The West Coast of India. Having spent our first vacation in the north of India prowling around the temples and bathing ghats of the holy city of Benares, and later in Darjeeling in view of the superb snow-capped Himalaya, my travelling companion, Miss Wells, and I decided to visit the west coast during the Christmas holidays. They say that India is a land of contrasts and indeed, the north seems like an entirely different country from the south, and the east from the west. Although the western hills can not be compared in grandeur to the northern mountains, nor the white clad Malayalams and Syrian Christians, in rich color or bizarre effects with the Tibetan and Nepalese hill tribes, nevertheless, the cool green palms were most refreshing after the dry and parched fields of the east, and the hospitality of the people more than made up for any lack of picturesqueness.
From Madras we went directly west to Bangalore. It was very hard to realize that winter winds and blizzards were raging at home whil[e] gorgeous poinsettas, hibiscus, and masses of bouganvillea were rioting in color in the gardens here. Among other things we visited in Bangalore the Tata Silk Mills financed in the beginning by Prince Tata but maintained as a self-supporting project by the Salvation Army.
The next day found us in Mysore, the capital of Mysore State, one of the independent Indian states, and goverend by an Indian Rajah with only an adviser representing the British Government. The beautiful "garden city" with its wide clean streets, beautiful gardens and palaces impressed us exceedingly after the dirt and filth of the usual Indian city. Ten miles from Mysore lies the little village of Seringapatam, the ancient capital of the state, and fairly bulging with historical associations of the stirring days of Hyder Ali and Tipu Sultan, Mohamedan princes who have left their traces of forts, dungeons, magnificent tombs and palaces as signs of their ancient tyranny and glory. It was difficult to realize the lazy, peaceful, and picturesque ruins the scene of fighting, imprisonments, and gorgeous elephant processions. We drove through the gates of the old fort to the dungeon where a British general and his defeated soldiers had been imprisoned and badly treated. The low stone vaults with projecting slabs each pierced with a hole for the prisoners' chain told their own silent story. Near this was the spot where Tipu himself fell, wounded by a British besieger. A tablet commemorates the spot and beyond goes on peacefully the ancient Hindu worship; graceful saree clad women pouring libations from brightly burnished brass vessels on snake stones standing like little tombstones beneath the sacred banyan trees.
Next we drove to Tipu's summer palace, gaudily painted chiefly with conventional designs which at a distance simulated mosaic work but with two walls depicting a battle and a royal procession. His earthly dwelling was not so beautiful as his last resting place with its mosque-like dome and minarets, beautifully inlaid ivory doors, and portico pillrs of brightly polished black horneblende which stood out in marked contrast to the dazzling whiteness of the building as a whole.
Leaving Mysore we travelled by a dilapidated and maltreated Ford bus at first through hot, monotonous plains, but as we journeyed westward through increasingly interesting and pleasing scenery. [sic] We passed through large cultivated teak forests seeing the intelligent trained elephants drawing the huge unwieldy logs. As we climbed higher into the Western Ghats, as these hills are called, we noticed a change both in atmosphere and scenery. Thick impenetrable jungle on both sides, tall trees and giant tree ferns, vines and creepers twining around them striving for a support and for their very sustenance, and the lower shrubs, mosses, and lichens, - all these bespoke of the fierce struggle for existence as evident in the tropics. Our companion during the last part of our journey was an Indian colleague, Miss Janaki, a botanist, whose home in Tellicherry we were bound for.
Tellicherry is a typical west Coast city being more like a large spread out village with each home more or less of an ancestral estate with its own compound, the house often being obscured by cocoanut-palms and plantain trees. Janaki's home is a characteristic Hindu establishment delightfully located among palms, ricefields, and with even pepper plants and coffee trees growing in their own compound. The house itself is, according to the usual Hindu plan, built around a middle room which is a ceremonial center where weddings are celebrated and funeral rites observed, a room on the north and south respectively, and a long east room into which the other three open where the ordinary family gatherings for meals and social intercourse are held. This last leads on to an extensive verandah where at dusk the charming night lamp is lighted around which the children of the household gather for their song of evening worship.
For our first evening's entertainment Janaki had arranged a devil-casting performance. She offered herself as the subject, even though she was as amused at the whole affair as were we. She sat at the edge of a magic circle of ashes with her feet and hands pointed outwards so that the evil might readily flow outwards from her fingers and toes. It was a very serious business as far as the sorcerer was concerned and solemnly he muttered his incantations and performed his mysterious rites in extracting the evil from his subject and transferring it to the little pink effigy of rice and coloring matter containing a hair, a toe-nail, and a finger-nail of Janaki's! This was eventually disposed of and Janaki was pronounced relieved of her affliction. It was a rare sight.
With Tellicherry as our headquarters we took a short trip north to Mangalore, a Canarese city, where a different language from Malayalam is spoken and different customs adhered to. There is a large contingent of Catholics here, and it was the Sisters of a Convent College who most hospitably entertained us. Our most interesting visits here were to an Industrial School run by the Sisters of Mercy which is doing very worth while work in giving unfortunate Indian boys and girls training in lines which may make them respectable and self-supporting people, and to Father Mueller's Hospital with its attached Leper Asylum.
On our return to Tellicherry we tarried long enough to enjoy our Christmas dinner, a typical Malayalam meal, which we ate from plantain leaves from the floor with our fingers and arrayed in sarees, the Indian costume.
Loathe to leave this charming home, yet anxious to see what Travancore had in store for us, we travelled on. We were entertained by our travelling companions all of whom seemed extremely curious as to the relationship between Miss Wells and myself. They thought us to be sisters, or mother and daughter, and to cap the climax and judging from my rather close shingle bob, husband and wife! We also had a trying experience with rickshaw men who clamoring for more money boarded our ferry, gesticulating and gabbling all the way, and proceeded to organize an insurrection amonst their confederates on the other side.
Stopping for visits with several of our students, we were finally met by another of our colleagues, Aley George, an Indian Syrian Christian girl, who took us to her home by the novel conveyance known as a wallam. This is a long covered boat which glides through the palm bordered waterways of this Venice of India so silently and soothingly that one is lulled to sleep in spite of the desire to watch the moonlit landscape.
Aley didn't let a thing of a typical Travancore home escape us. We had delightful times scrutinizing the hand carved bolts and panelling and delving into attic and store room to see the special vessels used for cooking the wedding rice and the crock into which was thrown the handful of rice for the church for every measure used by the household. Here we also visited an interesting mission school which was combining evangelical work and education of the ordinary type in secondary schools with practical training in managing a typical Indian home, in gardening, & in running a small business in the form of a little bookshop.
From Tiruvalla a long bus ride brought us to Trivandrum and a second day's trip to Cape Comorin, the southern-most tip of India. Sitting on the rocks we could look out to sea where three waters met, the Arabian sea, the Indian Ocean and the Bay of Bengal.
After an unforgetable night travelling third-clas with a whole troop of dirty uncouth Mohammedan women and their howling infants, we reached Madura, the temple city of South India. I cannot truthfully wax enthusiastic aobut Hindu temples. They are interesting from the point of view of architecture and intricate carvins, and from a distance, especially at night with the hundreds of tiny oil-wick lamps burning, they are an effective sight. But closer inspection reveals such tawdiness and grossness that they are not pleasing to the eye or imagination.
In Madura we stayed with charming Americans, a Y.M.C.A. worker and his wife. And perhaps good old American doughnuts and salads and coffee didn't look good to us!
The last few days were spent in the hills of Kodai which is reached after a 60 mile ride up and up over winding roads with charming vistas of cloud shrouded mountain tops and bits of flat plain below. We shared a very attractive bungalow with one of our nice Scotch colleagues. The first two days were misty and rainy which made us content to rest and read and chat around the open fire, for here in the hills 'twas cold and woollen dresses and winter coats were necessary for early morning and evening. The third morning was ushered in with glorious bright sunshine. So packing our knapsack with eggs and bacon and other picnicy things, we started out to tramp the hills. We walked up a valley blazing with crimson rhododendrons and through a Eucalyptus forest enchanting with its tall straight trees and mottle sunshine and shadow and once a deer bounding out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. The next day we tramped farther to a place called Pillar rocks. We faced the rocks which were tall crags rising out of a sea of boiling and seething clouds and mists.
And so ended our Christmas holidays - a restful and soul-satisfying close to a varied and extremely interesting glimpse of South India.
[Unsigned but writte by D. Elizabeth Williams.]