ABSTRACT
I t was on the evening of a strange little dinner-party that I first met him. An odd circle-the Christian Postmaster, our friend Rangavachari, the Hindu lawyer and reformer, a Eurasian lady, and myself met at Helen Powell’s house at Penuroy. T o enliven the proceedings the presence of the local musical genius, called the fiddle achari by the public, had also been requested; he accompanied impartially the Indian guests who sang lyrics, and the Western women contributing English hymns, the metre and melody of which he picked up notwithstanding their strangeness to his ear. More orthodox Brahmins assembled in the verandah to hear this concert, though they all left when dinner was announced. The meal, though entirely vegetarian, was served, at the Indians’ proposal, in Western fashion; instructions in the use of spoons and forks amused hosts and guests alike, and the evening was passing very pleasantly; the various elements of Christian, Hindu^ and Theosophic atmospheres blending for the time being harmoniously enough.But sharp contrasts are never far off in India. When after dinner we went back to the verandah a young Hindu came in, looking much perturbed.“Such trouble, such trouble,” he sighed. “They trouble me, they will not let me do as I think right.”Then, seeing a social party, he controlled his utterance.“Mr. Nanjandappa, a teacher here,” Helen Powell introduced him to me. There was not much chance of private conversation that evening; but we all had become conscious that broadmindedness and friendliness were no longer the predominant note. Next morning he came to see me at the traveller’s bungalow where I was staying, and I learned something of his history.
