At last I got the message – ‘Maharana still here! No allowed visitors to this side! Away with quickness!’ He paused, and suddenly the right word came. ‘Private here!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Away! Private! No looking! This only for Maharana!’
I apologised profusely, and asked why there was no warning notice. But the guardian of the zenana merely repeated, ‘Away with quickness! Private! Here lives our Maharana!’
We went away then, ‘with quickness’, and I was sadly aware of having seen, in the eyes of this scruffy retainer, the last glowing embers of a reverence and loyalty such as ‘the elected representatives of the people’ rarely inspire in any country.
Outside the gateway by which we left the fort several men were saying their morning prayers in a small public temple. Rachel wanted to ring the temple bell but I explained that not even Hindu women – never mind mleccha girls – are allowed to do this. However, consolation was at hand. On the little temple veranda sat two tame rhesus monkeys, tied to the wall by long chains and still wrapped in their night attire – a communal piece of cotton. They hailed Rachel’s appearance with jibber-jabbers of joy and she spent half an hour playing with her cousins, after I had prudently removed her spectacles and hair-band. Every few moments they reduced her to paroxysms of laughter, and she and they combined had the same effect on many of the passers-by while I sat enjoying the morning sun, and admiring the massive lines of the fortifications, and appreciating the friendliness of the atmosphere.
. . . . .
As we approached Mysore yesterday my eye was drawn across the level plateau to a conspicuous, isolated mountain not far from the city’s outskirts. This is Chamundi Hill (3,489 feet), on which stands a much-visited temple dedicated to Chamundi – the family goddess of the Wadeyars – who once upon a time killed two demons, named Chanda and Mundi, on the site of the temple. In fact Chamundi is just another of the goddess Kali’s many names; my only complaint against Hinduism is that, not content with having tens of thousands of gods and goddesses, many of these deities confront the bewildered mleccha with a memory-defeating multiplicity of names. But the important thing is not to be misled by all this into regarding Hinduism as an essentially polytheistic religion. The late K. M. Sen explained the situation with his customary succinctness: ‘Depending on the social traditions of particular sections of the people, Hindus show a particular attachment to a particular figure in Hindu mythology and worship God in that form. The Nameless and the Formless is called by different names, and the different forms are attributed to Him, but it is not forgotten that He is One.’ Incidentally, travellers in India should keep K. M. Sen’s Hinduism permanently within reach. A Pelican book – published in 1961 – it weighs only a few ounces, and to the outsider who is trying to look sympathetically in, but is not a trained philosopher, it is more valuable than a dozen weightier tomes I could mention.
Kali is of course Siva’s wife and she is also known as Sati, Gauri, Annapurna, Parvati, Durga, Bhawani and Devi. As Kali she requires to be frequently mollified by sacrifices of a bloody nature and recently, in some remote Maharashtrian village, a 6-year-old boy was killed to placate her. Nowadays human sacrifices are made only by those generally regarded as insane, but it is not surprising that most foreigners despair of ever understanding a religion which can directly inspire one sort of devotee to murder a child and another to refrain from killing a gnat. E. M. Forster perfectly describes the mleccha’s difficulty in A Passage to India: ‘The fissures in the Indian soil are infinite: Hinduism, so solid from a distance, is riven into sects and clans, which radiate and join and change their names according to the aspect from which they are approached’.
Buses frequently leave Mysore’s bus stand for the top of Chamundi Hill, but because of the temple’s popularity as a place of pilgrimage it is extremely difficult to board one. Twice this morning we were left behind, having been at the head of the queue, and for this I blame my own absurd European reaction to people in a hurry. Instinctively one moves aside to let them pass and today I had to make a real effort of will to overcome this automatic reaction. I also had to make an effort of muscle to push, pull or slap people out of the way as we boarded the third bus. Rachel was nearly trampled underfoot and became momentarily panic-stricken, yet this was a bus with separate entrances for men and women, so I only had to deal with the weaker sex. The strength of some of those wiry little peasant women, who could curl up in my rucksack, is quite extraordinary.
Here I again noticed a bus conductor treating women and low-caste men as though they were draught-animals, shouting at them abusively and occasionally even striking them. For a people who are widely believed to profess a philosophy of ahimsa, or non-violence, the Indians seem inordinately aggressive in their daily lives. It was Gandhi who created, almost single-handed, the false impression that they are gentle and peaceful. All the still influential kings and heroes of Sanskrit literature were expected to be ferocious slayers of men and, apart from the Mahatma’s not entirely successful ahimsa campaign, there is nothing whatever in the past 2,000 years of Indian history to support the view that Hindus are basically pacifist. Their violence, indeed, is part of the mystery of India, for it always seems to have causes and cures unknown to us.
This morning’s pandemonium, for instance, seemed almost a mini-civil war. First men, women and children fought tooth (literally: I was bitten on the forearm) and nail to board that bus, and then the seething mob of women was set upon by the conductor and clouted and shouted at to get it so arranged that another dozen could be fitted in. Yet ten minutes later the conductor and his women victims were laughing and joking together, like old friends, and men who had recently been doing each other grievous bodily harm were cordially exchanging newspapers. At which point I remembered N. C. Chaudhuri’s remark that ‘Somehow an alkali is always present with the acid of Hindu life: it is a marvellous and boundless tolerance of bad language and blows, which is some sort of a conditioned reflex of forgiveness. The Hindu possesses a faculty of callous charity.’ He needs it, too.
Chamundi Hill is so precipitous that Mysore quickly shrinks to toytown proportions and on clear days the surrounding country can be overlooked in every direction for at least 100 miles. Two-thirds of the way up we stopped for everyone to unwedge themselves and pay homage to a sixteen-foot statue of Nandi, hewn out of solid rock in 1659. Despite the early hour he was wearing fresh garlands on his forehead and the bell of his gigantic necklace was draped with marigolds. Our fellow-passengers produced further garlands and Rachel asked in a penetrating whisper, ‘Do they believe bulls are gods? Is that a statue of a real bull? Why is he so big? Is he prehistoric?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘he’s not prehistoric and he’s not real and Hindus don’t think bulls are gods. But some of them worship Nandi as a symbol of the god Shiva, and he is generally regarded as a sort of chamberlain, or guardian, of all Shiva’s temples. And he represents, and protects, all four-footed animals.’
‘I see,’ said Rachel, untruthfully.
As Chamundi temple is now being turned into a tourist attraction its environs are becoming unattractive. When we arrived a canopied figure of Chamundi, which normally resides in the innermost sanctum, was being carried round a courtyard on a palanquin and perfunctorily whisked with yak-tails. In attendance were four grossly fat priests covered in sandalwood ash and red powder – the first fat Indians I have seen since leaving Bombay. The contrast was most striking between those pot-bellied parasites, with greed ever shining in their eyes, and the throngs of simple, prayerful, underfed worshippers devoutly doing their pujas and repeatedly handing coins to the priests or their attendants. As soon as we appeared, two of these minions were deputed to harass us, which they did with considerable verve but no success.
Although Hindu priests are not supposed to minister to a temple for more than three years few have ever been willing to retire from working this particular gold mine and by now there are separate priestly sub-castes whose ill-educated members do not inte
rmarry with other Brahmans. These men are mildly derided by most people, yet nobody can worship in the temples without their expensive professional aid. It is never easy to trace Indian beliefs, customs or laws back to source, but one cannot help suspecting a link between the intricate refinements of Hindu ritualism and priestly greed. Although the person who brings the offering must perform his own puja he cannot do so – even if himself a Brahman – without professional help, and only by paying for this can he retain the merit of his puja. The ritual fee has thus become an indispensable part of the rite, just as in Ireland no Catholic would go empty-handed to his parish priest to request the celebration of a mass for his ‘special intention’. Indeed, the French writer Madeleine Biardeau – perhaps the most perceptive contemporary student of India – remarks that ‘it is tempting to compare what has remained of ancient Vedic ritual, which prescribes this or that puja to obtain this or that result – and quite often an entirely profane result – with what one knows of the Roman Catholic religion’. However that may be, the fact remains that many visitors leave India convinced that Brahmans are a bad lot, though in fact the temple-priests form only a tiny part of the Brahman population. Many Brahmans are true ascetics; many others – like our friend on the bus to Mercara – are charming and cultivated gentlemen; and a high-powered minority are scholars who regard it as their duty to hand on the torch of Hindu culture – free of charge – to the next generation.
Quite close to Chamundi temple is a garishly painted little bungalow with a large notice over the entrance proclaiming it to be ‘The Godly Museum’. It belongs to a new sect called the Prajapita Brahma Kumaris which has its headquarters at the Godly University on Mount Abu, a place better known as the site of the Dilwara temples. From a half-demented-looking young woman at the desk inside the door I bought for 10 paise a booklet which informed me that ‘in 1937, Incorporeal God Almighty whom we know as “Shiva” (World Benefactor) descended in the corporeal body of a jewel merchant, and blessing him with numerous meaningful divine visions revealed to him that a world war would soon be coming, in which nuclear weapons would be used and the present vicious Iron-aged world would meet its tragic end by means of that war, natural calamities and civil wars. On the other hand, he saw the visions of the forthcoming Golden-aged Deity World … He got the most blissful vision of God also and His Divine voice called him up to become instrumental for the re-establishment of the ensuing Golden-aged viceless and peaceful Deity World … He became a medium to God Shiva whom some people also call “Jehovah” … This Institution is now teaching God’s knowledge and Easy Raj Yoga through 250 Godly Service Centres in various towns and villages of India … Scientists only recently landed on the moon but this Institution knew beforehand that there was no life on the moon. Divine Insight also reveals to you regions beyond the sun, the moon and the stars without any expense or difficulty … Several persons have given up easily such sticky habits as drinking, smoking, etc., because as a result of having acquired Godly Knowledge, they no longer feel any necessity for them … They are now delighted to have purity, mental health and happiness as a routine, through the Easy Raj Yoga taught by this Godly University.’
Godly Museums try to explain the Easy Raj Yoga principles and methods through pictures and wall-charts which – to judge by the Mysore examples – are the work of a mentally retarded religious maniac. Various motifs from European popular religious ‘art’ are incorporated, including the Sacred Heart and the Blessed Virgin (looking slightly dazed, as well she might in these surroundings). Abraham and Mohammad also feature in a bizarre representation of the Kalpa Tree, and Rachel particularly liked the chart inscribed ‘Skeliton of Bones and Flesh’, which taught that we have a ‘Mind to Think’ and an ‘Intelect to Decide’. Another chart taught that ‘World History and Geography Repeat Dramatically Every 5,000 years’ – at which point I felt I had had enough. As we withdrew, the receptionist presented me with another booklet and said she hoped I would soon attain Self-realisation, Bliss, Liberation, Fruition and Purity.
In India people will eagerly experiment with any spiritual novelty that comes their way; nor have we any right to assume that those experiments must always be unsuccessful just because they seem totally haywire to us. At least experimenting Hindus are spared the conflicts and punishments that once were endured by experimenting Christians. Despite the rigidity of many of its taboos, Hinduism has no central authority to forbid or discourage unorthodoxy. Indeed, to the Indian mind there is no such thing as ‘Hinduism’; the term was coined by foreigners to describe that complex of distinctively Indian yet often dissimilar faiths which they encountered on the subcontinent. The Indians themselves, when referring to what we call Hinduism, use the ancient and very satisfying word dharma. Dharma means a whole way of life and thought and feeling, and therefore not only covers religious beliefs and practices but includes the processes by which these have formed the Indian peoples’ characters, and influenced the development of their society, over the past three or four thousand years.
The Indian dharma is so peculiarly flexible that it can take even the Prajapita Brahma Kumaris in its stride. At first I was a little startled to read that this network of oddly Godly Museums has been commended by the President of India, State Governors, cabinet ministers, judges of the Supreme Court and so forth; but then I saw how natural it was, in India, that the highest in the land should approve of any sincere spiritual movement, however apparently crazy.
By two o’clock we had collected our kit from the hotel and were on the way to meet Kay. Then suddenly Rachel said, ‘Stop! I hear a band!’ (She has become passionately addicted to every form of Indian music.) Obeying, I too could hear gay, martial airs and then, in the near distance, we saw half a dozen drummers and pipers crossing the road at an intersection. They were following a palanquin clumsily decorated with plantain leaves, coconuts, papayas, bunches of bananas and branches of bougainvillaea, and behind them trailed a procession of a hundred or so shabbily dressed men and women. The palanquin was preceded by a boy of about twelve, carrying a smouldering length of sandalwood, so I knew that despite the gay music a corpse was on its way to the burning ghats. When I had explained the situation Rachel exclaimed, ‘Let’s follow and see what happens!’ Which we did – this being a traveller’s attitude of which I thoroughly approve – though the procession led us away from the hospital.
Rachel seemed a little disappointed by her first corpse. ‘He doesn’t look very dead,’ she observed. Nor did he, poor chap, as he sat cross-legged amidst the bougainvillaea, wearing a grey woollen turban, red lunghi and brown sports jacket. His brow was streaked with ash and saffron and a support had been tied beneath his chin. He may not have been very dearly beloved, since even the chief mourners looked bored rather than distressed. Everyone seemed to welcome our attendance, as a form of light relief, but the burning ghats were miles away and we had to turn back at three o’clock, lest we might miss Kay.
On the hospital veranda we were joined by the first white person we had seen in Mysore City – an elderly Englishwoman, kindly looking and frail, with ‘missionary’ stamped all over her. When we had chatted amiably for some moments, about nothing in particular, she suddenly turned to Rachel and asked ‘Do you love Jesus?’
I held my breath, foreseeing some artless regurgitation of K. M. Sen.
‘Yes,’ said Rachel, ‘and I love Ganesh and Hanuman. Especially Ganesh. He has such a nice fat tummy. He’s Shiva’s son,’ she added helpfully.
The missionary’s reaction was even worse than I had expected. She looked so hurt – as though personally insulted – that I truly felt sorry for her. Avoiding my gaze, she asked in a taut sort of voice – ‘Does the child not know there is only one God?’
‘Of course I know!’ said Rachel quickly and rather huffily, resenting the slight on her theology. ‘But he has lots of different names.’
There seemed no point in my adding anything to that stark statement, which brought a flush of outrage to the unfortunate missio
nary’s cheeks. As I made some inane remark about the Mysore climate our companion stood up, stiffly said good-bye and walked away. Watching her go, I wondered how many years she has devoted to her Christianising campaign. Probably forty or fifty – a lifetime – only to see, at the end of it, not Hindus coming increasingly to appreciate Christianity but Christians coming increasingly to appreciate Hinduism.
Yet it is perhaps foolish to waste sympathy on the remnants of a class well described by J. R. Ackerley, to whom a typical 1930s mem-sahib said, ‘You’ll never understand the dark and tortuous minds of the natives … and if you do I shan’t like you – you won’t be healthy.’ Granted, few mlecchas can understand the Hindu mind, however hard they try, but it now seems exceedingly strange that so many Europeans spent most of their lives in India without even wanting to know what makes the ‘natives’ tick. Probably this intellectual aloofness was partly based on a fear of Hinduism’s pervasive eroticism. We find India’s alleged obscenities innocent indeed, beside our own home-grown pornography, but in many books by what were then known as Anglo-Indians one perceives revulsion overlaying fascination whenever Hindu sexuality is hinted at. This is a very unpleasant aspect of the British–Indian relationship and it persisted until the Empire expired.
In retrospect, one can see that British arrogance in India was not always as simple as it looked. But whether it sprang from a genuine, uncomplicated racial superiority-complex, or was a cover for fundamental uncertainties, it alienated countless thoughtful Indians who might otherwise have taken a friendly interest in Western spirituality. Many British missionaries gave the impression that for them Christianity was the one true faith less because Christ had founded it than because Englishmen practised it – and look how civilised, clever, well-organised and advanced they were!
On a Shoestring to Coorg Page 9