<h2>CHAPTER V</h2>
<h3>Tara and Evu</h3>
<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus-10.jpg" width-obs="355" height-obs="500" alt="TARA." title="" /> <span class="caption">TARA.</span> <br/><br/></div>
<div class='cap'>OUR nurseries are full of contrasts, but perhaps the two
who are most unlike are the little Tara and Evu, aged,
at the hour of writing, three years and two and a half.
I am hammering at my typewriter, when clear through its
metallic monotony comes in distinct double treble, "Amma!
Tala!" "Amma! Evu!" They always announce each other
in this order, and with much emphasis. If it is impossible to
stop, I give them a few toys, and they sit down on the mat
exactly opposite my table and play contentedly. This lasts
for a short five minutes; then a whimper from Tara makes
me look up, and I see Evu, with a face of more mischief than
malice, holding all the toys—Tara's share and her own—in
a tight armful, while Tara points at her with a grieved
expression which does not touch Evu in the least. A word,
however, sets things right. Evu beams upon Tara, and pours
the whole armful into her lap. Tara smiles forgivingly, and
returns Evu's share. Evu repentantly thrusts them back.
Tara's heart overflows, and she hugs Evu. Evu wriggles out
of this embrace, and they play for another five minutes or
so without further misadventure.</div>
<p>Only once I remember Evu sinned beyond forgiveness.
The occasion was Pyârie's rag-doll of smiling countenance, which<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</SPAN></span>
had been badly neglected by the family. But Tara felt for
it and loved it. She was small at the time, and the doll was
large, and Tara must have got tired of carrying it; but she
would not tell it so, and for one whole morning she staggered
about with the cumbersome beauty tilted over her shoulder,
which gave her the appearance of an unbalanced but very
affectionate parent.</p>
<p>This was too much for Evu, to whom the comic appeals
much more than the sentimental. She watched her opportunity,
and pounced upon the doll. Tara gave chase; but Evu's
fat legs can carry her faster than one would suppose, and
Tara's wails rose to a shriek when across half the garden's
width she saw that ruthless sinner swing her treasure round
by one arm and then deliberately jump on it. It was hours
before Tara recovered.</p>
<p>Such a breach of the peace is happily rare; for the two
are a pretty illustration of the mutual attraction of opposites.
At this moment they are playing ball. This is the manner
of the game: Tara sits in a high chair and throws the ball
as far as she can. Evu dashes after it like an excited kitten,
and kitten-wise badly wants to tumble over and worry it; for
it is made of bits of wool, which, as every sensible baby knows,
were only put in to be pulled out. She resists the temptation,
however, and presents the ball to Tara with a somewhat
inconsequent "Tankou!" "Tankou!" returns Tara politely,
and tosses the ball again. This time Evu sits down with her
back to Tara, and proceeds to investigate the ball. It is
perfectly fascinating. The ends are all loose and quite easily
pulled out. Evu forgets all about Tara in her keen desire to
see to the far end of this delight. "Evu!" comes from the
chair in accents of dignified surprise. "Tala!" exclaims Evu
abashed, and hurries up with the ball. "Tankou!" she says
as before, and Tara responds "Tankou!" This is an integral
part of the game. If either forgets it, the other corrects her<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</SPAN></span>
by remarking inquiringly, "Tankou?" whereupon the echo
replies in a tone of apology, "Tankou!"</p>
<div class="sidenote">Devotions</div>
<p>Both these babies are devout, as most things Indian are.
But Evu cannot sit still long enough to be promoted to go
to church; and perhaps this is the reason why in religious
matters Tara takes the lead, for she does go to church. In
secularities it is always Evu who initiates, and Tara admiringly
follows. The ball game was exceptional only because Evu
prefers the <i>rôle</i> of kitten to that of queen.</p>
<p>This little characteristic is shown in common ways. The
two are sitting on your knee entirely comfortable and content.
The prayer-bell rings. Down struggles Tara. "To prayers
I must go!" she says with decision in Tamil. "Evu too,"
urges Evu, also in Tamil. "Tum!" says Tara in superior
English, and waits. Evu "tums," and they hastily depart.</p>
<p>Or it is the time for evening hymns and good-night kisses.
We have sung through the chief favourites, ending always
with, "Jesus, tender Shepherd." "Now sing, 'Oh, luvvly lily
g'oing in our garden!'" This from Tara. Echo from Evu:
"Yes; 'Oh, luvvly lily g'oing in our garden!'" You point out
to the garden: "It is dark, there are no lovely lilies to be seen;
besides, that is not exactly a hymn; shall we have 'Jesus,
tender Shepherd,' again, and say good-night?" But this is not
at all satisfactory. Tara looks a little hurt. "Tender Shepperd,
<i>no!</i> Oh, luvvly lily!" Evu wonders if we are making excuses.
Perhaps we have forgotten the tune, and she starts it:—</p>
<div class='poem'>
Oh, lovely lily,<br/>
Growing in our garden,<br/>
Who made a dress so fair<br/>
For you to wear?<br/>
Who made you straight and tall<br/>
To give pleasure to us all?<br/>
Oh, lovely lily,<br/>
Who did it all?<br/>
<br/>
Oh, little children,<br/>
Playing in our garden,<br/>
God made this dress so fair<br/>
For us to wear.<br/>
God made us straight and tall<br/>
To give pleasure to you all.<br/>
Oh, little children,<br/>
God did it all.<br/></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Then Tara smiles all round, and you are given to understand
you have earned your good-night kisses. Evidently
to Tara at least there is a sense of incompleteness somewhere
if the lovely lilies are excluded from the family
devotions.</p>
<p>To Tara and to Evu, as to most babies, the garden is a
pleasant place. But when they grow up and make gardens,
they will not fill them with forbidden joys as we do. One
of the temptations of life is furnished by inconsiderate ferns,
which hold their curly infant fronds just within reach.
Then there are crotons, with bright leaves aggressively yellow
and delightful, and there are "tunflowers"; and the babies
think us greedy in our attitude towards all these things.
The croton was especially alluring; and one day Tara was
found tiptoe on a low wall, reaching up with both hands,
eagerly pulling bits of leaf off. She was brought to me to
be judged; and I said: "Poor leaves! Shall we try to put
them on again?" And hand in hand we went to the garden,
and Tara tried. But the pulled-off bits would not fit on
again; and Tara's face was full of serious thought, though
she said nothing. Next day she was found on the same
low wall, reaching up tiptoe in the same sinful way to the
shining yellow leaves overhead. Quite suddenly she stopped,
put her hands behind her back, and never again was she
known to pick croton leaves to pieces.</p>
<p>The same plan prevailed with the ferns. The poor little
crumples of silver and green moved her to pity, and she left
them to uncurl in peace when once she had tried and sadly failed
to help them. But the sunflowers' feelings did not affect her
in quite the same way. The kind we have in abundance is
that little dwarf variety with a thin stalk, and a cheerful
face which smiles up at you even after you behead it, and
does not seem to mind. Tara was convinced such treatment
did not hurt them. They would stop smiling if it did. But<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</SPAN></span>
one day she suddenly seemed to feel a pang of compunction,
for she looked at the little useless heads and sighed. I had
suggested their being fitted on again, as with the croton
leaves and ferns. But this idea had failed; and what
worked the change I know not, for Tara never told. But
"tunflowers" now are left in peace so far as she is concerned;
and she is learning to pick the free grasses and wild-flowers,
which happily grow for everybody, and to make sure their
stalks are long enough to go into water, which is the last
thing untutored babies seem to think important.</p>
<div class="sidenote">Tara's Way</div>
<p>There is much to be done for all our children, but perhaps
for Tara especially, if she is to grow up strong in soul to
fight the battles of life. We felt this more than ever on
the day of our last return from the hills, after nearly seven
weeks' absence. On the evening when we left them, we had
gone round the nurseries after the little ones had fallen asleep,
and said goodbye to each of them without their knowing
it; but when we came to Tara's mat, and kissed the little
sleeping face, she stirred and said, "Amma!" in her sleep;
and we stole away fearing she should wake and understand.
Now in the early morning we were home again, and all
the children who were up were on the verandah to welcome
us, each in her own way. It was Tara's way which
troubled us.</p>
<p>At first most of the babies were shy, for six weeks
are like six years to the very young; but soon there was
a general rush and a thoroughly cheerful chatter. Tara did
not join in it. She stood outside the little dancing dazzle
of delight—the confusion of little animated coloured dots
is rather like the shake of a kaleidoscope—and she just
looked and looked. Then, as we drew her close, the little
hands felt and stroked one's face as if the evidence of eye
and ear were not enough to make her sure beyond a doubt
that her own had come back to her; and then, as the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</SPAN></span>
assurance broke, she clung with a little cry of joy, and
suddenly burst into tears.</p>
<p>If only we could hold her safe and sheltered in our arms
for ever! How the longing swept through one at that
moment: for the winds of the world are cold. But it cannot
be, it should not be, for such love would be weak indeed.
Rather do we long to brace the gentle nature so that its
very sensitiveness may change to a tender power, and the
fountain of sweet waters refresh many a desert place. But
who is sufficient for even this? Handle the little soul carelessly,
harden rather than brace, misinterpret the broken
expression, misunderstand the signs—and the sweet waters
turn to bitterness. God save us from such mistake!</p>
<p>We covet prayer for our children. We want to know
that around them all is thrown that mysterious veil of protection
which is woven out of prayer. We need prayer,
too, for ourselves, that our love may be brave and wise.</p>
<div class="sidenote">Kittenhood</div>
<p>Evu's disposition is different. It would not be easy to
imagine Evu overcome by her feelings as Tara was at that
hour of our return. One cannot imagine a kitten shedding
tears of joy; and Evu is a kitten, a dear little Persian kitten,
with nothing worse than mischief at present to account for.
Of that there is no lack. "Oh, it is Evu!" we say, and everyone
knows what to expect when "it is Evu." Evu's chief
sentiment that morning, so far as she expressed it, was
rather one of wonder at our ignorant audacity. "You
vanished in the night when we were all asleep, and now
you suddenly drop from the skies before we are properly
awake, and expect us all to begin again exactly where we
left off. How little you know of babies!" Doubtless this
sentence was somewhat beyond her in language; but Evu is
not dependent on language, and she conveyed the sense of
it to us. She backed out of reach of kisses, and stood with
a small finger upraised; much as a kitten might raise its<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</SPAN></span>
paw in mock protest to its mother. She soon made friends,
however, and proved herself an affectionate kitten, though
wholly unemotional.</p>
<p>When Tara is naughty, as she is at times, like most people
of only three, a reproachful look brings her spirits down to
the lowest depths of distress. Evu is more inclined to hold
up that funny little warning first finger, and shake it straight
in your face. This, at two and a half, is terrible presumption;
but the brown eyes are so innocent, you cannot be too shocked.
Sometimes, however, the case is worse, and Evu tries to sulk.
She sits down solemnly on the ground, and throws her four
fat limbs about in a dreadful recklessness, supposed to strike
the grown-up offender dumb with awe and penitence. Sometimes
she even tries to put out her lower lip, but it was not
made a suitable shape, for it smiles in spite of itself; and
then there is a sudden spring; and two little arms are round
your neck, and you are being told, if you know how to
listen, what a very tiresome thing it is to feel obliged to
sin. Then, with the comforting sense of irresponsible kittenhood
fully restored, Evu discovers some new diversion, and
you find yourself weakly wishing kittens need not grow
into cats.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</SPAN></span></p>
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