Chapter 33

Doctor Mehta has turned from examiner into examinee. Staying far from Malti, a fear has begun to take hold of him that he may lose her. For several months Malti had not come to him, and when, in his agitation, he went to her house, the meeting did not take place. In the days when the love-affair of Rudrapal and Saroj was going on, Malti used to come to take his counsel almost once or twice a day; but ever since the two of them had gone away to England, her coming and going had stopped. Even at home she was hard to meet. It seemed as though she avoided him, as though she wished, by force, to turn her mind away from him. The book on which he had been engaged these days refused to go forward, as though his concentration had vanished. In household management he had never been very skilful. In all he earned more than a thousand rupees a month, but there was no saving even of a single farthing. Apart from eating his bread and dal, he had nothing in hand. If there was any extravagance, it was his car, which he drove himself. Some money flew away on books, some in subscriptions, some in the upkeep of poor students and in the decoration of his garden, for which he had a kind of passion. To send for various plants and shrubs from foreign countries at high prices and to rear them—this was his mental sweet-tooth, or call it intellectual debauchery; but for several months past he had grown somewhat indifferent even to that garden, and the management of the house had grown still worse. He ate two pieces of bread and a hundred and more were spent! His achkan had grown old, but in this same one he had got through a biting winter. He had not the means to have a new achkan stitched. Sometimes he had to rise from his meal having eaten dal without ghee. When he had last sent for a tin of ghee he could not even remember; and how could he ask the maharaj? Would the man not think he was being mistrusted? At last one day, when after three disappointments he met Malti the fourth time and she saw this condition of his, she could not contain herself. She said, "Will you spend this winter just like this too? Are you not ashamed to wear this achkan?"

Although Malti was not his wife, she was so close to him that she put this question with the same easy naturalness with which she would put it to one of her own.

Mehta said without embarrassment, "What can I do, Malti, no money is left over."

Malti was astonished. "You earn more than a thousand, and you do not have money even to have your own clothes made? My income was never more than four hundred, but in that same I run the whole household and even save. After all, what do you do?"

"I do not spend even a single pie unnecessarily. I have no such hobby either."

"All right, take money from me and have a couple of achkans made."

Mehta said, ashamed, "I shall have them made this time. I tell you truly!"

"Now if you come here, come as a proper man."

"That is a very hard condition."

"Hard, granted. With your sort the work does not get done without being hard."

But there the box was empty, and he had not the courage to go without money to any shop. Was he to go to Malti's house—with what face? In his heart he kept writhing and writhing. One day a new misfortune fell. For several months past he had not paid the house rent. At seventy-five rupees a month it kept mounting up. The landlord, when even after many demands he could not recover the money, gave him notice; but notice is no magic device for coining money. The date of the notice passed, and the money did not arrive. Then the landlord, helplessly, filed a suit. He knew Mehta ji was a very decent and benevolent man; but what greater goodwill could he show than to wait patiently for six months? Mehta did not put up any kind of defence; an ex-parte decree was passed. The landlord at once had the decree executed, and the attachment amin came to give Mehta Sahib prior notice, because his son was studying at the university and Mehta also gave him a small stipend. By chance Malti too was sitting there at the time.

She said, "What attachment is this? For what?"

The amin said, "That same decree for rent that was passed. I said, let me inform Your Honour. It is a matter of four or five hundred—not a very large sum. If you give the money even within ten days, there is no harm. I shall keep the creditor entangled for ten days."

When the amin had gone, Malti asked in a tone full of reproof, "So matters have come even to this pass. I am astonished that you write such fat tomes! The house rent has been outstanding for six whole months, and you do not know it?"

Mehta, bowing his head with shame, said, "Why should I not know it, but no money is left over. I do not spend a single pie to no purpose."

"Do you keep any accounts at all?"

"Why should I not keep accounts. Whatever I get, I go on entering it; otherwise the income-tax people will not leave me alive."

"And whatever you spend—that?"

"Of that I keep no accounts."

"Why?"

"Who is to write it; it feels like a burden."

"And how do you write these tomes?"

"In them one need not do anything special. I take pen and sit down. I do not, every moment, sit with the expenditure ledger open before me."

"Then how will you pay the money?"

"I shall take a loan from someone. If you have any, give it."

"I can give it only on one condition. Your whole income comes into my hands, and the spending too is done by my hands."

Mehta said gladly, "Why, if you take this burden, what more can one say? I would beat the drum with pestles."

Malti paid off the decree money, and the very next day she forced Mehta to vacate that bungalow. In her own bungalow she gave him two large rooms. She also arranged for his meals and so on within her own household. Mehta did not have much in the way of belongings, but the books were several cartloads. His two rooms were filled with books. He certainly felt a pang at leaving his garden, but Malti gave over her whole compound to him, that he might plant whatever flowers and shrubs he wished.

Mehta now grew carefree; but Malti had to face great difficulty in controlling his income and expenditure. She saw that the income was indeed more than a thousand, but all of it flew away in secret charity. Twenty or twenty-five boys were studying in the college on stipends from him alone. The number of widows was no less than this. How to cut down this expenditure was something she could not see. The whole blame would be laid on her head, the whole ill-fame would fall to her share. Sometimes she was vexed with Mehta, sometimes with herself, sometimes with the petitioners who felt not the least hesitation in laying their burden on a simple, generous being. Seeing this, she felt still more vexed, that among these charity-takers some were not even fit objects for it. One day she took Mehta to task.

Mehta, hearing her charge, said carelessly, "You have full authority; give to whomever you wish, do not give to whomever you wish. There is no need to ask me. Yes, you too will have to give the answer."

Malti said with annoyance, "Yes, of course—you take the fame, and lay the ill-fame on my head. I do not understand by what reasoning you can justify this practice of charity. The extent to which this practice has made the human race lazy and idle and parasitic, and struck a blow at its self-respect—not even injustice could have done so much. Rather, in my view, injustice has done society a great service by producing a feeling of revolt in the human race."

Mehta admitted, "That is my view too."

"This is not your view."

"No, Malti, I tell you truly."

"Then why such a difference between thought and conduct?"

In the third month Malti disappointed many. To some she gave a plain refusal, to some she pleaded helplessness, some she put to shame.

Mr Mehta's budget did slowly come right, but from this he felt a kind of remorse. When in the third month Malti showed a saving of three hundred, he said nothing to her, but in his eyes her dignity certainly diminished somewhat. In a woman there ought to be charity and sacrifice. That is her greatest treasure. On this very foundation the edifice of society stands. The merchant-mind he considered only a necessary evil.

On the day Mehta's achkans were made and brought, and the new watch came, he did not go out for several days for sheer shyness. To him there was no greater offence than self-service.

But the secret of the matter was this—that Malti wished to bind him tight in calculation and accounts. She wished to shut the doors of his charity of money, but in giving the charity of life she squandered her own time and benevolence with both hands. To the houses of the rich she would not go without taking a fee, but the poor she examined free, and gave free medicine too. The difference between the two was only this—that Malti belonged both to home and to the world outside, while Mehta belonged only to the world outside; home there was none for him. Both wished to wipe out selfhood. Mehta's road was clear. Upon him there was no responsibility other than his own person. Malti's road was hard; on her there was responsibility, there was bondage, which she could not break, nor wished to break. In that very bondage she found her life's motive force. Now, seeing Mehta from close at hand, she was coming to feel that she could not shut up in a cage a creature that roamed the open jungle. And if she did shut it up, it would run to bite and tear. Even on getting every kind of comfort in the cage, its life would always pine for the jungle. For Mehta the world of home and hearth was an unknown world, with whose ways and customs he was not acquainted.

He had seen the world from outside and considered it filled only with deceit and fraud. Wherever he looked, only evils appeared to him; but when he had gone deep into society and looked, he found that beneath these evils there was sacrifice too, love too, courage too, patience too; but he also saw that, treasures though these were, they were rare; and in this doubt and suspicion, when Malti's goddess-form, emerging from the darkness, came before him, then he turned towards her with eagerness, losing all his patience, and broke loose, and wished to keep her hidden with such care that not even another's eye should fall upon her. He did not remember that this very attachment is the root of ruin. Can a thing so unyielding as love be kept bound by fear? Love wants full trust, wants full freedom, wants full responsibility. The power to put forth leaves is within it. It must get light and a field. It is no wall, on which bricks are laid from above. There is life in it, an infinite power of spreading.

Ever since Mehta came to this bungalow, he had the chance of meeting Malti several times a day. His friends supposed this was the preparation for their marriage. There was only the delay of performing the ceremony. Mehta too kept dreaming this same dream. If Malti had spurned him forever, why would she keep so much affection for him? Perhaps she was giving him the chance to think it over, and, after thinking deeply, he had reached this very conclusion—that without Malti he was only half. She alone could lead him towards completeness. From outside she was a pleasure-loving woman; from within, she was the very centre of the strength of feeling. But the circumstances had changed. Then Malti had been thirsty; now Mehta was distraught with thirst. And, having once received his answer, he had not the courage to say anything to Malti on that question, although there no longer remained the least trace of doubt in his mind. Seeing Malti from close at hand, his attraction only kept growing. The letters of the book that, from afar, had seemed smudged, had, from close at hand, become clear; they had meaning, they had a message.

Now, Malti had engaged Gobar as the gardener for her garden. One day she was returning after seeing a patient when, on the way, there was no petrol left. She was driving herself. The worry came—where was petrol to be got from? It had struck nine at night, and the cold of Magh was setting in. The roads had become deserted. No such man could be seen who would push the car to the petrol shop. Again and again she was vexed with the servant. A scoundrel, lying about with no concern.

By chance Gobar came along that way. Seeing Malti, he understood the situation, and pushing the car two furlongs, brought it to the petrol shop.

Malti, pleased, asked, "Will you take service?"

Gobar accepted with thanks. Fifteen rupees a month was settled as wages. The work of a gardener he liked. This very work he had done, and was seasoned in it. In the labour of the mill the wages were higher, but that work had vexed him.

The next day Gobar started work at Malti's place. He also got a small room to live in. Jhuniya too came. When Malti came into the garden, Jhuniya's child would be playing about in the dust and earth. One day Malti gave him a sweet. From that day the child grew fond of her. The moment he saw her he would tag along behind her, and would not leave off chasing her until he got a sweet.

One day Malti came into the garden and the child was not to be seen. She asked Jhuniya, and learned that the child had a fever.

Malti said in alarm, "Fever has come. Then why did you not bring him to me? Come, let me see."

The child was lying on the cot, senseless with fever. In that tiled room there was such damp, such darkness, and even in these cold days so many mosquitoes that Malti could not stay there even a minute. She at once came and took the thermometer, and went back and saw—it was a hundred and four! Malti was afraid it might be smallpox. The child had not yet been vaccinated. And if he stayed in that damp room, there was the fear the fever might rise still higher.

Suddenly the child opened his eyes and, finding Malti standing there, looked at her with piteous eyes and stretched out his hands for her lap. Malti took him up in her lap and began to pat him.

The child, coming into Malti's lap, seemed to feel some great happiness. With his burning fingers he caught the pearl necklace at her throat and began to pull it towards himself. Malti took off the necklace and put it round his neck. The child's selfish nature was alert even in this state. Having got the necklace, he no longer had any such need to stay in Malti's lap. Here there was the danger of its being snatched away. Jhuniya's lap was at this moment safer.

Malti said with a delighted mind, "He is very cunning. How he ran off with the thing!"

Jhuniya said, "Give it, son, it is the Mem Sahib's."

The child grasped the necklace with both hands and looked at his mother angrily.

Malti said, "You keep it on, child, I am not asking for it."

At that very moment she came to the bungalow and emptied out her own sitting-room, and at that very moment Jhuniya was settled into that new room.

Mangal gazed at that heaven with wonder-filled eyes. There was a fan in the ceiling, there were coloured bulbs, there were pictures on the walls. For a long time he kept staring at those things. Malti called very lovingly, "Mangal!"

Mangal looked at her with a smile, as though to say—"Today there's no laughing, Mem Sahib! What can I do. If you can do anything, do it."

Malti explained many things to Jhuniya, and as she was leaving she asked, "If there is any other woman in your home, tell Gobar to fetch her for a few days. I am afraid of smallpox. How far away is your home?"

Jhuniya told her the name of her village and the address of the house. By estimate it would be eighteen or twenty kos.

Malti remembered Belari. She said, "It isn't the same village, is it, that has a river half a mile to its west?"

"Yes, yes, Mem Sahib, that is the very village. How do you know?"

"We had once been to that village. We had stayed at Hori's house. Do you know him?"

"Why, he is my father-in-law, Mem Sahib! You must have met my mother-in-law too?"

"Yes, yes, she seemed a very sensible woman. She kept talking with me a great deal. So send Gobar to fetch his mother."

"He will not go to fetch them."

"Why?"

"There is some such reason."

Jhuniya had to do everything in her house—the dishes and vessels, the sweeping and cleaning, the cooking and so on. By day they both got by eating gram and parched grain. At night, when Malti came, Jhuniya cooked her own food, and Malti sat with the child. Again and again Jhuniya wished to sit with the child, but Malti would not let her come. At night the child's fever grew high, and in his restlessness he would raise both his hands. Malti would take him in her lap and pace the room for hours. On the fourth day the smallpox came out on him. Malti vaccinated the whole household, vaccinated herself, vaccinated Mehta too. Gobar, Jhuniya, the maharaj—none was left out. On the first day the spots were small and separate. It seemed it was the lesser pox. On the second day the spots seemed to blossom and became as big as grapes, and then several spots joined and became as large as big amlas. Mangal, restless with the burning and the itching and the pain, would moan in a piteous voice and look at Malti with helpless, pleading eyes. His moaning too was like a grown person's, and there was maturity in his look too, as though he had suddenly become grown-up. This helpless suffering seemed to have wiped out his unknowing infancy. His infant mind seemed to have become knowing, and to understand that it was by Malti's efforts alone that he could get well. The moment Malti went off on any errand, he would begin to cry. The moment Malti came, he would fall silent. At night his restlessness increased, and Malti generally had to sit up the whole night, but she never grew vexed, never irritated. Yes, with Jhuniya she certainly sometimes felt anger, because in her ignorance she would do what ought not to be done. Both Gobar and Jhuniya had more faith in charms and exorcism, but here they got no opportunity for that. Besides, Jhuniya, though a mother of two children, did not know how to rear a child. When Mangal troubled her, she would scold and curse him. The least leisure she got, she would lie down on the ground and not rise before morning, and Gobar seemed afraid even to come into that room. Malti was sitting there—how could he go in? He would ask Jhuniya about the child's condition and, having eaten, lie down. After that injury he had not fully recovered. Even after a little work he would grow tired. In those days when Jhuniya was selling grass and he lay at ease, he had grown somewhat green again, but these last several months of carrying loads and doing the work of mortar and plaster had brought his condition down. On top of that there was much work here. To draw water and water the whole garden, to hoe the beds, to cut grass, to give the cows fodder and water and to milk them. And when the master was so kind, how could he shirk in his work? This sense of obligation would not let him sit at ease even a moment, and then, when Mehta himself would take up the trowel and work for hours in the garden, how could he rest? He himself kept withering away, but the garden was growing green.

Mr Mehta too had grown fond of the child. One day Malti had taken the child in her lap and had him pluck out Mehta's moustache. The little wretch had gripped the moustache as though he would pull it out by the roots. Tears had come into Mehta's eyes.

Mehta had said, vexed, "He is a very devilish lad."

Malti had scolded him, "Why don't you shave off your moustache?"

"My moustache is dear to me as my life."

"This time he will catch hold of it and not let go till he has pulled it out."

"Then I shall pull out his ears too."

Mangal had found some special fun in pulling out his moustache. He had been laughing aloud and tugging at the moustache still harder; but Mehta too perhaps had found some fun in having his moustache pulled, for two or three times a day he generally had him have this tug-of-war with his moustache.

Ever since the smallpox had come out on Mangal, Mehta too had grown very anxious. He would often go into the room and look at Mangal with troubled eyes. Imagining his suffering, his tender heart would shake. If by his running about Mangal would get well, he would have run to the other end of the earth; if by spending money he would get well, then even if he had to beg, he would surely have made him well; but here there was no power. Even to touch him his hands trembled. The blisters might break. With what tender hands Malti would lift him, carry him on her shoulder and pace the room, and with what affection she would coax him and give him milk to drink. This tenderness raised Malti, who knows how high, in his eyes. Malti was not only a woman, she was a mother too, and not just any mother either—in the true sense a goddess and a mother and a giver of life, who could make even another's child her own, as though she had always been hoarding up motherhood and was now squandering it with both hands. From her every limb motherhood seemed to burst forth, as though this were her true form. These airs and graces, this finery and adornment, were only the covering of her motherhood, in which that treasure might be kept safe.

It had struck one at night. Hearing Mangal cry, Mehta started up. He thought, poor Malti must have stayed awake till the middle of the night; how hard it must be for her to rise now—if the door is open, let me myself quiet the child. He rose at once and came to the door of that room and peeped in through the glass. Malti was sitting with the child in her lap, and the child was crying for no reason. Perhaps he had seen some dream, or for some other reason had been frightened. Malti was coaxing him, patting him, showing him pictures, taking him in her lap and pacing, but the child showed no sign of quieting. Seeing this ceaseless tenderness, this irrepressible maternal feeling of Malti's, his eyes grew moist. Such a thrill rose in his mind that he should go inside and press Malti's feet to his heart. From the depths of his inmost being a host of words, drenched in love, broke loose—"Beloved, goddess of my heaven, my queen, darling..."

And in that very rapture of love he called, "Malti, just open the door."

Malti came and opened the door and looked at him with eyes of inquiry.

Mehta asked, "Has Jhuniya not got up? He is crying a great deal."

Mehta said in a tone full of feeling, "Today is the eighth day; the pain must be greater. That is why."

"Then bring him, let me pace him about a while; you must be tired."

Malti said with a smile, "You will lose your temper in a very little while."

The thing was true, but who admits his own weakness? Mehta said with insistence, "Have you taken me to be so trifling a thing?"

Malti gave the child into his lap. The moment he went into his lap he fell quite silent. The instinctive intuition that children have told him—now there is no use in crying. This new person is not a woman but a man, and a man is bad-tempered and unfeeling too, and can lay one on the cot, or out in the dark, and put one to sleep and go far away, and not let anyone come near.

Mehta said with the pride of victory, "You see, how I quieted him!"

Malti said playfully, "Yes, in this art too you are skilled. Where did you learn it?"

"From you."

"I am a woman, and a woman cannot be trusted."

Mehta said, ashamed, "Malti, I beg you with folded hands, forget those words of mine. In these few months how much I have repented, how ashamed I have been, how grieved—perhaps you cannot estimate it."

Malti said simply, "I have forgotten it; I tell you truly."

"How am I to believe it?"

"The proof of it is just this, that we both live in the same house, eat together, laugh, talk."

"Will you not allow me to make a certain plea?"

He had laid Mangal on the cot, where he was sleeping curled up. And he looked at Malti with pleading eyes, as though all his all hung upon her permission.

Malti said, melting, "You know there is no one in the world closer to me than you. Long ago I surrendered myself at your feet. You are my guide, my god, my guru. There is no need for you to make any plea to me; you need only to make a sign. Until I had had your sight, and until I had recognised you, indulgence and self-service were the goal of my life. You came and gave it a direction, gave it steadiness. I can never forget your kindnesses. I tied your words by the riverbank into a knot. The grief was only this, that you too thought me to be just what any other man would have thought, which I had not expected of you. The responsibility for that is on me, this I know; but to think that even after gaining your priceless love I would remain the same—in thinking so you did me an injustice. How much pride I am feeling at this moment, you cannot understand. Having gained your love and trust, nothing now remains for me. This boon is enough to make my life meaningful. This is my completeness."

As she was saying this, such love rose in Malti's mind that she might cling to Mehta's breast. The feelings within had come out and as it were become truth. Every pore of her body was thrilled. The joy she had thought rare was so easy to come by, so close at hand! And that gladness of her heart, coming to her face, began to lend her such beauty that Mehta saw in it the radiance of godliness. Was this a woman, or the image of auspiciousness, of purity and of sacrifice!

At that very moment Jhuniya awoke and sat up, and Mehta went off to his own room, and then for two weeks he found no occasion to talk with Malti. Malti never met him alone. Those words of Malti's kept echoing in his heart. How much consolation was in them, how much humility, how much intoxication!

In two weeks Mangal got well. Yes, the marks of the smallpox could not be filled in on his face. That day Malti fed the children of the neighbourhood their fill of sweets, and fulfilled the vows she had made. How much joy there was in this life of sacrifice—of this she was now having experience. The joy of Jhuniya and Gobar seemed to be reflected within her. The happiness and delight she had experienced in relieving the hardships of others, she had never experienced in a life of indulgence. That craving had now grown feeble like those flowers in which fruit is setting. Now she had passed beyond that stage where man takes gross enjoyment to be the supreme happiness. That joy now seemed to her something light, even loathsome, leading towards a base fall. What joy was there for her in living in a great bungalow, when all around her the mud huts were as it were lamenting? Riding in a car no longer gave her pride. An unknowing infant like Mangal had cast so much light into her life, had as it were opened before her the door of true joy.

One day Mehta had a violent headache. He was lying on the charpoy with his eyes shut, writhing, when Malti came and, laying her hand on his head, asked, "How long has this pain been going on?"

It seemed to Mehta as if those soft hands had drawn out all the pain. He sat up and said, "The pain had been going on since noon, and such a headache I had never had to this day; but the moment your hand touched it, my head felt so light, as though there had been no pain at all. There is this magic power in your hands."

Malti brought him some medicine to take, and after enjoining him to lie down at ease, made to leave the room at once.

Mehta said insistently, "Will you not sit for just two minutes?"

Malti, turning back from the doorway, said, "If you talk now, perhaps the pain will start again. Lie at ease. These days I always see you reading or writing something. Give up reading and writing for four or five days."

"Will you not sit for one minute?"

"I have to go and see a patient."

"All right, go then."

Such gloom spread over Mehta's face that Malti turned back and, coming in front of him, said, "All right, tell me what it is you wish to say?"

Mehta said disconsolately, "It is nothing particular. I was only saying, what patient is it you are going to see so late at night?"

"It is the Rai Sahib's daughter. Her condition had grown very bad. Now she has rallied a little."

The moment she went, Mehta lay down again. He could not at all understand why, the moment Malti's hand touched it, the pain had subsided. Surely there was some power in her, and this was the boon of her austerity, of her active humanity. Malti had reached that lofty ideal of womanhood where she appeared like a star of light. Now she was no longer an object of love, she was an object of reverence. Now she had become rare, and rarity is, for spirited souls, a mantra of striving. The happiness Mehta had imagined in love, reverence had made deeper still, and more invigorating. In love there is some pride too, some possessiveness too. Reverence effaces itself, and makes its very self-effacement its goal. Love wishes to possess; whatever it gives, it wants something in return for it too. The supreme joy of reverence is its own surrender, in which egotism is destroyed.

Mehta's huge book, which he had been writing for three years and in which he had brought into harmony all the philosophical principles of the world, was finished. This book he dedicated to Malti, and the day its copies came from England and he presented one copy to Malti, she, seeing it dedicated in her name, was both amazed and grieved.

She said, "What have you done? I do not consider myself worthy of this."

Mehta said with pride, "But I do consider you so. This is nothing at all. If I had a hundred lives, I would lay them all in offering at your feet."

"On me! Who have known nothing but self-service."

"If I could get even a fragment of your sacrifice, I would think myself blessed. You are a goddess."

"A goddess of stone—why don't you also say that much?"

"A goddess of sacrifice, of auspiciousness, of purity."

"Then you have understood me well! I, and sacrifice! I tell you truly—the feeling of service or sacrifice has never come into my mind. Whatever I do, I do for direct or indirect self-interest. I do not sing because I am making a sacrifice, or because I console grieving souls with my songs, but only because it gladdens my mind. In the same way I give medicine free to the poor, only to gladden my own mind. Perhaps the ego of my mind takes satisfaction in this. You go on making me a goddess willy-nilly. Now only this much is lacking, that you should worship me with incense and lamp!"

Mehta said in a piteous voice, "That I have been doing for years, Malti, and I shall go on doing it until I get the boon."

Malti took a dig at him. "Then after getting the boon, perhaps you will fling the goddess out of the temple."

Mehta said, recovering himself, "Then I shall have no separate existence at all; the worshipper will merge into the worshipped."

Malti said gravely, "No, Mehta, for months I have been considering this question, and in the end I have decided this—that to remain as friends is far happier than to remain as husband and wife. You love me, you trust me, and I am sure that if occasion arose today you would protect me with your life. In you I have found not only my guide but my protector too. I too love you, trust you, and there is no sacrifice for your sake that I could not make. And my one prayer to the Almighty is that he keep me firm on this very path all my life. For our completeness, for the development of our soul, what more do we need? By making a small household of our own, by shutting up our souls in a small cage, by keeping our weal and woe to ourselves alone—can we draw near the Infinite? It will only put obstacles in our path. There are some rare beings too who, even with these fetters on their feet, can walk the path of development, and are walking it. I know too that for completeness the love and sacrifice and self-immolation of family life has very great importance, but I do not find my soul so firm. As long as there is no possessiveness, no sense of one's own, so long there is no attachment to life, no force of self-interest. The day attachment grips the mind and we fall into bondage, in that moment the field of our humanity will shrink; new and new responsibilities will come, and all our strength will begin to be spent in fulfilling them. The soul of a thoughtful, gifted man like you I do not wish to imprison in this jail. So far your life has been a sacrifice, in which there was very little place for self-interest. I shall not drag it downward. The world needs strivers like you, who widen their sense of their own so much that the whole world becomes their own. The world is loud with the cry of injustice, of terror, of fear. The fury of blind faith, of false religion, of self-interest hangs over it. You have heard that anguished cry. If even you do not hear it, where will the hearers come from? And like false beings you too cannot shut your ears to it. That life will become a burden to you. Take your learning and intellect, your awakened humanity, along that same road with still greater enthusiasm and force. I too shall follow behind you. Along with your life make my life too meaningful. This is my one entreaty to you. If your mind reaches out towards worldliness, even then, as far as it is in my power, I shall draw you away from it; and God forbid that I should fail—but then I shall let go of your company shedding two drops of tears, and I cannot say what my end will be, on what shore I shall land; but whatever shore it be, it will not be the shore of this bondage. Speak—what command do you give me?"

Mehta listened with his head bowed. Each word as it were opened the eyes within him in a way they had never opened before. Those feelings that had so far come before him like the pictures of a dream had now become a living truth and throbbed within him. He felt light and exaltation in his every pore. Before the great resolves of life, our childhood passes again before our eyes. In Mehta's eyes the sweet memories of childhood came alive—when, sitting in the lap of his widowed mother, he used to feel a great happiness. Where is that mother? Let her come and see this fine deed of her boy's. Give me your blessing. Your obstinate boy is today taking a new birth.

He took Malti's feet in both his hands and said in a trembling voice, "Your command is accepted, Malti!"

And the two, alone together, were bound in a deep embrace. From the eyes of both flowed a stream of tears.