That Eurasian

by Aleph Bey

The days and the weeks passed and I became well pleased with my place. I followed the larger boys and they seemed to like me very much, calling me “The little one.” But one day they laughed at me when I spoke of the sahib who made a noise with the big box as the “Sahib without a beard.” This tickled them greatly, and for several days they often repeated “Sahib without a beard.” They explained that she was the mem sahib, the sahib’s bibi. I think some one must have told her about it, for the next time she came into the chapel she patted my cheeks and called me some pet name. This greatly pleased me and more than made up for the laughter of the boys. I had learned that the name of the large room was the girja, or chapel.

CHAPTER IV.

I was now as hungry to learn as I once was for food, and was soon changed from one class to another. I could not help learning for it was a delight to me. On entering the school I was put in a class studying English, and I gave my whole mind to learning this language, and the munshi who taught this class, seeing me so interested, allowed me to study with him out of school hours. Each new word and idea gave me extreme pleasure. I was very busy with my lessons, caring little for the simple sports of the boys. Yet busy as I was, often at night and often when I was sitting under the big tree my thoughts went back to the two upper rooms in that little court. It all seemed like a dream, and yet so real.

I always commenced with those rupees, poured into the dear mama’s lap. I could not go beyond their clinking sound, for at that moment my conscious life was born. I saw the white sahib standing there, the pitiful face of the mama, the tears running down her cheeks. I saw her clinging to his feet and him rushing from the room, and heard again her wailing cries. How well I recalled her sitting day after day, from week to week, peering with those large eyes toward the west; how the two men carried her away, so far away that she never returned. The grief I then experienced always came to me whenever I thought of her. Then followed the thoughts of that desperate poverty, the fearful zemindar, our wanderings, the scene at the death of the new mama, and always the good old faqir came in for a grateful thought.

The little sister—was she ever left out? Never. That little face, radiant with smiles and the mama’s eyes, my joy, my all, how could I forget her? Recalling these chapters of my life always gave me pain instead of pleasure, yet they would be remembered. If we could blot out all the pain and follies of the past and retain only the good and pleasant, what happy mortals should we be! But memory is eternal.

My reveries always ended with thoughts of the sister, and one day my desire about her became so intense that I felt I must see her. I had often been told that some day I would be taken to see her, and this kept me quiet, but now it seemed the time had come. I went to the sahib and begged him to let me go at once. He said that the next morning early he would send a munshi with me. I scarcely slept at all that night. I arose a number of times and went out to see if morning had not come. At the first glimpse of it I aroused the munshi and we departed, for a number of miles on a bullock cart and then by what he called the rehl. This was a wonderful experience to me, but I was thinking only of the little sister, wondering if she had grown, how she would look, what she would say and a thousand things about her and what I should say to her. The munshi on the way had bought some little ornaments, playthings and sweets for me to give to her, as he said we must not go khali hath, and it was very good of him to think of it, as no one ever should go with an empty hand.

How happy was I when the rehl stopped and I caught sight of the orphanage. I was trembling with joy and could scarcely walk. We soon reached the door and were shown into a room where there was a mem sahib. The munshi told her our errand. “O,” said she in Hindustani, “the little one has gone. A sahib and mem sahib came and said they would take her to be their little girl.” “Who are they and where have they gone?” asked the munshi. I heard nothing but the word, gayi, gone. It was the same word that I heard when the mama went away. My intense anxiety, kept on the stretch for so many hours, at the mention of that fatal word, was so suddenly checked, that it seemed that I was not dying but was dead. I remembered nothing more, but it must have been hours after that I found myself lying upon a cot and some one bathing my head.

A day or two after we left for home. The munshi was very sad and disappointed, for he had shared my joy in anticipation, as he now shared my sorrow. I took no pleasure in looking out of the windows of the rehl, nor cared whether we stopped anywhere or whether we went on. My heart was dead, my life had stopped and all desire had ceased. The dear mama and all I knew of her came to mind. She had gone, and now that little playful sister, how beautiful she appeared to me, she had gone too, and I would never see her again. My cup of sorrow was full, overflowing, and the dead aching pain in my heart choked me, and the more I felt the more I wished that I might be gone too as they were. I cannot tell how much I thought and felt, for who can measure the heart’s sorrows? Life for me had changed, for its only joy and hope was dead. I went through the usual routine of school duties, hardly conscious of what I was doing. I took no pleasure in anything. The boys tried to sympathize with me, but as they could do nothing they left me alone. The mem sahib talked to me and said, “It was the will of God.” I had been by this time taught a little about God. I could not see why it was the will of God that I should suffer so when I had not deserved it. I had seen some of the boys punished because they had done something wrong. I could see the right and justice of this, but what had I done to deserve punishment? I had always been kind to the little sister and loved her better than myself. When I was so hungry that I could barely stand up, and got a few grains of parched rice or grain, I gave them to her. I took more pleasure in seeing her eat them than in eating them myself. Her smile to me was my joy. If God was one of love and tender mercy, as I had been told, why was it His will that I should lose my sister and suffer so terribly? If I had done nothing for her, had ill treated her, then it might be the will of a just God to have deprived me of her as a punishment.

Such were my thoughts. I was but a child, a very ignorant one, yet I had my thoughts, such as they were. Children often think more than their elders give them credit for, and this is stranger still, since all were children once. Since that time I have often thought of myself, and could never believe my sufferings to have been according to the will of God. It is so common for people when they do not understand a thing to attribute it to this cause and make that an excuse for their ignorance and mistakes. I remember several of the questions, Was it the will of God that I should be born without a father unlike all the other boys? They had something to be proud of, though the fathers of most of them were dead; but even a dead father was better than none at all. Was it the will of God that our mama should suffer so much and then go away and leave us alone in the world? Was it the will of God that we should be separated and now be lost or as dead to each other? It is so much safer to lay the blame on God, or make His will an excuse for sins and follies than to blame ourselves, for to do the latter would be self-reproach, which is rather disagreeable; and to accuse our fellowmen might be resented, which would be dangerous. But God is so far away and keeps quiet.

I could not be resigned, yet following the routine of school duties, no matter how heavy my heart was, my grief gradually lost its power over me. What a blessed thing it is that time has the power of alleviating our sorrows and not allowing them to fall one upon another until we are crushed by them! I did not forget, but endured what seemed to me an inevitable fate or something, no matter what.