Whatever the Hindu conception of a god may be, their behaviour in their temples shows that it is something entirely different to the ideas which a Christian associates with the name of God. The greatest irreverence, from our point of view of what irreverence means, is continually going on in a Hindu temple in the presence of the idol, to which homage is done as to a god, and which is the object of a good deal of ceremonial attention from the person whose business it is to pay it. Talking loudly, and laughing and joking, children romping about; all this is evidently not felt to be out of place in the temple, because it goes on habitually, and apparently unrebuked. Card-playing is constantly carried on in those larger temples in which there is a space in front of the idol, and evidently nobody objects. Indians are great card-players, and they play with a persistency and absorbed interest such as the most inveterate bridge-player could scarcely emulate. They often play for the greater part of the day and half the night, and generally for stakes of some sort, however small.

Nor does even robbing the god involve the idea that the god has power to take revenge, because some of the village boys have told me, as a huge joke, of their exploits in robbing their idol of the offerings made to it. People bring small gifts of money, or fruit, or sweetmeats, and deposit them near the idol. These are the recognised perquisites of the custodian of the temple. But in the case of a village temple this official is often also engaged in secular business, so that the boys watch their opportunity and, in his absence, appropriate the offering before he returns.

Apparently burial in a river is a seemly way of disposing of a god. A man was anxious to sell us a plot of land in a certain village, but there was on it a very primitive temple, fenced in with a few sticks and stones. Within this enclosure were several shapeless stone gods, painted with vermilion. We said that if we bought the site the temple would have to be removed first. The man replied that there would be no difficulty about that, because the gods could be buried in the river. The god is then supposed to leave the stone and pass out into the sacred stream. The mud figures of the god Gunpatti, which people annually enshrine in their houses for ten days, are then taken in procession to the river and placed in the water, where, of course, they quickly dissolve.

That even the word God has for Hindus an entirely different significance to that which it has for us, indicates how hopelessly misleading our theological expressions may be in the mouths of English-speaking Hindus. A small party of Hindus called at the Mission bungalow to make a request on behalf of a friend who lived in one of the native states. They affirmed that it was an impossibility to get justice in a law-court in one of these states, except through the intervention of the British Resident. They therefore asked me for a letter of introduction to this official, with a request that justice might be done them. The fact that I did not know the Resident, or the applicant, or any of the facts of the case did not appear to them to be an obstacle to my granting them their petition.

So hoping to attain their end by ingratiating themselves with me, they began by adopting the methods which presumably are found to be efficacious amongst Easterns. After profound salaams on all sides, they refused to sit on the chairs which I offered them, but chose humbler seats instead as a tribute to my own greatness. Flattery was the next process, and after descanting on my accomplishments the chief spokesman finished up by saying, "In fact I may say you are god." When I pointed out the monstrosity of Hindu teaching which could possibly allow the word to be applied to any human being, the Hindu explained that anyone whom you hold in estimation may be called god.

Looking at the large framed photograph of the Indian editor, Mr Tilak, who was deported out of the country for several years on account of the seditious nature of his newspaper, the owner of the photograph said to me, "He is a very good man; in fact he is our god."

A young student sat talking till dusk began to fall. The interval between light and darkness is brief in tropical India. The student got up and said he must hasten home. I asked him if he was afraid of the dark. He said, "No, my god takes care of me." I asked him which of his many gods would do this. He said, "Very likely Mahadeva." I asked him where all the millions of gods lived. He said, "In heaven." I asked if they all got on happily together. He said, "Of course." But then he added, "There is only one real god; the others may, as it were, be regarded as his relations"—which was a novel explanation of Hindu mythology.

Though the ordinary Hindu conception of the characteristics of a god does not include holiness, the sort of characteristic which may be looked for can be illustrated by a question which an intelligent Hindu lad asked me when I was showing him the church. "And what battles did your Christ fight?" said the boy. His visit to the church was apparently his first contact with Christianity, and he listened with respectful attention as I told him of the Son of God coming as the Prince of Peace.

Asking an intelligent Brahmin convert what is the Hindu conception of prayer, he replied that with them its object is entirely a selfish one. A Hindu prays for his own worldly prosperity—that his crops may be good, that his business may succeed, that his children may marry well and become rich. Asking the same informant whether Hindus pray for others, he laughed and said, "No, never; except for the members of their own family."

The number of Hindus who are only nominal adherents is probably much greater than is generally supposed, because many of them still retain the outward marks of a religion in which they have ceased to believe. Most of these have not become atheists, but they are feeling after a true God, and those who are in earnest in their search come as near to Him as their imperfect knowledge allows.

An old Brahmin came into the verandah of the Mission bungalow, and sitting down, said very seriously, "Now tell me about your Christ." He was an army pensioner with two medals. He was seventy-five years of age, which is considered very old for an Indian. His only knowledge of Christianity had been gathered up in a vague way from the few Christians he had rubbed up against in the course of military wanderings, including a few missionaries. Yet even the amount of contact had been a help to him. Hindus sometimes are drawn towards Christianity by contact with even rather nominal Christians.

I asked the old Brahmin if he ever went to the village temple. "There is no temple," he replied rather fiercely. On my assurance that he was mistaken, he said: "Then if there is one, I have never seen it. I go to no temple. I pray to God in heaven." "The one God," he added with emphasis. Yet he had the usual red paint marks neatly inscribed on his forehead, and his Brahmin's thread, like a long skein of cotton, was worn sash-like next his skin, but just peeping out a little at the neck for the people to see. Anyone meeting him would have taken him for a most uncompromising and orthodox Hindu.[1]

[1] His portrait is to be found opposite p. 23, in Thirty-Four Years in Poona City.