I should probably have been hustling
strenuously
in
some factory or bank, or Parliament.
some factory or bank, or Parliament.
Tagore - Creative Unity
What a maze of fancy and fact becomes tangled up within the mind of man!
The different strands--petty and great--of story and event and picture,
how they get knotted together!
SHELIDAH,
_22nd June 1892. _
Early this morning, while still lying in bed, I heard the women at the
bathing-place sending forth joyous peals of _Ulu! Ulu! _[1] The sound
moved me curiously, though it is difficult to say why.
[Footnote 1: A peculiar shrill cheer given by women on auspicious or
festive occasions. ]
Perhaps such joyful outbursts put one in mind of the great stream of
festive activity which goes on in this world, with most of which the
individual man has no connection. The world is so immense, the concourse
of men so vast, yet with how few has one any tie! Distant sounds of life,
wafted near, bearing tidings from unknown homes, make the individual
realise that the greater part of the world of men does not, cannot own or
know him; then he feels deserted, loosely attached to the world, and a
vague sadness creeps over him.
Thus these cries of _Ulu! Ulu! _ made my life, past and future, seem
like a long, long road, from the very ends of which they come to me. And
this feeling colours for me the beginning of my day.
As soon as the manager with his staff, and the ryots seeking audience,
come upon the scene, this faint vista of past and future will be promptly
elbowed out, and a very robust present will salute and stand before me.
SHAZADPUR,
_25th June 1892. _
In to-day's letters there was a touch about A---'s singing which made my
heart yearn with a nameless longing. Each of the little joys of life,
which remain unappreciated amid the hubbub of the town, send in their
claims to the heart when far from home. I love music, and there is no
dearth of voices and instruments in Calcutta, yet I turn a deaf ear to
them. But, though I may fail to realise it at the time, this needs must
leave the heart athirst.
As I read to-day's letters, I felt such a poignant desire to hear A---'s
sweet song, I was at once sure that one of the many suppressed longings of
creation which cry after fulfilment is for neglected joys within reach;
while we are busy pursuing chimerical impossibilities we famish our
lives. . . .
The emptiness left by easy joys, untasted, is ever growing in my life. And
the day may come when I shall feel that, could I but have the past back, I
would strive no more after the unattainable, but drain to the full these
little, unsought, everyday joys which life offers.
SHAZADPUR,
_27th June 1892. _
Yesterday, in the afternoon, it clouded over so threateningly, I felt a
sense of dread. I do not remember ever to have seen before such
angry-looking clouds.
Swollen masses of the deepest indigo blue were piled, one on top of the
other, just above the horizon, looking like the puffed-out moustaches of
some raging demon.
Under the jagged lower edges of the clouds there shone forth a blood-red
glare, as through the eyes of a monstrous, sky-filling bison, with tossing
mane and with head lowered to strike the earth in fury.
The crops in the fields and the leaves of the trees trembled with fear of
the impending disaster; shudder after shudder ran across the waters; the
crows flew wildly about, distractedly cawing.
SHAZADPUR,
_29th June 1892. _
I wrote yesterday that I had an engagement with Kalidas, the poet, for
this evening. As I lit a candle, drew my chair up to the table, and made
ready, not Kalidas, but the postmaster, walked in. A live postmaster
cannot but claim precedence over a dead poet, so I could not very well
tell him to make way for Kalidas, who was due by appointment,--he would
not have understood me! Therefore I offered him a chair and gave old
Kalidas the go-by.
There is a kind of bond between this postmaster and me. When the post
office was in a part of this estate building, I used to meet him every
day. I wrote my story of "The Postmaster" one afternoon in this very room.
And when the story was out in the _Hitabadi_ he came to me with a
succession of bashful smiles, as he deprecatingly touched on the subject.
Anyhow, I like the man. He has a fund of anecdote which I enjoy listening
to. He has also a sense of humour.
Though it was late when the postmaster left, I started at once on the
_Raghuvansa_[1], and read all about the _swayamuara_[2] of
Indumati.
[Footnote 1: Book of poems by Kalidas, who is perhaps best known to
European readers as the author of _Sakuntala_. ]
[Footnote 2: An old Indian custom, according to which a princess chooses
among assembled rival suitors for her hand by placing a garland round the
neck of the one whose love she returns. ]
The handsome, gaily adorned princes are seated on rows of thrones in the
assembly hall. Suddenly a blast of conch-shell and trumpet resounds, as
Indumati, in bridal robes, supported by Sunanda, is ushered in and stands
in the walk left between them. It was delightful to dwell on the picture.
Then as Sunanda introduces to her each one of the suitors, Indumati bows
low in loveless salutation, and passes on. How beautiful is this humble
courtesy! They are all princes. They are all her seniors. For she is a
mere girl. Had she not atoned for the inevitable rudeness of her rejection
by the grace of her humility, the scene would have lost its beauty.
SHELIDAH,
_20th August 1892. _
"If only I could live there! " is often thought when looking at a beautiful
landscape painting. That is the kind of longing which is satisfied here,
where one feels alive in a brilliantly coloured picture, with none of the
hardness of reality. When I was a child, illustrations of woodland and
sea, in _Paul and Virginia_, or _Robinson Crusoe_, would waft me
away from the everyday world; and the sunshine here brings back to my mind
the feeling with which I used to gaze on those pictures.
I cannot account for this exactly, or explain definitely what kind of
longing it is which is roused within me. It seems like the throb of some
current flowing through the artery connecting me with the larger world. I
feel as if dim, distant memories come to me of the time when I was one
with the rest of the earth; when on me grew the green grass, and on me
fell the autumn light; when a warm scent of youth would rise from every
pore of my vast, soft, green body at the touch of the rays of the mellow
sun, and a fresh life, a sweet joy, would be half-consciously secreted and
inarticulately poured forth from all the immensity of my being, as it lay
dumbly stretched, with its varied countries and seas and mountains, under
the bright blue sky.
My feelings seem to be those of our ancient earth in the daily ecstasy of
its sun-kissed life; my own consciousness seems to stream through each
blade of grass, each sucking root, to rise with the sap through the trees,
to break out with joyous thrills in the waving fields of corn, in the
rustling palm leaves.
I feel impelled to give expression to my blood-tie with the earth, my
kinsman's love for her; but I am afraid I shall not be understood.
BOALIA,
_18th November 1892. _
I am wondering where your train has got to by now. This is the time for
the sun to rise over the ups and downs of the treeless, rocky region near
Nawadih station. The scene around there must be brightened by the fresh
sunlight, through which distant, blue hills are beginning to be faintly
visible.
Cultivated fields are scarcely to be seen, except where the primitive
tribesmen have done a little ploughing with their buffaloes; on each side
of the railway cutting there are the heaped-up black rocks--the
boulder-marked footprints of dried-up streams--and the fidgety, black
wagtails, perched along the telegraph wires. A wild, seamed, and scarred
nature lies there in the sun, as though tamed at the touch of some soft,
bright, cherubic hand.
Do you know the picture which this calls up for me? In the _Sakuntala_ of
Kalidas there is a scene where Bharat, the infant son of King Dushyanta,
is playing with a lion cub. The child is lovingly passing his delicate,
rosy fingers through the rough mane of the great beast, which lies quietly
stretched in trustful repose, now and then casting affectionate glances
out of the corner of its eyes at its little human friend.
And shall I tell you what those dry, boulder-strewn watercourses put me in
mind of? We read in the English fairy tale of the Babes in the Wood, how
the little brother and sister left a trace of their wanderings, through
the unknown forest into which their stepmother had turned them out, by
dropping pebbles as they went. These streamlets are like lost babes in the
great world into which they are sent adrift, and that is why they leave
stones, as they go forth, to mark their course, so as not to lose their
way when they may be returning. But for them there is no return journey!
NATORE,
_2nd December_ 1892.
There is a depth of feeling and breadth of peace in a Bengal sunset behind
the trees which fringe the endless solitary fields, spreading away to the
horizon.
Lovingly, yet sadly withal, does our evening sky bend over and meet the
earth in the distance. It casts a mournful light on the earth it leaves
behind--a light which gives us a taste of the divine grief of the Eternal
Separation[1] and eloquent is the silence which then broods over earth,
sky, and waters.
[Footnote 1: _I. e. _ between Purusha and Prakriti--God and Creation. ]
As I gaze on in rapt motionlessness, I fall to wondering--If ever this
silence should fail to contain itself, if the expression for which this
hour has been seeking from the beginning of time should break forth, would
a profoundly solemn, poignantly moving music rise from earth to starland?
With a little steadfast concentration of effort we can, for ourselves,
translate the grand harmony of light and colour which permeates the
universe into music. We have only to close our eyes and receive with the
ear of the mind the vibration of this ever-flowing panorama.
But how often shall I write of these sunsets and sunrises? I feel their
renewed freshness every time; yet how am I to attain such renewed
freshness in my attempts at expression?
SHELIDAH,
_9th December_ 1892.
I am feeling weak and relaxed after my painful illness, and in this state
the ministrations of nature are sweet indeed. I feel as if, like the rest,
I too am lazily glittering out my delight at the rays of the sun, and my
letter-writing progresses but absent-mindedly.
The world is ever new to me; like an old friend loved through this and
former lives, the acquaintance between us is both long and deep.
I can well realise how, in ages past, when the earth in her first youth
came forth from her sea-bath and saluted the sun in prayer, I must have
been one of the trees sprung from her new-formed soil, spreading my
foliage in all the freshness of a primal impulse.
The great sea was rocking and swaying and smothering, like a foolishly
fond mother, its first-born land with repeated caresses; while I was
drinking in the sunlight with the whole of my being, quivering under the
blue sky with the unreasoning rapture of the new-born, holding fast and
sucking away at my mother earth with all my roots. In blind joy my leaves
burst forth and my flowers bloomed; and when the dark clouds gathered,
their grateful shade would comfort me with a tender touch.
From age to age, thereafter, have I been diversely reborn on this earth.
So whenever we now sit face to face, alone together, various ancient
memories, gradually, one after another, come back to me.
My mother earth sits to-day in the cornfields by the river-side, in her
raiment of sunlit gold; and near her feet, her knees, her lap, I roll
about and play. Mother of a multitude of children, she attends but
absently to their constant calls on her, with an immense patience, but
also with a certain aloofness. She is seated there, with her far-away look
fastened on the verge of the afternoon sky, while I keep chattering on
untiringly.
BALJA,
_Tuesday, February 1893_.
I do not want to wander about any more. I am pining for a corner in which
to nestle down snugly, away from the crowd.
India has two aspects--in one she is a householder, in the other a
wandering ascetic. The former refuses to budge from the home corner, the
latter has no home at all. I find both these within me. I want to roam
about and see all the wide world, yet I also yearn for a little sheltered
nook; like a bird with its tiny nest for a dwelling, and the vast sky for
flight.
I hanker after a corner because it serves to bring calmness to my mind. My
mind really wants to be busy, but in making the attempt it knocks so
repeatedly against the crowd as to become utterly frenzied and to keep
buffeting me, its cage, from within. If only it is allowed a little
leisurely solitude, and can look about and think to its heart's content,
it will express its feelings to its own satisfaction.
This freedom of solitude is what my mind is fretting for; it would be
alone with its imaginings, as the Creator broods over His own creation.
CUTTACK,
_February 1893_.
Till we can achieve something, let us live incognito, say I. So long as we
are only fit to be looked down upon, on what shall we base our claim to
respect? When we have acquired a foothold of our own in the world, when we
have had some share in shaping its course, then we can meet others
smilingly. Till then let us keep in the background, attending to our own
affairs.
But our countrymen seem to hold the opposite opinion. They set no store by
our more modest, intimate wants which have to be met behind the
scenes,--the whole of their attention is directed to momentary
attitudinising and display.
Ours is truly a God-forsaken country. Difficult, indeed, is it for us to
maintain the strength of will to _do_. We get no help in any real
sense. There is no one, within miles of us, in converse with whom we might
gain an accession of vitality. No one near seems to be thinking, or
feeling, or working. Not a soul has any experience of big striving, or of
really and truly living. They all eat and drink, do their office work,
smoke and sleep, and chatter nonsensically. When they touch upon emotion
they grow sentimental, when they reason they are childish. One yearns for
a full-blooded, sturdy, and capable personality; these are all so many
shadows, flitting about, out of touch with the world.
CUTTACK,
_10th February_ 1893.
He was a fully developed John Bull of the outrageous type--with a huge
beak of a nose, cunning eyes, and a yard-long chin. The curtailment of our
right to be tried by jury is now under consideration by the Government.
The fellow dragged in the subject by the ears and insisted on arguing it
out with our host, poor B---- Babu. He said the moral standard of the
people of this country was low; that they had no real belief in the
sacredness of life; so that they were unfit to serve on juries.
The utter contempt with which we are regarded by these people was brought
home to me when I saw how they can accept a Bengali's hospitality and talk
thus, seated at his table, without a quiver of compunction.
As I sat in a corner of the drawing-room after dinner, everything round me
looked blurred to my eyes. I seemed to be seated by the head of my great,
insulted Motherland, who lay there in the dust before me, disconsolate,
shorn of her glory. I cannot tell what a profound distress overpowered my
heart.
How incongruous seemed the _mem-sahibs_ there, in their
evening-dresses, the hum of English conversation, and the ripples of
laughter! How richly true for us is our India of the ages; how cheap and
false the hollow courtesies of an English dinner-party!
CUTTACK,
_March_ 1893.
If we begin to attach too much importance to the applause of Englishmen,
we shall have to be rid of much in us that is good, and to accept from
them much that is bad.
We shall grow ashamed of going about without socks, and cease to feel
shame at the sight of their ball dresses. We shall have no compunction in
throwing overboard our ancient manners, nor any in emulating their lack of
courtesy.
We shall leave off wearing our _achgans_ because they are susceptible of
improvement, but think nothing of surrendering our heads to their hats,
though no headgear could well be uglier.
In short, consciously or unconsciously, we shall have to cut our lives
down according as they clap their hands or not.
Wherefore I apostrophise myself and say: "O Earthen Pot! For goodness sake
keep away from that Metal Pot! Whether he comes to you in anger or merely
to give you a patronising pat on the back, you are done for, cracked in
either case. So pay heed to old Aesop's sage counsel, I pray--and keep
your distance. "
Let the metal pot ornament wealthy homes; you have work to do in those of
the poor. If you let yourself be broken, you will have no place in either,
but merely return to the dust; or, at best, you may secure a corner in a
bric-a-brac cabinet--as a curiosity, and it is more glorious far to be
used for fetching water by the meanest of village women.
SHELIDAH,
_8th May 1893_.
Poetry is a very old love of mine--I must have been engaged to her when I
was only Rathi's[1] age. Long ago the recesses under the old banyan tree
beside our tank, the inner gardens, the unknown regions on the ground
floor of the house, the whole of the outside world, the nursery rhymes and
tales told by the maids, created a wonderful fairyland within me. It is
difficult to give a clear idea of all the vague and mysterious happenings
of that period, but this much is certain, that my exchange of garlands[2]
with Poetic Fancy was already duly celebrated.
[Footnote 1: Rathi, his son, was then five years old. ]
[Footnote 2: The betrothal ceremony. ]
I must admit, however, that my betrothed is not an auspicious
maiden--whatever else she may bring one, it is not good fortune. I cannot
say she has never given me happiness, but peace of mind with her is out of
the question. The lover whom she favours may get his fill of bliss, but
his heart's blood is wrung out under her relentless embrace. It is not for
the unfortunate creature of her choice ever to become a staid and sober
householder, comfortably settled down on a social foundation.
Consciously or unconsciously, I may have done many things that were
untrue, but I have never uttered anything false in my poetry--that is the
sanctuary where the deepest truths of my life find refuge.
SHELIDAH,
_10th May_ 1893.
Here come black, swollen masses of cloud; they soak up the golden sunshine
from the scene in front of me like great pads of blotting-paper. Rain must
be near, for the breeze feels moist and tearful.
Over there, on the sky-piercing peaks of Simla, you will find it hard to
realise exactly what an important event the coming of the clouds is here,
or how many are anxiously looking up to the sky, hailing their advent.
I feel a great tenderness for these peasant folk--our ryots--big,
helpless, infantile children of Providence, who must have food brought to
their very lips, or they are undone. When the breasts of Mother Earth dry
up they are at a loss what to do, and can only cry. But no sooner is their
hunger satisfied than they forget all their past sufferings.
I know not whether the socialistic ideal of a more equal distribution of
wealth is attainable, but if not, the dispensation of Providence is indeed
cruel, and man a truly unfortunate creature. For if in this world misery
must exist, so be it; but let some little loophole, some glimpse of
possibility at least, be left, which may serve to urge the nobler portion
of humanity to hope and struggle unceasingly for its alleviation.
They say a terribly hard thing who assert that the division of the world's
production to afford each one a mouthful of food, a bit of clothing, is
only an Utopian dream. All these social problems are hard indeed! Fate has
allowed humanity such a pitifully meagre coverlet, that in pulling it over
one part of the world, another has to be left bare. In allaying our
poverty we lose our wealth, and with this wealth what a world of grace and
beauty and power is lost to us.
But the sun shines forth again, though the clouds are still banked up in
the West.
SHELIDAH,
_11th May 1893. _
There is another pleasure for me here. Sometimes one or other of our
simple, devoted, old ryots comes to see me--and their worshipful homage is
so unaffected! How much greater than I are they in the beautiful
simplicity and sincerity of their reverence. What if I am unworthy of
their veneration--their feeling loses nothing of its value.
I regard these grown-up children with the same kind of affection that I
have for little children--but there is also a difference. They are more
infantile still. Little children will grow up later on, but these big
children never.
A meek and radiantly simple soul shines through their worn and wrinkled,
old bodies. Little children are merely simple, they have not the
unquestioning, unwavering devotion of these. If there be any undercurrent
along which the souls of men may have communication with one another, then
my sincere blessing will surely reach and serve them.
SHELIDAH,
_16th May_ 1893.
I walk about for an hour on the river bank, fresh and clean after my
afternoon bath. Then I get into the new jolly-boat, anchor in mid-stream,
and on a bed, spread on the planked over-stern, I lie silently there on my
back, in the darkness of the evening. Little S---- sits beside me and
chatters away, and the sky becomes more and more thickly studded with
stars.
Each day the thought recurs to me: Shall I be reborn under this
star-spangled sky? Will the peaceful rapture of such wonderful evenings
ever again be mine, on this silent Bengal river, in so secluded a corner
of the world?
Perhaps not. The scene may be changed; I may be born with a different
mind. Many such evenings may come, but they may refuse to nestle so
trustfully, so lovingly, with such complete abandon, to my breast.
Curiously enough, my greatest fear is lest I should be reborn in Europe!
For there one cannot recline like this with one's whole being laid open to
the infinite above--one is liable, I am afraid, to be soundly rated for
lying down at all.
I should probably have been hustling strenuously in
some factory or bank, or Parliament. Like the roads there, one's mind has
to be stone-metalled for heavy traffic--geometrically laid out, and kept
clear and regulated.
I am sure I cannot exactly say why this lazy, dreamy, self-absorbed,
sky-filled state of mind seems to me the more desirable. I feel no whit
inferior to the busiest men of the world as I lie here in my jolly-boat.
Rather, had I girded up my loins to be strenuous, I might have seemed ever
so feeble compared to those chips of old oaken blocks.
SHELIDAH,
_3rd July 1893. _
All last night the wind howled like a stray dog, and the rain still pours
on without a break. The water from the fields is rushing in numberless,
purling streams to the river. The dripping ryots are crossing the river in
the ferryboat, some with their tokas[1] on, others with yam leaves held
over their heads. Big cargo-boats are gliding along, the boatman sitting
drenched at his helm, the crew straining at the tow-ropes through the
rain. The birds remain gloomily confined to their nests, but the sons of
men fare forth, for in spite of the weather the world's work must go on.
[Footnote 1: Conical hats of straw or of split bamboo. ]
Two cowherd lads are grazing their cattle just in front of my boat. The
cows are munching away with great gusto, their noses plunged into the lush
grass, their tails incessantly busy flicking off the flies. The raindrops
and the sticks of the cowherd boys fall on their backs with the same
unreasonable persistency, and they bear both with equally uncritical
resignation, steadily going on with their munch, munch, munch. These cows
have such mild, affectionate, mournful eyes; why, I wonder, should
Providence have thought fit to impose all the burden of man's work on the
submissive shoulders of these great, gentle beasts?
The river is rising daily. What I could see yesterday only from the upper
deck, I can now see from my cabin windows. Every morning I awake to find
my field of vision growing larger. Not long since, only the tree-tops near
those distant villages used to appear, like dark green clouds. To-day the
whole of the wood is visible.
Land and water are gradually approaching each other like two bashful
lovers. The limit of their shyness has nearly been reached--their arms
will soon be round each other's necks. I shall enjoy my trip along this
brimful river at the height of the rains. I am fidgeting to give the order
to cast off.
SHELIDAH,
_4th July_ 1893.
A little gleam of sunlight shows this morning. There was a break in the
rains yesterday, but the clouds are banked up so heavily along the skirts
of the sky that there is not much hope of the break lasting. It looks as
if a heavy carpet of cloud had been rolled up to one side, and at any
moment a fussy breeze may come along and spread it over the whole place
again, covering every trace of blue sky and golden sunshine.
What a store of water must have been laid up in the sky this year. The
river has already risen over the low _chur_-lands,[1] threatening to
overwhelm all the standing crops. The wretched ryots, in despair, are
cutting and bringing away in boats sheaves of half-ripe rice. As they pass
my boat I hear them bewailing their fate. It is easy to understand how
heart-rending it must be for cultivators to have to cut down their rice on
the very eve of its ripening, the only hope left them being that some of
the ears may possibly have hardened into grain.
[Footnote 1: Old sand-banks consolidated by the deposit of a layer of
culturable soil. ]
There must be some element of pity in the dispensations of Providence,
else how did we get our share of it? But it is so difficult to see where
it comes in. The lamentations of these hundreds of thousands of
unoffending creatures do not seem to get anywhere. The rain pours on as it
lists, the river still rises, and no amount of petitioning seems to have
the effect of bringing relief from any quarter. One has to seek
consolation by saying that all this is beyond the understanding of man.
And yet, it is so vitally necessary for man to understand that there are
such things as pity and justice in the world.
However, this is only sulking. Reason tells us that creation never can be
perfectly happy. So long as it is incomplete it must put up with
imperfection and sorrow. It can only be perfect when it ceases to be
creation, and is God. Do our prayers dare go so far?
The more we think over it, the oftener we come hack to the
starting-point--Why this creation at all? If we cannot make up our minds
to object to the thing itself, it is futile complaining about its
companion, sorrow.
SHAZADPUR,
_7th July_ 1893.
The flow of village life is not too rapid, neither is it stagnant. Work
and rest go together, hand in hand. The ferry crosses to and fro, the
passers-by with umbrellas up wend their way along the tow-path, women are
washing rice on the split-bamboo trays which they dip in the water, the
ryots are coming to the market with bundles of jute on their heads. Two
men are chopping away at a log of wood with regular, ringing blows. The
village carpenter is repairing an upturned dinghy under a big
_aswatha_ tree. A mongrel dog is prowling aimlessly along the canal
bank. Some cows are lying there chewing the cud, after a huge meal off the
luxuriant grass, lazily moving their ears backwards and forwards, flicking
off flies with their tails, and occasionally giving an impatient toss of
their heads when the crows perched on their backs take too much of a
liberty.
The monotonous blows of woodcutter's axe or carpenter's mallet, the
splashing of oars, the merry voices of the naked little children at play,
the plaintive tune of the ryot's song, the more dominant creaking of the
turning oil-mill, all these sounds of activity do not seem out of harmony
with murmuring leaves and singing birds, and all combine like moving
strains of some grand dream-orchestra, rendering a composition of immense
though restrained pathos.
SHAZADPUR,
_10th July 1893. _
All I have to say about the discussion that is going on over "silent
poets" is that, though the strength of feeling may be the same in those
who are silent as in those who are vocal, that has nothing to do with
poetry. Poetry is not a matter of feeling, it is the creation of form.
Ideas take shape by some hidden, subtle skill at work within the poet.
This creative power is the origin of poetry. Perceptions, feelings, or
language, are only raw material. One may be gifted with feeling, a second
with language, a third with both; but he who has as well a creative
genius, alone is a poet.
PATISAR,
_13th August 1893. _
Coming through these _beels_[1] to Kaligram, an idea took shape in my
mind. Not that the thought was new, but sometimes old ideas strike one
with new force.
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. --Sometimes a stream passing through the
flat Bengal country encounters a stretch of low land and spreads out into
a sheet of water, called a _beel_, of indefinite extent, ranging from a
large pool in the dry season to a shoreless expanse during the rains.
Villages consisting of a cluster of huts, built on mounds, stand out here
and there like islands, and boats or round, earthen vessels are the only
means of getting about from village to village.
Where the waters cover cultivated tracts the rice grows through, often
from considerable depths, giving to the boats sailing over them the
curious appearance of gliding over a cornfield, so clear is the water.
Elsewhere these _beels_ have a peculiar flora and fauna of water-lilies
and irises and various water-fowl. As a result, they resemble neither a
marsh nor a lake, but have a distinct character of their own. ]
The water loses its beauty when it ceases to be defined by banks and
spreads out into a monotonous vagueness. In the case of language, metre
serves for banks and gives form and beauty and character. Just as the
banks give each river a distinct personality, so does rhythm make each
poem an individual creation; prose is like the featureless, impersonal
_beel_. Again, the waters of the river have movement and progress; those
of the _beel_ engulf the country by expanse alone. So, in order to give
language power, the narrow bondage of metre becomes necessary; otherwise
it spreads and spreads, but cannot advance.
The country people call these _beels_ "dumb waters"--they have no
language, no self-expression. The river ceaselessly babbles; so the words
of the poem sing, they are not "dumb words. " Thus bondage creates beauty
of form, motion, and music; bounds make not only for beauty but power.
Poetry gives itself up to the control of metre, not led by blind habit,
but because it thus finds the joy of motion. There are foolish persons who
think that metre is a species of verbal gymnastics, or legerdemain, of
which the object is to win the admiration of the crowd. That is not so.
Metre is born as all beauty is born the universe through. The current set
up within well-defined bounds gives metrical verse power to move the minds
of men as vague and indefinite prose cannot.
This idea became clear to me as I glided on from river to _beel_ and
_beel_ to river.
PATISAR,
_26th (Straven) August 1893. _
For some time it has struck me that man is a rough-hewn and woman a
finished product.
There is an unbroken consistency in the manners, customs, speech, and
adornment of woman. And the reason is, that for ages Nature has assigned
to her the same definite role and has been adapting her to it. No
cataclysm, no political revolution, no alteration of social ideal, has yet
diverted woman from her particular functions, nor destroyed their
inter-relations. She has loved, tended, and caressed, and done nothing
else; and the exquisite skill which she has acquired in these, permeates
all her being and doing. Her disposition and action have become
inseparably one, like the flower and its scent. She has, therefore, no
doubts or hesitations.
But the character of man has still many hollows and protuberances; each of
the varied circumstances and forces which have contributed to his making
has left its mark upon him. That is why the features of one will display
an indefinite spread of forehead, of another an irresponsible prominence
of nose, of a third an unaccountable hardness about the jaws. Had man but
the benefit of continuity and uniformity of purpose, Nature must have
succeeded in elaborating a definite mould for him, enabling him to
function simply and naturally, without such strenuous effort. He would not
have so complicated a code of behaviour; and he would be less liable to
deviate from the normal when disturbed by outside influences.
Woman was cast in the mould of mother. Man has no such primal design to go
by, and that is why he has been unable to rise to an equal perfection of
beauty.
PATISAR,
_19th February 1894. _
We have two elephants which come to graze on this bank of the river. They
greatly interest me. They give the ground a few taps with one foot, and
then taking hold of the grass with the end of their trunks wrench off an
enormous piece of turf, roots, soil, and all. This they go on swinging
till all the earth leaves the roots; they then put it into their mouths
and eat it up.
Sometimes the whim takes them to draw up the dust into their trunks, and
then with a snort they squirt it all over their bodies; this is their
elephantine toilet.
I love to look on these overgrown beasts, with their vast bodies, their
immense strength, their ungainly proportions, their docile harmlessness.
Their very size and clumsiness make me feel a kind of tenderness for
them--their unwieldy bulk has something infantile about it. Moreover, they
have large hearts. When they get wild they are furious, but when they calm
down they are peace itself.
The uncouthness which goes with bigness does not repel, it rather
attracts.
PATISAR,
_27th February 1894. _
The sky is every now and then overcast and again clears up. Sudden little
puffs of wind make the boat lazily creak and groan in all its seams. Thus
the day wears on.
It is now past one o'clock. Steeped in this countryside noonday, with its
different sounds--the quacking of ducks, the swirl of passing boats,
bathers splashing the clothes they wash, the distant shouts from drovers
taking cattle across the ford,--it is difficult even to imagine the
chair-and-table, monotonously dismal routine-life of Calcutta.
Calcutta is as ponderously proper as a Government office. Each of its days
comes forth, like coin from a mint, clear-cut and glittering. Ah! those
dreary, deadly days, so precisely equal in weight, so decently
respectable!
Here I am quit of the demands of my circle, and do not feel like a wound
up machine. Each day is my own. And with leisure and my thoughts I walk
the fields, unfettered by bounds of space or time. The evening gradually
deepens over earth and sky and water, as with bowed head I stroll along.
PATISAR,
_22nd March 1894. _
As I was sitting at the window of the boat, looking out on the river, I
saw, all of a sudden, an odd-looking bird making its way through the water
to the opposite bank, followed by a great commotion. I found it was a
domestic fowl which had managed to escape impending doom in the galley by
jumping overboard and was now trying frantically to win across. It had
almost gained the bank when the clutches of its relentless pursuers closed
on it, and it was brought back in triumph, gripped by the neck. I told the
cook I would not have any meat for dinner.
I really must give up animal food. We manage to swallow flesh only because
we do not think of the cruel and sinful thing we do. There are many crimes
which are the creation of man himself, the wrongfulness of which is put
down to their divergence from habit, custom, or tradition. But cruelty is
not of these. It is a fundamental sin, and admits of no argument or nice
distinctions. If only we do not allow our heart to grow callous, its
protest against cruelty is always clearly heard; and yet we go on
perpetrating cruelties easily, merrily, all of us--in fact, any one who
does not join in is dubbed a crank.
How artificial is our apprehension of sin! I feel that the highest
commandment is that of sympathy for all sentient beings. Love is the
foundation of all religion. The other day I read in one of the English
papers that 50,000 pounds of animal carcasses had been sent to some army
station in Africa, but the meat being found to have gone bad on arrival,
the consignment was returned and was eventually auctioned off for a few
pounds at Portsmouth. What a shocking waste of life! What callousness to
its true worth! How many living creatures are sacrificed only to grace the
dishes at a dinner-party, a large proportion of which will leave the table
untouched!
So long as we are unconscious of our cruelty we may not be to blame. But
if, after our pity is aroused, we persist in throttling our feelings
simply in order to join others in their preying upon life, we insult all
that is good in us. I have decided to try a vegetarian diet.
PATISAR,
_28th March 1894. _
It is getting rather warm here, but I do not mind the heat of the sun
much. The heated wind whistles on its way, now and then pauses in a whirl,
then dances away twirling its skirt of dust and sand and dry leaves and
twigs.
This morning, however, it was quite cold--almost like a cold-weather
morning; in fact, I did not feel over-enthusiastic for my bath. It is so
difficult to account for what veritably happens in this big thing called
Nature. Some obscure cause turns up in some unknown corner, and all of a
sudden things look completely different.
The mind of man works in just the same mysterious fashion as outside
Nature--so it struck me yesterday. A wondrous alchemy is being wrought in
artery, vein, and nerve, in brain and marrow. The blood-stream rushes on,
the nerve--strings vibrate, the heart-muscle rises and falls, and the
seasons in man's being change from one to another. What kind of breezes
will blow next, when and from what quarter--of that we know nothing.
One day I am sure I shall get along splendidly; I feel strong enough to
leap over all the obstructing sorrows and trials of the world; and, as if
I had a printed programme for the rest of my life tucked safely away in my
pocket, I am at ease. The next day there is a nasty wind, sprung up from
some unknown _inferno_, the aspect of the sky is threatening, and I
begin to doubt whether I shall ever weather the storm. Merely because
something has gone wrong in some blood-vessel or nerve-fibre, all my
strength and intelligence seem to fail me.
This mystery within frightens me. It makes me diffident about talking of
what I shall or shall not do. Why was this tacked on to me--this immense
mystery which I can neither understand nor control? I know not where it
may lead me or I lead it. I cannot see what is happening, nor am I
consulted about what is going to happen, and yet I have to keep up an
appearance of mastery and pretend to be the doer. . . .
I feel like a living pianoforte with a vast complication of machinery and
wires inside, but with no means of telling who the player is, and with
only a guess as to why the player plays at all. I can only know what is
being played, whether the mode is merry or mournful, when the notes are
sharp or flat, the tune in or out of time, the key high-pitched or low.
But do I really know even that?
PATISAR,
_30th March 1894. _
Sometimes when I realise that Life's journey is long, and that the sorrows
to be encountered are many and inevitable, a supreme effort is required to
keep up my strength of mind. Some evenings, as I sit alone staring at the
flame of the lamp on the table, I vow I will live as a brave man
should--unmoved, silent, uncomplaining. The resolve puffs me up, and for
the moment I mistake myself for a very, very brave person indeed. But as
soon as the thorns on the road worry my feet, I writhe and begin to feel
serious misgivings as to the future. The path of life again seems long,
and my strength inadequate.
But this last conclusion cannot be the true one, for it is these petty
thorns which are the most difficult to bear. The household of the mind is
a thrifty one, and only so much is spent as is necessary. There is no
squandering on trifles, and its wealth of strength is saved up with
miserly strictness to meet the really big calamities. So any amount of
weeping and wailing over the lesser griefs fails to evoke a charitable
response. But when sorrow is deepest there is no stint of effort. Then the
surface crust is pierced, and consolation wells up, and all the forces of
patience and courage are banded together to do their duty. Thus great
suffering brings with it the power of great endurance.
One side of man's nature has the desire for pleasure--there is another
side which desires self-sacrifice. When the former meets with
disappointment, the latter gains strength, and on its thus finding fuller
scope a grand enthusiasm fills the soul. So while we are cowards before
petty troubles, great sorrows make us brave by rousing our truer manhood.
And in these, therefore, there is a joy.
It is not an empty paradox to say that there is joy in sorrow, just as, on
the other hand, it is true that there is a dissatisfaction in pleasure. It
is not difficult to understand why this should be so.
SHELIDAH,
_24th June 1894_.
I have been only four days here, but, having lost count of the hours, it
seems such a long while, I feel that if I were to return to Calcutta
to-day I should find much of it changed--as if I alone had been standing
still outside the current of time, unconscious of the gradually changing
position of the rest of the world.
The fact is that here, away from Calcutta, I live in my own inner world,
where the clocks do not keep ordinary time; where duration is measured
only by the intensity of the feelings; where, as the outside world does
not count the minutes, moments change into hours and hours into moments.
So it seems to me that the subdivisions of time and space are only mental
illusions. Every atom is immeasurable and every moment infinite.
There is a Persian story which I was greatly taken with when I read it as
a boy--I think I understood, even then, something of the underlying idea,
though I was a mere child. To show the illusory character of time, a
_faquir_ put some magic water into a tub and asked the King to take a
dip. The King no sooner dipped his head in than he found himself in a
strange country by the sea, where he spent a good long time going through
a variety of happenings and doings. He married, had children, his wife and
children died, he lost all his wealth, and as he writhed under his
sufferings he suddenly found himself back in the room, surrounded by his
courtiers. On his proceeding to revile the _faquir_ for his
misfortunes, they said: "But, Sire, you have only just dipped your head
in, and raised it out of the water! "
The whole of our life with its pleasures and pains is in the same way
enclosed in one moment of time.
