An Anglophile's Lament

I am a self-proclaimed Anglophile. I prefer tea over coffee, love to watch the BBC, and like to think that I can distinguish between most Britannic accents. I am also fascinated by stories like Robin Hood and King Arthur; stories of justice and gallantry. Yes, these are part of the British tradition, but I am learning first-hand of another legacy.

As it turns out, colonialism makes me quite uncomfortable. One might think this natural, growing up in a former colony myself. Who knows? Perhaps my independent American streak is showing itself, but I don't think that is all of it. My love for History ensured that I had studied the period of European colonization. I am fascinated by Henry the Navigator's ambition and that Pope Alexander VI actually divided the world in half for the Spanish and the Portuguese in the Treaty of Tordesillas. When I think back on the accounts of men like Columbus, Drake, Cartier, and Magellan (legends might be more accurate at this point), I have dueling reactions. The first thought is, what bravery, to sail out into the unknown, with a great chance of never returning. This is quickly followed by, what nerve they had, imagining that they could just plant a flag and start the slow process of subjugating entire continents of people!

This is the reaction I have been overwhelmed by off and on since we arrived in India. Most of the time I can find only the faintest traces of imperialism. Here I am always "madam" and Matt is sometimes, but much less frequently "master". Ok, I can get used to this overly polite custom. I was horrified, however, by my first visit to St. George's Cathedral, where the ghosts of the Raj still occupy the pews.

I entered the cathedral with an eye on the architecture, just as I have in countless churches in Europe. I supposed it was fitting that a church built by a military presence would be dedicated to St. George, a man who was himself a Roman soldier. I noted the elaborately decorated Doric capitals that crowned the eggshell colored columns. There was very little pictorial stained glass, indicating a highly literate congregation. Literacy is high in Chennai, but I still found it odd that the windows were so devoid of Bible stories. I read with interest the dedications to former members of the congregation etched into white marble. I read dozens of them before it struck me. They were all English names. Not one of them was dated after the 1947 Indian independence.

At this realization I spun around and took in the rest of the sanctuary: wicker pews, a crimson runner going up the aisle, countless fans whirring to cool the cavernous space. Open French doors lined the building, each with a twenty-foot long white shear swaying in the breeze. Beyond the delicate fabric, the sounds of India were barely discernible. Every so often I could hear a car horn or a chirp from that curious creature that has the body of a chipmunk and the tail of a squirrel. Then I noticed the Indian care-takers. A woman with jasmine in her hair and a work shirt obscuring her beautiful Saree swept in front of the altar. A mustachioed man wearing a graphic-tee polished a crucifix. They provided a startling contrast to the church. Without the thick heat, without the sounds seeping in from outside, and without these devoted Indian people, I could have convinced myself I was in a cathedral in the south of France. My stomach turned.

This was their country. How could they relate to this cold, European version of Christianity? It just didn't make sense to me, with it's lack of color and apparent lack of spirit. It all seemed very un-Indian to me. I expected a slight tweaking of iconography, like the image Matt and I saw in San Thome Cathedral (a glorious picture of Jesus with peacocks at his feet). Any such personalization of the religion was absent.

Then I had an even more disturbing thought. This wasn't built for the people here, but for their over-lords. I ventured farther to examine statues of former bishops of the Cathedral. My least favorite was the depiction of the Rt. Reverend Daniel Corrie, First Bishop of Madras. His was a life-sized sculpture dressed in ecclesiastical robes, with his hand on the head of a little boy. The boy, who was meant to be Indian, looked like one of Thoreau's noble savages with his animal-skin loin cloth and long pony-tail. While I am sure this was created to show the magnanimous nature of the bishop, it revealed the warped and condescending image the sculptor held for the native inhabitants of the colony. No wonder there were only English names on the walls.

I do not want to give the impression that I feel the British acted alone in this. Throughout time powerful nations have sought to control weaker ones. However regrettable, this is a fact of human history. My visit to the church prompted these thoughts, but they have been tempered by other experiences. In most other aspects of life, and of Chennai certainly, the most obvious relic of British rule is the language. As a native English speaker, I am often grateful for that. It is too late and futile to wish away what happened under the Raj. I will, however, remember how I felt in the overly European church . . . especially when I am frustrated with bathroom facilities!

-Abbie