A Wreath of Indian Stories

by A. L. O. E.

“You have all to-morrow to work in,” observed Parduman, the bearer.

“To-morrow is Sunday, the day set apart for worship and praise,” said Shib Das. “I have given up working on that day since I have become a Christian.”

Then Parduman waxed angry, and roughly took back the necklace.

“The Sahib and Sahiba are Christians,” he cried, “and they do their work or take their pleasure on Sundays. Dost thou, O owl, and son of an owl, set thyself up as one wiser, or holier than they?”

“Whatever others do, I have simply to obey what is written in my sacred Book,” said the Christian: “Remember the Sabbath, to keep it holy.”

Then Parduman, who hated all Christians, and most especially such as were real ones, burst into a torrent of abuse. Every bitter and insulting epithet that he could think of flowed from his lips, as venom from the mouth of a snake. Bál Mukand, from his dark corner, watched to see how his friend would endure the provocation which he was receiving. “Shib Das is of a fiery temper,” he said to himself; “he is also strong and bold. He will give that foul-mouthed wretch sharp words back, or something sharper than words.” Bál Mukand saw that the angry blood was rising to the cheek of Shib Das, and expected a burst of passion to follow. But the servant of Christ pressed his own lips firmly together, and returned not railing for railing. He only said, as his enemy, still pouring forth abuse, turned to depart, “It is a fortunate thing for you, O bearer, that I am a Christian.”

“There is a strange change in this Shib Das,” thought Bál Mukand. “I have known him in former days strike a man to the earth for far less provocation than this. It is assuredly not cowardice that makes him now thus calmly endure. If all men had the firmness and patience of this Shib Das, this would indeed be a happy land. The silent endurance of such men as this Christian, shows more true courage than the boldest deeds of the warrior.”

Bál Mukand had but a short time to give to such reflections, for scarcely had the bearer left the jeweller’s shop when the sound of a fearful scuffle was heard in the street. Three thieves of the city had gained information that Parduman had in his charge a necklace of inestimable value. Lurking near the goldsmith’s shop, these thieves had heard the abuse lavished by the bearer on the Christian. While revilings and curses were yet on the lips of Parduman, he was suddenly felled to the earth by a blow. Being active and strong, he struggled again to his feet, calling out loudly for help. But the three thieves were far more than a match for the bearer. A second time he was hurled bleeding to the ground, and his wicked tongue might then have been silenced for ever, had not the brave Shib Das rushed out of his shop to the help of his enemy. The jeweller had snatched up a heavy stick on hearing Parduman’s cry for help; and of this stick he made such vigorous use that the thieves were not only put to flight, but forced to leave the jewels behind them.

The care of Shib Das was then given to his wounded enemy. He offered to bind Parduman’s hurts as kindly as if he had been his brother; but the Hindu declined his aid. Shib Das then brought him water to drink; but the bearer refused to take it from his hands: he would have thought himself polluted by touching with his lips the vessel of the Christian.

Bál Mukand had watched the whole scene with keen interest. “If all men were generous and forgiving as this Christian,”—this was the thought of Bál Mukand,—“this would indeed be a happy land. Does yon bigoted Hindu fear pollution from the touch of Shib Das? Were the bearer not blinded by superstition, he would know that there is no caste so high and pure as that of the children of God.”