Chapter Three, Section V
Around the middle of the night and approximately one hundred and twenty miles from Bombay, we reached Manmad. Although I was much in need of sleep, there were so many things that had captured my interest, that I just had to take a stroll up the platform during the twenty minutes stop-over to change locomotives from electric to steam. Passing one of the ten third-class coaches, which were part of our train, I felt overcome by a deep sense of shame. Already, I had developed a great love and admiration for the "Father of the Nation ", Mahatma Gandhi, especially as he identified with ordinary folk. Never did he feel closer to his people than when travelling third class. In fact, it was a principle with him never to travel in any other class.
Deep down, I hated myself. Was I any different from the arrogant white man who refused to give up his seat to a more needy pregnant black lady in a Montgomery, Alabama bus? I would caution anyone contemplating becoming a missionary to India, or any other such needy country, to think twice. We are not all made of the same stuff as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. who, under the inspiration of Jesus and The Mahatma, was preparing to face the very same problem that was plaguing my mind. It was on that Manmad Station where it became agonizingly clear in my thinking that, if I were to fulfil the role of a missionary, it would not be without a price.
These thoughts swept over me as I looked into that third class coach, almost mesmerized by the magnitude of the suffering. There must have been at least three hundred people crowded into it, packed in, as it were, like slaves in a galley. Not a few of them were stretched out on the floor, in the luggage racks and on piles of dirty baggage stacked everywhere between the seats. No Western traveller could tolerate such appalling conditions in public transport. "What would they do if they wanted to relieve themselves?" I thought, because there was just no way that anyone could get to the lavatories. And how could they leave the train at a station to get a drink, except perhaps through the windows, if they were able to reach them? .
My inner spirit wanted to identify with this writhing mass of humanity but another part of me revolted. I thought of the comforts of my first class coach, which accommodated about sixty persons, all in bunks with individual fans and one or two toilets to each compartment. "Such inequities should never be allowed," I thought. But in spite of the pathetic plight of these miserable third class passengers, I noticed that many were talking happily and several even were singing.
I had read of the tranquillity of devout Hindus who are able to overcome the most intense human grief and pain. Now, for the first time, I was actually seeing the fruits of meditation. It was quite obvious that those for whom my heart went out were completely oblivious to all their apparent discomforts. They seemed to be lost, as it were, in the very person of Brahma. Others, who, perhaps, also could perceive the Maya of the gods, were all laid out asleep on the platform, like so many corpses. There must have been hundreds of them, patiently waiting for various train connections. Some would wait for up to ten hours, but, whereas we in the West would risk having a coronary if our train were fifteen minutes late, these Hindu travellers were resting peacefully. Shrouded in once-white cloth, which covered them from head to toe, they had learned to sleep on a hard concrete platform and to block out from their hearing all the noises of a busy railroad junction.
As I set out to return to my family and the comforts of our VIP rail suite, I passed another third class coach and was shocked to see what was obviously a very sick woman, bony and with sunken eyes. To her empty, pendulant breasts clung an equally emaciated child, desperately sucking and clawing at the exposed fleshy bags on which it depended for survival.
Her raucous cough seemed like that of Tuberculosis and if that were the case, she could be infecting all within her immediate area. Beside her sat her husband, gaunt and haggard, nursing another child along with a bundle of rags, a dented aluminium cooking pot and a hurricane lantern with a cracked, smoky glass chimney. The scene was that of abject poverty, which was totally unwarranted in a land which can provide enough, for all.
It would have been so easy to switch careers and, through political means, fight for the rights of these underdogs who were unable to help themselves. I had heard of a number of missionaries who had not been able to endure the enormity of such human misery. Impatient with the slow progress they were making to improve social conditions through the Gospel, they had become bitter and resentful of the privileged classes. Two missionaries, of whom I had heard, channelled all their endeavours through the Communist Party, only to experience utter frustration. They found it impossible to motivate the sufferers to stand up for their rights.
But at least they had a concern for the underdog, which was more than I found in talking with a group of very conservative, fundamentalist Christians with whom we travelled to Bombay in the "Himalaya". As was the custom in those days of sea travel, most missionaries met together for morning devotions and Bible study. When I raised questions about poverty, injustice, human rights, abuse of women and children and also community development, one seasoned missionary, returning to India from furlough, cautioned me not to get too involved. "Remember your priorities, brother. It's not the Social Gospel that India needs, but the Blood of Christ. The Lord knows their needs. All we have to do is to see that the dear souls are covered with the Blood. The power is in the Blood, brother, Preach the Blood and the Lord will bless your ministry!”
The stark tragedy I had beheld through the windows of that third class coach was inexorably bound up with the will of the gods. If one is "unfortunate" enough to be born into the lower strata of society, it is all because of "Karma". To accept that state as one of "good-fortune" is to qualify, perhaps, for graduation to a higher order in the next life! .No amount of religion, in terms of mere words, can change such fatalistic attitudes. "It will take a lot of identification - a lot of loving," I thought, "if ever we are going to improve the lot of India's masses."
Chapter Three, ***Section VI
For the next few hundred miles, through Jabalpur and the ancient city of Allahabad, Lionel and Keith "talked shop". Keith, with pencil and paper, was jotting down and trying to remember basic Hindi sentences to help in responding to the welcome we would soon receive at Daulatapur. It was 2.00 a.m. and nearly thirty hours out from Bombay, when we arrived at the big Dharmapuri Junction. With eleven hours to fill in, waiting for the Badami branch line train, we had time to visit British Emmanuel missionaries, the Lesters and their colleagues, Calvin & Jessica Stockton, but that would have to be after daybreak.
Meanwhile, it was impossible to sleep because of the noise of whistling locomotives and the rumblings of passing freight trains. The night air was cold, so cold that we had to keep moving for comfort. Baby Paul cried for most of the following four hours. Robert kept us on the move, walking up and down the platform, viewing the mighty steam engines. Also, there was much activity to see on the opposite side of the station where the colossal Durga factory complex chums out cement, iron and steel, paper and sugar, while constantly belching smoke, steam, grime and stench. One could not help feeling sorry for the Emmanuel folk who worked in such a heavily polluted environment.
In spite of the cold, time passed rapidly and dawn began to break. The many mummy-like bodies began to stir and mutter the first words of the day - "Ram, Ram ". A few had started to urinate over the edge of the platform even though there were several lavatories at the station, catering for all classes - First, Second, Inter and Third. But such public facilities, however much they may reek of Phenyl, are considered unclean by those who take their religion seriously. Others, who needed to relieve themselves more substantially, could be seen with water-pot in hand, heading for several cleared areas in the marshalling yards, or in fields bordering the tracks.
These publicly recognised "open latrines" were also frequented by many grunting black pigs, most revolting creatures, who vied with hundreds of crows for a ration of faecal protein!
Another first impression was the noise of many people clearing their throats at the platform faucets. As part of the ritualistic ablutions, all trace of phlegm and other contaminations must be expelled, which has a rather nauseating effect upon our Westernised auditory senses. It was noticeable that all of these urinating and defecating people were men. It is hard for the visitor from the West to appreciate the less-visible inconveniences suffered by women in the Real India. To help raise their miserable status, in a male dominated society, was to become a consuming passion in our ministry.
The prolonged clanging of a gong made from a piece of railway line and looking like a large inverted tuning fork, signalled that the Delhi Mail from Calcutta would arrive in fifteen minutes' time. This stimulated much activity on the platform. Swarms of railway coolies, identified by their red shirts and turbans, descended upon those travellers who needed help with their baggage, most of which was carried on the heads or under the arms of these robust men. We learned later that only the sturdy survive doing this exhausting work. One group, recognizing Lionel and, hoping for some "baksheesh", shouted triumphantly, "Sab saman are gaya Sahib; sab Daulatapur chala gaya." We were so glad to learn that all our baggage had safely arrived at this station and had been sent on to Daulatapur by our Emmanuel Mission friends.
The ubiquitous "chaiwala", making his way up the platform with the now familiar large aluminium kettle of tea and a bucket full of baked earthen cups, was a sight for sore eyes. The preservation of our fifty-one pieces of freight called for a celebration, so together, we downed about a dozen cups of tea just as the Delhi Mail, drawn by a huge Canadian-built locomotive, thundered into the station.
During the train's five-minute stopover, what captured our attention was the soiled crockery off-loaded from the dining car and stacked on the platform beside the restaurant. On some of the plates were scraps of food, which were hungrily pounced on by several emaciated beggar children. There were times in the future when we would see many more starving children, fighting like cats and dogs over a crust from such plates. Crows and stray dogs also often compete for the leftovers.
Trains fascinated Robert, so a visit to the locomotive was a "must". The driver, who spoke very good English, was most friendly and I'm sure that, had there been time, he would have taken Robert up into the cab to let him feel the controls. It was to be a few years later, when Robert, on his way to boarding school, in the Himalayas, actually was allowed up into the cab of a shunting loco to drive it up and down the yards. The driver of the Delhi Mail happened to be an Anglo-Indian, which accounted for his good English. There are many within this mixed-race who will only speak a language other than English if it is a matter of real necessity and importance. During the days of the British Raj, they were not fully accepted, either by the British or the Indians. Although many Anglo- Indians have never left the shores of India, they refer to Britain as "home" and, in fact, have more loyalty to the "Old Country" than many of the expatriates they envy.
It is not surprising, therefore, that with the coming of Independence, these unfortunate people became all the more stigmatised in the eyes of the nationalistic Indians. Those fortunate enough to have British passports had already started to migrate to Britain or to British Commonwealth countries with strong Anglo-Saxon ethnic connections. On the credit side, Anglo-Indians excelled in their ability to run an efficient railway system and the vast majority of these folk lived in the railway colonies, beside the big junctions. The British also used them, to a large degree, in operating the Post & Telegraph Services.
By the time the Delhi Mail had pulled out on its remaining twelve-hour run to the Capital, we were ready to visit our friends, the Lester and Stockton families. Lionel arranged for a station coolie to guard our hand baggage while we climbed aboard cycle-rickshaws for the two-mile trip to the Emmanuel bungalow. It took some time for Keith to feel at ease in these vehicles with a sweating under-nourished peddler often unable to ride on the seat because of the load, the incline or the condition of the road. On not a few occasions, Indians would look aghast to see Keith actually helping the "rickshawala" to push his heavy load where pedalling was not possible. From time to time, Indians are seen to get out and walk if the load is excessive, especially on a steep hill, but seldom will they help in pushing from behind; after all, one pays for the load to be carried! .
Our Emmanuel friends were
so kind in helping us freshen up and in providing a lovely breakfast. Another
first impression was that, while Christians in the West are often divided over
denominational differences, on the "mission field", especially among
the nationals, there is a bond of fellowship which over-rides petty theological
variance. The reason seems to be that the
We certainly came down a peg or two when we climbed aboard the Badami branch-line train - literally "climbed"! The first thing we noticed was that there was no platform such as we have in Australia, raised to the level of the coach floor. During various later trips to Canada and the USA, we were to see more such ground-level platforms, but the coaches had proper built-in steps to climb aboard. On this train, there were no such steps or ladders which could have been a big problem had we been elderly at the time. As we opened the door, about a dozen big fat cockroaches scurried in all directions to escape the sunlight and find some crack for refuge. Although the previous night had been cool, by now the temperature outside was around 90 deg. F., making the fans necessary, but the batteries were flat, so we had to sweat it out in heat that was well over the century mark inside that ancient carriage. There was also no water in the tanks so the toilet bowl, which was sealed by hardened excrement, like concrete, could not be flushed. And this was "First-Class!"
It seemed like hours before we were on our way. Ever since we left Bombay, Lionel had been particularly careful to lock. all doors and windows. On this stage of the journey he took extra precautions because we were entering territory notorious for "dacoits" or bandits. These are people who would slice off an ear to get a gold earring, or cut off a finger for the same purpose if the ring is a tight fit. So many people had been killed in these first-class coaches with no corridors, that the Indian Railways finally abolished them. At the time of writing, all rail coaches in India are of the side or centre corridor types.
Several years later, on this very line, while travelling between Joypur and Mandya, Keith and I had the terrifying experience of having two dacoits clinging to the side of our coach. For a full twenty miles they bashed violently at the door, demanding entry. Although the door was bolted at the top and bottom, as well as having the regular centre lock, it shook in a frightening manner as though it would burst from its hinges. Later, we learned that, during our first term in India, quite a number of missionaries had been murdered in similar carriages. Although the windows of the compartments were equipped with iron bars and iron shutters that could be raised, the attached toilet windows were not so protected and dacoits took full advantage of the fact. Had we known then, that during the twenty-five years to follow, we would have to travel on that dangerous and infamous line at least another one hundred times, we would have made a hasty retreat back to Bombay.
Mandya station was coming up, the last main stopping station before our destination, Daulatapur. In the earliest historical times, Mandya was an important trading centre, attracting merchants from all parts of India to exchange a large variety of goods in the big bazaar. It was also a place for frequent "Melas" which are still held every few years. In later years, following the construction of the bridge across the Komela River, the railway was extended from Mandya to Mirzapur, near Allahabad. This line passes through Nagau, U.P., where Mr. & Mrs. Perry served through the British Gospel Mission in the early part of the century.
We were to have a very close contact with Mandya in the years ahead and some of our experiences relating to this town were to be most harrowing, to put it mildly. With Mandya behind us, the last twenty miles of travel were spent in preparing for our arrival in Daulatapur. "Bistas" had to be packed and folded. These canvas-bedding rolls contain a pillow, sheets and blankets, also towel and other toiletries. Numerous pockets serve to contain sandals, a change of clothes, soiled garments, shoe polishing gear - you name it. They can expand to enormous sizes and are held together by leather straps, joined by a leather handle. Unless one is fortunate enough to have air-conditioned berths, a "Bista" is a "must" for all long-distance rail travellers in India. Next came the cleaning. No matter how dirty one may be underneath, all visible parts of the anatomy must at least look clean. During the heat of the day, compartment glass windows need to be left open, which means that one is thoroughly caked with soot, dust and grime by the time the destination has been reached. With no water available in the compartment toilet, we had to use some of our precious boiled water. Life in India has taught us how little water one needs to give a semblance of cleanliness.
We can never forget the welcome we received on arriving at Daulatapur railway station at 4.00 p.m. on the 10th. February, 1951. Greeting us on behalf of the Indian Christian Community was Miss Shantibe Dube, to whom this book is dedicated and with whom, in the years ahead, we were to develop a very close and personal relationship. "Moussiji" (Auntie), as we affectionately came to call her, is one of the finest persons I have ever had the privilege of knowing. With her, were her sisters, Premi and Sundarbeti, along with other members of this wonderful family, of which we later became a part.
Shantibe, as Principal of the school and Secretary of the church, spoke in beautiful English, giving each of us the "Namaste" or "Namaskar" folded-hands greeting and placing about our necks garlands of Hibiscus, Frangipani, Poinsettia, Oleander and Marigolds. We felt completely at home right from the start. Anthony and Colleen Robeson, our new English Colleagues, also were at the station with their Jeep, to take us to the bungalow - "Number Two Bungalow", an architectural colossus. We had arrived.
Chapter Three, Section VII
It was with very mixed emotions that we spent our first day at the Daulatapur Mission station. Number Two Bungalow was a massive red brick structure, out of all proportion to the purpose for which it was built. Our bedroom was at least four times the area of the average main bedroom of a middle-class Australian or American home and the ceiling was at least three times as high. The space was more than enough to comfortably accommodate our whole family of four, along with all our personal baggage and freight!
How thankful we were to find that our luggage had arrived safely. Both Daniel Lester and Anthony Robeson had received our telegrams in good time, which was most remarkable, considering the inefficiency of the Indian Post & Telegraph Department at the time. Anthony knew the Daulatapur Railway Station Master well enough to clear all the freight without our signatures! He must have made at least a dozen Jeep trips to move all of it from the station to the bungalow, a distance of about half a mile. For Anthony, it was a precious cargo, as also it was for the Russells and Burtons for it included several crates of food - Australian dried fruits, powdered milk, jams, honey, cheese etc. - items seldom seen in the Daulatapur bazaar.
While we were very glad to have arrived on the field, the whole Mission atmosphere, which smacked of the British Raj, produced an anti-climax. On viewing what was to be our residence for a few weeks, my first impression was that, in relation to our Calling, the mode of our living would be totally incongruous. Here we were, with a desire to share in the life of India and her people, most who are desperately poor, while we ourselves lived in a mansion. When viewed through Indian eyes, what seemed even worse was that our very life-style was reminiscent of the former Occupation Forces against which India had struggled so long and painfully to gain freedom.
One part of me reasoned that way, while my less attractive nature longed for the comforts we were about to enjoy in this enormous Headquarters, surrounded by what would be a lovely garden in the rainy season. The building had four family bedrooms of equal size with attached dressing rooms and bathrooms. Wide verandahs at front and back added to the size and spaciousness of the structure.
Dinner was at 8.00 p.m., so we had time for the regular afternoon baths, water for which was drawn from the well by the servant, Tazil. We had a soft spot for Tazil with whom we could identify. I'm sure that, in spite of the snobbish facade we missionaries appeared to present, he and many of the locals accepted us as their friends. In keeping with the established British tradition, missionaries were not meant to become too closely associated with "servants" and what was even more pathetically ludicrous, Indians were not encouraged to address us by our first names! Years had to pass before we were privileged to be called "Ruth & Keith", by the folk we had come to serve.
Wherever we were taken, we were introduced to the churches and even to the community leaders as "Skillicorn Sahib" and "Skillicorn Memsahib", just as though we were British expatriates in the now defunct Indian Civil Service. Frankly, this seemingly imperialistic and arrogant attitude sickened me and I often felt very depressed, but because of the nature of the work to which we had been called, I was caught in an inevitable compromise.
"How on Earth," I thought, "will we ever get through to help these people when such paternalism pervades every aspect of our ministry?" Probably, had I been British, like our colleagues, I may not have felt this way. However, being Australian, with some know ledge of and no real love for the shameful way modern Australia was established as a White settlement, I found myself torn between two loyalties. Also, the deep respect I had for the leaders of the Indian Independence Movement, gained from the books of Dr. Stanley Jones, only served to fuel the fires of discontent.
Ever since reading of
Australia 's disgraceful early history and the behaviour of such authorities as
the Rev. Samuel Marsden, euphemistically referred to as "The Flogging
Parson", I have been wary of the
In spite of my colour, culture and Anglo-Saxon roots, I had to make a choice. Out of this experience, I would advise all potential missionaries to another land - "Leave behind all racial prejudice and superiority complex and, to the best of your ability, identify with the land and people of your adoption in so far as your identification is compatible with the Christian ethic."
I would not like to be
misunderstood. It was not that the early missionary movement in India was
tainted by racism. Its dedicated servants had a great love for India, but they
were conditioned by the Raj, its paternalistic systems and the behavioural
concepts of those times. The way they conducted their ministry was, to the best
of their knowledge, in harmony with their conscience and according to the will
of God. It should be remembered that the early
Even today, some
chauvinistic sections of the