The Mission

In this large sub-continent, there’s a large state. And somewhere in this large state, there’s a small-ish dusty town. And in this small-ish dusty town lined with dusty, crowded streets, narrow lanes and untidily planned buildings is a church with a garden around it. And leading out of the garden to one side is a short road that leads to a hospital- Mission Hospital- the oldest hospital in that town and at one time also the only hospital. That’s the hospital where I was born. In this small-ish dusty town in the large state of this large sub-continent.

I was born in the Mission Hospital but I didn’t grow up in this dusty town nor did I ever live there. I just visited it during my summer holidays. Because it also happened to be the town where my mother used to live. It was her ‘maika’ (home of her mother and family). It was where I went to meet my uncles, aunts and cousins. And no, I never really had any earth-shattering, life-changing experiences during my visits there. Just a lot of happy times that created warm, fuzzy memories of those summer holidays.

From the garden of the church that led to the Mission Hospital (now shuttered and abandoned) one could then enter the Mission Compound. This consisted of the typical bungalows and barracks built by the British in their colonial style. They used to be occupied by the then staff of the hospital, the church pastor and others who worked at the mission. There was also a Mission School where my aunts worked, but which I never saw. (Who goes to a school, any school; in the summer holidays?!)

As one crossed the extended grounds of the Mission Hospital with its long rows of single-storey buildings, shaded by varieties of trees, one reached another small gate. And by going through it, one entered the neighbourhood where I spent many of my summer holidays. It was an ordinary looking neighborhood with houses of all shapes and sizes lined up cheek by jowl on either side of the narrow road that went through it. There were hardly any compound walls or gates; in fact, the house we lived in was an exception since it had both.

For me, it was a world completely removed from the one I returned to once the summer holidays got over. And although much may have changed in and around the Mission, it’s still a very different world from the one I live in now. Maybe that is why it still evokes so many memories, associations, details- even scents!

A lot of those memories are connected to the church. Those holidays were the only time in my life that I attended church every Sunday. At 8.00 am the church bells would ring out and it was almost like being in school. The ‘first bell’ was to get people moving out of their homes. The second and third bell would ring after intervals so as to urge people to be on time for the service. I remember being rushed out of the house because the ‘pehla ghanta’ had sounded and we didn’t want to be late.

Not that it would matter if we were late, because our family had a pew kept for it right in the front. Yes, even more like school. It was also next to an exit but that didn’t really serve me any purpose, wedged in as I was between adults. The church would soon fill up and the service would begin and go on for a couple of hours at least, depending on the length of the sermon.

I remember once the arrival of a young, new pastor and his first sermon. He began by telling the congregation a story about a town where a new pastor had joined the parish. He was an excellent speaker and preacher, so more and more people began attending the church on Sundays. This annoyed the Devil who decided to attend the service himself and would sit in one of the pews in front. At this point our pastor paused and looked around. Those of us who were seated in front began to squirm uncomfortably and we could see some smug grins from those at the back. The pastor then continued. Apparently the Devil’s grand design was to scare people into sitting at the back so they wouldn’t pay attention to the sermon. So, where is this going; we were beginning to wonder. Then came the punchline. Our pastor very kindly informed us that he was quite sure the Devil was not sitting in the front pews in this church, and all those members of the congregation who were at the back could feel free to move up front. It was now our turn to heave a sigh of relief and grin smugly at the ‘backbenchers’ I think this was the first time I realised that priests can have a sense of humour too.

Another memory that I have is of the church bell. It rang not just to sound the call for the Sunday service but also when a member of the church passed away. If the bell rang at an unexpected time, it was to impart this news and was the signal for others to go to the church to find out who had departed to meet their Maker. At times, it also led to speculation as to who it could have been or sorrow that someone who had been ailing had finally slipped away.

It also hurts to think that the bell must have rung each time a member of the house where I spent my summer holidays; passed away. I would need fingers of both hands to count all those times. The house now finally lies empty and locked up. I don’t know who will live there next or what kind of memories they will create. But in my mind it will remain frozen as the place where I spent so many glorious days of summer.