Part 2

It was a parable on the power of Faith.... And truly, the Temple of Kali opens many doors to reflection. Evil, we notice, is conquered by Time in the end. Of Love, which conquered Time, there is no Gospel in Hinduism. Inherent strength is the last vanquisher, the Great Gods themselves helping in the conquest, even parting with their own strength to the fighter. And that which God inspires may be as God. Yet, in spite of the Hindu doctrine of works, there would seem to be a caution against too great activity. Kali drunk with activity was shamed by Gods and men....

* * * * *

I went back to my Wise Woman of many years.... “To the ignorant,” she said, “Kali but wants a life--Kali slays and Kali makes alive. Said I not once before, blessing and cursing, death and life, these are the Soul’s eternal doors. In the house of Kali the doors are ever open.... But, for us women, the lesson to hide in the heart is this--Kali, the Great Destroyer, the Nurse of the World, the Dread-Inspirer, is vanquished only by--her husband.”

* * * * *

Here, then, meet ancient story and modern history, the history of every Hindu woman throughout the Land. The last stage of perfection is wifely submission.

III

THE STORY OF A WOMAN

Now Dokhio, the Father of Durga, was wroth because Shiva, to whom he had given his daughter in marriage, though he had the reputation of a God, was as poor as any beggar. And in his wrath he devised revenge. He made a great Feast, to which he bade Gods and Goddesses, Godlings and baby Godlings--all, save Shiva and his wife Durga. And Narod, the Mischief Man, was made the voice to bear the message to each guest.

So Narod went to Shiva, and “This is what your Father-in-law hath planned,” saith he, inciting.

But Shiva, “What is that to me?” “Dishonour, insult, affront--see you not?” said the Mischief Man.

And Shiva, again, “What is that to me? They who do not honour cannot hurt me.”...

Narod then went to Durga, Shiva’s wife: “A Feast of Gods and Goddesses,” saith he. “Let be,” said Durga; “What is that to me?”

“Such display of dresses and jewels, such cackling of women’s tongues. ‘Why is Shiva not there? Why not Durga?’ Surely a daughter may go to the house of her Father, by chance, on the day of the Feast, ignorant of what is forward?”...

Durga sought her husband. But he was firm. “They will make sport of you to spite me.”

“What matter? It were worse not to be seen there--things happening behind our backs.”...

But Shiva was firm.

Then did Durga use all the wiles of women--coaxing, sulking, flattering--Shiva was firm; so, finally she used the wiles of a more than human ...

She took unto herself ten forms each more awful than the last, and ten-headed she passed before Shiva, threatening and mocking. Till--“Go!” said Shiva; “Let happen what will happen.”

And Durga, a little fearfully, in that she had got at last her heart’s desire, arrayed herself in garments gorgeous and becoming, and made her way to her Mother’s house. And her Mother embraced her right gladly, so that a great contempt was in Durga’s heart for the trouble at which she had been in coming.

But the Mother said within herself: “It is well my Lord is away and busy, it is well ... else might he hurt this child of mine.”

Yet soon the question came: “And where is my Father?”

“At the Place of Sacrifice, where he makes a great feast,” said the gentle Mother. “Stay with me, my child; leave such-like things to the men-people.”

But Durga: “A Feast? Nay, then must I go and see” ... and she heeded nothing.

And Dokhio was furious, in that after all his insult would be robbed of point.

“Why art thou come hither?” he thundered. And she: “Because my Father’s daughters may not be kept from my Father’s Sacrifice.”

Then Dokhio cursed Shiva and all that belonged to him, which Durga hearing, passed out of life with grief inconsolable.

And Shiva, who had cared nothing for the slight to himself, revenged the death of his wife most mightily. He sent forth his lightning and consumed that great sacrifice ere they who were bidden had arrived to make it; and so the guests found nothing save charred wood, and a wizened old Dokhio with the head of a bearded goat.

For this was Shiva’s little joke to keep the matter for ever in the mind of Durga’s Father, Dokhio.

* * * * *

We sat on the great quiet roof in the cow-dust hour while the latest Mother-in-law among us told the story.

She meant it, I think, for the special benefit of Boho, the ten-year-old Bride; and she was gratified, for Boho caught her breath in great gusts at this bold coercion of a husband. Nothing did the story mean to her save that--punishment for such sacrilege.

But Kamalamoni looked up smiling from a game with the household tyrant--her Nagendra--aged four.

“It is not thus the story hath its ending,” she said.

“Then tell the rest, Kamal.” But Kamal was better occupied.

“And how calls the horse, my son? and how the dog? and the cat? and sheep? And,” roguishly--“and how the great grandmother when in anger?” Till she of many years claimed Nagendra as her fee for such impertinence and Kamala was forced to tell her tale.

“And how should story end which wails no dirge for death of wife?” said Kamala, hotly. For opinion is but experience crystallized. “When Durga’s soul left her body thus early, it wandered to the mountains of snow, and finding on the threshold of sense, the empty house of a new-born babe, it entered it.”

Uma was the name by which its parents chose to know the child; and Uma grew strong and beautiful, gentle and good, with no memory of Durga the Ten-Headed.... And, one day when she had come to her woman’s estate in our kingdom of life, and was playing with her waiting-woman among the swans beside the lotus-beds, an aged Priest-man appeared before her, and falling at her feet, said, “Durga Mother, thy Lord of Destruction fasts and prays sorrowing for thee: go and tend him.”

And Uma ran to her mother, wrathful.... “An old Priest-man fell at my feet Mother,” she said, “and said unto me words which are not fit to be heard by me before my maidens.”

So Uma’s Father went out forthwith, and finding Narod--for he it was, the Mischief Man turned Priest in old-age, he heard the wondrous God-news about his daughter.

Shiva, it seemed lived a life of prayer and fasting--close by in the Cave of the Cow’s mouth.

“Send Uma to tend him,” said Narod, “and haply he will look and love, and they be man and wife once more.”

Thus Uma was sent to Shiva, and tended him night and day; and the woman’s love for the thing that she tended, grew in her heart.

But Shiva, full of self-pity for loss of a jewel which he might better have preserved (for this was his thought), saw not that same jewel lying burnished and re-beautified in the dust at his feet. And Uma’s heart was sad, till even the Great God himself was moved to pity, and sent the little God of Love to wake Shiva the Monk from his trance of bead-telling.

Then, fearfully--for is not Shiva the Destroyer himself?--went the Godling of the arched bow, and hiding in the bracken he shot forth his arrows--not without success. And Shiva, furious, saw one upturned foot in flight, and the fire from his eye burnt up the thing he saw, so that Kama Deva comes no more among the haunts of men.

But, and when his anger was dead, he looked up, and his eyes being opened, he beheld Uma, knowing her for Durga his own possession.

And so, once more was fulfilled the destiny of a woman.

“But for three days in every year does Uma go back to her parents and her swanlets in the mountains of Snow; and this journeying of Uma is always at _Durga-pooja_ time when we make feast for many days to worship the Ten-handed.”

In the silence which fell upon us after this story, she of many years was heard to yawn, while all the women snapped their fingers till her jaws met again.

From Shiva’s Temple gleaming white among the yellow-green of the date palms came the sound of the _pooja_ bell--some one, a woman probably, praying for her Lord to the Lord of Killing and Cursing. Clear against the gray-blue sky stood the cross-crowned spire of the Christian Cathedral; and almost at our doors, rang out the prayer-keeper’s call to the faithful Moslem: “There is no God so great as God.”...

“There is no God so great as--my God.” It is what we are all saying; and it makes at once the strength and the tragedy of human lives. “No God so great as my God.” What different things we mean when we say that--we of the bustling outside world.

The Hindu woman means one thing only.... “No God so great as my God.” That was the lesson each was taking from the story of Durga and Uma. Did not almost every fable and legend chant that chorus? “No God so Great.”... In punishment may be sometimes, or in penitence (see the miracle of the Destroyer himself turned monk for Durga)--but most of all in _graciousness_....

“He knew Uma for her who went to Dokhio’s feast, and yet he forgave,” said Boho Rani, “Oh! the wonder.”...

But the Mother of Nagendra laughed, sure of her possession.... “The Godling of the arrows was not really burnt,” she said, “the flying foot belonged to Kama’s sheaf-bearer and rival, the less-than-godlet of unlawful love.”...

And the Wise Woman smiled to herself in the growing dusk. “The ignorant are incapable of receiving knowledge,” was what she said.

IV

DEVI--GODDESS!

A young unmarried girl is by some in Bengal called _Kumari_--Princess, and when married, _Devi_--Goddess.

I was musing on this, and all it told of the feeling of a Nation, and of the true beauty of that feeling at its best, when an old Prime-Minister friend of mine in a Native State came to invite me to a Ceremony.

It is known how I love all things primitive and individual, and my orthodox Hindu friends are very good to me in remembering this. “But of course I will come,” I promised. “What is it this time?”

“The worship of young girls,” said he. There was the idea again, the central idea in all Hindu thought in relation to women.... The worship of the _Life-Bringer_.

It was very simple, as all such Ceremonies are, and free from all manner of false shame or conventionality. There was remembrance of the Creator; for the creature--the gentle little girls, such babies all of them--there were garlands of gay flowers, feastings and anointings with perfume of rose-leaves.

There was also towards them in the manner of these kindly elders who had long looked on the face of Nature, a pretty dignity and reverence which could not fail to beautify the fact of Creation whenever it should draw nigh.

Not long after, the youngest Bride in the household--she is but ten years of age--had a joy-making on her own account. She worshipped the Aged. They came in happy groups, the same who had so lately blessed her--toothless grandmother, great-aunt, cousins’ Mother, wife of Mother-in-Law’s Spiritual Guide--each had a name of her own in the dictionary of relationships. She received them charmingly, standing at the head of the Zenana stairs--the baby-hostess! falling at the feet (_parnam_) of those to whom she owed this courtesy, saluting others with joined hands raised to forehead (_numuscar_), and each made answer “Blessings,” hand on the child’s head. Then they sat in rows on little mats along the floor, and ate sweets and vegetables off green plantain leaves, their hostess waiting on them.

This little exchange of religious obligation is all the etiquette, and makes all the social amenities known among orthodox women in India.

It is hard to convey the idea, state the fact as one may, but the Hindu woman acknowledges no claims save those of religion. No social, no communal claims. Her worship of the Gods, of her husband, her children, they are all the same, part of her religion, and they make her life.

Even the ordinary business of the day, bathing, dressing, eating, is a religious act.... To cook her husband’s food an orthodox Hindu wears a special silk garment: the only gardening she ever attempts is to water and tend the sacred basil (_Tulsi_). If she travels, it is on a pilgrimage to this shrine or that, to bathe in this or that sacred river. Of course she gives dinner parties as did my ten-year-old Bride, on special occasions, or on feasts of Gods and Goddesses through the year, also in memory of the dead; but there is no machinery of calls, no social entertaining for entertainment sake, no interchange of civilities to acquaint young people and make marriages. Marriages are made by the Priests and your map of stars, not by the social broker. For births and deaths you may have a house full of women, your relations or “spiritual” relations, come unbidden on a visit of congratulation or sympathy. To these you may never suggest departure, and only innate good manners in the visitor has saved from bankruptcy many a house in which the doors of Life and Death were often open.

This involuntary hospitality may become quite tiresome in practice. I remember one great Feasting. It was a ceremony for the dead. A Maharani had died, and we made her “praying-for-the-soul” budget, buying her sinlessness for 1,000 lives at a cost of Rs. 20,000. Part of the penalty was feeding Brahmins. Our budget provided for 3,000 guests: but it was not etiquette to shut the gates, and when 5,000 had been fed, my business soul did really take alarm.

“If the gates were shut by my order no ill-luck would betide the house, would it?” I asked of her of many years, who kept our abstract of right action. “Luck or ill-luck concern only the Believer” was her verdict ... so my way was clear. In the courtyard great caldrons of food were steaming. Here was one stirring the rice and ever boiling more and yet more. On the veranda sat Brahmin cooks, cutting up red pumpkins or brown-green _brinjals_, slicing potatoes, grinding curry stuffs, dancing red-yellow grains of pulse in the winnowing fan. Other Brahmins ran to and fro, serving the food as it was made ready: all was orderly confusion, at which the women peeped from the third floor balcony.

They were the disciples of Priests at the expense of whose appetites we were buying merit, and they sat in rows, hungry and clamorous. Scarce could they be served fast enough.

“But how long will they sit there?” I asked of my old Dewan.

“Till they are fulfilled,” was his delightful answer; and it gave me courage for the shutting of the gates.

It was but the day before that we had prayed for the soul of the Lady, at thirteen altars of holy Ganges mud. Four of these altars were arranged round a great central place of prayer, under an awning, to which were four “Gateways.” At each gateway hung a looking-glass to hold the shadow of the spirit.... Beside the awning stood a wooden image of the dead, and to this was tethered a cow. So we bought for her blessings. This was also the purpose of the final ritual--gifts to Priests--silver vessels, beds with silken hangings, jewels of gold, and precious stones;... for the apostles of the order, whole travelling-kits--neat rolls of matting, drinking-gourds, umbrellas, begging-bowls....

But, after all, it was in the Zenana that regret and longing were prettiest rendered.... In the hour of Union (as we call the Twilight in Bengal), when the glories of the West had died into silence, and earth and sky were gray and still as life at the passing of a friend--she who was now Maharani--my ten-year-old Bride, crept out on to the landing of “the Inside” to sprinkle with holy water the place where soul and body parted, and to light the death-light of welcome.

“She will come back, and know that we have not forgotten.”

It is interesting, the definite place in the scheme of life, allotted to women in a country where woman is of no account, except as hand-maid to her lord man. I am always finding illustration of this truth. No spite, no resentment can rob individuals of the right to perform certain religious acts. The death-light, for instance, was the province of Boho-Rani, the daughter-in-law, the youngest in a household including three generations, and many collaterals.... But the most passionate love for the dead never suggested any variation of etiquette. The old Mother bent with grief, sisters, daughters sat huddled in the living-room, looking with hungry eyes at Boho, who alone could relieve the tension of that quiet-coloured hour by service.

Now it is the turn of one, now of another, the women know; there is no wrangling.... But a few days past there had been the Spring games, and the Festival of the Spring. The children-wives swung to and fro under the big tree in the women’s courtyard. It was a pretty sight--the graceful little ladies in their bright draperies, clinging with their toes to the board (for they swing standing), holding to the ropes with tiny hands.... The sun peeped at them through the screen of leaves, and set on fire the rough-cut jewels at throat, at wrist, at anklet. To and fro, to and fro ... so rhythmic was the motion, I found myself thinking of a field of grass, rippling in the wind. Some brides, too small for the exercise, were gravely swinging their dolls, and here was a “religious” fondling the baby Krishna in his cradle ... but none of them played really: it was only--_Oberammergau_--how the god Krishna grown to manhood sported with the maidens; that was the reason given by all for the evening’s gaiety.

Another day, with laughter and shy importance, the youngest Bride and Bridegroom were led to a place of prominence. It was their first Springtime since the marriage ceremony, and they sat side by side, bound together with silken cords; while the mother and grandmother threw at them little soft cushions of red powder, the same that is used in religious sacrifices for dusting the idol; with it is made the mark on the head of the Bride: perhaps the colour is symbolical, the women do not know, “it has always been so,” they tell you. And, as to the games--why it is Springtime, children should be merry, and the shy pelting with red pellets is Zenana merriment in italics. Next year, maybe, the Bride will be a mother, and such boisterousness will not become her. Let the children play while they may, and let the old Grand-dame pillow-fight with red powder cushions. Is she not nearer to the children in spirit than that grave-eyed Madan Mohun, of three Springtides, for instance, who is having his baby feed, in greedy solemnity. For is she not the wise woman of many years? and only the years can bring true youth and wisdom. Ignorance dies after decades of convention, of pain, of mistakes, and from the dead bulb springs this wonderful flower of youth and wisdom. The ignorance, the pain, the mistakes,--they had to be. Do they not make the fragrance of our Spring plant? The pity is when the original shrub knows no decay, when in the smug satiety of its ever-greenness it journeys to no winter, and finds no aftermath of Spring.

On yet another day the youngest sister was chief lady. I found her sitting before a brass tray of glass bangles and silver ornaments. It was a first visit to her childhood’s home since marriage, and her husband would break her old bangles and refit her. The Wise Woman says it is symbolical of the fact that even in her Parents’ house she remains the possession of her husband. So he is admitted to the parental “Inside,” and the women other than his wife, peep at the bangle-play from behind doors and curtains.

“What do Indian women do with their time?” how often I have been asked the question. Custom and religion make the day’s programme--a woman’s husband, and a woman’s God, are occupation in themselves, and then there may be the children. The good Hindu will have her house of Gods, her private Chapel. Sometimes there is an image in it. I have known God-houses without any image. The name of the particular God it is right for her to worship will be whispered in her ear by the family Priest, and not even to her husband may she reveal the secret. But in her Chapel you will find most often in Bengal, an image either of the Baby God a-crawling, or of Kali, the Mother. In Krishna Chapels there will be a little crib, fashioned in these Western-Eastern days like an English bedstead, with mosquito nets: and just as in the morning the devotee bathes and anoints the baby, leaving food beside it on the little altar, so at even-tide she lights the nursery lamp and puts it to bed.... Is this Hinduism? I do not know. In practice it seems to me but the Mother-worship of the Child.

But in truth there is no one form or stage of Hinduism to be found in India, or, for the matter of that, in Bengal.... The great truths are eternal and prevail in every religion: yet all men are not capable of receiving the truth, and Hinduism recognizes this. In the actual worship of the idol are the illiterate and ignorant encouraged. “It would be sin to disclose to these the mysteries of a God not made with hands,” so says the wisest of my wise women ... “for he who has heard and hearkens not, and understands not, hath the greater sin.” Yet that even a child may be capable of instruction she proves to you. I have seen many hundreds of babies under her roof, babies ranging from three to twelve years of age doing their morning _pooja_. It is “the worship of the possible” that she teaches them, “the worship of the Might-be.”

At 9 o’clock they come hastening to the hour of prayer, like the birds and lizards of the Moslem legend: each little devotee, lips pursed in serious earnestness, is carrying her “basket of worship,” and sits cross-legged to unpack it--an incense-burner, the bowl for Ganges water, flowers, bits of half-eaten fruit and vegetables, the sacrificial powder, often a remnant of some favourite saree, the Ganges mud with which to make her “idol”--all this she unpacks gravely, daintily, moulding her lump of clay into a cone.... Now she will make comparison with her neighbour, a little wistfully, perhaps, perhaps exultingly: often she shares her gifts.... Anything may be given to the God; the teaching here is to give what costs something, and when the _pooja_ is over, the Pujari carries round a food-collecting plate for the animals within the gates, and the crows on the housetops. Now she is threading garlands of the sacred white jasmine, and the Priests have come for the chaunting.

The children sit in rows facing each other, along the walls of the veranda. My Wisest of the Wise explains to me that the God who dwells within us is to be invited to inhabit that lump of mud (the clay on the potters’ wheel), for His better worshipping by the children of men. So, the opening ceremony is a movement of the hands--the invocation! Each little worshipper sits wrapt before the God in the clay.... Now the Priest takes up the Sanskrit word, and the Babies chaunt it after him.

“Oh! Great God, bless us, forgive us, remain with us.”

“Oh, Great God, I offer thee this incense, these flowers, this holy water,” etc.

And the fingers are busy with the offering while every now and again “_Dhyan karo_” (meditate) will be the order: and five hundred pairs of Baby eyes are puckered into concentration and five hundred pairs of arms are tightly folded.

The earnest tension of the attitude moves one to tears.... Of what are they thinking? Oh! but of what?

“The worship of the Possible?”

_That_ is the Wise Woman’s thought, not theirs. I put it to her.

“Of what should they think,” said she, “but of the whole duty of womanhood--to be a good wife: to omit no act of ceremonial Hinduism.”