THE OPEN DOOR IN BENGAL.
By Mrs. Ada Lee
THE province of Bengal, in India, is beautiful for situation, rich in tropical trees and plants, and, on account of the moisture of its climate, abundant in all kinds of vegetable growth. This province, though no larger than the State of California, contains eighty millions of people. Forty millions of these speak the Bengali language, and constitute one of the most important races in India. They are bright and intelligent, most eager to learn, and very aggressive, although considered by some not remarkable for courage or activity. But I have found among their women the bravest persons I ever knew. Many of the Bengali are writers. For this reason they follow the railway and telegraph lines all over India. The educated Babu fill the public and government offices everywhere as clerks and accountants. My first home among them was in the great city of Calcutta, a city, including its suburbs, of one million souls, given up for the most part to idolatry, as its name indicates, for Calcutta in the Bengali language is Kalighaut, the bathing place of the black goddess Kali. In this city we are met by most striking contrasts. Here, where hundreds of thousands live in ignorance, superstition, and sin, and endure the most abject poverty, there are fifteen thousand young men attending college, —young men who, if they were led to Jesus, would be a power in the evangelization of India. Therefore, when we think of the Bengali people, with all their idolatry, sin, and ignorance, let us remember also that some of the brightest orators of this century belonged to this race, among them Keshub Chunder Sen, the leader of the Brahmo Somaj, and that at the present time there are a number of brilliant Bengali preachers, teachers, and authors, the fruit of Christian teaching. We can never know a people without some knowledge of their home life, but this is what a traveler seldom gets in Bengal. I have read with no little indignation the disparaging remarks about the Bengalese made by persons who have been sight-seeing in India. You can get no conception of the Bengali home by what you see of the Bengali Babu in the street, and the women of the higher classes are never seen there. You look inside their houses and find what to me is the most interesting class in the world, the Bengali zenana women. Of all the cruel systems this world has ever known Hinduism is the most Satanic, and those who suffer most from its curse are women. From the hour of her birth until the day of her death woman is the victim of its cruel practices. Whether she lives in a mud hut, sleeps on the ground and subsists on the cheapest and least quantities of food possible, as the masses of the people do, or is a member of the highest and wealthiest families, her condition is practically the same. The ordinary Bengali house is constructed with a courtyard in the center, the rooms built around the four sides of it. From the outside we pass through a narrow, dark passageway into the courtyard. In these back apartments, without ventilation or anything attractive to sight or smell, are shut up for life millions of these women. Whatever may be said about "woman's rights," or whatever may be her position in the opinion of men, God has given her a place no power can change. Man is the head of the nation and of the home, but the heart of the nation and the home is woman. In India, where it is a disgrace to be a woman, man is not only the head, but, by himself considered, the only important being. Still there, as here, woman is the heart of the home, and, consequently, of the nation, and her silent influence rules the destiny of that people. If the women of India could be led to Jesus to-day, the deathblow would be dealt to idolatry, and it would soon become a sad story of the past. I remember once, in company with Bishop Thoburn, in the city of Calcutta, visiting a meeting of the Bengali Literary Club. There were present over two hundred Bengali gentlemen. Myself and a young Bengali attendant were the only women in the audience. The paper of the evening was presented by Professor Banerjee, a Bengali Christian gentleman. The subject was "The Young Man of Bengal." I remember of this eloquent address but little else than the title. During the debate Bishop Thoburn spoke in his usual telling way, but I cannot remember a word he said. There was one in that meeting whose words I can never forget. He was a young Bengali gentleman, in his native dress, who arose in the back part of the audience, and said: "Gentlemen, there is no hope for the young men of Bengal until you give them pure, educated, noble wives and mothers. I have finished my course in school, and am now studying in the medical college, but no amount of education can eradicate the superstitions taught me by my mother; they haunt me continually. There is no hope for Bengal until we can have pure, elevated homes." The beautiful word "home" is not in all their language, neither will we find in their abodes, be they large or small, the healthful atmosphere of home life. Go with me to a Bengali house at the birth of a child. Standing outside the door is a servant woman with a conch shell in her hand —the conch is a symbol of rejoicing used in their temples and at festivals. The woman is awaiting news from within; if it be announced, "A boy is born," she takes up the conch and blows loud and long. A band of musicians had for the occasion catch the strain, and, marching up and down the street, playing on their rude instruments, proclaim to their neighbors and friends what a blessing has come to this family, and there is universal rejoicing. But if the word from within should be, "A girl is born," the woman drops the conch shell, and, tearing her hair, begins to weep and mourn. The musicians, leaving their instruments, with crying and wailing announce the sad news, telling to all the calamity that has befallen this unfortunate family,—a girl baby has been born. A few years ago the little unfortunate would have been drowned in a vessel of water or smothered to death, thus ending its short existence; and, although prohibited by law, even now in the out-of-the-way places, judging from the comparative absence of female children, this terrible crime of infanticide is still practiced. What shall be the life of the little Bengali girl? Many things are in the way of her education and usefulness. Custom is against educating women, and favors child marriage. At an early age she is taught to worship idols, and her bright mind and tender heart are steeped in superstition by the teaching and the evil practices of Hinduism. While a child she is married to one much older than she, and in whose choice she had no voice, and is shut up in the zenana, in whose close seclusion she spends her life. She lives in constant dread of widowhood, a description of the heartlessness of which I have not space here to give. It is enough to know that "the widows of India would outnumber four cities like London, England. One in every six of the females of India is doomed to a desolate and degraded life." From my observation among the Bengali people perpetual widowhood with them means perpetual infamy. With this state of things among the women who have the training of children, who at first are just as pure and innocent as our own beautiful babes, what can we expect for the future of such a people? And yet a more eager class of women to learn I have never met. Their sad, aching hearts are waiting to be led to Jesus, and there are few to carry the glad tidings of salvation to this people. I have seen a city of 350,000 inhabitants without a preacher or teacher in it. All over Bengal there are great districts where no missionary ever goes, and millions have never heard the blessed name of Jesus. —Gospel in All Lands.