The Call, The Story of Ida Scudder

Ida Scudder sat at her desk. She held a letter from her friend, Annie Hancock in America. She pulled a piece of paper out of her drawer.

“Dear Annie, It is a typical night in India. From dinner time until now, five people have come to our door to ask for father’s doctoring skills. Now it is late and the missionary compound is so quiet I can almost hear a palli (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. She should be better by the time my six months are finished and I can come back and see you. Can you believe that next month we will both be twenty? I am marking off the days on my calendar.”

Ida heard something. Maybe footsteps. She continued writing.

“You say you wish you could come here and be a missionary like me? Don’t say that. My mom, dad, Grandpa, Grandma and six uncles might be great missionaries but I am not. ”

She heard another sound. A cough. On the verandah. She lifted the lamp and opened the door.

A young Indian stood there, tall, grave. A Brahmin wearing a spotless vaishi.

“What is it?” Ida asked.

“I need your help.” He spoke cultured English. “My wife, only fourteen, is dying from childbirth. No one can help her. I heard that you had come to India from America and thought you might help her.”

“I’m so sorry. My father is the one you want. He’s the doctor. He’s right next door in his study. I’ll get him.”

“What! Take a man into my house to care for my wife? No man other than those of her own family has ever looked upon her. You don’t know what you say.”

“But, surely, to-to save her life—“

“It is better that she should die than another man should look upon her face.”

“But wait, I’ll get my father. He won’t even have to come in the room. He’ll go with us but he can stay outside and instruct me.”

Ida ran to Dr. John who tried to reason with the Brahmin but the man turned and walked away.

Ida threw her arms around her father. “But why?”

“It’s the caste law. I wish I could change it but only Jesus can change their hearts.”

Ida knew the Brahmin was the highest caste or class. This meant their women were completely sheltered from any contact with lower castes and all Brahmin men.

Ida went back to her room, choking back tears. She set the lamp down on the desk.

She picked up her pen.

Footsteps…again. Ida smiled in relief. She almost giggled. The Brahmin had changed his mind. She rushed to the door making plans the whole way. She would wake her father and have a servant harness the pony.

She opened the door. It was not the Brahmin.

“Salaam, Madam. May Allah give you peace. If you could help me”

“What can I do for you?”

“It’s my wife. She has other children but this time the little one does not come. I have no one to help her except an ignorant, untrained woman. I am afraid she is dying.”

Ida stared at the young Moslem, wanting to shake her fist at the heavens.

He cleared his throat. “I have heard there is a doctor here from America.”

“My father is here.” A tiny hope. This man wouldn’t be bound by the laws of caste.

“Madam, you do not understand our ways. Only the men of her immediate family can enter a Moslem woman’s apartment. It is you, a woman, whose help I came seeking.”

“I can’t help you. I’m not a doctor.” Ida put her hand to her mouth, willing herself not to throw up.

The man bowed his head and walked away. Shoulders drooping.

Ida ran to her room and dropped to her cot. Tears drenched her pillow. She had to do something to get her mind off the two women. She glanced at her closet. She would steam her dresses, daily hard work in this dusty country. That way they would still look nice when she went home.

Footsteps. No.

He was the father of one of the pupils at the Hindu girls’ school, a member of the Mudaliar caste. His daughter was a friend.

“Kamla? Is she sick?”

“Not Kamla. But I have trouble. It is my wife. She is very sick.”

Ida reeled and grabbed the doorframe.

The man threw himself on the porch floor, his hands touching her feet, “Please, Missy, come and help us!”

“Please don’t kneel to me.” Ida wasn’t sure if he could hear her voice through her tears.

She intertwined her fingers over and over as she watched the man stand. She wanted to run after him but she would be of no use to the dying woman.

Ida ran to Dr. John and he said he would go to the man’s home. But Ida knew even her father couldn’t help.

Somehow, Ida dragged herself back to her room.

She lay tense on her cot. Samuel in the Bible had been called three times, too.

She turned over, folding her pillow. But she hated India. Surely, God didn’t speak like this to people in these days. She didn’t want to become a doctor. She knew firsthand how difficult it was.

Just before dawn, Ida heard the sound. Tom toms beating. The drumming message of death. She went to find the servant, Souri. She had to know.

An hour later, at the shuffle of sandals, she ran to the door.

“You did what I asked you, Souri?”

“I did so, Missy.”

“You were able to find all the places.”

“I found them.”

“And the three women who were sick?”

“Dead.”

Ida wanted to retch again. “You don’t mean all three of them?”

The servant nodded. Ida went back to her desk and held onto it. Her letter to Annie mocked her.

She picked it up, read it, and tore it slowly into small pieces.

She would write a new letter. “Dear Annie, Tonight was not a typical night in India…”

In the bedroom, she found her parents.

Ida stood for a moment. She was ready. Really, she had been ready since the first call.

“I’m going to America,” her mother started to frown but stopped when Ida continued, “but only so I can study to be a doctor. Then I will come back and help the women of India.”

Ida Scudder became the first woman to graduate from Cornell Medical College in 1899. In Vellore, India she opened a one-bed clinic which eventually became a 1700 bed medical center. In 1918, she opened a medical school for women.

Ida Scudder is a distant cousin of the author. Ida’s work continues in India to this day. Julie’s father, Dr. James Scudder, ministers in India as well continuing the tradition of four generations of Scudders who have sent 42 missionaries to India and other nations totaling 1,000 years of service.