T.R.S…
Arrived at Bombay on Tuesday, 26 February, from Ceylon. Harbour water muddy yellow like Hawg
Crick at flood stage. Full of dhows, sailboats and freighters from many nations. From the distance
the buildings on waterfront look impressive and stately. At dockside the flies, filth and odour
of burning trash almost overpowers one's sensibilities.
A lasting first-impression of Bombay
The “Gateway to India” Monument
[Photo: Cunard - The Blouin Collection]
The heat is intense and the foul air is stagnant. Most passengers went immediately ashore to
visit bazaars and shops but a few of us waited for sunset and cool of the evening. Soon all
visitors returned to the ship complaining of heat and stench of city.
The inland tour of India was divided into two groups. We were fortunate enough to have reservations
with a party of 100 other travellers scheduled to leave Bombay at 9pm. on India's first air-conditioned
special train.
T.R.S…
After a pleasant night's rest, we spent the next day gazing from our cool compartment at the
strangest land and people yet seen in all our travels. Country is apparently in the throes of
a devastating drought.
Vegetation is burned pale and soil is a mass of dust and rock. Small crop-patches dead ripe are
being hand-harvested by groups of women and children heavily overdressed for protection from
blazing sun. With small sickles they cut down handful's of foot-tall wheat and rice, making small
sheaves that are placed in baskets and carried on their heads to central gathering points.
Land is badly eroded and over-grazed by small bunches of scrawny cattle and goats that are tended
by emaciated looking youngsters. No fences are seen anywhere except along railway right of way.
Low dirt and boulder dikes divide the land into small irregular crop-patches as far as the eye
can see.
The dope is that down through generations large farms have been divided by parents among children
by earthen dikes and the size of the patch varies, some parcels being as small as one-tenth acre
and many lie barren and unworked. Croppers raise barely enough food for their own subsistence
- none for market.
Houses generally consist of posts in the ground with poles laced between and smeared with mud
for walls. Roofs are brick shingles tied to rafters. Cooking is done in outdoor brick ovens.
Hunger and fear can be seen on most faces and incessant drudgery is required for survival.
Ancient buildings of brick construction are in all stages of decay and ruin. A dozen tornadoes
and earthquakes could do no more damage than the mere passing of time has done to the many hundreds
of structures seen from our train that were once a credit to the building craft.
Intelligence quotient of the people is equivalent of ten-year old children and their conduct and
accomplishments approximate this same low level.
28 February 1952
Banaras, India
T.R.S…
As every school child in America has learned, India is the land of the Hindus. More than a faith
or belief, Hinduism is a way of living, a system that dictates the daily habits and customs of
its followers. Banaras is the Hindu capital of the World, 48 hours by train from Bombay.
Up and out before dawn to witness the Hindu sunrise ceremonies at the Ganges River, we passed
hundreds of devotees going to and from their shrines. Those going carried sacrificial offerings
of all kinds for their favourite gods and goddesses.
Those returning had their foreheads branded with paint spots of red, yellow or black as symbols
of their attendance at their shrines. White ball-domed shrines are landmarks all through the land,
with beaten paths leading to them.
Bathing in Ganges at Banaras
[Image: Cook's Shore Tours Brochure]
At the end of a street, we proceeded down the long stone steps leading to the river and took seats
on the top level of a double-deck boat. A boatman pulled the boat along the shore so we could
get a close-up of the ritual of the Hindus. Many had trudged miles to dip into the sacred Ganges.
The sight and meaning of it defies description. For a distance of a mile, the river-front is a
pyramidal series of irregular stone steps leading down from the high city to the river edge,
where the water is quite shallow. Thus people can wade out to any desired depth up to their arm pits.
Some pray with fast-moving lips, eyes gazing into the sun, then using hands like cleavers chopping
the water, dip their faces in the chopped spot, with arms extended on each side. Some soap themselves
in shallower water and actually take a bath, mumbling to themselves all the while.
Some, waist-deep, scoop up handful of water and drink it. Some dive in quickly, clamber out and
go up the steps to a spot where they lie face down and do brisk setting-up exercises, mumbling
and shaking heads constantly.
On one of the terraces overhanging the river is a large burning ghat. We saw four corpses, two
women bound up in bright purple shrouds and two men wrapped in white mummy-cloth, then covered
with fresh cow dung. Sticks of wood were placed on grids.
Then the bodies placed on the wood were in turn covered with more wood and torches applied. As
the bodies began to char and disintegrate, male relatives of each deceased took long bamboo poles
and beat the bodies and skulls to pieces, the ashes dropping through the grids into the river.
Just beyond these ghats, downstream, is a large sanitary sewer outlet where human ashes and
excretion combine. It is regarded as the holiest of holy places to bathe in and drink the water.
Doting mothers grasp their offspring with fanatic zeal and dunk them in this filthy mess and
bash the water into their little mouths when they retch and scream.
Am told an “infidel” can become a Hindu by drinking a tumbler of cow urine. Another belief is
that any person residing on the east shore of the Ganges opposite Banaras will upon death be
reincarnated on earth as a beast of burden. The east shore is completely uninhabited.
From the Ganges “spa” we went directly to Banaras’ Clark Hotel for breakfast with different
appetites, but after a brisk spot of tea, the bacon and eggs with toast and coffee tasted mighty
good. Then off for a sightseeing and shopping tour of this Indian city.
Believe me, the slums of New York and “skid row” in Chicago are paradise compared to the lot of
the lowly in Banaras. Here mangy dogs, bony cattle and skinny goats mingle with the emaciated
populace. Dirty, greasy, disheveled garments hang on their wearers.
All seek alms, favours and every possible advantage from each other - and doubly from visitors.
Old derelicts and little children hold out both hands and plead for a few crumbs or coins.
Passing out a few packages of chewing gum, stick by stick, and a pocketful of book matches, I
caused a near riot that brought the police into action. Never again!
Women follow sacred cattle about the streets with polished brass bowls and gather up their
droppings with bare hands, paste it in cakes on walls to dry, then carry it home for fuel -
“buffalo chips.” Others milk goats in filthy pots right on the streets while flies swarm about them.
Every little gust of wind sends up a germ-laden dust cloud that makes one gasp for breath and
wonder if one has become contaminated with some dread disease. Here are some lepers with their
proverbial sores, bleary-eyed and scrofulous, pleading for alms. We became callous to beggars
and the hawkers of flimsy trash, who dog our footsteps and block our way.
Back to Clark Hotel for lunch, which we ate mincingly after our morning tour. Under a great green
canvas awning, a few merchants had set up a bazaar, and many beautiful handmade articles, fabrics,
rugs, and jewellery items were displayed. Never before saw Americans do so much price-haggling.
Two very tall elephants with tattooed heads and trunks were brought into the hotel parking lot.
If you can imagine Stub Wilson of the Kewpee with a white turban about his head and a fierce
black mustache on his lip, you have a living picture of the elephant boy who struck his beast
with a mean harpoon, forcing him to kneel for visitors to climb aboard to have pictures taken.
While we sipped our iced tea on the verandah, snake charmers fluted their cobras out of baskets.
A few gin drinkers decided to take the pledge when the snakes appeared. Mother and I engaged a
rickshaw bike and rode over to see another nearby rambling hostelry, the foreign-owned Hotel de Paris.
Not a soul there except the manager, who was quite put out that we did not register for a stay.
Then back to the comfort and cleanliness of our train for early dinner and straightaway to bed.
