THROUGH MUCH TRIBULATION
The wife of Yendluri Rutnam noticed that her husband frequently stopped his work for a few minutes, bent his head over his folded hands, and said as to himself: “O God, I am a sinner. Give me wisdom that I may find the way.” She bowed with him. He had told her all he had seen of the Christians in a distant village, where he had gone on trade, and she said, “It must be a good religion.”
Bangarapu Thatiah came one day to inquire after the spiritual welfare of his near kinsman. For some reason Rutnam closed his heart against him, and put him off by saying: “Perhaps the Christian sect and the Nasriah sect are only the same thing. I shall remain where I am.” Rutnam was proud of the fact that he had been a disciple of the Nasriah sect for ten years.
He had been at Tiprantakamu several times at the annual feast, and had faithfully learned the hymns and verses he had been taught, and fully believed that it must be true that there is only one God. Yet he joined others of the village people when they went to worship the swami Gurapudu, who was supposed to have his home in a margosa tree at one end of the village.
The old men of the village said that there once lived a man, Gurapudu, who died suddenly in a very mysterious way. As usual, the relatives took an earthen pot full of cooked rice to the grave, and laid it in two heaps. Each in turn took a handful of the rice from one heap and put it on the other, to go through the form of giving. Then they sat down at a distance to watch. Had the crows come and eaten they would have known that Gurapudu thought kindly of them. The Madigas believe that as the crows fly away the soul of the dead is liberated from the body, and on the fluttering wings of the crows hastens to some good place.
But at the grave of Gurapudu the crows did not come to eat, and thus his relatives knew that his soul was hovering near the earth, and that he would do them harm. Several had seen peculiar forms hover about a margosa tree in the night, and it was thought best to place a stone under it, paint it with saffron, make large red dots on it, and then worship it. No matter what form Gurapudu might assume, if thus honoured and appeased, he could not go forth to injure the village. The fear of Gurapudu had passed from fathers to sons, for whenever calamity of any kind befell the village, it was regarded as the work of the fiend in the margosa tree.
Thatiah had told Rutnam frankly what he thought of the swami Gurapudu. He met with quiet resistance on this point as on every other, but Thatiah would not be baffled. When a preacher came from Ongole, he told him to go to Rutnam’s village, and not to pass his kinsman by. He was a man of tact and education, and had known service in one of the older mission stations before he became the right-hand man of the Ongole Missionary in the early days of the movement among the Madigas. The whole village gathered to hear him. Before he had finished, Rutnam knew wherein the difference between the Nasriah sect and Christianity lay. Moreover, the strange preacher had made sarcastic remarks about the swami Gurapudu, and, while all were laughing, had asked permission to go to the margosa tree near by, take the stone, and hurl it away into a ditch, with all its red and yellow markings. The swami had not taken notice, for nothing happened to the preacher.
Later in the day he had a private talk with Rutnam, and asked him some very searching questions: “Are you a sinner, or one who has accumulated merit? Was your worship of swamis good or bad? You have bowed to idols, have been stealing grain when your Sudra master looked the other way, have worked on Sunday, have eaten carrion; and now what do you think of your work?” Rutnam agreed that it was all bad, and that he must turn away from it. The preacher was satisfied that there was conviction here.
Soon after this Rutnam was ordered by the village Karnam to carry a letter to a distant village. He had to drop all other work and go on this errand, nor could he expect to be paid for it. Some generations back the family had received a grant of four acres of land from the Rajah of Venkatagiri, and in turn for this they had to stand ready to do the bidding of the Karnam. It was Yetti-service, a service exacted under provisions that closely resemble the serfdom of the middle ages. Rutnam tied the letter into his headcloth and went his way. Arrived at Petloor, he approached the Government Office, where the Brahmin clerks and officials sat over their task. He dare not go near, for great would be their wrath if even the air they breathed were polluted by the presence of a poor Madiga. But he stood afar, holding high the letter he had brought, and soon a Sudra servant came to take it from him. They signified to him that he might go, and, after resting in the shade of a tree, he took a roundabout way home.
His object was to see his distant kinsman, Pullikuri Lukshmiah, who, he had heard, had lately been baptized, and had much to say about the worthlessness of Rajayogi Gurus. Lukshmiah received him with every mark of friendship. Sticks were soon burning under a pot of water, that he might bathe after his journey. Odours of spicy curry came from the place where the women were cooking the evening meal; and, as they sat under the tamarind tree, in the cool of the evening, the two men talked together about many things. Lukshmiah saw that some one must speak an authoritative word. He asked, “Have you believed in Jesus Christ?” With a firm voice Rutnam replied, “I have.” “Have you been baptized?” “No.” “Then go to Ongole this very month and be baptized, lest if you die soon you should go to hell.”
Their belief in spirits and demons, in fiends and matris, gives to the more thoughtful minds among the Madigas an intense desire to make sure that they are on the way to a blessed existence beyond the grave. The Christian conception of a heaven and a hell was readily absorbed by them. The hope of the one and the fear of the other are a powerful influence in their moral conduct and religious fervour. And thus the injunctions of Lukshmiah brought to an end the wavering of Rutnam, and shaped the destiny of one of the choice workers of the Ongole mission.
There was an element of refinement in the appearance of Rutnam. His features were regular and of a noble outline. Every passing emotion found expression in his eyes; hence the look of anxiety that became habitual in his later years, stamped there by the many hardships of his life. When met by kindness his face could light up with a rare smile. He was a man who in return for kindness could give devotion.
During the first few years of his ministry he often took his wife with him, to help him as he preached in the villages here and there. This became impracticable. As the converts multiplied the vexation of the Sudras grew. Trouble was heaped upon the preacher and his wife, till Rutnam said, “It is not safe for a woman to face these insults.” Henceforth he went alone.
A social revolution on a small scale was in progress during those early years. The Madiga population was fast being Christianized, and in consequence there was a breaking away from economic and social relations that had held the Madigas during many centuries. There was novelty in the desire of the Christians to have one day in seven for purposes of rest and worship. To many a Madiga it had been an unknown accomplishment to remember the days of the week. It raised him decidedly in the scale of human beings when he became sufficiently enlightened to know the days as they passed. He found opportunity to cultivate moral fibre when he began to insist that he must have one day in seven reserved for the worship of his God.
To the Sudra landholder it was a cause of constant irritation to be obliged to reckon with this new spirit of independence on the part of the Madiga. He was accustomed to call his serfs to work whenever he required their service. Day and night, seed-time and harvest, they were to be ready to obey his call. He did not look upon their desire for a Sabbath of rest as a legitimate demand. It seemed to the Sudra usurpation of authority pure and simple. The Karnam shared in the vexation of the Sudras, for when he called the Christian Yettis to work on Sunday, or start on long journeys with heavy burdens on their backs, they asked to be allowed to go the next day.
There was tension in all the region round about. Whenever some village matri, some fiend or demon, was to receive special worship, the question arose as to the course which should be pursued with the rebellious Madigas. It was part of the service which they owed to the village community, on the principle of mutual service, that they should beat the drums when there was a festival to the swamis. The Madigas had to furnish the leather for the drums. Who should beat them but they? To refuse to perform this old-time duty meant loss to them. They received the carcases of the animals which were slaughtered to please the gods in question as remuneration for their special service.
The trouble culminated in the village Ballapudy, one of the villages in Rutnam’s charge. The Madigas rebelled against ancient institutions, and in consequence the organization of the village community was used against them. The potter is the village servant, who makes the earthen pots that break so easily, and, therefore, need frequent replacing. The washermen likewise serve the village. They have their group of houses in the village, and when the village tank is dry, their donkeys take the clothes where there is sufficient water. There was interdependence of various kinds. If by the order of the Munsiff and Karnam the mutual helpfulness of the community was withdrawn from the Madigas, their isolation was of a peculiarly trying nature.
The Karnam of Ballapudy was not a man of strong personality. But he knew that he had power to harass, and decided to take the initiative, and show all the region round about how to deal with these recreant Madigas. Forthwith the village washermen were told not to wash for the Christians; the potter was told not to sell pots to them; their cattle were driven from the common grazing-ground; the Sudras combined in a refusal to give them the usual work of sewing sandals and harness; at harvest-time they were not allowed to help, and thus lost the supply of grain which the Sudras had always granted them. They were boycotted and ostracized on every hand. The Karnam called the heathen Madigas from elsewhere to do the work of the village, and the Christians had no alternative but to go to distant villages to find a little work, and earn a scant pittance. This went on for a season. Rutnam suffered with the distress of his people.
A day of reckoning came when the Ongole Missionary pitched his camp in a grove near the village Ballapudy. He rode through the bazaar of the village, Rutnam and others of the Christians with him, made happy and full of courage by his presence. On one side of the road—his arms deferentially folded over his chest—stood the Karnam. Rutnam pointed him out to the Dora: “That is the man”; and the Karnam made many and deep salaams. The Dora, however, seemed not to notice him. Then the Karnam, already full of fear, grew very anxious, and wondered what would happen to him; for he had heard that the Ongole Missionary was strong in protecting these Madigas.
Walking at a little distance from the horse, the Karnam now began to excuse himself. A large crowd had gathered of all castes. There were Mohammedans too. Ever since the tent had arrived, and the lascars, who came with it, had told the people the hour when they expected their Dora the bazaar of the village Ballapudy had been filling with people who had come in from villages near by. Many were interested in the issue. If the Dora failed to influence the Karnam, it would go hard with the Madigas in all that region; for other Karnams stood ready to resort to stringent measures.
But here was the Dora not even looking in the direction of the anxious Karnam; the little group of persecuted men and women gathered closely around him. He did not even seem to hear the Karnam’s excuses, till, finally, insisting on being heard, the Karnam said: “I did not do that work. There are no witnesses.”
Then the Dora’s horse stood still, and it turned in the direction of the trembling Karnam. It was a fine white animal; the preachers in the old days were proud of it. Once in the early days, when the mission was in debt, the Dora offered to sell his horse, that he might give the money to his preachers, but they pleaded for the horse. “Never mind about us,” they said, “but keep the horse. What should we say to all who stand ready to persecute us if they asked us whether our Dora no longer rides a horse?”
As Rutnam told me the story of the encounter between the Dora and the Karnam, he remembered specially the Dora’s horse. “How would it have looked if our Dora had walked through all that crowd on his feet?” And one word of the Missionary was treasured in Rutnam’s heart with peculiar gratitude. The Dora said to the Karnam: “You say there are no witnesses. The Christians have told me what you did. The preacher, who is like my ‘Tamurdu,’ has told me. Would my younger brother lie to me? You are the liar, not my preacher.” Rutnam’s face trembled with emotion when he repeated to me, several times over, that before all that crowd of men who were ready to injure and destroy him and his little flock the Dora called him his “Tamurdu.”
Like a school-boy the Karnam, in deferential attitude, promised to cease from evil-doing. Not once, but twice he had to promise that he would not persecute the Christians any more, for the Dora was afraid “of his lying words.” He and all who stood there heard to their surprise that these Madigas were God’s children, and in God’s special care. “Their God,” the Missionary said, “is not like your swamis, who hear not and see not. When these poor men pray, God is not far off. Beware how you touch them.”
Deeply humiliated, the Karnam went to his house. All had seen that he was a coward, who could oppress those in his power, but trembled in the presence of one who could call him to account for his actions. Many a man in that region, whose heart was full of anger against the Christians, decided to let others persecute them if they would, but that he would hold aloof.
Some years had passed, when the priests of the goddess Ankalamah decided that the annual feast at her temple in the village Muktimulla should be held with unusual pomp. There had been cattle-disease of late, and some of the wells were running dry. They said the goddess was probably angry because she had not of recent years been honoured sufficiently, and they hinted, too, that the Madigas and their refusal to beat the drums had fanned the displeasure of the goddess. Now Ankalamah is one of the ten great Saktis, a form of Parvati, consort of Siva. The Karnam of the village Muktimulla was a Brahmin, seventy years of age, and a worshipper of Siva. He decided that Ankalamah should have the drums beaten by the Madigas at her annual feast, just as she had seen it done during many a century. Moreover, she should have the pleasure of seeing the rebellious Madigas humiliated as they deserved.
Image: MADIGAS WITH THEIR DRUMS.
When the feast was in course of preparation, and crowds of worshippers had gathered, the Karnam sent for the Christians to come and beat the drums. They returned a message that their religion forbade them to have anything to do with idol-worship. Five village constables were then sent to fetch five of the leading Christians. They were brought by force. Water was poured over their heads until it was thought the uncleanness of their Christian religion had been washed away. Their heads were shaved, and only a lock on top of their heads—the juttu—was left, that the swami might dwell therein. And, finally, their foreheads were marked like those of the other worshippers. The drums were forced into their hands, and for three days they had to endure the shame of their position, while large crowds came to worship the goddess.
Rutnam hastened to the spot. These men were members of his flock. But what could he do? What could be done even if they should unite in resistance? They were overpowered by numbers. The five men had gathered up the hair as it fell under the razor, and had tied it into their cloth. As soon as release came, they hastened to Ongole and told their tale to the Missionary, showing the hair in their cloth, taking off their turbans to show the bald heads that represented to them mutilation.
A case was filed in the criminal court. The English magistrate of Ongole tried the case in person. He asked the five Christians whether they considered themselves to have been insulted. They said, “It was as if our throats had been cut; our shame was so great.” Rutnam and two Christian teachers were the witnesses on the one side, a crowd of false witnesses stood on the other side. The legal proceedings took some time, and then judgment was passed. Since the Karnam was an old man, he was spared the three years of imprisonment which he deserved. He had to pay a fine of thirty rupees, and was imprisoned for three months. As he was a Brahmin, imprisonment meant pollution of the very worst kind. He died four days after his release. His son took his place. When I asked Rutnam whether the son was better than the father, he replied, “Can a tiger have young jackals as children?”
Thus the government, which has made itself, in a measure, the vehicle of Christian principles, took no notice of Ankalamah’s desire to see the drums forced into the hands of defenceless Madigas. The violation of the law of religious toleration carries with it a maximum punishment of five years’ imprisonment. That an aged Brahmin, in respected position, should have been deeply humiliated because he insulted the religious belief of five men, who were of the outcasts, and in former days considered too low to come within the same jurisdiction that applied to the members of other castes, was, indeed, an indication that a new day had dawned for the remnant of an aboriginal tribe that had known nothing but abject servitude for many centuries.