POSTING #67

Passage to India (and the Taj Mahal)

A few weeks ago, the UK Antiques Road Show featured a person who had brought in a collection of autographed novels written by E. M. Forster, including "Passage to India".

The program brought back my attempts to understand 'Passage' in my first-year English course at Queen's. Growing up in a homogeneous community in rural Western Ontario hadn't really equipped me to understand this complex and subtle novel about the lives of British ex-patriates in India in the 1920s.

Some of the British characters tried to ignore---as much as that was possible---the cultural differences between their homeland and India, treating the Indians much like serfs in medieval England. A few others dipped bravely into the mysteries of the ancient culture. There was often a heavy emotional price to pay for that bravery.

Even though I didn't feel that I fully understood the novel---the professor seemed to agree with that assessment, given his grade on my essay about 'Passage'---it made me want to experience India for myself.

I was happy, therefore, to be asked, in 1969, to be part of a three-person team---Dave, the leader, Phyllis, a Human Resources official, and me---that would go to India to interview Canadian Immigration staff working in New Delhi.

Getting ready for the trip, I told myself that I must be prepared for experiences that were strange and probably unpleasant.

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A member of the Canadian High Commission met us when we got off the plane, and seeing that we were tired from the flight tried to hustle us through Indian Customs. As the Customs officer searched through our bags, the official said,

"These people are guests of the Canadian High Commissioner and I am sure that he would appreciate anything you can do to expedite their clearance."

The Customs officer straightened up, "I am sure that the High Commissioner would appreciate that. I am also certain that he would expect me to do my duty."

And he went back to searching through our belongings.

The message was clear: 'India is a proud and independent nation. Don't mess with us.'


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The next morning, after a good sleep in a fine hotel, we were driven to the Immigration Office. Outside the office were perhaps a hundred people sitting or lying on the ground, people who, we were told, were being sponsored for immigration and had been called in for an interview and medical examination.

Travelling from all over India, they often arrived days early so they wouldn't miss their interviews. Not having money for a hotel, they 'camped' outside the office until their turn came for an interview.

I thought of those immigrants last fall when our latest grandchild was born in the extraordinarily attractive and well-equipped Credit Valley Hospital in Mississauga. The generosity of the Indo-Canadian community was evident everywhere. A wing bore the name of an Indian family and many of the rooms in the maternity section had plaques referring to the contributions made by different Indian families.

I wondered whether some of those immigrants waiting for an interview in New Delhi---or possibly their descendents---were among those who had helped finance the hospital.

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Having a free day after the interviews were finished, the Officer-in-Charge asked whether we would like to visit the Taj Mahal.

Dave had some paper work to do and declined but Phyllis and I agreed. We were told that the distance to Agra, the town in which the Taj is located, was about 250 kilometres but we were warned that it could be a slow journey, depending on the traffic.

We set off after breakfast the next morning in one of the High Commission's cars, a North American mini-van with welcome air conditioning---although it was spring the temperature was like a hot August day in Ottawa.

The driver was a locally-engaged Indian in a dark cotton outfit that was a cross between a suit and a uniform. His bearing and presence suggested a military past---perhaps as a sergeant major.

Until we got well out of New Delhi, the roads were clogged with every kind of motorized vehicle---from two wheels to eighteen---and ox-drawn carts. Every vehicle that had a horn used it almost constantly.

Once out in the country, I was astonished to see large green fields. We had been hearing a great deal about India's dreams for a 'green revolution' that would allow the country to feed its people without importing food. Using plant breeding, irrigation and chemical fertilizers---the dreams went---India would turn its dry dusty lands into green productive fields.

From what I had read---much of it from British media while we lived in England, which were often biased against anything Indian, perhaps because of the bitter fight for independence---it sounded like this was a pipe dream. The climate and land were too harsh and 'the Indian people simply weren't up to it'.

And yet, here were fields of very healthy looking wheat.

The green revolution was, of course, a great success.

I suppose I should add that there are now reports of some environmental problems because of the over-use of irrigation and fertilization.

Some more challenges for the Indian nation, but when you have more than a billion people with over 200 languages, challenges aren't something new.

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Around noon, the driver said that the wife of the Officer-in-charge had packed a lunch in a cooler. He asked if we would like to pull over and have lunch in a shady spot.

We agreed and he turned off the main road into a village, looking for a suitable spot for a picnic lunch.

He suddenly put on the brakes and jumped out of the car. He marched toward a large tree with an enormous, umbrella-shaped crown that provided a wide circle of shade.

The only problem was that there were about 50 men sitting under the tree, some leaning back against the broad trunk.

Phyllis and I looked at each other. Were we to have our picnic in the midst of all these men?

Just then the driver started shouting and waving his arms at the men. We couldn't understand the words but the gestures were obvious---they were to clear off.

The men resisted, arguing with the driver, but they eventually picked themselves up and walked slowly into the sun.

Proud of what he had accomplished, the driver came back and gestured to the now vacant area.

"Good shade", he said.

We protested that we couldn't take the shade away from these men. It wasn't right.

"No, it's the way we do things. Come."

Getting the cooler and a blanket from the back of the van, he strode over to the tree and set up our picnic.

We sat down and opened the cooler. It was full of sandwiches, salads, fruit and ice-cold beer---a welcome sight for two hungry and thirsty people.

We looked up from the cooler and saw that the men who had been driven from under the tree were now assembled in a circle just outside the shade of the tree---sitting in the full sun---staring at us.

Meanwhile, the driver had gone back to the minivan, turned on the engine to run the air conditioner, and settled down for a snooze.

Phyllis and I took a bite of a sandwich, as dozens of dark eyes watched us.

We looked at each other and decided that we couldn't do it.

We tried to explain to the driver why we couldn't picnic under the tree. He just shook his head as much as to say, 'If you were recruits in my platoon you would be doing a hundred push-ups!'

Back in the car, and on our way to Agra, we ate the excellent lunch and drank the refreshing beer.

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In Agra, the driver found us an English-speaking guide, a wiry old man with very few teeth and those that he did have were stained bright red from---we later learned---chewing betel nuts. He waved for us to follow him, and set off through crowded, narrow streets.

H e said he would tell us about the history of the Taj as we walked to it. His English was passable but his descriptions were delivered in a sing-song, 'pre-recorded' spiel that was hard to follow and almost impossible to interrupt.

According to the guide, the Taj was built in the 1600s by Shah Jahan, a king of India, in memory of his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal. Just before her death, Mumtaz asked that a beautiful tomb be built so that she would not be forgotten.

As we walked, we were approached by beggars---young children with dirty, skimpy clothing and mothers clutching babies.

The babies were heart-breaking---tiny things, many of them with yellow-crusted eyes. Flies buzzed around the babies, some landing on the crusted eyes.

Shouting and waving his arms at the beggars, the guide told us, "Don't give them anything---it will just bring on more of them."

The noise of the crowded streets, the heat and dust, and the beggars began to get to us as we wound down yet another alley. I wondered if this had been a good idea.

Just then, we rounded a corner and started toward a stone arch. As we walked on, we had our first view of the Taj---perfectly framed by the arched doorway.

As we went through the arch, the beggars fell behind, and the dust and heat were forgotten.

We walked along the paths leading to the Taj, paths that had once been covered with oriental rugs.

I won't attempt to describe the Taj, except to say that I haven't seen anything so beautiful---to me, it is Beethoven's Ninth in marble.

After we had drunk our fill of the Taj, the guide took us back to the car.

As we went, he told us we must come back some December during full moon to see the Taj at night. He said that the Taj is even more beautiful at night with the silvery light of a full moon glistening off the marble.

I told myself that it would be wonderful to visit the Taj with Pat some December.

It hasn't happened yet but I'm still working on it.

Who knows......


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See you next Sunday for Posting #68 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.