Lighted to Lighten: The Hope of India | Page 4

The Aryan Brother.
"Once upon a time" Abraham pitched his tent beneath the oaks of
Mamre, and Moses shepherded his father-in-law's flocks at "the back
side of the desert." It was then that down through the grim passes of the
Himalayas, where now the British regiments convoy caravans and
guard the outposts of Empire, a people of fair skin and strange speech
migrated southward to the Land of the Five Rivers and the fat plains of
the Ganges. Aryan even as we, the Brahman entered India, singing
hymns to the sun and the dawn, bringing with him the stately Sanskrit
speech, new lore of priest and shrine, new pride of race that was to
cleave society into those horizontal strata that persist to-day in the caste
system. Thus through successions of Stone-Age men, Dravidian tribes,
and Aryan invaders, India stretches her roots deep into the past. But
while there were transpiring these
"Old, unhappy, far-off things And battles long ago,"
where were we? The superior Anglo-Saxon who speaks complacently
of "the native" forgets that during that same "once upon a time" when
civilization was old in India, his ancestors, clad in deer skin and blue
paint, were stalking the forests of Europe for food.
Gifts to the West.
Nor did these old civilizations forbear to reach hands across the sea and
share with the young and lusty West the fruits of their knowledge. On a
May morning, as skillful carriers swing you up to the heights of the
South India hills, there is a sudden sound reminiscent of the home
barnyard, a scurry of wings across the path, and a gleam of glossy
plumage; Mr. Jungle Cock has been disturbed in his morning meal. Did

you know that from his ancestors are descended in direct lineage all the
Plymouth Rocks and the White Leghorns of the poultry yard, all the
Buff Orpingtons that win gold medals at poultry shows? Other food
stuffs India originated and shared. Sugar and rice were delicacies from
her fields carried over Roman roads to please the palates of the
Caesars.[5]
Traditions of Womanhood.
Besides these contributions to the world's pantry, there were gifts of the
mind and spirit. To those days of long ago modern India looks back as
to a golden age, for she was then in the forefront of civilization, passing
out her gifts with a generous hand. Of that ancient heritage not the least
part is the tradition of womanhood,--a heritage trampled in the dust of
later ages, its restoration only now beginning through that liberty in
Christ which sets free the woman of the West and of the East.
Much might be written on the place of the Indian woman in folk-lore
epic and drama. Helen of Troy and Dido of Carthage pale into common
adventuresses when placed beside the quiet courage and utter
self-abnegation of such Indian heroines as Sita and Damayanti.
The story of Rama and Sita is the Odyssey of the East, crooned by
grandmothers over the evening fires; sung by wandering minstrels
under the shade of the mango grove; trolled by travelers jogging in
bullock carts along empty moonlit roads. Sita's devotion is a household
word to many a woman-child of India. Little Lakshmi follows the
adventures of the loved heroine as she shares Rama's unselfish
renunciation of the throne and exile to the forest with its alarms of wild
beasts and wild men. She thrills with fear at Sita's abduction by the
hideous giant, Ravana, and the wild journey through the air and across
the sea to the Ceylon castle. She weeps with Rama's despair, and again
laughs with glee at the antics of his monkey army from the south
country, as they build their bridge of stones across the Ceylon straits
where now-a-days British engineers have followed in their simian track
and train and ferry carry the casual traveler across the gaps jumped by
the monkey king and his tribe. Sita's sore temptations in the palace of
her conqueror and her steadfast loyalty until at last her husband comes

victorious--they are part of the heritage of a million Lakshmis all up
and down the length of India.
[Illustration: WHAT WILL LIFE BRING TO HER?]
Of the loves of Nala and Damayanti it is difficult to write in few words.
From the opening scene where the golden-winged swans carry Nala's
words of love to Damayanti in the garden, sporting at sunset with her
maidens, the old tale moves on with beauty and with pathos. The
Swayamvara, or Self Choice, harks back to the time when the Indian
princess might herself choose among her suitors. Gods and men
compete for Damayanti's hand among scenes as bright and stately as
the lists of King Arthur's Court, until the princess, choosing her human
lover, throws about his neck the garland that