4

A principle, however sound it may seem when one considers it in the abstract, does not always carry that same quality of absolute certainty when it comes to applying it to living people — at least this was so for Binoy, whose emotional nature was exceedingly strong. Thus in the course of argument he would concede a principle very readily and with great vehemence, but when it came to conduct he could not help holding human beings in even greater esteem than the principle. Indeed, how far the opinions of Gora’s that Binoy had adopted were received for the sake of the opinions themselves, and how far they were drawn in by his profound personal attachment to Gora, would have been difficult to say.

As he left Gora’s house and made his way back to his lodgings through that monsoon evening, picking his way carefully through the mud, a contest had set itself going within his mind between principle and persons.

The view that if society wished to preserve itself against the many open and covert assaults of the present age it must be especially vigilant in all matters touching food and association — this view Binoy had accepted most readily from Gora’s lips, and had argued it sharply against those who opposed it; he had said that when the enemy has attacked the fortress on every side, to defend with one’s life every lane and passage, every door and window, every crack and crevice within it — that is not to be called a want of liberality.

But today, the fact that Gora had forbidden him to eat in Anandamayi’s room — the blow of it went on wounding him inwardly, again and again.

Binoy had no father; his mother too he had lost at an early age. His uncle lived in the village, and from boyhood Binoy had grown up alone in Calcutta, in lodgings, absorbed in his studies. From the day he had come to know Anandamayi through his friendship with Gora, he had known her as his mother. How many times had he gone to her room and eaten with all the clamour and playful nuisance of a boy at home! How many times had he lodged against her the mock complaint that she showed partiality toward Gora in the division of food — and performed all the ceremony of feigned jealousy! That if Binoy stayed away for even two or three days Anandamayi would grow anxious beyond all measure, that she would sit in patient expectation for their assembly to disperse so that she might have Binoy sit beside her and feed him — all this Binoy knew in full. Could that same Anandamayi bear it — could Binoy himself bear it — that he should now refuse, on account of social scruple, to go and eat in her room?

‘From now on Ma will feed me with the hands of some good Brahmin cook — never again with her own hands.’ Ma had said this with a smile on her face; but how bitter, how cutting a thing it was to say. It was with this thought turning and returning within him that Binoy arrived at his lodgings.

The empty room lay in darkness; papers and books lay scattered in disarray on all sides. Striking a match, Binoy lit the oil lamp — upon the lamp’s shade the bearer’s horoscope was marked with various signs; the white cloth cover on the writing table was stained in many places with ink and oil. Within this room his spirit seemed to gasp for breath. The want of human company and affection pressed upon his chest like a weight this evening. To rescue the country, to preserve society — all these duties he could not render vivid or real to himself in any measure. Far more real than these was that unknown bird which had once come near his cage on a bright and beautiful morning in Shravan, and then departed from it again. Yet Binoy would on no account give any quarter in his mind to thoughts of that unknown bird — on no account whatsoever.

And so, in search of some refuge for his mind, he began to paint in his thoughts a picture of that very house from which Gora had turned him away — the house of Anandamoyi.

The bright floor, worked with decorative plasterwork, shone clean and gleaming; along one side of the room a bed lay spread upon a wooden pallet, soft and spotless as the wing of a white swan; beside the bed, on a small stool, a castor-oil lamp had been lit by now; surely the mother sat bent over it with threads of many colours, doing her needlework upon a quilt, while Lachmia sat below on the floor, chattering away ceaselessly in her accented Bengali, most of which the mother was not taking in at all. Whenever the mother felt some sorrow within her, she would take up her handiwork — upon that image of her silent face intent upon its task, Binoy fixed his gaze; and he said within himself: let the tender radiance of this face protect me from all the distraction of my mind. Let this face serve as the living icon of my motherland, urging me toward my duty and holding me steadfast within it. He called her ‘mother’ once in his heart and said: ‘I shall not, by the authority of any scripture, admit that the food you offer me is anything less than nectar.’

In the silent room the large clock went on ticking steadily; the stillness within grew unbearable for Binoy. Near the lamp, a gecko was catching insects on the wall — having watched it for a while, Binoy rose, took up an umbrella, and went out of the room.

What he would do was not clear in his mind. It was perhaps his intention to return to Anandamoyi’s house. But at one point it struck him that today was Sunday — today he would go and hear Keshab Babu’s lecture at the Brahmo Samaj meeting. The moment this thought arose, Binoy banished all hesitation and set off at a brisk pace. He knew that there was not much time left before the lecture would end, yet his resolve did not waver.

Arriving at the place, he found the worshippers already coming out. He stood with his umbrella in a corner by the side of the road — at that very moment Pareshbabu emerged from the temple with a calm and serene expression. With him were four or five members of his household — among them Binoy caught sight of the youthful face of one person for a brief moment in the gaslight of the street — then came the sound of carriage wheels, and this little scene dissolved like a bubble into the vast ocean of darkness.

Binoy had read a sufficient quantity of English novels, but where was the Bengali gentleman’s sensibility in him to go? That to look upon a woman with such eagerness of mind was dishonourable to that woman and blameworthy on his own part — this conviction he could not drive from his mind by any argument. And so within Binoy’s breast, alongside a feeling of joy, a profound sense of shame began to take root. He felt: ‘I am somehow falling.’ Although he had argued with Gora and come away, yet to look upon a woman with eyes of love where no social sanction existed went against the grain of his lifelong upbringing.

Binoy did not go to Gora’s house after all. His mind tossing with many thoughts, he returned to his lodgings. The following afternoon, having gone out from his rooms and wandered about, he eventually arrived at Gora’s house — by which time the long monsoon day had drawn to a close and the darkness of evening had grown dense. Gora had lit the lamp and was sitting down to write.

Without raising his face from the paper, Gora said: “What is it, Binoy — from which direction is the wind blowing?”

Without heeding these words, Binoy said: “Gora, let me ask you something. Is Bharatvarsha very real to you? Very vivid? You keep it in your mind day and night — but how do you keep it?”

Gora put down his pen and fixed his keen gaze upon Binoy’s face for a moment; then he set his pen aside, leaned back against the chair, and said: “As a ship’s captain setting out to sea keeps the port on the far shore in his mind through eating and walking, through work and rest — so do I keep Bharatvarsha in mine.”

Binoy. And where is this Bharatvarsha of yours?

Placing his hand upon his chest, Gora said: “Where the compass within me here keeps its needle pointing day and night — not within Mr. Marshman’s History of India.”

Binoy. And where your needle points — is there truly something there?

Gora said with animation: “Of course there is — I may lose my way, I may drown and perish, but that blessed port of mine exists. That is my Bharatvarsha in its fullness — full in wealth, full in knowledge, full in righteousness. That Bharatvarsha is nowhere to be found! What exists is only this falsehood on every side — this city of yours called Calcutta, these offices, these courts, these few bubbles made of brick and mortar! Bah!”

Saying this, Gora gazed steadily at Binoy’s face for a while — Binoy, without answering, fell into thought. Gora continued: “This existence in which we read and listen, go about seeking employment, labour like beasts from ten to five without knowing what we are accomplishing — because we have taken this conjuror’s false Bharatvarsha for the real one, twenty-five crore people, mistaking false honour for honour and false duty for duty, wander in confusion day and night. Can we find life through any effort within this mirage? And so we wither and die each day. There is one true Bharatvarsha — a complete and perfect Bharatvarsha — and unless we are rooted there, we shall not be able to draw the true sap of life, whether in intellect or in heart. That is why I say: forgetting everything else — the learning of books, the lure of titles, the temptation of beggarly service — casting aside every one of these entanglements, we must set our vessel sailing toward that port. If we drown, we drown; if we die, we die. It is not for nothing that I can never forget the true image, the full image, of Bharatvarsha!”

Binoy. Is all this merely words of excitement? Are you speaking the truth?

Gora thundered like a cloud: “I am speaking the truth.”

Binoy. And those who cannot see as you see?

Gora clenched his fist and said: “They must be shown. That is our very task. If men cannot see the image of truth clearly, before what phantom will they surrender themselves? Hold up before everyone the complete and full image of Bharatvarsha — and people will go mad with longing. Will you then need to go door to door begging for donations? There will be a rush to offer up their very lives.”

Binoy. Either let me drift along like the ten ordinary men of the world, or show me that image yourself.

Gora. Pursue your discipline. If faith abides within you, you will find joy in rigorous discipline itself. Our fashionable patriots possess no real faith at all, and that is why they cannot demand anything with force, either from themselves or from others. If Kubera himself were to come and offer them a boon, they would likely lack the courage to ask for anything beyond a gilt badge on a lieutenant-governor’s orderly’s uniform. They have no faith, and therefore no confidence.

Binoy. Gora, not everyone’s nature is the same. You have found your own faith within yourself, and you can hold your own foundation firm by your own strength — and therefore you cannot fully understand another’s condition. I am saying: assign me some task, whatever it may be — keep me working day and night — otherwise, as long as I am with you I feel as though I have gained something, but when I go away I find nothing close at hand to hold fast to.

Gora. You speak of work? Our one task at this moment is this: to manifest towards everything that belongs to our own country an unshrinking, undoubting, and complete reverence, and through this to kindle that same reverence in the hearts of those of our countrymen who have lost faith. Through shame upon shame regarding our own country we have weakened our minds with the poison of servility. If each one of us remedies this by his own example, we shall then have a field in which to work. Whatever task we undertake now merely follows the model of others, copying from the schoolbook of history. Can we ever truly and wholeheartedly give our entire mind and spirit to such counterfeit work? We shall only debase ourselves further by it.

At this moment Mahim entered the room, bearing a hookah in his hand, with an air of gentle, unhurried ease. Having returned from the office, taken his refreshment, placed a paan in his mouth and taken half a dozen more on a tray, this was the hour when Mahim smoked his tobacco seated by the roadside. A little later, one by one, the friends of the neighbourhood would gather, and then in the room by the front gate a session of the card game would begin.

The moment Mahim entered the room, Gora rose from his chair and stood up. Mahim, drawing on his hookah, said: “You are busy rescuing Bharat — rescue your brother first, if you will.”

Gora looked at Mahim’s face without speaking. Mahim said: “The new chief sahib who has come to our office — the one with a look like a hound — the fellow is a terrible rascal. He calls the babus baboons — if anyone’s mother dies he won’t grant leave, says it’s a lie — no Bengali clerk can receive his full month’s pay, he riddled it with fines on all sides. A letter appeared in the newspaper under his name — the fellow took it into his head that it was my doing. Not entirely wrong of him either. So now, unless I write a sharp rejoinder in my own name, he won’t let me be. You two have churned the ocean of the University and emerged as twin jewels — this letter needs to be written up nicely. Into it we must scatter: even-handed justice, never-failing generosity, kind courteousness, and so forth and so forth.”

Gora remained silent. Binoy laughed and said: “Dada, will you push so many falsehoods through in a single breath?”

Mahim. Meet a rogue with roguery. I have kept their company for many years — nothing is unknown to me. The falsehoods they can heap together deserve admiration. When necessity demands it, they have no compunction whatsoever. If one of them tells a lie, all the rest take it up in the same key and howl like jackals in chorus — we, on the contrary, trip each other up and court applause for it. Know this for certain: there is no sin in deceiving them, provided one is not caught.

Saying this, Mahim burst into a great rolling laugh — and Binoy could not help laughing either.

Mahim said: “You want to say the true thing to their faces and put them to shame! With such intelligence bestowed upon you by Providence, is it any wonder the country is in such a state? One must understand: when a man who has brute strength on his side is caught red-handed in his theft, he does not bow his head in shame. He picks up his crowbar and, with the air of the most righteous of men, charges forward with a roar. Is that not so?”

Binoy. True enough.

Mahim. Rather than that, if from the oil-press of flattery we extract a few drops of oil without paying a penny, and massage his feet with it, saying: ‘Holy sir, blessed ascetic — in your compassion, shake your bag a little; even its dust would be enough to save us’ — then at least some portion of what is rightfully yours might perhaps find its way back to your own household, and there would be no risk of breaking the peace either. If you think it over, this is precisely what may be called patriotism. But my younger brother is vexed. Ever since he became a Hindu he has shown me great respect as his elder — and today, in his presence, my words have not sounded quite like those of an elder brother. But what can I do, brother — one must speak the truth even about falsehood. Binoy, but I need that letter written. Wait — I have notes written down; let me fetch them.

Saying this, Mahim went out, drawing on his tobacco as he went. Gora said to Binoy: “Binu, go into Dada’s room and keep him occupied there. Let me finish this writing.”