It must have been in about 1971 that I was in Ireland, visiting my wife’s parents. We used to go there once or twice a year in those days, and I got to know the locals quite well. One evening in winter we were with old Michael and Katie (of the MacCoilidh family) in their marvellously warm living room in their little cottage by the main road. Someone (not me) suggested that we ought to be singing so as to bring cheer to the bleak frosty night outside. That was a cheap trick because none of those three would be the first to sing a single note ; and so I was obliged to go through my entire repertoire – all borrowed from the Dubliners – and all of which I faithfully murdered, in both tune and word. But nobody cared for the musical niceties ; the point was that we had a wail of a time.
After a while, old Michael rose from the fireside. He was a short man with jet-black hair and blue eyes ; he was wiry and as strong as a typical farmer of those parts. He said little, but always his words were kind ; and always he had a ready smile. And always he was rather shy. So now, having risen from his chair he stood, slightly bow-legged in the way of farmers, by the door to the scullery and back garden. As if he was not sure of what to say next, he tapped me on the shoulder and beckoned me to follow him. Into the pitch-black of the garden we went, Michael leading and me not having a clue of where we were or where we were going. Utter darkness.
“I expect ye’ll want to pay a visit,” he whispered when we were out of earshot of the ladies inside. “Come, follow me.”
After a few more yards, took my arm so as to point me in a particular direction. “There, now, this is the place, d’ye see?”
Actually, I couldn’t see anything. But, by following the sounds of my host, I probably managed to do the decent thing ; but I shall never be sure, because Michael was far, far too much of a gentleman ever to remark on another gentleman’s bad aim in circumstances such as these.
All this came to mind a month or two back, when I was reading the adventures of a Victorian parson who was the incumbent of a remote country parish. In those days, ordinary country people had no inside toilets ; indeed, they had no proper toilets at all. It was the task of the man of the house to dig the pit that the entire family would use for their convenience. The procedure was quite simple : when the stench of the pit became obnoxious, he would dig another and use the rubble to fill the old one. And, if he failed to maintain these arrangements, he would soon have the parson on his doorstep to read the Riot Act to him. Wives knew how to make good use of parsons in those days.
And all this came to mind again yesterday, when I read of the doughty Indian bride who refused to live with her husband until he provided a toilet fit for a lady to use. Of course, he protested. He couldn’t see why his new wife shouldn’t just use the ground in some corner somewhere – just as he did.
Well, she wasn’t having that! “I want a proper toilet,” she demanded ; and vowed to stay at home with her parents until the man of her dreams came up with the goods. I couldn’t help wondering how different her life would be if she had a good, old-fashioned Victorian parson to turn to. He would soon have had that idle young man busy digging a proper pit ; he would probably have boxed his ears as well.
Now, I don’t know what life is like in a poor village in India ; I can only guess. But, thanks to the country parson, I do have an idea of what poor country people are like. He describes the poor people as being very poor indeed. But they were so often very far from being pleasant. They (both men and women) tended easily to violence and drunkenness ; and, of course, idleness. Their children were often disastrously neglected and abused. What the poor people needed, almost more than anything else, was leadership ; for they were incapable of improving themselves. And it was generally the parson who provided that leadership, assisted by whomever he could recruit.
Also, with people such as these, a deal of bossiness was needed, for the poorest of people lack the discipline needed to lead useful lives. They lacked both discipline and knowledge. One has to admire the country parsons ; after all, nobody forced them to devote their lives to the poorest.
I imagine that parts of rural India are not much different from rural Britain in ages past. But, that example of the bride and her lavatory remind me of the great differences between Oriental thought and Western thought. Of course, we are not supposed to make unfavourable comparisons, are we? We are supposed to be all relativistic and multi-cultural. But the old complaint, that the East is fatalistic, has truth in it I think. Does this explain the poverty in an ancient civilisation (like India’s) where almost fantastic degrees of wealth have been enjoyed by the elite for so long? How do we explain an ancient country very rich in minerals, in agricultural land, in abundant fisheries, having such abject poverty in its midst?
Can it only be a lack of leadership? Or is it more to do with aims? After all, to be a leader, one must not only be bossy ; one must have a clear idea of where to go ; and an idea of how to get there.
And what about Katie and Michael? For all I shall ever know about that dark night, they might have had the most resplendent toilet facilities in all Ireland – perhaps it was just that the light bulb had blown.
The Lady in question has been awarded Rs.500,000/- approx US$10,000/- by Sulabh International, Great that you mention her story 🙂
I am so pleased to hear that, Mark. I am sure that Rs.500,000 will give the couple a good start – if they spend it wisely. Maybe, one day, the bride’s village will erect a little statue to the memory of her justifiable bossiness towards her new groom.