Nirodbaran's Correspondence with Sri Aurobindo

  Sri Aurobindo : corresp.

Nirodbaran
Nirodbaran

Nirodbaran's correspondence with Sri Aurobindo began in February 1933 and continued till November 1938, when Sri Aurobindo injured his leg and Nirod became one of his attendants. The entire correspondence, which was carried on in three separate notebooks according to topics - private, medical, and literary - is presented in chronological order, revealing the unique relationship Nirod enjoyed with his guru, replete with free and frank exchanges and liberal doses of humour. Covering a wide range of topics, both serious and light-hearted, these letters reveal the infinite care Sri Aurobindo devoted to the spiritual development of his disciple.

Books by Nirodbaran Nirodbaran's Correspondence with Sri Aurobindo 1221 pages 1984 Edition
English
 Sri Aurobindo : corresp.

October 1938

"From the grapes of sleep", "God's vineyard" sound funnily delightful, Sir! You seem to be trying to be modernistic!

Well, I'm blowed! What is there modem about "vineyard"? Vineyards are as old as Adam or almost, at any rate they existed before the flood.

By what modern alchemy do you make—"In God's vineyard of ecstasies" 3 foot?

Why not? I have anapaestised the line, that is all. No alchemy needed modem or ancient. I don't see what is the difficulty.

With "all" you use the verb in singular—harbour Possible? We say "All are mad", not "All is mad".

What the deuce! You don't know that all can be used collectively in the singular, e.g. "All he does is mad." "All is beautiful here."?

I have been asked to inform the workers that Thursday (8 a.m.) has been fixed for vaccination. Shall I tell Chandulal to circulate it among the workers so that those who want to be vaccinated may go there?

[Mother:] Yes.


[About T convalescing from TB.:] It will be better to continue her usual butter, extra milk and tomatoes and fruits. She also feels very hungry.

[The Mother marked this paragraph with a vertical line.]

[Mother:] Yes, better continue.

As for work, she says she is ready to take up anything you give. She will wilcome it if given by you.

[Mother:] I have no intention of giving work other than the one she is doing now.


Guru, so after so much trouble and pain, yesterday's poem was maimed! What a capricious Goddess is the Muse! But how partial to you!

Not at all. I have to labour much more than you, except for sonnets which come easily and short lyrics which need only a single revision. But for the rest I have to rewrite 20 or 30 times. Moreover I write only at long intervals.

The glacier image is a theft from Mallarmé, and not a clever one, perhaps?

It is quite effective here. Thefts from other languages are habitual in poetry


"A tranced silver flame of thy delight,
Within my rapturous solitude I bear
The occult mysteries of the Infinite
Hidden in a bright seed of tranquil prayer."

A flame bearing mysteries in a seed is a mixed metaphor.

"Life breaks no more with multitudinous waves
Upon my luminous silence; its irised fire
Lights only the forlorn shadowy caves
On the edge of time with foams of moth-desire."

A fire lighting a cave with foam and a moth foaming! In English one must be careful to avoid mixture of metaphors whether implied or explicit.

Where are the sonnets or lyrics you have written? We have seen very few of them!

Unseen they count, but not in numbers.

And what did you mean by "for the rest" which you rewrite 20 or 30 times? Did you mean your "Savitri"?

Of course.

Do you think it will greet us one day?

Well, perhaps after ten years if I get time.


What's this romantic nightingale doing here?

The nightingale perhaps came in answer to the need of a rhyme. However it can stay perched there provided it ceases to be white. It has no connection with the preceding lines, so the semi-colon must go.

We have no Camomille you have prescribed for Lalita Shall we get it from the Pharmacy?

[Mother:] What they have there is generally old and badly kept. Perhaps we might try a light decoction of boldo instead. (She has pain 15 to 20 minutes after taking food.)


"The agelong faceted memory of life
Is strewn with silences of the Infinite..."

Lord! sir, what on earth do you mean? "agelong faceted" is "strewn"?

"I live like a rock of diamond trancehood..."

A rock doesn't live.

Seeing this incomplete piece of fire-work, you are sure to swear at me at every step!

Haven't sufficient energy or time to swear at every step,—on where blasphemy is needed.

I want now to play a different game with the Muse: just note down whatever comes; not the old tedious game of waiting, straining and praying for every line till it descends after half an hour! What's the result of the new process?

Very much the same as in the old.

Last night N had shivering with bad joint pains. Today (5 p.m.) fever 103° and a "hammering" headache. He wants your sanction for any internal medication.

[Mother:] Better if he takes medicine.

When I went to foment Lila's leg last night, I just enquired about Nirmala and found her very feverish with a bad headache. I washed her head with cold water and asked Lila to sponge the body with warm water today. My little interference, I hope, wasn't bad.

[Mother:] No, you did well to help.


This time I have kicked out "infinite, eternal, solitude, etc." from my poem. God be thanked!

Congratulations!

Lila's swelling of the leg is still there. Should I leave all treatment now and let it disappear by itself, or continue a few days more the present treatment?

[Mother:] You can go on for a few days more.


Guru, I fear you will find the poem231 suffering from the first signs of flu! There is no harmony at all. It is all because of my "hammering headache".

Well, sir, your flu has made you fluid and fluent, and the hammering headache has hammered out a fine poem. Wa Allah!

It doesn't seem to know what it's talking about.

I don't see what's wrong with it. It seems to know what it is talking about; although you may not know it.


What the deuce, Sir! Are you aware of the raging epidemic [flu, dengue] havoc in the Asram? Too busy with the Supermind to bother about these trifles? How is it that the Asram has become so vulnerable to it this time—the first?

There has been a "progressive" increase in that respect during the last ten years and this seems to be its (present) culmination. In that respect more people are being "advanced sadhaks".

Better stop this epidemic now, Sir! I hear that Vedabrata is the latest victim!

Ramkrishna is promising to join the dance.


Guru, do you see the overhead reflected in this poem? I've hammered it!

I don't know but the overheadache is also reflected, which accounts for the number of alterations that have to be made.

What's this, Sir? My feverishness persists!

Why on earth is your body so attached to the headache and fever?

I don't suppose an illness has any salutary effect on sadhana, that it should linger, what?

Not in the least—needn't keep it on with that idea!


A cement barrel fell on Mohanlal's foot. It's swollen considerably, and there is a wound too. Purani says that fomentation will cure the swelling.

[Mother:] The wound will never close if it is fomented.

Miss Wilson232 is to come for treatment tomorrow. Should we postpone it as Dr. Becharlal is not well and neither am I?

[Mother:] Yes, it is better to postpone.

Dr. Becharlal was proposing today that we should try to get another helping hand in the Dispensary, as the work has increased a lot...

[Mother:] Quite ready to give you a helping hand—but is it a Sadhak or a servant?

Mulshankar says the present oven is too small, as people are increasing for soup. Can a big one be ordered from the smithy?

[Mother:] Yes.


"A touch of thy hand, a brief glitter of thy eyes
Releases unknown springs from my body's earth..."

Perspiration?

"He held him with his glittering eye"? But this is not the Ancient Mariner. "Glitter of eye" suggests anger, greed, etc.

"Thy vigilant caress leads pace by pace
The lonely caravan of my God-desire..."

A caress can't lead a caravan.

Guru, how is this poem?

Well, the scansion and rhythm seem rather forced at places and some of the ideas are rather headachy e.g. a caress leading a caravan and the suggestion of profuse perspiration and the smile of snow-cool fire. However, being free from headache, I have made a fine thing out of it.

There doesn't seem to be any improvement in the medical atmosphere, Sir!

None. Even all the three Doctors gave the example of getting ferociously ill! The city population follow মহাজনো গতো যেন পন্থা233

By the way, I hope you received my prayer for poetry and your poetic chord was touched.

I did, but my Muse refused to work.

Dr. Becharlal says that a sadhak would be better for work in the Dispensary, as a servant won't be able to do the nursing work.

[Mother:] Do you have some name to suggest?

[Sri Aurobindo:] Arjava is insisting on having paraffin oil in stock in the Dispensary (it appears there is none) to be available in case of (his stomach's) emergency. Ask Rajangam to procure it.


Arjava has finished 1 lb. of paraffin in 15 days! ... I don't know any emergency requiring paraffin so badly. It is not emergency, but his continuous consumption that we have to see about...

[Mother:] All the same you can buy the paraffin—

We have no name to suggest for our helper, as it is very difficult to choose. I think whomever you send will be good.

[Mother:] Just now I see nobody whom I can send, but someone may turn up.

Guru, I almost wanted to stop writing as my recent poems turned out unsatisfactory either due to my head or due to the study of modem English verses.

You are too easily discouraged. Such drops in the Inspiration are inevitable when one constantly writes poetry.

But why should the study of verses have a wrong influence?

It depends on what you are studying. There are verses and verses.

Today's poem won't fare any better, I fear.

It is better.


Can a "closed door" seal anything?

No—never did.

You say I am easily discouraged. Oh Lord! in spite of my heroic pulling on, you say that?

Heroic in spite of easy and frequent discouragement.

However, please give me a few names of poets—especially modem poets, whom I should study.

In what sense modern?


By "modern poets" I meant those of the 20th century, i.e. writers who have made a name and are trying to do something new.

I have very little familiarity with the names of modem poets subsequent to A.E. & Yeats and De La Mare, all of whom you know.

There are about a hundred of them moderns, Spender + x y z p2 etc. Before that they were Hopkins and Fletcher and others and before that Meredith and Hardy and Francis Thompson. You can tackle any of them you can lay your hands on in the library. Watson and Brooke and other Edwardians & Georgians would not be good for you.


[After making the corrections in my poem:234]

Ahem! What do you say to that? It seems to me that between us we have produced something remarkable.

After being poised, how can anything travel, and with eagle-wings at that?

But that is what the eagles do. They beat their wings to give themselves an impulsion and then sail for some time with wide wings poised on the air.

I find that I have written about 186 poems from March to August, of which only 15 are "exceedingly fine".

15 poems exceedingly fine in 6 months! It is a colossal number!

But in any case, compared to last year's poems, there has been a very satisfactory progress, I think. What do you say?

Certainly.


15—a colossal number! Joking? I am tempted to say like Monodhar—"I beg to differ with you in this respect."

Not at all; quite serious. If you take the short lyrics and sonnets (not longer poems) of great poets like Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth, how many are there of the first class written in a whole lifetime?

Thirty or forty perhaps at the outside. And you have written 15 in 6 months.


Ah, here am I again! You had three days' respite, no more, Sir! Now you will have to scratch your head to find the right words and expressions!

I don't need to scratch my head—I have only to look at it from above and the words bubble up of themselves—at once or after a time. When they don't, all the scratching in the world is of no avail.

I don't expect anything great here, for the head is dry, mind is weary and the soul languorous, so?

Well, it isn't either dry or weary or languorous.


After a long time my old self is trying to assert itself: lethargy, depression, ennui, lack of interest in everything, aftermath of fever!

Obviously—a stage of it like the rash—a sort of psychological dengue-fall.


When one will take up my file of poems and turn over the pages, he will be sick of these poor repetitions. And yet I don't know how to avoid them. I admit that in daily writing this is bound to happen, still it annoys me!

Well, naturally, if the book had to be published, a selection would have to be made. But as you are writing in order to open yourself more to the source of full inspiration, it doesn't matter so much.


Guru, you say that I have "a much greater mastery of expression" now; that's something. I am now trying to read some English poems of poets suggested by you.

Which of them?

I have doubts here about the lines 4, 7, 12 and the last.

["Whence leaps the splendour of the Infinite",
"My human heart begins to understand",
"The secret Truth hidden in thy heart's sphere",
"Upon the sombre shore of memories".]

They seem to be simple!

My dear sir, these lines are simply exquisite (simply in both senses)—all four indeed, precisely because they are so simple that the emotion and experience go straight through without a veil.

You asked me to read Hardy, Spender, Meredith, Hopkins, besides De la Mare. A.E. and Yeats ... But how will Meredith and others help? Their poetry has nothing in common with ours, except the turn of expression, if that's what you mean. Please tell me whom I should take up first and how I should proceed.

[No reply.]


Guru, you will find in Satya's letter a doubt that you don't read their letters!

The doubt is whether the letters reach me—they reach me all right; do they imagine that Nolini intercepts letters? What the devil does this N mean by saying that Mother has asked her to wait there.

Mother is not in correspondence with her and never asked her to do anything.


This rainy weather makes it difficult for me to go to the hospital. Shall I hire a rickshaw when necessary?

[The Mother underlined the last sentence.]

Yes.


"Stubborn clay"—influence of Meredith?

Meredith? I don't know. By the way, I forgot to answer your comments on your reading the other day [27.10.38]. I thought you wanted to read the modern poets in order to help your style, so I suggested the names. Naturally their substance has little kinship with the things we try to write. They say Thompson's has, but I don't know his poetry very well.

By the way, do you know why Arjava has stopped writing?

He wrote a beautiful poem the other day—but his inspiration has become fitful and far between.


Today I faithfully surrendered myself to inspiration, hence I can't make any head or tail. I hope it has a head and a tail. But I fear, you will chop them off and replace them by something new. If by fluke you find the poem O.K., then please tell me what the 2nd and 3rd stanzas mean.235

Well, the result is very creditable and it has an obvious head even if there is no tail to make. It is only the irruption of the nightingale to which I object, as that is cheap and obvious. The first two stanzas are very fine; the second develops an admirable image. I don't see what there is to explain in it. A sleep full of dreams, a fantasia of half-forgotten memories as it were, can be very well called "half-forgetful sleep", and such a sleep filled with the importunities of dream-delight (a beautiful phrase) can very well seem like the vastness etc. What is there so difficult to catch in that? The 3rd stanza is also very fine with its idea of the dreams coming up from a mysterious or miraculous depth of nothingness into the silence of the sleep-trance, revealing all that was hidden darkly behind a veil—it is an admirably profoUnd description of the happenings of deep sleep-samadhi. It seems to me perfectly plain, true and simple. But the nightingale won't do; it spoils the depth of the utterance.

I didn't want to read the modern poets only to help my style, but also to get acquainted with their various ways of expression. For instance Meredith says, "... to drill the stubborn earth to shape". I would have hesitated a thousand times to use "stubborn" if I hadn't seen its 'use.

Why? it is an admirably apt epithet in that place.

But while I profit in this way, I get an unconscious influence in other ways. Should I then drop reading these poets?

No, you should be able to read and profit by the beautiful language without losing your own inspiration.

Did I send an English poem of Dilip's along with the Bengali ones yesterday?










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