White Butterflies

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by Colin Mcphedran


  It was time to get back to school and get down to the task of passing the exams.

  I left Calcutta for the last time, though not without difficulty. The turmoil had thrown train schedules into chaos. Thomas Cook had trouble getting me on to a train to Madras because I required a sleeping berth for the two-and-a-half-day trip. However, they eventually found me one and off I went back to school.

  The train headed down the Coromandel Coast to Madras. It was a dreary journey this time, shared with a couple of Indian scholars from a university in South India. I missed the hustle and bustle of Calcutta but I knew I would not return.

  Calcutta had brought me joy and sorrow. It was there that I had taken my first steps into adulthood at the ripe old age of 15. It was the city in which I had learned how to truly survive. I was as streetwise as the locals. It was the friendliest city in India. I loved the people but hated the poverty.

  Back at school, my friend Turley was waiting to hear all about my holiday. ‘Did you have a good time in Calcutta?’ he asked. I told him all about it.

  He was happy for me that the war had ended but he realised it was a turning point for me.

  ‘Have you made any plans to return home to Burma?’

  I told him I had tried, although I could barely admit, even to myself, that an immediate return to Burma was a pipe-dream. But one part of me accepted what the soldiers had said: that Burma was in chaos and there was no way any Anglos would be welcome. Besides, my father would never have allowed it and without his financial support I was clearly helpless at this point.

  To lighten the mood, I told Turley about the girl in Calcutta. ‘What was it like? What did she do?’

  He had a giggle when I conceded, ‘All I can remember is the smiling face of a young Indian girl with beautiful white teeth!’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  I never told anyone else of that brief encounter.

  As I grew into manhood people would often ask, ‘What do you look for when you first meet a woman?’

  And I always had to admit, ‘It’s the teeth that capture my attention.’ Inevitably, the reply was, ‘You’re having us on, McPhedran!’

  Chapter 22

  White Flowers

  Back at my desk, listening to the teachers was paying off. Encouraged by Flora, I really put an effort into the subjects

  I had elected for the Cambridge Certificate exams, which we were due to sit towards the end of 1946.

  Time flew by. I had not given much thought to the next break until one of the Indian servants approached me and asked where I was going.

  He had obviously noticed that at the end of each school term the other boarders were always picked up by their parents but that nobody ever came to meet me.

  ‘Do you have a home to go to? I cannot help but see that the other boarders always seem happy to be leaving for the holidays, but that you always have a look of slight sadness,’ he said.

  He was spot-on. I dreaded the end of each term and especially hated the way the principal, Mr Willa, always asked, ‘Where might you be going for your holidays, McPhedran?’

  It was, of course, a fair question – nobody was allowed to stay at school during the holidays – but to me it always underlined the painful facts of my situation.

  Thomas Cook had a network all over India and I was already quite a seasoned traveller. Yet, despite the prospect of being able to travel far and wide in India, school holidays also meant some lonely times for me, a boy staying in an adult world of hotel rooms and guesthouses.

  On the bright side, I learnt a lot about Indian cooking when on occasions I would forsake the formal lounges of the hotels that had been booked for me, and descend to the kitchens to find some human warmth. There I was always treated royally and I have never forgotten the cooking lessons I received from the chefs in these establishments.

  They taught me how to grind and mix the spices and when to add the meat, which had to be simmered for hours on the charcoal braziers. I also learnt the difference between the curries of the different regions.

  The hotel staff were always friendly and kind-hearted. They were delighted that I could speak to them in Hindustani, of which I had a good colloquial grasp. On their invitation I would stand about puffing on the Indian cigarettes they gave me. We would all laugh and chat while the chefs prepared elaborate Indian feasts for the British guests, many of whom were soldiers on leave.

  Years later, when I was married, living in Australia and raising my own children, I never interfered with the plain diet that was typical of the so-called White Australia of the 1950s and early 1960s. Indian food was virtually unheard of and anything spicy was considered bad for children’s digestion, especially among the ordinary people of Anglo heritage. But sometimes I would slip into the kitchen later in the evening, when my wife, Laurel, had gone off to work at the Bowral Empire picture theatre, and cook myself a curry – a Burmese dish or an Indian one, with heaps of rice. The smells and the flavours always took me back to my earlier life as they wafted and curled about the house.

  When they were grown up and had developed their own love of Asian and Indian food, my children would complain.

  ‘Dad, why didn’t you ever cook us curries? They always smelled so yummy. We used to lie awake sniffing them. It’s not fair.’

  I would shrug and laugh. The truth was, I didn’t want them to be torn between cultures.

  I HAD NEVER IN MY WILDEST DREAMS IMAGINED that anybody, least of all a servant at school, had observed me at vacation time. So when the Indian servant began to ask questions, I tried to look casual.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do not have a home in India.’

  ‘No family?’

  ‘None in India, no.’

  He seemed quite sad. I brushed aside his concern.

  ‘I will be happy to travel as usual to a city in some part of India to savour the lifestyle,’ I said with my chin up, but he was not fooled.

  He followed me for a moment and, with his head on one side, looked up. ‘Would Sir be kind enough to consider visiting my family in a village outside the city of Mysore?’ he asked. ‘It is about four hours’ drive from Ootacamund.’

  In a typical Oriental fashion he directed his appeal to my heart and not my head.

  ‘You would be doing me a great favour by visiting my humble home with gifts I would send for the family,’ he said, bowing his head in a gesture of respect.

  I fell for it, but said, ‘I can only accept the invitation if I may pay your wife and family the money I would otherwise spend in a hotel.’

  ‘Thank you for your generosity, but I could not accept. It would be demeaning for me to do so.’

  I could hardly believe my ears. Here was a poor native, who could probably provide for his family for a year on what I was offering, refusing money!

  ‘It would be an honour to have you as a guest,’ he said, adding, ‘and it would raise my standing and that of my family with the other servants.’

  Frankly, I was overjoyed with the offer.

  I presented myself at the principal’s office and told him of my decision. He appeared happy, but warned, ‘It may be quite a culture shock, roughing it with a family in a village.’

  Flora was thrilled for me.

  ‘Colin, that is wonderful. Mother and I were going to ask you to spend the holidays with us in Central India. Perhaps we can do that another time.’

  I packed my bag and, with a parcel of fruit and vegetables provided by the servant for his family, caught the bus. Public transport in India is always taxed to the limit but the buses take the cake in terms of the number of people to a given area.

  For the next four hours I was to experience it all – a hot, crowded bus, being squeezed up against other passengers, and a driver who not only thought he owned the stretch of road but believed it was his mission to demonstrate to all around that he was the master, the pilot of this lethal projectile with its human cargo.

  As we drove down the steep mountain road he constantly bl
ew the horn, stuck his head out of the window and abused anybody who dared get in his way. Approaching the plains, the heat and smell in the bus became unbearable. We stopped often to check the over-loaded goods on the roof rack.

  The fact that the bus was top-heavy caused no alarm to the pilot, who strutted about at each stop as if to impress upon the passengers that he was the boss. It appeared that the travellers considered themselves subordinate to the man with the wheel, a strange outlook born of years of suffering under warlords and, in recent times, subservience to the British Raj, with its superior airs. During the journey I became frustrated at the number of ‘pit stops’. But this was India, a place where time meant nothing and where process was more important than destination.

  Finally we entered the busy streets of the ancient city of Mysore and pulled in abruptly at the bus terminal. As the only non-Indian alighting from the leaning bus, I was easily identified and was approached by a woman and a tribe of children, all smiling and with clasped palms. My vacation had begun.

  The family home was on the outskirts of town, in a cluster of wooden huts. It was a tiny home by any standards but the woman was a proud housekeeper and the place was spotless. The younger ones were always cleaning and sweeping the floor.

  For the next 12 days I became part of the family. We played together and ate as a family. The food was very much to my liking and surprisingly there was always sufficient rice to go around. I realised that the family belonged to a class somewhere on the middle rungs of the Indian worker.

  It was cruelly hot, yet nobody made any mention of the weather. The Indian, unlike the Anglo, accepts whatever nature serves up, be it soaring temperatures, floods or cold winds, without talking about it.

  I began to feel part of the family. I shopped with the older children as they went about the markets buying provisions for the day’s meal. As in most Oriental countries, they purchased fresh food daily.

  The day to catch the bus back up the mountain arrived too soon. The whole family accompanied me to the bus terminal. We shook hands and the lady handed me a small cotton bag. I assumed it was a gift and tucked it into my trouser pocket.

  The trip up the mountain was not as hair-raising as the trip down, although the bus groaned under the weight of excess baggage and there were frequent stops to fill the radiator with water. The manservant from school was at the bus terminal to greet me. He pushed his way through the crowd with a beaming smile. ‘How are you? How was your holiday?’

  ‘Really well. I had a wonderful time with your family.’

  We chatted all the way to the boarding house and he understood that I had genuinely enjoyed myself. It was a privilege to share in the joy of such a kind man and the family who had taken me in as one of their own.

  I unpacked my bag, reached into my pocket and untied the cloth bag. It contained the rupees that I had given the lady of the house on my arrival. I did not pursue the matter, accepting that it was better to receive the family’s hospitality and generosity without question.

  As usual, everybody bragged about their holidays. When I told my friends about my extraordinary stay with the Indian family they looked at me with disbelief.

  ‘If you continue to fraternise with the natives, you may find yourself with a ready-made wife!’ said Turley, a reference to the Indian custom of arranged child brides.

  I told Flora all about it. She was happy for me.

  ‘You know, Colin, in the course of Mother’s missionary work we have spent a lot of time in remote villages and we have always found the people to be lovely.’

  I reflected on my other school term breaks, spent in hotels in one or other of the cities. I recalled wasted weeks when I had indulged in the high life of movies and restaurants, mixing with people much older than myself whose conversations focused on the war in which they were involved. I regretted that I had not taken the opportunity to learn more about the people in this great country where there is a sense of timelessness about everything.

  During this new term Flora fell ill with one of the many exotic diseases that abound on the sub-continent. She was rushed to the local hospital and it saddened me to see my friend so sick and fighting for life. Her mother and I spent long hours at her bedside hoping and praying that she recover. She died in a matter of days. I had lost another of the people I loved.

  I was asked to lead the pallbearers at the funeral and it was a devastating experience. We assembled at the boarding house and were marched to the church downtown.

  ‘Wait here, outside, until the other boys have taken their seats,’ the pastor said.

  In due course we received a signal. I walked into the church with the other pallbearers and was led to the front of the hall.

  All heads were bowed, for which I was grateful. I did not want my fellow students to see me grieving. We sat beside the coffin, a plain, dark-stained casket covered with just a few flowers, a simple bunch of white lilies. Visions of funerals I had seen in Burma and India danced before my eyes.

  My eyes were fixed on the coffin and I took in every detail of the white flowers.

  They called to mind funerals in Burma where, in contrast, the coffins would be covered in multi-coloured flowers. In Calcutta, funerals I had seen were always distinguished by a huge mound of red and orange flowers on top of the body, whose face was always exposed. The popular zinnia appeared to be the flower of choice in Calcutta.

  Funerals in India are an everyday occurrence, but they are always a sad spectacle. I always thought of those left behind and wondered how they would cope, just as I had wondered how I would cope when my mother asked me to leave her in the jungle.

  The organist stopped playing and the pastor took his stand at the pulpit. There was a moment of silence and the service began when the pastor in a booming voice asked the gathering to bow their heads in prayer.

  I had expected to hear some soft words of comfort, but he looked down at the congregation and preached a sermon of fire and brimstone, with lessons from the New Testament that emphasised repentance.

  ‘The wages of sin are death,’ he kept repeating. ‘Each of us has been born in sin and the only path to salvation is through Jesus Christ. Repent, sinners! Repent of your sins so that you may enter the house of the Lord.’

  I felt uneasy. My Saturday visits to the Buddhist monastery as a child had taught me that birth was pure and that unskilled thoughts were learnt or unlearnt along life’s journey by oneself.

  ‘Praise the merciful Lord who has ended Flora’s suffering!’ the pastor exhorted us.

  I wondered why, if the Lord was merciful, he was putting Flora’s mother and me through this sadness. Why, also, did my own family have to suffer before they too were called by the Lord?

  At the end of his sermon we sang a rousing hymn. After a few more words directed at Flora’s mother we were called upon to lift the casket and head out of the church. It was a dreadful moment in my life. Everybody’s eyes appeared to be on me. There was nothing I could do to stop the tears running down my face.

  I pulled myself together during the short walk to the cemetery in the woods outside the town. Flora’s mother broke down when the coffin was lowered into the grave. My heart went out to her and my thoughts fled to the jungle in Burma. I wished my family could have had a decent burial; the picture remained of my mother leaning against a tree, my sister dead in a remote army hut and my brother and good friend lying in the tropical mud, his body covered with a blanket and a few sticks.

  There were no white butterflies at Flora’s gravesite, just the white flowers.

  At the end of the burial service, the boarders drifted back to the house. For once, nobody had to march in file. Mr Subramanium, as a Brahmin, had not attended the church service but came to the graveside and walked back with me. It was comforting to have him with me.

  ‘I am quite concerned that you have been put through the ordeal of carrying the casket,’ he said after a few minutes.

  I explained that Flora’s mother had requested it.
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  ‘Our custom,’ he said gently, ‘is to engage professional mourners.’ As we walked past the stone Hindu temple, he touched me.

  ‘Would you mind waiting a moment while I enter the building?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m in no hurry.’

  ‘Just let your mind float for a little while. Remove your shoes and let the cool marble floor at the entrance soothe your whole body.’

  I did feel calmed by the cool stone beneath the soles of my feet. In due course he emerged. We walked along to a tea shop that catered for those of his caste, and he bought me the sweetest cup of tea that I had ever tasted. When we had drunk, we did the customary breaking of the earthen cup on the footpath before heading back to the boarding house.

  Some time later I discovered that this kind man had raised his concern with the principal about the burden that had been put upon me.

  For days I wondered what I had done to deserve this tragedy. It brought back the dark days of the trek. I also grieved for Flora’s poor mother, left to carry on without the daughter she had so cherished. There was nobody with whom I could talk over my feelings. Where were the good things in life? I was searching for answers. I did not want to believe that the scripture lessons that my mother had taught me were wrong. Yet I had just experienced a funeral service in a Christian church that did nothing to ease the pain of losing a friend. Indeed, the brief moment with Mr Subramanium after the burial service and his kind words contrasted starkly with those delivered from the pulpit. I could feel myself drifting away from all I had been taught to be true about Christianity, and yet I would not accept, completely, that my mother could be wrong.

  I began to develop a cynical view of life and religion and disbelief in the assurances that good things come of good deeds. It was almost four years since I had lost my own mother, brother and sister. Flora’s death brought memories of Ethel flooding into my mind. To me, Flora had become the sister I had lost in the jungle. My mind conjured up the moments when Ethel had hugged and comforted me as a small boy when I had hurt myself. Incidents that had completely left me in the previous years returned to haunt me and I was moved to tears whenever I pictured the smiling face of my sister, the bubbly person who as far as I could remember had never shed a tear in all the time we grew up together, until the day our father had banished her sweetheart.

 

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