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 att.i.tudinising and display.
Ours is truly a G.o.d-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, st.u.r.dy, 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 ma.s.ses 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 n.o.bler portion of humanity to hope and struggle unceasingly for its alleviation.
They say a terribly hard thing who a.s.sert 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.