All These Things
IT may be that the hindrance to God’s working mightily towards the demolition of the Shah Najaf is to be found in us. There may be weakness, compromise, lack of determination to keep the winning of souls to the front, the use of unconsecrated means, unsanctified ways of getting money, unconverted workers. There may be an absence of identification with the people for whose sake we are here, an unconscious aloofness not apostolic. Perhaps our love has cooled. Perhaps we know little of the power of the Holy Ghost, and hardly expect to see souls saved here and now, and are not broken down before the Lord because we see so few. God forgive us and make us far more in earnest, and fill us more and more with His own burning passion for souls.
Often here, as elsewhere probably, those who respond to the teaching are those for whom obedience is very difficult; while those who are perfectly free to obey, and who could by their influence do immensely more than the young girl or lad, care nothing, see nothing in the Gospel to stir them to inquiry. In India certainly youth is the time for spiritual decision. But it is just to the youth of the land that action is so im-
1SJ possible. Sometimes this contrary aspect of things is very evident; a page from itinerating life affords many illustrations.
We spent a week lately in an outlying town which has never known a convert. We stayed in the native rest-house, a small stone building surrounded by a roughly kept jessamine garden. One small room was lent to us, the back half of which served as kitchen and the front as living room. The two halves opened on each other, after the fashion of a London drawing-room, only the arch between was not fitted with folding-doors. We had one door, a huge affair, hung so that you could see through the cracks between wall and wood. Sometimes when we were very tired, and yearned for unobserved repose, we used to shut the door. But there were those cracks and many holes. So that plan failed. Then we stuffed cracks and holes with newspaper, which lasted for a while. But the temptation usually proved too great to be resisted; the paper would be poked out, and an eye fitted carefully to each hole, and a perpendicular row of eyes adjusted to each crack enjoyed the situation.
We found this one room, double though it was, rather small and smoky, and asked if we might overflow into the next. But they told us it belonged to the idol to whom the rest-house was dedicated, and that as the god himself dwelt in the next room, we could not. The third and last room was a kitchen, fitted with enormous caldrons; for every afternoon some scores of poor people were fed there; so we could not use that room either. Our coukiug would have desecrated even beggars’ rice.
Those days in the rest-house were full of entertainment. To anyone who enjoys new experiences I would say, go and live behind the scenes for awhile — if you get the chance — in an Indian rest-house. The manner of hospitality was simple. Each recognised beggar, and any wayfarer who cared to claim the charity, went up to the verandah and held out a leaf cup, made of palm leaf folded and tied with its fibre at each end. The halfliquid food was ladled into this. Then the recipient retired to a quiet place in the garden, and squatting behind a bush, if possible, enjoyed the luxury of feeding unobserved. All sorts and conditions of people spent their leisurely afternoons in that garden and on the verandah. Sometimes bejewelled children, looking most unbeggarlike, would come and carry off food for their relations.
Feeding and being fed seem to be occupations conducive to good temper. There could not have been a pleasanter community to dwell among. They accepted us as their guests with guest rights, and never appeared to feel us in the way. We used to sit together in the end room in a circle on the floor, after the day’s work was done, while the two elderly men who kept the place made flower balls and wreaths, and I played with a pariah pup to their constant wonder and pleasure. That poor little pup had never been played with before in his life, and at first could not understand it. But he soon began to come to me, and lay his skinny little head in my hand, and wriggle into my lap, and even his furtive-eyed mother got friendly, and ceased to snarl and snap. And then when the flower balls and garlands were finished the men would read aloud from our books, and many an interesting talk we had about Indian affairs, which led on to talk of the things which are Jesus Christ’s.
One evening I did not go to the end room, but instead had the Christians who lived near in ours. We were finishing an informal meeting when I was aware of a large form looming through the open door, and looking up saw a tall and very massive gentleman blocking out the view, while the crowd which had been in possession retired. I had no chair, only a clean mat, which, however, I hesitated to offer, as I could not assure him it had not been used. He reluctantly understood; the Indian is polite, he did not want to hurt my feelings; but concluding that feelings would recover, he finally carefully seated himself not on the mat but on the doorstep, the dust of which was less objectionable than that clean but contaminated mat.
All this time the Christians had been shuffling about uncomfortably. There was only the one door, so they could not get out, and they knew their presence there was an offence. I sat close beside them so as to share it with them as much as possible. And we all felt a very humble and despised little company.
But our visitor, Lotus’ kinsman, was friendly, and had come with friendly purpose. He had heard I was staying at the rest-house, and as he was superintendent of the charity, he felt interested. He had not been prepared to see the Christians there, and left word that they must not be admitted again; but his Oriental gift of immobility stood him in good stead, and beyond entirely ignoring them he showed no sign of displeasure. For an hour or so we talked amicably. It was impossible to get to anything of moment till he was willing for it. As we talked, evidence of his influence in many directions appeared. If only that man became a seeker after Truth the effect would be far-reaching. Nothing was further from his thoughts. “I have read part of your Bible,” he said, “but I feel no inward attraction. Our religion is older by millenniums. It is an all-inclusive religion. Anything of worth in Christianity will in due time become, incorporated with Hinduism. Thus we shall have the best of your religion without forsaking our own. As you worship Christ, so I worship Krishna. He satisfies me completely. My sin, by which I mean the entanglement of sense, is met by his merit. When I depart this life he will transport me to his heaven.”
“I feel no inward attraction “: the soul had grown to its prison. We thought of Lotus, as he bowed himself out, free to go where he would. She must stay where she was; she might beat herself against the bars till her heart broke. Who would care? So long as no bar was broken, who would care?
We spent the next morning in the Brahman street. In each verandah down both sides of the street ancient Brahmans sat chanting their prayers and adorations, or in some cases winding from quaint spinning-wheels the sacred three strand cord.
A cheerful voice greeted us as we passed. It was the temple musician, an old friend of ours, an artist in his line. When he plays you seem to see jungles full of curious creatures making noises to each other; rivulets flowing softly, with tree tops interlacing, while little birds sing in the cool; jackal holes in the mountains, “Listen! don’t you hear the beasts yell?” And the old man works himself into a frenzy till you almost imagine you do. And all the time there is the fine monotonous undertwang of swift thrumming on the strings, till there breaks through it a call, a cry, and you are away in the forest with Kama, listening as he mourns for his beautiful queen Seetha, watching as he searches through all the wild ways for her, feeling the heart of things throb, India’s heart, kind and good as God made it and meant it to be.
The old musician had much to tell us of the depravity of the gentleman who had called to see us the previous evening, with whom he is not on speaking terms. It was rather a drop from the tenderness of the music, and we escaped as soon as we could, and found our way to a deep verandahed house, where a widow lives who is our friend.
We made friends with her first over her photograph,1 which, however, proved disappointing. “Why did the box paint me black?” and she turned the photo over in much disgust, for she is not as brown as a walnut, and the black was a libel. So I promised that when the Picture-catching Missie Ammal next came to see us the box would try to do better. And she was consoled.
She told me all her story: she had been betrothed at five and widowed at seven. As a widow, of course, she was forbidden to listen to “learning.” But she had managed to pick up an immense amount of information, and even some English words, which she now wanted to
1 Things as They Are, p. 145.
have explained. She knew pages of Tamil poetry off by heart, and chanted as many stanzas as I had time to listen to. She seemed in every way such an exceptionally capable woman, and was so exceptionally free, that one felt she might have been a power in her land, — if only!
But here we came to the parting of the way. We had had many talks and readings, she sitting at one end of the verandah, I at the other, lest by a breath or a shadow fall she should be defiled; and so I was surprised to be invited into the house, and asked to partake of curry and rice, served on a leaf by her own hands. In some parts of India such hospitality is ordinary enough, but in the more conservative corners it is rare in Brahman houses; and fearing lest she should suffer for it afterwards I hesitated. But she insisted, and I followed her into the front room, and feasted, or tried to, while she talked.
She had, as she said, examined the Gospel, “looked through it, all round it, over and under it.” And she had definitely made up her mind that the degradation involved in accepting it was too great to be seriously considered. The first bitter years of widowhood had passed. She is head of her house, and has younger women in charge. Everyone respects her for her strength of character and simple nobility, and she walks unashamed through her little world. Then there is her merit, piles of it, as she assured me, laid up to her account because of her arduous years of penance and fasting, and long pilgrimages. Every morning she paints the Vishnu mark on her brow, then bathes, and performs many ceremonies. Once every week she fasts, besides frequent extra fasts. She has relaxed the fasting of late, “NoT NECESSARY” 139
as she felt she had merit in stock, and could take things easier. Lastly and chiefly, there is her caste, and no words can describe what a Brahman’s caste is to her. Put these three things together, — the respect of all her people, her accumulated merit, her pinnacle of caste. Put on the other side what she would be the moment she turned from these to Christ, — a hissing and a byword, a scorn, a shame, an outcast for ever. It was too much.
And yet it was nothing; nothing in comparison to what the Indian wife and mother is compelled to face. All these social losses are hard to bear, but what must it be to the mother to face the loss of her child? We count these elderly childless widows as, comparatively speaking, disentangled people; free, as women’s freedom goes, with a most blessed freedom.
“I stand alone,” said the Brahman widow, “but I stand strong, kept by the force of my own will. Being who I am, your Jesus Saviour is not necessary to me.”
But we who had come to love her could not accept this as her final word. She had asked me to visit her again. We had parted, as she would express it, in a unity as of one body and soul: so I went again. A child answered my call: “She is out. The Amnial is out bathing,” she said. The door was wide open I could see the widow sitting with a mirror in her hand, carefully painting the Vishnu trident on her forehead.
It seemed better not to go for a while; so I waited the advent of the friends (one of whom had caught her picture), whom to see, she had assured me, would be heart-melting joy. We three went together.
There was no sign of her about the house, nor did any answer our call. We sat on the verandah and waited. Then, as still there was no movement in the house, I pushed the door a little open and looked in. There was a heap of what looked like rags in the corner of the room.
“Amma! Are you ill? The Picture-catching Missie Animal has come to see you.” No answer. Another call, and the heap turned wearily over, and a voice so broken-spirited that I hardly recognised it, said, “Go away. I am ill My caste is angry with me because I invited you in before. I disgraced my orthodox relations. They leave me alone here now.”
There she lay, just ill enough to need tending. Not too ill to get up and walk out with us or anywhere she liked; free. But she did not feel free. She felt bound to lie there in misery, loneliness, and no love of ours could help her. “I have no need of anything,” the tired voice said, as we waited by the door, “I still am a Brahman. I am pure. Your Jesus Saviour is not necessary to me.” And she turned her face to the wall.
In the next street we have a Mohammedan friend. She had asked us wistfully one day to show her the way to heaven. Week by week one or other of us went and taught her and her younger sister. Both became interested, and began to talk about being Christians. Before the girl was old enough to think of coming out, she was married to a middle-aged man for whom she had a special aversion. She resented being compelled to marry him, and resisted up to the “YOU CANNOT TAKE THE CHILDREN” 141
very last with a childish desperateness that entertained her captors, who invited us one day to witness an imitation of the struggle. “He threw her over hia shoulder, so, and her feet dangled and her anklets jingled. Oh, it was most amusing!” We looked anything but amused, and would not listen or look; and the narrator, with bangled arms thrown over her own shoulders in imitation of the poor child’s feet, ran round the courtyard for her own diversion, laughing heartily as she cried, “This was how he did it, and this was what she did. Oh, how her anklets jingled!” The husband, his supremacy once established, had not been unkind, and his young wife had settled down to the inevitable fairly satisfied.
The elder sister went on learning. She was already married, and had three little children. She began to teach them what we taught her. Her husband forbade her to mention Christ to them. “You can do as you like,” he told her casually, “I can easily get another cook. But remember you cannot take the children.” She had hardly come to the point of facing leaving home. He brought her straight up to it. ‘• You can’t be a Christian in my house,” he said, adding as before, “but remember, you cannot take the children.” “Do you mean I cannot have my baby if I am a Christian?” He meant just that.
I remember her the day after he said it. She was sitting on her verandah, her month-old baby on her knee, the mark of such a bitter struggle in her face. “Try to win your husband,” we urged. But our visits were forbidden. Bereft of the little help we could give her, she lost heart and got cold. The unentangled widow with no desire at all; the much-entangled wife with at first so much desire: another of life’s anomalies.
Do these stories weary you, I wonder? Or do you feel as we do, that it is better, after all, to share the day’s life fairly with us, if you take the trouble to share it at all? On, then, to the next town; here we are less remote from the levelling influence of education, and so, sometimes we are welcome even in Brahman houses. We spent an hour a few weeks ago with some friendly Brahmans, who afterwards allowed us to visit their wives. It was early in the afternoon. Five old Brahmans were sitting on the verandah, content just to exist. There was the usual glance of appraisal: then “It is hot,” they murmured sleepily. “Why agitate yourself by wandering about?” We found they knew enough to negative any attempt to speak of Christ. They preferred, they said, to speak of one of their poets, beloved by all who read; and knowing that where the better Tamil poetry at least is concerned, “all thoughts, all searches, to this centre tend, all rays in this one focus meet,” we guided their choice to three stanzas, thus translated by Dr. Pope: “My mother bare me, left me here, and went to seek her mother, who in self-same manner has gone in search; and thus in ceaseless round goes on the mother quest. Such is the grace this world affords.”
“Unasked men come, appear in the house as kinsmen, and then silently go. As the bird silently deserts the tree where its nest yet remains, and goes far off. So these leave but their body to their friends.”
“Severed are the ties of friendship; minished are the pleasant ones; love’s bonds are loosened too; then look within and say, ‘What profit is there in this joyous life of thine? The cry comes up as from a sinking ship/”
Before long the men were interested, and were prepared to discuss, in the cool and detached manner of the philosopher, what exactly the poet meant by the mother quest, deserted nest, sinking ship. “We had the sentence of death in ourselves, that we should not trust in ourselves, but in God which raiseth the dead. Who delivered us from so great a death, and doth deliver us: in whom we trust that He will yet deliver us.” The poet unconsciously pointed straight to this. “There is no record but doth hint of Thee.” If only these men would give one hour out of their ample leisure to earnest consideration, if only they would allow themselves to be in earnest, surely they would be awakened by the view of their true position. What baffles one so is the lack of earnestness. There is something awful in the sight of immortal men playing ball with Truth. When we returned from their women folk they were still playing ball, blind to the words written over the balls, Life, Death, Judgment to come.
A stone’s throw from that verandah scene we saw its opposite. A girl was wrestling in earnest with the power that purposed to hold her in bondage. Her true position was only too clear to her startled heart that day. She was almost sixteen. She had been waiting for the month to come which would, she believed, set her free to ask for baptism. It had almost come, but just before the earliest day she dare count herself free, the marriage, postponed till then, to her joy, had been suddenly planned by her parents, and there was no escape. She felt like a runner racing for life with a swifter, panting hard behind. The runner gained upon her, overtook her, caught her. No one listened to her protest. They pushed her through the wedding, and hurried her off to her husband’s house.
We teach these girls about the inward liberty of the spirit, which no untoward circumstance can in the least affect. And as to physical liberty, we would not feel justified in refusing refuge to any wife of whose bona fides we were perfectly assured. But the complications created by marriage are obvious enough, and always there is the danger that the spiritual life, which after all was young and needed nourishing, should succumb when left unfed.
Our visitor in the rest house and his young kinswoman Lotus, the Brahman widow and the Mahommedan wife, the old men and the young girl — the three sets of contrasts could be duplicated by most who have worked among the more conservative castes. This chapter, with the two which precede it, touches only the usual.
The Sword and Variance; the laws of the land concerning women; custom more potential than any law, — all these things are against us. “None of these things move us” The words rise like the chorus to a new strong song. These things were foreknown to the One who sent us to face them. A thing foreknown cannot militate against ultimate victory. “We rejoice in hope of the glory of God.”
It is true that the work is hard. Wherever the object “THE JOY OF THE DIFFICULT LIFE” 145
aimed at is to win to out-and-out allegiance to Christ, not the most easily won, but the most estranged, the most opposed, not in the far future of succeeding generations, but here and now — there, if letters from almost all over the world are proof, we find conflict, with exactly what the word connotes.
Granted it is hard, feel to the core of your soul how very hard it is; is there not something within us which leaps to meet the hardest? “The Joy of the Difficult Life” is the inspiring title of a recent article in an Indian magazine. We talk of our Anglo-Saxon blood —
“That is best blood that hath most iron in’t, To eclgo resolve with.”
Should not the very difficulties, the sense of the impregnable, impossible, send us to our knees, and then out to the battle front?