Song of India - VII - Madras, Living with the Poor

On my way back to the station we stopped again at the tiny town of Tiruculicundrum where the sacred kites come high on a hill to be fed. Here happened one of those chance meetings that turn out to be so important. I often wonder how different my impression of India would have been without it.

This was the place where I had promised the lame boy I would come back. Sure enough the same boy was there, and we smiled when we saw each other. I took him for my guide at once and he was quite joyful and proud. It was not time for the kites to come yet so he took me to a large temple in town. An old man stood under the front gate and evidently claimed the temple precincts as his own guiding ground, for he made faces at the little boy, all the time smiling at me, and tried to get him to stay behind. When I indicated that I would leave too if we could not come in together he decided to let us in, but he came along and put in the first word about everything tho neither of them knew English. He would gesture wildly with loud noises at each thing we approached (which I could easily see for myself) and pointed at columns, ceiling and statues all around. The little boy would look up shyly and with a word or so point at something too. They took me all through the temple.

As we were leaving I decided to take a look at the tank (big rectangular pool of water) at the side of the temple. We walked over and stood looking at it when an Indian gentleman spotted us. He had on a white shirt, pants, and belt, Western style, with big black boots and the red hat of the police. He drew himself up proudly and caressed the end of his moustache several times as he answered my question – “Yes, we usually wash here before we enter the temple.” He invited me for a cup of coffee with his friend, so I paid the little boy and bid him goodbye and we walked to a little shop.

It turned out that he was the town constable so I was safe indeed, but why did he keep drawing himself up so proudly and twirling his moustache as he looked at me? Was it only mannerism or was he trying to impress me with his position? He ordered several things to eat and then invited me to his home. At first I thought I would not go, but after he spoke of his wife and children several times I decided he was sincere and followed him home – everyone being quite deferent along the way as he was a figure of authority.

We arrived at a sweet scene, with several of his family sitting on the raised cement ledges of the porch outside. He introduced me to his wife and her sister and several children, and they were pleased to see me. In the living room they seated me in a canvas porch chair, the only piece of furniture in the room, and brought me a glass of milk (rather an honor here where it is so expensive).

The house was entirely of stone. The living room was quite large, and the center sunk about half a foot. They sat around the edge and the children played in the middle. Off the living room were two other small rooms. A corridor led back to a darling tiny patio open to the sky and mostly filled by a big, round, red brick wall rising about three feet from the brick floor and complete with wooden bucket. How lovely, how charming! And it was fun to patter about it with bare feet in the wetness. Further in back was a partially concealed corner for bathing, with big jugs of water for pouring all over you – and no worry about getting things wet.

One of the charming things about the East is that it’s always a pleasure to take a bath. In Japan the sento (public bath) is all tiled, with pools of steaming water. Even in the private homes the bath is in a separate room, not together with the toilet in a room you must be careful of, but in some place you can splash and throw water all over and really enjoy wetness and bathing. In India they use cold water instead of hot, and bathe in a stone or cement room you could never damage, or even outdoors where you can dip big jars of water all over and splash to your heart’s content. And how often they ask you, as part of their hospitality, if you would like a bath. So I poured jars of water over me and was happy.

Just outside the door in the back yard was a raised dirt ledge with some broken tiles in the center for urinating – quite open – and further away an enclosed space for waste.

The kitchen was somewhere in the middle, but I think they were not too anxious for me to see it, as is usually the case since they are rather primitive, and I never pressed. Good things came out of it however and I had a delicious meal in the little front room, alone, the family eating in the other little room with a wailing boy.

The sister was a social worker further south near Madura, and had just come home for a short rest. She was nearly thirty but not yet married (the educated women often marry quite late, 25 not being considered too old). She told me something of her work in the villages there. She was in charge of a large area, visiting two or three villages a day and staying several hours in each one. Tho she traveled a great deal in her work, and it was tiring. She was a Women’s Welfare organizer and tried to teach the women about hygiene, health, etc. and simple handicrafts in order to order to earn a little extra money. She showed me how they knotted thick colored string into attractive handbags. She told me how long it takes them to learn a simple pattern and how much patience is needed.

But the most difficult thing is to begin a program in a village, to win the trust of the people – the same complaint I heard all over India. Usually it took an entire year before the villagers would trust the social worker and begin to attend classes and be interested in the handwork. This was because social workers came from the outside (i.e., outside the village, tho all of them are Indian), are educated and have city ways, therefore not to be trusted. Villagers just can’t believe someone is really going to help them for their own good, not to take, and this even if they are fellow countrymen. Women social workers must be careful to erase all signs of the big city – high heels, lipstick, and silk saris. These are all suspect. But even with the most strenuous efforts it is difficult to win their confidence. How long it takes only to get started. How much inertia and ignorance and prejudice to overcome. It is like a few people pulling a giant weight up a steep hill – pulling with hardly any sign f progress. The people will scarcely move and even the social workers get discouraged. Everywhere they feel a terrific inertia that they cannot overcome.

The problem is so big, the parts so interlocked that the question everywhere is the same – where to begin. Education? Health? Agriculture? Dams? All are desperately needed at once. Yet no one moves. So few leaders, such urgent need, and such discouraging response. How large a lever is needed for 2% to raise 98? And what is the lever?...perhaps only time.

These two sisters came from a large family of brothers and sisters – 10 in al – and the constable kept urging me to go and stay with them in Madras. “Many brothers and sisters in Madras,” he said, “why don’t you go there? They will show you the whole city. Stay with us a few days and then go to Madras.”

They kept saying something about the father having been to Europe (Europe-returned, they say) and something about having taken Indian entertainers to Europe. He had died about a year before tho. It sounded fascinating, and on top of that it happened that one of the brothers from Madras would stop here this afternoon on his way home from work at the air base. Perhaps I could go with him. I had already been more than a month in India and was far from Calcutta, far from school. I had decided not to stop in Madras at all, but this was too intriguing, too much of an opportunity. To live with a real Indian family! I decided to go.

At 4:00 Rambaji came straight from work, from the military base, and looked quite smart in his white cotton shirt and pants, Western style. He was about 27 and worked in the control tower at the base, but not a highly skilled position. He looked handsome, alert, and Western-like. He spoke in a slow, relaxed manner and smiled often. I decided to go with him. They were quite disappointed I couldn’t stay longer, make me promise to write, and gave me warm goodbyes.

Rambaji and I took a bus into the city and then an electric train. We’re almost there he finally said, and we got off. Instead of walking thru the gate he jumped off the platform and ducked thru a hole in a board fence. “You wouldn’t have had to buy a ticket for me,” I laughed. He had a pass. He grinned, but was honest. It was dark now and we walked down a narrow, dark alley, and turned several times. Surely I never could have found it all alone. Still a short-cut I thought, as we kept on the muddy, broken backstreets. I expected the streets to improve any time. But suddenly...”We’re here,” he said, and ducking under a low-hanging thatched roof disappeared into a dark interior. It was his home!

Nothing had prepared me for the surprise of it. No hint of such a thing in the constable’s house, or the speaking English or the smart white uniform! So this really was going to be an adventure! I hesitated a moment, then followed him into a dark, cellar-like room full of people lit only by a flickering flame on the wall. Voices welcomed me, some English. He pointed out the oldest sister and I sat by her on the floor. She evidently was in charge here.

I remember nothing of that first night except the surprise of it all – the thatched roof in the middle of Madras, and a small dark room teeming with people. It was dark save for the flame of the tiny oil lamp on the wall that threw a firelight glow on our faces. Like gypsies we were, in an ancient cave. After a late dinner from trays set on the floor at the end of the room I went to sleep. At last my dream had come true and I was really seeing India, living with a real family.

When I awoke next morning I looked around curious. Where was I? The room was a long, narrow shed-like porch with a cement floor, so narrow you could touch both sides at once by reaching out, and could barely lie down in a cross direction. A heavy, thatched roof sloped down from high overhead to about shoulder-height in front. Along the front you could reach out and touch the straw in the roof. The back and side walls were solid brick but the gap between roof and ground in front was filled with a shaky, make-shift affair of boards and metal sheeting leaning up against the wooden studs supporting the roof. There was no door, which was a good thing as there were no windows either and otherwise there would have been no light. There were three doorways – entrance, kitchen, and back – all in a line. All the light came from these doorways and from the chinks and gaps in front. At least it was dark and cool in summer. The whole was at ground level. Two inches of cement rose along the front and even that disappeared at the doorway. What happened in the rainy season, in the monsoon, one could only imagine. It must have been quite bad for their health.

My feet were under a wobbly old table piled high with clothes, and dusty old sandals underneath, my own bag at the side. It was the only furniture. On the back wall up high was a row of brightly colored gods in glass frames. Also a few photos of people and framed letters of some sort. A little shelf for incense was below. And yes, there was a tiny oil lamp nailed to the wall, with a black streak of carbon above it.

The children were sleeping on a pile of old blankets in the middle of the floor. I later found the sleeping arrangements consisted of this! I would lie at the closed end of the porch, my head in the center of the room and feet under the table. The children would lie in the center with Parvathi, the wife sleeping crosswise next to me and Rambaja on the other side by the door. The older sister would sleep in the kitchen on the floor and the younger sister and her husband and two children when they were here in a room off the kitchen. The youngest brother slept on the ground outside in front. Thus we all had floor space. They gave me a woven straw mat to sleep on, and I used my army sack. We all slept dressed.

Rambaji had already left before daybreak for the base and his wife Parvath had also risen. As I lay contemplating the room she appeared with a metal glass of coffee (sweetened, unfortunately). She had a round, pleasant face and bright yellow sari, and when she smiled it was just like the sun beaming. I loved to see her smile. It was better than speaking English, which she could not. The language here in Madras was Tamil. She was quite pregnant and the yellow sari half her wardrobe.

At last the two boys stirred and woke up, arising from the pile of ragged blankets. One was about eight and the other four. Parvathi picked up the bedclothes, swept the floor and put the straw mat by the doorway. She sent the older boy off on an errand and when he returned we had coffee again and they brought me some bread that was even buttered. Evidently they had gone out and bought it specially for me. Other mornings she sent the boy to the hotel nearby for other special snacks for me for breakfast.

In India the people arise very early in the morning, at four or five o’clock and have a glass of tea with sugar and boiled milk. They also have some kind of a small snack with it. Then at 11 they have a full meal of rice and dahl and curry. At 4 o’clock is tiffin or tea and snacks again. Then at 8 or 9 at night they have another meal of rice and dahl and curry, eating very late.

No sooner was breakfast finished than the older sister, Rajamini, dragged in a heavy black metal footlocker, boxes, they call them, that had been her father’s. She opened it and it was full of all sorts of old papers, and pictures and documents. She settled down opposite the entranceway, her habitual place where as overseer she could see all that was going on. She sat here all day, every day. So, settling down in her place proceeded to tell me all about her father and his trip to Europe and the family fortunes.

It seemed the father had gone to Europe taking a troupe of jugglers, acrobats, snake charmers, etc, and had toured all over including England. She even had his passport among the documents. They gave performances all over Europe and one of her prizes was a letter of commendation from one of the English kings who had seen their show. She showed it to me proudly. Their uncle whom I met later was also Europe-returned and had gone on the tour.

The family had not always lived this way. No, formerly they had lived in a big house across the street and this had been the servant’s quarters. The grandfather had been a doctor. But then they had lost the house and been forced to move over here. When her sister and husband were here, and the younger brother’s wife, there were eleven of them living in this house. Even this house was not secure and one of their relatives was trying to take it from them. That is why the younger sister and her husband, Krishna, had been staying with them. He was a Brahmin and a lawyer and had been working on their case for them.

It turned out her dream was to take another troupe to Europe or America. This had been her dream for years. She knew many performers, jugglers, etc., and wanted to organize them and take them thru Europe again. In fact in their back yard were tied two weasels that belonged to one performer. These people came around asking her for jobs and she was constantly writing letters for them. She wondered if I couldn’t write to the president of the United States and ask him about it. It was a serious dream. It wasn’t until we had talked several hours that I found that her father had gone to Europe in the 1920’s! What a shock! I thought it had been only yesterday, so intensely did they live in the world of the past. It was still as real as if it were today.

That first day I spent listening to Rajamini. In fact it was several days before I got beyond the porch! Rambaji came home in the afternoon and changed into Indian clothes. How different he looked! Gone was the Westerner I had first seen as he stood there in his rather tattered clothes. Now he only lived in the slum. After that I often wondered when I saw smartly dressed Indiana where they went at night and how they lived. Even in New Market, the newest market in Calcutta, the merchants went home at night to villages just outside the city with no electricity.

He told me that his father had always told them to associate with Westerners, or Europeans and that is why they had been so anxious for me to come. “Always associate with Europeans” he had told them, and so they did when they could. It seemed incongruous sometimes, this association here in the slums of Madras. Rambaji had only gone to third grade but could speak and write English, and so could the older sister. Here was this family so strangely situated.

The next day Rambaji again went to work early, leaving the women at home. The younger sister, Soundrala, sat by the door in the sun. She was tall and lithe and frequently her mouth would break into the most beautiful smile. Soundrala and Krishna had had the first intercasted marriage in Madras State. They had been traveling for the government, going from village to village speaking in favor of dissolving caste barriers, but then the government began sending them separately to different villages, and so they stopped. They thought the government had turned against them and it was another example of the corruption of the government. Always he and Rajamini were complaining of the corruption of the government. He loved Soundrala very much and called her “My dear sweet wife”, or “My girl”. It was an example of a love marriage.

Her youngest child, a baby, crawled over her lap. The little girl could not walk yet but was curious about everything and crawled all over the cement floor and out the door and was “Mommy’s girl”, Soundrala said scooping her up again and again. She usually wore a fress and big bow hair ribbon, but no pants. Usually children wear even less, that is, nothing. But the bare essential is a little black string around their hips, which all children wear when young to protect them, usually with a silver amulet fastened to it – a tiny cylinder with a paper inside. Or course clothes are expensive but even if they were not it’s too warm for them anyway, and being brown they look dressed anyway. Wearing no clothes saves a lot of trouble with dirty pants, and they usually go outside, it’s easy to wipe up the stone floor in the house if necessary and it dries quickly in the sun.

Babies often wear black eye-cream under their eyes, too, making them look even bigger and darker than they already are. It is surprising to see a baby face that is all huge black eyes. Sometimes the effects are very amusing, such as the day they were playing in the house naked and took their mother’s white powder or chalk dust and put it all over themselves – and there they were, three chalk-white children with big, dark eyes.

The children were quite good and rarely caused any trouble. They played inside or outside on the street. It was quite safe since the street ended in a high brick wall at the end of the next house and nothing faster than a push-cart came by. They had few toys but amused themselves with their own games. I forgot to mention the livestock. In an overturned basket under the table where I slept was a chicken, sort of a pet, and a special favorite of Rambaji’s. The basket was so she would stay put and to make her think it was the night. She was so quiet that I almost forgot about her. Sometimes they would lift up the basket and pet her or look for an egg. The eggs were seldom tho, and scarcely added to the household diet. I remember only one and Parvathi took it as if it were a prize.

The oldest boy should have gone to school but seldom went. There is no compulsory education and few go to school, and if you feel like staying home you do. He often wanted to stay home or made some excuse and they let him. Krishna, the lawyer, often said to me, “They should make him go to school but they don’t care. He should be in the third year but is still in the first. Come here boy. Read us this book.” And he came over and read us some of the words. Perhaps since Rambaji had only finished three years he did not push his son. He was a good boy tho and went on many errands for his mother. Sometimes early in the morning while he was still sleeping she would wake him and send him out for tea or something special for me. Then again late at night they would often send him out to the little hotel down the street. He was very obedient.

So during the day Soundrala sat in the sunshine by the door, and Rajamini always at her post opposite the doorway, and the children played. An old lady came by selling greens and they bought a few annas’ worth. Putting it between them they worked picking off the stems, preparing it for the curry for lunch. Then an egg man came by and they bought a few eggs. They didn’t pay him however but chalked it up on the wall along with the marks of other days. The brick was convenient for writing on. Then the lottery man came in and squatted on the floor. He had a duck with him. He spread out some numbers and they chose some. Someone would win the duck. It seemed funny as poor as they were buying lottery tickets, but perhaps it was one of their few excitements. He reported who had won before.

This day I discovered part of the rest of the house. The bathroom was just outside the front door. It was sort of like a fallen down chimney about shoulder high that you stepped into. You stepped up a couple feet onto a ledge and put your feet on each side of the basin. There was sort of a corrugated loose piece of tin that covered the side. The toilet flushed by dumping in a basin of water.

Across from the toilet, attached to the house on the side was a small room with a slanted roof for bathing. There was a big oil drum of water, a little ledge of soap, and water jugs for bathing. There was no door but you couldn’t see in and they kept track of who was there. Soundrala could speak only a little English but every time I went in and out, ducking under the low roof, she would yell, “Watch your head!”

Parvathi was always busy working and carrying water. There was no water in the house and every drop she had to carry from the public spigot down the street. She had to carry all the water for cooking and bathing, filling the oil drum, and for flushing the toilet too. She was quite pregnant too. She would not let me help her, saying, what would the neighbors think, etc., etc., for me to be carrying water. It would reflect badly on her as the wife. Neither did the others help, saying she would have an easy delivery this way. So she carried every drop alone, going out again and again with a huge earthen jug. Always she smiled and was cheerful tho, returning barefoot with the big jug on her hip.

She rarely sat down with the rest of us on the porch unless she was also working at the same time, such as cleaning of rice. Always there was something to do and often she disappeared for hours at a time in the kitchen. The other women usually watched the children however or they played outside on the street. The street was dirty and broken, and filled with push carts, animals, and dung. Every day they swept in front of the house and at night many would sweep a place on the street and lie down.

Parvathi got up about four or five o’clock while it was still dark to make tea for Rambaji, who left before dawn for the base. Breakfast was easy – usually bread and tea, with milk and sugar, or coffee. Still the fire of tiny sticks and cow dung must be started, and the milk boiled as well as the water, which is troublesome. Sometimes we had oopma, sort of a sweet cereal-like cream of wheat, or idly, round white rice-flour paddies eaten with a mixture of hot grated cocoanut and spices. In late afternoon we also had tea. It was the two big meals, early noon and late at night, that took so much time.

It began with taking the stones out of the rice. The farmers put handfuls of small stones in the rice when they sell it so the extra weight will bring in more money (or some say it just isn’t cleaned so well to begin with). Then all the housewives must spend hours and hours picking the stones out of every bite of rice they eat. Even if you clean the rice quite well, it is common to crunch into a stone while you are eating. So in the moring after the floor was swept on the cement floor by the doorway where it was light and searched for stones.

After the rice was cleaned I followed her into the kitchen, anxious to see this other room. It was a rather large, darkish room, the only light coming from the back doorway and the one in front. The walls were brick and half of the floor was too, but from the monsoon and hard use they had gradually sunk into the ground until one side was more like a hard packed earth floor. On the floor in the corner was a circular ring of grey clay about ten inches high with an opening on the side for fuel – a typical stove used everywhere.

Next is the dahl. Dahl is a kind of yellow pulse or small bean that is boiled. If you eat anything besides rice or chappatties it is most likely to be dahl. Onions and spices are fried in oil and then the boiled dahl poured in. It is poured over rice or eaten with chapattis. It is probably one of the few sources of protein for the average person, outside of the wheat in the North which has more chromosomes than ordinary. The whole grain is eaten and then it is especially nutritious.

Last is the curry if you are lucky. It varies greatly from day to day but is basically boiled vegetables, (including potatoes, and sometimes fish or meat if you can afford it and aren’t vegetarian,) poured into spices fried in oil. There are fish curries, meat curries and countless vegetable curries. Most Indians are vegetarians and don’t eat fish or meat or meat fat or eggs. Some vegetarians lately eat eggs tho. The oil used varies with whatever is common in that part of the country, such as cocoanut oil in the south and mustard seed oil in the north. This makes the taste of the food quite different and adds to the variety. It also accounts for the fact the Indians often dislike the preparations in different parts of the country, being different than what they are used to.

It is the spices that are overwhelming in their variety and combination. Foremost is the red pepper bought in powder or ground fresh from the red pods. Tumeric and ginger are also used in great quantities, also cumin, anise, coriander, and fenugreek (seed spices). Curry means all of these spices mixed. India is the land of spices and they are bought fresh in the market, not bottled and dry like ours. Every home has a stone for grinding them. One stone is long and flat, usually granite, and the other heavy and round to roll against it. Ginger root and red peppers are ground this way. Hard seeds are ground in a heavy metal cup like mortar and pestles and ground until they become broken and powdery. Then a little water is added to make it pulpy. Spices are basic to their cooking.

What a little pile of vegetables she had for all of us. How could she make them do? But rice is the staple food and curry just goes on top. Thus the little pile of onions and potatoes did. The biggest surprise in the kitchen was the knife. It was a huge loaf-shaped blade set in a log on the floor. It stands upright and the vegetables and cut against it instead of vice versa, keeping all the pieces in your hand until it is cut. Even large squash can be cut with these knives, and vegetables pared. There are no paring knives. When you are finished the blade folds into the wood like a jackknife.

One of the most interesting visitors we had was one of the show people the family knew, a puppet man from the Punjab. A big figure ducked under the door and greeted us, and me too – “Ah, memsahib” with a smile. His voice was rough and warm. He was a big, handsome man like a Russian Cossack, with a powerful build. In fact he might have been taken for Russian except for his coloring and the Punjabi that he spoke, He was 55 or 60. He wore a long white shirt, draped pants, and a big white turban twisted around his head.

He sat down on his heels by the entrance. Such interesting lines in his face, such deep tracings, as I watched his face while he spoke. He was smoking one of those little brown cigarettes the way Indians do, holding it between the ring and little finger and sucking the smoke through their hand curled up tight, the thumb against their mouth. He looked as if he must be from a story book.

Keeping his eye on me he began their usual conversation about work, going over the same thing, telling Rajamini about his hard times all over again, etc, and she would tell him how no one had answered her latest letters, etc. I could not understand what they were saying but he sighed and nodded, and gesticulated, making it all quite evident – the same lack of work and hard times of which she had told me.

Originally in the Punjab he had made a good living like his ancestors before him, with his puppets. But any of the old arts in the East (even as our circus) were dying out. When he could no longer find work in the Punjab he had come here in the hope of working for the Madras government. The government had been thinking of using puppets to get across some of their ideas, such as family planning.

He was one of the best puppeteers and had many framed recommendation which he showed me from important people, even governors, but now they did not help him. “This is to say that we are the puppet show of (name) on May 18, 1954, and were greatly impressed by his skill…” Yes, there were the voices under glass, but where was the real help? The government project did not materialize either. OF course it would have been difficult too because he did not speak Tamil, and would have had to have someone else do the talking. He gave the shows with his sons who were also skilled.

He had been earning a living of sorts by going around from school to school trying to sell his show. If they could collect enough annals from the children to make 50 rupees he would put on the show. It seems like a high price but it took several men to put on the show. Actually they were marionettes, not puppets, and had to be worked by strings. Often there was no work, no money at all. Then Rajamini would give him a few rupees and they would talk and plan and wait again. Always the waiting, often without reward.

Would Memsahib like to see his puppet show? Of course! Usually it was 50 rupees but he would show it for less. He brought one of the dolls, marionettes. This one was a warrior with a long skirt. It could bend and walk and talk. He said he would come Friday with the whole show, and so he did.

He appeared about dark with some boxes, and a small precession of men behind him. One after another the small procession ducked under the roof and marched through the three doorways to the back yard. In the back yard was a fallen-down structure that was supposed to be the house of the youngest brother, but most of the walls had fallen down. His wife and gone home for several months to have their first baby and he awaited her return to fix it, saying it was bad luck to fix it before her return. Thus we sat in the doorways and on the walls of the fallen down house, and it seemed like a magical show in wartime with a bombed-out house.

Everything became magic. They set lams and candles around and unrolled a gorgeous red cloth stage front for the dolls. It was several yards long and looked alike a real stage. The magic was beginning to appear. He and two other men sat on the left side in front to sing the songs which tell the story. They had drums and a tambourine. The other men were hidden behind the stage with the puppets.

As the music began the neighborhood children were drawn to it and began to gather in the dark and peer over the crumbling walls. Come sit on the carpet in front I urged them, till it was all full, and they sat on the walls and doorsill and the big folks peered over too. No language was needed to understand the gay flashing puppets and dramatic music that made magic that night.

There was a court, and kings and queens and lords, and five servants fastened together in a row who bowed and danced in perfect unison. But a long green crocodile with chattering teeth stole the show. He bit a soldier and then swung out among the children, clacking his big teeth. They screamed and laughed with delight except one small boy who started crying, it seemed so real, much to the amusement of the grownups.

The big man kept looking over at me to see if I were enjoying the show, and indeed I was, but whether I enjoyed more the children or the puppets I cannot say, it gave me such joy watching them. Anyway I was sorry too when it was over, the actors made their last bow and the lamps gleamed once again in the world of mud colored walls as the rolled up the bright stage. Once more it was a crumbling house.

He was pleased with what I gave him. It had been a good show. They trooped out and it was a bright memory, and for the children too.

The next day Rambaji did not have to work and so we visited some of his friends. We decided t visit the puppet men. On the way we met one of their friends, a snake charmer, under the railroad overhead, and she did her act for us. She took the lid off the basket and poked the snake to make it rise up. After it hissed at the stick awhile she put the lid back on. I got the impression that they collected money to put the lad back on again, instead of vice versa, or perhaps only to look at the snake awhile. Often people would stand around with baskets with snakes in them and hold them out at you, but exactly what the money was supposed to be for I don’t know.

Then we came to a row of tents along the river and his was one of them. How nicely he greeted us, a real gentleman. He sat me down on a bench outside, and with his meager means even made me tea. His own dinner was lying in a bowl – bread dough he was making. When people have nothing and give you something it is very touching. A cup of tea becomes very special. And there was a hookah pipe. How grand he looked smoking it. Now the picture was complete. But it was not right that he should live so, in a tent. What happened when the monsoons came? And such a big man in that little tent. It made me angry that it should be so, that this artist should live so, and that his art too would soon be lost.

Along the river were other tents and in front of some of them they were selling little bamboo sticks with many holes punched along the side. They were for making the Alpana designs. You filled the stick with chalk powder and merely rolled it along the ground to make the design. There were many different kinds and I bought one.

Next we went to the house of a friend who was mourning the loss of his daughter. She had jumped into the well next to the house only a week or so before. Rambaji’s younger brother had told me that he and his wife were going to put their heads on the railroad track once too, but that someone had persuaded them differently. I wondered from these if suicides were fairly common in India. Certainly conditions are bad.

We also went to the uncle’s house, the one who was Europe-returned. There were several children playing around the house and some in the yard. The uncle himself was a fairly old man, and used a cane. We stayed talking in the yard for some time. We also went to the house across the street. It consisted of two rooms with mud walls. I think the lady was very religious because there were many ceremonial things on shelves on the walls. Of course they were in all houses, but here more than usual.

Another of Rambaji’s friends was one of the most unusual people I met in India. His name was Babuji. Babu means brother and “ji” is a mark of respect, so his name meant Brother, or Mister. At least they called him that. We went to see them at their little hardware shop which consisted of a little cement room in a row of stores, set up several feet high off the sidewalk. There he and his wife sat, waiting for customers.

He was really studying to be a doctor, and ha an enormous book in front of him when we came, reading. The book was in English and from England, and the rate of exchange being five to one made the medical books 50 rupees and more, for most of them were from England. Thus the cost of going to school became prohibitive. And what were his means for accomplishing this? Only this little shop and infinite determination.

Babjui was full of determination and shook his head in a decisive way very often. He seemed like a very strong person. And his wife, Bhagyavathi – no one could be sweeter. She sat by his side on the floor, very docile and sweet. There was something soft about her. She was expecting another baby any day. They already had two children but since he was going to school her parents took care of them in another village. Every day from 7 in the morning till nine at night she sat in the store and watched it while he went to school. And her only meal was a little rice. He ate at school probably well, but for her there was only a little rice. But she never complained. He said that never had she even hinted by an expression that her lot was hard. She had come from a family better off but had chosen to marry him because of her religious nature, being very pious and wanting to follow him who was very religious.

Indeed, Babuji was intensely religious. It took a lot of determination to try to go to school, making only a few rupees a day from this store. How out of place he was among his wares. Here was not only a religious scholar but a serious student. He held to the old religious teachings very strictly. He said that Indians never used to complain “We are poor people”, but that only lately had they gotten a desire for worldly things. IF they depended on the father he would take care of their needs. Thus even in their condition he maintained a strong religion.

I came back very often to talk with them. She could not speak English, but smiled very sweetly, and he and I talked. We talked of religion and the social conditions of India. He thought tho people should rely more on God. How incongruous he was in this little shop, among the odds and ends, and trunks that he sold. He tried to be strictly honest and have one price, but the people wouldn’t believe that his price was the honest price and wouldn’t buy unless they could bargain. This was just another of his burdens.

They urged me to stay until the baby was born. It would be soon so I stayed several days. They were waiting until the dark of the moon was over before the birth. If it were born during the dark of the moon they said the child would appear healthy but actually not be, and not have good characteristics. So they were waiting for the birth.

One night we walked Bhagyavathi to the hospital – down the street and over the bridge to a courtyard and building. The waiting room where you waited until delivery was an open room, very large but with just pillars on the side. It seemed strange to have a hospital open like that. There were about ten beds in the room, far apart, and a little stand with a door beside each, for putting in belongings. One or two of the other beds were occupied, and the relatives gathered around the beds. It was very informal.

As we sat together I noticed two squirrels on the beam overhead, and a crow flew in, but also there was a goat from the courtyard that wandered in. She asked me how this hospital was different from one in America and I said, “There are no birds”, laughing – but the goat, my god!

It was very peaceful however that evening, with the cows in the courtyard. Somehow it seemed like a Bible story, they were such religious people, and she so pious. There was a donkey in the courtyard, and she seemed like Mary in her blue sari. It was all very ancient.

The next day the baby was born and we went to see them. This time she was in a closed room with about ten beds, and she was with the baby. He was very small and delightful. She was very happy. It was a boy and their third child. I was very sorry to leave this couple and hope some day I can see them again, as well as all my friends in India.

It was far past time for me to leave Madras and be at school, near Calcutta, so the next night I caught and evening train to Calcutta in the North. All of them came to the station with me. The train was crowded and we could just barely make our way over the feet to wedge a place to sit in the back of the ladies’ car. They brought me something to eat, and handed it in through the window. We waved goodbye and I was sorry to leave my good friends and their warm hospitality. It had been quite an adventure.

On to VIII - Santiniketan