White Butterflies
Page 15
I have always thought of Indians as open-minded people who didn’t hide anything from strangers, unlike some other Orientals. Shyness never came into their behaviour and every happening in India was a sideshow. The whole country was a stage and the people the actors.
I recalled a fleeting walk down a street in Calcutta. The pavements had taken on the look of a stage; barbers, dentists, hawkers, car cleaners and letter writers were everywhere. A haircut under a black umbrella beside the street would draw many onlookers, but the two that drew the biggest audience were the dentists and the ear-cleaners. The poor person seated for an extraction inevitably had a big crowd watching every move. People pushed and shoved to get the best view of the patient’s open mouth. When the tooth was eventually pulled a loud shout of ‘Shabash! Shabash!’ [well done] went out. The removal of ear wax was not something I took an interest in, but I knew that once a blob of wax had been removed the patient was rewarded with a few drops of warm, sweet-smelling oil to soothe the ear.
Perhaps the Indians had nothing to hide because so few had anything at all. A glance out the window on any Indian train at dawn would prove my point. There, on a path leading from the adjacent villages, the natives lined up for their toilet session. Bare bottoms could be seen, always with their backs to the railway line, but this was India, where more than half the masses walked around half-naked anyway.
I decided to take my evening meal with my companions. We all bought something different from the hawkers, the tasty food washed down with tea served in earthen cups which were thrown away after use. I loved watching chai wallahs [tea vendors] dispensing tea. The art was to pour the drink, laced with heaps of sugar and whitened with condensed milk, from a great height. The vendor held the clay cup in one hand, the jug in the other and poured the hot liquid from one to the other. The buyer ended up with a cup of delicious, sweet frothy liquid.
After a few loud burps from my companions, the evening chatter began. We talked of old India, its customs, traditions and politics. I learnt a great deal about India’s rich history. They told me about the formation of the Congress Party and Gandhi’s fight with the British over the iniquitous salt tax. I learnt that Gandhi, before the war, had travelled the countryside breaking the caste system and encouraging cottage industries. In a short space of time they gave me a free lesson in Indian history, geography, social studies, politics and religion.
The train crossed the Godavary River around midday. It was dry and a low bridge spanned the sand for about two miles.
‘When the monsoons come, water washes from one end of the bridge to the other,’ they said.
As we rode south, the station names began to sound different. There was an absence of animals or chickens. The hawkers’ food baskets took on the smell of fish and a lot more fruit was for sale.
‘Look at all the food being sold! We’re never out of sight of food on the train, yet this is a poor country!’
My companions chuckled.
‘We are coming into Tamil country. They call this the Garden State. You will see many more trees here, and the people’s skins are darker.’
‘Ah! Then we are getting close to my destination.’
The towns grew larger, factories appeared and more and more people clambered aboard our over-crowded train. People piled on to the roofs and some hung dangerously on the running-boards. A glance from the window brought up a sea of smiling faces right along the carriages, all facing the rear because of the soot from the engine.
The train pulled slowly into Madras station. The speed appeared intentional, as the hangers-on took it as a signal to jump off. Some stumbled as they hit the rough ground, but always with a laugh. Others ran alongside and waited for a friend to throw their belongings from within the carriage. As the train crept through the outer shanty towns that housed the city’s workers, I noticed a group of men dressed in finery, their faces masked with make-up and their bare chests accentuated to resemble women’s breasts.
‘What’s this all about?’
‘Those men belong to a caste that perform duties at various functions. They are hired by the wealthy as mourners for funerals, to cry and wail for the departed soul.’
‘We don’t have them in our part of the country,’ the Muslim put in. ‘They’re “gender men”,’ he added.
I had thoroughly enjoyed the train journey. It was drawing to an end and I hadn’t even thought about my destination or how I would be received.
The train stopped at a platform already packed with people. The doors flew open and hundreds more spewed out to join the throng. The place was a shambles. If I had expected to see a recog-nisable face it would have been nigh impossible.
Madras is a hot city; even the sea breeze is hot. Back home in Burma we thought of Madras as the curry capital of India. South Indian cooking is the hottest and spiciest in all India. People say the fiery diet opens the pores of the skin to release sweat and the breeze blows over the skin to cool it.
A gentleman in a light cotton suit greeted me and introduced himself.
‘I am the head of the Church Mission,’ he explained. Another gospeller, I said to myself. Full of missionary zeal. How else would he choose to live in such a state of unholy heat? I spent the night at his residence in the shadows of the first Christian Missionary to India, Saint Thomas. Not far away was the shrine erected by Catholic followers. The Catholic church has a large and dedicated following in this part of India.
The missionary was an interesting fellow. His great love, apart from the Gospel, was Indian trains. We discussed rail gauges and engines.
‘I was fortunate enough to have travelled the length and breadth of India by train during my years on the sub-continent,’ he said, and proceeded to give me a most interesting brief history of the construction of the track that had transported me to Madras. His interest in the subject extended to the station buildings.
‘The architecture is Victorian, with minor variations.’
‘Sir, I was fascinated with one station, two hours out of Calcutta.’ ‘Ah, Barrackpore. It is not only a major link station but also a centre of the military and air force.’
‘Why does it have just one platform, with a track on either side?’ ‘I have no idea why it was built like that, but it can accommodate four trains in one line. It extends along about a mile.’
‘It must be a nightmare for travellers on the other three trains!’ A few days away from my caretakers in Calcutta, I had already absorbed a great deal of knowledge about a country I was falling in love with. My young mind had been filled with Indian history, geography, political science, culture and now the mechanics of rail transport. I wondered if any other 12-year-old had been so blessed. Perhaps my mother had foreseen my future. I felt a growing confidence in my ability to mingle with my elders. My attitude towards the world was taking a positive turn.
The trip to Madras had been enjoyable, thanks to my Indian companions. I was now alone on another train, on the last leg of my journey, with the prospect of a new life staring me in the face. As the express rumbled along and the four hours elapsed, I kept my ears trained to the station announcements identifying the town. There were no names posted on the stations. This was a war-time precaution in case of enemy attack.
‘The next stop will be Bangalore East,’ came the announcement. I prepared to get off quickly.
‘Bangalore East is a small station and the train will only stop for a few seconds,’ the station-master at Madras had warned me.
On the rather deserted platform stood my new caretaker, a portly gentleman who, by his manner, I immediately recognised as of a military background. Despite his age he did not shuffle. One knew right away that he had spent many an hour on the parade ground. He shook my hand.
‘Welcome to Bangalore, Colin. I am Dr Beer. I hope you will be very happy with us.’
He escorted me to a horse-drawn carriage and we rode around the corner for a short distance and arrived at his home.
‘Bangalore is a cantonment city,�
� he explained on the way. ‘In peacetime the British always garrisoned their troops in the cool centre of South India for respite from the heat.’
Situated a few thousand feet above sea level, the climate bordered on the temperate. It was clean and the British colonial influence was patently obvious. The streets were wide and lined with avenues of trees. Parks abounded and no occupied city of the colonial masters would be deemed conquered unless it displayed statues of military generals and governors in every park – a constant reminder of the brave empire builders!
‘When I retired from the army I chose to remain in India and devote my life to missionary work,’ he said. ‘My wife and I have six children, three girls and three boys. The youngest, Lily, is your age and William just a little older than you. I hope you will become friends with them. They are very much looking forward to meeting you.’
As soon as we arrived at the house, I was greeted by the family members. Each one embraced me warmly.
Mrs Beer said, ‘We are absolutely delighted to have an addition to our family!’
I was touched by their warmth.
The family had obviously been briefed on my background. For the first few days I spent a long time speaking with the good Doctor. He knew how to get me to open up without peering into my past. I was fascinated with the stories of his garrison duties in the north-west frontier of India. At St Paul’s in Rangoon I had read of the difficulties the British had encountered in trying – and failing – to ‘tame’ the wild and fiercely independent Afghan tribesmen who inhabited that unforgiving mountain country.
While the younger members of the family went to school, I was given time to settle in and found myself with a free hand to wander around the countryside.
‘I want you to explore and familiarise yourself with your new surroundings,’ Dr Beer said.
It was a sort of marking out of new territory for me, and after what had felt like imprisonment at the Smees, the freedom felt good. I struck up an instant rapport with the servants and in no time was picking up the rudiments of Tamil. The cook’s assistant, a young man, was particularly good to me. We spent hours exploring the district and the villages.
The day arrived when I was enrolled as a pupil at a school just a block away. Clarence High was a Mission School and accepted students from all walks of life. There was a sprinkling of European children and they mingled with the Anglo–Indian and Indian pupils. It was co-educational, my first experience of a mixed-sex school.
Chapter 16
Bangalore
Twelve months of ‘freelancing’ had come to an end. It was with a degree of trepidation that I entered the schoolyard.
‘Please go to the principal’s office to be introduced and assessed for a class.’
There, I was questioned on the level I had attained when I had last attended school. I was not very helpful. Twelve months was such a long time in a young person’s life and all I could recall were my experiences since the trek. Everything else was blocked from my mind as I sat at the school principal’s desk.
After morning assembly, I was escorted to a class of boys and girls my age. I was conscious that all of their eyes were fixed upon this tall skinny rake of a fellow. I took my seat at a desk with an Indian student.
‘McPhedran, please stand and introduce yourself.’ I took a deep breath.
‘My name is Colin McPhedran and I am Anglo–Burmese. My father is a Scotsman and my mother Burmese. I am in the care of Dr Beer, whom most of you know as a governor of the school.’
My health was improving dramatically. I loved the Indian food served up at the Beers’. Dr Beer, who was a medical doctor and was therefore able to monitor my condition with an expert eye, was delighted with my progress, but he constantly added words of caution.
‘You must not, as yet, take part in any of the school sporting activities.’
I was not impressed, but dutifully accepted his advice. He was, as always, kindly.
I then reached a stage in my development that concerned the good doctor. I put on too much weight!
‘I am not going to put you on a diet, because that would be inappropriate in such a close family atmosphere. Instead I have devised a series of exercises for you to do every day, with the hope that you will shed some pounds.’
It worked, and at my monthly medical examination he said, ‘Well done, young man. You have a clean bill of health. Now it is time to lift the restrictions on your sporting activities.’
Straight away, I joined in all the school sports and games. I was determined to make up for lost time. Every spare moment of my young life in Burma had been spent playing cricket, football and native games taught to me by children of the various ethnic groups.
Outside school sports, I now enjoyed learning what the locals played too. I taught them Burmese games. Marbles, top-spinning and kite flying became favourites among some of the poorer families with whom the Beer children mixed.
I was not one of the glamour boys on the block, but they did invite me to play whenever any game took place. I was wanted, and I began to feel good. Certainly at times my mind went back to the trek. The question of whether my mother had survived lay heavily on my mind. At times when the family was taken into town for a shopping trip the sight of children grouping around their mothers would set me off. I would become silent and withdraw for a while into my own world. The Beers never commented on my mood, but they must have noticed. After a while I would cheer up and start joining in the conversation again.
As time went by, I began to realise that I had to put in some effort at my studies. The teachers had been lenient but gradually they began to put pressure on me. I could easily cope with the workload but had no drive, until one day the history teacher took me aside.
‘You must pull your socks up, McPhedran.’
He hit a raw nerve by adding, ‘What will your father think of you if you plough (fail) your exams?’ I turned on him.
‘I couldn’t care less what my father thinks of me.’
He appeared shocked and mumbled something about being ungrateful and unchristian. I managed to bite back my response.
India’s only aircraft factory was located on the outskirts of Bangalore. The city was also the training centre for air crew recruited for service in the Burma Campaign. All manner of planes flew in the clear skies above us and whenever my mind went off my lessons, I would gaze out of the classroom window and watch the planes darting about the sky.
Living on the fringe of the city gave me the opportunity to mix with the villagers. I enjoyed talking to farmers on their way home from the city markets, their carts laden with unsold produce.
The goat herders too were an entertaining lot as they drove their flocks past our house to market. The native owner waved his arms as he urged the flock along. With my sprinkling of Tamil I realised they were not being kind to the wayward beasts but were abusing them along the road. Strangely, both in Hindi and in Tamil profan-ity carried a female connotation, and it was the poor mother of the offender who copped all the abuse.
The land around the state is very fertile, hence its name, ‘The Garden State’. The villages were quite small and the community compact. Every village had a watering hole – the village well – which, especially just before sundown, attracted all manner of people. They would draw water and sit around and socialise. Others would move away a short distance and proceed to wash off the day’s work grime.
Wells in South India are surface affairs, pond-like structures about 30 feet in diameter with walls of stone. Generally, there were crude steps leading down into the water. Bathing near the wells was never encouraged, but on very hot days I would be invited to take a quick plunge into the cool waters. The wells were also used extensively for irrigation. I spent many an afternoon after school watching bullocks hauling water out of the wells in skin bags which then emptied into bamboo pipes stretching out into the fields.
Back at the Beer household I talked about these excursions. Dr Beer never discouraged me.
During one visit I invited a fellow student to come along and wander amongst the villages. He was a Tamil, whose family was Christian and had moved a rung or two up the social ladder.
‘It isn’t customary to mix socially with the village types,’ he said. ‘But it’s fun. Come on, let’s go.’
‘All right, I suppose so, but not for long.’
We walked through the Indian cemetery on the way to a village.
It was a peaceful and shady neck of the woods. The trees were the fruit-bearing tamarind and we climbed one to pick the ripening pods.
While we were up the tree, we heard loud voices along the trail. A woman and a man of merchant appearance were walking in our direction, talking loudly. The woman carried a tray of goods on her head. They stopped beneath our tree. She laid her tray down and they began an animated conversation. My friend, who understood every word, nudged me.
‘They’re going to have sex!’
‘Good!’ I said. ‘We can have a good view.’
In a moment the woman lay down and and pulled her sari up to her waist. The man proceeded to kneel down between her legs and while still talking continued with the act. A few squeals later from the woman and it was all over. The merchant-type handed over some coins to the woman’s outstretched palms, she set the tray atop her head and walked toward the village. The man walked back toward the town. While all this activity was taking place, the monkeys that abounded in this part of the country were enjoying the fruits of the tamarind. They were fun to watch – more so than the monkey business that had just concluded on the ground, alongside some unknown person’s gravesite.