Chapter Three, Section I
There are few Westerners who see the "Real India". To have visited Delhi, Bombay, Calcutta or Madras is no proof of having seen the India that would soon possess us. Those who arrange their tours through Travel Agencies are met at wharf or airport by Westernised Indians who help them through Customs and take them to the best hotels in smart cars.
We were met at the ship by our new colleague, Lionel Burton and representatives from the travel agency. Without their help, I don't know how we would have coped with the gruelling experience through which we passed in the Bombay Customs sheds. Never before, in such a short time, had our senses been impinged on by so many varying and completely new stimuli as on that day.
These experiences began with harrowing Customs' formalities, exchange of currency, a visit to the very depths and slums of downtown Bombay and a never-to-be- forgotten encounter with Indian Railways. It was most unfortunate for us to land in Bombay on the very day that the Chief of Police, Criminal Investigation Department, was in the city checking on allegations of illegal imports through Bombay Port.
This was one of the reasons why the Customs and Immigration inspectors, who boarded the "Himalaya" in the Harbour were so officious. Also, orders had been given that the old Customs sheds must be completely cleared by midnight on February the 2nd, in order that the new sheds be opened the following day. Rumours had been circulating that stolen diamonds were being smuggled into the country by some passenger from our ship. For this reason, more baggage than usual was being opened for inspection, especially where no detailed description could be given of the contents.
"What do you have in trunk No.24?," the Customs officer asked me in very cultured, though slightly accented English. "Please hurry," the impatient officer prodded us, as his assistant, armed with axe, bolt-cutter and crowbar, hovered over the trunk with the voracious eye of a vulture. Beside us, being cleared by another officer, was a fellow passenger who had boarded the ship at Colombo. This Frenchman was literally in tears as the precious contents of his tins of Jacob’s "Cream Crackers" were dumped for inspection on the dirty bench. Desperately, I thumbed my way through what seemed to be reams of documents covering every detail of all the fifty-one items of freight. We had colleague-to-be, Janice Russell, to thank for advising us of the necessity of such detailed listing of all goods being imported.
"I want you to show me what you have in trunk 24," the brusque Customs man demanded as I searched out the appropriate keys from a bunch of seventy-two which were arranged numerically. Happily for us, the contents of No.24 tallied with the two foolscap sheets of closely typed details. "And also I would like to see what you have in THAT trunk," he said, pointing to No.12. Frantically, I went through the file and handed him the appropriate papers, selecting two more keys. "Never mind, forget it," he said.
I was about to start breathing again when he queried a public address system that another colleague-to-be, Anthony Robeson, had requested us to bring over. An application to import this equipment had been submitted months in advance, allowing ample time to post the permit to Lionel, in Bhavnagar, Bihar, on the other side of India. However the permit had not reached Lionel before he was due to leave for Bombay to meet us. Prior to our ship's arrival, he had visited Customs House only to be informed that the permit already had been posted to him at Bhavnagar.
"There are two alternatives for you, Mr. Burton," our travel agent advised, after conferring with the Customs official. "You could either remain here in Bombay until Mrs. Burton receives the permit by post and redirects it to her husband here in Bombay, or you could apply for a new permit to be issued." Neither alternative was attractive. There was no guarantee that the permit ever would reach Bhavnagar, for a high percentage of mail disappeared in the post and, as for the latter alternative, it involved an extremely lengthy and complicated procedure. What to do?
Anthony had suggested importing a P.A. system to proclaim the Gospel at the big Hindu "Mela" at Fardapur, near to Daulatapur, where the British Gospel Mission had its headquarters. Every five years, this festival attracted up to one million people who came from all parts of Bihar and beyond, to trade in all sorts of goods, have fun and receive a special blessing from the gods. To attend such a Mela is an unforgettable experience - one way of seeing something of the Real India.
To share with these pilgrims the Gospel of Christ would be a unique opportunity in evangelism. The longer we spent in Bombay, the less chance we would have to participate. It was decided, therefore, that tomorrow we should visit the Commissioner for Customs to seek a duplicate clearance certificate. Mr. Zellman, manager of the travel agency, who knew one of the Customs Department staff, offered to make a contact.
It was nearly midnight when we were finally cleared to leave the Customs sheds and, by that time, the old building was nearly empty, most uncleared items of freight having been physically carried by swarms of sweating "coolies". Loads that in the West would be tackled by two or three men, or a single man with a forklift, were moved by only one of these poor men for whom my heart ached. Our Customs formalities were completed when the official said, "I'm afraid we shall have to impound eight pieces of your baggage - all those trunks containing parts of the P .A. system for which you do not have an import permit!"
As the clock was striking midnight, I heard a strange swishing sound, followed by a sharp crack as though a branch of a dry tree were breaking, or maybe a beam snapping. Then I heard the most pathetic cry from one of the coolies who was being mercilessly beaten by a Customs official. The poor man had evidently placed a trunk in the wrong place and was being severely disciplined for negligence. "Nahin Sahib, Nahin Sahib," the cringing victim pleaded. "No Sir, No Sir," - the first full sentence that I had been able to comprehend without the help of a pundit.
Before leaving Australia, Mr. Perry had taught me a few very basic Hindi phrases and I was greatly encouraged when I could decipher these two words unaided. As the blows fell, I was nauseated by the sight and sound of such brutality. This was a first impression and little did I know at the time that, during the twenty-five years that lay ahead, I would witness a number of such beatings and every time they would leave me feeling the same - sick in the stomach.
I have deep respect for those great leaders of the Indian Congress who, in a non-violent way and often motivated by the Christian ethic, sought to liberate their country at the cost of their own lives. Later, I was privileged to know several in a very personal way. Not a few had been imprisoned for their convictions; many were flogged and tortured in other ways, but the British always were careful and cunning enough to make an Indian wield the lash or cane. But here was an Indian behaving in the same cruel way as his former foreign rulers. I felt that I should race to the defence of the underdog, but I was powerless. This is one of the most difficult things to bear in caste-ridden India - to see such poverty, injustice, discrimination and degradation and be powerless to help.
One has to see such beatings to believe the effects. In this case, the cane was about the length and thickness of a broom handle. When applied with full force, it cuts the skin, leaving a permanent scar but, unlike skin cut with a knife, it does not bleed profusely for the swelling around the welt closes the capillaries and seals the flow of blood. Ghastly! So ended our first day in India. I was exhausted physically, emotionally and spiritually and ready for a good sleep -- or maybe a nightmare.
Chapter Three, *** Section II
Keith, the children and I were so very grateful for the refuge we had found at the "Raj Minar", the Christian Guest House operated by two Americans, Mr. & Mrs. Zellman, who also provided travel agency facilities for missions. It was refreshing to escape from the smell of stale sweat and urine and to slip between clean, crisp sheets under a cooling fan.
Mrs. Zellman was a particularly gracious lady who made a lasting impression on Robert. Of her, he said, "She gives me cookies and calls me Honey." Her housekeeping was meticulous and the cleanliness of the "Raj Minar" contrasted with the neighbour’s foul-smelling drain and unswept stairway, which we had to pass to enter our haven. Outside, there was the constant, putrid smoke of "Biris" (Indian cigarettes). But if one looked about in a superficial manner, the scene from our temporary Bombay abode was most pleasing.
The four of us were
accommodated comfortably in one room on the first floor, with a balcony
overlooking the fashionable
Next day, in a more relaxed frame of mind, we were able to reflect on the traumatic experiences of the previous night in the Customs sheds. As promised, Mr. Zellman met the Chief Controller of Customs and explained the situation. He found that, prior to Lionel's visit to that office, the necessary Customs permit had not been posted. In fact, it was not until Lionel made the visit, before we berthed, that anything really concrete had been done to process the application. When Mr. Zellman was directed to the appropriate office in the Customs Department, he found that the permit had been passed by higher authorities and was waiting in the dispatch tray for the peon to take to the post office. Had Mr. Zellman been only a little later in making his visit to Customs House, the permit would have been mailed to the Mission's headquarters at Daulatapur, to be received by Anthony Robeson, perhaps three weeks later.
With the necessary permit now in hand, we were in a position to request the travel agency to clear all our fifty-one items of freight and book them on the Calcutta train which passes through Dharmapuri Junction, Bihar. There, the goods would be transferred to the Badami branch line train, which passes through Daulatapur. Viewing those Customs experiences in retrospect, it was clear that we had been "ripped off' to the tune of about 100 pounds sterling. We had had to pay fifty per cent duty on the food and sixty per cent on the equipment. The consensus of opinion of some of our friends was that this should never have happened. Some thought it was due to the visit of the Chief of the C. I. D. and others thought it was a way for the authorities to build up revenue to pay for the ten million tons of food-grains urgently needed to avert a critical famine situation.
Anyway, with one real obstacle behind us, we felt more inclined to enjoy the attractions of Bombay. Robert was fascinated by the double-decker buses, the motorcycle rickshaws and the bullock carts. Lionel did us a real favour by firmly impressing upon our minds the absolute necessity of taking weekly prophylactic against malaria. So far as I can remember, from then on, we as a family never missed our "Paludrin " tablets taken each Sunday. This probably accounts for the fact that, never in our whole career in India, did any of us contract malaria, even though we lived in a highly endemic area.
Shopping was a "must", but we could never understand why we had to buy foreign-style headgear called "topis" which, we recall, never were worn by our British missionary colleagues! At that time, we did not know that these were the hated symbols of foreign oppression. We often wonder what deleterious effect this ridiculous headgear had upon our ministry. But we still had a lot more to learn and often most painfully. Shopping would not be complete without the purchase of mosquito nets and the then-approved insecticide -DDT.
Lionel took us to an Indian restaurant and Mr. Zellman, who had many helpful contacts in the city, arranged to get us permits to see the "Towers of Silence". Upon these towers, the Parsees put their dead to be consumed by vultures, which constantly hover in the sky above, posing a real threat to aircraft. Known also as Zoroastrians, with a culture of Persian origin, these devout people believe in the sacredness of earth, fire and water. They worship the sun and have a fire temple in Bombay city. Burial of the dead cannot be practiced, as it would contaminate the sacred earth; cremation is impossible because it would pollute the sacred flame. This first impression contrasted with the Hindu "burning ghats", or funeral pyres, in other parts of the city. Here the dead are burned publicly for all to see. What a contrast! But this is the Real India, a land of unimaginable contrasts.
On one hand, there was indescribable affluence and, on the other, children so emaciated and deformed that, at first glance, they could be taken for monkeys as they bounded along on all fours, some completely naked. Many of these unfortunate children, and adults too, are crippled due to disease or malnutrition. Later, we were to learn that "beggar contractors" deliberately maim a kidnapped or purchased child and keep the victim alive for begging at a later time. This applies particularly where beggars are totally lame, their legs having been broken to prevent escape. At times, we saw them shuffling along on their backs and buttocks, with an appealing note tied to the chest- "I am a poor leper man; I have no mother or father". The uninitiated, gullible Western tourist can seldom resist the urge to offer alms.
In the years ahead, when we became personally involved in service to leprosy sufferers and learned to diagnose the signs and symptoms of Hansens Disease, it became quite clear that many of the fingers, toes, hands and feet of beggars we had seen in the past, had not been destroyed by leprosy. They had been "surgically" removed by these unscrupulous and callous "beggar contractors".
Happily, at the time of writing, the situation has improved somewhat, but India still has a big beggar problem and often it is so difficult to distinguish the genuine needy person from the one who wants to be a beggar or the one who has no other option, being virtually a slave. When a bony, gaunt child, with eyes wide open due to malnutrition, looks pleadingly into your eyes and cries, "Bakshees Sahib; me no Mama; me no Papa," it is difficult to withhold a coin - a coin which could either end up in the coffers of a brutal master, or could buy the child a crust. Who knows? Often a beggar will refuse food, though he or she may be desperately hungry, for it is not food that the master wants, but revenue, and if the latter is not forthcoming, the lash at the end of the day will achieve the necessary results.
Chapter Three, Section III
We were beginning to
enjoy life in Bombay. Within a few days, the immediate areas around
I was rather shocked when I reached one area where the locals have named the streets according to the "value" of the women sought out by male clients. There was "Two Rupee Street" for the cheapest, then "Three Rupee Street", through Four, Five and Six. The women were behind barred windows, which gave them the appearance of being in cages. Later, I learned that a whole gang of racketeers in this slave trade was rounded up and imprisoned. They had been buying girls in Nepal and exploiting them in this very area.
Though I was not accosted by pimps on this occasion, some years later, while on business in Calcutta, I was to have this unsavoury experience on a number of occasions. "Sahib, you like beautiful Chinese girl? What about pretty, slim Thai girl, only ten rupees?" The exploitation of women in the Orient is mind boggling, not that the West is innocent in these matters. Far from it; our "cultured" society has learned how to do the same dirty work in a more sophisticated way. The dominating male species unrelentingly wages its war against women in every race of every nation.
To linger too long in such areas is most depressing when there's nothing one can do to alleviate the sufferings of those in bondage. But I must confess that I never once felt scared in such places, even in the very heart of Bombay's slums. I have felt more afraid in Downtown Manhattan and travelling in New York's subway than I ever felt in the most decrepit of Indian cities. I mention this in case some readers may feel that I am denigrating India. There is good and bad in all countries. What to us may be "bad", when seen in the perspective of another country's culture, may not be so bad after all. This is the problem that the missionary faces - how to sit where they sit, to think as they think, to feel as they feel, to suffer as they suffer, to experience life's situations just as they do, to see from their point of view - to empathize.
How I longed to be able to relate to these people just as though I were an Indian, to have no language, cultural or religious barriers come between us. I wished that, in spite of all that separated me from Indians for reasons over which I had no control, the Incarnate Christ would, somehow, shine through. This was my prayer and I was grateful for the atmosphere of prayer that surrounded us during the days we spent with the Zellmans. Before returning to "Raj Minar" for the evening meal, I thought I would have another look at Victoria Station from which we were scheduled to leave the next night on the Calcutta train, bound for Daulatapur.
"Vitty", as the station is known, is colossal. If there is one thing the British did that was helpful to India, it was to establish a very efficient railway system throughout the whole land. Indians will tell you, and rightly so, that the vast network was geared primarily to serve the British Empire, but, while motives may be questionable, at least the people of India were served, along with the Occupation Authorities and the "Mother Land", which depended on cheap products from the Colonies. Judging by the splendour of "Vitty" and many other big terminals in Delhi, Calcutta, Madras and Lucknow, the British had intended to stay in India for a very long time.
There is no rail station in Australia comparable in any way with "Vitty", which reminded me more of New York's Grand Central, London's Paddington, Euston, Charring Cross, or its namesake, "Victoria". I just had to get a platform ticket to look over the huge complex with its many electrified lines radiating out for hundreds of miles. The big electric locomotives in those days were all British-made "Vickers" and the main-line steam locos were of Canadian origin. It would be some years before India would be able to indigenise the system fully and even export heavy railway equipment and its related technology.
While at Vitty, I checked at the freight department and was pleased to note that Lionel had been able to book all our fifty-one pieces of baggage on the next night's train departing at 2020 hours. "Tomorrow afternoon," I thought, "I'll make one more visit to Vitty, only a ten-minutes walk from Raj Minar', to make absolutely sure that all our baggage is loaded on the train."
Everything seemed to be working out smoothly. Our last day in Bombay was spent mainly in writing letters home. There were so many experiences we just had to share and we knew it would be weeks before further mail could leave India by air. In spite of the ceiling fan, frequent sponging and liberal applications of lotion, our baby's prickly heat was no better. But we were determined to overcome the problem and also to defeat the hard elderly missionary's warning before we left the ship - "Your baby will never survive in India," she said, in a rather cocksure manner. "His skin will never adjust to the climate”. Today, our baby would rest, in preparation for the long and arduous forty-six hours' journey to the other side of India.
Chapter Three, Section IV
In the late afternoon, as planned, I walked around to the railway station to make sure that our baggage was actually loaded into the rear freight car of the Calcutta Express. At 7 p. m., the train was backed into the platform and the precious goods were put aboard. This gave me more than enough time to take a cab back to the "Raj Minar" to collect the family and return to the train before departure time at 8:20 p. m.. Lionel remained at the station to wait for us. At 7:30 p. m., after saying "good-bye" to our hosts, we set off for the station in another cab. The driver of this taxi knew very little English but could ask, "Where you go? " I carefully explained, slowly and simply, that we wanted to go to the railway station from which the Calcutta train would be leaving.
"Go station, go Calcutta train, Achcha (good), Sahib. Calcutta station," was the reply. But it seemed rather strange that our taxi should be going in the direction opposite to the way we walked to the station. "This roundabout route is probably to avoid peak-hour traffic congestion," I thought. But after five minutes of travelling in what appeared to be the same direction, I was convinced that we were being "taken for a ride" in more ways than one! I repeatedly tapped the driver on the shoulder and ordered him to stop, but he just kept on going.
"Calcutta train," I shouted at him. "Ha (yes), Sahib, Calcutta train," the driver shouted back confidently. "This is NOT the way," I yelled frantically at the driver, who replied all the more firmly, "Calcutta train, Sahib."
By this time, we were nearly going out of our minds, as the time moved towards 7:45 p. m.. It was clear to us that unless we stopped this crazy driver and set him on a different course, we would never catch our train. The district through which we were now passing looked altogether unfamiliar and I was about to reach over to turn off the ignition or somehow stop the vehicle, when a large building loomed up before us. There were thousands of people and equally as many taxis, rickshaws, cycles and bullock carts. With a look of triumph on his face, the driver brought us to a sudden halt and I leaped out to ask the first likely looking Indian gentleman on the sidewalk to explain just where we might be. "This is Central Station," I was told.
"But I want Victoria Station," I screamed. "Trains from here go to Calcutta via Nagpur but from Victoria Station, Calcutta trains go via Allahabad," the gentleman explained. Why hadn't someone told me this before?
The crowd that had gathered explained to the cab driver that we needed to go to Victoria Station and then the fun started. With only twenty minutes to make the half-hour dash through dense, undisciplined, peak-hour traffic, we set off with a roar that left not a little rubber on the road. I am sure that we must have broken all speed records for a car of its class and under such conditions. We only just missed several rickshaws and bullock carts and on three occasions, passed trams on the wrong side!
During one of those hair-raising episodes, we narrowly missed another tram coming towards us on the opposite line. At several intersections we actually went straight through against the red lights. With no seat belts in those days, I found myself, at times, with eyes closed, holding my attaché case before my face to protect it when the time came to be catapulted through the windshield. At least my family at the rear would have had some protection by being dashed against the back of the front seat!
After what seemed more like an hour, this nightmarish experience came to a sudden halt as we skidded into the curb in front of the now-familiar Victoria Station. The big clock showed 8: 17 p. m. - just three minutes before departure time and the gate was still open, although the bell was ringing. In a flash, a team of coolies descended upon us, grabbed all the odds and ends of hand baggage, paid the taxi driver and hurried us towards the gate, only to find it closing before our very eyes. Lionel had been waiting for us on the platform and had arranged for the coolies to give all the necessary help. But although the ticket collector at the barrier knew we were coming, he kept the gate closed for a full three minutes until the express pulled out.
Meanwhile, Lionel had to snatch his own baggage from the train and, as the gate opened, he cried out, "To Dada, to Dada." As quickly as we, our children and possessions had been rushed out of the taxi on arrival, in like manner we were thrust back on board again, and this time there was one more passenger- Lionel. Dada is the first stopping station for expresses on the eastbound line, about twenty-five miles from the outskirts of the city. Our colleague had hoped that we just might make it.
I left it to him to do all the worrying and was ever so grateful that he could communicate freely with the driver in Hindi. Liberally, "greasing his palm", Lionel achieved what I thought would have been humanly impossible; we raced the express to Dada through all that chaotic traffic congestion and actually survived to tell the tale. But sadly, as we were arriving at the station, the train was just pulling out!.
We were utterly dejected as we thought of the loss of three adult fares and those covering the children, not to mention our baggage, all fifty-one pieces, which could easily go astray. But we were gradually learning that this is all part of living in the Real India. What may be the extraordinary in the West, may just be the "norm" in India. As we returned to "Raj Minar" at a more leisurely pace, I wondered if this is where faith takes over.
When I first became a Christian, I learned that in all life's situations, one must "think positively" and believe that even in catastrophes such as this, there may be blessings in disguise. But if ever my faith was being tested, it was in this first week spent in Bombay. "If there are many more times like this," I thought, "I doubt if I shall ever make it as a missionary."
As we neared "Raj Minar," hoping to get accommodation for the night, we remembered the saying that they were expecting a full house immediately following our departure. A number of missionaries were due in from London on the P.& 0. ship "Stratheden" and this could mean having to search for hotel rooms. We thought, however, that we should at least report our adventures to our new American friends. It was nearly midnight when we arrived back at "Raj Minar".
Robert, who by this time was quite familiar with the apartment, jumped out of the taxi and found his way up, by the elevator, to the guesthouse suite. Imagine the Zellmans' surprise when they opened the door to find this little four year old there to greet them with, "Hello, we are back again. " At first, they thought he may have become lost and missed the train, but then we all arrived to relate the harrowing events of our night on Bombay's streets.
It was a great relief for us when we were offered the same rooms we had vacated earlier. It so happened that an epidemic of influenza had broken out on the "Stratheden", necessitating quarantine for the vessel with all its crew and passengers. So long as the Health Authorities had the ship tied up in the harbour, we could stay to retrace our steps and seek reservations on a later train. We could never have been more grateful for showers, clean, crisp sheets and that overhead fan. Within minutes after hitting the pillows, we were "dead to the world".
Our good friend, Mr. Zellman, seemed to know every important person in the city. It was he who met the Chief Commissioner of Customs to have the permit issue clarified for the importation of the public address system. It was he who knew the Chief Priest at the Parsee Towers of Silence, enabling us to get permits to visit and so when he offered to meet with the top railway officials at Victoria Station, we were confident that our travel problems would be solved - and so they were.
Each main-line interstate express train in India has a full first-class compartment reserved for VIP Government Servants. We were fortunate to have such a six-berth compartment allocated to us with two attached toilets and showers. Individual fans and two wall tables also helped to make us more comfortable. The offer was made, contingent upon no high official wanting to travel at the last moment, and fare-wise, we were not penalized for having missed the previous night's train. The only problem remaining to be solved was that relating to our fifty-one pieces of freight.
As soon as we were sure of getting away that night, Lionel raced around to the post office and sent off a telegram to Daniel & Lois Lester, British missionaries who, with their colleagues, the Stocktons, operated the Emmanuel Christian Mission at Dharmapuri. Lionel requested these friends to meet the train we should have been on to see that all the freight was transferred to the Badami branch-line train which passes through Palamghat District and its central town, Daulatapur. From Dharmapuri Junction, the main-line express train continues on, through Gaya, to Calcutta.
By 8.00 p.m. that night, we were comfortably settled in the train with bedding rolls, called "Bistas", spread out on the berths. In those days, there were no corridor coaches, so the first-class compartments seemed huge, being the full width of the car. It was to be several years before Indian Railways could produce their own air-conditioned coaches with berths made up with sheets, pillows and blankets - Pullman style.
Meanwhile, those who could afford it, ordered 40 Kg. blocks of ice which were placed in trays on the compartment floor, under the fans. During the summer months, ice could be replenished along the way by contacting the car attendant who would phone the order through to the next train stopping station. Fortunately, on this occasion, we were travelling in February and the weather was only just starting to warm up. It would be another three months before travel in such non-air-conditioned coaches would be an almost unbearable experience with inside temperatures sometimes reaching as high as 130 deg. F..
We had only a few minutes left before departure time at 8.20 p.m., but could have spent hours taking in all the sights and breathing in all the aromas of oriental perfumes and exotic spices. There must have been dozens of vendors, spread out along the full length of the platform, selling all manner of goods. Some had elaborate carts on which they cooked the most tempting foods. Others were more mobile and had all their wares and cooking equipment, including a glowing coke fire, precariously balanced on their heads on a large tray. A wicker-type stand to support all this gear during a business deal, was carried under one arm. There were fruit vendors pushing their carts, also booksellers and merchants with a large variety of saris and textiles. "Boxwalas" had on display beautifully carved walnut goods from Kashmir, or if you wished, you could bargain for delicate ivory or silverware.
"Garam Chai -Chaiwala" are words to be heard on every rail station and at every bus stand, throughout most of the Indian continent. In the years ahead, during times of fatigue and exhausting heat, when safe, boiled drinking water was hard to find, we were to long for the cry of the Tea Vendor (chaiwala) -"Garam Chai -Garam Chai " (hot tea). For this reason, our party of five persons had six earthen pots (surahis) which Mrs. Zellman had kindly filled with nine gallons of boiled water to help us through the forty-six hours of travel ahead. In later times, Ruth and I occasionally were to run dangerously low on water and had to exercise extreme self -discipline to refrain from drinking "Kachha Pani" (unboiled water). There were even times when we had to request the locomotive driver to fill up our surahis from the engine boiler. Good health in India is not maintained without a very high price. When it comes to tea, the English claim to be connoisseurs, but comparing their brew with real "Garam Chai," is like trying to relate "Corned Beef & Cabbage" to "Filet de Boeufile Chateau." As for Indian "Special Tea", which is made with milk instead of water and flavoured with cardamon, it is something out of this world.
Of course, if you wish, Western-style tea is available in all the higher-class restaurants or hotels. In this case, brewed tea is poured into the cup over milk, or a little milk is added to the brewed tea. Sugar is then added to taste. But with "Garam Chai", all the ingredients - water, tea, milk and sugar - are boiled together. This ensures the complete sterilization of the whole beverage. After all, in India, one never can be quite sure if the milk has been boiled and, in the interior, rural areas, there are few modern dairies with pasteurising facilities. As for the sugar, one of the first impressions that left me somewhat stunned, was to see rats urinating and defecating in an open bag of sugar in a small Bombay shop!. So the Western traveller, to remain free of tummy wogs, must drink tea the Indian way.
Another thing to remember is that "Garam Chai", to be enjoyed without fear of picking up a diarrhoea bug, should be drunk from disposable baked earthen cups. Most Chaiwalas have such vessels, which, while giving the tea a slightly earthy flavour, do assure the drinker that he has less chance of contracting Tuberculosis, Pyorrhoea or the like. But the health fanatic is caught in an inevitable compromise in the Real India. Those earthen cups, for example, may have been stacked on the railway platform to be frequented by swarms of flies. And what about the hands that serve the tea? . They may not have been cleaned with soap for a long time and when one realizes that the majority of rural Indians never use toilet paper, the Western mind boggles!.
First impressions of India made me shudder whenever an Indian served me food with his bare hands. This is the reason why the upper crust of the former British Raj always insisted on their table bearers handling food and utensils with clean white gloves. However, when we view the situation from an Indian point of view, the West, with its over-dependence on detergents and disinfectants, falls far short. Well, that is what we are told by the Indian who believes in the sacred, cleansing efficacy of "Mitti" (earth) and "Pani" (water). Some will go even further and add "Gobar" (cow-dung), that vital by-product of "Mataji" (Holy Mother Cow) which is used by millions of rural Indians to clean their cooking vessels as we would use soap!. Paradoxically, many Indians regard Westerners as dirty because most of our domestic toilets not only have no bidets but also not even the most basic hand washing facilities!. Enough said!
A journey such as this would not be complete without seeing the mighty electric locomotive, which was to haul us part of the way. It was of 3,000 H.P. and needed all that energy to pull such a heavy load of fourteen coaches, all jammed full. On this occasion, there were no travellers on the roof and none clinging to the sides of the cars, perhaps because there were police on the platform. Robert and I could have examined that locomotive for hours but departure time was near and we had to return to our compartment.
Lionel made sure we had taken our "Paludrin" anti-malarial tablets because we were to spend the night without mosquito nets. If, for any reason, the train should stop for a long period and the battery power for the fans fail, we would be at risk from mosquitoes. At last we were on our way, but before we could settle down for the night, we just had to see Dada Station, and thank God that the terrifying experience of the previous night was now just a memory, though a first impression we could never forget.