Such worship or prayer is no flight of eloquence; it is no lip-homage. It springs from the heart. If, therefore, we achieve that purity of the heart when it is “emptied of all but love,” if we keep all the chords in proper tune, they “trembling pass in music out of sight.” Prayer needs no speech. It is in itself independent of any sensuous effort. I have not the slightest doubt that prayer is an unfailing means of cleansing the heart of passions. But it must be combined with the utmost humility.
XXII
Narayan Hemchandra
Just about this time Narayan Hemchandra came to England. I had heard of him as a writer. We met at the house of Miss Manning of the National Indian Association. Miss Manning knew that I could not make myself sociable. When I went to her place I used to sit tongue-tied, never speaking except when spoken to. She introduced me to Narayan Hemchandra. He did not know English. His dress was queer—a clumsy pair of trousers, a wrinkled, dirty, brown coat after the Parsi fashion, no necktie or collar, and a tasselled woollen cap. He grew a long beard.
He was lightly built and short of stature. His round face was scarred with smallpox, and had a nose which was neither pointed nor blunt. With his hand he was constantly turning over his beard.
Such a queer-looking and queerly dressed person was bound to be singled out in fashionable society.
“I have heard a good deal about you,” I said to him. “I have also read some of your writings. I should be very pleased if you were kind enough to come to my place.”
Narayan Hemchandra had a rather hoarse voice. With a smile on his face he replied:
“Yes, where do you stay?”
“In Store Street.”
“Then we are neighbours. I want to learn English. Will you teach me?”
“I shall be happy to teach you anything I can, and will try my best. If you like, I will go to your place.”
“Oh, no. I shall come to you. I shall also bring with me a Translation Exercise Book.” So we made an appointment. Soon we were close friends.
Narayan Hemchandra was innocent of grammar. “Horse” was a verb with him and “run” a noun. I remember many such funny instances. But he was not to be baffled by his ignorance. My little knowledge of grammar could make no impression on him. Certainly he never regarded his ignorance of grammar as a matter for shame.
With perfect nonchalance he said: “I have never been to school like you. I have never felt the need of grammar in expressing my thoughts. Well, do you know Bengali? I know it. I have travelled in Bengal. It is I who have given Maharshi Devendranath Tagore’s works to the Gujarati-speaking world. And I wish to translate into Gujarati the treasures of many other languages. And you know I am never literal in my translations. I always content myself with bringing out the spirit. Others, with their better knowledge, may be able to do more in future. But I am quite satisfied with what I have achieved without the help of grammar. I know Marathi, Hindi, Bengali, and now I have begun to know English. What I want is a copious vocabulary. And do you think my ambition ends here? No fear. I want to go to France and learn French. I am told that language has an extensive literature. I shall go to Germany also, if possible, and there learn German.” And thus he would talk on unceasingly. He had a boundless ambition for learning languages and for foreign travel.
“Then you will go to America also?”
“Certainly. How can I return to India without having seen the New World?”
“But where will you find the money?”
“What do I need money for? I am not a fashionable fellow like you. The minimum amount of food and the minimum amount of clothing suffice for me. And for this what little I get out of my books and from my friends is enough. I always travel third class. While going to America also I shall travel on deck.”
Narayan Hemchandra’s simplicity was all his own, and his frankness was on a par with it. Of pride he had not the slightest trace, excepting, of course, a rather undue regard for his own capacity as a writer.
We met daily. There was a considerable amount of similarity between our thoughts and actions. Both of us were vegetarians. We would often have our lunch together. This was the time when I lived on 17s. a week and cooked for myself. Sometimes I would go to his room, and sometimes he would come to mine. I cooked in the English style. Nothing but Indian style would satisfy him. He could not do without dal. I would make soup of carrots etc., and he would pity me for my taste. Once he somehow hunted out mung,12 cooked it and brought it to my place. I ate it with delight. This led on to a regular system of exchange between us. I would
