Raghunath Massey
Delhi, the big metropolitan city and the capital of India, had an ever-increasing population that attracted migratory populace both from far and near.
On the Southeastern border of the city runs the famous Yamuna river that has on its banks, the famous Lal Qila built in 17th century by the Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan. This was the last bastion of the Mughal Empire against the ever-expanding British Raj that started to spread its tentacles after the battle of Plassey in Bengal, defeating the Nawab, Siraj ud-Daulah.
A majestic and by now a century-old bridge called the Yamuna Bridge, built by the Britishers, connected Delhi to the state of Uttar Pradesh. Until the early sixties, Yamuna river was considered sort of an outer limit for the city of Delhi. Many-a-times, while visiting and standing on the ramparts of Lal Qila, Justin had seen this bridge. Its huge structure, which spreads across the width of the Yamuna River, always fascinated Justin’s imagination as a young boy.
It was out-of-bounds for Justin to traverse this bridge; however, once Justin’s curiosity got the better of him and without telling anyone, he decided to venture across it on his bicycle. Even in the sixties, the bridge attracted heavy traffic—its lower span used by cars, interstate buses, trucks and bicycles, all running neck and neck with each other. The bicycle riders were either the people commuting to work to industries and other establishments on both sides of the bridge, or they were milk vendors carrying milk in heavy aluminum containers hanging by the hooks attached on either sides to the rear carrier of their vehicle. Justin’s venture on the bridge travelling out of the city was adventurous and incident-free. He enjoyed the thrill a teenager gets when on such forays without the knowledge of his elders, however risky it may prove to be. Young people get a sense of accomplishment and feel feathers added to their name when undertaking such feats. While making the return trip on the bridge, Justin, beaming with excitement and basking in his own glory, was riding his bicycle with many milk vendors riding in front and behind him as well. As luck would have it, Justin’s sparkling eyes suddenly caught the sight of his father traveling in a company car just ahead of him. Justin’s brain froze and his natural reflexes made him instantaneously jam the brakes of his bicycle. The traffic in front just kept going but all hell broke loose behind him…
The cyclists, most of whom were milk vendors carrying big containers filled with gallons of milk, hit Justin’s cycle and one after another, a row of bicycles fell on the road. In the process, their milk containers hit the road and with the lids flying loose, gallons and gallons of milk spilled on the roadside. There was a big commotion and a lot of confusion, for a few seconds; no one understood how and why everything happened. However, once the initial shock was over, the big burly villagers riding those bicycles were all over Justin screaming ‘Oye! Cycle kyun roki?’ (‘Why did you stop the bicycle?’). It was only his young age, which saved him from being thrashed that day.
The Dumping Ground
The stretch of land on the other side of the bridge towards the borders of U.P. extended another fifteen miles and was sparsely populated. Even in the early sixties, Delhi, which was densely populated, always faced a massive problem of disposing off the daily refuse. Therefore, the government of the Union Territory of Delhi decided to use the low-lying areas around the Yamuna river and this fifteen-mile stretch along the G.T. Karnal Road as a dumping ground. As a result, a strong stench along the G.T. Road hung permanently.
After graduating from school and a few years from the initial debacle of his adventurous journey on the Yamuna Bridge, Justin got to ride these roads on a regular basis. On completion of high school, Justin got a summer job with Rajpal and Sons, a paperback publisher situated on G.T. Karnal Road. He now rode his bicycle every day to his work place. While coming back in the evening, he had to travel on the side of the road where the city dumped its pilling refuse. The nearly three-mile journey on that road used to be a voyage through hell. Because of the putrefying garbage, the area was a breeding ground for flies, insects, bugs and more bugs. Every cyclist riding through that area needed to cover his or her face with a handkerchief or piece of cloth. It was also essential that one’s shirt be completely buttoned-up and sleeves needed to be rolled down. Wearing elastic bands around the cuffs of trousers too was a lifesaver from the onslaught of the army of insects that swarmed the whole area. All these precautions were essential to save cyclists from the bugs that would otherwise creep inside their clothes. However, the riders would still get completely invaded by them on the outer surface of their clothing.
Another scenario, which horrified cyclists on this track, was when a garbage tractor-trailer drove in front of them. With the filth loosely covered by a trampoline and its free end (there was never a tractor-trailer with all four ends tied properly) wildly flapping in the air, the garbage carried by the vehicle used to—literally—fly in the face of the cyclist that followed behind.
The Bible says that in hell, there would be crying and gnashing of teeth, but here on this side of G.T. Karnal Road, one dare not open the mouth to cry or gnash his teeth lest it be filled with bugs and flying garbage. Disgusting … every evening the bicycle ride used to be nauseating and stomach-turning.
By the time the eighties rolled in, the situation had completely changed. There now stood rows of newly constructed buildings on that stretch of the dumping grounds.
The cycle riders of the seventies had almost become extinct, with their place effectively taken over by the fast-moving and zigzagging two-wheeler scooter, and the typical phat-phatias, the smoke-spewing monsters of the eighties. Vehicular smoke, which eternally hung in the area, had effectively replaced the earlier stench of the bygone era.
Pastor Raghunath Massey
On this side of Yamuna lived Raghunath Massey who was the newest addition to the Delhi Christian Fellowship group that by now had established its presence in the city for nearly five years.
Pastor Massey was an urbanite with a rustic look. Working in the city corporation office, he had a permanent greasy look on his forehead. His lisp, when pronouncing the letter ‘h’, gave rise to many stand-up comedians in the church, who took pleasure in mimicking this Pastor behind his back.
Outwardly, the senior circle of pastors and ministers that included Brother Eric, Pastor Bose, the Goodwins and Justin himself, discouraged these jokesters but when left to themselves, they could not resist the temptation of having some hearty laughs.
Raghunath Massey treated the seniors with a smile while his juniors always had to be content with his serious side. He would be most attentive to the suggestions and opinions of his seniors and would easily resolve to agree with the consensus; however, by the time such decisions needed implementation, his earlier resolve would shift altogether in a different direction floating towards his own ideas, overriding the earlier show of unanimity.
The congregation in his church liked Justin very much as a speaker, and as such, on many occasions, he went there to preach. On that particular Sunday also, Justin was well received by the congregation. After the service was over and people had dispersed, Raghunath Massey took Justin and Pearl to a member of the church who was still waiting for them.
The woman member was suffering with severe spondylitis of the neck. The problem was so severe that she was unable to move her neck without experiencing excruciating pain. Justin and Pearl, along with Pastor Massey, laid their hands on the woman. Justin prayed in the name of Jesus, rebuking the pain to leave the woman to which all responded with an affirmative ‘Amen’. They had prayed with great faith but Justin could not gather the courage to ask the woman as to how she felt; and no one broached upon the subject directly. After some time, Justin and Pearl left Raghunath Massey’s place and drove to their home.
On reaching their house, Justin’s mother told him that Pastor Massey had called a few times and had requested them to call back, as soon as possible.
‘Brother, Praise the Lord’, was the first sentence that Raghunath Massey said
excitedly on receiving the returned call from Justin.
‘Brother, the woman you had prayed for is healed. After you two had left, the woman had some fellowship with my wife and while she was talking, she felt that she was able to move her neck freely and the excruciating pain was gone’.
Justin and Pearl immediately went down on their knees and thanked God for His hand of mercy.
God was stretching forth His hand to give them an increase in their Church ministry.