HELP IN NEED.
ISA DÁS much needed such encouragements to cheer him, for at this time
he was in great straits as regarded temporal things. The patients who
came to him for healing seldom gave him even cowries * to pay for his
drugs. Few even thought of giving the Christian his due; was it not
enough if they did not abuse and revile him? Isa Dás could no longer
earn money by selling charms, his conscience forbade him to do so. He
had to part one by one with almost everything that he possessed, even
to his shawl and embroidered slippers, and the hookah which had once
been his father's. The blanket which he wore was threadbare; the kurta
beneath only fit for a wandering fakir.
* Shells used as money, where such is needed below the value of a
mite.
Often the doctor went hungry to his work, and hungry and tired lay down
to rest. But for four rupees which had been lent to him by his friend
the missionary, the poor convert might—as it seemed—have been starved.
Those rupees, though spent sparingly pice by pice for food, were gone
at last.
This was a great trial of the faith of Isa Dás. He was sometimes
tempted to think, "Hath my Lord forgotten me? He is my Shepherd, yet
doth He not leave me to want?"
But Isa Dás's faith struggled against the secret temptation. These
words were written on his heart, 'Casting all your care upon Him, for
He careth for you' (1 Peter v. 7).
One evening, after a day of trial, when a single chapatti had formed
the whole of his meal, and not a cowrie was left to buy another, Isa
Dás, prostrating himself on the earth, uttered this prayer, "O Lord
Jesus! Thou hast known what it is to be poor and a-hungered; Thou hast
promised that Thou wilt never leave or forsake them who put their trust
in Thee! I cast myself on Thy mercy and love! Give me according to Thy
wisdom and my need, and whether I suffer want or abound, enable me
always to glorify Thee, and say from my heart, 'Thy will be done.'"
Even as Isa Dás rose from his prostrate position, he saw a man running
towards him in haste. This man was the servant of Ahmed Khán, a
Mahomedan Amir.
"Can you tell me where the doctor lives?" cried the man as he reached
the spot where Isa Dás was standing at the door of his mud-built hut.
The messenger was panting from the speed at which he had been running.
"I am the doctor," replied Isa Dás.
The servant looked for a moment rather contemptuously at the half-fed,
ill-dressed man before him, but his business admitted of no delay. "My
master's only son has had a terrible accident," he said. "A messenger
was sent on horseback for the European doctor, but he is laid up with
fever, and cannot leave his bed. Therefore am I sent for you. When an
elephant falls down dead, he who sat in its howdah may have to content
himself with the back of an ass."
Without seeming to notice the insolent taunt, Isa Dás at once went into
his hut to gather together the few means of cure which he possessed. He
then followed the servant to the residence of the Amir, which was not
half a cos distant (not a mile).
Can carved doors shut out sorrow, or will the embroidered pillow give
ease to an aching head? The dwelling which Isa Dás entered was one of
comfort and elegance, but it was now one of pain and grief. Isa Dás
found the Amir's son stretched on a rich divan, with a broken limb,
a body covered with bruises, and blood-stained bandages, instead of
a handsome turban, bound round his head. The lad's eyes were closed;
his face was deadly pale; only a little twitching of pain, and an
occasional moan showed that life had not departed.
Beside his only son, grief and fear expressed in his face, stood Ahmed
Khán. Behind the rich curtain which divided the room, could be heard
the sound of weeping from the purdah-women beyond.
Isa Dás, after examining the poor lad's hurts, saw that the case was
a difficult one, but not one without hope. Silently praying for God's
blessing on his work, the doctor set the broken limb, he bathed and
bound the bleeding head, he applied healing salve to the bruises. All
during that night Isa Dás watched by his patient. And after resting
awhile on the following day, at night, he resumed his watch.
The house was very different indeed from that in which the poor oilman
had breathed his last; air was admitted in abundance, the swing of the
punkah never ceased; the patient's hands were bathed in rose-water, and
his thirst relieved by cool sweet sherbet.
Much courtesy was shown to Isa Dás by the Amir, who could seldom be
persuaded to quit the sick-bed of his son. It a little surprised
the Mahommedans at first that the converted Hindu had none of the
prejudices of his race regarding food, but ate whatever was offered to
him, sanctifying it by prayer.
On the third day the English doctor was able to come. He examined the
patient, and pronounced him to be out of danger. The Amir devoutly
thanked God, and his exclamation was echoed by the ladies behind the
purdah, who had not unfrequently come in to see the sick son of one,
and nephew of another, but who had hurried back to their retreat on the
English doctor's arrival, fearful lest he should catch a glimpse of
their faces.
"Your son has been well and skilfully treated," said the European. "Who
was it who set the broken limb?"
The Amir pointed to Isa Dás.
"He evidently knew his business well," said the English doctor.
The Amir made a sign to one of his servants, who brought to him a fine
turban, and a silken bag. From this bag the Amir took out five rupees
(more than 9s.) and placed them, with the turban, in the hands of Isa
Dás. *
* The sum will seem very small to the English reader, but when one
remembers that less than that is considered a month's pay for some
of our lower servants, probably a family man, it will appear less
insignificant.
"O Lord! I thank Thee! Thou hast seen my trouble; Thou hast heard my
prayer!" came from the heart of the poor Christian.
No man heard that burst of thanksgiving, for the lips of Isa Dás were
silent. But it was with a sense of deep pure joy that he passed forth
from the Amir's dwelling to return to his own humble hut.
It was not merely that his present wants were relieved, and that his
reputation was made, that caused that deep pure joy; the love of God
was the fountain from which it flowed. Isa Dás had realised, as he
perhaps had never so fully done before, the truth of that gracious
promise, "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee."
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