NOT PEACE, BUT A SWORD
There were four brothers in the Nambadi family. Krishniah was the eldest; upon him fell the chief care of the family when his father died. Anandiah, the second, was the pride of the family. He knew more than was ordinarily expected of the Mala priest, and his learning gave distinction to the priestly functions of the brothers. Venkatiah, next to Anandiah in age, was quiet and retiring, and ever ready to do the bidding of Anandiah. The youngest was Chinna Krishniah. In honour of the god Krishna, one of the incarnations of Vishnu worshipped by the family, it was thought well to have two sons by the name of Krishniah. As is customary in such cases, the older brother was called “big Krishniah,” the younger “little Krishniah.”
Anandiah was the most active, and at the same time most restless member of the family. He was ever on the alert for something new to learn and to investigate. He had early learned to read, and was always ready for new books. He listened to the singers who relate the events of the past in a peculiar mixture of the legendary and historic. If he met any one whose religious views differed from his own he was ready to argue with him. With his enquiring spirit to urge him on, it is not surprising that Anandiah had a religious history, even before he became a Christian.
The Nambadi family were Malas. They were thrifty, and were counted a prominent family in the Mala community. Their ancestors, so far as they knew, had always been priests. The Vishnuite reformer, Ramanuja, who lived in the twelfth century, is said to have founded seven hundred and fifty priesthoods in Southern India, among all castes and classes. It is not impossible that this Mala family derived their hereditary priesthood directly or indirectly from Ramanuja.
Anandiah, not satisfied with the routine of a priest of the Ramanuja sect, joined in addition the Chermanishta sect. The brothers were little pleased with this new phase in Anandiah’s career, but he went his way and kept his own counsel. Silence and mystery are the characteristics of this sect. It was a relief to all concerned when Anandiah, probably by sheer force of reaction, turned to the Rajayogi sect, and became a follower of the Yogi Pothuluri Veerabramham.
That he could pass from one sect to another without exciting comment among those whom he and his brothers served as priests gives evidence of the elasticity and extreme toleration of Hinduism, so long as the institution of caste, which is the basis of social organization, is left untouched. After all, to the thoughtful Hindu, Vishnu and Siva and the many lesser gods of the Hindu Pantheon are but manifestations of the one great deity, the Parameswara. This toleration does not extend to the religion of Christ; the upheaval which ensues where it enters is dreaded. It is inimical to caste, and thus revolutionizes social relations. Its pure theism, with the divine incarnation of the God-man, Jesus Christ, raises the mind above the need of an image, and thus produces a radical change, which places a gulf between the Christian and the members of various sects of Hinduism.
As Anandiah went about among the people in his office as priest, he was often asked about the attractively bound booklets which the faithful Pentiah from Ongole was selling everywhere. Though always ready to investigate a new belief, Anandiah in this case had strong misgivings. He took the tracts, looked them over carefully, until he had become fully aware of the contents, and then told the owners that these were bad books, and whether it would not be best to tear them into pieces. Thus he publicly tore up many a tract which Pentiah had sold in that region.
One day Anandiah met Pentiah in the way, and in a somewhat hostile spirit asked him concerning himself and his religion. Now Pentiah was not the man to face Anandiah in argument. But he had faith, and he had conviction; he told Anandiah, with all the force of his simple, devout nature, that idolatry was evil, and that there was no salvation in Hindu sects. He spoke of Jesus Christ as a living reality. His belief in Him as an indwelling presence was the secret of the power which this simple-hearted man wielded over men.
Pentiah was of Mala extraction, and the Mala priest, Anandiah, could, therefore, talk with him about the social aspects of the Christian mission that had lately been established in Ongole. He had heard that a number of Madigas had already joined it; what became of social relations in a mixture of castes? Outcasts equally, the Malas and Madigas hold aloof from each other. They have separate wells; they do not eat together, nor do they inter-marry.
It was not necessary to convince Anandiah that caste was a system which could not be upheld as containing divine truth. He had seen it attacked in the midnight orgies of the Chermanishta sect, and he knew that the Yogi Pothuluri Veerabramham had prophesied a day when caste distinction would cease. He wanted to know what practical solution Christianity had to offer. Pentiah told him that there was no caste in the mission compound at Ongole, that all drank from the same well, nor did they hesitate to eat together. If any one was found to cling to the old distinction between Mala and Madiga, he was rebuked. It was a new life, of which Pentiah thus gave him a glimpse. Anandiah did not commit himself, for his thoughts were seething within him, and Pentiah went his way.
It happened soon after this conversation that the four brothers went to a village at some distance to perform the Bhagvatum. Anandiah entered upon the undertaking in a half-hearted way. Six rupees was the price agreed upon for the night’s work, and he was determined to go through with his part. They began after dark in the evening, and continued till dawn. A fine, moonlight night had been chosen. Torches were held where the actors were in full view. The people from neighbouring villages had come, and sat on the ground, in the large open space in front of the village, ready to enjoy themselves during their days of leisure, for the harvest was over and seed-sowing time had not yet come.
The brothers had been joined by relatives who lived some twenty miles away. The performance required ten actors. Anandiah played the chief part; he recited the accompanying passages of the drama as they passed from one act to the next. The Telugu of the text was much intermingled with difficult Sanscrit expressions, and he often stopped to explain the meaning. The main episodes in the life of Krishna were the subject of the play. The mother and wives of Krishna played an important part, and the brothers, therefore, wore the apparel of women and decked themselves with the jewellery of women. It was, in the Hindu sense, a religious play, yet the buffoon was not wanting, and his part of the performance brought the play to a low level.
At last the cocks in the village began to crow, and the birds in the trees stirred with busy chatter; the darkness of night shaded into the grey tints of dawn; the little oil-lamps that had been placed here and there were extinguished, and both actors and spectators lay down for a few hours of sleep. Anandiah went away to one side, sat down under a tree, and busied himself reading the Gnanabodha, a book which Pentiah had left in his hands. Several gathered around him, and he read to them, and explained also what he had read.
Noon came, and the feast which concluded the performance of the Bhagvatum was ready. Pedda Krishniah was to perform puja before the idols of Krishna, and then all were to eat. The sleepers rose, and the brothers went to call Anandiah. He said, “I am not coming.” “Why will you not come?” His reply sent consternation to the hearts of the brothers: “I have even now believed in Jesus Christ, and will no longer have anything to do with idols, nor will I eat anything where idols have been near the food.”
Anandiah had suffered deeply in mind all that night, and the turning-point had now come. The brothers grew angry. He had told them of his intention before the people, and they asked him right there, “Are you going into that Madiga sect?” “Yes.” “Are you going to eat with them?” “I shall eat.” “Then we shall not let you into the house.” “I shall not come if you don’t want me.”
Anger was out of place in the face of such determination. The brothers hid their dismay as best they could, and directed their attention to the present moment. Anandiah had done the hardest part of the work, and it was now their duty to see that he had to eat. They said, “Before we worship the idols, we will send you of the food; eat it wherever you like; even though you join that sect you shall not go hungry.” He suspected that more mantras would be said over his food than over the other. His disgust over night had grown beyond endurance. He replied, “I will have nothing to do with that food.”
They wanted to know where he would eat. He pointed to the house of Malas who were friends, and said they would give him to eat. “But,” the brothers said, “that is not nice food; we shall send you nice meat curry.” This consideration had no power to move Anandiah. “Even though you send nice food, I shall not touch it. I prefer porridge to what you can give me.” Baffled in their intention, they muttered, “Very well; eat what you like,” and went away and left him.
The brothers felt more like crying than like eating the feast that was first offered to the idols and then placed before them. Heavy losses were before them if Anandiah failed them. The part which he took in the performance of the Bhagvatum required more knowledge than they possessed. After they had eaten, they sat down under a tree and waited the coming of Anandiah. “You have lost a very nice meal,” they said as he joined them. “And you have brought punishment upon yourselves by eating yours,” was his reply.
But they were anxious to know their fate. When Anandiah belonged to the Chermanishta sect, the brothers knew that midnight orgies of a very doubtful nature took place twice a year; but they knew not what they were, and asked no questions, for Anandiah still played the Bhagvatum. They were willing again to bear with his belief, but the question was: Would he play the Bhagvatum after he had become a Christian? Pedda Krishniah, therefore, asked him: “When you were in the Ramanuja sect you played the Bhagvatum; in the Chermanishta sect you played; you became a Rajayogi, and yet played. Now that you have become a Christian are you going to play?” Anandiah replied, “I shall never again play.”
The brothers then turned to the financial aspect of the question. They had been asked to perform in several villages. Gain, aggregating one hundred rupees, was in sight. Would he remain with them for one month more? He refused to join them even for one day.
They then tried threats. “We shall influence your wife so that she will not hear your word.” But threats had no effect on Anandiah; he heeded them not.
Once more they appealed to him: “You are a well-read man; you write poetry; but now are you gone mad. How do you expect to make your living?” Anandiah was weary; he said: “Don’t ask me that; God will show me. If He does not see fit to feed me, I’ll die.”
Argument, threat, and appeal had failed to produce any effect. The brothers were silent. It was the lull that precedes the heavier outburst of the storm. They had been proud of Anandiah, nor could the angry excitement of the occasion wholly hide the brotherly affection that shone from their eyes as they asked him very quietly, “Then you will not remain with us?” He shook his head.
The four brothers rose to go home. Two of them hastened, so as to gain time to influence Anandiah’s wife before his arrival. He had married her about six months previously, soon after he had become a Rajayogi. She was fourteen years of age, old enough to meet him with every display of anger when he appeared. In the excited fashion of Hindu women she cried, “I don’t want you any more. I shall go back to my parents!” The brothers tried to prevent Anandiah’s entrance into the house, but he quietly came in as usual. They told the mother not to give him food, and she agreed that she would not; but secretly she gave him all he wanted.
Anandiah was now an outcast. The brothers told the village people that he had gone mad. As the days passed Pedda Krishniah’s heart grew very hard within him. He went to the Malas in other villages and said: “Anandiah has joined that Christian sect, has eaten with the Madigas, and a devil is in him. If he asks you for water, do not give it to him.” He never made salaam to Anandiah, and if he saw him coming one road he took the other. The mother remained firm in befriending Anandiah. She was first a mother and then a Hindu. Anandiah was her son, and she insisted upon giving him an abundant share of well-cooked food just as before, no matter how much she might dislike his new belief. Her presence restrained the angry passions of her sons.
Though he had lost his previous employment, Anandiah would not eat the bread of idleness, and, therefore, began to get the daily supply of grass for the cattle that belonged to the family. This was work which had been done by the women of the household. In turn he demanded his food. The brothers knew that in justice he could claim as his own the largest share of their possessions, and that his self-allotted task was unworthy of his position among them. But as they went without him here and there to perform their priestly rites, they realized how much they had depended upon him, and daily their vexation grew, for people asked them about the madness that possessed Anandiah. In time it was noticed that Venkatiah was very friendly with Anandiah; they often talked together, and seemed to be of one mind. The mother, too, was seen to lean toward Anandiah.
Pedda Krishniah and Chinna Krishniah now found that they were on one side, and Anandiah, Venkatiah, and their mother on the other; yet they were the ones who kept the family income to something approaching their former thrift. They grew very bitter, and finally they joined together for a quarrel. Their charge was that Anandiah and Venkatiah were not helping them in their work as Gurus; that the Bhagvatum could no longer be performed by the brothers; that they were preaching this Christian religion all the time, and besides were doing nothing. They wanted to know how they expected to live. They had their grievance; but the other side, too, felt that they had borne to the utmost, and declared that the two Krishniahs had gone too far in thus beginning an open quarrel. They signified their intention of leaving. Venkatiah’s wife was already in Morampudy. Anandiah’s wife, who continued in angry reserve, was ready to go with them, for her father’s house was there.
Thus they withdrew, and the two Krishniahs had the field to themselves.
Anandiah and Venkatiah had now turned away from the old life, and the new lay before them had they chosen to enter upon it. They left their wives in Morampudy and journeyed to Ongole to see the Missionary. They talked with him and with some of his preachers, and profited by the experience of others. The Missionary respected their motives when they finally told him that they could not be baptized now—they must first win over the members of their household, lest their hearts grow still harder. With faith strengthened and courage fresh, they turned their faces homeward, though they knew what their reception would be. Rumour that they had in fact been baptized had preceded them, and the two Krishniahs had been told in several places that they were no longer acceptable as Gurus. Nothing daunted, Anandiah and Venkatiah now proceeded according to a definite plan. They went to the villages round about to preach, and sometimes stayed away for several days. There was no lack of food wherever they went; they were Christian preachers even before their baptism.
The two Krishniahs said, “They are growing more spiritually-minded; let us take away their books.” Wherever they could find one they stealthily took it away; but the fountain of spiritual life in their brothers had a source far beyond the books which were now so often missing. It was not long before people began to come to the house to ask Anandiah to read to them. This roused the fierce jealousy of the two Krishniahs. They invariably took the Ramayana, or the Bhagavata-Purana, and sat near by, calling Anandiah’s listeners to come away and hear the wonderful tales of their own gods.
The home of the Nambadi family had now become a battle-ground for two religions. The two Krishniahs knew they were losing ground, yet did their best to hold their own, and they enjoyed all the advantages which conservatism grants. They had the past on their side; their belief and their practices had the sanction of centuries of usage. Anandiah and Venkatiah were innovators, heretics, whose end in view was an upheaval of social relations and the subversion of old-time faith. Their attitude, however, was characterized by meekness. Anandiah, whose word had formerly been respected and feared, was now silent when treated as one whose presence was merely endured. The mother had occasion to tell Chinna Krishniah that Anandiah was his elder brother and knew more than he, and that he should not forget this, even though Anandiah was a Christian.
Months passed, and then it was noticed that the joy of anticipation shone in the faces of Anandiah and Venkatiah. The reason for this joyousness was that the Ongole Missionary was coming, and would camp in the grove near their village. In those days, thirty years ago, it was not necessary to send a messenger here and there to ask people to come and hear what the Missionary had to say. The word spread, and was rapidly passed from village to village. From the time that the tent arrived and was unloaded from the carts and pitched ready for its occupant, Anandiah and Venkatiah were scarcely seen at home. The mother, with Pedda Krishniah’s wife, went and listened with an open heart. The two women believed all that the Missionary said about Jesus Christ, but they carefully avoided those who might question them about their belief, and went home and were silent. The mother could not bear to allow anything to rise up as a barrier between herself and her children; Pedda Krishniah’s wife was afraid of her husband.
The two Krishniahs said, “Everybody is going; let us go too.” They held themselves aloof, and proudly stood on one side, for they realized that it was well known how they had treated their brother Anandiah, and thought that proud indifference was the attitude most becoming under the circumstances. But Anandiah was bent on efforts of a conciliatory nature. At the proper time he called the Missionary’s attention to them: “Those are my brothers.” The Missionary spoke kindly to them: “Why do you not believe in Jesus Christ?” The brothers showed by their reply that the spirit of Christ had not yet touched their hearts. They asked, “How are we to earn our living?” The Missionary pointed to the birds fluttering here and there in the trees under which the tent had been pitched. He said, “Does not God feed the birds of the air and the fish in the sea?”
They would not have been willing to admit it, but the two Krishniahs went home in a gentler mood and in a kinder frame of mind than they had known for some time. Pedda Krishniah had some thoughts about the Dora. He had never seen one before near by; but he felt certain that if this Dora had stayed in his own country he would not have lacked food and money. This religion could not, therefore, be worthless if this Dora thought enough of it to go about preaching it. None of these thoughts did he mention to Chinna Krishniah.
Anandiah and Venkatiah could not separate themselves from the Missionary and those who were with him. They followed the camp to the next stopping-place, and not a word that the Missionary spoke were they willing to lose. When at last they arrived at home, it was chiefly Chinna Krishniah who, with some of the village people, made light of their zeal. “Why do you come back?” they asked. “Did not your Guru take you straight to heaven?” Pedda Krishniah said nothing. The mother busied herself with the food, but quietly told Chinna Krishniah that his jests at the expense of Anandiah were out of place. He asked, “Are you, too, taken with the same madness?” The village people, wherever Anandiah went, had many questions to ask about the Dora, his horse, his servants, his tents, about his manner of living, and his sayings and doings. Anandiah found that the Dora’s short stay among them had given him a degree of prestige in that region, of which he was not slow to take advantage.
Pedda Krishniah, meantime, had had an experience which has always seemed to him a remarkable one. It happened before the Missionary came on tour. He had taken Chinna Krishniah with him to a village at some distance, where a man had died, and the family had requested him to perform the usual ceremonies on the twelfth day after the death, in order to rid the house of all uncleanness. Pedda Krishniah bathed in the prescribed way, and then, in the presence of the whole family, he spread a cloth over a large wooden seat, piled rice upon it, and on the rice he placed the idols sacred to the worship of Vishnu. He conducted puja before the idols. The savoury food which had been prepared from the sheep and several fowls that had been killed, of rice and pappoo, and the various spices that constitute a good curry, accompanied by a pot of the intoxicating sarai, was offered to the idols with the prescribed mantras. There was burning of incense and much feasting and drinking that night until all lay down to sleep.
At sunrise one after another rose, and Pedda Krishniah went to the place where the idols had been left standing on the pile of rice ready for the concluding ceremonies. But, behold, the largest of the idols, nine inches high, made of a mixture of copper, silver, and gold, was gone! It was a Venkateswarurdu idol, and had been handed down, with the other nine idols, from father to son. Pedda Krishniah called the heads of the family and said, “How is this? The largest idol is gone!” They looked everywhere. It was not to be found near the house! They looked farther, and finally found it on a pile of rubbish not far from the house. A dog had come overnight, while all were sleeping soundly after their feasting, had bitten the idol to see whether it was eatable, and had carried it away in its teeth.
Fear fell upon the household. “Perhaps,” they said, “the swami is angry, and will not save us from the evil that may fall upon us.” They prepared tamarind water, and Pedda Krishniah washed and cleansed the idol in it. He conducted elaborate puja before it; much incense was burned and many mantras were said, and it was hoped that the swami, Venkateswarurdu, would take no offence at the insult that had been offered.
As the two Krishniahs walked home, the bundle of rice which was the priestly due hung over their shoulders, Pedda Krishniah had many thoughts, which, however, he kept to himself. He reasoned in this wise: “If we have a swami to which we make puja, can the dog carry it off in its teeth? We put up a swami to give it food; it can’t say, It is not enough. It can’t say to the dog, Don’t carry me off. How can such a swami save me? This is mere illusion.”
Pedda Krishniah was a changed man after this experience. The dog that carried away his Venkateswarurdu idol in its teeth caused his belief in idols to totter. But he gave no outward sign of the fact that his intellect no longer furnished assent to the hardness of his heart and the determination of his will. The conflict was there, and the Missionary’s visit only hastened the crisis. He would not yield, however, until he found that he could no longer perform the offices of a priest, even though he would. Of this he soon became convinced.
The two Krishniahs were asked to conduct a household ceremony in a neighbouring village. While on their way they talked together. Pedda Krishniah said: “What do you really think of this Christian religion? Is it good or bad?” His brother said: “Why do you ask me? Say yourself.” Pedda Krishniah then expressed his conviction that it must be a true religion. “We are making fun of Anandiah and Venkatiah,” he said, “but we are doing wrong. What they are doing is right.” It was in a very peculiar frame of mind that he proceeded to conduct the puja. As he took up each idol to put it in its place, he looked toward Chinna Krishniah with a smile of contempt.
The household assembled remonstrated: “We feel weak, for you are not performing the functions of your priesthood with faith!” He then tried to keep up appearances, but his hands shook, he trembled and could hardly proceed. He wondered what would happen, for he had never before thus trembled. He could not say more than part of the usual mantras, and prepared to go home earlier than he was wont. The village people tried to keep him over night, but he refused. Chinna Krishniah was now in great sorrow. He said on their way home: “Brother, it seems you, too, are going to that religion. Then I shall go away to another country.” But his brother comforted him: “Don’t be afraid. We two will stay together as the other two are doing.”
Of the experiences of the night that followed, Pedda Krishniah speaks as follows: “Two men got into my breast, and there was a big fight till morning. Good thoughts came, bad thoughts came. One voice said, ‘If you believe in Jesus Christ, you will be blessed.’ Another voice said : ‘What will you get? Did not your forefathers get heaven? What do you want of this religion?’ Thus I went on the whole night without sleeping. I could not pray; I could only say within myself, ‘O God, take away my sins and let me get to Thy heaven.’ Towards morning I looked on the beam under the thatch of the roof to see whether Anandiah had left any of his books there. I took and read, and then peace came into my mind.”
Pedda Krishniah’s struggle was now ended, but where was Anandiah meantime? “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.” Perhaps it was partly the strain of long waiting and patient endurance that caused his physical strength to ebb low. He was sick, and was staying with friends in a village not far away, who had through him believed in Jesus Christ, but, like him, had not yet been baptized. Pedda Krishniah asked the mother on the morning that brought him peace, “Where is Anandiah?” She told him, and there was silent reproach in the tone of her voice which stung him to the quick.
He went out on the road by which Anandiah must come, and ere long saw him in the distance, leaning on his staff. He, who had often avoided the road by which Anandiah was to come, now walked towards him and made a salaam to him. Anandiah stood still. Not for many months had Pedda Krishniah said salaam to him. He looked at him, and, behold, the hard look was gone from his face. He fell upon his neck and asked : " My brother, how has God changed your heart? How has He given you a mind to come on this better way?" They embraced each other, for the brotherly affection, so long pent up, at last asserted itself. During eighteen months Pedda Krishniah had had, as he to-day says, “a hard devil within.” By sheer reaction the tears now flowed freely as he told Anandiah his whole experience—of the dog that carried away the Venkateswarurdu idol, of the hands that trembled so that he could not perform puja, of the sleepless night when two men were fighting within him.
Anandiah, too, had an experience to relate. He had joined with the friends with whom he was staying in a prayer that, within ten days, Pedda Krishniah might yield and become a follower of Jesus Christ. “Oh, my brother,” he said, “for eight days have I prayed for you; there were yet two days. Last night I had a dream that you and I were praying together, and this morning I could not stay, I came quickly to see whether the change had been wrought.”
They went to the house together. Anandiah said, “Bring your wife, and we will read and pray.” She was sweeping when he called her, but so glad was she to come, she dropped her broom and joined them. The mother came, glad and thankful as such mothers only can be whose abounding love keeps families united. Venkatiah came. All in the house came; and then Pedda Krishniah saw how they had borne with him in long-suffering and kindness these many months. He tried to join them as they sang one of the Christian hymns they had learned; he listened as Anandiah read the seventh chapter in Matthew; he could not pray, but he knelt while Anandiah prayed.
The family then had a talk together. Anandiah said: “In a few days Bangarapu Thatiah will pass through here on his way to Ongole to the monthly meeting. Let us go with him and be baptized.” Pedda Krishniah was not ready. He said : " You go. I have yet to collect a quantity of grain which is due to me here and there on account of the puja I conducted. I’ll gather that in, and after a month I, too, will come." Anandiah would not consent to this plan. He argued with his brother, and finally capped the climax by asking, " If you should die while gathering this grain, where would you go ? " So Pedda Krishniah agreed, and left behind him all that was his as a Mala priest and turned from his priesthood.
The family was not yet a united one. Chinna Krishniah was sorely grieved. At night he slept on one side, and by day he held himself aloof. He was planning to leave his brothers and to join other Mala priests. But the brothers talked kindly to him; they told him that they wanted to go to Ongole to be baptized, and asked him to put away all anger and consider the question carefully. His heart was softened, and he became the youngest disciple among them.
Bangarapu Thatiah arrived with his staff in his hand. He would not sit down and rest until he had heard all. With his quiet dignity and simplicity he said : " God has given this. I prayed for it."
The four brothers became Christian preachers. Three of them left home, and were placed at the outposts of the movement of the Madigas toward Christianity. The mother lived to a ripe old age in the old home with Pedda Krishniah. The coming of Christianity had strangely affected the lives of her sons ; all would have been different if they had remained Mala priests. But she had no regrets, only joy ; because she knew that salvation comes through none other but Jesus Christ.