In July 1914 Ida and her mother boarded a ship headed for the United States and furlough. Throughout the voyage Ida’s mind was alive with ways to present the needs of Indian women to Americans. Ida could never have imagined, as the ship steamed its way toward the East Coast of the United States, that something was about to dash her hopes of raising all the money she needed to complete the hospital expansion.
When Ida and her mother disembarked in New York, shocking news awaited. Europe was at war! Although President Woodrow Wilson declared that the United States would remain neutral, many Americans were focused on the bloody battlefields of Europe and gave money to the Red Cross and other war-related charities rather than to a hospital expansion project in India.
Ida did the best she could, often speaking four times a day. She drew heavily on the moral support of Katharine Van Nest, Gertrude Dodd, and Lucy Peabody, another woman who had visited Vellore to see conditions there for herself. Ida wondered how she could have gone on without these three women to buoy up her spirits.
By fall 1915 Ida knew she had to return to India, whether she had the money for the expansion or not. In fact, she had been able to raise only eight thousand dollars, which, along with the Indian government’s grant, meant that she had a total of twelve thousand dollars to put toward the expansion project. Ida comforted herself with the fact that at least it was enough to make a start on the project.
By now the high seas had become a dangerous battleground, with Germany warning Americans against sailing across the Atlantic Ocean. To underscore their point, the Germans sank a British liner, the Lusitania, causing the death of over twelve hundred people, including one hundred twenty-eight Americans. As she prepared to set sail herself, Ida wondered how long the American government could stall before it, too, declared war on Germany. Thankfully, the voyage back to India was uneventful, and Ida and her mother arrived safely back in Madras.
Once back in Vellore, Ida plunged again into work, lecturing to nurses, operating on patients, and conducting Roadsides. Every so often news of the progress of the Great War in Europe reached as far as Vellore. One source of news was Gertrude, who had been so impressed with the needs of India that she arrived in Vellore soon after Ida returned, not for a visit but to stay for good. Gertrude cheerfully announced that she had sold her New York apartment, had said farewell to her family and friends, and was prepared to spend the rest of her life helping to fulfill Ida’s vision for Indian women.
Ida was stunned, and delighted. Gertrude was a special friend and a wonderful administrator. Within weeks she had taken over managing the hospital accounts, something that had been a constant headache to Ida.
In January 1916, four months after Ida’s return from the United States, the building committee appointed by the South India Medical Association arrived in Vellore to inspect the two hundred-acre site on Arni Road. Much to Ida’s delight, the committee approved the site. Ida had been eyeing the site for a long time, and now she could almost see the medical school there. However, a few obstacles stood in the way. The main one was the price tag for the school. When everything was added up, to build a facility that would meet government standards would cost one million dollars!
The difficulties involved in raising the small sum of eight thousand dollars while on furlough were still fresh in Ida’s mind. Yet Ida refused to let the huge amount needed for the medical college daunt her. Somehow, she told herself, God would provide the money. In the meantime Ida had plenty to do supervising the hospital extension and building a dispensary in the village. More doctors arrived from the United States to help out, despite the fact that the United States had entered the Great War in early 1917 and the U. S. Army was putting a lot of pressure on doctors to enlist.
By 1918 the hospital extension was complete, and Ida once again had time to focus on her dream of building a medical school. She made a trip to Madras to talk with Colonel Bryson, the head of the British Medical Department for the Madras region. The colonel had already heard of the proposal for the medical school, and he revealed an amused smile as he invited Ida into his office. A ceiling fan beat the humid air overhead as the colonel guided Ida to a straight-backed wooden chair opposite his desk.
“So,” he began as he took his seat behind the expansive mahogany desk, “you are the woman who actually thinks she is going to start a medical school in Vellore?”
“Yes,” Ida replied, aware that she was holding her head a little higher than normal. She looked Colonel Bryson in the eye. “It will be a wonderful addition to the area’s medical facilities, don’t you think?”
“If it ever happens, surely,” the colonel replied. “But I don’t believe you have any buildings, do you?”
“Not yet,” Ida replied, “but we have decided to rent some houses near the hospital in which to hold the school until the structure on Arni Road is finally built.”
“And money?” Colonel Bryson continued, playing with his fountain pen.
“We are working on it. As you know, this is not a good time to raise money in the United States or England, but the money will come.”
“And staff?”
Ida felt like reaching out and grabbing the colonel by his collar. He was toying with her, but she remained patient with him.
“I am qualified to teach most of the subjects at a first-year level,” she said. “The girls can attend physics and chemistry classes at Voorhees College in Vellore, our mission’s college for young men. Once things get moving, word will travel, and other doctors will come to join the teaching staff.” Ida’s voice was confident and firm.
“Let me get this right. You have no buildings, no money, and no staff,” Colonel Bryson mused, “and you think you are ready to start a medical school. It would be ridiculous if it weren’t so…” —he looked at Ida and searched for the right word— “so heroic.”
“It’s not about being heroic,” Ida countered. “It’s about a huge need out there that we have to find a way to fill. You, Colonel, above all should understand that.”
Ida studied Colonel Bryson’s face to see if she had offended him, but apparently she had not.
“You are right about that,” the colonel conceded. “But even if you had the building, the money, and the staff, we are talking about Indian women training to be doctors.” He shook his head. “You know how hard it is to find qualified applicants to be nurses. I just don’t see it happening. Especially when, once they are trained, they will have to compete against top Indian men from seven medical schools.”
“You don’t think women have the brains to be doctors?” Ida retorted.
“Obviously you made it, and I have the utmost respect for you. But I doubt that Indian women could achieve what you have.”
Ida kept her anger in check. Colonel Bryson had the power to kill or promote the idea of a medical school for women, and she was determined to find a way to reach him. Perhaps, she thought, she should try humor.
“Well,” she said, forcing a big smile on her face, “have you heard the story about the dinner served in India, at which one of the courses was to be sheep’s brains?”
“No, I haven’t,” the colonel replied.
“When the meal was served, that course was omitted. Later the mistress asked the cook what had happened to the dish of sheep’s brains. ‘O, madam,’ the cook replied, ‘the sheep they butchered for me was a female, and it had no brains.’”
Colonel Bryson laughed, and the tension subsided. “All right, Dr. Scudder, you’ll be fortunate if you get three applications,” he said, “but if you get six, go ahead and start your school. You have the permission of the government.”
Ida managed to stay composed while she chatted with Colonel Bryson for a few minutes more, but once she was out of his earshot, she let out a whoop of delight! Her medical school had been approved! She was on her way.
No time was lost in sending out a prospectus for the new school to all missionary and government high schools and colleges for girls in the Madras region. The prospectus announced that students must be over eighteen, have good grades in their final exams, speak and write English, and have character references. It also informed would-be applicants that the school was open to all women regardless of religion or caste.
Once the flyers had been put in the mail, Ida was not finished. She visited many schools herself, seeking out intelligent young women whose families were willing to let them train to be doctors.
At a Methodist school in Tinnevelly, Ida gave her usual promotional speech and answered questions. As she got up to leave, she noticed one girl lingering behind. The principal of the school noticed her too.
“She is one of our brightest students,” she whispered to Ida. “If you can interest her, she will be a credit to you.”
Ida saw something about the girl, perhaps her alert look, that attracted her, and she walked over to talk to the student.
“I’ve had my eye on you during the presentation, and I think you would make a great doctor,” Ida said forthrightly.
The girl looked shocked. “You do?” she replied.
Ida reached out and held the girl’s hands up for inspection. “Yes. You have strong hands and long fingers. And you obviously like to observe things, just as much as I do. What is your name?”
“Ebbie,” the girl quietly replied. “Ebbie Gnanamuthu.”
“What a nice name,” Ida said. “Would you like to be a doctor, Ebbie?”
“I…I don’t know,” Ebbie stammered. “I’m not sure I would be good enough.”
Ida smiled. “Humility is a good trait for a doctor.”
As Ida and the principal walked to Ida’s new Model T motorcar, Ida learned that Ebbie, short for Ebenezer, came from a very poor Christian family. Ebbie’s father, who earned about seven dollars a month, was a pastor. The principal was convinced that Ebbie would make a good doctor, as was Ida. Soon it was arranged that a scholarship be given to Ebbie if she found the courage to apply for the medical college.
Ebbie did apply, along with sixty-nine other young women! Ida could hardly wait to see Colonel Bryson again and let him know. Six students indeed!
Then came the painful job of selecting seventeen students, the best and most dedicated from the group of applicants. Much to Ida’s delight, one student who made the final cut was Ebbie Gnanamuthu.
Now that Ida had her students, she needed a facility in which to teach and house them all. She rented several bungalows in the village and scrubbed out a shed to use as a dissection room. Then she turned her attention to equipment, of which there was little—two books, one microscope, and one skeleton.
Ingenuity was needed, and Ida had plenty of that. She bought lengths of colored ribbon and attached them to the wired-together skeleton. She used red to show where the arteries were, blue for veins, and yellow for nerves. Then she used cloth and padding to make muscles, and even rigged them up so that they would flex when she pulled a string.
The medical college was officially opened on August 12, 1918. The governor of Madras and Colonel Bryson were both in attendance. In his speech the colonel told the young women, “I wonder if you realize what important people you are. Fifty years hence you will remind the students of that generation that you were among those present at the opening of this school. It is an honor that none can ever share with you.”
A week later Ida was sure that some of the students wondered whether it was an honor after all. Ida taught chapel at 7:30 each morning, reading selections from the New Testament. She especially liked to read 1 Corinthians 13, which she read aloud every Monday morning to remind the women how to start off their week well. Classes were held from eight to ten in the morning. Then the students all followed Ida to the hospital, where they watched as she made her rounds of the wards. In the previous few years, anatomy had undergone a “modernization.” In her day Ida had learned about thirty thousand anatomical terms while in medical school. Now many of those terms had been replaced with newer ones, which meant that the students now had to learn both the old and the new terms, some fifty thousand of them in all. Ida gave a test every Friday, and she graded harshly. Anyone who scored below 90 percent failed.
