6

It was a little fort by the seaside. It seemed like a bird’s nest perched on 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 so 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, realizing in his soul both the greatness and the goodness of the Almighty Father.

Under these influence 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 spring 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 wherefore of things.

One evening we were in the grove that 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 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 I am 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 it; 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^[1] 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 he report of his wealth and the 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 and 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 Harni’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 Harni.

“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.”

“I 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 everyone 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 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 or 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 a 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 solmn 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^[2] 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 modest-looking 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.^[3]  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.’

[Jeremy]

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^[4], and returned to our little temporary home close by much refreshed. Why are some people born to be kind? Why do their hears 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. This 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 peculiar-looking 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 through the service 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.^[5] 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.^[6]

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 build 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,^[7] 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^[8], 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 afterward 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 lowered 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 fell 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 to 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 different a 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 sahib was 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 off 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 choices. 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’.^[9] 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 treated a great deal by my other brothers, who were disappointed because they could not go with me. They called me a Bible-woman, ang 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^[10] and was well-neigh 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 a 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.”

“Make 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, 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 form laughing. At last I pretended that I had choked and coughed loudly; for if the lady had only seen me laughing at 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’,^[11] the gossip went on, ‘and he was kinder to the poor Christians after that. They say it was a visitation’.^[12]

‘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 added, ‘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’,^[13] 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 were bout 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’,^[14] 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 stingly 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 from 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 the 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’,^[15] 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 I 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^[16] had ceased to haunt us.  Bhasker became graver than usual. He loitered longer in his walks, lingering by the river and the old groves, and somehow reveled 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 woman 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 east 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’,^[17] 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 hit 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 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,’ and 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.’