THE STORY OF THE PROPHET
There are hundreds of other old stories that affect the life of Indian
children to-day; but if we remember those which tell us of the holy
land--the seats of the gods--amongst the Himalayas; of the sacred river
of the Ganges, whose waters are even said to flow underground to feed
the other rivers of the land; of what life and death, fate and caste
mean to the Hindus, we shall have something to guide us.
But all those who live in India are not Hindus. Once, long ago there
was an Arabian named Mohammed. He was a camel-driver in Mecca, but
from his early childhood he used to dream strange dreams in which he
had visions of angels who came to speak with him. He had a faithful
disciple, and he used to tell him what he had heard in his dreams. This
man thought the things Mohammed told him were very wonderful, and he
wrote them down. He had not books in which he could write them, so he
took oyster-shells and bits of wood and stone, and sometimes even the
shoulder bone of a sheep, instead of paper, and wrote the teachings of
Mohammed on them. Mohammed believed that there was only one God, whom
he called “Allah,” and he said that he was his prophet. Within his
life-time he conquered Syria, Egypt and Persia, and before fifty years
had passed after his death his followers had marched through the wild
passes of the mountains into India. Since then, there have been many
followers of the faith of the prophet there, and whenever they have
been strong and powerful they have fought against image worship; indeed
one of their great leaders was called the idol-smasher.
The followers of Mohammed believe in fate as firmly as the Hindus do,
but in other religious things they differ from them greatly. Their
greatest feast day is at the end of the month that they call Ramadan.
During the whole month they hold a fast, and eat only after the sun
sets. Then on the last night of Ramadan they rejoice not only because
the long fast will so soon be broken, but also because it is the night
on which they believe their sacred book, the Koran, came down from
heaven. But the Koran was really gathered after the prophet’s death
from the sentences his disciple had written down on the stones and
oyster-shells and other odds and ends.
On the morning after this night of gladness all the Mohammedan men and
boys gather to the Mosques to praise Allah for the good that they have
enjoyed through the past year, and to ask for mercy in the coming one.
But sometimes there is not room within the mosque of the city for all
who gather to worship, and then those who cannot get into it spread
their prayer rugs on the ground under the open sky. Everyone is in good
spirits and the beggars know it, and squat on the roadsides ready to
call out to every passer-by for gifts. The followers of the prophet
are prepared for this and they scatter bread and rice and beans, and
handfuls of shells here and there, while the beggars shout and scramble
to get as much as they can.
Whenever the service in the Mosque is over, everyone rushes to the
shops, where all kinds of Indian foods can be had, for all are
hungry and happy. The scene is like a great fair with picnic parties
everywhere, only there are no women to be seen. There are old men, and
tiny boys; there are farm-servants and wealthy land-owners, but never
a lady nor a girl. All day long while the feasting goes on the streets
are gay with flowers and banners, and at night fireworks flash out
against the dark sky.
It is only once a year that this great feast takes place, but every
day the followers of the prophet can be seen at prayer. A call sounds
out from the roof of each Mosque, and the Mohammedan when he hears it
spreads his rug on the ground by the roadside or in the open field,
kneels on it with his face towards Mecca, his holy city, and prays to
Allah. When his prayer is done he begins again at his work where he
left off, but while the prayer lasts he seems to know nothing, and to
see nothing of what is around him, but to think only of Allah and his
prayer to him.