Entry 20 -- History and Myth

ENTRY 20– History and Myth

The gardens and mausoleum, Srirangapatna

entrance to the eighteenth-century fortress, Srirangapatna

The well-known writer of the history, meaning and function of religion, Karen Armstrong, gives a very specific understanding of the term myth, as well as explaining its importance.  She writes that as soon as people became aware of their own mortality, they created stories that gave meaning to their existence and explained their relationship to the divine presence; more than this, myths gave instruction about how to live in response to that understanding.  Myth helps people to understand their place in the world and find their true orientation.  In other words, myth has both ontological and ethical power, shaping meaning and action based on that meaning.  Human beings, says Armstrong, have always been myth makers. 
I don’t think we have stopped this recasting of our understanding of the past in mythic terms.  I define myth, following Armstrong, as a story rooted in history that allows an understanding of present reality, offering a sense of meaning or identity; a narrative of the past that shapes a perception of reality, and so an understanding of national or cultural identity.  This allows for both religious myth and historical myth, a way of seeing one’s relation to the divine, and also a way of understanding one’s national or cultural past; and sometimes, of course, these come together.

I was not surprised, then, in my preparations to come to India, to encounter some of the myth-making around the figure of Tipu Sultan, by both English historians of the Victorian era who condemned him, and Indian historians of the twentieth century who would canonize him.  Tipu Sultan is a figure who has long captured my interest, and so it was with pleasure that I realized the historical sites of his life and death lie just outside the city of Mysore, in Srirangapatna, a journey of only twenty or thirty minutes by car.  Sriragnapatna was not on the itinerary for field excursions for the Mount Allison students, which have taken us to Hindu and Jain temples of Chalukya and Hoysala eras, going back eight hundred and a thousand years into the Indian past.  And soon we will visit the massive archaeological site of Vijayanagar in the northern half of Karnataka state, a city built in the fourteenth century but declining, suddenly, in the sixteenth century.  A separate journey to Srirangapatna was in order.

John, in pursuit of history -- or myth

A couple of weekends ago, having made arrangements to hire a car and driver, and to be accompanied by the Head Academic at VIIS, Dr La.Na. Swamy, I headed out to a town I had read much about, and now was going to see, the home of Haider Ali and Tipu Sultan, and a battle that may or may not have changed the course of Indian history (as a side note, I have followed one of the conventional spellings for both Haider Ali and Tipu Sultan, although there are variations, each one accepted as also correct).

In the eighteenth century, a new and short-lived power dynasty emerged in southern Indian, based not in Mysore but in Srirangapatna, just a short distance away from the capital where the ruling kings lived.  Haider Ali, the commander-in-chief to the Maharaja or King of Mysore, Krishanraja Wodeyar II, rose to a position of power and came to dominate the weak king.  Ultimately Haider Ali seized control of the kingdom and, as military commander and, in effect, supreme ruler over Mysore, came to expand the territories of this southern Indian kingdom moving the capital from Mysore to Srirangapatna.  His expansionist activities drew him into conflict with military advances of the British East India Company, ending in conflict in the First and Second Mysore Wars (1767-69 and 1779-1784 respectively).  A shrewd and powerful leader, when Sultan Haider Ali died in 1782, he left his son Tipu Sultan not just a war that was incomplete, but a vastly expanded realm and a reputation of authority and control by force.  The short-lived dynasty begun by Haider Ali and ending with his son Tipu Sultan also marked the return of Muslim rule over a predominantly Hindu population.

Tipu Sultan, also known as the Tiger of Mysore for his expansionist tendencies, his merciless treatment of his enemies, and his absolute control over the sultanate of Mysore, was also a devout Muslim, a scholar, a poet and a linguist; these latter qualities, however, were secondary in history to his desire to expand his kingdom and his willingness to engage in conflict, which led to two further wars with the British.  Following a humiliating defeat to British forces in the Third Mysore War (1789-1792), the British took two young sons of Tipu Sultan as hostages to ensure the payment agreed to under the terms of peace was actually made.  It was, and the sons, a little older, were returned to their father.

Allying himself with Napoleon in the wars against the British, Tipu Sultan was forced into a Fourth Mysore War (1798-99) when the British determined to defeat France and all her allies.  Led by their commander, Arthur Wellesley (later Duke of Wellington, the victorious general at the Battle of Waterloo), the British led a final attack on Srirangapatna in May 1799.  At this time of the year, just preceding monsoon season, the river was at its lowest level and the fortress surrounding Srirangapatna, built on an island in the Cauvery River, was at its most vulnerable.  In a short and decisive assault costing only thirty British lives, the invading force captured Srirangapatna; during the initial fighting, Tipu Sultan was killed in leading his forces into battle, although it was not until later in the day that the British identified his body.  This ended the dynasty Haider Ali had sought to establish, and the British reinstated the Wodeyar monarch on throne of Mysore (albeit under the close supervision of a British policy advisor), thus establishing British influence and control in southern India.

The very brief account above does not, of course, mention the myth of Tipu Sultan; it is simply a narrative of a few key elements of what has become, for some Indians, something of a legend and more, a myth.  The Tiger of Mysore has been remembered by some Indian historians, since Independence in 1947, as something of a national hero.  He is being hailed as the one who stood up against the might of the British Empire and, in an unsuccessful last stand before the onslaught of British power, the one who tried to protect and preserve Indian independence.  Part of the myth of Tipu Sultan is that of the great unifier of southern India; however, the seizing of land and ousting of rulers through militaristic expansion can be interpreted in ways other than nationalistic attempts to unify a people, particularly when considering the time period under discussion.

carved stone on the Haider Ali and Tippu Sultan mausoleum

The evidence of this dynasty at Srirangapatna still stands.  I visited this town and saw the usual tourist sites, as well as some a little further off the usual tourist trail.  I joined the throngs of Sunday visitors to the Gumbaz, or domed mausoleum, honouring the bodies of Haider Ali and his wife, as well as Tipu Sultan.  Entering through an arched gateway, a tree-lined path leads to the mausoleum itself, seemingly in small imitation of that great mausoleum, the Taj Mahal.  For a modest fee of twenty rupees, a shoe keeper will keep watch over shoes as visitors ascend a few steps to the raised platform area that surrounds the Gumbaz; this also leads over to the mosque located just beside it.  Because this is Moslem holy ground, the site of both the mausoleum and mosque, shoes cannot be worn.  Although the shoe keeper’s fee is not large, by walking along the path that leads around the outer edge of this combined structure with its stone pavement on the raised platform, one can leave shoes for free under a bush beside the back steps and ascend there.  Which we did.

A huge dome rises above the bier where father, mother and son are entombed; ornate carvings in the stone of the structure portray leaves and vines and flowers.  These images of nature are allowed on an Islamic structure, as are quotations from the Qur’an; images or depictions of people, who might inappropriately be deified or idolized, are forbidden.  Miniature towers or turrets are at each corner of this perfectly cubed structure, its width and depth equal to its height.  The large dome is topped with the traditional symbol of Islam, the crescent moon.

the Gumbaz, domed mausoleum, at Srirangaptna

Inside, we walked around the walls and look at the place of entombment in the centre, a perfect raised square.  Photographs are strictly forbidden, but my colleague from VIIS pleads special exemption from such restrictions as a recognized historian with the Karnataka Historical Authority, and I am allowed to take a couple of pictures.  I first look up to the interior of the magnificent dome, the architectural feature adopted from the Eastern or Byzantine church of the fourth through seventh centuries, but more usually associated with Islamic architecture as Islam spread rapidly through the Middle Eastern world in the seventh and eighth centuries.  Painted in rich colours in the Muslim style, the inside of the dome is even more impressive than the exterior, which inspires wonder by its size and seeming weight; the painting is filled with motifs suggestive of flowers and leaves, in the fashion of the carved stone on the outside. Beneath the dome, some visitors bow in silent reverence out of deference to one who was Muslim, or perhaps to a defeated national leader.  There are clearly, judging by their attire, both Muslim and Hindu visitors to the site. A rich cloth laid over the burial spot has been covered with garlands of flowers, marigolds and jasmine and roses, and in the warmth of the open domed structure, the scent of flowers is strong.

After the visiting the Dome and the grounds surrounding it – including the mosque, the eighteenth-century stables and military barracks, we reclaimed our shoes and returned to the parking area, filled not only with cars, buses and motorcycles, but stands selling all manner of souvenirs and foods.  Off to the side of the parking area, we paid a brief visit to the memorial monument built to honour Colonel William Baillie, who surrendered with his troops to the forces of Hyder Ali in 1780 at the height of the Second Mysore War; Colonel Baillie was imprisoned inside the fortress at Srirangapatna, and died there two years later.  It was partially due to this imprisonment and death that the British made the decision to undertake another conflict with Tipu Sultan a few years later.

memorial plaque to Col. Baillie, erected in 1816

entrance gate to the summer palace

The memorial was erected by his nephew in 1816, and the relative lack of care and interest in this site suggests the living myth of Indian nationalism under Tipu Sultan; his memorials (both the Dome and the plaque marking the spot where it is said he died) are carefully maintained, with neat pathways and carefully edged grass.  Access to the monument for Col. Baillie is gained by walking through mounds of garbage and a short path overgrown with weeds.

Then it is on to the summer palace, the home and seat of power for Tipu Sultan.  Entrance to the Palace Grounds is through a large arched gateway and admissions office – Indians, 20 Rupees and Foreigners, 100 Rupees – and then into the neat paths bounded by carefully trimmed trees.  The Palace itself was designed for the warm Indian climate, to maximize air flow, to provide porches that give shelter from sun and rain but are still open to the cooling breezes that might come from the nearby Cavery River, and to create an impression of power, wealth and beauty.  The walls are painted with scenes of successful military campaigns filled with soldiers, elephants, banners and glory.  Deeper into the interior the walls are painted with floral patterns in what must have once been bright and decorous colours. The vicissitudes of time and age, of dampness and light and lack of proper care, have worn and faded the once majestic walls.  

Summer Palace of Tipu Sultan

Even now only minimal protection is provided, as bamboo screens are rolled down to prevent further fading from direct sun.  But birds flit inside the open air rooms that have no exterior walls, and stains and signs of damp rot are visible  in the plaster beneath the paint.  While the information and explanatory notes provided, highlighting artifacts and art, suggest a glorious and noble past, as though this alone was the heart of a once proud India (not just Mysore kingdom), the historic palace suggested to me a fading of the past, a desire to maintain a myth without supporting evidence.

 From the former opulence of the palace, we went to the site, marked with a monument, path and neatly trimmed lawn, where it is said that Tipu Sultan was died in battle.  There are, however, two sites for one death: one official and one unofficial.  At the official site, the stone monument simply declares “The Body of Tipu Sultan Was Found Here.”

The official site is open and accessible, suggests a brave fight by the Mysorean troops who battled the British a considerable length of the fort.  The fort itself consisted of ramparts and battlements that stretch around the city of Srirangapatna, with a second palace inside, a temple, and three outer concentric rings of defensive walls with a river running past on all sides.  The official sites highlights the bravery and courage of Tipu Sultan, plunging into the battle at last with the regular troops only to be cut down by a British sharpshooter; in the popular myth, printed in tourist literature and small pamphlets about the historical significance of Srirangapatna, the death of Tipu rallied the troops to fight even more bravely before finally succumbing to the British because they had lost the inspiration and directin of their leader, the Tiger of Myspre.  The fighting here was inside the fort, and in the melee of women and children fleeing, the inability to use their cannons, and without a commander in chief, the British finally prevailed.

monument to the official site of the death of Tipu Sultan

passageway to where Tipu Sultan likely died

The unofficial, and somewhat less accessible site, suggests a different story of a force caught off guard by a British assault from the least likely direction.  The brick and stone walls still bear the marks of assault by cannon; although the river has been altered by damming since Tipu’s time, one can still see the open stretch of marshy land through which the river winds, and can speculate that at the end of a long dry winter perhaps even the marshes had dried to allow not only ready movement of troops but also horses, weapons and equipment.  

The British attacked at dawn in the far north-west corner, at the furthest distance from the centre of power.  We travelled out to that far corner, and saw the remains of ramparts and walls, both inner and outer, and the lookout spot where the first British troops likely entered into the fort. 

Near there, probably in the noise and confusion of battle – with cannonballs being fired from across the river, Tipu Sultan had to act to move his troops into position.  From British records it seems they encountered little to no resistance as they moved into the space between the first two outer walls.  Possibly, Tipu Sultan, coming out to this outer edge to determine what was going on, was surprised to see British forces already filling the narrow passageway, and at that time he was both shot and bayoneted as the troops rushed past him.  It was only later in the day, when the battle was done and the bodies were being retrieved, that it was realized that the Sultan himself had been killed so early in the day, in the heat of battle, in an unlikely place.

Still driving within the confines of the fortress wall or their remains, we had the driver stop the car along a length of outer wall a little further away – almost a kilometre – from the centre of town, the heart of the fort (no longer present) the main entrance gates, the official site of Tipu’s death, and all the stands selling tourist items and temple offerings.  Heading down a short slope, we walked along the stone wall until we came to a passageway leading through the wall to the “inner-outer ditch” – two walls created the ditch, and further outside there was yet another such ditch and another wall. 

remains of the second defensive wall

The walls soar up forty feet high in some places where they have not crumbled, and the ditches are grown up with weeds and scrub vegetation.  After going through the passageway, and turning left (the only option), the walls curve slightly.  One can imagine standing in that spot, perhaps with Mysorean troops coming in behind, and realizing that the British advancing down the ditch as well as over the walls, Tipu Sultan and the troops with him had little chance.  The quarters were really too close for effective sword fighting, and with muskets at the ready, and the short stabbing motions of a bayonet much more effective than the larger motions needing to use the Mysorean great swords, the result would not be surprising.

evidence of assault by cannon from across the river, 1799

After spending time here, speculating, measuring, inspecting stone and earthworks and trying to determine based on construction patterns what had been altered in the last two hundred years, we moved on a little further down the ramparts.  We saw the site where Col. Baillie had been imprisoned, and still travelling the length of walls that stretch several kilometres around their circumference, we came finally to the first place of the British assault.  Now it is has potential to be a scenic spot, but it has not been maintained, it is not easy to walk to the site, and garbage, as in many places in India, seems the dominant feature.  It is worth noting this site, as the British, coming across the strongest flow of the river where it divides around the island, had caught the Mysorean forces off guard and the assault was swift and decisive. Within the space of a few hours on May 4, 1799, the British took Srirangapanta fort, Tipu Sultan had died in battle, and the Fourth Mysore War had effectively ended with a loss of only thirty British lives in this final assault.  Subsequently, the British East India Company with the might of the British Empire behind it, began to take over virtual control of centres of power in southern India; the Wodeyar monarchy was reestablished, and the heir to Tipu Sultan was sent into exile.

And for some, Tipu Sultan stands as a hero for India, not just Karnataka or the Mysore region.  The myths of Tipu Sultan suggest not that he is the son of a man who usurped the power from its rightful holder, and who was known for his merciless streak and punishment in his rapacious desire to extend his realm; rather, the Tiger of Mysore is now the Tiger not because of cruelty, but because of nationalism, resistance to a foreign power, and standing for the Indian people.  The monarch of a small realm in a large Indian subcontinent, standing against the might of the British Empire, story of Tipu Sultan is told like an Indian version of David and Goliath except with tragic results, and the mausoleum and palace, the fortress and mythic site of death, are revered places claim the myth is history.

A Muslim in a predominantly Hindu world, the Tiger of Mysore seems in some ways an unlikely hero, and yet as an Indian in fight against the British, he represents the nation less the India of the past (different monarchies and regions, divided along linguistic lines) than the India of the present, a political union of diverse peoples, religions, cultural forms and languages who need a common bond beyond the Constitution.  A common myth can unify, bond an shape a national identity.  Just as in Canada we have created mythic qualities to stories of Canadian achievement – Vimy Ridge, the national railroad, peacekeepers – and those myths help forge a national identity, so the developing mythology of Tipu Sultan in southern India is nurturing a stronger sense of what it means to be Indian – not Hindu or southern, but Indian.   Myths have the power to divide, to shape identity, to unite, to mould nations.  While the story of Tipu Sultan can be told in many ways, in its mythic form it becomes larger than life, and in so doing gives life to national identity and aspirations.

At the end of a long but excellent day -- sitting where the British began their assault on Srirangapatna

Entry 19 -- The Dignity of Work

Entry 19 – the Dignity of Work

While sitting in the VIIS library the other day, I began to reflect on work, and specifically the dignity of work.  As a writer, preacher, counsellor, teacher, I take pride in what I do and strive to do it well.  Certainly there is a sense of satisfaction at having written something well, or having taught a good class where I come away feeling that I have inspired minds and communicated the importance of ideas.  But I began to wonder how many people take pride in their work, and see it as giving dignity, identity, and meaning; how many people see their work as contributing to a larger good, whatever the nature of the work.  While there is more to life than work, surely there is also more to life than simply working to earn, and earning to enjoy.

Too often in North America we see work as a means to an end, not a goal in and of itself.  The task, for many, is not to do the job and do it well, but to do what needs to be done to earn enough to live, and then to engage in living on the weekends and holidays.  We create systems to get work done more efficiently, and use tools and machines to help us get our work done more quickly.  It maximizes profit, but minimizes human effort and possibly human dignity in an indirect way.

I was thinking of this in the library, because while I sat there working, I saw a worker outside trimming the weeds that grow at the edge of the stone path.  If he had used a gas powered edge trimmer, the job would have been done in five minutes.  But here in India, tools are hand powered in many cases; his tool was a blade with a handle, and a hook at the end of the blade.  Squatting down beside the path, he patiently and carefully used the tool to cut, dig and remove the weeds.  One at a time.  Without pause, he slowly and diligently moved his way down the path, squatting the entire time, patiently working away until the job was done. Then, with a broom made of dried palm stems – not a gas-powered blower – he carefully removed the evidence of what he had done.  It was most of a morning’s work, and it was well done.  I wonder if he had pride in what he had accomplished; I hope so.  There was a quiet dignity in his patient, careful and deliberate work.

There is much work that is done by hand, with what in North America would be considered inefficient tools and methods, and yet there is a dignified simplicity in some of these tasks.  I pass by tailors’s shops, open to the air.  They are not shops so much as small storage areas for a variety of fabrics, and the tailor sits near the front (no wall, window or door) with his (and they are men) sewing machine.  His bare feet work the treadle, and without electricity or complex electronic machinery, the needle moves and the clothing is created, to the measurements of the customer.  And it is done simply, and well.

I see construction workers mixing cement and carrying it, one steel saucer at a time, to where another worker will apply it, and think how quickly this would be done with one truck and two workers. I encounter servers in restaurants who work long hours for little monetary reward, but who give the appearance of serving with joy and pleasure. 

Perhaps I romanticize simplicity, when in fact it might be that I am overlooking other far more complex issues including low wages, uncertain working conditions, absence of benefits or pension schemes, and poor living conditions.  But while quality of life can be measured in economic and material terms, these cannot and must not be the only indicators.  Surely satisfaction of effort and meaningfulness of life and activity should be considered as well.

Perhaps in the west we have been too influenced by the account of the fall in Genesis, and see ourselves somehow as fallen people; the Genesis account, if misread without the larger context of other traditions of work, suggests that we can only produce by the sweat of our brow, and that this is punishment, consigning the idea of work to something equivalent to a living hell.  Comin out of this view, too many deep down believe that we are redeemed not through work but through our ability to earn enough at work to have the freedom to fulfill our own desires, in our terms and on our own time.  In India, there is no story of fall and redemption; instead, there is dharma.  This is what is, the regular order of things, and the concept of dharma includes not only religious practice, but also duty, honour and vocation; there is a divine order of things, and by right living, one contributes or participates in that divine order.  Work is.  And in work, one participates in the greater order of the universe.  And in this, it seems, one can take pride, whether weeding the edge of the path, driving western students to historic sites, selling oranges, or whatever one does.  It is an unconscious spirituality about the inherent dignity of work, rather than seeing it as a necessary evil as is the unconscious and unspoken perspective in the west.

Each morning at the Institute, the staff gathers briefly for sung prayer and a reading from the works of Swami Vivekananda, after whom the Institute is named.  Included in that prayer are words entreating God to grant both teachers and students protection and nurture, that they would “work together with energy and vigour”.  Perhaps that is the unbidden prayer of many in the Hindu world of dharma, and low wages, and in a changing economy that brings traditions into clash and conflict with modernity and globalization.

A recent CBC documentary series on India explored the clash of ages, the age of tradition and the age of modernity.  This is very much in evidence here: the huge Infosys complex is nearby, with its trendy architecture and its computer-savvy employees arriving on the latest make of motorcycle; the security men at the entrance look like the security men I see everywhere – ordinary people in ordinary jobs, which they take seriously and in which they take great pride, but for which they are paid minimally, working long hours with no benefits.

And as I look up from my work in the library, I see the labourer, patiently and steadily doing his work in a thorough and careful way.  And I am made more appreciative of his labours, and those of so many others, so that when I go out into the streets of Mysore I have a new appreciation of the long hours, the low wages, and yet the dedication that so many give as they produce, sell, serve, construct, drive, beautify, help, teach, counsel, guard, assist and do a thousand other tasks that help me to concentrate on mine.  And take pride in it.

Entry 18 - Small Things with Great Love

Entry 18 – Small Things with Great Love: 

                      Reflections on the Status of Women in India

A first thought in connection with the theme of women in India is probably that of the magnificently-coloured saris that are worn by a large portion of the female population of India.  And this image of the colourful sari is still correct –  many women still wear saris, in all colours, as well as in a variety of fabrics.  Saris seem to me – never having worn one – both a very practical but also impractical item of clothing; while the loose end (the pallu) can be used as a veil, a shelter from wind, rain or sun, or for a variety of other purposes, it also seems to get in the way and effectively limit the wearer to using only one hand, the other being required to adjust and redrape the sari fabric.  Younger women often opt for the alternate salwar kameez, the long shirt and leggings, with a scarf that is draped over the shoulders.  However, it is what lies beyond the immediate appearance of colour in the sari that this piece is concerned with, as I reflect on what I have come to see and learn of women and their status in Indian society, and the many challenges women face here.

I meet and interact with professional women at the Institute where the students are studying; they are academics and doctors and clerks and administrators and leaders of advocacy groups and educators, and if this was my entire experience of women, the impression is of equal partners in the work force as in society.  But this is not the case.  I also see women in Mysore working as construction labourers – they are not the builders, but the labourers who carry cement or concrete blocks on their heads, sift sand, tote water, or dig by hand.  I have seen a group of women sitting at the side of a road construction site working to make gravel, from large granite blocks.  Each block is chipped by hand, the women working patiently to break them into smaller blocks and finally into pieces of gravel, one piece at a time, each one using only a hammer.  They work barefoot and in saris, and sometimes are accompanied by small children.  I see women who are vendors,  who have simply spread a bamboo or palm thatch mat on the sidewalk, and who sit there all day selling oranges or other foods, or flowers, or jewellery.  And I see women who beg in the streets; there are beggars everywhere, and my experience is that women outnumber men about three to one, and they are mostly older women.  This may not be representative or accurate, but this has been my experience so far.

Women in India are still without full equal rights, without full access to property and income; they are subject to domestic abuse, sexual assault, forced into prostitution or begging if they are dismissed from their home and they have no other recourse.  They are subject not only to the whims of their husbands, but often also to their mothers-in-law, who often share the same house and give direction about its management.  According to one global study, India is among the top ten most dangerous nations in the world for women to live.

There is a long-standing practice of gender inequality here, and while some scholars suggest that gender equality was the norm in ancient India, particularly in the Vedic period, this has not continued through India’s history.   You are probably familiar with stories from India’s past of suttee (or sati), the voluntary immolation or death by fire of a widow on her husband’s funeral pyre; one questions, of course, how voluntary this was, given the societal pressures and lack of support for one left widowed.  Perhaps less familiar in the west is the historic practice of juahar, again a supposedly voluntary death, by burning, of the wives and daughters of warriors defeated in battle, to save themselves from capture, rape and enslavement by enemy soldiers.  And still, in the twenty-first century, women are still dismissed from their homes by abusive husbands, murdered by husbands who simply want to claim the dowry money and remarry for more, are forced into prostitution and begging because they have no claim on property, and are subject to sexual assault by neighbours and extended family members and are not able to find support from the police or court systems.  In some ways, hearing the stories from women in Mysore makes me think of the women of the New Testament period, who were little more than possessions of their fathers first, and then their husbands.  The inequalities, the indignities, the lack of any kind of power over themselves, and in a sense the lack of identity were some of the things against which Jesus spoke, and which seem to exist in similar ways still for some modern Indian women.

While the conflict of a traditional culture and modern ways of living are evident in obvious ways in India – for instance, roads that are shared by cars and carts drawn by bullocks – perhaps one of the biggest conflicts that is not so apparent is that between the role traditionally given to women, and the struggle to emerge as full equal partners in society with all the rights attached to equality.  As a white, western male, I will not be able to fully appreciate the issues to which women must respond in my own culture, and even less so in the “two-thirds world” which struggles to catch up to the west in material ways but not always in terms of rights and justice.

What has made a difference to my understanding is to enter, ever so briefly, into women’s reality in India not as an observer, but as a listener.  Karen Armstrong, in her recent book Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life, identifies compassion as emerging from an intentionality or mindfulness of listening and being present to others.  Action, she says, must be preceded by empathy, which can only come from listening, careful and attentive listening, to the stories of others.  I had just recently read this work when the Mount Allison group took a “field trip” into Mysore, visiting two sites to learn more about women’s issues in India, and the response being made; I was open to listening, particularly as in both places I was the lone male, and an outsider, both by nationality and the privileges that we Canadians have been born into, and that we often take for granted.

In Mysore, we visited first a women’s shelter, a refuge for women either dismissed from their homes or who have fled their homes, victims of violence, or mental, physical, sexual or financial abuse or threat.  We meet the “warden” who runs the shelter, as well as some of the “inmates”, the women currently living at this home for “destitute women”.  Given the language being used, and the conditions of the shelter, and the way that support was offered and the days planned, I felt a bit like I had stepped into an Indian version of a poorhouse in a Charles Dickens novel; there was definitely a Victorian feel about rescuing these women.  And I mean this in no disrespectful way, knowing the challenges of responding to very real needs with very limited resources, but the challenges and injustices faced by women, and the very rudimentary structures set up to provide assistance and support felt very antiquated compared to the contemporary western world.  We have not made just all the injustices yet either, but the stories I heard both from the women and their helpers had me feeling that I had indeed stepped back in time.

This feeling of going back in time was confirmed in our second visit. Again, I heard interesting and painful stories, but at the same time I heard a voice of hope, a prophetic voice demanding justice, and I heard stories of success and change not only in individual lives, but at systemic and structural levels.

Our second visit was to a private home which hosts Samata Vedike, a weekly Progressive Women’s Forum established in 1978 and still going strong.  A group of women from diverse occupational and educational backgrounds, of different ages and social status, they have been meeting for over thirty years to address women’s issues locally; they provide advocacy, support, and counsel for individuals who come to them with stories of injustice, and they work at (or against!) all levels of government and authority to achieve justice.  Theologian Walter Wink is known for his works on justice theology that demand change in the “powers that be”, and this women’s forum, of engaging, loving, wise and wonderful women has been working to give support to individual women even as they take on “the powers that be”.  As they state in their mandate: “Samata members will strive to identify the social root of oppressive and exploitative relationships and fight against it”  And what they are dealing with, and their determination and wonderful community, made me think of women’s movements in the western world of a hundred years ago.

India has entered the twenty-first century in some areas, but in the areas of gender rights and justice, it struggles to catch up to the western world.  But there are pockets of determined resistance to a patriarchal past, and there are kind and loving people who work at shelters and who run forums and who demand change, in small and large ways.  It was Mother Theresa who famously said, “we cannot all do great things, but we can do small things with great love.”  And I have met and listened to women who are striving to do great things, and who may or may not succeed; but along the way, they are doing small but significant things with great passion, great prophetic voice, sometimes with great anger, with great determination, and most of all with great love.

Entry 17 - A sore sight for eyes

Entry 17 – A sore sight for eyes

It is easy to become overwhelmed by sights, smells and sounds when one first arrives in India, but now after six weeks I find I am becoming a little more adapted to some of this sensory assault.  In part this is good, but there is also a down side.  One sight that I have, unfortunately, become all too used to seeing – to the point of not really seeing it any longer – is the amount of garbage that lies in ditches, on roadsides, across vacant lots, down alleys, over sidewalks, in supposedly green spaces – in other words, everywhere.  When I realized today that I was not really seeing this garbage any more, it was troubling, as I realized that this is perhaps how most Indians see – or don’t see – either the garbage or the problem it represents.

It was Gandhi who said “God forbid that India should ever take to industrialism after the manner of the west... If we took to similar economic exploitation, it would strip the world bare like locusts.”  But perhaps it is less the stripping of the world in the name of economic advance that I have seen in India, than the covering over of the earth in the signs of supposed progress.  What I see is nothing less than the covering or hiding of the very ground under a layer of garbage, much of it plastic.  There are old and broken shoes -- everywhere I go there are shoes abandoned, singly and in pairs; I see plastic wrap and sheeting and bags of various kinds, and shreds of plastic wrap that has caught on corners and walls and bushes and poles and been pulled apart by the wind and animals looking for food; there are inner tubes and bits of tires; odd bits of broken metal; vinyl in scraps and sheets in all colours, but most of it bleached out to white by the sun; I see  the remains of food and food containers, and bottles both plastic and glass; mounds and mounds of coconut husks.  And mostly, I am not even sure what much of the garbage is, or was, but it is there and it is a blight.

Just the other day I was walking past a hospital nearby to the hostel, and saw someone in a hospital uniform carry a garbage bag across the road and toss onto the edge of the empty field.  I don’t know what was in the bag, or whether where she put it was a garbage pick up point, or whether she was just adding it to the debris, bagged and loose, that had accumulated in the field, some of it in particular piles and much of it just strewn by human activity and wind.

The cows and dogs search the garbage for something to eat.  I have seen people go through the garbage, perhaps in hope of finding something useful or sellable or recyclable.  Occasionally the garbage is pulled together in small piles and burned, which I am told is illegal, but it is done.  I don’t know who does it, or what prompts them to do it, or when it happens, but it is done, and I can often smell the burning, which is unpleasant.  I will not miss the smell of burning garbage one bit when I return to Canada.  I never see garbage burning, but I smell it, and I often see piles of fresh ash with unburned plastic items left behind, and always a shoe or two.

I have not asked anyone about garbage collection in the city, or elsewhere.  This problem is not just Mysore, but in the villages and towns and countryside through which we have travelled.  I have not spoken to anyone about how, or if, government officials at any level are addressing the problem.  Or whether it is even seen as a problem.  Or, again, as I began this reflection, whether it is even seen.

I think, however, that this is a symptom of so many other problems, and a symbol of them. And perhaps addressing this problem could also be a symbol of addressing so many others.

In a basic Christian worldview, and its Judaic predecessor, there is a belief that God gave humans dominion over creation; this is often misunderstood as license to use the environment in any way humans want, instead of being understood as having responsibility. But I have come to see that the previously Christian west does not have a monopoly on ignoring what we are doing to the environment, ecologically and aesthetically.  And what that represents about the way we live.  India is stepping up to western standards in many ways, but this is not necessarily good in respect to the disregard for the environment and the cost of economic progress. In 1974, William O. Douglas (the longest serving Supreme Court Justice through the middle decades of the twentieth century) wrote “I realized that Eastern thought had somewhat more compassion for all living things. . . In the East the wilderness has no evil connotation; it is thought of as an expression of the unity and harmony of the universe.”  But that sense of harmony with the universe seems to have disappeared, buried beneath a layer of garbage.

Addressing this challenge would take so much effort.  There is the challenge of cleaning up the existing garbage, from acres of fields and lots and miles and miles of streets and roadways.   And, of course the challenge of preventing it from returning.

There is the challenge of finding a place to take that garbage once it has been cleaned up, and what to do with it.  Should it get tipped into old mine shafts, poured into open pits, used as landfill, burned, burned to generate power?  There is the associated challenge of developing an infrastructure system to move the garbage, and to move it regularly.  There need to be places that garbage can be put, instead of being tossed into streets and lots, as well as a system to retrieve it, and, one hopes, to sort it into recyclable materials and sheer garbage.

Of course, there must be education to address garbage so that in the long run people change their habits; in doing, it can be hoped that loose garbage will disappear as a problem.  Probably this will can accomplished through part of a curriculum in school education, but that means a generation or more for things to really start to change.

And then, there is the need for the change to a culture that doesn’t produce so much garbage to begin with.  Do we need plastic carrier bags for every purchase.  Does everything have to be wrapped the way it is?  Why do items of clothing need to be wrapped in plastic, for instance?  Why do we need to buy and own so many things?

in Canada, we are fortunate to have developed systems for getting rid of garbage – but we still have not addressed problem of the amount we produce every day.  I think of conspicuous consumers who generate garbage as a by-product of living materially over-rich lives. I think of the number of paper cups used each day at coffee shops, and compare that with the metal cups at coffee stands in India; and these cups are, in many places, shared without washing, but that is another issue, despite the practice of Indians drinking without putting their lips to a cup, or pitcher, or bottle, and without spilling!  And I think of the amount of plastic I have with me, even here in India and especially at home, and I begin to think about how that will be disposed of.

Where to begin?  And in the face of so many social, environmental, development problems, is this issue of garbage in public places even a pressing one?  But perhaps it is a representative challenge to address, to realize that the earth must be cared for, in ways large and small.

Several decades ago, Albert Einstein noted that “We shall require a substantially new manner of thinking if mankind is to survive.”  And that thinking, of course, must be paired with action.  Both in the west and the east, in North America and India, the drive to consume needs to be pared back, and the results of unbridled consumption need to be dealt with, and someone, please, needs to take the garbage out rather than allowing it lie under our feet everywhere we go.

In a statement attributed apocryphally to Chief Seattle of the Squamish tribes of the western American coast, we hear:“You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet is the ashes of your grandfathers. So that they will respect the land, tell your children that the earth is rich with the lives of our kin. Teach your children what we have taught our children, that the earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth. If men spit upon the ground, they spit upon themselves.”  It is time to stop spitting on the earth, to clean up our act, in India and everywhere, and it is time to clean up our mess and devise systems that prevent us from befouling our lands again.

And this is just a beginning of what we need to do.

Entry 16 -- Fowl that May Fly

Indian Grey Hornbills outside the hostel balcony

Entry 16 – Fowl that may Fly
The Vivekananda Institute for Indian Studies is located on the edge of the industrial section of Mysore, in the outskirts of the area of Hebbal.  The hostel where we stay is just down the road from the Institute, and sits not only beside the industrial area, but on the edge of a small somewhat scrubby green strip that includes shrubs, grass and trees.  Less than fifty yards wide, it runs from the Ring Road, just a stone’s throw from the hostel, down to Hebbal Lake, a little less than a kilometre away.

I have been pleasantly surprised to see a little bit of natural India even in the midst of this urban and industrial environment.  There is little green space in Mysore compared to most Canadian cities, and much of it does not seem inviting.  However, where the hostel is located, even poor green space is better than none.  During the day, industrial noises are heard in the background – trucks, machinery, and what is that siren that goes off at random times during the day anyway?  It is a little worrying, knowing that just down the road is a large chemical plant.  Just a few kilometres outside Mysore, at Ratnahalli, a “Rare Materials Plant” is engaged in the work of uranium enrichment for use in fuel rods in nuclear reactors; in this industrial process, the nuclear fuel produces radioactive wastes at every stage.

Certainly there is an industrial feel to this area, but for now, let me concentrate on this barely green strip that stretches not even a kilometre, past a few buildings and a small, new hospital, before abutting against a coconut grove beside Hebbal Lake.  The lake itself is smaller than two football fields, and shallow, and uninviting, surrounded by ground that has been churned up and left as dirt with no vegetation save a few weeds, and covered in garbage.

From the balcony on the second floor of the hostel, just outside my room, I can look over the concrete wall and into the green space; here I see a little bit of both natural and traditional India on display.  Shepherds and goatherds bring their flocks through this area as they move in search of grazing land; the women wear saris and the men wear dhotis, the traditional men’s garment that is wrapped around the waist and tied.  Some of the men will wear a length of cloth wrapped around their head, but open at the top.  The sense of being in the twenty-first century is given in the plastic flip-flops that they wear on their feet, and sometimes the umbrellas they carry for shelter from sun or rain, and the plastic bottles of water they carry with them.  A plain stick or sometimes shepherd’s crook keep the animals moving the right direction with gentle touch.

a cattle egret, without the cattle

I see water buffalo, with their large grey heads, curved horns and soft-looking hide, coming through with their herders.  I see cattle as well, occasionally some Brahmin cattle with their long horns that point straight up and their humped backs; I also see cattle similar to those I am used in Canada.  When the buffalo or cattle come through, it is not uncommon to see cattle egrets moving along with them, occasionally hitching a ride on the back of a cow or buffalo.  The cattle egrets are heron-like, but smaller; elegant  birds, they eat the insects that are stirred up by the hooves of the moving cattle, and can often be seen walking directly underneath or just beside a cow.  It looks as though they are in imminent danger of being stepped on or kicked, but birds and beasts walk closely together, seemingly oblivious to the presence of the other.

There is an abundance of avian life in this short stretch of greenery, and I have enjoyed seeing the variety and determining what kinds of birds I see and hear.  The King James Version of the Bible accounts for the fifth day of creation in Genesis in these words: “And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life, and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven.”  Not a lot of open firmament in an industrial area, but there the fowl fly, and roost, and walk, in abundance.  Thanks to Ellen, one of our Mount Allison students whose parents insisted she bring the Field Guide to the Birds of India with her on the trip, I have been able to identify all the birds I have spotted; I am sure I have got more use from this book than Ellen has herself.

the Red-Naped Ibis, a noisy bird from dawn to dusk

The first bird I encountered was the Red-Naped Ibis. A rather goofy-looking bird, it has large feet, a stocky body with a narrow almost wooly-looking neck and a naked head.  Dark in colour, when the light reflects off the body it has a dark green and purple gloss; the back of its head and neck are brilliant red.  Its long beak curves slightly downward.  A noisy bird, especially when in a group, the ibis chorus begins shortly after six o’clock each morning and continues for about twelve hours.  Their noise is a sort of hoot; the only way I can describe it is a cross between a crow and a loon, if you can imagine it.

Glossy ibis appear too.  Black all over, they come in small flocks to pick over the remains of meals, especially fruit rinds, that have been tipped into the shallow pit behind the hostel kitchen.  Occasionally a heron from nearby Hebbal Lake will pause in my view from the balcony, and sometimes an egret will rest here too.

A Tawney Eagle at rest

I often see eagles in the sky over Mysore, and have seen them from the balcony, soaring high and then coming in low, teasing me to try to get a picture before they suddenly rise up on a thermal current, out of range again.  I have identified two different kinds of eagles  – although I am sure there are other that I cannot identify – namely the Tawney Eagle and Bonelli’s Eagle.  As many as seven or eight might appear in the sky at one time.  One morning, I was summoned to the balcony by a student hanging clothes out to dry; a Tawney Eagle was sitting in the tree about thirty yards away, where it lingered for the better part of an hour.

If I am in the hostel just after six o’clock in the evening, which is shortly before sunset, I will go to the balcony to watch the evening show.  First I hear a chattering in the distance, and then, as the chattering gets louder, flocks of Rose-Ringed Parakeets come flying in just above the treetops, sweeping past me to their nightly resting place.   They come in waves for about fifteen minutes, sometimes only two or three at a time, sometimes ten or a dozen, and sometimes too many too count.  They move far too quickly for me to get a picture, even with the advance warning of their sounds.  They come in a flash of brilliant lime green, long tails stretched out behind them, then they are gone.  I wonder where they go each morning (and why I don’t hear or see them then), and I wonder where they return to each night, but I delight in this colourful fly-past that takes place at the same time every day.

the Common Mynah (male)

Kingfisher

I have identified three kinds of egret, the Indian Grey Hornbill, a Red-Whiskered Bulbul; I have seen Coots, and Fantails, Lapwings and Munias, Koels and Crows.  And there are more.  The regular sighting is the Common Mynah, a robin-sized bird with brilliant white shoulder patches that become larger markings that flash brightly when it flies.  The male has a conspicuous yellow eye patch.  The bird guide describes the Mynah’s song as “noisy, disjointed and tuneless” – I would agree with that description, but it might also be applied to my own attempts at singing.  On a few occasions I have seen the White-Throated Kingfisher, notable not for its white throat but its magnificent turquoise-blue back and wings, which become much more evident in flight.

A short walk down the road takes me to Hebbal Lake; while the scenery is not particularly appealing, the bird life is abundant and active.  Ibis and egrets abound, and there are cormorants, pelicans, and some waterfowl I have not been able to identify.  Along the way I often see bee-eaters.  The Green Bee-Eater is a small bird, about the size of a finch, with fine features like a hummingbird.  Depending on the light, the feathers are a stunning brilliant green, or might appear lighter, almost rosy.  It has a slim beak that it uses to pluck insects from the air as it flies. And there are always eagles overhead at the lake.

A Green Bee-Eater with its supper in its beak

Looking out from the balcony and over the wall, I have seen – only once – a mongoose, as it broke cover from under some bushes and dashed across open ground to take shelter again in more shrubs and bushes.  One day, alerted by the commotion of a pair of mynahs who sounded distressed, I dashed to the window in time to see these two birds diving and flying up, only to dive again.  They were driving a snake away from what may have been a nesting area; the snake was an Indian Saw-Scaled Viper, more than five feet long and as big around as my wrist (and, yes, one of the big four venomous snakes of India).  I will be quite happy not to see another.

We have contemplated making a visit to the Mysore Zoo on our last weekend in the city, which is one of the first zoos in the world dating back well over one hundred years.  But if we don’t get there, to see the leopard, tiger, and sloth bear that are native to Karnataka, I will not be disappointed, knowing I have seen some of the beauty of natural India even in the midst of industrial Mysore.

Tawney Eagle in flight

Entry 15 -- The Fool on the Hill

Statue of Gommateshrava, tenth century, carved from a single block of granite, 57 feet high

I remember English class in High School, in the early 1970s; we read the lyrics to the Beatles’ song “The Fool on the Hill”, an ode to the leader of the Transcendental Meditation movement, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.  The idea of the song was that wisdom is found in one whom the world might disregard, or think foolish.  One might think of Jesus of Nazareth, in the seemingly foolish but oh so wise words of the Sermon on the Mount.  The hill or mount, in many traditions, seems to be the place of the sage, the master, the wise one, the one who sees further and differently than any other.

A couple of weeks ago we went to see a fool on a hill – an ascetic who surrendered his kingdom to meditate on the world and to become one with creation.  Well, not actually the ascetic – who lived, according to legend, hundreds of thousands if not millions of years ago, before civilization even began – but a statue carved in his honour.  And it was certainly on a hill, up 688 dizzying steps carved out of solid granite in the side of a very steep hill.  And  by some tokens he might be regarded as a fool, but as with many fools on many hills, there is a wisdom in his story that continues to be passed on to those who will pay attention.

the feet of the statue, with offerings from pilgrims

I have found it interesting over these past several weeks to learn about Indian art and architecture, particularly in contrast to the things I have learned and know about western art.  Like western art over the course of several centuries, classical Indian art and architecture has a decidedly religious nature.  Just as the Christian church provided both inspiration and patronage to artistic endeavour in Europe’s medieval period, Indian art from a similar time frame is an expression of a deeply religious experience and outlook, and the images depicted are those of the stories, experiences and expressions of a people of faith; as one author notes, they are “sermons in stone of the oneness of all things in the Universal Spirit.”

But these commonalities noted, while European Gothic art, sculpture and architecture tended towards the vertical, Indian art has remained rooted in the things of earth.  Think of western depictions of religion – church spires and high arches that point upwards, long windows of stained glass, and depictions of Christ, the apostles, and the saints (in paint and stone) that are disproportionately elongated, made to appear even taller by the accentuation of height in long, draping garments that reach the ankles.  And in contrast to that vertical dimension, the tendencies in Indian art in the past, have been focussed on a more horizontal dimension of life.  Classical Indian art and architecture is markedly different from that found in Europe, in both form and style.  Temple entrance towers (gopura), while sometimes quite tall, give the illusion less of height than of substance: they tend to be stocky, squared-off blocks of decreasing size with each level, solidly built and giving expression to a faith that is also rooted on earth.  The inspiration they evoke does not come from their height, but their connection to the earth and the figures that adorn them, depicting flowers, trees, people.  The figures carved are full of life, seeming filled with joy and pleasure (including in some Hoysala era temples, figures engaged in the joy of sexual union), and with their feet firmly planted on the ground.  Even the saints and ascetics appear well-fed, cheerful, at peace with the world, unlike the depictions of agony, suffering, anguish and horrific rapture on the faces of European saints.

With this background in mind, venture with me to the village of Shravanabelagola, site of a magnificent statue to the legendary Jain ascetic of millennia ago, the fool on the hill.  Carved out of a solid single piece of granite, the statue of the ascetic Gommateshrava stands almost sixty feet high, and is located at the top of a huge solid granite hill into which over six hundred stone steps have been carved.  The ascent is steep, and with the sun reflecting off the solid black granite, baked to a slightly less than burning temperature on our bare feet; our shoes were left at the entrance, at the foot of the hill, as the whole hill serves as holy space, and there are temples at the top.  With sun and heat, and steep ascent, the climb became almost an act of religious devotion rather than just a journey into India’s artistic history (although for about 400 Rupees, one could hire a sedan chair, a wicker chair attached to two poles which are hoisted on to the shoulders of four able-bodied and, one hopes, sure-footed men who will carry you up, and also down, but only in the early morning and late afternoon).  The climb also became a reminder of the Jain sense of being both otherworldly, but also deeply connected to the ground, religion being rooted in the horizontal sphere of the earth even if that horizontal sphere has some steep ascents.

 

On a hill, where in lore and legend an ascetic might dwell, despite abandoning earthly pleasures, the ascetic is still the creature of earth.  The Jain saint, known as Gommateshwara, is remembered as a holy man in this huge statue in order that his followers might be more mindful of their days on earth.  Carved in the tenth century, Gommateshwara stands directly upright in the posture of meditation, his feet firmly on the ground and his hands at his sides but not touching his body.  He is naked, as is the Jain tradition, showing one who has renounced the world and its objects.  He is relaxed, at ease, peaceful.  Looking up, one can see a faint smile – contentment, perhaps – play across his lips.  His body and muscles, though carved of stone, are relaxed, at peace.  The soul is free from worry and concern, and the body displays this.

It is said that this master ascetic stood so long in meditation that vines grew up around his motionless legs – and so the vines appear in the sculpture.  And while these vines highlight his great spiritual demeanour and holy aspirations, they also hold him firmly to the ground; we realize again that, even in spiritual renunciation, he is a man of earth, and the earth claims him still.  This is not just ethereal spirituality, but a deep conviction and commitment to the creation, this earth, which all religion needs.  As many people have told me, Hinduism is not a religion, it is a way of life; one might summarize Jainism by paraphrasing this sentiment: Jainism is not just a religion, but a connection to life.  It is a valuing of life even through its renunciation.  Perhaps the western religions, particularly Protestant Christianity with its intellectual focus on right doctrine and theology, could learn from staring at the Gommateshwara, and be reminded that we are entwined with creation, and need to remember to be one with creation in life.

The Gommateshwara is a work of art – commissioned by the military commander of the area in the tenth century, it dominates the countryside and can be seen from over twenty kilometres away.  One suspects it also served the purpose of reminding people coming across the plain of the dominance of this regime, as religion and military purposes come together in one sculpture.  Not just a work of art, it is also a work of devotion, a celebration of faith, a declaration of holiness, a witness to a model to emulate; not just an expression of the quest for the divine or the illumination of the word as in western art, it is a declaration of delight in one who has achieved true enlightenment, salvation or siddha. 

The statue has been proposed as a World Heritage Site by the Indian government, and in a display of strength in numbers, in a popular vote of the seven wonders of India, Indian voted this statue in first place, ahead of the Golden Temple and the Taj Mahal.  As we made our way back down the black granite steps, now made even hotter by the noon day sun, we return to earth, to the poverty and the beggars and filth of the village.  Seeing a very young woman with a small child on her hip, stretching out her hand in supplication for money, I remembered reading in the Mysore paper earlier in the week of the rates of infant mortality in rural Karnataka; still one in five children will die before the age of five, from preventable illness like diarrhea because of lack of access to fresh water or  rehydration salts.  I was reminded again that in the gospel story, when the disciples ascend the mountain and see Jesus transfigured before them, they also had to return to the valley below to engage in the work of ministry among the people in need. 

The fools, or sages, on the hills are models, reminders, inspirations, to seek the holy way, but also to be rooted in the created world and to care for the earth and its people.  The presence of God can evoked in the impressive church spires of medieval Europe, or the impressive Jain statuary of the tenth century, but God can also be seen, as Mother Theresa  said, in “such distressing disguise” in the faces of the poor, disenfranchised, children, elderly, sick and disadvantaged.  Whether defined as a religion or a way of life, faith should direct us not only to the vertical dimension, for inspiration, but also to the horizontal level, where life is shared with others.

Entry 14 -- On Holy Ground

St Philomena's Cathedral, Mysore

Philip Jenkins, professor of humanities with an expertise in global Christianity, writes in his work The Next Christendom: The Coming of Global Christianity, that by the year 2040, only one fifth of Christendom will be white and non-Hispanic.  In other words, the dominance of Christianity by European and North American churches is being turned over, and in sheer numbers alone, Asian, African and South American will form eighty per cent of the Christian world.  There are huge implications for this in terms of emerging theologies, practices, and the continually evolving state of the Christian faith.

Certainly there are signs in Mysore that Christianity is alive and well.  Christians form only a little over two per cent of the Indian population, but in real numbers that translates to more Christians in India than in Canada, at around thirty million.

There is a long tradition of Christianity in India. Legend has it that Thomas, one of the original disciples of Jesus – known for his doubting of the news of the resurrection until he also bore witness himself – was the first missionary to India, in the first century.  He is known as India’s patron saint, the Apostle of India.  This is the stuff of which legends are born, as there is no definitive find proof of the church’s existence in India back as far as the first century; however, there is certainly a long standing tradition of Christianity in south India, more so than in the north.  Roman Catholic missions undertaken by French and Portuguese missionaries date back to the sixteenth century, and in southern India there is a predominance of Catholicism over Protestant forms of Christianity right through India’s modern history and into the contemporary world.

Protestantism dominates in northern India, particularly in the north east, whereas in the south the Roman Catholic church is the dominant denomination.  Protestant denominations, typically divided on matters of faith, practice and polity, have merged in the south to form the Church of South India; the Church of South India (CSI) is the Indian Episcopal Church (Anglican) in union with churches of various other Protestant traditions, including Methodist, Congregational, Presbyterian, and Reformed, beginning in the year 1947.  Its system of governance includes a synod as well as presbyerial elements; it has a congregational component as well, notably in the election by synod every two years of the moderator, who is the presiding bishop. The Church of South India is the largest Protestant denomination in the country, and there are several churches of this group in the city of Mysore.

rose window and spires, of St Philomena's

At the heart of Mysore, St Philomena’s Cathedral bears witness to the significant place of Christianity and particularly Roman Catholicism in southern India.  The Catholics have been active in this region as far back as the seventeenth century, and through Muslim and Hindu rulers it has maintained a constant presence showing no signs of disappearing any time soon.  In fact, St Philomena’s (and indeed Indian Christianity generally) is described by one priest as being a “youthful faith”, that is, having a continual appeal to young adults and young families. And I could see this was the case in the service I attended: at a special mid-week service at the end of the afternoon, the church was full to celebrate the feast day of St Thomas: there were older women in saris, which were modestly pulled up over their heads; their were business men in their dark trousers and crisp white shirts (some carrying their motorcycle helmets); there were young families with children and young adults, alone or in pairs or small groups.  There was a vibrancy of a healthy, multi-generational community at worship.

I spent a little time talking with church leaders from both Catholic and Protestant churches in Mysore, and if their passion and commitment to their ministry is any indication, the Christian faith is alive and well.  They spoke of converts to the faith, principally from among those who are Hindu, as well as a long tradition of families raised in Christianity.  They spoke, encouragingly to me, of good relations with the Muslims of the city – indeed, St Philomena’s sits next to a predominantly Muslim neighbourhood of Mysore, and is just a short distance away from an older and established mosque.

St Philomena’s Cathedral, from the outside, looks like a traditional European cathedral.  Built in the 1920s in the classic neo-gothic style (think Canada’s Parliament buildings), it reflects the splendour of some older European cathedrals with its twin spires soaring almost two hundred feet high.  Inside, however, Indian elements merge interestingly with traditional Catholic forms – statues of Mary are found throughout, but all are wearing saris and are decorated with garlands of marigolds and jasmine flowers.  Photography is not permitted inside the church, so I cannot provide pictures, but imagine rich and appropriately colourful saris (in blue and purple), carefully wrapped around Mary, the pallu (or long loose end of the sari) pulled up to form a veil or hood for the Virgin Mother.  Candles compete with incense to fill the air with holy scent.  Many worshippers and visitors leave their footwear at the door and walk barefoot in the sanctuary; one thinks immediately of Moses standing before the burning bush, and in encountering God realizes that where he stands is holy ground.  At St Bartholomew's Church (the Protestant Church of South India), a sign directs people to leave their footwear at their pews before proceeding to the altar for communion - there is an injunction to be prepared to come to the holy place, and have a holy encounter.

Philip Jenkins, professor of humanities with an expertise in global Christianity, writes in his work The Next Christendom: The Coming of Global Christianity, that by the year 2040, only one fifth of Christendom will be white and non-Hispanic.  In other words, the dominance of Christianity by European and North American churches is being turned over, and in sheer numbers alone, Asian, African and South American will form eighty per cent of the Christian world.  There are huge implications for this in terms of emerging theologies, practices, and the continually evolving state of the Christian faith.

Certainly there are signs in Mysore that Christianity is alive and well.  Christians form only a little over two per cent of the Indian population, but in real numbers that translates to more Christians in India than in Canada, at around thirty million.

There is a long tradition of Christianity in India. Legend has it that Thomas, one of the original disciples of Jesus – known for his doubting of the news of the resurrection until he also bore witness himself – was the first missionary to India, in the first century.  He is known as India’s patron saint, the Apostle of India.  This is the stuff of which legends are born, as there is no definitive find proof of the church’s existence in India back as far as the first century; however, there is certainly a long standing tradition of Christianity in south India, more so than in the north.  Roman Catholic missions undertaken by French and Portuguese missionaries date back to the sixteenth century, and in southern India there is a predominance of Catholicism over Protestant forms of Christianity right through India’s modern history and into the contemporary world.

Protestantism dominates in northern India, particularly in the north east, whereas in the south the Roman Catholic church is the dominant denomination.  Protestant denominations, typically divided on matters of faith, practice and polity, have merged in the south to form the Church of South India; the Church of South India (CSI) is the result of the union of churches of varying traditions, including Anglican, Methodist, Congregational, Presbyterian, and Reformed, in the 1947.  Its system of governance includes a synod as well as presbyerial elements; it has a congregational component as well, notably in the election by synod every two years of the moderator, who is the presiding bishop. The Church of South India is the largest Protestant denomination in the country, and there are several churches of this group in the city of Mysore.

 At the heart of Mysore, St Philomena’s Cathedral bears witness to the significant place of Christianity and particularly Roman Catholicism in southern India.  The Catholics have been active in this region as far back as the seventeenth century, and through Muslim and Hindu rulers it has maintained a constant presence showing no signs of disappearing any time soon.  In fact, St Philomena’s (and indeed Indian Christianity generally) is described by one priest as being a “youthful faith”, that is, having a continual appeal to young adults and young families. And I could see this was the case in the service I attended: at a special mid-week service at the end of the afternoon, the church was full to celebrate the feast day of St Thomas: there were older women in saris, which were modestly pulled up over their heads; their were business men in their dark trousers and crisp white shirts (some carrying their motorcycle helmets); there were young families with children and young adults, alone or in pairs or small groups.  There was a vibrancy of a healthy, multi-generational community at worship.

I spent a little some time talking with church leaders from both Catholic and Protestant churches in Mysore, and if their passion and commitment to their ministry is any indication, the Christian faith is alive and well.  They spoke of converts to the faith, principally from among those who are Hindu, as well as a long tradition of families raised in Christianity.  They spoke, encouragingly to me, of good relations with the Muslims of the city – indeed, St Philomena’s sits next to a predominantly Muslim neighbourhood of Mysore, and is just a short distance away from an older and established mosque.

St Philomena’s Cathedral, from the outside, looks like a traditional European cathedral.  Built in the 1920s in the classic neo-gothic style (think Canada’s Parliament buildings), it reflects the splendour of some older European cathedrals with its twin spires soaring almost two hundred feet high.  Inside, however, Indian elements merge interestingly with traditional Catholic forms – statues of Mary are found throughout, but all are wearing saris and are decorated with garlands of marigolds and jasmine flowers.  Photography is not permitted inside the church, so I cannot provide pictures, but imagine rich and appropriately colourful saris (in blue and purple), carefully wrapped around Mary, the pallu (or long loose end of the sari) pulled up to form a veil or hood for the Virgin Mother.  Candles compete with incense to fill the air with holy scent.  Many worshippers and visitors leave their footwear at the door and walk barefoot in the sanctuary; one thinks immediately of Moses standing before the burning bush, and in encountering God realizes that where he stands is holy ground.  At St Bartholomew's Church (the Protestant Church of South India), a sign directs people to leave their footwear at their pews before proceeding to the altar for communion - there is an injunction to be prepared to come to the holy place, and have a holy encounter.

In St Philomena's, each of the several times I have visited, there were also devotees coming to offer prayer, and they would reach out and touch the statues of Mary, Jesus and other saints, and might add another floral garland, and even prostrate themselves on the stone floor before a statue or altar area as one might see in a Hindu temple.  This is even more the case in the crypt below the altar, where a relic from St Philomena (the third century saint: according to legend, having devoted her life to Christ she refused to marry the Emperor Diocletian, and so was unsuccesfully scourged, drowned and shot with arrows before finally being decapitated) sits enshrined beneath a casket containing a likeness of Philomena; this, too, is covered in floral adornment.

In the worship I attended at St Philomena’s, there was a decidedly Indian element present in the traditional Catholic celebration of mass.  The music, instead of a traditional organ, was pre-recorded and had a definite Bollywood musical feel to it.  The devotion shown in worship, in singing and prayer, was certainly more affective or emotive than in a North American service, with a gentle sense of pentecostalism: the people were feeling and experiencing the presence of the holy in the words they recited and sang.  Although the whole service was conducted in Kannada, the language of Karnataka, I could readily identify some elements: Lord’s Prayer, Apostle’s Creed, Ascriptions of Glory and, of course, the Gospel lesson (from John 20, the story of doubting Thomas wanting to see the risen Christ for himself). At the sharing of the peace, instead of the western hugs and handshakes, people simply turned in the pews and, with hands together at the chest, offered a simple bow and greeting: “Namaste”, peace.  Although I was the only non-Indian in the service, the sense of Christian community that I have found everywhere I have travelled was no less absent here, and I was welcomed in.  It is wonderful to feel that bond of faith with people in new and different places, and to know that to share faith in Christ means a connection with community across culture, language and race.

The Church in India, in Catholic and Protestant forms, has been particularly influential in establishing schools and colleges, and continues in its mission of education and healthcare, particularly to the poor and disadvantaged.  The gospel, in deed as well as word, is alive and active.

St Bartholemew's Church (CSI), Mysore

Harvard theologian Harvey Cox, in his recent work The Age of Faith, argues that the next phase of western Christendom will be a moving away from rigid doctrinalism and formulaic theology, and instead will be a time when people will learn again to be open to an experience of a holy encounter with God, which will transform and stir them to living the mandate of the Kingdom.  Certainly my conversations with Indians raised in families where Christianity has been passed from generation to generation, and my limited, but wonderful, experience of an Indian congregation of worship is that this is happening in the eastern church.  Indian culture has met Catholic liturgy, and both have been transformed into a vibrant encounter with the holy and loving God.  And from that comes a renewed mission to feed the hungry, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked care for the sick and visit the imprisoned (Matthew 25).  It is a lesson to us in the west, as the practice of Christianity shrinks to a minority status in society, to hold on to the passion and commitment, and most of all the faith that celebrates, welcomes and loves, in word and deed.

In St Philomena's, each of the several times I have visited, there were also devotees coming to offer prayer, and they would reach out and touch the statues of Mary, Jesus and other saints, and might add another floral garland, and even prostrate themselves on the stone floor before a statue or altar area as one might see in a Hindu temple.  This is even more the case in the crypt below the altar, where a relic from St Philomena (the third century saint: according to legend, having devoted her life to Christ she refused to marry the Emperor Diocletian, and so was unsuccesfully scourged, drowned and shot with arrows before finally being decapitated) sits enshrined beneath a casket containing a likeness of Philomena; this, too, is covered in floral adornment.

In the worship I attended at St Philomena’s, there was a decidedly Indian element present in the traditional Catholic celebration of mass.  The music, instead of a traditional organ, was pre-recorded and had a definite Bollywood musical feel to it.  The devotion shown in worship, in singing and prayer, was certainly more affective or emotive than in a North American service, with a gentle sense of pentecostalism: the people were feeling and experiencing the presence of the holy in the words they recited and sang.  Although the whole service was conducted in Kannada, the language of Karnataka, I could readily identify some elements: Lord’s Prayer, Apostle’s Creed, Ascriptions of Glory and, of course, the Gospel lesson (from John 20, the story of doubting Thomas wanting to see the risen Christ for himself). At the sharing of the peace, instead of the western hugs and handshakes, people simply turned in the pews and, with hands together at the chest, offered a simple bow and greeting: “Namaste”, peace.  Although I was the only non-Indian in the service, the sense of Christian community that I have found everywhere I have travelled was no less absent here, and I was welcomed in.  It is wonderful to feel that bond of faith with people in new and different places, and to know that to share faith in Christ means a connection with community across

Wesley Cathedral (CSI), Mysore

 culture, language and race.

The Church in India, in Catholic and Protestant forms, has been particularly influential in establishing schools and colleges, and continues in its mission of education and healthcare, particularly to the poor and disadvantaged.  The gospel, in deed as well as word, is alive and active.
       
Harvard theologian Harvey Cox, in his recent work The Age of Faith, argues that the next phase of western Christendom will be a moving away from rigid doctrinalism and formulaic theology, and instead will be a time when people will learn again to be open to an experience of a holy encounter with God, which will transform and stir them to living the mandate of the Kingdom.  Certainly my conversations with Indians raised in families where Christianity has been passed from generation to generation, and my limited, but wonderful, experience of an Indian congregation of worship is that this is happening in the eastern church.  Indian culture has met Catholic liturgy, and both have been transformed into a vibrant encounter with the holy and loving God.  And from that comes a renewed mission to feed the hungry, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked care for the sick and visit the imprisoned (Matthew 25).  It is a lesson to us in the west, as the practice of Christianity shrinks to a minority status in society, to hold on to the passion and commitment, and most of all the faith that celebrates, welcomes and loves, in word and deed.