India by G. K. OWEN

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jul 28, 1910

India

By G. K. OWEN

As Seen by a Native of Michigan

G. K. OWEN

A MAN from the “sunset land,” on his first visit to the Orient, will be sure to meet many surprises. After his long voyage, he is landed amid strange scenes. We left the boat at Bombay, and longing for a little rest, boarded the train for Calcutta. We supposed it to be a train of cars, but soon discovered it to be a string of prisons on wheels, with no doors of communication between. The doors are in the side, none being in the ends of the cars. Between stations, the prisoners are locked in. At stations where the train stops, the doors are opened, and those who wish to do so have opportunity to leave the apartments. As we rode hour after hour through a country so long celebrated for the density of its population, we were disappointed as we looked in vain for numerous fine country residences, surrounded by charming gardens and every home attraction. Instead, we beheld what appeared to be an almost boundless and desolate wilderness. Could it be that those who had taken the census of the country had made a mistake of several hundred millions in their figures?—No, no; this vast country has inhabitants; but they are crowded into cities and villages, the majority living in small huts, leaving the broad plains free to the play of the wild winds.

If I have ever seen a country that needed to have its agricultural and horticultural interests built up, it is India. What is needed most is not so much a few more colleges, and the solution of longer problems in chemistry, but men with minds to think, hearts to dare, and hands to do. Possibilities of wealth lie buried in the soil of India, of which her most venerable sages have never dreamed. Teachers are needed, it is true, but teachers whose hands and feet have felt the soil; whose mental resources have not been limited to the perusal of the printed page, but who have ventured “forth under the open sky, and listened to nature’s teachings;” who have studied the living tree,—its stem, roots, branches, leaves, buds, flowers, fruit, and seed,—as well as the soil in which it grows.

When I first visited the Annfield estate at Mussoorie, I looked around among the rocks, crags, and peaks, and almost decided that the place presented no prospect for the smallest garden spot; but, after more careful search, I found beds of rich black soil three feet deep. This soil had been formed by the decaying leaves that had for generations rolled down the mountainside.

India has the soil, the climate, the seeds, the plants, of the right quality and variety to produce an abundant supply of fruits and other kinds of foods to feed all her children; yet there is such a lack of enterprise in bringing seed and soil together, that the people go hungry, and famine annually brings a vast army of them to an untimely grave. There is a lack of enterprise that seems hard to believe until one sees it. In the great city of Calcutta, with its million inhabitants, its university and other large institutions of learning, and its immense market, piled with tons upon tons of the various productions of the surrounding country, you can get your market-basket filled for a few annas, and a coolie will carry it to your home for a few pice. But when the food comes to the table, what have you? Instead of the large, plump bananas, such as you find in most markets of the world, you have an inferior variety, cut from the plant when about half grown, and about the size of a man’s thumb.

Do you ask why, in the very heart of a country with climate and soil suited to the production of the finest bananas in the world, such fruit is accepted? The only answer I have found to this question is that several generations ago, there was dropped the seed of a poor variety of banana in the vicinity of Calcutta, and there is not enterprise enough in the vicinity of that city to send away for a good variety; so only the poor kind finds a place in the Calcutta market.

Having completed our ride from Bombay to Calcutta, and taken some refreshment and a little rest, let us walk out on the road toward the country. We soon approach a drove of cattle. What strange burden is each one carrying? Is a monkey stealing a ride on each one of them?—No, that large lump just above the shoulders is a part of the anatomy of the animal; and as long as you remain in India, you look in vain for such animals as you have been accustomed to call cows and oxen.

Some buffaloes are just passing. Not such lion-like beasts as the American buffalo or bison, which used to thunder across the Western plains in large herds, tearing up the earth as they moved. No; these have spreading horns, wide bodies, and move slowly, but haul large loads. They seem to enjoy soaking themselves for hours in lake or pond during sultry midday. Large monkeys travel over the tree-tops, leaping long distances from tree to tree, and venturing quite near the Annfield house when they can find fruit on the orchard trees. Barking deer are also troublesome, injuring the young and tender fruit-trees.

The wild birds here are an interesting study, especially those that seem to sing in plain English. One of the most cheerful songs I have heard in this country is sung by a bird that sings very sweetly and distinctly. Rhythm, emphasis, and inflection are perfect. The flattering address in the first line seems to be irrelevant, and intended for some other person; but in the second line, he pours out the music and melody of his soul as if composing the song for that special occasion, and intending it only for the ear of the listener. If there is power in this sweet little song to cheer the heart of some other missionary, who may hear it warbled by one of the same feathered songsters, and he understands and appreciates it as the writer does, it may not be amiss to publish it; though the lack of music can not but be a matter of regret. Here are the words:—

Pretty, bright boy, Cheer! Cheer, boy, Wewywy.

Many other creatures of the lower orders attract the attention of the missionaries who visit this part of the Orient, but their special interest is in those who may be able to understand the message of eternal interest, which they have come so far to bring.

Mussoorie.