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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Novella published with the permission of Gladys Staines.
Cover design by JCNB.
Image courtesy of Sharman Joshi.
Film image courtesy of Skypass Entertainment India.
[location: Araku Valley, Andhra Pradesh, India]
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I have only gratitude to God and all those who have made possible the completion of the film and now the publication of this novella. Thank you.
In particular, I must thank my wife and children for their patience and support, Victor Abraham for his generosity and philanthropy, Aneesh Daniel for his vision and friendship, Krish Dhanam for his kindness and encouragement, and Gladys Staines for her resolute faithfulness.
I hope, dear Reader, that you will be moved by this story, feel for the character who tells it and see in your mind’s eye something of the places and the people. Truth lies behind all that is fictionalised here. And that may cause you to ponder the tragedies and paradoxes of life, but also the hope and meaning and purpose that enables many to overcome.
Andrew E Matthews
FOREWORD
William Carey said that if we want to expect great things from God, we must attempt great things for God. Adoniram Judson said there can be no success without sacrifice. Both these men are regaled as heroes of the faith for their pioneering work in India and Burma (modern day Myanmar). Tucked away between the missionary zeal of those that went to fulfil the Great Commission and those that stayed to reveal the Great Commandment is the story of Graham and Gladys Staines. Their sacrifice was as great as any that answered the call and their love was similar to the saint of Calcutta Mother Teresa who lived five hours northeast of them.
This book takes you to the heart of their story. One that began a hundred plus years ago when missionaries came to the sleepy town of Baripada in the state of Orissa to uplift those cast away because of the scourge of leprosy. My dear friend Andrew Matthews who was instrumental in bringing the Staines story to the big screen with an amazing screenplay now takes you on the same journey in print. What unfolds in the pages ahead is an objective look at a subjective reality that engages us the reader on the trials and tribulations of the calling of a missionary and the obedience to “The Caller.”
You will become familiar with a foreign landscape that challenges those that go and convinces those that stay of the fine line between the culture that defines man and the condition that determines them. In this game of give and take the scorecard is deceptive as the victory is an eternal reward. Yet the temporal struggle to stay the course while being a father and a husband becomes the foundation upon which the house and heed of God is built. I assure you that you will be intrigued by the decisions of some and inspired by the demands of others. The Least of These is told as a story but it is a window into reality that gives us the blessed assurance that because He lives we can face tomorrow. That is the anthem that sustained them and gave them the courage to believe that they could expect great things because they had attempted great things. You will be blessed by the way this story looks into the light, life and legacy of a family that realized that their success was indeed their sacrifice.
Krish Dhanam
Author and Speaker
PROLOGUE
Something happened today.
Something very small, something seemingly insignificant, yet something that sits me now at an old typewriter, tapping these words, typed letters appearing on the paper... for whom? For me? For you?
Earlier today I stood in front of a small bookshop on a street in Kolkata. I stood looking at a book, small and thin like the shop, cheaply bound. I stood looking at the cover on which was a picture of a man. A man I knew.
Once.
Above the man lies the title. Yes, I bought the book. I assume this title is a play on words…Staines of India- there was a man, Staines, and there were things that happened, things that are a stain on India.
I didn't know they were going to happen.
If I had known I would never have gone to Orissa with a heavily pregnant wife. Not that there were many alternatives... but I'm making excuses.
As Mishra pointed out, I was young and inexperienced. And foolish.
EMPLOYMENT
My dear, dedicated and cherished wife.
She was resting on our few belongings in the shade of a bus station building, her red saree like a chaulai, the only flower in a forgotten garden, a single spill of colour in the dry and dusty surroundings.
I approached from behind her, carrying two small symbols of extravagance, tiny gifts of celebration, or perhaps guilt offerings. I recall my insides tightened as she adjusted her position uncomfortably, one hand on her stomach, the other leaning heavily on the suitcase alongside her.
But I could envisage no alternative to our predicament. The promised garden of abundance was but a few straggly plants, the fruit of which was uncertain at best. How could I reveal the true gravity of our situation without causing distress?
No, I had to find the evidence Mishra wanted, that was all. I had to produce the material that would secure the job. Shanti did not need to know; it was kinder to leave her at peace than to burden her with my mistakes.
Forcing fear from me, focusing on what was needed, to provide a sense of hope and security, I stepped up quietly behind her, and slipped the small tray with its meagre offerings in front of her.
"Sweetmeats for the lady."
She did not disappoint; she never did. Her face laughing with delight, hands clasped together, she bestowed on me her treasured look of love and faith before tenderly reaching for the first of the sweets, holding it delicately, carefully, as if it were a far greater gift, a much more magnificent endowment than a mere morsel of food.
After the first tantalising taste had satisfied the baby's longing of sweet things, her eyes moved back to mine, without hint of fear or reprimand.
"Well?" she asked.
I pulled the camera from behind my back where it hung in its black case, letting her believe what she wanted, the camera providing a suitable alibi - I didn't need to say anything.
Her face beamed back at me and her hand closed on mine. Now she could savour her sweet in complete contentment.
"It's not much," I warned.
"It's a job."
I avoided her eyes, ostensibly looking at the bus signs.
"We're going to the town of Baripada. Not too far - a bus ride."
I didn't tell her it was a three hour ride on an over-crowded old bus with uncomfortable seating. It was hardly the moment to dump reality on her. That came soon enough.
The
