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_italics_.
CHILDREN OF INDIA
[Illustration: A VILLAGE STREET]
CHILDREN OF INDIA
by
JANET HARVEY KELMAN
With Eight Coloured Illustrations
[Illustration]
Fleming H. Revell Company
New York Chicago Toronto
Printed by
Turnbull and Spears,
Edinburgh
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. THE STORY OF THE WORLD 9
II. THE STORY OF THE GANGES 12
III. THE STORY OF LIFE AND DEATH 16
IV. THE STORY OF CASTE 17
V. THE STORY OF FATE 21
VI. THE STORY OF THE PROPHET 24
VII. CHILDREN IN HINDU HOMES 27
VIII. BOYS AND GIRLS 39
IX. THE KING OF INDIA 52
X. NEW SIGHTS IN INDIA 56
XI. ANANTA, THE SEEKER 65
XII. THE PANDITA RAMABAI 72
XIII. HORMASDJI PESTONJI 79
XIV. SITA THE WIDOW 82
XV. DILAWUR KHAN AND THE KING 87
XVI. SOOBOO 91
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. A VILLAGE STREET _Frontispiece_
PAGE
2. ON PILGRIMAGE TO THE MOUNTAIN 10
3. FAKIRS 18
4. A SNAKE CHARMER 28
5. A WAYSIDE SHRINE 46
6. RESCUED FAMINE CHILDREN 64
7. A SCHOOL FOR GIRLS 72
8. RESCUED CHILD WIDOWS 86
CHILDREN OF INDIA
CHAPTER I
THE STORY OF THE WORLD
India is a very old land, and those who live there look far back into
the past. They listen to the stories that were told of men and gods in
those old days, and follow the customs that were followed then.
There are many gods in India, and many priests who serve in their
temples and at their shrines. The priests have more power over the
lives of the people than the gods have, but custom has far more power
than either gods or priests.
No one can tell how many hundreds of years have passed since the
stories that rule the lives of Hindu children to-day were first told.
Long before the earliest time of which we know anything in the history
of our islands, there were wise thinkers and clever workmen in India,
and the men and women of that land think of them and of their customs
with awe and reverence. And because much of the life of a Hindu child
to-day is the result of the thoughts that have come from that far past
time, we must listen to some of those old stories.
Before America was discovered by Columbus men here had strange ideas
about the shape of the world. Men in India had thought of that too,
long before anyone in Britain did, and this is the picture of the world
they made for themselves.
They saw a beautiful large lotus flower held up on the back of an
elephant, in the midst of seven seas. One sea was of salt water and
another of fresh, and these two were the only ones that were at all
like the seas of earth. One of the others was a sticky sea, for the
waves that broke on its shores were of sugar-cane juice. Another was
clear and sparkling with dancing waves of wine. Then there was an oily
sea of melted butter, a flat sea of curds, and a beautiful white sea
of milk. But no one had looked at these strange seas, nor had anyone
seen the great elephant that held the lotus flower on his back. Only
the flower itself at the centre of all was seen or known. India to the
south, and the other lands to the north, the east, and the west of the
Himalayas, formed the petals of the world lotus, and at its centre
amongst the great snow mountains the god Siva sat on his throne on
Mount Meru.
There is one special mountain there, to which pilgrims go, and they
hold it as sacred as if it really were the ancient Mount Meru. It rises
from a grassy plain, and a deep ravine cuts it off from the other
mountains. High up it is covered with snow, but towards the foot great
cliffs of rock stand out bluish purple against the whiteness, in bands
round the mountain. Near the base there is a broad dark band made by
a very high cliff, and the priests point this out to pilgrims. “See,”
they say, “the mark of the ropes of the demon who tried to drag away
the throne of Siva.”
[Illustration: ON PILGRIMAGE TO THE MOUNTAIN]
And the pilgrim gazes with awestruck eyes, for he sees not only the
marks of the demon’s rope, but also, in the narrower bands higher up
the mountain, the coils of the serpent that he has often seen in his
images of Siva; and, in the ragged edges of the snow-clad peaks and
the icicles that hang from the glaciers, he sees the matted hair of
the god. He is tired and weary, for it is months since he left his
home in the plains. First he marched through tangled jungle, through
grass three times as tall as himself, and under great cane stalks
and feathery bamboo trees. In these early stages of his walk he sang
and shouted to frighten away the heavy sleepy bear, and to scare the
quick-limbed panther that might be resting on any overhanging branch.
Then he climbed up through forests of dark cedar and pine, with
the white flowers of the magnolia, and the wealth of rhododendrons
bright against the dark tree stems. On and on he went into the cold
grey passes where his fear of wild beasts was lost in the fear of
the spirits of the mountains, and he walked in silence and awe lest
avalanche or storm should prove to him their anger. For he felt that
he was indeed amongst the homes of the gods. Each moment as he mounted
higher new snow-clad peaks rose before him, and those he had already
seen seemed higher and greater. His heart was filled with the dream
of a rich land somewhere amongst these glittering heights to which
his soul might go after death, if only his pilgrimage should win him
merit. So, as the sun sent flashes of light across the snowy peaks,
the weary man plucked up courage and stepped out more bravely, till
at length through a last ravine he saw the hoary head of the mountain
he sought, and as he saw it he tore from his threadbare loin-cloth a
little rag to tie to a bit of scrub. Other rags hung there, for many
pilgrims when they reached that spot had been so poor that they had
nothing left to offer at the sacred bush except a bit of the cloth they
wore. And so he added another, and left the rags to flutter there in
the cold winds of that high land, while he hastened on to finish his
pilgrimage, and walk round the sacred mountain.
Other places are sacred besides this mountain that stands for Mount
Meru, the centre of the world lotus. Each rock and stream has its
spirit, and everywhere amongst the mountains there are shrines and
temples and far-off holy places to which pilgrims go in their endless
search for rest. Through all the land of India the mountains of the
north are held sacred, and often the eyes of men who will never be able
to reach them as pilgrims look longingly towards those homes of the
gods.