In recent issues of this newsletter, we have celebrated some simple acts of kindness that no one gets to hear about.  Now we feature a Theosophist whose service to the TS has gone largely unseen because it has always been performed in the background.

Bernice Croft acted for ten years as Secretary to our International TS President, Radha Burnier, before retiring last February and returning to her native New Zealand. While many of us around the world wish Bernice a happy retirement, we know in fact, that she is as busy as ever, and has really only changed her service address from India to New Zealand where, amongst other community activities, she has resumed her long-standing membership of Soroptimist International, a volunteer service organisation for business and professional women working to improve the lives of women and girls in local communities and throughout the world. Her busy life has also included attending the annual ES retreat at The Manor in Sydney, Australia in May, joining a creative writing group and lecturing at the Wellington TS Lodge.

Bravo, Bernice!

Dorothy Bell, a member of the Australian Mornington Peninsula TS Group and a national member of the TS in America – and one of the many visitors to Adyar whom Bernice befriended – shares memories of Bernice here.

… the President’s Secretary

My first meeting with Bernice Croft…

It was Sunday, mid-afternoon, in early October 2002 and I was in India.  After unpacking my clothes in the intense humidity and heat of the day – and adjusting to my allotted sleeping quarters on the ground floor of Leadbeater Chambers – I trundled over to the dining room seeking the company of those who were also attending the 8-week School of the Wisdom and visiting the legendary Adyar TS Headquarters for the first time. Fortunately, I found a few other weary travellers from Europe, England and even another Australian whose flights had arrived either in the middle of the night or early morning. We swapped stories for a while.

Two Western women approached our table from the little road alongside the dining hall, both in Indian outfits – with those colourful pants and long shirt-dress that we came to know as the salwar chemise. They joined the table, introduced themselves as Bernice and Leonie, and we learned that they were volunteer workers on the compound, both Kiwis – from New Zealand. Bernice explained to a questioner how she purchased her dress materials, her salwar chemise basics at the huge Chennai Silks store in the CBD, and had them made up to her own design specifications by a man out the back of some nearby shops in downtown Adyar.

Not a strand of burnished gold hair out of place, and looking as cool as a cucumber, she answered a whole stack of questions about water and food, shopping and supermarkets, snakes, rabies, jackals, cobras, bats and mosquitoes – and how to handle auto drivers.  She was elegant and the sweeping scarf-shawl – worn over the left shoulder – sometimes found other positions with equal grace.

By comparison, I felt hot and uncomfortable – as well as slightly underdressed – in vanilla summer slacks and cotton top that clung uncomfortably in the heat. Of course, to a student of theosophy, such body-conscious thoughts were totally inappropriate and should never have registered on the radar.

Suddenly she turned around, fixed her eyes directly on mine in a no-nonsense summons and declared, “You missed lunch, so we’ll take the bicycles.”

Surprised, and not knowing what it really meant, or how long ago I had breakfasted on the plane or ridden a bicycle – I said, “Yes, I’d love to.”
So this was my first meeting with Bernice Croft. Sizing up what was really a trivial, personal situation of my own making, she stepped in and did what was there to be done with no concern at the inconvenience to herself or the loss of her precious leisure time on a Sunday afternoon. There she was, checking the tyres, thrusting a bicycle into my hands and then setting off down the road calling, “Don’t worry, just follow me.”

I watched her ride off, admiring her mastery of the machine that to me was like an uncomfortable, militaristic improvisation that refused to co-operate or respond to any effort of mine to gain momentum. As I wobbled in zigzag fashion after her, I wondered how anyone could portray even a smidgen of elegance in such a bodily position – her feather-light shawl, now resembling a long scarf, seemed to trail freely in the air behind her, very much in the genre of the English actress, Maggie Smith, pedalling her bicycle around Scottish laneways in the movie, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie.
“Come on,” Bernice called after a while, checking my progress on the bumpy little road, winding through palm trees and other exotic trees and flowering bushes, past a few scattered buildings here and there, “Just out the front gate for a wee bit.”

I raised my eyes from the roadway to the Bookshop sign and then towards the front gate. To my horror I saw heavy traffic – trucks, buses, taxis, autos, big cars, little cars, motorbikes, scooters, even a bullock cart and other bicycles, all rushing past, changing lanes and swerving in and out, with no space in between.

In panic, I yelled, “I can’t go out there… I’ll be killed,” my voice trailed off in disbelief.

“Just follow me, you’ll be safe,” Bernice sang out.

We passed the security guards through the gates of the walled compound, turning hard left to the edge of the roadway. I breathed a little, assured that we were not actually going to be swallowed up into the mainstream traffic. Nevertheless, the assault on the senses upon leaving the peaceful verdure of subtropical jungle vegetation, had begun. Such a cacophony: the honking and blaring of all types of horns, whistles and unknown others, and the droning and revving of all kinds of motor engines, charging along, expelling heavy diesel and petrol fumes into the odorous hot mix of near invisible swirling dust and dirt.

Bernice was zipping around parked cars, autos, motor bikes, as well as pedestrians – groups of Indian men strolling beside, not on, the broken sidewalks. My lack of skills to negotiate such obstacles left me behind a little and I lost sight of her. Worried, I paused to look around and thankfully heard, “Over here.” She had parked her bike, indicated where to put mine, and was halfway into a sort of shop with display cabinets and a service counter. Lots of Indian waiters hovered as she pointed to the contents in the cabinet, and then we were ushered to a small table and instantly became the objects of curiosity.

A delectable selection of Indian sweets, cakey things, biscuity things, was brought to the table with tea. The journey had ended in cake. What a wonderful reward for effort, I thought, and for an hour I forgot about the return journey.