Chapter Thirteen, Section III
With funds now extremely short, travel conditions became chaotic. Gone were the days when we could enjoy the luxury of making the eighty-mile trip to town by Jeep or TATA truck. We now had to resort to squeezing into overcrowded buses, transporting our purchases on the roof, only to have them pilfered at times, by passengers who travelled up there with them. Of course, when we travelled by the" Aramdey" service between Champapur and Daulatapur, we were always assured of a front seat, but there were many other buses in which we had to travel. Where necessary, sometimes we had to take our bicycles on the roof of the buses, only to find, on arriving at our destination, that the "upper-class" passengers had stolen the tires valve rubber.
Now that Ruth and I were stripped of all that Westerners consider to be the very basic necessities for survival, we were at one with our Indian friends. East may be East and West may be West, but may it not be said that "Never the twain shall meet". Although it was not clear at the time, I now see, in retrospect, that it was a blessing in disguise when we were deprived of all our foreign resources. One of the most precious experiences I had in India was on the occasion of an Independence Day celebration at Champapur. The Patel, or Headman, who, in the initial pioneering days, had been one of our main opponents, had invited me and others to share the platform with him.
While addressing this public assembly, he put his arm around me and, referring to the well-paid South Indians who were moving into the area on government service, said, "Our Sahib is not like these 'foreigners', he's one of us!" This was because Ruth and I were now on a very low economic level, lower, in fact, than some of the locals. Also, we knew their language and culture, whereas the more affluent Madrasis, who did not know Hindi or its dialects, were, virtually, "foreigners". Few Westerners are ever privileged to come into such a close relationship with those of another race, particularly one so impoverished and culturally backward; well, "backward" only by Western standards. When seen from their point of view, many of our Western customs, so heavily dependent on alcohol and other drugs, with "porn" videos, "Alternative" life-styles, "Hard-Metal" Rock Music, "Adult Books" and similar sexually exploitive, violent and sadistic material so easily available, are extremely primitive.
Through people such as this Patel, also itinerant
traders, bus and truck drivers, patients visiting our clinic and the poor who
had given us their allegiance during the famine, I was now well known, accepted
and respected in all the villages and bazaars of the area. This was
particularly so in Daulatapur and Mandya where also I was known and
"honoured" as the "Khaidi Sahib"(the Prisoner Sahib). Quite
a number of the small traders, teashop vendors, rickshawalas and coolies had
passed through the Mandya Prison and either knew me personally, or had heard of
me. Not having their facts straight, many believed that I had been
excommunicated by the
The "fame and respect" I thus had bestowed upon me by the people of the bazaars, was now to save me from a terrifying death. It all happened when I had an accident in Daulatapur, while passing through the town on my 250 cc "Jawa", Czech motorcycle. I think this was an even more frightening experience than when I was trapped in the truck, at Ranitola.
I was cruising slowly through the market area, doing no more than 20 kph and observing the many hundreds of shoppers, buying their wares at the dozens of small stalls, bordering the road-side. While the vast majority of the buyers wore the traditional, soiled, off-white clothes, out of the corner of my eye, I could see one man standing out in the crowd because of his clean, white attire. This obviously educated person, who looked as though he could be a community leader of a sort, was facing away from my direction, buying fruit, I think, so was not a witness to what was about to happen.
When driving through a busy town in India, it is necessary to be extremely vigilant, constantly on the alert for cows and honking all the while to warn careless pedestrians. On this occasion, I had to blow the horn extra hard when an elderly man, without looking to the left or right, walked straight across my path. There was no way I could stop, even at such a slow speed. Swerving to avoid him was all in vain. The collision knocked him down hard and sent me into a wild skid.
"This could have its repercussions," I thought, as I hurtled towards the opposite side of the road, to end up in ditch. I was sorry I had to hit an old man, especially one so poor and undernourished. Healing is generally much slower in such people who sometimes fail to recover from a bad accident. If the man should die, I feared that I would well be charged with manslaughter and end up back in that Mandya Prison hellhole.
With the speed of a computer, all these thoughts flashed through my mind as I hurtled headlong towards the terror that was to haunt my dreams for some time and yet, no more than four seconds must have passed between the moment I hit the old man and when I came to a stop. During those seconds, I continued to reason in my mind until all went black. If this accident should get me involved in further litigation, how would I pay a lawyer if I had no salary?
I do not recall the actual moment of coming off the bike, but I do remember, as I finally lost control of my "JAWA", crying out, "Oh, my God." and that was all. Unknown to me at the time, I hit my head in the fall but never was to find out just how long I was unconscious, perhaps only for minutes. However that brief time, turned out to be hours of nightmare.
What's it like to be burned alive? In my early years as a young Christian, I was fascinated by "Fox's Book of The Martyrs", not realizing at the time, that I too, might someday have to endure the agony of death by fire. I recall one incident in the book where witnesses of a particular martyrdom claimed that the victim was obviously not feeling any pain, although the flames were licking all around him. Because a few martyrs actually sang and praised the Lord as flesh dripped from their bones, some people have speculated that, if a martyr's faith is strong enough, the sensory nerves can be anaesthetized. The body seems able to produce its own sedation. How is it that a Hindu fire-walker can traverse a twenty feet long pit of burning coals, suffering, it would seem, neither burns nor pain?
In the gutter, my head was reeling and my eyeballs spinning like windmills. My ears were filled with a deafening roar and, as I gained some measure of consciousness, I could see the angry crowd above me, waving their lathis and shouting, "Sahib ka dosh, Sahib ka dosh, - it's the Sahib's fault, the Sahib's fault." And then all would go black again. I was aware of some sort of violent shaking and an unbearable pressure on my whole body as though many heavy weights were being dumped on me with rapid, rhythmical succession and then I caught a whiff of it - petrol. I fought to recover full consciousness and to open my eyes, only to lapse again into a coma.
Although I was terrified when I could smell the petrol, in my moments of semi-consciousness, I tried to convince myself that the mob would not dare to strike a match. My hopes, however, were short lived. A terrible burning sensation racked my whole body; never before had I experienced such excruciating pain. They seemed to be burning me from the lower extremities. My right leg, in particular, seemed to be the centre of the torment. I continued to writhe in agony, desperately trying to extricate myself from under what seemed like a pile of firewood. My faith must have been weak because the pain became unbearable and I screamed out in my mind, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus." With each word was a sound like the clickety clack of a train disappearing towards the end of a long tunnel. As the noise of the train tapered off into the distance, the pain gradually faded away and I felt at peace. But, no sooner had one train passed than another would come and, with it, the torture by fire. When I was a small boy, I agonized with Joan of Arc; now it was my turn! It seemed that the mob was continuing to dump firewood on me in a rhythmical sort of way.
Although the terror had lasted only a short while, I had lived through experiences which, in real life, would have consumed hours - hours that must have taken years off my life.
When I finally regained complete consciousness, I found myself not under the weight of firewood but rather the heavy motorcycle. The torture of the flames was really the hot exhaust pipe, which was burning into my leg. The rhythmic dumping of the firewood was actually the out of balance spinning rear wheel causing the whole bike to shake. As it shook, little spurts of petrol issued from the tiny air hole of the filler-cap. The roaring "train" noise was caused by the engine, which, with gears engaged, must have been revving at near full throttle, so fast that I feared it would disintegrate. The clickety-clacking noise was caused by the drive-chain scraping on its guard. The menacing crowd was still shouting for my blood and I was very frightened. Not a soul offered me a helping-hand.
After throttling back the engine and turning off the petrol, I painfully struggled to my feet. By this time, the educated-looking man, with the clean, white clothes, had taken command of the mob and was leading the chorus, "It's the Sahib's fault, the Sahib's fault". With his arms held high above his head, he gyrated like a dervish and, with him, progressively, more and more of the bazaar people were getting caught up in the frenzy of the occasion. As he spun around, I caught a glimpse of his face and, for the first time remembered that, when I hit the old man, this inciter was looking in the opposite direction, buying fruit, I think. He was not, therefore, a witness to the accident. How could he say it was my fault when he didn't know what really happened? Pointing at this troublemaker, I yelled, "Chup raho - shut up - you didn't see the accident. You were looking in the opposite direction, so how can you say it was my fault?"
It was then that my identification with the poor and underprivileged paid off. A man, whom many would call a "peasant", had the courage to speak up in my defence. "Yes, the Sahib is right; he didn't see the accident."
Another man called out, lit was not the Sahib's fault," And a third man - a bazaar trader - cried out in my support, "Why, it's the Kaidi Sahib - the prisoner Sahib!" It was then that a most unusual thing happened. That very crowd, which could have been incited to the point of beating me to death, now turned on the educated-looking man and threatened to kill him. I had to scream at the top of my voice, "Look, the accident was nobody's fault; it wasn't even the fault of the old man, who may have been deaf."
"Oh, my God; the old man!" I thought. "What about the real victim; had anyone bothered to care for him?" Forcing my way through the crowd, which was now on my side, I found the poor old man lying in the middle of the road and bleeding profusely. He was conscious and seemed to have a severe head wound. Westerners who read this story may find it difficult to believe that it was I who had to get this man to hospital. No one wanted to get involved, not even those who now appeared to be in full sympathy with me.
I pleaded with at least half-a-dozen passing rickshawalas for help in getting the old man to hospital. Not one would stop, even when I flashed a five-rupee note before their eyes. None would offer a ride, even for a ten-rupee fare. Finally, in utter desperation, fearing that the old man would bleed to death, with all the possible, traumatic repercussions - court-case, sentence, imprisonment - I threw myself at one rickshaw, hurting my already bruised ribs, but bringing the machine to a sudden halt. Not a soul helped me get the bleeding man aboard, not even the rickshawala, into whose hand I thrust a ten-rupee note for his help! Although aching all over, I somehow managed to fetch my motorcycle that I pushed to the hospital, walking beside the rickshaw bearing my injured friend.
During the ten-minute walk to hospital, somehow, without offending him too much, I had to convince the old man of his stupidity. The police could well take advantage of this accident to blame me in the hope of getting a bribe and, money-hungry lawyers, in collusion with the magistrates, could make the litigation go on for years, to suck me dry of every cent I possessed. It was, therefore, of vital importance, that the old man be thoroughly brainwashed, as it were. There had to be no doubt in his mind as to whose fault it was.
"You know you are a very stupid ("beykhoof”) man," I informed him time and time again, after first giving him ten rupees for headache tablets and his bus fare home. "Why didn't you look both ways before crossing the road?" You are old enough to know that it is illegal and dangerous to cross the road without first looking both ways. You are a very stupid man." I reminded him. "What are you?” I questioned.
"I am a "beykhoof' - a very stupid man, " came the reply.
At the hospital, we were told that the head wound was only "superficial" and didn't even require sutures! I had guessed that at least ten would have been necessary and, probably that number would have been inserted had it been the educated-looking man who suffered the injuries. But I was informed that the old man was only a "dehati", just a peasant and, as such, would be proud of his scars!
As we painfully made our way to the thana to report the accident to the police, I continued to work on the brain of this dear old man. "You know that your wife is going to be very cross with you, especially when she sees all that blood on your shirt. She might even think you have been drinking and fighting. And the police daroga will be very angry with you too, but don't be afraid. Just tell him you are sorry and remember not to answer back. When he asks you what happened, what will you tell him?" This was my final question as we entered the gates of the police compound. "I will tell him I am a "beykhoof”, said the old man. My psychological exercise had been a great success.
It now remained to be seen whether or not he would report in just the way I planned he should. It was most fortunate that the daroga was on the thana verandah, with about a dozen people around him, discussing some other accident matter. This assured us that there would be many witnesses to hear the conversation between the police and ourselves.
As the daroga glanced our way, my bloodstained friend got the signal, which triggered off his well- programmed brain to behave just as I intended. Without a question being asked of him, he blurted out, " Daroga Sahib, I am a beykhoof; I walked right in front of the Sahib's motorcycle without looking to the left or the right and made him fall off" As if to add further emphasis, he went on, "Marfkeegeeaga -- please forgive me!"
But all was not over yet; not by far. I began to tremble when the daroga questioned the old man, "Do you want to lay charges against the Sahib?"
To my relief and utter amazement, the old man said, "Daroga Sahib, how CAN I, when I am a beykhoof?" You may not think that to be a miracle but those who know the East and have seen the ease with which people are beaten up and incriminated for far less trivial reasons, will surely agree that this experience was more than unreal.
By the time I reached Shantibe Dube's home, I was so sore that Moussie wanted to put me straight to bed to rest up in Daulatapur for a few days. But I knew I had to get home fast while I still could. Previous heavy motorcycle spills had taught me to keep moving lest muscle stiffness cause almost complete immobility.
Chapter Thirteen, Section IV
During the days I was incapacitated, hardly being able to walk, the period of forced rest gave me the time I needed to reflect on just where we were heading personally and as a development project. If we and the ACDP were to survive, it would require nothing less than a miracle, but it God could get me out of that black hole of despair, he could do anything. And so it was that, during those days in bed, I allowed my faith, my dreams and my prayers to run wild. "Think BIG Dad," were the encouraging words that our son, Paul, constantly fired at me whenever I felt down in the dumps. It was that sort of "Possibility Thinking", that won for him good jobs with the World Bank and UNICEF and opportunities to graduate with Masters Degrees from Johns Hopkins and Washington DC Universities. "Sure, it's possible Dad," he used to say.
One big dream I had, in earlier days, was for the electrification of the Nawapara Mission bungalow. This dream was partly fulfilled, on one furlough, when my college Principal, E.L. Williams, gave me an old 32-volt DC house-lighting generator. This kit, along with a bank of batteries, not only gave us light in all the rooms of our bungalow, also it attracted quite a large number of people to our nightly adult literacy classes.
Keith working on the 32 volt generator beside our
hut’s kitchen.
It was while resting up after that accident, that Kalemari dared to reveal the real reason behind the Home Board's action against me; actually, we had a spy in the camp, one whom we shall call "Charlie". This key karmchari, was one of the most politically influential persons in the church and one who had received a relatively good education with a fine command of English. During the early days of our ministry, he had a most attractive nature. This, together with his many skills in leadership, won him a high position in the local church Council and deep respect from the Home Board. Also, he had considerable administrative expertise, which he first exercised through the Congress Party, but gradually drifted into the Marxist-Leninist Party, which eventually became his burning passion. For "Charlie", the Gospel was just too slow to be of any real hope in lifting the community out of poverty.
At the same time, "Charlie" became rather autocratic and, as Chief or "Sarpanch" of all the panchayats (local councils) in the area, with control over the issue of Government food ration cards, power and pride went to his head. With church Council elections determined, at the time, by "show of hands", Charlie succeeded in gaining a high ecclesiastical position against the will of the majority of members. Because the voting had been rigged, through political pressure in a most surreptitious manner, I wrote to the Home Board, intimating that I could not recognize the Council as truly representative of the churches. My non-recognition of the local Council under "Charlie's" unilateral control, infuriated the Mission's top authorities in Britain, leading to its "out of relationships" charge against me.
Being a law unto himself and believing that he had the Board's backing, he did not feel obliged to follow any rules and regulations necessary to preserve the chastity of the boarding school girls in our charge. In one of the Mission's centres, Ruth and I had the important responsibility of caring for and preventing the sexual exploitation of about twenty young grade-school girls.
"Charlie" was a handsome man and not a little chauvinistic, especially when, in violation of the rules, he chose to take his daily bath by the well in the girls' hostel compound which was out-of- bounds to males.
He delighted in deliberately displaying his male prowess, which invariably succeeded in turning the heads of a few young "giggling gerties". Also, he seemed to be blatantly bent on provoking me to take action against him for his advances towards the hostel girls. Often I agonized in prayer, seeking the Lord's help to save the girls and the moral integrity of the hostel, while, at the same time, avoiding any open conflict with this strutting peacock whose supercilious behaviour was straining my Christian grace to the very limit.
In spite of all my gentle hints, later warnings and even threats, "Charlie" continued to pursue his aggressive designs until one night, he finally made serious sexual advances upon a pretty young student within the confines of her own room. It was then that the local churches took action, demanding that "Charlie" marry the pregnant girl who was about ten years his junior.
"Charlie's" undisciplined sexual escapades rubbed me up the wrong way, forcing me to take my stand with the Indian churches against the one whom the Mission had selected to be the key leader of the Indian churches, following union under the N.I.U.C. and its withdrawal from India and membership in the AICF.
After his forced marriage, "Charlie" continued his flirtations with other women and every time the Indian churches disciplined him, the Mission's powers-that-be raised him to a position of further responsibility. It was the Indian churches who, at the time of the local Council elections, encouraged me to introduce the secret ballot. These free elections finally resulted in "Charlie's" defeat and the Mission blamed me with "exercising powers beyond my jurisdiction"!
Some readers of this book may find it difficult to believe that there could be a Communist and a paedophile at the head of a Christian community, but it is the technique of many who are inspired by Marxist philosophy, to capture key positions in any group, whatever may be the beliefs of that society. Young, immature Christians and particularly those not fully literate, are often gullible targets for leaders like "Charlie" who was a member of the Palamghat District Communist Party. Furthermore, religion, even "Christianity", without the ethics of Jesus, is an excellent avenue for those who seek to "lord it over others" and women in particular!
Through "Charlie's" influence, some of our less-informed people were claiming that Christianity, as it was practiced in the beginning, when believers had "all things in common", was nothing more or less than Communism; it's only the name that’s different!
Dear old Tilia Babu, our leading elder in Bhavnagar, was very concerned about the subtle moves to bring our churches within the orbit of Marxist influence, especially when it became clear that "Charlie" had two loyal disciples, one being a key karmchari in the Bundi area. Tilia Babu had a simple but succinct way of differentiating between Communism, Socialism and Christianity. He put it this way:-
The Communist says, "You have more than I've got; you give me some of yours. " The Socialist says, "You've got more than he has; you share with him some of yours. " But the Christian says, "Hey; I've got more than you have; here, take some of mine! "
During my earlier years in industry, before going to India, I had noticed how much the Communists depend on "show of hands" in voting. During elections, the party cadres are always alert to identify and list those who refuse to raise their hands in support of official party policy. Sometimes, a little "persuasion" may be necessary to bring a worker into line. Many of the industrial problems that plague Western society could be completely eliminated if it were made mandatory for all elections and vital decisions in registered trade unions to be conducted through a secret ballot.
I am not advocating the banning of strikes, which, at
times, are the workers' only defence against exploitation. Maybe if the secret
ballot were applied to all sections of the
It was mainly because of "Charlie's undemocratic behaviour that the ACDP incorporated in its Memorandum of Association, the following clause:- "All matters pertaining to Policy and the Election of Officers shall be decided by Secret Ballot, irrespective of race, caste, creed and sex/gender." Ironically, although my political convictions tend to lean a little more to the left than the right, since my encounter with "Charlie", it was from the left wing that I was to experience the greatest opposition, the reverse of what it was during the earlier persecutions.
With the ACDP income not keeping pace with Project needs, the financial strain was again testing my faith, almost to breaking point. It came, therefore, as a real temptation, to accept the next invitation to serve in another field, under the auspices of the Australian Christian Aborigines Board. Dr. Damien Hammond, the Director, presented a most challenging appeal that Ruth and I prayerfully considered for days to ascertain if it was the Lord's will for our future ministry. It had been my conviction that the needs of Australia's Aboriginal people can only really be met in Jesus Christ, though in a "non-religious way"! Aboriginal People are rather suspicious of certain Missions, which, in the past, and in collusion with the Government, virtually kidnapped hundreds of aboriginal children and placed them in the care of the State. The Authorities at the time may have had good motives but their methods of reform were anything but Christian.
Had the Lord been preparing us for this very ministry through experiences gained among India's Aboriginal people - the Uraons? Animist tribes, in many different parts of the world, have one basic thing in common - their close dependence upon the land. Western man, in his ignorance and racial pride, equates "sacred sites" with superstition, but to Aboriginal people, they are the very focal point of culture, tribal history, religion and life itself. To deprive an aboriginal person of his land and, in particular, his sacred sites, is to rob him of his spirituality, virtually tearing out his heart and destroying his racial heritage.
Also, to separate young aboriginal people from their families, including uncles, aunts and grandparents, who really are the custodians of discipline within the tribe, it to create a serious social problem that, maybe, is a basic cause of Australia's indigenous dilemma.
For Australian Aboriginal people, there seems to be no solution to their problem. There is now no way that the white man will surrender his loot, often acquired for the price of a few cheap glass beads, or a bag of flour, sometimes spiced with strychnine! Demoralized by the white man's aggression, perpetrated in the name of "The Crown", Aboriginal people had to endure seeing their women raped, their water-holes poisoned and their kith and kin literally hunted down and shot like foxes, just for "sport". A British settler could shoot an "Abo" with impunity for an "offence" too trivial to mention, but if one of these "sub-human creatures", as they were considered to be, dared even to assault a white man, in self-defence, he was summarily flogged, hanged or shot. This often led to a further spate of murders and, at times, the massacre of a whole tribe.
To this day, the white man and his foreign rule has never officially acknowledged the genocide inflicted upon this gentle race of people, in the name of the British Empire and "Christianity".
Because many of the basic laws that were so inhumanely applied to Aboriginal People in the early white settlement days, remain in the statute books, there is still time for the nation to repent. Even that might help to regenerate a sense of self-esteem in a race that, to a very large degree, has been demoralized by my own countrymen.
It's no wonder that they take to alcohol of which the White-man makes sure the" Abos" are never in short supply! Without at least some truthful recognition of just how Australia was really founded, it is sheer hypocrisy for my government to criticize the one-time Apartheid system of South Africa or the racist policies of other oppressive regimes. Anthropologists say that, until full land rights are granted to Aboriginal People and their desecrated sacred sites restored, there is no possibility of these suffering people ever recovering the dignity they once enjoyed, however primitively, before the invasion of the White expansionists.
However, if we approach the Aboriginal problem in a pragmatic way, campaigning for land rights, important though that may be, is not the real answer to the problem. Such irreparable damage already has been done by the White-man, who, selfishly, has taken the best of the land that could support Australia's indigenous people that there has to be another solution.
It saddens me to see politicians and part-Aboriginal militants, with no respect for any sort of authority, and no real interest in the welfare of Aboriginal People as persons, exacerbating the problem and opening the way for opportunists with negative, ulterior motives, to take advantage. Australia's "Seweto" - the Sydney suburb of Redfern - is a powder keg, just waiting to explode. The challenge to help our Black Australian brothers and sisters, by living with them "incarnately", on their own cultural level, just as Jesus would, though not as a "missionary", was tearing at our heart -strings.
Our experience with India's" Adivasis" convinced us that the only real hope for Australia's original inhabitants, is to give them a new heart - Jesus; not in any "Evangelical" way, but in identifying with these lovely people by just simply living amongst them as equals, as we were doing with the Uraons. It can be done; it "works"; we had found the solution to Australia's Aboriginal problem. Yes, it looked as though our time spent in India was a time of preparation for our new ministry in Australia's "out-back". Maybe this was the way the Lord was going to fulfil our Impossible Dream.
I am not advocating the re-establishment of "Tribal Missions", infamous in early settlement days for their attempts to "Westernise" Australia's Black community or even, through ethnic genocide, forcibly try to integrate them into White society. Rather, do I envisage a new type of "secular" ministry, a "de-religionised" Gospel, through which the Incarnate Jesus could breathe New Life into one of the world's most disadvantaged indigenous groups.
Ruth and I were almost at the point of seeking
service through the Australian
It almost took my breath away when I read of the gracious offer of the Cameron Edison Benevolent Trust, an Australian charity society, to support us, not only personally, but also to save the ACDP!
Mr. Ralph P. Moran, Chairman of the Trust, asked me to spell out all my dreams, hopes and aspirations, that could not come to fruition because of the AICF's "Temporary Moratorium". In addition to that, I was asked to inform the Trust of any extra, "impossible" dreams I had to lift the area out of its grinding poverty. This gave me the opportunity to mention my desire to electrify the Sahaganj farm and to install flour and oil mills. This was more than "unreal"; it was a Miracle.
"Why, if the Lord could do all this," I challenged myself, "He could do anything and even lift the "Temporary Moratorium", without me having to defend myself further. I wanted to put the ban right out of my mind because the more I thought of all those thousands of sanctioned dollars bottled-up in a Geneva bank, the more I became resentful that my "rights" had been so unjustly violated.
"Furthermore," I prayerfully re-assured myself, "God could even arrange for the resumption of ACDP funding without the necessary Government registration, which seemed totally impossible because I was not prepared to pay an exorbitant sum in bribes, or any bribes, for that matter. What is more, if God has a conscience about funding a non-registered society, He could even arrange for the ACDP's registration, in spite of the cost and the time factor." These were the thoughts that had now possessed me as I anticipated further Miracles.
Nothing was now impossible. My faith, my dreams, my hopes were running wild and I praised the Lord for all His Goodness and the Power of Positive Thinking.