India inklings : the story of a blot

Book 1 A^sr

Ci)PaRIGHT DEPOSm

MARGARET T. APPLEGARTH

Little drops of ink, little lines of pen,

Make the India Inklings tell us why and when.

Ink is the friendliest little soul that ever was — and quite the Greatest Introducer in the world: "Come now, let me make you two acquainted!" is the tune he daily sings, as he writes dictionaries to make strange words familiar, arithmetics to make slippery sums give proper answers, and geographies to make vast continents nod pleasantly to one another. As for storybooks, perhaps you will be glad to meet even a blot when the India Ink uncorks his inklings for you!

THE STORY OF A BLOT

BY MARGARET T: APPLEGARTH

Author of "LamfUghters Across the Sea^^ "Missionary Stories for Little Folks,** etc.

WITH INKLINGS DRAWN BY THE AUTHOR

INDIA INKLINGS. II

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

HERE ARE ALL THE STORY CHAPTERS

They call this page a "Table of Contents" in grown-up books, as if you were invited to sit down and order a meal from a menu card; but it never would do to eat an Inkling (ask grandfather in Chapter XIII) . So I really like our way the best, don't you?

I Only a Blot, 15

II The Story That Ends Twice, 22

III When Manikam Minded His Mother, 31

IV My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean, 40

V One to Begin, Two to Make Ready, and Three

to Go! 51

VI Guess Again, 63

VII Church-Bell Billy Turns Into a Book-Seller, 73

VIII Mr. Pied Piper, M.D., 81

IX Hide and Go Seek, 92

X The Trouble-Called-Christmas, 10 1

XI When Christmas Came to Town, 113

XII The Worm That Preached a Sermon, 124

XIII How Grandfather Ate His Relatives, 133

XIV Cut! Cut! Cut! Ca-da-cut! 142

XV Manikam Shakes the Tulsi Tree, 151 XVI Worth Her Weight in Gold, 161

AND THESE ARE THE INKLINGS THAT YOU WILL SEE

Ink is the Friendliest Little Soul That Ever Was^^

Frontispiece Only a Blot, 17

Blot Plunges into Deep Trouble, 23 You Can Hardly Blame Manikam, 33 A Quaint Old Full-Sailed Vessel, 41 Elephant Tail and Other Tales, 53 Bonnie Aunt Unpacks Her Household Goods, 65 You Wonder When Billy Slept, 75 Village Detectives Hot on the Trail of Mr. Pied

Piper, M.D., 83 "You Stay So Short and You Go So Long," 93 This Inkling, Alas ! Has a Blinkling, 103 The Stars Looked Down, 115 How Dearly the New Christians Prized God*s House,

125 New Inklings About Little Drops of Water, 135 Machamma's Hen, 143 Tin Lizzie Shakes Tulsi Tree, 153 Angel Weighs Her as She Sleeps^ 163

ix

Little drops of ink, little lines of pen,

Make the India Inklings tell us why and when.

AND THESE ARE THE PEOPLE YOU WILL READ ABOUT

DEVIDAS, the villain of this tale, I fear; although he did the best he knew, and eventually lived out the meaning of his Indian name, "Servant of God." Meanwhile imagine naming his daughter —

MACHAMMA (our heroine) who began by being only a Blot, who ended by being Joy.

PITCH AM MA, her dear puzzled mother, with another aU wrong name, meaning "Crazy One."

MANIKAM, her cousin, that great discoverer of scales and clocks and drops of water who brought home many inklings of a new life to

GRANDFATHER

GRANNY

UNCLES

AUNTS

MRS. DRAKE, only she will really never be called this probably, since to Tim and to Tom and to us she is "Bonnie Aunt," to the Blot she is "Amma," to the morning glories their "Bit-of-Whiteness," while to every one else in the Town of the Twisted Tulsi Tree she is "Mem Sahib."

DR. DRAKE, known in India as the "Doctor Sahib," but to Tim and Tom as "Uncle Harry," alias "Mr. Pied Piper, M.D."

xi the rest of their family.

xii People You Will Read About

KRYPAMMA ("Grace").

LAKSHMAMMA ("The Fortunate One").

DUKHI ("One in Pain").

MANORAMA ("Heart's Joy").

RICHER-THAN-RUBIES, the little brown saint, who

was their Bible woman.

SATHIAVADAM, that brown man of wisdom, teacher

of boys.

Three wise men ^who brought precious gifts to the Saviour.

NURSAI (with a crick in his back from gathering fagots)

PURUSHOTHAM (the carpenter)

CHUNDER SINGH (the farmer) J

TIM and TOM, the Twinnies, who walk in and out of these pages trailing clouds of glory, and mailing a dozen nice things to India which you really might mail yourself, now that youVe had an inkling or two of what's needed.

'As for the queer little pictures, they are only put in this hook to show Tim and Tom {and you, of course) the kind of Inklings almost any pen will draw when dipped in

ONLY A BLOT

^^OBODY dared tell the baby's father 1 The grand- -^^ mother said that as for her she simply couldn't and wouldn't.

"Then you do it 1" said the Old Aunt.

"No, no! You're oldest, you tell him," urged the Youngest Aunt.

Whereupon all the in-between aunts and cousins and neighbors wagged their heads sympathetically. Here was a fix, indeed: who would tell the father that he was a. father? For plainly, nobody wanted to! So the little new baby obligingly settled the dreadful question by lifting up its brand-new voice and wailing as loud as it could, which was surprisingly louder than any one dreamed it would be, considering how inexperienced the baby was at howling. In fact, it was such an altogether satisfactory howl that it reached the ears of Devidas, the father, as he came sauntering down the street under the cocoanut palm-trees, and he hurried indoors with his face beaming.

"Ah!" he called. "Did I not hear the voice of a little son calling me?"

IS

"Salaam, oh, lord and master," quailed the Old Aunt, wringing her poor brown hands, ''we have bad news to break to you ; for your son is a daughter, alas ! alas!"

He could hardly believe his ears. "A d-daughter?" he stammered. "But how could the gods send me a daughter, woman? Surely not after I have spent all those many rupees on that rich feast for the temple priests — and after all those other rupees I gave to repair the idol car — and those sumptuous offerings of food at the shrines — "

"Alas ! Alas !" groaned the aunts and cousins and neighbors in a dismal chorus, wagging their heads in utter discouragement.

One glance at their sorry looks convinced him that the longed-for son was indeed a daughter, so he scowled at them each and all. "Leave me alone!" he ordered in his sternest voice; they meekly backed out of the room. But the baby, who did not yet understand this business of being so meek and disappearing in silence, wailed a still louder wail than before — as if to say: "There, father! Better than the last one, wasn't it? I should think you'd be pretty proud of a child who can howl like this when only two hours old!"

But Devidas was not proud at all ; he was too much upset. Presently he went out and told all his relatives how upset he was — a girl, bah! Didn't his youngest brother have a son already, the bright little Manikam ? Well, he wanted a son, too. Daughters were worse than nothing. Yes, the relatives wagged their heads; daughters hardly counted.

Only a Blot

In case you have no Inkling as yet about this business of being "only a blot," you will soon find out how conspicuously inconvenient it was for Devidas — and Machamma, too!

Only a Blot 19

Then he went to the temple to tell the priests, and they agreed that it was really too bad, but if he had only bought ghee to pour over the idols. . . .

''Ghee ?" groaned the almost bankrupt father. *'Why I did buy melted butter, sirs, don't you remember?"

Oh, so he had. Well, it was too bad. But the gods were probably displeased with him, otherwise it should certainly have been a son, after all the trouble he had taken.

All this time the baby was still practicing wails — up and up the scale she soared, oh! if she had only been a quiet baby! But in that case this book might never have been written, for it is a fact that when she was noisiest, her grandmother said : "My poor Devidas, what will you name your little un- wanted child?" and he answered in great disgust: "What do I care what she's called, she's nothing but a blot. To-day I had dealings with a merchant, and while I was waiting I plainly saw him dip his pen in ink and start to do the thing called writing, when lo! a splash of ink dropped on the paper. 'Macha!' he cried. *Blot! It is no good,' and he flung it aside, choosing a fresh sheet. Well, this undesirable is also a blunder, not fit to be counted in the family."

So "Blot" she was called, although in the language of India it sounds rather lovelier, I think : Machamma; but you will soon see that being a Blot feels the same in any language. Rather an uncomfortable "feel" !

But have you noticed how the Lord God has put something into even heathen mothers' hearts which makes them love an awkward, lonely child the very best o£ all? So Pitchamma, her mother, loved Machamma in secret, and tried patiently to teach her quiet ways and gentle habits, so that she might not disturb that Man of Wrath, her father. But you only need to look at the blot in this book to see that although it never says a single word, yet every time you turn the page there it is! Quiet, perhaps, but, oh! so conspicuously noticeable. Thus, every time he came indoors, Devidas saw Machamma, and wished he knew some easy plan for getting rid of her. Which, you must admit, was not a very cheerful way to start being a baby !

But Machamma made the best of it. Indeed, she was bubbling over with such delightful little secrets of her own that it was a year or two before it dawned on her what a blot she was; you see, the first year there were her ten fascinating brown toes to be counted over and over again ; or, lying on her back, there were the thousand tickly flies to play with while they buzzed and buzzed and buzzed the drowsiest of lullabies. Then the second year she was very busy exploring this queer place she lived in, with its mud walls and its straw roof and cracks in its earthen floor where grains of rice and corn had fallen once upon a time, and still lay wedged for little brown fingers to pry loose. Not a nook nor a cranny was there into which Machamma did not creep, except alas ! into her father's heart, for she had already begun to discover the truth about the blot business, so that by the time she reached the Mud-Pie-Age she would drop even the fattest and

Only a Blot 21

most bewitching of these little pies and scoot pell-mell to hide in the folds of her mother's saree when she heard him coming. Yet all on account of a mud pie, she . . . but that is another story !

II The Story That Ends Twice

nr^HERE is this to be said about mud pies: you simply cannot make them successfully out of plain dust. The dust needs to be properly wet; and in India there is not a drop of rain for nine months of the year — this was one of those dry-season months, yet here was Machamma wanting more than anything else to make pies, but altogether hindered because there was no wetness anywhere. Even the big clay water pots stood empty. But she knew where there was water : indeed, the most fascinating water in town !

It stood in a tiny corked vase up on the god-shelf, with the row of painted idols, and there was a story about it, although she never properly understood why any one should go to so much trouble for such a very little bit of water. Why not dip up all you wanted from the village well right here at home ? But it seems that once upon a time her grandfather had wanted to find peace. They tell you in India that the best possible way to find peace is to go off on a search for it, so he went on a very long pilgrimage, with all his rupees and annas (Indian coins) tied into a corner of his turban. When he left, Machamma was only a baby; when he returned, she was three years old — and from the stories he told Machamma knew there could hardly be one temple in all India where he did

Blot Plunges into Deep Trouble 23

Here is an inkling about a sad sprinkling that made a mud pie and plunged our little Blot into deep trouble!

The Story That Ends Twice 25

not stop to worship, seeking peace, and giving an anna to the priest so that the idol might be awakened.

For idols, it seems, although carved from wood or stone to sit motionless from one year's end to the other, sometimes go off on spirit journeys; or — even with eyes staring wide open — they take naps. What would be the good of traveling weary miles to worship them if they took no notice? But priests who live in temples understand the ways of idols, and for a little money they will beat a gong to recall the gods from their journeys or arouse them from their slumbers. You can see what an expensive thing this continual rousing would be to a grandfather absent from home for two years, and how one by one every coin tied up in his turban would be given away. But by that time he had reached the River Ganges; and the River Ganges is like no other water on earth. Every inch of it is sacred, the Hindus will tell you; every drop of it is holy. People who bathe in it lose all their sins, and people who die on its banks go straight to Nirvana.

You may be sure that Machamma's grandfather bathed in it (with ten thousand other pilgrims!) and it occurred to him that if he only took some Ganges water home with him his troubles would be over. So he filled a little vase, and started all those weary miles toward home. Villagers along the route treated him with marvelous respect, for had he not been at the Ganges? And was he not, therefore, blessed of the gods? They gave him curry and rice for his meals, and asked leave to touch his precious vase, for perhaps this might be the nearest they would ever come to gaining peace.

And it was this very vase of water at which the thoughtless Machamma stood gazing wistfully on the day when her mud pies proved mudless. How she did wish she were taller ! She stood on tiptoe and stretched out her little brown arm as high as it would reach, but the god-shelf was still higher. There are ways of growing tall-in-a-minute, however; and the quickest of these is to stand on something.

Families in India who sit on the floor with their legs tucked under them do not have chairs or tables in their homes, of course; but there is generally a basket somewhere. Machamma found one and dragged it directly under the shelf. Climbing on top, she reached for that just-too-high vase. Girls who are blots really should not do such things, but Machamma, alas! was most successful in her grasping, and presently went pattering out-of-doors to make the most delightful mud you ever saw.

'1 won't use all the water right away," said she to herself, like a very economical housekeeper. "I'll make it last!" So she dabbled and puddled and patted a quaint little shape, with such complete forgetting of everything else that it was just as if she were alone in a world without people. Whereas all the time some one was coming nearer step by step. Some one who thought she was only a blot was provoked to find a blot having such a blissful time, — humming, I declare! Some one who looked a little closer gave a gasp of astonishment, then a roar of rage . . . and the first

The Story That Ends Twice 27

thing poor Machamma knew, she was not f eehng alone in the world at all, for some one was shaking her so violently that the palm-trees seemed to dance a dizzy jig before her eyes and her teeth rattled noisily against each other,

"You horrible child ! You wretch of a girl — where did you get that sacred vase? Speak up! Are you daft? Are you brainless? Tell me."

It was hardly sensible of Devidas to shake her quite so hard and then expect an answer, for Machamma was too busy catching her breath to manage a sentence.

"You provoking little baggage ! You girl-nuisance ! Speak — is this indeed my father's sacred vase of holy Ganges water?'*

Machamma choked out a few words : "All t-t-t-that's 1-1-1-left, b-but I'll f-f-fill it f-f-from t-the w-w-well again, f-father."

"Fill it with ordinary village water?" gasped her outraged father. "You're crazy!" And such really dreadful things happened to her then that surely you will not care to hear how heathen fathers treat their little heathen daughters ; but the bruises on Machamma's arm could tell a story, the tears in Machamma's eyes could tell a story, — to me those tears seem far more precious than that dirty stagnant water from the Ganges ; so I am glad that after all the awfulness was over, there was Machamma's mother to creep in on tiptoe and gather the little girl in her arms : "Oh, little Apple-of-My-Eye, how couldst thou do this foolishness? Have I not told thee often not to touch their things? To keep out of their way? Oh, my little Jar-of-Milk-and-Honey, did they hurt thee? Thy mother feels that hurting, also!"

The little Jar-of-Milk-and-Honey clung to those dear arms; oh, I really do not know what little heathen girls would do if God had not made mothers loving .. .

But all this time a solemn family conference was going on about Machamma's mud pie. Grandfather said how could it be just a mud pie any more, now that it was mixed with sacred water? So the first thing anybody knew he and his sons went to see the village idol maker.

"There is a thought in my head," said grandfather, "that from mud like this you could make us a god."

"W-well," hesitated the man who made idols, "of course I might. It is not a thing I ever did before, however — ^to use other people's mud! But I can see that this is not ordinary earth any longer. It will cost you many rupees, but I don't suppose mere money makes a difference to troubled heads like yours."

"Money makes a great deal of difference," Machamma's uncles replied in a scandalized chorus. "We are poor. We have little rice for our stomachs. We have many mouths to feed. How much will you charge ?"

You should have heard the bickering and bargaining!

"That fellow is trying to take the very eyebrows off our faces !" sighed Devidas.

"He will drive us to drown in the well!" cried Manikam's father.

The Story That Ends Twice 29

"He thinks we are rich Brahmans V- sneered grandfather.

"Not much," snapped the idol-maker, and spat on the ground in disgust. "You want such a cheap idol it will do you no good! Take your mud elsewhere, I beg you."

Then every one suddenly noticed a thing they should have thought of before. The mud was no longer mud ! All by itself it had dried into the shape Machamma had made — her funny little pie was now baked as hard as could be by the heat of India.

"In that case, of course," said the idol-maker, shrugging his shoulders, "I should have to wet it all over again with more Ganges water in order to mold it anew."

"Impostor ! Cheat ! Sly dog !" gasped grandfather. "Do you think I would trust you with my few remaining drops of water? I must save them for the time when I die! But I see your craftiness, you who have never traveled all those weary miles would set aside my Ganges water for yourself and use ordinary liquid in molding us an idol ! I see your plot ! I know you ! Come, my sons, let us be gone — we dare not trust the little that remains in that vase to any mortal."

"True!" said Machamma's father.

"Wise, indeed!" said Manikam's father.

"Sensible!" agreed the other sons.

"But what to do with the mud pie?" worried grandfather.

"Put it on the god-shelf, of course," Devidas suggested. And at sunset time those six grown men walked down the village street carrying that silly little cake of earth ; but it was a serious thing to them — for there was water in that earth which had taken two long years of pilgrimage to gain. A little slice of grandfather's "peace" was lost in it; so up on the shelf it went, elbowing the painted idols ; and down in grandfather's heart was a sense of worship toward it and every morning granny laid a flower before it, or a little rice. So that it was almost as if Machamma had brought them a new god !

But this story ends twice; and by and by you shall hear of another God whom Machamma also brought home to them: a very real God, not made of mud or daubed with paint. Yet in the weary meantime Machamma lies whimpering in the corner, for bruises hurt, and this little maker of images does not dream that she will ever be a Voice crying in the wilderness : ''Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God.'*

Ill

WHEN MANIKAM MINDED HIS MOTHER

"1% /TACHAMMA crouched in a corner and looked at ■^^■^ her cousin Manikam with the roundest eyes in India. For Manikam would not do the thing his mother ordered. Manikam never minded his mother. Boys weren't expected to! Oh, how grand it must be to thrash around with your arms hitting everybody in sight and shouting: "I won't! I won't! I won't! I won't go near that dreadful big thing. I won't hang a wreath of marigolds around its neck. They are paper marigolds, anyway. I won't go! I won't! I won't! I won't light the incense stick — I wovft!"

**Just listen to this fine little grandson of mine," said granny. "None of my own sons ever showed such a fine spirit."

"None of them ever got his own way like Manikam does," snickered the Old Aunt gleefully. "Look at the bruise he made on my arm! He's a fine strong boy. A big brave boy."

All the in-between aunts began chanting a sing-song chorus : "Manikam is brave — he knows he is his mother's oldest son — he knows he does not have to mind her — oldest sons never mind their mothers — they are brave — they know that some day she will have to mind themT

Even down in her safe corner Machamma shuddered.

Suppose he should come near her with those fists! But oh, how grand to be a boy and get your own way 1 How often Pitchamma had whispered to her Httle daughter that if she would only be very, very good all her life the gods might turn her into a boy when she died. Think of coming back to the earth as a hoy. To be born again as a hoy. No wonder all the girls were wishing it ! Boys were always right. They had their own way. They bossed the women around. They did not mind grannies or Old Aunts. The more noise they made and the crosser they grew, the more people said: "Splendid boy! A son to be proud of! A son to brag about in the market-place!'*

Quite different from being a Blot, thought Machamma. A silent, tongue-tied Blot!

Then into this scene of Manikam's noise came grandfather. Things quieted down. Every one stood stockstill.

"What is this all about?" asked grandfather.

Manikam strutted up and down the room, waving a disgusted hand : "These women keep plaguing me to go to the temple. They want me to worship the idol. I will not worship that idol. He stares at me with big white eyes. He grins at me with big red lips. He has big strong fingers. He towers way up in the air. He is dreadful to look at! I do not want to hang a wreath of marigolds around his neck. I won't go near him!"

Grandfather winked his eye at the Old Aunt : "That's the way to talk ! But don't you know that idol is just wood? He can't move his strong fingers to grab you Can Hardly Blame Manikam 33

You can hardly blame Manikam for not wanting to get near enough to garland this hideous, unlovable idol; cocoanut-throwing was more fun, but unsuccessful, alas !

When Manikam Minded His Mother Si*

you. These women have gone the wrong way about urging you, of course. Women have no brains in their heads. But you and I will go to the temple together. We will take some rice on a big green leaf.''

"But I am very hungry for that rice myself/' groaned Manikam, rubbing his empty stomach.

"Of course you are hungry. Aren't we all hungry? Isn't there famine in town? Nobody has enough to eat, for the rains do not come and the crops are dying. Maybe the god is hungry, my boy; maybe he is angry because you never kneel to worship him; maybe he would like it if you garlanded him and prayed: *0h, send us food! Send us rain!' He really might send it, you know. You never can tell what will tickle their fancy."

So Manikam minded his mother by minding his grandfather. Boys had to*mind Indian grandfathers! Manikam marched off carrying the snowy rice on his green leaf. The priest struck a gong which echoed all through the temple, then they went inside. It was dark and gruesome after the blinding sunlight outdoors. In spite of the heat, Manikam shivered. But just as they told him to do, he knelt and laid the rice on the big painted knees of the idol.

"Send us rain ! Send us food ! Be pleased to send us rain! Be pleased to send us food!" he piped out in a thin little voice that sent cold shudders down his back.

Then he was lifted high up to loop his paper garland around the dreadful wooden neck and to pray into that mammoth wooden ear: ''We beseech thee, hear us! We beseech thee, hear us."

And that was all anybody could do, of course.

But just as he and his grandfather left the temple, he looked over his shoulder to be sure that those evil hands were not clutching at his little bare legs, when lo! he saw a strange sight: the priest was eating the rice!

"I wanted that rice myself," Manikam cried. "I am hollow all up and down inside me. Why does he eat it ? What will the god do to him ? Will he strike him dead?"

*Tut! tut!" mumbled grandfather. "You talk too much. Those silly women spoil you." But he also would have liked the rice. He felt very thin and old and tired. He hoped the god would like to have his priest so plump and well fed from eating everybody's offerings. Of course one never knew what would take an idoFs fickle fancy. . . .

Quite evidently it made no difference to them that one small scared boy had hung his garland and gone without his supper. After a rainless week of waiting the priests agreed it would be well to give their god an outing. Perhaps he was bored indoors.

You never saw a stranger sight in all your life: that monstrous doll-like image taking a ride through the streets in a great gold cart. Shining it was! Gleaming it was ! Much decorated it was ! And drawn by a hundred hot, perspiring Brahmans.

Everybody in town watched it go by, shouting, singing, dancingjj praying, surging left and surging right,

When Manikam Minded His Mother 37

yelling, screaming, swarming around the golden wheels, beating their breasts and crying : "Remember us once more! Remember us and save us!"

This was the day when Manikam really did mind his mother.

"Sweet little son," she said, "see — here are two cocoanuts. I was saving them for ourselves, but this is such a grand festival, surely we should please the idol and not ourselves. So take the cocoanuts, lad; and when the cart comes past throw them carefully, aim them directly under the wheels. For if the cocoanuts break, then good luck will be ours !"

Manikam grinned. This was more in his line. "Watch me!" he boasted, and flung the first cocoanut. But it rolled far astray and a Brahman priest picked it up.

Manikam minded.

Plop! went the second cocoanut — crash! splash! It had broken on the wheels.

"Now the idol will send us good luck !" cried grandfather.

"Good luck!" echoed the uncles, all of whom were hungry.