IN speaking of Indian poetry, Dr. Miller, in his introduction to my “Tales of Ind,” very justly observed :—" Whatever else she may have wanted, India has never wanted poetry. In some form, whether good or bad, whether high or low, the poetic instincts of her children have found expression in every succeeding age of her chequered history." Her gifted sons wrote poems that are read with delight and admiration by the modern world. They wrote poetry, true poetry, which purifies and ennobles man, which “offers interesting objects of contemplation to the sensibilities,” and “delineates the deeper and more secret workings of human emotion.” But at the same time, our countrymen wrote poetry, which is nothing more than mere metrical com-position, and it must be said that in India, more than in any other country, poetry has degene- rated so much that it has been used as a vehicle for conveying information in almost every conceivable subject. Our astronomy, our astrology, and our works on medicine are written in poetry, and only the other day I was startled to hear an expert in valuing precious stones quote stanza after stanza from an ancient Tamil work describing the quality and colour of rubies. The colour of a certain kind of rubies the author compares to that of the blood of the sparrow just killed. Another kind there is whose colour is like that of the setting sun, and so on. All this could very well be described in prose, but the author has foolishly spent a great deal of time and labour in versifying what he wanted to say. No doubt this mode of con- veying information has its advantages. In an age when printing was unknown, when books were written on cadjan leaves, it could not be expected that people would possess a sufficient number of books to read. Many valuable Hindu works have been handed down to posterity in the same manner as the Greek Rhapsodists are said to have handed down the poetry of Homer. They were committed to memory and transmitted to succeeding gene- rations—a process very much facilitated by the fact that they were expressed in poetry.
I have been led to indulge in these general remarks, because Appasami Vathiar, who is the vythian or physician of Kèlambakam and who is the next person claiming our attention, always quoted from Vagadam, a Tamil work on medicine written in verse. In describing a disease he quoted from Vagadam. In pre- scribing medicines, he quoted from Vagadam, and even in giving instructions to people in the matter of diet, the same favourite Vagadam was called into requisition. The Hindu’s reverence for anything old and mystical is very great, and Appasami Vathiar was held in great esteem by the people of Kèlambakam and the surrounding villages, because, in his practice, he did not swerve one jot or tittle from what has been laid down in Hindu works, on medicine. It is a prevalent belief among Hindus—and Appasami Vathiar did much in his own way to strengthen that belief—that our forefathers attained perfection in medicine, and that it is not capable of further improvement.
The general complaint is that the vythians now-a-days do not read old Hindu books on medicine, and practise it according to the direc- tions given in them.
Our village doctor knows nothing of surgery. He is a physician, pure and simple. He is a Virasiva by religion, and is said to have read a good many medical books. He is about fifty years of age, and enjoys a very good practice. He knows a little of astrology, but does not claim to know so much of it as Ramanuja Charriar, the Purohita. Like the Purohita and the schoolmaster, he is honoured and respected by the people of Kélambakam, and they have implicit confidence in his skill and ability. He carries with him all kinds of medicines in the shape of pills and powders. He is said to know the nature of a man’s complaint by feel- ing his pulse. He does not believe in the efficacy of medicine alone, but always takes care to impress upon the relatives of his patients. the necessity of performing some religious ceremony or other to appease the anger of the gods. The simple villagers have so much faith in him that even if death takes away the patient, they attribute it not to any want of skill on his part, but to the stars that guided the patient’s destinies having been unfavourable. Once Appasami Vathiar was absent from the village for a number of days, and Kothun- darama Mudelly, the village munsiff, was at the time attacked with fever. It gradually grew worse, and the village munsiff’s relatives began to entertain grave doubts about his recovery. News of this was sent to the vythian, who returned in haste to attend the patient. It was early in the morning when he entered the house of the village munsiff, and there in the Kutam or hall he saw the patient leaning upon his old mother and surrounded by a number of sorrowing relatives and friends. The Purohita was seated in one part of the hall with some villagers looking at the sick man’s horoscope, making calculations and finding whether the malady would prove fatal. But the scene was changed the moment the vythian entered the house and sat by the sick man. The face of the old mother, down whose wrinkled cheeks tears were flowing in abundance, now beamed with joy, and the relatives who a minute ago were filled with despair were now animated with hope. They whispered to one another that Kothundarama Mudelly’s recovery was beyond all doubt. So sudden and complete was the transformation. The vythian then felt the pulse of the sick man and quoted some verses from the Vagadam describing the malady, to which the mother nodded her head and said that the symptoms of the disease therein enumerated were noticed in her sick son. Then said the vythian : " The malady has assumed serious proportions. Yama is fast overtaking the sick person. Here is the medicine Mrityunjayam (conqueror of death) which will put a stop to his deadly course. This medicine which my great grandfather prepared with the assistance of a rich zemindar must be continued for three days, and after that time the patient must take another medicine Jivarak- shamritham (the ambrosia that saves life), which I prepared last year after consulting many shastras, spending about five cartloads of fuel, fasting for forty days, and feeding one hundred mendicants. The patient will gradually recover. But at the same time I must ask you to light ten lamps in the temple every day and feed six Brahmins till such time as the patient recovers." So saying he took from his medicine pouch two pills, mixed them in honey, and administered the same to the patient. Then after giving instructions with regard to diet, &c., patiently answering the thousand and one anxious questions put to him by the relatives of the patient, and restoring confidence in them, and after promising to return in the evening, he departed. In ten days’ time the patient recovered, and this incident raised the vythian all the more in the estimation of the people of Kélambakam. Such is a short account of the village doctor, Appasami Vathiar, in whose skill the simple people of the village had the greatest confidence and for whose integrity and high character they had the highest respect.
Next comes the carpenter Soobroya Acharry. His business is to make ploughs (Indian ploughs are made of wood with an iron bar fixed to the end) and all sorts of wooden implements required for the purpose of cultivation. He has to make carts and boxes and assist the villagers in the construction of houses. The village carpenter’s work is not such as would excite the admiration of the beholder or be considered worthy of being shown at an exhibition. It is a plain, rough kind of work just good enough to answer the purpose intended. Soobroya Acharry has also to make for the villagers pestles and a number of wooden instruments required for daily use.
After Soobroya Acharry comes Shunmugam, the blacksmith of the village, who is required to do his portion of the work in the construction of houses and in the making of agricultural and other implements. He has to make axes for hewing down trees, sickles with which to reap corn, spades, crowbars, and a number of other useful and necessary things. From the above it will be seen that the carpenter and the black- smith are very useful members of the com- munity, and that their services are often called into requisition by the villagers.
Another very important and useful member of the community is Gopaula Pillai, the ideiyan or shepherd. He owns a number of cows and buffaloes and supplies the villages with ghee (clarified butter), milk and curds ; he also looks after their cattle. He is a very busy man. He rises early in the morning and goes to the houses of the villagers to milk their cows, and returns at about nine o’clock. In the mean- time, his wife Seeta, who is a good model of a busy helpmate, is engaged in cleansing the cattle-shed, milking her own cows and buffaloes, churning butter and selling milk and curds. As soon as the cowherd comes home, he takes his canji (boiled rice and water). He then goes away with the cattle of the village to the graz- ing fields. There are some fine pasture lands at a distance of about two miles from Kélam- bakam where the cowherds and shepherds of other villages meet our ideiyan friend, Gopaula Pillai. There, while the cattle graze, these simple men beguile their time under the shade of some tree in innocent talk or in some game. The cowherd returns with the cattle to the village at dusk and goes again to the houses of such villagers as have cows, to milk them. He returns home at about eight at night, and after taking supper enjoys a well-earned sleep. It is said that shepherds are dull and stupid, and there are many stories current among the people illustrative of this fact. Here is a story which is often told:—
THE IDEIYAN.¹ ‘Mong Hindu Castes, the Ideiyars are dull; Brains wanting, Nature gives them but a skull;
Footnote: ¹ From the Madras Mail.
Hence as the Tamil proverb truly tells, In nape of neck all ideiyan wisdom dwells.
One of this Jathi, who was far from wise, Even in his lotus-faced pendatti’s (wife’s) eyes, Resisted bravely with ideiyan might, The entrance of one ray of wisdom’s light.
She tried all arts as Hindu women can On this unyielding matter—called a man. She coaxed him, boxed him, scolded him and squeezed ; Unchanged, he only ate, and slept, and sneezed.
Anon with honied words as poets sing, She spoke :—he was her guru, god and king. Her neighbours smiled :—“ when horses horned you see, Your silent, senseless guru wise may be.”
To cheer the villagers one day there came The singer Thumbiran well known to fame ; Of Rama, Seeta, Ravana, he sang, And through bazaar and street his music rang.
Men left their homes and work, and came from far, And hailed him as another Avatar :— “ Ramayanam will make my husband wise, Perchance, and end my contless toils and sighs.”
So thought this good pendatti, strongly bent On making wise her ideiyan lord, and sent Him forth to hear the singer. He obeyed,— As Ideiyars should, and listened undismayed.
In ideiyan posture, on his staff his chin He rested, as to drink the nectar in. A waggish neighbour saw his vacant stare, Leapt on his back, and calmly listened there.
THE SHEPHERD. 61
Part of the programe this,—the ideiyan deemed ; A waggish trick his burden never seemed. Thus seeking wisdom, stood he in the sun Well weighted, listening till the song was done.
Then homeward, weary grown, if still not wise ; Homeward to meet his lovely Seeta’s eyes, The hero went. She, through the window bars, Peeped, waiting for his coming,—as the stars.
Hoping to see her ideiyan’s face divine, With light of new found wisdom brightly shine ; " What say you of Ramayanam ? " she began ; He answered ;—" ‘Tis as heavy as a man."
She whispered to the sky at this response ; " He born an ideiyan must die a dunce ;— " Fate wills it, unreversed, while ages roll " If Kamban cannot stir his boorish soul."
The above is one of the many stories current about the dulness and stupidity of the shepherd. Nevertheless, he is honest, straightforward, and guileless. His wants are few and his cattle are his only care. His lot in life has many a time warned man not to pant after vain glory. It has been the favourite theme of poets in all ages and in all climes, and the envy of philosophers.