Life in India/Sanjuvarayan-pettah
Sanjuvarayan-pettah.
One of my most common walks, while at Royapooram, was to the boys' Tamil day-school at Sanjuvarayan-pettah, a suburb at some distance from the mission-house. An appointment having been made over night with the native preacher, before sunrise he was at the house ready to accompany me. Our start needed to be an early one, for a late return in the hot sun would be dangerous to health. The catechist, dressed in a long, close-fitting white robe and white muslin turban, carried in his hands a good supply of tracts, while the missionary bore, in addition to his books, a stout doubly-lined umbrella as a protection from the glare of the sun during the return walk. Leaving the well-made street of Royapooram, we struck off to the west along a sandy road. The Mohammedan families living here stared at the missionary most perseveringly, while the boys cried “Padré! Padré!”[1] after us. At the corner of this road, by the side of a small native house, a slowly-burning rope-match hung from a tree; this showed the piety of the householder, who was laying up treasure in heaven by his benevolence on earth in furnishing a light for segar-smokers! One and another would come up, perhaps making his cheroot (a Tamil word, meaning a roll) as he walked, from the tobacco-leaf in his hand, stop, light his segar with all the gravity of a philosopher, and go puffing on his way. We did not stop, having a different use for our mouths; but making another turn, passed a vegetable garden. Among its beds of spinage, beans, and egg-plants, stood little posts crowned with earthen pots, painted with white and black stripes. These were to protect the crop, not against thieves, but against devils and the evil eye. It is a popular belief that if malicious persons cast an “evil eye” on their fields, in some mysterious way the crop will be destroyed. These pots are stationed prominently among the vegetables, that such noxious glances might first fall upon them, and no damage come to the harvest. They are also esteemed highly efficacious in keeping off the demons, of whom the Hindus stand in constant dread.
It is not their crops alone, but life and health also are supposed to be in danger of misfortune from the glance of evil eyes. They are especially careful to guard their new-born children from such a misfortune. For this purpose a lamp is made from a paste of rice-flour, filled with oil, and lit. It is then waved in circles before the babe, and placed by its side. Visitors will naturally first look at the lamp; and the harm which might result, as they in their superstitious fear suppose, from the glance of sorcerors or evil-disposed persons, will be averted. This is but one of a thousand imaginary dangers of which the heathen inhabitants of India stand in constant dread.
But, having passed through a grove of cocoanut-trees, under which were the huts of poor toddy-drawers from the south, we now entered the street of Sanjuvarayan-pettah. The peon who stood at the police station, making a low salaam, asked for a book. One was given him, and after a little conversation, we passed on. The women stopped their brooms and tongues to have a good look at the padré as we passed; and the monkeys grinned at us from the walls. Even the dogs knew that we were entering a territory to which we had no right, and barked at the white intruder. The boys, early as it was, were at their books in the heathen school, and the dye-men were stirring their pots, and fishing up from the blue indigo long pieces of cotton cloth. The bazaar-men were opening their stalls, and in one a shrivelled old man was showing his charity by breaking a rice cake into morsels and throwing them to the crows. This is esteemed a most meritorious act, and highly pleasing to the gods. It certainly was to the crows, who clustered around with loud caws, and caught the fragments in their bills before they reached the ground.
But here we are at the school: a boy has caught sight of us, and announced the approach of the missionary. The news produces a wonderful state of studiousness in the boys and earnestness in the teacher. The pupils roar out their lessons so as to be heard through all the neighbourhood, and the master is too busy to see us until we are within the door of the school-room. Instantly he commands silence, makes a profound salaam, and gives an account 
Writing on palm leaf, a palm leaf book, and a Hindoo letter written on the palm leaf, p. 147.
of his school, the boys who are out are called in, and reasons given for the absence of others.
The classes are now called up and examined. The little ones spell and repeat their catechism, and the older classes answer to questions in Bible history, read, and recite from the higher Tamil school-books, that we may know whether they have been properly instructed. It is the custom to hold the teacher responsible, and to pay him in proportion to the amount taught the boys. The little fellows, when reciting, stand up in rows, with their arms crossed upon their naked breasts, for a cloth around their middle is their only dress; their heads are shaved except a little tuft upon the crown, which is suffered to grow long, and is a mark of Hindu nationality.
The more advanced pupils use books printed by the mission or the tract society; and the little ones have the sanded floor for primer and copy-book, writing, as in the girls' school, with their fore-finger, and reading as they write. They still, however, in many lessons, adhere to the Hindu custom of writing with an iron style or graver upon strips of palm-leaf, as in the days when Alexander the Great invaded India. The leaf of the palmyra-palm is cut into pieces a foot or two in length, and an inch or more in width. They hold this firmly between the thumb and fingers of the left hand, and taking the sharp-pointed style in the right hand, rest it against the thumb nail of the left, which is notched for this purpose; and thus guiding it, cut the letters into the surface of the olla or palm-leaf. The writing is then made more plain by having powdered charcoal rubbed into the leaf.
By practice, they become so skilful that you may see men writing thus on the olla as they walk along the streets. In church they take notes of the sermon, and in business draw up accounts in this way, both neatly and rapidly.
A book is made by cutting a number of ollas to an even length and breadth, and fitting two pieces of thin board to them; it is bound by a string passing through a round hole in the boards and ollas, and wound around the whole. The covers are often carved and ornamented in accordance with Hindu notions of beauty. By loosening the string, the leaves may be separated, and the book read. When not needed, it is tied up and laid away.
The boys in this, and other schools taught only in Tamil, are generally of the poorer classes; for it is only the desire for acquiring English that will induce those of wealth and rank to attend a Christian school and mingle with boys of inferior caste. Yet we are glad to bring the poor as well as the rich under the influence of the gospel; and although such schools are defective in many respects, they are better than nothing at all. The boys study the Scriptures and Scripture catechisms, attend church on Sunday, and come to the missionary station monthly, or oftener, to be examined. They thus acquire a knowledge of Christianity, and are prepared to understand the preaching of the gospel, as it cannot be understood by one who has been nurtured in complete heathenism. Moreover, we thus get a foothold in the centre of populous heathen districts. We hire the house, and pay the teacher; hence, all feel that it is our school. We go there when we please, and the people seldom complain, for it is now the “Padré's school.” Thus the school becomes a point for preaching, without greatly alarming the prejudices of the people; and the whole cost will only be about five dollars a month, the pay of the teacher included. Imperfect as is the teaching, we feel very sure that could our Christian friends on a Sabbath day enter the mission church, and see the rows of boys seated on the matted floor, and from the pulpit look down upon their upturned faces, they would feel as did our Saviour when he said, “Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not." We cannot believe that the seed thus sown in tender soil will all be lost.
The school-house at Sanjuvarayan-pettah is a single room with plastered brick walls, tiled roof, and earthen floor. It stands immediately on the street, and so answers well as a place for preaching during the day. Formerly evening services were held here by the missionary at the station, and the attendance was very large. Just opposite to the school, however, stands a heathen temple. As will be supposed, it was far from agreeable to the priests that hearers should be flocking into the little school-house to learn that idols were vanity, and idolatry sin. They therefore managed to have special services when the missionary preached, and made so hideous a noise with trumpets, drums, and cymbals, that not a word could be heard. I frequently addressed the people here by day, but was never troubled by the keepers of the temple. The wonder is, not that they oppose us so much, but that they should submit so readily to the intrusion of Christians into their strongholds.
Leaving this pettah, (district,) we turned our steps toward Vanara-pettah, or Washerman-town, probably so named from having been first settled by that caste. Now, it is a large, populous, and intensely heathen district. In one portion of it the old trade is still briskly plied. A number of wells have been dug, and these are all day long surrounded by groups of washermen hard at work. Dipping the various garments in their waterpots, they swing them above their heads, and bring them down on the washing-stones with a force and rapidity that keeps up a perpetual succession of reports, rivalling a discharge of musketry. Threading the streets, we passed long trains of foot-passengers, engaged in the various callings of life—some busy, some lazy, some noisy, some quiet; but alas! all heathen, all going in one way, all living without God and without Christ. It is a sight to call forth compassion, to make the heart bleed. The harvest truly is plenteous, and the labourers are few! But while you pity the mass, you cannot but feel a measure of indignation at the disgusting tyranny and insolence of the religious mendicants who deceive and oppress them. I cannot forget the look of sensual hardihood and brazen impudence of a Vishnuvite whom we met in this walk. He wore the usual robe of his order, and a showy turban. In one hand he bore a fan, in another a bright brass vessel for alms; around his neck was a rosary of beads. The mark of Vishnu, a stripe of yellow between two of white paint, was painted conspicuously on his forehead. And, not only on his forehead, but on his arms, throat, chest, fan, and pot also, was this emblem of his god vain-gloriously displayed. As he passed the houses, he sang from the purannas (holy books) the praises of Vishnu in a loud, insolent tone; nor would he go from one to another until something had been contributed by its inhabitants. We spoke to him; but our words only excited the most contemptuous and scornful derision. "What was religion to him! what did he care for heaven or hell! He filled his belly, and that was enough for him!” and again he commenced his Vishnuvite hymns. Miserable creature! for such there is little hope. Of a truth, "Their God is their belly!"
But let us enter the dingy room on our left; we shall see a more pleasant sight: it is our Vanara-pettah school. A group of boys are conning their lessons. The monitor is writing on an olla-leaf, with his iron style, a lesson for a class. The teacher appears from behind one of the wooden posts which support the roof, and making a low salaam, inquires with oriental politeness after the health of “his reverence” and family. The examination of the classes was not satisfactory, and led us to think that Jair had left the school to the teaching of the monitor, while he was engaged in money-making elsewhere; but excuses abounded, as they always do in the mouth of a Hindu, and a good reason was given for every deficiency. A stranger would have noticed that one boy had his feet fastened by an iron chain to his waist. He had run away from home and played truant, and now his father had padlocked his feet to keep him at home; this is a common punishment. Another little fellow has his hair matted in long filthy locks all over his head. Why is he not shaved like the rest? His parents have made a vow to present his hair as an offering to the god at Tirupathy, and hence it is not cut or combed. At the next annual festival he will ask for leave of absence, to go and present his locks to the god in his temple.
We had yet another use for our school. The highest class was arranged near the open door for examination. Standing on the Piol (portico) outside, we questioned them in a catechism called “The Spiritual Lamp.” This, as was intended, soon attracted a crowd of listeners around the door. By question and answer the boys were made to preach the great truths of Christianity to them, until, at a favourable point, the discourse was turned from the boys to the assembled group of men, and the worth of the soul and the way of salvation declared to them. Thus, through the school, the truth finds an entrance into the minds of those who would never come near a mission church, and that not in an obtrusive way.
- ↑ Padré, meaning father, is a term first borrowed from the Portuguese, and applied to priests—now to all European and American clergymen.