Back at camp Dixie led the way into the tent, with Ida right behind. Just as Ida stepped inside, she caught a glimpse of her Uncle Jared. His face was as stormy as thunder clouds. “Take those flowers off! Both of you!” he boomed. “What do you think you are doing? We are here to inspire holiness in Christians, not this—this frivolity.”
Much to Ida’s dismay, Dixie replied meekly, “Yes, Father,” as she unwound the rose-colored blossoms from her hat. Ida waited for her father to say something, but he continued working quietly in the corner.
Finally Ida stepped outside the tent, indignation rising within her. How dare Uncle Jared speak to us like that? What kind of Christianity is it that does not allow a girl to put a flower in her hat? she fumed as she pulled more blooms from the oleander branches they had picked and stuck them deliberately into her hat. She did not stop until the entire brim and bowl of the hat were completely covered. That will teach the old grouch, she told herself, pulling her hat on again and walking back into the tent, her chin held high.
Both men looked up in silence as she entered, and Ida thought she saw the beginnings of a smile on her father’s face. But Uncle Jared’s eyes looked like they would pop with anger. He opened his mouth to say something and then suddenly burst into a fit of laughter. He did not stop until tears were rolling down his cheeks. He turned to Ida’s father, who was also laughing, and said, “Well, brother, that’s what comes from having five sons and only one daughter. She’s much too independent minded. I don’t envy you one bit.”
Ida did not know what to say. She wished Dixie would seize the opportunity and jam some flowers into her hat once again, but she did not.
That night, when the two cousins were lying on their cots, Ida wondered what Dixie really thought about having to do everything her father said. Didn’t she ever feel like telling him to mind his own business? Her heart beat fast as she worked up the courage to ask Dixie.
“Do you really like doing what your father says all the time?” she finally asked. “Don’t you have your own dreams—things you want to do without anyone else bossing you around?”
“Oh, yes!” Dixie replied.
Ida was startled by the passion in her cousin’s voice. Perhaps Dixie did have some spunk after all. Perhaps she also longed to escape India. Perhaps the two of them could return to America together and make something of their lives.
“Tell me what your dream is,” Ida urged. “What is it you want to do more than anything?”
Dixie rolled over, and Ida could see her eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “If I could do anything I liked…” Dixie said in a dreamy voice. “Well…I don’t know if you would understand.”
“I certainly would,” Ida whispered back. “I’ve lived other places besides here, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Dixie replied. “It’s just that…well…if I could do anything I liked, I would find the smallest, dirtiest village in the whole province, and I would live there in a tent or a simple hut. I would work with the women of the village to teach them hygiene and how to look after their babies so they don’t get sick. And I’d start a Sunday school for the children. More than anything else, that’s what I want to do.”
Ida lay still in bed. She dared not open her mouth for fear she would laugh out loud. What kind of crazy dream was that? And from one of the prettiest girls in all of India! Dixie certainly needed a trip back to the United States before it was too late and she decided to spend the rest of her life in this dirty, smelly country.
During the rest of the evangelistic campaign, Ida took great pains to avoid having any more serious conversations with Dixie. It was far too disturbing to listen to someone she admired describe how she wanted to throw her life away.
When Ida got back to Tindivanam, a letter was waiting for her from Annie Hancock, one of her friends from school in Northfield. Ida ripped open the letter, eager to read some of the gossip that seemed a million miles away from her now.
As usual, though, Annie couldn’t help making the letter religious. She asked Ida if she had preached to the women and children yet, or if she was able to read the Bible in Tamil. She gushed about how blessed Ida was to be able to bring “light and truth to places of darkness and ignorance.” Ida shook her head as she read. Did her friend really think that coming to India would have changed her that much? She shook her head again and promised herself she would write back to Annie that night. Someone needed to tell Annie that being a missionary was not the wonderful career she imagined it to be, and it was certainly not one that Ida intended to pursue.
It was not the letter that Ida wrote back to Annie that night that would forever change her world. Rather, it was the strange events that occurred while she wrote it.
Chapter 5
“There Is Something I Can Do about It”
Before she went to bed, Ida sat down to write a letter to her friend Annie. She settled herself at her desk and began writing.
Dear Annie, I am sitting in my room with your letter in front of me. It is late at night, and the compound is so quiet I can almost hear a palli (that’s a lizard) darting up the wall to catch a bug. My father is working in his bedroom-study next door, and my mother, I hope, is asleep.
Ida paused for a moment and dipped her pen in the inkwell. That was enough chitchat. It was time to tell Annie how she felt about missionary work. She continued:
You say you wish you could be a missionary like me. Don’t say that! I’m not a missionary and never will be. But you’re not like me. You always were more—more spiritual, Annie darling. You might really like it here. I can see you going into the zenanas (women’s quarters in Indian homes) and visiting the little wives and mothers. Some of them have to live all their lives within four walls, and they’re so young, Annie, not near as old as you and I…
A faint cough interrupted Ida’s flow of words. Someone was outside her door. This did not alarm Ida; people came at all hours of the day and night to get her father. She put down her pen, picked up the desk lamp, and walked to the door and opened it.
Sure enough, a young Indian man stood on the far side of the veranda. Ida recognized him immediately as one of Tindivanam’s most respected Brahmans, a member of the highest caste among India’s Hindus. The man bowed his head slightly, and his white turban bobbed up and down.
“What do you need?” Ida asked.
The man stepped forward, and Ida could see he was shaking.
“Are you sick?” she asked.
“No, not me,” he said. “It is my wife. You must come to her. She is only fourteen, and this is her first baby. It will not come out, and the barber woman says that she is going to die. But…” his voice trembled with emotion, “she must not die, Ammal [honored friend]! She is a beautiful girl. They told me that you are from America and that you can help her.”
“No, no,” Ida said soothingly as she gathered the hem of her dress. “But come with me. I will take you to my father. He is the doctor, and I am sure he will know what to do.” Ida turned to lead the way to her father’s study. But the Brahman man did not follow, and Ida looked to see what was keeping him. Much to her surprise he stood still, his face in his hands.
“All is lost,” he said. “I cannot take a man into my house to care for my wife. No man other than those of her own family has so much as seen her face. You don’t know what you are saying.”
“But my father can help,” Ida exclaimed. “You said that without help she will die. Don’t you understand? Come, let’s go and talk to my father.”
“I don’t understand!” yelled the man. “It is you who do not understand. My wife cannot be defiled. If you cannot help me, I will go.”
“No, wait one minute,” Ida said, hurrying off to get her father. Surely he would know how to talk some sense into this Brahman. She burst into her father’s office and quickly told him what had happened. The two of them went out to talk to their visitor. Dr. Scudder tried to convince the man that a doctor seeing a patient is a different matter from a man looking at a woman.
“If what you tell me is true, it sounds like your wife will die without my help,” Ida’s father concluded.
The man nodded. “If that is what must be, then it must be. But it is such a shame, Ammal,” he said. Once again looking at Ida he added, “Are you sure you will not come?”
Ida shook her head. “It would be of no use. I have no skills in delivering babies. I would be no better than the barber’s wife.”
“Then so be it. I apologize for disturbing your evening.”
With that the man turned and stepped off the veranda. Ida could hear the crunch of his footsteps on the stone sidewalk. Anger seethed within her. She looked at her father in the lamplight.
“Why? How could he be so selfish?” she demanded.
Dr. Scudder sighed. “You know as well as I do, Ida, it is the way in India. A Brahman does not let any man see his wife’s face, much less attend her as she gives birth to a child.”
“I know that,” Ida spat back, “but this is a matter of life or death. Surely that is more important than their rules.” She could hear the hysteria rising in her voice. This was everything she hated about India.
Ida’s father patted her arm. “Now, now, there is nothing we can do about it. Our visitor is a deeply religious man, and we must respect his decision.”
“Respect! I will never respect a man who lets his wife die. People here are crazy!” Ida snapped.
“Maybe so, but this is the way they have lived for thousands of years, and we can’t change it overnight. It is best to forget about it.”
“How can you say that?” Ida retorted. She had always thought of her father as a softhearted man, and now he was telling her to forget the fourteen-year-old girl dying in childbirth.
“Yes, forget,” her father repeated. “It is a lesson that I learned a long time ago. There is so much suffering and despair here, and if I took it all to heart, I could not do my work. If there’s nothing you can do to remedy a bad situation, the wisest thing to do is to forget about it.”
“All right,” Ida said impatiently, dissatisfied with her father’s reply. “I was partway through writing a letter, and I want to finish it tonight.” She turned and went back to her room.
When she sat down to write, Ida found her hand was shaking too much to hold the pen steady. Of course her father was right—she should forget about it. But how could she? She still recalled the starving children from when she was six years old. No wonder she hated India so much—it was full of horrible situations she could do nothing about.
Ida wiped a tear away with her sleeve and then smiled. What would Annie Hancock think of her getting so worked up over a woman she had never met! Ida decided she needed to pull herself together. With fresh resolve she picked up the pen and continued writing.
Ida had not even finished the page when she heard another noise outside her door. Her heart skipped a beat. Ida told herself the Brahman man had changed his mind. He had gone home, seen how desperate the situation was, and come back for her father’s help.
Quickly Ida got up from her desk and flung open the door. “I am so glad you returned,” she said before her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
A different voice spoke back to her. “Salaam, madam. May Allah grant you peace. I have come because I am in great need.”
Ida peered at the man standing on the pathway. He was wearing a buttoned coat and a cap.
“Good evening,” she replied. “What is it you need?”
The man stepped forward. “It is my wife,” he said softly. “She has had other children, and they have been without trouble. But this one is different. She has been trying for a long time, but there is no one to help her except one woman who has no training. Forgive me for coming in the night, but I was hoping to find help. I hear you have a doctor here who has recently arrived from America.”
“You mean my father,” Ida replied. “Wait here and I will fetch him.”
Without waiting for an answer, she ran off to find her father. This man was a Muslim, not a Brahman, and Ida saw no reason why his wife could not be seen by a male doctor. Even though one woman might die tonight, her father’s expertise could surely save another.
