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T H E K I N G ' S B U S I N E S S
June, 1933
umor K ING ’S BUSINESS . . . B y M arth a S. H ooker
ward, for the woman was telling the story of Moti’s little book. It sounded so wonderful to hear the stony told, and the visitor explained many things as she went along. Moti’s eyes grew big as she learned that this wonderful Teacher was the God the strange, foreign people worship. The visitor said He had come to save the world. She was telling the story of His death, Moti was breathing hard and her eyes were full of tears, but the other women listeners were growing more and more restless and uninterested. Seeing she had lost the attention o f her headers, the lady suddenly interrupted the story saying, “ Perhaps you would like me to tell you a story of India that an Indian friend told me a few days ago.” “ Oh, yes,” cried the women. “ Tell usl” They were not interested in the foreign er’s God, but they settled down to listen eagerly as the missionary began her story. “ Once, in the land of India, in a great, bare field, lay a big lump o f clay. The clay was sad. It did not like to lie, a useless thing, all day under the hot sky. It longed to be made into something useful and beautiful. “ One day a man, walking over the field, picked up the clay and carried it home. He was a potter, a man who makes pottery and dishes. “ ‘Now,’ said the clay happily, ‘I shall be made into a beautiful vase to stand in the home of a prince and be admired by all.’ “It was hard to be shaped on the potter’s wheel, to be baked in the hot oven, but the clay rejoiced. “ ‘These hard things are making me beautiful,’ it said. “ One happy day it was taken from the potter’s house, a finished piece of pottery, and carried to the home of a prince. “As it stood in its place on the veranda, it said joyfully, “ ‘At last I am in my rightful place,’ and then it wondered a little why people did not look at it and talk about its beauty. “One day it was carried down to the well. It looked down into the clear water below. But what did it see? Poor thing, it was so horrified it could not speak. It saw reflected in the water, not a beautiful vase, but only a common clay flower pot worth two cents—a do pice ki gumla. “ Poor little flower pot 1 Day by day, after that, it stood in its place on the veranda, quiet and humble. “ One day it was much surprised that many people gathered around it and talked much, with exclamations of pleasure and praise. “ ‘Why do they look at me and speak so?’ it wonderingly asked a flower pot standing near. “ ‘They do not look at you, but at what you bear,’ answered the other. ‘Do you not know that from within you is growing the fairest flower of all India ?’ “And so,” said the missionary quickly, “ it is with those who believe on the Lord Jesus Christ who died for us. For He did not stay dead, but rose again, and went back to His heavenly home that He might
AN INDIAN PEARL B y F rances C. N oble
from the folds of her sari, where she had hidden it. It was a little book with a few pretty pictures. Moti smiled happily. She knew how to read, for her father was an edu cated man and had his only little girl taught to read just like his sons. For days Moti was happy. She could bear the scolding and hard work, for there was the little book for comfort when she could creep away in some corner or find a few minutes hidden under the yellow bloom of the mimosa trees by the well. The book told the story o f a wonderful Man, the kindest Man who ever lived, Moti thought. She had never heard of the cities named in the little book. Perhaps they were at the other end of India. She hoped they were not too far away, for she wanted the wonderful Teacher to visit her town. She felt that somehow, sometime she must see Him, listen to Him talk, look ing up into His kind face. He did not despise the wretched lepers, and she was sure He would not turn away from even a child widow. But the day came when Moti’s joy died. She had almost finished reading the lit tle book. She had come to the chapter that told how wicked men had killed the great Pundit (teacher). When she read how they put Him on the cross, how He hung there and suffered and died, she cried bitterly. Then she closed the little red book and hid it. She would not read any more. She did not want to read about His funeral. Fun erals were dreadful things. She shivered as she remembered the wails of the women w h e n h e r o l d e s t brother died. Since all her hap
3 young H indu girl paused a mo ment at the threshold of her home. Her name, Moti, meant “a pearl,” but there was no shining beauty about the child. Her coarse clothing and sad face showed she was an Indian widow. Lifting an earth
en wat er pot , she placed it on her head. T h e n s h e waited, half hidden by the doorpost, as she wa t c h e d the strange-looking
foreign lady being welcomed by the women o f her own family in the comfortable ver anda surrounding the court of Mona Roma’s home. Mona Roma was Moti’s fa ther-in-law. The child’s eyes were sad as she watched her mother-in-law and her two pretty sis ters-in-law moving about like gay hum ming birds in their bright silk saris (In dian dresses). She could even hear the clink of their heavy gold bracelets and see the quick flash of their jewels. Ten weeks ago—it seemed like ten years ago—she was as bright and gay and pretty as they. Then in one night her husband sickened and died, and she was a little twelve-year-old widow. Her hair was shaved off, her pretty jewels and dresses were taken away, and she was the servant of every one in the house. No one loved her or pitied her in her hard work and loneliness. She had sinned some terrible sin for which the gods were punishing her, they said, and Moti sadly wondered what she had done. Two weeks ago, one ray o f sunshine had come to the little widow. Contrary to cus tom with widows, her mother-in-law had sent her on an errand to the other end of the village. It was a long, hot walk, and when she was passing a very large yard, or compound, as they call it in India, with its high wall and big gate, she stopped to rest for a moment. The gatekeeper left the gate open a crack while he talked with a friend, and Moti could see inside. What she saw made her eyes grow big with wonder. There were many girls her own age in there, and all playing happily or walking about in lit tle groups. A bell rang, and they all hurried to ward the big bungalow with the white pil lars far back in the compound—that is, all but one. She had caught sight of the wistful face of the little widow peeping through the crack o f the gate. Moti shrank back, for nowadays every one scowled at her or scolded, but this lit tle girl did not. Running up to the gate, she drew from the folds of her pretty sari some little red thing, and with a smile tossed it to Moti, then like a bird she was off to join the other girls. Moti picked up the precious red thing and ran swiftly down the road, afraid the gatekeeper might come after her and take it away. Under a tamarind tree she stopped for breath and shade and drew her treasure
piness had gone, she had had more scold ing than ever, for her feet seemed as heavy and as slow as her heart. Her mother-in-law had told her to go to the well for fresh water when the sud den coming of the white-faced woman, dressed in her strange foreign clothes, had caused every one to forget Moti and had given her a chance to watch and hear what happened. Moti leaned as far
forward as she dared; the woman spoke good Hindustani in a clear voice, so she could understand all she was saying.
After exchanging polite greetings with the women of the household, the visitor be gan to sing a bhajan (an Indian hymn) and then to tell them a story. Suddenly Moti started so that her water- pot almost fell off her head. Steadying it with her slim brown hand that wore no pretty jewels, she leaned even farther for
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