Part 6

"And, Sahib, that is not all," he continued. "I have a beautiful wife and a son, as fair as your own, Sahib. I love my wife. I love my son. But, Sahib, the day I confess Christ publicly these two, whom I love more than life, will be taken from me and I shall never see them again.

"Sahib, would Jesus Christ wish me to cause the suicide of my mother and the separation from me forever of my wife and child? It is these two things and these only that keep me from public confession and baptism."

I could answer nothing. I could only hold his hand and say, "Pray, Shama Bhana; Christ alone can tell you your duty. And He will make it plain to you, if you leave it all to Him. I will pray for you too as long as I live or, if it may please God to permit it, until I see you again here in Bombay."

With the hand-clasp of brothers we parted: he, a Christian in heart but a Brahmin by profession, went home to his wife and boy and the old mother, strong in her faith; and I came to the homeland. I haven't told you his real name nor can I and keep faith with him, for, although Bombay is thousands of miles away, words when once spoken may travel far. But I have told you a true story. May I add a happy conclusion to at least one part of the theme? I am going back to India! Thank God! My health has been restored. When I reach Bombay shall I find Shama Bhana still a Brahmin or a confessed follower of Christ? That is the question that is on my heart.

II

Well, well, well! To think that I should actually have you with me here in Bombay! Why, I can hardly believe it is real! Don't I look well and strong? That doctor at home almost worked miracles for me with his medicines. My, but it's good to be back in the harness again! The pull has to be long and steady and sometimes the straps rub or the collar galls or the load drags heavily, but it's great work. I am keeping well, too, and I'm happier than three years ago I thought I would ever be again in this world.

What, man, you've only one day to give me in Bombay? And then you've got to race on or that business venture will fall through! Oh, these globe-encircling Americans who try to see the world and its sight as do birds on the wing! Why, this is only an aggravation, Dick! I'd almost rather you wouldn't have come at all than to give me just one day.

No, you aren't going back either! You know that I didn't really mean what I said, for just the sight of your face has done me a world of good already and before the day is over I will show you some sights which I dare say will do your heart good. But in the meantime, I warn you, I shall talk every minute of the time to make up for all the days that I can't have you.

Let me see--we'll go first to visit our day-schools and call upon our preachers; then we'll drop into Boyle Avenue Church for a prayer-meeting; then we'll go to see Shama Bhana; and this evening I'll take you to a street service. It all sounds prosaic, perhaps, because I've used hackneyed American terms, but for a man who has been but one day in India there won't be anything prosaic about it.

Do you remember, Dick, what I told you men back home last year about Shama Bhana, the man we're going to see this afternoon?

It will be quite a long story to tell you how it came out but I will, for we've got quite a little car ride ahead of us to reach Parel where we are going first to see such a school as you never laid eyes on before, half-naked children in a palm-leaf hut. But let me tell you, those children know more Scripture than your boy and girl do, I am sure.

Well, about Shama Bhana. You know I told you that before I left for home he had confessed to me privately that he believed in Christ but he could not be baptized because his mother threatened to commit suicide on the day he should become a Christian and because on that same day his wife and child would be taken from him forever. All I could do was to tell him to continue in prayer and that God would lead him.

About six months after I had left Bombay, very suddenly Shama Bhana's mother died. That very day, before the funeral rites had been performed, Shama Bhana appeared at Deal's door and asked for baptism. Of course Deal did not know much about the case, as his work is largely with the Marathis; so he had to go all over the situation with the Brahmin and make proof of his belief and sincerity.

His belief seemed genuine and when it came to a proof of his sincerity, Shama Bhana told his story. "Now my mother is dead," he concluded. "I could not come before, for it would have been murder and that is forbidden in the Bible. She died but an hour ago and I came at once."

"Will you lose your property now?" asked Deal.

"Oh, yes. I will not have an anna above what I now carry in my purse. But that is no hardship."

"Will they turn you out of the household at once?" Deal went on, needlessly probing deeper into the fresh wounds in the man's heart, but poor Deal did not seem to understand.

"That is practically done already, Sahib," the Brahmin answered. "As soon as I heard that my mother was dead this morning, I kissed my wife and baby good-bye while they still slept and came to you, for I know that when I return they will be withheld from my sight and I shall never see them more." Shama Bhana was overcome for a moment, Deal said, and then he went on quietly. "Christ says that whoever will not leave wife and child for His sake is not worthy of Him. I could not bring them with me for you know the way the Hindu oftentimes takes vengeance; for a few days all would have gone well; then suddenly they would have sickened and died a mysterious death. Sahib, I love them too well to bring death to them and so I left them. Indeed, I have left all for Christ, Sahib. Will you not baptize me?"

Deal baptized him at once and then asked what he could do to help him.

Shama Bhana replied, "Nothing, thank you kindly, Sahib. I will find work at once. I will not starve. Yes, Sahib, there is something you can do for me. Pray! Pray that some day I may get my wife and child back again."

Then Shama Bhana went away. He was a rich man, the son of great possessions, as I have told you. The news of his baptism spread fast and the fury of his father was unrestrained. Shama Bhana was declared to be dead and his effigy was burned with his mother's body on the funeral pyre. His wife was proclaimed a widow and treated as such; her head was shaved and her jewels and beautiful garments were taken from her.

But Shama Bhana's Brahmin training stood him in good stead, for he went on his way apparently unmoved by all the indignities that were being heaped upon him and his. He is a remarkably bright man and so without much difficulty, for he procured it the very day of his baptism, he got a fair position as clerk in a big English office in the city. His family later did everything they could to get him ousted, by fair means and foul, but he had proved his worth before they began their work against him and so he was kept.

That was the situation I found when I returned from America. At my request Shama Bhana came to live with me, but we saw little of each other, for every moment when he was not in the office he was out preaching or teaching and with power. But in the brief intervals that I did see him I knew that his heart was sore. I had left my own family in America, you know, and he would look at their picture upon my dresser. "Your wife is a Christian," he would say. "And you will probably see them again in a couple of years. But my wife is a Hindu widow!" Then he would turn at once into his own room and I knew he had gone to his knees in prayer. I would pray, too, both for him and his and for my own. Though his case was, of course, immeasurably harder than mine, still I thought I was pretty badly off with thousands of miles of ocean rolling between my family and me and with no definite knowledge as to when we would see each other again, for the kiddies must be educated, you know.

Well, what if I am blowing my nose violently! Man, they aren't here yet and what's more, they aren't coming for another year.

Well,--then came the pestilence; not the plague or the cholera or any of those Asiatic diseases which you folk over there hear so much about and really know so little of; but the plain smallpox with which you are at least so familiar that you run away as soon as you hear the word pronounced. The smallpox is usually with us here, more or less, all the time; but somehow this season it was here in tenfold fury. It swept over the city, but was worst in the section where Shama Bhana's family lived. Several of our native church workers had tried in vain to get entrance into his house since the trouble had happened, but now they walked right in and took possession unhindered, for the father himself and every member of the family were down with the disease and the servants had all fled. Shama Bhana's wife, whom they found in a dark chamber in the servants' quarters, had the worst form of the disease because of the hunger and ill treatment she had suffered since she had become a mock-widow. Shama Bhana who had given up his place at the office as soon as he heard of the situation came at once to his wife's side, for there was no one to object. And as day after day our faithful Hindustani preacher and his wife worked over that household, they preached Christ as they worked whenever a mind was free enough from pain to receive the message.

Three of the sons died, but the rest of the family soon began to show signs of recovery. The old father, since his case had been the lightest, as he had been vaccinated once years before in an English hospital, recovered first. As he, in his weakness, lay and watched the loving ministrations of the two Christians and listened to their words, his heart seemed to be touched.

"Why do you do all this for me?" he asked one day. "Are you immune?"

The preacher's wife stood nearest him and she replied, "I have had the disease but my husband never has. We are doing it for Christ's sake, you know."

Later he called the preacher to him. "Where is Shama Bhana?" he whispered. "Has he had it yet?"

The preacher replied, "He is here just now with his wife who is very ill. The night that you were the worst he spent at your side. He has not had the awful disease yet. Shall I call him to you?"

The preacher wondered how his words would be received and feared that a violent rage would bring back the old man's fever. But he only smiled faintly and to the question shook his head and said, "It is the wrath of Shama Bhana's God."

He steadfastly refused to see his son and yet he did not seem to be angry nor did he order him from the home. In a few days when his strength had returned nearly in full measure, he called the preacher to him again and asked him to walk with him through the house. So, leaning on the patient preacher's arm, he went from room to room. In every room with his feeble hands he tore down every sign of Hinduism. The gods he took himself from their shelves and ordered them to be thrown into the well. When all the rooms except the servants' quarters had been thus cleared he turned to the amazed pastor and said:

"Now call my son Shama Bhana and let me be baptized in his presence, for now I believe as he has taught me and from now on we will stand as Christians together and our household shall be a Christian household."

But when the preacher went to summon Shama Bhana and to tell him the good news, he found that young man on the floor beside his wife's cot burning with a high fever and showing every symptom of the dread disease. So the baptismal service was postponed while they worked to save Shama Bhana's life. Two days later the pastor himself came down. But as soon as I learned that the old man had been converted I went at once to Shama Bhana. Before very long we had there a household of well people, and such a happy household! Words cannot describe it.

And so together since that time Shama Bhana, his father, and not of less importance, his wife, have faced the Hinduism of Bombay in a small but solid phalanx for Christ. The influence of the conversion of that rich, strong Brahmin family has been marvellous, as you can imagine, and is increasing every day.

We will go there this afternoon and see them all. Even Shama Bhana's wife will greet you, for there is no purdah in that home now and she will meet you as modestly, graciously, and courteously as any lady in America. God's ways are wonderful, aren't they? But the most wonderful thing about it all in my mind is that He always lets us poor, insignificant men help in bringing His ways to pass. Had our simple, faithful Hindustani pastor and his wife not been willing to risk their lives for their love for Christ, probably Shama Bhana's father would still be a Brahmin, his wife, most likely, dead, and Shama Bhana himself still an outcast.

These are the romances of our work and they serve to throw out against the dark background of Hindustani life and social customs the capacity of our Hindu cousins for an appreciative interpretation of the Oriental Christ and their willingness to share His life of heroic sacrifice on behalf of others. The humblest of them frequently rises to acts of great courage and chivalry.

Well, here we are! You didn't just expect to see grass huts under palm trees as a suburb of the great city of Bombay, did you? And there are the children gathered around the door of the schoolhouse waiting for us. Aren't they beauties? Hadn't you better take a picture of them to show to your boy at home? Their dress isn't exactly American in style, that is true; but it is comfortable, if it is rather exaggerated in abbreviation.

Salaam, boys! Salaam! Salaam!

VIII

The Way to Happiness

With a shrill whistle and a clanging of her engine bell, the train for Calcutta pulled into the station at M----. "Coolie, coolie!" with a decided accent on the second syllable, came the well-known call as scantily-clothed men, falling in beside the train, ran from the end of the platform to the station entrance, with hands upon the first and second-class carriage doors, lest other coolies might get the jobs of carrying the heavy trunks and earn the anna or two anna bits that they might have had.

With a cloth about the loins for decency's sake and a turban on the head as a pad for heavy boxes, otherwise naked, the brown coolie took possession of the upper class compartments and in a minute or so scores of them were filing away through the station with heads laden with trunks, boxes, hat-boxes, rolls of bedding, lunch-baskets, baskets of fruit, and every conceivable sort of parcel that an Anglo-Indian or a tourist carries with him in the compartment of an Indian train; for, although luggage vans are run on these trains, the charge for excess luggage is so great that people crowd as much under the seats, on the seats, and over the seats as possible. As an individual rarely travels with less than ten parcels the platform swarmed with carriers.

While the first and second class passengers in topis and linen suits were thus being taken out of their carriages and a fresh lot, also in topis and linen, were being put in, in no undue haste, for all Indian trains stop fifteen minutes everywhere; while that end of the platform, therefore, was in comparative calm, the other end where the third-class carriages stood was in an uproar.

Railroad travel is cheaper nowhere in the world than in India. The traveller can ride in a compartment for twelve persons by day, six by night, on leather cushions, with toilet conveniences including even a shower bath at close hand, for the matter of one cent a mile; or he can pay about two cents a mile and ride on cushions a little softer, with a trifle more floor space for stacking his bird-cages and bandboxes and with furnishings a little glossier--first class; or he can have a ride for almost nothing, if he will be content to herd with the natives in a coach with wooden seats, a coach that accommodates from twenty to fifty, the number depending on the packing.

Since the fare is so small and since the Hindu religion, as also the Mohammedan, teaches the efficacy of pilgrimages, the people now make their pilgrimages, as far as possible and wherever possible, by train. Their religions have thus so accustomed the natives to the trains that they seem to be always travelling. The richer ones may go first or second class. But the majority of them go third and, since the first person in gets the best seat in these third-class cars while others crowd in as long as there is an inch to spare, there is a mad scramble for first, second, third, fourth, and fifth place at the third-class carriage doors.

So it was as the Calcutta train pulled into M----. Men with bundles and women with babies, more bundles, water jars, and bags of food swarmed into the third-class coaches. In a remarkably short time, however, the people who had wanted to get off were gone with their bundles, trailing women, and dangling children, and the lot going towards Calcutta had stowed away inside the carriages, on top of each other or anywhere that they could, their bundles, their clinging women, and their crying children; and still there were several minutes before time for the train to pull out. Then the through passengers, since, as the newcomers were settled, their own seats were secure, could get out upon the platform. A bearded Mohammedan with flowing robes and turbaned head, spreading a mat on the platform beside the car and slipping out of his shoes, knelt three times and said his prayers towards Mecca, unmindful of the crowd around him. At the hydrant a good Hindu carefully washed out his mouth preparatory to partaking of his noonday meal; while men of all castes walked up and down beside the cars, resting their cramped limbs. From the car windows many a braceleted arm reached out a brass water jar to be filled by the Mohammedan water-carrier. And at other windows Hindu women waited for the Hindu water-carrier to fill their jars so that they might have water for the journey.

The sweetmeat venders were unusually busy, for it was just about noon and Indian sweets are to native Indians really a staple article of diet instead of a confection as in other countries. They are made of wholesome food stuffs; sometimes they are shaped like pretzels; sometimes, rolled into balls; sometimes, chopped into flakes. But all kinds are well liked and the boy, passing along the trainside with the flat basket of sweets upon his head, just in range of the carriage windows, was kept busy dealing out his wares until he had a light load left and a hand full of coppers. The baskets of the pretty green pan were also many packages lighter when the gong on the platform sounded.

At the sound of the gong the through passengers scrambled back into their places; all but the Mohammedan faithful, who, having deliberately slipped his feet back into his shoes, carefully folded up his prayer mat, and with no loss of dignity climbed slowly into his compartment.

The guard raised his hand.

The train started.

But in the ladies' compartment of the third class the confusion continued after the start, for three naked babies were climbing over their mothers and crying; an old woman was rummaging over her treasures which had been tied up in a white cloth and raising a wild lamentation because she had lost an anna; and two young beauties in gay saris, with jangling bracelets, clanking anklets, and flashing necklaces, were chewing pan very vigorously and chattering in shrill voices, displaying as they did so mouths most beautifully reddened with the pan juice and teeth most artistically blackened by the same delicacy.

But after a short time the babies, either satisfied with their natural diet or at least appeased with cold chapatis or bits of sweets handed out by tired mothers, became quiet. The old woman, exhausted by her unavailing search and grief, was reduced to a quiet mumbling and a hopeless picking at her bundle. And the two young women became less noisy in a close comparing of jewels. There was enough of calm, therefore, so that the travellers could get a glimpse of each other and see what sort of company each was in.

It was a motley crowd and one that broke many of the laws of caste. It showed plainly how much the railroad is doing to rid India of that curse. In one corner sat a Brahmin woman, distinguishable by the refined features of her class rather than the caste mark upon her forehead, but too poor for the greater privacy of a second compartment. Next to her, a proximity which would have broken her caste at one time, sat a Chumar woman. Next was a lady with the white head-cloth and one-coloured sari of the Parsi. And beside the Parsi was a tiny high caste girl, most bejewelled and bedecked, wearing the necklace which showed that although she was but eight or nine years old she was married. Evidently the child-wife was taking the journey with her mother-in-law, for the woman next beyond her, apparently of the same caste, would occasionally jerk the little girl into her seat and scold her roundly when she ventured to lean over to look out of the window.

When the train approached a way-station, the blinds were drawn quickly lest a man should look upon the women within, for, although none of them were keeping purdah strictly, still most of these women were careful in public not to subject themselves unduly to the glances of men.

As the blinds were lifted after the train left the first small station, the light disclosed, huddled into a far corner seat, a young woman wrapped in the coarsest of white garments, with scarcely an ornament upon her body and no caste mark upon her forehead. Her face was shaded by the sari which she had drawn close over her head, but out of the shadow peered a pair of sad, wistful eyes. Her face was thin and her hands, which clasped tightly upon her lap a carefully wrapped bundle, were thin and rough as if with toil. Her eyes were anxiously examining the faces in the carriage. At every unusual noise or sudden jolt, they would look frightened and she would clasp still more closely the bundle in her lap. It was a bundle about eighteen inches long, tied and double knotted most carefully in a piece of coarse but clean white cloth. The girl's white sari was also as clean as most Indian white clothes ever look, washed in dirty water and dried on the ground as they are. She was evidently on some important journey and, as evidently, for the first time on a train. The bundle which she carried would not have been noticeable among such a myriad of bundles as the carriage held, had she not guarded it so closely, and, when any one changed a seat or passed by her, shielded it with her arms.

After comparative peace had reigned a little while, the frightened look left the young woman's eyes and, untying one corner of the bundle, which opening showed still another wrapping within, she drew out a cold chapati and ate it slowly as if to make it last a long time. As she ate, her eyes met those of a sociable looking, old, gray-haired woman, evidently of low caste, who, sitting opposite between two high caste women, was apparently longing to talk to some one. As their eyes met, the older woman leaned across the aisle and said to the young girl in Hindustani:

"Where are you going?"

The girl looked alarmed, as the question was addressed her, but answered timidly, "To Benares. Are you going there?"