They had to wait for me to be discharged lest I witness the foul deed - committed by the powerful prisoners.
Many months passed before Musta and I met again. Both of us had been released to return to our homes. For me, it was to a loving family who shared a common faith, but for Musta, it was to a family who rejected him He had assured me that when he eventually could get out of jail, he would visit me at Bhavnagar to formerly accept Christ. I believed his word because his practical, sacrificial concern for others less fortunate, bore sufficient testimony to his convictions.
I shall never forget the day when Musta arrived at our Bhavnagar bungalow. Ruth and I were sitting on the front verandah, when a man whom I could not recognize at first, arrived on a horse, slumped over the neck of the bony creature which was led by an equally bony man. I was staggered when the rider struggled to lift his head to reveal the face of Musta. He was a broken wreck of humanity, with hardly the strength to speak or dismount.
Hastily, we prepared a room and put our visitor to bed. As he showed all the symptoms of malaria, we quickly put him on a course of Chloroquin tablets and quinine injections, lots of fluid, aspirin and antacid mixture. It was four days before he felt well enough to join us at breakfast and to reveal his story. Before he went on to tell of the terrible things he suffered since last we were together, he looked up into the face of Jesus in the picture we had hanging on the wall. Taking off his Muslim cap and gazing into the painting, he said, "Wah mera Khuda hai - He is my God." For a Muslim, that would be sheer blasphemy; any pictorial representation of deity is sacrilegious among Muslims.
Musta told of a blood-curdling experience at the hands of his fellow prisoners - the big bullies - who took him to within a hair's breadth of death. The brutal body caning was bad enough, but what troubled him most were the severe beatings around the head, which had serious repercussions: After breakfast he went to his room and soon returned without his Muslim beard. To a Muslim, shaving off the beard would almost amount to passing through the waters of baptism as it symbolized a clear break with the old way of life. This was our first Muslim convert since the Mission's inception in 1909.
I took Musta over to meet Tilia Babu, the elder of the church who broke down and wept tears of joy. After embracing Musta and welcoming him into the fellowship of the church, he led us over to the chapel where a number of the Bhavnagar church folk were having a prayer meeting. When I introduced my new brother in Christ, the reception was anything but cordial. One elderly woman, quite an influential person in the community, blurted out in Hindi, "Huh, a Muslim. There is no hope for Muslims. They are the cutters-off of heads ! "
Musta felt the sting of every word, even more than the blows he suffered in custody. He felt totally rejected even by the very people for whom he had suffered so much to join in a common faith.
It would have been so easy to condemn that group of Bhavnagar Christians for rejecting him, but all things have to be seen in proper perspective. These simple tribal folk - mere "babes in Christ" - had not forgotten how their ancient Adivasi Kingdom had been laid bare by the hordes of marauding Moghuls. Through oral tradition, our Uraon people can recall how these Muslim invaders decapitated their ancestors and their heads displayed on bamboo pikes. But Musta also was just a babe in Christ, too immature to take such an insult graciously. So it was that, with a bitter heart, he returned home, now more broken in mind and spirit than in body. All I could do was to commit him to the Lord and hope and pray that some measure of faith would remain.
When we parted, I could perceive that he still had faith in me and I assured him that I would always be his true friend and would endeavour to meet him some day in his village. I pleaded with him not to be too hard on the Christians who had rejected him, pointing out that the very first Christians, being Jews, found it difficult, if not impossible, to accept the Gentiles under whose swords they had suffered so much. I tried to help him understand that, in Christ, we see not the differences between people, but rather the similarities and that, no matter how bad another person may appear to be, if we consider that one in the spirit of Jesus, the good points rather than the bad will become obvious. However, no amount of reasoning could salve his wounds.
I did, in fact, make a real effort to meet Musta just prior to leaving India on furlough, but on the day I set out to visit his village, located between Mandya and Dharmapuri, I was caught in torrential rain which bogged down my motor cycle. A few days before leaving India, I posted him a letter from Bombay and later wrote from Britain, Eire, the USA, including Hawaii, New Zealand, Australia and Singapore but all to no avail. I seemed to be making no contact.
It was not until we returned to India from overseas in 1958, that Musta and I met again, this time in Daulatapur, on the verandah of the Number Two Bungalow. The poor man had gone completely out of his mind and wanted Ruth to join him in a commercial venture as a "lady sadhu". He had a collection of agate and other crude stones and suggested that we use these to set up a business in precious gems!
Why had Musta become like a moron? Who knows all the
reasons? My guess is that it was due to a combination of circumstances. He had
suffered abuse in many ways - the prolonged high fever due to that attack of
cerebral malaria, the cruel beatings around the head in jail and rejection by
his family, the Muslim community and the
There was one other person in the Mandya Prison with
whom I had a somewhat intimate relationship - Vishvanath, a prominent leader in
the Arya Samajist Party. This extreme right-wing Hindu sect, for many years,
had exercised strong opposition to the Christian
The first time I saw Vishvanath was on the day that Daniel Lester, of the Emmanuel Mission, visited me from Dharmapuri. I was in the Jailer Sahib's office talking with Daniel, when I heard the most violent commotion. I had earlier seen some prisoners resisting confinement, but this one put up a real fight and required several burly guards to restrain him. As he fought to free himself, he uttered the most profane cursings. When I questioned a passing guard, he remarked, "We'll soon straighten him out, Sahib. He's on 'Ganja' (Indian Hemp). A session in the 'cooler' will clear his head."
It seemed that the poor fellow was completely demented and my heart went out to him as it did when, earlier, I had seen a famine victim go crazy, being unable to care for his family's needs. I learned later that Vishvanath had been giving an anti-Christian lecture in front of the court, located quite near to the prison. His preaching was vehement and demanded that I be kept locked up indefinitely.
His voice reached an ear-piercing crescendo as though he would burst a blood vessel. The effect of 'Indian Hemp' also may have served to provoke him to utter the most caustic rhetoric on seeing Daniel drive up to the prison gates. Witnesses say he went completely berserk, beating with his stick, the air, the ground, Daniel's vehicle and occasionally, the bystanders. Those who were present on the occasion, said that Vishvanath disgraced himself most of all through his cursings -- cursing the Christians and their God; cursing the missionaries; cursing the Western Imperialists and cursing the Skillicorn Sahib. It was because of his violence towards the public assembled in front of the court, that the police arrested him.
After seeing Daniel out of the three sets of gates that separated me from freedom, I was escorted back to my cell, passing the "cooler", en route. My reaction, on peering through the grill, was like that of a small child at the zoo when a lion is suddenly provoked. On seeing me, the fiendish creature behind the bars let out a demonic howl in Hindi, "That is him. That is him. " How thankful I was that this man had not been let loose with me in the exercise yard where he could have tom me limb from limb.
I had not before really believed in "Demon Possession"; rather did I consider the syndrome to be a psychiatric phenomenon and even now, I still wonder whether Vishvanath was just a victim of "Ganja" (Marihuana) or maybe a combination of that with violent hate and resentment. I'm trying to keep an open mind on the subject.
Anyway, to bring the peace of Christ to this man was one of the greatest challenges I ever have encountered in the Christian ministry. I believed that if Christ could release the men of the Gadarenes in his day (Matt. 8:28), he could do it today for this man of Mandya. Vishvanath seemed to be particularly bugged by "germ warfare" and equated this form of diabolic weaponry with Christianity!
Tragically, there was an element of truth in the
accusations he levelled against
Until halfway through the night, Vishvanath screamed at me from the other side of the yard and the more he yelled, the more I prayed. "God, give me the right approach." Knowing that only the love of Christ could release him, I prayed, "Help me to love this man; strike the very chord that will bring him back to sanity." By next morning, the naked Vishvanath not only had cooled off, he was nearly petrified by the cold. When we were released to bathe around the well, I requested the guard to keep an eye on my would-be-assassin, fearing that he would charge at me. In fact, later, he once did try to attack me, only to be apprehended in time by a friendly warder.
Being a conservative Hindu, bathing for Vishvanath was a most important ritual, which could only be properly performed with soap. But he had no soap and was told by the guard that soap was not issued. "He may use my soap," I said to the guard, "and because I have a spare cake in my cell, let him keep it." My heart went out to Premi for the extra cake of "Rexona" she had brought and which gave me this opportunity to reach out in love to Vishvanath.
"Fair enough," said the guard in Hindi and, calling to Vishvanath, he said, "Hey, the Sahib says you may keep his cake of soap. " I would give anything to have recorded the look of amazement on the face of this sick man as he caught the soap tossed by the guard. When I consider, in retrospect, the change that was to come over my new friend, I'm sure that it was the Lord who told me to share the soap.
Next morning, instead of sitting near Musta to thaw out, I edged my way to within five feet of Vishvanath, again under the watchful eye of the guard. The exercise was like trying to befriend a vicious dog. To begin with, you dare not pat such an animal. Perhaps you may only be able to extend a lowered open palm of one hand in anticipation that the wild creature may find your scent acceptable.
Vishvanath was more placid than on the day before. Gone was all the cursing, though he still made references to "germ-warfare". At last I felt secure enough to take my eyes off this one-time beast of a man and get on with my devotions, reading my Hindi New Testament.
"What is the book you are reading?" inquired Vishvanath.
"It is the 'Susamachar' (Good News) - New Testament," I replied.
"That is where it all comes from, isn't it?" he charged.
"Where what comes from?" I asked.
"Germ warfare".
"The man is crazy," I thought. "Will he ever think about anything else?" Flashing over the pages of the Book, I picked out a page here and there, at random. Catching the approving gaze of the guard, I read out the passages of Scripture for Vishvanath to pass his judgment.
"Now, what do you think of that?" I asked. "Did you hear any mention of Germ Warfare?
"But it's all in there, somewhere." he insisted.
The guard seemed to be quite amused by all this hot debating and made the comment, "Sahib, this guy is a 'paglawala'; he's crazy. You'll never change the mind of such a dingbat."
"Would you let him read it for himself to end the argument once and for all?" I asked.
"Why, sure, give it to him." replied the guard. "Let him read it. If it contains anything about 'germ warfare', he'll find it." Tickled pink about all this fervent discussion, he went on to say, "Sahib, I don't permit you to give THAT book to the others, but you can give it to the 'pagla' because you'll never convert him!"
What happened next was a miracle. I had been asking the Lord to make it possible for me to share with the other prisoners the Good News of God's love in Jesus. I was strictly forbidden to "talk religion" to my fellow in-mates. I was threatened with dire punishment if again I dared to loan the New Testament to the others and I was not permitted to read the Scriptures aloud. How then, was God going to perform the miracle I requested? He did it through a madman! For the first time, many prisoners in the yard that morning heard the Message of Jesus Christ from the lips of a mentally deranged anti-Christian!
"Because Vishvanath should be given ample time to complete his research," I pressed the guard, "I would not mind him keeping the book until tomorrow morning." I was gaining quite a rapport with my new friend, no longer fearing him. We discussed topics of mutual interest, but while "germ warfare" no longer featured in our conversation, time and again, mention was made of his idol, Subhas Chandra Bose, almost as much as he previously mentioned biological weaponry.
During World War Two, Subhas Chandra Bose was the Bengali leader of the Indian National Army, which was illegal so far as the British Occupation Forces were concerned. "Netaji" (Great Leader), as Bose was affectionately called, believed that Japan could well be used to gain independence from the British. His policy was the very antithesis of that of Mahatma Gandhi who believed that only through" Ahimsa" or non-violence, could lasting peace be achieved.
Subhas Chandra Bose presumably died in a Japanese air
crash. Rumours had it that he was on his way to Tokyo to make a deal to
liberate India with the help of the Japanese army. Netaji, however, was not
able to win sufficient popular support. Most Indians seemed to believe that
life under the Japanese would be even more racist, unjust and intolerable than
under the British and anyway, what guarantee would India have that the Japanese
would withdraw from India after liberation? The British had given no such assurance
that they ever would release their strangle-hold, in fact, a few arrogant
statements made by Winston
Some, to this day, believe that Subhas really didn't die in the plane crash because his body never was found. It was thought by them, including Vishvanath, that the great Netaji had defied death to be spirited away to "swarg" (heaven), there to await the day of his return in some other form, perhaps as a sort of messiah. To Vishvanath, Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose was an incarnation of Vishnu himself.
In my cell, I was penning a few letters on a writing pad that Premi had brought me, along with other stationery. As usual, the pictorial cover of the pad was folded back. For some reason or other, this time, after completing my correspondence, I closed up the pad and was very surprised, to notice on the front cover, a picture of Sub has Chandra Bose! Rather, it was a colour photo of his statue in Calcutta, taken on the occasion of "Netaji Remembrance Day". In the picture, devotees were seen garlanding the statue and placing wreaths at its base.
Next morning, during thaw-out time, I mentioned to Vishvanath that I had a photo of "Netaji" in my cell. My friend was so delighted that I thought he would appreciate receiving the picture. The guard approved of me returning to my cell to tear it from the front of the writing pad.
When I handed it to my friend, it was as though a sacred Hindu relic was being presented. Vishvanath gazed in adoration at the photo of the one he idolized and thanked me profusely. Later, before being returned to his cell, he asked the guard if he might pick some marigolds from the garden to make a garland. With gooey rice-water from the kitchen, he stuck the photo on his cell wall, below a barred window.
From the bars, he draped the garland around the picture, which he reverently faced from a cross- legged, Yoga position on the floor, where he performed "Puja" (worship). For the Scriptures, he read aloud not from the Ramayana or Bhagavagita, but from the Susamachar - Naya Niyam - the Hindi New Testament! All those in the yard were free to see the spectacle and to hear the Gospel for the first time. My Impossible Dream had been fulfilled.
Vishvanath never did verbally confess any faith in Jesus Christ while we were together in prison, but certainly he was a changed man when discharged. No longer did he manifest rabid hatred, nor did he again mention "germ warfare". The day he was released, we parted the very best of friends and I even sensed in his attitudes that he had all the potential to be quite a nice guy.
The sequel to this story took place a year later, following my own release from prison. Ruth's mother had come to India to fly our three sons to Australia, thus freeing Ruth and me to make a round-the-world deputation tour on our first furlough. The six of us were travelling from Daulatapur to Bhavnagar on a wet, stormy night. The dirt road via Mandya was a quagmire, which was very hard going for the Dodge truck, even with its four wheel drive and "special case" engaged.
As we slithered from side to side, the rain fell in torrents, threatening to bring up the numerous rivers en route and forcing us to spend the night in the jungle. Arriving at a small river halfway to Mandya, we came upon a broken-down Jeep with several men working on the motor. Because they were having difficulties, I waded to the other side of the steadily rising stream to offer a helping hand, which is a regular practice among drivers in such a remote place. On examination, I found that the engine had overheated due to a broken fan belt. I asked them if they had any string, rope or cloth that could be tom into strips to wind around the three pulleys many times to take the place of the belt. This was a trick that had served well to get me to the next town where motor parts were available. -
There were four men in the Jeep. One in particular, was so appreciative of what I had done to help them out, that he warmly embraced me and, turning to Ruth and her mother said, "This is my friend; we were in jail together." It was Vishvanath! There was nothing in his behaviour to indicate that he was anything but a completely normal human being. Yes, a really nice guy!
Following my release, there were numerous other occasions when Ruth and I would meet former prison inmates in the Mandya sub-division. Some were operating shops, small businesses and pedalling cycle-rickshaws. Others were visiting Mandya from their distant villages. There was one particular shop-keeper who had a "pastoral" concern for the group and took delight in giving me a report on their behaviour whenever I passed through the town and we happened to meet. "Khushi Ram is doing fine, Sahib, and has committed no further robberies since we were last together. Also, Santosh Sao is going straight and has bought his own rickshaw; don't worry about him, he'll be O.K."
Now the interesting thing is that I never had called for any such reports but the Gospel had infiltrated the group, giving them a moral concern one for the other. I really looked forward to passing through Mandya Bazaar. On such trips, Ruth would occasionally ask concerning these rough-looking characters, to which my reply was the same every time, "Oh, he's my friend; we were in jail together!" We never were to know to what extent the knowledge of the love of God in Jesus Christ spread throughout the Mandya area of Bihar though my imprisonment. Truly, all things do work together for good to those who put their trust in Jesus.