<h2>CHAPTER II</h2>
<h3>Opposites</h3>
<div class='cap'>BALA is nearly four. There are so many much younger
things in the nursery, that Bala feels almost grown
up: four will be quite grown up; it will be nice to
be four. Bala takes life seriously, she has always done so;
she thinks it would be monotonous to have too many
frivolous babies. But Bala's eyes can sparkle as no other
eyes ever do; and her mirth is something by itself, like a
little hidden fountain in the heart of a wood, with the
sweetness of surprise in it and very pure delight.</div>
<p>When Bala came to us first she was between one and
two, an age when most babies have a good deal to say.
Bala said nothing. She was like a book with all its leaves
uncut; and some who saw her, forgetting that uncut books
are sometimes interesting, concluded she was dull. "Quite
a prosaic child," they said; but Bala did not care. There
are some babies, like some grown-up people, who show all
they have to show upon first acquaintance and to all.
Others cover the depths within, and open only to their own.
Bala is one of these; and even with her own she has seasons
of reserve.</p>
<p>Her first remark, however, shown rather than said, was
not romantic. She was too old for a bottle, and she seemed<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</SPAN></span>
to feel sore over this. But she noted the time the infants
were fed, and followed the nurses about while they were
preparing the meal; and when they sat down to give it,
each to her respective baby, Bala would choose the one of
most uncertain appetite, and sit down beside it and wait.
There was an expression on her face at such times which
suggested a hymn, set it humming in one's head in fact,
in spite of all efforts to escape it. More than once we have
caught ourselves singing it, and pulled up sharply: "Even
me! Even me! Let some droppings fall on me."</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-02.jpg" width-obs="550" height-obs="393" alt=""God's Fire." Taken on the bank of the Red Lake, near Dohnavur." title="" /> <span class="caption">"God's Fire."<br/>Taken on the bank of the Red Lake, near Dohnavur.</span></div>
<p>Most of our family remind us very early that they trace
their descent to the mother of us all. Bala, on the contrary,
was good: so we almost forgot she was human, and began
to expect too much of her; but she got tired of this after
a while, and one day suddenly sinned. The surprise acted
like "hypo," and fixed the photograph.</p>
<p>The place was the old nursery, which has one uncomfortably
dark corner in it. Something had offended Bala; she marched
straight into that corner and stamped. We can see her—poor
little girl—as she rumpled her curls with both her
hands, and flashed on the world a withering glance. "Scorn
to be scorned by those I scorn" was written large all over
the indignant little face.</p>
<p>After this shock we were prepared for anything, but
nothing special happened; only when the demands made upon
her are unreasonable, then Bala retires into herself and
turns upon all foolish insistence a face that is a blank. If
this point is passed, the dark eyes can flash. But such
revealings are rare.</p>
<p>When Bala was something under three, she was very
tender-hearted. One evening, after the first rains had flooded
the pools and revived the mosquitoes, the nursery wall was
the scene of many executions; and Bala could not bear it.
"Sittie, don't kill the poor <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'puchies'">pûchies</ins>!" she said pitifully;<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</SPAN></span>
and Sittie, much touched, stopped to comfort and explain.
The other babies were delighting in the slaughter, pointing
out with glee each detested "<ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'puchie'">pûchie</ins>"; but Bala is not like the
other babies. Later, the ferocious instinct common to most
young animals asserted itself in a relish for the horrible,
which rather contradicted the mosquito incident. Bala
visibly gloats over the gory head of Goliath, and intensely
admires David as he operates upon it. Her favourite part
of the story about his encounter with the lion is the suggestive
sentence, "I caught him by the beard"; and Bala
loves to show you exactly how he did it. But then that is
different from seeing it done; and after all it is only a story,
and it happened long ago.</p>
<div class='sidenote'>God's Fire</div>
<p>I have told how the ignorant once called Bala prosaic.
Bala knows nothing of poetry, but is full of the little seeds
of that strange and wonderful plant; and the time to get
to know her is when the evening sky is a golden blaze, or
glows with that mystic glory which wakens something
within us and makes it stir and speak.</p>
<p>"God has not lighted His fire to-night," she said wistfully
one evening when the West was colourless; but when
that fire is lighted she stands and gazes satisfied. "What
does God do when His fire goes out?" was a question on
one such evening, as the mountains darkened in the passing
of the after-glow; and then: "Why does He not light it
every night?"</p>
<p>"Amma! I have looked into Heaven!" she said suddenly
to me after a long silence. "I have seen quite in, and I know
what it is like." "What is it like? Can you tell me?" and
the child's voice answered dreamily: "It was shining, very
shining." Then with animation, in broken but vivid Tamil:
"Oh, it was beautiful! all a garden like our garden, only
bigger, and there were flowers and flowers and flowers!"—here
words failed to describe the number, and a comprehensive<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</SPAN></span>
sweep of the hand served instead. "And our dolls
can walk there. They never can down here, poor things! And
Jesus plays with our babies there" (the dear little sisters who
have gone to the nursery out of sight, but are unforgotten
by the children). "He plays with Indraneela—lovely games."</p>
<p>"What games, Bala?" I asked, wondering greatly what
she would say. There was a long, thoughtful pause, and
Bala looked at me with grave, contented eyes:—</p>
<p>"New games," she said simply.</p>
<p>Bala's opposite is Chellalu. We never made any mistake
about her. We never thought her good. Not that she is
impossibly bad. She was created for play and for laughter,
and very happy babies are not often very wicked; but she
is so irrepressible, so hopelessly given up to fun, that her
kindergarten teacher, Rukma, smiles a rueful smile at the
mention of her name. For to Chellalu the most unreasonable
thing you can ask is implicit obedience, which unfortunately
is preferred by us to any amount of fun. She will learn to
obey, we are not afraid about that; but more than any of
our children, her attitude towards this demand has been one
of protest and surprise. She thinks it unfair of grown-up
people to take advantage of their size in the arbitrary way
they do. And when, disgusted with life's dispensations, she
condescends to expostulate, her "Ba-a-a-a" is a thing to
affright. But this is the wrong side of Chellalu, and not
for ever in evidence. The right side is not so depressing.</p>
<p>It is a brilliant morning in late November. The world,
all washed and cooled by the rains, has not had time to get
hot and tired, and the air has that crystal quality which is
the charm of this season in South India. Every wrinkle on
the brown trunks of the trees in the compound, every twig
and leaf, stands out with a special distinctness of its own,
and the mountains in the distance glisten as if made of
precious stones.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="sidenote">The Blameless Chellalu</div>
<p>Suddenly, all unconscious of affinity or contrast, a little
person in scarlet comes dancing into the picture, which opens
to receive her, for she belongs to it. Her hands are full
of Gloriosa lilies, fiery red, terra-cotta, yellow, delicate old-rose
and green—such a mingling of colour, but nothing discordant—and
the child, waving her spoils above her head, sings at
the top of her voice something intended to be the chorus
of a kindergarten song:—</p>
<div class='poem'>
Oh, the delight of the glorious light!<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The joy of the shining blue!</span><br/>
Beautiful flowers! wonderful flowers!<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, I should like to be you!</span><br/></div>
<p>"But, Chellalu, where did you get them?" for the lilies
in the garden are supposed to be safe from attack. Chellalu
looks up with frank, brown eyes. "For you!" she says briefly
in Tamil; but there is a wealth of forgiveness in the tone
as she offers her armful of flowers. Chellalu wonders at
grown-up hearts which can harbour unworthy suspicions
about blameless little children. As if she would have picked
them!</p>
<p>"But, Chellalu, where did you get them?" and still looking
grieved and surprised and forgiving, Chellalu explains that
yesterday evening the elder sisters went for a walk in the
fields, and brought home so many lilies, that after all just
claims were met there were still some over—an expressive
gesture shows the heap—so Chellalu thought of her Ammal
(mother) and went and picked out the best for her. Then by
way of emphasis the story is attempted in English: "Very
good? Yesh. Naughty? No. Kindergarten room want
flowers? No. I" (patting herself approvingly) "very good;
yesh." With Chellalu, speech is a mere adjunct to conversation,
a sort of footnote to a page of illustration.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</SPAN></span>
The illustration is the thing that speaks. So now both
Tamil and English are illuminated by vivid gesture of hands,
feet, the whole body indeed; curls and even eyelashes play
their part, and the final impression produced upon her
questioner is one of complete contrition for ever having
so misjudged a thing so virtuous.</p>
<div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-03.jpg" width-obs="348" height-obs="500" alt=""AIYO!" (Fingers and toes curled in grieved surprise.) "Did you think I would have done it?"" title="" /> <span class="caption">"AIYO!"<br/>(Fingers and toes curled in grieved surprise.)<br/>"Did you think I would have done it?"</span></div>
<p>But Chellalu wastes no sympathy upon herself. She is
accustomed to be believed; and perfectly happy in her mind,
casts a keen glance round, for who knows what new delights
may be somewhere within reach! "Ah!"—the deep-breathed
sigh of content—is always a danger signal where this innocent
child is concerned. I turn in time to avert disaster, and
Chellalu, finding life dull with me, departs.</p>
<p>Then the little scarlet figure with its crown of careless
curls scampers across the sunny space, and dives into the
shadow of a tree. There it stays. Something arresting has
happened—some skurry of squirrel up the trunk, or dart of
lizard, or hurried scramble of insect, under cover out of reach
of those terrible eyes. Or better still, something is "playing
dead," and the child, fascinated, is waiting for it to resurrect.
And then the song about the lilies begins again, only it is
all a jumble this time; for Chellalu sings just as it comes,
untrammelled by thoughts about sequence or sense, and when
she forgets the words she calmly makes them up. And I
cannot help thinking that Chellalu is very like her song;
here is an intelligible bit, a line or two in order, then a
cheerful tumble up, and an irresponsible conclusion. The
tune too seems in character—"Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird
on the wing"; the swinging old Jacobite air had fitted itself
to a nursery song about the brave fire-lilies, and something
in its abandon to the happy mood of the moment seems to
express the child.</p>
<p>It is not easy to express her. "If you had to describe
Chellalu, how would you do it?" I asked my colleague this<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</SPAN></span>
morning, hoping for illumination. "I would not attempt it!
Who would?" she answered helpfully.</p>
<div class="sidenote">Only More So</div>
<p>"Chellalu! Oh, you need ten pairs of eyes and ten pairs
of hands, and even then you could never be sure you had her"—this
was her nurse's earliest description. She was six months
old then, she is three and three-quarters now; but she is
what she was, "only more so."</p>
<p>Before Chellalu had a single tooth she had developed
mother-ways, and would comfort distressed babies by thrusting
into their open mouths whatever was most convenient.
At first this was her own small thumb, which she had once
found good herself; but she soon discovered that infants can
bite, and after that she offered rattle-handles. Later, she
used to stagger from one hammock to another and swing
them. And often, before she understood the perfect art of
balance, she would find herself, to her surprise, on the floor,
as the hammock in its rebound knocked her over. She felt
this ungrateful of the baby inside; but she seemed to reflect
that it was young and knew no better, for she never retaliated,
but picked herself up and began again. These hammocks,
which are our South Indian cradles, are long strips of white
cotton hung from the roof, and they make delightful swings.
Chellalu learned this early, and her nurse's life was a burden
to her because of the discovery.</p>
<p>"She could walk before she could stand"—this is another
nursery description, and truer than it sounds. Certainly no
one ever saw Chellalu learning to walk. She was a baby
one day, rapid in unexpected motion, but only on all fours;
the next day—or so it seems, looking back—she was everywhere
on her two feet. "Now there will be no place where
she won't be!" groaned the family, the first time she was
seen walking about with an air of having done it all her
life. And appalling visions rose of Chellalu standing on the
wall of the well looking down, or sitting in the bucket left<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</SPAN></span>
by some careless water-drawer just on the edge of the wall,
or trying to descend by the rope.</p>
<p>Before this date such diversions as the classic Pattycake
had been much in favour. Chellalu's Attai (the word here
and hereafter signifies Mrs. Walker, "Mother's elder sister")
had taught it to her; and whenever and wherever Chellalu
saw her Attai, she immediately began to perform "Prick it
and nick it" with great enthusiasm. But after she could
walk, Chellalu would have nothing more to do with such
childish things. "Show us Edward Rajah!" the older
children would say; and instead of standing up with a regal
dignity and crowning her curls with the appropriate gesture,
Chellalu would merely look surprised. They had forgotten.
She was not a baby now. Such trifles are for babies.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</SPAN></span></p>
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