“Why, then, are you troubling to destroy the illusion?”
“For freedom. I want the country to be free. I want human relations to be free.”
III
I was aware that it is unsafe suddenly to awake a sleepwalker. But I am so impetuous by nature, a halting gait does not suit me. I knew I was overbold that day. I knew that the first shock of such ideas is apt to be almost intolerable. But with women it is always audacity that wins.
Just as we were getting on nicely, who should walk in but Nikhil’s old tutor Chandranath Babu. The world would have been not half a bad place to live in but for these schoolmasters, who make one want to quit it in disgust. The Nikhil type wants to keep the world always a school. This incarnation of a school turned up that afternoon at the psychological moment.
We all remain schoolboys in some corner of our hearts, and I, even I, felt somewhat pulled up. As for poor Bee, she at once took her place solemnly, like the topmost girl of the class on the front bench. All of a sudden she seemed to remember that she had to face her examination.
Some people are so like eternal pointsmen lying in wait by the line, to shunt one’s train of thought from one rail to another.
Chandranath Babu had no sooner come in than he cast about for some excuse to retire, mumbling: “I beg your pardon, I …”
Before he could finish, Bee went up to him and made a profound obeisance, saying: “Pray do not leave us, sir. Will you not take a seat?” She looked like a drowning person clutching at him for support—the little coward!
But possibly I was mistaken. It is quite likely that there was a touch of womanly wile in it. She wanted, perhaps, to raise her value in my eyes. She might have been pointedly saying to me: “Please don’t imagine for a moment that I am entirely overcome by you. My respect for Chandranath Babu is even greater.”
Well, indulge in your respect by all means! Schoolmasters thrive on it. But not being one of them, I have no use for that empty compliment.
Chandranath Babu began to talk about Swadeshi. I thought I would let him go on with his monologues. There is nothing like letting an old man talk himself out. It makes him feel that he is winding up the world, forgetting all the while how far away the real world is from his wagging tongue.
But even my worst enemy would not accuse me of patience. And when Chandranath Babu went on to say: “If we expect to gather fruit where we have sown no seed, then we …” I had to interrupt him.
“Who wants fruit?” I cried. “We go by the Author of the Gita who says that we are concerned only with the doing, not with the fruit of our deeds.”
“What is it then that you do want?” asked Chandranath Babu.
“Thorns!” I exclaimed, “which cost nothing to plant.”
“Thorns do not obstruct others only,” he replied. “They have a way of hurting one’s own feet.”
“That is all right for a copybook,” I retorted. “But the real thing is that we have this burning at heart. Now we have only to cultivate thorns for others’ soles; afterwards when they hurt us we shall find leisure to repent. But why be frightened even of that? When at last we have to die it will be time enough to get cold. While we are on fire let us seethe and boil.”
Chandranath Babu smiled. “Seethe by all means,” he said, “but do not mistake it for work, or heroism. Nations which have got on in the world have done so by action, not by ebullition. Those who have always lain in dread of work, when with a start they awake to their sorry plight, they look to shortcuts and scamping for their deliverance.”
I was girding up my loins to deliver a crushing reply, when Nikhil came back. Chandranath Babu rose, and looking towards Bee, said: “Let me go now, my little mother, I have some work to attend to.”
As he left, I showed Nikhil the book in my hand. “I was telling Queen Bee about this book,” I said.
Ninety-nine percent of people have to be deluded with lies, but it is easier to delude this perpetual pupil of the schoolmaster with the truth. He is best cheated openly. So, in playing with him, the simplest course was to lay my cards on the table.
Nikhil read the title on the cover, but said nothing. “These writers,” I continued, “are busy with their brooms, sweeping away the dust of epithets with which men have covered up this world of ours. So, as I was saying, I wish you would read it.”
“I have read it,” said Nikhil.
“Well, what do you say?”
“It is all very well for those who really care to think, but poison for those who shirk thought.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those who preach ‘Equal Rights of Property’ should not be thieves. For, if they are, they would be preaching lies. When passion is in the ascendant, this kind of book is not rightly understood.”
“Passion,” I replied, “is the street lamp which guides us. To call it untrue is as hopeless as to expect to see better by plucking out our natural eyes.”
Nikhil was visibly growing excited. “I accept the truth of passion,” he said, “only when I recognize the truth of restraint. By pressing what we want to see right into our eyes we only injure them: we do not see. So does the violence of passion, which would leave no space between the mind and its object, defeat its purpose.”
“It is simply your intellectual foppery,” I replied, “which makes you indulge in moral delicacy, ignoring the savage side of truth. This merely helps you to mystify things, and so you fail to do your work with
