The Accals
"This sacred work demands not lukewarm, selfish,
slack souls, but hearts more finely tempered than
steel, wills purer and harder than the
diamond."--PERE DIDON.
[Illustration: PONNAMAL, WITH PREETHA ON HER KNEE, AND TARA BESIDE HER.]
THE Accals, without whom this work in all its various branches could not
be undertaken, are a band of Indian sisters (the word Accal means older
sister) who live for the service of the children. First among the Accals
is Ponnamal (Golden). With the quick affection of the East the children
find another word for Gold and call her doubly Golden Sister.
Sometimes we are asked if we ever find an Indian fellow-worker whom we
can thoroughly trust. The ungenerous question would make us as indignant
as it would if it were asked about our own relations, were it not that
we know it is asked in ignorance by those who have never had the
opportunity of experiencing, or have missed the happiness of enjoying,
true friendship with the people of this land. Those who have known that
happiness, know the limitless loyalty and the tender, wonderful love
that is lavished on the one who feels so unworthy of it all. If there is
distance and want of sympathy between those who are called to be workers
together with the great Master, is not something wrong? Simple,
effortless intimacy, that closeness of touch which is friendship indeed,
is surely possible. But rather we would put it otherwise, and say that
without it service together, of the only sort we would care to know, is
perfectly impossible.
[Illustration: SELLAMUTTU AND SUSEELA.]
In our work all along we have had this joy to the full. God in His
goodness gave us from the first those who responded at once to the
confidence we offered them. In India the ideal of a consecrated life is
a life with no reserves--which seeks for nothing, understands nothing,
cares for nothing but to be poured forth upon the sacrifice and service.
Pierce through the various incrustations which have over-laid this pure
ideal, give no heed to the effect of Western influence and example, and
you come upon this feeling, however expressed or unexpressed, at the
very back of all--the instinct that recognises and responds to the call
to sacrifice, and does not understand its absence in the lives of those
who profess to follow the Crucified. Who, to whom this ideal is indeed
"The Gleam," that draws and ever draws the soul to passionate
allegiance, can fail to find in the Indian nature at its truest and
finest that kinship of spirit which knits hearts together? "And it came
to pass when he had made an end of speaking, that the soul of Jonathan
was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own
soul": this tells it all. The spring of heart to heart that we call
affinity, the knitting no hand can ever afterward unravel--these
experiences have been granted to us all through our work together, and
we thank God for it.
Ponnamal's work lies chiefly among the convert-nurses and the babies.
She has charge of the nurseries and of the food arrangements, so
intricate and difficult to the mere lay mind; she trains her workers to
thoroughness and earnestness, and by force of example seems to create an
atmosphere of cheerful unselfishness that is very inspiring. How often
we have sent a young convert, tempted to self-centredness and
depression, to Ponnamal, and seen her return to her ordinary work braced
and bright and sensible. We are all faulty and weak at times, and
every nursery, like every life, has its occasional lapses; but on the
whole it is not too much to say that the nurseries are happy places, and
Ponnamal's influence goes through them all like a fresh wind. And this
in spite of very poor health. For Ponnamal, who was the leader of our
itinerating band, broke down hopelessly, and thought her use in life had
passed--till the babies came and brought her back to activity again. And
the joy of the Lord, we have often proved, is strength for body as well
as soul.
Sellamuttu, who comes next to Ponnamal, is the "Pearl" of previous
records, and she has been a pearl to us through all our years together.
She is special Accal to the household of children above the baby-age--a
healthy, high-spirited crow of most diverse dispositions; and she is
loved by one and all with a love which is tempered with great respect,
for she is "all pure justice," as a little girl remarked feelingly not
long ago, after being rather sharply reproved for exceeding naughtiness:
"within my heart wrath burned like a fire; but my mouth could not open
to reply, for inside me a voice said, 'It is true, entirely true; Accal
is perfectly just.'"
This Accal, however, is most tender in her affections, and among the
babies she has some particular specials. One of these is the
solemn-faced morsel of the photograph, to save whom she travelled,
counting by time, as far as from London to Moscow and back; and the baby
arrived as happy and well as when the friends at "Moscow" sent her off
with prayers and blessings and kindness. But the photograph was a shock.
"Aiyo!" she said, quite upset to see her delight so misrepresented,
"that is not Suseela! There is no smile, no pleasure in her face!" We
comforted her by the assurance that any one who understood babies and
their ways would consider the camera responsible for the expression.
And at least the baby was obedient. Had she not told her to make a
salaam, and had not the little hand gone up in serious salute? A
perfectly obedient baby is Sellamuttu's ideal, and she was satisfied.
[Illustration: TO THE RIGHT, SUHINIE, AND HER BABY SUNUNDA]
Both these sisters came to us at some loss to themselves, for both could
have lived at home at ease if they had been so inclined. Ponnamal lost
all her little fortune by joining us. She could, perhaps, have recovered
it by going to law, but she did not feel it right to do so, and she
suffered herself to be defrauded. "How could I teach others to be
unworldly if I myself did what to them would appear worldly-minded?"
That was all she ever said by way of explanation.
Next to Ponnamal and Sellamuttu come the motherly-hearted Gnanamal and
Annamai. They came to us when we were in circumstances of peculiar
difficulty. The work was just beginning, and we had not enough
trustworthy helpers; so, wearied with disturbed nights, we were almost
at the end of our strength. "Send us help!" we prayed, and went on each
trying to do the work of three. It was one hot, tiring afternoon, when
we longed to forget everything and rest for half an hour, but could not,
because there was so much to do, that a bright, capable face appeared at
the door of our room, and Annamai, Lulla's beloved, came in and said:
"God sent me, and my relative" (naming a mission catechist) "brought me.
And so I have come!"
And Gnanamal--we were in dire straits, for a dear little babe had
suffered at the hands of one who thought first of herself and second of
her charge, and the most careful tending was needed if the baby was to
survive--it was then Gnanamal came and took charge of the delicate
child, and became the comfort and help she has ever continued to be.
When there is serious illness, and night-nursing is required, Gnanamal
is always ready to volunteer; though to her, as to most of us in India,
night work is not what the flesh would choose. Then in the morning,
when we go to relieve her, we find her bright as ever, as if she had
slept comfortably all the time. We think this sort of help worth
gratitude.
The convert-workers, dear as dear children, but, thank God, dependable
as comrades, come next in age to the head Accals. Arulai Tara (known to
some as "Star") is what her name suggests, something steadfast,
something shining, something burning with a pure devotion which kindles
other fires. We cannot imagine our children without their beloved
Arulai. Then there is Sundoshie (Joy), to the left next Suhinie in the
photo, a young wife for whom poison was prepared three times, and whose
escape from death at the hand of husband and mother-in-law was one of
those quiet miracles which God is ever working in this land of cruelty
in dark places. And Suhinie (Gladness), whose story of deliverance has
been told before;[E] and Esli, the gift of a fellow-missionary, a most
faithful girl; and others younger, but developing in character and
trustworthiness. All these young converts need much care, but the care
of genuine converts is very fruitful work; and one interesting part of
it is the fitting of each to her niche, or of fitting the niche to her.
Discernment of spirit is needed for this, for misfits means waste energy
and great discomfort; and energy is too good a thing to waste, and
comfort too pleasant a thing to spoil. So those who are responsible for
this part of the work would be grateful for the remembrance of any who
know how much depends upon it.
Among the recognised "fits" in our family is "the Accal who loves the
unlovable babies." This is Suhinie. We tried her once with the Taraha
children; but the terrible activity of these young people was altogether
too much for the slowly moving machinery of poor Suhinie's brain, and
she was perfectly overwhelmed and very miserable. For Suhinie hates
hurry and sudden shocks of any sort, and the babies of maturer years
discovered this immediately; and Suhinie, waddling forlornly after the
babies, looked like a highly respectable duck in charge of a flock of
impertinent robins.
[Illustration: THREE CONVERT WORKERS.]
It was quite a misfit, and Suhinie's worst came to the top, and we
speedily moved her back again to the Premalia nursery.
For there you see Suhinie in her true sphere. Give her a poor, puny
babe, who will never, if she can help it, let her Accal have an
undisturbed hour; give her the most impossible, most troublesome baby in
the nursery, and then you will see Suhinie's best. We discovered this
when Ponnamal was in charge of the Neyoor nursery. Ponnamal had one
small infant so cross that nobody wanted her. She would cry half the
night, a snarly, snappy cry, that would not stop unless she was rocked,
and began again as soon as the rocking was stopped. Ponnamal gave her to
Suhinie.
"Night after night till two in the morning she would sing to that
fractious child"--this was Ponnamal's story to me when next I went to
Neyoor. "She never seemed to tire; hymn after hymn she would sing, on
and on and on. I never saw her impatient with it; she just loved it from
the first." And a curious thing began to happen: the baby grew like her
Accal. This likeness was not caught in the photograph, but is
nevertheless so observable that visitors have often asked if the little
one were her own child.
This baby, Sununda by name, is greatly attached to Suhinie. As she is
over two years old now, she has been promoted to the Taraha, and being
an extremely wilful little person, she sometimes gets into trouble. One
day I was called to remonstrate, and a little "morning glory" was
required, and I put her in a corner to think about it. Another sinner
had to be dealt with, and when I returned Sununda was nowhere to be
found. I searched all over the Taraha and in the garden, and finally
found her in the Premalia cuddled close to Suhinie. "She has told me all
about it," said Suhinie, who was nursing another edition of difficult
infancy; and she looked down on the curly head with eyes of brooding
affection, like a tender turtle-dove upon her nestling. Then the roguish
brown eyes smiled up at me with an expression of perfect confidence that
I would understand and sympathise with the desire to share the troubles
of this strange, sad life with so beloved an Accal.
The question of discipline is sometimes rather difficult with so many
dispositions, each requiring different dealing. We try, of course, to
fit the penalty to the crime, so that the child's sense of justice will
work on our side; and in this we always find there is a wonderful
unconscious co-operation on the part of the merest baby. But the older
children used to be rather a problem. Some had come to us after their
wills had become developed and their characters partly formed. Most of
them were with us of their own free will, and could have walked off any
day, for they knew where they would be welcome. Discipline under these
circumstances is not entirely easy. But three years ago something of
Revival Power swept through all our family. It was not the Great Revival
for which we wait, but it was something most blessed in effect and
abiding in result; and ever since then the tone has been higher and the
life deeper, so that there is something to which we can appeal confident
of a quick response. But children will be scampish; and once their
earnestness of desire to be good was put to unexpected and somewhat
drastic proof.
At that time the mild Esli had charge of the sewing-class, and the class
had got into bad ways; carelessness and chattering prevailed, so Esli
came in despair to me, and I talked to the erring children. They were
sorry, made no excuses, and promised to be different in future. I left
them repentant and thoroughly ashamed of themselves, and went to other
duties.
[Illustration: SEWING-CLASS IN THE COURTYARD.]
Shortly afterwards Arulai found them in a state of great depression.
They told her they had promised to be good at the sewing-class, but were
afraid they would forget. Arulai's ideas are usually most original, and
she sympathised with the children, but told them there was no need for
them ever to forget. They asked eagerly what could be done to help them
to remember. They had prayed, but even so had doubts. Was there anything
to be done besides praying? Arulai said there was, and she expounded
certain verses from the Book of Proverbs. "Sometimes the best way to
make a mark upon the mind is to make a mark upon the body," she
suggested, and asked the children if they would like this done. The
children hesitated. They were aware that Arulai's "marks" were likely to
be emphatic, for Arulai never does things by halves. But their devotion
to her and belief in her overcame all fears; and being genuinely anxious
to reform, they one and all consented. So she sent a small girl off to
look for a cane; and presently one was produced, "thin and nice and
suitable," as I was afterwards informed. The younger children were
invited to take the cane and look at it, and consider well how it would
feel. This they did obediently, but still stuck undauntedly to their
determination, in fact, were keen to go through with it. Then Arulai
explained that when the King said, "Chasten thy son while there is hope,
and let not thy soul spare for his crying," he must have been thinking
of a very little boy who had not the sense to know what was good for
him. They had sense. The mark on the body would be waste punishment if
it were not received willingly and gratefully; so if any child cried or
pulled her hand away, she would stop. Then the children all stood up and
held out their hands--what a moment for a photograph! Arulai's "mark
upon the body" was a genuine affair, but the class received it with
fortitude and gratitude.
When I heard this history, an hour or so after its occurrence, I rather
demurred. The children had appeared to be sincerely sorry when I spoke
to them, and if so, why proceed to extremities? But Arulai answered with
wisdom and much assurance: "They have been talked to before and have
been sorry, but they forgot and did it again. This time they will not
forget." And neither did they. As long as that class continued, its
behaviour was exemplary; and "the mark upon the mind," to judge by their
demeanour, remained as fresh as it must have been on that memorable day
when the "mark" upon the body effected its creation. The story ought to
end here; but most stories have a sequel, and this has two.
The first occurred a few weeks later. A little girl, one of the
sewing-class, had slipped into the habit of careless disobedience,
followed too often by sulks. If we happened to come across her just when
the thunder-clouds were gathering, we could usually divert her attention
and avert the threatened trouble; but if we did not happen to meet her
just at the right moment, she would plunge straight into the most
outrageous naughtiness with a sort of purposeful directness that was
difficult to deal with. Knowing the child well, we often let her choose
her own punishments; and she did this so conscientiously that at last,
as she herself mournfully remarked, "they were all used up," and there
was nothing left but the most ancient--and perhaps in some cases most
efficacious, which, the circumstances being what they were, I was
naturally reluctant to try. But the child, trained to be perfectly
honest with herself, apparently thought the thing over, and calmly made
up her mind to accept the inevitable; for when, anxious she should not
misunderstand, I began to explain matters to her, I was met by this
somewhat astonishing response: "Yes, Amma, I know. I know you have tried
everything else" (she said this almost sympathetically, as if
appreciating my dilemma), "and so you have to do it. I do not like it at
all, but Arulai Accal says it is no use unless I take it willingly, so
Amma, please give me a good caning." (The idiom is the same in Tamil as
in English, but there is a stronger word which she now proceeded to use
with great deliberation.) "Yes, Amma, a _hot_ caning--with my full mind
I am willing. And I will not cry. Or if I do cry" (this was added in a
serious, reflecting sort of way), "let not your soul spare for my
crying!"
The second is less abnormal. Esli, whose placid soul had been sadly
stirred at the time of the infliction of the "mark," was so impressed by
its salutary effect that she conceived a new respect for the methods of
King Solomon. The application of "morning glory" is a privilege
reserved, as a rule, for ourselves; but one day, being doubtless hard
pressed, Esli produced a stick--a very feeble one--and calling up the
leader of all rebels, addressed herself to her. Chellalu, as might have
been expected, was taken by surprise; and for one short moment Esli was
permitted to follow the ways of the King. But only for a moment: for,
suddenly apprehending the gravity of the situation, and realising that
such precedent should not pass unchallenged, Chellalu, with a quick
wriggle, stood forth free, seized the stick with a joyous shout, snapped
it in two, and flourished round the room: then stopping before her
afflicted Accal, she solemnly handed her one of the pieces, and with a
bound and a scamper like a triumphant puppy, was off to the very end of
her world with the other half of that stick.
When the Elf came to us on March 6, 1901, and we began to know some of
the secrets of the Temple, we tried to save several little children,
but we failed. The thought of those first children with whom we came
into touch, but for whom all our efforts were unavailing, is
unforgettable. We see them still, little children--lost. But we partly
understand why we had to wait so long; we had not the workers then to
help us to take care of them. We had only some of the older Accals, who
could not have done it alone. These convert-girls, who now help us so
much, were in Hindu homes; some of them had not even heard of Christ,
whose love alone makes this work possible. For India is not England in
its view of such work. There is absolutely nothing attractive about it.
It is not "honourable work," like preaching and teaching. No money would
have drawn these workers to us. Work which has no clear ending, but
drifts on into the night if babies are young or troublesome--such work
makes demands upon devotion and practical unselfishness which appeal to
none but those who are prepared to love with the tireless love of the
mother. "I do not want people who come to me under certain reservations.
In battle you need soldiers who fear nothing." So wrote the heroic Pere
Didon; and, though it may sound presumptuous to do so, we say the same.
We want as comrades those who come to us without reservations. But such
workers have to be prepared, and such preparation takes time. "Tarry ye
the Lord's leisure," is a word that unfolds as we go on.
Yet we find that the work, though so demanding, is full of
compensations. The convert in her loneliness is welcomed into a family
where little children need her and will soon love her dearly. The
uncomforted places in her heart become healed, for the touch of a little
child is very healing. If she is willing to forget herself and live for
that little child, something new springs up within her; she does not
understand it, but those who watch her know that all is well. Sometimes
long afterwards she reads her own heart's story and opens it to us. "I
was torn with longing for my home. I dreamed night after night about it,
and I used to waken just wild to run back. And yet I knew if I had, it
would have been destruction to my soul. And then the baby came, and you
put her into my arms, and she grew into my heart, and she took away all
that feeling, till I forgot I ever had it." This was the story of one, a
young wife, for whom the natural joys of home can never be. But if there
is selfishness or slackness or a weak desire to drift along in easiness,
taking all and giving nothing, things are otherwise. For such the
nurseries hold nothing but noise and interruptions. We ask to be spared
from such as these. Or if they come, may they be inspired by the
constraining love of Christ and "The Glory of the Usual."
FOOTNOTE:
[E] _Overweights of Joy_, ch. xxiii. Suhinie left the nursery for a few
hours' rest at noon on February 2, 1910. She fell asleep, to awaken in
heaven.