Lingering

Reflection on a learning which happened during a journey in 1971.

Every so often we called on people who were known to us, or even those whose address we’d been given. The occasion of springing on one of these latter innocents, has led to a lingering behaviour of mine which reminds almost daily of being in the heat of Agra.

My father a consultant surgeon, had many colleagues work with and for him who were originally from India or the Indian sub-continent. Many went on to consultant jobs themselves in the NHS. Sometimes they returned home. One of these latter was Mr Varshneya, a man my father regarded with affection and appreciation: for being a good surgeon and doctor, and a nice and thoughtful man.

Mr Varshneya lived and worked in Agra. One consequence of springing ourselves on his hospitality that autumn of 1971, was that he recommended other, just as interesting temples and mausoleums in Agra, as the glamorous and not to be missed Taj Mahal. The tomb of I'timād-Ud-Daulah was one and Fatehpūr Sikrī, although on our list, became a place we had to have a good look at.

Agra is not so very far from Dehli. I seem to think it only took a day to get there, and we arrived in mid afternoon. We arrived out of the blue, of course. We might have sent a postcard or short letter to inform Mr Varshneya of our intent to visit. Or we might not.

Mr Varshneya himself was busy at a clinic, and his household made contact with him, and when it was established that we were connected with “Dick Rees” we received our entrée, and were bona fide and should be allowed to settle in by driving the van in to the compound. This was the first time we had direct experience of being welcomed in to an Indian household. On reflection, I expect we were a bit of an alarming bunch – five big English blokes, examples of well fed post-war (WW2) babies grown in adulthood to giants in comparison to the smaller population we were travelling through.  A lot of people lived in Mr Varshneya’s household’s compound: relations, servants. On his return after the clinic, Mr Varshneya invited us to join in an evening meal which we delightedly accepted - Hindu and therefore vegetarian and delicious. The lack of meat apologised for at a time when we were grateful for any meal of any kind, and in truth, we were already appreciating vegetarian cuisine as more tasty, cheaper and less risky food.

Perhaps we would like to wash before our meal? They had an Indian style shower. Oh bliss, a wash. Somewhere private. Using soap. Such an alluring prospect. Bucket washing in India was always bathing to an audience.  Did we know how the system worked? Yes. We had come across it earlier in our time in India. The room itself standing apart in the garden quite near the house’s water supply, a tap or a well – I can’t remember which. Essentially a small cement lined dark room. A little light came in above the door. One corner of the space, about a quarter of the floor area of the room was taken up by a tank built up with bricks and cement lined. The tank was filled from the outside through the wall – a brick left out of the wall and a cement channel built in it to funnel the water to the tank.

On the broad edge of the tank sat an old small tin or aluminium pan with a wooden handle across its circumference. After taking one’s clothes off, hanging them on a wooden peg with washbag and towel, the idea was to dip the pan in the water and tip its contents over yourself. Doing this as often as was necessary. It was not that cold in Agra in November, and after the first shock it was easy to lather up and rinse in the same way. In this bath house, there was a wooden peg for dry things, but it was not always the case. Sometimes you had to use the top of the door. If you were lucky, the top of the tank was wide enough to put things on. It was essential to take care that nothing fell in the tank – leaving the place as you found it was an essential courtesy to maintain good relations with other users, so dirtying the tank water with one’s own detritus was to be avoided at all costs.

Drying off is not easy to complete. The floor would be wet and to dry oneself efficiently without stepping wetly into clothes not easy. I developed a system of doing this so that I would dry my body in sections, put on my clothes on the dried parts of my body, and toward the end, seek out the driest bit of floor I could see, and lying a part of my towel on the floor and stepping on it to dry my feet, and from it straight in to sandals, by the door.

Although this was not the first time I had washed in this way, it was the first time I had time enough and light enough to think about ablution as a process. And to work on a system which allowed me to emerge from it comfortable, and ready to meet the world refreshed.

This became a little ritual I would perform. A little dance. And I got quite good at assessing a washing space so I could find the driest route to drying myself, stepping on the towel to dry my feet, and emerging wearing dry clothes, and having used most of the towel to dry me and not the bathroom.

This little dance continues 40 years on. In much different circumstances – the power shower, the centrally heated bathroom, the hot water (cold running water – civilisation; hot running water – luxury!), the good soap and so on, and still the putting down on the floor of a quarter of the towel, and stepping on to it to complete the drying process started in the shower cubicle. It is the daily ritual that has stayed with me, a mark of carrying the journey of my youth into the journey of my life, making Agra and India linger in my life.

November 2010