Belief is so easy to her. She is troubled with never an intellectual
doubt. Indeed, intellect, in her opinion, is an interloper in the
regions of Faith. Where is the scope for Faith if you use your
intelligence? she will argue.
There is a story told, one of many such, of a South-Indian woman, who
believed that upon a certain day of the new moon, the God at a certain
shrine would work whatever miracle were claimed by the faithful as
a proof of his power; so, being drunk with ecstasy after long years
of meditation, she set forth to the Shrine, having first cut out her
tongue.... “My tongue which has often,” said she, “spoken words of
unwisdom, will be given me anew of the God. This is the miracle I
claim.” Day after day of her pilgrimage she trudged cheerfully, joy in
her God at her heart. Day after day she carried but her water gourd and
a small quantity of grain tied in the end of her saree, and she walked
with the help of a tall bamboo pole, for she was bent with age; but the
wisdom light streamed from the gates of her body, so that all knew her
for holy, and crowds gathered about her, curious as to the faith that
was in her, but she heeded them not; day after day through tracks of
burning sand, through jungle or by river bed ... and at last the temple
was in sight.
* * * * *
The miracle was that her faith failed not when her tongue did not
grow. After the first shock of realization, her mind groped after some
explanation which satisfied, and the God lost no worshipper.
So, in Western India, I have known one--a Queen and a daughter of a
King--also bowed with years, who had waited half her life for the
fulfilment of a promise.
God would see to it that the promise was kept. Why waste resentment on
him who seemed a breaker of promises; God would resent for her. She
was brought to the verge of death, she had long been the house-mate of
poverty; her faith was proof against all. When I saw her last she sat
among the squirrels on a dung-smeared veranda in a courtyard, where
cows and buffaloes were stalled. The squirrels played about her; she
had been herself a squirrel, she told me, in her last generation,
wherefore they loved her; and she sat telling her beads as she had sat
for fifty years, her hand in the embroidered sock of orthodoxy.
Had any devil prompted me to suggest to her justification for unfaith,
I should simply not have been believed. For--of these is the kingdom of
heaven.
* * * * *
One more memory stands out from the crowd. It is the lamp-lighting
hour in the Temple of the Foot. We have come through the narrow
streets, past the sellers of old brass and copper, past the gold and
white pyramids of flower-sellers. The air is heavy with the perfume of
jasmine, the sacred bulls are sauntering up the steps from the river,
pushing through the worshippers with the arrogance of the beloved. A
kind priest has lighted us under the archway, and we are in the inner
courtyard. Yes, we may come through the forest of columns, standing
straight and white and cool in the cloisters, and we may linger close
by the great carved door to watch the _pooja_. It takes some time to
see in the darkness ... everything is still, so still. There is a
great basin of black marble, and in the middle of it the impress of a
great foot.... A priest sits on his heels beside the basin, anointing
the foot with sandal-wood oil, washing it, offering it flowers and
incense.
Another Priest walks round and round the basin crooning _mantras_. The
real worshipper is a poor woman in an advanced stage of leprosy, the
flickering light from the little shells of cocoanut falls upon the
masses of white and yellow flowers, upon the fruits and incense, upon
the costly offerings, upon the poor mis-shapen face. It is still, so
still, so full of mystery, her face, the flowers, the Priest, leaping
into life like a pulse-beat, with the flare of the cotton wick....
Shiva’s great white bull sits watching his master’s symbol in the
Temple beside us: other worshippers there are none, and the _pandas_
have wandered to the bathing ghat, to encompass the unwary.... Sudden
my soul hears through the stillness the message of a child in the
strains of that beautiful anthem of Stainer’s. His voice rises clear
and exultant so that I can hear it across the seas from the Cathedral
of old gray stone in the City of Cities.... “God so loved the
World.”...
The Priest is passing the shell-lamp over the foot itself, in the
circles of some ritual, and the leper bends forward out of the darkness
to see the sacred markings.... Oh! the horror of the ravages of the
flesh!... “God so loved the world.”...
The Priest sprinkles the foot with holy water, spooning it out of
his copper vessel with practised hand, and the perambulating Priest
redoubles his _mantras_.... The face of the leper is a-quiver with
peace, and with a joy that is without dissimulation.... “God so loved
the world.”...
The _pooja_ is over, the officiating Priest has pressed the little
cotton wicks into darkness. The leper makes her timid way out of the
Temple, ringing the great bell in the cloisters, as she returns to
her pilgrimage of pain in a world of illusions.... “God so loved the
world,” ... and it was the leper in the Temple of the Foot who first
gave me a glint of the probable meaning of these glad tidings.
[Illustration]
CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.