WITH MY FIRSTHAND KNOWLEDGE OF MANY COUNTRIES, gained by living with the people and avoiding life in hotels, I kept on adding to the kind of lore necessary for helping others to enjoy the struggle to adjust. The only reason for writing about Holland rather than about any number of other countries is that I found in the files an article written at the time when the full flavor of the place was still strong.
When Gordon Boyce took over as Director and President in 1951, I left to establish an international office in Amsterdam. This city was chosen for a number of good reasons. At that time, the groups traveling in both directions were using Dutch ships, and Amsterdam provided the most convenient place to manage this operation. Moreover, although relatively new to The Experiment, the Dutch Directors, Dr. and Mrs. Fiedeldij Dop, were eager students of Experiment theory and practice.
The following account which I had written was found in the files:
The cut-rate KLM round trip between Amsterdam and London flies at night. Our plane had only a handful of passengers on the night of Monday, May 28, 1951, when she set us down at Schiphol Airport at two-thirty in the early morning. In addition to travelers checks, I had British, French, and German currency in my pocket, but no Dutch guilders. At a big airport, I felt sure that the change booth would be open all night. It wasn't. I was arriving without Dutch money and with no hotel reservation.
As I climbed out of the bus opposite a building called the American Hotel, which looks like a Belgian factory, I was carrying only a fat briefcase and so set off on foot looking for a hotel. The completely deserted streets were well lighted, but the hotels I tried were all locked, and no one responded to the night bell. I headed for Hotel Krasnavodsky, a big hotel on the Dam Square, just opposite the disappointing palace of the Queen of Holland. The night clerk was quite firm about having no bed, but directed me pleasantly down the dark and narrow old street to Hotel Fleissig. After some difficulty, I found a revolving door. Inside there was even less light than outside, and no night clerk. There was a light in the kitchen, but no one responded when I poked my head in. There is nothing modern about Hotel Fleissig except, as I found out later, their steaks smothered with onions, which go by the name of Wiener-Rostbraten.
I climbed the steep staircase calling quietly, "Is anyone here?" Quite unexpectedly out of the darkness, a man appeared and in good, if sleepy, English, demanded, "Why did you break into my hotel?"
"I just walked in," I replied. "I hope you have a room."
We climbed down the ladder-like stairs and, getting a key, started on an upward climb which ended under the typically steep-pitched roof of an old Amsterdam building. The twin beds in the shabby attic had as clean white sheets as you would find in the best hotel. It was nearly four o'clock when I pulled the heavy curtain over the windows, preparing to sleep till noon, which I did.
I was very well pleased at having selected Amsterdam for the location of the International Office of The Experiment. It is hard to imagine how I could have had more luck in getting the office settled. The Dutch National Union of Students had found themselves an office used by the Church and Hospital Ship De Hoop. They invited us to share it with them at a ridiculously low rent. By us, I mean my secretary, Hans Blees, and myself. Amsterdam families interested in The Experiment contributed furniture, and when the next noon I climbed to the third floor of 95 Damrak, Amsterdam's principal business street, I found Hans at work. A student of the University of Amsterdam, he was the first and last applicant for the job of secretary, since he had come with the highest recommendations from the Dutch Experiment's National Committee.
I reported to him that in London I had selected seven university students who would become a British group going to the United States, and which, added to the Dutch, Swedish, and French groups, would make a satisfactory second season of sending Europeans to the United States, a program of which I had dreamed for many years.
Being accustomed to the none-too-famous language achievements of the French, British, and American students, I was delighted to find that the Dutch University students spoke English as a matter of course. Later, I discovered that Hans spoke German and French almost as well as he did English. But my admiration for the effectiveness of Dutch education was soon increased by an ever-mounting respect for the Dutch people.
Hans had news for me which could not await even the reading of my accumulated mail. My wife and I were invited to become the guests of a university professor and his wife. No, they were not an Experiment family, Hans explained, and in reply to my amazed question as to how it had come about, he explained that the wife of the professor, whose name was ten Have. had seen a notice about The Experiment on a University bulletin board, and had immediately become interested in the idea of learning to know people of another country by living in their homes. She had called the Dutch committee to find out more about it, and Dr. Fiedeldij Dop had sent Hans to tell her the story. Hans, incidentally, dropped the word that my wife and I were looking for a family with whom to live in Amsterdam. She immediately took upon herself the job of finding one. We were soon to find out that inconspicuously satisfying the needs of others occupied many of the waking hours of this remarkable woman.
Soon Hans received a call from Mevrouw ten Have, who said that she had been unable to secure the apartment of friends who were leaving town. "Why not bring Mr. Watt around at twelve o'clock tomorrow to see whether he would consider accepting the hospitality of our humble home?"
My wife was in Germany, but at a quarter to twelve, Hans and I climbed on tram No. 25, and before twelve o'clock we had alighted at the bridge over one of Amsterdam's many canals. Amstelkade was in the new part of town and was unbelievably Dutch. A broad canal was flanked on both sides by a lawn containing rows of trees. Between the lawn and the houses on both sides were rather narrow brick streets; then, not-so-narrow brick sidewalks; and growing directly out of them, solid blocks of three-story brick buildings stretching uniformly as far as the eye could see. Except for the grass, the water, and the sky, everything was made of brick.
"Wouldn't it be delightful to live in a place like this!" I thought. The bright sunshine was reflected by the long sheet of water, but just as the cool air never becomes hot, so the light never becomes a glare. This is truly the miracle which is Holland! Most countries would consider land under the level of the sea unfit for use, but this is the land on which the Dutch have built their homes for the thousands of not rich, but seldom poor, citizens.
As we approached the ten Have's door, I spied some ducks coursing tranquilly on the canal and squatting among the reeds. These half-wild creatures gave a country touch to a crowded city where Dutch families have learned to live in their clean little apartments without elbowing their neighbors, and without disturbing the peace of the wild things which choose to live with them.
Speaking with Mevrouw ten Have was beset with two difficulties. She spoke haltingly, but in perfectly understandable English. Our conversation however was punctuated with continuous telephone calls during which she poured enthusiastic streams of rich, guttural tones into the mouthpiece, settling, it seemed, the troubles of many people. Mevrouw ten Have lectured on social problems in several schools. We gathered that these lectures, and the sincerity of her willingness to give her best to all, was what brought about a never-ending stream of telephone calls. Many of the conversations seemed to last for half an hour, especially when they came at meal time. Had we been able to understand what was being said, perhaps the conversations would not have seemed so long. These interruptions gave me an opportunity to have a look at the ten Have home without appearing to do so. The living room and the dining room beyond reflected the personality of the mistress. The furnishings were not overstuffed as in America, but they were comfortable, and everything bore the stamp of handmade good taste. The arts of Holland were all represented.
If anything was conspicuous, it was modern art exhibited in numerous paintings.
For my part, I had no difficulty in making Mevrouw ten Have understand that my wife and I would be honored to accept her unbelievable hospitality. How could she be sure that her husband would want two unknown Americans to descend upon the privacy of his home? Wasn't it unusual for a Dutch family to have an extra room? How could we compensate them? She in turn had no difficulty in letting me know what was on her mind. Would their house be comfortable enough for those accustomed to American luxuries? How would my wife, when she arrived in Amsterdam, like this idea? In declining to look at the bedroom which she had in mind for us, I tried to emphasize the fact that it was the ten Have family, and not the comforts of their house, which interested us. Furthermore, I was willing to guarantee that Mevrouw ten Have was the sort of person my wife would like. And so each of us, speaking for our spouses, easily disposed of the problems. It was understood that the Watts would come for a trial period three days later. The trial period was never mentioned again. In the small garden back of the house, there was a substantial brick building. The ten Haves moved into this, and when we arrived we found their bedroom filled with flowers waiting for us. We were soon to learn that the Dutch lived with flowers. There were almost as many flower shops as grocery stores, while the push-carts kept the prices low and everyone bought.
A pair of twin beds left enough room for a small table, two chairs, a wardrobe, and, amazingly enough, two wash bowls, complete with mirrors and, after our experience in other countries, the hardly-to-be-believed ample supply of hot water. A bath tub was just across the hall.
One wall of the room was entirely of glass, opening on the garden, to be covered when one wished by a heavy curtain. As we became better acquainted with Dutch architecture, it became clear that this love of light and large windows was nothing new, since seventeenth-century buildings had them to an extent I have seen in no other country.
We lived together only at meal times. We were four busy people. Professor ten Have kept his nose constantly on the intellectual grindstone, and actually begrudged the time that was necessary to eat his meals.
The Dutch take it for granted that no one has any interest whatsoever in learning their language. Therefore, all the hard work of understanding what was being said, and the even harder work of replying fell upon the ten Haves. This they did willingly, because they wished to learn "American," as Mevrouw ten Have insisted on calling our speech, although they were worried that it would destroy their English. The professor, having learned what he was sure was good, academic English from his Dutch professors, was not at all sure that he wished to have it corrupted by American. Mevrouw ten Have was quite certain that there was a vast difference between the American language and English English. Doubts about American speech, we had already learned, were to be found all over Europe, but we also noticed that those who complained that they could not understand American, could also not understand English.
The ten Haves' slips were a constant source of amusement, at which they did not seem to become annoyed. However, the situation was dynamite. We were continually correcting and laughing at their literal translations of Dutch expressions, like "Won't you come and sit on the table?" or some equally ludicrous pronunciation acquired from some Dutch professor who had found it in some Dutch dictionary.
Anyone who had not been as utterly good-natured as "Zus" ten Have (she had asked us to call her by her nickname, "sister") could easily have become fed up with our laughter. Gradually, she and her husband became less concerned about their English being corrupted. Then fell the blow. Zus told us in one of the most flatly positive statements she ever made, "You are not Americans."
The implication is perfectly clear. The American stereotype in all of Europe is a loud, uneducated, backslapping, free-spending lout. The honest conviction of Zus that we were not Americans makes the strength of the American stereotype obvious. In preparation for receiving us, she had been reading essays by a well-known Dutch sociologist, Dr. Hollander, who specializes in American culture. He declared that "Americans are dynamic and superficial." Here was a wise compromise on the part of Dr. Hollander. No European who had seen the American armies march in would have failed to grasp that Americans got things done. The word "dynamic" was intended as a compliment. But his findings, in order to fit the heretofore completely unpleasant reputation of an American, had to be balanced by a less complimentary thought, "Americans are superficial." This led to long and interesting discussions of whether it is fair to generalize.
One must not use generalizations, but cannot get along without them. Just like the old chestnut about women: it is impossible to get along with them but also impossible to get along without them. In order to resolve our discussion, it is necessary to get ahead of our story. The ten Haves, after making friends with us, then came to the United States where they stayed with numerous families whom they came to admire, and it is certain that they did not consider them unusually superficial. It seems that in the wordy world of the university professor, generalizations are indispensable but their value is most doubtful when one meets the subject of the inquiry face-to-face.
Next came that really exciting area of thought: Where do national stereotypes come from? Does the worship of French culture by the United States spring exclusively from that French culture which has been dead for two hundred years, or from a perfectly superb series of meals with the most delectable wine, that Papa described on his last return from Paris?
The interesting conclusion was that the ever-present national stereotype is not even remotely related to the truth; that many countries have a prestige which they do not deserve, while others carry an evil reputation which cannot be readily changed because a certain part of their population, perhaps a small fraction, honestly deserves it.
Zus, always eager to know the truth and do something about it, wanted to know what could be done about this lamentable situation.
Then we all decided that the reputation of a country was one of those terrifically complex problems about which not even the beginning of the solution had been made, except perhaps in situations like ours where people from different countries had a chance to live in homes and get to know one another. Talking face to face makes it possible to get somewhere near the truth.
Our discussions were always interrupted by the uniquely Dutch punctuation. Scarcely had we finished a more than adequate evening meal and adjourned to the living room for further talk when Dutch tradition, with an iron hand, demanded that we should drink a cupya tee. Therefore Zus, who had been trotting from table to kitchen throughout the meal, with a respite of perhaps five minutes, had to start trotting again. It would have been discourteous for an American to insist that he felt no need for tea---which I certainly didn't.
The ten Haves, like most of their countrymen, had been accustomed all of their lives to a routine of coffee or tea six or seven times a day. Evidently Professor ten Have would have really missed what seemed to us a superfluous ritual.
Sometimes we were brazen enough to attempt to interject some American customs, in spite of the fact that this practice is utterly contrary to the theory of International Living, which holds that one goes abroad to learn and not to teach. It was only after we had known the ten Haves for some time that we dared to suggest sharing the homey activity of washing the dishes. While it has been many a year since the majority of educated Europeans have had servants to do their menial work, a prohibition still prevents the men from putting a finger into the dishpan. No intellectual male may stoop to do any necessary and useful labor, for in doing so, he would belittle the status of a brainworker (generalization!). But someone must wash the dishes, and the women, regardless of how intellectual they might be, are the ones to do it. Beware, O American man, to presume on your friendship; if dry the dishes you must, remember it is at the cost of the prestige of the man of the house!
Zus was right; we really weren't Americans, because we didn't have a car. We weren't Dutch, either, because we didn't have bicycles. Holland is one of those small European countries of a high economic level where only a few people can afford an automobile, but where everyone rides a bike. Besides, Amsterdam has an excellent street car system. I rarely had to wait longer than three minutes. Starting from the central station, they fan out all over the city, carrying a postbox on their rear. My hosts, having no auto, used the streetcars and their bikes, so we quickly acquired the same habit. Americans without a car!
The miracle of Amsterdam is that although one would never suspect it, since one sees no evidence of it, the city is actually below the level of the sea. In the old city, one is conscious of row upon row of seventeenth-century buildings, each one of them an historic monument of classic beauty. They are well-preserved. Often the stepped gable ends, making a gigantic saw against the gray sky, speak their antiquity of hundreds of years during which these people of the sea, have taken a proud place among the leading European countries in art, commerce, and war, although only a fraction of the size of other countries.
The old city was built in a circle with concentric canals for communication; bisecting them was a broader canal. Now, filled in, it forms the main thoroughfare. On my daily ride from Amstelkade, in ten minutes I was in the center of the city, and got off at the big square where the royal palace stands. The square is still called the Dam although no water is to be seen, but waves of bikes flow in one direction or another as the traffic cop manipulates a signal on which one finds the international word "Stop!"
Herr Doktor Professor Tonko ten Have is the head of the Department of Educational Psychology of the University of Amsterdam, and is well aware that in the United States his subject is an important one, and also quite advanced. After realizing that all Americans were not what people in general---and especially Dr. Hollander---said they were, both of the ten Haves became interested in visiting the United States. The problem was to find the time and money. These were both found. In view of our great obligation to them, it was most pleasant that we were able to secure cheap transportation and to arrange with many good friends in the United States to take them in. The happy exchange of thought which started with Zus's ambition to know what international living was like ended with many international friendships which have gone on and on and on.
IN 1933, I TOOK TWO GROUPS TO GERMANY. THE OTHER organizations in the United States were boycotting the Nazis. I was criticized for supporting the Nazi economy by bringing it dollars. In defense, I wrote, "What good is a peace organization that will work only with those who are already at peace with us?" The slogan which grew out of this altercation was: "Work for understanding where misunderstanding is greatest."
With the outbreak of war, it became impossible to work further with Germany, so that The Experiment's reputation for being pro-Nazi gradually faded. Looking back from a safe distance, it is now amusing to see how some segments of the public love to call names. Only a few years later we were being called Communists. Although it was disturbing to be called names it is difficult to see that either of these accusations affected our progress.
The opportunity to "try to create understanding where misunderstanding was greatest" was relatively difficult to put into effect. In the northeastern part of the United States, from which we were drawing most of our members, the majority wanted to go to France. The United States, certainly, had no great misunderstanding with France. On the contrary, France probably enjoyed sentimental approval in excess of almost any other country. If there were any opportunity for creating understanding there, it was certainly between individuals. Sending two hundred people a year to France produced many strong and lasting attachments. However, there were a number of countries where for different reasons there seemed to be more need for overcoming misunderstanding.
Japan was the most striking of these. The ferocious fanaticism instilled into the Japanese army made the soldiers refuse to surrender and probably created in the mind of the American public a hatred for the Japanese that was not to be matched since the Indian fighting of the frontier. From the arrival of the first American soldiers in Japan, the Japanese civilians displayed a docility which contrasted unbelievably with their army's unparalleled frightfulness. In spite of their destitution, their extremely difficult language, the difference in their culture, and the hostile attitude of the American army toward them, it was a relatively short time before the recent hatred turned to admiration and respect and, in the case of not a few soldiers, love and marriage.
As plans were made to send The Second Experiment group to Japan in 1956, it was the attitude of the group members that they were attempting to make a very difficult adjustment and to create understanding where misunderstanding was greatest. Because of the expense of traveling to Japan, a two-months' summer vacation seemed too short to get full value out of the investment, so I decided to recruit a group of adults who would have four months available for a Japanese project. Four older women were accepted into the group, and while not all of them were actually grandmothers, the group was referred to as "the grandmother's group."
During a previous stay in Japan, I had requested a Japanese lady, Yuki Maki, to find host families for a small group of adults. I asked her to find them on the west coast of the island, where the influence of the United States' occupation had been minimal. Mrs. Maki promised to try, although she pointed out that so far as she knew, Westerners had never lived in Japanese homes, and that persuading families to take us in would be nearly impossible. The ancient city of Kanazawa, which had been her birthplace, was selected. Here Mrs. Maki persuaded two women, Sachiko Kitamura and Chizu Haseba, employed by the United States Cultural Center, to try to find homes and they had no great difficulty in finding families which were sufficiently venturesome to take us in.
On the evening of April 4, our train pulled into Kanazawa station. We were all extremely nervous at meeting the families with whom we were going to live for a month. As we descended from the train, there was a crowd of people. Beautiful Japanese girls bestowed bouquets of lovely flowers on each of the grandmothers. We were prepared to make low bows and were therefore surprised when Mrs. Haseba and Mrs. Kitamura came forward with hands outstretched to shake ours, offering one of our own customs to make it easier for us. Soon, however, we found ourselves involved in that Japanese custom of trying to see who could bow the lowest and longest. We had practiced doing it.
The device arranged for breaking the ice was graceful. They took us to a restaurant where Leslie and I were seated at one table, and each of the grandmothers at a different one. Our respective hosts came forward, were introduced, and sat down. The awkward pause was a rather long one, since we could not communicate. The arrival of the food gave us something to do with our hands. For nearly two weeks on shipboard, we had been practicing eating Japanese food with chopsticks, but no chopsticks were served us this day. Instead, in their desire to make us feel at home, our meal consisted of (Oh horrors!) steak and French-fried potatoes.
Professor and Mrs. Mitsuda were our hosts. When we entered their home for the first time, we were shown where the slippers were kept in the vestibule. We took off our street shoes and put on slippers to walk through the hallways, which are made of wood. Then it was explained that when we came to our room, we would take off our slippers and walk on the soft tatami in our stocking feet. Tatami is compressed straw covered with grass matting which makes sitting and sleeping on the floor comfortable. Although we had practiced sitting on the floor, we soon found that it was very tiring unless we could maneuver a rest for our backs, especially at meals when it was necessary to sit for a long time without moving about.
We were settled in a suite of two rooms which occupied the whole of the second floor of the family residence. It became clear that our two rooms had been completely refurbished. The rest of the house looked shabby by comparison. Obviously, they had spent much more than they could afford to make us comfortable. Special new quilts, a pile of which makes up a Japanese bed, had been made a foot longer than usual for the tall Americans.
The Mitsudas had given great thought to our visit. For the first meals, they had invited an English teacher just returned from the United States to act as our interpreter. However, it was chiefly through observing them that we learned most about our hosts and how to adjust to the unusual way of life that we had been expecting.
Mrs. Mitsuda, whom we soon learned to call Mitsuda Sama, seemed unusually shy. Apparently entertaining representatives of the conquerors had impressed on her the necessity of honoring us in every possible way. The first meal seemed like a banquet with many courses and much more than we could eat. The next day we found out that all of the meals, including breakfast, which was not at all continental, were lavish. Preparing three banquets a day kept Mitsuda Sama on the run. She literally did not walk, but always trotted. The dining room had a tatami floor, while the kitchen did not, so slippers had to be changed twice on every trip without reducing her speed. I was impressed with her deftness.
We were troubled at causing Mitsuda Sama so much work, but what with her shyness and our inability to communicate, it took several days before we succeeded in persuading her to give us half as much food and to spend more time trying to speak with us. It soon came out that she was taking English lessons from the United States Cultural Center which offered language courses. As soon as Leslie found that Mitsuda Sama was reading Daddy Long Legs, she offered to help. Whenever they came to an expression which Mitsuda Sama could not understand, she simply went to the telephone and called her friend at the Cultural Center. Leslie then told Mrs. Haseba the words which were causing the trouble, and Mrs. Haseba proceeded to translate to Mitsuda Sama. Remembering the ineffectiveness of the telephone system in other Asiatic and even some European countries, we were duly impressed with Japanese technology.
Professor Mitsuda, who taught Chinese and Japanese literature at the University and was also principal of the Experimental High School, had known English as a boy. Soon it was no longer necessary to have our interpreter, for although our progress in Japanese was practically zero in spite of our best efforts, Professor Mitsuda and I began to have a fine time exchanging ideas in English and even came to the point of telling jokes.
The culture of Japan is so different from that of the West that living in a home there means giving up a large part of one's own customs and starting from the beginning to learn new ones. The differences were great, but our group members were prepared to adjust, and our families made our lives so interesting that what we expected to be a problem turned out to be a pleasure and there was often much laughter over the mistakes that we made.
There was one problem which proved to be insoluble. That was the matter of giving presents. Knowing that this was a custom in Japan, we had come supplied with jewelry from Mexico, which we were delighted to see was most acceptable. We had postponed presenting our gifts for about a week after arrival in an effort to reduce their importance. We did not succeed, for within twenty-four hours, the inevitable return present was received. It was a handsome box containing two bottles of whiskey. In addition to all that they were doing for us, we felt greatly distressed that they went to the expense of giving us such a lavish present, and we spent not a little time devising strategy for being the last giver. Leaving Kanazawa, we gave our presents just before climbing on the train. To our amazement, although Tokyo and its airport were a twelve-hour journey away, when we arrived at the airport to take off, there was Mitsuda Sama bearing a summer kimono for Leslie, made up in such a way as to be most useful, so that many years after Leslie is still enjoying it. Nor was the present-giving only a family matter! A short time before leaving Kanazawa, presents simply poured in from the other host families, from the teacher of flower arrangement, the teacher of cooking, the mayor of the city, the governor of the province and many others. There was nothing we could do about it. We solved the problem by turning the presents over to a forwarding agent, who sent them to Putney in two large boxes.
Professor Mitsuda explained to us that there are two kinds of Japanese theater: the most ancient one is called the Noh (Noh meaning play), the more modern but still ancient one is called Kabuki. If one had a perfect translation of either of these types of plays, they would still be extremely difficult to understand, but we were determined to try. As a scholar of Japanese literature, Professor Mitsuda was well acquainted with the Noh plays. He took great joy in singing the texts, for they are always sung, and also explained the meaning and the action that went with them. Fortunately there was a Noh theater in Kanazawa. The play which we saw was long, and in spite of our coaching, incomprehensible. This is not surprising since the play had been written about the tenth century. Our families all contributed to an understanding of the various Japanese arts and customs, which we could scarcely have expected to understand without their help.
Japanese gardens are most intriguing. Those gardens which contain not a single sprig of vegetation are not easy to understand. Moreover, the books written in English about them by the Japanese were no great help. The more we read them, the more confused we became. Mr. Mitsuda cleared up our difficulty in a single sentence: "Since Japanese private gardens have to be small, the art consists of bringing into the city what appears to be an expanse of Japanese mountain landscape."
I must admit that one of the ideas that I like to emphasize in the study of international understanding is that most books about countries written by people foreign to these countries are full of the most glaring misrepresentations. In Japan, I found the perfect example: a great foreign authority on Japan wrote that the Japanese seldom laugh. After a few days in their homes, we were convinced that they laughed more than any nationality that we had ever known. How to explain the amazing difference between the authority's statement and the fact before our eyes! One of our best advisors pointed out that the explanation was simple. Japanese in public places consider it improper to show emotion. In a formal social situation, they would not even smile. The great authority had simply never been in a Japanese home.
The moral for those who would travel intelligently is clear: If you wish to know the truth about foreign countries, please don't read books, but go and live with the people.
The habits of bathing in Japan are unusual and interesting. The interest does not come from the reputed mixed bathing, which really doesn't exist any more, but from the fact that the purpose of taking a hot bath is not to get clean, but to get warm. Fifteen minutes of lying in water so hot that when you first put your finger into it, you draw it out quickly, warms one's body through and through. Then quickly splashing oneself with cold water closes the pores. One hurries home to bed, taking with him what might be called his central heating.
Everyone knows that Japanese homes have their devices for taking hot baths, but the Mitsuda house had none. They sent us to a beautiful nearby inn with a note to explain why we had come. An unusually tall and beautiful woman took us to the bath. It was a tiled room with a pool six feet square, with one side to the wall. Out of this wall three feet from both sides, a stream of steaming water was pouring into the bath which was already so hot that we could not keep our hands in it. How could we turn off that steaming stream! We could not reach it without being parboiled! There was no bell to summon the beautiful woman! Although we knew the Mitsudas would be disappointed, we decided to bathe without going into the bath. Dipping a daintily-made elliptical wooden tub into the hot water, we took it to a faucet and added some cold. Then, with a small piece of cloth found only in Japan, which is both a washcloth and a towel, we scrubbed ourselves. After taking one of the very hot baths, one simply wrings out the washcloth, and because one's body is so hot, with the help of evaporation, the wet towel does the job for which one would need a dry towel in any other country.
INDIA SEEMED SO FAR AWAY THAT SPENDING ONLY A summer vacation there appeared very extravagant. So the first Indian Group, consisting of three girls, Leslie and me, boarded the tramp ship Steel Navigator in November, 1953. We slept on board as the ship lay in lower New York Harbor. When we awoke, it was announced that one of the boilers needed repairs and that we might not go for a couple of days. For people accustomed to cramming their every moment with conscientious activity, it seemed positively sinful not to be pushing forward. But the problem was easily solved. We had a good library of carefully selected books, and a program of study, so that it was only a short time before we were gathered contentedly on the small poop deck, reporting on books we had read. This we continued to do daily for the next month and a half. By the time we touched the jetty at Bombay, we were all quite well informed on Indian customs, religion, architecture, history and particularly on how to keep well.
One thing all five of us never succeeded in doing in India was to feel contented when doing nothing. Tony Reynolds, one of the three girls, expressed this for all of us when she said: "Their sense of time differed so greatly from mine that for the first week I was continually feeling exhausted from waiting for what they said they would do, but never did!"
Although our principal homestay was to be in Lucknow, we also had one in Bombay. Louise Tufenkjian, who became extremely fond of her family during our short Bombay stay, reported:
I would say the family would be considered middle-class or better in Indian society. Home was located in a tenement consisting of about a hundred families and was made up of only two rooms---sitting and sleeping room, and kitchen. It was adequate for the four of us, but the only problem was getting used to everyone sleeping in the same room, which was soon overcome. They gave up their bed to me and slept on mattresses on the floor. There was no embarrassment about dressing, because in the beginning Mr. Treasurer said I should ask him to leave the room at any time I wished to get dressed. The bathroom situation took a little time to get used to. The latrine was a common one on the ground floor, and to get to it, one had to go through a room where a great many people congregated. If one had to get up at night, it was necessary to step over people sleeping in this common room. Because of this I was less disturbed when I saw people sleeping on the sidewalks at night.
The biggest adjustment was toward food. The Treasurers were a strictly vegetarian family, and nearly all the dishes were new to me. We removed our shoes before entering the kitchen and sat on low stools in a semicircle around Indu (mother) who served us. We ate with our hands at all times, using no utensils. All the cooking was done on charcoal brasiers. Baths were taken each morning after breakfast, and it was taken for granted that hot water would be used, so that it was not necessary to get accustomed to the usual cold baths.
The time spent in the family group was most enjoyable to me, even though the living accommodations did seem poor. Apparently they were far from it, since there was much talk about the slums where the very poor lived. On first arriving, the exterior of the apartment house seemed like a low-class tenement in New York slums, and I was worried about what I was getting into. But fears were dispelled when I entered their home. I really felt that the Treasurers were excellent hosts and afforded me a good introduction to Indian life, because I think they provided me with a good example of the life of a middle-class family. When I left, I really felt a part of their family and was sad to leave. With them I always felt comfortable, and I believe that they felt the same about me.
The Treasurers really went out of their way in having me for their guest, and Mr. Treasurer didn't go to work half the time I was there. For one reason, Indu couldn't speak English too well, but we really got to understand each other quite well. As a guest, they would not let me do any work at all, or help with the day's chores. It was difficult to sit and watch Indu do the work. This went against all the upbringing I had had.
Mr. Treasurer's nephew and the young man's wife, both of whom spoke English, spent a great deal of time with us. I constantly felt the friendly warmth of a wonderful family, which made this experience one long to be remembered. If it is at all possible, I will try to visit them on my return, if I pass through Bombay.
The homestay in Bombay had been arranged to make the adjustment to Indian families easier, since it was believed that the people in Bombay would be more westernized than elsewhere. This proved not to be the case, but we were all grateful for having a short practice which certainly made our month's homestay in Lucknow more successful.
We were not a little astonished to find independent Indians still celebrating Christmas. It seems that the previous British calendar simply continued, so that not only had Leslie and I arrived at the home of Ram Prasad Varma on Christmas Eve, but so had three of the married children of the family. In a household where there are seven or eight servants, having an influx of a dozen people, more or less, did not seem in the least disturbing. They had not only brought their sleeping equipment and food, but also the servants to prepare it. Above the third story of the substantial brick house in which the Varmas lived, were built two little rooms. The oldest brother and his family were put into one, and we into the other.
With my previous experience in Mesopotamia and India, I realized that we needed winter clothing, but none of us was prepared for the icy breezes which blew down from the Himalayas that Christmas Eve. Soon we found ourselves putting on all the warm clothes we could find, because the walls of our room were built to keep it as cool as possible in the hot summer. Just under the ceiling every other brick was omitted, so that we seemed to be much nearer to the mountains than we really were.
The evening meal was astonishing! It seemed as though each member of the family had a meal prepared especially for him. The Varmas were Hindus and, although not of the highest class, were of a high caste and well educated, for the father was a lawyer. One would have expected no meat at the table, but the oldest son, Naresh, who was also a lawyer, ate nothing but meat, several courses of it. Likewise, the married children seemed to be not at all concerned with culinary regulations. This was quite different from most Hindu families we met, who observed their religious prohibitions to the letter.
Since all of us had taken long journeys that day, we retired early and found that we were provided with a European bedstead and an ample supply of blankets. After a short discussion, Leslie and I decided that we would take off nothing but our shoes, and got into bed with our suits and sweaters on as well.
Knowing nothing about the early rising hour of Indians, I was not at all happy to be awakened by Sri Varma's bearer at six o'clock in the morning. He was bringing us "bed tea." For me, being awakened at six was bad enough, but to be given tea in addition was not my idea of a way to start Christmas Day!
The bearer's name was Ram Lal, and during our entire stay, from early to late, one could hear Ram Lal being called and hurrying to serve. Having presented us with our tea, he disappeared to take the other members of the family theirs. This was highly acceptable since it gave me another forty winks!
In about half an hour, Ram Lal was back again, but this time empty-handed. He seemed to be eager to do something, but neither Leslie nor I could guess what it was. Moreover, Leslie, the early riser, wanted to get up but couldn't. Although I knew enough Hindustani to ask him to leave, it was the peremptory soldier's language, which I felt would probably be resented. The three of us continued to look at one another, wondering what to do next. After about a quarter of an hour, the situation became too embarrassing for Ram Lal, and he left us. Some days later, on passing Sri Varma's room, I saw Ram Lal helping his master into his socks. The mystery of the first day was solved. Ram Lal had been sent to help me get into my clothing! No similar provision had been made for Leslie.
Life in our home, and in those of the girls as well, went on pleasantly, if quietly. I had to make arrangements for our trip, and while our host was busy at his law practice, there was never any thought of boredom. Although the mother of the family was not living, Leela, the wife of the oldest son, was the distaff head of the household and was full of curiosity about how Leslie conducted her home. So they quickly became congenial. Before leaving New York, we had had the good fortune to have an orientation talk with the well-known Indian writer, Santha Rama Rau, who warned us to be careful not to do anything which might ceremonially desecrate a house. According to the strictest Hindu ritual, our very presence there would have made it necessary for a genuinely orthodox family to burn all of the furnishings and secure new ones. In general, this applied only to the kitchen and puja room (private chapel). It was clear that the people in this household were not orthodox, for Leslie was shown into the kitchen early in the stay, and before we left, she was invited into the little chapel, where she was interested to find The Experiment symbol.
The great respect for life of every sort taught by the Hindu religion had an amazing effect upon the city. In addition to the human population, at least six other populations lived in it, and competed for the scanty food supply. Best known are the sacred cows, which in practice are no more sacred than other animals, even if more conspicuous. They roam the city streets, and when they snatch a mouthful of vegetables from a shop, they are courteously shooed away.
Certainly the next most conspicuous population were the monkeys. Thousands of them lived in the city. They could run up the side of a house with no trouble at all. The women's saris are six yards long and are hung out to dry after being washed. Just for fun, the monkeys would run off with them, or at least pretend to, for after taking them, they would soon let them drop. Our house had a parrot whose business it was to scream at the marauders, and everyone would run to chase the monkeys. One day our hostess, Leela, took Leslie to visit an important American girls' school which at that time happened to be having a holiday. To Leslie's amazement and amusement, the campus was filled with monkey families, probably numbering a hundred. When Leslie laughed heartily at seeing the animals there, Leela asked her what was so funny, and was equally astonished to learn that in the United States we had monkeys only in zoos.
The dog population, half-starved curs, made themselves most objectionable by night when they barked for hours at a time. Of all the holy animals, they had the hardest time keeping alive.
Then there were three kinds of birds: a hawk called a "kite," a big gray crow and the handsome jackdaw, a black and white thief who likes to fly into houses and make off with any bright objects. One day the group was picnicking in the country when suddenly there was a crash as a kite dive-bombed my hand to snatch the food I was holding. He missed the food, but made deep scratches in my index finger.
But there was also a seventh marauder, a human one, the sadhu, with his begging bowl. He works no harder than the animals. Women, in particular, share their too-scarce food with this "holy" man.
Not only Leslie and I, but all the group members found life in India so different from our own that our days were filled with conversations, each explaining his customs to the others. Homes had been arranged for five of us by Professor Majumdar, Lucknow University's Professor of Anthropology, who has since become a celebrated man. He had found exactly what we had requested---families of four different religions: Hindu, Moslem, Sikh and Reformed Sikh. They had different ideas and particularly different living customs. This made it interesting to compare notes.
We had already spent three weeks with our families, and were proposing an outrageous thing---to go and live in, a village for a week. The families were much opposed to the idea, but we insisted on carrying out the original plan. They made it perfectly clear to us how frightfully uncomfortable we would be, that we might be robbed by the Dacoits, clans of brigands, or even killed.
Professor Majumdar, as an anthropologist, could appreciate what we wanted to do, and instead of putting obstacles in our way, with his knowledge of the nearby villages, he had already selected one in which we could live, and got the agreement of the headman to receive us. He took Louise Tufenkjian and her Indian sister, Rosie, to see whether all was well in the village for our arrival. They went in a terribly crowded jeep and were overwhelmed by the dust. When we saw Louise after the trip, she seemed somewhat awed at the idea of living in a village at all.
We had a final meeting with Professor Majumdar, Louise and Rosie, at which the Professor said it was impossible for us to go without an interpreter. None of the members of our families would go. We were determined not to be prevented from having this one opportunity to know how ninety-five per cent of all Indians lived.
There was an agonized scurrying about to try to find someone. Our Indian sister promised to come out by day, but her husband would not hear of her passing the night in the village. Finally, the helpful Rosie agreed to miss school and go with us.
The second question to be settled at the meeting aroused emotions. Professor Majumdar, whose advice had been good in every way, recommended our taking a servant to cook our meals. One member of the group felt that employing a servant was an infraction of The Experiment's democratic principles, a perfectly sensible American idea. When we tried to compromise by having a servant from our own Indian family, two of the girls won the argument by agreeing to be personally responsible for all household arrangements---that is, securing supplies in Lucknow, the water in the village, cooking the food, and washing up afterwards. We agreed to start at nine o'clock in the morning so that we would have a full day to organize our cooking and sleeping arrangements. Knowing that there would be many delays, I was not too upset when at half past three the car of Major Brar, the Sikh host of Louise, appeared at the door of our home.
India has delightful avenues of huge trees which shade the roads that radiate from any city. At half past four on January 5th, we were finally on the way, and we could not have asked for more perfect weather, fresh and cool. A motor jaunt in India is packed with interest because the dense population of the countryside, to a considerable extent, is living on the highways. The one which we were attempting to use was no exception. A herd of slow-moving water buffalo was the first obstruction completely to block our way. The big bulls and cows with their hairless, lead-colored hides were not the least alarmed by the appearance of our car, but with an expression of utter serenity on their faces, marched slowly ahead of us. For traveler new to Indian highways, this herd would certainly have constituted a psychological hazard. As a matter of fact, all that was required to solve the problem was patience. It was not difficult to bypass these big beasts because they never shied nor suddenly ran into the path of the car.
Next there was a commotion in the branches of the trees, and several curious baboons came to see us. Rosie said they were aggressive and dangerous. It was not easy to watch them, since we were not sitting in the car seats, but swayed uncertainly on the piles of our bedrolls.
Then, pulling crude wagons twice as big as any western one, and frowning with haughty disdain, three camels made quite a procession, placing their padded feet silently one before another. The rhythm seemed more like that of a machine than an animal. They were moving at about two miles an hour, so passing them was not difficult.
The village of Rampur-Deorie was only about six miles from the city. The car left the road on a zig-zag course to avoid the huge puddles from the recent rain. Without the benefit of even a well-indicated track, we approached the village, but had to stop two hundred yards from it, since the irrigated fields with which it was completely surrounded had no road through them that we could find.
We were awaited by about thirty members of the joint family of the headman of the village, Makrand Singh. The three brothers lived close together but in separate houses. About twenty excited boys of various sizes, accompanied by a few little girls, had spied us and came running to help carry our baggage to the two small buildings where we were to live. Each of the boys, taking a piece of baggage suitable to his size, started along a pathway about a foot wide, raised five inches above the muck of the irrigated fields. The risk of slipping into the mud was considerably increased by the recent rains. Tony and Lelah, in the wake of the boys, arrived before the rest of us. A twelve-year-old boy who was to become our constant companion led us into a building well constructed of bricks made of pressed mud. The earth floor inside was both hard and clean. We set up our folding cots and spread the bedding on them.
The next move was to cook our supper, which I had suspected would take a long time, but I had not anticipated that it would be two hours and a half. We had a Primus stove, and also a charcoal stove. For anyone accustomed to turning the knob of a gas stove and immediately getting a hot flame, it is inconceivable that it took an hour before we had any flame at all. There is a very exact way of igniting each of these heaters, but as it happened, neither of the girls who had agreed to cook had ever had the necessary experience. It took them an hour of pumping on the pressure stove, and moving everything that would move to convince themselves that they could not start it. Then a tall young man about eighteen or nineteen who, with about fifteen members of his family, had been watching through the open door, came to the rescue, immediately lighting first the Primus stove and then the charcoal stove. Sat, as the young man was called, became our ever-present help in time of trouble---which proved to be nearly constantly. By this time, it was getting dark and the two small oil lanterns which we had purchased were filled, and soon were giving their feeble, smoky light. Our cooks were ready to go to work.
Fortunately, Mommie Watt had had the foresight to prepare an ample supply of fish chowder, just in case our girls would not be equal to the first supper. By that time, it was nearly eight o'clock. We ate it from our big enamel cups, and it would have been good even if we had not been ravenously hungry. To drink we had nothing, because in the village water was hard to get.
Dinner having been completed, the next thought was how to get through the night. Preliminary to going to bed, the females of the group withdrew in a body to the trees twenty feet from the front door. It was most fortunate that our front door opened directly on a strip of scrubby woodland where all our sanitary needs could be taken care of with a maximum of expedition and privacy, after dark. During the daytime, we had two enamel thunder-mugs with lids, one for each room.
The girls lived in what might have been called a guest house, designed as a shelter for strangers who would not be admitted to the three brothers' compounds. Leslie and I had another room somewhat more interesting. It housed Makrand's two statuesque white bullocks during ordinary times, but they had been turned out to make room for us. Although we appreciated their hospitality, it required considerable effort to get accustomed to the strong odor of ammonia which they had left behind.
It was the fifth of January, and there had been two heavy rains. It was unbelievably cold. My bedroll consisted of a quilt and a double blanket in a canvas cover which could be closed with buckles. In addition to flannel pajamas, I wore a sweater and socks, but was too cold to sleep. The days were warm except when it rained, but from midnight until eight in the morning, although it never froze, it felt as though it did. The night was an adventure, but not a rest.
Making breakfast the next morning depended on getting water. For those accustomed to turning on a faucet, it was interesting to learn that it took about half an hour to get it. Louise and Lelah went to Makrand Singh's. house, and since by this time we were well known characters in the village, they were admitted behind the big wooden gates. If I had gone for the water, I would not have fared so well, for the compound was the retreat of the females of the family. The girls reported that although they were unable to speak to the women, the pitcher that they were carrying made it plain that they were in search of water. It required skill to let down the bucket about thirty feet and then draw it up again without spilling all the water. Lelah, who had been most vocal in her protest against bringing a servant with us, felt very responsible for securing it, but after several trials accepted the offer of Makrand's wife to draw it up, and soon they were back at our encampment, triumphant but subdued. As a matter of fact, little bathing was done by any of us while we were in the village.
Breakfast consisted of coffee with boiled milk fresh from the neighboring buffalo, toasted double roti (European white bread) with tinned butter and jam, and finally, oranges or bananas.
Leslie and I were not the only ones who felt the cold. The next morning, Makrand Singh, anticipating the warming rays of the sun, brought his charpoy (a bed with a net of woven cords instead of a mattress---good in hot weather) out into the open only a few yards from our quarters. Then we saw that he had a visitor, and in a few minutes be motioned to Rosie, who came to fetch me. The visitor, who was a wealthy farmer, wanted to know what we did about fertilizer in the United States: cow dung in India is used as fuel, hence is lost as fertilizer. When I told him we used chemicals, he replied that they were too expensive and asked if there was any other kind. This stumped me, but two days later the subject of fertilizers came up again. When I had a chance to show Makrand Singh at the nearby Ford Foundation Training Center, that there was a device for collecting all excrement, he replied that this was impossible since their laws forbade squatting two times in the same place.
That morning, Makrand Singh took us for a walk to a neighboring village. Rosie went along to translate. The village was less than a mile away and much more dilapidated than our own, even though several of the mud houses in ours were falling down. Compared with the building of pressed mud bricks where we lived, the other headman's tumbled-down construction was a shambles. Just in front of it was a huge, beautiful tree, and on a small brick platform was a pile of fist-sized pebbles representing the favorite god, Shiva. These piles were to be seen in all villages. Sometimes they were painted red, making them very conspicuous in a landscape which is mostly mud-colored.
On the second day, the one expedition was a visit to the school, which was about a twenty-minute walk. It would have been bursting at the seams with three hundred and fifty pupils, but there were no seams, since there were no buildings. Fortunately, the wonderful big trees which seem to grow everywhere gave a shade which served for classrooms. We were invited to talk to the top class in English. We spoke slowly and simply, and they, concentrating hard, seemed to understand our American speech, so different from the British English spoken by Indians.
The following evening, we were invited back to discuss American secondary education. The numerous faculty were all men and seemed to be largely university graduates. They said that the school had existed for only two years. Both the teachers and the students appeared to be most serious.
Makrand Singh's son, the twelve-year-old, was attractive and tremendously eager to learn English. Whenever time permitted, one of us would read with him, and when I arrived home, I sent him several of our primers. Meeting a boy of this sort, who was healthy, strong, intelligent, and ambitious, reduced our pessimism about India not a little.
On the third morning, Ed Ames, a Cornell anthropologist who lived in a village four miles away, suddenly appeared: obviously the news of our arrival had spread rapidly. Ed was interested in a change of company, which the girls provided. He not only stayed all day, but invited us to dinner the next day. Pal Singh, another brother, offered to drive us in his bullock cart. Guiltless of springs and with nothing that could be called a road, the slow-moving cart jolted painfully along. Leslie and I started to walk, expecting to be overtaken by the cart. But we arrived at the village before it did, making our way first over the indicated track and finally straight across the fields, guided by five farmers.
Ed lived in one room of what had been a large house, much of which had fallen down. His adjustment to Indian village life was remarkable. With the exception of boiling his water, he seemed to live exactly as the villagers did. The local priest was teaching him Hindustani, and, surprisingly enough, he had unearthed a handsome young man in the village who proved to be a relatively good cook. We were all overwhelmed to hear that he expected to welcome his wife and six-month-old child to village living about the middle of February!
The idea of giving Makrand Singh a CARE plow started negotiations which occupied quite a bit of the last two days. When asked if he would accept such a plow, he emphatically stated that it is not the Indian custom to receive payment for hospitality. However, he went with me to see the plow at the Ford Foundation Training Center nearby. There he flatly proclaimed that he would not use the plow if he had it. He had a valid reason, pointing out that when his wooden plow broke, he could repair it, but he could not repair a steel plow.
After much discussion the next day and a second trip to the Ford Center, it was decided to give the family not a gift, which was religiously forbidden, but "something by which they could remember us. It happened to be one hundred rupees worth of second-hand galvanized iron roofing, not for his house, but for the bullock's home. He explained that if his bullocks died, he could not get others. We had just begun to get adjusted to village life when it was time to leave. Our city families were much relieved to see us, and much interested in our experiences.
The adventure in the village prepared us for traveling in India simply, as Indians themselves do. We were eager to spend our second month seeing India accompanied by members of our Indian families. The itinerary that had been arranged called for the usual sightseeing in Delhi, Agra, Benares, etc. As the daughters of well-to-do families, our Indian sisters had visited all of these places, and we could raise no enthusiasm in them to accompany us on such a trip. As we sincerely wanted to have their company, so that we would not be just a group of American tourists, we had to find a way of persuading them and therefore asked them where they would like to go. They were unanimous on Kashmir. That mountain valley with its seven-thousand-foot altitude was never visited in the winter time, although the girls probably did not realize this. But it was agreed that if they would come with us to see the sights which we did not want to miss, we would take them to Kashmir.
Having the Indian sisters with us made all the difference in the way we traveled. They were much more than interpreters. They conducted us across India as they themselves would have traveled, which meant that we stayed away from all Western hotels and restaurants. Equipped with cots and bed rolls, we were able to sleep with comfort in railway waiting rooms which were made for that purpose, and in the dak bungalows which originally were designed for carriers of the mails and later for visiting officials. The railway waiting rooms were the simplest, and consisted of an empty room with a "bearer" in charge. Contrary to what his title seems to indicate, a bearer bore nothing. He simply arranged for others to do the heavy carrying---in effect, a personal servant. As was intended, the bearer in the waiting room in Benares became our personal servant, helped us to put up our cots in the room which fortunately was unoccupied, and arranged for all those other necessities which in the West are easily cared for by what the Indians call amenities.
When it came to food, our sisters took us into the bazaars where there were shops which sold food directly out of their steaming caldrons and from their piping hot grills. These were not restaurants; no place to sit was provided. The purchaser provided the receptacles. The stews were made entirely of vegetables, and since one saw them bubbling, there could be no doubt about their being sterilized. The bread direct from the grills also carried no contagion. Since there was no meat, there was no chance of poison from spoiling.
It is my recollection that we paid about three and a half cents a meal per person for this excellent food, and yet I would be willing to wager that in the history of India, there were few white people who ever made use of this service. Such is the power of prejudice! Since there was no rent charged for the waiting room in Benares, the total cost of lodging for two days was a pittance, the tip to the bearer. It was probably one rupee, which pleased him and cost us thirty-two cents, which, divided among eight people for two days, meant that we were lodged for two cents a day. So the total cost of living, including three excellent meals and high tea (virtually compulsory in India), was somewhere between fifteen and twenty cents per person. We considered it a rare achievement to have learned to live comfortably and without getting sick, the latter being a rare triumph.
Now the time had come to take the plane from Delhi to Pathan Kot, where we would get another plane which would fly almost straight up in the air to drop us into the city of Srinagar. At Pathan Kot, we learned that the airport up above was covered with snow and that we would have to wait. We waited for two days. The days were uneventful because the town was almost without interest. I have the distinct recollection of an entirely new achievement in doing something which I do every day of my life. Since there was no source of warm water, I asked the bearer for some hot water with which to shave, He brought it to me in a teacup, and I proceeded to complete my daily shaving, something I would never have believed possible.
It was freezing cold when we arrived in Srinagar, and what astonished me most was seeing shopkeepers sitting in their open shops presumably for hours at a time in that frigid weather. I wondered how they could do it! Later I found in the bazaar a little basket about the size of a large cup complete with a handle and tin lining. These were filled with glowing charcoal and put inside their long, nightgown-like garments, at least the chest and tummy were warm. A brilliant idea!
Our arrival in the middle of winter was a great event for the shopkeepers. we were soon surrounded by the same tailors, bootmakers and vendors of Kashmir lacquer who for generations had served the large numbers of British vacationers spending the summer in these cool mountains. Now the British and the market which they provided were gone forever, and the salesmen, and more particularly those who made the products, were in desperate straits.
Turning down the chance of living in a hotel and following the coolies who carried our bags, and trailed by the queue of salesmen, we walked along the river bank, near the center of the city, to a houseboat which had been highly recommended. Houseboats are barges about twenty feet wide and of varying lengths. The tall handsome man in charge of the boat also greeted us with enthusiasm, and soon fires were blazing in little iron stoves, both in the lavishly carpeted living and dining room and in the three comfortable staterooms. After a two-day stay, we all agreed that the boat deserved its excellent reputation.
Naturally, as the sun went down, the cold descended upon us, and no one dreamed of leaving the fireside. Moreover, the meals and service were what one would expect in the best hotels. The next day with its sightseeing produced a major problem: should we ride in a rickshaw and freeze, or walk and only half freeze?
Our reservations for returning had been requested for Sunday, the third day after our arrival, for the Indian girls' curiosity about Kashmir had been satisfied. We received no assurance that there would be seats for us on the plane. About eleven o'clock on Sunday morning, a boy came running to tell us that if we wished to go down, we must be at the city air office by two o'clock. After a great scurry and protestations to the boatman that we would be back again, we kept our appointment, and soon were descending terrifyingly close to treetops, finally arriving at Pathan Kot safely.
Our plans called for a visit to South India. We bade good-bye to our Indian sisters in Delhi, and after several long train rides, we found ourselves in a different world. The north had absorbed invasion after invasion of people from Central Asia of different race and culture. The south was untouched by invasions through the centuries and here Hindu orthodoxy is found in its purity. In Mysore City, we had another homestay with a group of eager and interested families. My own experience was unusually congenial, for the grandfather of the house was my constant companion. He had been the director of a textile factory and as such had studied the psychology of management, one of my favorite subjects. It seems scarcely possible that two people of such different backgrounds could understand each other so well.
Crossing over to Ceylon, the group disbanded, dividing into three parts, each going its chosen way. What had we gained from our three-and-a-half months together? Arriving at Colombo, we realized how much India's burden of poverty had depressed us and we felt relieved to get away. On the other hand, under no circumstances would we have missed these experiences. India was no longer an unknown country. We were probably not entirely aware of how unusually and sympathetically close to the country we had come, thanks to our Indian hosts. In spite of her incomprehensible gods and her millions of villagers deprived in mind and body, we now knew human beings who, to us, stood for India. We had much more in common with them than we thought possible. We would be glad to see them again.
Their magnificent buildings, beautiful in some cases, weird in others, made concrete the country's history about which we had become informed. Lelah Dushkin decided to make a life work of studying India. Some of us would have an opportunity to help others know this land so different from our own.
Soon Leslie and I were back in Kashmir to see the early spring with its yellow fields of flowering rape and the delicate pink of almond blossoms. On the flight to Srinagar, we met the navigator of the flight who had brought us out of Kashmir. With great gusto, he told me the story of how the pilot of that flight had gotten into serious trouble. The pilot, he said, had enjoyed looking at our girls so much that he had scratched from the flight list several important people of the country. The interesting point for us was that after that flight, winter had closed in. If we had not made it, we would have had to stay in Kashmir for another five weeks!
Eight years later, Leslie and I circled the world on Experiment business. By pure coincidence, we were booked to leave Bombay on January 26, which proved to be Republic Day. We missed the great procession, because the Air Force acrobatics over New Delhi caused our departure to be postponed. When we arrived in the capital, we were met by Amrish Trevedi, then Experiment representative for Delhi, and soon after national director of The Experiment for India. He told us we were to be guests at the home of a respected elder statesman and a relative of his wife. We were taken to number 3 Janpath Road, the typical large bungalow built for the white Sahib and set in broad lawns. We were welcomed by both Mr. and Mrs. Trevedi and proceeded to lunch. During the course of the conversation, he said casually, "You will have your nap, and afterwards we will go to tea." He gave no hint of what kind of occasion this would be.
Although I have always disliked name-droppers, the tea that followed was too interesting and surprising to be ignored. The four of us were called for by an unusually impressive motorcar. Still nothing was said about where we were going. The car moved along the tree-lined streets so characteristic of New Delhi, then between the broad lawns of the huge brownstone Government buildings which the British had built. It was impossible not to see that we passed through a high wall and stopped at an impressive-looking palace. Still not knowing where we were going, we mounted monumental steps. It was certainly going to be the most unusual tea! But there was little time to think about it, because we found ourselves in a large room where there were many women in beautiful saris and men in national costumes of a great variety of countries. I was surprised to see in the distance, towering over other heads, the well-known face of Ellsworth Bunker, our Putney neighbor and Ambassador from the United States. He spotted us quickly and led us to the other side of the room to meet Harriet, his wife. Only now did we learn that we were attending the tea party of President Prasad, along with the diplomatic corps and the great of Delhi. As I looked over Harriet Bunker's shoulder into the palace garden, I saw approaching Prime Minister Nehru, exactly as the pictures showed him, with his trim white frock-coat, tight-fitting trousers, and the well-known flower in his buttonhole. Jawaharlal Nehru was a handsome man and wore his attractive, relaxed smile. We were introduced, and there was barely time to thank him for having received repeated groups of Experimenters when everyone in the room started flowing towards a distant door as quietly, but certainly, as the ebb tide leaving a harbor.
Although as a good American I considered it my duty never to gush over royalty as one of my sisters did, I must admit that I was quite thrilled to see Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II standing between President Prasad and her husband! The ritual of shaking hands proceeded too rapidly for more than a mild handshake, a nod and a smile from the Queen, and a more vigorous handshake from Prince Philip.
The immaculately cared-for flower beds, the saris, and the unusual uniforms made the Presidential Gardens a mass of color. The grass was no different from a good putting green, and every perfection of constant and intelligent attention. Leslie was breathless with admiration. The most memorable figure was the Prince of Sikkim, dressed in a Chinese gown and so small and slender as to seem almost an ascetic.
The pomp which the Indians had learned from the British, apparently with no great difficulty, was there. Tall Lancers in long scarlet coats, white trousers, and boots well above the knee-cap, their tall turbans, called puggeries, making them look about seven feet tall, were frozen so that there was not a quiver of an eyelash. Huge steel sabres glistened in front of their right shoulders.
In an effort to forget my unshaven face, I took the initiative to talk with one person after another. I remembered with glee C. M. Trevedi's matter of fact statement, "You will have your nap and then we will go to tea."
The Experiment in India was still on a small scale. There was no hint of the jet plane-load that today takes one hundred and eighty Indians, Iranians, Turks and Greeks to the United States and brings almost as many Americans back. Hundreds in each country now compete for a place in these groups.