Freedom at Last: A Novel about the Birth of a New India through Her Struggle for Independence

By Robert Paul Roth

The time is the late 1940s. The place is India on the eve of independence. A history professor and his wife -- Ivar and Maren Lagerstrom -- arrive at a mission college in the southeastern town of Chinnapur. We follow Ivar and Maren as they learn to negotiate Indian society and as they endure trials of weather and disease. But graver crises are coming.

Chinnapur is quickly becoming a haven for refugees. When the communist town chairman foments a riot of Koya tribesmen against the influx, a slaughter begins and throws the town into chaos.

Robert Paul Roth has created a human-interest tale in which characters under duress become vehicles for significant social and political comment. Offering more than political commentary or local color, however, Freedom at Last reveals the irony of small-town life in uncertain times. Brimming with compelling characters, this novel brings readers close to ambiguities in both missionary activity and political empire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Feb 20, 2007
• ISBN: 9781498276160

Robert Paul Roth

Robert Paul Roth is Professor Emeritus at Luther Seminary, St. Paul, Minnesota. He is the author of Story and Reality (1973), The Theater of God (1985), and Divine Disclosure (2006).

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Freedom at Last

A Novel about the Birth of a New India through Her Struggle for Independence, 1947–48

Robert Paul Roth

2008.Resource_logo.jpg

Freedom at Last

A Novel about the Birth of a New India through Her Struggle for Independence

Copyright © 2007 Robert Paul Roth. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf & Stock, 199 W. 8th Ave., Eugene, OR 97401.

ISBN 10: 1-55635-093-7

ISBN 13: 978-1-55635-093-1

EISBN 13: 978-1-4982-7616-0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Manufactured in the U.S.A.

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1: The Arrival

Chapter 2: The Welcome

Chapter 3: Schulz and Bengl

Chapter 4: The Zenana Bungalow

Chapter 5: Pentayya

Chapter 6: The Club

Chapter 7: Maren

Chapter 8: Jeremiah

Chapter 9: Little Flower

Chapter 10: The Mad Vision

Chapter 11: Father Peet

Chapter 12: The Munshi

Chapter 13: Swaraj

Chapter 14: Old Stripes

Chapter 15: Rampa

Chapter 16: Typhoon

Chapter 17: Rukmini’s Residence

Chapter 18: Diwali

Chapter 19: Rani

Chapter 20: Cholera

Chapter 21: The Birth

Chapter 22: The Baptism

Chapter 23: Kumari

Chapter 24: Refugees

Chapter 25: The Koyas

Chapter 26: Martyrs

Chapter 27: Mukkerji

Chapter 28: Lakshmi

Chapter 29: Ivar

Chinnapur.tif

To Margaret and our children:Erik, Maren, Maarja, John, and Sonja

1

The Arrival

The trip up the narrow Orissa valley was exhausting. It was morning now, and the train was winding through the wooded hills which skirted the southern rim of the deep gorge. On the other side of the roaring river the little town of Chinnapur slept in sequestered silence. For centuries there had been silence here, but since the narrow gauge railroad had been put in from the seacoast, new sounds were beginning to be heard, strange sounds that came not from the crunching of wooden wheels on loose gravel, but from the fulminating roar of a devil-monster that had been sent from the other side of the world. It was a stubby little 2-4-0 engine with an unconventional form of motive power—a multi-cylinder steam locomotive with direct drive. The large inclined cylinders were much like the Climax locomotives used in the logging operations of the high Sierras. This one came from the British Southern Railway Leader class of 1938. There was an ominous contrast between the noisily excited train with its belching black smoke and screaming sirens and the lethargic bullock bandies which ambled across the plateau in sight of the charging dragon from the West. As if to mollify its rage the Indians draped garlands of bougainvillea over its boiler and steam chest and around its nose.

The train was a series of rickety boxes, each almost as high as it was long and completely shut off from the next one. The window casings had no less than three windows, one glass, one screen, and a third with wooden Venetians. They provided protection from the bands of monkeys that would clamber on the sides of the coaches and ride the train free from Nidvol to Chinnapur. None of the windows, however, kept out any of the grimy soot from the engine, and the fan on the ceiling only stirred up the dust. There were six bunks in the compartment with no curtains for privacy and no mattresses or sheets. Twelve people had crowded into this second-class compartment with all their suitcases and bedding. Maren Lagerstrom, the only woman among three Americans and nine Indians, paced mentally back and forth like Daniel in the lions’ den. She was brought safely through the night, however, and with fatigued restlessness, she and her husband, Dr. Ivar Lagerstrom, stretched their necks awkwardly through the window to get a glimpse of the little town where they had been called to live and work.

Padre Bengl had come to Madras to meet their ship and escort them up to Chinnapur. He was a dumpy little fellow with a paunch like a laughing Buddha, and he was never seen in public, or in private either for that matter, if we can believe the testimony of his wife, without a large brass Crusader’s cross over his tattered cassock vest. For a Lutheran he was extremely high Church in his habits both inside and outside the chancel; but in spite of his ecclesiastical fussiness, he was an amiable fellow whose intolerance was based on principle rather than prejudice.

The Lagerstroms were glad to have him accompany them on this last leg of their arduous journey. They had come to Madras from San Francisco on the Marine Adder, a converted United States Marine troop transport which took civilian passengers to the Orient after the war. Ivar had gotten terribly seasick on the way to Hawaii and Maren had had her turn on the Bay of Bengal. Most of the passengers were Chinese, returning to the land of their birth either to spend the fortune they had made in America during the war or to die in their homeland. There were a few Indians on board and a young Jewish woman with a German passport who was going to India to marry an Indian in Calcutta. The Indians were eager to engage Ivar in conversation, invariably to badger him about American imperialism and the alliance of the United States with Britain. Dr. Subramanian taunted him: What right did Roosevelt have to make the Atlantic Charter and never put it into effect? Where are the four freedoms in India? Why did he let Churchill exempt the British Empire? Ivar enjoyed the banter but he suspected many of the young Indian men talked to him only to get closer to his exquisitely lovely wife.

Now travel in India for poor missionaries was a last ditch struggle for life ever since the British had announced their intention to grant India complete independence. The date had not yet been fixed, but everyone knew it would come sooner than anyone had formerly anticipated. Already the clerks and peons in government service were beginning to show an unusual hauteur never before dared. Customs inspection had been a most trying ordeal, and without Bengl’s artful diplomacy with the austere little official in the godown, the Lagerstroms would have had to pay several thousand rupees duty on household effects which by law should have been exempt. The godown was stinking. Hundreds of people were crammed with their luggage into a building forty feet wide and fifty feet long. Although it was January the temperature was above ninety degrees; and the smell of human sweat, mixed with the sweet butter fat with which the natives greased their hair, created such a miasmic stench that if Bengl had not rescued the newcomers as promptly as he did, both Ivar and Maren would have collapsed. A little bakhshish, slipped from his hand to the inspector’s, produced smiles on all sides.

As the pokey little train came into full view of Chinnapur, before it crossed a narrow bullock bandy trail, it blew its whistle—two long, one short, and another long blast. It was more of a scream than a whistle, a portentous shriek to warn the sleepy people of Chinnapur that something is a-borning.

Bengl began to explain to the Lagerstroms the lay of the land. Do you see that narrow spit of land jutting out into the river? He was pointing beyond the high bridge which they were beginning to cross. It spanned the gorge 150 feet above the raging Orissa with an escarpment that rose 1300 feet on the south side and a much lower plateau that stretched narrowly to the north where the ancient city of Chinnapur lay. Here 50,000 people dwelled in a quaint and classic ambiance unspoiled by Western architecture. Even the buildings of the two Missions were designed in the style of the ancient Indian Rajahs. There are two bluffs just this side of that point, continued Bengl. "On one you can see a large solitary tamal tree and on the other are two white bungalows. The more distant one is where you will live. It is called the Zenana bungalow because it was long occupied by single women."

Do you see it, Maren? exclaimed Ivar. That’s going to be our home for a long while. He was excited but Maren was so exhausted from the trip she hardly had the strength to answer. She simply sighed a low, uhuh, and continued gazing blankly at the spread of mud buildings with thatched roofs.

On the other side of your compound is Dr. and Mrs. Schulz’s bungalow. He will be close enough to keep an eye on you so that you don’t get into any mischief. Dr. Schulz was the principal of Chinnapur College where Ivar was scheduled to teach.

And I suppose the big structure beyond our bungalow is one of the College buildings? It looks like the biggest building in the whole town.

Yaas, my boy, yaas. That is the administration building, Heyer Hall. You will do most of your teaching there. You see the College compound stretches along the river for quite some distance, all the way to that big Tamal tree. The entire compound is enclosed by a red sandstone wall ten feet high and two feet thick. Of course, the Mission did not build this parapet. It belonged to an ancient palace which was occupied centuries ago by the Rajahs of the Palnad. It was their northernmost outpost. The hill on which your bungalow is located was called the Garden of the Moon, and it was most lavishly ornamented with a series of shallow pools inlaid with precious rubies, emeralds, lapis lazuli, and sparkling sapphires. This is all gone now, but the entrance to the great tunnel which was used as a place of refuge is still there with all its magnificent carving and symbolism. Ah, yes, a great heritage from a lost culture, yaas, yaas.

So we are going to live in the Garden of the Moon, said Ivar. Did you hear that, honey? Sounds romantic, doesn’t it?

Maren returned a tired smile, but said nothing. She was a beautiful young woman, tall and slender, with hair the color of new honey and eyes transparent blue like the cerulean sky at sunset. She was a Minnesota Swede, quiet and unassuming in her manner, devoted to the simple things in life, and completely charmed by her husband. She was deeply religious too, but in her own way. She worshipped in silence and spent her energies making other people comfortable and happy. She disliked prayer meetings and testimonials; she would rather serve God by washing the neck of a hospital patient than by washing away the sins of her youth in the frenzied cathartic of a Wednesday night confessional. Some would have called her worldly, but it was merely a preoccupation with things of immediate necessity which kept her from thinking beyond the realm of the practical. If a bleeding nose had to be dressed, she was on hand with quiet efficiency, and there just was not time for preaching about sin and salvation.

Her husband was much like her in this respect. Although he had come from a long line of ministerial antecedents dating back to 1700, Dr. Lagerstrom was not himself a clergyman. He had received his doctorate in history from the University of Chicago after serving as a war correspondent in the United States Army for four years. He probably would never have become a missionary if it had not been for his experiences in the war. Ever since he was a child he had been rebellious and original in his thinking. He was the type that always gets caught day-dreaming in school. His ideals were lofty, and yet his inclination was toward the pragmatic, the effectual, the fruitful. While he was at the University preparing to write his dissertation the war broke out. He and Maren were hastily married somewhat against the wishes of both their parents, although they had known each other since childhood. Then Ivar was sent to the Pacific to follow up the operations of the American forces all the way from Guadalcanal to the Philippines. He was one of the first to make contact with the American prisoners in the brutal concentration camp at Santo Thomas University in Manila. Taking a foolhardy risk, he and two other correspondents rode a Jeep behind the Japanese lines and came up to the University hill from the rear. They were captured, of course, by the surprised guards and taken into the fortified camp. They had no fear, however, because of their implicit confidence in the rapid advance of the American forces through the battered city. It was only two days later that the occupying army moved in and released them with the starved and beaten prisoners.

It was this experience in Manila, more than anything else, which set Ivar’s mind to thinking seriously about the Mission program of the Church. He had seen Manila after the ruthless shelling and bombing had been done in the American effort to occupy the city. There was nothing left but rubble and ashes in the center city, but underneath the heap of wreckage one could detect with only a slight stretch of imagination that the city of Manila must have presented at one time a most beautiful display of parks, public buildings, tropical gardens, and—most striking of all—a host of towered churches. As a student of history Ivar constantly sought the meaning of the various symbols of culture, and the Church was one of these ever-present, ever-forceful factors in human life which any historian must take into consideration if one is to give an adequate interpretation of the course of human events. He used to argue incessantly with his friends at Chicago over the contribution of religion to society. The standard correct judgment was a disdainful dismissal of religion because it produces wars and bigotry and a brake on the wheels of progress. He would counter with Alfred North Whitehead’s thesis that religion is the force that thrusts history in its passage forward toward the realization of universal and concrete values. This argument would carry some weight with his colleagues and professors, but he was always mystified when he came home and talked with his father who was the pastor of a Lutheran church in Red Wing, Minnesota. Ivar’s father would say yes, but Whitehead’s apologetic for God is not only minimal but perverse because it identifies God with nature and so confuses the Creator with the creature, leaving out the revelation of the Cross. Whitehead’s God was not only the initiator of the process of reality; God was also the consequence of the passage of actual occasions in the process. In such a scheme there could not be a story with beginning, ending, and a climax such as the Christian Gospel reveals. There could be no place for the Cross as the surprising event in the drama which provides meaning and direction. This story of the Cross had always bothered Ivar because he could see no practical value in a crucifixion which seemed such a foolish miscarriage of justice.

But when Ivar saw these ruined monuments of Philippine culture, he saw the Church and the churches no longer as an academic observer. Now he saw what energy they bring to the life of the people, because it was the Church that first not only inspired the people to rebuild but actually undertook the cross-bearing task. Now Ivar saw that he had to get into the stream of life and fight with his bare hands. There could be no cheering from the grandstands, nor even coaching from the sidelines. He had to get into the fracas and do something to right the wrongs which had been committed by a generation perverted by greed, power, and, worst of all, by the idolatrous prostitution of ideas and loyalties.

Ivar’s high school English teacher had introduced him to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Among the pilgrims on their way to the cathedral was a scholar about whom it was said, And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. Learning and teaching became Ivar’s dream and goal for his life, and now he had found the place to pursue it.

Ivar’s father gave him full support. Maren loved Ivar enough to follow him to the ends of the earth, but she was also drawn and challenged by service as a nurse in a strange and exotic land. His mother had mixed emotions, as did Maren’s parents. They devoutly believed in the mission of the Church, but they never expected it to take their own children from the family hearth. Ivar’s greatest opposition, however, came from his professors and student friends at the University. The climate of opinion was liberal and pluralist. Why should an American convert East Indians to our ways of thinking and doing things? One culture cannot be judged superior to another, only different. Let the Indians not only govern themselves but also choose their own religion and life style.

Ivar’s study of history led him to reject this pluralism as too simplistic. Surely technological differences registered superiority in winning the war, and now people all over the world were clamoring for American Jeeps and refrigerators. Perhaps art forms do not exhibit this obvious evolutionary development. Perhaps odious comparisons between various cultures should be avoided. Yes, but what about morality and legal structures. Are purdah and the burning of widows to be tolerated simply as expressions of a different life style? And even the arts—Ivar could not give up easily—Japanese musicians were already playing Bach and Mozart before the war. It really was not so much a matter of one culture dominating and driving out another culture as it was a matter of cultural exchange, various cultures enriching each other. This alone justified Ivar’s determination in his own mind to teach in the Orient.

When this raw-boned Swede with shaggy red hair returned to the States, therefore, he made known his wishes to enter Foreign Service as a professor in one of the Lutheran Mission colleges. Upon completion of his doctorate, he was sent to the small college at Chinnapur on the border of the deepest jungle on the eastern coast of India. Of course, he did not realize at first the full implications of such a decision, but he was a man of stubborn determination and fortitude. His religious convictions were never clearly thought through but had more or less been taken for granted. He was, however, deeply and personally concerned about the welfare of the underdog, the down trodden, the dispossessed. He felt a burning zeal to emancipate the little people of the world, but was he willing to fling his life into a fiery furnace for them? His spirit was one which lived on adventure; his life was a gamble which he relished, but what if the stakes were too high? The war had left him with a scalding cynicism concerning the meaning of human destiny which he had not been able to conquer completely. He felt faced with the choice of moral despair with all its attenuating circumstances in one’s personal relationships, and the risky hope in the purposefulness of human existence. Either the dream of life is a hollow jest, a Kafka-esque comedy without a happy ending because both happiness and sorrow are illusory, as the Oriental mystics say; or the drama is a portentous tragedy packed with profound purpose and promising ultimate victory. Is life but a mysterious wandering in search of acceptance and satisfaction, only to end with the black humor of mordant meaninglessness? Or is life a mystery to be celebrated because it is full of hope and surprise?

Ivar chose to accept the challenge of hope. It was not an easy choice after what he had experienced, but it seemed to keep his head from swirling in a maelstrom of delirium, and it put his body to work. The other alternative gave him no peace. But he had no idea what the future would bring, nor how he would respond.

As the rattling train bounced and bumped into Chinnapur, Padre Bengl continued his innocuous prattling about the various buildings and sights of interest. When the train finally shook to a convulsive stop, Bengl stepped out on the platform gesticulating broadly in the direction of the hospital and the Lutheran Industrial Home. He was especially proud of the latter because it was under his personal charge, and he was anxious to impress the new missionaries with the importance of his work in the Mission. As an afterthought he mentioned that the small buildings in the compound on the east side of the train station belong to the Catholic Mission which did a humble but effective work in the lower valley region below Chinnapur. As he spoke an elderly man with a bald head and deep wrinkles approached Bengl with a nervous gait.

Ah, Dr. Schulz . . . so good of you to meet us . . . ahem, this is Dr. Schulz, Ivar . . . er, I mean Dr. Lagerstrom . . . and, oh, my, my, forgive me, I should have introduced you first, my dear . . . ah, Dr. Schulz, this charming lady with the flaxen hair is Mrs. Lagerstrom. Ah, I dare say, if angels don’t have blond hair I will be disappointed . . . Bengl suddenly cut short his elaborate introduction when he saw two women, rather dowdy in their cotton frocks and white topees, step onto the platform just behind Dr. Schulz. One of the women was Padre Bengl’s wife and the other was Mrs. Schulz. Mrs. Bengl stood behind her husband with a somber, stern face which told of many long years of campaigning for the Gospel in native villages among primitive people. She was fully a head taller than her squat husband, and her hair was scant and frowsy. Mrs. Schulz presented a comical contrast as she waddled up beside the tall, slender Mrs. Bengl. She was scarcely five feet tall, stockily built, with a protruding jaw that always made her look like she had just asked a question. She was not so frumpy in her dress as Mrs. Bengl, but the style and cut of her clothes belonged to a past generation.

There was about five minutes of general confusion as the newcomers were introduced and while the coolies gathered the luggage which had been deposited on the platform. Ivar began to walk off with two suitcases and Maren picked up a third when Padre Bengl halted them abruptly and explained that such things were never done in India and they had better let the bearers take everything.

During the shuffle which followed Ivar somehow got separated from the rest as they left the crowded platform in front of the dingy Chinnapur station. He was stunned by the press of people that seemed to swallow him up. People were cooking their meals, bathing, washing their teeth, dressing, sleeping, and quarreling on the street everywhere he looked. The terrible smells and the raucous shouting in Madras and Vizag had disturbed him too, and now as then, he stared with incredulous dismay at the confusion. What caught his attention was the number of people with vacuous eyes, sitting on their haunches, repeatedly spitting, and the spittle was always red. Were all these people in advanced stages of tuberculosis? We will have to get to work fast. It was not until later that he learned that these people were only chewing betel nuts and spitting the red juice of this soporific condiment. As he hustled to catch up with the others Ivar was stopped by a young man with a black beard and a high canary yellow turban. Rather furtively the man approached Ivar, looking to both sides as he spoke.

"Sahib, listen to me, he said softly. I will tell you truth. I will tell you day of birth. I telling much truth of past and future. Listen to me." Ivar was attracted by the mystery of the man and let him continue.

Give me your hand. Taking Ivar’s hand gracefully into his own, the Indian gazed carefully upon the lines in Ivar’s huge white palm. Ah, I see you having eventful life. You very kind man; you loving many people, but they no understand you. You having some enemies, but you mean them only good. Put a coin in my hand, any coin, please.

Ivar, not thinking, reached for a rupee and slipped it into the hand of the man who was charming him.

Your name is odd name. Begins with I . . . end with r; your name is Ivar. With this Ivar started with amazement. He had just come to Chinnapur; how did this fellow know his name? The strange man continued, unconcerned about his petty triumph.

You are being married long time, several years, but you love wife like honeymoon. You born twenty-nine years ago this month. Your life line show you live long time . . . seventy-five year you live.

Say, how can you say these things? Who told you my name and age? Ivar was overcoming his first enthrallment.

"I speak truth from stars. I see life in man’s palm. Your palm varry interesting . . . it show life of trouble. For a moment the man hesitated, then went on. I wanting tell you truth . . . please put another coin in my hand, any small coin."

Wait a minute, said Ivar, laughing. Aren’t you getting a bit expensive? He pulled out a half rupee coin from his pocket and gave it to the man. Then he said, Of course, I don’t believe a word you say. I am merely curious to see how you ply your trade.

I having secret power . . . I looking into future . . . you, my friend, having glorious future but much trouble. You will receive telegram . . . you expecting telegram?

No.

You will receive telegram . . . from bald head man . . . bald head man send you letter . . . you try do him good . . . he not good.

You better go back to my past, said Ivar. You’re not doing so good on my future. I am not expecting a telegram since I do not know anybody in India . . . nor do I know any bald-headed men. Ivar began to leave impatiently, but the fellow caught his arm.

"I knowing your past, Sahib. You correspondent in army. You see fighting in Philippines, in many places, you varry brave."

Please, go away, said Ivar. If you know the truth tell it openly for nothing. Don’t go around buttonholing people and extracting rupees from them. Ivar brushed him off again, but once more the turbaned Indian had hold of his arm.

"Just one small coin, Sahib. I tell what you doing next year . . . one coin . . . the man waited for Ivar to respond. Then he ventured some more information when Ivar hesitated. You wife name Maren. You love much, but in future . . . small dark girl . . . name is . . ."

Stop it, shouted Ivar. I am not interested in any of your small dark girls. Ivar’s indignation carried him away. Why had he given this fellow so much time?

"You no want girl? Oh, you missionary? You no look like missionary. Please, excuse. You have right . . . you knowing truth . . . I knowing nothing, Sahib. The apologetic man bowed away obsequiously, but then suddenly turned back and said in a hoarse whisper, You want spirits, Sahib? I getting you spirits." Just then Padre Bengl came hustling through the exit nearest Ivar.

My dear fellow, we have been looking all over for you. So this rascal Gopal has detained you, eh? I hope he did not fleece you too much . . . harmless fellow, but a scoundrel.

He was fascinating until he began talking about a small dark girl, laughed Ivar. Then I shooed him away. Uncanny though how the fellow knew my name and birthday. He even told me about my war experiences. And I know where I can get a bottle of Beefeater’s!

Well, these fellows keep their eyes and ears open. You have been expected for some time, you know. Come now, Doctor, we must hurry on to the Schulz’s. They have tea ready for us, and I want you to meet our little Fritz.

They climbed into an old Ford station wagon which somehow satisfactorily drove them through the narrow bazaar, past the hospital and Industrial Home, and over to the Garden of the Moon on the south side of town. The gate to the compound was round like a full moon, eight feet in diameter and split in the middle so the heavy brass grill could open as double doors, each four feet wide and eight feet high. The brass grill was foliated magnificently in the shape of lotus blossoms. The great wall itself was ten feet high, but to accommodate the moon gate it was twelve feet high for a stretch of twenty-four feet. The heavy red sandstone had been cut so precisely that no mortar was needed when, centuries ago, the Palnad Rajahs built their palace on this piedmont where the modern province of Orissa extends southward to Andhra Pradesh. The language and culture of the region is Telugu and the people belong to the Andhra branch of Dravidian ethnic origin, a people of medium stature, red-brown skin, and facial features that are most delicately proportioned. Ivar and Maren were now entering into an ancient garden, rich in history and pregnant with the promise of a new world. It was a gateway to a place and a people whose history was old but yet just beginning.

As soon as the rickety old Mission station wagon had gotten through the gate the driver slammed on the brakes. He came down from the car and rushed into the Schulz’s bungalow calling out the name of their houseboy Prakasem, who came running with a long bamboo pole.

A cobra in the flame tree! shouted Dr. Schulz. The signal to all who knew the language was the frightened shrieking of the many parakeets that nested in the tree. The compound had two of these magnificent trees, one in the front of each bungalow. Flame trees originally grew in Madagascar but they have flourished in India’s frost-free climate. They are known by many names: flamboyant, royal Poinciana, flame of the forest, and peacock flower. Their scarlet and orange blossoms remain fresh and luxuriant for weeks, and their feathery, pinnately divided leaves provide protection for the multicolored parakeets that nest in their branches, but the eggs of the birds are tempting food for lizards and snakes. Wherever there is food to be eaten there are eaters, and now the first visitor to greet the Lagerstroms was a hungry ten foot cobra.

The driver boosted Prakasem into the lower branches of the tree and extended the bamboo pole to him when he had gotten his footing. Slowly and carefully Prakasem pushed the pole along an upper branch where the cobra slithered with predatory anticipation. Then with cunning dexterity and lightning speed Prakasem slipped the tip of the pole under the snake about three feet behind the head and lifted it quickly off the branch on which the reptile had been creeping. This took skill and daring because Prakasem had to use both arms while balancing himself on the great branch of the flame tree. He flipped the big snake to the ground where the Mission driver, Narasimha David, was ready with an ax which he brought down upon the surprised reptile with sudden determination, severing its head from its body before it had a chance to coil.

The missionaries in the old station wagon watched this tense drama with alarmed fascination, especially Maren, who had a terrible fear of snakes from childhood. She had once been accosted by a rattlesnake on the bluffs beside Lake Pepin near Red Wing, Minnesota. She was the living fulfillment of the prophecy in Genesis, and this introduction to her new home in India made her flesh feel like it was being caressed by a thousand cold and clammy serpents with lidless eyes and darting tongues. The Schulz’s took the incident, however, with no apparent apprehension, and without any comment the senior missionary and principal of Chinnapur College graciously invited the Lagerstroms and the Bengls for tea on the verandah which was shaded by the beautiful flame of the forest tree.

2

The Welcome

Ivar and Maren were led up the steps of the Schulz bungalow onto a spacious verandah which was choked with potted palms, casuarinas, and begonias. Beneath the leafy fronds stretched a low balustrade enclosing a checkered red and black tile floor. On a reclining cane divan near the entrance to the house lay a small boy aimlessly toying with a yo-yo. He made no move as the visitors approached until his father commanded him sharply to rise and stand at attention.

Fritz, this is Dr. and Mrs. Lagerstrom, said Bengl with fatherly pride. They have just come from America and they are going to live here in Chinnapur next to Dr. Schulz.

Hello, said Fritz, pawing the floor and spinning his yo-yo deftly but with embarrassment. He had heard all about the Lagerstroms many times and he wondered why this information was being repeated now.

Pleased to meet you, Fritz, said Maren and Ivar simultaneously. Then Ivar turned to Bengl with a smile, Sure looks like his Dad.

He’s growing fast now, said Mrs. Bengl. Next year we will have to send him to boarding school at Kodaicanal. I don’t know what we will do without him, dear boy.

Well, you get used to it, chimed Mrs. Schulz. We have two boys in high school. We have seen them only three months of the year from the time they were seven . . . but it’s the Lord’s work we are doing, and such sacrifice is necessary. She sighed and looked up to heaven as if to receive a nod of approval from on high, and then suddenly returning to secular matters, she said, Oh, excuse me, please sit down . . . and I will have Prakasem bring some tea . . . you must be starved.

She disappeared into the house and returned shortly with their diminutive houseboy who was carrying a tray full of tea and biscuits on his shoulder. The biscuits were stale and the tea was insipid, but they helped to revive the Lagerstroms somewhat after their tiresome train trip. The new missionaries sat silently on the cane chairs waiting for the rest to make conversation.

After an awkward pause, Dr. Schulz cleared his throat and asked, Ahem, well, what do you think of India? Quite different from America, eh?

Indeed, it is, said Ivar. I can’t accustom myself to the crowds of people with apparently no place to live. They just wander about everywhere and eat and sleep where they please.

Yes, it’s a shame. There are millions without homes. India is in a perpetual state of slow starvation. We have a job of work to do he-ah, my boy, a great job of work . . . but we have a jolly good beginning. Dr. Schulz was an American, but he had acquired a heavy British accent during his many years in India.

As the conversation proceeded the women naturally formed one circle, talking about feminine subjects, and the men formed another circle, concerning themselves chiefly with politics and religion. Soon Bengl and Schulz were plunged into a booming argument about British rule and the coming independence. Each was trying to enlist Ivar on his side, while Ivar for his part was keeping politely out of the quarrel, although his sympathies were with Bengl and independence. Their vehemence brought the women back into their circle.

When you have been in India as long as I have, said Dr. Schulz to Ivar, "you will understand that the masses of Indians are veddy primitive. They need the beneficent leadership of a Western power."

Granted, my good man, said Bengl, but the best way to help these people is to help them to help themselves. If India is coddled along by Britain much longer, she will never learn to stand on her own two feet.

Mark my word, Bengl, the minute India gets her independence there will be trouble.

Aye, it will be bloody, but what great nation has not been born in a bath of blood? Look at America at Valley Forge, or the guillotines in France, or Mao Zedung’s Long March in China. Bengl began to look about the verandah for Fritz, who had slipped off without his notice.

Britain could avert that trouble if she remained at her post. I cawn’t share your fatalism, said Dr. Schulz. Under British rule the Indians have learned discipline; some have been educated, and those who have not have been organized in a peaceful social structure which must be maintained if India is to prosper. Look at the railroads, the highways, the bridges, the schools, the whole infrastructure, such as it is, the tea and sugar and tobacco plantations . . . where would India be without the British? There are enough revolutionary elements in the world without adding India to their number.

If you don’t mind my saying a word, said Ivar, I won’t venture an opinion about India and the British, but I think the world is faced by two monsters, one revolutionary and the other reactionary. The revolutionary monster may be the worse of the two evils, but the quickest way to get revolution, it seems to me, is to become reactionary. We have got to put our finger on the pulse of the times, and when we determine the speed and direction of that pulse, we must guide it so as to utilize its virile forces for good ends . . . and . . . and at the same time making sure that nothing but good means are used.

Right, said Bengl with finality as if the problems of the world were settled by a single sentence. Just at that moment his wife also noticed Fritz’s absence.

Melanchthon, she called, where is Treasure? Have you been watching him?

Bengl started up from his seat and bustling to the edge of the verandah, he called in a loud falsetto voice, quavering on the last syllable like the tremolo stop on a full organ: Fritz-ee!

Dear me, the child may be swallowed by a python. Oh, gracious me, and this is the season of snakes . . . or is it . . . dear me, I can never remember . . . every season seems so full of them . . . well, anyway, Melanchthon, don’t just stand there . . . go and look for the boy.

Mrs. Bengl stood under the palms worrying audibly, while Reverend Bengl skipped about on the compound looking behind every bush and shrub, muttering low phrases about the martyrdom of