Pecchi could not have guessed that the parangi who was leading her to this strange place was Schwartz – a man whose footsteps would later leave wide imprints on the soil of Thanjavur, whose name would one day be whispered as the shepherd of a new faith. For nearly 40 years, since Bartholomaeus Ziegenbalg had planted the first fragile seed of the Lutheran Mission in Tranquebar, Christianity had tried to push its tender roots into the hard earth of the south. The missionaries came from Denmark and Halle, carrying their strange books and stranger hopes – hoping to “rescue the heathen from darkness, to nurse their souls into salvation.”But the land was old, its gods older still. The missionaries soon discovered that the people here clung fiercely to their pantheon, like children clutching the many fingers of one mother. It was only with Schwartz’s arrival that the mission felt a new wind fill its sails. Pecchi walked behind Schwartz towards the great doorway of the New Jerusalem Church, and a faint shiver passed through her. It was not entirely fear, nor entirely wonder, but something born of the two – like standing close to the sea at dusk, unsure whether to step back or forward.“Have you been inside before?” he asked. She shook her head, eyes moving slowly along the vastness of the structure. It dawned on her that the parangi and his group were preaching a new religion, and she was entering a temple of this new faith. She had seen the temple at Godhanamangalam from outside. It looked large. She did not know much about the gods resident in the temple. Kadamban had said they were powerful gods, but they understood only the language of the Brahmins; Muthalamman was the goddess assigned to their caste. But Kadamban wasn’t happy with Her. Either She wasn’t as powerful as the Brahmin gods or didn’t take Her job seriously. Why else would they have to struggle for a living whilst the upper caste didn’t? Now, faced with the enormous stone ribs of this church, the old temple seemed suddenly small, almost shy of its own shape and size. After Bernt, Pecchi was no longer uncomfortable with white men, but this religion was strange. Rumours stirred in her memory – that parangis mocked the village gods, ate beef, drank liquor by the barrel and never washed after defecation. Yet, no rumour could explain the gentleness with which this white man placed a hand on her shoulder. “My name is Schwartz,” he said. “You are safe here. This is God’s house.”But she could not shake off her unease. “My husband…” she began, “will you find out when he returns? He left five days after the Purattasi full moon.”“We shall try,” said Schwartz. “First, you must eat.”The moment he mentioned food, the world inside her collapsed into its oldest need. Fear, doubt, memory – all these could wait; hunger could not. Just as she and Muthu received a cup of kanji and a sliver of fried fish, a woman hurried up to Schwartz, breathless in panic. “Pastor! A pregnant woman – suddenly in labour – something is wrong.”Schwartz’s voice was soft but firm. “Mariam, under the eye of the Lord, no one remains forsaken.”“She cannot be moved,” Mariam insisted. “Then you must help her, and we shall pray.”Pecchi felt her fingers twitch – the instinct rising like a buried memory. “I‒I can help,” she said timidly. “I am a maruthuvacchi.”Schwartz turned to her with gratitude that warmed the cold air of the church. “God indeed sends His servants at the right hour.”The labour was long and dangerous. The baby pressed downwards too early; the mother’s breath trembled like a lamp flame. Pecchi’s hands moved steadily, though fear gnawed at her – fear of failure, fear of her ill luck. Between contractions, she whispered prayers to Muthalamman. She worried if the White God at the church would take offence at her calling her goddess. Would there be a clash between the gods? She didn’t know. After hours of sweat and trembling effort, the newborn’s cry cut through the room – a perfect, unbroken flute. The mother’s exhausted smile glowed faintly in the lamplight. For Pecchi, it felt as if a window had opened in her life and a soft wind had entered. “You are blessed in your work,” Schwartz told her, his voice full of relief. “Truly, the Lord’s servant.” Her heart brimmed with a pride she had not known in years. “You haven’t had anything to eat! Will you please have your kanji?” Schwartz asked. Muthu wore a contented look, having had her meal.Schwartz waited until she had eaten and then spoke gently: “If God has given you such hands, should they not serve the poor, serve His flock?”Pecchi didn’t understand. “I am asking if you’d want to work as a maruthuvacchi at the church?” he said.“But I haven’t learned enough,” Pecchi said modestly. “You could learn from a senior siddha vaidyar. The church will arrange that. You could work in our medical room,” said Schwartz. So, she had found work; therefore, food. Pecchi instantly promised Muthalamman two bottles of liquor. She had to find a way to settle her escalating dues.The apothecary was a retired Dutch sailor who used vinegars and herbs with European names. The locals weren’t impressed. Some prescriptions went right against traditional wisdom. People were appalled that he should be prescribing a chalk mixture with opium, considered poison, to treat loose motion. Samuel Benjamin Cnoll, a German scholar of palm-leaf texts, had been urging Schwartz to find a native healer. “The land already knows its cures, we must learn from them,” he had said. A healer for women’s diseases would be a good start, Schwartz felt. That would bring in the female crowd. Women always seemed to want more from the gods than men. So Pecchi joined the small medical hut beside the church. She inhaled foreign scents, ran her fingers over jars of rose-hip syrup and lavender balm, learning their temper as she matched them with the leaves and roots she had known since girlhood. Soon she was blending potions of her own, a union of western mixtures and forest remedies, and mothers began to arrive – women who trusted another woman’s ear, another woman’s hands. Muthu, quick and eager, began to assist: crushing herbs, carrying warm water, wiping wounds with a tenderness that reminded Pecchi of her own mother. Mariam occasionally came to help; she had many other things to do.Excerpted with permission from The Grammar of Silence: Five Centuries. Three Women. Towards Liberation, R Seshasayee, Rupa Publications.