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| Rama Shankar with his family and his shudras |
My ten-years-old brown skinned companion leads me along
a street which does not have any sort of pavement or hard surface,
only hardened mud. The street is crowded and the crowd is colourful:
women in flowery saris, coolies with huge baskets on their heads,
bicycle rickshaws with fat bramins in passenger seats, white sacred
cows eating green leaves from under the veg stands and leaving heaps
of dung in the middle of the road. Everybody seems to be in a hurry
except one person – a sadhu with long grey bears, red loincloth as
his only clothing, an iron trident in his hand. On his forehead three
horizontal lines are painted, a sign of Shiva. I saw a sadhu like
that when Rama Shankar led me to a temple of Shiva near his village.
Also dressed only in a red loincloth, with a long beard and a trident
in his hand, he walked with apparent dignity and loudly sang a
mantra. Rama Shankar led me to a temple that stood on a little hill
between rice paddies, a quiet place shaded by tall poplar trees.
There was a stone figure of a bull in front of the temple and inside
one could see a stone phallic symbol – the sign of fertility of
which Shiva is the first source. Rama Shankar reverently touched the
threshold of the temple and then his forehead. “Very pious place”
he said in his broken English. There were some brown-skinned children
climbing trees nearby, they shouted something to us. “They are
shudras”, said Rama Shankar. “They are savage people”.
The dark-skinned shudras are the lowest caste in the
Hindu society. The very name “shudra” means “wicked”. They
are the ones who do the dirtiest jobs by the sweat of their brows.
They live in the separate part of the village on the Eastern side of
the pond. They have broad faces with flat noses, their women wear
colourful saris and their men colourful lunghis. They don't wear the
sacred thread, they do eat meat and after the day's work in the
fields that don't belong to them they sit by their houses and smoke
hashish. All the bramins – including Rama Shankar – live at the
Western side of the pond, all have skins no darker than a
lightly-tanned European, they have long, almost Nordic faces and long
noses. Their women wear white saris, their men white dhotis, they
also wear a thread that is a sign of holiness. In order not to
pollute that holiness they never eat meat, never smoke hashish, don't
work by the sweat of their brows but own the land and look down on
people who have brown skins, eat meat, smoke hash and work in the
fields. Only one dark-skinned man lives in the bramin side of the
village, by the temple of Krishna – a sadhu with two vertical
stripes painted on his forehead. He has a long beard wears a yellow
loincloth and is very skinny because he eats only one meal a day. I
asked Rama Shankar what caste he was. “Probably a low one”, was
the answer, “but it is not important because he is a mahatma, a
holy itinerant, his presence is a blessing for the village.”
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| The mahatma |
The mahatma came for a chat while we were sitting in the
shade of a poplar tree in the yard of Rama Shankar's house. There was
just one canvas chair there – the seat of honour for the head of
the family. Rama Shankar wasn't a big landowner, he only had a
hectare of land from which he had to feed his family and his shudras.
One hectare wasn't enough so Rama Shankar had to work as a train
conductor. He didn't earn a lot which is why the seat of honour was
only a canvas chair – given to me, a guest of honour. I was treated
like a real sahib, one of the boys even started to fan me with a big
folding fan. I wasn't invited indoors, though; all my meals were
brought out on a tray and I had to eat alone while others watched me.
Nobody told my why it was so but I knew it – it is not only meat
that the bramins avoid. Shearing meals with somebody from another
caste would also defile the sacred thread. I guess the very fact thet
I was invited to visit the village was already a revolutionary move.
The following day Rama Shankar, having learned that I
was a Catholic, decided to take me to Catholic mission nearby. We
walked a few hours along dirt roads between rice paddies passing by
villages where all houses were covered with simple thatches and had
uneven walls made of clay. The mission itself looked different, it
consisted of spotlessly clean solid houses around a square courtyard,
flowering bougainvillea bushes surrounded the complex. We were
greeted by a plump dark-skinned and flat-nosed parish priest – this
was not a mission sent from overseas, the priest came from a
neighbouring state. He was visibly happy that we visited him and
showed us around. There was a chapel where all – including the
priest – had to sit on the floor during the masses. There was a
delivery room where two nuns were busy doing something; they were
both very dark skinned but wore white saris. There was a classroom
with typewriters, one with English letters and one with devanagari.
“This
way we try to help the people here. We also try to spread the Good
News.”
“Do
you have any conversions?”
“We
have two boys from a nearby village. Pramod is one of them.”
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| The mission chapel |
At this point a boy who was busy typing looked at us,a
black face, he smiled shyly. It was lunch time and the priest asked
us to join him. The food was fiery but delicious. Rama Shankar
declined the invitation. “I have eaten now” he said in his broken
English but it was an obvious lie, he walked with me all the way from
his village and I knew that he didn't eat anything since the morning.
But I knew what he meant – a meal with somebody who had so dark
skin was unthinkable.
As we were going back, a great black cloud covered the
sky and tropical downpour came down in sheets. Palms were waving
their fronds, the dusty roads were no longer dusty because two rivers
of brown water ran along it, we hid under the eaves of a roadside
temple of a god with elephant's head. There were already two mahatmas
there, one of them gave us white sweeties and said “prasad”. To
my astonishment Rama Shankar took some and gave some to me, also
saying “prasad”. I thought – how is it that a plump parish
priest who clearly represents better standard of living, who has well
built houses in his mission, good food, typewriters, sewing machines
and all that, but only has two converts, whereas these half-naked
fakirs, so thin that you can count their ribs, have such respect that
not only can they live in a bramin part of the village, they can
actually offer food to a bramin and the bramin will accept it?
A day later I went to the city of Gaia and walked along
a street of an Indian town in a crowd of people, rickshaws, sacred
cows, the road wasn't dusty because after yesterday's downpour it was
muddy, big puddles here and there, mist was rising over yellow water
warmed by the sun. Suddenly I saw something a bit unreal – a
half-open gate and behind, beyond a yard covered with green grass, a
Gothic church of red brick. There was a notice board by the gate, you
could see faint letters forming the word MASS, but all else was so
faint that the mass times were not legible. The door of the church
was ajar but everything looked somewhat strange – the empty yard
contrasting with the crowded street, mist rising above the tall
grass. Why was there no footpath from the gate to the church? It was
all a little spooky. Suddenly some people appeared in front of the
church, they seemed to be quite real, not ghosts. They gestured for
me to come, so I did. As I entered the church I was surprised even
more – instead of pews there were beds and brown-skinned boys lay
on those beds. Their eyes shone with some unusual light.
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| Is this the real church? |
“This
is not the real church, this is a hospital for lepers,” explained
one of those who called me. “This place is used by Missionaries of
Charity, the brothers of Mother Theresa of Calcutta. You know Mother
Theresa of Calcutta, don't you?”
He introduced himself – he was one of the brothers,
the other boys were patients. He led me to a little bench in the
vestry and told me about their work.
“Only
some of the patients stay here overnight, the rest live at home and
only come here for the day.”
“They
live at home? What do the neighbours say?”
“The
neighbours don't know, only the closest family know about it. Leprosy
is nowadays completely curable and if diagnosed early enough – does
not even leave a mark. It is also much less contagious than imagined.
It is a disease caused by bacteria that can be cured by modern
antibiotics. You see that cupboard there, next to the altar? This is
where we keep our medicines.”
He was telling me everything I could possibly be
interested in, inundating me with his flow of words, clearly happy
about my visit no less than those boys with shining eyes. The others
didn't talk to me, just looked from the distance. Only one little
boy, maybe 10 years old, stood next to me as if listening. Meanwhile
two boys sat by the altar and started peeling potatoes.
“We
are making our lunch here but you won't eat with us, you will go to
the real church, where the brothers live. Ravi will lead you there.
Here is Ravi.” This was the name of the boy that stood by my side.
“Ravi
can speak fluent English but he is very shy with foreigners. His
heart is broken ever since the time Jeanne, an English lady, left.
She was here quite long, maybe a year, she was very good to him and
he loved her but then she left and his heart is broken. You will show
the way, Ravi, won't you?” Ravi nodded, clearly he understood.
We went to the gate, but not the front one, there was
another one behind the church. And so I found myself back on that
street with all those rickshaws, sacred cows, noise.
“We
are going this way”
Ravi, a a brown-skinned leper boy whose heart is broken,
leads me to the real church.
You will find this story, and many others, in my book "ASK A GLOBETROTTER".
