Krupabai Satthianadhan, "Saguna: A Story of Native Christian Life" (1895) (Full Text)
SAGUNA: A Story of Native Christian Life
by Krupabai Satthianadhan
First Published in English in the _Madras Christian College Magazine_, 1887-1888
Published as a book poshumously by Srinivasa, Varadachari and Co., Madras 1895
First translated into Tamil in 1896
I
In the following pages, I shall in my own way try to present a
faithful picture of the experiences and thoughts of a simple Indian
girl, whose life has been highly influenced by a new order of
things—an order of things which at the present time is spreading
its influence to a greater or lesser extent over the whole of her
native land.
I was one of a family of fourteen children, my father and mother
being Brahmin converts to Christianity. My father died early,
leaving us to the sole care of an orthodox mother, who though her
faith in her new religion was strong, was still full of Hindu notions
of things. My three eldest sisters were all married and settled in
life long before I was born, and being one of the youngest of the
family, I was left alone at home with four boys for companions.
I had little opportunity of knowing some of my sisters, for their
visits were few and far between, and I was very shy with them,
several of their children being even older than myself. There was
one sister, however, who remained longer in the family, and looked
after our infant education. Her influence over us was very great,
and she did much to mould our life and character. It would be
impossible for me to overestimate what we owed to her. Those
who know her intimately bear testimony to the beauty of her
character, her learning, her sweetness of disposition, her piety, and
her personal influence. I seem to see as in a dream her sweet
womanly picture, so full of gentleness, dignity, and love, as she
used to sit in our midst. The greatest pride and joy of our hearts
was to secure the seat nearest to her, and, if possible, grasp in our
hands a bit of her saree. In her sweet and simple manner she would
tell us of the star of Bethlehem, about the wise men of the East,
and many other incidents related in Scripture. These simple
Scripture stories she clothed in beautiful imagery of thought and
language, so that each scene rose vividly before our infant minds;
and we would sit spell-bound, gazing with wonder, as impression
after impression stamped itself on our minds, while evening
shadows closed around us. This is one of the few vivid pictures
that I can recall of my earliest years. The rest of childhood’s
memories are indistinct and blurred. Yet even now in the midst
of the stern realities of life some soft whisper of the wind or
evening’s dewy breath awakes the hidden spring of old recollections, and I seem to see through the long gone years smiling faces, bright eye, heads nestling round a sister’s knee, lisping tongues,
hushed voices strangely blended with the murmur of waves,
creepered windows, rustling leaves, and the faint glimmer of stars.
Then come those later days when I found myself growing older
in the midst of brothers more or less of my own age, sharing their
boisterous games and trying to learn what they were learning at
school, in fact trying my hand at everything which they were in
the habit of doing. This was a hard time for me, for unless I could
do exactly as my brothers did I was no good and would be sent
away disgraced. I had, however, a champion in an elder brother
who was looked up to by us all with great respect. He was very
clever, had a study all to himself, received the visitors, undertook
the correspondence of the family, taught our Sunday lessons, and
kept us in order. We stood very much in awe of him, and thought
ourselves highly honoured when he called us for a walk with him.
He used to let me come into his study or step out, and check the
boys if they were in any way rude to me saying it was very wrong
and ungentlemanly. As days went on I grew tired of the company
of my younger brothers and would scarcely leave my elder
brother’s study. I had no taste for boisterous games, and I grew
to be more a companion to this brother. He began to direct my
thoughts to learning, showed me what books to read, infused new
ideas into me and told me much about great men, heroes, patriots,
philosophers, and about Greece and Rome. He was constantly
reading, and it was my greatest delight to sit by him with a book
in my lap for hours together on a Saturday, and listen to his
snatches of instruction and his stories. My brother was tall,
handsome, full of fire and vigour, and I gradually came to recognise
his noble character and his deep piety. My other brothers were
very jealous of me, but as I was the only girl, it did not much matter. They would often peep in and when they saw my big book and my solemn air they would have a hearty laugh, and make out that I was just learning to read from a dictionary.
My mother, good in her own way, thought that I would be terribly spoiled by having such freedom and learning things that were of no use to a girl. She used to call me to help her with the cooking, which I did not at all like, and would say: ‘What a girl you are to go and trouble your head with books! What is the use of learning for a girl? A girl’s training school is near the chool (the fire over which everything is cooked), and however learned a girl
may be she must come to the chool.’ And when I was at work,
busy cleaning, blowing, and doing little odds and ends near the
smoky fire, the boys would triumph over me greatly. They would
peep in and chuckle at me, and say: “That’s right, mother, keep
her near the fire. Yes! a girl must be useful. Get ready our food,
sister, and call us when it is ready. Don’t let her come out, mother,
she is no use outside.’ I used to resent their behaviour, and I had
my revenge on them. In the evening which was my free time, a
tall lamp was lit in my brother’s study, and there they used to sit
round the lamp and puzzle their heads over grammar, Latin,
arithmetic, and algebra. I generally managed to seat myself beside
them with a pencil and a slate and pretend to be very busy and
quiet. My place by their side was always disputed as I was not a
boy and in their minds had no right to the study; but after great
disputes my mother and my elder brother, Bhasker, decided that
if I was quiet I might stay. I tried to pick up little snatches of
knowledge, and employed my time in working out the sums on
which my brothers were engaged, and in getting their lessons by
heart. I often knew more than they did, so that when they
stumbled at a word or a sum I used to put them right at once to
their great disgust. In this way I had my revenge on them, though
my triumph was often but short-lived. Conscious of defeat they
would push me out bodily and say: ‘Mamma! she is disturbing us’.
Our summer vacations were sometimes spent in the country,
in a picturesque part of the Deccan, where we had a little home
of our own. I have a very vivid recollection of one of the earliest
of these visits. It was talked over and planned by us children a long
time before it came. Two months seem a long time in childhood,
and our heads were full of what we were going to do in the country.
This being my first visit, at least the first remembered one, my
brothers took great delight in telling me of the wonders of the
place. The grapes were described as hanging in bunches almost
within reach of the mouth, the mango trees were laden with the
juicy fruit so tempting and so near, there was an unlimited supply
of guavas and jungle-fruit; and then would come the ominous, ‘But
ah! who is going to take you for a walk? You will have to stay
at home with mother.’ This was too bitter a disappointment, but
with great difficulty I managed to extract from them a reluctant
promise to take me out. Such descriptions of the place prepared
me for something quite unlike what I had hitherto seen, but I can
never forget my surprise when we first arrived at our country
home. My whole being took a great bound, as it were, as the wide
expanse of land and sky unfolded itself to my view. I felt the
freedom of nature; nothing seemed too great to attempt here; all
was on a grand scale. The distant hills had caught the skies. Why!
I felt that I could mount and catch them too. I went bounding
everywhere and was filled with new life and spirits. After some
days I became somewhat sobered, and my elder brother Bhasker
promised to take me to a very wild and rocky place. It was on a
dewy morning that we went out on this eagerly looked-for walk.
The half-risen sun was still veiled by thin mists and clouds. There
was a rich tint of colour on the wreaths of mist overhanging the
rocks and hills. The mild light of the dawn had not yet penetrated
into the densely wooded haunts and the rocky caves of this hilly
country. It was still dark and dim, and only the outlines of the trees
and rocks could be discerned, which gave a weird shadowy
appearance to the whole scene. The newly awakened birds were
all life and merriment. A loud twitter filled the whole place, as the
birds kept answering each other from tree to tree. The morning
wind, the thin, light freshening wind, came along the hills and
through the trees in soft and gentle puffs, and we walked together,
hand in hand, up and down the mountain path. I was hushed and
speechless; the sight, so new, thrilled me with wonder. The
mountain path with its loose stones moss-grown and dark, the trees
loaded with foliage, the twisted gnarled trunks springing from the
midst of granite rocks and stones, the huge serpentine creepers
swinging overhead, and over it all the faint glimmering light of
dawn,—all this formed a picture full of living beauty, light and
shade, to be never forgotten. We ascended a little rocky eminence,
and were looking at the wonders round us, the mists and the
shadows, and the play of the light over all, when suddenly the scene
changed, and the sun emerged from behind a huge rock. In a
moment the whole place was bathed in light. Did the birds make
a louder noise or was the echo stronger, for I thought I heard with
the advent of light quite an outburst of song and merriment? My
brother in his usual earnest way remarked that it is just like this, shadowy, dark, mystic, weird, with superstition and bigotry lurking in every corner, before the light of Christianity comes into a land. When the sun rises, he said, all the glory of the trees and the rocks comes into view, each thing assumes its proper propor- tions and is drawn out in greater beauty and perfection. So it is when the sunbeams of Christianity dispel the darkness of superstition in a land. He also told me about great men called poets,
who went into raptures over the wonders of nature, and repeated
the following lines from Milton:-
These are thy glorious works,
Parent of Good Almighty.
Thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair,
Thyself how wondrous then.
His face beamed with joy and fervour as he repeated these lines,
and I felt that the glory and the majesty of God were here around
us. My brother described some of the works of the great poet and
grew eloquent over some of the grandest passages in Paradise Lost.
I did not understand much of what he said, and in my simplicity
thought Satan quite a hero in his having waged eternal war with
heaven.
Our summer home was in a mountainous part of the Deccan,
grand and picturesque with its pointed rocks, hidden caves, deep
caverns, foaming, rushing torrents, bold, barren, breezy uplands
and dark wooden lairs. Many a noble stream has its origin there;
the Godavery claims this region as its birthplace. In olden times
it was the stronghold of Mahratta robbers and tigers. There was
a well-known tradition to the effect that part of the country was
haunted. And indeed what is not haunted in India? Every grove
has its spirit, every stream its nymph or naiad, every dark spot its
ghost, and every hill its goddess or ruling deity. But this was the
abode of the ghost of a real suttee who had lived and died in the
place. The tradition is nearly a hundred years old, and it may be
interesting to many of my readers.
The story went that this woman was rich and beautiful, the wife
of a banker. She was early taught by her father to read and write,
and her learning was considered great. It was, however, the cause
of all her after-misfortune. People in their mysterious dread of
learning then had always held it unnatural for a woman to be clever
or in any way learned. It was thought that the very power in her
for acquiring knowledge was the gift of dreaded unseen agents, and
she was supposed to hold conversation with spirits and to point
out places where ancient treasures were hidden. This woman had
the misfortune to lose her husband who was the richest banker in
the talug. He had married her when she was five years old and he,
a man of forty; and all had looked upon her as very fortunate in
becoming the wife of such a wealthy man. And that now she had
lost him, she became the most accursed of women. The long pentup rage of the Brahmins, to whom this woman was detestable on
account of her learning, now found vent in the form of cursing
the unfortunate widow. She was accused of being in league with
the evil spirits and of exercising jadu or sorcery on her own
husband. These accusations were enough for the enraged relations
of the husband who heaped on her all the cruelties which were then
perpetrated on a poor Hindu widow. She was dragged away from
the corpse of her husband; people shouted in her ears that she was
the accursed, the white-footed of the house, and her jewels were
torn from her. Whether it was weariness of life or the fear of
coming persecution, or the great moral force of the priest that
decided her to become a suttee we know not, but the moment she
rose and uncovered her head, which was looked upon as the sign
of her willingness to become a suttee, and thus follow her husband
to heaven, there was a great burst of joy, and all her jewels were
replaced. She was. decorated as a bride for the altar and led to the
river. But her strength had left her, and she could scarcely stand
in the face of the coming death. She was relieved of the ceremony
of distributing her jewels to the priests and throwing cowvies to the
bystanders. In the meantime, on the banks of the river, far away
from the town, a mandapam was erected with flags floating over
it and bunches of camphor hanging from its sides, and in the centre,
under a canopy of red cloth, was laid the body of the man wrapped
in rich gold and silk. People had assembled from all quarters; and
hither at the very last moment was brought the suttee in a death- like swoon. Besmeared with saffron and dressed in her grandest saree she was placed by the side of her husband. Suddenly a scream was heard above the din of the tom-tom and the hum of voices. The priest made haste to light the camphor and the mass of combustibles that was heaped on the pandal, and in a moment the
whole was ablaze. People were heard to call out Hari! Hari! with fingers in their ears; and the noise of the tom-tom increased. But suddenly a form was seen to bound through the fire and rush out with a shriek. The people in alarm fell back, and the form fled screaming to the hills. None had the courage to pursue it, for it
was the swttee and her voice, if heard, brought six months’ illness.
She went safely over hills and through the thickest jungles to a
remote dell, but what she did there no one ever knew. But she
might have lived the life of a recluse with birds and animals for
company; and it was whispered abroad that she freely practised her
sorceries, and the effect of her powerful spells was felt for miles
around. All the worst calamities, such as night blasts, death by
lightning, and epidemics, that visited the surrounding villages were
ascribed to her evil powers. Many are the stories told even now
by the shepherd youths in their nightly gatherings round the
blazing fire, about the solitary figure or the unearthly noise heard
at night. And such legends are believed and repeated with childish
credulity by old and young.
It needed very little imagination on our part to people this
wierd-looking spot with ghosts. There were countless dark haunts
with grim-looking red figured gods looking out upon us, and the
noise of the wind as it came moaning through the trees filled us
with awe. In our walks my brother and I peeped into the ‘Robber
cave’. This cave has a story connected with it and the reputation
of containing buried treasures which are guarded by a huge snake,
but I shall not attempt to tell the story. Our conversation on that
occasion was very profitable. My brother seemed to feel that he
had in me a sympathetic listener, and under the influence of this
feeling, his usual reserve gave way. He talked of doing great things,
and, forgetting that I was a mere girl he poured out the ambition
of his life and grew eloquent over the great work that had to be
done for India. He was a Brahmin, he said, a Brahmin to the
backbone, and he would show his countrymen what it was to be
a real patriot to live and die for one’s native land. I was lifted out
of myself, and the very eagerness to understand and sympathies
made me almost grasp all that he said; and when he stopped, and
looking into my eyes said: ‘And you will help me? Won’t you?
You will speak boldly to your countrywomen and yet be as your
sister was, modest, gentle, and kind, a real woman?’ I explained
with a glow of pleasure and pride that if he thought I could, I would
do whatever lay in my power. Such was our conversation during
one of the many walks which we had together. The recollections
of these walks even now come back to me, drowning all other
thoughts. Those were the days when for the first time was
awakened within me the feeling that life is not a gilded dream. They
were happy days, those. There was a simplicity, a charm, a
freshness about them; and noble thoughts and high ideals seemed
a natural accompaniment to some of those grand scenes. Life’s cares
and worries were unknown; there was nothing to interrupt the
enjoyment of nature. We planned expeditions which we seldom
failed to carry out and to enjoy. We crossed rushing torrents, scaled
almost impassable rocks, and used to feel all the glow and happiness
of discovering land unexplored. Often our mother would be
induced to accompany us, and the charm of her sweet contented
presence cast a halo of peace and happiness over every resting place.
We would go off and would return to her with our hands and
pockets full of all sorts of curious things. She with a smile would
receive these things and treasure them and would tell us their
Indian names, and often a story or anecdote connected with them.
We, of course, were proud and happy. Our happiness was never
complete without our mother’s presence, and we seemed to feel,
when gathered round her in the evenings in our little cottage home,
that where our mother was there was our all.
II
Before proceeding further with my story, I think it necessary to
give a short sketch of the early history of my parents, with special
reference to the spiritual struggles through which they had to pass,
before giving up the religion of their ancestors. This will throw
some light on the influences that were at work in our simple home,
and will show how our lives and characters were moulded. The
pictures that I am about to present are more or less reproductions
of those depicted to me in their simple, unaffected manner by my
mother and by my eldest sister, who entered into my father’s
thoughts and feelings, and who, though a daughter, was a companion and a friend to him.
Shivagunga is a typical old Indian town, with its venerable river,
its broad ghats, extending on both banks of the river, its temples,
and curiously built houses, and its neighbouring groves and
Buddhistic caves, inhabited by fat degenerate remnants of the rishis,
the bairagis. Even now, there are to be seen in it few signs of
western civilization, and it is in every sense orthodox and Indian.
One day, on the river banks of this town, two girls were seen
standing a little distance away from the ghats. It was the time of
the yearly flood and the swollen river looked grand in its mighty
proportions. The banks became gradually submerged. The river
rose higher and higher. The force of the current grew stronger, till
it carried along with it jungle trees torn up by their roots, huge
logs, remnants of huts, and even animals, signs of a great inundation
somewhere in its course. The sight was highly picturesque and
imposing. The river seemed to spring from where the sun was
setting. Its mass of shining water was blended with the radiance
of the dying sun in the far west, and the sun, the sky, and the river
presented one dazzling picture. It looked as if the river was a child
of the sky, that had leaped from its ethereal home, and was
traversing its proud course, nothing daunted by the majesticlooking hills that stood solemnly watching from a distance. Nearer
the town the carved bulls and rock temples that once stood bare
on the banks were nearly submerged. The trees lay half in water;
their branches, drooping heavily, formed whirlpools great and
small, while the water broken in by branches and trunks of trees
came in small eddies at one’s feet. It was an attractive sight, and
people came rushing from all directions to have a look at the river.
The sun was sinking in the west. Its lengthened rays turned
everything into crimson and gold,—the temples on the banks, the
endless domes and cupolas, the long line of waving reeds and trees
in front, and the tops of the houses.
They were slight girlish forms those, that were seen on the rising
ground against the glowing sky; their kalshis (brass pots) lay at their
feet and the hands of each were fast locked in those of the other.
Both were Brahmins. One was rather tall, thin, dark in colour,
oval-faced and handsome. Her lithe form was full of vigour and
her face showed great decision and energy. The other was not so
striking in appearance. She was smaller in stature but fairer, with
now and then a tinge of red stealing into her cheeks, with large
nervous eyes and a sweet face. From the high ground on which
they were standing the fair one threw a garland into the river and
muttered a few words.* Both watched it eagerly. It whirled and
was nearly entangled in a branch. At last it got safely away and
went rapidly floating down.
‘See Radhabhai! you have got your wish at last,’ said the tall dark
girl to her companion, and she nearly kissed her in her joy.
‘But,’ said Radha, wiping her brow, as if the effort had cost her
much, ‘think, Lakshimi, what a disgrace it will be when the time
does come. You know mother-in-law put Rs10,000 worth of jewels
on me at my wedding, and who is there to give an account of all
that now? She will demand the jewels, and now my mother is dead.
Who will explain everything to her? My brother’s wife wishes me
to stay here. I work for her, and what will she care if I should be
left here at my brother’s house? I shall be considered so unfortunate. Oh! I would rather die,’ and the girl bent down and began
to cry.
Lakshimi drew her near, and in the gentlest manner possible told
her not to cry, and said: ‘Let your mother-in-law come, and I will
tell my mother to speak for you. She can’t demand a gift. What
is the saying: “Giving a gift and taking a gift is just as much as turning a Muhammadan next year?” Why! you were married in your cradle, and who has supported you all these years? Look! the water is rising to your feet. The sign from Gunga mata 1s still fresh,
and I am going to throw my garland in. Wish me success.’
‘Why! You Lakshimi’, said Radha, with a quick look and
wondering eyes, ‘you have everything you want;—a kind motherin-law, a nice house, no work, a mother quite near, and ever so
many jewels. I wish I had half of all these things,’ and she heaved
a little sigh.
“You don’t know,’—and Lakshimi made an impatient gesture—
‘you can’t understand. There is one thing that turns all this into
gall and wormwood,’—and here she dropped her voice to a
whisper—‘T actually met the woman yesterday, and she laughed at
me—the white-faced kydashin (witch). I felt I could kill her. And,
would you believe? She had my new ear-rings on.’
‘That is dreadful,’ said Radha, ‘but what you wish, I shall wish
too.’
“Death! Radha! death! nothing less.’ So saying, Lakshimi, with
a sweep of her hands, threw the garland as far out into the current
as she could, and watched. It whirled and whirled. ‘Fate is against
me,’ she exclaimed. Soon the garland was caught in a floating log,
and then with a bound went shooting down the stream. “That is
good!’ and she clapped her hands, and, bending down, looked
triumphantly into Radha’s glistening eyes, and tear-stained face.
‘Ah! little one, you think it is wicked, and won’t smile. You are
too good a creature and that is why fate triumphs over you. Now
we must be going. Where is your kalshi? I will fill it with water
and carry it for you. Your poor back must be almost broken with
work. What is this bundle here? Have you been washing all this?’
‘Yes, I came here purposely before you,’ said Radha, ‘so that
I might finish all this washing and have a little time to talk with
you. Now, even if I am late, Bai won’t scold me.’
‘You little schemer! Shiva! Shiva! what a sister-in-law you have
got! But wait! I had almost forgotten something. Have you had
anything to eat, dear one?’ So saying, Lakshimi put into Radha’s
hands a few fried cakes wrapped in a plantain leaf. Tears came into
Radha’s eyes, and Lakshimi looked inquiringly at her.
‘I won’t tell you what I overheard. This is your ekadasi (fasting
day), when your sister-in-law is in bad spirits, but she shan’t starve
you. You must eat this here. Sit down. I must see you eat.’ With
this Lakshimi made Radha sit down and herself sat by her. ‘Now
you can take the remainder home, though well, I know, you little
rogue, that if you do take them home you will give them all away
to Gopala.’
Radha smiled a shy smile, and after eating a few cakes, and
drinking some water, rose to go. One carried the water pot and
the other the washed clothes and they went happily together. The
two formed a little world in themselves amidst the large, bustling
world around them. None knew their feelings, their joys, and their
sorrows. The impenetrable veil which was worn the whole day
long, was only laid aside at the beck of friendship, whose magic
touch opened their hearts. What a wealth of love and affection,
misery and sorrow it disclosed! A minute more and the veil was
drawn again.
On their way home they passed groups of women with bright
kalshis at their waists and exchanged greetings. At last they stopped
near a large pimpul tree, with hoary branches waving high, and
leaves which rustled as if with gladness, while the water rushed
close by. Under the tree was a raised platform on which stood redcoloured gods, and near it there was quite a body of men sitting
and chatting together. Seeing them, the girls stopped, covered their
heads, smoothed their sarees, replaced their kalshis, and hurried on
with downcast, modest looks. They passed the ghats, the fashionable rendezvous of the town, cast hurried glances around, and
entered the town.
Nothing is so purely oriental as the scene on the banks of an
Indian river. Both sides of the river bank of Shivagunga seemed
alive with a host of men-and women. The old decrepit sanyas:,
bending with a chamboo in his hand was seen by the side of the
bairagi, hideous in his long bundled-up hair, ashen features, and
japa garlands. The solemn-looking students—young men of the
town—were seen walking about in groups, book in hand, gossiping
in low voices, and assuming an air of importance before the female
world. The shaven, scantily-clad widows mingled with the staid old
dames and gaily attired damsels, who, to use an Indian simile, had
the beauty of the lotus and the grace of the deer; and all were busy
washing their clothes, rubbing their brass pots, or procuring a fresh
supply of water. There were also seen, coming and going, bands
of artless little creatures just-verging on maidenhood, light-hearted,
free and light as air, with ringing laughter; chiming steps and saucy movements, exchanging their mock-pots and tossing their garlands in the air. Here the best garments were displayed, the newest jewels were shown off, and hither under pretence of work, came the
greatest gossips of the town. The merry chime of the brass kalshis,
the ringing anklets, the hum of voices and the subdued laughter,
blended with the sound of the rushing waters, while from a distance
were heard the noise in the temple, the ringing of many bells, and
the blowing of horns. All the time the swollen angry river rushed
on unmindful of the concourse, and the gigantic trees of the
tapawanum (meditation grove) from their lofty height looked
solemnly down on the scene.
The night has fallen on Shivagunga, and with it silence, deep and
unbroken, interrupted only by the distant bark of a dog or the
faintly heard howl of the jackal. The temple and the river banks,
scenes of so much bustle, lie all deserted and desolate. Each cottage
holds its own, and none dares stir abroad. The simple evening meal
is over, and father, mother, and children lie silent in the arms of
sleep. The little narrow street in front of Radha’s house is almost
dark, for the moon is very young, and its faint beams only make
the darkness more confusing. In the veranda of the small house two
children are eagerly watching for someone. They appear now and
then looking far down into the dark street. It is cold, and the girl’s
little padur® covers the little brother drawn near to her, while she
whispers to him: ‘Wait, Gopala, a little more and Daji will come
home.’
‘Why can’t Daji come soon, Radha?’ said the little brother,
shivering.
‘He has work in the temple, Gopala, he has to wait tll the last
comers go away, and then he has to walk back; the distance, you
know, is great, and he is so weak.’
‘I am cold,’ said the boy, wearily laying his head on his drawnup knees.
‘Come a little nearer, and I will chafe your feet and make you
warm.’
Soon the little fellow was fast asleep, nestled in his sister’s lap.
She, thus left alone, sat watching and casting long eager glances
down the street. A feeling of unutterable loneliness stole over her.
She thought of her dead mother, her old asthmatic father, too
feeble to work, and her little brother by her side thrown helpless
on the dark lonely world—a world which seemed ever to grow
more wretched to her. There was no chance of escape, the cruel
words had seemed more cruel than ever that day, the drudgery
more wearying; and life seemed to hold out no hope, no promise.
Her head drooped down and tears fell fast. Suddenly, in the midst
of all this gloom, the thought of her brave little brother trying to
keep up beside her cheered her like a ray of sunshine, a feeling of
tenderness stole over her, and, stooping down, she kissed her little
sleeping brother and wept. The motion woke him from his sleep
and he looked inquiringly around.
‘What is it, Gopala?’ she said, stroking him to sleep.
‘Why does Bai hate me, Radha? I dreamt that she was beating
me, and pushing me deep down into a well when I got up.’
‘Hush! How dreadful! Don’t talk like that, dear,’ said Radha,
looking around. ‘It was only a dream. But look here, Gopala, you
must not tell brother everything that takes place in the house; he
hates you for that.’
‘He says he will beat me if I don’t; and how can I tell a lie?’
‘No, you must not tell a lie. Fate is against us, brother. Lie
quiet.’
‘Ah! There is Daji at last,’ said both, springing up and running
to meet their father. All at once they were supremely happy, and
began to shower questions on the old man who smiled and said
that all was well.
‘But why did you sit up so late, my children? The night is cold
and dark. You ought to have been asleep by this time.’
“You must have something to eat,’ said Radha, ‘and we like to
watch for you.’
‘I knew you would be tired and hungry,’ said the brother.
Radha ran in for the supper, while her brother took his father
to his room, spread his bed and began to be very busy. Soon the
simple supper of chapatis (wheaten cakes) and stewed vegetables was
laid before him; and the children sat and watched their father eat.
‘Had you enough, children?’ said the old man, stroking them.
“Yes! yes!’ said Radha, ‘you eat, father.’
‘But,’ Gopala added, ‘you know Bai was very cross today. Radha
had a beating for...’ Before he could finish, Radha had laid her little
hand on his mouth and stopped him.
‘No, Daji, it was all right. I did not mind it,” said the brave little girl, afraid of grieving her father, and hiding her wound with a smile. Supper over, the three slept, and the stars watched over
them, though fate frowned, and the world was desolate.
At this point it is necessary that I should say something about
Radha’s early life and character. She belonged to the grahastha sect
of Brahmins, and her family was a very old one in the country.
Her early days were spent in great poverty. An eldest sister was
married, it is true, to a rich banker, and Radha herself was married
in her cradle to another rich man’s son in Devaghar, but in spite
of this, Radha’s poor mother found it difficult to make both ends
meet. Their father was a weak-minded man and a great spendthrift,
and he often left the mother and children for months together
without any provision. The family made great efforts to keep up
an appearance of respectability, so that outsiders never knew how
much they really suffered. One day Radha and her two little
brothers were left at home as usual. Their mother was away trying
to raise some money on a big brass tub belonging to the family.
The children had little or nothing to eat the whole day long, and
were eagerly looking out for their mother’s coming, when one of
the boys was seized with cholera. The children did not know what
to do. They felt they dare not cry or tell the neighbours. Radha’s
first impulse was to run over and tell her eldest sister, a child like
herself, who had come to the place with her husband’s family a
few days before. The sister’s husband overheard the two girls, and
said: ‘What? Child ill with cholera? I will come;’ and off he went
with a few medicines which he gave to the sick boy. It was getting
dark, and the large rambling house looked quite desolate. Just then
Radha’s mother came in. The news of the child’s illness was very
distracting, but with an effort she calmed herself, saying that she
had just gone over to the river to do some washing and had been
delayed somewhat. Then in an assumed unconcerned tone she said
to Radha: ‘Light the lamp, child, you ought not to keep your
brother-in-law in the dark.’
The girl was astonished. She knew that there had been no oil
in the house for the last four days, and exclaimed almost in a loud
tone: ‘You know there is no oil, mother.’
The mother pretended not to hear but to be searching for
something in the dark. Her heart was bursting. She did not know
how to avert the coming shame. The son-in-law guessed the state
of affairs in a moment, and left the house quickly, saying that he
had some important work to attend to, and that he would look
in towards night. In about ten minutes a load of provisions, enough
to last them six months, was brought in by coolies and lett at the
door. The mother guessed whence it had come but said nothing.
The delight of the children knew no bounds. The sick boy fell into
a deep sleep, the bad symptoms passed away, and the next time
the brother-in-law looked in he ordered a little hot gruel to be
given.
Time went on, and one day Radha lost her brave mother, who
fell a victim to cholera. The poor heart-broken girl went with her
little brother and father to the house of an elder brother in
Shivagunga who was in fairly comfortable circumstances. Here
they were entirely dependant on their brother and his wife, who
was not at all a pleasant woman, and who made their stay with
her very uncomfortable. She had the reputation of possessing an
obstinate will and a passionate temper. The neighbours had the idea
that she was possessed, and she was known to have been exorcised
several times. Her uncontrollable temper sometimes threw her into
fits, and while in this condition she was a very dangerous person.
At these times she neither ate nor drank, but sat glum and -
obstinate, ready to fly into a passion at the slightest provocation,
and threatening to jump into a well or do something desperate. Her
husband’s work took him away for months together, and on his
return he tried to get all the news from his little brother. When
anything was particularly wrong he did not scruple to use the allpowerful remedy of a sound beating. Radha slaved for her sisterin-law and her children from morning to night, and bore the abuse
and beatings quietly, thinking that by hard work she might win
the goodwill of her sister-in-law and soften the heart of this person
towards her father and brother. But it was the same day after day.
The sarcastic manner and cruel tone never altered. Her little
brother, as we have seen, was even more disliked by the sister-in- .
law on account of his truthfulness and candour.
It is easy to see what an effect such a life as this must have had
on Radha. She was by nature highly sensitive, tender, affectionate,
and loving, and suffering brought out some of the noblest traits
in her character. She was ever ready to forgive an injury and bore
no malice or ill will towards anyone, but cheerfully endured
whatever hardship was laid on her young shoulders.
The only diversion that Radha and girls of her age had was in the way of ceremonies and temple visitings during festival times. The cramped houses and the drudgery of housework were trying
to the children, and the girls longed for freedom and a little diversion. The parents and friends took pride. in dressing and
decking them on such occasions. This leads me to give a brief
description of one of these ceremonies.
The streets of Shivagunga were long and narrow with rough
stone pavements. The houses were massive and densely packed on
both sides of the streets. The upper storey, if there was one, was
always low, and the half-railed windows looked like square holes
in prison walls. The only cheering part of the house was the
veranda in front, a sort of raised open shed, though even here the
roofs came low down and admitted but little light and air. The
general gloomy appearance of the town was, however, partly
relieved by the wells at the corners of the streets. Round each well
was quite a large square, an open breathing space on which the clear
blue of heaven smiled: But how soon the mind gets accustomed
to its home, loves it, and cherishes it, though it be but a little fourwalled space! I am sure the girls of Shivagunga would have been
filled with indignation had anyone said that their houses were small
and uncomfortable. Yet the monotony of their lives needed to be
relieved by events such as the ceremony I am about to describe,
and which takes place when a girl reaches the auspicious twelfth
ear.
On this occasion the girls flocked to the house of the Daftardar.
Each carried on the palm of her hand a brass plate filled with
auspicious gifts of sugar, betel, kunku (red-lead), rice, coconut, and
a choli (a short jacket). All were dressed in their best, and as they
stood on the veranda waiting for the door to be opened, it was
easy to see that they did not all entertain friendly feelings towards
each other. It was the old story over again,—the poor looked down
upon and the rich inordinately proud. But the effort of each not
to be eclipsed by the other was very amusing. Some had companions to whom they whispered, but those who had none looked
around in a defiant manner, and the richer the girl, the prouder
and more insolently she bore herself. They were like petty rajahs,
each a kingdom in herself. But the meaner and humbler girls were
determined not to let the richer girls have the better of them.
They would nudge their neighbours, whisper something to the
disadvantage of the rich ones, or cast meaning glances at them and
laugh in their faces. The latter would turn away with ill-concealed
sneers or look supremely unconscious. This afforded great amusement to some of the humbler and more retiring girls, among whom
was our little Radha, gay in her best attire, and protected by the
towering form of her friend, Lakshimi, who delighted in many a
cut and a sneer. Lakshimi passed for a wit, and a circle was formed
round her, and the little girls laughed heartily at her remarks.
‘See,’ she would say, looking at a proud girl with a gold belt
on, ‘somebody is all belt here’; or ‘Have you seen the grandmother’s
necklace?’ referring to a ponderous old-fashioned one which a little
girl seemed very proud to wear; or “Dear me! that glance would
wither us all did we not remember it is only the karkan’s (writer’s)
daughter who is trying to pose as if she were a munsiff’s daughterin-law’; or ‘What jewels! I believe the whole family must have been
robbed of theirs’; or ‘if she only had colour she would wish to sit
on our heads’; and so on. Such remarks were continued till the door
of the veranda opened and the girls were admitted. The room was
low, dark, and cool, and at the further end of it sat a little girl about
their own age, a picture of happiness. She was richly dressed and
her head was covered with a curiously worked wreath of flowers.
As the girls entered, she smiled a little important smile, for her head
was turned with all the presents that were given to her. The girls
laid their presents on her lap, gathered round her, and encouraged
by the elders, attempted to sing a song, which, however, soon came
to an untimely end; and they all laughed heartily at their failure.
This little incident served to break the ice. They felt they were all
on one level now, and they shyly talked and handed round the
plates of betel leaves, sweetmeats and flowers. Each decked her
neighbour’s hair, and accompanied the decoration with such
remarks as the following:- “What a profusion of fine hair’; ‘A rose
will become you, you are fair’; ‘Dear! Dear! such black strings, you,
dark-coloured mouse, I must put a yellow Shewanti in yours’, to
which someone would quickly add: ‘Black, lovely black, a dark
network with shining pearls’; or “What a low forehead! Expect a
bad mother-in-law, my dear.’
The decking over, they went in a body to the river. This was their holiday and they enjoyed it in going over the ghats, besieging the temples, or marching round the pimpul tree of the town full of glee. When they passed their husbands, the little wives’ eyes would droop anda light banter would proceed from the other girls.
“Hush! Kashi’s lord is passing. Kashi! have you ever looked your lord in the face? Ah! he is nice to behold, such eyes and a face like a god. Try once.’
‘There are five lords passing, they are mighty clever, they have
books. Hallo! Rakhmi, your husband is in love with you. Why?
he actually looked at you. Why do you hide your face? Look up,
there is nobody here now and no one will eat you up.’
This kind of talk was carried on till evening when the girls made
haste to go to their various homes. Often there was a little lurking
dread in most of their hearts, and all expected some rough treatment
after so much enjoyment.
Poor girls! what can we expect from such impoverished, stunted
minds? Their mothers are no better, and their fathers have very
little to do with them. Their starved minds have nothing to feed
on except such vain silly thoughts. Should they indeed rise high
it would be to reflect on a portion of the Shastras which they may
have heard read to them in the evenings—a bewildering combination of the marvellous and the incomprehensible. No wonder then
that they grow vain, flippant, inordinately fond of money or
stupidly proud of their hoarded gold and jewels. No wonder that
they look upon the time when they display their jewels and make
an unmeaning expressionless show, as the grandest moment of their
lives. The refined, civilized mind shudders or looks down with
pity on the exhibition as a relic of savagery; and yet these are the
daughters of India whose lot is considered as not needing any
improvement by many of my countrymen who are highly cultured
and who are supposed to have benefited by western civilization.
The coming of Radha’s mother-in-law was a great event in the
little world of Shivagunga. Two palanquins were seen approaching
along the main road with the accompanying loud and monotonous
cries of ahem! ahem! and dusty-looking bullock carts followed in
confusion. All the people came out as the palanquins and carts
passed. The children gaped and followed. The women stood at their
doors, and the tongues of the gossips wagged freely. Radha herself
was sweeping the room, and ran out broom in hand to find out
the cause of the noise down the street. She saw the procession
coming nearer, and to her astonishment she heard the little boy
that directed the group say in a shrill excited voice, ‘Here is the
house. Stop! Stop! This is Dajiba’s daughter and Vinayakpant’s
house.’ Radha’s head swam for a moment, and she realised that
her mother-in-law had come at last. ‘Oh!’ she thought, ‘how poor
I am, and how rich they all seem to be,’ and she went and hid
herself. Radha’s sister-in-law changed her saree hastily, and went out
to receive the visitors. She heard someone calling out in a pompous
tone all the time: ‘Is there no one in the house? Where have all
the people gone to?’ After the visitors had been received and were
seated, the carts untied in front of the house, the palanquins placed
in the veranda, and the bearers dismissed, Radha was called. She
had to fall at the feet of the visitors, of whom there were three.
She did not know where to stop, but went stupidly from one to
the other, till the mother-in-law called her and said: ‘So this is
Radha, and the mother is dead, and the father and she are here.
She looks like a kersoonee (broomstick) with nothing on her, no
jewels, not even a quarter tola bead. Well you must get her ready
soon. I cannot stay here. I am returning from a pilgrimage and will
start tomorrow early in the morning. Here, put something on the
girl,’ and she placed a couple of necklaces in the sister-in-law’s hand.
‘I cannot have a girl looking so bare and ungainly. I suppose all
her jewels are gone.’ Radha’s heart beat wildly. ‘Oh! what a stern
looking woman,’ she thought to herself, ‘and to have to go so soon.’
In that thought all her hardships, all her sufferings melted away.
The house in which she was living, working, and suffering, seemed
a precious home to her. Suddenly everything became endeared. It
was the place where her father was, where her brother was, where
her childhood had been spent; and with grief rising in her breast
she went into a dark corner upstairs, and holding her head in both
her hands wept bitterly. Whose was the little hand that stole into
hers? Whose was the head that nestled by her? And why did sobs—
heart-breaking sobs—burst out afresh? They were alone together,
Radha and her brother, and she held him and sobbed out: ‘Who
will dress you, feed you, my brother, when I am gone? Will you
wait alone for Daji in the dark cold night? Oh! what shall I do?
When shall I see you again?’
The little boy’s grief was even greater than his sister’s but he
was silent. They were not left long alone together. Radha was
required in the house, and she went about working with suppressed
sobs and a heavy heart. Evening came, and her brother followed
her mutely to the river, for every moment that she remained was
precious to him. His attachment to his sister was inexpressibly
strong. He would sit for hours together by the window, and watch
for his sister’s coming. He was happy when she was in the house,
and often tried to lend a helping hand to her in her many duties, when no one was by. His sister would be a princess in his house when he grew old, he used to say. No one understood them as they understood each other. They had their whispered confidences, and
when anything went particularly wrong with Radha, the silent look of his eyes would do much to strengthen and encourage her.
News of the mother-in-law’s arrival spread like wildfire, and
Radha’s friend Lakshimi was in the street looking out for her. ‘So
it is true, Radha; you are going away. Oh! how desolate I shall be,
alone here. What shall I do on the river bank, in the temple, in
our familiar place by the tamarind tree? It would seem as if it were
all coming to eat me up.* How empty your place will be, Radha,
in the ceremonies! How I shall miss your face, my sweet one! They
say your mother-in-law is a grand but stern-looking woman. Look
here, Radha, if she is ever unkind to you, you come away. My
mother wall keep you. She has no daughter except me and you
know she is fond of you. Be sure to send me news of yourself when
my uncle goes to your new home. You can tell him anything. I
shall long to hear from you. Oh! Radha, I cannot let you go. I’
wonder if they will ill-treat you. What will you do, in that strange
place alone?’ Thus conversing they approached the river, and
Lakshimi laying her hand on that of her friend said: ‘Here before
Gunga mata before Suriya Narayena | say that you are my own
sakhi, my friend, till the end of my life. Now do not fear. Your
brother will be my brother when you are gone and your father
mine,’ and she drew little Gopala to her breast and the three wept.
The bond of friendship where it exists in these primitive Hindu
homes is very strong. It is the only support’ that the heart has in
the midst of many of the greatest trials of life. True as steel the
friends cling to one another in times of trouble, and when there
is affliction all personal considerations are laid aside, and the
ordinarily selfish nature of the Hindu shines brightest in the utter
abandonment of self. He throws himself heart and soul into the
work of love, and tries to fill the gap that affliction has created.
Early next morning there was a great deal of bustle. A new saree
was given to Radha by her brother, and a new jacket by her sisterin-law, who, when putting it on her, said that the house would be
empty without her. Her brother’s children clung to her, and it was
very hard for the mother-in-law to force her away. Her parting
from her father and her little brother took place in their little room
and was painful in the extreme. At last all was over. The curtain
falls and the scenes of her childhood, as if reflected in a magic
mirror, quickly pass before her and disappear one after another,
while her straining eyes are fain to linger over them a little longer.
The load of grief presses heavily upon her. Her head droops.
Nature asserts itself. She falls into a deep sleep. Wake her not.
Whisper not ‘tomorrow’ to her. Sleep, let her sleep. ‘Sufficient
unto the day is the evil thereof.’
Our Radha completed her journey in a strangely bewildered
dreamy way. For the journey was full of religious associations, and
her mind was elated and refreshed by the sight of many a sacred
temple, tank, and river of which she had heard so much. That pure
crystal gurgling spring was caused by mighty Rama’s arrow. That
rugged hill was a stone that fell from Ravan’s hand when chased
by Rama, and that cave in the midst of hills, overgrown with
creepers, was Seetabai’s arbour during her exile; and Radha’s grief
was somewhat relieved by the medley of thoughts suggested by
such scenes. She also discovered a little of her mother-in-law’s
character during the long journey. Half furtively and eagerly she
noticed how her mother-in-law talked and looked, watched her
manner, her actions, her smiles, and came to understand her ways
even quicker than an older person would have done; for whoever
guards oneself in the company of a child, and who remembers how
quick of observation a child is? When Radha’s judgement and
reason failed, her instinct came into play in the way in which quick
aversions for some and likings for others seem to be intuitive in
children. She had neither an aversion nor a liking for her motherin-law, but she felt very much in awe of her. She felt that with
this stern creature, a mistake once would be a mistake always and
would not soon be forgiven or forgotten, and she was mortally
afraid of causing offence or making a mistake. The stern hard face
seemed dreadfully unrelenting; and yet those large eyes were
capable of softening, for Radha had caught a tender pitying look
once when in her overanxiety to do something well she had
blundered sadly; and in her childish way she reasoned that there
was something in her mother-in-law’s expression that she could
trust. At least she felt safe as long as she was good, with this strange,
stern, queenly woman.
On their arrival there was a tremor of expectation on Radha’s
wistful face. She was to see her husband for the first time; and when
the palanquins stopped and a young man came out, Radha could
not help looking askance at him, though to all appearance her back
was turned towards him. The stolen glance revealed a tall young
man, the expression of whose set face was difficult to decipher. But
there was pride mingled with determination and reserve in the
manly face before her, in which a high forehead and a prominent
nose were most conspicuous. He cast a lofty unbending look on
the girl before him, and turned round as if she was unworthy of
any further attention. The look almost withered her, and she
followed her mother-in-law closely into the house.
III
Radha’s stay in her mother-in-law’s house extended to two years,
which were to her two hard years of stern unmerciful discipline.
She very soon discovered that the house was governed by a hard
system of rules and a rigorous carrying out of set principles, and
that transgression of the least of these was visited by severe punishment. She found a companion in her husband’s eldest brother’s
wife, a strong-featured, obstinate-looking young girl of fifteen, who
was already a mother. This girl felt the galling chain of subjection,
and took pleasure in rebelling against the settled order of things.
She made it her set purpose from the beginning to mislead Radha
and get her into scrapes, and thus annoy her mother-in-law. She
found out very soon that Radha was a simple-minded girl who
would quietly submit to any amount of work and suffering which
she herself would not bear for a moment. She tried to make Radha
suffer for her faults, and taunted the girl in return for her
simplicity, weakness, and want of character. Radha felt the injustice
- of many a stinging taunt and punishment, but she bore them all
meekly, not wishing to make a scene or make an enemy of this
daring creature, to whom lying, stealing, and plotting came as
naturally as talking and laughing. The mother-in-law greatly
disliked the eldest daughter-in-law, and though Radha never joined
her, the old dame was suspicious of their most innocent talk, and
was hard and cruel to the younger girl. At such a time all seemed
to go wrong with Radha. The chamboo was not rubbed to the
required lustre; the sweeping was badly done; and she made
frequent mistakes in serving and arranging the food, which always
formed part of her work. This was a most painful task. She had
to stand aside at meals and be ready with the food, and if she was
caught looking at the plates, she was sure to be called a greedy,
voracious girl and accused of casting an evil eye on the food so that
it could never be digested; or if she happened to look the other way, one of those on whom she was waiting was sure to say: ‘See! [have no bread or vegetable on my plate,’ and the poor girl would be blamed for stinting them and reserving the food for herself. She
could not stand in front of them because she would be called bold and immodest. At last she found a safe place where she could stand and observe without being observed. This was behind a door,
through the chinks of which she used to peep during the intervals
of serving.
One little incident the poor girl felt very hard to bear. One day
her mother-in-law placed in her hands a big can of oil, whilst she
herself hastened out to attend to some things connected with her
village property. Radha could scarcely carry the great can to the
store, but felt proud at having been trusted with it. She was just
entering the room, when she felt herself pulled from behind. It was
Kashi, the other daughter-in-law, and before Radha was aware Kashi
had dashed forward, seized the can from Radha’s hand, and filled
her chamboo with the oil. In vain Radha cried and remonstrated.
Kashi was inexorable. ‘Oh what shall I do? I shall get a beating,’
said poor Radha at last in despair, and sat disconsolately by the can.
‘Nonsense,’ said Kashi, “Why need you get a beating? Just say
that you don’t know what has become of the oil, and nobody will
be the wiser for it; for what could you do with oil, you simpleton?’
‘How can I tell a lie?’ cried Radha.
‘Then hold your tongue, you blockhead, and no harm will come
to you. You may starve but I will not. See! I will fry a quantity
of nice cakes and you shall eat them too. You are almost worked
to death. Come and lie down in my room; there is nobody in the
house now, and I will not allow anybody to wake you. You seem
to avoid me, but for what reason I cannot tell.’
Radha uttered not a word, but her heart sank as she dragged the
can to its place in the room. After this what could she do? Could
she tell her mother-in-law? No, and yet she could not hide the
secret from her. Already she felt it written on her face. How could
she meet those eagle eyes? They were sure to discover all. A little
while afterwards, when the promised cakes came, Radha mechanically tied them in her saree, and tucked them in her waist, thus
doing just the very thing that would enable the mother-in-law to
discover all. Soon the mother-in-law appeared, and, noticing the
girl’s peculiar look and the bundle near her waist, pounced on her,
and pulled out the tell-tale cakes. Radha turned pale and red by
turns, looked aside with tearful eyes, and stammered something.
‘Why are you frightened, child? What are these cakes?’ said the
mother-in-law gently; and then as the whole thing dawned on her,
her expression changed to one of great sternness, and with a
constrained bitter voice she asked: ‘Where did you get these cakes?
Did you steal the oil that I gave you to keep?”
Radha ashamed, turned round and with a great effort said: ‘No,
Kashi gave me the cakes.’
‘And how did Kashi get the oil,—from you or from the room?’
demanded her mother-in-law, her anger rising with every word. By
this time the whole household was around Radha, who, trembling
all over, feebly replied: ‘From me,’ adding, ‘but she forced it from
me.’ This remark was useless, however. ‘There is a conspiracy,’ said
the mother-in-law in a rage, ‘I knew it would be so,’ and she
belaboured the girl and asked the others also to beat her. ‘If she
had really forced it from you why could you not have told me?’
and the beating increased with every fresh burst of abuse.
In the meantime Kashi ran in a hurry to the neighbouring
pleader’s house and sent his wife to stop the beating. ‘It is not her
fault,’ said Kashi trembling, ‘it is mine. I took the oil and they are
beating her for it, but don’t tell them so.’ Then added Kashi: ‘She
deserves it, the soft-hearted, frightened goose. Could she not have
eaten her cakes quietly?’ The pleader’s wife prevented Radha from
receiving any further beating, condoled with the mother-in-law,
and left the poor girl crying and moaning in a room. But her cup
of bitterness was not yet full, for just at that time who should come
in but people from Shivagunga. Radha smothered her sobs and
tried to listen to the news. The memory of her little brother was
fresh in her heart and somehow this trial recalled stronger than ever
his quiet, sympathetic ways. She missed the hand that used to steal -
round her neck, and help her to bear her sorrows, and that seemed
to say with more than the power of words: ‘I know you are
suffering wrongly and I suffer with you. I feel for you, my Radha.’
But hush! What was that cry? Why has the girl bounded up as
if pierced by an arrow, and then fallen with a deep thud on the
floor? Could she have heard the news—the news of her little
brother’s death? They thought she had merely fainted, and they
tried to hide the news from her waking eyes. The girl scanned their -
faces for a while, and then memory supplying the missing link, she
turned towards the wall and gave vent to her heart-rending grief.
Her last support was gone, her joy had forever fled; the one little link that bound her to life, that made her suffer and live, was snapped. What had she to care for now? All she loved was gone
and she was left behind. The little angel form was forever fled, the little hands would never more cling round her neck, her brother’s eyes would never again look into hers with their mute love and
sympathy. Who would now understand her? Everything was
gone—forever gone. Such were the thoughts that wrung her heart,
and left her no hope, no comfort except the blind comfort of
despair. In her madness she thought she would make an end of her
life. She would follow Gopala, her only idol, her only joy, and she
got up after hours of grief and hastened to the well in the backyard.
It was evening. The house was silent. Nobody could see her, she
thought, as she clung to the wall before letting herself down. All
of a sudden somebody grasped her with an iron hand from behind,
lifted her lightly, placed her down and sternly ordered her in. She
looked up with fright and saw it was her husband. In a moment
she had thrown herself at his feet and was piteously crying: ‘Don’t
beat me, I was mad. I did not know what I was doing.’
“Get in at once and I won’t tell anyone,’ said the same stern
voice.
Radha wrung her hands in agony and cried: ‘Fate! Fate! it is all
Fate!’
That night Radha witnessed a remarkable scene. She had slept
heavily in the dark room, and rose towards midnight with a strange
creeping sensation about her, which was intensified by hearing
some low moaning sounds. Her superstition was roused, and for
a long time she lay quite still, straining her ears to catch the sound.
At last she looked out and saw with surprise a bright light
streaming from a neighbouring room. She had forgotten to sleep
with her mother-in-law and was lying in the dark store-room all
alone. The sound of a human voice, however, gave her courage and
she rose to peep into the room and then ran to her mother-in-law.
She was more than astonished, when on looking into the room she
saw her husband in an attitude of great humility and grief. The
words that he uttered seemed to hold her with a power and her
whole soul was absorbed in listening. The words fell on her ears
with an untold balm and healing. He was praying. The haughty
proud head was bowed in reverence and humility. She stole back,
treasuring the words in her heart. What could they mean? Why
were they so soothing? ‘O God my father! Thou that lookest into each
heart....’ ‘Then God 1s our father,’ thought the little girl, and she
wondered more and more. Was her husband also unhappy like
herself? Was he also dissatisfied with life? Was he sorry for her?
Such were the questions that arose in her mind, and she also
muttered: ‘O God, my Father,’ and went to sleep.
Towards the close of her two years’ stay Radha was on her way
to her eldest brother’s house at Shivagunga. News had come that
her father was ill, and Radha’s mother-in-law was going towards
Shivagunga to perform a vow. Radha took the opportunity to go
with her. She was at first forbidden, but the girl’s fears for her
father were great, and she longed to see him. Her mother-in-law’s
vow had to be performed on foot and Radha said she would walk
too. The mother-in-law, moved by her importunity, tried to use
some gentle words. ‘Child,’ she said, ‘you will be happy here. Why
do you wish to come? Your father is not so ill. I shall not be here,
and you will have the entire control of the house. Don’t come.’
The girl, however, persisted, and at last the mother-in-law gave in,
not without secretly wondering at the girl’s innocence and foolishness. ‘What girl,’ she thought, ‘would not like to stay in her
husband’s house and have the sole command of everything?’ Just
a moment before starting, however, Radha saw her husband
beckoning to her. This was the first time he had ever taken any
notice of her, and with a great throb of fear and nervousness she
went, her head down and her saree covering nearly the whole of
her face. He took her aside and whispered: ‘Radha! look up. If you
stay I will give you this,’ and he held up a pretty nosering. She
scarcely looked at him, but shook her head and ran to her motherin-law. The journey was a very happy one for poor Radha. Her
mother-in-law was not very cross, and appreciated the girl’s efforts
to please her. Stern and prejudiced as most mothers-in-law are, she
was not wholly devoid of some of the principles that keep the
ignorant and superstitious in the path of truth and virtue. She
would never do what seemed wrong to her, in spite of all
temptations. Her treatment of Radha from an outsider’s point of
view was indeed objectionable, but we must make allowance for
the Hindu notion of a daughter-in-law, who is regarded as a lying,
scheming wretch, ever ready to work any amount of ill to a
mother-in-law, stealing the affections, when she can, of a good and
dutiful son, turning like a serpent on those that have fed and
clothed her, trying every means to get the power which the mother-in-law wields, and after once getting the upper hand, turning the mother-in-law out. Such prejudices were of course
deeply rooted in Radha’s mother-in-law, and it went against her grain therefore to be kind to the little girl. Notwithstanding this she never let herself be blindly guided by prejudice, and in her inmost heart she loved the little girl, whose future was confided
in her, and who, she felt, was guileless and true.
The fourth day brought them very near Shivagunga. Radha, tired
and weary, was anxious to enter the town, but to her surprise her
mother-in-law determined to rest in a mango tope on the way. Old
memories came rushing back on Radha, and she wept as she went
about her work of preparing food. The mother-in-law watched her
for some time, and calling her made her sit down, and for the first
time in her life caressed the girl and kissed her. Radha frightened
at this, looked into her mother-in-law’s eyes. Surely some great
calamity had fallen on herself or else the hard stern woman would
not have been so kind. Her thoughts naturally flew to her father.
‘Any news about Daji?’ she asked tremblingly.
‘No, child, don’t think of Daji, you are tired and you must eat,’
said the wonderfully changed mother-in-law, and she actually
coaxed Radha to eat, and made her bathe in the hot water that had
been prepared for herself. Poor Radha trembled at this unusual
demonstration. In vain she asked the servants who were sent on
generally a day in advance if they had heard any news of her father.
The next day came, and in her eagerness to reach her old home
Radha went far ahead of her mother-in-law. Her excitement was
so great that when she saw the house she rushed in exclaiming:
‘Daji, Daji! Where is Daji?? But Daji was gone. He was no more.
He had died two days before. But we must draw a veil on what
followed.
We will now go back to Devaghar where Radha’s husband
Harichandra was. A little scene in front of the missionary’s house
at this place will throw light on what I am about to relate.
The party in front of the missionary’s house that warm August
evening was a large one. There were ladies young and old reclining
on chairs and languidly fanning themselves. The cup of tea scarcely
enlivened their flagging energies. The broad river rolled past the
bungalow and the sun was just about to set. The men stood leaning
against the spreading tree and with a show of interest discussed the
weather.
The ladies sat yawning behind their fans, when their attention
was drawn to an individual who was coming towards them. He
looked dusty and tired and came straight to the party under the
tree. He had scarcely seated himself before he began in an excited
tone: ‘Just guess what I have to tell you. You will not believe me,
but it is the truth, and it has surprised me as much as it will surprise
you. I have just met a Brahmin youth, who, judging from his
conversation, seems to be a man of deep learning. He has evidently
mastered the most important works on philosophy and science. He
possesses a Bible and seems to appreciate some of the truths
contained in it though he was very reserved on the subject with
me, and asked me for certain books on early Christian history.’
Interest was roused in the languid, sleepy circle, as never before
in Devaghar had a Brahmin been known to have read the Bible.
The people were all anxiety to hear more of the young man and
poured question after question on the speaker.
‘Was his family good?’
‘Yes, he belongs to one of the wealthiest families here.’
‘Where did he get all those clever books?’ asked one of the ladies.
‘Oh! there was a bookworm of a Collector here some years ago
who fell in with the lad one evening, and was so taken up with his
intelligence and spirit that he placed every means of acquiring
knowledge within his reach, and lent him books from his own
collection. The Collector was a recluse and an infidel. He did not
believe in missions, but he helped to rouse the spirit of inquiry in
this young man, who is now not satisfied with anything short of
the truth. The young man comes of a remarkably religious family,
I hear, and I don’t know how the Brahmins will take it all.’
The ladies sighed, and said that the Brahmins were a bigoted race
and hard to get at. But still the news was exciting and the whole
evening was spent by the ladies in making little plans of their own
and talking about the commotion that would result from the
conversion of a Brahmin youth.
The young man who was the subject of this conversation was
no other than Radha’s husband Harichandra. The missionary was
correct in his estimate of the young man’s intellectual powers. He
came of a remarkable family. His ancestors were well known as
stern, upright, devout people, impregnable as a rock, and obstinate
in the highest degree where principle and right were concerned.
Their strict conduct was well known, and even now several stories
are told of them; how one had the power of detecting anything
like deceitfulness or untruthfulness in those in his company by a
mere look of his eyes, and did not scruple to send such a one away
with a sharp word of admonition; and how another’s religious
fervour led him to build a temple, still existing, to Eknath and to
put a gold kulas on the top of it. But the most remarkable member
of the family was Harichandra’s grandfather: The story goes that
one day he was so lost in his tapascharia that he did not notice the
presence of thieves who were ransacking the family treasures, and
that this had such a powerful effect on the thieves that they fell
at the good man’s feet and asked for his blessing, saying that they
would never rob a saint. Whether these stories be true or not they
show that the family was held in high esteem by the people of
Devaghar for their remarkable uprightness and whole-hearted
devotion. For two years or more Harichandra was passing through
a mental struggle unknown to anyone. For a time he was contented
and proudly happy in his study; but he soon found out the
emptiness of mere intellectual pursuits. He craved for something
which would satisfy the longings of the soul—the internal spiritual
aspirations for a better nature and a nobler life. He was fully
convinced that since God had placed in him these desires there
must be a way of satisfying them, and that man, whatever his
failings may be, had not been created for selfish ends. He has a
nobler mission to perform than that of satisfying his own personal
inclinations. All higher natures come to know this truth. It is not
by reasoning that they find this out; but there is an irresistible
tendency in them, an emotional impulse that reveals to them this
view of life. Harichandra came to know that the mere gratification
of intellectual curiosity did not in any way help him to satisfy his
inmost longings for a nobler and a higher life. He was also at the
same time impressed with the helplessness of man, his utter
inability to put aside self and thus give free play to his altruistic
longings. In a word, the sinfulness of man became a stern reality
to him. No wonder then that with these thoughts weighing in his
mind, Harichandra turned eagerly to the study of religion. The
Christian religion was of course beneath his notice. It was a religion
to which he had a natural aversion. It was the religion of the
mlechas. With patriotic ardour, therefore, but with a mind determined
to find out the truth wherever it might be found, he fell to the
study of his own religion, and for a time revelled in the thought
that Hinduism was superior to all other religions. Every phase of
thought through which he was passing found expression in the
books of Hindu philosophy and religion he read. At one time the
fascinating philosophy of pantheism would take hold of him, and
turning to the Hindu Shastras, he found there to his astonishment
slokas, mantras, and hymns that fitted in beautifully with this view
of the universe. At another time a wave of scepticism and doubt
would sweep over his restless mind. Is the world real? Are things
what they seem? Is there after all something substantial, some
substratum behind those things that appeal to our senses? Such
questions would puzzle his disturbed brain, when lo! in his Vedas
and Shastras he found a system of philosophy that chimed in
beautifully with this sceptical tendency. All was maya—an illusion;
matter, nothing but a series of sensations and mind, a series of ideas.
It was the many-sidedness of Hindu philosophy that attracted the
imagination of this youth, and he was for a time oblivious to the
fact that this very many-sidedness implied contradictions, which
his common sense should have repudiated. There was, however,
one phase of thought for which he did not find expression in the
religious works which he studied with so much avidity. It was the
thought that the universe may after all be created, guided, ruled,
and sustained by an infinite power, who has definite relations to
man, the highest form of creation. In other words, it dawned upon
him gradually that the idea of a personal God, one whom we can
look upon in the relation of a father was entirely absent in the
systems of philosophy which he studied. ‘Oh what a consoling
thought it would be’, said he to himself, ‘if such a relationship
between the infinite and the finite, the all-wise, the all-perfect, the
infinitely good creator and the imperfect, sin-stained and fallible
mortal were possible. How easy it would then be for man with
the help of this higher power to satisfy his nobler longings and
aspirations! But ah! why is it that this view of the relation of God
to man which seems to me to be the most true view, inasmuch
as it helps me to satisfy that impulse which I find so strong within
me—why is this view entirely absent in the Hindu religion?’
This thought took hold of Harichandra very forcibly, and he
found it impossible to shake it off, and gradually there dawned
upon him the fact that the very many-sidedness of the Hindu
religion, which he so much admired before, was after all its greatest
imperfection. One day, with these thoughts running in his mind
he was walking through the streets of Devaghar when he heard
from a distance-the sound of many voices singing. This attracted him to the American Chapel. He had never before witnessed a Christian service. The solemnity of the congregation and their devotion struck him very much. The hymn ceased. The congregation knelt down to pray, the missionary whom Harichandra was
watching very minutely also knelt, and with an accent clear and
forcible repeated the Lord’s Prayer, the whole congregation, young
and old, repeating each word with equal clearness and devotion.
The words seemed, as it were, a new revelation to him. ‘What?’
said the young man to himself, ‘the despised Christians holding this
view as an article of belief? Ah! there must be something in their
religion after all.’ It was this little incident that led Harichandra
to study the Christian Scriptures which he once thought so much
beneath his notice.
With that determination to get good out of everything, which
was characteristic of Harichandra, he first studied the gospels. The
simplicity of the narrative and the divine pathos running through
the whole story struck him as being entirely unique. Everything
seemed very different from the books on religion which he had
read before. The cardinal doctrine of the Christian faith—God
taking upon himself the nature of man—did not prove a great
stumbling-block, for the Hindu mind is quite familiar with the idea
of incarnation. But he could not help noticing a vast difference
between the Hindu conception of incarnation and the Christian.
He turned over in his mind the thousand and one stories concerning Krishna, and was impressed with nothing but the utter
aimlessness of the whole conception, the incredibility of the actions
attributed to Krishna, whilst he was at the same time shocked with
the low tone of morality pervading the whole. How very different
was the Christian conception of the incarnation! Here was the
infinite, which man through endless ages, has with his feeble
faculties tried to grasp with the object of lifting himself up from
this sin-stained world to a higher, nobler, and divine sphere,—here
was the infinite revealed in all its perfection, thus showing the
possibility of an indissoluble union between God and man. Here
was revealed that grand soul-inspiring truth that God is not one
who sits far away from the grasp of human hands and the human
mind, having nothing whatever to do with the work of His hands
and leaving everything to an inexorable fate, but that He enters
into the closest relationship with every one of His creatures even
with the meanest of them, that even the birds of the air are not
forgotten by Him, and that with the example set before Him by
the God-man Christ, man can rise to heights of moral grandeur
and spiritual perfection that were never scaled before.
Full of these pregnant thoughts Harichandra would take long
walks by the river or wander aimlessly through the woods that
skirted the town. Do what he would he could not shake these
thoughts away. The vivid pictures of the ministrations of Christ
would occupy his mind, and words that Christ had uttered would
flash before him pregnant with new meanings. One evening in the
gloaming and amidst the fading glory of the western sky, all that
he had read came before him with a new and forcible light. He
saw the God-man now stooping by the side of the despised blind
beggar with a word of comfort for him, now healing the sick, now
consoling the grieved, now raising the fallen with those magic
words: ‘Thy sins are forgiven thee, go in peace’, now with a Divine
light penetrating into the inmost recesses of the hearts of those
whom the world looked upon as past redemption, and laying bare
to hypocrites the hidden spark of goodness and real love there. By
the side of these rose other pictures:—Christ’s communion with
God on the mountaintop; His smiling presence in Bethany,
surrounded by those whom he loved; His grief by the side of the
dead;{the God-voice piercing the shadows of the grave and the
unknown regions beyond, and demanding the dead back to life;
the scene on the Mount of Olives when with His prophetic eye
He saw the distant future, foretold the fall of the temple, and
depicted those fearful scenes that would follow; and last of all, the
scene on Calvary rose vividly in the mind of Harichandra. He hid
his face and groaned: ‘Such love! I will follow Thee, my Saviour. Here
before my country, my home, my people, I give up myself to Thee, a
whole-hearted sacrifice. Accept me, my God. All I have I leave to follow
Thee.’ That moment was one of deep anguish. There was a painful
wrench at his heart when he murmured ‘all’. He saw the proud
woman that gloried in calling him her son, now heart-broken at
his feet. Her cries of entreaty rang in his ears, her face turned,
averted from him as from some heinous pollution. His wife stood
before him, the shy look of virginity still in her eyes, her sweet,
wistful face tear-stained and more wistful still, her idol broken,
shattered at her feet, dishonour and disgrace staring her in the face,
her gaze of pathetic appeal directed towards him. ‘Turn back, my
lord, your wife implores you. Break not my young heart. I gave it to your keeping, and will you crush it and give it back to me dishonoured in the sight of all? Is this your duty? Is this your promise?’ and he groaned in spirit. Ah! if there were only less
sacrifice. But the words came forcibly: ‘Leave all and follow me.
He that does not acknowledge me before the world, him will I not
acknowledge before my father in heaven.’ The stern voice exclaimed: ‘My duty is clear. Even now I will go and make my
declaration. Perish all self and the world. But Oh! the ties,’ and
his iron frame shook with emotion. ‘Yes! let the ties also go. My
lord, I follow Thee.’ Two stern, manly tears rolled on his cheek
in a moment of agony, and he sprang up ashamed at this display
of weakness, and walked with a firm step home, his mind fully
made up.
The sacrifice was complete. He had consecrated his body and
soul to God and to His service, and he felt, in the unique selfrenunciation, an exaltation of the soul which passed his comprehension. His pace quickened, a new sense of freedom came over
him, he seemed lifted out of himself, up above all the world. A
wild delirious joy shot through his frame, and his heart glowed
with a new-found happiness. He could bear anything, suffer
anything. All difficulties vanished. He tried to count his troubles
but they melted in air. ‘What more? What more?’ he cried with
fervour, ‘what more can I bear for Thee, Christ, my Redeemer,
my Saviour.’ St. Paul’s remarkable conversion came vividly before
him; ‘the flakes fell from his eyes.’ ‘They have fallen from mine.
I see everything different. Life has a new meaning now. Suffering—
there is nothing that merits the name of suffering now,’ and in this
transport he looked round him before descending the high barren
ridge he had ascended. There lay round him the world sleeping in
the misty evening light, silent and still except for the sighing of
the wind and the hum of the insect-world from the valley below.
The woods, black and massive on the right, were seen with the
gleam of the broad silvery river flashing through them. On a
neighbouring ridge, high against the still softly lit sky rose the tall,
waving, feathery bamboo. At his feet was Devaghar wrapped in
mist. Behind lay the mountain solitudes—long ranges grey and
shadowy, on the peaks of which a soft aureole of light still lingered
as if each had caught and retained a part of the evening light and
was reluctant to part with it. In the heavens above a faint sparkle
here and a glimmer there were seen as the infant stars rose from
their twilight beds. A lovely world this, wrapped in its soft
dreamland light. Oh that it were Iovely in another sense, that there
were no guilt, no sin to mar the God-given peace and beauty of
the human soul, and he walked on and murmured: ‘By God’s help,
yes, even this is possible.’
IV
Harichandra reached home, and the news that he had forsaken in
his heart the religion of his ancestors fell like a thunderbolt on his
kindred and friends. No words can describe the commotion that
was caused in his home. People refused to believe the news at first.
Had ever a Brahmin renounced his ancestral faith, they asked, and
allowed himself to be polluted and degraded thus in the sight of
the world? It was thought that learning had made him mad, and
his mother in wild distraction summoned the shastris, pundits, and
wise men of the town to argue the new mania away. The
discussions led to nothing. Some of those with whom he argued
could not but acknowledge that Christianity had in it, in a more
highly developed form, truths which were only dimly outlined in
the Hindu shastras. But their objection to the religion of Christ was
that it was a foreign religion, the religion of the conquerors, and
that it was, therefore, very unpatriotic for an orthodox Hindu to
exchange his own faith for that of the foreigners. Harichandra was
of course proof against this argument. Patriotism which sacrificed
truth to blind sentiment was, he said, no true patriotism. It was
merely another form of cowardice, which truth-loving hearts must
repudiate; and then he pointed out that there must be something
radically wrong in the religion which made its adherents such
moral cowards as the Hindu were, who, though convinced of the
truth, yet had not the boldness to follow it at the sacrifice of
everything that was dear to them.
Harichandra possessed a friend in his elder brother, Vamanrao.
The impartial and thorough researches, the bold investigation, and
the deep earnestness and sincere convictions of his younger and
more learned brother had made such an impression on Vamanrao
that he became in secret a believer in Christ. Then followed a time
of great persecution for Harichandra, and the painful moment
came when his own mother stood before him as his would-be
murderer. What pangs the proud woman must have suffered! What
struggles she must have gone through to have so far forgotten her
natural feelings as to have put poison in her son’s food! But this
was quite consistent with her stern character. Better a dead and
honoured son, than a polluted living one. Harichandra stood all
these trials with a courage and boldness that daunted his greatest
enemies. His wife’s face, however, kept haunting him during these
days. He knew that the time must come sooner or later when he
would have to leave his home and his people, and go over to the
Christians, and for himself he was prepared to go. But his wife,
must he leave her? No. He felt that his chief duty was to induce
her to come with him. In vain he sought for a way of accomplishing
this. He had scarcely spoken to her once in his life, and at the very
suggestion of leaving Brahminism she would fly away from him.
He was, however, determined to make a trial at any cost. He would
lay everything clearly before her, and give her the choice of
following him or remaining behind. In this difficulty his elder
brother was ready with friendly advice. Apart from a feeling of
sympathy, this brother had a natural liking to take part in anything
that was adventurous, and was generally full of plans. He said, with
a wise shake of his head, “You must leave the place. You must take
your wife with you. I will bring her to you.’ And he partly
disclosed a plan that he had thought out sometime before. He
requested his brother to be ready at a certain place with the
missionary’s covered carriage, which would carry Radha straight
off to the bungalow before suspicion was roused, adding: ‘All that
you have to do is to be very stern and order the girl in. Thanks
to our customs, she will be very frightened to see you alone with
her, and won’t get over the shock till she sees the bungalow, and
even if she attempts to talk and ask questions on the way, a word
from you will silence her. I shall cross the fields and go home, and
my coming back will keep the people at home from missing you
till it is too late for anybody to go in search of you.’
Harichandra listened gravely, and asked if the thing could not
be managed in some other way. ‘It pains me to use authority in
this way. I should never forgive myself for practising such
deception as you suggest. What would Radha think of me, at least
for the time being? Would she not despise me? Oh! I could not
stand it.’ Plain dealing was more in his line.
‘Then give her up for ever,’ said the impulsive brother, firing up. “Make her life a life of misery. Her head will be shaved, and she will become an object of scorn. Wherever she is seen, people will exclaim: “Ah! This is the polluted one’s wife; this is the
unfortunate woman whom the gods have disgraced.” Life will become a living death for her, and you will be cursed forever in her heart. You will like that, I suppose? What has she done to suffer such wrongs from you? If you take her with you, she may in time
come to fall in with your way of thinking, and she will be happy.’
After a struggle with his natural self, in which it seemed to his
strict mind a sort of deception to keep his wife ignorant of his
course of action even for a time, but which reasoning ultimately
seemed to conquer, he gave in. ‘Very well, bring her, brother; I
don’t know how you are going to manage, and we shall see how
it will all turn out.’
Vamanrao, thus left to act on his sole responsibility, delayed not
a moment. He started that very day for Shivagunga, intimating that
he was going on very urgent business, and would be away for three
or four days. A day’s journey brought him to Shivagunga. Here
he posed as a great man, and frightened all his poor relations by
his impetious manner and talk.
‘What do you mean by keeping a young girl of sixteen so long
in your house? Has she no house, no husband, no mother-in-law,
no duties? You people won’t do anything for the girl. How long
are you going to keep her like this?’ But with all his talk he could
not bring the girl away so easily as he had hoped to do. The
relations tried to pacify him, but he kept grumbling and complaining loudly and would not be pacified.
A day had already passed, and Vamanrao began to fear lest the
people of Shivagunga should hear of his brother’s change of
religion, especially as the town was one of the most bigoted centres
of Brahminism, and was under the Hindu Rajahs. On the eve of
the next day, however, his servant, a witty old man who was left
outside the town, appeared in the character of a messenger, dusty,
tired, and way-worn. He pretended to have walked all the way
from Devaghar, and asked Vamanrao, with the familiarity and
_ authority of an old servent, what he was doing there, living in the
houses of relatives; and added that his brother had said that if his
relations were not willing to send home the girl, they might keep
her, but he wanted to know what his own brother was doing there,
in the house of relatives, eating their bread and drinking their
water. Then by way of parenthesis he added a saying: ‘If the head
is safe, the turbans are thousands; he could get wives by the dozen,
but not a brother.’
This frightened Radha’s brother. He had wished her to stay for
a ceremony, but now he made haste for her departure. It was
arranged that Radha was to be taken by Poona. The town was on
the way, and she was anxious to see her sister. After asking if there
were any more requests to be complied with, and with many
messages and remembrances, Vamanrao commenced a hasty journey back. He had two servants with him who had orders to change
the bullocks every three miles. This alarmed Radha a little, and
when she found that they did not take the usual way to Poona,
she began to cry and to ask questions. Her companion, however,
took no notice of her, and became all at once deaf and dumb,
absorbed in the interesting process of chewing betel-nut. The girl
then questioned the passers-by if they were on the way to Poona,
and began to cry. Some pitied her loudly, ‘Poor girl! going to her
mother-in-law’s house I suppose,’ and some stopped and made
enquiries of the old servant, who was seated prominently in front
of the cart. He loudly and readily answered with a broad grin that
she had lost a valuable jewel, and was expecting a good beating from
her mother-in-law.
Near the temple, outside Devaghar, the cartmen were dismissed.
Radha was told to sit inside the temple and wait for her mother-in-law, while the servant sat in front of the weird, wind-beaten,
stone building and smoked his chillem. It was the way to their
village close by, and Radha expected to see her mother-in-law
coming towards her, so she stood on the high pavement half inside
the dark temple, and looked toward the golden, waving corn-fields
to see if there were any signs of the old lady’s approach. In about
five minutes she saw a peculiar carriage stop in front, and who
should get down but her husband. Her fears were roused, but there
was no room for remonstrance. He ordered her in, and told the
bandyman to drive on. At first she kept very quiet, with her head
down, but suddenly peeping out she saw that they were driving
away from the town, and with fear and shame depicted on her
face she looked imploringly up and said: ‘Please see where the man
is going. He does not know the way.’ Her eyes were filled with
tears as they looked touchingly in his for one instant, as much as
to say: ‘I won’t speak. It is against our custom, but I am quite
frightened.’
Harichandra was very much moved. Her shy beauty, simplicity,
and sweetness went right to his heart, and he would have told her
everything, but he checked himself and answered: ‘It is all right, your husband is with you. No harm will come to you.’
She was silent, and kept furtively looking at him and out of the window. But when the carriage stopped at the bungalow of the missionary, she looked aghast. Her husband’s voice fell on her
dazed ear, ‘Radha, get down.’ She instinctively obeyed, and looked
round, wondering if it was all a dreadful dream, but before she
could realise her situation, she found herself following her husband
into a room, and the door closed on her. Everything seemed clear
now. This was the padre sahib’s house, and she had entered it, she
a Brahmin. What pollution! What degradation! A time of intense
anguish followed. In her first impulse she tried to push open the
door, and shook the bars of the window; but when she found
herself powerless, she sat down on the floor quivering with anger,
and with the sense of some great wrong done to her. Her tears had
fled, and she tried to think what her position was, but she could
not analyse her thoughts. A sense of shame overwhelmed her at
the thought that her husband, in her eyes the very perfection of
humanity, should have brought her to this disgraceful place. What
was he about? And yet in the midst of all these overwhelming
thoughts the undercurrent of trust and confidence in him was not
shaken. She thought of the past two years during which she had
watched him closely. Whatever his elder brother was, her husband
was upright and just; his word was never broken, and he was never
known to do anything mean. But what did this act signify? To
impute any low motive to him was to break everything that she
held dear; she felt humbled to the dust. This humiliation was,
however, followed by an overexcited state of mind. Her soul
rebelled against what seemed mean, wicked, and debasing, and the
gentle Radha was for the time changed into an avenging angel, who
shot her glances and words with withering scorn at her husband.
He sympathised with her state of mind, the pure instinct that
directed her to resent such an act, and the hidden, deep sincerity
of her nature. He had hoped to see her calm, and to place before
her kindly and gently all he had to say; but how could he explain
anything to her now? He could only say: ‘Rest contented, Radha.
I am doing all this for your good.’ His heart went out to her,
though her words beat on him with untold agony. But when with
tragic earnestness she threw her jewels at his feet, and asked him
whether it was money that he needed, and falling at his feet
piteously entreated him to run away from the place and take her
to Tai Bai, he could bear it no longer, and went out of the room
with a heavy, distressed heart.
Events thickened. Towards night the whole town turned out.
The news was spread by the bandyman that a Brahmin girl and
a young man were being wrongfully confined in the missionary’s
bungalow. It became exaggerated as it spread, and soon there was
a general commotion. The police were unable to keep order.
Radha’s mother-in-law made her way into the compound, found
out Radha, told her to keep quiet, that justice would be done, and
went to the Collector’s bungalow in great agitation. He was in bed,
but came out on hearing the noise. His calm and dignified manner
did a great deal to pacify the excited crowd, and when the motherin-law narrated her tale of wrongs, and asked for justice, he told
her not to be frightened, and that early in the morning he would
go and investigate the case himself. The crowd went away satisfied.
A court was held in the morning, and Harichandra declared that
he was not detained by the missionaries, but resided there of his
own accord. Radha was brought before the court, trembling, and
was asked three times whether it was her intention to live with
her husband or not. She was not prepared for such a question.
According to the customs of her country nothing was so disgraceful as for a wife to say that she would not live with her husband,
and so, ignorant of the consequences, she replied to the question
put to her in the affirmative. The court was dissolved. But soon
Radha discovered her mistake. Then was enacted one of the most
painful scenes that was ever witnessed in the life of a convert. The
proud mother, finding no other means or hope left, fell at her son’s
feet, and implored him in tones of agony to think of his home,
and his family, and not bring such a great disgrace on her. ‘Kill
me,’ she said, ‘but don’t send me away to my house bereft of a
son and robbed of my good name and honour.’ The wife joined
her in her tears and entreaties. The mother clasped his feet and
would not let him go. She beat her head and threatened to kill
herself then and there. At last, she was taken forcibly from
Harichandra, and sent away weeping and crying: ‘My son, my son,
I have lost my son.’
The bitter separation was over for Harichandra. His soul had passed through a fiery furnace and had come out purified.
Radha, though ready to go with her mother-in-law with her best
saree on, and her jewels all stowed away in her waist, was told to stay with her husband, for the court had decided so. She was
rebellious and uncontrollable for a long time. She had her idols,
kept her fasts and festivals, and gave her husband food outside the
house. She would have nothing whatever to do with the Christians
and sahibs; and when the ladies gathered round the attractive young
girl, fresh from Brahminism, and tried to show their love and
sympathy for her, she would resent their advances; the kindly
meant epithet of ‘sister’ would be emphatically denied, and she
would add, ‘What, you mem sahibs! How dare you call me sister?”
She would hold her clothes tightly round her as if a touch was
pollution, and when an impulsive young lady thought to smooth
matters by a kiss, she would rub her cheek and turn away her face
in disgust. Nothing daunted, the ladies continued to visit the young
woman whose habits were so unlike theirs. Radha, busy at her
work, would scarcely notice them at first, but afterwards she took
pride in showing them what she knew in the way of cooking, and
would make them taste her different preparations, and was gratified
at their praise. Soon she was induced to visit them in return, and
was in a bewilderment of joy at seeing so many queer-looking nice
things in the bungalow. The pretty fancywork caught her attention
at once, though she never would have anything to do with reading.
‘Those are magic letters,’ she would say, shaking her head, ‘and
Christianity is tied in the books.’ Capricious, unmanageable, and full
of whims, as she showed herself outside, she had her moments of
thoughtful inquiry. Her mind was often troubled, and she had
secret misgivings regarding her belief in shastras and idols. These
were superior people that surrounded her. Their love was great,
she acknowledged, but what made the difference? She felt she
moved in a purer and a higher atmosphere. She also noticed the
transforming effect of Christianity on her husband. His gentleness,
kindness, and patience unconsciously set her thinking. The calm
of the Christian Sabbath, the call for morning and evening prayers,
her husband’s devotion, and the great forbearance shown to her
ignorant, superstitious ways by those whom she felt were superior
to her,—these and many other things changed her attitude towards
the new religion, and gradually she succumbed to the strong
influences of Christianity. It was the silent acquiescence of a gentle
nature; and when she came to know more of the religion, she fully
appreciated the noble motives that guided her husband’s actions
of love and charity, his strong confidence in his God, his wholehearted consecration to his Lord and Master; and at last in the
religion which her husband had embraced she herself found a rich
harvest of joy and happiness. What comfort there was in suffering!
What stay in the time of trial! What contentment in poverty! What
peace of mind, undisturbed by the greatest of earthly misfortunes
and trials, for was not a kind, wise, loving hand directing all things?
And though now and then she failed to see the wisdom of His
dealings, yet the confidence that all things worked together for
good enabled her to rest contented. Her trusting nature clung to
her Heavenly Father, and she found peace and joy where all was
misery, tumult, and superstitious dread before. Man was God’s and
God’s alone, and this God was all-powerful as well as merciful.
Christ’s hand had washed the sin away from her soul, and the
feeble, crushed heart rejoiced in the possession of a new-found
freedom. It expanded under the new and soothing influences,
treasured the God-given love; and, like a weary, tired, worn-out
child, she rested her head on the Almighty Father’s arm and knew
no will but His.
There was now no feeling of constraint between Harichandra
and Radha. The unnatural fetters of custom had fallen away, and
they met and talked with the freedom of children. One evening
as they were sitting outside on the veranda under the silent stars,
with whispering winds and broken shadows for company, Radha,
thinking of the heavenly love that filled her heart, and diffused such
happiness around her, placed her hand in her husband’s, and said,
‘Oh! Iam so happy, so happy. Why should God give me so much
happiness? Surely others deserve it more than I do.’ Then, as if a
new trouble had burst on her, she said, clasping her hand to her
heart, “What will you say if I tell you what I think sometimes when
I feel most happy? It seems all at once as if all became dark around
me, my new happiness in which I glory becomes clouded, and thoughts rise in my heart to which I fear to give expression. Oh! why do I feel so? Do you feel like this?’
‘No, Radhabai, but tell me all.’
‘I feel,’ she said, in a hoarse whisper, ‘that I am so unworthy of God’s great love that God cannot love such a one as me. Oh! you don’t know the weakness of my heart, the depths to which
I fall. I don’t want to sin, and yet I sin. How can He love me? How can He accept the offering of such a weak, sinful heart as mine? I want to rise above the world, and yet I cannot raise myself at all, and then suddenly all is dark and I feel I am lost, lost again.’
‘Oh Radhabai, don’t think so. You have given yourself up to
God, and you cannot be lost. It is God’s power that must raise
you and keep you from sin, not yourself. Trust in Him more and
give yourself up more entirely to Him. Let Him fight your battles,
and you will then be victorious.’
‘But can He love me, the great, just, and holy God? Is not His
kingdom for stronger and greater natures, who never feel what I
feel?’
‘Love you, Radha!’ There was a glow on the hills, and
Harichandra’s face turned to it as he spoke. ‘Of course, He loves
you. You cannot judge Him by human love. He loves you with
a love as eternal as the hills. There is no shadow of change in Him.
Your best is always weak and poor, but His promises are sure. He
is able to make the weak and feeble powerful, and the least, the
mightiest in His kingdom. Only believe, believe in His word and
in His power.’
Radha’s heart swelled as the listened to the words. The winds
murmured loud and seemed to prolong the word Jove, as they
carried it to the flowing river with its deep, solemn voice. She felt
the eternal love round her as well as in her heart.
In the silence of that night, words of soul-raising strength fell
from her husband’s lips with great eloquence and power; she
trembled before the greater nature, the greater grasp of God’s word
that were disclosed to her view. He infused into her some of his
iron thoughts, some of his faith that would wrestle with God and
take hold of the promises by force. Never did she forget that night.
It revealed the inner fibre of a nature that she had venerated but
never understood so well before; now she felt its power, she had
a glimpse of its depths and its heights, and her thoughts rose on
the wings of faith nearer to her God. She forgot that she ever had
doubted her lord and master. The glad light of the moon broke from
the hills and enveloped the little cottage home in a soft silver
radiance. The victory of the night was curiously blended with the
soft moonlit beams, and the peace and joy unspeakable that
overspread her heart seemed tinged with a heavenly light from
above.
Harichandra’s course of action lay clear before him from the
first. He never seemed to be in any perplexity, he cared not for
what befell him, what hardships he had to face, or what trials he
had to bear; his purpose was firm, his mind unmoved. He had
taken upon himself the duty of preaching to his countrymen, and
his life was to be a life of self-denial. Never did he for a moment
reflect as to what he should eat or what he should drink. He
grappled with a stern undaunted energy all the difficulties that lay
in his path. He was to walk in the footsteps of Christ. The proud
Brahmin was to preach to Mahars, and to live with the lowest of
the low. He felt that all men were one; and if his life and hours
were spent in raising the lowest he was satisfied. He welcomed
poverty, hardships, and trouble, and gloried in the Cross. At first
he took upon himself the duties of a humble evangelist. He made
tours into villages, went to places of pilgrimage, pierced the
mountain fastnesses to carry the glad tidings of the gospel. He had
to suffer great persecutions, had to go without water and food
many a time, was driven from place to place, mobbed, and on more
than one occasion his life was in danger. But in the midst of all
these trials he experienced the highest spiritual exaltation, his
confidence in his God was great, and his persecutors were often
taken aback by his calm fortitude and his immovable manner. It
seemed as if nothing in life could harm him, and death had no
terrors for him. His influence of course was very great. People
flocked to hear him, and many a villager looked upon him as a
saint. Through his preaching some of his greatest opponents were
brought to the feet of Christ.
It is midnight. The dim, antique church rises solemnly through
the trees. The pale light of the moon—a shivering broken radiance—falls on roof and pane. Inside a pale glory streams through
the open window, and there in the pure halo of the moonlit beams
is seen a form kneeling. The hands are clasped tight, and the soul
seems to be floating on the wings of devotion away from the body.
Outside the wind rustles through the trees. The owls hoot to the
midnight moon, and the solemn river rolls on. It is the eve of
Harichandra’s ordination, and he is trying to realise his mission
from God, that he may worthily receive his commission from the
hands of the Most High. ‘Oh! how unworthy, unworthy!’ he cries,
as he lays himself at his Master’s feet, ‘how unworthy, Lord, for
the great work Thou art calling me to do; and with deep and
fervent prayer, silent and unspoken, he entreats his Lord and Maker, to bless and strengthen him, and send him forth to preach His word with zeal and power.
The night is far spent; the dumb voiceless prayer ascends. Hush! The angels are hovering round. Intrude not with thy presence.
Break not the silence. Learn the secret of faith and prayer, and go
back thou into the world to fulfil thy mission.
The dim light of mornings is on the hills. The prayer is answered.
The humbled soul receives the mandate from on high. He rises with
a new power in his heart, a new vigour in his frame, and the words
of the Lord, spoken in the midnight silence, ring in his ears. His
Lord’s presence envelops him as with a cloud. Never did he feel
so much the force of those words: ‘Lo, Iam with you always, even
unto the end of the world.’
As a pastor and evangelist Harichandra’s duties were many and
various. Now we find him in the midst of an excited multitude,
standing up for the rights of Christians as men who held equal
rights with Hindus to the water that was given for all. As for
himself he did not mind, but he could not bear to see the sufferings
of the poor Christians who were driven from wells and rivers, and
were obliged to be contented with filthy, muddy streams from
which even the animals refused to drink. There he was in the very
midst of the infuriated multitude, lowering the first vessel himself,
nothing daunted by the abuses, curses, and stones that were hurled
at him, and opening the way once and forever for the Christians.
Now he was to be seen sitting in the temple yard, because an
ordinary inn was denied to Christians. Hundreds are gathered
round him ready to fall upon him, and yet they do nothing but
gaze with wonder at the one mortal that has defied them all, even
at their temple doors. ‘If the inn is denied, I stay here. Let him
who dares shake me from this place.’ What held their hands? It
was the conviction that. his cause was just. In this way he gained
for the poor Christians many a privilege that was denied to them
in those days. Now we see him alone in the desolate jungle with
dim solitary hills around him; alone because none cared to stay
with him, and he would not travel on a Sunday. The cartman left
him in anger in the middle of the night, and he, who had never
broken a Sunday, would not break it now. Ten miles away there
was a village, and a travelling sabib’s tent was there. News spread
fast that the Christian was in the jungle alone, without food and
water. The sahib heard the news, knew who the Christian was, and
made haste to send some food and water, and himself fetched him
back the next day.
But a day came when Radha’s heart failed her. The evening had
been one of marked success in that bigoted place. Under the tree
Harichandra had preached with unusual power. He denounced the
idols, the faith that misled hundreds of the simple, and the belief
in salvation through merit, and he pointed to the Cross of Calvary
as the only means of obtaining complete salvation. The accents
rang through the chain-bound crowds: ‘Believe, believe, and ye
shall be saved.’ The preaching was over, and the crowd gathered
round him, and entreated him to stay longer. Harichandra passed
on; he failed to see the angry faces of the infuriated Brahmins, who
vowed that before the day was done the Christian should expiate
with his blood the heresy and sedition that he had been teaching.
He passed on to a quiet spot to pray, and they laid wait for him
on the road leading to the town. Harichandra prolonged his stay
until it was too late to return by the usual path. He therefore tried
another path, which, however, proved Jonger, but which brought
him safely home.
Radha laboured by him with a hope equal to his own, though
her chief duties lay in her little home. She watched for her husband
in the evenings, standing at the door often with a beating heart,
praying for him. Whenever she had great misgivings, the sight of
the grand mountains round her would suggest the thought that the
‘Eternal God was her refuge, and underneath were the everlasting
arms,’ and she would feel comforted. In the growing dusk she
would see her husband’s form approaching, his firm heavy tread
and his big iron-built frame would be soon recognised; then the
silent tear would be hastily wiped away, while he would chide her
gently. and ask if that was her faith in God, assuring her that
nothing on earth could harm him, and that God was with him.
And there in their mountain home the same quiet, humble spirit
brought up her treasures for God, inculcating in them by word
and manner the virtues of patience and humility. And now what happiness was hers. Her husband’s love was poured on her in its richest fullness! Her children grew by her side in beauty, strength, intellect, and piety. Shall we not forgive the mother’s pride as each new joy lay in her lap, and each child as it grew clung to her with
a love that more than made up for the suffering that she had borne
in her own childhood?
A large family grew round Harichandra and Radha. The
Christian life in that home was of a simple apostolic type. The
children knew no luxuries, nor hankered after any. The little ones
tumbled about in coarse garments which Radha prepared herself.
They often displayed somewhat ridiculous combinations of English and native dress, for comfort was studied rather than effect.
The girls knew nothing of ornaments and jewels, and the boys put
their hands to manual labour as readily as they took to study.
There was an absence of false shame and pride, which imparted
a certain innocence and freshness to their manner and behaviour.
Simplicity, truthfulness, piety, and the habit of self-reliance were
inculcated. On the other hand anything like duplicity, obstinacy,
or levity was severely punished. ‘Children be true to yourselves,
and you will be true to others. If you take to study, do it
thoroughly with all your heart, but don’t make that an end in itself.
I would rather see my children coolies earning their bread honestly
with the sweat of their brow, than learned, in high earthly places
and ungodly.’ Thus brought up they learned to love simplicity for
its own sake. They never felt the sting of poverty, and they enjoyed
the sweet, quiet, simple life in a way that cannot be expressed.
In this happy family there grew up one whose nature bore a
striking resemblance to that of the father. This was one of the elder
daughters. Harichandra saw himself in her. There was the iron will,
the strength to overcome self, there was beauty, and there was
intellect. Unconsciously he grasped her hand in his and poured
forth his mind to her. She was his friend and companion. Their
life was bound up together, and they felt it. The daughter
accompanied the father on his many tours. Father and daughter
would rise before the flickering light of dawn, and go to the villagers
while they were at their early work in the fields, or to their houses
when the birds sang fresh and clear, and the soft light of morning
spread its dewy mantle over village, field, and tree. The grave,
dignified, solemn-looking girl would sit by the well side in the
golden, streaming radiance and talk to the women with her usual
deep earnestness. She would tell them of the great God that made
heaven and earth, of their souls so heavily laden with sin, the
redemption that was wrought by Christ, and the happiness and joy
that filled the heart when sin was removed. Her sweet gravity of
tone and manner, her winning sympathising look that seemed to
crave for their love and told of her oneness with them, and the
words of sincere regard and affection would open the simple hearts
round her. The women would pour their troubles in her ears, and
in their blunt hearty way offer her the fresh milk of their cows,
or any other rustic refreshment.
Thus years passed on in hard continuous labour. At last one day
suddenly the strong iron frame gave way, and Harichandra was laid
low with disease. The crisis was as sudden as it was grave. It seemed
as if the chords of life had snapped at once, and death followed
fast in the wake of disease. But the end was glorious. Faith, great
faith,—faith that could move mountains was his; and when the last
moment came, he alone was calm. He pointed with a beaming face
and a triumphant smile to the heavenly home on high, and said:
‘You shall follow me; I will go and wait for you there.’ Poor Radha
scarcely realised what was coming, and stunned and bewildered,
looked round at her husband and crowding children. At last she
seemed to know it all; she sank to the ground in a swoon. Who
can tell what the feelings are when that which is held as dear as
life is felt to be slowly slipping away into death and eternity; when
the heart-strings are breaking, and the gradually yawning void is
being felt, while the soul refuses to believe and the shuddering heart
hides the thought from view? Radha’s despair and agony were
great. In vain the husband in feeble whispered accents of love tried
to lead her thoughts away from the bitter parting to the triumphant meeting. It was useless. She held her children to her heart
and cried piteously, and moaned out as if to herself: ‘What shall
I do with all these children now? Who will feed them, take care
of them? We have laid by nothing.’ But the answer broke from
those dying lips once more in the old firm tone: ‘Radhabai! Is God’s
arm shortened? Trust in God. His word is sure,’ and he repeated
to her the verse: ‘I have been young, and now am old; yet have
I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.’
The time for parting had come, and he pointed to his elder daughter, the girl who had bravely walked by his side, worked with
him, whose heart and his had been one, whose trust in God was as great as his own, and who now stood by his bedside supporting
his head, her hand in his, her face unmoved, though tears welled
in her heart,—he pointed to her and said: ‘This is your son,’ and
passed away.
So ended my father’s life. This is the sister that I spoke about,
the remembrance of whom comes back through hazy years, so full
of sweet associations. She fulfilled her trust faithfully; she stood
by the mother asa son, and only left the family after most of them
were settled in life, and the remaining ones comfortably off. My
readers will now iobleteersa the many silent influences that were
at work in moulding the character of the younger members of the
family, the most potent of these being the father’s memory and
the sister’s example.
V
It was when we were spending our summer days in our mountain
home that I first had glimpses into the early life of my parents.
The scenery around and the associations of the place bore so
striking a resemblance to the old home where my father had spent
his life, that my mother was unconsciously led to revive past
scenes, and my brother, Bhasker, in his walks, to dwell with
characteristic enthusiasm on the particulars of my father’s life. I
loved to draw from my mother’s lips the little incidents of her
childhood. I loved to dwell on them, and picture them to myself,
and when the pictures were incomplete, with love and veneration,
I tried to fill in the gaps. Our father’s name was always mentioned
with reverence, and the recollection of his face haunted our minds
and produced in us a glow of pride and emulation which made us
exclaim—‘Oh! we must walk worthy of our noble father.’ But
childhood is a wonderful period, the influences are exaggerated, the
impulses are strong, the heart is full of fire, and there is no room
for dull apathy or indifference. It is contact with the cold, selfish
world that damps the fire of good impulses and compels the once
noble soul:
To linger on the ignoble plain,
To truckle for a soulless gain,
And learn the tricks and shifts of trade.
The summer visit came to a close all too soon. A cart journey
was arranged for. My brothers were anxious to leave the place, and
eagerly looked forward to the excitement of the journey. But as
for me I could not leave without a pang the place where I had spent
so many happy days, and where each day I had discovered a new
loveliness in everything around me, where the rocks and the trees, the mists and the shadows seemed friends, and where each new and varying phase of the mountain scene found a corresponding place in my heart. I remember well the last day when Bhasker and I got up while the stars were still shining, and stole to the mountain
haunts to have a last look at the dear place. There was nothing to be seen at first as far as the eye could reach, except small and great hills and peaks all around; but soon the scene changed. As we ascended the hill in front of our house we seemed to be leaving the world, and piercing the region of the unknown, so thick was the mist round us; and when we reached the highest point we were startled by the dim majesty and grandeur that burst upon us. We
seemed to be looking down on mortals below from another world.
The shadowy cloudland, dark and gloomy, like a large bird with
spreading wings hovered overhead, and the great world sleeping in
mist lay below in its purity and whiteness, like a huge sea stretched
at our feet. The billows in it heaved and rolled in silence. It was
the silence of eternity linked to the world for a moment. A soft
starry dreamland light enwrapped and overspread all. Above the
ocean of mist the neighbouring peaks, distant and dark, mysteriously loomed like fingers pointing to heaven. The strangely transformed world, the heavenly beauty and purity of the scene bound
us fast, and when I looked up my brother seemed strangely excited.
He turned to me and said: ‘It was in this place with such a scene
before me some years ago that I determined that my life should
be pure and holy. Oh! how our lives are wasted. Promise me that
yours will be devoted to God’s glory—wholly to God’s glory.’ We
were alone, alone with God on the mountaintop, and we fell on
our knees and prayed. The tension of feeling was too great for me
to bear; I rushed down at the first sign of the dissolution of the
magic scene. I could not bear to watch the mist clouds rise like
giants from the earth, or be driven hither and thither, a fantastic
mass of light and colour. When I reached the valley below I
received a broad shining smile and a merry laugh from the stream
I knew and loved so well. How it used to tempt me with its reeds,
its flowers, and its pure gurgling water! There were the groves and
the singing birds, and each note of their sweet voice went into my
heart like the tones of a departing friend. Strange, they seemed sad
notes today, the stream seemed gentle and quiet, and the wind that
thrilled all the leaves and wrapped itself round me so softly seemed
to speak to me. I listened for its voice and felt its sad meaning in
the low moan that fell on my ear through rocks and trees, and
childlike I felt that the winds and the birds were sorry too. My
brother Bhasker was near me. I knew he sympathised with me, but
whilst my thoughts were childish, his were grand and sublime.
At home the boys were all excitement and in high spirits. They
made huge bundles and stowed away all sorts of delightful things
in the carts. They revealed to me, as a great secret, a bundle of
glittering quartz which surely contained gold, but which was
unfortunately destined to be thrown away by the indignant driver
as making the cart too heavy. Soon I fell into the spirit of the
adventure. It was a delicious novelty. I had often longed to be
driven in a cart, and the broad white road in front of our house,
as it curved round the hill, crossed the bridge near the valley and
shot down, a long arrowy streak of white in the midst of sloping
hills and broad waving trees, losing itself in what seemed interminable stretches of the blue distant country, had a great attraction
for me. I hate the bustling, hurrying smoky trains in which
everything seems to fly past me when in motion, and everybody
to stare at me when at rest; and the busy stations in which crowds
of hurrying people jostle one another amid the deafening din of
voices and the creaking of wheels. But what delight do these
primitive cart journeys afford! What a wild breeziness and what
freedom from restraint there is about them! We feel that all men
are akin to us. The weary wayfarer, the peasant toiling in the fields,
the chatty old dame that tells of her affairs loudly and walks briskly
on, the sturdy farmer returning loaded with drooping sheaves of
corn, their smiling faces a study in themselves,—all seem one with
us. Safely we jog on in our two-wheeled clumsy vehicle, safe from
any interruption, safe to enjoy our days and nights. The bullocks
walk on at a uniform pace, and the driver now nods at his post,
and now with a start, and with a sense of neglected duty, applies
his hand vigorously to twist the tails of the patient animals. Once
the village and the limits of human habitation are passed, the
straggling fields and solitary temples soon disappear, and we are
face to face with nature in all her wild grandeur. The soul catches
a responding note of wild, joyous freedom. Sometimes idly
dreaming and watching, we seem to see in the sky-mingling
distance fairy castles gently take shape and rise, revealing in the
nearer view some ancient fortress of a ruined Mahratta power.
Then we find ourselves surrounded by hills, dark and frowning and
melting into blue in the hazy distance. Then suddenly as if by the
touch of a fairy wand the scene changes, and a smiling river, green
fields, villages embosomed in clusters of trees, and waving cornfields rise in the place of rugged, barren uninviting scenes. The
sound of waters is in our ears. Large spreading trees extend their gigantic boughs, which meet overhead and form a long cool alcove, through which light comes in fitful gleams. The chattering monkey
and the soft notes of birds fill the air with a pleasant din. A little
further and the forest disappears; we emerge in the sunlight, and
look with a mysterious, superstitious dread on the dark avenue left
behind. Before us rise shrines and temples hewn out of solid rocks,
solemn and solitary in the midst of twisted, stunted, trees. The
rocks and stones grow more numerous, till it seems as if all the
stones in the world have been thrown in picturesque heaps by the
roadside. The sun sets, and its yellow rays light up the stones and
the weird trees into brown, gold, and red. Night falls, and we are
alone in the silent solitude of stars. Somewhat like this was the
journey to our city home.
Our house was in a narrow street with a broad tank in front.
At the further edge of the tank was a temple, with a few stunted
trees peeping over a broken wall and overshadowing the steps of
the tank. Our little home was the smallest in the street. It was built
differently from the others. It had a balcony in front and a covered
staircase at the side. The neighbouring banyan sent its long
branches right in front and almost hid the house from view, and
then a hardy creeper covered the balcony all around with a light
green drapery, so that we seemed in a real bower in rain, storm,
and thunder, and looked out into the world through twinkling
leaves and tufts of flowers. At night the stars peeped through and
the moonlight danced on the leaves. In front of the house was a
little compound. Bhasker had planted plantain trees there, and
under their shade we worked, and tended our jessamine and roses.
The little hall, which was our drawing room, had windows on all
sides. In continuation of a portion of the hall was a small study
and a narrow passage. My room was next to the hall. Then came
a bedroom, another passage, the place where the fireplace was, and
lastly the small pipe room.
Soon we had settled down and the daily routine of work
commenced. My brothers went to school, and my mother to her
work of preaching. I sewed and read and helped my mother
morning and evening. But how dusty, crowded and palling seemed
all around me now! How dejecting the view of a sea of houses from
my window! What a sickly light seemed to be cast over it all! The
plants where they grew had a tendency to wither as if a blight had
fallen on them. The only cheering sight in the midst of all this was
the tall coconut trees with their graceful crowns lifted here and
there above the mass of houses. The sky was an old friend, but
seen under a new aspect it appeared somewhat dull. It laid aside
its brightest blue and its gayest colours, as if unfit for a place like
this, and wore our hue—a greyish neutral tint. The sight of the
tank, a broad sheet of water in front of our house, was, however,
always refreshing. I had a peculiar satisfaction in thinking that the
huge stones by its sides were real rocks, something like the ones
that I had left behind me. I clothed them with verdure or left them
barren and blank, and in my imagination I placed the tank amongst
hills, so that it seemed a real lake, with living springs, reflecting
clouds and surrounded with hills with their ever-varying colours.
I felt they were all with me, those hills and rocks, fields and flowers.
I had only to shut my eyes and see them all. I soon took a greater
interest in everything round me; my lessons became quite a treat.
The mornings and evenings were very enjoyable. All that was done
outside was discussed at home with a childish gusto, and I took
my share in the fun and laughter, which somehow seemed to centre
round my second elder brother, Dinkar, who had quite a knack
of unwittingly doing queer things in his quiet solemn way. When
the laugh turned on him at the odd things he managed to do, he
would look astonished at us and laugh too. Many stories are told
of his early doings. On one occasion it was said his mother gave
him a half-anna piece, and told him to buy a couple of plantains
and eat them. He remembered this, and went straight to the
plantain woman, gave his half-anna, and asked for two plantains;
and when she, looking at the money, gave him four, he said: ‘No,
mother said only two’, and would not have four on any account.
On another occasion, when quite a baby, he toddled in a pool of
water and stuck fast in water and mud for hours together, yet he
would not cry or call out. A search was instituted, and he was
discovered standing stolid and calm as a philosopher. He was
constantly in the habit of losing his way, and used to be brought
home by the policeman, looking undisturbed and calm while the
whole house was in a commotion. He was quite a character—a lad
full of downright earnestness and straightforwardness, but strangely
lacking in humour and common sense. As children we laughed at
his mistakes yet loved him, and he laughed too, but all the same
he failed to comprehend why we laughed, and would seem pleased at having provoked such mirth.
Soon after we returned we heard the glad news thatour favourite sister was to come home with her husband to spend a few days in the city. This was her first visit after her marriage. The evening
came when we were looking out for her eagerly, and when the
carriage arrived we at once rushed downstairs. Our sister in her
calm, smiling way took each of us fondly and kissed us, lingering
over our pet names, stroking our heads, and saying that her little
ones had grown so much that she hardly recognised them. On the
way upstairs my mother met and greeted my sister with many tears
and kisses. We shook hands with our new brother with some
shyness. But we began to feel more at home with him when our
sister described each of us to him just as she left us, and we very
soon began to look upon him as one of ourselves. Soon also we
seemed to forget that our sister had ever left us, and crowded round
her as of old. I sat on a stool; and felt proud of the touch of her
hands. My little brother, the Benjamin of the family, kept very
close to her and kept looking up to her confidingly. Our new
brother talked to our mother with the courtly grace of a gentleman.
He was tall, spare, thin-looking, with a noble brow and a cast of
countenance that seemed to have the sad thoughtful element
mingled with the keenly intellectual. He had a charming manner,
the force of which one felt when one came within the range of his
expressive look and smile. He could not be called handsome, but
at all times his face beamed with intellectual brightness, and was
fully expressive of the mind within—a bright, pure, noble soul.
Bhasker was delighted, I could see; and his talk to our sister was
that of a companion and an equal. They had much in common and
much to tell each other. By and by, Bhasker and our new brother
got together and became deeply absorbed in each other. Our sister,
our mother, and the rest of us formed a group of our own, and
we went through all the rooms in the house. It was a proud moment
for us, and we displayed all the treasures we possessed; she patted
_us and spoke kindly to us. In the evening we had dinner, all sitting
on the floor, with a white sheet spread in the centre. There were
frankincense and other fragrant sticks burning in the corners, and
all over the windows of the hall there were stuck tufts of banyan
and-mango leaves. We laughed as we put garlands round the necks
of our guests, and set fire to the sweet-smelling sticks. Our sister
thanked us and quietly took the garland out and put it round my
neck, and our, new brother did the same to my little brother, who
had somehow managed to get between them, and was enjoying a
large share of the dainties.
Next morning we all in a body went to our sister’s house. Her
stay was very short, and we wished to be with her as much as
possible. She was reclining on the sofa, and her husband was reading
to her, and as we went in my brothers seemed so rough with their
creaking shoes, and I somehow felt ashamed of myself, and for the
first time in my life, I looked at my clothes and tried to smooth
my uncontrollable hair. ‘Were my shoes also too large for my feet?
Would my sister notice them?’ And with cast-down spirits I
approached her, but sat somewhat behind half hiding myself. But
she, apparently not noticing my feet, said: ‘Where is my curly girl?
I missed her,’ and this with such a smile that I forgot all my defects
and went straight up to her. My hair, as usual, was hanging over
my eyes in dishevelled locks, and my sister remarked with a
humourous nod: ‘I know it of old. Come, let me tie it at the back.’
Then turning to my brother, she said: ‘How are they getting on,
Bhasker? Are they giving you a great deal of trouble?’
Bhasker looked at us with a smile. ‘They are all right now, but
I had a great many disputes to settle at one time. Boys seldom like
girls.’
‘But she wanted to do exactly like us,’ said one of my brothers
impetuously in self-defence.
‘And am I not as good as a boy? I can do as many sums as they,’
I said as I came out hastily, afraid of losing ground, ‘and I can read
and write too.’
‘Bravo!’ said my new brother, looking at me with a laugh; and
all laughed together. Somehow I felt that the laugh was against me,
and I turned my head away. But my sister drew me to her and said:
‘Never mind. Tell me what you would like to have.’
‘I only wanted to learn with them, and now they are going to
have a teacher. Must I not go and learn too?’
My sister and her husband looked at me curiously and smiled,
but this smile was different. ‘Yes,’ said my sister, ‘learn as much as you like. I only wish you had some girls for companions. I am afraid the boys are rough, and tease you a great deal.’
‘No, they don’t,’ I said. Something prompted me to say that. They were my only companions, and I knew that they loved me
in spite of their occasional rough and boisterous behaviour towards: me. For what meant those looks of fright, those voices exclaiming in agony and fear: ‘Stand still, stand still,’ when I was attempting
to descend a precipitous and dangerous place, the willing hands that
were outstretched to bring me safely down, and the looks of joy
and relief that beamed in their faces when I reached a place of
safety? Why did they show such concern whenever I was absent
from them for some time? What meant their rough and ready
sympathy that would make them say: ‘Why do you cry? Don’t
cry’, in a blunt off-hand way, whilst they would at the same time
wipe the tears from my eyes and shake me to make me laugh. All
these little things came before me in a moment, and I said in a
distressed tone: ‘I don’t want girl friends. These are better.’
Something in my look made my sister laugh and say: ‘Now!
Now! Don’t look like that. You are not going to have girls. There
is no chance of these boys leaving you,’ and then turning, she said
to Bhasker: ‘She is a strange girl, is she not?’
It was at a gathering of native Christians that I first met my two
friends, Prema and Harni. The party was at Prema’s father’s house.
The largest room was nicely carpeted; chairs were put in it; and on
the table at the side were arranged a few good books, the family
album being one of them. My brother Bhasker and all our friends
were there. The musicians with drum, vina, and fiddle, were
squatted on the floor in the centre, and our only Christian poet was
their leader. The music was at first soft and plaintive, falling in
gentle cadence though somewhat monotonous, and one did not
mind the gesticulation of the performers or the jarring sounds
proceeding at intervals from the native drum. Some of the guests
seemed to be pleasantly engaged in a low conversation, while others
looked on with apparent indifference. The mothers and wives sat
in a semicircle, and were busy passing to each other the betel leaf
tray. A few young men stood in the windows or walked about.
Some of them wore native clothes, some English, and some a
mixture of both. Our old friend, the pastor, an important personage, sat in the semicircle among the older guests. He was a very
shrewd person, and had a perfect acquaintance with the world. He
was fond of giving advice with a patronising air, and when anything
went wrong he was ever ready with his ‘Didn’t I say so?’ Prema’s
father, the host, a hearty old man, kept bustling about looking to
the comforts of others. He was simple and kind and innocent as
a child. One of the guests who was made much of was a middleaged man who had lately come to reside in our midst. He kept
looking minutely and good humouredly all round. A great deal of
attention was shown to him, and he took it all with great complacency as if it was his right. There was, besides, the intellectuallooking Baboo Rao with a keen thin face. He was a great wit and
delighted in puns. In a jovial party his presence was invaluable.
Conspicuous in the company was Harni’s father with his broad,
smiling face. He was as slippery as an eel, so that one could not bind
him or catch him in any of his words. He waved his hands and
welcomed everyone heartily. ‘Come along! come along,’ he said,
‘we were just waiting for you. Nothing could go on without you.’
He used to imitate Baboo Rao in his punning, but somehow or
other he always failed ridiculously. Harni was near him, flashing
her long, half-veiled glances, sitting prominently in front, and
laughing when her father laughed. I remember that when I saw her
first I thought there was something artificial and untrue about her.
Her father teased me as usual and would not leave me alone. And
at last made me go with Harni. She took me inside with a studied
sweeping grace, and gave me into the hands of another tall girl who
was serving out tea, bread, and jelly. ‘Here is aunty’s sister,’ she
said, ‘I have brought her for tea,’ and went back. She had a
prominent seat near her father next to the semicircle of men and
did not like to give it up. She seemed to take great interest in the
conversation that was going on. Prema, the girl with whom I was
left, was busy at the tea table and took no notice of outsiders. She
was sweet and simple-looking, and asked me about my mother, and
gave me tea and cake and told me to come often. I could not eat
anything, but I kept looking at her. There was kindness in her face,
and I said that I would come if she would let me sit with her in
the room. She laughed and said, ‘But I don’t sit here always. I must
go out now. My work is done. Come, we will go.’ So saying she
led me out. There was a stir in the room, and everybody was
anxious to give her a chair, but she quietly took her seat at the other
end of the room.
There was another person present, a sage or seer, whom I should
not fail to mention. His face was stamped with humility, meekness,
and modesty. He was sitting behind, conversing with some people
near him, amongst whom was my brother. He was full of wisdom, a giant among Christians, who led a life of unblemished purity;
and yet his manner with those with whom he talked was that of a learner. Young and old alike found in him a kind friend and sympathiser. A halo of love was round him, and one could not approach him without feeling oneself in the presence of a good man.
Tea followed. The conversation became general. Baboo Rao
punned freely. Our pastor cracked jokes. Harni’s father laughed.
The women put in a word now and then, especially if an explanation of an old saying or some subject that came within their
special province was discussed. The young ladies were asked to
sing, and after a little preliminary fuss some English songs were
sung and the meeting came to a close.
I often visited Prema and Harni with my mother. I was very shy
at first, but my mother made me feel more at home with them, and
insisted on my seeing more of girls. Prema and Harni both took
a liking to me, though I was much younger than they. Both were
the only daughters of their parents. They were educated with care
and were thought much of in their different mission circles. I used
to visit the mission churches alternately with my mother, and was
honoured with a nod from them in church. They regarded me as
a younger sister, and let me hold their hand and stand by them while
they chatted with others after the service. They would also draw
the attention of others to me, and now and then would whisper
something in my ear. Prema, my first friend, to whom I have only
made a cursory reference, was tall, and had a peculiar sweetness of
face and manner. She was not a beauty; yet the curved upper lip
and slightly open mouth gave her a look of sweet simplicity. This,
with soft deep eyes and a smile that one never forgot, made up a
very interesting face. She talked English as her mother tongue, for
she went to a European school. She was fond of telling me of her
school, where the teachers wore a train and belt and a flower, and
where she expected soon to be a teacher; for she was in the highest
class. “Young ladies wear long trains and not short skirts,’ she
explained with an air of importance for my special benefit, ‘and
then they are taken into society.’ Her words were all enigmas to me,
but I liked to hear her talk, and was proud to be taken notice of
by a tall, clever girl like her. One day she told me as a great secret
that her Ma had given her a novel, but that Pa did not know
anything of it, and that she knew a great deal of the world now.
(She always spoke of her parents as Ma and Pa).
‘And what is a novel?’ I said, afraid to show my ignorance and
yet wanting to know what it was.
‘A novel! a book, you know, but you must not read one. Little
gitls should not read novels. It is different with me,’ she said
proudly.
‘And am Ito keep this as a secret then?’ said I, with an indifferent
idea of what a secret was, and wishing to possess one.
‘Yes! never tell any one,’ she said, smiling and giving mea shake.
Like many a novel-reading girl she lived in a world of her own
making and enjoyed it. She knew that the native Christian
community was very small, and that there was no society to speak
of, neither long skirts nor short skirts. Her mother wore a saree. But
she attended an English school, and her thoughts were influenced
by those with whom she mixed. And who knows what the rising
Christian community may not aspire to in the future? Nothing is
so startling in these days as the unconscious imitation of English
customs and manners by the people of India. The fault, if indeed
it can be called a fault, is characteristic not only of native
Christians, but of Hindus as well. It is not because the manners
and customs are English that they are unconsciously imitated, but
because they are looked upon as necessary concomitants of a
higher stage of civilization. Probably the change is inevitable, and
it is useless to try to prevent it, but I sincerely hope that my
countrywomen, and for the matter of that, my countrymen also,
in their eagerness to adopt the new will not give up the good that
is in the old.
But, to return to my tale, my other friend Harni had a peculiar
grace, was tall and fair, with black, half-veiled eyes which wore a
sleepy look. She was decidedly a beauty, but she often gave me a
chill, so cold and emotionless she seemed. Yet now and then a flash
of fire revealed itself from under those sleepy eyelids. Harni was
an only daughter, and was much petted by her parents. Her
mother, a stout and burly peasant woman, scarcely able to read
or write, expressed aloud her admiration for the beauty of her
daughter. She gave utterance to her thoughts in the form of
instructions to her daughter about the manner she should dress and
walk. ‘Do go and wear better shoes Harni; these may suit others
more hardy,’ she would say, with a look at me which I did not
enjoy, ‘but not you. Your delicate feet gleam pitiably from them.’
And as Harni walked in with a self-conscious smile, her mother
would exclaim quite loudly, ‘Oh, my God, what beauty, if the girl would only take better care of herself!’ Harni was never to be seen doing anything vulgar. She never went near the cooking place. It would have been shocking. Smoke would never do for those pretty
eyes, and gardening would spoil her hands completely. She was
made only to gather flowers, not to work. How she would beautify
a grand palace! She would be a real queen with handmaids. That
used to be the sum and substance of her mother’s talk. All the while
I was content to think that smoke did not try my eyes, and that
my little garden under the plantain trees was my delight. Surely,
I thought, there must be something innately superior in her; and
yet why did others speak slightingly of her family? She had a great
deal to tell me of the great men that visited their house, and how
one actually came in a carriage and stayed in a hotel. This was a
Baboo, who was ever so rich and wore a ring with a large diamond
which sparkled so brilliantly. Then, with a feigned shy smile, she
added: ‘I won’t tell you what mother said about him,’ and no
coaxing of mine could ever make her tell me what it was. Once
she broke out abruptly: “Your sister was pretty and thought much
of; she had ever so many offers of marriage even when people knew
she did not want to marry,’ and when I opened my eyes wide with
wonder she added: ‘Your mother—did she not tell you that? Some
of her suitors were great people that came from other parts of
India. But my mother says that your sister never knew how to dress
well, and that I look better in my dress and jewels, though of course
everybody says that your sister was clever and beautiful. People
also say that I will soon be very like her.’
‘You like my sister?’ I said at last, shocked and surprised beyond
measure. ‘How dare you say that? Nobody can be or ever will be
like my sister.’ I felt a great inclination to cry and run away. She,
however, treated me coolly, and laughed at my words. Yet how
was it, that though I did not feel quite comfortable in her society,
I used to go to her house whenever my mother went? There was
a certain inexplicable attraction about this consciously beautiful
girl. She also went to a grand English school. That was another
inducement for me to go to see her. I used to make her tell me
what she learned there, so that I might ask my brother to teach
me the same. I did not care for the dresses which she showed me
with so much pride. I felt that I could not be comfortable in such,
and that I would be very much worried thinking of all the trifling
details connected with them. After my visits to this friend’s house
I always felt that there was no place like my dear home—my home
with its sweet simplicity and where everything was natural.
Just about this time, as nearly as I can remember, Prema’s father
brought a visitor to our house. Prema’s father was a great favourite
with us. He was a hearty old man with a humorous twinkle in his
eye, a broad face, and great broad shoulders. He was fond of
entertaining visitors and giving feasts, and knew how to make
everybody laugh. He used to come straight upstairs, call us by our
names in one long string, take a seat and ask for a cup of tea as
if he were in his own house. His coming was the signal for us all
to rush out to see him. Even my brother Bhasker was tempted to
come out from his study, and in his grave manner laughed at the
remarks of the good old man. This day he brought a visitor and
introduced him in the following words to my mother: ‘Here is a
new native Christian who has come to live with us, Radhabai, and
he has lots of money.’ While he said this his hand went unconsciously to his pocket and a twinkle came into his eye, and we
laughed, for we knew the old man’s fondness for money. “He has
more money than he knows what to do with,’ the old man
continued. ‘He has English manners, but that does not matter.
Nowadays all young scamps run after what is English. He wants
to settle down here. Now this is just what we want—some nice
rich people who will be one with us, not those stuck-up Englandreturned creatures with little brains and affected manners who will
have nothing to do with us, poor old-fashioned folks.’ We glanced
at the stranger, a dark-looking young man, dressed tightly in
English clothes, very self-confident, and with an air of swagger
which showed that he thought himself somebody. They had come
to invite us to a novel kind of party,—a bunder boat trip on the
sea, which the stranger had arranged. My mother said that she
never went anywhere, but turning to Prema’s father, who was
making fun with my little brother, she said: ‘When you go you
can call over and take these children. Prema is fond of my girl.’
“Yes! yes!’ said the old man, ‘let them come by all means,’ and
then to us: ‘Bring long, long pockets. There will be nice things to
eats
The next day there was great confusion in the boat. The young
people sat outside the square room where the elderly people were
seated. There were benches and seats all round, and Prema’s
mother, an invalid, reclined on a chair in the corner. Great consideration was shown to her, for she laid pretension to refinement. The others were all seated down, the young ladies on
low folding chairs specially brought in for them. The newcomer
discussed the English way of doing things, gave general instructions
as to how everything should be done, and paid flattering compliments all round to the girls, of whom there were three or four
besides Prema and Harni. The girls were charmed with him, I could
see; and he held a binocular in-his hand which was a great
attraction. He kept adjusting it for them. Harni laughed her best
and looked her best with her father by her side, but one could see
that it was Prema’s family that held precedence. Prema herself
unpacked the cakes and took the keenest interest in everything.
Most of the other young men imitated the newcomer in dress and
even in style of talk. My brother Bhasker was not there, and I felt
ill at ease and out of place. How different it would have been had
he been there! He had so many interesting things to say, and could
excite an interest so different from the silly talk and laughter that
were the order of the day. I felt the want of my brother. I looked
at the green islands sleeping in the sea, the tall palm trees that stood
beckoning from the opposite shore, and the hills in the distance,
and longed to be away in my little home. This day led to many
similar parties, but I seldom went except when pressed by Prema.
On these occasions the newcomer, who was now firmly established
among us, would be seen sitting on the deck, talking grandly of
his experiences to young girls who listened to him with rapt
attention. One tall simple girl with a little fondness for English
ways was always seen near him. This was Prema, and many
disapproved of her behaviour. I used with surprise to watch her
listening to him, anticipating his wants and doing little odds and
ends for him with a shy smile. She would then come nearer to hear
him talk. Others would gather also, but none looked so soft on
the stranger as Prema, and I wondered why.
The next time I saw Prema in the church, there was a dreamy
look in her eyes and she seemed sadly absent. She made a mistake
in starting the tune—she who used to take such pride in this part
of the service; and the eyes of all were upon her. When the service
was over she took me to the trees and we walked on the grass-plot.
We were silent, strangely silent. Prema only held me by the hand,
but she was looking far away. ‘Prema! What is it?’ I said at last,
half afraid to disturb her.
She turned round with a sweet, full smile and said ‘A great deal,’
and with a sigh, ‘Oh, I cannot tell you. Were you in the bunder
boat yesterday in the storm?’
‘No, I never go now. Was there a storm?’ How was it that she
did not notice my absence, I thought.
‘Yes! and the big boat was tossed up and down like a feather.’
‘Oh, how dreadful!’
‘No! it was not dreadful. I liked it. I did not feel afraid.’
‘But why?’
‘Because, because, oh, I cannot tell you why. In the storm Mr —
was very near me and he asked me if I would like to go over the
seas with him if they were ever so rough. I said I did not mind
rough seas, and he took my hand in his hand wanted to know why.
I told him because he would be there, and then, oh, nothing. It
is funny to have a great big grown-up friend, is it not?”
‘Yes,’ I said hastily, ‘but you must not go overseas.’
‘Don’t be foolish. Who is going?’ said Prema, hiding her es
for a moment. ‘What a goose you are! You are getting jealous of
my having another friend,’ and she laughed heartily at the idea,
and took me to my mother who had a caressing way of asking how
she was. Prema’s eyes suddenly filled with tears as she tried to say
with a smile that she was well.
When I saw Prema again she seemed to have the air of one who
held some secret as an exclusive treasure, and was supremely
content. She told me that she had left the school, and, in a girlish
whisper, added that she was to be engaged. It was in our balcony
that she said this, and the hurried whisper that followed left me
strangely confused.
‘And what was that you said?’ I asked.
‘Oh, you don’t know. You must not know. It is only girls of
my age that know what it is. When a man offers his hand in
marriage, the young lady accepts it. Then she is engaged and a ring
is put on her finger.’
‘And shall I be engaged too?’ I said.
‘Oh! not all girls are engaged. When they are young ladies, you
know, like me. They must be fifteen and you are only twelve.’
Some months passed. My happiness seemed to grow everyday till I thought there was nobody so happy as I in the world. I was
my brother’s confidant now. When making his plans for the future
he did not leave me out. He told me about his studies, how soon they would be over, about his professor and principal who loved
him and treated him as a brother and friend, and about the long
hours that they had together. He took me to his college, to
meetings, to public places. Our last visit was to Convocation. How
well I remember my brother proudly walking by my side and
leading me through the crowd to the reserved seats. I was the only
native lady present. I was somewhat frightened when people put
up their glasses, and the Europeans next to us stared at me, but
my brother placed himself by me and instructed me as to the
degrees that were being conferred. ‘Those are the B. A.s. Won’t
you be proud when I take my degree? I shall soon be among them,
and you must be the first lady to distinguish yourself. I will teach
you. Don’t you be afraid.’
But a day came which I shall never forget. A heavy blow fell
upon us. I have asked myself over and over again why God afflicted
me just when my happiness was so complete, but I have never been
able to find an answer.
It was on a Friday that I was sitting on the floor in a corner
of the hall, reading my lessons for the evening, with my parrot’s
cage beside me. The house was silent. The servant woman was cowdunging the chool and humming to herself. My mother was away
visiting. The street cries were grating on my ear, when all of a
sudden a buggy stopped at the door—a very unusual thing. I
stooped forward to see who it was, and what was my surprise to
see my brother Bhasker and my second elder brother getting down!
Why was Bhasker so weak, and why did his step falter for a
moment, while my other brother waited to see him down? It was
soon evident that something was seriously wrong, for the odd and
unmovable brother came hurriedly up and drew the long armchair
forward, and Bhasker followed him calm, grave, yet with apparent
difficulty, up the stairs and sat in the chair. My head swam when
I saw him spit up blood. ‘O God avert it,’ I exclaimed in agony.
But there was no time to be lost. There was not a word whispered.
Pen and paper were placed hastily before him, and he wrote for
the doctor. My tongue had cloven to my mouth and my voice had
almost gone. With great difficulty I whispered: ‘Get mother.’ My
brother gave a nod, and when the letter was put into his hands,
‘What else?’ he burst out, ‘What else?’ ‘Get any doctor,’ I said, ‘and
keep the buggy.’ Bhasker sat straight in the chair, but was silent
and calm except for a husky cough at intervals. My mother came
in a minute, and the doctor also came rushing up. I was in the other
room, and a painful moment of suspense followed, during which
my brothers stood round me, looking at each other, hushed and
speechless. I was frightened and peeped in. The doctor, a genial,
pleasant-faced man, beckoned to me. He asked me if I knew
English. I nodded. I couldn’t talk; I almost choked. Looking at me
he said: ‘Don’t be frightened. Come here. You will be a good little
nurse, won’t you? Your brother is very ill. Don’t let anybody
come in. Give him this medicine every half-hour,’ and he poured
out the required quantity. ‘I will come again, plenty of ice. Now
take care, and make no noise,’ and after a whispered talk with
Bhasker he went away. My brother looked in my face, drew me
near him and stroked my cheek. The very act seemed to unloose
something that seemed tightly bound up in my breast, a deep sob
was followed by many loud sobs and a great flood of tears.
Bhasker’s face flushed up as he whispered, ‘God’s will be done.’
His lips twitched, but his hand lay lightly on my head. I was
somewhat relieved after a time. My work was to attend on Bhasker
night and day; my whole heart was in it. I could not leave him
for a moment; nothing was left undone. I prepared his congee
myself. In my spare moments I went to the corner of the balcony,
and prayed to God to make my brother well.
VI
It was a little fort by the seaside. It seemed like a bird’s nest perched
on the top of the hill as we looked at it from the train. On a near
view we caught sight of its open terraces, parapets, and towers.
On one side of the hill were a number of brown huts nestled in
trees. In front rose groves of large trees, tier upon tier, till they
reached another hill opposite. Between the hills gleamed a sacred
tank with numerous steps, and by its side rose the dome of a
rounded temple from which was heard the incessant ringing of
bells. Towards the temple men were hastening with shining
chamboos to perform their poojah. Sleepy oxen with half-closed eyes
were chewing the cud close by, and lazy buffaloes with heads aloft
were wading about in a neighbouring pool of lotus-covered water.
In the tank itself were seen black figures washing and bathing.
From the hill we had a view of a land-locked arm of the sea, and
could listen to the hushed murmur of its tiny waves. It lay before
us a wide glistening sheet, dotted here and there with little green
islands which were clothed with graceful feathery palms and many
reeds.
It was here, amid ancient trees and deep shadows, that we
brought Bhasker for a change of scene. The house in which we lived
was an old dilapidated one, and formed part of the fort. There were
endless empty rooms and open spaces, from each of which we had
a beautiful view of the surrounding country. The charm of the
place was heightened by the numerous historical associations
connected with it. In the midst of old walls stood old trees
recording, as plain as in words, the memory of many a storm and
many a battle; and each old gun and stone seemed to have a tale
to tell. Bhasker’s youthful spirit was at once fired by the influence
of such surroundings. With great enthusiasm, though often with
difficulty and pain, he narrated the stories connected with the fort.
A light would come into his eye and a suffused colour overspread
his cheeks as he told many a thrilling tale of bloodshed and war.
Our sister would steal in and out and listen to him, and sometimes
too she would gently curb his rising enthusiasm.
The change did my brother good. He appeared to regain
strength, and was seen early in the mornings taking his walks. The
breath of the sea came in refreshing puffs, and the murmur of the
waves was distinctly heard all round the weird, wind-beaten place.
In the evenings the effect was somewhat depressing, but in the
mornings, when the sunlight lingered among groves of oranges,
mangoes, and plantains, touching up the tank into a glistening
crystal, and bathing the temple and huts in a soft light, the view
was cheerful and attractive. The sensitive nerves of my brother,
by suffering rendered more sensitive still, were alive to every
impression, and seemed to magnify and brighten the most commonplace delights. The moon rose for him with chastened and
sublime glory, and the stars shone more brilliantly than ever
before. The wind was alive for him and spoke to his soul in
innumerable voices. All his thoughts he shared with his little sister
who walked by his side, joyous once more to see her brother so
well. He talked with a fire that seemed to consume him. He was
one of those high-strung characters that feel most deeply and
express what they feel in words full of fiery enthusiasm. Even in
his narration of simple stories there was much that gave an insight
into his stern, upright character. Religion was to him something
of the heart, and holiness was something to be aspired to, even
attainable in this world. With flashing eyes and determined lips he
used to say:- ‘Have you never felt that once you resist temptation,
it grows weaker and weaker, and at last even fails to assail you?’
His prayers were a grand uplifting of heart and soul, as if he had
found God on the mountaintop, met Him face to face, and was
pleading before Him, realising in his soul both the greatness and
the goodness of the Almighty Father.
Under these influences I grew up with a wistful longing for the
future that seemed full of hope. I was delighted at the prospect of
the great work before me. But the fire would burn out now and
then from my brother’s eyes and depressions would come on—
strange depressions. The heights were too sublime and there were
corresponding depths. It is easy to bear the stroke that brings one
nigh to death; but when the spirit has recovered some of its elasticity, and finds that the body is feeble and unable to bear the load of thought and action, when it becomes necessary to husband every particle of strength—to count, as it were, the very drops that fall from a reservoir whose springs are cut off, it is then that the
young spirit feels the galling chain of sickness and gets depressed under its load. ‘Oh for the day when I shall be able to walk and talk and shake off the heavy burden that seems to drag me down,
I know not where!’ exclaims the drooping spirit; and it even
questions the why and the wherefore of things.
One evening we were in the grove that my brother loved. It
was a sort of alcove midway between the sea and the fort, and here
every natural wild flower was to be seen in bloom. Ferns clung
to the clumps of trees and waved in the air. The glamour of a legend
hung over the grove, where, in ancient times, it was said, a solemn
tragedy was enacted. High overhead rose a hoary tree. Its blossoms
were all white, and its huge trunk made many a bend as it rose
on high, the guardian deity of the grove. On the trunk were curious
initials, evidently cut in years gone by, for they were crusty and
lichen-grown. Bhasker was excited as he pointed them out to me
and removed the growing crust. ‘Why do we carve our names,’ he
said, ‘with the fond hope that they may be perpetuated for ever?
What is that inner longing that makes us do that? Oh! it is hard
to be forgotten.’ And then he lapsed into thought. After some time,
suddenly raising his head, he said: ‘Can you imagine what I feel?
I am passing through a deep and severe trial. No one can ever feel
as I did the freedom and buoyancy of life. I was fearless and
aspiring. I thought of doing great things and difficulties and
obstacles seemed made only to conquer: but suddenly this shock
has come, and most surely Iam now a shattered wreck and helpless.
Oh! for life, for the possession of a few short years! I feel I can
set about my work even now with this throbbing feverish pulse
if I can be sure of living.’
He was holding the branches and walking on, but now he hid
his face, and I did not know what to do. ‘No, Bhasker! you are
getting strong, you will soon be well,’ I said feebly. I was bewildered
and frightened. I had never seen him so depressed, but his head had
been long bowed, and his mind was yielding to the morbid powers
at work. It was long before he raised his head, but when he did
so there was a look of triumph on his face, and I seemed to hear
him say: ‘Hush, rebellious soul. It is God’s will; bow before 1t; it
is for the best.’ Turning to me he said: ‘It is this body, this weak
body that acts on my mind. I become excited and have no control
over myself and think such thoughts. Ah! now I know what
temptation is, how it shakes the very foundation of faith, and if
not battled against, leaves a helpless wreck behind. But of one thing
be sure; if the mind is calm and collected, with even a part of its
old vigour left, it will regain its peace and joy. The light may get
obscured for a time by man’s pride and reliance on his feeble
powers, but faith in God will surely re-assert itself.” Then with a
smile he added: ‘It is past. I have conquered the depression and have
learned a great lesson. Our wills must be entirely subject to God’s.
It is only then that we shall be meet for heaven.’
Suddenly in the calm of the evening a mighty peal clashed forth
from the neighbouring convent and temple. We listened with bated
breath as the stillness of a calm evening again spread all around,
amidst echoing ruins and tremulous leaves. Our sister and her
husband now joined us, and she carefully wrapped a shawl round
Bhasker. The spirit of the evening was on them too. They sat on
the bench with us in the deepening twilight. My sister took my
hand in hers while she sang:
Abide with me, fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.
Afterwards we all walked home together deep in thought. To me
the hymn opened a new world, as it were. The words and the deep
feeling with which it was sung I can never forget.
Many were the friends who came to see us here, for we were
very near our city home. They always came by the morning train
and went back in the evening. All ‘the reserve of the city was
thrown off, and each visitor became for the time being a member
of our family. One of these visitors, a dark and slim lady, left an
indelible impression on my mind. She came bustling up one
morning and her luggage followed her. There was a great deal of
noise and excitement on her arrival. I felt compelled to follow her
and listen to her. She had a certain charm about her, and she seemed
a person of some consequence. As she passed into the room she
had a word for everybody. She noticed everything, was wonderfully bright, and was perfectly at home everywhere. She seemed
to have travelled much, was ever ready to supply an anecdote, and
about each one of the native Christians she had something original,
something spicy, to relate. It was quite a novel sight to see her in
that calm and peaceful home. I always noticed that her talk was
somewhat solemn as she met my sister’s serious gaze, and-once or
twice she said with affectation that my sister’s serious nature could
not comprehend her light and trifling talk. The funny things that she said and the dark inuendoes she whispered made her a
somewhat formidable person. Her cheerfulness, however, was quite taking, and one forgot in the attractive atmosphere of her
surroundings, and amidst her witty remarks and entertaining
anecdotes, the dangerous nature of her talk.
My sister, naturally calm and solemn, did not know how to act.
Brought up as she had been in a school of severe discipline, any
conversation savouring of frivolity was a horror to her. Her face
wore a bewildered expression. She even smiled at the wit and
humour of the visitor, but there was a far-away look in her eyes,
and every now and again she seemed lost in thought. She sat with
her hands clasped and with her usual mastery over her feelings, yet
one could see that she was trying hard to be patient. The brilliant
conversation of the visitor pleased us, but our sister was thinking
whether a little hint from her would check the flow of her talk,
or make matters worse. There was no knowing whether the rapid
current, bubbling with life and mischievous spirit, would stand a
little restraint. Bhasker alone rose equal to the occasion, and looked
upon the whole as a humorous entertainment. As for me I did not
understand most of our visitor’s talk, but hearing the name of
Prema mentioned once, I strained every nerve to catch her words.
She spoke of her last visit to the city, her stay at Harni’s, and
described the parties given by the newcomer in her somewhat
sneering manner. She looked upon the parties as a farce, and
laughed at the fuss which was made over the man,—how the report
of his wealth and ability had got abroad, how he was made much
of in every native Christian home, and how the announcement of
his engagement had for a time cooled the reception accorded him
in many quarters, but that his usual attractive manner and boasting
had made him popular again. ‘Poor man,’ she added, ‘he likes
Prema in a way. He has given her hopes, but he means to play
with others also.’ Then she gave an amusing description of a
conversation at Harn1’s.
“So when is the happy day?” said Harni’s mother one day after
Harni’s praises had been duly dinned into his ears, and Harni
herself had had many opportunities of looking bewitching and
pretty under a shower of compliments.
He looked astonished.
“Ah! Ah! don’t we know?” said Harn.
“The happy day of your marriage,” added the mother.
“My marriage! I don’t know of any, unless you have made it
ready for me without my knowledge,” said the young man in his
broken Marathi and with assumed modesty.
“Yes, yes, you will say that,” the mother went on, “but we know
better. Who will think of us? Who will tell us? We are poor people.
It is running water at Prema’s. They are rich. They lack nothing.”
“J don’t understand your language. I go to Prema’s, but that does
not prove that I am about to marry her.”
“Well! what a world this is! I heard that even the wedding saree
had been bought.”
“Nonsense, it is all a lie.”
“That is mysterious,” said the mother, “for we know who spread
the report.”
“If I want to marry, I know who will be told first.”
“Not me, surely,” said Harni’s mother with a grin. She pressed
him to stay for dinner. During dinner time his laugh and talk
increased. But there was no fear of Harni losing her heart. Cold,
calculating, and shrewd, she would not be caught easily, and she
will no doubt make a great match some day. It is simple Prema
that is so easily deluded by his soft words and promises. He has
surely made what our simple Christians will call a real engagement,
and she believes in him implicitly. But she is not the girl that this
worldly-wise, self-pleasing man will ever care to have for his wife.
The funniest thing is, that after hearing all this at Harni’s I went
to Prema’s just to see her invalid mother, and the simple woman
poured forth her heart to me with such apparent joy and relish
on the subject of her daughter’s engagement, adding in a whisper
that it was all a secret now, and that the wedding would take every
one by surprise. That is the way our native Christians manage
nowadays. Those good old days are gone when engagements were
solemn promises, and weddings were not secrets.
My sister watched me eagerly listening, and quietly sent me
away from the room on an errand. I am sure I should have cried
if I had remained. My ears tingled with what I heard as I thought
of Prema, the girl so full of sweet dignity and maidenly pride! What
need had she of that man’s friendship? Why did her people want
her to marry him? Why did she care for him? Oh! I wish I were
near, I said to myself, to tell Prema all this, and ask her to come
away to my sister and never to talk to that man any more. But
in vain I waited for an opportunity to go to the city, and the next news was that the man who was talked of in connection with Prema had left the place abruptly. I was rather glad. A good riddance, I thought. There is no fear of any more talk about Prema,
and when mother proposed to go to the city I was very anxious
that she should take me with her. Bhasker wondered at my being
SO eager.
‘Oh, Bhasker! I want to see Prema.’
‘Prema,’ said he, ‘what have you to do with Prema? No, you
are not to talk with her.’
‘Oh! I want to see her so much. She is all right now. She is not
to be married, and she will come and stay with us. She loves our
sister so.’
‘Poor girl!’ he said, stroking my cheeks. ‘You do not know, but
I hear that she sees nobody. If she had only kept to her old simple
ways, and not gone in for fashion and false ideas, she would not
have suffered as she suffers now. I hear that she is very ill.’
I was shocked to hear of her illness, and stretched my hands out
wildly and cried ‘Prema! poor Prema!’
Our guest had stayed only a few days, but after the first day
she did not indulge much in gossip, though she was as bright as
ever. My sister had certainly exerted some kind of influence on her.
For, one evening, while my sister and she were walking out, I heard
them talking of the bright side of man’s character. My sister’s
words were tremulous with feeling as I caught the last sentence:
‘Reverse the picture. Give man true religion. Let the hand of God
pass over him and you will see him transformed to the glory and
likeness of God.’ What a contrast these two seemed in that evening
light! The one was bright and quick in her movements, the other
solemn and dignified. I wondered why my sister’s talk was always
pious.
Latterly, Bhasker’s state of health had become less satisfactory.
The temporary improvement was followed by a relapse. The old
fort with its solemn ruins, its eerie, wind-swept windows, its
witching shadows, and mournful, rustling trees had a depressing
effect on his mind, though for a time it quickened in him the desire
to wake up and be strong. The doctor advised a change to some
part of bracing Deccan. Bhasker’s face suddenly lit up. ‘Yes,’ he
said, ‘let us go to Vishrampoor, the Christian village; you have not
seen it. It is such a delightful place. There is a peculiar charm about
it. Our father used to go there, and most of our sister’s days were
spent there. The tongas will take us. Oh! you don’t know what
driving in a tonga is like. You will be delighted with everything
you see there.’
The very idea of visiting the place had a wonderful effect on
Bhasker. He got up to pack, directed what books should be taken,
and I somehow felt confident that the change would do him
substantial good. I was myself delighted with the prospect of
visiting a Christian colony, and was in a tremor of excitement
when we arrived at the station where I expected to see a sight which
I had never seen before, and to meet everywhere Christians of my
own country. My feelings were the same as those of a foreigner
who discovers a colony of his own people in some strange land.
‘Christians like us,’ I said to myself, ‘their interests and pursuits
the same; their life one with ours. Oh! how delightful!’ with such
thoughts as these, and in the highest spirits we got out of the train
and looked eagerly around.
On the platform stood a group—a hearty-looking man with
honesty written on his face, his hardy wife, their son, and a modestlooking girl, their daughter, all beaming with smiles. I could have
told in an instant that they were Christians even if their dress had
not indicated the fact. Their faces seemed full of brightness and
intelligence. My heart went out to them, I caught myself salaaming
and smiling. The tongas were waiting outside. Old memories came
crowding into my mind, and I lived over again in imagination the
life of my father and my sister; so deeply engrafted on my memory
were the incidents narrated to me about them. We passed by the
Hindu town, which lay between the station and the Christian
village. Here were to be seen groups of Brahmins, unfriendly as
ever, eyeing us with curiosity. There was a surprised stare in their
faces, and I heard them say in scornful tones. Batte! Batte!
(polluted). These were the people who persecuted my father in days
gone by.
‘See! See! there is M—Sahib’s bungalow,’ said one of my brothers
excitedly, as he pointed to a nest-like bungalow on the top of a small
rounded knoll. ‘Ah! then, that is the place where those good people
lived, and where sister spent so many happy days with them.’
Turning. I asked my mother, ‘Is it all me?’
‘True indeed,’ laughed my brother. ‘Where do you think we are?
Look, there is Vishrampoor.’ And there, true enough, on the
opposite side, with a golden glow resting on it, lay the picturesque
village. With a jerk the tonga left the road by which we had come,
and the driver asked to whose house he was to take us.
‘House! house! is it so near?’ I asked.
“We are near enough,’ said my brothers, clapping their hands
and shouting, ‘James Sahib’s! James Sahib’s!’ and turning to me
they said, “Look! that road goes a long way round, but this is a
short cut.’
A heavy jolt here followed, and in full five minutes we were
nearing the neatly built houses and cottages. At the school which
we passed several girls gathered to have a look at us from behind
the compound wall, while big lazy-looking boys crowded out and
observed us from a distance. The women, leaving their work,
stared at us from their cottage-doors, and a large group of children
followed us. We passed rows of cottages, the church, and the
missionary’s house, and stopped at a small bungalow, which to us
looked very large. Here we found the native pastor waiting for us.
He was dressed in white, and with a radiant smile he welcomed
us heartily. ‘This way. I heard you were coming half an hour ago.
Jonas, the carpenter, caught sight of your tonga and came running
to tell me. This is your house. Put your things here and come to
my house; you are to dine with me today.’ Then came his wife,
who greeted us respectfully. Both seemed in the very best health,
and so kind were they that they almost carried us away to their
house. ‘The things need not be disturbed; they will be looked after;
you must have your dinner first and then rest.’ The hearty and
sympathetic manner of our hosts put us all at our ease; we enjoyed
the simple meal served out in orthodox native style, and returned
to our little temporary home close by much refreshed. Why are
some people born to be kind? Why do their hearts go out to
strangers? What prompts them to do kindly actions out of purely
disinterested motives? These were the problems on which I puzzled
my little head that night.
The next morning was deliciously cool, for a shower had fallen
in the night. I was awake early, but felt loth to rise. Enervated with
heat I enjoyed the delightful change. I was passive and calm, but
keenly alive to my new surroundings, and eager to catch in a
dreamy, sleepy way some new pleasure from my limited peep
through the window. Every person that passed by awoke in me
a new train of thought. Ah! there is the cake-woman coming
with those delicious dainties. I looked at her beaming face, and
unconsciously began to think how early she must have got up to
prepare them so nicely. I pictured the hurried rise, and the bustle
in the cottage as the woman set about her work. The little hut came
before me, the fireplace by the window, the scene of her early
morning labours. The fire is lit, the children get up, rubbing their
eyes, and surround their Mother and watch her baking the clean
white cakes. I seemed to hear their prattle and to see their heads
nestling in the mother’s lap. The work over, she catches the early
dawn, and with her basket loaded with good things she is out in
the cold, cold wind, and with a smile on her face goes round to
each house. I lay and enjoyed the cold morning wind, and listened
with delight to the cheery song of the birds. Mother was already
in the kitchen. I could hear her voice, and there was surely a
country peasant talking to her. I could hear the gruff voices of the
firewood-man, the egg-man and the fruit-man as they came in from
the neighbouring villages. But mother’s voice again fell on my ears.
‘What! still sleeping? come along children, everything is ready.’
I got up with a bound, ashamed at my laziness, and a puff of
cool wind blew on me through the open door. I took a hurried
glance out, and caught sight of a pile of knotted dripping wood,
a bamboo trellis work, the tops of little cottages, clumps of mango
trees, and in the distance the faint outline of a long range of hills.
There was plenty of cold water in the veranda behind, in peculiarlooking vessels. As I lifted my dripping face, the servant woman
caught sight of me and salaamed, modestly and diffidently remarking that she knew me when I was a child. With a joyful smile and
in the best of spirits I hurried out to tea. The boys were there
already, and their tongues were wagging freely. What with chapatis
and mangoes, a hot cup of tea and beautiful scenery all round, my
cup of happiness was full. Ding! Ding! Ding! ‘What is that?’ I
turned to ask. It was the bell for morning prayers, and when the
next bell rang we had all to be ready in church.
We dressed and went out. Already we saw people hurrying along
with books under their arms. The second bell had begun when a
man wearing a turban came rushing up, with difficulty making headway against the strong wind which was blowing. Suddenly he stopped, smiled, and salaamed, a little ashamed at being caught in an undignified attitude.
‘That man is the singing master, and he has to hurry in for the first hymn,’ said Bhasker.
We reached the church. All eyes were upon us, and we followed some of the latecomers to a back seat. Those in front beckoned to us to go forward, and we caught sight of the pastor’s smiling
face. He moved to make room, and pointed to the seats by his side.
Presently the missionary and his wife walked in. The people tried
to look solemn and grave. All though the services we—the newcomers—were keenly watched, not even escaping the notice of the
missionary and his wife. The service over, all the people stood up
with one accord and shouted: ‘Salaam! Papa, Salaam! Mamma’.
This is the usual morning salute to the European missionary and
his wife.
The village itself, what a charm there is about it! It is a place
of perpetual surprises. Do you need milk, you have to run to
Matthew, the milkman, and Matthew comes grinning with his
cows, and makes a salaam. Your cart-driver is Paulus, and Lucas
and John are your servants. Outside you go, and you are accosted
familiarly by Abraham and Moses going to the fields. Sarah and
Naomibai greet you with children on their hips. You are surrounded on all sides by quite a scriptural host, and you feel
bewildered, wondering what great patriarch or prophet or prophetess you are to meet next. But there is no time for thinking, the
leading Christian of the village has already taken you triumphantly
to his home. Here you are surrounded by his wife and children,
all ready to do their best for you. The little house is very neatly
furnished, and there is a small garden in front which is very
tastefully kept. You thoroughly enjoy the hospitality of your
friend. In other homes also you meet the same hearty welcome.
As you pass the workshop you hear the lusty voices of carpenters
and sawyers singing as they do their work. Bass, tenor and treble
join from various parts. The chorus is taken up in the schools, and
stray walkers take part by either humming or whistling the tune.
But hush! the song of the children rises:
Deva mazha palanara,
Mala oonay nahi honar.
In the early morning, while the bell sounds sweet and clear, you
hear it sung by sleepy children. You hear it in the fields where
Moses, James, and John are busy tilling the ground. From the
solitary wanderers in the orange groves, from the workers by the
riverside, rises the sweet melody. It is one general chorus in which
every inhabitant of the village feels bound to join. The whole place
resounds with the song, which forms an integral part of the village
life. Even to this day what sweet recollections are bound up with
that simple strain. What fresh and youthful faces appear before
me—faces fresh from the portals of childhood, and innocently
opening their eyes on the world. Many of them have long since
been gone, but still I seem to see the shy smile and the innocent
loving eyes that greeted me then.
One day our mother in her usual quiet way proposed that we
should visit the missionary’s house. “We must pay our respects to
them,’ she said, ‘and you must come with me. They would like
to see you.’ I dressed with a little more attention than usual,
throwing my rough shoes aside and putting on my best odhni. I
had seen a young lady there, and in my mind I had already built
a little castle of friendship. ‘I would talk to her a great deal,’ I said
to myself, ‘exchange books, and get to know all about young
English girls.’ I thought of my sister’s friendship when she was
young, and how she had gained much useful knowledge from her
companions. Oh! how lovely was the garden and everything about
the house. My sister had taken me once or twice to European
houses, to the Collector’s, and to one or two others, at the country
fort where we were staying, and the visits came back to me. I
thought of the gentle, lovely lady who had stroked my hair, taken
me inside, and spoken so kindly to me, and who was so like my
sister, sweet, soft, and gentle. Before I had finished thinking, one
cherub after another peeped out from a room at the end of the
veranda, and I was beckoning to them and trying to make friends
with them, when a gentleman came out, tall and rather stout, with
a somewhat brusque manner. My mother was dressed in the
orthodox fashion, as if she had been a typical Brahmin lady.
Nothing would induce her to alter her dress.
I doubted for a moment if the gentleman would recognize us
as Christians, and soon afterwards he asked us, ‘What do you want?
Can I do anything for you?’ My spirits fell. “No, sahib,’ said my
mother, ‘I have just come to see you. I thought I should, as we
are now living in your Christian village.’ ‘Oh! all right, all right!
Here, boy, go and call missus,’ and he stood silent as if puzzled what
more to do. Being accustomed only to the visits of native
Christians around who came to him always for help of some kind he did not know what to make of us and was reluctant even to offer us a chair. The missionary’s wife hereupon came out. She
salaamed and said, ‘Sit down,’ while she herself sat on a chair. I drew a chair for mother, and myself stood by her side. I was also
asked to sit, but I remained standing. I felt the first keen pang of
disappointment, and did not in the least mind the missionary
raising his eyebrows. The young lady, their daughter, came out,
and I made up to her silently and shyly. I was a little less confident
of my success now. She smiled faintly as she stood leaning on the
wall of the veranda, at the same time giving a slight shrug of her
shoulders as she eyed me all over. I began to feel all the deficiencies
in my dress. The unconscious slight flurried me, and yet I was not
sure whether she really meant it. ‘If I talk she will be my friend,’
I said, and in my desperation I began to speak about what was
uppermost in my mind. I asked her if she had any interesting storybooks to lend. She raised her eyebrows, and the next minute I felt
the audacity and awkwardness of putting her that question.
She said, however, ‘You read? you can’t read what I read. You
won’t understand.’
I said, ‘I will try,’ but she immediately added that she never lent
her books. .
There was no more talk. ‘Why had I come?’ I said to myself,
and longed to see my mother going. At last she got up and we took
leave. My mind was in a whirl. ‘Oh! mother, it was well you got
up so soon, or else I really should have run home. Don’t you ever
take me to a missionary’s house again.’
‘Hush! you are a naughty girl; how can you expect them to be
friends? Don't you see the difference, they are white and we are
black; we ought to be thankful for the little notice that they take
of us.’
‘But, mother, the Collector’s wife is also white, and when I went
with my sister to her house, she was quite different. She took us
inside, made my sister sit beside her, and she spoke so sweetly and
gently to me that I felt quite happy. She asked me what I learnt,
gave me cake and tea, and I felt as if I were talking to my sister.’
‘Ah! I see it all. You want to be made much of. You want cake
and tea.’
‘Indeed, I don’t mother. You know I don’t,’ I exclaimed, almost
crying. I was very much excited, and vexed because my mother
had misunderstood me. I went to Bhasker, but he, strange to say,
took quite a different view of the matter. ‘I can quite understand,’
he said, ‘why they treated you like this; it was because they do not
know us. You will see that among Christians there are many who
do not appreciate kindness. When the missionary and his family
know more of us, I am sure they will treat us better. There is Mr
A—, for instance, in the city. Why! no one is so great a friend of
our family as he. You ought to see him. Then again there are Mr
and Mrs M-—, our sister’s great friends. All these know us well.
You can’t expect all strangers to treat you in the same way.’ After
this I felt comforted.
We were very much interested in the people by whom we were
surrounded. There was, for instance, the merry school matron,
whom I always found seated in the midst of an admiring group
of children and grown-up women, cutting out frocks and cracking
jokes. I was shy and reserved, and did not like the freedom she took
with everybody, but she laughed and talked and had her fun all
the same. She was a general nurse, and would often be seen rushing
about with bottles and phials, her tongue ready for a joke, and her
face beaming with smiles. The village pastor was a sort of general
supervisor. When we lacked anything we went to him, and he even
undertook to provide shoes and sweetmeats for us.
One day the bell rang and our servant woman said that the mem
sahibiwas going to hold a Bible-reading for the women. It was to
be in a schoolroom adjoining our house, and soon mother and I
and the servant woman, who undertook to be our guide, sallied
out. When we reached the schoolroom we found several women
gathered there already. We were taken to a row of chairs which
were placed opposite to the benches on which the women sat. It
was rather awkward for us to be there alone, but we had no other
choice. Soon the missionary’s wife came and sat by us. The usual
reading was gone through, each stammering or spelling a verse
from the Bible, and then the-discourse began. As it proceeded many
more came and the room was full. The discourse was interspersed
with a great deal of “Do you hear?’ ‘Do you understand?’ etc. Lying and stealing were strongly condemned. Somehow I did not feel at all at ease. We were on a line with the missionary’s wife, and I felt all the time that we who were seated on chairs were unconsciously placing ourselves on a higher platform than those seated on benches. As soon as the meeting closed I made haste to go out, but
my mother stood talking, and I was obliged to wait for her outside. The cottages were all around, and I was somewhat surprised to hear, not far off, the noise of quarrelling.
In a house close by a woman was imitating the mem sahib’s manner and twang as she divested herself of her new cloth, while four others, who looked very solemn and modest at the meeting, began to talk the most fearful gossip as soon as they got a few paces
away from the schoolroom. When my mother came out with the
missionary’s wife and the pastor’s wife there was a hush. I could
hear on all sides, ‘the muddum is coming’. Each woman put her
head down and salaamed. On the way home mother told me that
the missionary’s wife had asked us all to tea, that the good Mr A’s
brother had come and had worked this change. He was anxiously
inquiring about us from the missionary. We went home and heard
that the newcomer had already been there. Kind, dear man! he did
a great deal for us. If we had been his own he could not have looked
after us with more care. He thought nothing too good for Bhasker.
He spent hours with him, and sent wine and nourishment for him
with fatherly care and foresight. ‘Bhasker, my boy,’ he would say,
and his face would express real love and concern as he came to see
him and laid his hand on his head; and no one was more delighted
than he at Bhasker’s progress and returning strength. Ah! how
mistaken I was in my judgment of missionaries!
It is acknowledged by experienced missionaries that the system
of congregating Christians on whom religion has not taken a deep
hold in villages has not proved a success, the glimpses therefore that
I give of Christian life and conversation in this village should not
be taken as characteristic of the Christian community as a whole.
The mission agents of the station occasionally went twice or
thrice a week on preaching tours to neighbouring villages. A special
cart was set apart for this purpose, and I had a great longing to
go out in it. The villages dotted here and there in the midst of the
long undulating stretch of ground around us appeared such
refreshing spots of green. Some of them lay almost hidden behind
slight ridges, some were dimly visible in the hazy distance, while
others nestled at the foot of the distant hills. I loved to gaze at them
as cloud and sunshine flitted over them, or as the evening rays
decked them in warm, bright colours. The pastor promised that
whenever he went he would take me in his tonga, but nothing
seemed so inviting as the rolling, jolting free drive in a cart.
One day I coaxed my mother and Bhasker to give me permission
to go. Of course I was teased a great deal by my other brothers,
who were disappointed because they could not go with me. They
called me a Bible-woman, and gave me a few tracts and some
tattered, worn-out books which they told me to carry under my
arm just as the typical Bible-woman did. They warned me a great
deal about coming home safe and sound, hinting at the possibility
of my being tumbled into a ditch or a river.
When the cart was ready, I ran to take my place. It was about
twelve o’clock. The clouds had obscured the sun, and there was
a light cool breeze blowing from the hills. Two women were
already in the cart. The preacher, chewing his betel-nut, ran to join
it. His children followed exclaiming, ‘Papa! bring us some nice
mangoes.’ ‘Here, child,’ he says to one, ‘go and get my book, I
forgot it,’ and with an apologetic look to us, ‘we are very late today. Where are we to go? Let me see. Ah! it is to Devasala and
Dharmashankara. Drive on. Where is Thugabai?’
‘We shall find her near the fields,’ said a tall slight woman with
a Bible in her hand. We drove on a little further and Thugabai came
running up. She was a big fat women and was well-nigh breathless,
as she got into the cart. The preacher was the last to get in, and
he sat behind with his feet dangling out. Somebody remarked that
we were about to cross the river, and my eyes became fixed on
the long green belt that marks its course.
‘I wonder if I have brought money. Today is the fair at
Dharamsala’, said Thugabai, still panting and vainly endeavouring
to smile. ‘Did you hear the news?’
“What is it?’ asked everyone eagerly.
‘Why, the whole village is talking about it,’ said the fat one
smiling. ‘It is only this. Daniel got quite drunk last night and ran
on the high road in the direction of the matron’s house. We heard
such a noise, people running, laughing and screaming.’
‘Oh how shocking,’ said one.
‘I knew there was something going on, but why should he run
in that direction?’
‘The matron is always laughing and casting eyes,’ said the short
woman who looked like a bundle in a corner.
‘Oh! I always objected to her laughing,’ said the straight woman with the Bible. “Yesterday she laughed in our padre’s house so loudly that I rushed out to see what was going on, and I saw James
Sahib holding his two sides and laughing and exclaiming, “O my! O my! do come and tell Hasubai to stop.” The tears were rolling from his eyes.’
‘It is against the Bible to drink,’ said the fat woman resuming
the thread of her talk, ‘and then to run mad like that. I hear that
Jonas, the carpenter, actually dragged him from the gate.’
‘Gate!’ said the preacher. ‘I heard it was from the road.’
‘No, big Jim saw the whole thing and Henry ran and told me.’
‘Oh! what sin!’ ejaculated another.
“Oh! do you know,’ began Thugabai again, ‘what fun there was
at Lazarus’ the other day? Big Joshua came puffing quite red and
said “Done, done. It is all done. Give me ink and pen at once.”
“But what is the matter?” said Lazarus.
“Why, here is the marriage going to take place under our very
nose. Now we shall be in eternal bondage to that strict young
missionary. I thought we had fairly got rid of him, but now he
makes love to the daughter of our former padre while they are away
in England.”
“Makes love?”
“Why! my man, it is all settled. I saw them ride up that way
together and return after hours. Write to her father and mother
anonymously, and they will come down here, or call their daughter
back. Much zenana work she does! The two hours’ preaching and
one meeting for the Bible women—-we can do without it.”
‘And the Marathi that she talks,’ here put in the thin tall woman
with the Bible, by way of parenthesis, ‘I don’t understand a word.
The Hindu women hold their sarees to their faces. Once she found
them laughing and asked me to explain. It was a hard time, for me,
to be sure. “What, mem sahib, what did you say?” I asked, trying
to be grave. She repeated what she said, and it seemed to have no
meaning, and when she got angry and said loudly something that
sounded like “their fathers’ heads must be broken,” I assure you,
I could not contain myself; although I had to stuff half my padur
in my mouth to keep myself from laughing. At last I pretended
that I had choked and coughed loudly; for if the lady had only seen
me laughing my eight days’ pay would have gone.’
‘But, listen,’ said the narrator, resuming her story, “did they not
write such an anonymous letter? Lazarus slapped his thigh and said,
“this will be such a blow and prevent the young missionary coming
here. He is too wise for us.”
“You are all a queer lot,’ said the preacher after a long silence.
‘You blame a poor woman for good-naturedly laughing a little too
much, but what will my children do without her? She makes
clothes for all of them and nurses them in sickness. It is her good
heart that makes her laugh. I don’t see any harm in it.’ They were
going to interrupt him, and one even murmured: ‘Men, what do
they know?’ but he said: ‘Wait, wait, there is no harm in drinking
a little wine, it does not make one drunk. As for the marriage affair,
I know more than you all. He is not going to marry her. But just
tell me who lighted the haystack during the new missionary’s time?
Why! I did not sleep for two days, thinking and laughing.’
‘No,’ said the fat one again, ‘I will tell you all. The haystack
was growing less and less every day, at least so the missionary
thought, and he asked Jeremiah, the coachman, to account for the
fact. Such a thing had never been done before, and next night it
was discovered that the stack was all ablaze. Nobody knows how.’
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ came from the preacher. Our cart was going
through the river, and the splash of water and the jolting nearly
upset us.
“Well, it was a fine sight, I assure you’, the gossip went on, ‘and
he was kinder to the poor Christians after that. They say it was
a visitation’.
‘It is funny. Ha! ha! ha!’
‘God does take the part of the poor Christians. The lightning
must have struck it,’ continued Thugabai.
“Ha! ha! ha!’ louder than ever laughed the preacher and another
big jolt here followed as the cart went deeper in the water. The
women did not quite relish the preacher’s merriment, and the
continual jolting helped only to make things worse.
‘Now there is no cause to laugh,’ said the narrator, but, ‘Ha!
ha! ha!’ went on the preacher for sometime, and then ee) ‘You
are funny. So it was a visitation of God, eh?’ Here the cart got safely
out of water.
‘Well, we do have a time of it’, resumed the fat narrator, ‘among
these missionaries. One comes and puts all our boys to the fields.
He spends half his time in cultivating, digging wells, and planting
gardens. He knows more about the weather and the clouds than
about the Bible. His sermon is all about sowing and reaping, and
even on Sundays he is found walking in the fields. The school is out of repair, the masters are dismissed, and the catechists and
missionaries are out in the open air counting baskets of mud. Another comes, mends the tables, chairs, and forms, teaches English in schools, makes our girls and boys go up for this examination and that, keeps strict accounts of everything, fines if the bell is not rung at the proper time, and if a salaam is not made.
Oh! the old missionaries were the best. “Papa, no food,” you said,
and you got a rupee at once. There were no fines then, no accounts
were asked. Six months in the year they went about preaching,
often getting pelted by Hindus. They visited the poor Christians
in their homes. What blankets and clothes you got, to be sure!’
‘Why I, when my Bella was born,’ said the short woman, ‘got
a basket full of clothes for my child. Bhimi, the ayah, says that
she sees ever so many things come from England for us, but they
are all sold,—the stingy ones, and the money goes nobody knows
where.’
“Yes, those days are gone, when I used to get coffee and tea from
my lady for my sick child,’ said the third woman, with a long sigh,
‘but now your child may die and the cold lady won’t say tush.’
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed the preacher. ‘Coffee, tea and clothes, eh?’
“Yes! What difficulties those men experienced in converting and
raising a Christian colony,’ resumed the fat one. “The most difficult
part of the work was over before the present men came. Much can
they do! Ask them to make a convert now. Why! they frighten
a man out of his senses by their cold supercilious manner and their
eyeglasses.’
‘You are a funny lot,’ said the preacher. ‘I suppose you say that
these came for their belly and those to teach and preach,’ and laughs
again—‘Ha! ha! ha!’ The women appeared to be extremely disgusted with the preacher for his provoking sneers and his laugh,
but they consoled themselves by saying: ‘He can’t understand.’
Soon we were at the end of our journey, and I felt bewildered
and disgusted at what I had heard. I also felt that the statements
were gross exaggerations, and that even the best of the acts of the
missionaries were interpreted in a spirit of fault-finding and
narrow-mindedness; but what was it that made me feel the utter
unworthiness of these people to preach thé gospel of peace and
charity to the Hindus around? Somehow the charm of the trip was
lost for me, and I looked listlessly forward to the journey home.
‘Ah! there is the village,’ said one of the women. ‘I wonder if
the fair is already over.’ “You go and preach to the oilmongers,’
said the fat one, ‘and I will just go round and have a peep at the
bazaar and take the milkman’s quarter.’ All purses were brought
out. ‘Be sure to buy good khadi (coarse cloth) for me,’ said one.
‘And some nice vegetables and potatoes,’ said another. “And ghee,
if you can get any’, added the preacher.
While they all went out to different quarters, I sat in the cart
feeling in no way inclined to get down and follow them. But the
fresh crisp air was sweet. Men and women came trooping from the
hills with their loads of fresh green vegetables. Everything around
was delightful. I heard singing from a distance, and I asked the
cartman to drive on to the spot. Here | actually found our greatest
gossip singing and preaching. There was a real fire in her eye, her
words were persuasive and eloquent, and her singing was free and
hearty. The eager faces of the simple villagers seemed to have
inspired even her. I forgot the conversation in the cart, and found
myself actually speaking a word for Christ. After all, the trip was
not wholly in vain, and I returned to Bhasker, rejoicing that I had
been able to be of some use.
A few inexpressibly happy days followed. The shadow of death
had ceassed to haunt us. Bhasker became graver than usual. He
loitered longer in his walks, lingering by the river and the old
groves, and somehow revelled more and more in the silent solitude
of the long undulating plains. At home he was full of life and always
bright, joyous, and gay.
About the close of our stay an incident which occurred in the
village cast a gloom over us. A young man was ill. My brother had
often gone to see him, for he had taken a great liking to him. The
lad was suffering, we were told, from lung complaint. One day,
very unexpectedly, we heard that he had died. The friend who
informed our mother of this incident was very much excited. My
mother slowly called me in. There were tears in her eyes. ‘Don‘t
tell Bhasker,’ she said, in a whisper, ‘in the evening is the burial.
You all go out at about four o’clock. I will give you some halwa
and cakes, and you will eat them and come home late. We must
soon leave this place’.
‘Why? mother, why are you so frightened?’
‘No, child, we must be going home,’ and then she added with
a wild gesture and vainly endeavouring to repress her tears, ‘God
is Almighty; His hand is not shortened.’
‘No,’ I said, astonished at my mother.
She soon became calm and collected, and herself prepared our simple tiffin, and sent my other brothers along with us. They were unusually solemn. Mother has been telling them something, I
thought. While we were far away from the village the death knell
fell on our ears. Bhasker heard it too, but merely smiled. When
we were returning home in the dusk, he said, ‘Saguna, you never
keep anything from me?’
‘No,’ I said, my heart throbbing uneasily.
‘Did you know of poor Mark’s death?’
My brother and I were startled.
‘Why did you keep it from me? Did you think I should be
frightened? I knew it last night when he died,’ and then he smiled
and said: ‘What a silly girl you are! Death is nothing to be
frightened at. It is a joyous relief.’
The first person to come and see us on our return to our city
home was a European gentleman, tall, handsome, refined, with a
natural genuineness of manner and a peculiar air of ease about him
that made him seem quite at home as he came up our narrow stairs
and gave us a kindly smile. He did not appear in any way to notice
our confusion and untidiness. He asked if mother was at home,
and we said, ‘Yes’, and ran in and told Bhasker instead. The stranger
meanwhile took a chair and sat down, and I for the first time
noticed that our chairs were huge, clumsy, and inelegant, unfit to
be offered to such a refined stranger. I felt ashamed and hid myself.
Bhasker and my mother went out, and all three began to talk.
Mother called me and I was tempted to go out. The stranger was
very nice. He spoke very kindly to our mother, did not mind her
not knowing English, and called her ‘mother’ in Marathi. As I
appeared he stretched out his hand to me and said: ‘Is this your
little daughter?’ and then my mother told him proudly that I knew
English, and he looked at me and smiled. He chatted away, telling
about his trips to the country and what he had seen there. I could
see my mother’s heart warm towards him. After a little talk she
said to my surprise quite loudly, “You must come and have dinner
with us. My youngest son’s birthday is on Thursday.’ To my
astonishment the gentleman thanked her, and said it would give
him great pleasure. ‘What a simpleton my mother was,’ I thought
to myself, ‘to invite such a grand-looking person to dinner.’ But
the pleasant flow of conversation was kept up till I forgot my
fright, and thought that it would be nice to have the gentleman
with us again. Ah, if he had only known the cheer and happiness
that he brought into that simple home he would have been amply
repaid for any trouble that he had taken to come there. My mother
told him that she had found a son in him, and he actually said,
‘Yes, you are my mother, I always think of you as such, and you
will let me call these my brothers.’ When he went away, Bhasker
tapped my shoulders and said, ‘that is Mr A—; did I not tell you
he was different?’
‘Mr A—? A—? a missionary? a missionary? Why! I thought he
was a lord,’ arid my other brothers burst into laughter.
Bhasker came to my rescue. ‘Well! well! Don’t laugh. He is as
good as any lord and all the lords put together.’
VII
It was midnight. A soft, subdued light filled the room. The wind
moaned and rustled through the creepered window with a strange
wail, the only sound that disturbed the calm which prevailed. The
moonbeams kissed the twinkling leaves and fitfully glanced into
the room. Several figures were seen moving about, but all were
hushed and speechless; their eyes seemed to be watching one object,
their looks pointed to one thing, and that was to the pale, thin,
wasted figure of a young man lying silent and still. A soft slumber
held his eyes, but over his face shadows were passing, and cold
perspiration gathered on his brow. The lips softly smiled and
murmured. Many were the silent tears wrung by anguish from the
eyes of those around. They were hastily wiped. ‘Hush! he sleeps,’
was whispered in the ear of a newcomer by a gliding figure, while
an old lady with gray hair was seen sitting on the floor, her head
leaning on the bed. Another figure was near the window looking
out, gazing fixedly with the vacant gaze of hopelessness and despair.
One awful thought was present in each mind, and each was making
an effort to hide it. One alone was seen near the bed who seemed
not to comprehend the situtation. It was a young girl who now
gazed intently on the sufferer, and now eagerly scanned the faces
around. Suddenly the sick man moved, the figure of the gliding
lady bent lower and lower. ‘Better, Bhasker? Better?’ came the
anxious inquiring words.
‘Yes! better,’ said he and smiled. ‘Don’t be anxious, I shall soon
be better.’ He made an effort to rise, but sank back wearily. The
girl near him caught the word ‘better’ in a half-dazed manner and
grasped his hand eagerly, crying, ‘Better! better! soon you will be
better.’
‘Hush,’ said he with finger raised, ‘I saw my father in my dream.
He told me of the wondrous land to which I am going. I may not
be with you long.’
‘Say not so,’ the girl desperately cried. All heads bent low over
him. ‘You are better, better,’ they said, and grasped his hand in
their own, as if to clutch at life’s great stream and keep it back with
their grasp. He smiled at their eagerness and heaved a sigh.
Hush! what was that? The sick man raised himself, and pointed
to the door. His gesture was intently watched, and all eyes were
directed towards the door. Then followed five or ten minutes of
restless watching. What was he expecting? ‘See, he is coming.’
‘Who is it Bhasker?’ but before he could answer, the figure of a
tall English gentleman glided in. One could see from his emaciated
face that his life had been one of self-renunciation, for the thin,
spare form and the deep lines on the forehead bore the stamp of
hard continuous labour, and yet in spite of the faded look there
was a certain beaming brightness—a glow which suggested that he
had walked with God. Who was he? Why had he come to the
bedside of the sick man at that hour of the night? An expression
of relief and joy came into the sick man’s face and into the faces
of all at the sight of the visitor. They greeted him lovingly and
joyfully, though he scarcely stopped to acknowledge their thanks.
His place was near the bed. There he offered a prayer and
pronounced a benediction. His presence diffused an inexpressible
calm and peace. ‘Something told me you needed me, my boy, so
I have come,” said he, in answer to the sick man’s grateful look
and murmured thanks. ‘Did you expect me? The blessing of Christ
rest upon you. His peace dwell with you.’
He picked up his stick, and with a press of the hand and a last
caress this strange being passed out. An angel’s presence could not
have diffused a greater calm than did his. Who was he? He was
one of those of whom the world is not worthy: a holy man, a
ministering servant, an angel of mercy. His life was devoted to the
service of God and man. Wherever there was distress and sorrow,
he came unasked, uninvited, the sick man’s comfort, the widow’s
stay, the orphan’s refuge. Praise from our lips for such a one is
presumption.
I was the one who sat at Bhasker’s head wiping the death dews
that gathered on his brow, and murmuring ‘better’, ‘better’ to my
sinking heart. After another short slumber he looked refreshed and
joyous, but his words went piercing to my heart. “You must not
sorrow, you must not cry,’ said he, turning to our mother. ‘We
are all pilgrims. I am going before, and you will follow me.’
Mother’s head sank on his arm in utter despair, while I looked into
his face that looked so bright, so lovely. I fixed my eyes on his
and demanded my answer. ‘You are better, are you not?’ He smiled faintly and pointed upwards, but the tears trickled from his eyes
SAGUNA iit
as he looked round and silently gazed into the face of each one present. The whole thing seemed to me a dream, in that solemn,
midnight hour. My sister was by his side. I heard her words.
‘Bhasker, you are going home. Give my love to Papa, to Dora, to
Sundra, and all those that have gone before.’ I saw him nod his
head, and then there was silence. He asked for his brothers, and
they came round. The youngest he held tightly in his hand, and
the others bowed their heads. ‘Be real torch-bearers. Be good, my
brothers, and we shall meet again.’ The young, hardy forms were
moved. They started as he uttered the words. Then they fell back.
Bhasker’s hand sought mine. He pressed it. The contact sent a thrill
through me. I felt shaken as if by a mighty force. Is it then all true?
Is it my turn now? Is he taking leave of me? I was convulsed.
‘Bhasker! Bhasker! you must not die. You cannot die. I must come
with you.’
‘Hush,’ he said; but I held him tightly round the neck.
Something seemed to be slipping away. Darkness came over me,
and I knew not where I was. When I awoke, the cry rang in my
ears: ‘Lift her up quietly. It is all over. He is dead.’
Soon I realised the extent of my loss, and I can hardly describe
the sorrow and misery that took possession of me. My life had been
bound up with that of Bhasker, but the tie was now severed and
life appeared a blank. It seemed as if the gap in our little home could
never be filled up; we felt helpless and alone, and the world seemed
drear and dark with no one to lead and guide. For months after
Bhasker’s death we used to gather round our old mother in the
dusk of evening and feel that we had none other left but she. She
would fold us round in her arms and say: ‘Yes! God, God alone
is left now.’ But somehow I failed to understand God’s ways, and
for along time my grief was intense, almost rebellious. I often cried
in anguish, ‘Why, O God? Why did you take my brother away?’
For a year and more my life seemed to hold out no hope, and the
days did but linger on, as it were. After some time, however, I
began to have deep longings to be able to do something, but like
a rudderless boat I was driven by every wind and found not my
way. I made mistakes and flung myself on God, always with the
cry: ‘Oh! why was my brother taken away from me?’ Now and
then I took vigorously to study, and I thought I would please
Bhasker by doing just as he liked; but I missed my brother’s guiding
hand, and soon came to a sudden stop. Then I felt afresh the blank
and the void which his death had created. I longed for some object
in life, something that I could lay hold of, that I could put all my
heart and soul into. Was there no work for me, now that my
brother was no more? Where were all those golden dreams of
usefulness in which I had lived—dreams in which I pictured myself
helping my brother, catching the fire of his enthusiasm, uplifted
by his example and his encouraging words, treading the path of
life with the consciousness of work accomplished? Where were
they all? My brother lay cold in his grave, and in my mad grief
I fell upon it and appealed to it in vain. My mother took me out
to see people. I used to sit with girls and boys of my own age, and
while astonished at their mirth, their small talk, their delight in
little things, I almost wished I could be like them, unconcerned
with the realities of life, and unconscious of the emptiness of all.
Gradually I began to change. My grief was not so boisterous. I
glided into a visionary kind of state. I summoned my brother in
my imagination and enjoyed long talks with him. Were they real?
Yes, they were quite real to me. I told him all that I felt, and got
answers that spoke comfort and joy to my soul in a wonderful way.
I saw him in the stars, in the moon’s faint ray. Often I heard him
calling to me, and I rushed out in the dusk and sat in an ecstasy
of delight, thinking that he was watching and caring for his sister
just as he used to do of old. I was braced by the thought, and every
day received more strength and comfort. Did God really send him
to me in those quiet still hours? Why did his soul speak to my soul?
If not, who was it that told me that life is not to be what we want
it to be, but what God chooses for us, that it is sin to rebel against
God’s will, to cripple one’s existence and squander one’s time by
giving in to mad grief, whilst there is work to be done in this world.
This view of things did not dawn on me all of a sudden, but was
revealed gradually. In a mysterious way I became convinced that
Bhasker, in heaven, realised that high and holy existence which in
this sin-stained world his soul was vainly longing for and aspiring
to attain, and that he enjoyed that peace and blessedness unutterable, of which he had often spoken, and which come from perfect
obedience to the wiil of God. Even to this day, in times of trouble
and perplexity, the consciousness of the presence of my departed
brother exercises an influence so soothing, so marvellous that I
forget my trouble, or find a way out of my difficulties.
My sister paid a visit to the city, not long after Bhasker’s death. She noticed my retired ways and my peculiar moods and took me
to her home. One day as I was sitting in the hall, puzzling my head over some books that I found in the study, two ladies were announced, and before I had time to run away, they were in the
hall. The first grasped my sister’s hand in hers and gave her a hearty
kiss. Her appearance at once attracted my notice. She seemed freshcoloured, tall, as she looked with a good-humoured smile at me
over sister’s shoulder. There was a twinkle in her eye, as if she
wished everyone to be a partaker of her high spirits. She was
certainly strikingly different from other ladies, I thought, and I
listened with great attention to what she had to say. She spoke of
her success in her visits in high-flown words, and asked for some
more introductions to my sister’s zenanas. Then she turned round
towards me, and, catching hold of both of my hands, put question
after question to me in such a way that I could not but answer.
She had large light brown eyes, a fine, full long face, a nose rather
blunt, and a broad, high forehead. I liked her. Presently she turned
towards my sister and talked aside for a few minutes while her
companion smiled to me and drew me towards her. But before we
could talk much the other turned towards me, and said: ‘So that’s
settled; you are to come next month and stay with me. You will
learn to your heart’s content there, but mind, you are to be very
free with me and tell me everything. I mean to quarrel with you
very often. Ah! you critical thing. Don’t I know what you are
thinking?’ and with a warm, but rather rough hug and a brushing
kiss she left me. My sister said I must go and stay with the two
ladies for some time. I liked the idea and made up my mind to go.
The first thing that I was told on going to Miss Roberts—for that
was the name of the lady who took charge of me—was that I was
a little girl; that in England girls of fourteen and fifteen were
considered mere chits, and that I was to lay aside all solemnity of
manner and behave as a girl. When it came to the lessons I was
asked what I was learning.
I said: ‘History, Geography, etc.’
‘What in History?’
‘I have finished Landmarks of the History of Greece, and am
reading...’
‘Greece! Greece! What have you to do with Greece?’ I had loved
this little book. It was like a story-book, and I thought that she
would have been pleased, but she only murmured: ‘Well! I will see.
I must get something more suited to you. What about English? Can
you read fluently?’
Longfellow’s poems were put into my hand. The volume opened
at ‘Pleasant it was when woods were green.’ I read this fast enough.
‘Too fast.’
‘Oh I know it by heart,’ I exclaimed, anxious to show my
cleverness. I shut the book and repeated the whole thing to her.
I had once learnt it in a fit of study, and it had given me much
pleasure.
‘Well! I tell you what,’ she said, shutting the book, ‘you know
a little too much. When a horse goes too fast, what does his master
do?’
I did not know what he did, but I thought the comparison was
not a good one, and I exclaimed abruptly: ‘I am not a horse.’
‘Well! well!’ she said laughing, ‘we won’t discuss that point. I
think you want occupation. You must teach in my little school
this afternoon. Now we have done with our lessons for one day.’
To my great surprise she shut up the books and put them by.
When dinner time came I saw the other lady for the first time. She
gave me a smile and pointed to my place by her side, but Miss
Roberts never left me alone. She began by saying to her neighbour:
‘Girls in England never sit at the table with their elders, but of
course we shall allow this one.’ In my sister’s house I had learnt
to some extent how to use spoon and fork, but when I found the
lady’s eyes fixed on me my fingers trembled, and I thought I was
sure to make all kinds of mistakes to her amusement. Already her
eyes were twinkling with fun and laughter. I refused many a
tempting thing that was offered, while she kept on remarking:
‘That’s right, don’t eat if you don’t care. Girls in England don’t
eat these things.’ At last came curry and rice, of which I took a
little, and enjoyed it.
The other lady had been long resident in India. She shook her
head and said that I was a growing girl and must eat. ‘Oh, give her
some gruel,’ said Miss Roberts. After this I had always some gruel
or congee made in various ways both morning and evening. The
butler had orders to place mine next to my plate on the breakfast table, and in the evening to serve it in my room, but the utmost
I could do was to swallow a few spoonfuls. My brothers, however,
used to come often, and they generally brought something from mother.
My stay with the ladies raised me much in the estimation of my brothers. They paid visits to me regularly, and my little brother,
the youngest of the family, became much endeared to me. He told
me he missed me at home, and brought little trifles for me, leaving
them in my room without my knowledge. The ladies encouraged
him to stay a long time, for they were fond of the shy little fellow,
and called him the little gentleman of the house. During the day
the school was my delight. This Miss Roberts managed. She
instructed me in the art of teaching, in which I found a great
delight. I was astonished at the explanations which I was able to
give, and the way in which a knowledge of things seemed to spring
into existence when it was required. I was in a whirl of delight with
the blackboards, the large maps and the pictures, and the new
dignity that all these conferred on me. Miss Roberts smiled at my
eagerness, and forgot to say that I was only a child. I loved to think
myself grown-up and important. Miss Roberts used to quarrel with
me as impetuously and passionately as if she had been of my own
age, and then make it up by giving me a hearty hug and a kiss.
She’ had very peculiar views, and we often had little fights with each
other. I can hardly help thinking that she sometimes gave expression to her views for the sole purpose of teasing me. ‘Oh, Miss D,
what made you receive the Bible-woman in the drawing-room?’ she
said one day, alluding to a very respectable person, a great friend
of our family. ‘In England we receive them in the kitchen. She is
no better than a servant, I assure you.’
‘In the kitchen?’ I said, in amazement and indignation. I was
angry, and thought of many grievances that I had heard spoken
of. I had also heard that we were the real aristocrats of our country,
and that the English ladies who came to India only belonged to
the middle class, and I resolved to tell her that, so I boldly added:
‘What do you think of us? We are the real aristocrats of this place.’
Unfortunately, I pronounced the big word wrongly, and she burst
out laughing and repeated it again and again, as I had done. ‘I don’t
care. Anyhow, you are middle-class people. She is a Brahmin, and
only takes money from the Mission because she is poor. She 1s no
servant. In your country you are no Brahmins. You are Sudras.’
Tears fell from my eyes, and I felt as if I should choke.
‘Miss D!’ exclaimed the angry lady, now quite beside herself, ‘do
girls ever talk at table like this? I protest against this. I can’t have
it. I tell you I can’t,’—this with so much emphasis that I was quite
frightened. Miss D looked at me and shook her head. The tears
that were rolling from my eyes I hastily wiped. ‘What can I do?’
I said, while a shower of words, such as ‘rude’, ‘bad’, ‘naughty’,
‘disrespectful’, etc., fell on my head. Tiffin over, Miss Roberts went
with a bounce to her room and I went to mine and began to cry.
‘Natives,’ I said to myself, ‘we are natives. Tomorrow she will say
that my mother was a Bible-woman too. Oh! I will go away from
her,’ and I began to cry more. About five minutes afterwards the
door behind me opened, and Miss Roberts rushed in, took hold of
me, and kissed me profusely. ‘Now it is all right,’ she said, smiling
and wonderfully changed. “We won’t talk about it.’
‘And you won’t send Bible-women to the kitchen?’ I said. She
shook her head and rushed away from me laughing.
In the evenings we generally sat together in the lobby. It was
our free time, and I was told to say anything I liked. I used to sit
far back on the deep seat with my hands on my lap, although there
was a table in front. I liked to draw my own pictures, with the
stars and shadows outside, and often my thoughts were with
Bhasker; but I was always disturbed and told to talk. Generally the
ladies had some fancywork in their hands; but I never brought any.
One day Miss Roberts rebuked. me ‘and said: ‘Why did you not
bring some work?’
I felt guilty, but still as I rose I said somehow: ‘I thought we
were expected to be free at this time.’
‘Yes, but we must not appear so. I hate laziness.’
Something in this remark caught my attention. I stood near the
table and looked out. All my pictures vanished. I looked into her
face and said: ‘It is only for appearance, is it? What is the good
of that? Won't it be acting falsely?’
She flew into a passion, and when I tried to escape to my room,
she forced me down. ‘Falsely! sit and be lazy,’ she said, ‘and let
every one of us put you to shame.’
The second lady, however, calmed her, saying: ‘Really I don’t
do anything. I had better sit quietly too.’
‘Sit, sit’, said Miss Roberts; who had by this time nearly spent
her wrath and was in a little pet.
The other lady had on various occasions whispered to me: ‘She
is Irish and means nothing,’ and now she looked and smiled at me.
My greatest trials always came through my tongue. I had got
into the habit of thinking loudly. Bhasker had encouraged it, and
the discussions carried on by my other brothers, in which I often
took part, had made me quite an adept in defending my views. I
had had to stand up for my rights from my childhood. I had not then learnt the beauty of silence. One day, I was sitting in the lobby
in my usual half sleepy, half dreamy state, when I heard a visitor
announced. As soon as Miss Roberts heard the name, she broke
out abruptly: ‘Oh, how disgusting! What a bore she is! and she
wants me, that is true enough.’ So saying she walked out, and an
elderly lady met her near the lobby.
‘Oh! I am so glad to see you. How do you do?’ Miss Roberts
said in a hearty tone as she brought in the visitor. Surely this is
somebody else, and I am glad that it is a surprise for Miss Roberts,
I said to myself. The talk evidently was cheerful and genial but as
soon as it was over, I was rather taken aback to hear Miss Roberts
say: ‘Oh, what a bore to be sure! How glad I am she is gone! We
must really not have visitors at this time.’
‘She! she!’ I said, ‘Was not she a surprise to you?’
“What do you mean?’ said Miss Roberts, turning abruptly round
- On me.
‘No! I thought the lady was a surprise to you. You said you
were so glad to see her.’
‘Oh! oh!’ she said, lifting her voice and her hands.
‘Mass D! I tell you I can’t have this imper—’
‘You said free speech was allowed here,’ I answered, interrupting
her.
‘Free speech, but not to your superiors, not to me,’ this with
a thump on the table. ‘You naughty girl.’
But it was a little overdone, and there was a burst from the other
lady in which Miss Roberts found herself joining heartily.
Later on I came to know that they did not mean anything. It
was only the custom, and they used the few set phrases that
etiquette compelled them to use. But my readers will understand
from this what a bore I was. I loved these two ladies and stayed
with them for months, and in spite of little quarrels now and then,
I lived very happily with them. Not long after I was attacked with
fever, and my sister was compelled to take me away.
When I returned home, I was so ill that I could do nothing. I
felt, however, a sweet happiness, a sense of security and safety in
my mother’s company. I had been all along vaguely longing for this.
There was no fear of anybody misunderstanding me now, and I
enjoyed the perfect rest and quiet to my heart’s content. It is true
that at first the little narrow home seemed cramped and small after
the large spacious one where I had lived for nearly a year, and some
of the household duties appeared as drudgery. I had in a way
enjoyed the refined surroundings, the pleasant occupations, the
conversations and company of the life that I had just left behind.
There is a subtle pleasure in having one’s powers drawn out and
in the consciousness of the thought that in some respects one is in
no way inferior to others, but there seemed to be an artificiality
in the life which I had shared to which, brought up as I was in
almost primitive simplicity, I never became quite reconciled. Something seemed wanting, and what it was I failed to comprehend. I
missed the charm and satisfaction of doing little things with my
own hands. But now that I was back in my home I seemed to have
perfect rest. I enjoyed the simplicity, the isolation, and the freedom
from restraint to my heart’s content. I could here learn, talk, and
do anything as I pleased, and in my joy I pulled off my shoes and
stockings, and put my hand to all kinds of work. The conversation
with simple folks, my mother’s acquaintances, I enjoyed immensely, and I took a special delight in chatting with country
peasants who came to our door to sell butter, milk, vegetables and
other things. Hearty and cheering were the voices of the peasants,
bawling out: “Take ghee, take curd.’ The breath of their homes
seemed to linger round them, and I could not help being carried
in imagination over the dividing sea to the breezy moorland hut
and to the hardy toiler’s field. The thrashing of corn was in my ears,
the voices of men and children mingled with the bleating of sheep
and the lowing of cows, while the scented hayrack, yellowing in
the sun, arose round the rude sheepfolds which were scattered here
and there over the newly mown fields. Oh! those hardy peasants,
what an anomaly they are in a town! and they feel it. I often
questioned them about their homes. There was many a sigh and
many a backward look, as each one dwelt on the corn stowed away,
the house full of children, and the cows and bullocks tied in the
yard. ‘It is two years. Come for stomach and money. Land is
mortgaged,’ the weary longing fellow would say, ‘but in Divali I
shall go back’, and a smile would overspread his big brawny
countenance. My dear old mother was astonished at me. ‘I thought
you would be a great lady,’ she said once, ‘and despise your little
home after you stay with the ladies.’
‘O mother, nothing can ever come up to my home’, I would
say, and my brothers would add: ‘She is a strange girl, mother.’
“Yes, the simplest kitchari satisfies her, and if she has her worm- eaten books she will never tire of home,’ my mother would add with a smile.
I never became tired of home, but the habit of morbidly
reflecting and analysing grew upon me. In my ill and depressed
moments, especially, it became very strong. A few incidents had
happened during my stay with the ladies which cast a gloom
among us. Two of our greatest friends had suffered unaccountably.
They were old people, who had once been full of life and spirit.
Generosity had marked their actions, and everyone who came in
contact with them felt the charm that a good and happy old age
exercises on the young. Their grey heads were now bowed in
sorrow, and they showed a bitterness of spirit which contrasted
painfully with their previous cheerfulness and geniality. There was
the dear old man, our yearly visitor, whose house in the suburbs
was ever thrown open to all Christians. There we as children had
always received a hearty reception. His wife had been our nurse,
our second mother, and his visits had been always welcome, for
he generally brought all sorts of things for us, and when he went
back he took one of us with him. He was childless, and his old
wife and he doted on us. His was the new year’s gift of flowers
to me, choice jessamines that he had procured on his way to our
city home, which he laid with trembling fingers in my hair, while
my brothers laughed at me and said that the new year was sitting
on my head. But now what had come over him? Broken down and
decrepit he had trudged the weary way and was pouring his
sorrows into my mother’s ear. He had trusted a friend, trusted him
with his money, and that friend had betrayed him. Worst of all,
there was no deed, no writing of any kind to prove anything. They
were like brothers once, but now the one went abroad as a
respected man, a good man, while the other was foolish in his
sorrow, his grey head bowed low, and his eyes full of tears. It was
the old story—the shrewd, the money-loving, the mercenary
thriving, while the simple and the good suffered. The sweet
satisfying glamour with which childhood surrounds every object
was torn, as it. were, forcibly from my eyes, and life with all its
stern realities was revealed to me. I was conscious of defects on
all sides. The very love and regard which each man shows for the
other seemed an endless mockery, a sham. To my morbid, overexcited mind it seemed that each was trying to get the better of
the other, regarding with a jealous discontent the successes of some
which ought to be the triumph, the pride of the united community.
Brotherly feeling, pride in the bettering of others, the homage and
reverence due to elders and superiors,—all these seemed to have
vanished. People toiled and laboured no doubt, but for what? For
a petty triumph over someone who held his head high. For that
the midnight oil was consumed, for that sleepless nights were spent,
for that the features wore that triumphant look. ‘See! see! how he
walks! What pride! What conceit! What a fine thing it would be
to pull him down!’ Nothing true and noble remained. At Harni’s,
as I walked through the rooms, the ornaments and various treasures sent a chill through me. Everything was counted over and
over again; gain and loss seemed to occupy all attention; money,
beauty, accomplishments all were thrown into the market as it
were, and I seemed to take a part in the farce. Full of thoughts
such as these I felt utterly depressed.
Poor Prema, fresh and innocent, was no more. Like the flower
of the field she had bloomed awhile and had passed away. It seemed
as if the world’s load of misery had been too great for her to bear.
Was it that she had cast her all on that momentary hapless love,
or was it merely that she had lifted her head, taken a sudden
sweeping glance at all round, and shuddering at the sight, the
meanness and falseness, closed her eyes for ever on the world? She
was taken away for a change and she never returned. For me, she,
lily-like, reflected only the purity of the world. She had thought
no guile. In her eye the world was fair, unblemished as her own
soul. She had loved with her whole soul, but her love had not been
returned. For me, however, she seems still to live. Sometimes in
dreams I see her all smiling and happy, emerging from an old turret
or tower where she had hidden herself, a triumphant smile on her
face, and with these words on her lips: ‘Did I not say he would
come? There he is.’ At other times I discover her, my long-lost
Prema, in a mountain cave, and I hear her say: ‘Oh I am so happy.
Don’t take me out. You come and stay with me. I don’t care for
the world.’ ‘Oh you are hiding somewhere. I know you would be
found,’ will come from my delighted lips. But away false, delusive
dreams. She is no more, and the world is not the better for it. I
saw Prema’s old sorrow-stricken father immediately after her
death, and a wave of grief passed over me. A great longing to see
once more the hills and the valleys, the rocks and the bubbling
brooks took possession of me, and I fell asleep every night with a picture of the hills before me and with the forest’s roar in my ears.
About this time my second eldest brother, who had no settled
mode of life, came to see us. He gave a vivid description of his wild
life, and proposed to carry us all away bodily to his semi-barbarous
home. I was delighted. People said that this brother was no good,
and that he would never do anything in the world. Our pastor
especially was very hard upon him. He always thrust him before
us as a ‘ne’er do well’. Nevertheless, I envied his log hut and his
life in the jungle. ‘Come away,’ he aid to my mother, whose pet
he was, ‘let us see if we cannot make them all strong;’ and so we
went frst in a steamer and then in carts with our wild brother,
who was of a very domineering character, exacting all sorts of
duties from us, and making us adhere to old-fashioned rules of
conduct. For instance, he would insist on our calling him tatya
(a master) instead of by his own name, it being considered disrespectful to call an elder brother by his name. I discovered, however,
that my nature was not altogether foreign to his. I had his love
of a wild life and his clinging to natural scenes, though I could not,
like him, despise books and learning. We found his home perched
on a hilly slope and full of curiosities. It was a wild place, having
the combined charm of the sea and the hills, and my morbid
sadness left me altogether. Life seemed full and complete among
simple folks and amid glorious scenes, and here I realized in
actuality what I had before been able only to summon up in my
imagination. Our elder brother looked after his timber contracts,
and in the evenings invariably gave us a row on the sea. Ah! it was
lovely to visit the old Angria fortresses and the abodes of the sea
pirates, sometimes right in the sea in ruins, and sometimes perched
on rocks, their buttresses and towers rising solemnly through a
world of water. My brothers would often leave me on the solitary
rocks, and go to these places for game, and come round and take
me back. We met curious characters in these places, and our love
of adventure led us into many scrapes. Often we lost our way, and
when on one occasion pressed by hunger we invaded a hut we met
with a shower of abuses from an old crone, almost blind, who came
out and threatened us with a big stick. However, a young girl, a
rustic nymph with commanding features, a graceful carriage, and
a child on her hip, enlightened the cross old dame as to who we
were, and when we said: ‘So hungry, anything you have give,’ she
grinned and brought some very hot chillies and coarse cakes made
of nachani,—a grain the name of which signifies dancing. It really
is a most indigestible stuff, and is said to give a dancing fit of
indigestion to those who are not accustomed to it. It was the damsel
after all that showed us the way, and gave us a good round scolding
for losing it.
On another occasion I was sitting on a rock reading a book with
the waves heaving round me. I took an occasional glance at the
boys who had gone for a row. The simple fishermen mending their
nets were within call, and were ready to do anything for me, and
if ever I felt proud it was then. A princess could not have been
happier than I was. Just then, however, I saw somebody approach
from a distance. Soon the figure of a tall Englishman dressed in
flannels came prominently in view. Surely an Englishman is the
last person one would expect to meet here, I thought to myself.
My self-complacency left me, and I felt anything but proud and
comfortable. I looked round and found that the waves had nearly
hemmed me round, so that I was in a sort of an island. Already
the sight had attracted the fishermen’s attention, and they were all
looking towards me. I was rather inquisitive at first to see how the
stranger managed to get over the rocks, but I refrained from
looking toward his direction, keeping my eyes deep in my book,
though my ears were strained to catch every sound. Suddenly I
heard steps approach, and I knew the stranger must be standing
on a ledge of rock opposite. He made a sound as if clearing his
throat, and took to dropping stones in the water. One huge stone
fell with a crash, and I looked up with as natural an air as possible
and took him in at a glance, and then kept looking far away as
if not the least concerned. My brothers’ boat gleamed in and out
of the ruins in front.
‘Is that a book that you are reading?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, without turning my head.
‘By Jove! you look as if you saw Englishmen all your life long
in these wilds.’
‘I have not seen Englishmen here, but I have seen English
gentlemen elsewhere.’
‘Ha! ha! ha! what do you know of gentlemen as you say?’
‘You look a gentleman, but you talk before you are introduced,
and you don’t know when you are not wanted. There is the whole
beach before you, but I suppose I must excuse you, being in the wilds as you say.’
“Yes’, he said interrupting me and looking very crestfallen, ‘I saw on your lap a book, and thought I should have some intelligent
conversation. Excuse me if I am disturbing.’
‘Not at all,’ I said, ‘I shall be going soon,’ but I did not tell him how.
‘What book is that you are reading?’
‘Spenser’s Faery Queen.’
I saw him raise his eyebrows, and, turning to him, I said, ‘Have
you read it?’
“You are very clever to understand it. An English girl twice your
age would not understand it.’
‘I don’t know what you mean by understanding. I guess the
meaning. I am not at all clever, though I want to be clever.’
The boat was approaching, and I was quite courageous and did
not mind a rough wave that nearly dashed at my feet. I was now
quite surrounded with water, and had just a little bit of ground
to stand upon. The Englishman, I know, was looking at me very
highly amused.
‘How are you to get to land?’ he said, ‘unless you can swim’,
and when he saw a huge wave that was threatening to sweep me
off my feet, he again gave utterance to his favourite ‘By Jove’.
‘There is my boat’, I said with pride. The boat had suddenly
turned the corner of one of the ruins and came abruptly into view.
It did not take a minute before a fisherman jumped into the water,
steadied the boat as I bounded in, and gave it a push away from
the rock. The Englishman, I could see, was taken quite by surprise.
He instinctively took off his hat while we all waved our handkerchiefs triumphantly as we went rolling along.
It was delightful climbing cliffs and looking out on the sea dotted
with white sails and majestic steamers. It was delightful also to
watch the long belt of dark surging water coming inland with a
sweep and separating us from the rugged hills on the other side.
I was fairly braced up both in mind and body by the rough life
in this grand place, and we were sorry to leave the jungle abode
and part with our brother who had given us so much pleasure and
had himself taken such delight in our amusement. He fired his last
shot in our honour, as he said, and wished us success in our studies,
and with something like a glistening tear in his eye, said: “You
won’t forget your rough brother here. Come often, bring all your
books, and you will be welcome, though it is only to a hut.’ I told
him if he did not mind I would come and live forever with him
_ after I had finished learning. We left him to count his logs of wood,
make out accounts, and settle disputes with his hearty peasants
round him, who would have laid down their lives for him.
When we returned home there was a great deal of excitement
about an institution which had just then been formed for the
purpose of giving a superior education to young native Christian
girls. A number of ladies had charge of the institution, and the
pupils, who lived with them, had the privilege of receiving a highclass English education. The arrangements seemed perfect, and
many an up-country family long lost to view paid a visit to the
city, bringing with them their grown-up daughters. I saw these
young girls at meetings and in church, and learned that each had
some definite work in view for which she was receiving a training.
This was a great incentive for me to join them. I was longing to
be able to do some definite work, but at times it seemed as if I
could never bear being in a school. I had been brought up so much
alone with boys and had become very reserved. What I shrank
most from, however, was my being in a place where I would
become public property, as it were, and be watched by girls of my
own age, laughed at, and freely criticised by all. Oh, how shall I
go through all the orders and regulations? Will they leave me alone
quite to myself? Is there no easier way of attaining what I want?
Such thoughts were often in my mind, and I spent much time in
self-communings of this kind. Yet I envied the girls their dependence on some responsible person, their being cared for and guided
and trained for some definite work. I succeeded, however, in
conquering my scruples.
VIII
I had made up my mind to go to the new institution. I remember
well the day on which I went for the first time. My mother and
I were shown into a long upstairs room in which several ladies were
sitting. One of them, with a smile on her face, rose to receive us.
She was young, and had an irregular but pleasing face, which the
smile lit up beautifully. She shook hands warmly and cheerfully
and looked sweetly at me, as I came up behind my mother, and
then she took us to the other end of the room to a stout, elderly
lady with spectacles. This lady looked very dignified as she sat all
by herself in a capacious chair near the window. Near the writing
table I noticed a tall lady, who lifted her head and looked absently
at us, while from a retired corner another seemed to watch us
eagerly. Her look betokened genuine interest, though her form
appeared masculine and her face anything but pretty. There was
another slight form at the piano, but I scarcely noticed her as I
passed. The walk from one end of the room to the other seemed
as if it would never end, and at each step I seemed to cling closer
and closer to my mother. The old lady shook hands with us with
a beaming motherly look on her face. I unconsciously turned,
however, to the lady in the dark corner, whose evident genuine
nature had fascinated me. She somehow seemed to understand me,
and to feel for me in my trying position. Sensitive in the extreme,
I felt painfully the attention that I was drawing on me from all
sides, for now five ladies were looking at me. I felt that they were
all mentally criticising me, and I resented it. I was trembling in
every limb, and tried to look unconcernedly out of the window
over the trees. Their gazes seemed to pierce me through and
through, and my old rebellious spirit rose within me, Was I not
their equal? Why, then, should they look at me thus?’ I said to
myself. However, I resolved that they should not see any difference
between me and other girls, and one day they would find that I
was their equal. I heard my mother say: ‘My daughter is alone at
home. She learns a little too much, so I have brought her here to
be more like other girls, to learn a little and to play a little; but
you will have to give her a room to herself, and let her be free
from the rules of the school at first. Let her join the classes or not
as she likes; for she is delicate. I will pay all extra charges.’ The
old lady smiled and said that discipline was for girls that needed
it, not for girls that were women from their childhood, and she
looked at me and laughed.
After a few minutes’ conversation I was taken to my room. We
passed through a long hall, which was altogether deserted, and
through a dormitory full of beds. A chill seemed to come over me.
At last I was shown into a little room at the very back of the house.
There were two beds in it, and I was to share it with another girl.
This room was more cheerful, and there was a little table, a looking
glass, and a shelf on the wall. The window was broad and looked
over a garden which contained a well, somewhat densely covered
over with trees. Through the arching foliage and dark trunks grey
with age I had broken glimpses of the playground beyond, in which
were to be seen the white figures of the girls. The rays of the setting
sun cast long shadows, and brightened up unexpectedly a tuft here
and a clump there, transforming a grey aged tree just putting on
new leaves into a marvel of beauty. And the sound of noisy
boisterous laughter and talk floated in on the evening breeze. I felt
a sinking in my heart, yet bravely told my mother to leave me and
go away as I was quite comfortable. My mother looked incredulously at me, kissed me, and when parting suddenly stopped and
said: ‘Come home. Never mind about staying here. The boys will
be returning now, and I can bring you some other time.’ ‘Nonsense, mother,’ I said as cheerily as I could, and escorted her to
the door. Tears fell from my mother’s eyes as she kissed me and
got into her carriage. I saw it disappear, and then I shut the door
of the darkening room and sat at the window, thinking of the
future, which seemed dark and cheerless. After sometime I rose and
began to pace the room. But before a minute had elapsed I heard
a hesitating tap at the door, and a shy-looking girl entered the
room. She was half afraid to talk, and very hesitatingly gave me
her hand. ‘I know you mother. I am Rachel, but I have never seen
you. You should come and walk in the garden,’ and she led me
out. Something in the shy, hesitating manner fascinated me. Was
she also friendless like me? If not, what was she doing here?
‘What were you doing inside, Rachel?’ I asked.
She turned her head in confusion and I guessed the rest. She was
thinking like me.
‘But you have been here a long time,’ I said. ‘Why do you think?’ ‘II,’ she stammered, ‘I get so little time to myself that I enjoy being quiet, and now I shall be going home, perhaps tomorrow, and don’t know when I shall have these happy days over again.’ “Going home? Why, Rachel?’
“News has come of my aunty’s death, and I must go and take
care of her children. It was aunty who kept me here’, and the girl
turned her face to hide a tear. I could do nothing but clasp her hand
tightly in mine.
‘Shall we sit here?’ I said, pointing to a little seat looking over
the wall.
She smiled and gave a little nod, and we sat and watched the
groups in the playground. I saw their gay, happy movements, and
wished I was like them, oblivious of all around me; and then with
a sigh the thought escaped me: ‘I could never be like them.’
She looked at me and said: “You need not, you can do just what
you like here.’
‘But I don’t like to be singular. I like to sit and watch. Will you
always sit by me?’ She looked at me and, smiling, pressed my hand.
In that contact of friendship a thrill went through me, and I seemed
to have a momentary vision of her future life, her coming
departure, her lonely work of tending children, and her destitute
heart longing for friendship and meeting none in that far-away
home from which she would look back upon the few years that
she had spent here as the happiest in her life. I pitied the dear girl,
and tears fell from my eyes. She thought that I was thinking of
the parting from my own home and whispered: “You will be happy
by and by,’ and sighed.
‘Rachel’, I said, ‘I wish I could come with you and help you.
You will be very lonely there, won’t you?’
She laughed, and just then the bell rang.
‘It is supper time. Don’t think of me. Come,’ she said, and we
went in as happy as two girls could be.
I sat near Rachel at the table, but I had not her company long,
as she was summoned upstairs to prepare for her coming departure.
A tall girl sat opposite me, and the others all dressed in white filled
the benches around. They all stared at me as they took their seats.
‘Is that the new girl?’ said one, giggling and hiding the side of her
face next to me, at the same time addressing the tall girl opposite,
who looked down and muttered something. Remarks of a similar
nature were being whispered round the whole table, and I caught
the fat girl on my other side saying: ‘O my, what a figure!’ The
conversation during supper time was caustic, witty, and clever,
though a little noisy and clamorous at times. The giggling girl
always took the lead. She imitated the oddities of the teachers, and
made jokes at the expense of the other girls. I trembled as I listened,
lest I should be subjected to her criticism. But the supper soon
ended. I was informed that there was private study after, but I sat
where I was and watched the girls. The clock struck seven.
Suddenly there was a rush in two directions, half of the girls going
in one direction and the other half in another. There was a calm
for a quarter of an hour. After this they all came trooping in, each
trying to appropriate the place nearest the light. There was not
much work done during study time, but there was a great deal of
talking and whispering. The girls accosted each other familiarly,
criticised each other’s handwriting, and altogether their behaviour
betokened a healthy freedom from restraint, and a life by no means
wanting in happiness. I began to feel a keen sense of loneliness, and
rising up slowly I walked to the window and stepped out. By the
light of the pale moon I stole to the seat under the tree. Just then
someone called from upstairs: “Who is that?’
‘T’, said I, startled somewhat.
‘Who is I?’
‘Saguna,’ I said.
‘What are you doing there?’
‘Nothing.’
“You are not supposed to be doing nothing at this time; go inside
and do something.’
It was a new sensation to me to be ordered about, and to do
certain things at certain times. ‘Am I tied up now?’ I said to myself,
and strangely enough I felt glad at the thought. When I went in
the girls were assembled upstairs for prayers. They went two by
two. Oh how I hated for a long time this formal way of going up
and the shaking of hands afterwards. What a farce it seemed, going
round to each lady with one’s hand extended, while she sat and
held out her hand in what seemed a cold and reluctant manner,
as if the whole thing was a bore to her.
Next day I was bright and joyous, and got up with the resolution
not to mind anything. In the schoolroom three of the girls in the highest class came round me. They had struck me as very clever,
for they never took any notice of me, and the night before they appeared the most studious. They questioned me as to which class I belonged, and took me to some maps and books that were spread on the centre table. They showed me some maps which they had drawn, and asked me if I had ever done anything like those, and
when I answered in the negative, they told me confidently that I
was sure to be sent down. Soon there came a tall lady with a
pleasant countenance. She looked at me, and raising her eyes and
drawing her chair said: ‘New girl, let me see.’ I was prepared to
answer boldly what I knew, for I was longing to stay in the highest
class, but when she asked to which standard I belonged, I was
completely taken aback. I never knew what a standard was. I saw
the eyes of the young girls in the other class twinkle at my long
hesitation, and when I said: ‘I don’t know what a standard is, I have
never been to a school before,’ there was a burst of laughter from
all the girls, and I felt abashed. The teacher merely smiled. The girls
had opened their books already, as if not caring to lose further time
with me, and were preparing to read a certain lesson in Royal
Reader No. V. A book was pushed towards me where I was sitting,
while the three girls that formed the class stood in a row. I had
never seen the book before, but when I read a few lines I exclaimed
almost loudly: ‘They are so easy, so easy.’
‘Easy?’ said our teacher. ‘Well, let me see,’ and she took the book
from my hand and asked me to spell a few long words, which I
did quite correctly, for they were really very easy. ‘Hem,’ she said,
and put down the book. I felt elated at the victory that I had won.
‘Well, read this and put it in you own words,’ said the teacher.
This, too, I did easily, for it was a simple bit of poetry.
Another ‘hem’ followed, and, to my great delight, I was told
to stay in the class. But I could not take part in the farce of standing
and taking places, and watching for mistakes. I felt ashamed, and
sat where I was with my head down, though I received many a
nudge and push from the girls to stand. When the dictation lesson
came, we were told to stand back to back. This was quite too much
for me, and I said: ‘Oh I won’t look into her slate for all the world,
let me sit where I am.’
‘Well’, said the teacher, ‘you can afford not to see, so you can
sit where you like.’
Several other subjects followed, in which I found myself far
ahead of the girls, but in parsing I came to a standstill.
‘Parse this,’ said the teacher loudly, while I stood still, not
knowing what to say.
‘What? Don’t you know how to parse? What is it in grammar?’
‘A noun of course,’ I said. Immediately a titter went all around.
‘Well! go on.’
‘What am I to go on with?’ I said, not knowing what to do.
‘Have you learnt your grammar?’
i Yess
‘Then, you ought to know.’
‘Ask me questions,’ I said timidly, ‘and I will tell you.’
‘Hush!’ said the teacher, turning to the other girls, ‘you parse
and let all hear.’
Then it dawned on me what the mysterious process of parsing
was. I had never been accustomed to say the number, gender, etc.,
all in a string, and I exclaimed, ‘I can do that if you like, but I don’t
know the order.’ Thereupon the teacher laughed quite loudly, and
told me to learn the order next time.
That evening I was called upstairs, and Mrs T, said that the
teacher had told her that I was too far advanced for the class, and
that it was useless keeping me down with the other girls, and had
asked to be allowed to take me separately. ‘But?’ she added, ‘I can’t
have you separately taught; you had better choose what you are
to do,—whether you will stay and learn the same lessons as the
other girls, or take a class.’
I did not relish the prospect of teaching, and in despair I said:
‘Let me learn something. Surely there is enough to learn in this
world.’
The lady smiled and thought a while. ‘Would you like to learn
a new language? You can have the munshi.’
I grasped at the idea eagerly, but asked with some hesitation
what use I could make of it.
‘You could do zenana work and make yourself useful.’
Hereupon the lady whose genuine look so much impressed me
the first day said abruptly and somewhat imperiously: ‘You had
better learn medicine.’
‘Medicine? Oh I wish I could,’ I said, quite taken aback by the proposal. ‘Come up to my room tomorrow at two o’clock,’ said she as abruptly as before, and went out. I felt bewildered, and turned inquiringly to Mrs T ‘She is the lady doctor, you know,’ she said in answer to my look, ‘and it is very good of her to take an interest in you. Could you learn medicine?’
_ ‘Anything,’ I said impetuously, now quite beside myself with oy.
‘That is settled then,’ said the old lady beaming in my face. ‘Now go down and don’t think too much of it. Remember that our talents and opportunities are all for God. I will send you the munshi
in the morning. I think you will have enough to do hereafter.’
A magic wand seemed to have touched and transformed everything around me. The institution appeared quite different now
from what it was before, and everything about began to have a
charm for me. I went to my room and gave myself up to thought.
Just a minute before it had seemed as if there was nothing for me
to do; now what a world of untried work lay before me, and what
large and noble possibilities seemed to open out for me! I would
now throw aside the fetters that bound me and be independent.
I had chafed under the restraints and the ties which formed the
common lot of women, and I longed for an opportunity to show
that a woman is in no way inferior to a man. How hard it seemed
to my mind that marriage should be the goal of woman’s ambition,
and that she should spend her days in the light trifles of a home
life, live to dress, to look pretty, and never know the joy of
independence and intellectual work! The thought had been galling.
It made me avoid men, and I felt more than once that I could not
look into their faces unless I was able to hold my own with them.
So, like a slave whose freedom had just been purchased, I was
happy, deliriously happy. Some of my readers may be inclined to
say that in recording these experiences I have given way to
exaggeration. Let me assure such that this is not the case.
The girls wondered at my gaiety during dinner. I took all their
jokes in good part, and joined in their sports with enthusiasm. |
was taken into their company with extended arms, and in a
moment all my foolish reserve melted away. I had gained a
reputation for being clever, and work poured in on me from all
directions. I would be asked to write a letter for one of the ladies,
to draw up a report, to do some copying work, or to help to make
up accounts, and it satisfied my vanity to do all this. The girls were
charming: they all loved me, and I loved them in return.
On the first Friday after my arrival, I was weary with the day’s
work, and I lay down in bed about an hour before supper. Soon
I fell asleep. Pleasant dreams floated before me, and a delicious sense
of rest and peace enveloped me. Vishrampoor, Bhasker and sweet
singing were mingled in my dreams, and when I opened my eyes,
there was an oppressive silence all around. Presently there was a
rush downstairs, and two girlsk—my companions—came into my
room. I asked them sleepily why everything was so quiet, and
whether it was time for prayers, when to my astonishment they
said they had finished prayers.
‘And what did Mrs T say to my not coming?” I asked, as I started
up.
‘She did not look over-pleased’, said one of the girls indifferently. ‘She asked whether you were not well, that was all.’
‘Oh I must tell her tomorrow that I was too tired and had slept,’
I said, rather distressed, for I had taken care not to break any rules,
and had tried to please everybody. I had won the love and
confidence of the girls, and the regard of the ladies, and my absence
from prayers, I thought, would appear a serious violation of the
rules of the institution.
‘There was Miss P.’s class, too, before, prayers,’ said one of the
girls, ‘but you need not have come for that,’ added my companion,
‘she does not expect all the girls.’
I gave a sigh of relief and went to sleep. After this two Fridays
passed, and I invariably dozed before prayer time, but I took care
to be present for prayers.
One day, Mrs T called me upstairs and made me sit opposite
her. I thought she wanted me to do some writing for her, and that
she was about to explain the nature of the work to me, and I smiled
in a satisfied: manner and gave her all my attention. But she seemed
very grave and avoided looking into my face. This made me
suspicious. I was sure something was wrong, so, looking straight
at her, I asked why she had called me. ‘I am only grieved,’ she said,
after a moment’s silence, and with a sigh and a slight sneer, which
cut me to the heart and set me painfully wondering. ‘We have all
been watching you, and we find that your spiritual life is not what
it should be.’ I was thunderstruck. Then she went on: ‘I am told
that you never read your Bible or pray, that you do not join in
the girls’ evening prayers, and that you abstain from attending Miss
P.’s Scripture class. This saintly lady puts aside many of her engagements to take this class, and the girls find great delight in
her teaching. They love her, adore her, but you—I do not know what you do at the time, perhaps you are busy and grudge to give an hour to holy teaching. You may think your intellectual
attainments great, but the devil, too, is clever.’
For a minute to two I sat dumb, and my hands clutched each other in a nervous manner. I failed to understand what it was all about. At last I asked: ‘Who said that I was clever, what have I done? Why do you speak to me in this way? I don’t deserve it.’ Tears filled my eyes as I looked out of the window, and the recollection of my mother and my first experiences in the
institution came vividly before my mind. Was it for this that I had
come, and was toiling and working to the best of my ability? It
was only a momentary weakness, and I made up my mind to
defend myself. ‘What is it that you accuse me of?’
The lady looked at me, and said in a cold, contemptuous tone:
‘Don’t try to show that you don’t understand. You understand me
very well.’
My old nature began to assert itself.
“What am I to understand?’ I said. ‘How can you say such harsh
things to me? Let me see; first of all, you say I don’t read my Bible,
or pray. How do you know?’
‘I won’t tell you how, but I know it for a certainty,’—this with
an ironical smile.
‘Well, whoever has told you that, has told you a mean lie,’ I
said, nearly choking; ‘but this is not a matter on which I need
defend myself before you or any other human being. It is between
-me and my God.’ I was still more provoked by the raised eyebrows
of the old lady, which seemed to show that she had great doubts
as to whether I felt what I said. ‘I should be guilty of great
hypocrisy,’ I added, ‘were I to tell you how many times I pray,
or where I pray. I suppose the person who told you all this told
you how many times she prayed.’ I could not let myself believe
that any of the girls had been so mean as to insinuate all this about
me. I had nothing to do now with their classes or studies. My work
was quite different from theirs, and I saw them only at their best
at dinner time, or a short time before they retired to bed, when
we gathered round the window and watched the glimmer of the
stars among the leaves, or the moon’s silver beams casting their
shadows among the trees, the future hid by a fairy curtain, and the
past a golden dream. We listened with delight to stories of home
life and experiences of childhood’s days. All this was too delicious
to be forgotten. I had felt that we were all one, and now I knew
not who could have said such false and wicked things about me.
I was grievously vexed. ‘Whoever she 1s’, I said, ‘she should at least
have told me about the girls’ prayer union and Miss P’s holy
lesson.’
‘Do you mean to say that you did not know about them?’
‘I do,’ I said. ‘I sit in the consulting room with the lady doctor’s
consent till bedtime every evening except on Friday, when I am
so tired that I lie down and doze the greater part of the evening.’
‘That is strange,” said the lady, ‘and when do you begin your
work in the morning?’
‘I get up at five o’clock and study by gaslight till seven.’
‘Well, now that you know, I will expect better conduct of you;
you may go.’
‘I have not done any wrong, and I don’t deserve this treatment,’
I said, still standing, ‘It is not my fault if I don’t know. Even now
I am almost in total ignorance. When is this meeting? What is this
prayer union?’
‘Hush, you must not talk like this’, now giving me a real smile.
But my lips were quivering, and it was hard for me to be quiet.
At length I came to understand that Friday was the day of the holy
meeting; and the rush of the girls to two different rooms on the
day of my arrival was explained by the fact that there were two
rival prayer meetings.
This conversation took place on a Friday evening, and as I came
down my heart was very sore. I saw preparations going on for Miss
P’s meeting. Two of the big girls were the chief movers in it. They
arranged the tables and chairs, brought a lot of Scripture texts and
spread them on the table, and when Miss P came one of them went
to receive her in the outer hall. Miss P put her arm round the girl,
and they sat side by side. She gave a glance round the table, and
she had a smile for everyone, but when her eyes fell on me, there
was a slightly surprised look in them. She whispered shmetisne
to the girl next her, at which I felt a pang of jealousy. I too wished
to receive her loving glance, but I must wait my time, I thought,
and win her love by attention and diligence. During the reading
many questions were asked and texts were searched for, beginning
with ‘Be’, ‘Be ye’, etc., for time-tables. Once I attempted to answer
a question which had gone the round. The lady acknowledged that
my answer was right, but said: “Yes, many people understand with
their heads but not with their freactss their hearts are far away. We may be ever so clever, yet if the heart is not right, it is no use. What is the use of coming to meetings when one does not wish
to?’ and she smiled to a girl who happened to be the same one that told me that I had no need to attend Miss P’s meeting. I came to understand that I was the ungodly one, and most of the talk thereafter had reference to me. The girls all kept looking down,
which was very kind of them, but the one next to me—a babyfaced girl whom I had scarcely noticed before—pressed her hand
into mine under the table, at the same time keeping her eyes down
and whispering, ‘It is a shame—don’t mind,’ but I was far from
happy. I had to learn, alas, that once ungodly, one is always so,
and that in a school especially the stigma of early days tenaciously
clings to one. After the meeting I did not care to see anyone, but
went to the garden and wept.
My feelings were stifling and my grief uncontrollable. It is
remarkable how incidents that are trifling in themselves lead to
results that have a most potent influence in moulding one’s life and
conduct. Now that I look back on the incidents narrated above,
I often wonder why they affected me in such a terribly real manner.
I remember so well the maddening grief to which I gave myself
up in the garden just after the meeting. I felt that I was being
misunderstood and misrepresented on all sides, and it seemed as
if there was no one left that could understand me. Everybody was
ready to find fault with me and to think badly of me. But these
very thoughts made me long for a higher sympathy, for some
greater love than that which human beings, who judge of one’s
actions by the light of petty and narrow principles, can give, a love
- that can cover even one’s deficiencies; and a silent prayer rose from
my heart to Bhasker’s God and mine. I needed the sympathy of
one infinite in power, infinite in mercy, who had lived the life of
man in this world, and who understood human motives and human
longings, and was capable of satisfying them,—the loving God
made man in Christ. He understood the past and the future, and
nothing was a mystery to Him. Him I needed, and He came and
I found joy. Ah! such joy. It seemed too great for mortal heart to
share. I grasped His feet in faith, and exclaimed: ‘I cannot let Thee
go. I could not do without Thee. Thou knowest the future and
Thou wilt guide me. Stand by me, Christ, and all will be right.’
What was this joy? Was it real? Why did everything seem changed?
In a moment I seemed to have passed from earth and all its sorrows,
and in my joy I became oblivious of the past and the future alike.
I thought of the girls, and not a spark of bitterness lingered in my
heart. I felt as if I should like to kiss them, make them my bosom
friends, and tell them that I loved them, that I was full of joy that
I could not understand. Once I opened my eyes, and Bhasker’s
smiling face was near. There was a look of exultant radiance in his
eyes. ‘You have found it. That is right, keep close to Jesus and all
will be right.’
‘Will it last, Bhasker?’
‘Yes, forever.’
A rustle disturbed my self-communings. A thin, tall, pretty girl
whom I had thought rather vain and flippant peeped through the
trees and flitted across my path with a shy, ingenuous smile. ‘What
are you doing?’ she said timidly.
‘Nothing,’ I said, and our eyes met, and there was a soft liquid
radiance in hers, and the smile that lighted her features spoke to
me more deeply than words, and we understood each other,
though we exchanged not a word. Then, as if confused, she
carelessly extended a bunch of flowers, saying: ‘Isn’t this pretty?’
and ran away. I kissed the flowers, and joined a circle of girls. They
were startled to see me. There was distrust and wonder in their
_looks, and once or twice I caught suspicious inquiring glances
directed towards me, but I was joyous and talked as heartily as
before. My heart was beating wildly, and like the refrain of a longloved melody the words kept murmuring in my ears: ‘Jesus is near
and all is well.’ After this what happiness was mine! My studies
became my special delight, and I was indifferent to please everybody. If fault was found or blame was attached, I heeded not.
Nothing could make me dislike the ladies or those who misunderstood me. The girls seemed all changed, and I began to discover
more of the bright side of each one’s character. What a mine of
wealth there is in every human being if we only have eyes to see
and hearts to sympathize!
There was one girl who was quite a character: she was for ever
getting into scrapes; her hair was out of order, her Bible lost, her
school books in tatters, her lessons unprepared. She made wry
faces, resented scoldings, and in a fit of anger she even left the class,
thus bringing on herself a double punishment in the shape of impositions, etc. But unlike many other girls, she laughed and
excused the ladies behind their backs, while others would have
abused them all round. ‘Vain’, ‘affected’, ‘obstinate’ were words often hurled at her by the ladies, and they got a saucy answer for
them too, accompanied with a toss of her head or a turn of her back. A few rebellious tears at the worst were all that she shed, and soon a smile would light up her face. When anything went wrong with her, she would often frown at any girl who came to
sympathise with her, yet she did not forget to smile as well, and
before half her wrongs had been told, she would forget everything
and begin to excuse those who had been the cause of her trouble.
The dear girl! She had a high and noble spirit. I adored her and
felt proud of her love. I could have gone with her to the world’s
end. And she was as brave as she was noble.
There was another girl who made, if anything, a deeper
impression on me. Her coming was rather unfortunate, and her
caste was against her. She had first called forth the greatest
sympathy on her behalf, and never did we exercise so much >
imagination as about her. She was coming alone from Gujerat, and
we were full of high notions about her. She was sure to be pretty
and very clever, and when it was known that she had not arrived
at the station on the day on which she was expected, and was not
to be found anywhere, everybody became anxious. That night the
whole place was astir, shivering forms of girls were seen in eager
conversation, and telegrams were sent from station to station. -
When morning came the girl made her appearance, but she was not
the girl that we had expected. She was a dark fat girl, who had
slipped away from the station with her brother, a railway workman, who, not expecting a conveyance and a peon, had taken her
away to his lodgings, and himself brought her in the morning. He
looked sheepish enough, and the girl looked quite miserable, and
glanced uneasily at the tall well-dressed girls who expressed their
scorn and indignation at the dark, ugly girl who had caused so much
trouble and anxiety. She was, moreover, of a low caste. How dare
she come to an institution like this? Did she think it was a boarding
schoo]? It was lowering the prestige of the institution, and I too felt
indignant along with the other girls. Her box was pushed inside.
I saw her sitting nervously on it, clutching at her handkerchief and
looking around her at the proud forms that passed and re-passed
with ill-concealed sneers on their faces. She bent down as if to tie
her shoe strings, when two tear-drops trickled down on the floor.
She was extremely miserable, and her tears went to my heart. It
was not her fault, and before I was aware I found myself by her,
saying: ‘Never mind, never mind. It was not you fault, you could
not help it, you must not be unhappy.’ The repulsion, the ugliness
vanished. We were human beings once more, mingling our tears
together, for she cried bitterly. She clung to me ever afterwards.
She excited a great deal of ridicule at first, but it died away. She
seemed unconscious of it all, and I admired the spirit which was
too noble to resent the wrong done to her. Soft, submissive, and
patient, I found in her my superior, and a friendship was cemented
which will end only with our lives.
Other girls there were, too, in whom I found much to admire.
Ah! What a fellowship was ours, and how very vivid are the
recollections of those happy days. How well I remember the
holidays, when we girls would go out, taking some mending with
us as a pretext for work, and sit under the shadiest of trees and
talk on all sorts of subjects. Life—sweet life with its witchery of
colours was ours, and we gave ourselves up to the blissful
enjoyment of it. Oh for a few such days, for those companions
of girlhood, for light hearts and smiling lips, and the freedom and
buoyancy of health! What promises were made! What plans were
concocted! Shall I see those dear companions again? Will they all
step in for one single hour and make up the picture of those happy
days? Alas! some are far away, and some now sleep the sleep that
knows no waking, and my heart cries in vain for one more look
of the dear faces.
The lady doctor with whom I had to work was known as a
somewhat peculiar person. She was abrupt and unattractive in
manner. Many were the stories told of her eccentricities. The girls
stood very much in awe of her. There was no knowing what she
would not take into her head to do. She was known to have shut
herself up for days together in her room, at which times the
slightest footfall was sure to disturb her, and the girls passed her
room with bated breath. She was very unlike the other ladies, who
were bright and agreeable, and came much in contact with the girls.
She kept herself quite aloof from everything, and showed great
indifference towards the girls. At prayers she generally sat far back
in the shade, scarcely joining in the reading, and when occasionally
she did join, she did it hurriedly as if it was all a bore to her, and
her voice was scarcely heard. Did I merely fancy then on the day
of my arrival that I saw a friendly glance directed towards me from
that retired corner as I shrank more and more behind the girls, unwillingly submitting to the criticism of the ladies and the
ceremony of shaking hands? Her touch was cold and unresponsive, and her fingers seemed to drop abruptly when she shook hands. On the day of my first lesson I was in a great state of excitement.
I trembled as I knocked at her door. She came out abruptly with
some huge volumes under her arm, and ordered me into her
consulting room. My steps faltered as she made me walk in front,
while she followed behind much as a warder follows a prisoner.
I paused near the door, but she came up quickly, opened it, and
shoved me into the room, which I had not entered before. I had
seen people entering and emerging with subdued steps and whispers, and now I expected to find something dreadful staring at me.
What was my surprise when I saw a cheerful room, decorated with
flowers and ferns, and its windows looking out on the garden! In
it stood a cupboard full of curiosities, a table and two chairs. The
lady placed the big volumes on the table, and when I went to fetch
a chair for her, she said abruptly: ‘Stand’, and herself went and
brought two chairs. She questioned me in a firm, distinct tone, and
expected me to answer briefly and to the point. The ordeal lasted
for an hour, and then she shut the book and opened the door for
me without a word. I hurried away as fast as possible. But as days
passed, the overwhelming sense of her strong personality failed to
oppress me. Often during the examination I furtively lifted my
eyes to her face, and found a lurking gleam of interest and
amusement. On several occasions, especially when she had put an
unusually difficult question, I caught a look of anticipation in her
face, which was followed by a look of relief and a shadow of a smile
when the question was answered. Ah! how I valued that little mark
of approval, and I prepared my lessons with all possible care. One
day she told me to use her consulting room as my study, and I
felt most thankful to her for the privilege; for the noise and
confusion of the schoolroom were unbearable. That very day two
chairs were sent down into the consulting room, a low, reclining
one and a study chair; and I found large diagrams and pictures of
plants and flowers spread on the table. I was afraid to sit on any
of the chairs, and sat on a box near the window, grateful with all
my heart for the seclusion and comfort which the room afforded.
One day, however, some tickets hanging from the chairs attracted
my attention, and I found written on them in large letters the
words FOR USE. My heart gave a throb. Had she noticed that I
did not use the chairs? I shrank from so much goodness, and
thanked her in my heart for her kindness, expressed as it was in
this eccentric manner. I began to love this strange lady, who was
an enigma to others. Her influence upon me was unbounded. It
was a strange silent influence. Her interest and love were shown
not in words nor in the display of emotion of any kind. They were
only felt—felt in the firm grasp of the hand, in the flashing look
of inquiry, in the abrupt, unceremonious way in which she gave
me books to read, and in the unlimited freedom which she allowed
me in the choice of subjects and books. How often did I find her
glance directed towards me from the dark corner in the drawingroom! I felt that no trouble of mine escaped her notice. She was
a queer person undoubtedly, always abrupt even when she meant
a kindness, often making a cutting remark when she really meant
to befriend me. In the consulting room, during lesson time she
spared no trouble, stooped to no etiquette, and made no fuss, while
her grasp of the subject was thorough. A strange power seemed
to emanate from her.
The lady doctor was, as it were, the radical element in the
institution. Peculiar in manners, she set at nought all its ordinances.
When girls were brought to account, accused of want of attention,
obstinacy, etc., she simply gave a jeering laugh from her quiet
corner, while the other ladies were quite excited over the matter.
She was the only one that went to whatever church she liked. To
the dismay of her American sisters, she often took her seat
prominently in a C. M. S. church, and said that she enjoyed the
sermons there best of all. But oftener she would not go to church
at all. She would be found at the window watching the carriages
passing, or sitting all alone with her dog by her side in the
darkening drawing-room. Once some girls stumbled on her walking alone in the lonely deserted hall, faintly illuminated by the light
of the moon, and once some lovely, soft melodies were heard
coming from out of the darkness.
Later on, during my stay, these very hours became most
precious to me. I learnt many a thing in the silent darkness, in the
midst of which the nature that was so much a mystery lay revealed
in all its glory. I began to see its greatness. The native ruggedness
outside only made the hidden brightness more startling. I discovered a thoughtful, clever soul which looked into the why and the wherefore of things, and discarded the flimsiness of externals when
they in any way interfered with the purity and nobility of that
which sprang from the heart. When all the ladies had given me up as lost, she extended her hand to me and showed me in numerous ways that she did not share their opinion regarding me. One day when too ill to go to church, I was lying quietly in my room. Not a soul was stirring, when I heard my door open and I saw the
massive, firm-built form of the lady doctor enter. With her usual
abruptness she merely said: ‘Come up,’ and left me, without asking
whether I was dressed or not, or strong enough to get up. I was
bewildered, but did not wish to lose a second, and got up as I was.
There was no light anywhere in the house, but I found my way
up by the starlight that came through the large windows. I was
greeted by a characteristic low laugh, and a hand passed over me.
“You come as you are. Wrap yourself in this,’ and a rug was
thrown round me. ‘You are not afraid to meet anyone?’
‘No.’
“You are too ill to go to church, eh?’
‘No, but really’—
‘Hush! don’t talk, but what will you do if they all come?’
‘Nothing. It will only just confirm them in their opinion that
I am ungodly.’ ‘
‘Am I ungodly then?’
‘No! but you are different; you can do just what you like.’
‘Ha! ha! ha! It is silliness,’ she said, and added. ‘Thinking at home
is far better than going to church.’
Ts it?’ I said. ‘Oh I like to sit and think at home; I can’t do that
in a crowded church.’
‘Yes, but if the sermon is good, then a church is better.’
‘But is it not sin to think like this?’ I said vaguely reflecting.
‘Ha! ha! what is sin? Come, don’t be a baby. I thought you were
better. Do you feel that you are doing any wrong now?’
‘No!’ I said. ‘I would like to sit near you all night.’
‘And you won’t be tired, and you are not ill?’
‘No, not to talk and sit by you.’
‘Do you feel you are doing any wrong when you go to church?”
‘No!’
‘Then why did you not go?’
‘I am too tired and feel ill; the crowd would try me, and I can’t
listen to a sermon when I am tired, and I am really too ill to go.
I don’t think I am sinning, am I?’
‘That is not it; you think you won’t benefit by going, and you
are quite right in staying at home. But you were fretting about
whether you are sinning, were you not?—and making yourself
believe with all your might that you were ill.’
I leaned my head back. It was a relief to be abjured from all
blame, and it was a great delight to me to hear this mysterious lady
talk. She drew me out more and more, and once or twice I grasped
her hand with delight as she led me, confirmed me in opinions
about which I myself had some doubts, and gave definiteness to
my vague feelings. I felt that in her I had found a friend and a guide.
We hardly knew how the time passed. Suddenly the other ladies
came in. I had instinctively got up to rush downstairs for fear of
incurring their displeasure, but she held me down; they were all
surprised to see me there. The lady doctor looking at them, merely
said: ‘Medicine.’
Mrs T became alarmed, and asked: ‘What, so ill?’
‘No, needed some medicine, that is all,’ and she added in an
underbreath: ‘Medicine for the soul,’ and laughed.
A year passed rapidly, and I gave complete satisfaction to the
lady doctor in my studies. One lonely day, when the rain was
falling fast, and dark, heavy clouds overspread the sky, I sat cold
and shivering in the consulting room, and began to think, as tears
rolled down my face, of my mother and my brothers and the future
that seemed so far off—the future in which I was to work and make
it all bright for them. It seemed as if it was never to come. My
book had slipped down, and overcome with fatigue I had rested
my head on the window-sill, when I felt a strong hand laid on my
shoulder. I was startled. It was the lady doctor, and she thrust a
letter towards me at arm’s length, as if she was getting rid of a
disagreeable duty. There was no smile on her face. ‘Read this and
give your answer in a week,’ she said in an imperious manner; but,
when I took the letter and held it a moment, afraid to open it, she
lingered a second and said: ‘Open and read.’ My heart was
throbbing uneasily, and when I looked at her, there was a flicker of a smile on her face, but she was soon gone. It was a wonderful letter. It began in her own writing and ended in that of a stranger. She told me in a business way that she was soon going to leave the country for good, but she had made arrangements for my continuing my studies in England, and that a wealthy lady had kindly undertaken to defray half of my expenses on condition that
the doctor permitted me to go, and the Mission bore the other half
of the expenses. The letter added: ‘I cannot wait, I must go soon;
but I am sure to meet you in America, for once you are in England
I will see to your coming to America also.’ The proposal came like
a thunderbolt, and I sat for a time not knowing what to do.
Everything seemed unreal; for hours after I paced the room, but
the dreamy sense of unreality never left me. Do what I could, I
was unable to shake it off. Mrs T was of course made acquainted
with the contents of the letter, and she said that the proposal was
very flattering, and that I was in great luck.
Holidays were approaching, and there were the usual meetings
and parties. My going to England became the common talk.
Everybody wanted to look at the girl who was going to England.
Brothers of girls who had scarcely noticed me before now began
to talk and pay special attention to me. Days passed, and the lady
doctor was gone. I felt the parting from her very much, and when
she left, all hope seemed to die within me. The amount of attention
that was now paid to me was rather amusing. Proposals of marriage
came in peculiar forms. People whom I had scarcely seen before,
but who were looking out for wives, now made haste to fall in
love with me, and many made a painful display of goodwill and
affection towards me.
Conclusion
Probably very few people are fully aware how observant and
critical girls are. It was on a Saturday evening, when we were all
gathered together just after seeing the prizes which were to be
distributed before the school closed, that the following conversation took place.
‘Aha! How very clever somebody thinks he is,’ said the giggling
girl. ‘His every word and action show this.’
“How?”
‘His very walk is clever. Did you not see it? You had better
observe it next time.’
‘And perhaps he looks at us,’ said another, “as if we were beneath
his notice.’
‘Beneath, ah! far beneath. He does not notice our existence as
he goes up the stairs with that learned air of his, thinking the ladies
alone are fit to hear his talk’.
‘But did not Mrs T say just now that he is a very exemplary
student, one whom we ought all to be proud of?’ added a third.
“Ha! ha! ha!’ from everybody.
‘Do you know’, said a tall muscular girl, ‘that I felt inclined to
box his ears and give him a good shake? What did he mean by
giving us such a sneering look, when he ran his eyes over our prize
list, as if we girls were not capable of accomplishing anything, and
as if the prize-giving itself was a farce?’
Such was the talk about one young man who frequented Mrs T’s drawing-room, and was a great favourite. with the ladies. But there was another who was rather liked by the girls. This was the new-fledged barrister, a magic word, which of itself went a great way to make him a favourite, though even with regard to him there was division of opinion. A saucy girl said with a shake of her head that she could not bear him. ‘Too easy, too sweet-mouthed, too self-reliant. I would give anything to put him in suspense for half an hour, or let him feel the pangs of disappointment,’ but then,
This page has paths:
- Early South Asian Women Writers (1870-1930) Amardeep Singh
- Literature of Colonial South Asia: A Digital Archive Amardeep Singh