HAD Matrá indeed had his walk for nothing? Any one who could have read
his heart as he went on his homeward way would hardly have said so.
A seed of truth, a living seed had been dropped there, and had found
good soil to grow in. As Matrá walked on, with the soft pure moonlight
around him, he almost forgot his weariness, he almost forgot his
burden of debt, so constantly were Karim's words coming back to his
mind—"There is but one God, and that God is Love."
"The one God of the English seems to do more for them than our millions
of gods do for us," thought Matrá. "The English press onward like
that engine which I saw rushing into the station, with a long line of
carriages behind it. What speed, what straight course, what power! We
go on like one of our country waggons, creaking along in the old ruts,
and sometimes a wheel comes off or an ox drops down, and there we are
left on the road. What makes the difference between us? The engine goes
faster and better, pushed on by something which we cannot see, than
does the cart with the oxen which we always are goading. The God of the
Christians must be a very strong God, and the man at the station says
that He is a very kind one; but it's likely enough that He would have
nothing to do with poor Hindu zamindars such as we."
Matrá found his old grandmother Sibbi still awake, and preparing for
him some chapatties. The poor old woman, with her shrunken fleshless
limbs, looked almost like a living skeleton as she crouched by her
little oven. There was not much appearance of life about her except in
the wistful black eyes deep sunken under the brows whitened by age.
Sibbi was a strange old woman, not like the others in the village, and
no great favourite with them. She could actually think of something
besides marriage and funeral ceremonies, pilgrimages and pujás. Even
before she became a widow, Sibbi's whole heart had not been set on
her ornaments, and she had sold all of any value to help to pay her
husband's debts, taking even the ring out of her nose. Sibbi had drawn
upon herself the anger of the Máhá-Brahmin, by suggesting to her
grandson that on account of their exceeding poverty, the gift to him of
a very old and almost useless cow might be sufficient. It was indeed
the only one which the family possessed, but another was procured to
satisfy the covetousness of the Brahmin.
It was supposed, and probably with reason, that the difference which
existed between old Sibbi and her neighbours was caused by her having,
when eleven years old, passed six weeks in the house of an English
lady. The parents of Sibbi had lost her at one of the great melás at
which tens of thousands of Hindus assemble, melás which occasion a
fearful amount of confusion, disease, and misery. An English magistrate
found the poor girl, frightened and almost famished, crying by the
side of the road. In compassion, he took her home to his wife. Sibbi
received in that English home kindness which she never forgot. She was
clothed, fed, and allowed to attend on the Mem Sahiba's sweet little
girl.
In that house Sibbi had, as it were, a glimpse of paradise; and though
a loving daughter, she was hardly glad when her parents found her at
last. The parents took her away back to their village, though the lady
offered to keep her. From that day, the usual occupations of zamindars'
girls were those of Sibbi. She cooked, she carded cotton and spun it,
she worked in the fields; married early, was a servant to her husband,
and a slave to her husband's mother; but she often recalled the past,
and asked herself if the six weeks, so unlike all that preceded or
followed them, had not been a beautiful dream! One persuasion remained
on her mind, that there were other places in the world besides her
mud-built village, and that people existed more clever, and at least as
holy as Brahmins.
Matrá sat down hungry to his insufficient meal, having first washed
his hands, feet, and face. He could have eaten twice as much as
was prepared, but took care to leave something for his poor old
grandmother. Matrá took his meal in silence, but then told Sibbi all
that had passed between himself and the man at the station.
"One God,—and that God is Love!" repeated Sibbi to herself, looking
like one trying to recall something that has almost escaped memory, as
she put her wasted hand to her wrinkled forehead. "Missy Baba learned
to say that, little Missy Baba—the pretty one—who died. I almost cried
my eyes out when they took her away to bury her!"
Tears came into the old woman's eyes as she remembered the sorrow which
nearly fifty years had not effaced from her loving heart. "Missy Baba
could not speak many words even in her own language, but the Mem taught
her to say, 'Our Father' and 'God is Love,' that she might repeat them
to me. She said them both the very day that she died. And when I was
crying and moaning over the little form that looked so peaceful where
it lay still and cold on the bed with a rose on its breast, the Mem
said to me, quite quiet and calm-like, 'She has gone to the God who
is Love.' I never shall forget that night! I wondered why the Mem did
not moan and beat her breast as we do, she loved the little darling so
dearly."
"Perhaps," thought Matrá, "the same great Father who helps that
Christian in all his troubles was comforting the poor mother too." Then
Matrá observed aloud, "How could the Mem Sahib be sure that her child
had been taken to her God—how could she know that her soul had not
passed, by a new birth, into some unclean dog or ass?"
"I am sure that it never did!" said Sibbi quickly. "Missy Baba's soul
could never have gone into anything unclean. I often think that she's
somewhere up above, like one of those; stars, safe with the Heavenly
Father!" And as she spoke, the old Hindu pointed with her trembling
fingers to a brilliant star in the east.
Another seed of truth had been dropped into the mind of Matrá, a
thought of One who could not only support in life, but receive after
death. But it was as yet as a seed wrapt up in its husk, that needs
warmth and moisture to make it rise up to life, and burst forth to
beauty.