Part 10

Nand Kishore was driven from his home because he had become a Christian. His dearest friends would not eat with him, or suffer him to cross their thresholds; his younger brother seized on his small property; and, worst of all, his widowed mother, Harmuzi, beating her breast, cursed her first-born, who had been to her as the apple of her eye. Then the soul of Nand Kishore was sorely smitten; in great grief he turned from the door of what had been his home from his childhood. But he remembered the words of the Saviour for whose sake he had given up all: _If any man love father or mother more than Me, he is not worthy of Me. Blessed are they that are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven._

Harmuzi had in her anger cursed her first-born, but her heart clung to him still. Great was her grief when, a year afterwards, she heard a report of the death of Nand Kishore. And Harmuzi had other sore trials: blindness gradually came upon her, till at last all the light of heaven to her was darkened. And her son Mohendro showed her no love or respect. He had married a proud woman, who despised her poor blind mother-in-law, and made her life bitter with cruel words. Mohendro more than once even struck[52] his afflicted mother; and Harmuzi was treated as a slave in the house which had once been her own.

“Ah! my poor Nand Kishore would not have behaved to me thus!” sighed the unhappy mother, when she remembered him whom she had cursed, only because he had done what he felt to be right.

Harmuzi’s cruel daughter-in-law grudged her even the food which she ate. “Thou canst not grind the corn, or bring water from the well,” she said; “and yet thou dost devour our substance. Go out into the street and beg! When passers-by look on your blind eyes, they may at least put a handful of grain into your vessel.”

Hungry and sad, and bowed down by sorrow, poor Harmuzi, wrapped in her chaddar, sat at the corner of a street, with a brass vessel, called a bartan, beside her, and held out her thin hand for alms. She had sat there for hours, whilst many passed by her, but as yet she had received nothing from any one,—not so much as a word of pity. At last Harmuzi heard a slight sound, as if something were being poured into her bartan; and when she put forth her hand to feel, lo! the vessel was full of rice. Then some one gently took the blind woman by the hand, and raised her, and led her back towards the house of the undutiful son. Harmuzi blessed the kind stranger again and again, and asked Vishnu to load him with blessings. He who led her spake not a word in reply, but left her at the corner of a street that was nigh to the house of her undutiful son.

The next day Harmuzi was again driven forth by her daughter-in-law to beg, and felt her way slowly to the same spot where the merciful stranger had found her. This time she had not to wait so long. Again was her bartan filled with rice, again the same gentle hand led the blind woman back; and she blessed him who had showed her mercy. But the stranger spake no word in reply.

And this went on for many days. The supply of rice never failed, and Harmuzi knew not that he who filled her bartan often himself hungered that she might be fed. Harmuzi marvelled that she never heard the sound of the stranger’s voice. “He hath been smitten with dumbness,” she said to herself.

One day poor Harmuzi, with bruise marks on her face, sat in her usual place; she was bitterly weeping, for the hand of her wicked younger son had been lifted up against his blind and helpless mother. At the sight of Harmuzi’s bruises and tears, he who had so long restrained himself[53] could keep silence no longer.

“O mother—mother!” he cried. Harmuzi knew the voice of her lost Nand Kishore, and suddenly rising and stretching out her arms, she fell on his neck weeping.

“O my beloved!” she cried, “is it thou? How is it that thou hast so long fed and cared for her who, in an evil hour, cursed her own first-born son?”

“Dear to my soul!” replied Nand Kishore, “do you not know that He who said, _He that loveth father or mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me_, also gave this command, _Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee_?”

VI.—A DANGEROUS VILLAGE.

Padre Ware, a missionary, revisited a village in which four heads of families, whose names were Nihal, Tara Chund, Chanda Lal, and Lala, had received the gospel, and been baptized. After an absence of six months Padre Ware returned to the village, hoping to find the four Christians firm in the faith, and glorifying by their holy lives the Saviour whom they had promised to serve. Alas! great was the sorrow of Padre Ware to find that Satan had sown the seeds of discord and hatred amongst the little band who should have loved one another, even as Christ had loved them. Nihal had a quarrel with Tara Chund about a bit of land; Chanda Lal’s wife had said bitter things against Lala’s. None of the four would speak with his neighbour. Even the coming of Padre Ware was a fresh cause of bitterness. Each one of the four men asked the missionary to abide in his house; the Englishman could not go to the one without offending the other three. Where Padre Ware had hoped to find love and peace and joy, he found anger, hatred, and strife.

Under the shade of a banyan-tree sat Padre Ware, with his Bible in his hand; and thither, to meet him, came Nihal, Tara Chund, Chanda Lal, and Lala,—but they sat on the ground as far apart as they could from each other. Many of the villagers stood at a little distance to see the missionary, and listen to his words; but none of these villagers wished to become Christians, for they said amongst themselves: “Padre Ware, when he was here before, told us that God is love, and Christ’s religion a religion of love; but behold these men who have been baptized, they will not so much as eat together!”

Padre Ware looked sadly upon the four converts who were thus bringing dishonour on the name of Christians. For a few moments he lifted up his heart in prayer for them, and then he spoke aloud:—

“It is the desire of my heart that all may be peace and love between you. Nihal is the oldest amongst you: let us all go to his house, and take a meal together, in token that all again are friends.”

But Tara Chund shook his head and cried, “Never will I cross the threshold of Nihal!” And Chanda Lal and Lala looked fiercely at each other, and muttered, “We never will eat together.”

Then said Padre Ware to the four: “I have been for twelve years a missionary. I have gone in and out amongst the people; I have never refused to go to the house of him who invited me, nor to eat with any who was willing to eat with me. Only once was I in a great difficulty: I went to one village where several were ready indeed to receive me, but I knew that they all were murderers.”

“All murderers!” exclaimed the astonished Christians. “That was an evil place indeed.”

“What was I to do?” asked Padre Ware.

All the four answered as with one breath,—“Get out of that village as fast as your honour could.”

Then Padre Ware opened his Bible, and slowly read: _Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer, and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him._

There was a great silence, and then the missionary went on:—“O my friends! ye know that God hath commanded, _Thou shalt not kill_; and His Word hath shown us that this command reaches even to the thoughts of the heart. Ye call yourselves servants of that Saviour who loved His enemies, prayed for His enemies, died for His enemies; but oh! remember that they who come to Him for pardon and life, must also follow Him in holiness and love,—for is it not written in the Scriptures of truth, _If any man have not the Spirit of Christ, he is none of His_”? (Rom. viii. 9).

Again there was a deep silence. Then Nihal arose from the ground, and going up to Tara Chund, offered his hookah;[54] and Tara Chund accepted it with a smile. The four Christians embraced one another; and before the evening closed in, those who had been bitter enemies ate together as friends and brethren in Christ.[55]

VII.—THE BEAUTIFUL PARDAH.

It is quite necessary to give a few words of introduction to the following little story, as without it the meaning and drift of it would be quite unintelligible to many British readers. Not all are aware that it is the custom of Mohammedans of the upper classes to seclude their women from sight; so that to allow the face to be seen by any man except a husband or very near relative is accounted a shame and disgrace. This custom is called “pardah,” and it has spread beyond the Mohammedans to some of the Hindus, &c. A. L. O. E. has seen an old lady start from her seat as if in great alarm, and hide herself behind a chair, because an aged gentleman had chanced to come in sight. Sometimes sufferers are shut out from receiving medical aid on account of pardah. At this moment pardah is one of the greatest obstacles to baptism being received by one whom we believe to be quite convinced of the truth of Christianity, and whose husband is a noble-hearted Christian. Sometimes pardah is actually kept up by native _converts_; and this is a grievous hindrance to them, and besets their path with needless difficulties. There is in our mission church a little pardah room, indeed, in which women can, if they wish it, hear unseen; but how can a woman in pardah ever share the Holy Communion—how can she be actively useful amongst the heathen around her! Pardah is the napkin under which a few native converts would hide their talent, and one cannot but regard it rather as a kind of _fashion_, a piece of Oriental worldliness, than a token of superior delicacy of mind. A woman actually in the act of hiding her face will sometimes shock our feelings of refinement in some other way.

Another little explanation is necessary. The word “pardah”[56] has two meanings: one the state of seclusion which has been described; the other, the _curtain_ which is the emblem of seclusion. Any curtain in an English lady’s dwelling is a pardah, though she is never “in pardah” herself.

* * * * *

Waziren, a merchant’s wife, came to visit Maryam, the wife of a moonshee. Both of the women had been baptized as Christians, but the heart of Waziren still clung to many of the customs of her people; she retained prejudices in which she had been brought up from her childhood. Waziren never came to church, lest she should break pardah; and would have thought it unseemly to meet at a meal even the dearest friend of her husband. Waziren cared not to learn to read; her only pleasure was in her jewels, and in gossip, in which her favourite topic always was the faults of her neighbours. It was for the sake of talking over news that Waziren now took her seat on the _charpai_ (low bed) of Maryam.

“Are the tidings true,” asked Waziren, “that your next-door neighbour, Shadi Shah, arrived last night from England, a week before he was expected?”

“It is quite true,” Maryam replied. “It was a great joy to Fatima to see her husband again after a six months’ absence.”

“A great joy, was it?” said Waziren sneeringly; and she smiled an unpleasant smile. “I should have thought that Fatima would have cared little if the absence of her husband had been one of six years, instead of six months.”

Maryam looked almost angry, for she saw that evil thoughts were in the mind of her neighbour. “Fatima is a good and faithful wife,” she replied. “Had Shadi Shah remained away for six years, he would, on his return, have found her just the same as if he had never left her. Do you not know, O Waziren! that Fatima has kept in strict pardah all the time of her husband’s absence?”

“In pardah!” exclaimed the astonished Waziren. “Now, for once, O Maryam! I have found you uttering words of untruth! I happen to know that Fatima has been to church every week since her husband’s departure. I am sure that she on foot has visited friends; nay, I have even heard that she has taught in a school!” Waziren looked duly indignant and shocked at such a breach of Oriental customs, though quite aware that Maryam did all the things which she professed to think so strange.

“Fatima has done all this,” replied Maryam, smiling; “and yet she has kept strict pardah.”

“You amaze me!” cried the merchant’s wife.

“Perhaps you have never heard that in Fatima’s house there is a very fine pardah, beautiful and perfect, though of great antiquity,” said Maryam. “This pardah is more valuable than any shawl or Cashmere, or piece of golden embroidery, crusted all over with jewels!”

“I think that you must have lost your wits!” exclaimed Waziren, more and more astonished. “I know no woman with fewer jewels than Fatima. I am sure that she cannot love her stingy husband. If she has such a splendid pardah, she never had it from him. Pray, have you ever seen this wonderful pardah?”

“Yes; and I have one just like it,” replied Maryam, laying her hand on a book beside her, which Waziren, though she could not read it, knew to be the Bible.

“You talk in riddles!” cried the merchant’s wife.

Maryam opened the Holy Book. First, she found out in the Old Testament the seventh commandment; and then she turned over to the New Testament and read aloud: _I will therefore that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array; but (which becometh women professing godliness) with good works_ (1 Tim. ii. 9, 10). Then from another place the Christian woman read: _Likewise, ye wives, be in subjection to your own husbands; that, if any obey not the word, they may be won by the conversation of the wives; while they behold your chaste conversation coupled with fear_ (1 Peter iii. 1). And then again Maryam found that place where that word is written alike for men and women: _Follow peace with all men, and holiness, without which no man shall see the Lord_ (Heb. xii. 14). “Behold,” cried Maryam, closing the Bible, “here is the pardah treasured in the house and heart of Fatima; and as long as she keeps within it, the Christian wife requires no other!”

VIII.—THE BEARER’S DREAM.

Ganesh Das, the Commissioner Sahib’s Sardar bearer, sat with the Bible on his knee; for Ganesh Das could read, and he had been well instructed in the Christian religion. He was convinced that that religion is true, but he loved it not, because it also is pure and holy. Ganesh Das had read the commandment, _Thou shalt not steal_ (Ex. xx. 15); his finger was now on the words: _Exhort servants to be obedient to their own masters, and to please them well in all things; not answering again; not purloining, but shewing all good fidelity; that they may adorn the doctrine of God our Saviour in all things_ (Titus ii. 9, 10). Ganesh Das with vexation closed the Bible and pushed it aside.

“What!” he cried; “must I, if I be baptized, give up all cheating, get nothing but my pay, never take from my rich master one pie that is not lawfully mine! No, no; this is more than I can do! Let others be Christians,—Ganesh Das cannot break off from the habit of years, and make himself poor for the sake of the gospel!”

That night Ganesh Das had a dream. He dreamed that he and many others stood in a slave-market, heavily chained, and the voice of wailing was heard around. One who wore a black robe stood near, and to him Ganesh Das addressed this question,—

“Why are we chained here? What hath brought us into this place of shame and sorrow?”

“O lost one!” replied the stranger, “thou and all around thee have been sold to a fearful tyrant, who, after ye have done his work, will cast you into devouring flames, for thus he always treats his slaves when their time of labour for him is ended.”

“How came we to be slaves? What villain hath sold us?” exclaimed the indignant Sardar.

“O man!” the stranger replied, “no one is here that hath not sold himself into bondage; and lo! the money which he hath received in exchange for his soul is now the chain with which he is bound. Fools, fools! hath not Christ said: _What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?_” (Mark viii. 36.)

Even as he spoke there was a fearful noise of drums, mingled with shrieks and howlings: the tyrant was coming to the slave-market to claim his victims.

Ganesh Das in his dream trembled exceedingly, for never had he beheld a form so horrible as that which he looked on now. The glare of the enemy’s eyes was as the glare of the tiger’s when he rangeth the jungle at night for his prey. The tyrant advanced to the first of the slaves, and Ganesh Das saw a poor wretch crouching down in extreme terror at the feet of the soul-destroyer.

Then he of the black robe said: “Behold! this wretch is a mighty vizier, who became wealthy as a rajah through the bribes which he took. Look at the gold and the jewels which bind him now, so that he cannot so much as look up!”

Ganesh Das looked, and behold the golden chains were eating into the very flesh of the man who had sold himself to the soul-destroyer.

“He is mine!” cried the tyrant; “bear him away!”

Then he advanced to the slave who was next to Ganesh Das,—a man who stood with his eyes almost starting from his head with terror, whilst he vainly tried to burst fetters made of silver rupees.

“This is a dacoit,”[57] said he of the black robe; “he hath sold himself for the silver chain which thou seest.”

“He is mine!” cried the tyrant; “bear him away!”

“I shall be next,” thought the terrified dreamer. He looked down on his own galling chains, and lo! they were formed of innumerable pice and pies, the fruit of petty frauds for which he had sold his soul. The destroyer approached; the trembling Sardar seemed already to hear the doom, “He is mine! bear him away!” The poor wretch made so desperate an effort to burst his chains, that lo! he awoke from his dream.

Ganesh Das still trembled, but he was thankful that his day of grace was not yet past, that it was not yet too late to escape the soul-destroyer. He fell on his knees, repeating words which he had learned from the Bible: _Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts: and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon_ (Isa. lv. 7). _For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord_ (Rom. vi. 23).

IX.—THE CRACKED SCENT-BOTTLE.

Mohendro, the Padre Sahib’s bearer, saw that Melo, the Mem Sahiba’s new ayah,[58] had a troubled countenance.

“Why are you troubled, Melo?” asked he.

“When dusting the Mem Sahiba’s room,” replied Melo, “I threw down her beautiful scent-bottle. The scent-bottle was cracked, and the sweet water was all spilt.”

“What matters it to you?” said the bearer, smiling. “You have been but one day in the house; put the bottle back in its place, and when the Mem Sahiba sees that it has been emptied and cracked, say that you found it so, and that the last ayah certainly did the mischief.”

A short time before, Melo would have thought nothing of telling a lie; but she was now a baptized Christian, and had been taught God’s Commandments. Melo knew that one of them is, _Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour_ (Ex. xx. 16). Melo had resolved to keep a strict watch over her lips, for she had learned the text: _Lying lips are abomination to the Lord_ (Prov. xii. 22). “I am afraid to tell my Mem Sahiba a lie,” she replied.

The bearer laughed at her words. “Why, to lie comes as natural as to eat!” he cried. “The last ayah has gone away to Benares, so your lie will do no harm to any one in the world.”

Melo thought to herself, “Will it do no harm to myself?” But Melo was but a new Christian; habit is strong, and she had been accustomed to tell lies from the time that she first could speak. Melo resolved that when her Mem Sahiba noticed the harm done to the scent-bottle, she would say that the last ayah had done it. She was timid, and could not bear that the Mem Sahiba, whose service she had just entered, should think her careless.

The Padre Sahib had morning prayers in Urdu, and such of his servants as were Christians were always allowed to attend. It was the first time that Melo had ever been present at family worship. She sat on the carpet, watching the Sahib as he unclosed the Holy Book. On the knees of the Mem Sahiba sat her little boy Henry, a lovely blue-eyed child of four years of age.

The Sahib read about heaven; of the bright happy home of those who have believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, and who, believing, have loved and obeyed Him. Melo did not know this part of the Bible at all. She listened with delight to the account of the glorious place, till the reader came to the following words:—_And there shall in no wise enter into it anything that defileth, neither whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie_ (Rev. xxi. 27).

Melo was startled to hear this. “Shall I be shut out from heaven?” she said to herself. But Melo could not even yet make up her mind to tell her Mem Sahiba all the truth about her beautiful scent-bottle.

When prayers were over, Melo was ordered to take Baba Henry into the garden; for it was the cold season, and the weather was not yet too hot. Melo loved children very much, and it was with pleasure that she watched the gambols of the fair little English boy.

Henry ran about the garden, and in his play he forgot to keep to the gravel path. Carelessly running across the border, the child brushed past a beautiful flower which he knew that his mother greatly prized, and in doing so broke off its head. The child stood still at once, and looked with vexation at the mischief which he had done.

“Oh! mamma told me not to run over the border, or to touch the flowers! She will be so vexed!” cried the child, almost bursting into tears.

“Never mind, Baba Henry,” said Melo; “you need say nothing to the Mem Sahiba about the matter.”

The boy looked indignantly into the face of the ayah with his steady blue eyes. “If I did not tell the truth, God would be angry,” he cried; and off darted the child, to confess everything to his mother.

Melo looked after him, and tears came into her eyes. “Shall that little one fear God and speak truth?” she exclaimed; “and shall I, who have given myself to the God of truth, tell lies like a heathen? O Lord! help me to put away this great sin!” And quickly Melo followed her little charge, and confessed to her Mem Sahiba that she had thrown down and cracked her bottle.

And was the Mem Sahiba angry? No; her words were: “I thank God that I have at last a servant whose word I can trust.”

X.—THE FALL, THE CHEETAH, AND THE CUP.

Jai Singh, a man of good family, but poor, stood by the side of the road as Parduman, once his boyhood’s companion, rode by. Parduman was mounted on an Arab horse of great value, richly caparisoned; and two syces attended their master. Envy and covetousness awoke in the heart of Jai Singh as he gazed.

“Why should that fellow have all life’s honey, and I he left the gall?” he exclaimed. “Would that your horse were mine; ay, and the heavy bags of rupees also, that have fallen to the lot of one less worthy than myself to possess them!”

“O my son, beware of desiring that which is another’s!” said Isaac, the aged catechist, who had been a friend and teacher of Jai Singh from his childhood, and who, chancing to be near, had overheard the exclamation. “In the Word of God it is written: _Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his man-servant, nor his maid-servant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour’s_” (Ex. xx. 17).