Our 'bag lady' Mavis - the Queen of Bangalore

February 2007

Our travels over the past month have been, literally, “in ruins.”  While many if not most of the ruins do include the ubiquitous Hindu temples, in the last month we have also been treated to an assortment of palaces, forts, ancient cities, mosques and caves – a most welcome change of visual diet.  We made a quick trip back to Bangalore to drop a big heavy bag of “souvenirs” and books that we had collected before heading north.  

Finding somewhere to leave our bag proved more difficult than we had expected – again, expectation leading to disappointment!  The hotel where we were staying, and where we will again stay prior to our flight home, flatly refused to even consider storing our bag.  Furthermore, the maximum length of time a bag may be stored at a bus or train station turns out to be not a month, as we had read in our trusty “Lonely Planet” guidebook, but a week.  We needed six weeks.  What to do…?

 

Feeling a little desperate (the bag is so big and heavy that travelling with it seemed a most daunting and unpleasant prospect, and we were keen to get out of Bangalore, which is a big and dirty city with few attractions), we set off on a search for possible baggage storage sites.  We considered shops – what could we buy that would be valuable enough that a shop-keeper would agree to store our bag for 6 weeks?   At one point we spied a YMCA, and thought that that might be a possibility, or that someone there might at least be able to point us in the right direction.  But no.  No storage, no information, no help.  

 

Carrying on down the street, we came upon the YWCA.  It looked a little more likely.  We passed through its big wrought-iron gates and into a large packed dirt playing field, which appeared to belong to an adjacent school.  At the far edge of the field were two very old houses, and seated infront of the smaller of the two houses, in the shade of a big old tree, were two women, one of whom looked at least as old as the houses and the tree.  We approached, and asked after the manager of the YWCA. 

 

The younger of the two women responded by introducing the older woman, a very slight but sinewy gal in a well-worn and stained matron’s dress, as Mrs. Mavis Ramsbotham, the President of the Bangalore YWCA.   She very proudly pointed out that Mavis was 95 years old, and had been the President of the Bangalore YWCA for 50 years.  Mavis laughed, and invited us to join them for tea.

 

Tea was served by Maureen, the principal of the school, which had in fact been started by Mavis many years ago, and expanded in increments, building by building, floor by floor, and staff member by staff member to its present size of over 1000 students from grades K to 8.  As Mavis talked about the school it was clear that she had a real soft spot for the children, and loved them as her own.  She has over the years provided special care and financial assistance to many of them, for sicknesses and surgeries and for a range of family issues and problems such as are common in India.   She literally lives to give, and loves to give.  The kids call her “auntie.”  She also loves her “girls,” who come from all over India, and abroad, to visit or work in Bangalore, and who stay at the Y for varying periods of time.  One of them has been there long enough that she is using the Y to teach piano lessons.

 

Mavis, Maureen and Maureen’s mother, who was living with Maureen and her daughter in the smaller of the two houses, told us about the school and how it was run, including how it was managing to continue to conduct all classes in English, despite a government ruling that all schools would now teach only in Malayalam, the state’s “official” language.  As far as they were concerned, this would only put their students at a disadvantage when it came to living and working in India, where the only common language in a country of well over 50 different languages and 100s of dialects is English, and where increasingly the language of commerce and business is also English.  

 

So they had found a way around the ruling, and for the moment were determined to ignore it.  This is the most common response by the people of India to all government rulings and laws that they don’t agree with or can’t be bothered to adhere to.  In a country as big as India, the likelihood of getting caught for “breaking the law” is slim to none, unless the crime is murder, in which case slightly more effort might be expended to catch the guilty party.

 

Mavis and Maureen’s mother told us stories of their lives in India.  Mavis was white, her family having emigrated from England during the British Raj.  Maureen’s mother appeared to be of mixed parentage, but her mother tongue was English, and she spoke very little of any of the Indian languages.  Mavis, on the other hand, seemed very fluent in Malayalam, and said she also spoke fair Hindi.  She dealt rapidly and decisively with the several interruptions by various employees, twisting her tongue around the multi-syllabic Malayalam words with no difficulty or hesitation.  She had lived in many different parts of India, and remembered them well.  When we told her of our travel plans, she knew exactly where we were going, and was able to suggest specific places that we should make sure to see.  She even knew which railway stations along our route had “retiring rooms” where we could stay.  She was a storehouse of information and anecdote, a wonderful warm-hearted woman who, at age 95, was clearly still the most central, active and indispensable member of the Bangalore YWCA.

YWCA Mavis - our Bangalore 'bag lady'

When we told Mavis of our problem in finding a place to store our bag, she immediately offered to keep it for us at the YWCA.  Maureen was doubtful, concerned about the security of the bag with the number of people constantly coming and going.  But Mavis quickly resolved that concern by stating that she would keep the bag in her room, under her bed.  It would be entirely safe there, she pointed out, because she kept her two beloved dogs in her room, and they would let no one enter it, especially if she was not there.  

 

We were dubious that she would have enough room under her bed, but she insisted she did, and asked us to help her up so we could go with her to see both her room, and the Y.  We helped her up and, each of us with an arm under her elbow, walked with her to the Y building and up the stairs.  She was slow but steady on her feet, and really needed only minor assistance, in the form of steadying, when climbing the stairs.  She apologized to us for needing our help to walk, commenting that her loss of strength in her legs and hips was the only health problem she had, but she regretted the extent to which it slowed her down and made her dependent on others.  WOW!

 

The Y building itself was a massive old brick and mortar building with high ceilings and many rooms.  It was chock full of antique furnishings of every imaginable kind, including two pianos.  There was an impressive row of floral arrangements, all dried and mostly in baskets, still covered with cellophane wrapping, with notes of thanks and good wishes to Mavis.  There were many old framed photographs, including a formal one of Mavis as a younger woman, possibly at the time she became President of the Bangalore YWCA.  In one corner was an antique toy baby carriage and dolly which Mavis said were hers as a child.  In the carriage with the dolly was a Minnie Mouse doll someone had given her more recently.  They made an incongruous couple.  

 

The entire place had the feel of the 1920’s or 30’s.  There were no mod-cons at all, although there were electric lights and fans, clearly a later addition, as the wires ran exposed along the walls and ceilings.  The “kitchen” was a huge dark room with a variety of old free-standing armoirs that were locked, and a few shelves on which were arrayed a few bits of crockery and some pots and pans.  There was what looked like a stone counter-top, but I didn’t see a sink.  There was definitely nothing remotely like a fridge or stove.  Likely there was a gas ring or fire pit outside, along with a tap and some wash buckets.  When we asked what was in the locked armoirs, Mavis told us they contained the linens for the house.

 

There were maybe five or six “bedrooms” in the Y building, all of which had their own bathroom.  Mavis’ room was quite spacious, but was crammed full with the stuff of a long and rich lifetime.  Every surface and cupboard was filled with dolls and knick-knacks (Mavis collects dolls), all covered with a liberal coating of dust.  

 

We met the two dogs, one old, one young, both of which had been rescued by Mavis from the street.  While the younger one appeared in fairly good shape, the older one was dirty and smelly, with sore-looking patches of irritated skin on its back and legs.  Mavis said that when she got this dog its legs were paralysed.  She took it to the vet and had it treated.  Now it could walk, albeit a little stiffly, but she said it wouldn’t let anyone, even her, treat it in any way.  It did like to be patted, which I did without much enthusiasm, knowing I would afterward have to be careful not to touch anything until I had a chance to wash my hands.

 

Peeking under Mavis’ bed we saw that there was, in fact, a small space where we could stow our bag, and after making sure again that it would be no trouble for Mavis, we agreed to bring our bag over the next morning.  Indeed, Mavis absolutely INSISTED that we do so. 

 

Our visit with Mavis, Maureen and Maureen’s mother is but one of the many “stories” we will remember from this trip – a little glimpse into the heart of India, and the heart of one remarkable Indian woman. 

Here’s to Mavis – may she continue to live a long and feisty life!