3

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 luster; 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 and 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! I 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 work, 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,^[1] and tucked them into 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 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 with great 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 neighboring 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^[2] 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 the 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 way. She missed the hand that used to steal around 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 and 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 supplied 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 neighboring 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 hear….’ ‘Then God is 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. What do you wish to come? Your father is not so ill. I shall not be here, and you will have 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 mother-in-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 on 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 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 old 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 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^[3] 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 that 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 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 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 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 that 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 street 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 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 self-renunciation, 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 neighboring 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 of 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 lovely 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.’