The missionaries
The ETCM hospital, Kolar where I was born, and where my father worked, was founded by American methodist missionaries. When we lived there, there were always a few missionaries living and working at the hospital. Most of them had been trained as doctors or nurses, had never been married, and devoted decades of their life to the work in India. My father admired them deeply for leaving their comfortable lives and moving across the world to serve others. The motto of the hospital was "with love serve one another". Those were less cynical times and that motto was a burning reality to my father who almost became a christian because of it.
Although my mother had no interest in christianity, she too was struck by their total dedication to their mission and they way they treated people with respect, no matter who they were. An electrician who worked at the hospital once invited the doctors to his wedding. As my mother tells it, the house was in a narrow lane and the guests were seated near a stinking open drain. The doctors' wives sat gingerly, making sure their beautiful sarees didn't get dirty and barely managed to eat a few mouthfuls. The missionaries, on the other hand, settled down comfortably on the ground and ate everything that was served with the greatest enjoyment.
One of the missionaries was Dr. Vela Cleveland. She was huge, as tall as she was wide. She sometimes gave me rides back to my boarding school in her tiny car. It was amazing to see her fold herself into the driver's seat which would then sink several inches. She always carried candy bars and handed them out liberally. She also made the ceramic nativity sets for the Graff ward christmas decorations. Dr. Cleveland once went to an international conference in Delhi. When she saw all the people from America in their smart clothes, she felt dowdy in her dresses that were at least several decades out of style. So the next day she attended the conference in a saree and finally felt like she could hold her own with the other conferees.
The missionaries lived together in a separate wing of the hospital where they had their own rooms and ate American food together in a common dining room. We were invited there occasionally and their cook taught my mother to bake cakes and apple pie. My mother sometimes invited them over as well or sent a specially cooked dish. Once she sent them mishti doi, yogurt flavored and sweetened with caramelized sugar. Later that day she got a call from Ruby Hobson (the founder of the nursing school), "Manjuli, did you tell anyone else that you sent the dessert?" Ma said she hadn't. "That's good, please don't tell anyone. The thing is, I tasted a bit and it was so good, I tasted some more, and before I knew it I had finished all of it!"
Ruby Hobson was a good friend to my parents. She sent them regular subscriptions to National Geographic and Guideposts magazine (a religious publication with exciting stories about how god had helped somebody in a crisis - I used to enjoy them). She visited them in Kolkata after my parents moved there and she had retired and gone home to the U.S. She even visited us when she was in Detroit on a bus trip through North America with a senior citizen group. She used to call me from time to time and send me cards. She asked me a question that I had no good reply to, "Why are you here and not in your own country?" She didn't mean it in a racist / anti-immigrant way. It was a natural question for someone who had spent her life helping people in a place where the help was sorely needed.
Despite his steadfast admiration for the missionaries, my father never did convert to christianity in the end. (For a while, he had even read the bible in Bengali on the radio and received fan mail from listeners. He used to go to the recording studios of the Far east broadcasting association in Bangalore to record the chapters in his booming voice.) Apparently he told someone who asked why that his religion (hinduism) was open enough to allow him to pray in church (true in those days) but as a christian he could never pray in a temple. Also, maybe his father's opinion carried some weight with him. I have a letter written by my grandfather to my father on that subject. Grandfather says that he deeply admires Jesus and has no problems with my father converting if he so chooses; however, given the fact that all religions in practice are flawed, why not just stay with the one you are born into. (Smart strategy that. Don't say no, just introduce a doubt.) Later in life my father even admitted that the missionaries were perhaps a bit narrow-minded. This was after Ruby Hobson's friend, who visited my parents with her, went back and told others that my mother kept idols in her house, how shocking. Ultimately, it was their complete immersion in their religion, that had attracted my father in the first place, that also became a barrier between them.
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Excerpts from the draft of a graduation speech my father gave to school of nursing graduates:
Although my mother had no interest in christianity, she too was struck by their total dedication to their mission and they way they treated people with respect, no matter who they were. An electrician who worked at the hospital once invited the doctors to his wedding. As my mother tells it, the house was in a narrow lane and the guests were seated near a stinking open drain. The doctors' wives sat gingerly, making sure their beautiful sarees didn't get dirty and barely managed to eat a few mouthfuls. The missionaries, on the other hand, settled down comfortably on the ground and ate everything that was served with the greatest enjoyment.
One of the missionaries was Dr. Vela Cleveland. She was huge, as tall as she was wide. She sometimes gave me rides back to my boarding school in her tiny car. It was amazing to see her fold herself into the driver's seat which would then sink several inches. She always carried candy bars and handed them out liberally. She also made the ceramic nativity sets for the Graff ward christmas decorations. Dr. Cleveland once went to an international conference in Delhi. When she saw all the people from America in their smart clothes, she felt dowdy in her dresses that were at least several decades out of style. So the next day she attended the conference in a saree and finally felt like she could hold her own with the other conferees.
The missionaries lived together in a separate wing of the hospital where they had their own rooms and ate American food together in a common dining room. We were invited there occasionally and their cook taught my mother to bake cakes and apple pie. My mother sometimes invited them over as well or sent a specially cooked dish. Once she sent them mishti doi, yogurt flavored and sweetened with caramelized sugar. Later that day she got a call from Ruby Hobson (the founder of the nursing school), "Manjuli, did you tell anyone else that you sent the dessert?" Ma said she hadn't. "That's good, please don't tell anyone. The thing is, I tasted a bit and it was so good, I tasted some more, and before I knew it I had finished all of it!"
Ruby Hobson was a good friend to my parents. She sent them regular subscriptions to National Geographic and Guideposts magazine (a religious publication with exciting stories about how god had helped somebody in a crisis - I used to enjoy them). She visited them in Kolkata after my parents moved there and she had retired and gone home to the U.S. She even visited us when she was in Detroit on a bus trip through North America with a senior citizen group. She used to call me from time to time and send me cards. She asked me a question that I had no good reply to, "Why are you here and not in your own country?" She didn't mean it in a racist / anti-immigrant way. It was a natural question for someone who had spent her life helping people in a place where the help was sorely needed.
Despite his steadfast admiration for the missionaries, my father never did convert to christianity in the end. (For a while, he had even read the bible in Bengali on the radio and received fan mail from listeners. He used to go to the recording studios of the Far east broadcasting association in Bangalore to record the chapters in his booming voice.) Apparently he told someone who asked why that his religion (hinduism) was open enough to allow him to pray in church (true in those days) but as a christian he could never pray in a temple. Also, maybe his father's opinion carried some weight with him. I have a letter written by my grandfather to my father on that subject. Grandfather says that he deeply admires Jesus and has no problems with my father converting if he so chooses; however, given the fact that all religions in practice are flawed, why not just stay with the one you are born into. (Smart strategy that. Don't say no, just introduce a doubt.) Later in life my father even admitted that the missionaries were perhaps a bit narrow-minded. This was after Ruby Hobson's friend, who visited my parents with her, went back and told others that my mother kept idols in her house, how shocking. Ultimately, it was their complete immersion in their religion, that had attracted my father in the first place, that also became a barrier between them.
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Excerpts from the draft of a graduation speech my father gave to school of nursing graduates:
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