(New Talks)

In Her Company

ALL of you, I suppose, sometime or other attend the meditation, the evening meditation at the Playground. If not all, at least a good many or most of you. Perhaps a few of the younger ones do not. When the. Mother was giving this collective meditation in the Playground, almost always there used to happen a strange phenomenon. She has spoken of it, Sri Aurobindo also referred to it, some of you may recall. Among the people who attended the meditation, mostly our Ashram-people, there used to be present strange guests in the company: invisible beings from other worlds, gods, various degrees and kinds of gods, great gods and small gods – disembodied or unbodied beings jostling with embodied human creatures. They had a great fascination for this meditation. They must have been tempted in view of some profit they would gain by it, as in our human cases we too expected some benefit; apart from that, there was a great fascination for this meeting, especially for these inhabitants of the other worlds; for this was an opportunity, a great opportunity when they could come near and meet the embodied Divine. In the other worlds, in their own domains they were far from the Divine, the contact was indirect, but here at this place was the Divine himself or herself, in a physical body. Nowhere else they could have this vision, this direct contact; that was what prompted them to come here.

We had had, poor human creatures, this great opportunity for years. I have always spoken of it, the presence of

the Divine in a physical body. Even if you did not know, something in you knew and the touch was there, you still carry that touch with you, it is indelible. The earth even now retains something of that Divine touch and will retain it for ever; it is that which is helping it to go forward in spite of the tremendous odds and difficulties that the earth is going through and has yet to go through – for sometime – towards its inevitable goal.

There was another phenomenon similar and likewise extraordinary. When the Mother used to play on the organ, to entertain us with her music, sometimes one noted that she would sit quiet for a while before the organ, apparently waiting for something before she began to play. And naturally we in our small way of understanding used to say, "Mother was concentrating or waiting for the inspiration." Very often it was not that. She herself explained once or twice what it was. She said, here also as at the meditation in the Playground, when she sat with her fingers on the keys of the board, there was a host of invisible musicians assembled there, musicians of course who wanted to hear Mother play, also there were ambitious musicians who sought to play, play through her fingers. That was a great opportunity for them to express themselves, to show their capacity, exhibit their talents through her. Indeed at times there was a clamour and scramble among these unearthly musicians, as to who should come, whom should Mother allow to appear. It was very interesting, Mother used to say, when for some reason or other she allowed some particular musician, the fortunate being used to play his music through her gracious fingers. And when the music passed through her fingers, something of her own quality or inspiration naturally entered into the music played. When you hear Mother's music now, some are of that nature, not absolutely or wholly by herself, but some other great musician from another world has given his version of the Mother's music. Our Sunil's music is a peculiar case: it is exquisitely human music

grafted on the Mother's Divine music – a blend of the two.

It was a great mystery, and a great, as I said, a great phenomenon, this free interchange between the physical world, the physical life and the other heavenly or otherworldly worlds. There was a mixture, a co-mingling, and at times a fusion of these two different dissimilar realms. And it was a very concrete, a very living phenomenon. It is not however as mere isolated instances that the phenomenon occurs: this phenomenon of interaction between two distinct and dissimilar worlds. These higher or otherworldly powers exist not merely for their own sake, for their own delight or growth, they have also a place in the universal play, in the play of earthly evolution: that is to say, they are there in their own realms and come nearer to the earth to extend their help in its forward march. They help individual beings also bestowing their powers and capacities and their inspiration. The word "inspiration" itself means a breath, an influence from elsewhere, from another sphere. It means that which is not confined to the known and the present but something new, something unfamiliar, from somewhere else touches our old life's sphere. Sri Aurobindo has given some instances how, here, people who were very commonplace and ordinary in their intelligence and capacity developed in a strange uncanny way other qualities and accomplishments they could not think of or dream of. This was possible only because of this help, this inspiration or prompting from elsewhere. We have had people in our midst who received or receive still this help in creating their music, poetry and art. I may cite here a remarkable instance. There was a professor here, an Englishman, Professor of Philosophy, but of a special kind of Philosophy, mathematical logic - mathematics and logic married together, two of the driest subjects to students: teachers or students among you will kindly excuse me for this compliment I am paying to their subject. This professor, dry as dust, miraculous

to say, flowered into a very fine poet. He wrote poetry of an extreme sensitiveness, exquisite in form and feeling. You must have heard of him, some must have read him, I speak of Arjava. A really fine poet he became, no trace of mathematics at all was there – unless it is the magic of the mathematics of the Infinity, of the Unknowable.

I was speaking of the influence of other forces upon human beings and the power they exercise upon external circumstances. These phenomena happen automatically, we have no control over them. But this too can be acquired. These supra-normal faculties can be brought under control. One can come in conscious contact with such forces and influences and know them and even guide their action. Sri Aurobindo has spoken of this mystery and I think I have referred to it in my Reminiscences. Sri Aurobindo himself used to do automatic writing, as perhaps many of you, the older ones particularly, know it. I will explain. Sri Aurobindo used to allow these other-worldly forces and invisible beings to enter into his physical personality, in the same way as the Mother used to do with regard to her music allowing other persons to enter into her fingers and play through them their music. Here also Sri Aurobindo used to do the same and similar things consciously. I have seen it myself, and many others. He used to hold the pen or pencil between his fingers, ready to write on a piece of paper, placed in front; he used to leave his fingers absolutely passive without any will in himself to write they were: almost like an inert object. After a time the pen or pencil used to move by it self and begin to write, write sometimes even speeches, give instructions or information, answer questions also.

Once, it was here in Pondicherry, Sri Aurobindo was trying this experiment. Mother also was present there. Someone asked the medium, the person who was appearing through the medium, "Can you answer questions?" "Yes, I can." "Will you speak something about the..." He

mentioned the name of a person we knew. The medium gave a description of the person's nature and various information about him which were marvellously accurate. He described in this way two or three other persons known to us. Then one among us asked, "Can you tell us something about the Mother?" Mother intercepted with vehemence, "No, no, nothing about me." Immediately Sri Aurobindo's pencil dropped on the paper and the matter came to a dead stop then and there. All the same what the invisible being was saying was quite interesting, and even could be of educative value. Sri Aurobindo used to explain that many of these beings were very eager to come but they were not always very truthful. They wanted to show their cleverness or amused themselves by confusing or irritating human beings. Sometimes however higher beings can come and then you get useful instruction or even true knowledge from them. Sri Aurobindo himself has described at length how, when he was in prison, Vivekananda used to come to him and give him important indications in Yoga. What he did not know, Vivekananda was explaining to him.

I have spoken of automatic writing; there is a parallel phenomenon, automatic speech. That is also possible. .When you speak, it happens personally you do not speak, in other words, you make no effort, do not exercise your brain or your mind, all remains still, even your tongue, like the pencil in automatic writing. Sri Aurobindo explained how he arrived at this achievement. At one time when he thought of practising Yoga seriously, he was looking for someone who could give preliminary practical guidance. He was told there was such a person somewhere in Baroda. This person was not a guru in the normal sense, he looked like a householder, was not at all a sannyasi. He was employed in an office, perhaps as a clerk, still he was pursuing some practice of yogic discipline. Sri Aurobindo had an interview with him, and the first lesson was to this effect: Make your mind quiet, absolutely silent, there should be no thought, no

ripple of any mental movement, it has to be absolutely blank. Then you will be able to have your first experience. Usually we are in the habit of saying: I think, you think, he thinks, but in point of fact you will observe that you do not think at all – there is nobody who thinks, ¹ the thoughts simply come to you: when you have made this field of silence within, you will actually see thoughts arriving from outside into that field, your brain is occupied by intruders as it were, and you have the choice either to accept or to reject, entertain or throw them out. You can keep your mind absolutely blank as long as you like. Sri Aurobindo said, he practised this and in three days he made his mind absolutely blank, a zero, no thought, not even a ripple was there – it was a very remarkable experience at that time, quite new to him, such a peace and stillness, a perfect void! Then one day Sri Aurobindo met his teacher Lele Maharaj and told him that he was doing political work then and the next day he had to deliver a lecture, how was he to do it if he has to continue to be in a blank mind. If I speak, I have to think, I have to choose a subject. What am I to do? Lele Maharaj answered, "Do one thing, go to the meeting, stand in front of your listeners, do namaskar to the public and keep quiet, wait, see what happens. Don't try to say anything or think of anything simply remain as a passive instrument in the hands of the Supreme Power." Sri Aurobindo did as instructed he stood with folded arms, did namaskar to the public and, within, did pranam to the Supreme. He said: "I was thinking of nothing, awaiting things to happen as a silent witness. Then suddenly I found that something started in me and the tongue began to move, the tongue moved and moved and the lips began to utter words." He

¹ It is interesting to compare the Buddhist teaching:

Suffering there is, sufferer none;

No doer, only deed is there;

Renunciation is there, no renouncer;

Way there is, no wayfarer.

- Buddhaghosha

delivered in this way a long lecture, and he said he did not exactly know what was spoken through him, there was only a vague impression, but it was a great speech the others said. And from then on all his public speeches came in that way as automatic speeches. Later he explained to us, and showed to us, by example as it were, how the thing was done. It was at a séance; we used to sit together, a few of us, in his company. We sat, made ourselves comfortable, remained quiet and silent and then the thing happened: suddenly when everybody was quiet, still, he began to speak, I said he, but it was not his voice, it was surely somebody else speaking through him. The speaker sometimes announced himself saying he was such and such a person. Sometimes great historical persons also came, as for example, I have described in my Reminiscences, the famous leader of the great French Revolution, Danton. In a terrible voice he cried out: I am Danton, terror, red terror, etc. Once a great politician of the ancient days, of the Greek times, appeared and started to give lessons on politics. Bankim also appeared once, I have referred to this episode in my book.

So all this is to tell you that you are surrounded by a world of beings and influences and this visible body that you have, the normal mind active in you, are not all that you can call yours. Even in ordinary life when you think that you are acting, you are speaking, it is not at all true, or only partially true. A part, often a small part of you is involved in your activities. You are like an iceberg – the greater part is submerged, only the top, a very small portion of the whole is visible. This becomes apparent in abnormal occasions, when for example, you are upset off your feet, wild with anger, you utter words that you would never think of uttering, or act in a way absolutely contrary to your nature; all this is because at that time you are "possessed", truly possessed by invisible beings and entities. "Possession", possession by a ghost, is a familiar phenomenon. Hysteria also is a familiar case of possession. Hypnotism, mesmerism, various

Page 9

mediumistic practices are attempted ways and means to cultivate conscious and willed communion with the other world. But these are very crude operations and do not go deep or far enough; besides they may prove positively dangerous. Such phenomena are explained in many other ways but these are among things which are not dreamt of by the ordinary mentality. Indeed we live in the midst of a world fair. As I have said, all sorts of beings and influences and forces are there jostling within you and outside, and most of the time you are a mere puppet in their hands. It is not however all so miserable for you: as there are adverse beings and forces, so there are good angels and helpful deities available to you. It depends upon you to choose. And you have to choose rightly, that is how Yoga comes in as the saving factor in your life. We say Yoga is the way to be conscious of these invisible things and forces and to bring harmony and order out of the million contending forces in you. Instead of being driven, pushed and pulled in a thousand ways, Yoga shows how to direct them to a single aim, organise them round a single centre. Organise your life, that is the aim, the very central aim. That centre is the Divine in you, the Divine Presence, the Presence of the Mother, your true self, your soul. As I have said, there are very many forces and movements in you and without you that drag you in conflicting directions, you have to marshal them, direct them towards one goal, organise your being, your self, rather your selves, for you are not one self but many selves; you are not one person, but many persons. All of them have to be comprehended, coordinated, and finally that is the way to happiness – to true happiness. If happiness and contentment in life is life's purpose, then there is no other way than that of harmonising your personalities. Mother was always speaking of this necessity of rounding up, centering or integrating your personality, the only way of securing a fruitful, purposeful, fulfilled life. Indeed Yoga means literally joining together, joining all the discordant

Page 10

---

parts of your being, all the quarrelling personalities lodged in you in one single harmonious entity – your divine soul. It is difficult, the process: the path of yoga starts with purification, which involves strenuousness, as tapasya, but that is the basis. However, as I have said, you are not alone on the path, the help is there; apart from the helpful person and forces accompanying you there is the supreme unfailing help from the Mother. The Divine came to us in the material body to help us. She has withdrawn, taken away the body outwardly, but the help She has left with us is there almost in the same way as before.

In this age, the saints say, the Divine is near to us, quite near. When we were young we were told that we have entered into Kali age, the age of darkness, of darkness and smallness, that is to say, human beings are small, small and weak in the body and in the inner make-up. But the Divine took pity on us and to be with us became himself small and perhaps apparently weak also (Vamana) to be human with us. In other ages, even in the Satya Yuga, the age of Truth, God, the Divine was very far from earth, away and aloof from the material universe (which was Illusion, Maya). Therefore in those days to reach the Divine, to attain nearness to God, one had to rise and mount on and on almost endlessly, strenuously. It needed tremendous, arduous labour, it was the age of tapasya, one had to be a tapasvi to find God and reach him. But now it is different. God has come down to us and lodged himself in the material body. He continues to be in the earth atmosphere, but not very far from the material. In our childhood we used to hear that in Kali the practice of religion or spirituality has been made easy by the Divine Grace in view of man's frailty. In Kali man is now incapable of austerity, so, at present simply to utter God's name is sufficient to bring salvation. So I was saying the Divine help is at our door: the Divine himself is there in person. Only you have to be sincere and earnest about it, you have to extend your arms, extend your

Page 11

---

consciousness. It is a turning of the consciousness that is needed, it is to ask for it with the sincerity of a child. That is what the Mother used to say always: Be a child, be a child, I am with you always.

Page 12

The Bride of Brahman

(Rig-Veda: X.109)

I AM going to tell you a story today, a story both for the old and the young, a very old and ancient story. Indeed it is from the Veda.

Once upon a time – of course I am speaking of a time when there was no time nor space, before the existence of time and space, when there existed only One Being, the nameless Being – named Brahman! To us, human beings, it is the Supreme Existence, the Lord, God or whatever one chooses to call him. He is also the Lord Surya, the luminous Truth, the sale Light of Lights. So then it once happened: this luminous Brahman looked at himself and found surprisingly that his luminosity, his brightness was getting dimmed, he was becoming darker and darker. He was at a loss, and confused. What was it due to? Then he thought of the Gods, his companions. They came along immediately, and the foremost among them was Varuna: Varuna means also one who has the vast consciousness and vision. He can see far, far into the longest distance, into the unseen future. Then he found it out, what the matter was, and said: "Lord, your Shakti has gone away." Brahman and his Shakti, Brahmajaya, were one: they were both together, fused into one united single being always. Varuna said: "the Bride of Brahman has left Brahman." Now it was the task of all to find out where she had gone leaving Brahman in this state of darkness. Then it was always Varuna who through his sight, long sight, his penetrating vision found

that Brahmashakti, the Divine Power has gone away far, very far, deep into the bosom of the Earth, and has disintegrated herself into material substances. She has become Matter, unconscious and dark like matter. The Gods found she was there one with ordinary creatures and things and objects. Then they conferred among themselves and decided: "We must awaken her, make her conscious of herself, take her back to her Lord, the Brahman – so can he also reclaim and regain his own identity." So the first of the Gods who approached her was the God Soma. Soma means the Moon or Delight, that is Ananda. The Gods said: It was Ananda, Delight, that joined them together, the Lord and the Shakti; so, for their union, their reunion, it is natural and in the fitness of things that Soma should lead the way and approach her. So all the Gods went together to her and explained to her the situation, and at last persuaded her to follow them in their path, the long journey, the return journey homeward. We may recollect here also the image of Parvati sojourning in her earthly mother's home and returning to Kailash, to her heavenly Lord.

There is also another, similar or parallel story in the Veda about the God Agni, about the disappearance of this very important God, Fire. He is, as you know, the God who presides over and even carries out the sacrifice, the Vedic ritual of yajña. Sacrifice cannot be done without fire, he is the Purohita, one installed in front of this great ceremony the ceremony, – I may immediately disclose to you, of the advancement of consciousness. It starts with the kindling of fire – which means the symbol of the awakening of the aspiring will. Now the story runs: the sacrifice was to begin and all things were ready when all of a sudden it was found that the leader of the sacrifice, the Deity was not there. They all searched for him, he was found nowhere. He had fled. Then, as usual, once again all the Gods assembled and rummaged everywhere to catch the defaulter. Now the problem: where could he go after all? It was his duty to

be present and begin the work, but at the critical moment he is not there! All went about in all directions, and at last found the Fire hiding – hiding where? – under water. Then the Gods approached him and asked: "O Fire, why are you hiding? Come out, your task is there." Fire answered: "No, I won't go, whatever you say, I remain here." – "But why?" – "It is a very difficult task. Many others before me had tried to do this job, undertaken to shoulder this responsibility. But none succeeded, at least completely. So I don't want to take the trouble of repeating a failure. It is a useless attempt." The Gods persisted, prayed, entreated: "No, Agni, it is your job. You will reap the full benefit of it, we assure you." The Gods in the end succeeded in pacifying and persuading the truant God.

Sacrifice means – as I have told you just now – the ascension of the consciousness. When we rise up from the ordinary material level, when we have moved towards the higher Light from out of the obscurity of the senses, that is ascension, and that is called sacrifice: for you move up .by rejecting the lower strand, the lower levels of nature, and acquire the higher realities. The Fire is the fire that is the force of your heart, of your aspiration that you want to be something more than the ordinary mortal that you are. So it is indeed a tapasya, a strenuous effort to rise up – against the pull of gravity; indeed, it is a great trouble. Agni did not want to take the trouble because man, the normal man also refuses it. But as I said, there was a happy ending, for at last Agni agreed. Here we find Agni hiding under water. What does water signify? Water is the symbol of vitality, vital-power, the life-force. This also is a form of the same Consciousness-Force that is Agni, but robed, clothed in a material sheath, a hidden home as it were. It is to be released from there and move up.

Now we go back to our story. The Gods accompanied Brahmajaya, the Bride of Brahman in her journey back home. But the story has a beginning, an earlier episode -

Page 23

a prologue as it were. Why did the Divine Bride leave at all her Lord? What was it that made her run away? – leaving him alone with whom she was once one in perfect union? The story is as the Upanishad reports, the Lord Brahman was long – in fact for eternity – single, alone, the One Existence, the One Truth, undivided, indivisible; but at one time of his existence he became conscious that he was alone. So long he had not thought of it at all. No thought of being alone or of other people being around was there. He was simply Existence, existing. But now he felt, he saw that he was alone, and once you begin to think you cannot stop. Then he said: Alone how can one be happy? You must be two to become happy – ekaki na ramate. When you are alone you don't enjoy. So you must be two. Thus Brahman, the Supreme, divided himself into two, One divided two-fold: one part man, the other part woman; one part consciousness, the other part force, power; one part Brahman, the other part Brahmashakti. So long both the parts were there, but they were united, soldered as it were, fused into one being and person; Shakti and her Lord, Fire and its Flame – they were one and indivisible. But, as I said, when the thought came they must be two, in fact also they separated, Brahman separated himself from his Shakti and took Shakti out, and Shakti herself went out, and the two separated actually, stood face to face as it were. You may remember – I mean the elder generation – the drama that was staged here in the Theatre, directed by the Mother – "He and She" – and the play, the Lila of "He" and "She" was displayed, how they were one, how they separated, and the play of union and reunion. Now when they separated, in order to look closely and carefully they separated more and more, the distance grew slowly, so much so that they were completely separated, and the Shakti was so far away from her Lord that she went to the other extreme. Brahman was the supreme consciousness above, and She became the absolute dark Matter below. And Brahman too

separated utterly the other way from his Shakti and went off in the contrary direction, towards Nothingness, Shunya as reported by the Buddhists.

Now the return journey. The Shakti cannot be for long away from her Lord, that cannot be the final stance. She is to come back to her Lord. This is the story of the redemption of material nature and her gradual transmutation into the higher Nature, regaining her status by the side of her Lord. The process or the series of steps described by the Veda remains always the same, for human beings also for their liberation from inferior nature and regaining the spiritual nature. The Veda says the Gods came one by one and led the Shakti up the way. First Soma came, that is to .say, Delight touched the inner core of the fallen Nature and impelled her to awake and rise. As Ananda was the source of their first union, so for the reunion Ananda is the inspirer and the leader. Next Agni was directed to take the Shakti along with him on the way. Agni means, as I have said, the light and fire of aspiration to rise up. Agni first initiated the ignorant Shakti with a mantra, it is like a normal human initiation when you enter the spiritual life. You have to go to a Guru and the Guru gives you the mantra that awakens your consciousness. Now Agni gave as mantra the Divine word "Brahma" as the image of the Divine. She was to concentrate upon it till she became in consciousness identified with Him. She did so and after a time when she felt she recognised her Lord and accepted Him, the God Agni said: "Now proceed. You have to go to the second stage. Enlarge your being, enlarge your consciousness; what you have got now is the realisation that you are the Brahman, you are one with Him. Now you have to unite yourself with all beings, with all Gods, with all creatures, universalise yourself." So the .Bride of Brahman from her individual realisation went forward into the universal where she met her Lord, dwelling in all beings and all creatures everywhere, – she entered into the mansion of all the Gods.

Now, you know there are three steps, three steps of consciousness, three steps of your being in its ascension towards the Supreme: first, your ordinary individual being with your particular name and form, that is the personal individual; then, coming out of that shell you learn to be one with all beings, all humanity, all things even. You become as large as creation itself; however, that is not the end. You have to go beyond, beyond, into what is known as the Transcendent, there you find the Supreme, the total, the Supreme Truth of your being. So the Bride of Brahman from her universal realisation went into the Transcendent, into her Lord, her own total Self. From her ignorant material formulation in her upward march she was shedding her scales as it were, of her inferior formations, putting on purer and higher and more glorious embodiments. Ultimately she found herself to be as she used to be originally and always and ever before the separation. When thus united the Gods were also included in their embrace and all found themselves happy at last.

It is said that this separation and this reunion meant a greater fulfilment upon earth. Without the separation the fulfilment also would not have happened upon earth. Earth would have remained as it is but because of the separation, that is to say, the Bride of Brahman separating herself from her Lord and coming down into Matter and becoming one with Matter, there arose the possibility, the inevitability of fusing her reality and the reality of Brahman into Matter.

The Divine Bride dropped down on earth and dived into Matter and became one with it. She became Matter, material Nature, dense, dark, heavy with all its weight. She became as the Veda names her, "Bhimajaya" – the mighty, the terrible spouse – in fact our Mahakali. She was originally the fair spouse – Saumyajaya. But there is to be a progress, a gain. So when she rises and is on her upward march she has now acquired the capacity to carry and lift

with her the heaviest load of the Inconscient and gradually transmute it. In the final realisation all the Gods are to come to the forefront and all mankind are to come out as it were into the open and bask in the Solar Light and share in the delight of the union of the. Divine Bride and her Bridegroom.

This is the drama that is happening, a real drama, it is not a fictitious story. It is an action that is happening in some other world in a subtler realm. It is repeated in those "heavens" as the Vedas say, and repeated so that it becomes more and more concrete, more and more real upon earth and finally is embodied and materialised upon earth.

In this cosmic drama one remarkable feature is to be observed. If there has been a descent there must inevitably follow an ascent. The Shakti has come down alone apparently, but she cannot be alone essentially. She comes down with her Lord behind in the background. In the utmost gloom of hard Matter, Brahman is also there, imbedded in its very core as an infinitesimal spark, a tiny particle of light as it were. And that means an upward urge or élan, aspiration as we say is always there. That is what happens in fact when the Shakti reaches the bedrock of total unconsciousness, there is a rebounding movement, the movement of a boomerang as it were. That is the awakening of the inanimate Nature, her evolution, her initiation into the upward journey. In her growth, it is to be noted, the Lord also grows side by side with her unfoldment; that is to say, the Lord too manifests Himself more and more: this is a biune manifestation. The two can never be separated, they were always together, the apparent separation or obscuration is only a play, a Lila, for a greater reunion.

I do not know but perhaps we of this age are very much near, may be to the very door of the final realisation of which they, the ancients, spoke, when really Matter, concrete, dull, obscure Matter, our material Mother – Bhimajaya of the Veda – will be transformed and our humanity even

will have a share in the transformation. As it is now, these things, I have said, are repeated in other worlds, in the subtler realms, in subtler forms and subtler forces. The absolutely material form is not, but perhaps preparing just behind the rising dawn. All of you, all of us, will surely take part in the consummation in some form or other, earlier or later.

Page 28

So I am going to tell you a story or perhaps stories. These stories, many of them, I have narrated on many occasions to your elders, that is to say, your predecessors who are now quite grown up and are at present among gentlemen. Here is the story:

Once upon a time there was a little girl, quite young, very nice, very pretty, living in her family with her parents, particularly in the company of her grandfather. This grandfather was rather old but extremely nice and kind and gentle like herself. He loved very much the child, indeed the grandfather adored his grand-daughter and the child reciprocated the feeling.

It happened however, that the old man fell ill, very ill. It was quite natural, for he was an old man. All people, friends and family members alike, came to see him and gathered in the sick man's room. "How is he now?" The doctors were there. The little girl stood somewhat away from her grandfather's sick bed. She was sad, very sad indeed. All on a sudden she looked up towards her grandfather's bed and saw – strange, strange to say – quite near the bed another little girl standing – a little girl looking like herself in appearance and every way – her double as it were. She herself was standing on the other side of her grandfather's bed, a little away. The other one was standing exactly like herself quite near the bed on the other side. She was amazed and questioned herself. "What has happened? I am here, but my image, a reproduction of mine is over there." She

Page 29

approached her grandfather, the image also approached close to him. But nobody else noticed anything; she only knew it and for others she was alone. She asked: "But who are you?" The other one answered: "I will tell you later on." And she disappeared. Subsequently the old man recovered, and the little girl also recovered her grandfather as .before. But she continued wondering and questioning about her queer experience. There was no answer for sometime. But she was sure that it was due to her double's presence that she got back her grandfather. The fact could not be doubted. The vision was absolutely real there could be no question about it.

Later on and soon enough occasions came when she met again and again the same person whenever there was any difficulty or danger ahead, to help her out of it. It was explained to her in course of time that this person who appeared to be the very image of herself was none else but herself, her real inner person.

In this connection some of you will surely remember the famous poem – "Nuit de Décembre" – of the famous French poet Alfred de Musset where he speaks of a strange companion who used to visit him from time to time at critical moments of his life, come and sit by his side, – some unknown person dressed in black who however resembled him as though his own twin brother:

Un pauvre enfant vêtu de noir

Qui me ressemblait comme un frère

This story of a double person in oneself, one being the guide and mentor and friend and helper, is a phenomenon not very rare. Everybody, everyone of you have his companion, this friend who protects you, who loves you indeed. If you want

you can see him, at least feel him, and this person is absolutely like you in appearance, your own self, the same face and figure as if reflected in a mirror when you stand before it; and then so real and living. He speaks to you, gives you good advice, and so loving and adorable! One way of finding him and coming in contact with him, seeing him and feeling his presence is to be always good, to be good and do good things, never to have bad thoughts, always to be clean in mind and decent in behaviour. This will draw your friend to you as if pulled by a magnet and you will feel him within you, near you, and the hidden comrade will reveal himself. This hidden friend is the Presence of the Mother, the Mother is always with you, with every one of you as I have been saying always.

I may say, each one of you carries three persons in him, you are a triple personality: first of all your outside appearance, as you stand before the others, groomed and dressed, hiding as it were within the trappings, your clothes, but behind you is the bare and naked body, that is, your natural appearance. You have then quite another character than the former personality so clothed; but there is something else, very different, also behind that natural body. The body however includes, or represents indeed the whole of your present nature: your body, your vital and your mind make one complex – the unit of your common normal personality. But these two are outer robes, hanging loose around another person, behind and within, hanging loose and standing aloof even like a clothing enveloping your body. It is that being which is your true being of whom I was telling you so long, the intimate brother and friend of yours, indeed your own true self, incarnating the Mother's presence and the Mother's love. It is only a matter of opening out your coat or coating!

Page 31

How many of you have been here since the beginning, I mean from the Kindergarten classes - any? One, two, three, four... Oh, a good many. Very creditable, very creditable indeed, that so many have continued so long and passed through. This is really something creditable.

I will tell you a story in this connection. A young man who was an aspirant, a seeker of spiritual or religious life, once upon a time went to Gandhiji. He wanted to remain there. He said, "I am a seeker of spiritual life. I want to remain with you." Gandhiji saw the person and accepted him. "It is all right, you may try," he said. He remained there sometime, pretty long time, perhaps even more than a year. But at the end of the year he approached Gandhiji and said, "Please permit me to go away from here. Somehow I feel I cannot remain any longer." Then he came away, he came away, where do you think? Here to the Ashram. The Ashram he liked very much and remained here, and continued to remain. After some years Gandhiji thought of the young man. "Where is he? He was a nice man. Where is he gone?" Then he learnt that the young man was here in Sri Aurobindo Ashram. How many years? "Seven years!" Gandhiji was astounded. "How is it? I know the young man. I knew he was a restless person, so uncertain about himself, about his movements – he could not stick to one place or one occupation for long. And he has been in Sri

* A Talk to the out-going students of the Centre of Education (Sri Aurobindo Ashram) on 29-1O-1977.

Aurobindo Ashram for seven years! It is a great credit to Sri Aurobindo Ashram being able to keep him so long!" And I may add: he is still here! So I may say those of you who have continued to remain here may claim some credit for their performance, or does the credit go to the Ashram?

I have an idea. You have heard very much of the golden chain that the Mother puts on whoever comes near her and touches her – an unbreakable eternal chain we all knew and experienced, the golden chain with which she ties everyone whoever comes in her embrace. Now I feel she has another chain also in her wallet – handcuffs and fetters – with which she binds some people physically to her, to her material Presence. She takes up the physical destiny also of the person. The golden chain belongs of course to the soul that is eternal, beautiful and glorious and all that: it is another matter. But even the very body, this material carcase can belong equally to the Mother. With the golden chain you are the beloved of the Mother, or her lover, but with the iron chain you become a physical slave. Yes, I am trying to hint that those who have been here for long years, many from their infancy, have earned a particular merit: from the spiritual point of view this continuance, this continuity, I may add, is itself something significant, it is an achievement. Even if you do not pass any examination, that is, move up, promoted from class to class after a hard test, instead, even if you simply glide through, pass along ambling and at ease, that is sufficient. There is something that remains, something very valuable sticks to the consciousness – of which you may not be aware now, but one day you are sure to know and recognise. So I congratulate you all for your happy achievement which is indeed the sign of a signal grace of Her.

Page 33

7-7-77

HAVE you noted today's date? My attention has been drawn to it. It is very remarkable: 7.7.77. Four sevens together. Has it any special significance? Yes, Mother herself once gave the meaning of these four sevens – "Manifestation and Realisation". Manifestation means the appearance of the truth, the truth that is hidden behind somewhere, when it comes forward and shows itself, that is manifestation. Realisation means we express this truth that has come forward in our consciousness, make it real on the physical plane, embody it in our external activity: in other words whatever you do you do the truth, whatever you speak you speak the truth; the Truth first appears in your mind, in your mental consciousness, then it realises itself in your physical activity. Number seven has a special meaning. The number seven gives the scheme of creation; it is the number of the worlds that constitute creation. The creation is a globe, there are three worlds above, that is the higher hemisphere and three other below forming the lower hemisphere. The higher worlds are as you all know Sat-Chit-Ananda, – the Divine Existence, the Divine Consciousness and the Divine Delight. Below in the lower half there is the mind, the vital and the body, – manas, prana and anna. Three above, three below, in between there is another joining the two, another principle or world, it is the Supermind, Mahas. The three higher worlds are invisible, beyond the normal consciousness; they become visible mind concrete when they pass through the

intermediary Supermind and become the principles of the lower hemisphere. Now these are the seven principles of creation. Manifestation means the expression of the higher worlds, the supreme triple principles of Sat-Chit-Ananda in the lower triple principle of mind, life, body through the intermediary Supermind. Mahas-Supermind is the manifestation, the beginning of the creation and realisatton comes when the higher trinity is realised here below and embodied in the lower trinity. That is the significance of 7. There are four sevens. Four is the number signifying a square, fullness, completeness.

Sri Aurobindo gave me this mantra of creation and explained it to me, as I have done to you today, on the very day perhaps of my arrival here in Pondicherry almost seventy years ago! Where were you then?

8.8.77

I find today's date also is very remarkable: 8.8.77. You have any idea? First observe how the figures are nicely balanced, symmetrically arranged – 8.8.77. 8 equals 4+4. Two eights equal 4+4+4+4, four fours; and seven means 4+3. So how many fours are there in all? Six. There are then six fours and two threes. I said last time, four represents completeness, also creation; square means a complete creation, a complete completeness. Three, Mother said, represents the three fundamental principles of creation, – Sacchidananda. That is to say, first existence, you exist, you are; next, you are aware, that is to say, you are conscious, and finally, delight – you exist, you are conscious of your existence and you delight in your existence. These three fundamental principles of existence that are now behind the creation are here presented to you in this figure of a riddle as a token, I suggest, as a symbol: the preparation of their taking a form upon earth embodying in material existence.

Page 35

(In English Translation)

ON ART AND LITERATURE

World-Literature

(I)

‘REAL poetry, the acme of poetical art,’ says Victor Hugo, ‘is characterised by immensity alone.’ That is why Aeschylus, Lucretius, Shakespeare and Corneille had conquered his heart. Had he been acquainted with Sanskrit literature he would have included Valmiki and the Vedic seers. As a matter of fact, what we want to derive from poetry or any other artistic creation is a glimpse of the Infinite and the Eternal. When the heart opens wide, it soars aloft to clasp the whole universe with its outspread wings. In the absence of the spirit of universality any work of art, however fascinating, exq1Jisite, subtle or deep, is incomplete; it betrays an imperfection. And where this element of immensity is present, we get something superior even if it contains nothing else; whether it is charged with a grand significance or not, we get something that surpasses all other virtues and we see our heart full to the brim. Whatever be the matter, the, subject, the thought, the emotion or anything else, that does not touch the core of poetry. Through all these or reaching beyond them what is required is a glimpse of the vast, the waves of delight pervading the universe.

When we read these lines of Shakespeare,

. . . and rock his brains

In cradle of the rude imperious surge—

or these from Hugo himself,

Le pâtre promontoire au chapeau des nuées

S' accoude et rêve au bruit de tous les infinis, –

we are borne on the bosom of a shoreless Deep. The same immensity pervades those verses of Valmiki, which may be rendered:

Know us as Kshatriyas carrying on their duties while roving

in the forest.

We desire to know you, who are roaming in the Dandakas –

and that phrase from the Vedic seer Shunahshepa,

These constellations set high above, that are seen at night,

Where were they during the day?

The works of Varuna move unhindered,

The Moon comes nightly revealing them.

When we hear these sacred words, do we not feel that all the bondages of our being break to pieces as it happened to Shunahshepa? It seems Lord Varuna has lifted from over our head a veil of cloud, a strong current released from some unknown quarter flows on inundating both the banks of our heart. In fact, this water-god Varuna himself is the fount of the seer's vision and the poet's creative genius. In the Vedic hymns we always come across three gods together; these three in unison, with combined power, guide man and the world to a continuous progression and the ultimate success. This Trinity is Varuna, Mitra, Aryama. Varuna is the vast, the immense, the eternal, the infinite, and absolute, beyond all limitation. Mitra is union, harmony, beauty, bliss. Aryama signifies strength, power, dynamis.

In poetic genius too these three gods are at once present. Varuna forms the basis on which stand Mitra and Aryama – in the vast expanse of freedom, in the wide unbarred progress of the spiritual vision heaves up in surges the gracefully rhythmic dance of the forces.

Therefore the first principle of poetry is freedom from all narrowness: The poet will adore the universal ideas and expressions that can be appreciated and welcomed by all without any distinction of race, caste or creed. No doubt, the poet also is a man and every man is endowed with individual as well as collective traits. Life and conduct, social laws and customs, culture and education, that is to say, the materials from which literary themes are derived differ in different climes and times. Every language has its own characteristic and special genius. The poet has to make use of all these things. In this world we do not find any class of people known as cosmopolitans who do not belong to a particular nationality. There is no one language known as the world-language. But it is a matter of no consequence. The poet's genius consists in his ability to show the universal in the particular: that is to say, how a thing limited in time and space can be used as the symbol of the Eternal and the Infinite; how a glimpse of the Infinite can be made to manifest itself in the finite. Just as a poet has not to view a temporary truth confined to a small area to be the absolute truth so also he must not have a bias for the abstract philosophical truth which does not come into contact with a particular time, space and the individual. In fact, the formless universality that does not or cannot bear the touch of the physical world is particularly a matter of philosophy. The philosophical truth always likes to shun the local colour, for its purpose is not to exaggerate or make a display of the truth. But the poet seeks for a living image of the truth. An image must exist and must have a contour, yet the poet has to bring in the universal in the image itself, the Infinite has to be made living and visible – that is the exclusive art of

his genius. For example, take the famous line from Virgil

Tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem

(Such huge labour was needed to found the Roman race.)

Here we find the pride of a particular nation displayed – the dangers and difficulties that had to be faced and the endeavours undergone to build the city of Rome. Here there is nothing expressly universal. But the poet has made use of these words in such a way that he does not seem to speak either about the city of Rome or obstacles and difficulties met with in building that city. This we forget in toto. There is a world-encompassing, stupendous and prodigious effort standing erect before our vision, before the eyes of the world. The city of Rome and the goddess Juno and the hero Aeneas are mere symbols and excuses to express a great universal truth.

In a parallel manner, the epics of Dante and Milton have specifically dealt with the Christian ideas. To us, modern intellectuals and adorers of materia1 science most of the ideas of these two poets may seem not only grotesque but also superstitious – at least they will appear unfamiliar and strange. But once we cross the barrier of words and enter the realm of the spirit, leaving behind the outward theme, we are in contact with the inner soul and we come across something altogether different which is vast and intensely near and intimate to our own heart. Thus,

Jehovah thundering out of Sion, throned

Between the Cherubim

is kindred to our own Vedic

Dawn or the head of the sacrificial fire.

However foreign and unfamiliar the words and images used by the poets; however skillfully they may conceal themselves under mystic symbols, still we can hear and feel the secret of their heart that lies beyond names and forms:

...Above the Olympian hill I soar,

Above the flight of Pegasean wing!

The meaning, not the name I call –

A poet is not bound by any clime and time. That does not mean he neglects them. He utilises the elements supplied by time and space to create a world-literature which is eternally infinite, true for ever and everywhere. On the other hand, the kind of literature which is solely confined to time and space, the suggestiveness of which has been exhausted in a particular form and name, in which the universal spirit fails to move about freely, may at best be called a rural parochial literature and can never claim to be world-literature.

(2)

Two classes, two trends are to be discerned in the literature of every country. As human life has two aspects – the natural and the spiritual – even so every literature has a popular and a classical style. The natural or the physical life is the foundation, and it supplies all necessary elements. But man's duty and .his fulfilment consist in building up the spiritual life on this basis, and to mould the natural elements into the spiritual and to impart a spiritual meaning to them. Likewise the basic popular is to be re-shaped into the classical and raised to a higher and nobler status.

Now, what is meant by popular – "plebeian" – literature? It is the literature of the people, the common man, the literature that has grown up around the ordinary life

of the ordinary run. When man is in his early childhood, when he has just dissociated himself from his mere animality and has begun to know and feel his own self, when he has learnt first to lisp, the delight which he then derives from expressing his feelings and perceptions through articulate words marks the origin of the first poet of nature. At this stage we find a spontaneous exuberance of kindly experiences. The poet's vision is utterly physical here. His eyes turn exclusively to the external world confined within his limited ken. The poet portrays through word and rhythm his normal daily experiences acquired in his own private chamber or while roving in the open fields around homely hamlets. His imagination is also circumscribed. by such or similar environments. The language is soft, fluid and partly expressive – it is molten and gliding. His themes stem from the happiness and sorrow of the common life, ready at hand; nothing complex is to be found there.

Literary creation starts with proverbs and fairy tales. Another stage sets in when men do not relish merely the simple narration but want to narrate in a lucid and artistic manner. Not only that, they do not want to indulge in any ordinary subject but want to speak of something momentous and significant. And here is the foundation of true literature. But still there is the admixture of popular, plebeian manners, modes of rustic consciousness. The touch of spirituality, i.e. Soulfulness, the savour of a bliss found elsewhere in seclusion and isolation and the wide universal experiences of a true seer have not yet penetrated there. The great poet exceeds not only his surroundings – his own people and land; he is able to acquaint us with other climes and times, and he succeeds even in expressing .the thoughts of humanity at large; but in the parochial poet who may speak of such things there is still a reflection of narrowness, similar to tall talk In the mouths of children. Here there is not much selection, no restraint, no constructiveness, no high seriousness – there is instead an abundance, a prolixity, almost a

Page 46

confusion and an irresponsibility, as it were, and as in the ordinary life there is a pull towards the physical, the external and the small. The Ballads of the English and the Romantic Songs of the French fall under this category. Likewise, however deep in spiritual significance may be our kirtans or the songs of the religious wanderers of our country, they can, without injustice, be classed with those Ballads and Romances of the West.

But since the advent of Chaucer in English literature, the day we heard him say about his dearest Italian poet Petrarch "Whose rethorike swete"

Enlumynd all Ytaille of Poetrie,

what a new life and novel tune has appeared in English poetry, what a unique resplendence has illumined its firmament! Chaucer elevated English literature as from a mundane to the spiritual level. He is the father of ‘Great Poetry’. He freed the language from the unrefined touch and flavour of narrow rusticity and entered as it were the realm of a higher, nobler, more luminous and wider perception and brought it down into his poetic creation. In French poetry also this parochial influence pervades all its Romances, the Chansons de Gestes, and even the Chanson de Roland. Real poetry, which is noble and of permanent value, was first introduced by Ronsard.

Even there poetry did not reach its deeper, its superior nature. It has had to rise one step higher: it crossed this third level and entered the fourth where poetry is in its very character vaster and wider and deeper – to be sure, Victor Hugo holds this touch of immensity. It is here that the poetic spirit has achieved a divine energising inspiration that wants to have a direct vision of the Truth and express it in words and rhythms in a noble manner. Victor Hugo may not have achieved, but he has touched the new bourne. Here the poet aims at infusing whatever is easy, simple, common and fluid

with a new spirit. Nothing unnecessary, irrelevant, profuse and diffuse has any place in his creation. Ordinary everyday experiences are to be raised to the level of a vivid, luminous expression of something rare. 'Great Poetry' blossoms then and there, in this fourth stage. However fine Chaucer's first outburst,

Enlumynd all Ytaille of Poetrie,

it is now surpassed in poetic valency by Marlowe's

Was this the face that launched a thousand ships

And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?

The 'bruit de tous les infinis' in Marlowe reminds us of the unique oceanic swell of Milton's verse and the Vedic mantra of infinite liberation ascribed to Varuna. Hence in France Malherbe had to appear on the scene after Ronsard. It was Malherbe who was the father of classical French literature, and it is he who paved the way for that prince of classics, Pierre Corneille.

The natural march of literature towards the classical style shows also the very raison d'être of literature. The literary genius of a particular nation does not seem to attain its full strength unless and until it can discard as far as possible all that is environmental, common, ordinary and parochial in outlook. For the ultimate aim of literature is neither to reflect nor to ape the all-too-familiar daily life in its theme and in its way of expression. The object of true literature is to scan the details of a greater life in a far-off, inner and higher world. But to that end literature has to accept and adopt this world too. It has to manifest that world in this world, but as a refuge, a repository and means. True, the classicism with which we are so familiar cannot be regarded as the highest revelation in literature, for the genuine and the counterfeit are not the same. The works of Milton and

Pope, of Corneille and Delille, are not classics of the same type. For us Pope and Delille do not appear as true classics, at the best they are perhaps classical. Pope and Delille followed the same technique that had been introduced by Milton and Corneille in the literary art, but they went to an excess. .We shall deal with the drawback attending this excessiveness and deformation later on. Nevertheless, do they not point to the real secret character of the literary virtue?

In our Bengali literature Vidyapati and Chandidas are the pioneer poets who made an attempt at creating genuine poetry surpassing all plebeian poetry. They had infused the popular literature with a new spirit, and thus formed a basis for real poetic utterance. The joy we derive from the songs of Vidyapati and Chandidas can be called the real poetic pleasure. For example,

Hearken, O Madhava, Radha is at large.

(Vidyapati)

or,

I shall store up my Beloved in my soul.

To none shall I disclose

The perfect union of two hearts.

(Chandidas)

It is said that Valmiki is the pioneer poet in Sanskrit literature. In our Bengali literature it is Vidyapati, nay, to be more precise and accurate, it is Chandidas who is the father of poetry. He raised the natural vital experiences to the level of the psychic. He has transformed even colloquial expressions into a deeper rhythm and flow. But even theirs was only the initial stage that required a long time to develop fullness and maturity. In truth, this is the third stage we have already referred to. Throughout the era of the Vaishnava

poets, coming down to the time of Bharat Chandra the same line of sadhana, of spiritual practice, continued. The Bengali poets who flourished after Chandidas have hardly made any new contribution, they have not unveiled another layer of the soul of the poetic genius of Bengali literature. What they have done amounts to an external refinement and orderliness. The literature of this age has tried to transcend the ordinary thoughts, i.e., the manner of ordinary thinking, and has considerably succeeded too; still the presence of imperfection, the signs of a lower flight loom large there. We do not find there – in the words of Matthew Arnold – 'a humanity variously and fully developed' or a multifarious free scope of the universal life such as we have already mentioned.

This very achievement of breaking down the limited movements within a narrow compass and spreading it out into the vast has been won by Madhusudan, Bankim and Rabindranath in Bengali literature during the current period of English influence. The day Bankim produced his artistic beauty, 'Kapalkundala', and Madhusudan penned –

In a battle face to face,

When Birbahu,¹ the hero sovereign,

Kissed the dust and departed to the land of Death –

the day Rabindranath could declare –

Not mother, not daughter, not bride art thou, O Beauty

incarnate, O Urvasi, denizen of Paradise!–

was a momentous day for Bengali literature to proclaim the message of the universal muse and not exclusively its own parochial note. The genius of Bengal secured a place in the wide world overpassing the length and breadth of Bengal.

¹ The son of Ravana.

And Bengali poetry reached that fourth stage or the highest status.

Nevertheless, it may be asked if there has been the acme of literary creation that exceeds even the best creations of Madhusudan, Bankim and Rabindranath, I mean, the "truly classic literature" (littérature vraiment classique) of Sainte Beuve which will literally shine in letters of fire in the hearts of all men in all climes and times? Is there in Bengali any literature that consists of words of purest revelation? If so, to what extent? According to us, there is not perhaps an absolute absence of such a literature. No doubt, it is there, but it is very rare, rather exceptional. Bengali literature in its great achievement has not been able to make that its normal stand: the supreme classic heights are still an aspiration, they are yet to be attained and possessed.

(3)

We shall now try to probe to the bottom the question why the literature which we call plebeian or popular cannot form the best literature. The reason we have indicated is that such literature is exclusively confined to a particular time and clime; the free air of the world, the myriad waves of the vast cosmic life have no play there, it does not see man and creation in the perspective of the universe as a whole. That is not the sole reason of the matter, but we should clearly understand the deeper implication of this thing. For universal feeling does not necessarily mean cosmopolitanism. It is not true that a literature must be beautiful and sublime simply because it has connection and acquaintance with all the ages and countries and that it will be parochial precisely because it lacks these things. Cosmopolitanism is a thing especially of the modern age. In the days of yore there was not that close association and exchange of culture among different countries as we now find. It was not possible for our forefathers to know and assimilate the gifts of other civilisations

as we can do now. But who would merely on this ground dare to say that the literature of the ancient peoples was unrefined or insignificant? A Turgeniev, an Amiel, a Leconte de Lisle or a Pierre Loti can take birth only. in the present age. Dante, Homer, Valmiki or the most ancient Vedic sages – none of them, like Turgeniev, Amiel, Leconte de Lisle or Pierre Loti, sought for the tales of various other ages and countries, and yet have these modern poets and litterateurs been able to create anything similar to that standard world-literature?

The sense of universality means transcending the limitations of time and clime. Now, the main reason why man remains confined to a particular time and clime is this that he clings to a particular avocation or religion or institution – his very nature is to live within the confines of time and space. External life (life of the outside world) – that is to say, mixing with men of various countries, acquaintance and intimacy with the experiences and realisations of the different countries and epochs – can and do break and melt the narrowness to a considerable degree but cannot remove it altogether. For what is required is to cast a look at ourselves, to change something of our inner nature. One who has not been able to change this inner attitude will not get any genuine universality or all-pervading sovereignty even if he travels over the whole world. So what is required is to discover the universal soul in the heart and not outside. And, for that, three boundaries have to be crossed, three walls overleaped and this also in our inner being, in our inner chamber. The Vedic sage Shunahshepa says that the God Varuna has three knots and they have to be cut away: then and then alone man will ascend to the infinite wideness of Varuna and will get the limitless and unfathomable ocean of delight of Eternal Life. And what are these three knots? They are the knots of the Body, the Vital and the Mind. For the poets and litterateurs too there are three similar knots. First, the knot of the body, that is to say, the physical

sight, mere perception of the senses – to accept that which is external as absolute truth and to draw a picture of the outer form visible to the eyes and palpable by the senses. In literature it has been termed 'realism'. A thing must be shown exactly as it is seen with the physical eyes: this means that art is a photograph of nature, and it is the principle of 'realism'. We can express in one word the objections that have been or may be raised against 'realism': it has neither given nor can give birth to true or universal literature. For where do we find the universe, the whole? That is not in the external, not in the body. What is exclusively external, what is merely a body is only a narrow field of differences and divisions and strifes. True, there is some concrete union or harmony of the universe. But so long as we remain bound to the body we cannot get a gleam of that thing. This is as much the case with the aspirant soul as with the artist. The artist who is engrossed with the exterior is compelled to be confined to a particular time and space. He is only archaeological in his outlook. He is likely to collect some materials for art but he himself cannot create anything of his own. The paintings of Ravi Varma can never be placed in the comity of the world, for we find there only the outer sheath, devoid of life. No doubt that sheath may awaken some curiosity for its grotesqueness but never can it touch the heart. If Zola or Goncourt deserves a place in the assembly of nations, then I believe it is not for 'realism' but for something else, although 'realism' is in abundance there.

Therefore the idealist has put up a brave fight against the realist. The place of union of the universe is not in the body, but in the emotion of the vital being and the heart. Likewise vitalism stands over against materialism, and idealism or romanticism over against realism and naturalism. Bergson contra Haeckel, Paul Verlaine contra Guy de Maupassant and Théophile Gautier. But it does not mean that we shall arrive at the true universal literature if we solely cling to idealism, the vital being or emotion. True, the vital being is

above the body, and the creation has been extended and liberated to a great extent in it, but the universal is not met even here. The vital being is the second bondage of man. The poetry that has been created or based exclusively on the vital or the emotional stuff is clumsy and disorderly. There we find too much of the personality, the idiosyncrasy and fancy of the particular individual. Naturally it cannot bear the message of the vast universal life-force. The poet who is a slave of his emotional impulse must perforce live in the imaginative circle of his own temporary experience – his ego, the knot of his heart – and consider the narrow compass of his surrounding and time as vast and gigantic. The universe, the universal does not get a chance to be reflected in him. He can at best be a poet of a particular sect, of a group or limited collectivity.

So we find in literature another ideal which seeks to remove all the mist, the narrow horizon of the heart and emotions and stand supported by the mind and intelligence. And this ideal aims at a quiet and steady purity and wideness of thought. It is not possible for lawlessness, impurity, strife and narrowness to exist in the domain of thought in the same measure as it is possible in that of the vital being and the emotions. When we ascend to this domain we find a natural indifference or aloofness; we find a poise in a wider and freer world overriding the boundaries of an ignorant ego and a bounded personality. In the ancient literatures – such as Greek, Latin and Sanskrit – there is no such emotionalism as indulged, for example, by the romantics, noting of that indiscriminate and uncontrolled, that dark and confused passion born of rajasic inspiration. The main theme of those ancient literatures is objectivisation and generalisation, and so, wideness, vastness and universality are natural to them. In other words, a vitalistic literature is not classical literature; classicism and the classics bring in higher terms of literary creation. But is that the highest?

We say, "No." Intellect may anoint the body of literature

with a kind of sattwic quality, poise and grace; it may even make it rich with a diversity of manner and theme, yet this sattwic quality, this largeness and elevation, often lack what may be called depth and substance. Here we may get something of the rich smiling surface of the ocean, but not the real vastness, the infinity of the cosmic creation, its immeasurability. The literature which is formed with the help of thought and mental discernment, brain-power and intellectual skill may be, as we have already said, classical, it is not classic – it is not world-literature; it cannot focus and show the universal Muse, the figure of the cosmic beauty. It may at best give the frame-work of world-literature and never the inner élan vital, the secret soul of world literature. For the sole function of intellect is to place a thing in a systematic form and not to discover or reveal anything. Intellect and intelligence play with the materials touched by the senses and concretely felt by the heart. So, in the action of intellect, there is always a sense of division, want and deficiency – elements that are inherent in the gross senses and emotions upon which the intellect is based after all. In fact, the very function of the intellect is to see things divided and separated. It sees and understands the universe by analysing it, dissecting it. It fails to see the whole thing all at once, that is to say, simultaneously. It can never grasp the whole in a vast unity. Discerning intellect is, as the Upanishad says, a golden cover on the face of Truth, it cannot reveal the Truth in its reality, what it shows is a mere similitude or semblance of the Truth, its external grandeur, a remote expression of the Truth, and its divided and scattered rays. We can, of course, with the aid of intelligence form a workable acquaintance with the world. But that is not a true union. Based upon that ground alone classicism may easily become a store-house of lucid and decorative words and moral lessons, but it would find it extremely difficult to bring out the secret of things, the profound oneness with the universe. It is a very superficial judgment to say that the

influence of the intellectual faculty, the power of quiet intelligence, is what made the Greek, Latin, Sanskrit literatures classics. A deeper light and power dwelling behind this intellectual faculty is the source of the glory of the ancient classics; the intellectual faculty is only an outer robe of that inner spirit.

The Body, the Life and the Mind are only eternals. What is exclusively physical, vital or mental is mainly a field of difference, for it is a field of the finite. The Soul alone is the inner reality. And nothing but the Soul is the centre of the universe. The diversity and manifold particularities in the creation have their oneness and a vast and concrete harmony in the Soul. And if we realise this Soul we can easily and without fail embrace the universe. When That is known everything is known. In other words, not the gross perception of the senses, nor the impulse of emotions nor even the dexterity of thought but a divine vision or revelation is needed to create world-literature. This literature is neither realistic nor romantic nor even classical; it is revelatory. A particular thing when seen through revelation or divine vision no longer remains partial; it becomes integral, no more particular but universal. Time, place and subject become then embodiments of the Law of the Infinite, of the Rhythm of the all-encompassing Self, for it is only revelation, direct vision that can give the quintessence of all truths, the profoundest beauty of all the beauties.

Even in the body, in the perception of the gross physical senses, there is a profound truth, a supernal Beauty, a universal Form. There is a universality also in the vital being and the emotions. A higher grandeur, a greater dimension of the universe is reflected in the powers of the mind and intellect. But that universal revelation of which we speak is not the proper characteristic of mind, vitality and body; there is only an approach, a shadow, often a deformation of the Self in these fields. It is not that these lesser instruments are to be neglected in the creation of world-literature.

But they are to be seen from a higher, a transcendent plane. It is for this reason Kalidasa, a poet of physical joy and sensual pleasure, Valmiki, a poet of vital feeling and enchantment of the heart, and Vyasa, a poet of intellect and thinking power, are poets of all ages and countries.

We were dealing with the natural and the genuine in literature. That alone is real literature which sees a thing whatever it may be – in the great words of Spinoza, sub specie aeternitatis, under the figure of Eternity. This is the fundamental principle, the bedrock of real literature or of world-literature. Sub specie aeiernitatis – even a little of this saving factor saves us from a great peril. In the stark realism of a Balzac or in the winging romanticism of a Victor Hugo, or in the poised classicism of a Leconte de Lisle we get a glimpse of this very thing. That is why with all the defects we feel that the sleeping Brahman is, as it were, astir in them; that a cosmic life-force, a generous universal breath sways by in their creation, and we do not hesitate to hail them as poets of the world.

The same thing holds good with regard to the literature of a particular nation. It is not true that poetry sweet and enthralling, the magic of the ballads, is not known to the Maoris or the Santals or the Bhils. If we leave aside the case of these uncivilised aboriginals, we come everywhere across a decent class of literature among the cultured and civilised peoples. But it is to be questioned whether that literature can be called a world-literature or, even if it be so, then to what extent? Further, it has to be seen whether the poet there has been able to go beyond the reality of physical facts, the grandeurs of emotions or the dexterities of thought and has seen the thing – his time and space and subject – sub specie aeternitatis, with the lofty vision of the Soul of the divine poet, of the god Varuna, that surpasses the immediate and the superficial, whether he has been able to raise the natural object to its supra-natural prototype.

Page 57

(I)

IT seems that on listening to some Greek lines included in my talk the other day, many of you have expressed a desire to hear a little more about Greek poetry. This then will be my subject today.

I am particularly reminded in this connection of a line from Sophocles, the dramatist – like the Latin sentence I quoted on the last occasion. Sri Aurobindo himself had read out this line to me more than once and given it an extremely beautiful interpretation. It is the opening line of Sophocles' famous play, Antigone, which happened to be the second book I studied while learning Greek. The first was Euripides' Medea, which is Media in Greek – note here the play on long vowels to which I have referred in my last talk.

This is how Sophocles begins his play with the following words put in the mouth of Antigone:

O koinon autadelphon Ismenes kara.

"O Ismene, we two have been born as if with one body",

or to put it a little more literally

"O lovely head of Ismene, common to both, born of the

same self."

What hidden depths of feeling are brought forth in these few

compact words! Very strange and peculiar is the character of this Antigone. Outwardly, there is in her nature a strength, a hardness that amounts almost to harshness. There seems to be no room there for any tender feelings or love, and any kind of softness. There is only an unflinching resolve to carry out her duty and fulfill her vow, the rude austerity of an ascetic.

Her sister on the other hand is of a diametrically opposite nature. When she hears of the daring and dangerous resolution of her sister to act in defiance of the royal edict, she complains in frightened tones, "Such acts are for men, they do not befit a woman, these defiant attitudes." She goes on to suggest that even the work she has undertaken to give a burial to her dead brother at all costs may not so much be an expression of her sisterly affection as a token of her hard sense of duty in the fulfilment of a difficult vow. She has been wandering day and night through the roads of alien lands hand in hand with her old blind father borne down by fatigue. How pathetic are the words of the old man almost on the verge of death:

"Child of an old, blind sire, Antigone,

What region, say, whose city have we reached?

Who will provide today with scanted dole

This wanderer? 'Tis little that he craves,

And less obtains – that less enough for me."

(Storr)

But one may still wonder how much of this is proof of Antigone's true love for her father, and how much of it is born of the pride or glory in carrying out her duty. But it is not altogether like that. This fanatical devotion to duty, this harsh ascetic trait in Antigone is actually a pose, an outer mask. She has suppressed, forcibly pushed into the background her innate gift of affection, her volcanic power of love. There is one she has loved and still loves, but far

from turning her gaze upon this object of her love, she has hardly once taken his name. She has tortured and sacrificed herself in order to forget about her love. Not only has she suffered persecution herself – she has done so by her own choice; she would drag along others as well, her dear sister and even her dearest beloved, into the same persecution. There has been no respite for her till the last refuge in death. But this is no other than a form of deep affection and love, a reverse aspect. I have said in the beginning what depths of feeling and intense love pervade her body, mind and heart; these have sought to find their forceful outlet in her very first utterance: the twin sisters are not two but are one in reality, not two heads but one as it were in possession of two bodies. How much tenderness lies packed and hidden behind these simple words! Let me repeat them:

O koinon autadelphon Ismenes kara.

"My own, my sister, O beloved face,

Tell me – of all the curses of our race,

What curse shall God not heap on thee and me?

Surely there is no pain, no misery,

No vileness or dishonour, that we two

Have not already seen."

(Murray)

It was Antigone’s hope that her dear sister would eagerly follow her with gladness as soon as she heard her call. But the faith natural to her simple heart received a rude shock when she had an unexpected refusal from her tender-hearted sister. She hardened her heart and in her turn rejected her sister and declared she would proceed all alone to carry out her duty, she needed nobody’s help. She paid no heed to the later repentance and entreaties of her sister.

Her heart has been overflowing with tenderness and love, but these have found no way to an outward expression

or fulfilment. The tears of love have been gathering deep within her heart. She says:

"The deep submerged tears as they shed will turn to ice and seize me all round and will gradually form the tombstone over my body. Niobe, once queen of Thebes was turned to weeping stone. I am like her."

(2)

The key to the drama in Antigone is to be sought in a conflict or clash between the claims of the state and the individual's right to follow the truth of his ideal. The state demands the discipline of laws and the restrictions necessary for an orderly collective life. It cannot tolerate a deviation or protest. It does not grant to any individual the right to move a step away from the prescribed norm. All this ends in tyranny and persecution. The individual on the other hand tends and drives towards freedom and personal rights, the claim to live his own life and follow his own ideals. In this drama, the head of the state has issued orders that no burial rites be given to the deceased traitor to his city, he has to be left at the outskirts of the city there to be preyed upon by birds and beasts. His sister considers this to be an insult to her brother, to her family and to the law of humanity. That is why she would not obey the state's decree. She takes this to be an illegal, high-handed act on the part of the state and its leader. Whatever be the reverence due to the law of the state and howsoever clear its authority, it is a man-made law, temporary and temporal, depending on circumstances. There is another kind of law, an unwritten code derived from God and that cannot be transgressed:

"Yes, for these laws were not ordained of Zeus,

And she who sits enthroned with Gods below,

Page 61

Justice enacted not these human laws.

Nor did deem that thou, a mortal man,

Couldst by a breath annul and override

The immutable unwritten Laws of Heaven.

They were not-born today, nor yesterday;

They die not, and none knoweth whence they spring.

(Storr)

These words are reminiscent of the words of the Vedic Rishi who gave us a picture of the "Infallible decrees" of Lord Varuna – adabdhani varunasya vratani. There is no fault or sin in obeying the Laws of Heaven in disregard of the laws of men. Antigone would be courting death, a cruel death, at the hands of mortal man, in order to be true to a vow ordained by something higher than man, and she does so in the end.

There is shown in this play another clash or conflict which takes place within Antigone herself, in the depths of her inner being. This concerns her intimate personal feelings, the satisfaction and fulfilment of her own life, the hidden secret of her love. We have seen a king renounce his throne for the sake of his personal love. We are also familiar with the spectacle of a man, or god-man, sacrificing personal love for the good of the state. Antigone too walks on these paths. She has not demanded the satisfaction of her personal, too intimately personal needs. In her urge to carry out her vow, she has crushed under a weight of stone the feelings, the impulses, the inspiration of her heart.

Sri Rama had sacrificed his love of wife out of consideration for his subjects; it was part of his duty as king. He had, at least at one time, shown a greater regard for his brother than for his wife. The words he has been made to say by Valmiki in this connection have attained celebrity:

dese dese kalatrani dese dese ca bandhavah

tam tu desam na pasyami yatra bhrata sahodarah

"Wives one can get in every nook and corner, and relatives around. But I have yet to find a country where one's brother is a true brother."

These words of the poet and sage have never been cherished among women, far less by the moderns. But the strange thing is that Sophocles has put almost identical words in. the mouth of Antigone, they sound like an echo. When she was accused of having thrown away her heart's love and oppressed her beloved out of regard for what she considered her duty, this is what she said in reply:

"A husband lost, another might be found;

Another son be born if one were slain.

But I, when Hades holds my parents twain,

Must brotherless abide for ever."

(Murray)

The point to note is that whereas in Valmiki a man is made to say that wives are available by the dozen in every land, Sophocles makes a woman declare as if in retort that husbands too are to be had in plenty.

(3)

Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides are the three supreme creators of drama in ancient Greece, each of them is different from the others. Aeschylus the senior most of the three has vision and spirit and strength. He throws out the spark and lustre of inner knowledge, there is in him a swift natural movement of a primal concentrated consciousness. He is therefore allotted a seat in the very first rank, with Shakespeare, Dante and Homer. Sophocles reminds one of the French dramatists with their restraint and measure, their skill in delineating subtle feeling. There is here nothing in excess, but there is a sense of subdued force and a suggestion of all-round perfection.

Euripides on the other hand has in him all the doubts and questionings of the human mind, all its curiosity and comment. He reaches out towards the modern mentality, has almost come in line with it.

It was the custom in those days to write trilogies or tetralogies, that is, plays grouped together in a series of three or four. Each of these groups was built around the same theme and dwelt on the different parts of one and the same story; but every piece was to be a self-contained whole, both as a story and a play. Such for example was the Theben trilogy of Sophocles based on the story of the Theben king, Oedipus, and his daughter Antigone, or else, the Orestenian trilogy of Aeschylus dealing with the story of king Agamemnon and his son Orestes – Orestes was the Hamlet of Greek tragedy. The fourth piece in a tetralogy used to be something amusing, like a farce that rounded off the main programme in a Yatra performance of Bengal.

But the theme of tragic drama in Greek is invariably and excessively melodramatic, with a full and free use of the terrible and even the horrid. Things like patricide, matricide and infanticide, oppression and torture, abduction of women, illicit love and incest are represented freely. One gets here the impression of a primitive humanity with all its unbridled licence. A picture is presented with fullest possible detail of the vital impulses in their natural primitive unrefined state.

Our Ramayana and Mahabharata too, no doubt, are replete with instances of this type of mentality. But it has been characterised there as being typical not of man, but of the titan, the demon and the ogre, it is not truly human. The names given to these types indicate their nature. These belong to the undivine nature, whereas man belongs to the divine. The struggle between the divine and the undivine, the gods and the titans, and the final victory of the divine and the gods, this has been the keynote of

great creative work in Indian art and literature, this is the characteristic manner of the Indian conception of life.

Undoubtedly, man in his beginnings was like a primitive beast. But a way had to be found to evolve out of this primitive state a superior kind of humanity. The attacks of the lower nature, the primitive impulses were to be squarely met and caught by the hands and held under like the horns of a bull. He was to learn to endure calmly the elements that create difficulties, dangers and disorders. He had to cross through them into a superior status. He had to see if the mad unseeing impulses could not be changed into the prowess of the warrior, anger into fiery energy, cruelty into valour; he was to see how far the greed for things could be transformed into pure enjoyment. This has been a necessary step in the evolution of humanity.

It is this purifying or transformation of the lower nature that has been called Katharsis by the Greeks. Spiritual seekers in India knew this as the purification of the inner man, citta-suddhi. Indeed, one main aim of Greek tragedy was to effect this inner purification.

The Greek dramatists have in this respect followed a double line of action or procedure. In the first place, no untoward event, be it murder or any undesirable act, could be represented on the stage, that is, openly in public. Any such thing forming part of the plot used to be described in the words of some character in the play; the Chorus was mainly entrusted with this task. Secondly, the story or plot of the drama was so chosen as to raise feelings of disgust or pity in the minds of the audience. Steeped in these feelings of disgust arid pity, the emotions were to get purified. The untoward events not being enacted before the eye, only a picture was presented to the imagination through the medium of language. The grosser things appear as if transfigured in the light of literary language. Besides, the Greek language itself has a power of its own, and this power has been utilised by the dramatists

as an instrument of purification. In this language of ancient Greece, there is such simple beauty and harmony, such an attractive rhythm of movement, a light and a clarity that anything expressed in this language partakes of its form and structure and temperament, acquires as if by contagion a strange -lustre and harmony. Impure and unbridled vital impulses form the subject matter of Greek drama, but the mind and consciousness which the dramatists bring to bear on their subject are full of calm and quiet, order and light. The language of the Greeks has been a simple easy and natural instrument in their hands for the work of purifying the heart and clarifying the mind and the inner being.

(4)

That was the golden age of Greece and Athens, famed in history as the Age of Pericles. Pericles was the leading man in his city, the chief Archon of the state, and a man of great genius. It was largely thanks to his genius that the whole of Greece could attain its supreme point of greatness in all manner of achievement and creative ability. In every field there appeared in that age men of outstanding gifts. In the realm of tragic drama there were Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides; in comedy there was Aristophanes. Herodotus the father of History was there and the master sculptor Phidias. Above all, there was Socrates with his band of young disciples. All of them produced their wonderful work during this period of a little more than a hundred years. We may remember that precisely during this period, that is about five hundred years before Christ, Lord Buddha made his appearance in the East, in India. It was thus an Age of Transition, the beginning of a New Age in the history of mankind.

A remarkable thing about these ancients is that almost all of them lived to a ripe old age. They had such an abundance

of vital force that they retained their capacity to work undiminished till the last days of their life. Sophocles went on writing plays till his ninetieth year. He could count as many or more works to his credit than the number of years in his life; he had written more than a hundred of which only about half a dozen are still extant. About Euripides it is said that he had composed twenty three tetralogies, making a total of ninety two pieces, or about one for every year of his life; only some ten out of this number have survived. All of these men were poets and artists and men of high intellectual calibre, but most of them thought fit not to confine themselves within the inner sanctum of their chosen work; they were also great men of action, they devoted themselves to public work in the service of their state, they did a good deal of politics, even took part in wars as common soldiers or as commanders.

An amusing anecdote is told about Sophocles. Towards the end of his life, when he was nearing ninety, his son petitioned the court that his father had been suffering from mental derangement on account of age and in this condition had bequeathed his possessions to a grandson to the exclusion of the son. On being summoned before the court, Sophocles said these words to the judges: "If I am Sophocles, then I cannot have a deranged mind. And if my mind has got deranged, then I am no longer Sophocles." With these words, he read out some extracts from his play, Oedipus at Colonus, which he had just composed and asked the court, "Is it possible for anyone with a derranged head to write like this?" Needless to add, he was acquitted. This Oedipus at Colonus is the last piece he wrote and has been acclaimed with two of his other works as his finest achievement.

Page 67

Spirituality in Art

Is there any natural opposition between art and the spiritual life? The Puritans had cast aside poetry and music like poison. In the Talmud (the scripture of the Jews) there is the total prohibition to draw the picture of anybody, be he a man or a God. Plato in his Republic refused to award a locus to the poet. Even in the world of to-day, behind the externals we are after Idealism that awakens the higher emotions, the spiritual perception, and inspires the spiritual life in poetry, music, painting and sculpture. We want to do away with mundane art and have the art that helps to acquaint us with God. We want to turn our eyes from the art that depicts the lower propensities of our nature and like to gaze at the one that gives us a higher, nobler and purer inspiration.

The spiritual knowledge is the supreme knowledge, and the rest is the ordinary knowledge. The spiritual life is alone the best and the only thing worth aspiring for. If this is the only truth then men will aspire for nothing except that which is helpful to the spiritual life. Men will keep aloof from whatever is an obstacle to it. Every branch of the ordinary knowledge should be made into a step towards the supreme knowledge. If there is any glory or beauty in the world then it belongs to God. So the usefulness of the ordinary knowledge lies in being subservient to the supreme Knowledge. To-day we want to found this thesis. But how far is it correct, what is its precise meaning? At the very outset we would like to say that the object

of art is to create joy. There is one joy in God-realisation, and another in the company of a woman: an artist can make a joyful creation out of either of the two. The depiction of the company of a woman may be harmful to the spiritual life, but, from the standpoint of the creation of pure and simple joy, is there any hard and fast rule that its value should be low? The critic may say: "God alone is the repository of the complete joy. In the ordinary worldly life there is no lack of joy or beauty, but that joy or beauty is a portion or a shadow of God himself, a major part of it being a deformation. The story of the enjoyment of a woman may be very fascinating, but if we do not find in it anything that may lead our vision to and draw out the sweetness of God then from the side of the creation of taste too it falls short of the perfect perfection. If art were to exist in the creation of taste anyhow then the artist might deal with any subject to fulfil his object by any means. But if he wants to create the highest taste, the fulness of taste, let him manifest God in speech, painting and sculpture."

But the problem is: What is God, and what again is the blissful form of God? The word God does not mean any fixed, invariable form. God has many a form. There is no end to the ways in which He has been seen by men. So at the very outset we may be in doubt: the God of a sadhu or saint and that of an artist – are they identical or is there any difference between the two? A sadhu's vision of God may not tally with that of an artist. The blissful aspect of God which has been realised by a sadhu may also be realised in quite a different way by an artist.

In fact, in the eyes of a sadhu, that God alone is holy who is pure, unsullied and who cannot be stained by any earthly impulse. The God of a sadhu shines there alone where there is the complete absence of human impurity, sense-turmoil and grossness. In the eyes of a sadhu he alone is the real artist whose aim is to manifest God who is behind the play of daily transient activities of life and

Page 69

who is All-Good and free from all worldly sin. That artist alone is dear to him who has depicted men as above wants and afflictions and the restlessness of the senses and endowed them with the glow of nobility. To a sadhu God may possibly be a disciplined, liberated Being, but to an artist He is also the slave of the mind, vital and body. A sadhu takes delight in renunciation, sanctity. It is the artist who can reveal that the delight of the physical enjoyment or even of the enjoyment which we call impure is no other than and in no way inferior to the delight of God. A sadhu may remain absorbed in tranquil pure bliss, but, if he fails to appreciate the ambrosial bliss which the artist finds in his artistic work in the midst of the surging current of earthly life, then has he not found God piecemeal? God dwells in the generosity, the nobility of man as well as in the regions beyond the senses. But the same God also dwells in the meanness, narrowness and sensuality of man. The sadhu wants the former. But the artist can portray both the aspects equally in the full manifestation of their truth and beauty.

The aim and object of a sadhu and those of an artist are not the same. A sadhu and a reformer want to mould men and the world after an ideal. Chastity, truthfulness are such ideals. The demand of a sadhu is that all women for all time should remain chaste and all men remain truthful for ever. That is why he is averse to seeing and showing the picture of an unchaste woman or a man addicted to falsehood. For he fears that such an act may awake unchastity and falsehood in the society. The things that are morally undesirable must be undesirable also in art and in all fields of life. But the artist argues: "The things that we do not want to have or to become also harbour God. They too are images of the One who is infinite. They too contain truth. They too have their special nature and the secret reason of their existence and I would comprehend them and manifest them before the world's eyes. I may

not like sin, but why should I remain blind to it? In actual life I may very well be a pious man, if it be the Will of God to establish virtue in the world through me, but in spite of being a virtuous man why should I refrain from appreciating the play, the object and the ultimate essence of sin? Nobody likes to grow old. Eternal youth should be the aim of all. The gods have eternal youth. But, for that reason, are we to say that there is no truth or beauty in old age? Or are we to depict the picture of an old man in such a way that men may have disrespect and hatred for years and feel more attracted to the youthful than to the aged?"

The art of an artist is not meant to set up an ideal however great in the world. The ideal is ever mutable. A certain ideal may prevail in a certain epoch to attract the heart of the world. The artist's genius does not follow that ideal. Art is beyond time and space. The artist sees only the eternal truth. He meditates upon the endless mysteries of the divine Nature at play in virtue and vice, in the small and the great, in the present and in the future. He tries to give expression to or manifest that Nature before the eyes of mankind. The art of an artist may be helpful for the accomplishment of some very useful purpose of the world, because he is able to bring out the real beauty of that purpose. But if he confines himself to this task alone, then human knowledge will remain circumscribed. The world-mystery will remain veiled to a great extent. We shall fail to relish the manifold joy that flows from the diverse beauty of the Divine.

When we sit in judgment to evaluate art we often remain oblivious to these infinite ways of appreciation of joy. At times we want to determine the value of art by the standard of ethical benefit to the pious or by the special form of the Divine imagined by the sadhu. At times we employ art for political or social welfare. A special form for the worship of the Divine may be necessary for practical purposes in different times and climes. The social, the political and the

moral progress and welfare are also necessary. But these are not intrinsic to the pure art.

We have already said that the fundamental principle of art is the expression of the infinite truth. This truth is vast, all-pervading. There is a hidden truth in everything which may appear beautiful or ugly to the eyes, which may appear attractive or repulsive to our disposition or which may appear good or bad to our intelligence. The truth of a thing consists in its quality, in its uniqueness and speciality and in the part it has to play on the stage of the world. This truth itself is eternal and full of delight. The artist tries to manifest the essence of this truth. Whatever there is in the world may not appear conducive to welfare or convenient to a sadhu or a religious reformer. But there is nothing that is absolutely untrue. Everything manifests itself through some truth in the core of its being. This truth is the solid delight itself, and therein lies its beauty and this itself is the image of God in it. The manifestation of this God is the aim of the artist. The ability of the artist that can awaken the spirit of an absolute renunciation is the same as that which can awaken the thirst for action in the man of action. The artist's prestige does not suffer even when he depicts the madness of lust in a lustful man. There is no conflict between art and true spirituality. Rather, spirituality is the life-breath of art and its alpha and omega. Spirituality means things related to the Self. The quintessence of the yogi lies in his yoga and that of a carnal man in his carnality. The artist will reach the acme of his art if he can bring out the quintessence of yoga in the picture of a yogi and the quintessence of carnality in the portrait of the carnal, and godliness in the picture of the gods and beast-hood in the likeness of the beast. In this sense the artist alone is the true spiritual man. An artist may depict Lord Buddha, the Incarnation of compassion, but that is no reason why the atrocious Nadir Shah's picture should be banished from the domain of art. In the pen of Kalidasa is found the spiritual description of sex-appeal. If this picture

proves tendentious to some readers, then, is the fault to be ascribed to Kalidasa the poet? His very purpose was to give expression to this idea. Under certain circumstances this idea may prove an obstacle to spiritual practice, but for that reason who can say that it is fundamentally untrue and ugly?

     The picture of a naked woman is offensive to our eyes and not only to our sense of morality but also to our aesthetic sense. For the picture we often see is not verily a work of art but only a photograph, an exact imitation of nature. What is ugliness? Ugliness is that which shows only the outer form of a thing, phenomenon, and which fails to show the raison d'être of the thing, noumenon. A photograph of anything is often ugly, be it of a naked woman or a saintly man. For we see therein only a naked woman and not the nakedness of a woman. We see therein a sadhu's lock of hair and the bark for his loins and not his saintliness. If we judge from an artistic point of view then the pictures of the gods and the goddesses drawn by Ravi Varma are as ugly as the worthless novels of the street. Where there is only body and where we do not get the meaning of the body in some deeper truth behind it, the other-worldliness of the saint is an object of contempt equally to the moralist's sense of decency and the artist's aesthetic sense.

The artist who has drawn the picture of a naked woman to express the soul of a naked woman has not seen the naked woman with the naked eyes of a lustful man, nor with those of a sadhu. He has seen her with the eyes of a seer. He has unveiled a divine truth. Other people being duped by the mind say that this is pure, that is impure, this is the virtue, that is vice. But the artist with an insight like that of a seer sees what is the truth, the hidden principle, behind a thing, the perennial source of true delight.

The poet or the seer creates something from the inspiration derived from the truth realised by him. Such an action is above the duality of good and evil, purity and impurity, good will and ill will. For an immature sadhaka, from the stand-

point of his sadhana, the absolute realisation of truth by the adept may not always be desirable; still his realisation is an unquestionable truth. The truth meant for the aspirant is momentary, temporary; its value is neither universal nor eternal. The poet stands on the same footing with the adept. Neither of them should be judged by the standard of discipline applicable to the aspirant. The picture of a naked woman may perturb us. But for that reason why should we refrain from the appreciation of the true beauty revealed therein? Why should we banish the legitimate enjoyment of the senses with a view to controlling them? To deny the presiding deities of the senses for fear of the agitation caused by the senses is itself an obstacle to the realisation of truth.

It is not that art has no value from the standpoint of the spiritual discipline also. But the artist and the sadhu do not tread the same path. The way of the sadhu is "Not this, not this" and that of the artist "Here it is, here it is." The sadhu wants to control and get rid of the senses in order to reach the Transcendent or to confine himself within the boundary of a particular way of the use of the senses. The artist wants to feel the Transcendent in the plenitude of wealth of the senses. The sadhu wants to form a religious life through canon and conduct. The artist does not subscribe to any hard and fast rule. He considers himself free from the very beginning. If he can hold on to this principle for all time then he can attain to liberation and fulfilment in the entirety of his life. The sadhu and the pious measure the value of their achievements by the attraction and repulsion they have for the objects of the senses and sit down to analyse their real nature. But the artist pays no attention to discriminating the object he deals with. He knows that essentially there is no flaw in the object. His concern is with his inner attitude. He reveals the true and the beautiful form from whatever he undertakes in his spontaneous urge of the truth within him. The sadhu wants to have access to spirituality through conduct, example, discipline and interpretations of the scriptures. But the artist

wants to attain his goal through the feeling of his art. You may depict the picture of a Madonna or that of a harlot; there is nothing inherent in the subject of your delineation to make you choose the one or the other. The question is whether you have been able to get at the truth of the thing.

Subtle is the penetrating influence of art. We, who live in the physical nature, are unable to feel it readily. We require a massive influence. If it is not clearly pointed out to us we fail to grasp it; we need a baton-charge to be aroused from our slumber. That is why religious scriptures and moral codes have come into existence. We want to introduce moral doctrines in the realm of art as well. Moral doctrines may serve a useful purpose in changing the physical part of our nature. But the subtle inner nature and the spiritual being of man will never be awakened by the canons of morality. Art is but revelation. This revelation enables us to hold a direct communion with the innermost truth of our heart. Many a time we become identified with the spirit of things through art. This union is nothing but a union of delight. In religious terminology we may call it divine Grace. One who is endowed with this Grace has no need to observe the rules of conduct or spiritual practice. By the help of this divine Grace the artist can continue his enjoyment of sense-appreciation, yet become flooded with spirituality and get purified without undergoing any hardship or austerity.

In fact, there is no gulf between art and spirituality, provided that by the word spirituality we mean genuine spirituality and not merely moral conduct or religious ceremonies. If the aim of spirituality is to know the Self, then the aim of art too is the same. If the seer of the spiritual truth can see the Spirit everywhere without excluding the body or any part of it, then why should the artist not be able to manifest the glory of the Spirit through colour, sound, word and stone and thus play the role of a truly spiritual man?

Page 75

As intuition plays the major role in one kind of art, even so inspiration in another. Two kinds of beauty have sprung into existence from these two faculties. Why speak of the artist alone – all powerful creators, in fact all human beings, differ in their individual nature, but they may be broadly classified under these two heads.

Knowledge is quite evidently the principle in one, life-energy in the other. Steadiness is the mark of the one, speed of the other. One has wideness, the other depth. One is comprehensive, the other penetrative. One gives forth light, the other heat. One is illumined, the other dynamic.

Intuition is inner seeing, inspiration inner hearing. Poetry breaks out of the former, music of the later. We find a considerable influence of inspiration in poetry where music looms large; e.g. in lyrics. Likewise a poetic form can often be found to a large extent in music – Wagner is an immortal instance. Inspiration is the fount of the lyric, intuition of the epic.

Forms of beauty and truth come into existence through the creator's intuition, and the rhythm, the gesture of truth and beauty through his inspiration. "The thing in itself," the substance, shines clear and lucid in intuition, while its character or "nature" reveals itself poignant and intimate through inspiration. One is the formative force, the other the kinetic or executive.

The following line of Kalidasa is an embodied figure of truth and beauty:

The fir trees shiver in the sprays cast by the descending torrents of the Bhagirathi.

While these lines of Shakespeare –

The shard-bone beetle with his drowsy hum

Hath rung night's yawning peal...

bring before our mind the sportive dance of truth and beauty.

The rhythmic swinging movement as described by Kalidasa more dearly reveals and fixes a static form; the picture that floats on the horizon of our mind through the lines of Shakespeare seems to fling far the waves of a dynamic movement.

In a way, the creators of the East seem to proceed more by intuition, while the creators of the West by inspiration. And it is here that we get some explanation for the charge that the East is inert and conservative in contrast to the dynamic and progressive West. The East is after beautiful static forms in her creations and the West is fond of sprightly flow.

One may say that inspiration reigns supreme in the West; and yet currents of intuition are found there side by side with it. The genius of the Latin is replete with intuition and that of the Celtic, the Slav, the Teuton with inspiration. If Shakespeare, Ibsen and Dostoevsky belong to the latter category, Virgil, Petrarch and Racine represent the former.

Intuition and inspiration do not limit themselves, however, to particular countries or races, but the two appear in all ideological schools and even through social customs. The Classical and the Romantic can be differentiated by these two principles. The Classical is motivated by intuition, the Romantic by inspiration.

Again the same difference is apparent between the ancient and the modern. Sparks of intuition are scattered all over

the ancient arts, and inspiration marks the modern. The Renaissance of Europe failed in its attempt, however sincere, at imitating the intuition of Homer and Virgil of the remote past and unwittingly managed to usher in the epoch of inspiration. Dante was the harbinger of the spirit of this new age, while Shakespeare of the English and Ronsard of the French developed and exampled it in the comity of cultures. Again the glimpses of intuition that we come across in the inspiration of Dante, Shakespeare and Ronsard have further diminished in Shelley, Byron and Hugo. Finally, inspiration has become all in all among the modern and the ultra-modern artists including the Symbolists and the Impressionists of whom Paul Verlaine at one time was a leader.

It may be said that to a great extent in the East the whole of Sanskrit literature was founded on intuition. In the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Ramayana and even in the Mahabharata, very often we find instances where the rein of knowledge has prevented the emotion and the zeal of the heart from running riot. In fact the speciality of Indian art does not lie so much in the play of colours as in the drawing of lines. Colour gives the tinge of the vital urge, while it is the lines that create here the real beauty by circumscribing or delimiting the object in view. Indian sculpture and architecture embody, the quintessential spirit and gracefulness of intuition.

Perhaps in India the Vaishnavas or the followers of the path of devotion have replaced intuition by inspiration. It is by their influence and at their hands that literature based on inspiration has become so rich, eloquent and intense. Western scholars say that the Aryans were mostly intellectual, principally guided by reason; it is the non-Aryans, the Dravidians, who have introduced the element of emotion into Indian culture. The Aryans generally followed the path of knowledge and the South Indians were predominantly devotional. Perhaps there is some truth in this saying. The Buddhists were also to some extent responsible for the

change in the even and tranquil tenor of Aryan culture. In the beginning the Buddhists, like the Vedic Aryans, laid the greatest stress on knowledge. Later on, when Mahayana, the Great Path, came into vogue, there commenced the worship of the Buddha. When the compassion of the Buddha was recognised as the principal trait of Buddhism we moved away from intuition and resorted to inspiration.¹

Bengal is chiefly the field of inspiration. It is inspiration that dominates the field of action, the art and religion of Bengal. Scholars hold that the Bengalees are three-fourths Buddhists in their culture and education and as a race they are Dravidians to the same degree. No wonder that by the union of these two currents Bengal has become the holy confluence of inspiration like Prayag, the place of pilgrimage, where the Ganga and the Jamuna have met.

Now, in the creation nothing can remain itself and unaltered for good. Difference and polarity are the inviolable laws of nature. Therefore it is not that we do not find glimpses of pure intuition here and there among the Bengalees. Chandidas, the pioneer poet of Bengal, represents an unalloyed, pure inspiration and Vidyapati reflects glimpses of intuition. When a feeling of emotion tingled through the blood of Chandidas he turned deep within and sang to himself with his eyes closed, in trance as it were:

Sister, who has sung first the sweet name of the Lord

Krishna?

On the other hand, the self-poised Vidyapati with his eyes wide open sang:

Childhood and youth fuse together.

¹ A similar event seems to have taken place in Europe with the advent of Christianity. The Graeco-Latin culture was predominantly based on reason and knowledge like that of the Indian Aryans. But Christ appeared on the. scene with the emotional gift of the psychic being.

Again, if in Rabindranath we get at the fountainhead of some of the deepest, purest inspiration, we see on the other hand an effort and aspiration for intuition in Madhusudan.

Intuition and inspiration do not necessarily mean the same thing always and everywhere. Both differ in kind and degree – ranging from the subtlest to the grossest, from the highest to the lowest. If we want to make a differentiation between them, we have to look to the source from where they originate; otherwise by itself neither can claim superiority.

Besides, we must not forget that after all – even as the Vedic ‘all-gods’ – intuition and inspiration exist together and overlap each other. At places one takes the lead and comes to the fore and the other is subordinate and remains in the background.

To be sure, there is no such gulf between the two as we may imagine and construct in order to understand and distinguish them clearly and logically by our mind, which cannot grasp anything except by division.

Page 80

TODAY I wish to speak to you a few words about rhythm in poetry, or rather demonstrate to you what is this thing called the "swing" or movement of rhythmic utterance. Rhythm, in its essence, is the harmony or melody underlying poetic speech. All I shall do will be to quote you instances, to show in what different ways this music of the spoken word finds expression in poetic speech.

At the very outset I shall speak of Sanskrit, the mother of languages which first gave voice to the Word, and here I shall take as its representative the great poet Kalidasa. You have no doubt heard about his Meghaduta. The whole of this Meghaduta is composed in a wonderful metrical form, and how sweet is the very name given to this metre, mandakranta; the name itself carries in its sound and movement the suggestion of its rhythm. Mandakranta literally means, "one that moves with slow deliberate steps." But this does not imply a simple rolling motion. The steps move with a faster beat at appropriate intervals, purposely in order to accentuate the general slowness. The results have been astonishing. Slow motion in verse implies the use of long vowels or double measures. Now listen to this movement in mandakranta:

kascit kanta / -viraha-guruna / svadhikara-pramatta...

In this metre, the arrangement is like this: In each line there are 17 syllables, divided into groups of four, six and seven syllables each. There is a pause or caesura at the end

of the first four, then after the next six, and finally at the end of the line. This may be described as the pattern of its beat, but there is also to consider the sequence of long and short vowels. The first four syllables are long, followed by the rapid movement of five short syllables. A pause comes with the long movement of the sixth. In the last foot of seven syllables, there is a variation permitted in the arrangement of the long and short vowels so as to avoid a monotonous pattern in every line, as in the ghazal of Urdu or Persian or the doha in Hindi. These seven syllables are accordingly arranged in a varying combination of the short and long vowels, such as four-three, five-two, three-four, two-five, the last two vowels being invariably taken as long whatever their actual measure. Another striking feature of this metre is that the very name mandakranta illustrates the arrangement of its first foot. Now listen:

kascit kanta /-viraha-guruna / svadhikara-pramattah

sapenastam / - gamita-mahima / varsabhogyena bhartuh

yaksas -cakre / Janaka-tanaya / -snana-punyodakesu

snigdha-cchaya/ tarusu vasatim / rama-giryasramesu

Like this it goes on, honey-sweet to the ear:

tasminn-adrau katicid-abala-viprayukta sa kami

nitva masan kanaka-valaya-bhramsa-rikta-prakosthah

asadhasya prathama-divase megham-aslista-sanum

vapra- krida-parinata-gaja -preksaniyam-dadarsa

Here is an English rendering in prose:

"A demi-god found negligent in his work and cursed by his master to a doleful year of separation from his beloved, shorn of all power, took up abode in the cool shades of trees at the Ashrama on Rama's hill whose waters had been made sacred by the touch of Janaka's daughter while bathing there.

"After a few months spent thus on that hill, his wrists now bare of the golden bands for lack of the supporting flesh, that lover now no more in the company of his beloved happened to cast his eyes on the first clouds of the season as they clung to the hilltop as nice to see as a full-grown elephant sporting with mud."¹

There is another metrical form, the sloka, which is very familiar to Sanskrit. We may call it the basic form of Sanskrit verse and its backbone as it were. The Ramayana and the Mahabharata are composed for the most part in this metre; the Gita (which forms part of the Mahabharata) is almost wholly in this metre, as in the opening lines,

dharma-ksetre kuruksetre samaveta yuyutsavah

mamaka pandavas-caiva kim-akurvata sañjaya.

Its construction is: four feet making a double line, each line containing a pair of feet of eight syllables each. Thus,

dharma-ksetre kuruksetre first foot;

samaveta yuyutsavah second foot.

The eight syllables in each foot can be arranged in different ways, like, four plus four: dharma-ksetre kuruksetre samaveta

¹ Another version in verse:

On Rama's shady peak where hermits roam,

Mid streams by Sita's bathing sanctified,

An erring Yaksha made his hapless home,

Doomed by his master humbly to abide,

Arid spend a long-long year of absence from his bride.

Some months were gone; the lonely lover's pain

Had loosed his golden bracelet day by day

Ere he beheld the harbinger of rain

A cloud that charged the peak in mimic fray,

As an elephant attacks a bank of earth in play.

yuyutsavah followed by three plus five: mamakah pandavas caiva, or five plus three: kim-akurvata sañjaya.

There is not much rigidity here about the distribution of long and short vowels. All that is required is that the fifth syllable of the foot must be short and the sixth long; this is enough. This metre is called anustubh by the Sanskrit prosodists.

It really belongs to the category of the payar metre of our Bengali. Payar is the basic foundation or backbone of the metrical structure in Bengali. You know its form: it is a couplet (like the Hindi doha), each line counting fourteen letters, simple or conjunct, the letters being normally arranged in groups of eight and six. Bengali prosody does not recognise long or short syllables; this is made good by the rhymes at the end. To take an example:

mahabharater katha amrta-saman

kasiramdas kahe sune punyaban

The first line has: mahabharater katha – eight syllables, and amrta-saman – six syllables. Similarly, in the second line, we have: kasiramdas kahe – eight syllables, and sune punyaban –six. The rhyming is done by man in saman and ban in punyaban. However, more of this a little later.

Somewhat similar to Bengali is the basic structure of the French metrical scheme, for French too makes no distinction of long and short vowels. In French as in Bengali the foot is based on a syllable-count, the caesura likewise follows the Bengali pattern. The payar in Bengali has an eight-six break, the basic division in French is six-six, making a total of twelve syllables in the line. This is the Alexandrine, corresponding in structure to the Heroic Couplet in English, as in the famous lines of Pope:

We call our fathers fools so wise we grow,

Our wiser sons no doubt will call us so.

In French, we may take as specimens, in the pathetic voice of the great Racine:

Ariane, ma soeur, de quel amour blessée

Vous mourûtes au bord où vous fûtes laissée?

(Ariane, my sister, what love it was that struck you and left you dying on the shores of the sea?)

Or, listen to the majestic tones of a poet of equal power, Corneille:

Je suis jeune, il est vrai; aux ames bien-neés

La valeur n'attend point le nombre des années.

(I am young; it is true; but the valour of hero-souls counts little the number of years they have lived.)

But there is one thing I should add here. The counting of the syllables nowhere makes poetry. It is the suggestive vibrations of sound produced by the sequence of letters that give us the poetic rhythm. Quite apart from the variations of metrical length or quantity, each letter and every word used in poetry has a peculiar vibration of its own. The poet in his inner hearing depends on that for his word-music. The counting of the syllables may perhaps help in measuring the beat.

Like the payar in Bengali and the anustubh of Sanskrit, English has its iambic pentameter. This term implies that each line should consist of five feet. In place of the variations of length in the vowel sounds as in Sanskrit, it has its own characteristic variation of accent and stress. The iambic has a foot of two syllables each; the first has a light stress being unaccented, the second bears the accent. Take for example, the line:

The cur/few tolls/the knell/of part/ing day,

or the lines from Pope which I have already cited,

We call/our fath/ers fools/so wise/we grow,

Our wis/er sons/no doubt/will call/us so.

There is also the deep serious Miltonic voice:

To reign/is worth/ambi/tion though/in hell,

or the supreme tragic note as in Shakespeare's

It is/the cause,/it is/the cause,/my soul.

Sri Aurobindo makes use of this limpid metrical form in the opening lines of his Savitri:

It was the hour before the gods awake.

Since I have spoken a little about some of the metres in Sanskrit, I should now say something about Greek and Latin. Just as in Sanskrit the syllables are measured according to their quantity, on which the metres are based and their rhythm, so does Greek or Latin verse depend on the variations of vowel length. But there is a difference. The metrical foot in Greek or Latin prosody is a fixed unit, as in English, and it consists of three syllables long or short in varying combinations. In Sanskrit, as we have seen, mandakranta has feet of varying lengths, of four, six and seven syllables each; the anustubh has four-syllables feet, but various other combinations are possible; for in Sanskrit it is the syllable that forms the basic unit.

The best-known measure in Latin or Greek is the hexameter. In this metre the foot consists of three syllables, one of which is long and the other two are short, though their positions may vary. The characteristic movement of the hexameter depends especially on a particular type of foot,

the dactyl, with its long-short-short arrangement. That is to say, this foot of three syllables has a long first syllable followed by two short ones, exactly as in the English words, "wonderful" or "beautiful" (pronounced won'-der-ful, beau'-ti-ful). There is used in this hexameter another type of foot, the spondee, where the two short syllables of the dactyl are replaced by a long one. The last foot of this metre may end with a short or long syllable for the sake of the word-music or just to provide a variation. Now listen to this hexameter movement:

Tytire/ tu patu/laes recu/ bans sub/ tegmine/ fagi...

(You Tytirus, lie under your spreading beech's cover)...

It is in this hexameter that Homer has composed his wonderful epics with their sublime poetry. I do not wish to plague you with too many quotations from the original Greek, but let me recite the opening line of Homer's Iliad:

Mênin a/iede, the/a, Pê/lê/iadêo Achi/lêos

Many of you are no doubt acquainted with its rendering in English:

Sing heavenly Muse, the wrath of Achilles, Peleus' son.

Perhaps in this connection I may briefly allude to the difference between the rhythmic movements of Greek and Latin verse. The Latin construction is firm, packed and solid; energy is its strong point. The Greek movement on the other hand is an undulating flow characterised by grace. Now here is the Latin –

Tytire tu patuloes recubans sub tegmine fagi.

This gives an impression of hammer blows carving a statue in stone, the beauty of solid powerful form takes shape out of skilled consonantal assonances. But when we listen to the Greek–

Mênin aeide, thea, Pêlêiadeô Achilêos

the rush of vowels suggests the dance of ripples, a sweep of the painter's brush or the flourish of the bow on violin strings. Latin has no doubt the strength of its consonants, but it has none of their harshness; there is here no immoderate use of the hard aspirates as we find in German. Sri Aurobindo used to say that the main feature of Latin was in its strength, of Greek its beauty, whereas Sanskrit could combine both beauty and strength.

The hexameter moves on its six winged feet, but the music it makes is more heavenly than any murmuring of the bees. Critics in all climes have been charmed and taken captive by its rhythm and surge, its sweetness and opulence. Many attempts have been made in England to shape it in the mould of English verse. For quantity or measure in English prosody is of a very different type from what it is in Greek, Latin or Sanskrit. In these classical tongues, the vowels could be lengthened to a degree without deviating from the norm, whereas in English the long vowels are not so common and accent determines their quantity in large measure. The rhythm or music of English verse follows the pattern of stress. Sri Aurobindo wanted to refashion the hexameter in the style of English prosody, and whatever success has been achieved in this field is Sri Aurobindo's gift. For instance, his poem, Ahana, is written entirely in this metre:

Vision de/lightful a/lone on the/hills whom the/

Silences/cover,

Closer yet/lean to mor/tality; /human,/stoop to thy/

Lover.

The whole of his epic, Ilion, again is in this metre. It is in Ilion that the hexameter form has been closely followed; for in Ahana, as in our payar or the heroic couplet, in English, there is throughout rhyming at the end. This is how Ilion begins:

Dawn in her/journey e/ternal com/pelling the/labour

of/mortals,

Dawn the be/ginner of/things with the/night for their/

rest or their/ending.

I have been speaking of the rhythm and surge, the word music of poetry. From this point of view there is another poem of Sri Aurobindo where the sound and movement claim our particular attention. The Mother of Dreams is no doubt familiar to all of you and some may even know it by heart. The arrangement of pauses in every line, the internal rhymes, the swift flowing movement are all superbly done:

Goddess supreme,/Mother of Dream,/by thy ivory doors

when thou standest,

Who are they then/that come down unto men/in thy

visions that troop,/group upon group,/down the path

of the shadows slanting? /

Dream after dream,/they flash and they gleam/with the

flame of the stars still around them;/

Shadows at thy side/in a darkness ride/where the wild

fires dance,/stars glow and glance/and the random

meteor glistens...

What we get in this musical verse is a sweet felicity naturally pleasing to the ear; there is here a sense of wideness as in a far-flung movement of modulated grace; and the whole is surcharged with a rich opulence. These very qualities bring to mind another poem of his; The Bird of Fire —

Page 89

Gold-white wings a-throb in the vastness, the bird of

flame went glimmering over a sunfire curve to

the haze of the west,

Skimming, a messenger sail, the sapphire-summer waste

of a soundless wayless burning sea...

Here, more explicit; is still another quality, the quality of strength or energy. In this connection, one is reminded of a similar piece, Rose of God, a very embodiment of the Word with its power of calm clear vision:

Rose of God, vermilion stain on the sapphires of heaven,

Rose of Bliss, fire-sweet, seven-tinged with the ecstasies seven!

Leap up in our heart of humanhood, O miracle, O flame,

Passion-flower of the Nameless, bud of the mystical Name.

On the whole, therefore, it may be said in a general way that what gives its characteristic quality to a metre and its rhythm depends on one of two things, namely, the length of vowels or quantity, or else the stress or accent; these determine whether the movement would be staccato or slow.

The metres in languages where the basic unit is the syllable (mainly ending in vowels but secondarily or partially with consonant-endings as well) have a slow flowing movement; ancient Greek, Latin and Sanskrit follow this line. French has continued in the main this tradition in modern Europe. On our part, in India, Bengali a language formed out of broken Sanskrit, has for the most part adopted this line. The staccato rhythm with its stress on accent has been accepted in Europe, on one hand in the German language, and on the other by its kindred, English (because of its Anglo Saxon structure). Thus, the celebrated German poet says in his well-known line,

Warum sind denn die Rosen so blass

(Why are then the roses so pale,)

and we hear as if an echo in English:

The red rose was beaten,

The white rose had won;

The Queen was in hiding

With Edward her son.

It is precisely because of this stress on accent that the scansion of English verse is not based rigidly on the number of syllables. Thus there can be a varying number of syllables to a foot provided their "quantity" or "measure" as judged by the distribution of accent remains the same. This imparts a characteristic quality to English metres known as the sprung-rhythm. This feature has been particularly brought out by the poet Hopkins, as in

The heart rears wings bold and bolder.

Here, a single strongly accented word, "rears" or "wings", does duty for a whole foot. Or, as in the line,

Glory be to God for dappled things,

a long accented vowel combines with three short unstressed ones to form a single foot.

But the English metrical scheme has been influenced a great deal by the French language with its Latin tradition. Indeed, the Norman-French influence has been powerfully dominating the English language for several centuries. This has considerably helped English prosody gain in variety and richness, for here there is room for both the main lines of rhythmic expression.

Metrical forms where the element of stress is predominant

and the movement follows the staccato pattern have found their richest scope more in the languages of southern Europe than in the north. Both in Spanish and Italian, the long flowing movement of the original Latin has been broken into staccato. These languages formed out of vulgar Latin have in, their turn been modified by their contact with German speaking peoples (like the Visigoths in Spain and the Lombards in Italy). Whereas French has been able to preserve much of the fixed tradition of its parent Latin, in the Italian language, stress or accent determines almost entirely the movement of its rhythm. I will illustrate by and by.

Bengali verse too has a considerable element of stress which has brought out a peculiar beauty of its own. This has its origin and main support in the folk-songs, the popular epigrammatic verse and in folk-literature generally. Here I am referring to metrical forms where the consonants predominate. We are all familiar with

or, Satyen Dutt's

But whether it be in Bengali or any other Indian tongue, as in Hindi for example, wherever this element of stress has been introduced, it has left a peculiar mark of its own. It is this that all the sounds are pronounced distinctly no matter where the stress falls. On the other hand, in the staccato rhythms of the European languages, an exclusive prominence is given to the stressed sounds, the others remain partially or almost wholly unpronounced. In Italian or Spanish; for example, it is only the high-pitched accents that are, wherever possible, given all the prominence; the rest are pushed to the

background. Thus,

Nel mezzo del commin di nostra vita

Mi vitrovai par una selva oscura,

Cke la diritta via era smarrita.

Per me si va nella citta dolente,

Per me si va nell' eterna dolore

Per me si va tra la perduta gente.¹

Word-music in Bengali poetry means Rabindranath. To adapt a well-known English phrase, one may say that Rabindranath is poetry and poetry Rabindranath; there is no need to bring in any other artist. We get this in Rabindranath's early work:

The measures flow in a firmer, more close-knit order in

¹ In the midway of this our mortal life,

I found me in a gloomy wood, astray

Gone from the path direct:

Through me you pass into the city of woe:

Through me you pass into eternal pain:

Through me among the people lost for aye.

In sheer charm of style Rabindranath stands without a peer. Not mere grace or charm but the sweetness, the honeyed essence that he has lavished in unstinted measure has no parallel in literature.

It is this quality of sweetness that has made the fame of Bengali language and literature, from Vidyapati and Chandidas right down to Rabindranath. But the possibilities of this language and literature, not only for sweetness or grace but also for strength and nobility have been brought out by Madhusudan. He has not the power and depth of thought, but there is in his style and manner something reminiscent of that "stepping of the goddess" in Virgil. One hears as if the rumbling of the clouds in the opening lines of Meghnadbadh:

Ezra Pound has made an astonishing remark on this question of poetic rhythm. He says that the rhythm or music of poetry is beyond the realm of words and their meaning; it has an existence quite apart and almost independent of them. Poetry in a foreign language, a language that we do not understand by the intellect, has simply to be heard: When we do not grasp the meaning of the words or recognise the form of sentences – when in the words of the Bengali poet, "the form has not been seen, the qualities not heard about" ( ), then and then alone do we get the pure music of the words and can catch its rhythm in our inner hearing. For some time past there has come into vogue in the world of art, especially the art of painting, a phrase called "pure art". This implies an arrangement of form and line free from the burden of subject-matter, a play with pure geometrical lines. This alone is supposed to bring out the true and ultimate beauty of art, its pure harmony. The reason why I have taken my illustrations from so many foreign languages may have been something similar at the back of my mind. In any case, here is an excuse I can offer.

Page 95

PLATO has exiled the poet from his Republic – in his ideal society there is no place for the poet – this is a stern condemnation. It is a matter of surprise to us, even of disbelief. Especially when we notice that there is no dearth of poetry in Plato himself – he was no dry-as-dust reasoner like his disciple Aristotle. In genius and temperament he was a true poet. The literary grace that expresses itself in his style is still regarded as something of an ideal. But why is he then so averse to the poets?

Plato's charge is that poets are no worshippers of truth. They are but servitors of imagination, of pseudo-truth or falsehood. Not only that. Their entire skill is to make falsehood appear as truth and imagination as reality; they give to an airy nothing a local habitation and a name – and, what is worse, they make this falsehood and imagination as far as possible beautiful and attractive. What then is the consequence? Men are easily deluded and fascinated by the false beauty of a visionary world and depart from truth, good and real beauty. Poetry, the sweetheart, is the enchantress, the Circe, whose only work is to delude men and turn them into pigs or at least lambs.¹ Do you not see what a low opinion

¹ Whatever may be the case of the poet, it is not that such a notion does not prevail in India at least about the votaries of other arts. The Buddhist Vishuddhi Magga has classed the painter with the cook, that is, both are taken to serve the same purpose, both cater only to the pleasure of the senses.

Manu enjoins that the householder must abstain from vocal and instrumental music and from the dance. A dancer, a singer and a house-builder have no right to be present in the ceremonies performed for the departed

of the gods is entertained by such a great poet as Homer? In what respect are such gods superior to men? All the weaknesses of men are found in them, perhaps on a bigger scale, in a more hideous form. These gods are recommended for worship by poets!

The poet indulges imagination and is by nature human in the extreme. Poetry has no direct relation or inseparable connection at all with truth. The worshipper of truth will find in poetry no utterance worthy of acceptance. Especially the poet will not be able to furnish any clue to the truth that lies beyond the ken of the human mind, beyond all that can be grasped by the daily experiences and perceptions of men, and that truth which is really the deepest and supreme in men. Plato's reasoning amounts to this in modern terms.

What Plato says does not, on reflection, appear to be utterly worthless. The vital world is the source of the poet and all other artists who are creators. When the vital is stirred things spring up from it and take shape. This vital itself is the magic power of the urge for enjoyment and action. For the satisfaction of these two urges towards delight and enjoyment the vital is constantly engaged in creating things. The spell of the vital does not care to find how far they are truth, and how much is their worth in terms of the right and the ultimate good. It is enough if it can build a castle in the air and derive joy from it. But it is not at all necessary that the castle in the air should be a reality.¹ It is enough if it comes within the domain of experience and gives satisfaction. This vital is again the field of all desires and impulses of men. The attractions of the vital keep men confined to an absolutely human plane. Poetry is the unrivalled drug to enslave men to the mortal world.

___________

soul. Chanakya has put the singer in the same category with the harlot.

It may also be remembered in this connection that portraiture and image making are prohibited in the Hebrew and the Mohammedan religions.

¹ Bernard Shaw has given the name of hell to one such world, vide his play Man and Superman.

The poet says,

The good that is awake in the midst of all conflicts

Is the good which Thou approvest.

Or,

Shadowless is thy Light...

The beauty of which is enhanced

By my tears.

These expressions are wonderful and sweet to the ear. But, the deep spiritual realisation or the highest truth which these words pretend to convey is but happy imagination and pleasant fancy. The true realisation of the spiritual consciousness is quite a different thing.

Liberation? Where will ye find liberation,

Where does it abide?

The Lord Himself has donned

the bondage of creation,

And is enchained with all.

Here the poet for the moment puzzles us by his curious thought and skilful composition. But it is doubtful if to the calm consciousness of the truth-seer there is anything more than the movements of the natural man's complexes behind such an emotion. This very thing is called 'Siren Song' in English.

If the poet be such a terrible creature then why is he called a Rishi? The Rishi is the seer of truth. The poet is really a poet only when he is a seer, that is to say, one who has the direct vision of truth. But the question may be asked: "What is this truth?" One may say, as there is a spiritual truth so there is a mundane truth; there is no hard and fast

material and vulgar can never be the object of fine art.

Perhaps Plato would not accept this kind of philosophy. He would not be prepared to give an equal importance to the two phenomena – the ardours of the life-process and the pleasures of poetry – balanced side by side as two separate entities of the same value. It is well and good if the poetical work can be made an aid to the discipline of life. Otherwise, just for the sake of creation of beauty, for mere enjoyment, for the skilful and sweet display of the ordinary intelligence and of the unregenerated vital, poetry should not be harboured in our consciousness. Therefore Plato wants us to become hermits of an absolute purity. Not the creation of the poet but that of the philosopher is the thing needed.

The poet wants to snatch beauty from the longings of the natural vital, Plato’s wisdom is all for the ultimate truth seized out of the moral sense. But there is no necessity of this duel between the poet and the philosopher. The true poet will seize beauty through the pure sense of delight in the purified vital and at the same time intuit the absolute truth with the divine vision. The vision of the Truth breaks out of the sense of delight, while the sense of delight finds its foundation in the truth-vision. Thus the poet and the seer become united and the delightful and the good stand identified.

Page 100

IT is at times said that a critic, at least a successful critic, is a poet who has failed. Likewise the poet himself is a Yogi who has failed. That is to say, to be a good and genuine poet one has first to be a Yogi. Is it really so? Just to prove it a French priest has even gone to the length of writing a book.¹ Of course, Abbé Brémond has not used the term 'Yogi' but 'mystic', and prayer, he adds, is the inherent virtue of a mystic. We can then hold that a Yogi, a spiritual aspirant or even a mere aspirant – on the whole they mean the same.

According to Brémond, a poet is he who has either fallen from the status of a mystic or has deviated from the path of inner discipline. He is of the opinion that the fount of a poet's inspiration, insight and feeling is either a spiritual experience or an experience inclined towards spirituality. But the poet has not marched forward in a straight line to the original Goal; nor has he even attempted to give it a shape. After covering half the distance he halts for a time and then moves on through by-lanes, putting forward the secret experience of his inner soul in the decorative dress of flowery words. He simply looks upon the experience as something imaginary, dream-like and an object of fancy produced by the intellect. At last it comes to this that he grows into a poet to the same extent as he has kept aloof from the path of a mystic. For to proceed on straight along the path of spirituality is to avoid the by-lanes of poetry, i.e., to extinguish

¹ Prière Poésie, par I'Abbè H. Brémond (de l'Acadèmie Française).

inevitably all poetry and poetic inspiration.

Let us pin our attention on the first thing first: whether the poet is at all a Yogi or a Sadhaka and, if so, in what sense. It is not quite uncommon that in the creation of almost every poet we observe more or less the indication of something beyond the grasp of the senses, something divine and infinite. The aspiration of every poet flies to an immaculate realm of Beauty and Truth, to a world beyond. Milton, Wordsworth and Dante need no introduction in this field, for they are undoubtedly spiritual. They seriously resorted to spirituality. But it is strange enough how Shakespeare, whose creation is replete with nature's scenes and the experiences of man's day-to-day life, says:

With thoughts above the reaches of our souls,

or,

There's a divinity that shapes our ends

Rough hew them how we will.

Do we not then feel that Shakespeare's inner soul is in the closest touch with the Consciousness beyond, far surpassing the earth, and his poetic vision has been surcharged with some intense superhuman delight? Even the poets who are most materialistic, who are averse to any Ideal, who are anti-divine, whatever may be their outer utterance – are they not the descendants of Lucifer or Prometheus? Let us recollect what Baudelaire wrote about them, about the pangs of their hearts:

Une Idée, une Forme, un Être

Parti de I' azur et tombè

Dans un Styx bourbeux et plombé,

Ou nul oeil du Ciel ne pénètre.

(An Idea, a Form, a Being

That sprang from the blue and fell

In the muddy grey river of Hell

Unpierced by Heaven's seeing.)

In our country also Rabindranath Tagore's name needs no mention. A spiritual aspiration pervades his poetic inspiration. It is evident that this spiritual aspiration is the source of his poetic creation. But let us listen to Madhusudan, the so-called iconoclast:

Where is the world of the Brahman?

Where am I, a worthless creature of evil?

How can I, a mere human,

Enmeshed in the world's illusion,

Like a bird in a cage,

Attain that world of Freedom whose vision

Draws the Adept of the highest Yoga from age to age?

Even at the very commencement of his immortal epic, Meghnadbadh he invokes Saraswati the white-armed Mother of knowledge. The feeling or firm conviction is that the Mother of Knowledge is also the giver of liberation. That is why the poetry that is a help and a means to attain liberation has a special appeal to our heart.

Of course, there are poets whose creations totally lack spirituality or even something akin to it. For example, Catullus, of whom Sri Aurobindo says: "He has as much philosophy in him as a red ant."

A poet like Catullus can easily be put forward to contradict Bremond's conclusion. Granted, such poets are very few in number, nevertheless they appear to prove Bremond's conclusion quite baseless. But, as a matter of fact, it is not so. The aim of a poet is to create a living thing, a thing of considerable worth, a thing of beauty and delight with the help of words. Is not this very act of his something supernal

aspiring for the world beyond?

The very same truth has been uttered by Vishwanath Kaviraj. The real form or soul of poetry consists of delight. The delight one gets in the realisation of the Brahman and the delight one derives from one's poetic creation spring from the same source. Both have an indivisible consciousness of self-expressive delight. Indeed it is a serious matter that demands our special attention. Both of them have no relation with outer objects, nor does their self-supporting delight of consciousness reckon on things of the material world. I have already said that the theme of the poet may not be spiritual; even then he derives from a subtle consciousness all his poetic inspiration.

The author of Sahitya Darpan (The Mirror of Literature) tells us something profound and significant as regards the spiritual nature or form in poetic creation. The delight of poetry can be grasped neither by impure, lifeless and rigid qualities nor by restless vitalistic movements; it is reflected in Sattwic virtues alone. Hence the poet creates something only after he has been surcharged with Sattwic qualities. Further, the purpose of reading poetry is to arouse the qualities of sattva in oneself and to move towards our nature's purification and emancipation, free from the evil contact of rajas and tamas. We may as well recollect here the similar .conclusion the Greek thinker, Aristotle, arrived at, that a tragedy has katharsis, a power to purge the heart. However, it is doubtful if anybody has raised the greatness of poetry to such a pitch as Vishwanath Kaviraj has done.

Fundamentally there is no difference between Vishwanath Kaviraj and Abbe Bremond. The difference that does exist is not about the source of poetry but about its culmination. According to Bremond, the inner inspiration of the poet or the source of it is a spiritual experience. He also adds to it that the poet descends into a lower level of nature the moment he endeavours to mould his experience into words and tries to give it a metrical shape without following the straight

yogic process, without assimilating the inner divinity into his entire being; he has spread it out and lost it in the display of words. So he has to give himself up to falsehood and play tricks. The thing that has to be manifested with the effort of his life has been totally exhausted in easy trifles and meaningless words. He has grown into an artist displaying false and baseless words instead of becoming an artist of life. In the place of having a genuine full realisation he becomes enamoured of the visionary illusive creation of a nine-day wonder. He has been fascinated, as it were, by the dance of the nymphs and has deviated from the real path. It is not that at times the poet does not feel that his creation is simply a jugglery of words. Strangely enough, with the help of fruitless words a modern poet proves the worthlessness of words:

Je suis las des gestes intérieurs,

Je suis las des départs intérieurs!

Et de I'hèoisme a coups de plume

Et d'une beauté toute en formules !

Charles Vildrac – "Livre d' amour"

(I am sick of imaginary gestures,

I am sick of mental expeditions!

And of the bravery of the pen-stroke

And of a beauty all formulated.)

Aristotle's preceptor, Plato, draws our attention to this side of poetry – the illusory charming power of poetry. No doubt, the world of the poet is charming. But it is equally the world of falsehood. Plato was religious to the marrow. The main cause of his looking upon the poets with considerable displeasure is that in their creations – e.g. Homer – the gods have an inferior nature even to that of a human being. It is an absurdity on the face of it. Having turned falsehood and an evil ideal into a thing of grace and delight

the poets place it before man and thus they keep him away from truth, beauty and bliss.

Of course, it cannot be affirmed that in the poetic creation there can be no illusory power of Ignorance. No doubt, there are poets who have either blurred their spirituality or their inner soul by resorting to poetry. But in that case we can safely affirm that it is the poet and not his poetic creation that is in fault. It is absolutely a personal affair. If things are to be judged in this light, then there is not even a single object which does not stand as an obstacle to one's inner spiritual discipline.

So we cannot at once jump to the conclusion that a poet is he who has either fallen from the status of a Yogi or who has slipped down from the path of yogic discipline. Just an example will dispel all doubts. The poets of the Upanishads were at once seers and yogis in the fullest measure. As the Upanishads are wonderful in their poetic values, even so are they highly inspiring and soul-stirring in their mantric powers. Here the poet and the seer have become one and with their mutual help they reveal each other. It is not that vak (speech) must needs be a covering of or an illusory substitute for truth. It can as well be the most beautiful and benevolent image of the Brahman as Sound.

Be that as it may, it can never be said that a poet and a Yogi are one and the same, or that there is no difference between the poetic creation and the spiritual discipline. To say that they are one is nothing short of an hyperbole: The consciousness of the poet dwells in the world of speech and this world belongs to the mental world. The light of the poet's inner soul illumines this mental world of speech and turns it into a seeker of spirituality. But the field of a Yogi is more spacious and more objective. He endeavours to illumine the body and the vital nature with the light of spirituality. The poet can start doing this work. He may even be an aid to it; still more, at the end he may reveal or announce

the Victory. But the poet cannot sit on the throne of a Yogi by dethroning him. Moreover, it is not obligatory that in order to be a Yogi one must be a poet first. Even if the Poetic Being is a brother to the Brahman, yet it is not the Brahman itself.

Page 107

POETRY and mantra are not one and the same thing. I shall try to point out the difference between the two. Poetry can turn into mantra; not only that, poetry must needs be so. The highest form and the most perfect perfection of poetry lie in the mantra. Likewise a mantra can manifest itself in the shape and form of poetry. But that is a thing we hardly meet with.

Let us now focus our attention on something else. When we study the Gita or the Upanishads or the Vedas, the idea never flashes across our mind that we are reading poetry; our consciousness enjoys a delight which surpasses that of poetry. Here is a clear proof. When we speak of genuine poetry, we hardly think of the Veda-Upanishad-Gita. To serve our purpose we immediately resort to the works of Valmiki, Kalidasa and Bhavabhuti. Yet, as a matter of fact, the Gita, the Upanishads and the Vedas can easily stand on the same footing with the greatest poetry. However natural or mundane may be the delight in poetic creation, it can never surpass the poetic greatness of the mantra. Neither the ancient poet Valmiki nor even Homer or Shakespeare are an exception. It is said that "the highest art is to conceal art". The famous poets of to-day cannot so easily conceal themselves in their poetic creation as did the poets of the Veda-Upanishad-Gita. When the Upanishad says,

"This is the highest Refuge, the Refuge supreme,

When one realises it, one shines in the status of the

Brahman",

or when the Gita says,

"Unperturbed in the midst of sorrow,

Undated in the midst of happiness,"

we do not at first or at all discern that we have come across one of the highest pitches of poetry. But this is the type of poetry that we would like to call mantra.

What is poetry? It is delightful speech. There can hardly be any better definition of poetry than this. Admitting this fact I would like to say that the definition of mantra is the Brahman manifested as sound. At both the places we see the glory and greatness of vak (speech). But there is a subtle border-line. On one side vak grows into the mantra, on the" other vak grows into poetry however beautiful and great it may be. The real thing is this: when vak does not assert itself in the least, when it does not hanker after displaying its own skill, remains self-enamoured like a deer with the fragrance of its musk, having no other object than to possess inner delight, then only it amounts to a mantra. When vak abounds in mere words; it simply comes down to the category of poetry.

But it is not that mantra means something solely dealing with spiritual disciplines or religious practices. Even the experiences and realisations of this terrestrial world can reveal themselves through the mantras provided their fundamental truth is the truth of delight.

Take the famous utterance of Shakespeare:

And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,

or Dante's:

Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch' entrate,

(Abandon hope, all ye that enter here,)

or Valmiki' s :

Apahrtya sacim bharyam sakyam Indrasya jivitum.

Na ca Ramasya bharyarh mamapaniyasti jivitam.

(Even after stealing Sachi, the consort of Indra, one may

remain alive.

But kidnapping me, the wife of Rama, one cannot

retain one's life.)

In these phrases we observe nothing of so-called spirituality. Here we get the utterance of common men like you and me. But I place them on the same footing with the mantras, or here speech is not the dress or outer garb of an experience, but the realisation of an inner delight, and it has become inseparably one with that inner delight. That is why mantra sublates speech, unveils its inner potency and gives a concrete shape to that reality. Speech does not retain its normal free individuality here it becomes faithful by obedience to the truth beyond speech. There is a type of form that retains its own uniqueness, its own independent value. There the manifestation of the Spirit is secondary, however beautiful and charming it may be; it is based on ignorance or partial lesser knowledge and it is perishable. The beauty of Greek sculpture is of this type. The Greeks wanted to express this lesser beauty and charm of life. But there is another type which surrenders its independent existence and becomes the vehicle and embodiment of Immortality. I believe herein lies the secret of India's sculpture, and the aim of many Indian spiritual disciplines was this Immortality.

Kalidasa is a great poet – he stands in the vanguard of the world's greatest poets. He really deserves this place. Yet he is only a poet and does not seem to be a seer or creator of mantras like the poets of the Upanishads.

What Matthew Arnold said of the poet Wordsworth we all know. In places where Wordsworth's poetry, he says, reaches the acme of perfection one feels as if the poet has

Page 110

disappeared: Nature herself has used his pen. I would like to say that the speciality of all the mantras lies in this impersonality. The poet cannot claim to be a seer or creator of mantras so long as there is the stamp of an individual ego in his creation. In such a case he is nothing more than a poet. When the poet is fully conscious of himself as a poet and nothing more, he rarely forgets the excellence of his creation. That is why with a heart full of pride Bhavabhuti could declare:

"Whatever may be their knowledge, my efforts are not for those who look down upon me. I believe I have some equals on earth, and if not I will have some from the womb of future, for time has no end and the earth too is boundless."

From this point of view Milton and Virgil may be looked upon as mere poets. Those who consider Shakespeare, Homer and Valmiki superior to Milton, Virgil and Kalidasa come to such a conclusion from a subtler consideration. One group of poets makes use of vaikhari vak, while the other of pasyanti vak.

Seer as poet and poet as poet are different, because of their difference in speech. Vaikhari vak is the word that stands in its own value and glory, maintains its own separate dignity and greatness, giving free scope to the inherent power of sound, voice and articulation. Hence the inner Being, the true Being of delight, does not always relish even the sweet noise – as Hamlet speaks out: it is all words, words, words – or as Jayadeva declares:

Mukharam adhiram tyaja mañjiram

(Take away your restless garrulous anklets.)

Pasyanti vak is the spontaneous voice, the soundless sound of this inner Being; it is the truth-vision's own lovely streak.

Vaikhari vak is predominant in Bengali poetry. Pasyanti vak is hardly available, rare, nay, it will be no exaggeration to say that it is totally lacking. No doubt, beautiful poetry

has been written in Bengali. It may be said that the creation of beautiful poetry in Bengali has been considerable. But, as a contrast, what about the seer-poets? Rabindranath? Perhaps the power of poetry has reached its acme in Rabindranath. But what about the mantric power in his creation? In spite of having Rabindranath, it may well be asked to what extent we get the true Aryan speech in our varied and rich creation.

Page 112

(Charyapada)

AT least the names, "Natha-yogis" and "Siddhacharyas" must have been familiar to you, perhaps you may have heard about their writings too, the body of poetry known as caryapadavali. Today I would like to say something on this subject. This introduces us to a particular epoch in our history and its peculiar training and culture, where the human consciousness has found a particular expression for which one cannot find a parallel. It was what is known as the age of Tantric Buddhism. During this period, a special kind of spiritual discipline and culture had been growing as a result of the Buddhist influence. It extended mainly over north-eastern India, but the whole of north India and to a certain extent the South too came within its orbit.

This poetry is the record of an inner empire which, it is supposed, may have lasted from the eighth to the eleventh centuries. The story of the discovery of these writings is a fascinating one. Just a little over half a century ago, Pandit Haraprasad Shastri, a, truly gifted scholar and lover of the Bengali language and literature, had been doing some researches into the ancient history of Bengal and was earnestly engaged in the collection of old manuscripts in the villages and the libraries. In this connection he once went to Nepal and there he chanced across some ancient manuscripts, among which there was one that drew his particular attention. At first he thought it might be some work in an earlier form of Hindi and did not accordingly give it much attention.

But afterwards, when out of curiosity he read through the manuscript with care, he made the startling discovery that here was the earliest and a beautifully poetic form of the Bengali language. The manuscript contained fifty poems or songs; they were the work of a Tantric Buddhist group known as Siddhacharyas.

Later on, he made the further discovery that there was a Sanskrit commentary on these poems, for without a commentary it is difficult to get at their true import. They abound in suggestive symbols and illustrations of a line of spiritual discipline. Another curious thing about these poems was that he could discover a complete translation of these poems in Tibetan. This in itself indicates the importance and influence of these verses. In fact, these are not ordinary poems. They have the power of the Mantra, they are records of spiritual experiences and are helps to their realisation. Another thing: several pages were found missing in the particular manuscript that the Pandit had discovered, with the result that one or two of the poems were not to be found at all and one or two others were available only in fragments. Luckily, the commentary in Sanskrit and the Tibetan translation were available for the entire series, and with their help the missing parts have been reconstructed in full.

The spiritual discipline followed by these Siddhacharyas as also their culture were, as I have said, of a peculiar character. They did not follow the ordinary rules of conduct prevalent in society and normally accepted by all. There was no aura of tradition about them, like the aura that surrounds the Vedantic tradition; their science was not that of the learned and respectable upper strata of society, the Brahmin or the Kshatriya class. The science of which we speak here is an esoteric science; the path of spiritual discipline and inner practice to which it leads is not the Righthand but the Left-hand path. The Vedantist, one who follows the Vedantic path, says in clear terms: "That which

is Thy Face turned to the Right, by That protect me", yat te daksnia-mukhamh tena mam pahi nityam.

Vedanta is the path of Knowledge and of one who has the Knowledge; it is a Path of the awakened and enlightened intellect. Tantra, especially the Tantra of the Left-hand Path, has sought to guide and train man through another kind of discipline, along the lines of the vital, even the physical-vital movements that are common to all menthe natural lines of the natural man. Buddha had proclaimed his message to the common man, in the Prakrit dialects understood by all; he did not address it to the cultured and learned intelligentsia, in Sanskrit, the language of learning. Tantra follows in its discipline this line of popular appeal. That is why we find it so popular particularly in the lower strata of society. The Prakrit texts of Tantra as well as the Charyapadavali eulogise the "untouchables" – the Radi, the Dom, the Bede, the Chandala and the Sabara, they occupy the chief place. It is however true that afterwards, when the learned elite came to realise the importance and utility of this line of spiritual discipline, they laid their hands on it and sought to turn it round towards the Right-hand Path.

Thus, if Vedanta was the Path of the educated elite, Tantra was a discipline meant for the generality of men.

We shall now look a little deeper into the peculiarities of each and try to find out their distinctive features. The ultimate state of consciousness in the view of the Buddhists and those influenced by them is that of the Non-Self. Vedanta on the other hand takes its stand on the Self, the Conscious Being who is extra-cosmic and beyond all manifestation. Buddha did not take cognisance of this Self, the Buddhists have altogether denied Its existence. The followers of Tantra, whether Buddhistic or otherwise, have not sought to escape from the world into some extra-cosmic state, Nirvana or Self. They have brought down into this world and established here another kind of Self, an inner

conscious being. In their experience, Shiva has his abode (as the Jiva in the form of the inner Witness) within man and this earth. Creation or the manifested worlds include the earth, the earth includes man, and man is primarily the human body and life, his mind being an obedient servant of these two. The Tantrics have sought for the Power that rules over man's body and life.

Vedanta regards Brahman, the Supreme Reality, as if aloof from the created universe, above it and utterly transcending it. The result has been to declare the world to be a falsehood and an illusion, mithya, maya. Akin to this line of Vedantic thought is the doctrine of Sankhya which makes the Purusha or Conscious Being separate from Prakriti or Nature, places Purusha outside or above Prakriti, declares the Purusha as entirely conscious whereas Prakriti is unconscious. Tantra on the other hand places Purusha not outside or above Prakriti, but rather brings Him down into the heart of Prakriti and establishes Him there; Shakti is not transcended by Shiva, Shiva is within Shakti. Not even satisfied with that, Tantra reverses the position altogether by placing Shiva under the feet of Shakti.

The Vedantic discipline is in a sense comparatively simple and easy. For it takes one straight path to the heights by rejecting all with its formula of "not this", "not that", neti, neti, its method is to fix the consciousness in the head, at the centre of knowledge, and from there to move to the higher levels with the Purusha-consciousness as the mainstay. Tantra has clung to Mother-Nature, that is, it has not sought to reject and deny the existence of the vital and physical movements. Its aim has been to establish on a sound basis these so-called lower but stronger movements, by controlling them and purifying them into their true elements. The ordinary man, every man in fact, has to live with his body and vital being, with the physical life and the vital force as his main supports. Since these things exist, they must have a purpose. They alone can delve into the mystery of the

ordinary life who have been living the ordinary life. That is why this line of discipline is described as the line of the natural man; this is the Natural Path, the Way of Sahajiya. This Path has had greater attractions for the commonalty of men than for the learned men of intellect with their education and culture. It is among the lowest classes that it has found most votaries; there its influence has spread, there it has been best known.

In his inner make-up and outward activities man is a biune entity; here too as in the universe, there is an upper and a lower half. The upper half extends from the head to the chest, the lower from the navel to the feet. The upper half is represented by the Brahmin and the Kshatriya, and to the lower belong the Vaishya and the Shudra, including the Untouchable; the Shudra, says the Vedic text, was born of the Creator's feet, padbhyam sudra ajayata. The Veda and the Upanishads glorify the Brahmin and the Kshatriya; in Tantra, especially in the popular Tantra of the Siddhacharras, the greatness of the lower orders has been brought out.

But there is also another point to note. If we look at the question, not merely from the point of view of man's inner and outer make-up, but also take into account the lines of its historic evolution or development, we may plausibly come to the conclusion that the Tantric discipline represents a continuation or perhaps the remnant of a much older practice. Man did not come to live by his intellect from the very beginning, he at first lived by his vital instincts; he did not start on his march on earth with an assured knowledge and a refined mind, he had to begin his journey with his body and vital being as the main props. Therefore his first problem was to solve the riddle of his body and life. He did not at first seek for the Self or Supreme Being, first he had to discover his inner self, the indwelling lord of his body and life. I have spoken of Shiva in the form of Jiva within man, it would perhaps be more correct to speak of Shakti or Nature

assuming the form of Jiva. In fact, it is when Earth-Nature with matter and life as its base and primary instrument assumes a conscious form in man that we have the human soul. The awakening of this inner soul has been the driving force behind man's progress and development, his earthly evolution and inner unfolding. The secret Man dwelling within man, this Jiva in the form of Conscious Being, is what the follower of the Sahajiya Path have called the Beautiful Man, the Choicest Man, the Natural Man. With what affection and respect and in how many diverse ways have these followers of the Sahajiya Path, the Siddhacharyas, lifted the veil off this mysterious Entity! Herein lies the central principle and the keynote of their life and spiritual discipline.

It is said that the Way of Knowledge follows the Way of Works, Vedanta comes after Veda. This is as true from the outward, historical point of view as it is true of the lines of inner change. As I have already explained, man begins his career as a vital-physical being, becomes a mental being at a later stage. But the trouble is that when he goes beyond his vital being into the mental, he tends to pass beyond mind into the gnosis and forgets his life and body; this is what is known as Nihilism or the Vedantic Illusionism. But as a social being, man has remained what he was, a being of the physical and vital planes, and these cannot be ignored, nor is it proper to do so. It is here that Tantra steps in. That is why I have said that Tantricism has found a ready acceptance among those who are concerned particularly with the physical life, the "natural men". These men have been derided and despised by orthodox Vedantists and by men at the top of the social hierarchy. That is why the Tantrics have had to form esoteric groups and often remain for ages hidden like an underground stream; they have been submerged in the lower reaches of society. They have taken as their chosen deity, not Durga or Lakshmi, nor Brahma or Vishnu, but Kali and Karali, Chandi and Baguli. In the

words of one of these poets: .

For an entire epoch, the line of this particular form of spiritual discipline was practically restricted to people who were beyond the pale or on the fringes of civilised society. If you want to know in what manner, then listen to what one of its teachers, the poet Kahnupada has to say.

O thou Dom Woman, thy cottage is beyond the city

limits,

Where shaven-headed Brahmins roam.

I shall keep thee company,–

I who am a Kapalika Yogi, naked and without

compunctions.

There is only one Lotus with its sixty-four petals,

On which dances this Dom Woman with myself, the

Jiva.

Dom Woman, I ask thee a straight question:

On whose boat art thou coming and going?

This poor fellow no longer sells baskets or cat-gut,

For thy sake alone he has given up his actor's robe.

Thou art a Dom Woman and I a Kapalika;

Yet for thy sake have I put away my garland of bones.

I have broken into the lake and robbed it of its lotus

stalks to eat them.

I have given thee a beating, taken thy life.

Kahnupada gives here a vivid sketch, attractive and neat and clear, of the rural life of his age, the conditions of village society. And with this as the background, he lets us have an insight at once deep and clear into some details of his sadhana or spiritual endeavour. This sadhana, as I have already mentioned, was unacceptable to the upper reaches of society; derided by the learned elite, it was the esoteric sadhana of the "depressed" classes. That is why the Dom Woman has been taken as the Force behind the sadhana, the symbol of the Cherished Deity. The dark lady, this untouchable beauty may draw perhaps the greedy attentions of the learned elite and "high-class" Brahmins. But their enormously decorous attire, their learning and knowledge of scripture, their rites and observances have served to keep them away from that secret Power of Mother-Nature without an ornamental garb. That is why we find Kahnupada saying that he has divested himself of all kinds of decorative wear, has renounced all positions and titles, and has become a naked Kapalika, a nude ascetic in his body, mind and life. It is in this way that he has qualified himself' to meet his Supreme Beloved. What is to be their trysting-place? In the sanctuary of the inner heart where has blossomed forth a superb lotus with its sixty-four petals spread out to the sky. The sixty-four here must have been meant to symbolise the integrality of consciousness: four are the main levels or planes of consciousness – body, life, mind and all that is above

Page 120

mind – and the number sixty is their multiple and various divisions or lines of expression.

The ordinary ignorant man passes through life, plying the boat of his ignorant ordinary consciousness with its cargo of worldly cares. But the free inner consciousness moves along other paths. Kahnu would sail on the boat of that inner consciousness and take to those paths.

The world is as if a lake where lies hidden a lotus-stalk which is no other than the Cherished Deity of Kahnu. So we find him saying: "I shall churn the world-lake in Thy quest; it is like a prison-house, I shall break it and rescue Thee from there." This is as if one has to snatch away the Beloved Lady from the grasp of the enemy after a fierce fight. To claim and possess by sheer force heaven and its Deity – this is the heroic way of the hero-aspirant, vira-sadhaka.

Now look at another picture by another poet of this path. Here too taken as background is the daily life of the common man in his village environment:

The world-stream flows by, deep and fast,

Between its muddy banks the water is full to the brim.

A bridge has been built across by Chatilapada

for the sake of Dharma;

Now one can cross over to the other shore without fear. By cutting down the tree of Delusion its wooden floor

has been framed.

The axe has been your Self of Nirvana, grasp it firmly

to strengthen your sense of Unity.

Get on to the bridge, turn not to right or left.

Knowledge is near at hand, why go afar?

Those of you who wish to cross over,

Better ask Chatila, the supreme master,

the Self-realised man without a peer.

Page 121

The art of living is to move forward in a continuous progression; this is what gives value to life. But the spiritual seeker and Yogin aims not merely at movement and progress. What he seeks is a crossing over, from this shore of the ordinary consciousness to the other shore of another kind of consciousness. This is commonly pictured as a ferrying, but the crossing can be done by building a bridge as well. The poet here speaks of such a bridge. He says, this world, this worldly life of ours is like a deep rushing stream bounded by muddy fiats, a play of all kinds of movements with their deep subconscient roots. You are to build a bridge across. For that you will need rafters. Man is caught in the network of delusions which firmly knit together like a tree have spread their shadow over the world. Tear it down, cut it up, get together the little bits of dead longings with the little life still left in them, gather them up, make them one-pointed, make of them a solid mass. The tree of Delusion felled down, the heart of desire having found the peace of Nirvana, a sense of solid Unity will dawn on this Nirvana consciousness. Just as the axe is indispensable as an implement for making a bridge, so is this urge to Nirvana essential for building the inner bridge, between the lower and the higher consciousness. You should move straight forward with this one-pointed aim, you are not to disperse the consciousness, your feet are not to waver in doubt. You will then find that the knowledge and experience that you seek will

Page 122

not take you far away from the world; they are here within your heart, near at hand. This is the unique truth that has been revealed by this Siddhacharya without a peer.

We have seen something' of the symbolic images of the life of siidhanii as they have been taken from the village life and natural environment of the times. I shall now give a few samples both amusing and instructive of the way in which the social and family customs of the age have served the same purpose with these poets.

We are familiar with the position occupied by the young wife in the household of her in-laws, not only in this but in other countries as well, although there are in this matter certain special peculiarities in our system. In the language of these poets, the household of the in-laws represents the confines of the ordinary ignorant consciousness; into these, confines has been introduced and kept imprisoned the inner Deity who is the Divine Being and Cherished Godhead. That is why the poet urges in tones of thunder: Give a good beating and make a clean sweep of all the in-laws, the father, the mother, the sister and the sister-in-law of the husband:

The wife will reign there in her glory without anyone to share her power. The in-laws' house is the body of man, the vehicle of his life and mind. Its ancient master and mistress have to be displaced, it has to be made neat and clean, and there you have to set up your Cherished Goddess, your innermost Self, the Divine Being – the Buddhists call her by another name, the Godhead of the Nihil or Non-Self.

There is another thing that we find interesting here. Even in those days the condition of the ordinary Bengali was perhaps as miserable as it is now. The Siddhacharya has introduced himself as a Bengali, and he says: Bhusuku, your lot is now truly that of a Bengali; for the robber bands have come and robbed you of your boat, broken into your house, even abducted your wife. Bhusuku, you have now become

Page 123

a veritable Bengali!

But this is not all that he means; the inner sense is this: O seeker, what you have lost through the robbers is your worldly possessions, the chains of ignorance. The robbers who came and did all the havoc were really a sign of Divine Grace. Your wife whom they have taken away was no other than your ignorant ego. Your true family and friends will be the companionship of your inner Self, the Beloved within.

The inner mysteries in every path of spiritual discipline are difficult to grasp, they are beyond all language and the mind. Words do not express them, mental thought cannot grasp them. The secrets of the sadhana of these Siddhacharyas are still more mysterious. One cannot understand them oneself, far less make them intelligible to others. So, we find Kahnupada saying: on this path the teacher is as if dumb, the disciple is like one who is deaf:

Now let us pass on to a different kind of feeling and tone, – a softer feeling and a sweeter tone, with a more intimate touch of the heart:

There is an incessant downpour of the streams of Grace; Gone is the strife of "Is" and "Is not";

In mid-heaven arises a strange Something.

Bhusuku, now look at your true Natural Being;

A glimpse of this breaks all the bonds of sense,

The heart is filled with a secret spontaneous delight.

By purification of the contacts with the objects of sense I now understand what is Delight:

It is as if the skies are bright with the moon.

This is the Essence of the three worlds.

Yogi Bhusuku has rent the Darkness asunder.

Page 124

The Divine Grace is descending from on High in a continuous stream, thus is obliterated the sense of Being and Non-Being, all doubts and difficulties as to whether It exists or not. On the screen of the individual consciousness there arises a strange Form, like Uma-Haimavati of the Upanishad. Bhusuku, this is your true Natural Form. Once you know and recognise It, all the bonds of sense are broken, the heart fills of itself with a supreme delight. This is the real purification of sense, this enables you to establish with the objects of sense, with all objects, your true and pure relation, giving as result the emergence of supreme Bliss. This is the Moon in your inner skies, the Delight within the three worlds of mind, life and body which spreads its moonshine on all your consciousness. Lo, there is left no trace of darkness in the Yogic mind of Bhusuku.

Let us move a little farther, into the realm of a deeper principle, into the mysteries of a mote complicated symbolism. Here is a specimen of riddling verse:

It does not become an "Is", nor does it turn out to be

"Is not":

Such being the Supreme Knowledge, who can put his

faith in It?

Luipada says it is an incomprehensible Science.

Page 125

Its Illumination consists of three elements,

But It cannot be grasped.

I do not know what colour It has, what signs, what

form –

How shall I explain it with reference to scripture?

Whom shall I ask, and what?

It is as if the shadow of the moon in water –

neither real nor unreal.

Lui says: what shall I meditate on?

Of That which makes up my "I" I find no hints.

It cannot be said that It exists, it cannot be said that It does not exist. Can such a thing be grasped by any hidden faculties? It is a Light made up of three elements, and yet It has no colour or form or distinguishing marks. The reason is that the outer sense-organs cannot reach It, nor can the mind grasp It no matter how well-versed in scripture it be. The reflection of the moon in water looks fine and cool and sweet – it exists and is yet unreal. Likewise, in the inner skies of our consciousness It appears as Beauty and Delight, but It transcends all thought or image; who then can unravel Its mystery?

The three elements here may well represent the body, life and mind, and the Light is the inner Consciousness that rules over them. The Vedantin may say that this Light is no

Page 126

other than his Brahman whose attributes are Existence, Conscious Power and Bliss, saccidananda. It is remarkable that the Rishis of the Upanishads too speak somewhat in analogous style and. language of an Ineffable Something, which is "difficult to be seen, a secret immanent lying as in a cave or deep cavity", durdarsyam gudham-anupravistam guhahitam gahvarestham. Long before the Upanishads, the Rishis of the Rigveda also have spoken of a similar experience: Non-Being was not there nor was Being. Who was, or what it was, who can tell? Only He can tell who is the overlord of all this. Or perhaps, He too cannot tell – ye asya adhyaksa parame vyoman, so anga veda yadi va na veda.

So we see that our ancient Rishis were not so far removed after all from these Siddhacharyas. There was something about these non-conformist Tantriks that was of the essence of Vedanta; those who to an apparent view seem to have lived beyond the pale have shown themselves to be the peers

of the "respectable" classes in their manner and style as in the richness of their experience; the untouchables have made themselves as worthy of respect as the Brahmins. As we read of their experience and listen to their words, there come to mind the lines of Rabindranath:

But, as I have said in the beginning, in one respect the realisation of these Siddhacharyas has gone farther than that of the Upanishadic seers, they have taken two or three steps ahead. The Upanishads and the Vedantins stop with the realisation of the Ananda plane; saccidananda has been their limit. But these Siddhacharyas of the esoteric cult have passed beyond the realm of Delight to that of Divine Love; this Love too has changed from an inner experience to a divine Passion and Joy in the physical body. In other words, they have arrived at the experience of bodily delight with the full consciousness of the heights, effected a unique marriage

Page 127

of pure consciousness with gross matter. Theirs is not the lotus that blooms in heaven without a stem, it blossoms on earth with its roots deep in the mud. With the beauty and fragrance of the lotus petals have mingled the sap and scent of earth's soil. .

The Nihilism of the Buddhists and the Illusionism of Shankar a have cast a long shadow on these Charyapada verses. Nihil and Sahaja are often taken as being one and the same. But actually the two elements run like water and oil in separate streams in both. Nihil is no other than the Illusion of the Vedantin, but Sahaja gives a definite form to the mystic principle of the Body. That is why the Siddhacharyas say that Nihil is not an entire Negation, it is the perfect Integer, Illusion is not Unreality, it is the indivisible Whole. One of them says in clear terms that the true Nihil is that from which all irrelevant parts and fractions have fallen off: it is not the complete negation of things. In the words of Kahnu:

My mind has found the fulfilment of Nihil in Sahaja.

Who says, Kahnu does not exist?

He is always immanent in the universe,

as cream is in milk.

Are things wholly destroyed when they get broken?

Does the unending breaking of the surf make the ocean dry?

Page 128

IN ancient times, during the Roman ascendency, there was a great rhetorician, Longinus by name. According to him the greatness of any writing lies in how far it echoes the inner Self. The more developed is the soul of a poet the higher will be the poetic genius. An immature soul can hardly soar very high.

A modern English critic,¹ who appreciated this view, remarked that the present-day artistic creations are mostly insignificant and futile, for the modern world is wanting in highly developed souls. .

Not to speak of a really great soul, we have almost forgotten in these days the meaning of creation by the inner soul. The source of inspiration nowadays is the brain or the nerves or a mixture of the two in different proportions. Intellectual curiosity and nervous excitement and hunger have enveloped the whole sphere of life, consciousness and being. Anything else of deeper significance has sunk into the abyss of oblivion. In one word, 'Art for Art's sake' has been the present-day principle in the field of artistic creation. The artist does not care for any extrinsic ideal or aim. He finds his ideal and aim in himself. He grows of himself, he establishes himself and he realises himself in his own creation. Far from seeking an ideal, even beauty is no longer the aim of art. What is art? The creation of the artist. Who is the artist? He who creates himself. Very well; but what does the word 'self' signify? There's the rub. Everything

¹ F. L. Lucas, The Decline and Fall of the Romantic Ideal.

Page 129

depends on this. In ancient times the word 'self' used to signify either the Psycqic Being, which is the delegate of the Supreme Self, or the Supreme Self Itself – "Know Thyself". In modern times 'self' signifies something exoteric, the surface consciousness acting through the brain and nerves.

The moderns hold that the essence of art and artistic creation consists in complete expression of one's own self, but like the Virochana of the Upanishad, who took the body for the Self, they have applied the word 'self' to mean the consciousness acting through the nerves. But it must be admitted that they have exceeded Virochana by one step, going either within or above. They have discovered an intermediate link between the physical sheath and the higher supra-physical. In ancient times 'self' would always signify the Psychic Being and never the self-centered body.

The moderns may ask: "Is it obligatory that one should have a great soul in order to be, a great poet?" In the hoary past it was almost so. Valmiki, Vyasa and Homer rightly deserve to fall into that category. But the ancient Latin Catullus, the French poet Villon of the medieval age, most of the 'Satanic' poets of the Romantic age, and Oscar Wilde and Rimbaud of the present age – none of them are great souls or possess anything remarkably spiritual in their nature. But on that score can we ever deny or belittle their poetic genius? True, ethics and aesthetics are two radically different things, At times these two may act together. Aesthetics may come into prominence from time to time under the guidance of ethics or take its support. But there is no indivisible relation between the two.

It is here that a great confusion arises for the admirers of ethics and those of 'aesthetics. Ethics signifies morality, an ideal life and a correct conduct in one's dealings with others. But, as 'a matter of fact, we do not look upon the nature of the Psychic Being or the inner Self in that way. It is something deeper and higher than morality. Even in the absence

Page 130

of morality and good conduct the virtue of the inner Self can remain unimpaired. The virtue of the inner Self does not necessarily depend upon the good qualities of one's character. The Psychic Being is the true nature of the inherent consciousness in the being. Its manifestation may not take place in one's outer conduct or one's day-to-day activities, but it can be discerned in a peculiar turn of one's nature. Byron, in his outer life, was very uncomely and violent. But it was that self-same Byron who stood forth for the oppressed and offered his life for their freedom. Byron here represents the inner magnanimous heart. It is here, in this poetic utterance, that the urge of his inner Self has manifested itself:

Jehova's vessels hold

The godless Heathen's wine!

In his artistic creation the poet's inner Self comes to the fore. That is why it is said that the subject-matter and the way of expressing it are nothing but the real Being in the poet. The outer manifestation of this Being is of course diverse and manifold. The inner soul of Shakespeare is wide and magnanimous. It has, as it were, the quality of water. It takes up the form of that very vessel in which it is put and assumes the colour thereof. Milton's inner Being represents height, density, weight and seriousness. Dante's inner Being represents intensity, virility and Tapasya (askesis). Kalidasa's inner Being represents beauty, while that of the Upanishadic seers represents luminosity.

The truth of the inner Being escapes both character and morality. It can be grasped only through one's manners which reflect the innate nature of the inner Being. In the absence of decorum vulgarity looms large. For countless mistakes a man may be pardoned. But the vulgarity in one's manners takes man away from his status of manhood. Similarly if manners – the influence of the inner Being–

Page 131

are visible in the artistic creation, then despite many minor flaws it will look beautiful, great and precious.

In fact, we never find vulgarity in the artistic creation of any true artist. Baudelaire, Verlaine, Oscar Wilde – these creators who dived deep into the very core of natural experiences never for once lost the decorum of their inner Being. Vulgarity has no place in their language, in the expression of their creativity. The style Baudelaire adopted was purely classical – 'aristo'. On the other hand, there are moralists and religious people who badly lack the virtue of the inner Being. In all their activities rusticity and lack of culture are in abundance. The fragrance of the inner Being can neither be learnt nor acquired. It comes down with man from another world – "cometh from afar" – its manifestation takes place only in man's refined taste. Vulgarity is always wanting in genuine taste. It is, as it were, a gross tongue that gives almost an equal value to the juice of a grape and that of a corn-seed.

It is really deplorable that the ideal of vulgarity, the King of kings in expressing vulgar ideas, is an Indian. His name must needs be mentioned, for his creations are replete with vulgarity and they are spread all around like poisonous air. It is not that at present he lacks disciples and worshippers. Now who is that notability? He is our Ravi Varma. Curiously enough, his themes are mostly taken from the Puranas, that is to say, his heroes and heroines are the gods and goddesses. But what of that? He has seen them in his own light – with the eyes of an ultra-modern vulgarian. Just recollect to your memory his painting, The Descent of the Ganges. What does Mahadeva look like? He is a great wrestler like Gama or Kikkar Singh but with matted hair, wearing a tiger skin; he stands gazing at the sky with his legs apart. And the river Ganges? A film star with her hair dishevelled jumps out of an aeroplane and glides down! And colour? It is sheer gaudiness. I do not know if the vivid expression of vulgarity has attained a better perfection

Page 132

anywhere else than in the works of Ravi Varma. No doubt, there is a plebeian literature as well as a plebeian art which is simple to the extreme. These are the immature creations of the immature creator, who do not make a high claim to display in their creations. Neither do they have any ambition to do so. They express perfectly what they are. But in the painting of Ravi Varma there is an extravagant endeavour to display something infinitely more than what one actually possesses. So the presence of vulgarity is simply unbearable, nay, past correction.

Verily the greatness of the poet is the greatness of the inner consciousness. And the expression of his inner consciousness is the essence of his poetic creation. So long as this inner consciousness is vigilant and active in the poet, his creations and activities never suffer in manners. His creations will not be vitiated by gross touches. He alone is a great poet whose consciousness is hardly clouded, although it is said that even 'Homer nods'; to me the lesser poet is he who at times breaks through the cloud, and a non-poet is he who is ever strongly shrouded with indelible cloud.

Page 133

ELIOT was perhaps the first to lay down the principle that the style of poetry should be like that of prose. By prose he means the current way of talk. According to him the language should be current, if not colloquial. Common words and sentences and the order of prose will satisfy this principle of poetic diction. Even in earlier times more than one poet acted upon this principle. Wordsworth's method was of this nature:

Will no one tell me what she sings?

Or

'Tis eight o'clock, – a clear March night

The moon is up, –

But the moderns demand something still more. Merely current words and expressions won't do; common parlance, even the commonest of common, has to be adopted.

There is the style of poetic prose. It is a special feature of literature of all climes. Since the time prose writing began enriching itself, this mode of composition has been in vogue. In addition to this, there is the prose poem. It is a step to rise from prose to poetry. The next step is free verse. But what the moderns aim at is quite different from these approaches. It will as far as possible contain the structure and outer form of poetry, but the style will be of prose, i.e., its measure and rhythm will be of poetry, but the tone will

Page 134

be of prose. The French Alexandrine; the high order of twelve-line poetry of Corneille and Racine – if it is read as poetry should be, it would sound totally dry and monotonous, but if despite pause and rhyme, it is read like prose, it would reveal its beauty. Because the noted actress Rachel discovered this, she has become renowned in the world of French drama. The intention of the moderns is somewhat like this. Take, for example, Eliot; but Eliot may be considered afterwards. Let us first take the echo of a Bengali poet:

From the point of view of technique, it has been said to be flawless. One likes to characterise these lines as doggerel in English. But they are not so. From the standard of modern appreciation they are really solemn poetry. Such sort of appreciation reminds us of the Sanskrit rhetorician's wit: What is an instance of a faultless sloka or verse? – Dugdham pivati marjarah (the cat drinks milk). – How? – A sloka must have four feet. Marjara (the cat) has them. A sloka must have sweetness or rasa (lit. juice). What can be there more sweet than milk?

Let alone wit and humour. The real problem is not perhaps with the style and trend of colloquialism, but with

Page 135

something deeper. The question, no doubt, raises a special aspect, but that is a mere symptom or complexity of the disease. For the composition of all ancient poetry was neither artificial nor unnatural. Rather, the reverse is the truth. Matthew Arnold has given proof of the grand style in poetry. For example, Milton's

Fall'n cherub! to be weak is miserable

(Paradise Lost, Book I, 1. 157)

Or Dante's

E'n La sua volontade è nostra pace...¹

(La Divina Commedia 'Paradiso', III. 85)

What could be easier or more natural, more common and colloquial than such expression? Milton's line may be taken as an exception to his usual style, but the entire composition of Dante borders on popular speech. Yet the fact of the matter is not that. Even though the ancients speak in popular terms, they choose the zenith in poetry, they swim on the crest of its waves, never in its pit. The moderns choose their poetic note from the trough of the common day-to-day speech and hold fast to it, rejecting as far as possible the high note of the ancients. Hence Eliot says:

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,

Had a bad cold, nevertheless

Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe.

(The Waste Land, I)

Or

Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone

Tell her I bring the horoscope myself;

One must be so careful these days.

(Ibid.)

¹ Literally: "And His will is our peace."

Page 136

But why? What is the intention? What purpose does it serve? First of all, we do not want any more of the poetic in poetry, we do not want imagination, we do not want anything of castles in the air. We want the real, the rude, not the good and the beautiful. Strong feeling, powerful emotion – these you want. Such materials are lying about in ordinary day-to-day life; you need not soar into the skies and rummage the Heavens. The true interest and meaning of life are inherent in the workaday world's ways and manners. Not so? Well, listen further to Eliot:

HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME

HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME

Goodnight Bill. Goodnight Lou. Goodnight May.

Goodnight.

Ta ta. Goodnight. Goodnight.

Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies,

good night, good night.

(The Waste Land, II)

The thing to note here is whither this slow moving prose – don't we see that the sense has become a bit concrete? The trend has undergone a seachange and there is a flush of colour in the style – almost a blush. All is prose, indeed, prosaic in spirit, but the poet has had to playa trick – whatever be the principle; if the prose is left entirely as prose the poet's purpose is not fully served. When the poet's heart swells to overflowing, it can despite its efforts never remain in the ditch.

I say, where the heart of the poet is in depth and intensity, his voice rings with that depth and intensity. If Eliot has been a true poet, he became so when he spoke like this:

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams

In death's dream kingdom

These do not appear:

Page 137

There, the eyes are

Sunlight on a broken column.

There, is a tree swinging

And voices are

In the wind's singing

More distant and more solemn

Than a fading star.

This bit of jewel is far above his 'Madame Sosostris' or even his 'Good Night'. Theory is one thing. Reality is another. Theory is of the poet's mind, his expression tied to his fancy, but that which is real in creation is the dictate of the poet's inner Soul – which bloweth where it listeth.

One aspect of that theory is this. The subject of poetry is free from design, free from covering. Stripped of all embellishments, what is demanded is 'Sunlight on a broken column.' Things have to be seen with the unblinking eye of the burning sun. Hence truth is dust, sand and grit – hard substance reduced to powder, covered, over with an illusory soft, green layer. Wealth and prosperity are the eternal pomp and luxury of a few; as for the masses, theirs are poverty and want, disease and sorrow. The civilised man, the educated man are mere parasites. The forthright children of the earth are the poor, the wretched, the primitive and the uncivilised. One has to go down to the root of all things, in other words, to cut off the head and move towards the lower limbs. The mystery of the lotus has to be sought in the mire. The thing has to be cut and pruned and reduced to its minutest, lowest, most despicable form. Our saints and seers transformed man and raised him to the level of a spiritual seeker. In the present age too we have aimed at the same thing in the reverse direction towards the lowest. The reason why we like prose and its low-pitched movement is that we do not want to remain in the higher spheres of the mind – we like to grovel in the dust.

It is not that the petty, commonplace and insignificant

Page 138

matters of daily concern cannot be the material for poetry. These can be freely used in a poem, but it will not do to have them exclusively in the poet's consciousness which should be of another stuff. The ancient thinkers have equated the poet's consciousness with seer-vision.

The moderns do not even recognise this truth. They do not bother about the Infinite. Neither do they feel the need of it nor do they admit it for the beauty and sublimity of poetry. Their procedure is otherwise. A prosaic thing may be accepted, but it should be treated as something more than that. Otherwise there is no difference between prose and poetry. The two things seem alike. The modern poets seek to be considered poets. Hence they practically admit and establish a difference between poetry and prose.

The fundamental principle of this procedure is that the thing and the event which are subjects for poetry should be developed along with their characteristic nature and virtue. That is to say, the thing and the event should be shown as speaking for themselves without the poet speaking for them. Perhaps, it will not be much of a mistake to say that here lies the difference between the moderns and the ancients. For example, if a wasteland is taken for the subject-matter, then we do not look for the poet's account or his description of it as in the case of Kalidasa's Himalaya. If a wasteland could speak for itself, then the poet would be the organ of his speech, the poet could identify himself and be one with it. Similarly if 'hollow men' are the poet's theme, then we do not require their introduction, nor a delineation of their character. We expect such a co-ordination of rhythm, sound and sense as would suggest dryness, despair and emptiness. The wasteland must float right before our eyes; not only that, we must feel like physically walking through it when we hear:

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

Page 139

And the dry stone no sound of water. Only

There is shadow under this red rock...

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

(The Waste Land, I)

And don't we become Hollow Men when we hear the words –

The eyes are not here

There are no eyes here

In this valley of dying stars

In this hollow valley

This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms...

(The Hollow Men, IV)

It has to be admitted that Eliot by his own method has achieved considerable success in such instances.

A little before I have referred to Good Night. Various poets have variously described their parting scenes. These are perhaps the most poetic features in poetry. Othello's

Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate…

(Othello, V. ii. 324)

Or Hamlet's

... the rest is silence...

(Hamlet, V. ii. 372)

Or when Virgil's Orpheus says:

Heu sed non tua palmas...

These are the immense outpourings from the depth of the

Page 140

human heart. But the moderns tend to give such feelings a different expression. These are articulations but the moderns want not articulations but incantations. Articulations may make things beautiful and touching, no doubt, but incantations make things look lifelike. Eliot's Good Night... Good Night... and the repetition of the phrase – are they not making the parting vibration physically felt?

Another feature of their incantation is not the transparency of sense, but its mystification. For it is not the sense, but something more. Just as the aim of incantation is to have the descent of the deity, so the aim of poetry is to present the truth or the object as living and conscious. So we find that Eliot goes on ignoring reasonable sequences or the order of prose. By the impact of co-ordination of sound and suggestion he makes up his presentation of the truth. So he feels no hesitation in mixing up various tongues. He has expressed his thought by quoting even an Upanishadic utterance in one of his poems in order to prove the power of poetry as a medium of incantation. Listen:

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down.

Poi s' ascose net foco che gli affina

Quando flam ceu chelidon – O swallow swallow.

Le Prince d' Aquitaine à la tour abolie.

These fragments I have shored against my ruins.

Why then Ile fite you. Hieronymo's mad againe.

Datta. Dayadhavam. Damyata.

Shantih shantih shantih.

(The Waste Land)

This is, however, what may be called an incantation with a vengeance in poetry.

It may be thought that we have here moved a good way from the method and ideal of turning poetry with the spirit of prose. But it is not exactly so. This type of incantation is

Page 141

the quintessence of prose itself. Perhaps it may have measure but no tune.

Yet, in Bengal, we have not been able to rise to the standard of Eliot. The reason is that Eliot is highly serious and has depth of feeling. However whimsical and arbitrary may be his brains, he has behind all that an intensity of emotion, although we may not call it the joy of poetry. Those of our countrymen who want to follow Eliot's style seem to have had its form and not its spirit. However intellectualised may be the mode of modern Western poetry, it is the particular expression of Western life. Behind it there lies a profound need, an urge of life. But here in our country this sort of creation is an artificial flower. As in the social and political fields, so in the domain of poetry the modern European trend has at most to a certain degree stimulated our brain. It does not move our heart, far from touching our soul.

That poetry is incantation may be taken for granted. But incantation is of two kinds. The moderns follow the incantation of the left-wing tantriks. The ancient poets took to the Vedantic and the right-wing of the Tantra as the best.

Yat te daksina-mukham tena mam pahi nityam.

(Protect me, O Rudra, by your right aspect.)

Page 142

OBSCENITY has its place in art, but not ugliness.

Obscenity and ugliness are not the same, nor are decency and beauty.

To maintain and hide the brute in man is a characteristic feature of the civilised world, and this is what is called decency. And to expose this brute nature to daylight is obscenity.

Is there any necessity or usefulness at all in exhibiting the brute nature in any sphere of a civilised society?

Brute truth may be admitted in the world of scientific research. But the question arises whether an artist also has the same privilege. From the standpoint of the creation of beauty what purpose can obscenity serve?

Is it not mere idle talk to speak of exposing the brute nature to public view? For there have been different opinions in different times and climes as to what constitutes exposing the brute nature.

Decency is that which conforms to social rules and customs, and that means decorum in conduct. And it is natural that there should be difference in social usages in different societies and in different ages. Decency and indecency are but relative terms, they have no absolute value.

An artist may be charged with obscenity when he violates the prevalent standard of good taste in a society. But that

Page 143

need not detract in the least from the value of the beauty he creates.

A decent thing may be civil and correct, but not necessarily beautiful.

The puritans lay great stress on civility, decency and good conduct. But, on that account, it cannot be said that they are endowed with a great sense of beauty as well. History testifies otherwise. Puritan England is a glaring proof how even decency can be an embodiment of ugliness.

And the pen of Kalidasa gloriously proves that obscene things are not always bound to be ugly.

When does the obscene happen to become ugly? On coming down to a particular stage of nakedness? It does not seem to be so. The obscene may have an inseparable relation with nakedness, but surely not with ugliness. Even extreme nakedness may turn out to be supremely beautiful, owing to the attitude of the observer, by virtue of the delicate touch of the artist's brush. On the other hand, the decent appears ugly when one identifies it with untouchability; that is to say, it is so to an acute moral sense, to a profession of good taste, to prudishness; in other words, when we do not give a thing its innate, its soul value, when we fail to appreciate its proper nature and function in the universal play, but sever it from its setting in the whole and assign a false value to it, sometimes too much, sometimes too little. A thing begins, on the contrary, to grow beautiful when it imbibes a universal rhythm, wears the supremely blissful smile of creation. In the bosom of Nature everything is beautiful. The ugly is only that which is artificial and perverse. The decent is ugly when it is merely

Page 144

an outward show of purity without reflecting any inner truth. Indeed often in an inordinate attempt to protect the body from exposure, decency amounts almost to indecency.

Ugliness comes into being only when we endeavour to exhibit something, be it decent or indecent, as a truth which is not realised as such in the conscious bliss of the heart.

O artist, have you realised the bliss with which the Divine has filled the ugly and the filthy to the brim? If so, then you have acquired the philosopher's stone which transforms even the ugly into the beautiful.

When Duhshasana, the second Kaurava, unrobed Draupadi, it must have been something indecent to look at. But when Sri Krishna robbed the bathing gopi girls of their clothes, it was supremely beautiful.

The poet says, "Add the Divine to what is ugly and you will find the supremely beautiful. When you tied God to the gallows, the gallows became the Cross." ¹

There are two varieties of beauty: beauty of essence – the sap of truth – and beauty of form. Youth is beautiful, for it is handsome. Old age too has a beauty of its own, because it is the expression of a ripe and mellow experience, a long view and a large detachment. The beauty of the heavens consists in the beauty of form. The Rig Veda says: "The supreme Poet used his poetic genius and created the beautiful forms in heaven." But the earth has another delight to give – delight itself. "Of all elements the earth is essentially full of delight," so says the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad. A smile radiates the beauty of form. A deeper emotion makes tears more beautiful. Happiness is limned

¹"Attachez Dieu au gibet, vous avez la croix." – Victor Hugo

Page 145

by the beauty of form, while sorrow is carved by the depth of the feeling. We appreciate a comedy through the play of a formal beauty and a tragedy through the poignancy of an emotional substance. Ariel was handsome, hence beautiful. Caliban was high-serious, vibrant with an essential sap of Truth. Sakuntala appeals to our heart, for she was an embodiment of beauty. We can appreciate Lady Macbeth for the intensity of her sombre soul.

Kalidasa has excelled in depicting the beauties of form. Shakespeare sought not beauty but the wide surge of vital truths. Petrarch abounds in the beauty of form. He created more and yet more beauty of form. But Dante is to be appreciated rather through the poetic truths that stood out as unmoving rocks, the tremendous energy petrified as it were in the form. Our Indian poet Vidyapati was mad after the beauty of form. He expressed the pangs of his heart thus:

"Since my birth I have been seeing beauty after beauty, yet my eyes are not satiated."

Chandidas seeks the quintessential substance (rasa). His heart is dipped in this soul-sap. The form given to beauty is therefore somewhat less impressive in him – he evokes more the being and less the becoming (speaking metaphysically).

Rasa and rupa are however in the end the two wings of poetic beauty, and the perfect poetic beauty marries the two in an indivisible unity – although actually that is a rare phenomenon.

Page 146

(I)

TO-DAY we just want to study Rabindranath the man and not the poet Rabindranath. The poet may raise a slight objection – he may say that if we want truly to evaluate him we must consider him as a poet. What he has done or not done as a man is insignificant; he has stored up in his poetry whatever eternal and everlasting was there in him, in his true being and real nature. The rest is of no real significance or value. In that respect he may not have a good deal of difference from others, any marked speciality. The greatest recognition of a poet lies in his poetical works. To give prominence to his other qualities is to misunderstand and belittle him.

But in dealing with Rabindranath the man we are not going to concern ourselves with his worldly and household life. We are going to study the real man in him whose one aspect has manifested in the poet Rabindranath. Perhaps that real man may have had his best and greatest manifestation in his poetry; still the truth, the realisation, the achievement of the inner soul that wanted to reveal themselves through that manifestation are our topic.

Beauty is the chief and essential thing in the poetic creation of Rabindranath. He appreciates beauty and makes others do the same in a delightful manner. He has made his poetical work the embodiment of all beauties culled from all places little by little, whether in the domain of nature or in the inner soul, or in body, mind and speech. Beautifulis his diction.

Page 147

Mellowness of word and the gliding rhythm have perhaps reached their acme. Charming is his imagination. Varied and fascinating are the richness and intricacy of thought and the fineness and delicacy of feeling. The themes of his narratives are attractive in themselves. He has made them more beautiful and decorative by clothing them in the most graceful words of subtle significance.

The mango buds fall in showers,

The cuckoo sings.

Intoxicated is the night,

Drunk with moonlight.

"Who are you that come to me,

O compassionate one?"

Asks the woman.

The mendicant replies:

"O Vasavadutta, the time is ripe

To-night; so to you I come."

Or

The stars drop in the lap of the sky

From the chain hanging down to your breast.

The heart is overwhelmed with ecstasy

In the core of Man's being:

Blood runs riot in his veins.

Suddenly your girdles give way

On the horizon, O naked beauty!

What a visionary world of matchless and unique beauty is unveiled before the mind's eye! That is the true Rabindranath, the creator of such magic wonders. Perfect 'perfection of beauty is inherent in the nature of his inner being. The advance he has made in respect of knowledge and power has been far exceeded by that of beauty. Knowledge and power have a subordinate place in his consciousness.

Page 148

They have been the obedient servitors of beauty. Rabindranath's soul seems to have descended from the world of the Gandharvas who are the divine Masters of music. This Gandharva saw the light of day to express and spread something of real beauty in the earthly life. His mission and performance were to manifest beauty in all possible ways. Many have contributed to the creation of beauty in poetry and there are works which are supreme in poetic beauty. There is no doubt that Tagore is one of the foremost among them. But the especiality of Rabindranath lies in the fact that the poet in his inner soul permeated his whole being. Even if he had not written any poetry his life itself would have been a living work of beauty. He himself was handsome in person. Sweet was his speech. Attractive was his decorous demeanour. Beauty was stamped on his inner nature and outer activities.¹ He was all along creating beauty around him and. proceeding from beauty through higher beauties towards the supreme Beauty.

It has been already said that Rabindranath's inner Being was a creator of beauty. But this beauty he has expressed more through the vibrations of rhythm than through the modelling of form except in some of his supreme utterances. We notice that the greater stress of his fine art has been laid on movement than on static beauty and more on the gesture of limbs than on their limned outline. We find that his poetic creation has been more akin to the art of music and of the dance than that of sculpture and architecture. He has attained to sheer beauty through movement and not through immobility, not so much through sight as through sound. The poet eagerly wants to listen to and seize upon the tunes of rhythms that overflow in a silent urge behind the external forms or structures, the life-vibrations that have manifested in the creation echoing with

¹ Here we are reminded of the words that Rabindranath himself used in his eulogy of Ramendra Sundar Trivedi: "O Ramendra Sundar! beautiful is your heart, beautiful your speech and beautiful your smile."

Page 149

sounds. The poet wants to bring out the suggestiveness behind the significance of words, the incorporeal import comprised in the sentence otherwise framed in ordinary words.

The poet says:

His Face my eyes have not met,

Nor have I heard his Voice.

At each hush do I hear

The sound of his footsteps.

Further:

He who is beyond the flight of mind,

His Feet through my songs

Do I barely touch,

But myself I lose in the ecstasy of melody.

We note that even where he has given a definite form to beauty he has not put it forward as a fixed point of concentration. He has set forth beauty in its moving liquid form. For example –

The showers come rushing to the fore,

The tender paddy plants move to and fro

With no respite.

The dance, the rhythmic movement have given whatever form beauty has. On the whole we can describe the goddess of poetry of Kalidasa as standing, in his own words, 'immobile like a movement depicted on a picture,' but in the creation of Rabindranath we see that 'the singing nymph passes by breaking the trance –.'

In every turn of all these' varied forms of cadence and vibration there is an ecstasy, the dying curve of a soft tune that gathers in its fall all the sweetnesses that the movement

Page 150

was carrying – the whole merging as it were into a sea of rich peace and silence. The poet's eloquence is most intimately married to his silence. On one side, his vital being, athirst for delight, is overwhelmed with the mass of Nature's wealth, luxuriant in colours and smells, in peals of laughter and rhythms of dance; his senses enamoured of beauty are eagerly prone to hug the richness of external things; he wants to seize upon the Self, God, through the embrace of the senses and the fivefold life-force. Still, there is the other side where through all these varied vicissitudes, his aim finally settles in "the vast peace that lies in the core of peacelessness."

In the midst of his play with the world of action and commotion in which gross words play about loudly and ruthlessly, often he leaves them behind and in his ideas and suggestions he climbs up to a subtler plane where the rhythm, the tune, not the vocable comes to the forefront. The music, the pure music fills up the background and is not overwhelmed by the concatenation of words and phrases that lead perhaps to a physical preciseness but also to a certain grossness. That music has in it a purity, serenity, lightness, sweetness and beauty that uttered syllables have not.

For, there

Unheard voices innumerable

Exchange their whispers in the void.

In their silent c1amour

Unformed thoughts move forward

Band by band.

So the aspiration of the poet is:

I would go with the lyre

Of my life to the One

In whose measureless halls

Page 151

Songs not audible to the ear

Are sung eternally.¹

There is something here like what the ancient Greeks used to call the music of the spheres.

We discover almost the primal urge of beauty and the fount of rhythm. It seems we are at the point when the creation began to assume forms at the first vibrations of life – all proceed from the vibrant life – Sarvam pranam ejati nihsrtam – this mantra of the Upanishad was very dear to Rabindranath and he cited it very often. Rabindranath was a worshipper of Brahman, but more of the Brahman as the primal sound, the original wave, the vibrating note that is to manifest in creation. And the unique success he attained in the cult of this Deity of his heart is the speciality and glory of his poetical creation. In the following mantra Rabindranath depicts the image of his Deity as experienced in trance:

The note has ceased

But it would linger still ceaselessly,

The lute plays on although in silence,

Although without necessity.

(2)

There is an inner discipline for the attainment of Truth and Good. Truth and Good were the objects of sadhana to Rabindranath from the aspect of their beauty and grace. He did not worship them so much for their own sake as because the real Truth and Good are really and supremely beautiful. And they attracted him only because of their beauty.

¹ Here we may recall:

"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter."

Page 152

Love is a main theme of his poetry and he is a loving personality. In the terms of the Vaishnava sadhaka he is a graceful personality, 'Supurusha'. But his love too is the quintessence of beauty. So his love speaks to him:

You have taken me by the hand to the Elysian garden of bloom,

the abode of immortality – to shine in my eternal youth there, like the Gods.

Limitless is my beauty there.

Rabindranath did not enjoy love for its own sake as did Chandidas. Beauty has found its highest revelation and acme in love. So he had to become a lover. The ultramodern experience has separated love from beauty, rather it is trying to bring about a union with ugliness. In that sense Rabindranath is very ancient, treading the Eternal Path.

The beauty depicted by Rabindranath consists in harmony, synthesis, contentment, serenity and tranquillity. Wherever there is conflict, roughness, crudity, harshness, there no beauty is found, there a rhythm is broken, the flow is hampered, the tune is disturbed, here is some flaw in the movement. It is why Rabindranath's God is supremely beautiful, loving and graceful. And

The entire abode is flooded with the charm of His face.

Therefore the daily prayer to his Beloved is also:

Make me pure, bright and beautiful, O my Lord!

And

Let all things beautiful in life resound to the melody of music.

Page 153

God is God because He is the golden thread running through all things of the universe.

All are unified in your consciousness wide awake.

Rabindranath's philanthropy or altruism is the outcome of this union; it is brought about by the attraction of the beauty of this union. The whole creation is adorable, a desired prize. "We live and move and have our being in the effulgent delight of the ether." For a supremely sweet harmony pervades the creation. Rabindranath's ideal of the vast human collectivity has also been inspired by this sense of harmony. All the nations, all the countries of the world, keeping' still their speciality and distinction, will stand united with one another – the human society will thus attain to a flawless beauty. The rivalry among equals, the tyranny of the superior over the inferior; again, the slave-mentality of the low before the high – all such abject habits must be renounced, because they are harsh, ugly and devoid of beauty. Peace, love, generosity and friendship can make men beautiful individually and collectively.

At the root of Rabindranath's patriotism also there lies the same love for beauty. The lack of beauty in slavery tortured him more than anything else. The ugliness of poverty was more unbearable to him than the actual physical destitution. If he could have viewed the wants of life at their own value like Mahatma Gandhi then he would have at least once plied the spinning wheel. But to him ease or affluence by itself has no importance. Affluence would have its real value if it contributed to the rhythm of life. That is why his patriotism laid a greater stress on construction than on destruction. To settle things amicably, instead of attacking the enemy, instead of wrangling with the foreigners, to put one's own house in order, to repair and beautify was considered by him a real work to be- done. To build is to create. To create is to fashion a thing beautifully. The

Page 154

ideal of his patriotic society has to foster all limbs of the collective life of the entire nation, to make it a united organism, to endow it with the beauty of forms and rhythm in action.

So we say that the beautiful poetry and the poetry of beauty written by him are even surpassed by the beauty that he brought down into our life, particularly in the life of Bengal. The whole contribution of Rabindranath is not exhausted by his poetical works. Firstly, his was the inspiration that formed around him a world of fine arts, a new current of poetry, painting, music, dance and theatre. Secondly, his was the life-energy whose vibration created in our country a refined taste and a capacity for subtle experience. Through his influence a consciousness has awakened towards appreciation of beauty. Thirdly, the thing which is, in a way, of greater value is this that if there has been a gradual manifestation of order and beauty in our ordinary daily life, in dress and decoration, in our conversation and conduct, at home and in assemblies, in articles of beauty and their use, then, at the root of it all, directly or indirectly the personality of Rabindranath was undoubtedly at work.

Among Indians, the Bengalis are supposed to have particularly acquired a capacity for appreciation of beauty. That this acquisition has been largely due to the contribution of the Tagore family can by no means be denied. We do not know how we fared in this respect in the past. Perhaps our sense of beauty was concerned with the movements of the heart or at most with material objects of art. Perhaps, we had never been the worshippers of beauty in the outer life like the Japanese. Yet whatever little we had of that wealth of perfection within or without had died away for some reason or other. The want of vitality, the spirit of renunciation, poverty, despair, sloth, an immensely careless and extreme indiscipline made our life ugly. At length the influence that had especially manifested around Rabindranath came to our rescue and opened a new channel to create beauty.

Page 155

Why should we speak of our own country alone, why should we try to keep his influence confined to Bengal or India only? I believe Europe, the West, have honoured him so much not primarily for his poetry. The modern world, freed from its life devoid of beauty due to the unavoidable necessity of technology and machinery of utility and efficiency, was eager at last to follow in the footsteps of Rabindranath to enter into an abode of peace and beauty, a garden of Eden.

Page 156

(I)

BENGALI literature has reached the stage of modernism and even ultra-modernism. This achievement is, we may say point-blank, the contribution of Rabindranath. Not that the movement was totally absent before the advent of Rabindranath. But it is from him that the current has received the high impetus and overflooded the mind and the vital being of the Bengali race. We can recall here the two great artists who commenced modernism – Madhusudan and Bankim. But in their outlook there was still a trace of the past, in their ideas and expressions there was an imprint of the past. The transition from Ishwar Gupta and Dinabandhu to Bankim and Madhusudan – not from the viewpoint of time but from that of quality – is indeed a revolution. Within a short span of years the Bengali way of thinking and the refinement of their taste have taken a right-about turn. It was Bankim and Madhusudan who have placed Bengali literature on the macadamized road of modernism. Still, while walking on that road, somehow we were not able to shake off completely the touch of clay under the feet and the smell of swampy lands around. It was Tagore's mastercraft that enabled Bengali literature to drive in coachand-four through the highways. Not only so, in addition he has enriched and developed it to such an extent that we feel, pursuing the image, as if we could safely drive there the motor car or even the railway train.

The term modern, no doubt, relates to the present time,

Page 157

but there is in it a factor of space as well. It is the close communion among the different countries of the world that has made modernism modern. The relation of give-and-take among many and various countries and races has given each country a new atmosphere and a new character. The newness that has thus developed is perhaps the fundamental feature of modernism. Bankim and Madhusudan were modern, for they had infused the European manner into the artistic consciousness of Bengal. Europe itself is indeed the hallowed place, the place for pilgrimage of our epoch. Humanity in the modern age plays its great role in Europe. So to come into contact with Europe is to become modern – to take one's seat at the forefront in the theatre of the world. Thus it is that Japan has become modern in Asia. And China lagged behind for want of this contact. In India it was the Bengalis who first of all surpassed all others in adopting European ways. That is why their success and credit have no parallel in India. From Bharatchandra, Ishwar Gupta even up to Dinabandhu the genius of Bengal I was chiefly and fundamehtal1y Bengal's own. The imagination, experience and consciousness of the Bengalis had been I till then confined to the narrow peculiarities of the Bengali race. Bankim and Madhusudan broke the barrier of provincialism and cast aside all parochialism and narrowness of Bengalihood and brought in the imagination, consciousness, manners and customs of other lands.

Rabindranath too has done the same, but in a subtler, deeper and wider way. Firstly, at the dawn of modernism, the two currents, foreign and indigenous, though side by side did not get quite fused. They stood somewhat apart though contiguous. There was a gulf between – a difference, even a conflict – as of oil and water. In Madhusudan these two discordances were distinct and quite marked. It was in the works of Bankim that a true synthesis commenced. Still, on the whole, the artistic creation of that age was something like putting on a dhoti with its play of

Page 158

IF Bengali has become a world language transcending its form of a provincial sub-tongue, then at the root of it there is Rabindranath. To-day its richness has become so common and natural that we cannot conceive immediately that it was not so before Tagore's mighty and ceaseless 'creation worked at it for half a century. I am not speaking of the literature, I am speaking only of the richness of the vocabulary, the diversity of the speech form, its modes and rhythms. The capacity of a language lies in its power of expression, that is to say, how many subjects can it express itself on and how appropriately? In the gradual progression of the Bengali language Bankimchandra was one of the main and foremost stepping-stones. But in Bankim's time Bengali was only in its adolescence – at best, its early youth – its formation and movement were rather narrow, experimental and prone to uncertainty. In Rabindranath we find it in its full-blossoming, mature capacity, definiteness and diversified genius. The growth and spread of Bengali has not reached its culmination, the process is still in full swing. And I need not dwell here upon its still more advanced stage and maturity in the future. Up to Bankim's time, the modern and therefore somewhat European way of thought and expression did not come naturally to Bengali – it became difficult, laboured, artificial: e.g., 'An enquiry into the relation between other phenomena and human nature' of Akshay Kumar Dutta or even 'Bodhodaya' of Ishwar Chandra. It was Bankimchandra who was the

Page 169

pioneer in whose hand this line of development attained something like an ease and naturalness of manner. Even then it was no better than a beginning. But to-day Bengali possesses the capacity to express easily and adequately any literature from Greenland to Zululand, from the most ancient Egypt and Babylon down to modern Europe and America. The goddess of speech who inspired Tagore is a maker of miracles. It was Tagore who, it might be said, all by himself worked this mighty change and transformation.

Directly – and more indirectly, that is to say, through an impalpable influence – it was his personality that lay behind this achievement.

Should a catalogue be ever made of the new words coined by Rabindranath, it would be a very instructive lesson. Numerous are the words – old words found only in the dictionary – that he has made current coin. In the same way innumerable are the words – used one time colloquially or in a regional dialect – that Rabindranath has elevated to the level of literary distinction. Moreover, he had a special genius in coining words and that expressed a characteristic trait of his creative genius. Primarily, his words seem to spring from the heart, from the élan vital, natural to the Bengali consciousness. There were two rocks on .his way to linguistic transformation. And he beautifully escaped and eluded them both. On the one hand, there is no heaviness in him, none of the massiveness of correct and flawless words composed by pedants and grammarians. On the other hand, there is no grotesqueness, nothing of what personal whim and. fancy and idiosyncrasy engender. If his words in their structure break certain strict rules and regulations, they yet are quite in tune with the inner nature and form of the language; if free, they are still natural. Secondly, the grace and beauty of the words raise no question. A word, in order to fulfil its role, must have an easy and inherent power of expression – it must be living and full of vitality. Still more it must be sweet and beautiful.

Page 170

In the lexicography of Tagore all these qualities are in abundance. Moreover, in his language there is nothing squalid, lifeless, heavy, feeble, harsh and jarring to the ear; indeed, his language is perfectly graceful, beautiful and nonpareil from all sides –

"Graceful, more graceful, the most beautiful surpassing all beautiful things."

Tagore's Goddess of speech is a pinnacled exquisiteness of beauty, harmony, balance and skill. Bankim's language also is beautiful and graceful – it is not rough and masculine; it is also charming but there is not in it such profusion, intensity and almost exclusiveness of grace, sweetness, beauty and tenderness as are found in Rabindranath. Prodigality, luxuriance and even complexity are hall-marks of Tagore's style. Bankim's is more simple and straight and transparent, less decorating and ambulating. There is in Bankim what is called decorum, restraint, stability and clarity, qualities of the classics; he reminds us of the French language – the French of Racine and Voltaire. In Rabindranath's nature and atmosphere we find the blossoming heart of the Romantics. That is why the manner of his expression is not so much simple arid straight as it is skillful and ornamental. There is less of transparency than the play of hues. Eloquence overweighs reticence. Echoes and pitches of many kinds of different thoughts, sentiments and emotions intermingle – his language moves on spreading all around, sparkling at every step. Subtlety of suggestion, irony and obliquity, a lilting grace of movement carry us over, almost without our knowing it, to the threshold of some other world. Rabindranath's style is neither formed nor regulated by the laws and patterns of reason, the arguments and counter-arguments of logic. It is an inherent discernment, the choice of a deep and aspiring idealism, the poignant power of an intuition welling out of a sensitive

Page 171

heart, that have given form and pace to his language. Reason or argument in itself finds no room here. That is only an indirect support of a direct feeling, a throb in vitality. This language has no love, no need for set rules, for a prescribed technique, so that it may attain to a tranquil and peaceful gait. It has need of emotion, impetus and sharpness. It is like the free stepping of a lightning flare, as if an Urvasie dancing in Tagore's own hall of music.

But it does not mean that this language is overflowing with mere emotion. Here too there is a regulated order and restraint. The ultimate growth and perfection of a language has something of the rhythm of an athlete's body in movement – in the steadied measure of the strides of a sprinter, for example. The transparency of intelligence as reflected in the classical manner, the firmness and fixity delivered by reason, the simplicity of syllogistic orderliness are not to be found here. But in our poet's creation, even in his prose the logic of intelligence may not be evident but there is a logic of feeling which is still, cogent and convincing, yet more living and dynamic.

As regards the third creator of Bengali literature, I mean Saratchandra, we may notice here the difference between him, and Tagore. The language of Saratchandra is as straight, translucent and simple as that of Bankim; but Bankim was not always averse to decoration and embellishment, whereas Saratchandra was wholly without any ornamentation. But the demand of reason and rationality is not the cause of Saratchandra's simplicity. It is because he has shaped his language to suit the common thought, the available feeling, a natural life. But he has polished it in his own way and made it extremely bright, often scintillating. With all its clarity and directness Bankim's language is for the cultured mind – urban or metropolitan, Saratchandra's manner can be called rural. It will be wrong to call it vulgar, even in the Latin sense (plebeina or popular), that is, commonplace – or a language of the country-side.

Page 172

The similarity between Saratchandra and Tagore is that both are progressive, rather very progressive, speedy, rather very speedy, but there is a dissimilarity in the manner of their progressiveness and speed. Tagore's Muse moves speedily but in a zigzag way, observing all sides, throwing out various judgments and opinions, scattering flashes all around. Here are all the playful lines of a baroque painting at its best. Saratchandra goes straight to his goal – as straight as it is possible for a romantic soul to be. He allows himself, we may say, a curvilinear path, as that of an arrow heading direct towards its goal. There is a vibration lent to it by the drive of a flashing Damascus blade. It is flexible and yet firm. The flow of Tagore can be compared to that of a fountain – it is rich in sounds and hues. Saratchandra's is the light-pinioned bird that flies in the sky in silence. We find in Bankim a wide calm, happiness, clarity and beauty. In Tagore it is a tapestry woven by the free outpourings of the mind and the heart. In Saratchandra it is the dynamic simplicity of a vitality meaning business.

I spoke of Rabindranath's ornamentation. But we must bear in mind that this ornament is not an ostentatious one. Not in the least heavy, loaded, luxurious like that which an old-world beauty carried on her limbs; it is as light as the jewellery which a belle puts on to-day. The tapestry of myriad forms has been wrought in gold threads, made thin and fine and almost tenuous and yet firmly holding together. This embroidery is beauteousness itself, for it is a work subtle and refined and meant to be beautiful. It is a beauty requiring no outer grandeur, no wrought-out gold and satin of volubility and rhetoric. It bears in its own limbs, as it were, the glow of an inherent grace and charm.

To-day the Bengali language is eager and zealous to go forward for an ever new creation. It is quite natural that it may go astray at times in the hands of many of its adorers. In this connection it is good to bear in mind and to

Page 173

keep to the fore the example of Rabindranath as a supreme exemplar even if one does not want to follow or imitate him. Rabindranath himself has also created many new things from his aristocratic pedestal, even he came down and attempted the ultra-modern style. But his speciality and power lie here that he has never transgressed the limit of the beautiful and the appropriate. Besides, wherever or however far he might have ranged, he has given beauty its supreme place. In following the new and modern style he has founded everywhere beauty and bloom and fulfilment. And at the same time he has laid bare his inner soul.

Page 174

IT is no hyperbole to say that Tagore is to Bengali literature what Shakespeare is to English, Goethe to German, Tolstoy to Russian, or Dante to Italian and, to go into the remoter past, what Virgil was to Latin and Homer to Greek or, in our country, what Kalidasa was to ancient Sanskrit. Each of these stars of the first magnitude is a king, a paramount ruler in his own language and literature, and that for two reasons. First, whatever formerly was immature, undeveloped, has become after them mature, whatever was provincial or plebian has become universal and refined; whatever was too personal has come to be universal. The first miracle performed by these great figures was to turn a

parochial language and a parochial literature into a world language and a world literature. The second was to unfold the inner strength and the deeper genius of the language to reveal and establish the nature and uniqueness of a nation's creative spirit as well as the basic principle of its evolution and culture. These two ways, one tending to expansion, the other to profundity, are in many cases mutually dependent and are often the result of a sudden or rapid outburst.

Ballad and folklore are the infant or immature form of a language and literature. Polished and powerful language and literature develop out of that and only subsequently attain their full blossoming. In this respect Dante's marvel is almost without parallel. The language he used in clothing his poetry was a popular dialect; one among various other popular dialects – this he turned into the language of Italy

Page 175

as a whole, the Italian language as it stood before the eyes of the world. A music and rhythm of a great and lofty consciousness infused itself into the elements that had lain neglected in the dust. The voice confined within the four corners of the household and the village underwent a miraculous change in the mouth of a magician; it became a voice of the universe. And, in a language and a literature that are not so immature but have already attained development and elegance, a creative vibhuti has brought about a second type of-transformation. Virgil, Shakespeare, Goethe and Kalidasa did a work of this category. It cannot be said that English was undeveloped or quite rustic before Shakespeare, although the image of the grandly real, something truly familiar and intimate that Shakespeare evokes in the heart of foreigners is not given by Spencer, Chaucer or even Marlowe. Shakespeare has revealed something of the universal in the very special style he created – here was a diversity, a plasticity, a suggestiveness, a magic all its own.

There is some difference between the history of French literature and that of any other. First, the French language and literature have grown and matured not through a sudden change or a revolutionary transmutation – their growth and development are the result of a slow and steady process of evolution. In English, on the other hand, the sense of growth seems to consist of a rapid change. In the political field, however, the English and the French have pursued quite reversed policies. The battle for liberty by the English continued from precedent to precedent – the French had always to win freedom through revolutions. But the other speciality of the French literary spirit is the fact that there was no single person who had a kind of all-in-all authority, – although in politics, in old France at least, it was often one man's rule, the tradition of the Roman Imperator, that prevailed. In the literary field among the instances cited we find that each nation had a single person of authority, a specially gifted one who moulded its language and literature

Page 176

by the magic touch of his own genius or made them fully mature and self-sufficient. The French are a very social race – they are proud to be called republican, so it is by the combined effort of many, the contribution of more than one genius, that their language and literature have been formed and enriched. Corneille, Racine, Molière, La Fontaine (or up the stream to Rabelais) – they are a goodly company; among these whom to exclude and whom to include? And yet here too, perhaps only one can be taken as France's representative spirit. He can be only Racine. Racine embodies in himself, as no other does so completely, the special characteristic of the French and reflects the heart of the French people. What is that characteristic? In one word, the culmination of elegance and sensitiveness. To be sure, this is not the only aspect of the French. Corneille has contributed to another aspect – severity, virility, high seriousness, austere self-control, strictness and bareness. But this may be considered a special quality of a branch line, as it were, of the French language and literature, as if it was an acquired capacity, the sign of a growth towards a greater possibility – but in regard to the other it may be said that what Racine is the French language and literature; their inherent quality is a spontaneous formation out of the inner soul of this great creator.

These thoughts about the genius of French occurred to me because it seemed to me that there was a marked analogy in this respect between French and Bengali. Certainly it would not be quite' correct to say that the evolution of the Bengali language was slow and steady like that of French. At least one upheaval, a revolution, has taken place on its coming into contact with Europe; under its influence our language and literature have taken a turn that is almost an about-turn. But this revolution was not caused by a single person. Dante and Homer are the creators, originators or the peerless presiding deities of Italian and Greek respectively. Properly speaking Tagore may not be classed

Page 177

with them. But just as Shakespeare may be said to have led the English language across the border or as Tolstoy made the Russian language join hands with the wide world or as Virgil and Goethe imparted a fresh life and bloom, a fuller awakening of the soul of poetry, to Latin and to German, so too is Tagore the paramount and versatile poetic genius of Bengal who made the Bengali language transcend its parochial character. I think that Tagore has in many ways the title and position of a Racine amongst us. There is a special quality, a music and rhythm, a fine sensibility of the inner soul of Bengal. Its uniqueness is in its heart; a sweet ecstasy, an intoxicating magic which Chandidas was the first to bring out in its poignant purity and which has been nourished by Bankim, has attained the full manifestation of maturity, variety, intensity and perfection in Rabindranath. Here too an aspect of supreme elegance is found. Bengali, like French, has a natural ease of flow. Madhusudan took up another line and sought to bring in an austere and masculine element - à la Corneille. Some among the modern writers are endeavouring to revive that line and naturalise it; even then the soft elegance, the lyric grace so natural to the language has attained almost its acme in Tagore. To be sure, among us Tagore is the one without a second.

Page 178

(I)

IN Rabindranath, in his life as well as in his art, especially in his poetry, the thing that has taken shape is what we call aspiration, an upward urge and longing of the inner soul. In common parlance it is a seeking for the Divine, in philosophical terms it is a spiritual quest. But Rabindranath is a poet, and he is a modern poet. He cannot be wholly included in the older category, fixed in a mould of clear definition. To be sure, the special characteristic of his consciousness is to keep as far as possible the aim, the ideal, the goal and the Deity of the worship indivisible and indefinable. To make' something definite and clear is to limit and make it gross and material. Therefore to name the Deity whom he loves, adores and worships he has used words that are expansive, general and vague – infinite, boundless, formless and non-manifest. If the Deity appears in a manifested form the worship of the worshipper ends. The Deity also will no longer be a Deity of the worship. But it does not mean that the Deity of Rabindranath is the One beyond sound, touch, form and change' of the Upanishad. His aspiration is for another realisation of the Upanishad:

"One who has taken this form, that form and all the forms."

Or

"He being bodiless dwells in the forms and non-forms as well."

Page 179

That supreme truth cannot be called formless simply because it has no special form. He is formless since His form has no limit. He is not exclusively bound by any special form. He is not merely infinite and boundless but also delightful and ambrosial. He is endearing and with His endearing form He dwells behind all forms. It cannot be said definitely whether He is seen or not through forms – in this way He attracts the soul of man perpetually towards Him.

Rabindranath has not seen his Beloved with his eyes open. He has not sensed Him with unblinking eyes, nor even has he wished to do so. His delight and achievement consist in making Him mysterious and nebulous by keeping Him aloof, and veiling Him in innumerable names, forms, colours, rhythms, hints, gestures, ways and means. That object is infinite and boundless; it is more so, because it is unknown and unfamiliar or almost so.

It is, as it were, a damsel unfamiliar, remote and fond of mirth and play. It is a constant separation from the Beloved – though it is an object of deep love – that has made this love intense, sweet and poignant, moving and overflowing. Such a longing for the far-off Beloved made Shelley restless. His 'Skylark' is the living idol of this longing. Shelley's object of love also is a Deity dwelling in a distant world:

The desire of the moth for the Star,

Of the night for the morrow,

The devotion to something afar –

From the sphere of our sorrow.

This is equally the quintessence of Tagore's message. For this reason people brought up in European culture used to call Rabindranath the Shelley of Bengal. There is a close kinship between the two in this upward urge.

This spiritual aspiration was called quest in the scriptures of the West. The quest .of the Knights for the Holy Grail

Page 180

inflamed the heart of Europe to a great extent for a time. Its art and literature bear abundant indication of this. I bring in the West here, for the poetic consciousness of Rabindranath is no less shaped by the West than by the Upanishads. In many cases we see that as the Vedanta is in his inner Being, in the marrow of his bones, so there is Europe in his poetic consciousness, in flesh and blood. Rabindranath is a unique blending of these two.

However, due to the unique quality of the aspiration, curiosity and seeking which we have mentioned as being in his heart, two qualities are perceptible in his poetical style. First, the Style, the speed, the swing of rhyme and rhythm and the cadence of tune. Starting from 'Nirjharer Swapna Bhanga', the awakening of the fountain, 'My heart dances to-day', and 'Lo, he comes, he comes with rapture', to 'the restless, irresistible flutterings of the wings', of 'Balaka', the same style shows itself in a fast and almost merry stepping. A restlessness for an uninterrupted forward march of the soul and the inner consciousness to proceed ever still more, still further, still higher is the nature of the divine flame residing in the heart. So the delight of journeying incessantly, without a halt anywhere in any shelter, journeying for the sake of journeying – this becomes the aim and ideal of man's life. The Vedic Mantra – 'caraiueti', 'move, move on' – was therefore so dear to Tagore. Is there such a thing as a definite and fixed ideal? We surpass the aim of today and another appears on the horizon. Today's high precipice is left behind as a foothill. A higher precipice looms ahead, and behind it rears one still higher, thus an unending range. There is no stopping, never say there is 'no further'.

The message of the poet's heart runs:

To every one Thou hast given a home,

Me only the road to press on.

Page 181

Or

O there is no home for you,

No bed of flowers,

Only two wings and the vast expanse

Of the sky.

O Soul, O Bird of my heart!

Close not, O blind one, your wings.

Further:

O Charioteer of my life's journey!

I am a pilgrim on the eternal road,

I bow to Thee on my wayfaring.

This sense of ever progressive movement is very evident in Rabindranath. Several critics have compared Bergson with him in this connection. There is much similarity between the two; but, I think, their difference also is vital and fundamental. The progression of Bergson is the final, ultimate, sole and primeval truth. It is mere progressiveness without any cause. It is doubtful if it has any other quality. A line of evolution may be noticed there but that is a secondary sign of this progression. There is no purpose behind it. If there be any, then this movement loses its natural, spontaneous rhythm. But Tagore is a child of the Orient. However enamoured he might be of progressiveness, there is somewhere behind him "the static poise in home" of the Upanishads. However great might be his advance for the sake of advance, he knows after all that there is:

Peace boundless where comes a mighty halt

Quiet, sublime, deep and silent Glory.

Page 182

The movement in Rabindranath is not for its own sake, neither aimless nor eyeless. It is open to the light, it is luminous.

Each star of the sky invites the human soul.

The invitation to him is from all the worlds,

To the horizon of the East in teeming light.

Again,

Let thy deathless flower bloom towards the light

In the world and the worlds beyond, ever anew.

We have said that this movement is fundamentally a spiritual aspiration, a longing for the Divine – this aspiration and this longing are sweet, deep and penetrating and at once refined and transparent. The élan vital of Bergson is mainly a movement of nature and the life-force, however he might have tried to put on it towards the end a veneer of spirituality, of Christian religiosity.

Indeed this dynamism has given a unique stamp to Tagore's mode of expression. The peace and silence about which he specks often dwell in the consciousness hidden at the core as a refuge or as a hope and anticipation, an intimation from beyond – even as there is a pause in the heart of rhythm or at the end of a bar of tune there is a stillness. Cadence in Tagore represents the movement of progression in life and consciousness. The natural echo of time-flow and sound and melody and motion we find in the following lines:

Whoever moves goes on singing

To the land of abundance.

Or,

Farther and farther

The road goes on ringing with a thin, poignant,

Lengthening note.

Page 183

Dance and music almost run abreast. From the viewpoint of spiritual realisation we find that aspiration and invocation have the same origin. The spontaneous utterance of the heart is but the. mounting self-revelation and self-declaration of the aspiration.

All that I have not attained,

All that I have not struck

Are vibrating on the chords

Of thy Lyre.

Let us recollect in this connection Shelley's

And singing still dost soar and soaring ever singest.

Tagore is known to us as music incarnate. The simple, natural form of his poetic soul has expressed itself through songs and lyrics.

Let us now deal with the second quality that derives from a free, unbarred movement and proceeds towards the indefinable at its best. According to many a critic it is a great flaw. To some it means nothing but ambiguity, while to others it is, to say the least, lack of objectivity. Let us examine it. Listen, for example,

The teeming clouds rumble

With heavy showers.

Alone I sit on the rim of the rill

Empty of hope.

Sheaves of sickled paddy are collected in heaps;

The fleeting current of the river, full to the brim,

Is chill to the touch.

Rains interrupt the harvest-work.

Our mind and heart are carried away by the seductive charm of beautiful language, fine rhythm and an enchanting

Page 184

picture. But our physical eyes fail to seize a meaningful substance or a direct and clear experience behind the words. No doubt, evidently there is an effort to formulate some realisation, but nothing solid has been achieved. Everything is fluid and thin and tenuous, about to vanish like vapour. That is why critics of the classical school accused Tagore of obscurity and enigmatic vagueness – all a play of whims, caprices and fancies – the clear, direct and positive certainty of the truth-seer is lacking there – Rabindranath cannot sing in unison with the Vedic sages, jyok ca Saryam drse" – "May we behold the Sun with open and undazed eyes."

To some extent, perhaps, it is true that if we compare Tagore with those who stand on the peaks in world literature, we find in their creation an utmost, flawless harmony and synthesis between speech and substance, while in Tagore we find on the whole speech carrying more weight than substance and this is why his poetic genius, as it were, somewhat falls short of perfect perfection – except in a few instances. But that, it may be answered, would be demanding something from Tagore which is not germane to his nature and genius; it would be, as it were, to measure him by a standard different from his own. To be sure, substance does not mean mere wealth of clear intellectual thoughts or solidity of subject-matter. Substance means the real essence, the very core, the thing in itself, a delight-truth gleaned in consciousness, made vibrant with life. And it may be said that even this is the law of a particular formula of creation – but Rabindranath has followed another law. We may take here an example. As a sculptor Michael Angelo had no parallel among the artists. One special trait of his carving was this that he hardly ever completed a figure to a final finish; he left it unfinished to a certain extent; the unfinished portion in its rawness was suggestive of things unsaid. Probably he would indicate in this way that the statue as a statue has not an independent value of its own

Page 185

but is part of nature's own beauty around a statue; it was not a model according to the Greek ideal – a creation flawless, exquisite and perfect in every feature, complete and sufficient in itself but quite separate from other creations. In our country the practice of carving out some portion of a whole hill and shaping out of it some idol or cave temple was in vogue. The inner sense of that practice was perhaps to prove the unity and indivisibility of art and nature and how they harmonise and commune with each other. A similar excuse may be put forward on behalf of Tagore. A lightness and sinuosity, turns and returns in the movement, weave out the essential theme, because of the pressure, the necessity, the very law of the consciousness. And that also has characterised the impetus of the upward drive of aspiration – a thirst for attaining a farther and farther progression – the ever burning and increasing flame of the psychic Being, the everspreading rays of the immortal light. This unending, ceaseless, free and absolute aspiration, this voyage to the Unknown finds expression in lines like

Behold

The boundless main in the West,

The flickering light like hope

Quivers in the water –

or,

Not here, elsewhere, elsewhere, in some other clime.

The poet did not put a limit to his quest – the uniqueness of his own nature implanted itself perceptible and living in his style and manner. Realisation signifies union; the poet was not after union – but the yearning for union:

Where is light, O where is light!

Kindle it with the fire of separation.

Page 186

Saint Augustine in one of his sayings describes the state in which he did not love but loved to love. The heart of Tagore was dyed with something of this holy Augustinian tint.

(2)

It is an interesting study how the upward urge of aspiration, the basic note of consciousness runs like a golden thread through all different modes and manners and reveals itself under various names and forms. To begin from the beginning with 'The Awakening of the Fountain':

I shall rush from peak to peak,

I shall sweep from mount to mount,

With peals of laughter and songs of murmur

I shall clap to tune and rhythm.

Here is the first awakening of aspiration – the poet is still in his early youth, full of fun and frolic, laughter and dance, and looking outward and given to outer things.

Let us next come to the 'Golden Boat'. It presents another mood, another state:

Who comes singing to the shore as he rows?

It seems to be an old familiar face.

He moves with full sail on,

Looks neither right nor left.

The helpless waves break on either side.

It seems to be an old familiar face.

Consciousness is turned inward; the first fervour of aspiration, at once sweet, intense, full of pathos, has struck the chords of life. No loud demonstrations, there is a profound and touching cadence, the sharp call of a one-stringed lyre – a condensed realisation, the gait easy and rhythmic in

Page 187

its simple sincerity. Side by side there woke up a curiosity and an enquiry that made the mystery of life more mysterious, more delightful.

Further on we hear in 'The Philosopher's Stone':

The long way of the past lies lifeless behind.

How far from here the end cannot be measured.

From horizon to horizon

It is all the glistening sands of the desert.

The whole region is dimmed by the oncoming night.

According to the Christian saints this state is the 'dark night of the soul'. They say, the familiar past has been left behind, the new life has not been achieved, the foretaste of it has slipped away; there is no return to the past, the path to the new life is not known – a helpless anxiety surges up. But the night of our poet is by no means as dark as that of the Christian saints. The journey towards the unknown destination has almost the same aspect as a description of the dark night usually gives us, but in the midst of this darkness glitters the noiseless laughter of that 'feminine absconder'; the poet is able to say even when engulfed in that night:

Only the sweet scent of thy body is wafted by the wind,

Thy hair driven by the wind is scattered on my bare body...

Rabindranath's pain did never become extreme or tragic, the note of union is there hidden in his pang of separation: "O Death, thou art an equivalent to my Lord Krishna." Death is not death pure and simple; immortality lies hidden therein. The poet had always a glimpse of the One whom he pursued in a ceaseless quest. In his 'Urvasi' this urge has reached its acme. It is there that his insight has fully opened up. The poet has attuned all the strings of his

Page 188

life-energy to the highest note of his inner consciousness. The realisation is as profound as the language is gathered and condensed, the metre and rhythm too are of the finest and richest quality. Here at least once the glory of a real Epic has shown itself in his poetry. The full-throated Epic tune is sounded in the voice of the poet:

O Urvasi swaying soft and sweet,

When thou dancest before the assembly of the gods,

Thrills of delight course through thy limbs,

Waves upon waves swirl rhythmically in the bosom of the ocean,

The undulating tips of the shivering corn

Appear like the fluttering skirt of mother earth.

From the necklace hung upon thy breast

Drop down the stars on the floor of the sky.

And all at once man loses his heart in sheer rapture.

The blood flows leaping and gurgling,

In the twinkling of an eye thy girdle gives way

At the far horizon, O naked Beauty!

In the next phase, in his middle age when the poet arrived at a mature consciousness, when he wrote his 'Ferry Boat', he seems to have come down to a more normal, ordinary and homely tune in his expression, suited to the movements of every-day life. Superabundance of robes and ornaments has fallen away; what is normal, common, commonplace – not the pomp of vernal lush but merely the sobriety of autumn – is now enough; the aspiration of these mellow days resembles the sweet, pastoral tune of the religious mendicant's one-stringed lyre.

From the golden beach of the other shore

Imbedded in darkness

What enchantment came with a song upsetting my work?

Page 189

PASTERNAK. His name and his novel Dr. Zhivago have leapt to the eyes of the world. This book has won him two things: high appreciation from the world, topped by the Nobel prize; and, as a paradox, stern censure from his own countrymen, those armed with political powers. I am not concerned with the resulting controversy. Something else is my topic. I understand that the word 'Zhivago' is cognate to our jiva (a living being or life itself). 'Doctor Zhivago' may be regarded as embodying and illustrating the life-principle of the author himself – the secret of life, as revealed to him. The raison d'être of his book is the significance of life and its course as discovered by him.

The first principle, the guiding motto of Pasternak's vision of life is the unity of all life on earth. The march of life has been one and indivisible in all climes and times. The same vibration of life, the same rhythmic movement is at play in the universe. Man, animal and plant – in all there is only one golden thread that runs through. They are moved by the same tune, the same rhythm and the same life-energy. They have a common nature, a common virtue, a common movement and a common goal. The experience of this union is perhaps the fount of an urge towards Supreme Love. If one loses oneself in this cosmic union, then and then alone will come peace, freedom and the summum bonum of life, whatever that is :

And life itself is only an instant,

Page 192

Only the dissolving

Of ourselves in all others

As though in gift to them.

Life loses all its burden, its obligation and becomes almost light as emptiness when we are able to merge and fuse it in the universe.

But behind this conception of the universal life, declaring that "there is no other thing here on earth", there enters a duality with its inner conflict. For individual freedom is the second note of Pasternak's life-principle. No doubt, the whole creation is indivisible, yet it is a close-knit unity in manifold diversity. Seeing in this light, when we focus our attention on the individuality of man we come face to face with quite a different picture. Individuality means not only struggle but a veil of darkness as well – the ugly play of all the hungers and passions. Life becomes a chalice of poison. The individual is condemned to dash himself in vain against the collective solidarity of which he is a part. And thereupon we begin to perceive that the peace, the unity, the supreme identity Pasternak has realised do not belong to the land of the mortals. Even if there is anything in his realisation that belongs to this earth, then it must have penetrated it, passed through and gone far beyond to reveal something of another world. This world as a result turns into a great illusion; and then when one can look upon it as such – wonderful to say – it assumes the beauty of a mirage! This beauty therefore can last as long as the world is taken as a whole. But in an individual life the illusion presents an aweful sight. In spite of a unity in the creation the individual life is a bundle of sorrows and tragedies of which Christ, his Lord, is the very embodiment.

"What do you want to know of the creation which is under the octopus of time and subject to death?" queries the poet.

Page 193

Sorry that the world is simpler

Than some clever people think,

Sorry for the drooping thicket,

Sorry that each thing has its end.

There are plenty of similar imageries which give the same lesson:

And white as ghosts, the trees crowded into the road

As though waving good-bye

To the white night which had seen so much.

What life is with all its weal and woe as well as wants and satisfactions has been beautifully illustrated by the poet in a fable wherein we find the true significance of living:

Once upon a time

In a fairy-tale kingdom,

Spurring over

The burs of the steppe,

A horseman rode to battle.

Through the dust a dark forest

Rose to meet him

In the distance.

Uneasiness

Scratched at his heart:

'Beware of the water,

Tighten your girth.'

He would not listen,

Galloped

Full tilt

Up the wooden slope.

Page 194

Followed the channel

Of a dried-up stream,

Passed a meadow

And crossed a hill,

Strayed into a defile,

Came on the spoor

Of a wild beast

leading to water,

And deaf to the sound

Of his own suspicion,

Rode down to the gully

To water his horse.

Over the water,

Across the ford,

The mouth of a cave

Lit up like sulphur.

Crimson smoke

Clouded his vision.

A distant cry

Sounded through the forest.

The rider started;

In answer to the call,

Picked his way gingerly.

Now he sighted –

And gripped his spear –

The head,

Tail,

Scales of the dragon.

Light scattered

From its blazing mouth.

Page 195

It had trapped a girl

In three coils of its body.

Its neck was swaying

Over her shoulder

Like a tail of a whip.

The custom of that country

Allotted a girl,

Beautiful

Prisoner and prey,

To the monster of the forest.

This was the tribute

The people paid

To the serpent, ransom

For hovels.

Free

To savage her

The serpent twisted

About her arms and throat.

The rider raised eyes

And prayer to high heaven,

Poising his lance

For battle.

Eyes closed.

Hills Clouds.

Pivers Fords.

Years. Centuries.

Knocked down in battle

The rider has lost his helmet.

His faithful horse

Tramples the serpent.

Page 196

Horse and dead dragon

Are side by side in the sand,

The rider unconscious,

The girl in a daze.

Blue gentleness lights

The vault of noonday.

Who is she? A queen?

A peasant? A princess?

At times excess of joy

Triples their tears.

At times a dead sleep

Holds them in its power.

At times his health

Comes home to him,

At times he lies motionless,

Weak with loss of blood.

But their hearts are beating.

Now he, now she

Struggles to awake,

Falls back to sleep.

Eyes closed.

Hills. Clouds.

Rivers. Fords.

Years. Centuries.

To the poet the Greek mythological story is not a temporal and spatial occurrence but an everlasting symbol which repeats itself perpetually. The ballad narrates the incomplete and tragic life of man. A youth hastens to save a damsel from the clutch of a python. All the three are either dead or mortally wounded, reeking in blood – perhaps for eternity.

Page 197

Is there no escape from this pitiful fate of life? With a hardened heart and a muffled voice one has only to say:

Don't cry, don't pucker your swollen lips,

Don't gather them into creases,

For that would crack the dryness

Formed by the spring-fever.

Verily life is but a constant whirl of rise and fall – a wheel that moves forward but grinding slow and inflicting wounds.

And yet, the poet says, that is not absolutely inevitable, there is always a choice, a way of escape:

However many rings of pain

The night welds round me

The opposing pull is stronger,

The passion to break away.

In fact, the figure of Christ is ever present before his vision. Christ himself is his master, the ideal of human life. The love for his Lord Christ has brought him liberation. When the great crisis came and He had to choose did He not too cry out:

Abba, Father, if it be possible,

Let this cup pass from me.

Still He accepted the Dark Night and passed beyond. He was able to see its necessity and its utility. For calamities are blessings in disguise. Indeed, they should be looked upon s a special Grace of the Divine. The poet cites a parable of the Bible:

Near by stood a fig tree,

Fruitless, nothing but branches and leaves.

Page 198

He said to it: "What joy have I of you?

Of what profit are you, standing there like a post?

I thirst and hunger and you are barren.

And meeting you is comfortless as granite.

How untalented you are, and how disappointing!

Such you shall remain till the end of time."

According to the poet it is the supreme Blessing that is capable of making the impossible possible. Is it not a cruel irony? No, it is not so. "When our calamities reach their climax, He rushes upon us and covers us up." Therefore it is said that God appears before us not in the broad daylight but at the dead of night like a thief on tiptoe. The virtue of a spiritual man lies in his capacity to see weal in woe. Ordinarily sorrow is taken as an unmixed evil. But in the vision of the poet there are veins of delight concealed in sorrow, and in their discovery lies the secret of life. The poet says:

That is why in early spring

My friends and I gather together

And our evenings are farewells

And our parties are testaments,

So that the secret stream of suffering

May warm the cold of life.

Sorrow is a form of austerity, though not voluntary but imposed. In winter all nature puts on an austere form. Perhaps, it is for this reason that winter is so dear to Pasternak. Of course, the Russian winter is well-known for its special features, and its scenic effects have passed into' the stuff of the Russian consciousness. As is the wintry external nature, so is the life of man; from the standpoint of esoteric truth, the world is all fog and mist and is but a shocking barrenness. In such conditions what is to be done? We must take shelter in the sanctuary of our heart lit up by our self-dedication.

Page 199

God has thus given us a splendid chance for self-concentration. When we are alone, friendless and deserted by everybody; God sends us His divine messenger:

He remembered the majestic mountain

In the wilderness, and that pinnacle

From which Satan tempted him

With world power:

And the wedding feast at Cana,

And the company marvelling at the miracle,

And the sea over which, in the mist,

He had walked to the boat, as on dry land:

And the gathering of the poor in a hovel,

And the descent into the cellar with a candle,

And the candle snuffing out in fright

When the resurrected mail stood up.

It seems that the problem of life can be solved only through the two great sayings of Christ. And the life-principle of Pasternak has developed on the basis of these two sublime ideas. The first is:

The kingdom of heaven is within you.

It is in the depths of our heart that the peace, freedom, light and supreme Love abide. But that does not mean necessarily that our outer life too shall be all peace and freedom from disease and danger. This cannot be expected; nor should it be wished for. The outer life, the normal life and the movements of nature are naturally a play of duality, disharmony and conflict. Yes, in normal life there can be a barren winter. And hence it is that Judas betrayed Christ and even his faithful disciple Peter denied him thrice before the cock crowed. And consequently the second motto is:

Page 200

Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's,

The calamities of nature cannot be evaded, they have to be bravely faced. One has to march through the stormy and tenebrous night to reach the Light and Peace beyond – the supernatural – as did Sri Radha to meet Sri Krishna.

Beauty can bloom only in and through courage. It is this courage that inspires us to achieve something noble. Calamities should be turned into opportunities. We have to bear them as Christ bore the Cross, ride on them as our Gods ride on the carrier beasts.¹

¹ The readers may refer to p. 185, vol. 2 of this series for an article originally written in English by the author under the same title.

Page 201

The Heart of Bengal

BENGAL is a land of many rivers. The land of Bengal has been formed by the alluvial soil of the Ganges, the Brahmaputra and their branches. The poet Bankimchandra addressed the Mother Bengal thus:

Mother, I bow to thee!

Rich with thy hurrying streams,

Bright with thy orchard gleams,

Cool with thy winds of delight,

Dark fields waving, Mother of might,

Mother free.

(translated by Sri Aurobindo)

These words are not merely a hyperbole or an emotional outburst of blind faith. The truth embodied in these words will not only be felt in the core but will be felt at every step by all those who have left Bengal .and have become familiar with other provinces and countries. Such green, fertile and graceful land can hardly be seen to the same extent elsewhere. Water springs out from the soil of Bengal at a mere scratch, as it were. The peasantry of Bengal can produce a bumper crop by the sheer touch of their plowshare. Such is the soil on which Bengal is founded.

And then, who have been born there, who have grown there, and which is the race that migrated there? In the Bengalis the blood of the Aryans and the Dravidians has perfectly blended. We do not actually know how much the

Page 205

Aryan and the Dravidian blood has influenced the Bengali race. But we definitely know that the Bengali race is not totally pure or unalloyed. It is a mixture of many races. But here in the diversity of many races we are seeing the result of extraordinary capacities.

The nervous system of the Bengalis is not very strong, but it is very sharp. Their vital energy is not solid, but it is pliant. Prompt are they in their actions, but not persevering. They have a subtle sensitivity and a quick sensibility. In addition, they are sentimental and emotional; and consequently, they are thoughtful and imaginative. They are unsteady; therefore they are ever open to the new. They do not want to see the world as it is with calm and plain eyes; they would like to see the world coloured with the collyrium of their heart. They are swayed to and fro by the impulse of their heart, like a pendulum. No others can make the impulses of the heart intense and one-pointed to such a high degree. Chandidas was a typical Bengali poet. Judging from this point of view, Vidyapati does not seem to be a Bengali poet at all. In him we find a play of intellect and reasoning, an attitude of casting side glances, and an alertness. But Chandidas was self-oblivious and beside himself with poetic imagination.

The Bengalis have the power of thinking, and in it we find flashes of genius, a deep insight and bright glimpses of experience, There the calm, placid and self-absorbed tenure of the reasoning faculty is not to be found. It is hard for the Bengalis to derive pleasure from mere intellectual pursuit, setting aside the feelings of the heart. They have hardly the patience and endurance necessary for carrying on the intellectual process for its own sake; their nerves can hardly put up with the tension of doing so. But in the thought that has once been able to touch their hearts, in the thought that has as its fount their vital emotion, there they have excelled. They have adhered to it steadily and persistently like a leech and have brought forth argument after argument, truth after truth. It would be difficult for a Shankara to see the light ofday on the soil of Bengal;

Page 206

but the birth of someone like Nimai Pundit (Chaitanya) is quite consistent, because there was a vast ocean of vital emotion behind his erudition. The Bengali logician is at his best especially when someone is able to arouse and excite him. But in the field of calm argumentation, perhaps a Bengali cannot be a match for a South Indian scholar. Also, in the field of reasoning, the Bengalis lose all sense of practicality, whereas no one else does the same. There is an ancient saying that if once the French are seized by mania (furia franca), then there is no escape from it. They lose the balance of their consciousness, and are capable of anything. Likewise, the Bengali race tends to be somewhat crazy.

The Bengali race bears a resemblance to the soil of Bengal. The mind and the vital of the Bengalis are soft and pliant. New ideas and forms can claim them for their own. Their brain is not solid and hard as in some dry mountainous regions. They are ready to receive all new impressions. On the other hand, like the sticky clay of Bengal, their mind and vital adhere to whatever they undertake. All things which appeal to the intellect and the curiosity, they can in no time convert into something that has an appeal to the heart, and once they take these things up, they will not easily leave them. Of course they do not always ding to these things with equal tenacity. The springs of their life-energy droop after a little exertion. But whenever they get time and opportunity they can overcome their depression and then they do not hesitate to tighten their grip.

In the nerves, the mind and the vital of the Bengalis, there is flexibility in a good sense or instability in a bad sense. This is why there is the possibility of a new creation in them. They are not yet able to conform their soul to a cut and dried way of life. No tradition has taken a deep root in them. There is so much want of pure blood in this race and the river-bed of this province changes so often that the immobile tower of past glory cannot weigh heavily upon it.

Page 207

Thereforethere is a vacuity, a gap through which the impulse of new creation can constantly come in. In fact, it has happened so. No other province can compete with Bengal in new and brilliant contributions to the modern age. There is a transparency in the nature of Bengal, so the influence of the spiritual world, the ideal world above, has manifested itself there more than anywhere else. We admit that for want of general strength the result has not been quite satisfactory in a good many cases, but the influence of the Light above has been responsible for the new creation.

The wealth of Bengal is the wealth of her soul from above. Bengalis are not skilful in work and their special quality is not a calm, clear and firm thinking power; but there is an urge in their action and an imaginativeness in their thoughts. Bengalis do not work and think for their own sake. They think and act unawares, as it were. A deep realisation and an unknown urge possess and overwhelm their whole being. Bengalis are a race of artists. A deep sense of delight from the soul regulates and dyes all their faculties and creations, and their life itself. They are not active in order to follow and fulfil a particular aim or purpose. Their actions, to a great extent, have no motive, but are for the mere joy of creation and the appreciation of beauty. They want independence of the Mother country, not for the sake of good food and drink. This thought does not arise in their minds at all. They want freedom in order to make their beautiful country more beautiful. This is the thing that is dearest to their hearts. They do not understand well their own conveniences and necessities. Nothing can move them save beauty and emotion. The poets of Bengal have far exceeded her politicians in greatness.

Bengalis are worshippers of, beauty. They worship more the beauty of ideas than the beauty of forms. They are attracted more by simple and natural beauty than by ornaments, decorations and pomp. We have seen the huge works of architecture of the Deccan. What a huge heap of stones

Page 208

full of artistic grandeur! The images of the deities there are covered from head to foot with jewels and ornaments. But Bengalis want to express beauty not by weight but by order, by the simple, graceful style of lines. The people of the Deccan have an attraction for gaudiness and colour in their clothes. But the Bengalis want only simplicity and decency. No other race prefers the white colour for their clothing as the Bengalis do. We find this tendency toward simplicity and purity in the pioneer poet Chandidas of Bengal.

Another touchstone of beauty is woman. Women of beauty abound more in other parts of India, but Bengal owns graceful women. Some unknown versifier, while describing the special qualities of the beauties of the different provinces of India, remarked that the beauty of teeth is the speciality of the women of Bengal. The famous poet Jayadeva also was enamoured of the lustre of the shining teeth of the Bengali women. We may not be consciously aware of it, but there is a grace and a charm on the faces of the women of Bengal. Faultless beauty in the formation of the body may be absent there, but it will remind us of the words in The Song of Solomon, “I am black but comely.” The soft, pliant, graceful and mobile ways of life and character are reflected on the faces of the Bengali women. In the structure of the Bengalis, the statuesqueness of the Greeks is not to be found, but there is gracefulness and charm. And what is this gracefulness? Bergson has given a nice explanation to the effect:

The soul imparts a portion of its winged lightness to the body it animates: the immateriality which thus passes into matter is what is called gracefulness.

Gracefulness is but a shadow of the soul on the body. The spiritual lustre in the physical is gracefulness.

The special quality of some nations is beauty; of others, vitality; of still others, the brilliancy of mind and intelligence.

Page 209

But the speciality of the Bengalis is the intuitive lore of the soul. Imbued and inspired by the inspiration of the soul, a wide and subtle vision is manifested in their thought-world, a creative power is at work in their field of actions and a gracefulness is visible in their bodies. In the person of the Bengalis, there reflects and sports a light of the luminous world of the Self.

This higher realm is the fount of Truth from which the Bengali race has transmitted and is transmitting and will continue to transmit Truth-Light, even though they may be wanting in skill to found the Truth on the basis of reasoning or to systematize it in action. If they do not do it now, tlley may do so in the future. But the real part they are to play is to experience and realise the Truth. Therefore, the Bengali race is the pioneer-guide of the new age. When we try to understand the truth by proofs and when we want to confine the Truth to some institutions, then we get an immature truth and a dogmatic truth. The Bengalis have been able to reach the origin of the Truth-Existence, so we find in them a deep, whole and natural expression of the Truth. They have not been able to take a firm stand on external things. They refrain from limiting themselves to some forms or structures. The people of the Punjab are endowed with physical strength. The Maharashtrians are adept in action. The people of the Deccan have the gift of calm reasoning. And what do the Bengalis possess? If we speak in terms of modern phraseology, we should say that they have intuition, and in terms of the earlier language, that they have the inner heart. The very first expression of the pioneer poet of Bengal is:

It has entered the core of my being.

Vidyapati, also breathing the atmosphere of Bengal, as it were, queried, "Do you ask me about my own experience?" It is the experience of the heart that has mobilized, glorified

Page 210

and widened all other faculties of the Bengalis. .

Bengal, the wet and fertile land, has the power to appreciate the essence of the supreme Delight more than any other province. The creations of Bengal are but the creations of Delight. We do not know if the Bengalis are the "sons of Immortalily" (amrtasya putrah), but they are undoubtedly the children of Delight. The inspiration of their works does not derive from a dry sense of duty or from stern discipline. There is hardly any place for austerities in the temperament of the Bengalis. They cannot accept from the bottom of their hearts the stoic ideal of Mahatma Gandhi. Rabindranath is the model of a Bengali. The Deccan has produced Shankara; Nanak and Surdas appeared in the North; but in the fertile soil of Bengal were born Sri Chaitanya, Chandidas and Ramprasad. The cult of devotion exists, no doubt, in other parts of India; but the cult of looking upon God as the Lover of the beloved devotee has blossomed only in Bengal. The worship of Kartikeya prevails in some parts; Sri Rama or Sita and Rama are worshipped in some parts. But the full significance of Radha's pining for Krishna has been appreciated only by the Bengalis. Mahadeva (Siva) has taken his abode in many places, but it is the Bengalis who have been mad over his consort, Gauri. The doctrine of Vedanta has spread all over and has absorbed all other doctrines, but the Bengali race has sought for a way of spiritual culture which transcends the injunctions of the Vedas. The worship of the Self is not enough. The worship of man, Sahaja Sadhana, has resulted from the genius of Bengal.

Bengalis as a race are worshippers of the feminine aspect of God. The religion and literature of Bengal abound in ceremonies of such worship. They do not generally worship God in his masculine aspect. They have not been able to make their own the self-poised calmness of samadhi. They have wanted manifestation of the divine sport. So Bengal is the seat of the Mother, Shakti. Bengal is the land of Delight. The immobile Brahman is not the aim

Page 211

of Bengal. The power of Delight of the Divine is inherent in the heart of Bengal. We find Rammohan, the worshipper of Shakti, at the dawn of modern Bengal. Ramakrishna and Vivekananda were also the worshippers of Shakti. Howsoever Vedanta may have influenced them, the worship of Shakti was very dear to their hearts. And in a different field, what Jagadish Chandra Bose has been demonstrating as a new aspect of Nature-worship also reflects nothing but the genius of Bengal.

Bengalis have a bad reputation for being very fond of their homes. They take intense delight in their family life. They have drawn the picture of the household life prominently in their literature, verses and songs. The like of this is not to be seen elsewhere:

My love goes elsewhere

Across my courtyard.

Or another example:

I go to the kitchen and sing

Of you, O my love!

And she'd tears under the pretext

Of being hurt by smoke.

On hearing such songs, a sympathetic chord in the Bengali heart is intensely struck. Indeed, we find a complete picture of the household life of Bengal also in Kavi Kankan's works. When Krittivasa and Kashirama Das digressed from the high and noble narrations of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata to indulge in household topics, they seemed to breathe their own atmosphere. In the works of Bankimchandra and Sarat Chandra, it is this picture of household life that has fascinated the Bengali heart. Be that as it may, what is the significance of this fondness for home? This signifies the attraction of the Bengalis for the intense delight of life.

Page 212

This, too, is but an aspect of their Nature-worship. We may admit that, owing to prevailing circumstances, this attitude has created narrowness and weakness; but under other circumstances it could be a social virtue which takes delight in communion with others within the boundary of life and social gatherings. The aspiration to found the divine Life among men, in society and in the world, that is coming to the fore almost everywhere, will stir the Bengali heart to an extent which will never be excelled by others, we think. An ideal of the wholeness of life, an attempt at the supreme synthesis, has made its appearance in the Bengali race, the child of delight, the devotee of the essence of joy, the worshipper of Nature as the feminine aspect of the Divine.

The rivers and their tributaries washed down the soils of many lands and poured down their admixture into Bengal to add to the formation of her lands. Different peoples from different direction – the Dravidians, the Mongolians, the Aryans and the Non-Aryans – all came down to Bengal to produce the mixed race known as the Bengali. So we find that the heart of the Bengalis is full of diverse inspirations. They have curiosity in all areas. In their soul there is a harmonious union. In Bengal there flows the stream of love and strength. Tantra is prevalent in Bengal; but the truth of Vedanta, too, is present therein. This is why Bengalis utter, Tara Brahmamayi, "the Mother of power" who is but one with the absolute Brahman. There is emotion in Bengal, but the science of logic is not absent there. Navadwip, the centre of devotion and love, and Bhattapalli, the centre of Vedanta, are in close embrace with each other.

We have spoken about the simple and unostentatious beauty of Bengal. But again, it cannot be denied that Bengal is the worshipper of wealth and grandeur. Bengal has wanted a synthesis between the glorious and the sweet, between the simple and the beautiful. She may not like pomp, but she has never disdained prosperity. Bengal may be fond

Page 213

of life-activity, but on that account she is not prepared to forget spirituality. She might have shunned renunciation, but did not reject liberation. Bengal wants to remain within herself, but wants to keep communion with the world abroad.

The fundamental quality of the Bengali race is affectionate attachment, family closeness. Throughout Bengal flow the sportive ways of Nature's movements. The Bengalis are often called a feminine race. There is much truth in this saying. A woman's sensitivity, keenness of sensibility, softness and plasticity, unsteadiness of mood, yet at the same time her firm tenacity, her beauty and coyness and, above all, her natural power of direct understanding – these qualities we distinctly find in the character, action, literature and art of the Bengali race. As the vital world is the basis of the women-folk, as the vital tune and colour resound and tinge their entire world, likewise the Bengali race has taken its stand on the vital plane, in the current of the life-force. Bengalis do not know how to resort to bare spirituality. This is why they do not want to be spiritual ascetics in order to understand the meaning of the Illusion; yet they are not content to live in exclusive materialism. This is one of the reasons why they are so backward in trade and commerce and mere politics. They have a reputation for being not at all practical. But actually they have occupied the region between these two extreme ways of life. Owing to this attitude they have had to dangle in the air like Trishanku many times. But that through this attitude they are going to attain to a greater synthesis, .a profounder truth, can hardly be denied.

Page 214

BENGAL is the hallowed seat of Mother-worship in India. Generally, in India there are two modes of spiritual discipline which are popular. One is the Sakti-sadhana or Mother-worship; the other is Vedanta.

There are two principles in the creation. At the union of these two fundamental principles, this universe has taken shape as lila, the divine play. Purusa and Prakrti – these are the two primal principles of the world-mystery. What is Purusa and what is Prakrti? Purusa is Being and Prakrti is Force. Purusa is the immobile and inactive knowledge existence behind the creation. Prakrti is the impulse and the force of Delight by which the world is born and moves and adopts constantly new creative impulses. Purusa is the existence and Prakrti is the motion. Purusa "is" and Prakrti "is in the process of being." The other name of Purusa is Siva while the other name of Prakrti is Adya Shakti or the "Primal Power."

Man can proceed Godward in two general directions, resorting either to Prakrti or to Purusa. Vedanta proceeds with Purusa, and the Sakti-sadhana with Prakrti. The aim of Vedanta is to raise Prakrti into Purusa and immerse Her in the calm existence and oneness of Purusa. The aim of the Sakti-sadhana is to make Purusa descend into Prakrti and to reveal Her most intense and highest play. The ultimate aim of Vedanta is Samadhi, trance – the final plunge

Page 215

into the Supreme. The main aim of the Sakti-sadhana is to establish a supreme Beauty, Victory and Vibhuti in the living existence.

The revelation of Purusa in man and creature is the ego-sense: 'I', or 'I exist.' The revelation of Prakrti is the person, adhara, and the power that is at play in the person. The follower of Vedanta takes his stand on the sense of 'I'-ness and proceeds on the path of negation: "I exist and my person exists; I am not this person; I am not the body; I am not the vital; I am not the mind; I am merely a witness, and if I take away my regard from these things, they will not exist for me. I will go still higher. I will go to my real status, to my Siva-Self, the One without a second. I will sunder all ties of Prakrti and be united with the original essence of creation."

The spiritual practice of the devotees of Sakti has for its pivot not the ‘I’-ness but rather the Power active in the Adhara or the instrumental being. The 'I', the absolute Brahman, is not so important to the followers of Sakti as it is to the followers of Vedanta. Those that follow Vedanta take the ‘I’ as a means to attain to the supreme existence of the great Self. The worshippers of Sakti see the ‘I’ as a channel for the joint play of Siva-Sakti, for myriad ways of their manifestation. To the votaries of Sakti, the 'I' is but a part of the person: it is to be dealt with in the same way as all the other parts.

Knowledge is the road leading to the Vedantic realisation. It is the path of discrimination, conscience and 'I'-ness. A sadhaka devoid of the sense of personal effort cannot tread this path. On the contrary, surrender is the path leading to Sakti-sadhana. Here the attainment of spiritual perfection comes in effacing absolutely the ego-sense. In fact, the Mother-worshipper himself is not the sadhaka. He has sacrificed himself and his ‘I’-ness completely at the Feet of the Mother, the Primal Power, and so Prakrit Herself is the sadhaka in him. The followers of Vedanta want

Page 216

to conquer Prakrti like a hero with the power of Purusa. The worshippers of Sakti, the Mother, want to conquer Prakrti by Prakrti Herself. The followers of Vedanta are averse to the play of Prakrti. Their purpose is to destroy Prakrti along with her root and rise above Prakrti. The followers of Sakti have sacrificed all personal effort to the Primal Power for Her revelation and play in the person according to Her Will.

The Primal Power is the Power whose very nature is consciousness. The Primal Power, no doubt, has also a power of illusion and, as a result, ignorance, inconscience and incapacity have come into existence. In his attempt at avoiding this power of illusion, the votary of Vedanta has avoided the Primal Power too, and has resorted to Siva for rescue. The followers of Sakti are aware that in the core of the Primal Power itself there dwells divinity. There is no need to search for it separately and exclusively. Leaving aside all other standards of action and principles of life, they make themselves instruments of the Consciousness-Force of Siva. And the more one's offering and surrender are complete, the more the power of ignorance diminishes, and the more a discipline, a rhythm of Knowledge-power of the Mother, who is but Consciousness, starts blossoming in the person (adhara). This adhara, itself having been transformed, manifests itself in a divine frame and a divine fulfilment.

Bengal has realised this doctrine of Shakti-worship. Bengalis have realised that liberation may be attained without the Grace of Sakti but the full manifestation of life cannot. Bengalis have not longed for Nirvana, nor for a final plunge into the Supreme. They have pined for victory; they have longed for beauty; they have cried for plenitude. Therefore, the charming and graceful form of Nature – great beauty, great plenitude, great grandeur – are found in Bengal. Bengalis, the worshippers of Nature, do not pray to the gods to the same extent that they pray to the female deities. Consequently, the influence of Sri Radha, the

Page 217

Delight-Power of God, dominates the heart of Bengal more. And that is why we see Siva lying down at the Feet of Sivani, his own Power when he acts in the form of Rudra.

If we want our nature to blossom and be fruitful, if human life has to be purified and moulded into the image of a greater truth, then we must worship Prakriti or Nature by committing ourselves and our all to the care of the Primal Power. Otherwise, who will establish law and order in our nature? Nature herself can formulate her own laws, can manifest the Law of her true Being. Man's personal efforts can hardly do that, nor can the static and passive Supreme Being by Himself do that.

Page 218

RAMMOHAN, Bankimchandra, Vivekananda – these three personalities represent the three steps in the process of evolution in modern Bengal. Like the three strides of Vishnu these three great souls have occupied three stages of the evolving consciousness of Bengal. The soul of modern Bengal awoke in Rammohan, and then its mind blossomed in Bankim, subsequently its life-energy burst forth in Vivekananda.

In fact we may generalise that all disciplines and ways of creation proceed in the same order. The truth that is to manifest in the material world in a concrete physical form appears at first in an apperception of the inner heart, hrdi pratisya. The mind then seizes upon it and gives a manifest form, manasa abhiklapta. Next it takes a step ahead and becomes more distinct and secures vitality and leaving the core it starts revealing itself without. Finally, it incarnates in a body, possesses a gross physical form, becomes concrete and real.

In the stirring of the Soul, in the intuition of the psychic being, the truth, in its dynamic expression, takes birth; there is its seed-form, its essential being. In the mind, the diverse lines of growth are first sketched out, the play, the kaleidoscope of myriad possibilities. In the vital it becomes living and forceful with a definite mould. At last it brings down into the body its material shape.

First then the awakening of the psychic Person. When this central being of a man becomes conscious, when it is

Page 219

awakened from slumber or trance or from self-absorption, it opens its eyes to the outside world and its manifest organisation and demands its due right and fulfilment. In common parlance, it is then said that the call has come to the man or his time is ripe. But the truth is that at the profound depth of the consciousness, in the inmost subtle world, there has been this awakening. The awakened force or the truth of the Soul-Reality begins to work as though from behind a veil or a curtain. Normally it is not always possible for man to apprehend its full influence and motive in his normal consciousness.

Thus, in Rammohan is visible the primal stage of the consciousness of Bengal. It is he who may be called in this sense the psychic being or the causal being of modern Bengal. He alone before all others has brought forward the consciousness of Bengal to the free air and light of the modern era from the antiquity, the mediaevalism of the past. He has initiated the country into the religion of the new era. In him sprouted the first seeds of all future creations. Each flash of consciousness, intense with a deep and pregnant meaning, that sprung in his intuition gradually blossomed into a lush of foliage and flowers and fruits. He brought a new birth, a new life and a new' creation everywhere in all the fields of the collective life of state, society, religion, culture, literature and language. He made the fundamental scheme, the blue-print for the future fulfilment of the country. It is he who laid down the first principles. The future architects have made a new and solid structure on these as their basis. Rammohan was indeed the soul in the heart. The Upanishad says that the nerves of the body-vessel are assembled in this heart-centre and from here they go out everywhere in all directions. Likewise in Rammohan too a new orientation in the mind and life of the nation, the modern consciousness in all its branches of culture has centred and from him all flow out into activities and enterprises of a new achievement.

Page 220

When the truth takes birth and grows considerably in the soul then only it can reveal itself in the mental plane. Reason and intelligence seize on h and apprehend it to know its meaning and endeavour to bring it to the fore of the critical perception of an enlightened intelligence.

We have already said that the mental being (Manomaya Purusha) of the country awoke in Bankimchandra. It is he who gave a fluent expression, in thought and in an outer attractive language, to her hopes, aspirations and inner feelings. And it is in him that the first revelation of a new curiosity, inquisitiveness and sensitiveness is to be found. His was the inspiration and channel for an unceasing quest, a many-sided research through mental seeking and logic and argument which inundated the entire country like a flood. Many are the lines of investigation and imaginative display that bear testimony to the mind's manifold inquisitiveness. A deep longing, a luminous perception of the Soul developed and expanded in hundred branches. The mind's business is to manifest and apply a soul-intuition in as many fields and forms, in as many directions as possible and one form through which mind finds expression is literature.

In the literature of Bankim the mind of modern Bengal has begun to take a definite shape. If there is in the Bengali race a capacity to understand and appreciate readily and easily modern thoughts and new ideas, if there is in the Bengalis a keen earnestness to discover and follow revolutionary principles and ideals, then that found an adequate instrument and initiation in Bankim. An alert and capable mind, an intellect shot with lucid humour, not dryly arguing, but inspired with an intuition – dynamic ideas that demand fulfilment, be it in the practical field or in the realm of imagination, by giving a shape to their beauty – this is the domain created by Bankim, this his great gift to the consciousness of modern Bengal.

Now for the next stage, whatever has thus become manifest and taken form in the mind, becomes living, dynamic

Page 221

and concrete when it descends into the vital. Vivekananda is the living embodiment of the life-energy of modern Bengal. Not simply in the world of mental imagination, not in the mere sport of thought, but in the flesh and blood of life, to make the truth dynamic is the arduous tapasya of Vivekananda. It is from Vivekananda that the life-force, the vitality of the nation has taken a new turn, a fresh and full-flooded stream – the light of a new achievement has glimmered into the people's daily practical life. What was in Rammohan a recondite and deep realisation of the Soul became a dream, imagination, hope and ideal in Bankim and culminated in Vivekananda as an unavoidable necessity of life, as an object to be realised, as a supremely desirable material asset.

If we look into the personal history of many a Bengali youth of the modern age, we would find almost everywhere an initial inspiration and the influence from Vivekananda. True, not all are influenced or likely to be influenced by this colossal soul so as to follow him solely in the field of religion and spirituality. But it was his ups oaring vitality that quickens the ideal into a reality for which Vivekananda was so dear to one and all.

Page 222

SRI Ramakrishna represents spirituality at its absolute, its pristine fount and power. In him we find the pure gold of spirituality at a time when duplicity, perplexity, deceit and falsehood on the one hand and atheism, disbelief and irreverence on the other reigned supreme.

When spirituality had almost disappeared from the world and even in India it existed, as it were, merely in name, there was the advent of Sri Ramakrishna bringing with him spirituality in its sheer plenitude and investing it with eternal certitude and infallibility.

He proclaimed the quintessence of spirituality casting aside all husk and rejecting all that was irrelevant. Sri Ramakrishna is the very embodiment of this true and unadulterated spirituality.

The first word about spirituality is this that it is a clear realisation, an unveiled intuition of truth, God-attainment. It is not a mere concept or a doctrine or an intellectual conclusion, but a living experience, a concrete realisation. Philosophers and scholars are at pains to prove the existence of God and the Self with the help of reason, argumentation and syllogism. But it is ridiculous to try that way. You stand before me face to face. Yet should I try to prove your presence? Or to prove my own? Truth is self-existent. It is rear since it exists. The existence of God, the Self, is the truth of all truths and is axiomatic. It is a matter of experience, insight and intuition.

The spiritual world is as real as this physical world –

Page 223

even more real, Ramakrishna says. It is a different sphere of consciousness. One has to come up to this level to know of it and one has to settle here for good, leaving behind one's earthly dwelling. Not merely the field of action in life and not just one part of the being but the whole life and being have to be consecrated to the attainment of that only Goal. To know the Truth, the Self or God, one has first to realise them, one has to merge in them, one has to become these – as the Upanishad says, "Verily the knower of the Brahman becomes the Brahman Itself." The essential truth of spirituality consists not even in "doing" something but in this 'becoming'. Man manifests his inner soul through his actions. His external conduct reflects his inner becoming. In the words of Sri Ramakrishna, a man breathes out what he eats.

Perhaps we have a mission in the world, but before that we have to realise God. He alone has the right to act, and his deeds alone achieve fulfilment, who has been chosen and authorised by God. The spiritual practice of Sri Ramakrishna laid great stress on Yogic trance. It signifies that the outer mind should be withdrawn from all sense-attraction, not going out in all directions but focussed on the pure spiritual truth, like an arrow shot into its target.

What absurd ideas do we not cherish in the name of spirituality? Firstly, according to the common notion a spiritual figure, a Yogi, a sadhu is he who is endowed with some miraculous powers - as for instance, walking over water, flying in the sky, living without food or eating an enormous quantity, healing diseases at a puff of breath, telling the ins and outs of a man at sight or at the mere mention of his name. Any accomplishment of this kind commands our humble devotion. The eightfold occult powers are considered the very acme of spirituality. In Europe too the measure and the proof of a saint lie in miracles. Sri Ramakrishna's advent demonstrated the simple truth that miracles have nothing to do with spirituality; performing miracles.

Page 224

becomes rather an obstacle to spirituality, and it is a proof of the want of true spirituality. Such powers lead the aspirants astray from the straight path into blind alleys. The measure of spirituality is not the display of occult power but the attainment of discrimination, dispassion, devotion and love of God and such other well-known but eternal qualities.

On the other hand, spirituality does not consist in any doctrine whatsoever. Spirituality is not based on a credo or a mental deduction or a dogma. Real spirituality is not a rational conclusion, but a realisation in the heart and a direct intuition. A spiritual man may not express his realisations through a new doctrine or relate it to some already existing doctrines, but that will not in any way diminish his spirituality. Again many people hold that the observance of ceremonials and rites comprises spirituality; this too is far from the truth. The truth does not lie in any of these things. A spiritual aspirant may take their help if necessary, but the spiritual realisation is far above them and quite a different thing.

One thing is ever associated with the name of Sri Ramakrishna – it is the synthesis of all religions. He has synthesised all religions within him. By synthesis we usually mean finding out the essential principles of different religions and harmonising them. But Sri Ramakrishna's work was not of this type. Every religion leads to the same goal. However different and contradictory may appear the outer forms of spiritual disciplines, fundamentally each derives from the same source and culminates in the same Truth. Sri Ramakrishna has proved this unity and has brought about, so to say, a unification, not merely a union, of all religions.

Religions are at variance, not on the conception of God or spirituality, but when something else is adored in their name or in their stead. When we take some physical miracle or vital power or mental dogma as the object of our devotion, then we deviate from the true spiritual path and become worshippers of inferior gods or spirits of the lower

Page 225

order. The spiritual world, or God as He verily is, is beyond the domains of the body, life and mind. Further, transcending these there is a fourth realm and its truth and dharma alone constitute God-realisation and true spirituality.

Another very important characteristic distinguishing Ramakrishna is that he has taken spirituality in a simple, straight, common-sense view and has attained it in a very matter-of-fact way. He is generally depicted to a great extent as one who was rapt in a state of inwardness and devoid of external and worldly knowledge. Whatever his behaviour in the conduct of daily life, he was marvellously pragmatic in his inner consciousness and in the practice of his spiritual sadhana. Dogmatism, nebulous fantasy and sophistry eclipse the truth, the thing in itself, and in the place of truth a semblance of truth or something quite non-essential is interpolated. The amount of common sense that is needed for success in ordinary life is also equally required for victory in the domain of consciousness. Sri Ramakrishna was endowed with an inborn, alert, practical sense. So nothing could delude him in the name of spirituality and nothing could entrap him in any way. Moreover, by virtue of this quality he has brought about an immense reconciliation between the physical and the spiritual worlds. In a good many cases men, devoted too much to spirituality, are found to be inept in keeping up with the physical world or to respond to it adequately. Sri Ramakrishna is not to be classed among them. The ideal of Sri Ramakrishna would not admit stupidity as a qualification for saintliness.

Sri Ramakrishna's advent took place in a scientific age, in the world of modern civilisation, amid a deluge of atheism, when the physical consciousness was the dominating principle everywhere. He appeared before such a world in all his rusticity, for he was to demonstrate by the very example of his own life that the highest aim of human life is to find God, to find him dwelling in the heart. "Know Him alone and give up all thought and speech and act that are of no

Page 226

value." However great may be the external education and culture, there is something still higher before which all these dwindle into insignificance and even their complete absence does not matter at all if one gets at the one heart of all things.

So we see that an ultra-modern youth born and brought up in the atmosphere of modernism had to offer all the accomplishments of modern life at the feet of an artless, rustic soul, with the prayer, "I am thy disciple, deign to teach me." Further, inspired by his Master's unique power he, Vivekananda, threw himself, like a thunderbolt, upon that very country where modern civilisation had reached its acme. In Vivekananda modernism received the initiation of the supreme spirituality to become its instrument and servitor.

Sri Ramakrishna, at the very outset, proved in his own life the conquest of the inner over the outer, of Consciousness over Matter, of the spiritual over the mundane. And then he sought to impress that high truth on the life-plane of humanity. He sowed the seed of a new future creation. That is why he is the confluence of two epochs. The past ceases and the new future is ushered in him. He seems to have assimilated the essence of all the different spiritual practices of the past and discarded as husk and skin all the non-essentials which vary according to the variations of time and place and person. He brought forward and revived for the future the real truth, the quintessence of spirituality, which means also the supreme felicity. The fundamental nature of the spiritual perfection of Sri Ramakrishna consists in the realisation of God in his Absoluteness. He exemplified, philosophically speaking, the unity and synthesis of the Self and Nature, existence and power, the immutable and its dynamis. He used to say that the Eternal and its manifestation .always go together. The Transcendent is inherent in the manifest; again, the manifest is inherent in the Transcendent. Ascend to the Eternal through the stages of the manifestation and come down from the Eternal into its manifestation – its creation which should not be looked

Page 227

upon as an illusion but only as a form of the Eternal. Therefore Sri Ramakrishna was the worshipper of the Divine Power, the child of the Mother. The Mother herself is the Power of the Brahman.

The dynamic Vedanta of Vivekananda, its application in life, is based on this foundation. Spirituality and life are not two separate things – spirituality should be established and made to flower and bloom in life itself. This great truth always inspired Vivekananda in all his activities. Before the advent of Sri Ramakrishna the word "religion" or "spirituality" used to convey an otherworldly pursuit to the aspirant and to the public as well. Wherever there was some real spiritual practice, the aim and the impulse naturally tended to illustrate the dictum that Brahman alone is the truth and the world an illusion. Sri Ramakrishna shook to its roots the then prevailing conception of illusionism when he made the great Vedantin Totapuri give up the negative path, "Brahman is not this, not this", and accept all this too as Brahman. He further showed Totapuri the glory of the Mother of the universe. Vivekananda seized upon this fundamental realisation of Sri Ramakrishna to turn the tide of religion. His endeavour was to bring down religion or spirituality on the surface of the earth, into normal society and into the ordinary ways of life-activities. Sri Ramakrishna was a genuine Sannyasin at heart but he had never appeared in the garb of a Sannyasin. Vivekananda in spite of his hoisting up the banner of a Sannyasin was a mighty worker in his heart and conduct. He was a worker, but inwardly in communion with the spirit. No doubt, Sri Ramakrishna laid great stress on Samadhi, trance, for the achievement of the unalloyed, pure spiritual truth, but he never accepted the Nirvikalpa Samadhi as the sole self-sufficing goal for all or even for the many. He did not want, personally, to melt away as a salt-doll in the ocean. Like Ramprasad he would rather not become a lump of sugar but taste it instead. The aim of his dynamic personality

Page 228

was to purify and transform the egoistic 'I' into the real ‘I’, and take part in the play of the Divine Mother in her creation.

The future spiritual realisation will follow this line of development; all efforts will seek to make this great realisation still more manifest, widely established and universally practised. Sri Ramakrishna opened this immortalising fount of true spirituality and Vivekananda spread it abroad to create a living spiritual atmosphere. The spiritual leader of the future will fix for ever its concrete and permanent form.

Page 229

VIVEKANANDA is the embodiment of the newly awakened, heroic and eternal soul of India. India forgot herself, forgot I what she was, what was her mission in the world. With the true nature of her psychic being gone out of her consciousness, India was sunk in slumber. India had lost her spirit, virility, wisdom and, withdrawn into her shell was about to be swamped by the deluge of an utter destruction. Vivekananda lifted India up as did the Lord when he had incarnated himself as a white boar and lifted the earth from the ocean-bed with his pointed tusks. Thus with his indomitable power Vivekananda upheld India before the world and awakened her to establish herself in the assembly of

nations. Or he is, as it were, the Indra of the Vedas. Panis had, removed the Sun and concealed him in a cave. Indra cleaved through the rocks and rescued him from the robbers and raised him from the darkness to the heavens above. So runs the mythological story. In the same way, Vivekananda brought India, the knowledge-sun of humanity, out of the tenebrous abyss of degradation and established her in her original glory and her pristine Light.

Many had preceded him with the message of the awakening of India and many a man of action had come down to clear the path and create the field. But Vivekananda was a Seer. He saw and revealed the mystic Word, by the force of which the godhead of India awoke and stood vibrant with life. The seer is he whose vision and creative power go together. His creative genius is the fruit of his

Page 230

vision. The seer-vision of Vivekananda cast aside all veils and non-essentials and penetrated straight into the soul of India and, like Bhagirath, inundated the world with her glory. With the force and fire of his dynamic vital he gave her a living and mighty reality.

Hosts of seers and saints had invoked the awakening dawn, but no sooner did Vivekananda utter, "Awake, Mother, awake," than India's power in its fullness manifested. Vivekananda's gift was the mantra of strength, of self-reliance, of self-power and self-control. Just a few words constitute his whole philosophy, all his magic – "No fear; Brahman am I. Fear not! Infinite is your courage, limitless your capacity. You are the very Brahman. Awake in the Being of the Brahman within you. Know who you are and what you are. You will blow off the illusion of attachment to the small and the petty, the sense of inferiority and incapability. Man's entire sadhana consists in kindling this fire of the Brahman, the flaming tongues of which will purify him by consuming all impurities in order to manifest the blazing forms of the Vast in whatever he does and creates. How shall this fire be kindled? By sraddha, by the power of faith alone. A man becomes as is his faith. A man becomes whatever he has faith in."

It was all due to Vivekananda that on the life-plane of India, in her mundane occupation, there entered faith in the self. And thus the fire of the Brahman lighted up.

Vivekananda's was the creation that was instinct with the impulsion of life and it flowed in currents of power. It was not his mission to give an actual form to the creation of a well-built and lovely external image. Vivekananda diffused his inspiration and illumination over the firmament and set the country's heart-strings vibrating. That is why we do not find anything static in his creation. He has sketched many forms and has pointed out many a line of multiple beauty. But these were merely constructive hints and suggestions. If we adhere to anyone of them in toto we shall be cramping

Page 231

and limiting the real Vivekananda. Even the philosophical truths and the conclusions he arrived at and the spiritual secrets he revealed should not be regarded as something final and irrefutable, for Vivekananda's advent was not meant for formulating a new scripture. He did not take upon himself the burden of constructing the body, the outer shape. The first vibrant throb of the descent of the soul into life which is the source of all external creation, the awakening of the individual soul to its real nature which is divine – this constitutes the real Vivekananda. The first requisite is to be awakened in one's own self, to be able to feel an altogether new flow-tide in life-power. The thing next to be done, the power that will organise and regulate this awakened life and its activities, is a matter for the future. All problems will have their infallible solutions as the inevitable result of the powerful awakening of the soul when achieved. These problems can be solved in various ways and Vivekananda has given countless instances of them. He did not consider it at all necessary for his work to evaluate, harmonise and organise his solutions. In the midst of various contradictory and disorganised conclusions Vivekananda had only one word to say: "This self is not to be attained by the weakling."

Vivekananda was not a householder, yet he was not a sannyasin. He was a seeker after spirituality; nevertheless his patriotism had no parallel. Vivekananda told the youths of India to set aside the Gita and play football. Again it is he who gave them the call to wear the loin-cloth and lift high the ochre-coloured banner. He has accepted all these as the symbol of a profounder truth. Whether you become a sannyasin or a philanthropist or a patriot, first you must become a man. Vivekananda welcomed the manifestation of the Brahman in any form, be it in the strength of the sannyasin or in the power of the leader of men, in self-abnegation or in self-reliance.

He was a votary of the Upanishads, not because the

Page 232

Upanishads embody the deep and subtle mysteries of the spiritual realm, but because of the fire of strength they emit, the lightning that strikes and awakens in man the presence of the Brahman, and because the Upanishads alone have the hardihood to declare, "Thou art That."

In his philosophical views, Vivekananda subscribed to the doctrine of Maya, but in practice Karmayoga was the motto of his life. According to him, the true Mayavada is freedom from the bondage of limitation, the backward pull of attachment – a sense of infinity which sunders the knots of the heart and before which the entire world appears to be quite insignificant, a mere toy in one's palm to play with. Therefore Vivekananda's conception of the Brahman is totally different from the static, immobile and the infinite Void of Shankara. He looked upon the Brahman as absolute Power. The Brahman signifies the full glory and magnificence of the soul of man. He has viewed the static Brahman too with an eye of appreciation, because its immobility comprises perfected power self-absorbed. He aspired for the Infinite Void as well. For the individual soul feels a unique and powerful urge to identify itself with the Infinite Void. Vivekananda has sung the glory of renunciation as a source of strength. But as a matter of fact, his nature was that of a man poised in meditation and yet not averse to action. He wanted action founded on the Brahman, what he called practical Vedanta. Vivekananda sought to establish India's life on the Brahman. He has awakened and dynamised the eternal soul and spiritual being of India and stimulated her life. .

The eternal power of the Brahman residing in the soul of India has been activised by this lion of a man. But how to give it a practical form in life in all its minute detail and to make a subtle and apt application of it – that he has not indicated; and to approach him for this is to take him amiss.

It is thus that Vivekananda has placed India's mission also before the world. Life is to be built up with the power

Page 233

of the Brahman. He has laid stress on the Brahman even in Europe which is moved and guided by the vital Force. India has to be poised in the Brahman, to attain to the power of the Brahman. Herein lies India's distinction, a distinction that belongs to her soul. The true function of India consists in preserving, cherishing and keeping it up for the entire world. And this lies at the root of the message of human unity and of synthesis of religions that Vivekananda carried over the world. The ceremonials, the outer forms of religions vary in different climes and different ages. The repose in the Brahman with all its power is the truth by which humanity can be inspired with the idea of unity and it is here that all spiritual practices are one. This alone is the quintessence of all true religious practices.

India's Shakti is the soul of the world. And this Shakti is nothing else but Brahman's own Power that ensures man's attainment of ultimate godhood by the awakening of the Self, the infinite Power, Freedom, Tranquillity, the spirit of Askesis. Vivekananda is the divine dynamism descended into the life-atmosphere of the world. He appears at the meeting-point of a past that is dying and a future ushering in a new age, a new life.

Page 234

JAGADISH Chandra Bose is a scientist; his field is the world of matter, his function is to discover the truth of matter by material means. The truth has to be proved by demonstration and to be established. Science denies the truth that does not come within the purview of the senses. Observation by the external senses and examination and analysis by the intellect – these are the approved and accepted instruments of knowledge for the scientist.

Scientists are rationalists; the senses and the mind or the reasoning intellect are all they hold on to. In their quest for truth they do not rely on other faculties; for other faculties fall under the categories of guess, imagination and poetry. Science demands direct knowledge of the truth; the scientist will act in accordance with the brain pure and simple; to utilise any other faculty is, for him, a frightful abuse of the scientific way. Besides, the concern of the scientist is wholly with the material world; sufficient for the discovery of the facts and principles of this domain are the five senses and the reason; there is no necessity to seek other aids.

Again, the scientist can at the same time be a poet, can have feeling, can be contemplative, can be spiritual. But that is a matter entirely for another field, another world. When the scientist is occupied with science he must shut the door on this his other aspect. A combination of the two creates confusion. Scientific research has to be carried on under the strict vigilance of the brain and the senses. If into that there intrude hopes, desires, feelings of the heart, life or imagination,

Page 235

then in place of science there will emerge romance, fiction. Eddington and Lodge, despite their being great scientists, have not escaped this fault. They have always brought in extraneous things and mixed them up with things scientific. This is the mental attitude or the viewpoint of the orthodox scientist. Perhaps ordinary lovers of science will also support it.

About science and scientists this is no doubt the prevailing canon. But in actual practice we find something else. What distinguishes Jagadish Chandra Bose is that he is a scientist, yet, while being a scientist in the true sense of the term, he is also a kavi, a poet; and this, his poetic part, is not something different from his scientific self. It not only is not separate but is the very spring and mystery, the hidden power of his scientific genius. The poet does not mean a weaver of words; the poet is one who has a divine vision and who creates by the force of that vision. By virtue of this power Jagadish Chandra often appears more like a miracle-maker than a scientist. This is not to say that Jagadish Chandra is unique and matchless in this respect. In all creative spirits even in the realm of science we find in a more or less degree an evidence of this power; for at the root of all creation this power is bound to exist. In the' brain of all discoverers from Galileo to Einstein has played the high light of a supersensuous, supra-intellectual vision. All their achievements, at any rate all the achievements of Jagadish Chandra, show how this vision has been brought down into the framework of the mind and the senses, proved and objectified.

What is it that we call a divine vision? It means an identity of feeling; we get at the truth of a thing by identifying ourselves with it. In other words, it is direct knowledge. Orthodox scientists, that is to say, those who do not create, who deal with finished articles, those who are only, or for the most part, commentators or organisers, look askance at this faculty. As already stated, they have no faith in it because they have no mastery over it, no possession of it. Theirs is

Page 236

the easy familiar path of sense-knowledge. They move from a particular to a general conclusion; from the effect to the cause; from the material to the less material; from sense-proof to suprasensuous proof; or, as in mathematics, to inference. Diametrically opposite is the course of direct knowledge. Here the knower does not separate the subject from himself and place it before him, does not break up its physical form for an analysis of and research into its properties and actions; at the very outset, the knower gets unified with the object to be known, his consciousness infuses itself into its being; in a sense, he becomes the object itself, just as Sri Radha felt that through constant remembrance of Sri Krishna she had become Sri Krishna himself. In this state the truth, the mystery, the properties and functions of the object transmit themselves to the consciousness of the knower and become clear to it as daylight. This direct knowledge of an object from inside, through no external medium of proof, if correctly attained, is infallible and above doubt, and has the rhythm of its unity and completeness.

It is not that Jagadish Chandra seized the truth by dint of his sharp intellect and keen observation through the senses, however much he might have possessed these two faculties. With his field of investigation, particularly with the plant world, he established an identity, a unity of consciousness with its being; and, as. a result of that, the truth and nature of that world reflected themselves in his mind. But then his achievement – perhaps this is what is called a purely scientific achievement – is that he has tested these truths attained by an inner knowledge, verified them, arranged them clearly in proper order, and proved their genuineness by practical demonstration by means of the physical mind and intellect, through the medium of the senses, with the help of material instruments. In this latter respect too – in the invention and employment of the physical instruments and processes – he has shown a strange skill and simplicity, a magic, that too

Page 237

has been possible by that very intuitive insight.

The speciality and distinctiveness of the truth and knowledge of the object that Jagadish Chandra has found without the accepted means and processes of knowledge arises from a speciality of that very direct insight and of that divine vision, the fundamental truth of which is oneness. All matter is one – even to a scientist this truth is not new – but then the unity and oneness that has attained such intensity and perfection in these days was not a familiar fact of the olden times. Jagadish Chandra has traced a new line of unity in the unity of matter; he has raised the unity of matter to a higher level and invested it with a new quality. Over and above the unity of matter in the world there is a unity of life; behind the rhythms of matter is the rhythm of life. Even mineral objects feel fatigued, they faint from the application of poison, they look dying, then die. Plants also are no mere sum of material elements; they too have pulsation and nervous response, vibration of the heart and feeling of joy and sorrow, they have an involved consciousness. Jagadish Chandra has in this way brought matter through the corridor of life right almost to the door-step of consciousness. Our ancient seer vision has thus been made sensible through in his genius.

All that we see is one, not many. That one is not inanimate matter, it is instinct with life, it is living, nay, not only living but conscious. The truth that the Rishi in his divine vision has seen, and experienced in his soul, how it manifests itself, how it proves itself, how the rhythm of the subtle has played into the gross, how the Self of the Spirit has not concealed itself outside or beyond its creation but has permeated the whole of creation, how its light has made the creation luminous – tasya bhasa sarvamidam bibhati – "his light illumines all this" – something of this knowledge Jagadish Chandra has placed before the physical eye of our ordinary belief.

Thus do we find in Jagadish Chandra the message of a

Page 238

large and profound synthesis, harmony and unity: on one side the hoary East, on the other the modern West; on one side the suprasensuous, on the other the senses; on one side Spirit, on the other Matter – Jagadish Chandra acts as a bridge between this twofold truth.

Page 239

I INTEND to write of another great Bengali who can be looked upon as a model of the Bengali race. He has shown the genius of the Bengalis in quite an unusual field. His name is Shyamakanta, later on known as So'ham Swami.

I speak of the extraordinary capacity of Shyamakanta and not of So'ham Swami. In fact, for the achievement he attained in the domain of physical strength, he deserves nothing short of the term genius. In this field, too, a Bengali was able to show his unique superiority. His strength was not merely physical strength. It was not the result of any physical culture. For there was a peculiar magic, almost a mantric power in his physical strength and capabilities. He could curb and control wild lions and tigers in the twinkling of an eye, not solely by physical strength but by something else as well. I do not refer to his moral force, though there were in him the qualities of calmness, courage and self-confidence beyond measure, which further enhanced his physical strength. I speak of a unique trait of his physical strength itself. For, it was as though his strength was derived more from his marrow than from his bones, more from his blood than from his muscles, more from his nerves than from his tendons. The well-nourished marrow, the vigour of blood and the firmness of nerves kept up a healthy, harmonious, powerful and unhampered current of vitality, and this current was the perennial fount of Shyamakanta's physical strength. His strength was not like the power of a machine. There was in it a natural and innate

Page 240

liveliness and an irresistible movement of nature itself, so to speak. Wild and ferocious animals used to crouch at his feet, awed by the current of his dynamic vitality. They felt that he was their Lord, their King.

Shyamakanta was able to invoke and retain in his body the physical strength of the Universal Nature by establishing a union: the identity between his own strength and that of the Universal Nature. Perhaps the realisation of this physical identity – 'I am That' – in the end raised him into the realisation of the Transcendental Identity.

Page 241

INDIA is one. But wherein lies that unity, what is its nature?

Many are of the opinion that India has no 'unity'; the condition that prevails at present and the possible development may at the most be termed 'union'. Union is the agreement and harmony of many antagonistic entities, but unity is the organic oneness of the same entity. To-day we proclaim India an undivided nation, but as a matter of fact India is not exactly of that type. She is a collectivity of many diverse sub-nations, a continent. Bengal is a state or a sub-nation, the Punjab is a state or a sub-nation, the Tamil Nadu and the Andhra Pradesh are each a state or a sub-nation but the unity of the whole of India is merely a geographical formula. Or perhaps it can be said that India is one to some extent in her culture, religion, conduct of life and social discipline. Consequently India may at the most be compared with Europe. India is one in the sense that Europe is one, – not as one country or one nation, not as a homogeneous group of people, like France or Germany or England, but for the commonalty that exists in general in the way of thinking, the mental formation and in the mode of living. Of course there are Muslims in India. Their genius is trying to strike a different note, still the foundation of India and her original character are the Aryan genius. The Muslims can be admitted in the way Jews have a place even in Christian Europe.

Is this sort of unity all that is there? It would seem so when we look from a superficial point of view, from the outside.

Page 242

But if we try to look deeper we shall find the true power that is at play behind the external form.

The unity of India lies in her soul-power. The unity that we see in the education, culture, behaviour, conduct and the mould of her character are the outer manifestation of an inalienable unity which is derived from a still profounder living being. Behind India stands the 'One Being', purusam ekam. That is the person who alone brings about harmony, unity and oneness in the diverse, innumerable and variegated life of India. The unity of India does not lie in the mental plane alone, gradually it is taking shape in the vital and is going to get embodied even in the physical.

It is the descent of the soul-power of India that is pressing to fuse India into a single nation. The political unity of India is not only possible but inevitable, and the secret of that consummation is to be found in this mystic fact. Indeed, if we compare India with Europe from this point of view, the difference of the two will stand out in bold relief. The political unity of Europe appears to be a very difficult and even an impossible problem. The union of Europe is an armed peace. One kind of union was attempted at times in the past, but the union which Caesar, Charlemagne and Napoleon wanted to bring about was but the sole supremacy of a particular country and nation; that means the union of the devourer and the devoured. Another type of union too is at present visible in Europe – that is the formation of groups in their self-interest, each group combining to pool its resources against others. None of these unions is real unity. The compromise, the compact arrived at among different interests are not the infallible unity of the soul; the undivided personality of the collective being has not emerged there.

In fact every European country has a well-developed and distinct personality of its own; each wants to secure a separate fulfilment, each is self-sufficient and distinct from the rest. There is a mutual give-and-take among them, often they

Page 243

move together for a common cause; but the collective existence of each is boldly and strongly demarcated. Look at England, France, Italy or Germany. The geographical boundary of each stands distinctly like the contour of an individual human body. The collective existence of Europe, awake and alive, belongs separately to each of the European countries and nations and in no way represents the collective being of all Europe.

On the other hand, if we look at India we find that the whole of India possesses a well-defined and distinct geographical outline. But the boundaries of the separate states of India are not so well-marked; their geographical features do not look well-built and complete wholes. No doubt, each of them has its own speciality, but their collective beings do not stand out prominently in contrast to one another. If we think of Asia in connection with India, then the difference between India and Europe will be clearly noticed. In the case of India the visualisation of a single indivisible state is easy and natural, but the same cannot be said of the whole of Asia; the countries of Asia like those of Europe have their different ways of life and modes of being. Europe has a similarity to Asia, but not to India.

If India is to be compared at all then the object of comparison cannot be Europe but a country of Europe which is called a 'nation'. India cannot be classed with Europe, but Great Britain, for example, can be mentioned for comparison. Britain is a homogeneous country or nation. Its collective being has a separate living individuality. As in Great Britain there are Scotland, Wales and England, so in India the separate states like Bengal, Maharashtra and the Punjab are the different limbs of the collective being of India. But the thing is that just as Asia is far larger than Europe, the states of India are larger than the European states. To European eyes China and India appear like continents. Not only is India larger in size but from the point of diversity also India displays a

Page 244

greater profusion that is almost endless. Those very differences and diversities that are to be found on a smaller scale within any European country are there in India on a larger scale. The divisions which are considered insignificant and therefore overlooked in a nation of Europe stand prominently here because of their amplitude, their immensity in size; such divisions too are accepted as somehow useful.

So it comes to this that the unity of India is vaster and more complex than the unity of any of the nations of Europe. But for that reason it cannot be concluded that this unity is no unity. Rather we know that science is proving the fact that the higher the being rises in the scale of evolution the greater complexity does its individuality acquire. Such diversity and variety are visible in India because a higher and greater synthesis is thus worked out or about to be wrought in a distinct manner and on a larger scale.

The collective union of Europe, its living truth, is not the unity that exists among the countries or nations of Europe. Of course an attempt is being made to bring about a sort of oneness through the length and breadth of Europe; but that oneness is still a conception, still an ideal, not even a living ideal yet. The inner being has not as yet become conscious and alert about its own personality. But in the case of India the awakening of her inner being has stood by far the first. India's personality of collective existence is indeed a living truth. The unity of the whole of India is, as it were, axiomatic and God-given. The oneness that is trying to become awake and conscious in India is not the unity and the personality of the whole of India, but rather, the oneness of the different personalities of the states of India. Therefore we notice contrary ways of life-manifestation in India and in Europe. In Europe the collective personality has awakened and the sense of unity has been established first within the limited areas of different countries. Having established these two things Europe is progressing towards the larger unity in its totality. The trend of Europe is the

Page 245

gradual ascension to the total consciousness of the inner being from the consciousness of the external physical parts. But in India what happened is the gradual descent to the external physical parts from the total consciousness of the inner subtle being. India first discovered her own inner being. This being of India is ever awake, so in India the manifestation of that being and the descent of her power are making the different states gradually become conscious and discover their own individualities. Perhaps Europe has had to start from a political union or oneness in order gradually and finally to attain to the unity-of the soul, and achieve her own individuality. India has long acquired the unity of the soul and this self-conscious individuality is the last word of India's oneness.

Page 246

WHAT is the cause – the fundamental cause – of India's decline? The mighty nation that was once the vanguard of the world in the field of learning and culture, whose all-round genius had almost no equal, is now ruthlessly stricken with poverty, incapacity, weakness and stands on the verge of destruction. Many are the factors that are said to have brought about such a downfall. But what is the main, the source cause? Loss of vitality, for that is the foremost feature. This statement applies equally to an individual as to a nation. When vitality runs short, the life-energy falls to a low ebb; weakness, disease and death gradually force their way. But India was, as it were, the fount of all energies. History bears witness to the fact that more than once India slipped into an alien atmosphere and almost crashed towards a total downfall, but always it was only for- a short while: for she mustered strength again from somewhere and, infused with a new life, she recovered her health and strength to rise again to a greater greatness. It happens however that her present crisis is very radical and unprecedented. It is a question of yes or no for ever. How could India come to such a pass? What sin, what violation of the Law could have deprived her of her vitality to such an enormous extent?

There are three primary causes that have led to the diminution of India's life-energy. Let us study them one after another.

Firstly, in order of time and importance, the root-cause

Page 247

is the institution of Sannyasa, ascetic renunciation, and the influence of the theory of illusion. What does the ideal of Sannyasa teach us? The world is an illusion. The highest good consists in escape from life and withdrawal from action. The play of the natural instincts and propensities which comprise the ordinary social life of man is considered the lower nature. If man wants to attain to his highest nature, his true Self, then he will have to control his outgoing tendencies, stop them totally and finally turn them inward. The summum bonum of life is the absorption in the static Brahman.¹

Needless to say that a creed whose fundamental principle is to escape from life cannot but dry up the sap of life. The outgoing faculties of human life are bound to recede, dwindle and vanish or remain atrophied when it is inculcated that life and the living of life lead one astray from the ultimate Truth. The conception of life as a mirage cannot help life to bloom and manifest. On the contrary, it is sure to effect a gradual cessation of life.

It may be argued however that the ideal of Sannyasa, renunciation, was never meant for the whole of humanity. The Sannyasins neither expect nor wish that all and sundry should give up their respective vocations in life and retire to the mountains and forests and remain absorbed in the sole communion with God. They also admit the necessity of the outgoing movements in human life. The world is not an ultimate reality, but its pragmatic reality cannot be denied. In the course of leading a normal life when spontaneously a spirit of renunciation dawns on one, then that is the proper time to accept the life of renunciation for spiritual attainment. The institution of Sannyasa stands at the

¹ The genuine spirituality of India as embodied in the Vedas, the Upanishads and the Gita has never approved of the renunciation of life and action.

"Doing verily works in this world one should wish to live a hundred yearn. Thus it is in thee and not otherwise than this; action cleaves not to a man."

Isha Upanihad (Translated by Sri Aurobindo)

Page 248

top of the society. One has to reach it through the household life fulfilling one's duties as a householder.

Quite true. But the ideal of renunciation gained slowly and occupied people's mind to such an inordinate degree that all other ideals fell into insignificance before this one ideal. The real truth, the real good lies outside the pale of worldly life. The sooner one can get rid of this life, the better. Besides, life was considered not as a way to the Goal beyond, but as a great obstacle to it. To our normal conception a householder is but a despicable sinner. We began to look down upon life and its activities even when we were within the precincts of life itself. Instead of enlarging all the spheres of our activities we wanted to dig out and cast away their very roots. But in spite of such an attitude the common men did not become pure of passion and life-attachments. For as the Gita declares, "All creatures follow the bent of their own nature; repression is of no avail."

The upshot amounts to this that even while we remained in active life, our zeal for action slowed down and diminished. We became overwhelmed with a pensive mood – a collective sense of the vanity of vanities brooded on our life. The active life was, no doubt; retained, but restricted within a narrow compass, and it was unavoidable. The way of life in the end became confined solely to the physical plane. Only the animal propensities were attended to. We missed all high ideals of action. In the social life we were deprived of all collective enterprises. Our only aim was somehow to satisfy our personal needs and those of our family members. And this is called praktana-kaya, – "exhausting the consequences of past actions". We paid no heed to the high or large enterprises of the life-energy, and these became altogether meaningless to us. All our energies were diverted to and hemmed in the channels of envy, jealousy and ill-feeling; "eat, drink and be merry" – as much as your depleted life-energy allows – became the motto of our life

Page 249

From outside, new shackles were imposed on the life-energy that was already diminishing and dying out from within. The religious codes of Manu and others prescribed the routine of life in all its details. The canons enjoined on us taught how to regulate our life, what to do and not to do. The march of our life followed the rut of the rules laid down by the law-givers for the regulation of our daily life and the duties on special occasions. We could not deviate from the rules in the least for fear of censure and tyranny of the society. The customs that were in the beginning merely a spontaneous discipline changed into an inexorable chain and bondage. It is true that the living current of life does not and cannot adhere to all these injunctions of fixed laws. Life has a rhythm of its own. It creates its own law. The rules that do not take into account this rhythm and law become a hindrance to the natural progress of life. The urge of life, being hampered at every step, is bound to become weakened and crippled. The hard and fast rules that the mentors of our society had introduced even for inessential and trifling matters of life deprived the life-energy of its natural zest and zeal, made it move like .a machine. Consequently our vitality waned and life became nothing more than a bundle of rules. Perhaps the original intention was not to allow the vital energy to run amuck or break the bounds of discipline. Anyhow we missed the art of maintaining freedom in the midst of bondage.¹ This is the second cause that robbed India of her vitality.

The Caste-system is the third cause. The differentiation of castes and sub-castes has practically split India

¹ Many people hold that this rigid discipline saved Hinduism and the characteristic features of India during the periods of foreign incursions. But it cannot be admitted that if India had followed her own normal bent of life she would not have been able to save herself, assimilate the foreigners, the members of other religions and cast away what was not worthy of assimilation. On the whole, this austere discipline, the attempt at it which had, as it were, enfeebled and confined the life-energy within a dungeon, has done more harm than good.

Page 250

into innumerable divisions. We Indians are bloated with pride and assert that we belong to the Aryan race. But do we know how many different strains of blood went to form this Indian nation? If there be any Aryan spirit in India, it is not in the blood of the Indians, but in their education and culture. And this education and culture too has mingled with those of other civilisations. When the Indian nation was living and powerful, it had considerably added to its life and power by absorbing new blood and new life-energy. But as the frame of the Caste-system grew more and more rigid, new sub-castes began to make their appearance. Social intercourse and matrimonial alliances ceased to take place. And, as a result, the power of unity yielded to the infirmity of division. No doubt, the maintenance of the purity .of blood of a clan may be at times necessary. When a small group acquires some speciality in education and culture, in order to perpetuate this virtue it is obviously needed that it should keep aloof from the other groups. This speciality may last for long, but not for ever. With the march of time its decline is bound to ensue. Besides, it does no good to retain a particular quality for all time, since with the change of time the usefulness of even good qualities will change. There comes the demand for qualities suitable to the age. Purity, i.e., continuance of the type, fixity for its own sake, leads to stagnation and disintegration. According to the nature and capacity of persons and groups, different systems of education and culture can and should be admitted in a society. Aptitude and inclination of men should decide groupings. There is no need for arbitrary or notion-made laws. But in the present-day society we find high and solid walls of division raised everywhere even amongst the sub-castes. So the social relationship has considerably narrowed down, and from generation to generation the social intercourse has been confined within groupings of a few families. Virility and the life-energy fail under such circumstances to retain their original vigour.

Page 251

All these causes were responsible for the foreign yoke to be laid on India. The remnant of the life-energy was liquidated under the pressure of this subjugation. And that brought the coup de grâce which seemed to seal the fate of the Indian nation for good.

Page 252

THE East is spiritual by nature, while the West is inclined towards materialism. The East seeks for the world beyond. The West wants to possess this mundane world. Every rule, however, admits of exception, but that does not make it a sham. The same principle holds good here. The East is not wanting in epicures like Charvaka, nor is the West wanting in personages like Saint Francis. Nevertheless, on the whole it can be said that the life-current of the East tends towards the domain beyond the senses, while that of the West is turned to the seekings of the senses. The East is firmly rooted in the eternal Truth. The West is familiar with the transient truths of the outer world. As a result of this difference the West has become skilful in action, lively and dynamic, and the East has become meditative, peace-loving and indifferent to life-activities. The present urge of mankind is to synthesise these different traits and to impart to the world at large a common, nobler and wider ideal. To-day we are convinced that these two different types of virtue are complementary to each other. The body without the soul is blind; the soul without the body is lame. The body must be infused with the spirit of the soul, and the dynamis of the soul must manifest itself through the body. This is indeed the ideal of the new synthesis.

Let us try to throw more light on this difference so that we may comprehend the synthetic ideal more clearly. We wilt now compare and contrast, for example, the genius of Valmiki and that of Shakespeare in the field of literature. On

Page 253

reading Shakespeare a stamp of characters that are human is left on our mind, and Valmiki impresses us with characters that are superhuman. Shakespeare has depicted men solely as human beings, while Valmiki read into men the symbol of some larger and higher truth. In the works of Shakespeare we feel the touch of material life and enjoy the savour of earthly pleasure, the embrace of physical bodies with each other, as it were. But Valmiki deals with experiences and realities that exceed the bounds of ordinary earthly life. Hamlet, Macbeth and King Lear are the highlights of Shakespearae's creation. Valmiki's heroes and heroine are Rama, Ravana and Sita. The characters depicted by Shakespeare are men as men are or would be. But even the human characters of Valmiki contain something of the super-human, they overflow the bounds of humanity. It is not so difficult for us to grasp the clashes of sentiments that go to make up the character of Hamlet, for we are already quite familiar with them in our life; whereas the character of Rama which is not at all complex can yet hardly be adequately measured. There is a mystic vastness behind the character which can never be classed with human traits. Indeed, Rama and Ravana both are two aspects of the same Infinite. Even the drama of their earthly life is not merely founded on human qualities. The East wants to explore the Infinite, while the West wants to delve into the finite. Homer, the father of Western literature, is an illustrative example. The men of Homer's world, however mighty and powerful they may be, are after all human beings. Achilles and Hector are but the royal editions or dignified versions of our frail human nature. Never do they reflect the Infinite. The gift of the West is to bring to the fore the speciality of the finite through the senses. Plato himself did not like very much the Homerian god who to him was only "human – all too human." The gift of the East on the other hand is to manifest the Infinite and the Truth beyond the grasp of the senses with the aid of the finite, with the senses as a means.

Page 254

NOTHING is proved by reason. Reason is only an instrument or a weapon. Any man can use it with the same skill for his own end. Satan, too, has his advocate.

According to the demands and needs of our ideals, experience and inner impulses, and in order to furnish them with proofs, we engage reason and its company. Therefore the authority of the proof lies not in any power of reasoning, but in the reality behind the ideal, the secret feeling, the profound impulse and impetus.

What is truth is existent; that is, it is true only because it has existence. It is independent of any proof. It has to be seen directly and perceived immediately. The proof of the tree before you consists in your seeing it. There is God, the Self, Immortality, Eternity, the Life Divine. The proof of each of these entities, too, lies in its direct apperception.

You may say, "I see the tree, you see it, he sees it; everybody sees or can see it. But God, the Self, Immortality, the Life Divine: even if you have seen them, I have not done so. Everyone has not seen or cannot see them."

My reply will be, "Not all, but many have realised them, in different ages and in different climes. It is open to you and me, also, to have the realisation if we go through the proper procedure."

If one wants to see London one has to go to London. You cannot say that there is no London because it is not visible from your room. Have you seen a positron? Have you seen a neutron? How many have seen them? To see them, one

Page 266

has to go to the laboratory and follow a special procedure.

The process that brings the direct vision of God, the Self, Immortality and the touch of the Divine Life is called the practice of Yoga.

Page 267

THAT the world has now pushed itself into the grip of a tremendous crisis admits of no doubt. And difficult it is to fathom the depth of deformation and depravity in which human nature and human society have sunk. The scriptures speak of the darkest days of Kali when even the last traces of religion would be wiped out; man would become irreligious to the last degree; even in his stature he would shrink to a pigmy. Today's man seems certainly to have diminished to such an extent; his life and consciousness have greatly narrowed down; a drop of water is now his ocean. From what is happening all around one can justifiably say that the realities of Kali have overpassed its original conception.

Man seeks worldly advancement and prosperity. That means extreme selfishness; there is nothing that this lure of self-aggrandisement cannot make man do without the least twinge of conscience; it means falsehood, pretence, cleverness, deceit, harshness, cruelty, rudeness, crookedness – all these seem to have become a universally approved state of things and accepted as the human way, as human temperament and human nature. If anyhow there occurs an exception anywhere to the general rule, it gives rise to surprise and suspicion.

Leave aside worldly men. And look at the youth on whom the burden of the world has not yet fallen and who speak of visions and ideals. What is their nature today? Their liberty means licence, absolutism; any sort of obedience or observance of rules is, in their eyes, slavery; it takes away from

Page 268

their self-respect. We see at each step everywhere how rude and arrogant have become the students of these days. From men's life has passed away the sense of restraint, politeness of heart, gracefulness. It is not that want has impoverished human nature to such a miserable extent. Even where there is no want we find the same play of desire and impulse. It seems that some black force from somewhere has possessed man, which tempts him into mean ways and mean things, which has given his outlook a downward turn, towards whatever makes of him a beast, a fiend, a demon. And this state of things is proudly accepted and propagated as an ideal, as a modern materialistic 'scientific' ideal.

It may not be that the earth at any time was a paradise or her social order a Ramrajya, a well ordered life of peace and joy. Still there was, after all, a restraining force, a discipline, a sense of dharma ('that which upholds all'). Those who did not keep within the bounds of order and discipline were outlaws. But now to break order is to break the chains; and the boast goes forth, "I am the unbound tresses of the graceful damsel with flame-lit eyes."

A new creation may demand a pulling down and a burning up of the old. But everything depends on by what power, in consonance with what ideal, on what lines and in what manner we do it.

The atyasrami sannyasis (those who have surpassed the four ashrams or the four prescribed stages of life) obey no social law, they are outside the pale of law: But they have acquired that right, for they follow a higher law, a spiritual discipline.

That is why we believe that the fundamental reason why human beings have become so infrahuman is that a demoniac influence has possessed them. An asuric force has descended on earth; it wants to appropriate the whole earth, to engulf the entire humanity. Perhaps this is its last chance. That is why it is in the field with all its powers and exerts all its strength. It is from this angle that we view the strifes and tussles going on throughout the world. It is a struggle

Page 269

between two forces: one tamasic, the other resplendent; the one is for man's uplift, the other for his downfall; the one for creation, the other for catastrophe.

Hence a great responsibility faces every one of us – every one's life has assumed a special value and a special fulfilment. Each of us must take his stand either on this or on the other side. However small and insignificant we may be, whether we consciously adopt some ideal or sadhana or not, practically each of our thoughts, feelings, urges, or actions must be either for one side or for the other. So each of us has before him an immense responsibility which he must accept willingly or unwillingly. We all know that a modern war is a total war, it is not simply for the trained soldier but for all – men, women, children. In society there is no distinction as between military and non-military. All have come straight to the front line and taken their stand there. There is no more any chance, any way, any excuse to move aside or away into the background. 'You are military, so am I' – this is the prevailing mood.

But then we have to know clearly on which side we are – on the side of truth or of falsehood, and what we want for the earth – light or darkness.

For those who are grouped round Sri Aurobindo, who have adopted his sadhana, or who desire his light and blessings on the path of life, their course is clear. But then on this very account their responsibility too is twice as much. While remaining in the midst of asuric surroundings, they have to show, in their thoughts, impulses, actions, in their mind, life and body, that here too one can tread the path of light, can survive in the struggle for existence, and not only that, even when 'the sky colours and the night is densely dark, when clouds roar and lightnings flash, when from moment to moment thunders crash and the tempest grows wilder and fiercer,' we have to show that even through such dangers it is as reasonable as it is safe to take to the path of light, to walk the way of the gods. Whatever the immediate gains offered

Page 270

by the other path, proofs are not wanting that the ultimate end is terrible. We have to face the situation with a firm faith and conviction, a one-pointed devotion and determination, courage and spirit, and go through our day to day life, showing at every step that success, fulfilment and prosperity are not the exclusive gifts of the Asura; the Divine also has that power. What is more, the scope, extent and variety of that power is even wider and higher.

We will not suffer the field of life and its richnesses to pass into the asuric hold. 'Give the devil his due' or 'Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's' – this will not be our motto. That would be a betrayal of faith, an attitude of divided loyalty. The Divine alone is the Sovereign; He has no partner in this domain. 'I, thy Lord, am a jealous God'. There can therefore be no compromise or friendship with the Asura, with the untruth. Neither is it wise to avoid or bypass him. No, not that. We have to look the opponent in the face; we have to refuse his demand and impose ours on him. Strong in the strength of our inner force, calling down the divine Light of which we are devoted servants, protected by its

power, we have to break into the very ranks of the asuric forces and go on baffling and overcoming them and in place of their ways and doings we have gradually to establish the ways and doings of Truth, Light and God.

Thus will be possible the creation of a new world; it will have its beginnings just when into the old vitiated, disintegrating forms, centres of the new have found their way and made for themselves a place within and have started putting gradual pressure on them. Be these centres individuals or groups, their connection and collaboration with divine forces and divine springs of action will be easier and more effective in proportion as they become more and more sincerely devoted, more and more self-surrendered, more and more one-pointed in thought, word and deed. Then will they march on, armoured and protected, leaving at every step landmarks of their victory.

Page 271

In these critical days of catastrophic possibilities, everything is unsteady and unstable, nothing certain and dependable. Whatever earthly support we may clasp or clamp to our breast, whether rank and wealth, our near and dear ones, or even the observance of religious vows and ideals, all will prove fragile and unreliable, like figures drawn upon water. Amid these all-enveloping instabilities there is only one fixed object. Those who will hold on to it will have safety; it is they alone who will be able to save what is worthy of being saved; it is they who will see the sunny day; centring round them will dawn the new happy Age. The best friend of man is, the divine being in him, the divine consciousness, in other words, the divine Will – not ambition and desire for earthly things, for personal care and comfort but the high purpose and urge of the World-Mother, etadalambanam srestham etadalambanam param – She is the best, the supreme Refuge.

Page 272

GOD dons a human form. But often it is not possible for the common run of men to recognise Him. In good many cases not only do we fail to know or recognise Him but we disbelieve and despise Him. Where has man the vision to see the inner truth?

The human form is a unique thing. We have said that God makes it His own abode. But all kinds of non-divine existences too may appear in it. The Pishacha or Rakshasa or Asura can become manifest in the human form; so may the Gods. In man exist all the worlds and all the elements of these worlds. Therefore any being from any world may possess him and through him can establish and reveal itself. Why are beings of other planes so eager to have the human body? The reason is: this physical, inert world, this earth is, as it were, the centre of the world-play; it is a profound mystery, a unique fulfilment of creation. All beings have an irresistible urge to enjoy happiness in the physical, to lord it over the earth and here in this very form grow up into "His Imperial Majesty". And to fulfil this purpose, to gratify this desire there is no other vessel and instrument more perfect than man. All his limbs, well-formed and well-constituted, can reflect and harbour all the faculties beyond the power of any other being. Is it for this reason that in order to exorcize a man, Christ compelled the evil spirits to get into the animal body – the herd of swine – and put an end to them by getting them drowned in water?

Page 273

Creation originated from the urge of a descent – the descent, of the highest, the transcendent, the supreme consciousness on this dense, hard and solid earth of Matter in the form of a mass of atoms. The urge of this downward tendency continues also in the personalities and the beings that have appeared in the different stages of this descent. They or something in them wants to come down to the level of the earth. Again, in the upward movement as well, their urge is to come up to the status of man, or, it may be, ultimately to partake of the fulfilment that is in bloom or will bloom in the physical. However, we shall shortly deal with that mystery.

Now we were referring to the descent of God in human form. Why has God become man? For what purpose? Regarding this we find a fine principle, a subtle truth in the Christian way of spiritual practice. And it can be said even that it is a unique discovery, a speciality of the Christian sadhana. According to the Christian doctrine, God as such has not come down on the earth, but He has sent His own Son in the form of man – even then the Father and the Son are at bottom one: "I and my Father are one." What for? To take up the sins of man – that means man is a store-house of sin. By his own effort, by his spiritual practice to get rid of sin and to attain to the spiritual divine consciousness and life is not possible for him. Therefore, the supremely gracious God has come down in the human form to expiate the sin of man on his behalf and thus make him fit for receiving the Grace of God. This is the reality of what is called vicarious atonement and redemption.

Through the allegory of bread and wine, the Eucharist, it has been indicated that a true disciple of Christ turns his blood into that of Christ and his body into that of the Messiah; he makes the body of Christ a part and parcel of his own. As lime clarifies turbid water, so by drinking the physical consciousness of Christ his follower purifies his own physical consciousness. To confess one's sins is to accept the Cross:

Page 274

the tragic end of Christ signifies God's compassion for man, because the crucified Christ is the Life everlasting.

In India God has not been depicted in this way. God himself takes away the burden of sin: "I shall deliver thee from all sips" – this is the message of God in this land. So there is a difference between the two approaches.

That the preceptor takes upon himself the sins of his disciple, that is, his impurities and weaknesses, in order to help the disciple in his self-purification, is well known to us. The reaction that the Guru has to undergo as a result of accepting the impurity of the disciple and the consequences he has to suffer, such as disease, we can know from the example of Sri Ramakrishna. The origin of the malignant disease that had attacked him was the close contact and intimacy with his disciples. Sri Ramakrishna himself has said so. And it is because of the incidence of this disease that the atheist, the wiseacre foolishly say, "God incurs cancer! What a helpless and poor God!"¹

But herein lies the real mystery. God has become man; that means he has assumed the human nature and has accepted the human weakness not only in word or allegorically but in fact, in actual practice. That is why we see this human weakness in Christ on the last day of his life when he asks God to remove the vessel of deadly poison from his lips, so that he may not have to drink of it any more.

God having become a man shows by example how one can rise to a godly or divine nature from a human nature. God reveals this sadhana through his human life. Man knows himself as sinful, afflicted, weak and helpless. To him the spiritual realisation, the divine Life, the divine Consciousness may seem to be futile and hollow dreams, like the castle in the air. These are only luxurious idealisms which are not for all, at least for many. Only a few that are heroic, adventurous and self-confident can afford to spend time and labour in this direction. In order to drive away this error, this false

¹ Compare: "the stupid disown me..." The Gita.

Page 275

notion, this familiar and common disbelief, God has wanted to show, by way of a practical demonstration, as it were, how to rise above human weakness. In man, in spite of his numerous weaknesses, there abides a divine Power by virtue of which even the dumb can be endowed with eloquence.

The second mystery is this that not only for the individual but for the collectivity the human form of God has a special significance. God comes down to the lower level. He abides by His own laws to transform them. He destroys whatever has to be destroyed. He purifies whatever has to be purified. He protects and enriches whatever has to be protected and enriched. This is His mission. That means a collision, a definite battle. Consequently the divine Body too has to undergo scars. That is the law of this plane, that is the rule of His game. But it is thus that God clears the road, makes the path easy. On behalf of man God conquers Nature so that it may be easy for man to reconquer it. A question may be raised here: "the conquest of nature or the transformation of nature – cannot God effect it from His own Self or the World-Self? What necessity is there to accept a human form in order to do the work?" First of all, if God were to do everything in a subtle way, then why was the physical created, for what purpose? We have said that this Matter, this world, this very earth, this earthly body itself, are the field for God's lila, the centre and knot of the mystery of the creation. All disembodied powers and personalities want to come down on earth and be embodied in order to have all the privileges of this place. The Asuras want this, the Gods want this, therefore God too has to come down. He has to experience the full expression of body by becoming an embodied being. Secondly, this body has its own purpose and fulfilment. The body has grown out of inconscient Matter, it is born here below to become purified and transformed into the divine substance. Moreover, from some other sphere, from a consciousness transcendent and immanent, to act on the earth or its Matter or on some particular receptacles, means to apply

Page 276

an alien force, an attempt to impose a different principle. There is a necessity for this process and the power does act in this way, but something else must accompany this process. On our part that something is more important. It is the body's own conscious will, the self-offering and the self-opening of Matter – not because of an influence, impulsion or pressure from elsewhere; the material body of its own accord, by a demand from within, has to seek the Reality beyond Matter and body. That is why the divine Body shows how even Matter can aspire for spirituality and proves that Matter is not absolutely inert, in it too abides a consciousness and a conscious aspiration.

There is a tradition that if the inhabitants of the other worlds – the Demons, the Giants, the Titans and even the Gods – want liberation or seek to be raised to a higher or to the highest status, then they have to come down to the earth and be born as men. In this human body alone the sadhana for ascension is possible. To use the language of the Puranas, the other worlds are the fields for enjoyment while this earth is the field for work. That means the other worlds are the regions for some definite and fixed qualities. They are typal existences. The inherent quality of any of them does not change. One's own nature or one's own accumulated actions find their manifestation. One spends and enjoys there. But to acquire new merit, to introduce a new trend in one's nature, to turn its course, one will have to accept this human body. For, as we have said at the outset, man is a combination of all the planes of creation. Therefore, the consciousness can go up and come down and can stay on any level. It can be said that in man there is, like his very spine, a stair of consciousness – the Vedic seer has spoken of the possibilities of going up as on a bamboo ladder. But the most secret mystery is this that in man there is that unique part – the divine heart-cave – which is the fount of a new sight and a new creation and which guides and gives sanction for the change and the return, and which is the open and illumined

Page 277

gate towards the supreme fulfilment, the highest consciousness, an immortal bridge between this world and the other worlds. All want to possess and enjoy the plenitude of the earth, and want to establish themselves in an embodied existence here on the earth. Men as well as the denizens of the other worlds – all of them are given one more and a greater opportunity. Many of them accept, some consciously, some unconsciously so that they may evolve without remaining confined to their own characteristic qualities for all time, may gain a footing on the ascending levels of consciousness and thus make a constant progress, nirarata (Rig Veda), may accept other qualities and transformation and thereby achieve the higher and the nobler existence. The human receptacle acts as a unique catalytic agent in this chemical progress.

A benediction, a divine Grace reposes on this apparently weak and perishable human body.

God accepts this human body burdened with diseases and afflictions, because there is no other way of accepting the world and humanity. This indeed is the work of God: to accept the creation as it is and to purify and transform it gradually from within. If God comes down to stand before us with an immortal embodied consciousness free from decay and disease, then we shall keep at a distance from Him. We shall not be able to receive Him as our own. How close to Arjuna was Krishna in his human way! All on a sudden one day Arjuna happened to see this mystery through the divinely gifted vision and, being overwhelmed, he exclaimed, "Thou art my father, Thou art my friend, Thou art my Beloved; in what rash vehemence have I not spoken to Thee? What disrespect was not shown by me to Thee at play and in the banquet! O Lord! do forgive those errors of mine." If God brings to life the dead by His mere touch and endows the blind with sight and heals the diseased, then that is a miracle, no doubt, but a greater miracle of His is to accept the troubles of diseases and affliction in spite of being above

Page 278

them all in order to make the body free from them and to fill it with immortality.

Matchless is the description of the glory of the human body of God found in the Vaishnava cult of Bengal. Goloka, the abode of the eternal sport of Radha and Krishna, which is far above the world of Brahma, is the supreme truth. And Radha and Krishna are meaningless without their human forms – rather all secrets of the dual personalities consist in the human form. The human form is not just one among the hundreds and thousands of forms in Nature; it is not merely a perishable receptacle manifested in the process of the evolution and confined to time and space. The Vaishnava philosophy teaches us that there is an eternal truth of the human form and it has an intimate connection with the divine Body. To look upon God as a man is not mere anthropomorphism. But in the Vaishnava doctrine prominence, almost an exclusive stress, has been given to the supraphysical conscious form of the body, cinmaya deha. We go further and bring to the fore even this earthly material human body and have faith in its divine fulfilment.

Page 279

THERE are, as we know, three elements in the culture of the body: first, the body must remain healthy; secondly, it has to become strong; and finally, it must be efficient.

First, the question of health. The body must remain free from disease, which means that all its organs must function without let or hindrance, as in the heart's function of the circulation of blood, the lungs in their work of respiration, the digestive system in its work of assimilation and elimination. Besides, if there is any defect or shortcoming in any part of the body, it too has to be remedied; if there is an irregularity or disfunction in the shape or movement of a particular limb, it has to be rectified, the disparity removed and the functioning made normal. For this purpose, there are special remedial exercises to serve the particular ends. No medical prescriptions can have the last say in this matter, the aid of the physical culturist is also called for. But even medical men are now prescribing yogic exercises like asana and pranayama for health purposes. Once the body is in good health, it needs to be made strong and given fitness and capacity. To this end we have recourse to special exercises known as gymnastics. The third stage of physical culture consists in making the body able and efficient; this may be described as the utilisation of the body's strength and capacity. This is where calisthenics or agility exercises come in, with their dexterity and beauty of bodily movements. The major games like football, hockey and cricket may also be brought within this category.

Page 280

All this is known to us all. But what I have in view is something different, something a little deeper. It concerns another phase or aspect of physical culture. What I mean is that the body must not only be healthy, strong and efficient, it must also become conscious. Ordinarily, our bodily functionings and movements take place mostly without our knowledge, as in an unconscious instrument or machine. The aim of physical exercises should be to render the body a conscious instrument, through a willed and conscious process. Such conscious movements of the body not only make the objects of the movements fruitful in themselves, but also ensure the results in a fuller, more perfect and speedy manner.

The Mother has said that the movement of going up and down the stairs in the course of our daily work could be made to serve as a fine exercise if, instead of doing it in an unconscious mechanical way, we could do it consciously and with full concentration. One must feel and know that the movement is being performed; the legs too should be aware of the work they are doing. Performed in this manner, it is a fine exercise for the legs.

Now there are two ways of becoming conscious. To be conscious implies becoming conscious of one's self. This self can be the "I", that is, there is not only the "I" who does the work, but there is also the sense that I am doing the work while it is being done; whatever the nature of the work I remain aware all the time that it is I who am doing the work. But the "self" that becomes conscious may also be the individual consciousness of the particular organ or limb that does the work; it too becomes conscious in the course of the work that is being done. When, for instance, I run, not only do I remain aware that I am running, but all parts of the body that are involved in this running become themselves conscious of their action. That adds greatly to the success of the result. Thus to make the body conscious by infusing in its organs and limbs the movement of consciousness and vibrations of light, what the scientist

Page 281

would describe as "energising" the body – this is the real aim, the true utility of physical culture and exercises.

But one need not stop with this; it is necessary to rise another step. The body must not only become conscious, it must become rightly conscious. My consciousness, the one that stands behind all my action, is not mine, at least not exclusively mine; it is a deeper, wider, higher, consciousness. What works and manifests itself through my personal consciousness is another kind of consciousness. Thus we find ourselves within the realm of spiritual discipline, yoga-sadhana, by following the line of physical culture.

For, we must realise that the body can become healthy, strong and efficient with any kind of true permanence and integrality, only when its self-consciousness can be changed into the right consciousness. By right consciousness I mean a true and harmonious consciousness. It can come, in the first place, from the depths of our inner and inmost being; that is the consciousness of the inner self, the indwelling inner Being. It may be called the inner consciousness. And secondly, the right consciousness can come, not from within or at least not primarily from there but from the environment, from a wider expanse, a universal wideness extending beyond the limits of the individual ego. This we shall call the environmental consciousness. The right consciousness may on the other hand come from above, in the for of a higher consciousness. The "above" too has many levels or planes. The highest of these is called the Supreme Consciousness. There may be added an intermediary level of the higher consciousness which we term in general the Supramental, a consciousness which begins the first step rising beyond the mind-planes including the Overmind.

These then are the main gradations or steps in the growth of consciousness: (1) unconsciousness, (2) consciousness, (3) active consciousness, (4) inner consciousness, (5) environmental consciousness, (6) Supramental consciousness, (7) Supreme or Transcendental consciousness. These correspond

Page 282

to the seven layers of our being, sapta-kosa, the seven worlds or the seven oceans; these are the seven tongues of the Fire-God, Agni, the seven horses of the Sun-God, Surya. Any of these planes of consciousness can take charge of the being and its principal knot, the ego, with attendant consequences.

A common function of all right consciousness is to drench the being in light by transmitting its light, bring in a purity as a result of which even the body down to its gross material elements becomes thoroughly washed and purified. For acquiring health which is the body's first essential need, there is no better means or a more effective medicine.

In this way, the farther we ascend towards the heights and gain a higher status in our consciousness, the brighter becomes the light in its purity and whiteness. Likewise, the deeper we take the plunge within, there too the consciousness gets more and more profound and intimate and true, full of an intensity and force. These two movements, one towards the heights and the other into the depths, in time become simultaneous, become one in the end. The consciousness thus perfected brings in its turn a perfection of the body as well.

There is another point to be noted. This state of being "conscious" is not a mere outer remembrance, is not an activity of the discriminating mind, nor the kind of memory we use in repeating a lesson; it is rather a deep self-awareness and knowledge. To try to keep this awareness with the help of the logical mind cannot help, it can only hinder the action.

We usually speak of getting "engrossed" or "immersed" in what we do; we forget ourselves in our work, and it is such work as is done with this kind of concentration, that alone can be flawless and perfect. But concentration does not imply a state of unconsciousness. A clock continues to give correct time unconsciously, plants and even the lower orders of the animal world work without knowledge, unconsciously, and in most perfect order. In man however the infusion of consciousness has brought about a distinction between the "I"

Page 283

and the work which the "I" performs; I want to do my work consciously, hence I look upon my work and consider it as something apart from me. But it is precisely this that makes for imperfection in work, hedges it with doubt. When this consciousness in work is changed to right consciousness, then I can get back the unity or identity between the worker and the work; in the true consciousness there thus comes a conscious identity between subject and object. To repeat what I have already said: When I run, my running, the goal of my running, and myself – these three become unified in a conscious integral whole; I am aware not only that I am running, but also that I myself am that running and myself the goal; these three elements become one in a mutual embrace. There is an experience and realisation of Brahman which describes the trio of Brahman, brahmanda and jiva, the Supreme Reality, the manifested universe and the individual being, as forming a single unity, one undivided Consciousness strung together in a triple thread. To be one-pointed like an arrow, sara-vat tanmayo bhavet, does not mean that the arrow ceases to be and only the target exists – not that, but the arrow and its target become one, gathered together and unified as in an indivisible consciousness.

I had to bring in all this in order to explain that to become conscious does not mean that one becomes mentally conscious, only with the external mind. This may serve a temporary need, namely, that of removing unconsciousness, but it is not the true consciousness. To be truly conscious, one has to be conscious with the inner self, and that implies a union or unification that preserves the sense of individuality, a new kind of differentiated monism.

Anyhow, for ordinary mortals like us, however far-off this realisation might appear, at least a first step or two are within everybody's reach. Even a slight advance on this path gives one astounding results.

So we see how the culture of the body can lead up to the spiritualisation of the body.

Page 284

ACCORDING to the Bible, God said, "Let there be Creation", and the Creation came. God was pleased, not only because the Creation came but also because the Creation was all-perfect, with nothing to change: it was like an edifice firm and solid and flawless, it would endure eternally firm and unchanging, fixed in every detail and exactly as it was on the first day.

The Rishis of the Upanishads give us a slightly different version. God was not at all pleased with the first sketch and with the forms of animalkind created. He tried a second time, and again it failed to please. After several essays of this nature, He was at last pleased with His work when man came into being. Now it was truly well done, sukrtam etat.

In fact, Creation is a continuous process, a progressive movement. The earth is moving forward every moment, it is assuming constantly an ever-new garb. This story of evolution has been one of the supreme discoveries of modern man in the field of knowledge. It has opened the door to many hidden mysteries, provided a solution to a number of problems.

The deepest of all mysteries, the most complex and recondite of all problems of Creation is the origin and prevalence of suffering. Man's first and persistent query has been prompted by this; he has been subjected to the attacks of the three kinds of suffering, hence he wants to know, duhkha-trayabhighatat Jijñasa.

The question is: if there is God, if He is all-merciful, if the

Page 285

Power or Being in charge of the created universe is a benign and not a malign Power, siva and not asiva, then why is our earth afflicted with disease and suffering and sorrow and pain? Why are mortals in fear of the death that overhangs all? Not God but Satan then is the creator and supreme controller?

A well-known modern western thinker and sage has propounded a novel theory of his own on this problem. He too has suggested that the world is not something that is static with all things fixed and settled for good. The world is in movement, and the movement is ever forward, towards a higher consciousness that progressively unfolds its riches. As first results of this urge towards the heights" there have appeared all sorts of cracks and rifts, acute pulls and strains; these are translated into sorrow and suffering, deprivation and death. The earth or human society is not like a well trimmed garden, all has not been selected and arranged and put in its proper place according to a pattern and given a permanent shape. It is on the contrary like a wild bush with its innumerable shrubs and trees which have been continuously growing. So many of the dead leaves and branches have been shed, so many flowers have dried up. But new twigs are constantly forming on top and radiating their beauty of green leaves and flowers in bloom. Sorrow and suffering, pain and misery are like those dried-up and discarded flowers and leaves and twigs. These are concomitant results of the original total movement, perhaps even an inevitable necessity. But even from the individual's point of view this seeming waste and destruction is no sign of any futility, for through each individual there has been flowing that upward stream of consciousness, each individual has within himself an impulse and an endeavour to move along that stream and as an aid to it, no matter what outer form it might take. Or else the thing may be compared to the work of soldiers in a war. The common aim of war is victory. Every soldier has an equal self-devotion, "energy and steadfastness

Page 286

to secure this victory. Nevertheless, all do not survive till the end, many have to give up their lives, and on this immolation of the many is founded the ultimate victory. So, in the evolution of man on earth, the first step is represented by sorrow and suffering, misery and pain; these are the signs and symbols of the upward urge. Those who put up with suffering and sorrow, misery and pain, to the extent these can be borne, do not do so wholly under a sense of unwilling submission. The inner core of this suffering is a keen desire and urge and capacity to act as an instrument and support of the upward urge. Even from the point of view of the individual what appears in a sense a simple negation is in truth a thing of deep- import. Teilhard de Chard in has thus seen a spiritual meaning in the Christian's bearing of the cross; the cross-brings in the end a realisation of eternal life.

Sri Aurobindo too has given us a full theory and history of suffering. In one place, however, he has said this about earthly suffering and sin: those who are the worst sinners, the thieves and murderers too are deserving of our salute, for the reason that they are the ones who have drawn upon themselves the load of sin, it is these unfortunate ones who have swallowed up most of the poison that has come out of the churning of the ocean of life.

These words of Sri Aurobindo seem to lend support to the view of the Western thinker. Both echo an almost identical feeling. But what Sri Aurobindo says here is only a fraction of all he has to say on the subject, it is not his final word, whereas in the view of the Western sage, sorrow and suffering, misery and pain appear as ultimate truths at least for the individual, and for the ordinary life of the common multitude; this manner of complete self-immolation of the individual serves a collective end, like the self-sacrifice of an army or a multitude of soldiers in a war. But in Sri Aurobindo's view, even for the individual, for any individual, this consummation in self-sacrifice is not the final end; for the individual too this is merely an episode in one or more

Page 287

of his lives. Through this self-sacrifice, every individual goes on developing himself along with the development of the collectivity, and this is done not by losing or abolishing oneself. No one is rejected or lost, like the dried-up leaves or flowers. For the individual too there are levels of progression. There is not merely one class of fortunate people who pass into the highest realisation as suggested by the Christian thinker and have won a seat alongside of God in a heavenly consciousness. All are coming up gradually in their footsteps and will participate in an identical realisation. It cannot be regarded as ordained of God that the upward movement .and supreme attainment of one small section should be founded involuntarily or however willingly on the self-immolation of another bigger group. If evolution has to proceed through the rejection and sacrifice of the many, then does it not imply in the end the survival of the few? Whatever the size or the integrality of those few, it still remains only a portion of the whole.

It is true that sorrow and suffering, old age and death are facts of an earlier part, that is to say, the first stage of the evolutionary process. When in the beginning of things darkness was enveloped in darkness, tamo asit tamasa gudham agre, when all was inconscient ocean, apraketam salilam, when the dense unconsciousness of matter ruled at the beginning of creation, the first stirrings of the life-force that burst through this solid darkness took form as a pressure of deep and acute pain. It is this forceful impact of pain that shakes and breaks the dark foundations. It is through the many forms of suffering that inconscience and ignorance gradually become consciousness and knowledge. Finally, in man there awakens the spiritual urge under the blows of suffering, and it is in the transformation of suffering that the spiritual consciousness finds its growth. Not merely to escape from suffering but to transform it is the real problem and the greater achievement. What the poet calls "an escape from suffering in the midst of suffering" is the self-satisfaction of the martyr

Page 288

and patriot and soldier in annihilating self. This may be described as the way of the heroic seeker, vira-bhava, but of a different nature is the work of the more godly seeker, devabhava. The latter no doubt has to pass through suffering, but he does not lose himself there, nor does he find his sole satisfaction in ending it. He crosses beyond suffering to another shore, through a tunnel as it were, and emerges into a laughter of light, a satisfaction of delight. The final end or significance lies not in the suffering itself nor even in the virtues of courage, ability, aspiration and steadfastness which are gained through or at the cost of suffering. Suffering is in reality a form of delight, although a distorted form of delight. A delight which is so keen as to become unbearable appears in the form 'of suffering. Again, enter into the inner unfathomable core of suffering and you will see and feel that it is not suffering but delight, the supreme form of delight, just as on piercing through the veil of the cosmic illusion one finds standing behind only the sole eternal Brahman. Death too is not the annihilation of the individual, not an end, but a change of-form and outward appearance. This change has been an inescapable necessity for further progress. At the final end, suffering ceases to exist, it too is transformed into delight. Death too ceases to be, it too finds its death; what remains is only immortality, an immortal life.

Chardin has been speaking of the gradual unfolding and realisation of a spiritual consciousness. It is a constant one-pointed upward movement, the being and consciousness of earth gradually moving higher and higher as a collective entity through a new creation that is growing more and more pure and integral. In this way this consciousness has been overpassing the limits of earth and the material universe and moves into a different kind of world, creates or becomes a different kind of world. It is as if a ball of fire throwing its tongues of flame as it breaks through the barrier of matter and soars up on high, and the more it grows immense and clear and attains its true form, the more it burns gradually

Page 289

to ashes with its massive concentration of heat whatever remains of the old creation. It seems that in the view of Chardin, the manifestation and establishment of an integral spirituality will one day set aflame the whole earth and the material body with its physical base. It is as if another world, but once it manifests here in full, its fiery energies will turn the old earth to ashes, perhaps reduce it to its primordial form. A school of scientists too hold the view that at the beginning of creation there was an infinite expanse of ether charged with intensely hot particles. The universe had neither cohesion nor a settled form, it was a gaseous nebula. And in its final end too it will have to go back to that formless state. The material world is simply a mould for the spirit. This mould or basis will be gradually rent asunder and broken and scattered before the reign of spirit manifests and establishes itself. Will it then be somewhat like the eruption of a volcano? The upward urge and movement of evolution is as if a volcanic peak slowly raising its head; as it grows in energy and heat within, the peak gets detached and is thrown into a liquid flood of lava which proclaims its flaming glory by sweeping aside and drowning and destroying all else; Will the old give place to the new and the unmanifest along these lines?

What is this world that is to be the fruit of the new spiritual realisation? Where will it be? It would appear to be a supraphysical and transcendent realisation. Chardin has clearly suggested that the new earth will not be anything like a planet renovated into a "sidereal" body illumined by its own light and not that of another. It will not be a thing of the gross material world at all. It would rather come into being as if by rending through the old earth and destroying it, almost as a result of a universal catastrophe, pralaya. Would it then be something non-material? If it were to be made up of pure consciousness, then it might be termed the realisation of Brahman, the Brahmic status. Is then evolution of the manifested universe moving towards this final destruction or dissolution?

Page 290

Or else is the new world to be conceived as something belonging to the supra-physical? But the supra-physical world too has its planes, and this new world may be the field of a spiritual realisation somewhere among these planes beyond life, mind and the above-mind. The Vedantins speak of the world of Brahman, they aim at realising the grand status of Brahman, brahma-loke mahiyate. But theirs is. something outside the created universe, beyond manifestation. The Vaishnavas have spoken of a highest spiritual world, go-taka, which is within the manifestation. The Christians too speak of their Heaven. We also hear of the world of Shiva, the world of Vishnu; these too are not entirely outside the manifestation or created universe. Does then Chardin aim at something overmental, utterly beyond and above the mind?

In the vision of Sri Aurobindo, the process of creation is not merely an ascent and upward movement, it has a movement of descent too. There is not merely a crossing of levels upon levels, not merely a progressive purification, enlargement, deepening, intensification and sharpening of the consciousness and status; the aim is to transfigure all in the image of the divine being. This process involves a going upward and a, descent with a view to reshape the lower reaches anew in the mould of the heights, not a final extinction, nirvana, in the world of Brahman by a rejection of all individuality and collectivity. No level of the created universe has to be bypassed or abolished, not even the lowest material plane. On the contrary, the aim is to take one's stand on this material plane itself and transmute it into a new matter, even as the secret aim of the old alchemists had been to transmute the base metal into gold.

And we know how, thanks to modern science, gross solid matter now appears before our eyes in its true form of electricity and light; but it remains matter all the same in spite of its possessing the properties of light and electricity. If we will probe a little deeper into its secrets, matter acquires

Page 291

the attributes of consciousness, but even then it may still remain matter. Materiality need not abolish itself in order to become consciousness. The spiritual world too need not transcend matter; the establishment of the spirit will not mean the extinction of the material world in a final dissolution.

This twofold movement, this dual line of ascent and descent, carries forward the entire creation, including in it man on earth as a collectivity as well as all the parts of creation, through an integrated harmony, not through any inescapable and huge conflict and destruction and dissolution.

As the Vedic Rishis would say, Agni the Mystic Fire aspires to the heights, its flames continue to rise upwards. It purifies and brightens and adds keenness and strength to the consciousness and bears it upward through level after higher level until it reaches a proximity to and even an identity with the Supreme, in the very home of the gods. But Agni has an assistant and counterpart in Parjanya, the Rain-God. The work of this godhead is to help in the descent, the bringing down of the waters of heaven, as in a downpour of rain. To establish here on this earth what has risen to the heights and exists there, is the supreme and integral achievement.

The spiritualised body of man will not be simply a spiritual consciousness. It will be all-conscious no doubt, and yet its substance will still be matter. To prepare this new earth-matter will be the novel alchemy of the new age.

Page 292

IT is meaningless to hold that a scientist must necessarily be an atheist. There is no need to cite instances of the past. Leaving aside the examples of Newton, Kepler and Tycho Brahe, even in the world of to-day it is not rare to find more than one scientist who believes in God. In this respect Lodge, Eddington, Einstein and Planck are outstanding figures that require no introduction. It is generally said that a scientist may indeed be a God-believer, but not in the capacity of a scientist. The faculty by which he acquires religious certainty has no scientific bearing, it belongs to quite a different sphere of human life. The being of man comprises such a dual nature; on one side he may be a scientist and on the other he may remain a non-scientist.

The reasoning faculty, the intellectual power of the mental being is the instrument by which the scientist carries on his search after truth. If he wants to remain strictly faithful to reality as it appears, then he cannot exceed the realm of sense-perceptions. But without reason he will simply indulge in chimeras and build castles in the air which are but deformations of: sense-perceptions. Bergson the philosopher, however, opines that the intellect by itself cannot go beyond the domain of sense-knowledge, because it comes into being and exists in the field of the senses by way of a necessity and as a reaction of the senses to their objects. The intellectual faculty develops in man so that he may handle material things properly and effectively. The so-called universal truths or laws of Nature that the scientist discovers by virtue

Page 293

of his keen intellect have their chief advantage in enabling one to deal with the external world with considerable ease. That is why the scientist is blind to any other mystery than that of Matter. This is a defect pertaining to and inherent in his nature. Be that as it may, we have still to say that the intellect has attained its acme in the scientist. The speciality of the intellect has found its best manifestation in him. On the basis of the wealth of sense-perceptions and by their analysis and synthesis and by observation and experimentation, to arrive at a universal law as wide as possible marks the special genius of the scientist.

The mysteries of Nature that have been discovered by scientific methods are not the last word or the whole of her truth. However, it may be said: “There is no other means of arriving at the realistic truth. By treading any other path we can get into the worlds of imagination, poetry, illusion and delusion, surely not into the world of realities.” We shall have occasion to say something about the possibility of other ways of knowledge and enquiry into the truth. For the present, we shall try to investigate whether the scientific method can lead us any further. And the scientists who have made such an advancement in knowledge – where have they arrived and what is the value of their work?

We have already mentioned that sense-perception is the basis of scientific research. The whole gamut of scientific knowledge is founded on it. And the scientist cannot violate or overpass the canons of science. Still there is one thing more and here we deal with the limits and limitations of human knowledge. But how can science or the scientific methodology assert that it has alone found the clue to the essence and nature of knowledge and truth? The question can be asked whether the theism of Einstein or Planck is the ultimate consequence of their scientific intellect or a reflection of some other non-scientific faculty. A class of continental scientists says that the religious sentiment and the puritanism of the scientists of the British Isles are so strong

Page 294

(A Letter)

You have written that you are only an ordinary man, not out of the ordinary like me. You do not dare to be above the average, for you believe that you are wanting in capacity and power that make a man extraordinary. And therefore you have to go through life as others. However, I ask you one thing, who has told you that you are a mere nobody? How are you so positive about the limits of your power without exercising it in the field of work? Have you understood yourself entirely? No, you will say, and you will add that your shortcomings and aberrations are the proof. How can one be great with such imperfections? In order to be great, one has to aspire and that aspiration you lack. But I see at the very outset, that you have formed a wrong conception about yourself. May it not be that under cover of your despair there lies hidden the fire of your aspiration? But you have found no chance to give it a practical form. It is there lying repressed. You are only cherishing a feeling of self-depreciation. Well, have you probed it? You are wide awake to your shortcomings. Have you ever tried to see your good qualities? Before you jump to a conclusion about your own capacities, do not look only at your faults, but also at your good qualities. And in truth, I see in you a number of good qualities. Faults you have, but have you no virtues? You will ask, to what extent? Well, look at both the extremes of your merits and demerits, and form no estimate of yourself in advance. Man is an amalgam of

Page 300

good and bad. As there is in him an adhara for good qualities, even so there is another for bad. You call me an extraordinary man, but if you had seen me when I was of your age, you would have simply said, "What a miserable fellow you are! You have gone to dogs. There's no hope for you." And if you go through history you will find that no great personality was born with an unqualified greatness. All of them, as it is with us, came into the world, burdened with hope and despair, desire and frustration. To me the tall talk that you hear about the wonderful exploits of their childhood and boyhood is no better than a cock-and-bull story. People fabricate such stories to attract our attention to them after they have become great. Before they rose to greatness these had passed unnoticed. Be sure, you too will hear many such stories about your early life the moment you grow into a great personality. You may, however, say that all and sundry cannot become great. It is only a few that are actually great and it is God's Grace or the results of their actions in their previous lives that have made them so. There's no building on the sand. But who says that there is no power dormant in you? Or that you have no virtues acquired in your past lives? Or that you have no Grace of God? Who says that you .are only sand? So I tell you, first try to know yourself. And before trying to do so bear in mind the words of St. Paul: "I know not what I am". Start life with this approach. 'I know nothing about myself. I do not know whether I am an ordinary or extraordinary personality. I will come to know of it at long last.' Just begin the experiment on you to know yourself. Scrutinise yourself with a bold heart. Experiment on yourself like a scientist. Try to discover all your virtues and vices. As a matter of fact, the more you bring to the fore your vices, the more will you automatically see your virtues.

Man is a bottomless mine of gems. Above, there, are many layers of sand, stone, clay and Goal intermixed. The deeper you dive, the more you glimpse the real gems. The deeper

Page 302

still you go, you will find less and still less of mixture – there's only the gem. You have lost heart at the sight of sand, stone and coal that are on the surface. Man, as man, is such a mine. I don't say that diamonds are found in every mine. But be sure, something useful and valuable can be found in it. To an individual this precious thing is his individuality, I mean, his speciality. You will be a great personage, but that does not mean that you will grow into a Napoleon or a Buddha. And even if you could, I think, you must not try to be so. For to be a mere Napoleon or a mere Buddha is not the ideal of the world. Everybody must be his own self. Your whole greatness lies in what you should be.

You have to recognise that you are a mass of energy. Indeed, you have potentiality, whatever be your failure to manifest it fully and integrally. To be conscious of this power, to make it dynamic, to awaken this potentiality is to manifest your own individuality, your own uniqueness. Only you are not to measure this power, this potentiality by something else. Do you know the limit of the power that resides within you? In other words, this hidden power, this speciality of yours is the divine quality, is God himself. And surrender to the Divine means to let the hidden power act according to its will within you to make you calm and quiet and free your inner being from all limitations.

One more word and I stop for the moment. Just observe that our society lays great stress on modesty. If the word modesty means only to belittle oneself, to make nothing of oneself, one need not be modest at all. But what is the true meaning of modesty? It is simply to keep off pride and vanity. But pride, i.e., to boast, to give oneself airs, to look upon oneself as a big gun – all these we generally call vanity. Besides these, pride has other forms. There is a rajasic way of displaying one's pride. Truly; to think oneself poor, sinful, miserable, inferior to all, is also a sign of pride. All this is called tamasic pride. The word pride actually means I am aloof and unique, other than all you people.

Page 302

Man is a bundle of virtues and vices. The root of pride either rajasic or tamasic must be pulled out, for it does not allow us to see or manifest the Truth. Besides, there is another kind of-pride, called sattwic pride (illumined pride). We must rise above all the three modes of pride. We do not want any kind of pride. What we want is self-surrender. Behind your modesty there lies the pride of your ignorance and self-debasement. The rajasic pride is better than this tamasic one. For tamas makes you absolutely inactive, and owing to the influence of rajas you become full of life, full of dynamism and self-confidence. What is wanted is that you should purify this self-confidence. I hope, you will gradually be aware of all the forms of pride and you will be able steadily to remove them so that your whole being may be filled with the glory of your own true Self that resides deep within you.

Page 303

(A Letter)

You want to do something. It seems it has become impossible for you to remain quiet. But you cannot make up your mind as to what you should do. You seem to think that whatever work you do would be commonplace and trivial and would have no inner support. You find no work after your heart. But I am afraid you have started from a wrong idea. Bear in mind that the most essential thing in one's life is 'to be' and not 'to do'. First, be something, then action will come of itself. Action is the expression of becoming or the natural effect of the fullness of your becoming. What you will do and how far you will go depends solely on what you have become and how far you have grown. To become is to build yourself up within. It is a common but big mistake of the world to judge a man by his action, as if the measure of manhood lay in what one has done. No doubt, the world has no other standard of judgment, for it can see only the appearance. It has neither the capacity nor the time to look within. But mind you, you are a sadhak. You cannot acquit yourself that way. It matters little whether outwardly you remain idle or do something or even something utterly useless. Never try to judge yourself nor your progress, your capacity or even the greatness of your work. For these things are very subtle. They remain in seed-form in your own, heart. Gradually they grow unobserved by others, even by yourself.

You may raise here an objection and say that it is from us that you have learnt about Karmayoga, about how man

Page 304

shapes himself through work. The more one uses one's energy, the more it increases. In action alone one can become what one-truly is. Quite true. But I have never asked you to refrain from action. You breathe in and breathe out, you eat, you study, you play, you mix with people. You work for your family – what else are these if not work? You will say that all this is no work at all. Everybody does all this. What is the difference then between an ordinary man and a great personage? But remember Karmayoga does not mean that you must do something quite astonishing, wonderful and unique. It is not that you cannot do Karmayoga if you do not fight like Arjuna on the battlefield. Even if you do what others do, your own Karmayoga will not suffer in the least. Everything depends on your attitude, how you look upon the world, with what kind of urge you are getting on with your life. True Karmayoga demands that you should remain in your present circumstances, within all your surroundings, that you should remain within your present conditions and should perform the chain of works that surrounds your present life, and through all these activities you have to recognise your own being, your own dharma, draw out of it and develop your own field of action. To do all this you need not leave the house, you need not move about looking for some work after your heart. It will not be possible for you to find the work of your choice until inner attitude changes. I don't mean that you must for good remain tied to the same physical activities as at present. What I mean is that to change work, to change the surroundings is not the one thing needful. Of course, these things may serve some purpose and may be useful to some extent, but so long as you do not find anything solid within yourself, and make it part of your inner being, this kind of eagerness to launch upon ever-new activities is merely a sign of restlessness and impatience, and these are nothing else than smoke and foam.

Simply to work at random does not mean Karmayoga.

Page 305

In our spiritual discipline Karmayoga is the field of manifestation. By means of Jnanayoga you will build there the edifice of your higher life. The aim of sadhana is to establish the divine qualities in oneself and transform oneself. And for that one has first to change one's thought, mind and feeling. And thought is changed mainly by thought, by meditation, by will and Tapasya. The impact of active life may be of help in changing thought and feeling, but that would be only a help. Try to turn your eyes on your own life and activities. View the outside world with your inner thought and feeling. Try to observe what thought and feeling, what inner status gives rise to your work and governs your life. Is your work to be the effect of only your desires, your emotions and of your nervous excitements? If not, then see from your inner poise and feel from behind everybody and everything what divine urge, what inner divine impulse is trying to emerge. Get to know and nurse it into being. Remove all waste matter from all sides and be guided by the fulness of its light and force. To be at work, whatever its nature, and to remain self-poised in the light and force of knowledge – this is true Karmayoga. When you acquire this, at least a bit of it, then only there will come to light in the proper way what God wants to create with your collaboration.

Page 306

IN simple words, in a plain manner you want to know the meaning of Yoga. You have asked me not to use highly philosophical terms, but just to make you understand the real purport of Yoga in a few words. I shall try my best, but before that I would like to tell you something. Difficult matters cannot be explained as easily as easy ones. It is quite natural that a thing above the common cannot be brought down to the level of common understanding, nor is it advisable to do so. To do that is to help the common in their idleness. There is always some usefulness in acquiring a thing by the sweat of one's brow. One can derive much benefit from such labour. Instead of trying to bring down the uncommon to the level of the common, it would be better to try to mould the common after the uncommon, if needed, even at the cost of some effort. However, it must also be admitted that it is not always necessary to court useless toil on that account. Often we look at the uncommon in too excessive proportions, and make it almost inaccessible to our understanding. Specially about Yoga what you have said is quite true.

Generally we take Yoga for something quite mysterious. It is because we associate Yoga with many complex, un-understandable rites and consider these as its main and inseparable parts. In fact, Yoga is a quite natural thing if we turn to it in the right manner. All ought to practise Yoga and all without exception can do that. Not only that, all are doing Yoga, if not consciously. Sadhana, spiritual practice,

Page 307

consists in bringing out the undercurrent flowing within oneself, in doing consciously what one's inner nature demands.

In short, Yoga is an attempt at discovering a new 'Law of Life', and after that discovery one has to mould and regulate one's life in accordance with it. This Law of Life is nothing other than the Law of Divine Life. What does it mean? It means that in a human being there are two planes, two kinds of nature and two laws of life – one belongs to the lower region, the other to the higher, one belongs to the terrestrial, the other to the supraterrestrial. This earth of clay or the lower region possesses body; life and mind. Man moves about according to the laws and customs, bondages and limitations of body, life and mind. But there exists a world, a plane above these three; and there the; knowledge of man does not depend on gross physical sensations or on syllogistic reasonings. There the knowledge is self-revealing, undeformed and infallible. It is called Intuition, Revelation. There the restless wild urge of action or blind agitations of numberless sensations have turned into a calm spiritual power and an unalloyed delight. And that plane too has a body of its own. But it is absolutely free from disease, decay and death that we find in the physical being. To leave aside the laws of body, life and mind and rise into the highest spiritual nature is called Yoga. But don't think, in doing Yoga you shall have to do away with this body, life and mind and keep aloof from the world and the earthly concerns. This theory is an absurdity on the face of it. The higher world can be contacted even while remaining in the body, life and mind, and it can also be infused into these three. The lower nature can be moulded by the infusion and the law of the higher. While residing in the world all earthly activities can be directed by the drive of that higher world.

It is a difficult task, but not impossible. It seems to be an impossibility or a mere ideal only, when I look upon myself alone, and think that I am a little, insignificant

Page 308

creature – how can I have the power to change the process of Nature that has been active from time immemorial? Will it be possible to do so even in hundreds of lives? But is it not that a ray of hope peeps into me the moment I cast a glance at the universe without taking me into account? We admit nowadays the law of evolution preached by the West. According to that law of evolution there existed Matter first in the creation, and then appeared the animal, finally the human being. That is to say, the Western science has recognised, in the first instance, evolution on lower planes of Nature. First body, then life and then mind. But nothing can be as absurd and illogical as to say that the evolution of Nature has stopped after reaching the mental level. In fact, Yoga tells us that above the mental level there is a plane called Supermind and above man there is Superman.

All Nature is anxious to give birth to the Supermind, and we too, all human beings, have been making the same effort, although unconsciously. Behind your power and mine, behind your effort and mine there resides an enormous power of the whole universe, and that power is aspiring for the divine manifestation in humanity, for the establishment of the Kingdom of Heaven on earth .and the Divine Play of the Golden Age. When that universal Power reveals itself to our sight, and when we are able to recognise it and consciously collaborate with it, there can be nothing beyond our reach.

Page 309

(A Letter)

THERE is no doubt that Europe knows very well the art of life which in our country is totally lacking. In the East it is only Japan that knows it and knows it well enough. Our country on the whole and most of the East is at present steeped in inertia.

You have asked me the exact meaning of control of the senses and what is its necessity in life. For, in India we have held up this ideal on an elaborate scale, but to what effect? Europe cares little for it, yet she rules the world.

Firstly, whether self-control is necessary or not depends on the nature of our ideal. Self-control is only a particular means to a particular end. If the meaning of life is to live the life of nature, to possess power and influence – if the aim of life is to live in accordance with its impulses, then the question of self-control can never arise. In such a case the indulgence of the senses is the motive force.

There are two approaches to life: one is to follow the lead of the senses, to enrich life as much as possible by giving them full play and acquiring means for their satisfaction; the other is to move away from their range to a region inward or upward. Those who have taken to this path are unanimous that this path leads to the realm of supreme Peace, Light and Truth and that in fact the real character of life, its true fulfilment lie in this realm. In their view the sense-world is a world of deformations, narrow and full of impurities. Its material resources, however rich and vast, are really

Page 310

worth little. But man has also his inner senses which can help him to return to his home in the infinite Vast as a child of Immortality. This is the real sense of self-mastery: instead of swimming down the sense-current, one must swim back in the opposite direction. Instead of slipping down from the source of life one has to climb up into it.

You may ask: to what good? Suppose, one goes beyond the sphere of life to Vaikuntha, to Heaven, attains Nirvana and gets merged in the Brahman; in that case life is lost. And it is really what has happened in India. There has been no dearth of saints, seers and Avatars. But they live in their own worlds. The dwellers on our realistic plane are poor, distressed and miserable. True, there is a class of men who are not in the least perturbed at this state of things. Time was when from the mouth of a daughter of India rose the ringing voice:

"Of what use to me are the things that cannot make me immortal?"

Of course, there is no hard arid fast rule that there must be a barrier between life and beyond-life, between self-restraint and self-indulgence. A synthesis between the two may be difficult, but not impossible. Indeed, it was in India again that there developed such lines of synthetic sadhana. Rather it was Europe that gave evidence of this conflict and duality much more than India. We may remember the motto: "Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's, etc." By pointing to the path of self-restraint Christianity holds that it leads to the Kingdom of Christ and those who would remain chained down to their senses will remain in their low, unrefined state of nature. In Europe this conflict has led to two extremes. Self-restraint in Christianity has become self-mortification: but, on the other hand, when Europeans do not think it harmful to give a long rope to the senses, they have gone to the excess of unbridled license. In India there

Page 311

has been an attempt at a synthesis of these two aspects of life. Worldly life was taken as a preparation for or as a stepping-stone to the world beyond. So self-restraint was given a place not only in the sphere of sadhana for liberation, but also in the field of enjoyment. Hence we see in India as much preponderance of sattwic qualities as we see in Europe preponderance of rajasic dynamism. No doubt, the sattwic state easily lapses into the inertia of tamas. As a matter of fact, such has been the case in India. But rajas also meets the same end. The one slowly slides to extinction; the other shoots up like a rocket and falls like a burnt stick. Thus both suffer the same fate.

In general, life is the play-field of the senses. If self-control implies moving away from the senses, then it is not possible for it to have a place in life. But self-control may mean keeping the senses under control, under a system of rule and discipline. This is the popular sense of self-control: it is a graded withdrawal, a first step towards detachment. This is also how it developed in India. But, as a matter of fact, this popular approach to self-control is not India's speciality alone. Europe has given it a recognised place, not only in the Christian religious life but in her worldly life too. But it will not do to forget that the untrammelled freedom of the senses and their unbridled license have been accepted as an ideal specially in modern times, and it is confined to a particular community. What they are now attempting to reject as a bourgeois trait was one day an aid in the building up of the Euorpean society. To be sure, Europe was not so inclined towards detachment as India. Europe has gone in for the cultivation of the senses, but that does not mean that she has been sticking to an excessive and disorderly play of the senses. Neither Byron nor Oscar Wilde is the ultimate ideal of Europe. When the famous novelist Balzac used to sit down to write he would do so in a lonely place in a monk's tunic in order to help his one-pointed concentration. Napoleon, Caesar and Alexander were no

Page 312

helpless slaves of their senses. In fact, no country or race can build its greatness except on the foundation of self-control. It is not that self-control must necessarily be self-mortification. There can be a via media, and in ordinary life this is a necessity. Self-indulgence is the debit side. True, this side of Europe is much to the fore, but that leads one to think that she is living on her old capital, and it is not long before her capital runs short. The root of the capital is self-restraint, and it is the credit side, the side of accumulated power.

It may certainly be that the social, moral and other kinds of injunctions regarding control of the senses do not strictly apply any more to our modern life. Man's consciousness demands a wider and more liberal existence. Not a religion of mental conventions but a universal one founded on truth is what he wants. But that is altogether another matter. This problem and its solution will lead us into deeper waters. Hence we have to stop here.

Page 313

MAN will grow into superman – in spite of himself, if necessary. Has not the animal grown into man? And did the animal try for it or even wish for it? Just so, the plant grew into the animal, willy-nilly, having had no inkling of its destiny. Out of the plant the animal came: a sensory system, a nervous organisation tore, as it were, into the pulp of the vegetable substance and established itself there. And subsequently, ages after, the animal himself underwent a similar transmutation: a larger amount of brain substance and a more complicated configuration in it was implanted in the brain cavity of the animal. Whence and wherefore came these agents that wrought the miracle?

There can be but one reason. What came out existed already there essentially within what was. It is nothing but the quickening of the seed, the growth of the embryo and the birth out of the womb: Life was imbedded in Matter, Mind was imbedded in Life and therefore in Matter. Thus evolution is merely self-manifestation, the urge to bring out step by step all the degrees of potency involved in the being. The force of evolution is selective and directive, as has been pointed out by Julian Huxley.

Now, the difference that presents itself at the present juncture is that man has acquired knowledge, the knowledge of the future, of his own destiny, unlike the animal or the plant. That is the characteristic mark of the stage of evolution now reached. And that will make a difference also in the manner in which the evolution will be worked out henceforth:

Page 314

it will be a conscious process. As man, because of his self-consciousness, has taken up many of nature's contrivances, refined and condensed them to be made immediately and more thoroughly effective without waste of time or material, even so, in the inner life too there has come the possibility of an intenser and quicker change, an evolution that is likely to be a revolution.

With man came also the sense of what is beyond man, the superman, the divine man, the Divine. That is the true meaning of his appearance, that is the characteristic turn of consciousness which he brought with him. This self-consciousness, an inner perception and aspiration that he is to be something else, something other and greater than what he is, means the emergence of a spiritual soul in the world of matter. This prophetic or forward-looking consciousness is absent in the sub-human creation, although, as I have said, a secret blind unknowing forward urge has always been there as the original motive of all functioning in things and creatures upon earth.

The problem is whether man will take advantage of the privilege he has acquired. In one sense he has been trying as best he can since his very appearance, a million years ago perhaps: he has created wonderful cultures and civilisations all over the earth age after age; expressing not merely the human animal in him, nor solely even the human, but something higher and deeper still, the extra-human or superhuman, the Divine. India was particularly the country where the experiment was carried on consistently and more successfully than anywhere else. And yet what has been the net result, the real achievement in view of the supreme purpose and ideal? The achievement has been this that the purpose, the ideal has come to be known, it is now within the range of our, vision; creation has revealed its core of mystery – if not the whole of it, at least the central theme: the key has been found, but in its own home, that is to say, behind and beyond the creation. That, however, is only half

Page 315

the battle or even less; the other half is to bring the truth out of its own home and spread abroad, make the universe its own home. In other words, man has learnt to accept or is capable of accepting the reality in his inner consciousness, but only a very faint shadow of it – if anything at all – he has succeeded in establishing as a concrete or physical reality. Man's life, even the life of the very best, is still that of a mortal creature, still subject to ignorance, incapacity, disease and death – so long at least as he lives in his material frame in a material world.

That is why certain seers and sages have asserted and assert even now that to be ignorant is human: to be born, to live and to decay and die – sasyam iva pacyate sasyam iva jayate punah – that is the inevitable course of earthly life. If you want to be superhuman, you must get beyond the human frame altogether, 'not here, not here, but elsewhere'. That has been the burden more or less of all religions, all spiritual attempts and achievements so far.

We, have said that this does not seen to lead to the right solution of the riddle, for it means merely a by-passing, an escape. The true solution must concern itself with here and now. And we have also said that the earth and human life are inevitably moving towards that solution, for it is that solution which the evolutionary urge is carrying within itself to offer to earth and human life, viz., to establish the Divine in the human frame, to incarnate the spirit-life in the manifest form of the earthly body.

The difficulty is enormous: we admitted that more than half the way – and the most arduous part of it – remains to be negotiated. Man is only half-willing; his will must be whole and entire, pointed towards that single consummation. All other preoccupations that divert, he must eschew – anya vaco vimuñcatha. That is what is expected of him. If that will comes in, all is assured: things will move at a quick and yet smooth tempo. If, on the contrary, that fails or even delays too long, even then the thing will be done, for such

Page 316

is the fate decreed, the fiat of the inmost Divine at Nature's heart. Only, because of the outward resistance the path will be made harder and the travail more painful. A grim toll will be demanded, a violent eruption instead of a happy flowering. That is exactly how revolutions occur in human society and geological cataclysms in physical Nature. The hardening and contraction of the outer crust of earth increases in proportion to the inner heat and pressure. Likewise on the human level, the red seed of the French Revolution was planted the very day when the Valois autocrat declared his divine right of kingship. In Russia, Lenin's antithesis was posited along with Peter the Great's thesis.

A similar fateful crisis – a much greater one – faces humanity today. Shall humanity yield totally and itself become the new being, through a travail more or less safe and happy? Or shall it be foolish and intransigent – incapable, in other words – and not do the right thing, thus inviting the catastrophe that might otherwise have been averted? For the New Being, the Superman, will be born, whether breaking the mould that humanity is or reshaping it into the new pattern.

Page 317

Subhash, Oaten - Ullas, Russell

THE Subhash-Oaten encounter has attained some notoriety, as a number of people have on several occasions given an account of how Subhash Chandra once gave a thrashing with his shoes to one of his British professors, Oaten. But it seems to have almost been forgotten by the general public that this incident was a mere replica or imitation of an earlier and identical performance. Subhash did not institute anything new; he was simply following in the footsteps of eminent and heroic predecessors. Today I propose to give an account of that original performance.

It was in the year 1905. The Swadeshi movement was in full tide, flooding the land with its enthusiasm, particularly the student community. But how about the Calcutta Presidency College? That was an institution meant for the "good" boys and for the sons of the rich, that is, for those who, in the parlance of the time, "had a stake in the country," those who, in other words, had something to lose. How far were they touched by that flood? Those that were touched might be described as something of a phenomenon.

In 1905, I was in my Second Year class. Among my classmates were Narendra Nath Law, a well-known name in later years, and perhaps also Bhupati Mohan Sen, who subsequently came to be known as Principal B. M. Sen.¹ Sitapati

¹ I cannot now exactly recall if Bhupati Mohan had been at the Presidency College right from the First Year class, or whether he joined the Third Year from the Scottish Churches College, known at the time as the General Assembly's Institution.

Page 331

Banerji too was there; he won the Ishan Scholarship in his B.A. examination and was ultimately given the name of Swami Raghavananda or Sitapati Maharaj at the Ramakrishna Mission. These more or less .made up the list of the "good" boys. Among the "bad" ones was Indranath Nandi, a son of Colonel Nandi of the Indian Medical Service. Let me recount some of his exploits.

He had been a colleague of Barin Ghose of Manicktolla Gardens fame, and also a member of the Atmonnati Samiti, an "Association for Self-improvement". This Samiti was really a centre for the recruitment and training of revolutionaries. I too had been one of the junior members of the Samiti. Bepin Behari Ganguli was among its organisers. We had just given up football as being a non-Indian sport and had taken up lathi and dagger play. I had already attained such proficiency in these games that I was once asked to give a demonstration of lathi play before Mrs. Sarala Devi Chowdhurani on the occasion of one of her visits. But Indra Nandi was engaged in something much more serious; he was trying to make bombs. And he ended by blowing up his fingers in an explosion during a test. Caught in this maimed condition, he was sent up for trial in the Alipore Bomb case, although he could not be convicted. Our counsel managed to prove that the state of his hands was due to their being crushed under an iron chest.¹

Let me in this connection announce one of the feats of my college life. It was in that same year, 1905. Loud protests had arisen on account of the Bengal Partition and there was going to be observed a Day of Fasting or Rakhi-day or something like that. In what manner did I register my protest? I went to college dressed as if there had been a death in my family, that is to say, without shoes or shirt and with only a chuddar on. As I entered the class, everybody seemed a little

¹ But there was a rumour that Colonel Nandi had compounded with the Government on condition that his son would thenceforward behave like a thoroughly "good" boy.

Page 332

stunned. The professor cast an occasional furtive glance at me but said not a word. My action must have appeared as rather unconventional, perhaps even incorrect to many, but I felt at the same time there were quite a few who gave me an admiring look.

At that time, in the class just above mine was Charu Biswas. Next above him was Rajendraprasad, and a year senior to Rajendraprasad there were Benoy Sarkar and Atul Gupta. Ramesh Majumdar was perhaps a year junior to me.

Now let me come back to what I was going to say – revenons à nos moutons, as they say in French.

At a time like this, when the sky was getting red and the air was hot, with so much agitation in the minds of men and the young hearts, one of the Englishmen in our college, Russell, our professor of Logic and philosophy, got it into his head to come out with something tactless against the Bengalis. It was like a spark in a powder dump. There was much excitement and agitation among the students. Could this not be avenged? Should the white man be allowed to escape scot-free, just like that? The day of reckoning came at last, like a bolt from the blue. How did it all happen? One of our classes had just been over and we were going to the next class along the corridor, when all on a sudden there rang out all over the place from a hundred lusty throats shouts of "Bande Mataram" that tore the air with its mighty cry. Everybody ran helter-skelter. "What is the matter? What happened?" "Russell has been thrashed with shoes!" "Who thrashed him? Who?"

The Principal came – it was Dr. P. K. Roy, the first Bengali to have become Principal of the Presidency College, though in a temporary capacity. We all got into our classes. Re entered our class first as it was nearest to the scene of the incident. Russell was with him, his face red with shame and indignation. He glanced around those present in the class and said that he could spot no one. After the class was over,

Page 333

we went into the Physics Theatre for the Physics class. There too the Principal came in and broke out in a deep thundering tone, "I see, 'Bande Mataram' has become a war-cry." But the whole class was utterly quiet, there was not a sign of movement. All that high excitement and agitation of an hour ago was now hushed in dumb motionless silence. We were all a bunch of innocent lambs!

But who was the culprit? It was Ullaskar Datta, one of our class-fellows. He was a boarder at the Eden Hindu Hostel. He had come to college with a slipper wrapped up in a newspaper sheet and had made good use of it as soon as he got a chance.

The life-story of this Ullaskar is a real drama, although its last stage is rather tragic. Soon after this incident he joined the Manicktolla Gardens with Barin Ghose and gave all his thought and energy to the making of a bomb. He did not know even the ABC's of bombs. He read up by himself books on Chemistry, pieced out information from all kinds of books and finally mastered all alone the principles of explosives – nobody ever taught him. His father, Dwijadas Datta, was a professor at the Sibpur Engineering College. He had something like a small iaboratory at his residence. It was here that Ullaskar took his training in secret. To what extent he had finally succeeded in his efforts was proved one day when to the first of his bombs one of our own men had to fall a martyr – Prafulla Chakravarti.

I too had been an associate of his in this enterprise.

Ullaskar – "one who abounds in energy" – fully lived up to his name: he was indeed an inexhaustible fount of energy and enthusiasm. When they used to escort us in a prison van from the jail to the court room (during the trial of the Alipore Bomb case), we rent the air all the way with our shouts and songs as we drove along. It was Ullaskar's idea; he led the chorus and the rest of us followed. Some of the old refrains still ring in my ears, I can still recall the words of songs like "Deep from the heart of Bengal today", "The

Page 334

soil, the rivers of Bengal", "My golden Hindusthan".

I have heard that Ullas is still alive, though almost halfdead, they say. Ten or twelve years of jail in the Andamans deranged him in body and mind. But this after all was part of the ritual of sacrifice. As Barin used to say, "Such indeed was the vow in this kind of marriage."

For, the enthusiasm of that day, that reawakening to new life, took no account whatever of the gains and the losses. It forged ahead by itself, it drew its secret support from its own momentum. That was why people gazed wide-eyed in wonder, that was why they all joined in a mighty chorus:

"A day indeed has dawned,

When a million hearts

Have known not to fear

And leave no debts unpaid.

Life and death are

Bondslaves at our feet;

Our hearts have forgotten to care."

Page 335

Deoghar

THE scene was Deoghar, though not exactly the town itself. About five miles before you reach the town, there is the Jesidih Junction on the main railway line. Nearly a mile from there, close to the railway line there was a house with only a ground floor and quite neat and clean on the whole. All around were open fields – not the green meadows of Bengal but the barren red moorlands of Bihar. Not entirely unpleasant scenery though, for it breathed an atmosphere of purity and peace and silence. A little farther away there stood a larger two-storeyed mansion, perhaps the comfortable holiday retreat of some rich man.

The time was towards the end of 1907 and the beginning of 1908. I was about seventeen or eighteen and had just finished with my college life.

The dramatis personae were (1) Barindra Kumar Ghose, (2) Ullaskar Dutt, (3) Prafulla Kumar Chakravarti, (4) Bibhuti Bhushan Sarkar, and (5) Nolini Kanta Gupta.

The plot was to manufacture bombs. Hitherto, there had been only preliminary investigations and initial experiments and efforts. Now Ullaskar came out with his Eureka. "All is ready," he said, "now there is going to be a real test. We have to demonstrate with a live bomb in action."

But here I must add that, although we had made the preparation of bombs our first object when we chose this lonely and out of the way place, we were not entirely heartless men, that is, atheistic and given wholly to a materialistic philosophy. It had been part of our plan to devote some time to

Page 348

the cultivation of an inner life too in that solitude. I remember how we would get up an hour before sunrise and sitting down in that calm atmosphere in a meditative pose we would recite aloud with deep fervour and joy the mantra of the Upanishad:

tilesu tailam dadhiniva sarpir

apah srotahsu aranisu cagnih

evam atma atmani grhyate asau

saryena enam tapasa yo anupasyati.

"As one gets oil out of oilseeds, as one gets butter out of curds, as one gets water out of the stream, as one gets fire out of wood, even so one seizes the self out of the self, one who pursues it in truth and tapasya."

Who could say at that hour that this was a place for the manufacture of bombs? It would not have been far out to call it an Ashram, "the abode of quiet joy", in the Kalidasian phrase, santa-rasaspadam asramam idam.

And it was precisely because of this that Barin got Lele Maharaj down here for our initiation and training in sadhana, the discipline of yoga, the same Lele who had been of particular help to Sri Aurobindo at a certain stage of his own sadhana. But it was our bad luck that the whole thing misfired.

When Lele Maharaj came to know that we had accepted the cult of the bomb, he raised an objection. Sadhana and the bomb, he said, did not go well together and the kind of violent rajasic action we had in view was not at all conducive to the purification of the heart. Besides, he added, although the freedom of India was a desirable thing, was indeed desirable and necessary for all, it would come about by an

other method, it would come inevitably and in a peaceful way, there would be no need for bloodshed. We got irritated and smiled at him with incredulity and even

Page 349

perhaps in derision. Englishmen would pack up their belongings and leave of their own accord without as much as a grumble, like thorough gentlemen, – this looked rather like a fairy tale if not "a tale told by an idiot". We were no Vaishnava devotee. We were Tantriks, worshippers of Kali. Our chosen deity was the Goddess of Death with her garland of skulls. Ours was the heroes' worship of strength.

We had long been singing the proud refrain:

Have the hero-sons, O men,

Adorned the Mother's forehead

With the blood-red mark?

There was also a time when we had been proclaiming loudly at meetings and shouting to the four quarters:

Counting the beads and doing austerities,

All your yoga and prayers and worship,

Oblations and sacrifice and honouring the images of gods, –

Nothing of this will now avail in the least.

Make of the arrow's sheath and the sword thy cult,

For the olden days are no more.

India will not be saved, it cannot,

Through the worship of the gods.

Unsheath now the sword,

For these demons are not as of yore,

Lele Maharaj threatened us with another warning, "If you do not give up this, you wilt hot only not succeed but are bound to meet with danger, if not catastrophe." How true his prophecy was we all know from the concrete evidence of what came to pass.

However, we did not confine our studies to religious books alone; we had with us some secular literature as well.

Page 350

It was precisely at this period that a collection of Matthew Arnold's poems came to my hands. The book belonged to Sri Aurobindo and must have been brought along by Barin. That Sri Aurobindo had studied it minutely was evident from the book itself, for he had marked in red the passages or lines which he had particularly liked. I still remember a couple of lines that had the good luck to get a red mark:

Strew on her roses, roses,

And never a spray of yew!

The simplicity of feeling, the deep pathos, the fine felicity of rhythm in these lines had stirred my young heart too a great deal. That was my first introduction to Matthew Arnold. The greatness of the poet-laureate Tennyson had already reached the ears of even the ordinary student at college, but Matthew Arnold and Browning were still unknown.

All this is however quite beside the point. Let me come back to the story.

The bomb was ready, I said, a real live bomb. It was mainly Ullaskar's handiwork, we others had acted as assistants. It was now decided that the testing would be done on top of a hill known as Dighiriya – it was not much of a hill but only a low range of hillocks – across the railway line, beyond the level crossing. (There was an amusing incident in the Sessions Court in connection with the man at this level crossing about which I may say something another day.) Of an afternoon, the five of us made for the hill. It fell to my lot to carry the bomb. I carried it along with due care no doubt, but I had no idea of the risks I carried. We were quite ignorant and inexperienced at the time. It was nothing short of a miracle that we had no accident, the way I carried the thing; I realised that only a little later.

We broke through the thickets and chose a spot right on top of the hill. There we came across a huge boulder rising

Page 351

steep and straight on one side about breast-high and on the other sloping gradually to a distance of some ten or twelve yards. The plan was that Prafulla would take his shelter behind the steep and abrupt side as he threw the bomb at the sloping rock and sit down behind the slab as soon as he made the throw, so that no splinters might hit him after the explosion, as the bomb was to explode only on the slope by friction of the impact. Ullas was to stand by Prafulla to see that everything got on well and both were to duck behind the slab right after the throw. I climbed up a tree a little farther away so as to have a clear view of the whole scene. Barin and Bibhuti took their positions around. As we lay in wait, – my eyes were glued to the boulder, – suddenly I saw a spark of fire flash out over there with a puff of smoke and such a terrific noise! The whole sky seemed to be getting broken up into bits, and waves of sound went echoing forth from one end to the other as if in a hundred simultaneous claps of thunder. Never again have I heard a noise like that. I was of course beside myself with excitement and joy. With great glee I climbed down the tree and ran towards the boulder, shouting at the top of my voice, "Successful, successful!"

But how is this? What is this! What a gruesome spectacle! Prafulla lay limp on Ullas's chest, Ullas held him in his arms. Slowly the body was laid down. One side of the forehead was broken through and a portion of the brain coming out. It was an unbearable sight. We sat around and no one spoke a word. At last Barin said, "It's all over, there is not a hope." The body lay motionless, showed no signs of life. The eyes were closed, the face looked serene.

This is how it happened. We had thought that the explosive would catch fire only after the bomb touched the ground and rubbed against a hard surface. But instead of that, the explosive had been so powerful, that is, so easily inflammable that it caught fire as soon as it came into contact with air on being thrown up. I said I had been carrying it in my

Page 352

hands: it might have caught fire and exploded even by that slight swing. That it did not was my sheer good luck.

Now the problem was what to do next. What was to be done with the body? Burn it? or give it a burial? To bury it was out of the question, for to dig a hole in that hard stone was impossible. Give it cremation by lighting a fire in the bush? But that might' attract people and the news might spread in the neighbouring villages. Barin said, "We need not do anything, let us go away leaving it as it is. This is a field of battle. Our first soldier has given up his body in the battle-field, this is our first casualty."

So far, our eyes had all been rivetted on the corpse. And now, suddenly, someone cried, "Ullas too has Been wounded." His clothing was riddled with holes and covered with marks' of blood all over. We removed the clothing and examined him as far as we could. Barin said, "Our first task now is to look after him. Who is gone is gone. Now he must be saved. We must therefore hurry back. There is no time now to discuss what is to be done with the dead body. We have to return to Calcutta this very evening and consult the doctor." There was a special doctor, the renowned Indu Mallick so far as I remember, who looked after us terrorists.

We started down the hill, with not a word on our lips, our throats all choked with emotion, our minds stunned. The image of the English poet came to mind: "Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note..." I once blurted out with a suppressed feeling, "We were five when we came, only four are now returning." Barin gave me a rebuke, "No sentimentality, please."

As we walked down, I wondered if the frightful noise had not reached the people around. There was of course nothing like a human habitation anywhere in the neighbourhood. But people did come from the surrounding country to gather fuel in the thickets. However, nothing untoward happened and we returned safely. Barin and Ullas left for Calcutta that very night.

Page 353

Early next morning I looked towards Dighiriya and seemed to see some kites and vultures flying over the hill. That evening, or it was perhaps the next morning, Upen arrived with Barin. Ullas was all right, they said, there was nothing to fear about his wounds. Upen wanted to have a look at the place. We started again for that holy spot and arrived on the scene. Even from a distance we could see the body lying exactly as we had left it, dressed exactly in the same way, there was no change whatever. Nor was there any sign of decomposition, on this the third day. We came back just as we had gone; leaving the body as it was.

It was decided to end this particular chapter here. Lest the police should get scent, it would be wiser to break up camp and get away. Whatever materials we had in our possession for the manufacture of bombs were packed up in a couple of trunks and dispatched to the shop of a friend in Deoghar. The trunks were left hidden among other things in the god own at the back of the shop. What happened to them afterwards I do not know.

Before leaving for good, we felt a desire to have a last look at Dighiriya hill. It was the fourth day after the event. We climbed to the spot. But how strange! Where was the body? There was not a trace of it anywhere. We searched about here and there but did not find even a shred of clothing. Could it have been carried away by beasts? But without leaving the slightest trace? The whole thing remained a mystery.

Afterwards, many kinds of rumours got afloat. Some, they said, had seen him in the streets of Calcutta, a Sannyasin was supposed to have come across the dead body and revived it, and so on. To set my doubts at rest, I once asked Sri Aurobindo if there could be any truth in these stories, and what exactly had happened to Prafulla. Sri Aurobindo said, "All that is sheer myth. Prafulla is really dead."

Let me end this Deoghar episode with a little picture that still sticks in my memory. Within about a mile from our

Page 354

camp there was a village called Rohini. There in a garden house – it was almost covered with jungle when we saw the place – still lived Sri Aurobindo's mother, Swarnalata Devi. The garden was full of various kinds of trees and shrubs. The house was a large-sized cottage, though the walls and flooring were of masonry work; it had an old dilapidated look for want of repairs. The local people called it the Memsahib's Kothi, the Lady's House. Everybody called Sri Aurobindo's mother a Memsahib. At that time, she was out of her mind and always remained shut up in her rooms. We passed several times through the gardens by the house, but she could not be seen.

The holy legend of sacred Deoghar would not be complete if I were not to mention in this context the name of Sri Aurobindo's maternal grandfather, Rishi Rajnarayan, who is also called the Grandfather of Indian Nationalism. We saw the house where he once lived, where Sri Aurobindo used to come often. It stood in an open compound – may be the compound had been a bed of flowers once. The house as it looked now was a white mansion where no one lived, left lonely as a dream.

Page 355

Now. I come to the last phase of our life at Manicktolla Gardens, that is when we turned towards terroristic activities like the manufacture of bombs, collecting pistols and rifles and making good use of them. The first chapter had already begun with the Yugantar newspaper.

As we took up these revolutionary activities, we discovered that it was not easy to carryon this kind of secret work unless there was common in the country as a whole a keen desire I and hope for freedom. What was needed was a favourable atmosphere from which the revolutionaries could get the desired sympathy and support. One could not expect anything but opposition from a people cowed down by fear, shut up within its narrow selfishnesses and wholly preoccupied with its dull routine. That is why Sri Aurobindo started his daily newspaper, Bandemataram, which was the first to declare in clear language that what we wanted was the freedom of India, a total freedom, a freedom untrammelled by any kind of domination by the British. Its aim was to carry into the ears and hearts of our people a message of hope and faith and enthusiasm, a message that spoke of independence full and absolute, not the kind of freedom that looked to England for protection and help, and such independence too not as a distant possibility of the remote future but an immediate gain of the morrow.

Even so, Bandemataram had to keep within the letter of the law; its advocacy of freedom had to follow as far as possible the lines of peace, its path had to be that of Passive Resistance.

Page 356

But Yugantar shed off all the masks. It was the first to declare openly for an armed revolt and spoke in terms of regular warfare. It wrote out its message in words of fire and spread it to the four corners of the land. Balthazar, the king of Babylon; had once seen similar writings on the wall of his hall of feasting, words that spoke of the imminent doom of his empire. To the country and its youth the Yugantar gave its initiation of fire for nearly a couple of years. It was only after the Yugantar group had decided that the time had now come for action and not propaganda alone that there came to be established the centre at Manicktolla Gardens in Muraripukur. The section entrusted with real work and the people concerned with propaganda were to form two distinct groups; one was to work in secret, the other out in the open. Hence the work of Yugantar was entrusted to the propaganda group. The gentleman who took charge was named Taranath Roy. Those who had hitherto been on the staff of the paper left it and joined the Manicktolla Gardens for intensive training and work. It was however agreed that here too there would be two groups, one for regular work and the other for propaganda. Only, the propaganda here would be of a different kind, for here it would not be possible to speak openly of armed revolt as that would be to draw the attention of the authorities to the regular workers. It was therefore decided to have a paper in Bengali with a policy analogous to that of Bandemataram. A paper named Navashakti was already there, owned and conducted by Sri Manoranjan Guhathakurta. It had a house rented in Grey Street (North Calcutta). An understanding was reached between the parties so that the spirit and letter of Yugantar could continue in and through Navashakti. The house was built more or less on the pattern of the one we had later at Shyampukur. There were two flats. The one in front was used as the Navashakti office; Sri Aurobindo occupied the other with his wife, Mrinalini".

A word about Manoranjan Guhathakurta will not be out

Page 357

of place here. In that epoch Aswinikumar Dutt and Manoranjan Guhathakurta of Barisal were two of the mighty pillars of nationalism. But whatever their achievements as political leaders and selfless patriots, as writers and orators, it was their greatness of character that mattered more. By a great character I mean one in whom there has awakened in a certain measure and manifested to some extent the inner being and the indwelling spirit; this is what Vivekananda used to call the awakening of the Brahman in the individual. I had come to know Sri Manoranjan Guhathakurta personally and I had been to his house in Giridih and stayed with him more than once. Giridih being not very far from Deoghar, he was aware that we dabbled in the bomb. He was not only aware of it, he also gave us all his help and sympathy. It had even been suggested that a factory for the making of bombs might be tried somewhere around the mica pits he owned in that region. His eldest son Satyendra had been a schoolmate and friend of Barin and the two were practically co-workers. This family had helped Barin a good deal by their offers of money and advice. But what I had in mind was not these external things but an inner life. Manoranjan Guhathakurta had an inner life, a life of sadhana. His wife in particular was known for her sadhana. In his eyes the service of the country was an occasion and a means for the service of God. But his saintliness or sadhana did not stand in the way of his strength of character. In him there was a fine blend of strength and sweetness.

Manoranjan's son Chittaranjan became for a time a centre of great excitement and violent agitation in those days. There was a session of the Bengal Provincial Conference at Barisal which was attended by all the leaders like Sri Aurobindo and Bepin Pal. But there came a clash with the Government, the police raided the pavilion and attacked 'the procession with lathis. The boy Chittaranjan went on shouting "Bande Mataram" as the police beat him mercilessly. He fell down wounded and covered with blood but he did not cease his

Page 358

"Bande Mataram". This raised a furious storm of protest throughout the country, which gave an opening to the terrorists too.

This shining example of non-violent resistance occurred long before the Gandhian era. To us who were in favour of armed resistance this kind of forbearance seemed intolerable. When, after this incident, the journalists and the poets began to sing in chorus, of "Barisal of glorious virtue", we could not help adding with a little sting, "thanks to those beatings."

I have said that Sri Aurobindo came to occupy with Mrinalini a portion of the house in Grey Street. It was here that they arrested him later. The Navashakti too did not last long. In the course of their search, the police discovered in one of the rooms occupied by Sri Aurobindo a lump of clay, which Mrinalini had brought from Dakshineswara as a sacred relic. But the suspicions of the police were not to be allayed so easily. They thought it might as well be some kind of raw material for the manufacture of bombs, so they had it sent to their chemical laboratories for a chemical analysis!

Now let me come to the story of this final rounding up. For some time past almost all of us had been noticing one thing. Whenever we went out on whatever business, for shopping or to visit people, somebody seemed to be following us, from a little distance no doubt but it was clear enough that we were being watched. When we stopped, he too would stop; if we tarried a little, he too kept himself occupied on some pretext or other. We talked about this among ourselves and made the great discovery that this must be what they called spying, and that we must henceforth take extra precautions. So far, we had never had this kind of trouble. Ours had been a secret society only in name, for the whole thing was out in the open. Anybody could enter the Gardens from anywhere at any time and move about the place, for it was all open compound without any fencing or walls. That is why on the morning of our arrest, a couple of boys from the neighbourhood also found themselves under

Page 359

arrest along with us. In piteous tones they implored the policemen, "We are innocent, sirs; we came here only for a morning stroll." The poor innocents!

The evening before our arrest, it was already getting dark and we were thinking of retiring for the night, when some voices came to our ears in a rather peculiar way, and lanterns were seen moving about in the dark. "Who are you? What do you do here?" the voices said. We did our best to give evasive replies. "Very well, then, we come again tomorrow morning and will know more about it." With these words, the strangers seemed to make their exit. Were these warning voices? In spite of our dull wits, we could understand at least this much that things were now getting rather serious and that we must take our precautions. The first thing we decided upon was that we should leave the place before daybreak and disperse. Upen told us later that he had wanted us to disperse immediately and make no further delay. But that was obviously not to be, for it was destined that we should pass through the experience of jail. Nevertheless, we did start doing something at once; that was to remove all traces, by burning or hiding away or whatever other means, of anyhting that might raise a suspicion against us. The very first thing that came to our heads was this. There were two or three rifles in the house where Sri Aurobindo lived. They were in the custody of. Abinash (Abinash Bhattacharya) who lived with him and looked after Sri Aurobindo's affairs. Those rifles must be removed at once, they could on no account be left there. Had the police found them on Sri Aurobindo's premises, it might have been more difficult to secure his release. The rifles were brought back, they were packed in two boxes bound with iron hoops, together with the few revolvers we had and all the materials for the making of bombs, and hidden away underground. Next, getting hold of all our papers that might contain names and addresses and plans, we set fire to them. This went on far into the night. We could not

Page 360

We went to bed after doing away with all we could, in the hope that we might run away by daybreak. But the running away did not materialise. In the early hours of the morning, – it was not yet light, – we were awakened by an eerie sort of noise. We sat up in bed. But what was all this going on? Shadowy forms were moving about the place, there was a clatter and a creaking of boots. Suddenly out of the dark silence, a conversation arose:

"You are under arrest. Your name?"

"Barindra Kumar Ghose."

"Arabinda Ghose?"

"No, Barindra Kumar Ghose."

"Well, we'll see."

The next thing I knew was a hand clapping on my shoulders. "Come," said a voice.

Several people have expressed great surprise at this facile surrender on our part, as though we were goody-goody boys innocent as lambs. Why, it has been asked, did we not give them fight and take a few lives before we surrendered? But our aims were of another kind, our path, our very policy was of another character. Our goal was not to die a martyr's death. We wanted to be soldiers. The martyr is happy if he can give up his life. But the duty of the soldier is not to give his life but to take the lives of others. The soldier seeks the maximum protection for himself, he goes under cover, and he seeks to kill as many of the enemy as he can. He does not think it enough that he should only sacrifice himself. No doubt there comes a time when it is no longer possible

Page 361

to find a shelter or go under cover, it may not even be desirable. Then one throws off one's masks, one comes out in the open and acts in the way so vividly described in these lines of Rabindranath:

There began a scramble

As to who should be the first to give up his life;

That was the only hurry.

Or else, the way the Light Brigade of England acted at Balaclava in the Crimean War:

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell,

Rode the six hundred.

The Japanese soldiers too in one of their encounters with the Russians in the Russo-Japanese War did not wait to build a bridge over the ramparts of a ditch; they made a solid bridge with the pile of their dead as they jumped in one after the other and let the army march over their bodies. To save oneself does not mean that one should, like Nandalal of the comic skit, take a vow to "keep oneself alive at any cost, for the good of the country and all", or live by the bourgeois doctrine that one should always save oneself anyhow, even by the sacrifice of one's wife, atmanam satatam rakset darairapi dhanairapi.

That is why we used to tease Paresh Mallick and called him a descendant of Nandalal. Have I told you the story? He was once deputed to present Kingsford, the Presidency Magistrate, with a live bomb packed in the form of a book; the bomb was to explode as soon as the book was opened. Paresh went in the garb of an Englishman's bearer. We looked out every day for an account in the papers of some serious accident to Kingsford. But nothing happened. He seemed to be attending court regularly and was apparently

Page 362

quite safe and sound. So we had to ask Paresh at last if he had in fact reached the bomb to its destination or whether he had thrown it away somewhere to save his own skin. However, the bomb was found later among a pile of books belonging to the Magistrate. It had been lying there safely and caused no harm. The people were demanding vengeance upon Kingsford because he had sentenced a young student, Sushil, to flogging, simply because the boy was involved in a tussle with the police. That was an occasion for us terrorists. Sushil later on joined the revolutionary group at Manicktolla.

The police had on more than one occasion suggested to Sri Aurobindo, in order that he might feel flattered or perhaps even get excited and be moved to act according to their wishes, that a strong and truthful and straightforward man like him could certainly not adopt a false pose or act in secret; that he had the courage to do openly whatever he considered to be his duty or the right thing to do; that he would never care to run away and hide himself; and that whatever he did he would frankly acknowledge and say without hesitation, "Yes, it is I who have done it." But Sri Aurobindo was not to be trapped like that: He held that far more important than any question of personal honour or indignities, or a parading of one's capacity or virtue, was the work to be done and its success. He would cite the example of Sri Krishna in the Mahabharata story; Sri Krishna had no intention of being caught by Jarasandha and he fled to Dwarka in order to make ready for the adversary. That is why Sri Aurobindo did not consider a retreat to be a bad thing always. "We live to fight another day": this should be the motto of the soldier. That is why he left standing instructions with Barin and his group that they were not to admit anything immediately they were caught by the police. They should keep their mouths shut and make whatever statements were necessary only when the time came at a later stage. It is however true that Barin and some of the senior members of the group did

Page 363

make a full confession soon after their arrest. But they did that purposely, with a view to save the party by the sacrifice of some of its members. They had hoped that by taking on themselves all the responsibility, the others might be proved to have been innocent, so that instead of all of us dying together, some might still live on to carry the work forward.

Nevertheless, we were all arrested in a body. The police made us stand in a line under the strict watch of an armed guard. They kept us standing the whole day with hardly anything to eat. Only towards the evening, some of them were kind enough to get us some fried stuff from the market. Our throats were so dry by the time that we would have gladly taken a sip out of that famous pond of ours. In the evening, the order came, "Follow us." But follow where? I somehow had the feeling that here was the end - "Remember, 0 soul, the day of the Great Departure." I could not conceive at the moment that a case would have to be framed against us, that there must take place a trial and there might be a counsel to defend us. I thought on the contrary that they would take us straight to Fort William and finish us off with a firing squad! I was in fact getting myself ready for that. But things turned out rather differently. The British Government could not be so heartless after all. We were taken to the lock-up at the Lal Bazar police station. There they kept us for nearly two days and nights. This was perhaps the most trying time of all. We had no bath, no food, not even a wink of sleep. The whole lot of us were herded together like beasts and shut up in a cell. The police showed by their manner how rude and bitter they could be. Then, after having been through all this, we were taken to Alipore Jail one evening. There we were received with great kindness and courtesy by the gentleman in charge. He said, "Now there will be no more of that harassment by the police. You will find it quite comfortable here." And he had us served immediately with hot cooked rice. This was our first meal in three days, and it tasted so nice and sweet that we felt as if we were in heaven.

Page 364

IN Alipore Jail we spent a whole year, from 2nd May 1908 to 6th May 1909, as undertrial prisoners. This period might be divided into four distinct phases, according to the type of quarters we were allotted and the kind of life this gave us. These phases were however not of equal length.

The ward we were assigned in the first instance – this was known as the "44 Degrees" – was where we had to spend most of our time in jail, and this in two instalments, once at the beginning and again at the end. The name "44 Degrees" was given because the ward consisted of 44 rooms; these rooms were actually more like cells. You know the kennels and sheds where dogs and poultry are kept? These were something very similar. Whatever was to be done had to be done within the four walls of one single room – small and dark; there was no such thing as a screen or even any kind of privacy. Normally, these cells were set apart for the use of criminals like dacoits or murderers and they were kept singly, one in each cell. But we were kept in batches of three, for whatever reason one cannot say. Perhaps the idea was that if one of us tried to commit suicide, the other two would stop him! How utterly man could degrade man to a state worse than that of beasts even, one might say, was illustrated admirably by the life one had to lead in these "44 Degrees". Wordsworth must have had good cause to write:

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man!

Page 373

But of course one might take this as a fine opportunity for our training and discipline: out of much evil cometh much good. They say the spiritual life is not for those who do not conquer shame and disgust and fear, and these three things we had to give up almost without a thought while we lived in jail. And in my case at least, this sharing of a single room by a group of three proved to be on the whole happy, It was my great good fortune, I must call it a good fortune indeed, that my room-mates were entirely to my taste and their company wholly happy and beneficial. One of them was Upenda (Upen Banerjee); the other was Sachin Sen Gupta who was almost like a younger brother to me. Sachin had been the youngest member of our group – he was hardly sixteen yet, He was a nephew of Makhan Sen, the revolutionary leader of Dacca, A point about Sachin was that he was a good singer with a very fine voice. His songs were mostly of the patriotic kind, but he sang them so sweetly and with such feeling that it was really a joy to hear him, especially for us who lived under such conditions in jail. I used to try and sing with him in unison and-even managed to learn a few of his songs. This was my first acquisition in jail. After his release from jail, Sachin joined the Ramakrishna Mission at Belur Math and died at a rather early age.

Of about the same age was Sushil, the famous Sushil Sen whom the Presidency Magistrate Kingsford had sentenced to be whipped. Let me relate an amusing incident concerning Sushil here. When at the end of the trial, the Judge invited each of us individually to say if we had any statements to make, Sushil stood up in the dock and declared that he did not wish to say anything in front of the Judge because, as he put It, “whatever I say will be twisted into law." The whole court-room roared with laughter.

Upenda occupied the position of both leader and teacher. It was he who taught us the Gita at the Manicktolla Gardens. Here in Jail, by living In his company, I learned a lot of things

Page 374

from him, he gave me much courage and energy and enthusiasm and some very good advice. I am grateful to him for all that. He had a particularly soft corner for me, perhaps because his wife's name was also Nolini. He had given me a suggestion as to what sort of defence I should put up in court. "You should say," he explained, "that you do not know anything, that you met me accidentally at your Mess, and that it was I who on finding in the course of our talk that you were interested in Indian philosophy invited you to come to my readings in the Gita's philosophy. You had no other motives or evil intentions." Upenda had also explained to me certain ways of doing meditation and this helped me pass some of my time in jail.

It was not altogether bad during our first month of jail. And afterwards, when the case came up before the trying Magistrate, we began to have a really good time. For henceforth we had an opportunity to know and meet and talk with everybody else. We drove to court together making a lot of noise on the way; we stayed together in court for the most part of the day; and we drove back again in company. That was enough to keep us gay.

This first phase of our life was over by the end of a month and a half. The scene now opened to still brighter prospects. As the authorities discovered that we meant no harm and were perfectly good boys, they offered us a much nicer place for our stay. It was a spacious hall divided into three compartments, with a verandah and a courtyard in front. And our daily ablutions were now to be performed outside. This second phase of our life became something truly remarkable. Outside, in court, we met everybody. Back home, in the jail, we could meet anyone we chose at any hour of the day or night. Gradually, the company began to take a particular form and shape. We formed ourselves into groups according to each one's taste and predilection. Thus the three compartments of the hall came to be divided into three distinct groups. Sri Aurobindo occupied a corner

Page 375

in a particular room. Hitherto he had been kept quite separate from us and this was the first time he came in our midst. In his room gathered all those who were interested in the spiritual life, in sadhana and meditation. Barin joined here. To the central section of the apartments came those who looked for some kind of mental culture, they were the more "intellectual" types. Here Upen took the lead and I too spent most of my time here because of him, The third compartment belonged to the atheists and rationalists, the so-called "practical" men, Hem Das and his chief disciple young Krishnajiban ruled here. The groups exchanged banter freely among themselves, but there was never any dearth of good feeling and friendship. It was again during this period itself that we got permission to read books, and a few volumes reached our hands. My people sent me Bacon's Essays, Shakespeare's King John – I still remember these titles – and several other titles of the type used in my college as textbooks. Some works of Vivekananda came and also the Brahmavaivarta and the Vishnu Puranas in the Basumati edition. All of these books we went through over and over again, times without number, for new books could not be had for the asking.

But questionings too began to arise: and what next? Must we rot in jail for the rest of our lives, say for ten years or perhaps twenty? And supposing some of us were to be hanged, that too did not seem to be a particularly desirable end. Barin got an idea: we must break out of jail. Our lives, he argued, were going to be wasted in any case, so why not do something worthwhile before we lost all? He consulted some of the others and began to form his plans. Even maps and charts got ready and contacts were established with co-workers outside, such as the Chandernagore group with men like Srish Ghosh at the top. The idea was to carry out the coup sometime in the evening when we were usually left at large in the pen compound of our ward. With pistols in hand, we were to rush to the compound wall. Our friends

Page 376

would be posted outside with their arms. From there they would throw in ropes and ladders. We would keep on shooting as we climbed up the wall and then jump on to the other side. From there we would make good our escape in carriages – there were no cars then – along a route fixed in advance and straight to the river-side. There the boats would be waiting. We would sail down the river and on to the Sunderbans and the deep jungle, as in the story of Debi Chowdhurani of Bankim.

There were many who could not approve of this romantic plan of Barin. But I was one of the small fry and was prepared to obey orders, whatever they might be. For it had been part of our ideal in life:

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die:

to quote the poet's words with which my class-fellows greeted me on my first appearance in College after the release. We ourselves had often been singing the refrain,

We care not if we lost our life itself

In thy service, O Mother,

With "Bandemataram" on our lips.

Sri Aurobindo however refused to have anything to do with Barin's plans. "As far as I am concerned," he said, "I mean to stand the trial"

Another group, consisting of some four or five persons, had in the meantime been hatching another plan in secret. Kanai Dutt was there, and Sat yen Bose; perhaps Hem Das also was in the know and Upen and Ullas too. But they did not say a word and showed only by their deed what they had meant to do.

Close on this second phase of our life came the third. The authorities had known us long enough by now to get convinced

Page 377

that we could make no trouble, not even the kind of indiscipline which they expected of the ordinary prisoners. There was the big hall where all the forty of us were lodged. Each had his allotted space, with his own "altar," that is, a mound of earth that served as the bedstead and was covered with a blanket; at one end the mound was raised slightly to do duty for the pillow. I had at first nothing but disdain for this piece of earth, but later I came to appreciate its value, as I shall soon relate. Outside the hall, there was a huge courtyard where the water taps were and an aqueduct to carry off the surplus 'water where one could even take bath. The kitchen was near at hand and its smells filled the whole place. Up above there was the open sky. One could always come out into the open during the day; the sentries were extremely courteous. We had a regular supply of vegetables and even fish and meat, from outside, and we were sometimes allowed to cook. Inside, within the hall, all manner of games and frolic were on – it was a regular fair. There was acting and caricature, recitation and song, an endless mirth.

In the midst of all this, Sri Aurobindo occupied his little corner engrossed most of the time in his sadhana and meditations. But occasionally he too did not hesitate to join in our childish pranks. One day I asked to hear from him something in the Greek language. He gave us a recital of ten or twelve lines from Homer. That was the first time I listened to Greek verse.

Such was the picture of our outer life. But how about the inner feelings? There a fire had been smouldering. Barin had suggested that it would be easier and more feasible if we tried to make good our escape from jail itself, for we used to take our strolls in the yard adjoining the compound wall and the sentries also did not seem to be much too alert. Revolvers began to be collected – in what manner I shall explain later. But how did we hide them? Well, I had one in my keeping. On .one side of the mound we used as a bed I had made a hole. In order to prevent discovery and lest

Page 378

the sentries should know, I used to sit with my back against the mound and go on digging with my bare hands from behind. The earth was removed to either side and covered with the blanket. In this way the pistol could be kept hidden in a cavity within my "bed". The opening was plastered over with mud and then covered up with a tin plate on which they served us meals. But what happened to the pistol I left buried in this way I do not know. For as these plans and preparations were getting under way, there came a bolt from the blue, a deluge that swept away everything like a house of cards. It was Kanai and Satyen who had brought that about.

I did not know Satyen much, for we were told that he was ill and had been kept in the jail hospItal. Kanai too was not much of a mixer. But we could sometimes hear him say, "Jail is not for me. I shall give the slip to the British Government." We used to laugh at his words.

Let me mention here a somewhat similar incident about Sri Aurobindo. One day, as we sat in our cage in the court room, one of the more enterprising sentries – he was an Englishman – came up to him and said jokingly, "Abrindo (he could not say Aurobindo), you are caught at last, you are caught at last." Sharp and immediate came Sri Aurobindo's retort, "And yet I will escape, and yet I will escape!"

To come back to Kanai. Most of the time he used to lie in bed covered up from head to foot. If one got curious and asked him why, he would reply, "Oh, I am trying to find my way into the inner worlds." One day, a jail warder came and gave him the good news that he had passed his B.A. examination – the results were just out. Kanai had joined in our activities while appearing for his examination. The next we heard about him was that he was ill and had been removed to the jail hospital. And then...

All of a sudden, one evening, the alarm bell of the jail rang out. This bell with its furious: clang was rung only

Page 379

in a grave emergency. At the same time a prisoner ran wildly about, shouting in Hindustani, "Naren Gosain thanda, ho gaya, Naren Gosain thanda ho gaya, – "Naren Gosain has been done for, Naren Gosain has been done .for!" Before we had time to think or realise what had happened, swarms of armed policemen with rifles and fixed bayonets trooped into the courtyard where we had been taking our evening stroll. They pushed us back into our quarters like a drove of sheep or as if we had been animals for slaughter. Everyone was searched and we got a few rude jostlings. We were made to form a line and sit down on the spot and the order came, "Now to the 44 Degrees."

Kanai and others had wanted to get rid of Naren Gosain as soon as possible, not simply because he had been a traitor to the country but in order that his testimony be rejected in the Sessions court, for his evidence would have no value unless it could be tested in cross-examination. This saved is all, at least from the clutches of the law.

Now we were back again to where we had been at the beginning. It was exactly as before, except that now, instead If keeping us three in a room, they made us live separately and alone in our cells. For the authorities had now come to realise what kind of stuff we had beneath the mild surface. That was the end of our golden age in jail. All our special facilities and privileges were withdrawn. The court-room was now the only place where we could meet.

The case dragged on for quite sometime, for several months in fact. And then, the trial once over, came a period of utter loneliness. We could do nothing but await the results his state of dark night lasted nearly two months. I too had occasional fits of depression during this period. "Why, and what, and where, and which way?" These were questions at came up and clouded the mind. There was a sense of wariness. The one solace I found – it came towards the end – was in the company of Vivekananda. That was 1en his book, Colombo to Almora, came to my hands. What

Page 380

faith and confidence, what strength, what courage breathed through his words and his manner! All seemed to get cleared up, especially when I read aloud the Vedic and Upanishadic mantras like,

vedaham etam purusam mahantam

adityavarnam tamasah parastat

tam eva viditva atimrtyum eti

nanyah pantha vidyate ayanaya.

"I know this mighty Person resplendent as the sun, who stands beyond all darkness, by knowing whom alone one crosses beyond death; there is no other road for the great journey."

Or,

na tatra suryo bhati na candra-tarakam

nema vidyuto bhanti kuto'yam agnih

tam eva bhantam anubhati sarvam

tasya bhasa sarvam idam vibhati.

"There the sun shines not and the moon has no splendour and. the stars are blind; there these lightnings flash not, how then shall burn this earthly fire? All that shines is but the shadow of this shining; all this universe is effulgent wilh his light."

Or else,

yasyaite himavanto mahitva

"Whose glory these Himalayan snows declare."

How direct the touch of something eternally true, of a refuge unassailable, a fearless state and foundation unshaken

Page 381

was brought by the words of Vivekananda! They did in truth bring one near to the Self and impart strength, atmada, balada. Later, I read about Oscar Wilde and his experiences in jail, his De Profundis. Whenever I seemed to fall into some deep abyss, immediately there would surge up from the inner depths an aspiration for the heights. This for me was truly the darkest night before dawn.

One day, as I sat deeply brooding with a rather heavy weight on my head, suddenly there came the feeling of a something that was clear and bright and calm, "the horizons grew bright, the winds felt delightful," disah praseduh marutah vavuh sukhah. I sensed now as if there was nothing more to worry about. My release was destined, a release that was already manifest within me and in the wind and the sky.

On my last day in jail, we were summoned to court to hear the judgment. One by one the names were called out, of those who had been convicted. My name was not there; that is, I had been discharged. I did not feel any surprise or elation. What had happened was perfectly natural, something that had to be. I took leave of my friends and companions of all these days, bade them good-bye and paced back slowly out into the freedom of the open spaces, my mind at peace. A year had passed.

Page 382

NOT once, not twice, but thrice, – three times did I have the urge to take to the life of an ascetic, sannyasa. But whether it was the bad luck of asceticism or out of my own good luck, I had to give up the idea .on all the three occasions, though each time it happened in a different way.

This was how it came about the first time. I had just come out of jail. What was I to do next? Go back to the ordinary life, read as before in college, pass examinations, get a job? But all that was now out of the question. I prayed that such things be erased from the tablet of my fate, sirasi ma likha, ma likha, ma likha. But before I could come to any final decision as to the future, I had to do something at least to while away the time. So I gave my parents and relatives to understand that I would be continuing my studies and so be on the look-out for a suitable college – for any and every college would not dare to admit me, a live bomb-maker just out of prison.

After going about a bit, I came to Calcutta and put up with a friend at his Mess. One day, I felt a sudden inspiration. It had to be on that very day: on that very day I must renounce the world, make the Great Departure, there was to be no return. I decided to try the Belur Math first. If they took me in, so much the better. They had a good library too, I had heard. In case they refused, well, one would see. It was about four in the afternoon when I left the Mess. I had of course been to the Math before, and to Dakshineshwar as well, but always by river in a country-boat. I had since been told there was a railway-station at Belur. I thought the

Page 383

Math must be somewhere near the station, so I should go by train this time. With exactly two and a half annas in my pocket, I left for the Howrah station, bought a ticket for Belur and kept the change, a pice or two. On alighting at the station I was told the Math was quite a distance from there, a couple of miles at least. I had to set out on foot and finally arrived at the Math. A few inmates – Sannyasis – sat on a bench in the verandah. They asked me about the object of my visit. I blurted out straightaway, "I have come to stay here. I wish to take up the spiritual life, the life of sannyasa." "In that case," they said, "you had better consult the authority in charge." This authority was Sarat Maharaj. He received me in his room and bade me sit by him. He listened to all I had to say. Then he spoke to me in a most unassuming and affectionate tone and explained a number of things.

He asked me, "What precisely do you want to come here for ?"

I said, “This is a sacred spot dedicated to the memory of Swami Vivekananda. I have a deep attraction for Swamiji, and I want to follow his idea1.”

"To have an attraction for Swamiji," he said, "is a very good thing. But it is not enough. It is easy enough, especially for Indian youths, to adore him and do him worship. What is more difficult is to know and understand his Master, Sri Ramakrishna. And he who does not know and understand Sri Ramakrishna cannot know and understand Swami Vivekananda wel1. In any case, you will agree that anyone cannot be admitted to the Math just like that. You pay us a few visits, let us get to know each other better, then perhaps we might decide something."

"But I have no intention of going back," I said. "On that I am determined."

Debabrata Basu and Sachin Sen had already joined the Ramakrishna Mission before I came. Both of them had been with me in Alipore Jail among the accused in the Bomb case.

Page 384

Let me here in parenthesis note a few things about Debabrata Basu. He had been a contemporary of Barin, U pen and Hrishikesh and was among the leaders of our group. He was one of the writers. Indeed, it was he and Upen who gave a characteristic stamp to Yugantar by their writings. His was the mind of a meditative thinker. His thought was wide in its range, rich in knowledge, he had insight and inner experience. And all this he could combine with a fine sense of humour which did not, however, as in the case of others always explode in laughter. Nor did his appearance belie his mental stature; he was akara-sadrsa-prajña, a tall figure of a man. One would often find him seated in a meditative pose, gathered silently within. When he came back to his waking self he would sometimes impart to those around him something of the knowledge he had gained in the world of thought or of his experiences in the inner worlds. He had a sister, Sudhira, who was also well-known to us, for in spite of her being a woman she too had shared in her brother's work as a revolutionary. On his joining the Ramakrishna Mission, Debabrata Basu was given the name of Prajnananda. He has written a book in Bengali, Bharater Sadhana (The Spiritual Heritage of India), which is well-known to select circles.

I had to bring up the names of Debabrata and Sachin for I thought – I had also been told something to this effect – that the Math might feel a little nervous or perhaps even get into trouble with the police because of my connection with the Bomb case. But Sarat Maharaj gave me finally to understand that he could not accept me as an inmate. So I had to leave.

Now, what was I to do next? I decided to start off straight along the Grand Trunk Road, the road of the Mughals, which they say would take one as far as Agra and Delhi. So, on to the march now, never to return. I could very well repeat the words of the poet,

Page 385

"Thou hast found a shelter for everyone,

O Shankara, O Lord of the Worlds,

But to me thou hast assigned the road alone."

Or the words of Christ,

"The foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nest but the son of man hath not where to lay his head."

So I trudged along. The township was passed, human habitations grew thin and the meadows stretched wider or both sides of the road. But what was this coming all on a sudden? It started drizzling. I had no umbrella, there were no houses to offer me shelter, only the shades of wayside trees. I began to get drenched and the rain damped my body and the inner spirit too along with it. I now said to myself, "Hang it all, but what is the point in this useless suffering? Is this spiritual discipline? And is it essential to that discipline to get oneself drenched in the rain out in this wilderness?" The answer came, "No, it is not at all essential. Can't you recall Sri Krishna's words, 'He who afflicts his body afflicts me too who dwell in that body'? Now then?" Well, I thought I should now turn back. If my resolution was not a sound resolution, there could be no harm in going back on it. So I turned back.

But turn hack how? There was not enough money to pay for the train fare. In any case, it would be easier to take a country-boat, from the place where I had reached, – so I gathered from enquiries. I came to the riverside. It was already getting on to eight and the last of the ferry boats was about to leave. I ran for it and jumped in. And we crossed over to Calcutta. As I prepared to get down, the boatman said, "Your fare, please?" I rummaged my pockets and found there the two pice left. I offered them to the man. But he said, "Not two pice but four, the fare is one anna." "But I have nothing more." "That I don't know, you have

Page 386

to pay the full fare." "But I have told you I have nothing more, how can I pay?" "I don't know about that." "All right, I can give you my pair of slippers." "No, they won't do. If you give me the chuddar you have on, I might consider," It was a good shawl I had on, and I said, "No, my dear fellow, that I am not going to part with." "But you will have to."

Our exchanges were well on the way to a dispute, when a gentleman suddenly appeared up on the river bank – it was a steep bank and the water had receded far down at the ebb tide – and he asked me, "What is the matter?" I told him all that had happened. "Oh, is that all? Here, you fellow," he said, "here is your fare." He gave him an anna. I thanked him profusely, asked him for his address, but he went his way without another word.

I too started on my way home and finally came back to my room at the Mess. My friend was waiting for me to come before he sat down to dinner. I simply said, "Sorry, I have been late, going about here and there." I did not give him the faintest hint of the drama I had just been through, how from a near-tragedy I had landed into high comedy.

That was "my first attempt at sannyasa. Now about the next chance.

I have told you earlier that on our release from j ail, so long as we were in Calcutta, Bejoy and I used to call on Sri Aurobindo regularly every afternoon at the residence of his uncle at Sanjivani office. After a long deliberation and discussion the two of us finally decided that we should now set out on a career of wandering ascetics. I did not tell Bejoy of my earlier experiment. But Up en had once told me while we had been in jail that in order to be able to love one's country, one must know it and see it with one's own eyes by journeying through it a little. Our sadhus and wandering ascetics too have a custom of going the round of India, and visiting the four corners of the land. Hence, on to the march again, caraiveti. Bejoy procured the necessary equipment:

Page 387

that is, the blanket and the lota or water-pot. The date of departure was fixed, only the itinerary remained. "But before we start," he said, "we must inform Sri Aurobindo and obtain his blessings. And then we leave,"

So, one afternoon, in the course of one of our regular visits, we told him of our plan. He kept quiet for a while, then he said, "Well, you might wait for a few days." I was a little surprised, for I had thought that he would endorse our scheme without any hesitation. Anyhow, we had to wait for a few days. He said to us one day, "You wanted to go on a tour of the country, didn't you? Well, you come with me, I shall take you on a tour." We were taken aback and were delighted at the same time. He was to leave for Assam on a political mission, first to a Provincial Conference to be held at a place called Jalsuka in the Sylhet area, and thence to the other areas of Assam on a tour.

This provided me with a fresh opportunity to see once again the beauty of old Bengal, the land of the rivers, from a new angle of vision this time. Water, water everywhere, so much water you do not see at any other place, an endless sheet of water spread out below, matching the vast expanse of the sky above. From Goalando we went by steamer to Narayangunge along the Padma and the Sitalaksha, thence to the Meghna; one who has not seen the Meghna cannot imagine what it is really like – it was, as it were, the living Goddess of the water, Jaleshwari – and next, the mighty Dhaleshwari and on to the Surma. We travelled by river steamer for days on end without a break and we moved about by country-boat. The rains had come. The low-lying tracts – they call them Howr – which at other times are just dry lowlands were now all submerged under water. As far as the eyes could reach, there was a vast expanse of water clear and still. Only at places here and there one could see jutting out of its midst a few houses or a village. One day, in the twilight of the evening, land and river took on a rosy hue in the crimson glow of the setting sun as we sailed along by a

Page 388

slow-moving boat. Sri Aurobindo was there and two or three other leaders. I was so powerfully moved by the scene that – the child that I was – I felt an irresistible desire to burst forth there and then into song:

"In front the clouds glow, over the setting sun.

Row on thy boat, for now it is too late to cross.

The golden land is half-seen through the gloam:

Wouldst thou then take thy boat to the other shore?"

Somehow with difficulty I contained myself and sat in quiet contemplation.

Out on tour, Sri Aurobindo used to address meetings, meet people when he was free and give them instructions and advice. Most of those who came to his meetings did not understand English, they were common village-folk. But they came in crowds all the same, men, women and children, just to hear him speak and have his darshan. When he stood up to address a gathering, a pin-drop silence prevailed. His audience must surely have felt a vibration of something behind the spoken word. It is not that he confined himself to political matters alone. There were many who knew that he was a, Yogi and- spiritual guide and they sought his help in these matters too. I have myself seen as I spent whole nights with him in the same room, at Jalsuka, how he would sit up practically the whole night and go to bed only for a short while in the early hours of the morning.

We toured the country for about ten or twelve days and then we came back. On our return, Sri Aurobindo made us an offer: we were to have a home at the Shyampukur premises of Karmayogin and Dharma. I have already told you about that.

The story of my third and last attempt at sannyasa can be briefly told. The scene was here in Pondicherry and the time immediately before the final arrival of the Mother. Five of us lived here as permanent inmates then, not counting SriAurobindo of course.

Page 389

We were indeed well on the way to sannyasa in that life of Brahmacharya and single blessedness. The first time it had been myself, my own self or soul, who rejected sannyasa. The second time the veto was pronounced by the Supreme Soul, the Lord – Sri Aurobindo himself. And the third time it was the Supreme Prakriti, the Universal Mother who it seems scented the danger and hastened as if personally to intervene and. bar that way of escape for ever, by piling up against us the heaven-kissing thorny hedge of wedlock. Three of us got caught in this manner, although the other two did find a way of escape.

Page 390

ON coming out of jail, Sri Aurobindo found shelter in the house of his maternal uncle, Krishna Kumar Mitra; the place was known as the Sanjivani Office. Bejoy Nag and myself had got our release along with him, but we could not yet make up our minds as to what we should do next; we were still wandering about like floating weeds or moss. But both of us used to go and see him every afternoon.

About this time, he went out on tour for a short while in the Assam area in connection with political work and he took the two of us along. On return from tour he told me one day that he had decided to bring out two weekly papers, one in English and the other in Bengali. The premises were ready, the arrangements were practically complete and we could both of us come and stay there. He asked me if I had any practice in writing. I said that I had never written anything beyond college essays, but I could try. "Then get hold of an English newspaper tomorrow," he said, "pick out some of the important items of news, write them out in Bengali and bring them to me. I shall see." I did that the next day. He seemed to be pleased on seeing my writing and said that it might do. He gave me the task of editing the news columns of his Bengali paper Dharma. Half of it would be articles, etc., and the rest would be news. Needless to say, I accepted the offer. He added that for this work he would give me a stipend of ten rupees per month and that I should not take that amiss. For, he explained, this was for him a matter of principle as he did not consider it fair to exact work without giving its

Page 391

due reward. That was why he offered this token payment and I should accept it as part of my pocket-expenses. This was the first time I was going to earn any money.

So we came to stay at Shyampukur, on the Dharma and Karmayogin premises. There were two flats or sections. In the front part were set up the press and the office, and at the back, in the inner appartments, so to say, we set up our household. There were three or four rooms on the first floor and downstairs there were the kitchen and stores and things.

Sri Aurobindo used to come here every afternoon from his uncle's place. He would first look to the work in the office and then come to our rooms. Till about ten in the evening he used to spend his time with us.

It is here that began our true education, and perhaps, nay certainly, our initiation too. Three of us were permanent residents, Bejoy Nag, Suresh Chakravarti and myself. But there turned up practically every day Ramchandra Majumdar, Biren Ghosh and Saurin Bose (a brother-in-law of Sri Aurobindo) who came with us to Pondicherry and stayed here for some years. A frequent visitor was Ganen Maharaj of Ramakrishna Mission who acted as the link with Sister Nivedita. There were a few others who came once in a while. Sri Aurobindo had his own novel method of education. It did not proceed by the clock, nor according to a fixed routine or curriculum, that is, there was nothing of the school about it. It went simply and naturally along lines that seemed to do without rules. The student did not realise that he was being educated at all. Is there not something very similar about his Yoga? Of fixed rules and processes determined in advance there is none; it moves by different paths and along different lines, depending on the time and circumstances; its form and movement vary according to the individual seeker. Even the seeker hardly seems to realise that he is doing any sadhana. Does a fish living in water know that it has learnt to swim?

By giving me that work of editing the news he made

Page 392

me slowly grow into a journalist. Next there came to me naturally an urge to write articles. Sri Aurobindo was pleased with the first Bengali article I wrote. Only, he made a slight change at one place, I remember. I had written, "In the past, India held to the illusionist view. But in the present age, she cannot afford to reject life and the physical world; these she must accept." He corrected the first phrase to "At a particular stage in our past...". This my first article was published in the 11th issue of Dharma dated 15th November, 1909. I was twenty then. Some of my other articles came out in Dharma afterwards. My writings in English began much later.

Now we started collecting a few books. At the very outset he suggested two titles: Carlyle's French Revolution and Green's History of the English People, perhaps in consideration of our taste for history and revolution. Arrangements soon came to be made, ail of a sudden and it seemed as if by accident, for our coaching in Hindi as well. A Marwari gentleman who used to help Sri Aurobindo in his journalistic work had a Pundit as his protégé to whom he had to pay 70 or 75 rupees per month as an honorarium. So he asked Sri Aurobindo if instead of the Pundit being paid for nothing he could not be made to give some service. It was accordingly agreed that the Pundit would .come and teach us Hindi for an hour every day. He was a Brahmin of the rigid orthodox type. But once in the grip of iconoclasts like us, his orthodox habits were soon broken to bits. For instance, he was made to drink of the water from taps in place of holy Ganges water brought from the river by carrier; he even accepted to eat sweets obtained from the market instead of living ent1rely on his own cooking. Hindi has now embarked on its career of empire and perhaps it was in anticipation of this that Sri Aurobindo wanted to get us ready from that early date. But the Muse of Hindi did not prosper much in our hands.

It was here at Shyampukur itself that Suresh Chandra

Page 393

had his first inspiration for poetry.

One day, in the midst of all this, Sri Aurobindo asked me all of a sudden if I had any desire to learn languages – any of the European languages, French for example. I was a little surprised at the question, for I had not observed in me any such ambition or inclination. None the less, I replied that I would like to. That is how I began my French. He said, "At the National College (National Council of Education, now Jadavpur University) they have got the books I loaned to them. You take this note from me. They will give you a volume of Molière's Works." I started right away with a play from this volume, L' Avare. At several places in the margins he wrote out in his own hand the English equivalents for my convenience. I still posses that volume with the marginal notes in his handwriting.

Sri Aurobindo himself began about this time his study of the Tamil language, with a Tamil gentleman who used to come to the Karmayogin office. A rather amusing incident has been narrated in this connection by Suresh Chakravarti. You should read Suresh Chakravarti's account along with mine in order to get a more complete picture of our life at Shyampukur. His Reminiscences (in Bengali) has been published by the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. While taking up the study of Tamil, Sri Aurobindo did not have the faintest suspicion that he might have to go to Tamil Nadu one day and make that his permanent home.

Here in Shyampukur and about the same time, there began for us another kind of education, another type of experience, a rather strange experience I should say. Everybody knows about automatic writing, that is, where the hand of the writer goes on automatically writing without any kind of impulsion, desire or direction on his own part; he remains neutral and lets himself go.

It is said that through this kind of writing are brought down spirits or bodiless entities. The savants of the West may say that all this is a play of subconscient mind as the waking

Page 394

mind then abdicates. But that is a matter for argument. Let me here describe what actually happened. Sri Aurobindo showed to us, or rather made us hear, not examples of automatic writing but of automatic speech. About eight in the evening, we would take our seats around him. The lights were put out and all was silent. We kept still for a while. Then slowly there came a voice from Sri Aurobindo. It was clearly not his own voice, there were many voices each of a different character and tone. The voice itself would say who it was. Some of them I remember very well. Once someone came and said many fine things about education, about literature, about our country. We got eager to know his name. After putting us off for a while he finally gave out that he was Bankimchandra. The talks were in English. He had used a word, "obfuscated", and as none of us knew the meaning of this unusual word we asked him the meaning. His reply was, "In our days we knew better English than you do." Another day, somebody else appeared and immediately announced himself in a terrible voice, "I am Danton! Terror! Red Terror!" He went on discoursing on the need and utility of all that bloodshed of the French Revolution. Another who came introduced himself thus, "I am Theramenes." Theramenes was a political leader of ancient Greece. He spoke in a calm and subdued tone and gave us a lesson in political matters. So many others came like this, day after day, and taught us many things on various subjects. Someone even raised the question of Hindu-Muslim unity and offered us a solution as well.

Who are these beings? Or, what are they? Do supraphysical beings exist in fact? And do they come and disclose their identity before men in this manner? It is a very obscure and complicated affair indeed. Supraphysical beings do exist. But the supraphysical world is not of a single piece. There are worlds upon worlds in a regular series, from the most gross to the most subtle; above the physical is the subtle-physical, above that is life, and above life mind, the

Page 395

series continues above mind also; and in each of these there are several layers or planes. Any of the beings from any of these worlds or planes can manifest himself. But he has to manifest through the instrumentality of the human medium, through the substance of the medium's mind, life and body. Therefore he cannot easily manifest his real nature or true being, he has to gather his materials from the medium's own substance. Very often it is the make-up of the medium that predominates and the being that manifests preserves very little of his own. But it may on the other hand be quite otherwise. All will depend on the capacity of the medium. With an impure or unfit medium there will be a greater possibility of charlatanism and falsehood.

In many cases it is not the true soul of a dead person that comes; what comes is some portion of him, some fragments of his mind, life or subtle body that may have survived in the corresponding worlds or in some other worlds. By animating these parts and using them as vehicles some other being or entity or force may come, as if a representative of the whole man. Or else it might even happen that an entirely different being presents himself under a false name. There is really no end to the complexities that may arise in these supraphysical worlds. There may also be a medium who knows how to keep under his control the action and modality of such appearances, that is to say, determine in advance the particular beings or types of being that will come or will not come, the kind of things they will say or will not be allowed to say. Or he may, if he chooses, open the gates for anyone to appear, simply in order that he may watch and examine what takes place. Needless to add that when Sri Aurobindo made himself a medium, something like this used to happen.

As a record of one of his experiments on this line, Sri Aurobindo himself has said or rather left in writing something that we all know. The book entitled Yogic Sadhan was written entirely in this manner through his hand by somebody else.

Page 396

And judging by the fact that at the time of the writing Sri Aurobindo had seen the subtle presence of Rammohan Roy around, it may be inferred that the book was written or inspired by Rammohan Roy. Sri Aurobindo has likewise told us that the subtle being of Vivekananda came to him in Alipore Jail to give him certain instructions.

Meanwhile there came to us running, one afternoon, a young man – Satish Sarkar – to give Sri Aurobindo the news that Shamsul Alam, the Police Inspector who had been the mainstay of Government in the Alipore bomb case, had just been shot down, on the steps of the High Court, by Biren (Birendranath Datta Gupta). He added that he too had been with Biren, but had managed to escape, although he doubted if Biren could have escaped. Biren actually got arrested and was hanged. But the young man absconded. Afterwards he came to us in Pondicherry and stayed here for some time, perhaps for a year or so. We christened him "Junior Sinner" – as he was, as it were, a younger brother to us. But he developed into a mayavadin (illusionist) and finally left us as he could not reconcile himself to our viewpoint. Afterwards he became a sannyasin.

Our life in Shyampukur went on in its regular course, when, one evening as we gathered for our usual séance, our friend Ramchandra suddenly appeared with the news that the Government had decided to arrest Sri Aurobindo again; everything was ready, he said, and it might even be that very evening. Sri Aurobindo listened to him in silence. Then he said, "Come, let us move out just now." He had received the Divine Command, as he told us later, to leave immediately for Chandernagore. He came out of the house and made straight for the river-side, accompained by Ramchandra, Biren Ghosh and Suresh Chakravarti. Suresh has given an accurate and full account of what happened next, and I shall not repeat that here. You should read it in his Reminiscences.

Page 397

The story of this sudden exit or disappearance Aurobindo has appeared in several versions, with many distortions and not without a touch of colour. For instance, I someone has said that it was on Nivedita's advice and at her insistence or request that Sri Aurobindo took shelter in French territory. Another has given a vivid cinema-like picture of how Sri Aurobindo had to jump a. wall, how he lost his way among the narrow lanes and finally landed on somebody's doorsteps and the dramatic dialogue that ensued, and so on. But all this is sheer myth and romance. Sri Aurobindo himself has left his record on the point, and his companions of that evening have also written out the true facts.

Those of us who were left behind continued to run the two papers for some time; Nivedita was of particular help in regard to the English journal. But afterwards, we too found it impossible to carryon and our pleasant home had to be broken up. For news came that the police were after our blood; it became imperative therefore that we too should disperse and go into hiding. I have said that there were three permanent residents in that house. Of these three, Suresh Chakravarti, at Ganen Maharaj's instance, disappeared among the Tagore family, in the house of Gaganendranath Tagore. Bejoy removed to a friend's in Calcutta itself. And I decided to leave for an obscure little village in distant Barisal; there I put up with a friend of mine, Satish Chandra Sengupta, who afterwards became professor of philosophy at the City College in Calcutta.

That expedition of mine was not less romantic than any. Antarctic trip! First I went by train; next came the ferry steamer that carried me across rivers; then I had a country-boat that paddled along the little channels of East Bengal; and finally I had to walk the last lap of my journey before reaching the destination. Perhaps I shall tell you about that romantic episode in more detail later if there is luck.

Page 398

I spent a couple of months there, enjoying all kinds of delicious dishes and a, fine hospitality and lorded it over in the football fields out there. Then I got the news that the time had come, for starting on my travels again – this time on a far distant trip, to the verge of Cape Comorin almost.

Page 399

I HAVE said that this cemetery that was Pondicherry had been infested by ghosts and goblins. These had a special category known ordinarily as spies. The word "spy" carries with it, as you know, an association of all that is low and disgusting and unspeakable, things of dark import. But did you know that the word is pure Sanskrit? It was spasa in the old Vedic language. The Vedic Rishi describes Indra as sending out these spasa to trace the movements of his enemies, the forces of evil that clustered round the god. So, the Vedic gods had their spies, just as the modern British government had theirs, though of course there was bound to be a certain difference. These government spies tried to collect information as to who came to our houses, who were the people who met us, what places we frequented and how our guests spent their time. That was why Motilal (Motilal Roy of the Pravartak group in Chandernagore), when he first came to Pondicherry, had to come dressed as an Anglo-Indian, and he never entered our house, the Raghavan House of today, except by the back door and under cover of darkness after nightfall.

In fact, all of us on our first arrival here had to come under false names, the only exception being Moni (Suresh Chakravarti). He did not have to, for he had not been one of the marked men like the rest of us and his name had not been associated with any political trouble, as he was too young for that at the time. And in any case it would not have been wise to give him a false name, to save him from the clutches of the law, for it was decided to rent our houses in his name

Page 409

and it was he again who was to act on our behalf in all official matters. Sri Aurobindo called himself Jatindranath Mitra, though only for a short while. It was under this pseudonym that he sailed from Calcutta as a passenger on the "Dupleix" and had presented himself before the doctor for the medical examination. The fun of it was that the doctor had no suspicion as to whom he was going to examine, although he did exclaim on hearing Sri Aurobindo's accent, "You seem to speak English very well!", to which Sri Aurobindo replied, "Yes, I was in England for sometime." Sometime indeed – fourteen years! My name was Manindranath Roy, and eventually I came to be known as Monsieur Roy; some of my local friends of those days still know me as such' and call me by that name. Roy and "Sacra" (that is, short for Chakravarti in French) became quite well-known figures both in town and elsewhere on account of their football. Bejoy was Bankim Basak – Basak for short – the noted half-back in our football team.

The British Indian police set up a regular station here, with a rented house and several permanent men. They were of course plain-clothes men, for they had no right to wear uniform within French territory. They kept watch, as I have said, both on our visitors and guests as well as on ourselves. Soon they got into a habit of sitting on the pavement round the corner next to our house in groups of three or four. They chatted away the whole day and only now and again took down something in their note-books. What kind of notes they took we found out later on, when, after India had become independent and the French had left, some of these notes could be secured from the Police files and the confidential records of Government. Strange record, these: the police gave reports all based on pure fancy, they made up all sorts of stories at their sweet will. As they found it difficult to gather correct and precise information, they would just fabricate the news.

Nevertheless, something rather awesome did happen once.

Page 410

We had by then shifted to the present Guest House. There were two new arrivals. One was a relative of Bejoy's, Nagen Nag, who had managed to get away from his family and had come to stay here on the pretext of a change of air for his illness. The other was a friend and acquaintance of his who had come with him as a companion and help; his name was Birendra Roy.

One day, this Birendra suddenly shaved his head. Moni said he too would have his head shaved, just because Birendra had done it. That very day, or it was perhaps the day after, there occurred a regular scene. We had as usual taken: our seats around Sri Aurobindo in the afternoon. Suddenly, Biren stood up and shouted, "Do you know who I am? You may not believe it, but I am a spy, a spy of the British police. I can't keep it to myself any longer. I must speak out, I must make the confession before you." With this he fell at Sri Aurobindo's feet. We were stunned, almost dumbfounded. As we kept wondering if this could be true, or was all false, perhaps a hallucination or some other illusion – maya nu matibhramo nu – Biren started again, "Oh, you do not believe me? Then let me show you." He entered the next room, opened his trunk, drew out a hundred rupee note and showed it to us. "See, here is the proof. Where could I have got all this money? This is the reward of my evil deed. Never, I shall never do this work again. I give my word to you, I ask your forgiveness..." No words came to our lips, all of us kept silent and still.

This is how it came about. Biren had shaved his head in order that the police spies might spot him out as their man from the rest of us by the sign of the shaven head. But they were nonplussed when they found Moni too with a shaven head. And Biren began to suspect that Moni, or perhaps the whole lot of us, had found out his secret and that Moni had shaved on purpose. So, partly out of fear and partly from true repentance, for the most part no doubt by the pressure of some other Force, he was compelled to make his confession.

Page 411

After this incident, the whole atmosphere of the house got a little disturbed. We were serious and worried. How was it possible for such a thing to happen? An enemy could find his entry into our apartments, an enemy who was one of ourselves? What should be done? Bejoy was furious, and it was a job to keep him from doing something drastic. However, within a few days, Biren left of his own accord and we were left in peace. I hear he afterwards joined the Great War and was sent to Mesopotamia with the Indian army,

During the Great War, Bejoy had his spell of bad luck. That makes another story. I have said the British Indian police had set up a post here. It was placed in charge of a senior official, no less a person than a Superintendent of Police. He was a Muslim, named Abdul Karim if I remember aright, a very efficient and clever man, like our old friend Shamsul Alam of the Calcutta Police. We used to go to a friend's house very often, particularly myself. This gentleman too, we found, was a visitor there and we used to meet him as if by accident. He was very nice and polite in his manners. He even expressed a desire once to have Sri Aurobindo's darsan so that he might pay his respects. Sri Aurobindo did not refuse, he was given the permission. The gentleman arrived with a huge bouquet by way of a present and had the darsan.

The three of us, namely, Moni, Saurin and myself, who had returned to Bengal after an interval of four years, had to hasten back here almost immediately owing to the outbreak of War, for there was a chance that old 'criminals' like us would again be shut up in jail. As we had come back, Bejoy said he wished to go, for he too wanted to have a change. He would return after paying a short visit to his people. He said he had been away for so long. But the question was: would it be all right for him to go? What did the French Government think? What would they advise? It was in formally ascertained from the Governor that he did not consider it advisable to leave here, for the intentions of the

Page 412

British authorities were not above suspicion. Abdul Karim too was sounded as to their intentions. He said the British Government meant us no harm, for he was well aware that we were saintly people engaged in sadhana alone, and so on. But Sri Aurobindo had serious doubts. Bejoy however was a head-strong man. He got eager to go and set foot on British territory, that is, offer his neck to the scaffold. And that is what happened. The moment he crossed the border and entered British Indian territory, he found the police waiting. They put him in handcuffs, and for the next five years, that is, till after the War was over, he was held in detention. Once he had managed to get away earlier with only a year's custody in jail; this time it was not so easy.

But why dwell on this dark tale of the lawless wilds and the demons and beasts. Their ranks are still powerful and I do not wish to add to their strength by talking about them. Now let me say a few nice things, about some good people, for such people too had their abode here. At the very outset I should speak of the Five Good Men. It is quite possible that there was a law in French India that applied to foreigners. But now the law was made stringently applicable to refugees from our own country. It was laid down that all foreigners, that is, anyone who was not a French citizen, wanting to come and stay here for some time must be in possession of a certificate from a high Government official of the place from where he came, such as a Magistrate in British India, to the effect that he was a well-known person and that there was nothing against him; in other words, he must be in possession of a "good conduct" certificate. Or else he must produce a letter to the same effect signed by five gentlemen of standing belonging to Pondicherry. I need hardly say that the first alternative was for us quite impossible and wholly out of the question. We chose the second line, and the five noble men who affixed their signatures were these: (1) Rassendren (the father of our Jules Rassendren), (2) De Zir Naidu, (3) Le Beau, (4) Shanker

Page 413

Chettiar (in whose house Sri Aurobindo had put up on first arrival) and (5) Murugesh Chettiar. The names of these five should be engraved in letters of gold. They had shown on that occasion truly remarkable courage and magnanimity. It was on the strength of their signatures that we could continue to stay here without too much trouble.

The story of these local leaders reminds me of another incident. When I came here first, I had to adopt a subterfuge in order to ward off all suspicion. I posed as if I had come from Chandernagore, that is, from one part of French India to another, as a messenger carrying a letter from one political leader to another. I had a letter from the leader of a political party in Chandernagore to be delivered by hand to his opposite number in Pondicherry. The gentleman for whom I brought the message was called Shanmugabhelu; I forget the name of the Chandernagore gentleman. The letter suggested that he might help me find suitable accommodation for my stay here. I came and saw Mr. Shanmugabhelu at his residence with that letter. My pronunciation of the name as Shanmugabhelu must have shocked the Tamil people present there! I found the huge Mr. Gabhelu leaning on an easy-chair, surrounded by his henchmen and discoursing in tones of thunder – although the thunder must have been of the dry autumnal sort, for his party was Radical Socialist, something like our Moderate Nationalists who shouted but produced nothing. He spoke in clear French. "Sommesnous des citoyens francais, ou non?" – "Are we French citizens, or are we not?" – he shouted. This was a plaint addressed to the French authorities, a petition and protest: "Where exactly do we stand here in the matter of rights?"

Among our first acquaintances in Pondicherry were some of the young men here. The very first among them was Sada – you have known him, for he kept up with us till the end. Next came Benjamin, Rassendren and a few others. Rassendren has joined us again at the end of his career; in his early days he had been our playmate. Gradually, they formed a

Page 414

group of Sri Aurobindo's devotees. The strange thing about it was that they were all Christians. We did not have much of a response from the local Hindus; perhaps they were far too orthodox and old-fashioned. The Cercle Sportif was our rendezvous. There we had games, we arranged picnics, as you do today, we staged plays, and also held study circles. Only students took part.

Afterwards, when the Mother came in 1914, it was with a few men chosen from out of this group that she laid the first foundation of her work here; they formed the Society called "L'Idée Nouvelle". Already, in her Paris days, a similar group had been formed around her, a group that came to be known as the Cosmique, a record of whose proceedings has appeared in part in the Mother's Words of Long Ago (Paroles d'Autrefois). Here, in Pondicherry, she started building up an intimate circle of initiates simultaneously with the publication of the Arya.

Let me speak now of a strange incident lest you should miss the element of variety in our life of those days. We stayed at the Guest House then. The Mother had finally arrived. The Great War was over, I mean the first one. And with the declaration of Peace, nearly all the political prisoners in India had been released. Barin, Upen, Hrishikesh had all come back from the Andamans, although they were still hesitating as to whether they should join us here in the life of yoga or continue for some time longer their work in the outside world.

One day, something rather extraordinary happened. Into our compound there came a Sannyasin. He had a striking appearance, tall and fair, a huge turban wrapped round his head, a few locks of hair hanging down upon his shoulders. There were three or four disciples too. He begged for Sri Aurobindo's darsan. But the darsan turned out to be somewhat spectacular. There he disclosed his identity. Concealed behind the thick cloak of Sannyasa was our old comrade Amarendra, Amarendranath Chatterji, the noted terrorist

Page 415

leader for whose capture the British Government had been moving heaven and earth, that is, the worlds of the dead and the living, and also raising hell in the world of the underground. Perhaps they had set a price on his head too. And here he was in person! There was a wave of joy and excitement, mingled with some apprehension as well, for no one knew what the British or the French would do in case the news got abroad.

Amarendra had suddenly disappeared one day. He lived the life of a primitive savage in the jungles of Assam; he had been selling poultry and eggs at the steamship stations along the rivers of East Bengal, in the garb of a Muslim complete with Lungi and Fez. And so many other things he had done just in order to avoid the Government's vigilant eye. It was a long romantic tale. Finally, he made himself a Sannyasin, became a Guruji. Near Tanjore he set up his Ashram. Disciples gathered, his mantras and teachings brought him fame; he styled himself, if I remember aright, Swami Kaivalyananda. The British Government were completely fooled.

The Swamiji, our Amarendra, came here to obtain Sri Aurobindo's instructions as to what to do next. This, as I have said, was after the end of the War, when practically all the political prisoners had been set free and even those deported to the Andamans had been allowed to come back. He wished to know if he could now disclose himself and also what he was to do afterwards. He was advised to go back to Calcutta and await the turn of events for a while. The Swamiji now ordered his disciples back to the Ashram and. said that he would like to live in solitude for some time.

That was the end of Swami Kaivalyananda. He had had his nirvana and his place was taken by Amarendra Chatterji. The disciples had in the meantime gone back to their Ashram. There they kept waiting, but the months passed without any news of Guruji. They came here at last to find out where their Guruji was. Where indeed?

Page 416

I met Amarendra for the last time just before I came away to Pondicherry for good. I had been to his shop. It was a drapery stores known as the Workers' Cooperative that served as a veil and a meeting ground for terrorist activities. He knew all about me and also that I was on my way to Pondicherry. As a parting gift, he handed me a shawl from his Stores, adding, "Payable when able." I distinctly remember the phrase. I came in touch with him again long after this. He became a devotee and disciple of Sri Aurobindo and the Mother and remained a faithful follower till his death.

It will not be out of place here to say something about the sort of education and training we received in those early days of our life in Pondicherry. One of the first needs we felt on coming here was for books, for at that time we had hardly anything we could call our own. We found that at the moment Sri Aurobindo was concentrating on the Rigveda alone and we managed to get for him two volumes of the original text. He had of course his own books and papers packed in two or three trunks. It was felt we might afford to spend ten rupees every month for the purchase of books. We began our purchases with the main classics of English literature, especially the series published in the Home University Library and the World Classics editions. Today you see what a fine Library we have, not indeed one but many, for there is a Library of Physical Education, there is a Medical Library, there is a Library for the School, and there are so many private collections. All this had its origin in the small collections' we began every month. At first, the books had to lie on the floor, for we had nothing like chairs or tables or shelves for our library" I may add that we had no such thing as a bedding either for our use. Each of us possessed a mat, and this mat had to serve as our bedstead, mattress, coverlet and pillow; this was all our furniture. And mosquito curtains? That was a luxury we could not even dream of. If there were too many mosquitos, we would carry the mats

Page 417

out on to the terrace for a little air, assuming, that is, that there was any. Only for Sri Aurobindo we had somehow managed a chair and a table and a camp cot. We lived a real camp life. I should add that there were a few rickety chairs too, for the use of visitors and guests. And lights? Today you see such a profusion of electric lighting in every room and courtyard; we have mercury lights and flash lights and spotlights and torch lights; we are even getting well into the limelight! There is light everywhere, "all here is shining with light", sarvamidam vibhati. In those days, on the other hand, we did not even have a decent kerosene lamp or lantern. All I can recall is a single candlestick, for the personal use of Sri Aurobindo. Whatever conversations or discussions we had after nightfall had to be in the dark; for the most part we practised silence. The first time there was an electric connection, what a joy it gave us! It came like a revelation almost. We were in the Guest House at the time, had shifted there only a, little while ago. We were out one afternoon for our games (that is, football), and it was already dark by the time we returned. As we opened the door and entered the compound, what a surprise it was! The place was full of light, there were lights everywhere, a real illumination. The electricians had come and fitted the connections whilst we had been away. They had fitted as many as four points for the entire building, the Guest House that you see, two for the first floor and two downstairs!

We were able to purchase some French books at a very cheap rate, not more than two anna; for each volume in a series. We had about a hundred of them, all classics of French literature. I find a few of them are still there in our Library. Afterwards, I also bought from the second-hand bookshops in the Gujli Kadai area several books in Greek, Latin and French. Once I chanced on a big Greek lexicon which I still use.

Gradually, a few books in Sanskrit and Bengali too were added to our stock, through purchase and gifts. As the number

Page 418

of books reached a few hundred, the problem was how to keep them. We used some bamboo strips to make a rack or book-stand along the walls of our rooms; the "almirahs" came later. I do not think there were any "almirahs" at all so long as we were in the Guest House. They came after the Mother's arrival, when we shifted with our books to the Library House. That is why it came to be called the Library House.

This account would be incomplete without a few details as to our housekeeping. As to the furniture, I have already said the mat alone did duty for everything. Of servants we had only one; he did the shopping. But as we did not know his language, we had just memorised a few words connected with shopping and we somehow managed to make him understand with the help of these words and a good deal of gestures. Bejoy had his standing instructions: "meen moon anna" (fish three annas) – it was lucky meen in Tamil is the same as in Bengali - "if ille, then nal anna" (if not, then four annas), the Tamil equivalents of "if" or "then" were beyond the range of our knowledge. Today we have practically one servant per head, thanks to the boundless grace of the Mother. Sri Aurobindo used to smile and make the comment, "We have as many servants as there are sadhaks here."

We did the cooking ourselves and each of us developed a speciality: I did the rice, perhaps because that was the easiest. Moni took charge of dal (pulses), and Bejoy being the expert had the vegetables and the curry. What fell to the lot of Saurin I do not now remember – Saurin was a brother-in-law of Sri Aurobindo, a cousin of Mrinalini's. Perhaps he was not in our Home Affairs at all; his was the Foreign Ministry, that is, he had to deal with outsiders. We had our first real cook only after the Mother's arrival, by which time our numbers had grown to ten or twelve. There was a cook who had something rather special about her: she had been to Paris and, made quite a name there on account of certain powers of foreseeing the future and other forms of

Page 419

occult vision which she possessed. The Mother had these powers tested in the presence of some of us. She was asked to take a bath and put on clean clothes and then made to sit with us. The Mother took her seat in a chair. We did a little concentration in silence and then the Mother asked her, "What do you see? Do you see anything about anybody present here?" and so on. She gave truly remarkable answers on several occasions. And yet she had had no sort of formal education, she was absolutely illiterate, had only picked up some French by ear. Another cook who came later has become, as you know, quite a celebrity thanks to his spiritist performance. The story has become well-known, it is now almost a classic. Sri Aurobindo has referred to it, the Mother has spoken and written about it, the well-known French poet and mystic Maurice Magre who had been here and lived in the Ashram for some time has recorded it in one of his books. You must have heard or read what Sri Aurobindo and the Mother have said on the subject. I do not wish to add anything of my own, for I was not an eye-witness; I had been away in Bengal for a while.

Now that we are on this topic of cooks and cooking, let me add a few words about myself in this connection. I had, as I said, some practice in the work of the kitchen and I took it up again later on. For some time – we were about fifty in all by then – I did some serving in addition to cooking once a week. What kind of cooking was that? In those days, we used to have pudding, payas, for dinner three times a week, ordinary rice pudding, fried rice pudding, and tapioca pudding. I did the tapioca. It was rather in the fitness of things that the hands that had once been used to making bombs should now do some sweets.

At one time, one of our main subjects of study was the Veda. This went on for several months, for about an hour every evening, at the Guest House. Sri Aurobindo came and took his seat at the table and we sat around. Subramanya Bharati the Tamil poet and myself were the two who

Page 420

showed the keenest interest. Sri Aurobindo would take up a hymn from the Rigveda, read it aloud once, explain the meaning of every line and phrase and finally give a full translation. I used to take notes. There are many words in the Rigveda whose derivation is doubtful and open to differences of opinion. In such cases, Sri Aurobindo used to say that the particular meaning he gave was only provisional and that the matter could be finally decided only after considering it in all the contexts in which the word occurred. His own method of interpreting the Rigveda was this: on reading the text he found its true meaning by direct intuitive vision through an inner concentration in the first instance, and then he would give it an external verification in the light of reason, making the necessary changes accordingly.

Sri Aurobindo has taught me a number of languages. Here again his method has often evoked surprise. I should therefore like to say something on this point. He never asked me to begin the study of a new language with primary readers or children's books. He started at once with one of the classics, that is, a standard work in the language. He used to say that the education of children must begin with books written for children, but for adults, for those, that is, who had already had some education, the reading material must be adapted to their age and mental development. That is why, when I took up Greek, I began straightway with Euripides' Medea, and my second book was Sophocles' Antigone. I began a translation of Antigone into Bengali and Sri Aurobindo offered to write a preface if I completed the translation, a preface where, he said, he would take up the question of the individual versus the state. Whether I did complete the translation I cannot now recollect. I began my Latin with Virgil's Aeneid, and Italian with Dante. I have already told you about my French, there I started with Molière.

I should tell you what one gains by this method, at least what has been my personal experience. One feels as if one took a plunge into the inmost core of the language, into that

Page 421

secret heart where it is vibrant with life, with the quintessence of beauty, the fullness of strength. Perhaps it was this that has prompted me to write prose-poems and verse in French, for one feels as if identified with the very genius of the language. This is the method which Western critics describe as being in medias res, getting right into the heart of things. One may begin a story in two ways. One way is to begin at the beginning, from the adikada and Genesis, and then develop the theme gradually, as is done in the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, the Bible. The other method is to start suddenly, from the middle of the story, a method largely preferred by Western artists, like Homer and Shakespeare for instance.

But it was not found possible for Sri Aurobindo to continue with his own studies or even to help us in ours. For, as I have already hinted, our mode of living, our life itself took a different turn with the arrival of the Mother. How and in what direction? It was like this. The Mother came and installed Sri Aurobindo on his high pedestal of Master and Lord of Yoga. We had hitherto known him as a dear friend and close companion, and although in our mind and heart be had the position of a Guru, in our outward relations we seemed to behave as if he were just like one of ourselves. He too had been averse to the use of the words "Guru" and "Ashram" in relation to himself, for there was hardly a place 'in his work of new creation for the old traditional associations these words conveyed. Nevertheless, the Mother taught by her manner and speech, and showed us in actual practice, what was the meaning of disciple and master; she has always practised what she preached. She showed us, by not taking her seat in front of or on the same level as Sri Aurobindo, but by sitting on the ground, what it meant to be respectful to one's Master, what was real courtesy. Sri Aurobindo once said to us, perhaps with a tinge of regret, "I have tried to stoop as low as I can, and yet you do not reach me."

Page 422

It was the Mother who opened our eyes and gave us that vision which made us say, even as Arjuna had been made to say:

sakheti matva prasabham yaduktam

he Krsna he yadava he sakheti

ajanata mahimanam tavedam

maya pramadat pranayena vapi.

yaccavahasartham asatkrto'si

viharasayyasanabhojanesu

eko'thavapyacyuta tatsamaksam

tatksamaye tvamahamaprameyam

"By whatever name I have called you, O Krishna, O Yadava, O Friend, thinking in my rashness that you were only a friend, and out of ignorance and from affection, not knowing this thy greatness; whatever disrespect I have shown you out of frivolity, whether sitting or lying down or eating, when I was alone or when you were present before me, – may I be pardoned for all that, O thou Infinite One."

Page 423

I HAVE once spoken to you of an earthquake and a small fire. Today I shall say something about two or three other inclement natural phenomena of which I have had direct personal experience.

The first was when I was a child, it has left a clear imprint on my mind. Many of you, no doubt, are familiar with storms and hurricanes. But have you ever seen a whirlwind, what they call a tornado? This word has been rendered by a Pundit into turna-da, a thing that is swift in its flight. I have had a chance to see the thing with my own eyes. Just listen, you will see how terrible a thing it is and how well in keeping with its formidable name.

We were at school then, the District School at Rungpur, and were attending class. The day was about over. The sky 4ad been overcast and it looked as if it was going to rain. All of a sudden we heard people shouting, "Fire, fire!" Was there a fire, a real fire? We rushed out in a body into the open field In front. As we looked up we saw what they had at first taken to be smoke or rather a whirling mass that looked like smoke but was actually a cloud. There was a mass of clouds that kept whirling almost over our heads, and from a distance there came a low rumbling and whistling sound. What could that be? What did it mean? They let us off from school and all of us ran in the direction of the sound. It did not rain much, very little indeed, if at all. We ran on, but the sound was nowhere near. Then we heard people saying, "Something terrible has happened, over there,

Page 424

in that direction." We kept running, for a distance of two or three miles from the School and beyond the limits of the town. Suddenly we were brought up short. Right in front there was a wooded tract where the trees had been all smashed up. We moved on straight into the heart of the ruin. It was a strange spectacle, as if an open zig-zag path some fifty cubits wide had been cut across the wood with dozens of bull-dozers driving through and levelling everything down. Bushes and shrubs and trees and houses – it was lucky there were not many houses – had all been swept clean away for a distance of four or five miles, we were .informed. The place had been sparsely populated, so the casualties were not heavy – some half a dozen men, a few head of cattle and some houses. The demon of destruction seemed to have spent all his wrath on Nature. It was perhaps really the work of some evil spirit.

They said the whirlwind had arisen from a pool of water four or five miles away and it did look like a demon when it came rushing forward with a whirling motion after having churned the waters of the pool. However that may be, we heard this about a pedestrian who had been walking along the road just when the tornado crossed his path. He was caught by the wind, given a few twirls up in the air and thrown down on the ground by the side of the road. As he shook himself up on his feet, he went on muttering, "What fun, I got a free lift to the sky!" – kaisa maja, asman dekh liya mufat se. The man was a labourer type from Bihar.

As I moved for some distance along the clearing left by the wind, I could see how swift and powerful had been its impact. The trees that had not been uprooted were twisted in a fantastic manner you could hardly imagine. All that was needed now to make a paved road or highway out of the clearing was to remove the bush and throw in some gravel and mud.

What I saw, or rather experienced, on the next occasion was not a tornado, but a prank of the wind-god all the same.

Page 425

It was a wild enough prank and rather dangerous for those of us who were among its victims.

It was here in Pondicherry. At that time we were in the old Guest House; it is old indeed, for after that storm the very look of the house was changed. In those days, Pondicherry used to have regularly every year, in October or November, cyclones of a rather severe type. We do not get anything like them now. The Mother's presence seems to have pacified a great deal the wild forces of Nature. In those days it would not do to bar our doors and windows with ordinary bolts and latches, they needed to be held by regular bamboo poles.

It all happened after nightfall. The-sky had been overcast the whole day, it was dark all around and heavy showers fell at intervals – real nasty weather; you would say. We were upstairs. In those days we all lived in the rooms upstairs, the ground-floor was used only for meals. We had just had our dinner and had moved upstairs. In the meanwhile the wind had been gathering strength all the time and the downpour grew heavy. Suddenly, there was a terrific noise, of things creaking and crashing down, which meant that the doors and windows were giving way before the ferocious gale. With it came a whistling sound and splashes of rain. The doors and windows of the two rooms occupied by Sri Aurobindo were blown away, leaving them bare to the wind and the rain like an open field. He removed to the room next door, but there too it was much the same. The upstairs was getting impossible, so we started moving down. We had barely reached the ground-floor when the shutters and windows along the walls of the staircase fell with a crash on the stairs. We escaped by a hair's breadth. Things did not seem to be very much better in the rooms downstairs. There too the doors and windows had given way and allowed free entry to the wind and rain. All of us gathered in the central hall, and somehow huddled together in a corner.

In the early hours of the morning the storm abated and by

Page 426

daybreak all was clear. Indeed to us it seemed much too clear. That is to say, the rows of Porché trees – we call them health trees – that lined the streets and were considered among the attractions of the city now lay prostrate in their heaps on the surface of the roads, making them impassable. Gangs of workmen arrived from the Municipality with their axes and tools but it took them some time to cut through a passage. Even now you could see here and there, especially on the way to the Lake, huge trees lying about uprooted on the ground with their limbs broken and twisted out of shape.

And now we had to think of our daily needs, about breakfast and lunch. But where to find the milk and foodstuffs, rice and pulses? Where were the shops? Everything was a shambles. I do not know if during a war the opposing forces battling through a town or village would leave it in a condition somewhat similar to this. The number of wounded and dead was fairly large, somewhere in the region of a thousand.

I cannot now recall the exact year of this upheaval. Most probably it was 1912 or 1913, that is, shortly before the outbreak of the Great War. We may suppose perhaps that this minor upheaval came here as the harbinger of that world-shaking calamity?

But it was no less strange that not long after the end of the Great War, there came another storm, not of the same intensity but on a somewhat similar scale. This time it brought a different sort of message and turned out to be a blessing for us in the end.

The Mother had already arrived for the second time, this time for good. She was at the Bayou House where the Dowsetts now live. We were at the Guest House and I remember well how Sri Aurobindo used to call every Sunday and dine with her. We too would come along and had a share of the dinner. I need not add that the menu was arranged by the Mother herself and she supervised the cooking in person; she also prepared some of the dishes with her own

Page 427

hands. That is the reason why I say we were really lucky to have a share in those meals. At that time we could only appreciate the physical taste of the food we were served; today I realise what lay behind.

After dinner, we used to go up on the terrace overlooking the sea-front. Sri Aurobindo and the Mother stood aside for a chat and we stood by ourselves. Sometimes we would request Sri Aurobindo for some automatic writing after the dinner. The writings that came through his hand in those days were frightfully interesting. I remember somebody came and began to give an analysis of the character of each one of us; he had many things to say about Motilal Roy as well. One day someone suggested that something might be given about the Mother. But she immediately protested, "No, nothing about me, please." At once the hand stopped automatically.

Well, during the Mother's stay in this house, there came a heavy storm and rain one day. The house was old and looked as if it was going to melt away. Sri Aurobindo said, "The Mother cannot be allowed to stay there any longer. She must move into our place." That is how the Mother came in our midst and stayed on for good, as our Mother. But she did not yet assume the name. I t took us another six years; it was not till 1926 that we began to call her by that name. You can see now how that last spell of stormy weather came as a benediction. Nature did in fact become a collaborator of the Divine Purpose.

Page 428

(I)

My professors at college were giants, Olympian gods all. They are memorable names in the fields of scholarship, learning and teaching. Of these, J. C. Bose, P. C. Ray, Percival, M.Ghose and our Principal P. K. Roy were mature elderly men; among the younger group were Harinath De, Prafulla Ghose, Khagendranath Mitra, and a few others who will appear in this story later.

All these men possessed a special gift for which they deserve admiration. Learning and teaching ability are qualities not so rare, many teachers have them. But the quality for which our ancient teachers were known as preceptors, guru, is something unusual: that is the power of influence, the touch of an awakened soul. The true quality of a teacher does not He in what mysteries he has taught the disciple or how deep has been his exposition. How far has he evoked with his own personality the inner spirit of his disciple? – that is the question. We find this in the records of our ancient tradition. A disciple comes to the teacher for the knowledge of Brahman, brahmavidya. The teacher, instead of giving him any instruction or explanation of any deep mystery, asks him simply to repair to the forest and tend the kine for a while. 'For a while' meant quite a few years in fact – as in the Gautama-Satyakama episode of the Chhandogya Upanishad! As we all know, here in the Ashram, the Mother has often given us to clean the dishes and not engage in study.

The great men with whom we studied had this gift in large

measure, at least many of them. Percival taught us Shakespeare. He never expounded in full the meaning of words and phrases. This was done in detail by Manomohan Ghose, although he too did this only during the first two years of college; for we were then just fresh from school and he had to explain everything in detail, so that we had no need of any other help, not even of a dictionary. But, from this point of view, there was no one, the students thought, who could match 'Professor J. N. Dasgupta. He was actually a History man, but he was given to teach English as well. The boys would say, the naughty ones perhaps, that Dasgupta left us in no doubt or uncertainty as to the meaning anywhere, so he would dictate, "father means the male parent'.'! Percival did not act as a lexicon. He, dwelt only on such passages as had any complexity or dramatic intent, and he would convey the inner sense by his manner of reading. I remember a passage in King John, where a single monosyllable, "O!" is uttered by a character. Percival omitted to read it, his only comment was, "Only a great actor can utter this word." We read Burke with him. He would turn over pages after pages of the huge volume, with occasional sentences as to the writer's drift; this would help bring out the personality of Burke, the mould of his thought. Percival's figure lives clearly in my mind. He always walked with his back erect, sat in his chair in the same posture. I have never seen him bend or sway. He would sit immobile and straight, his head high up on a stiff neck; only the words came out of his mouth as from an oracle.

Manomohan Ghose not only gave his explanations and comments, he also helped us in appreciating poetry. He taught us The Princess. This was his comment on the book. "You know what this work is like? If Tagore had cared to write a poem on female emancipation, it would have been something like this book of Tennyson's. But even in this arid expanse there are some oases, as for instance these charming lines:

Page 430

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes."

I was lucky to have his comments on two of my own compositions. One was on my very first essay in college. We were asked to do a home-work, the subject given was "Imitation". He explained what it meant: I still recall he gave as an illustration the protective mimicry of birds. I wrote out a very full essay, dwelling first on the virtues of imitation, next on its drawbacks. I began the second part of my essay by saying, "But Janus has his other face too." I had at the time just heard about the god Janus. You know who is Janus? He is the two-faced god of ancient Rome. He was also known as a god of war, war and peace being his two faces. The doors of his temple were opened in times of war, they were closed during peace. So he symbolised the door; indeed the word in Latin means the door, through which one can pass this way or that. The month of January derives from the name of this god, as this month faces both the old year and the new. Anyway, the professor wrote on my composition, "First-class essay." You can well understand how elated I felt.

The second time it was probably just after I had come to the Degree class. In a tutorial class he set an essay to be written on the spot. We were given the choice of a number of subjects. I chose "Self-Realisation or God-Realisation". I do not now remember which of the two I supported, Self or God! Perhaps I said that Self-Realisation really meant God-Realisation, for the Self was nothing but an illusi'on. Or did I say that to realise God was nothing but Self-Realisation, for God was nothing, Self alone was the reality? I must have introduced a lot of such metaphysical stuff. This brought the following comment from the professor: "He is one of those generalisers who fight shy of facts and figures." I could see these "facts and figures" clearly illustrated in the work of my neighbour. Next to me sat Naren Laha (nowwell-known as Dr. N. N. Law).

I cast a furtive glance to see what he had written. He had chosen "Bankimchandra" as his subject. I found he had serially classified the collected works of Bankim with a full tabulation of their good and bad points. Here was a shining example of clear "facts and figures", and complete statistics.

There is another amusing anecdote about this Naren Laha; it relates to another professor of ours, Harinath De. De was then a comparatively junior man just returned from England. One day he mentioned in class that before he left for England he had kept a page mark in a book he had been reading in the college library and that the book must still be there with its page mark, exactly as he had left it. I went to the library to search out the book and could verify the truth of his remark, though I cannot now tell you what the book was about. In his teaching he was noted for parallel passages; he would bring in heaps of quotations from passages of similar thoughts. He also prepared a book of Notes on these lines, although he once himself admitted in class that the Notes had been written at an immature stage with the sole object of showing off his learning and that all those parallel passages were really unnecessary. This Harinath De happened to be our examiner in English at the Annual Test, and in his hands our Naren Laha, a good boy, an exceptionally good boy in fact, received a big zero. This left us gaping and we had no end of fun. We decided among ourselves it must be credited to drink. I need not hide the fact that De had been addicted to alcohol, but that had no adverse effect on his character or learning. He was simple and easy in his manner and very sociable. And as for his learning, it was a veritable ocean. He was proficient in about two dozen languages; whatever language he offered for an examination, he always got a first class first. Greek and Latin he had read with Sri Aurobindo; he knew Sri Aurobindo.

The youngest of all our teachers of English was Prafulla

Ghose. He had just passed out of the University. Precisely because he was a raw young man, he could infuse into his feelings and attitude, his manner and language, a degree of warmth and enthusiasm. One day he asked a question in class. One Kiran Mukherji (he was first in English in his B.A. and M.A. and a Greats scholar at Oxford later) stood up and gave a fine answer. .But Prafulla Ghose remarked, "I see the Roman hand of the master", that is to say, the answer had been given after getting hold of Percival's Notes on the point.¹ It seems I came under his special favour, somehow. Two of us once took part in a recitation competition. I do not now recall exactly what was the particular piece of which poet or dramatist. Very probably, it was from Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel, the piece beginning:

A stark moss-trooping Scot was he.

Prafulla Ghose and an Englishman named Tipping, another teacher of English, were the judges. They listened to our pieces and Tipping decided in favour of the other boy. He being the senior man, and an Englishman at that, it was his verdict that prevailed. Prafulla Ghose sent for me afterwards and expressed his opinion that Tipping had not done justice to me. I believe my competitor spoke English with a slightly Anglo-Indian accent, like the one our educated people in Calcutta used to affect once or do even now in imitation, and that must have sounded better in Tipping's ears than my "native" Bengali pronunciation. .

Now that we have been discussing Mr. Tipping, let me add a little more about him. As a teacher his speciality lay in drawing sketches. That is to say, he tried to present before the students in a concrete, living manner any scene described

¹ The phrase "Roman hand" occurs in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night (III. 4.48). The hero receives a letter from his fiancee and can guess who the writer may be from the handwriting itself. He exclaims in joy, "I think we do know the sweet Roman hand."

in the text, by sketching it on the black-board. It can .hardly be said that he was a skilled painter or artist. But perhaps illustrations in literature belong to the same category as advertising posters; they serve the same purpose.

As I remarked at the outset, bur professors were like the Olympian gods, not merely because of their calibre or gifts. and greatness of character; their position and attitude were like that – somewhat aloof and quite beyond the reach of personal contact or relations – at least for the first two or three years. But there were some who sought to establish with the students an intimacy, or at least a relatively closer relationship. Take for example our professor of philosophy, Aditya Mukherji. He was nearing his forties perhaps at the time. On the very first day of the First Year class he announced during the roll-call that he would try every day to make himself familiar with the faces of about half a dozen students. But this turned out to be impossible later on, his resolution turned into a merely pious wish. He was a very good teacher who would present the subject matter in a very simple, easy, neat and clear manner. He had about his manner and expression what I have subsequently come to recognise as French clarity. There is a pleasing association linked with his name in my mind. I have told you about my first composition in the first year of college, in connection with Manomohan Ghose. The first essay I had to write in my Degree course was in the Honours class in philosophy. Professor Aditya Mukherji gave an essay to .be written at home and it was duly submitted. One day in class the Professor called out, "No. 40" – this happened to be my roll-number. He said to me, "Here is your essay. I hope you will get a first-class in English also." You may well imagine the state of my mind! My neighbours clustered round me and said, "What is this wonderful stuff you have written! Let's have a look." I had shown off a lot of learning, by quoting isvarasiddheh, from Vijnanabhikshu, to show that the Sankhya is not necessarily atheistic, also by stealing

whole passages from Mill and so on.

The paper finally reached the hands of Kiran Mukherji. I have spoken to you about him before; perhaps something more could be added here. As I have said, he returned from England after attaining great distinction. at Oxford. Ashutosh Mukherji took him on as a professor at the Calcutta University. I met him several times during my trips to Calcutta from here. While in England he used to read with interest all my articles in the journals. Our relations grew more intimate several years later, that is, when he got interested in our work and sadhana here. There had been some tragedy in his life, – I do not know the exact story, – so that in spite of his intellectual gifts and learning he was an unhappy man. He had been turning this way in search of peace and a different kind of life. But he was taken away from this world by an untimely death.

P. C. Ray was the one person who could set up an intimate personal relationship with the students; that indeed was his outstanding gift, and it was this that enabled him to leave behind a series of disciples. At the very sight of his pleasant smiling face, the students felt their minds and hearts suffused with joy, almost with a light as it were. One day in class he happened to say something in Bengali. We were taken aback: a professor using Bengali in college, at the Presidency of all places! This was unprecedented! He could guess immediately what we felt and came out with the Bengali verse, meaning:

All over the world there is a babel of tongues;

Can anything please unless it's one's own?

You can understand how unfailingly he could draw the students towards him.

J. C. Bose was a somewhat different type. I did not have the luck to meet him in class more than once or twice, for he left for England soon. But he was by nature of a serious temperament;

and in contrast to P. C. Ray who never bothered about his dress or appearance, he was always neat and prim and proper. But he too was equally worthy of respect for his nobility of mind and innate greatness. I have referred elsewhere in an earlier talk to his friendship with Sister Nivedita and the encouragement I had from him in my attempt to master the technique of the bomb.

There was another professor of philosophy I should not omit to mention. He too was quite young at the time, a fine handsome and pleasing figure. But the subject that he taught gave us – to me at least – no kind of pleasure. The subject was Ethics, and the text book was James Seth's. To me, it seemed, it talked all sorts of rubbish and nonsense, things that had neither depth nor sincerity. The professor, Khagendranath Mitra, did, however, take a good deal of pains to initiate us into the mysteries of morality. But. J am mentioning his name here not for that reason; nor again because he developed into a well-known singer of Vaishnava hymns. It is because he chanced to turn up here, many years later, on the occasion of a Darshan; this was after he had retired from service. When we met, I reminded him in the course of our talk, "Sir, you are my guru, I have been a student of yours". He was a little surprised. I then explained everything. "That's very well," he said, "I am very pleased to hear it, for I have found what I wanted. Well, I was your guru, now give me my fee." "Tell me, sir, how." "I have given you some teaching, now you give me some: tell me about the sadhana you follow here."

While speaking of my professors, I must not omit to mention our Pundit. This was a title given by the students to the teacher of Sanskrit in college as in school, no matter how big a professor he might be – as if to show that the feeling of distance created by English was not there in the case of Sanskrit. Our Pundit was Satischandra Vidyabhushan, who later became a Mahamahopadhyaya, an extremely courteous man, entirely modest, one who behaved as if he

were an absolute "nobody". In his class the students had no fear or worry, no constraint, sometimes even no sense of propriety either. One day they said in class, "There is not going to be any reading today, sir; you had better tell us a story. You are familiar with the languages and histories and cultures of so many strange lands, please tell us something." Vidyabhushan was particularly learned in Pali and the Buddhist scriptures. Without a murmur he accepted the order of the boys. While talking of Pali and the Buddhists, he told us something about the Tibetans too. "What you call Darjeeling," he said, "is not a distorted version of Durjayalinga. Actually it is a transcription of a Tibetan word." He spelt out the word on the black-board, in the Tibetan script – it looked somewhat like Bengali – something like Dang-Sang-Ling, I cannot now exatly recall. On another occasion we had the chance to hear a conversation in Sanskrit in his class. The class was on, when one of the officials of the college entered the room with a Ceylonese monk. The monk wanted to meet the Pundit. They talked in Sanskrit. I only remember a single sentence of our professor, "ghatika-catustayam eva agacchatu bhavan, "Be pleased to come at four o'clock." The kindness and affection of our Pundit are still fresh in my mind. He was never afflicted by the weight of his learning, nor did it ever afflict us.

Now to conclude: let me give you the scene of my final. parting with college, the professors and college life.

I had just been released after a year of jail. My father said, "You should resume your studies, but not in Calcutta. Calcutta is a place for all sorts of excitement. Young people easily lose their heads on coming in contact with Calcutta. If you are to study, you shall have to choose a place outside Calcutta where there is not much excitement." I said, "All right." I had no intention of proceeding further with my studies; my real object was to bide my time until I found a safe anchor. What kind of anchor it would be I had no idea. So, on the pretext of securing a Transfer Certificate,

for getting admitted to a college outside Calcutta, I went to my old college, the Presidency. The certificate had been made out by the clerk and submitted to the Principal for his signature. As we waited, there was a summons for me from the Principal to see him. In the column for "conduct", there was this entry on my certificate, "He was an accused in the Alipur Bomb Conspiracy case, but was acquitted." This entry must have drawn the attention of the Principal, and perhaps he wanted to see for himself who and what kind of man was this "accused". As I entered his room, he looked up and saw me. Could he recognise me? For in his English classes I used to sit on the front bench just facing him. He must have observed me any number of times, so I used to think. Now he kept on asking why I wanted a transfer and why I should not continue in the same college. "My guardians do not want me to continue here," I said. He expressed his doubts, "You won't find it convenient. It is better to continue here." In the end, he had to give me the Certificate. I bowed to him and came away. The Principal happened to be our professor of English, Percival.

(2)

In an earlier talk I told you incidentally that I had a mind to say something about the English poet Wordsworth. I mentioned then that I did not come to appreciate his poetry in my school days; it happened in college, and to a large extent thanks to Professor Manomohan Ghose. In our school days, the mind and heart of Bengali students were saturated with the poetry of Tagore:

In the bower of my youth the love-bird sings,

Wake up, O darling, wake;

Opening thy lids that are lazy with love,

Wake up, O darling, wake...

This poetry belongs to the type once graphically characterised by our humorous novelist Prabhat Mukherji through one of his characters, a sadhu, describing the charms of the Divine Name:

It has the sweetness and the sugar

Of sandesh and rasogulla.

Indeed Tagore's poetry drips liquid sugar. To young hearts enraptured by such language and feeling, Wordsworth's

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:

And when I crossed the wild,

I chanced to see at break of day

The solitary child...

would appear rather dull and dreary, tasteless almost.

Let me in this connection tell you a story. We were then in college. The Swadeshi movement was in full flood, carrying everything before it. We the young generation of students had been swept off our feet. One day, Atul Gupta, who as I have told you before was my friend, philosopher and guide, happened to pass a remark which rather made me lose my bearings. a little. He was listing the misdeeds of the British in India. "This nation of shopkeepers!" he was saying, "There is no end to their trickeries to cheat us. Take for instance this question of education. The system they have set up with the high-sounding title of University and of advancement of learning is nothing more than a machine for creating a band of inexpensive clerks and slaves to serve them. They have been throwing dust in our eyes by easily passing off useless Brummagem ware with the label of the real thing. One such piece of eminently useless stuff is their poet Wordsworth, whom they have tried to foist on our young boys to their immense detriment." This remark was no doubt a testimony to his inordinate love of the country.

But it remains to be seen how far it would bear scrutiny as being based on truth.

For us in India, especially to Bengalis, the first and foremost obstacle to accepting Wordsworth as a poet would be his simple, artless and homely manner:

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

And, as a classic instance of that famous homely diction, a line that follows:

Will no one tell me what she sings?

Who would be moved by lines such as these?

On the gates of entry to the poetic world of Wordsworth

is engraved this motto:

...the Gods approve

The depth and not the tumult of the soul.

It is as if the hermitage of old, an abode of peace and quiet, santa-rasaspadam asramam idam. All here is calm and unhurried, simple and natural and transparent, there is no muddy current of tempestuous upheaval. That is why the poet feels in his heart the time of evening as if it were

...quiet as a Nun

Breathless with adoration,

or else in. the early morning he has the experience:

The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep.

Here is an easy, natural, limpid flow, undisturbed in its movement and yet with a pleasant charm and filled with an

underlying sweetness. But perhaps one has to listen intently to get at the sweetness and beauty of such lines. They do not strike the outer ear for they set up no eddies there; the inner hearing is their base.

She was a Phantom of Delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight...

Is this not a silent opening of the divine gates of vision?

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!

Do not these words bear us far away on some unknown wings?

Tranquillity and a pleasant sweetness are then the first doors of entry. Through the second doors we come to a wide intimacy, an all-pervading unity, where man and nature have fused into one. This unity and universality breathe through and inspire such simple yet startling words:

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

or,

And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face,

or else this easy and natural yet deep-serious utterance carrying the burden of a mantra:

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea.

Once we cross beyond these second gates we reach an inner region, a secluded apartment of the soul where poetry assumes the garb of magic, a transcendent skill lends to words

the supernatural beauty and grace of a magician's art. How often we have read these lines and heard them repeated and yet they have not grown stale:

A voice so thrilling never was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides,

or,

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

This magic has no parallel, except perhaps in Shakespeare's

Daffodils,

That come before the swallow dares, and take

The winds of March with beauty; violets dim…

. (The Winter's Tale, Act IV, Scene 4)

Sri Aurobindo has referred to another point of greatness in Wordsworth, where the poetic mind has soared still higher, opening itself not merely to an intimacy but to the voice of a summit infinity:

The marble index of a mind for ever

Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone

(The Prelude, III, ll. 62-63)

Thus, with this poet, we gain admittance to the very heart, the innermost sanctuary of poetry where we fully realise what our old Indian critics laid down as their final verdict, namely, that the poetic delight is akin to the Delight of Brahman.

But even the moon has its spots, and in Wordsworth the spots are of a fairly considerable magnitude. Manomohan

Ghose too had mentioned to us these defects. Much of Wordsworth is didactic and rhetorical, that is, of the nature of preaching, hence prosaic, even unpoetic although couched in verse. Ghose used to say that even the Ode on the Intimations of Immortality which is so universally admired is mainly didactic, much of it high rhetoric, with very little real poetry in it. I must confess, however, that to me personally some of its passages have a particular charm, like

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar...

But trailing clouds of glory do we come...

Atul Gupta had seen perhaps only this adverse side of Wordsworth. He had marked the heavy hand of the metaphysician,. sthula-hastavalepa, but omitted to see the delicate workmanship of the artist. However a man's true quality has to be judged by his best performance, and the best work of Wordsworth is indeed of a very high order.

Matthew Arnold brings out very well the nature of Wordsworth's best work. Wordsworth at his peak, he says, seems to have surpassed even. Shakespeare. He is then no longer in his own self. Mother Nature herself has taken her seat there and she goes on writing herself through the hands of the poet.

Breaking the silence of the seas

Beyond the farthest Hebrides,

and

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn,

are indeed two of the highest peaks of English poetry.

Sri Aurobindo has said that Vyasa is the most masculine of

writers. Echoing his words we may say that Wordsworth is the most masculine of English poets. This classification of poets into "masculine" and "feminine" was made by the poet Coleridge. "Masculine" means, in the first place, devoid of ornament, whereas the "feminine" loves ornament. Secondly, the masculine has intellectuality and the feminine emotionalism. Then again, femininity is sweetness and charm, masculinity implies hard restraint; the feminine has movement, like the flow of a stream, the play of melody, while the masculine has immobility, like the stillness of sculpture, the stability of the hill. This is the difference between .the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, between the styles of Vyasa and, Valmiki. This too is the difference between Wordsworth and Shelley. The Ramayana has always been recognised for its poetic beauty; Valmiki is our first great poet, adi-kavi. In the Mahabharata we find not so much the beauty of poetic form as a treasury of knowledge, of polity and ethics, culture and moral and spiritual discipline. We consider the Gita primarily as a work of philosophy, not of poetry. In the same way, Wordsworth has not been able to capture the mind and heart of India or Bengal as Shelley has done. In order truly to appreciate Wordsworth's poetry, one must be something of a meditative ascetic, dhyani, tapasvi,– indeed

...quiet as a Nun

Breathless with adoration.

Page 444

At that time I had not the faintest notion that one day I would develop into a regular athlete, that is to say, undergo all kinds of training and exercise. I told you once about the difference between the physical training activities here and the way we used to set about them in our. time. This is an age of science and those were the days of untrained skill. Let me illustrate from an experience I had in football. We never observed the rule that a proper warming up is needed before one joins the game. We entered the field straightway, and it has happened' several times that after the first long run at the beginning of the game I felt absolutely worn out and wondered how on earth I was going to last through the game. Of course, everything was all right after a while and the body received a new influx of energy as it got warmed up – we used to call it "heating up the blood". Today, the first and most important principle of any kind of game or other exercise is "training", a detailed and minute training. Formerly, one could pass off as a master by simply mastering the rules of the game. This applied not only to games like cricket or football; even in our own native wrestling and lathi-play, "training" meant nothing more than getting acquainted with all the tricks and applying them correctly in practice. But that is not what is now meant by "training". "Training" implies a special preparation of the body, making it apt for a special kind of activity. First of all, One has to acquire a general all-round physical fitness. Next, one has to find out which particular parts of the body and which of the muscles are specially called -into action in any particular movements and these have to be specially trained with a view to give them the necessary strength, endurance and skill, exactly like a material instrument, as if they were bits of dead matter. In whatever activity you wish to specialise, – for specialisation seems to be the aim of physical culture today, – you have to prepare yourself for it; the preparation itself becomes the main objective, the end in view is relegated to the second position. You take part in a 100 metres race,

Page 462

---

actually a matter of a few seconds only. But in order to prepare for the race, you have to train for several hours every day, for days on end over a period of months and perhaps years.

Formerly, the entire emphasis was on the game itself, not so much on the person who played the game; it used to be said that it was the game that made the player. But now the scales have turned the other way: the player has become the main interest. The concentration is on the player himself and his training is the main thing. He has first of all to build up the body, next his vital forces, and finally even his mind and will power have to be geared to the end in view; the inner psychological factors are taken particularly into account today. In science too the same 'thing is noticeable, even in the study of physical sciences. Formerly, the whole effort of science lay in discovering and establishing the existence of the separate, self-existing and independent elements in Nature and in finding out the mechanism of their action through the methods of observation and experiment. Now it is being said, observation and experiment are all right so far as they go, but at the same time one cannot ignore the person who makes the observation and experiment; he too has an importance, perhaps a prime importance.

To a certain extent, I too have gone through this phase of modern "training", as you all know. I have given up the old methods of learning by rule-of-thumb and have tried to acquire some kind of proficiency through a process of regular training, following in the footsteps of many among yourselves, although I may not have been able to tread the lines of our Madanlal. His theory seems to be that the more effort you put in, "the greater becomes your skill or ability and that there is no game on earth that you cannot master by sheer dint of hard work. Madanlal himself is a living proof of his doctrine, for he is without a rival in this method of hard painstaking practice. There are, as you know, two main types among those who do well in studies or – shall we say?

Page 463

---

– there are two ways of becoming a good student. There are those who, gifted with natural intelligence and ability, waste the whole year in all sorts of extra-curricular activities and in pleasures and pastimes and then read up for days and nights for a month or two just before the examination and get through the test and even secure high places. There is the second type who read and work hard throughout the whole year, devote some time every day to their studies, and never run the risk of falling ill or having a nervous breakdown about the time of the examination on account of excessive work. Our Madanlal belongs to this second category. He is really out to prove by his own example that definition of genius which makes it nothing but the capacity for taking infinite pains.

I have to mention another name in this connection. For much of what I have now achieved in the field of athletics I owe a deep debt to our Chinmoy. He has been my coach. What have I learnt from him? It is enthusiasm. What do I mean by enthusiasm? I shall explain. One of the secrets of physical training is that you must always try to perform a little more than your capacity, or what you may think is the limit of your powers. Perhaps it was with this end in view that in our time when one had to exercise a particular part of the body, the instructions were to go on repeating the movement until one began to sweat and felt exhausted. For how long am I to manipulate the dumb-bells or the Indian clubs? Until you are tired, the chart said, that is, until you felt you could do no more. Now of course nothing is done by such haphazard guesswork. You have to repeat the movements for a certain definite number of times, by actual count, say, five or six repetitions for the first day, to be increased by one or two every day or week, a final limit being set in respect of each individual according to his capacity. This is the method of scientific training today.

Whatever the method you adopt, your strength and capacity have to be increased in this manner. If you go beyond

Page 464

---

your limits, there is always a chance of accidents, but some accept the risk. The carefree enthusiast asks you to hitch your wagon to a star whereas the more cautious would point to the tragedy of Icarus. The legendary hero of Greek mythology had invented wings for man to fly, but he built them of wax. His aim had been to reach the sun, but as he came near that burning orb the wax got melted by the heat and his wings vanished and he was hurled back headlong down to earth.

Well, it was from Chinmoy that I got the courage or the foolhardiness for an attempt of this kind. This has been of great help to me. But there was a considerable resistance born of old age, even though we are here precisely to get rid of that. The resistance comes from two sources. It is there first of all in your own individual consciousness; you have heard of the adage about getting old before twenty. It is true that here in the Ashram we are often apt to forget, or we try to forget, to take count of our age. For example, even at the age of sixty, I did not quite realise or, rather, my body did not feel – it is quite natural for the mind not to feel, but the body itself must realise – that it carried any load of more than twenty-five or thirty years. This kind of feeling must have come at one time or another to many among the older people here. This is indeed the root idea behind our desire to conceal the true age and reckon our age at less than the true figure. This recourse to a slight falsehood comes. of an attempt to express and maintain the fact of our youth that is still effective in our life and inner consciousness in spite of our years. But the inexorable law of the external physical nature is still in operation; It invades our mind and' afflicts it at times. Moreover, in addition to this resistance in our own individual consciousness 01.' frame of mind, there is pressing upon us from all around the collective resistance, a resistance that comes from the consciousness arid mental attitude of everybody else, the neighbours with whom we live. Even if we manage to forget, they will remind us of the pressure

Page 465

---

of advancing age. It is difficult ordinarily to escape from the influence of this double pressure. But to get rid of this influence and pressure is after all the very aim of our endeavour here.

Physical culture has its side of expenditure or utilisation of energy when you execute a particular movement and follow it to the end. But there is, in addition and precisely because of this, another side to it; that is the gathering or accumulation of energy. The body utilises energy, so it needs to recuperate it; that is the way it conserves its energy. A man works during the day and sleeps at night; the energy he spends in the waking hours he recuperates at night-time. You may want to know, "But then what about the food he takes?" Food, that is, adequate nutrition, is a vital source of energy, but I am not discussing the need for food in this particular context. I am not speaking here of the need for the material basis of physical substance. My point just now is about the life-force or physical energy in the body. The method of acquiring and storing that energy is what may be called relaxation, which implies a release of tension, a loosening of the limbs and muscles. We are all familiar with the process; all I wish to do here is to give a somewhat elaborate account of this relaxation, for in my experience I have noticed some special features about it.

The first thing to note is this. All those who take part in physical exercise are, no doubt, already familiar, or they have to get familiar, with the truth that relaxation is not merely an end-product of exercise, it has a place in. exercise itself. Let me explain.

In all physical-culture activities and in every exercise, one has to pay particular attention to one thing, for success depends on it to a large extent. Normally, we are inclined to work up all our muscles and nerves at the same time, even when only a certain limited number actually come into play. This means tension. And if the tension is excessive, it leads to what we call stiffness or rigidity. Instead of that, what we

Page 466

---

should do is to give as much relaxation as possible to the other parts of the body and work up only such of the muscles as are actually called into play and for the time are needed for the work. These too should remain passive, that is to say, relaxed, till the very moment they are called into play. You have heard that story about the watch. One day it suddenly became conscious about itself and discovered that it had been working constantly without a break or pause for rest for twenty-four hours a day. So it complained to the owner, "My dear sir, all of you work no doubt but you take rest as well: if you work the whole day, you get the whole night for sleep. But I have to go on working throughout the day and night without a wink of sleep." And the owner replied, "But don't you see, you go on ticking and between the two ticks you take a good rest." This is a very fine analogy. When, for instance, we take part in a race, that is exactly what takes place. It is not at all necessary to tense both the legs at the same time. All that is needed is to use with all their strength the muscles of the leg that is to strike the ground, but only for the duration of contact; they could be held relaxed until the next stroke. The other leg should in the meantime remain relaxed, and alert – I say alert, not active – till its turn arrives. This applies to all the other parts of the body. We might recall in this connection the two types of heart-beat, the systole and the diastole, the movement of contraction and that of expansion, with an interval or pause in between.

This, in fact, is the way to a right working of the body: right, first because it is efficient and secondly because it is harmonious. It is efficient in the sense that it gives better results and acts with more power and vigour. For, under this method, only those muscles are brought into play that are needed and exactly when they are needed. If other muscles get worked up by a sort of reflex action, that leads to the wastage of a good part of the energy through useless channels, it is not utilised in full when and where it is needed.

Page 467

---

And secondly, as I say it makes for harmonious action which acquires the natural ease of a rhythmic graceful movement. Relaxation is just another name for what is known as the pause in the rhythmic movement of poetry; for after all, it is pause and movement that make up rhythm.

But this is not all. I have used the term relaxation in the sense of pause or rest, but I do not thereby imply that it is a going off to sleep. Sleep is normally a lapse into inconscience and that brings inertia and rigidity. One must remain equally conscious and awake during rest as during work. Unconsciousness in action renders the act mechanical, brings with it a lifeless rigidity. The movements of the body have to be permeated by an awakened consciousness, so that the consciousness in rest is helped thereby to get infused with new force. If the consciousness is of the right sort, the new force can descend even from supraphysical worlds and give to the movements of the body a supreme beauty and strength.

In fact, relaxation is in truth what in our language, in the technical phraseology of Hathayoga, is known as śavāsana, the corps-like stance. But h could be made into a stance of life instead of death. And that indeed is its true object. In other words, it is not a negative condition of doing nothing, it can be changed into a positive state. We are apt to think of it as a state of absolute inaction. That is not true, it has to be raised to a condition of positive action, at least when we are awake. Normally, to remain silent and still with all the limbs of the body in a state of complete relaxation means drifting into sleep. One is no doubt rested in sleep, but a conscious sleep is preferable to the unconscious type. Conscious sleep means conscious immobility.

There are two or three steps in this process. First, there comes a general relaxation and immobility of the whole body. Next, there has' to be a relaxation of each separate part, one after the other. One may begin with the toes – there is a relaxation of the muscles and joints of the toes; then the muscles and joints of the ankles and legs, the knees, the thighs,

Page 468

---

the abdomen and the waist, the chest and throat and the face including the lips and chin, and finally the forehead and the eyelids and the scalp are all relaxed in turn and stilled. In the same way one may come down step by step from one level to the next down to the toes. All one has to do is to watch and see how everything gets relaxed and falls quiet, just as the thought waves subside and grow calm.

This all of you can try and you can see for yourself how greatly. it invigorates the body, how fresh and alive it becomes.

The results are still more deep and intense if you can rise a step higher; then it becoms a part of yoga and spiritual training. To relax a part of the body means unravelling one of its knots or strands, widening and opening out what was limited within bounds and self-centred; that means putting it in contact with all that is around, with the universal. It is as if you had within you a pipeline which was corked and, clamped and which you open up now to let in the gradual flow of the universal life-energy. This, in more erudite language, is called cakrabheda, breaking through the six or, according to another count, twelve or more centres of consciousness or energy that are there in the body; these are liberated and brought into play. Through śavāsana one becomes unified with the universal life-energy; from head to foot there streams in the vitality inherent in all Nature.

. One may proceed still farther, take a higher step. I have. just been speaking of ascending and descending up and down the different parts and levels of the body, as it were polishing them smooth in the process, making them quiet and still. But when the being or consciousness reaches the level of the head and takes its firm station there, it can not only widen itself out by opening horizontally on all sides, it can also rise to a higher plane, even without any definite knowledge, simply with the feeling that it has reached somewhere. You may remember that somewhere in the Beyond is the Force and the Presence of the Mother. If you can get into touch

Page 469

---

with Her nearness and presence there in this manner, then you have already broken through the six centres, accomplished the end of Hathayoga and Tantra. There comes pouring into each limb not only a wide peace but also a strength and an illumination. This you may say is an easy simplified method of breaking through the centres.

There is an enormous difference between consciousness and unconsciousness; they belong to two different worlds as it were. The same work or. action, if done in an unconscious-manner, will give one result; the result will be very different if it is done consciously. The Mother once told you about this. How many times in the day we have to go up and down the stairs, but most of the time we do it in an unconscious manner, mechanically like inanimate things. Such unconscious or mechanical movements and exercise do not help the body much. But if you do the same movements consciously, if the steps are taken and the legs moved with full consciousness or concentration, two good results follow: first, you avoid the possibility of an accident, for then there is little chance of stumbling or slipping down the stairs, and secondly, your muscles develop more strength and capacity. Indeed, the entire body may gain in vitality by this little exercise if performed consciously.

The lower animals know of no such conscious exercise, in fact they have no possibility of any kind of voluntary training. Their bodies grow and the muscles develop, naturally and inevitably, as they grow in years. And they decline as naturally and inevitably with the coming of old'

age. You know the story of the animal in the fable who had lost its power to bite and scratch, galita-nakha-dantah. Man alone of all terrestrial creatures has the capacity of over-passing the limits set by Nature, and he does that by virtue of his conscious power of will and thought.

That is why the Mother has often said that the real foundation of all work, of all true action is peace. The vast multitudinous movement of the universe has for its base an

Page 470

---

unfathomable Peace; out of the Silence springs the rhythmic Word of the Truth.

Now to conclude. .

It is not true that an elderly person taking part in exercises undergoes an unnecessary strain or should be made an object of ridicule. It is not a mere waste of energy, there is a definite feature of gain. An old man doting on his pretty young wife? Perhaps so, if you like: you know the famous line of Valmiki on Dasharatha, how he held his young wife dearer even than life, vrddhasya tarunī bhāryā prānebhyo'pi garīyasi. An old man may very well fall in love with exercise much in the same way. To young people in the abundance of their youthful vitality, the need for physical exercise is not always so apparent. How the children of our Green Group shun like poison the rules and regulations of the Playground and try to shirk work is known to their captains. But for an elderly person accustomed to regular training, to miss a single exercise-period seems like wasting a whole day: he feels so out of sorts.

But apart from the question of likes and dislikes, there is a real difference, a difference in kind, between the old and the young. To young people physical exercise is something that is easy, spontaneous and natural; in their case the bodies. execute the movements out of a natural capacity for imitation, by virtue of an instinctive reaction or habit. When a child learns to take his first steps, it does so because it sees others doing the same; one acts as one sees – yad-drstam tat krtam. The movements are passed on to the limbs directly from the vision. It is not quite the same thing with an elderly person. He has first to see the movements executed, he has to remember them and his own movements follow upon a kind of reflection; it is the mind that has to act as intermediary. The mind has to commit them to memory and it is only then that the body can be made to obey, like a servant taking orders from the master. This process has its points both good and bad.

Page 471

---

The first defect is that the body takes time to learn and, what is worse, the movements it executes remain somewhat rigid, lifeless and inharmonious. But good results may come and do come if one pays attention. In other words, the movements of the body can be performed consciously. Generally speaking, so long as we are young, our physical movements and exercises are carried out more or less unconsciously, just as the animals act naturally and automatically under the impulse of habit. We are not always conscious of what we are doing. But as we grow in age this spontaneity of the body disappears and one has to cajole it into action. That is to say, the movements have to be done consciously. As I have already remarked before, it is this conscious action that is one of the gifts of age. I should, however, add that this consciousness is not the same thing as the deliberate power of the intellect. Deliberation is only the beginning of conscious growth. But mere deliberation rather adds to the rigidity of the body. Still, it is a necessary stage in the growth of consciousness, a first step in that direction.

The very aim of life is to grow in consciousness. We pass through life mostly in a state of ignorance and inconscience, under subjection to Nature. In place of that we have to become conscious, not only in a general way, but by infusing consciousness into every limb in its activity. The result will . be that there will manifest in them a light, a beauty, and finally a light and force that are not of this world, but come from the higher ranges.

Page 472

(I)

As you know, sometime back – quite a few years now – we had a group of Soviet Gymnasts in our midst. And what a pleasant, perfect performance they gave! Their hammer-and-sickle floating against the wind, the first time they stepped in unison on our sports ground, marching to the tune of the Russian national anthem, surely you must be still remembering that beautiful spectacle. Some of their tricks and techniques we have bodily taken over. A good many of you received training at the hands of these experts. They have been heavily filmed and photographed in action and these pictures you must have seen more than once.

I draw your attention to the date on which the group went to the Mother and received Her blessings. Numerically, it is significant – three-four-five-six, that is April 3, 1956 (a day before Sri Aurobindo came to Pondicherry in 1910). We have heard a lot about these numbers - one-two-three-four (February I, 1934), two-three-four-five (March 2, 1945) and now this three-four-five-six, while ahead of us lies four-five-six-seven. (May 4,1967). Last in this series we have five-six-seven-eight, the Mother's centenary, to go no further. These "dates in their sequence are significant in that they indicate or represent some occult phenomena, some happenings in the inner world, each marking a step forward in the manifestation of the New World of the Supramental.

To come back. Among the characteristics of the Soviet Gymnasts, also the major lessons that one can learn from

Page 473

them, are: first, difficult and complicated body movements. Such control of the body is indeed hard to acquire. It calls for physical strength and stamina, also a considerable capacity and plasticity of the limbs – the nerves and muscles. Secondly, difficult exercises are done in an extremely easy and simple manner. In fact, these are performed so effortlessly that it might seem there is nothing much in these and that anyone could do the same – till one tries. Then one knows what stiff and rigorous discipline lies behind this apparent effortlessness. Thirdly, these difficult exercises are done not only effortlessly but gracefully – the movements are rhythmic and harmonious, pleasing to the eye. Team-work, group-efficiency, is yet another of their characteristics. Not only solo performances, but combined movements of many persons in perfect balance, a unified cadence and orchestral pattern. Fifthly, and the point deserves particular mention, in the sphere of physical culture (as in other spheres too) the Russians make no difference between men and women. They believe that men and women can and ought to do the same exercises together, that it is pure superstition, nothing but outmoded convention to think otherwise – that women are unfit for and unworthy of such activity. Well, we have seen how expert and capable these Soviet girls can be. Today the whole world has heard with wonder and admiration about not only astronaut Gagarin but about Valentina too.

A commonplace argument often put up against women doing physical exercises is that as a result they are likely to lose their grace and their femininity. Is that really so? To, me it has always seemed that, thanks to these exercises, our body – women's body included – acquires a new poise and proportion. Or do tenderness and charm disappear, as some fear? Of course those who admire the beauty of a willowy, weeping kind, the faery frailty of the sickly maid, well, they are a class apart. You have seen Valentina's photograph. To me she did not seem to lack charm and

Page 474

grace; far from it. The fact is we very often try, in vain, to hide our bodily defects and debilities under an elaborate toilet and stylish wear. But it is only a strict physical regimen or regular exercise that can cure these defects and bring out the true grace and light of the body beautiful. In reality, charm, grace or delightfulness, name how you will, these do not depend so much on physical factors and formation. The source is elsewhere, it is really a reflection or shadow that is derived from the ease and clarity of the vital Force in us and if, somehow, we can add to that the soul's ease and clarity, then only do we have genuine beauty, beauty from within.

It is as if the Russians have discovered a new dimension of the body. Psychologists today speak of 'depth' psychology. According to them, at the back of our mind, there lies another hidden and profounder mental world – the unconscious or subconscious. Spiritualists and yogis speak of still another unknown and invisible world, above and beyond the mind. Somewhat in the same way the Soviet gymnasts are telling us and, more than that, showing us, that there is no limit, or almost none, to the capacities of our body. At any rate, we can go a good deal farther than the limits usually set for it. We think that just as plant life is conditioned by the earth, by its surface and atmosphere, it is the same with the life of men and animals too. We live and move within the temperature and the pressure of the air around us; when we go beyond these (either above or below), our ability to bear the altered conditions are extremely limited – or so we think.

But in one sense, even in the ordinary way of living, men can and do put up with a lot of inconvenience and suffering. Of course it might be said that this is entirely due to compulsion, that there is nothing else one could do, except endure. Even in the midst of intense pain and torture people have been known to live. On battlefields men have survived the worst calamities, even the loss of limbs. According to popular

Page 475

wisdom life is uncertain and quickly over, nalinidalagata-jalamati taralam, tadvajjivanam atisaya capalam, but this is not a literal truth. Just as life can end all of a sudden so also it can stay on and withstand apparently impossible conditions. But this, it may be said again, is due to compulsion, it is not a healthy or a natural condition of our being. It is indeed painful, and what men really wish for is to come out of it – into a world of natural freedom. The new physical culture that the Russians are now following is meant to open up the hidden resources of the body. This they are doing with the help of knowledge, practice and endless, eager experiment. Rooted in the earth, one with the physical universe, the capacities of our body are daily and fast increasing. Even leaving the earth surface for the wide open spaces, one day men may (in a light, weightless condition) find a new normalcy. Where shall we draw the limit of achievement?

(2)

The round of sports and athletics over, the Soviet gymnasts expressed a desire to know more about us. That is, about the aims and ideals of the Ashram, the spiritual disciplines we follow and their rationale. You know, officially and in the world's eye the Soviet Union is atheistic and follows a materialist philosophy of life. God, soul, the beyond, or the higher worlds, in these things the new Russians of today have no faith, none. Their entire stress or sraddha is on this world, this life, on the physical-vital-mental being whom they call Man.

It was arranged that I should talk to the gymnasts. Following civilised traditions, this was to be a post-prandial session; that is, the conversation was to follow a rather sumptuous dinner: food before philosophy, as they say. But, no. The Soviet gymnasts were strict dietitians, extremely cautious and restrained in their food habit. When finally we met there were ten or twelve of them, three or four

Page 476

girls and the rest young men. Only the leader seemed slightly elderly. Their knowledge of English was almost nil. Russian was all they knew. When they used to train the Ashram children, funny situations would arise – for they had to express themselves mainly, sometimes vainly, through wordless hints and gestures. Anyway, one of the girls knew English fairly well and she acted as interpreter. Of her more later.

We met at a conference as it were in the Golconde. I started by reading out a brief passage from the Words of the Mother. It contained a statement of our ideal or objective – the goal of transformation, the coming race, a new consciousness and realisation. But the Soviet leader was a bit of a blunt atheist, or at least that was the role he had chosen to play. And in due course he raised the usual objection. "In times like ours," he said, "what we need is health and wealth. All our activities and education must be conducive to these normal aims. After all, men have to live. First, therefore, the care of the body, time enough for the soul afterwards. First this world, then the rest."

"Why not a little division of labour?" I told the group. "You keep to your social reform or revolution, if you please; your physical culture and your secular pursuits. Spare us from these. Why not leave us to go ahead with another kind of aim and work? After all, we do not mind your doing what you like to do. It is only fair that you should allow us to go our own way. Isn't this the ideal of co-existence?"

But then, the ideal of co-existence finds little favour with the radical communists. Their one aim is to destroy or convert – that is, brainwash – the opposition. Somewhat in that spirit the Soviet leader continued his criticism. "But if you tempt people away from their normal social duties," he said, "and if by degrees people are drawn towards the soul and the beyond and all that, wouldn't that prove to be ruinous for the race and did not something like this actually take place in the history of the Indian people?" "Ma bhaih,

Page 477

fear not," I assured him. "Only a few turn to this Path. After all, out of millions and millions how many – or how few – come this way?"

But they counteracted my remark by saying that though we might be few in number our influence might spread, quite out of proportion to our number – which, by the way, is true. They now raised another doubt or objection – that the kind of education given to the children in the Ashram, forcing a doctrine on their young, unsuspecting minds, what was it but a kind of indoctrination?

"No, sir," I replied. "For one thing, we never ask, much less force anyone to come here, we offer no ,rewards or temptations. On the contrary, we make it quite clear that the Path chosen here, the training and the education are indeed hard. Sharp as the razor's edge, our sages have called it. So, one should choose carefully. And out of those who still insist on joining us, only a few are permitted. Of course the children know little or nothing, but the parents who bring them here do. At least they have been told. It is, .however, true that there are some children who are conscious and know fairly well what they are doing and why they are here. After staying here and seeing things for themselves many of them make up their minds to stay on, they refuse to go else where. Also, ours is not a mediaeval monastery, a life-long entombment, so that once you get in you can never get out. Here anyone can leave any time. One has full freedom in the matter. In other words, the very first principle of foundation of our life and teaching in the Ashram is freedom and individuality. No one is cajoled or persuaded to follow the spiritual aim or spiritual path. If one wants to know any thing, one knows it freely, of oneself; if one wants to under stand anything, one does it in freedom. Every moment you are free, you can step in any direction you like, provided you are prepared for the consequence. In fact, we have few or no compulsory codes or taboos here, except such as are absolutely necessary to keep group-life together for any length

Page 478

of time. 'Discover your own rule or law of being for yourself,' that is our primary instruction. Where is compulsion in all this? As for the atmosphere, the 'climate of opinion', wherever men live, in whatever age, society or. country – even in your Soviet state – one has to 'belong'. The common man, or citizen, cannot help breathing in the atmosphere of his age or milieu. But here, and only here, we warn everyone, we tell them, well ahead, to be conscious of all that's happening around and within, we tell them to watch, understand and scrutinise what it is that they are taking in. This is not indoctrination but its exact opposite.

"In all this where does spiritual discipline come in? What is at all its necessity? First and foremost comes the care of the body, then only other considerations. That is what one may naturally think. But it is wrong to think that for spirituality outward comfort and affluence are a sine qua non. Those who want bodily comfort are apt to remain content with that, all their efforts are confined to finding the means of such enjoyment or euphoria. But the spiritual seeker even in the midst of suffering and discomfort will move towards the spirit. In fact, he uses his very adversity for spiritual ends. The true seeker longs for the spirit in the midst of comfort and discomfort alike, while those who do not want the higher life, do not want that, quite apart from being comfortable or otherwise. In spite of what many think, material factors do not determine these things. The Mother once said something to this effect. In order to relieve the disciples from all thoughts of earning their livelihood she had planned an external order of untroubled living, so that the aspirants might find the time and the opportunity to dedicate themselves completely to spiritual living and realisation. In practice she, however, found that this does not always work."

"All right," said the Soviet guests. "But supposing while you are engaged in your own spiritual growth and culture, for want of the good life, the rest of the human race goes to the dogs – what then?"

Page 479

To this the answer is, and was: "The majority of men are obviously busy with the pursuit of worldly ends and creature comforts. This has been so always and the indifference or withdrawal of a few aspirants will not matter much. As to the human race ending up in smoke, we would say that the

. race is not going to be snuffed out so easily. It has never been like that. What wars and devastations down the ages, upheavals and revolutions! Millions dead and dying and yet the race is still going strong. Not only that, it is evolving, progressing. In spite of everything the standards of civilization are going up. Even you admit progress – of some kind. Perhaps you will say, but all this is a gift of the reason or the intellect. We will say, it is a gift of the soul, – the very intellect is a gift of the soul, – and if this soul were not, man could not, would not survive. It is because of this active, immortal spark within him that he lives and shall continue to live and progress towards perfection. Don't worry. No amount of outward want or danger can wipe him out. Man will disappear only when the soul in him withdraws or is extinguished. "

Of course to present-day Russians ideas like these are illusions or delusions, which they treat with a sceptic smile.

In the end they raised a rather funny question. "Here we find a very pleasing sight," they began. "We mean the groups of little children and your love and affection and solicitude for them. It's very rare and very touching. You like children so much and yet we are told you do not like to be parents of children. We don't understand this."

"Do you understand self-restraint?" I asked them. "We are told that you don't drink, don't even smoke. Why?"

"Because the effect of drinking and smoking on the body, especially the body of an athlete, is harmful. That's why," they replied.

"Exactly so," said I. "When you've progressed a little further, you too will arrive at our conclusion."

At this they all laughed, perhaps somewhat incredulously.

Page 480

But it is indeed so: all those who wish to acquire a special power, benefit or perfection, who set out to acquire a new capacity – in our case nothing short of a transformation of the body, life and mind – for them such self-imposed restraint is a "must". And so I say again: ma bhaih, fear not. The world will not come this way all at once or immediately, and the world will not collapse because of our unwillingness to add to its population. As for the future, who can tell? Who can say that the time-worn biological process shall remain, for all time, the only means of birth and manifestation? Today, ignoring the weight and other limitations of the body, ignoring the laws of Newtonian physics, we travel, with what ease, across distances and the silence of infinite spaces. As in the physical field so in the field of life who can say that new rules will not emerge? Sri Aurobindo has openly hinted at such a possibility.

Our society is based on blood or parental relations. But the Russians themselves have tried to set up another set of relationship – social instead of parental. Taking the children away from their parents they are rearing them in socialized crèches, schools or kindergartens. To them the parents are but secondary instruments. The child belongs to the State, to the service of the almighty State. The average parents have neither the ability nor the resources such as the State possesses. Now, if instead of the secular State we think of a spiritual group, or use the word 'God', a new and altogether different possibility opens up: not the link of biology but the closeness of the spirit within which is the same in all, a relationship in terms of Reality or the Divine. How deep and intimately satisfying such a relationship, based on Truth, can be – I think our Soviet gymnasts had a glimpse of that truth here in the Ashram. And they naturally wondered.

(3)

Earlier I spoke of" the lady interpreter in the Soviet group.

Page 481

Impersonal and neutral, she would translate, as clearly as possible, their words or the official view. In all this she never expressed any personal opinion. Yet I had a feeling that she did not fully share the official views or conclusions. Now and then she seemed to hesitate. Somewhere, she seemed to feel, life held other values, another dimension. In her conduct and conversation we found her extremely amiable. As she was leaving she told us that this time she had come as part of an official delegation. But one day she hoped to come on her own and alone. I have a feeling that she did come again, with another member of the group.

I believe that those who come to the Ashram and receive the direct touch of the Mother, they do nor come suddenly or by accident. It is not just a has-been, a fact that might as well not have been. Some deep inner necessity brings them here, to the Mother. It is, you might say, the push of the deity within, though they might not know anything about it and it does not matter if outwardly they are sceptical or atheistic. Unknown to themselves, they surely have some opening somewhere – it is that which brings them here.

Either individually or as representatives of the Russian people it was such a Call, some future fulfilment that had prompted the group to come here - such an idea may be more than idle imagination. Or is it the coming truth, the coming event that has cast its shadow before?

Page 482

(I)

WE have been through two great World Wars in the course of our life in Pondicherry. This was quite an experience.

The two Wars were identical in their inner nature and import. From our point of view, they were both of them a battle of the gods and titans. On one side were the instruments of the gods, on the other of the titans. It is a curious thing, if not altogether strange, that Germany and, to some extent, Russia should have sided with the titans and England and France and America fought on the side of the gods.

This is something that happens always in the history of man, this battle of the gods and titans. Whenever there is a New Creation in the offing, and man is to be carried a step forward in his evolution, there comes up ranged against him the forces of Evil who do not want him to rise to a higher level of consciousness, towards the godhead. They want to hold man bound down in their grip.

Such a moment of crisis came to man in the time of Sri Krishna. The Kurukshetra War is known as a war of righteousness, dharma-yuddha; it was a war of the gods and titans. On the battlefield of Kurukshetra Sri Krishna gave his message that was to initiate the New Age that was coming. In exactly the same way, Sri Aurobindo began to proclaim his message with the opening of the guns in the first World War. The War began in August 1914; on the 15th August of the same year came out the first number of his Review, the Arya. Another point of note: the Arya continued

Page 483

almost as long as the War lasted. The "official end" of the War came towards the close of May, 1921; the Arya ceased in January of the same year. The Mother had arrived in the meantime to make Pondicherry her home.

The War left India practically untouched and without any major upheaval. It came and blew over like a stray wind, even as the raids of the Emden did on the Indian seas. Our memories of the War are still associated with that strange episode. The German cruiser passed by the shores of Pondicherry without doing any damage here, though Madras city received a few shell-shots. But I distinctly remember how many of the local residents, that is, those who lived on the Pondicherry sea-face, fled pen-mell towards the west, in the direction of the present Lake Estate. They packed themselves into rows of "push-push" carts – we had no rickshaws in those days – and looked for safety among the ravines of the Red Hills, or perhaps was it to hide themselves in the waters of the Lake, like Mainaka of the Indian legend?

India had been under the protection of England, so it was Europe that had to bear the brunt of the attack. We escaped with just a mild touch, though it did produce a few ripples here and there. First and foremost of these was the birth of the Bengali army - not a professional army of paid soldiers serving under the Government, but a corps of national volunteers. With the sole exception of the Punjabis and the Gurkhas, Indian troops were not in those days considered as on a par with European soldiers in the matter of fighting capacity. And Bengalis of course were treated with special contempt. They had of late shown some courage or skill in the art of secret assassination, but in the opinion of many that was a "dastardly crime". But a trained and disciplined army was quite another matter. Now, a band of young men from Chandernagor taking the opportunity provided by the War formed themselves into a corps of Volunteers, some fifteen of them. They were French citizens

Page 484

and were therefore to join the War on the side of the French and the British. They arrived in Pondicherry on their way to France, a band of young men beaming with courage and intelligence. Our Haradhan was among their number. The picture of young Haradhan, a tall erect figure of a man, calm and audacious, still lingers in my mind. He used to narrate to us on his return from the War many stories of his experiences. Once he had even been shipwrecked by torpedo and had to swim for his life to a life-boat off the coast of Tunisia. Haradhan has recorded his experience of the War in a booklet entitled "The New Ways of Warfare", modelled on Barin's "Principles of Modern Warfare" that we used to read in our early days.

Some of the War scenes of Pondicherry come to mind. Here there was no question of Volunteers. France has compulsory military training and Frenchmen on attaining the age of eighteen have to join the armed forces and undergo military training for a full period of one or two years. The Renonçants of Pondicherry, that is, those Indians who had secured their full citizenship rights by renouncing their persona! status under the Indian law, were also subject to this obligation of compulsory military service. There was in consequence a great agitation among our local friends and associates. They had to leave in large numbers to join the French forces. Among them was our most intimate friend, David, the noted goalie of our celebrated football team. He had only just been married. I remember how regularly his wife used to offer worship to Mariamma (Virgin Mary) praying for his safety and well-being, during the period of nearly three years that he had to be away: they were of course Christians. The plaintive tones of her hymns still ring in my ears. David returned after the War was over, perhaps with the rank of Brigadier. I still remember the welcome he was accorded on his return. He later became the Mayor of Pondicherry. I also recall the story of our Benjamin. His mother burst into sobs as she learnt he was

Page 485

to leave our shores. There were so many mothers and sisters who had to shed bitter tears as they saw off at the pier the boatloads of men. Benjamin- however did not have to go. He became a "reformé", that is, disqualified in the medical test.

Within the country itself, Indian patriots with terrorist leanings tried to use in their own way this opportunity to beat England down to her knees. One such group, "the Gadr party", as it tried to land arms and ammunition obtained by ship from America, was caught red-handed. Another was led by "Tiger" Jyotin, our Tejen's father as you all know, who waged open war with the police at Buribalain in Orissa and died fighting, with all his followers. A third consisting of our 'refugee' patriots assassinated the tyrannical Magistrate, Ashe, through a conspiracy hatched in Pondicherry itself.

Whether or not such sporadic acts and activities had any real utility may be open to question. But a great and noble movement does not keep within the bounds of "expediency"; it proceeds along the lines of its inner urge -and law. These patriots and revolutionaries had shown how much could be achieved by a nation of slaves, even in that epoch and under those circumstances, by a band of slaves and prisoners bound hand and foot by their chains; they had worked to the utmost of what was possible then and according to their capacity. The World War had brought them an opportunity; they thought they might be able to shake England off the seat of her power. They had taken it as self evident that England's difficulty was going to be our opportunity.

From a larger point of view, the first Great War can be taken as ushering a finale to the French Revolution. The Revolution had rolled to the dust the heads of a single monarch and his queen; But the end of this War saw the disappearance of practically all the crowned heads of Europe. Those that remained like the monarchy in England were left as puppets without power. This was an external

Page 486

symbol whose real significance lay in the awakening of the masses and their coming to power. This meant that not only wealth and affluence but also education and culture were no longer to be the privileges of the few; they must be made available to all. Money and position must be within everybody's reach, all must get a chance to show their merit. To use our own terminology, the higher Light and Consciousness that are descending on earth and helping man forward in his march to the heights were now to find their fulfilment: they would be firmly established and become a living force in the general level of mankind.

That is why in the second place the message brought by the War was that of freedom and autonomy for all, for the individual as well as for the collectivity or nation. Colonialism was to cease to exist; even the smallest nations were to win their freedom. This new era of progress was begun by the First World War.

A third boon was to lay the foundations of an International Society. This no doubt implied that the different countries and peoples of the world were to attain their freedom and autonomy. But in order that the smaller units might be left in security and there might be a check on unjust dealings among the nations, there had to come into being a Society of Nations where the representatives of all the nations could meet. This is what came to be known as the League of Nations. The unity of the human race was to be founded on a complex harmony of the diverse groups of men.

The ideal now was to create a race of men endowed with the highest gifts of education and training – what in the view of the sages and mystics would be a race of god – men the transformation of man from the animal-state to that of the gods. But that was precisely what stirred the opposing Forces to action. They were to keep man distracted, lure him from the good path into evil ways, change him, not into a god but into a demon, a titan, a ghoul. (Goethe once had presented this picture.) That is how man got his notion of

Page 487

the super-race, and the notion took concrete shape among a particular people and some particular individuals. That is what lay behind the rise of Hitler and his Nazis in Germany. Stalin and his Bolsheviks appeared as their counterparts in Russia. Mussolini was their henchman, a "satellite" in modern parlance; Our Puranic scriptures tell of the ancient Shumbha and Nishumbha, Hiranyaksha and Hiranyakashipu, Shishupala and Raktadanta, dual power of Evil defying the Divine Power. Something similar seemed to be happening again.

Here was precisely what lay behind the origins of the second Great War: the descent of Evil incarnate to bar the descent of the Divine Power.

(2)

The Second World War broke out in 1939. Sri Aurobirido had at first remained undecided about taking sides. Perhaps the indemnities levied on Germany after the First War had been excessive and it was therefore natural that Germany should seek to avenge herself on her victors. The advantages and disadvantages had also to be considered from our point of view, the interests of India. But the bleak reality that lay hidden behind this mighty conflagration was soon revealed to his vision. The Evil Force that had all along been trailing behind like a dark shadow now appeared to be descending on earth in its final Form of destruction, the Undivine Force always casting its dark body "across the path of the Divine Event". So he declared in clear terms the side he was on; he stood for the Allies, entirely and without the shadow of a doubt. He lent even his physical support by a token gift of money to the War effort.

At this supreme moment of crisis in the destinies of man, when the whole future of the world depended on the outcome of the War, he received into his own body this stroke of thunder, this all-out invasion of the Evil Force upon

Page 488

earth, in order that the earth be saved. Otherwise it would have been beyond the capacity of any earthly power to hold at bay this invincible Force. Like Mahadeva of old, he swallowed up into himself this poison that was to engulf the world. It was like the gift by Dadhichi of the bones of his own body to fashion the thunder-bolt of Indra. This was the inner meaning of the attack that fell on Sri Aurobindo's body in 1938, a few months before the actual hostilities broke out on the material plane. Perhaps in these months the hostiles had been making their last preparations, taking their final bearings.

The Mother at once made it known that this War was her war, and those who would be joining this War on the side of the allies would be fighting for her cause. She expressed her desire that Indians should enlist freely and largely and help in the War effort to the best of their ability. Many of the French citizens in Pondicherry had to join the colours, this time in much larger numbers than on the previous occasion. We are all familiar with the monument that stands on the Pondicherry sea face to the citizens who have laid down their lives; there is a fitting ceremonial enacted there every year in memory of the dead. Some of the children of the Ashram too had joined the army and navy and air force; and some that were very near and dear to us have even given their lives, as you know. This reminds me of the stirring words used by Sri Aurobindo in the fiery days of Swadeshi: Our sacrifice at the altar of the Mother must be as relentless as that of the Carthaginian parents who pressed their children through fire to Moloch.

It was in the course of this War that we saw from the Ashram so many aeroplanes flying directly overhead, by day and by night, although the enemy's missiles did not quite reach us. Trainloads of troops passed through Pondicherry and soldiers came in their batches to obtain the Mother's darshan and blessings. The Mother kept open door for the soldiers; they could come and have darshan almost

Page 489

at any time. I remember one officer, a Rajput and very fine man; his name was Arjun Singh, I think. About himself and a friend of his, a senior officer, he said they had a particular love and enthusiasm for the practice of yoga in spite of their having taken up the profession of war. We lost touch with them later on.

India had to feel the impact of this War to a considerable extent, though it was mostly our own doing. Perhaps the patriots and lovers of Indian freedom had been losing their patience and they thought that the discomfiture of England was going to be their last and best opportunity; so they created a good deal of trouble. Sri Aurobindo and the Mother held a very different view. What they said in effect was this: "Help the British government to the best of your abilities. Enter every branch of their civil administration and their military organisation. Associate with them everywhere, on land, in the air and at sea; capture all positions of power, master the technical details. The position that you make for yourself in this manner, the position of competence and authority, will not slip away from you; it will be the unshakable foundation of freedom." Had the way shown by Sri Aurobindo been adopted, the winning of India's independence would have been an easier task and it would have been more complete; many have begun to admit this now. In the actual result what was achieved was a kind of compromise between the two points of view.

There had come a time however when the success of the enemy appeared as a living menace. We began to hear the warning siren of imminent peril, orders were issued for the black-out of street lighting on the sea-face of Pondicherry and many other similar preparations, though most of them did not go beyond the stage of practice drills. Trenches were dug within the precincts of the Ashram itself to provide a hide-out in case of an air-raid; buckets and sand were kept ready all over the place for extinguishing the fires. This was known as Air Raid Protection work and it was

Page 490

under the care of a local resident, the father of our Shanta and Babu (the Ashram. record-holder in long-jump). He has been dead a long time since, but his widow, the mother of Shanta and Babu, is. still known as Tara ARP to the Mother.

Eventually, the situation grew more and more serious. Pavitra too received a call to leave here and join the colours; he then held the rank of Captain. I believe he had to report to the local barracks for duty. The Mother went so far as to make the necessary arrangements for his work during the period he might be away, though he did Rot have to go after all. You remember how the Mother herself had to leave here soon after the outbreak of the First War and was not able to return till after the end, six years later.. The Japanese were now coming close upon us. The Andamans were already in their hands, and Madras was not so far away. They had overrun Burma and were at the gates of East Bengal on the north-eastern front, with the Indian National Army of Subhash Chandra Bose. Our Doctor Jyotish, who was then serving as a medical officer in the Indian Army, had been sending out frantic SOS calls from his station at Imphal city, then practically a besieged garrison. From French Indo-China the French were running away and were on their way back through Pondicherry in the hope of reaching their own country some day - but which country? They said the Japanese might be expected any time and that we should start learning their language. Some thought we had better concentrate on German instead, for the Germans were going to occupy India. Hitler was at the time pouncing on England and Churchill alone stood up fearless against that furious onslaught.

It was at this time that, as you have already heard from the Mother, there began a rush of young children, or rather of people with young children, seeking shelter in the safety of the Ashram. In fact, we who lived here under the direct protection of Sri Aurobindo and the Mother did not get into

Page 491

much of a panic. Nor was there noticeable any great austerity in our day-to-day life, and we did not have to undergo much privation either in the matter of food or clothing. Let me here tell you a rather amusing anecdote. One of the inmates of the Ashram who happened to be away on some business chanced to meet one of our prominent nationalist leaders. The conversation naturally turned on the question of India's future. The leader asked him what Sri Aurobindo thought of the impetuous march of Japan. To that our friend replied somewhat like this: "There is nothing to fear; for the Japanese will not be able to come in, they will have to retire. So we have been assured by our Master." The leader's reaction was a smile of incredulity. I do not know if our friend ever had a chance later to remind the leader of Sri Aurobindo's prophecy. Most of our political leaders had not realised at the time how chimerical it was to hope to free India with the help of Japan, Germany or even Russia, that is, by accepting their rule which would have been simply to exchange our masters. The new bondage would have been terrible, for the neo-imperialism of their ruling cliques was no more than a modern version of the old intoxication of power; to escape from them would have needed some more centuries of struggle.

I may in this connection tell you another story, a true story and a very pleasant and reassuring one. Some of you may have been actually eye-witnesses. Not so long ago, the air was thick with rumours of a possible danger of a crisis for India: this was a little before the Chinese attack. Was India going to be invaded and subjugated by a foreign Power once again? India was no doubt big and had ample .resources in manpower. But her manpower was little more than that of a rabble, it lacked the cohesion of organised military strength. The question was put to the Mother at the Playground. The Mother gave a smile and, pointing to the map of India on the wall, said, "Can't you see. who is guarding India? Isn't the north-eastern portion of Kashmir a

Page 492

lion's head with its jaws wide open?" The portion indicated does have the appearance of a lion's head as you can see if you look at it closely. Its nozzle projects with wide open mouth facing the front, as if ready to swallow up anyone who dares to come. It is the Lion of Mother Durga. Another little piece might be added to this story. Matching the lion on our northern frontier, there is an elephant dangling its trunk on the southern tip of India bordering the sea; that too is clearly visible on the map. It is as if giving the warning, "Here am I, the coast-guard ever on the watch. Beware!" It is the Elephant on which rides Lakshmi – gajalaksmi, the divine Mother of Plenty and Beauty. The elephant is the symbol of material power,

As Hitler was threatening to cover, as with an ominous comet's tail, the whole of earth and sky, one of our sadhaks here sent up to Sri Aurobindo his wail, "What, 0 Guru, is this happening to the comforting words you gave? Don't you see that the earth is getting on to the verge of ruin? Where, 0 Saviour, are you?" Sri Aurobindo's reply was a quiet admonition, "Where is the worry? Hitler is not immortal." After a short while the castle that Hitler had built was blown to the winds like a pack of cards. It was as if an all-englobing fog had been puffed away by a breath, a frightful nightmare had got dissolved in the light of the dawn.

Page 493

THOSE of you who came to the Ashram as children recognised the Mother and called her by that name practically from your birth, that is, from the moment you began to recognise things. We the grown-ups did not have that privilege. It has taken us a long long time to open our eyes and know. We have lost valuable time, almost wasted it. But, as you know, it is never too late to mend and it is possible to recover and even to make amends for lost time; there lies an interesting secret.

But as I was saying, you did not have to be told about the Mother, for you have almost been born and brought up in her lap. In our case somebody had to introduce us to the Mother, for we had been born and brought up in a step-motherly lap, although that too was one of her own forms, her form of Maya.

The first time I heard about the Mother was shortly after our arrival here. It was Sri Aurobindo himself who told us about a French lady from Paris who was a great initiate. She was desirous of establishing personal contact with Sri Aurobindo. That the Great Soul whom she meant was no other than Sri Aurobindo would be evidenced by a sign: she would be sending him something that he might recognise. That something was Sri Aurobindo's own symbol – in the form of a diagram, known as Solomon's Seal. Needless to add, after this proof of identity, steps were taken to facilitate her coming. Monsieur Paul Richard was at that time much interested in spiritual thought and practice and he could

Page 494

I find an opportunity for coming here: he wanted to find out if he could get elected as one of the Representatives of French India in the French Parliament and he stood as a candidate for election. In those days, there used to be two elected representatives of French India, one in the Upper Chamber, the Sénat, the other in the Lower House, the Chambre des Députés. I have already spoken to you about this business of elections; this was a real bloody affair with murders and mob-attacks that caused terror among the populace.

The first time he came here for canvassing, he was alone. The Mother accompanied him the next time. To all outward appearances they arrived here to canvass support for the election, although M. Richard did not in the end get very many votes. But this provided the occasion for the Mother to meet Sri Aurobindo and gather a few trusted friends and devotees. In this connection the Mother had to pay a visit to Karikal once. This was her first direct experience of the actual India, that is, what it is in its crude outward aspect. She gave us an amusing description of the room where she was put up, an old dilapidated room as dark as it was dirty and a paradise of white ants. Thus it was that the Divine Mother, One who is fairer than the fairest and lovelier than infinite beauty had to come down and enter the darkness and evil of this human life; for how else could these poor mortals have a chance?

When it first came to be bruited about that a Great Lady like this was to come and live close to ourselves, we were faced with a problem: how should we behave? should there be a change in our manners? For we had been accustomed to a bohemian sort of life, we dressed and talked, slept and ate and moved about in a free unfettered style, in a manner that would not quite pass in civilised society. Nevertheless, it was finally agreed that we should stick as far as possible to our old ways even under the new circumstances, for why should we permit our freedom and ease to be compromised

Page 495

or lost? This indeed is the way in which the arrogance and ignorance of man assert the glory of their individuality!

The Mother arrived. She would meet Sri Aurobindo in company with the rest at our afternoon sessions. She spoke very little. We were out most of the time, but also dropped in occasionally. When it was proposed to bring out the Arya she took charge of the necessary arrangements. She wrote out in her own hand the list of subscribers, maintained the accounts herself: perhaps those papers might be still available. And afterwards, it was she herself who helped M. Richard in his translation of the writings of Sri Aurobindo into French for the French edition of the Arya. The ground floor of Dupleix House was used as the stack room and the office was on the ground floor of Guest House. The Mother was the chief executive in sole charge. Once every week all of us used to call at her residence accompanied by Sri Aurobindo and had our dinner together. On those occasions the Mother used to cook one or two dishes with her own hands. Afterwards too, when she came back for good, the same arrangement continued at the Bayoud House; I have told you of that before. About this time, she had also formed a small group with a few young men; this too I have mentioned earlier. A third line of her work, connected with business and trade, also began at nearly the same time. Just as today we have among us men of business who are devotees of the Mother and who act under her protection and guidance, similarly in that period also there appeared as if in seed-state this particular line of activity. Our Saurin founded the Aryan Stores, the object being to bring in some money: we were very hard up in those days – not that we are particularly affluent now, but still... The Mother kept up a correspondence with Saurin in connection with these business matters even after she left here for Japan.

At one stage, the Mother showed a special interest in cats. Not only has she been concerned with human beings, but the animal creation and the life of plants too have shared in

Page 496

her direct touch. The Veda speaks of the animal sacrifice, but the Mother has performed her consecration of animals in a very novel sense; she has helped them forward in their upward march with a touch of her Consciousness. She took a few cats as representatives of the animal world. She said, the king of the cats who ruled in the occult world – you might call him perhaps their Super-cat – had set up a sort of friendship with her. How this feline brood appeared first in our midst is somewhat interesting. One day all of a sudden a wild-looking cat made its appearance at the Guest House where we lived then; it just happened to come along and stayed on. It was wild enough when it came, but soon turned into a tame cat, very mild and polite. When it had its kittens, Sri Aurobindo gave to the first-born the name of Sundari, for she was very fair with a pure white fur. One of Sundari's kittens was styled Bushy, for it had a bushy tail, and its ancestress had now to be given the name of Grandmother. It was about this Bushy that the story runs: she used to pick up with her teeth all her kittens one by one and drop them at the Mother's feet as soon as they were old enough to use their eyes – as if she offered them to the Mother and craved her blessings. You can see now how much progress this cat had made in the path of Yoga. Two of these kittens of Bushy are well-known names and became great favourites with the Mother; one was Big Bay and the younger one was Kiki. It is said about one of them – I forget which, perhaps it was Kiki – that he used to join in the collective meditation and meditated like one of us; he perhaps had visions during meditation and his body would shake and tremble while the eyes remained closed. But in spite of this sadhana, he remained in his outward conduct like many of us rather crude in many respects. The two brothers, Big Boy and Kiki, could never see eye to eye and the two had always to be kept apart. Big Boy was a stalwart fellow and poor Kiki got the thrashings. Finally, both of them died of some disease and were buried in the courtyard. Their Grandmother disappeared

Page 497

one day as suddenly as she had come and nobody knew anything about her again.

The style in which these cats were treated was something extraordinary. The arrangements made for their food were quite a festive affair; it was for them alone that special cooking was done, with milk and fish and the appropriate dressings, as if they were children of some royal family – all was according to schedule. They received an equally good training: they would never commit nuisance within doors for they had been taught to use the conveniences provided for them. They were nothing like the gipsy-bedouin cats of our Ardhendu.

In the days before the Mother came, we used to have a pet dog. Its story was much the same. All of a sudden one day there appeared from nowhere in our earliest residence a common street dog – it was a bitch; she too came and just stayed along. Sri Aurobindo gave her the name of Yogini. He used to tell a story about her intelligence. It was already nightfall and we did not know that she had not yet turned in. She came to the front door, pushed against it and did some barking, but we heard nothing as we were in the kitchen next to the back-yard. Suddenly she recalled there was a door at the back through which she might perhaps gain entrance or at least draw our attention. She now ran around three corners of the house and appeared at the back door. From there she could make herself heard and was admitted. She too bore some puppies and two of them became particular favourites with Sri Aurobindo. I cannot now recall how they were called.

You all know about the deep oneness and sympathy the' Mother has with plants, so I leave out that subject today. As with the world of animals and men, so with the beings of the supraphysical worlds – from the little elves and fairies to the high and mighty gods, all have had their contacts with the Mother, all have shared in her Grace as you may have heard, but the Grace could mean at times thrashings too!

Page 498

Today I leave aside the Mother's role as our Guide on the path of sadhana or yogic discipline. Let me speak in a very general way of an aspect of her teaching that concerns the first principles of the art of living.

The core of this lies in elevating our life to a cleaner level, and the first and most important need is to put each thing in its place. The training that the Mother has throughout been giving us – I am not here referring to the side of spiritual practice but to the daily routine of our ordinary life – is precisely this business of putting our things in order. We do not always notice how very disorderly we are: our belongings and household effects are in a mess, our actions are haphazard, and in our inner life we are as disorderly as in our outer life, or even more. Indeed it is because we are so disordered within that there is such disorder in our outer life. Our thoughts come to us pell-mell and our brains are crowded with straying bits of random thought. We cannot sit down quietly for a few minutes and pursue a particular line of thought with any kind of steadiness or order. Our heads are full of noise like a market-place without any peace or restraint or harmony. If the mind is in such a state, the vital being is still worse. You cannot keep count of the strange desires and impulses that play about there, If the brain is a market-place, the heart is no better than a madhouse. Well, I shall not now enlarge further on the state of our inner being. One of the things the Mother has been trying to teach us both by her word and example is this, namely, that to keep our outer life and its materials in proper order and neat and tidy is a very necessary element in our life upon earth. I do not know to what extent we have yet been able to assimilate this teaching in our individual or collective living. How many of us have realised that beauty is at least half the sense of life and serves to double its value? And even if we do sometimes realise, how many are impelled to shape our lives accordingly? The Mother taught us to use our things with care, but there was more to it than this.

Page 499

She uses things not merely with care but with love and affection. For, to her, material things are not simply inanimate objects, not mere lifeless implements. They are endowed with a life of their own, even a consciousness of their own, and each thing has its own individuality and character. The Mother says about material things what the ancients have said about the life of plants, that they have in them a consciousness that responds to pleasure and pain, antahsanjñah bhavanti ete sukha-duhkha-samanvitah. We are all aware how carefully the Mother treasures old things and does not like them to be thrown away simply because they are old. The reason for this is not niggardliness or a conservative spirit; the reason is that old things are to her like old friends, living companions all.

Let me illustrate the point with something Sri Aurobindo once said. One of the inmates had written to him that as the gate of his house seemed to have got jammed and could not be opened, he had to make it open by giving a strong kick. The door did open but it hurt the foot rather badly. So what he wanted now was some ointment along with Sri Aurobindo's blessings. Do you know the answer he had from Sri Aurobindo? "If you kick at the door, the door will naturally kick back at you" !

As I told you in the beginning, the Mother did not appear to us, the older people, as the Mother at the outset; she came to us first in this garb of Beauty. We received her as a friend and companion, as one very close to ourselves, first, because Sri Aurobindo himself received her like that, and secondly because of her qualities. Now that we are on this subject of her qualities, although it is not necessary for a child to proclaim the virtues of his mother, I cannot here "'refrain from telling you about another point in her teaching. This concerns something deeper. The first time Sri Aurobindo happened to describe her qualities, he said he had never seen anywhere a self-surrender so absolute and unreserved. He had added a comment that perhaps it was only women

Page 500

who were capable of giving themselves so entirely and with such sovereign ease. This implies a complete obliteration of the past, erasing it with its virtues and faults. The Mother has referred to this in one of her Prayers and Meditations. When she came here, she gave herself up to the Lord, Sri Aurobindo, with the candid simplicity of a child, after erasing from herself all her past, all her spiritual attainments, all the riches of her consciousness. Like a new-born babe, she felt she possessed nothing, she was to learn everything right from the start, as if she had known or heard about nothing.

Now to come back to a personal experience. The first thing I heard and came to know about the Mother was that she was a great spiritual person. I did not know then that she might have other gifts; these were revealed to me gradually. First I came to know that she was a very fine painter; and afterwards that she was an equally gifted musician. But there were other surprises in store. For instance, she had an intellectual side no less richly endowed, that is to say, she had read and studied enormously, had been engaged in intellectual pursuits even as the learned do. I was still more surprised to find that while in France she had already studied and translated a good number of Indian texts, like the Gita, the Upanishads, the Yoga-sutras, the Bhakti-sutras of Narada. I mention all this merely to tell you that the Mother's capacity of making her mind a complete blank was as extraordinary as her enormous mental acquisitions. This was something unique. In the early days, when she had just taken charge of our spiritual life, she told me one day in private, perhaps seeing that I might have a pride in being an intellectual, "At one time I used to take an interest in philosophy and other intellectual pursuits. All that is now gone below the surface, but I can bring it up again at will." So, I need not have any fears on that score! It was as if the Mother was trying to apologise for her deficiencies in scholarship. This was how she taught me the meaning of humility, what we call Divine Humility.

Page 501

As I was saying, this capacity for an entire rejection of the past has been one of the powers of her spiritual consciousness and realisation. It is not an easy thing for a human being to wash himself clean of all his past acquisitions, be it intellectual knowledge or the habits of the vital, not to speak of the body's needs, and step forth in his nude purity. And yet this is the first and most important step in the spiritual discipline. The Mother has given us a living example of this. That is why she decided to shed all her past, forget all about it and begin anew the a-b-c of her training and initiation with Sri Aurobindo. And it was in fact at the hands of Sri Aurobindo that she received as a token and outward symbol her first lessons in Bengali and Sanskrit, beginning with the alphabet.

But all this is simply an attempt on the part of the small to comprehend something of the Vast; it is as if a particle of sand was trying to reflect a little of the sun's rays, a dwarf trying to catch at the high tree-top with his uplifted arms, a child prattling of his mother's beauty.

In the beginning, Sri Aurobindo would refer to the Mother quite distinctly as Mira. For some time afterwards (this may have extended over a period of years) we could notice that he stopped at the sound of M and uttered the full name Mira as, if after a slight hesitation. To us it looked rather queer at the time, but later we came to know the reason. Sri Aurobindo's lips were on the verge of saying "Mother"; but we had yet to get ready, so he ended with Mira instead of saying Mother. No one knows for certain on which particular date, at what auspicious moment, the word "Mother" was uttered by the lips of Sri Aurobindo. But that was a divine moment in unrecorded time, a moment of destiny in the history of man and earth; for it was at this supreme moment that the Mother was established on this material earth, in the external consciousness of man.

Let me now end this story for today with a last word about myself.

Page 502

I have said that so far the Mother had been to us a friend and companion, a comrade almost, at the most an object of reverence and respect. I was now about to start on my annual trip to Bengal – in those days I used to go there once every year, and that was perhaps my last trip. Before leaving, I felt a desire to see the Mother. The Mother had not yet come out of her seclusion and Sri Aurobindo had not yet retired behind the scenes. I said to him, "I would like to see Her before I go."- Her with a capital H, in place of the Mother, for we had not yet started using that name. Sri Aurobindo informed the Mother. The room now used by Champaklal was the Mother's room in those days. I entered and waited in the Prosperity room, for Sri Aurobindo used to meet people in the verandah in front. The Mother came in from her room and stood near the door. I approached her and said, "I am going," and then lay prostrate at her feet. That was my first Pranam to the Mother. She said, "Come back soon." This "come back soon" meant in the end, "come back for good."

Page 503

"Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage"

–Lovelace

IT was as it were a wheel within a wheel, a circle within a circle, a play within a play.

The comedy of our trial was being staged within the world-play, and on the court-room stage itself we the undertrial prisoners had been doing our little private drama. The stage was set in the room of the Alipore Sessions Court. One corner of the room was fenced off so as to form a square enclosure but with wire netting that enabled us to see and breathe. They had also left a small passage through the netting for our entrance and exit, and a sentry had been posted with arms to watch that the tigers and wild beasts did not break through the cage. Inside, a few benches had been laid where we might sit, for we could not obviously be kept standing the whole day. We were some thirty-five in all. They used to take us from Alipore Jail in a carriage – by carriage I mean a horse-drawn vehicle, for motor-cars had not yet come. As we left jail, they would handcuff us in two's, the right hand of one being tied to the left hand of the other with the same pair of handcuffs. The handcuffs were removed before we entered our cage in the courtroom.

As the proceedings began in court, we would take our

Page 365

seats. But the court proceeded in its own way and we went on in ours. The pleaders and barristers and witnesses and spectators were all engrossed in the subject matter of the case. The barristers pleaded, the witnesses gave their depositions, the court made comments, everything went on as is usual in a court of law. But we remained perfectly neutral and indifferent as if it did not concern us at all. Our interests were elsewhere. We had come to sit together forming separate groups of four or five according to our respective tastes and temperaments. We could of course move from one group to another as and when we liked. Our topics of discussion ranged over all manner of subjects: religion and spirituality, literature and science, our work and our future, all this came within our purview. Our discussions sometimes grew so loud and hot that Judge Beachcroft – he had been contemporaneous with Sri Aurobindo at Cambridge – would shout at us like a schoolmaster, "Less noise there, less noise there!" If that did not stop all the noise, then he had to make this threat, "Unless you stop, your tiffin will stop." That was a deadly blow and made us perfectly still. For the tiffin they served us in court was our chief meal in the whole day, for its quantity and quality were such as to make it a charming oasis in that Sahara of jail. This tiffin came to us from outside, from friends and relatives and well-wishers. It included such items as luchis, potatoes and fritters and sweets. Once we had a taste of all this, it was no wonder that the jail rations came to be despised and grew untouchable.

In the midst of all this, Sri Aurobindo used to sit apart in his little corner. But we could approach him if anyone had anything to ask. One day we arranged a "general meeting", that is, requested him to give us a talk – of course in the court-room itself and during the proceedings! The court would go on and we would go on with our "meeting". Sri Aurobindo agreed to speak and he chose as his subject, "Nationalism and the Three Gunas (Psychological Types)."

Page 366

Afterwards, on coming out of jail, he wrote out the substance of this speech and had it published in one of his papers. It has since been included in his Bengali work, Dharma O Jatiyata.

Sri Aurobindo had to devote a great deal of his time in jail to his counsel, Chittaranjan Das, for whatever he had to say had to be given in writing. I found they kept him supplied with foolscap sheets and a pencil in the court room itself, and he went on wrting out his statements there. He wrote quite a few pages every day. In these statements he had to explain in lengthy detail his ideas and ideals, the aims and policy of the Bandemataram and Yugantar papers. Chittaranjan included all that in his speeches in court. Could the original manuscripts be recovered, they would be precious documents today.

One day I mentioned to him that I had not had a chance to read English poetry for a long time and would like to have some. Could he help me? The very next day, he wrote out a new poem and handed it to me. As he had no paper to write it on, he had scribbled out the lines along the margins of an old letter! I was particularly impressed by the last two lines; of the rest I do not recall anything now. I need hardly add that the poem is now among the lost treasures.

While on the subject of Sri Aurobindo's writings in jail, I cannot help divulging a secret, namely, that he had written a whole series of essays on the subject of the bomb. The terrorists had been subjected to bitter attacks in the press and they had been falsely accused of all manner of things. It was as if Sri Aurobindo took up his pen to defend them against these accusations. In this series of four essays he discussed in detail the cult of the bomb. I can still recall the titles: (I) The Message of the Bomb, (2) The Morality of the Bomb, (3) The Psychology-of the Bomb, (4) The Policy of the Bomb. The series was not completed, but what was written could serve the purpose very well. The writings had been left in my custody and I passed them out of jail to a

Page 367

friend of mine. But in order to save them from the vigilant eyes of the police and such every-day hazards as a house-search, this friend of mine had them shoved inside a hollow bamboo stem and buried underground. When he looked for them again after a little while, he found they had been reduced to a dust heap, thanks to the white ants' benign touch.

Let me then give out another secret in this connection. Just as Sri Aurobindo had taken up his pen – or shall we say his pencil? – on behalf of the bomb, similarly Nivedita at a later date once took up the cause of Swadeshi dacoits. The ideas and motives of these patriots, what impelled them to take up this particular line were explained with such fine understanding and sympathy in Nivedita's writing that it read almost like poetry. Here too the manuscript had come to my hands and was in my custody. That was about the time when Sri Aurobindo on coming out of jail had taken up his work again and started the two weeklies, the English Karmayogin and the Bengali Dharma. At that time, Nivedita maintained rather close contacts with Sri Aurobindo and ourselves. She used to write for the Karmayogin, and when Sri Aurobindo went into retirement, it was she who edited the last few issues of the paper almost single-handed, with the sole exception of news-items. She continued all the features which Sri Aurobindo had begun. Thus she too wrote a few "Conversations" on the lines of Sri Aurobindo's "Conversations of the Dead". I translated them into Bengali and have included them in my Mriter Kathopakathan (Conversations of the Dead) in Bengali.

While in jail, we had the good fortune to read some unpublished writings of Sri Aurobindo's. Each of us had been furnished by the authorities with a printed brochure containing a report of the exhibits – that is to say, all the documents: letters, notebooks, etc. – which concerned us in that case. These included portions of an unfinished article from Sri Aurobindo's notebook, entitled, "What is Extremism, Nationalism?"

Page 368

But there was another article, one that was ready for the editorial columns of the Bandemataram and was to be published the next day; but instead of going to the Bandemataram office, it found its way into the hands of the police as a result of the arrests. This article was so beautiful and perfect from the point of view of both style and substance that I read it over and over again and committed it to memory and would often repeat it aloud when I found myself alone. Hear how it begins, with what calm and majestic periods! I record them here not from the book but from memory:

"Ages ago there was a priest of Baal who thought himself commissioned by the god to kill all who did not bow the knee to him... At last, a deliverer came and slew the priest and the world had rest..."

How simple the words, almost all monosyllabic (except five) – how easy in manner! Absolutely unadorned and still most effective! The movement is that of an arrow, strong and firm and straight. There is an epic quality about it, what Matthew Arnold calls the "grand style simple." This piece fortunately has not been lost; it has found a place in one of Sri Aurobindo's works, in his The Doctrine of Passive Resistance, under the heading, "The Morality of Boycott." You might read it for yourselves. You will be delighted, I can assure you.

Now I am going to divulge to you yet another secret, perhaps the most important of all, concerning our life in jail. I have said that I had Sri Aurobindo's essays on the bomb slipped out of jail by handing them over to a friend. But how was this done? By what means did we carry on this kind of secret interchange with the outside world? How we could manage to import pistols into jail remained a major headache for the police. The police invented so many theories and there was no end to the conjectures indulged in by the public.

Page 369

They must have been packed in biscuit tins, or in the bellies of fish, or in jack-fruit, and what not. Finally, the Police Chief could contain himself no longer and decided to ask Kanai. Kanai was already under sentence of death and was biding his time. "Now that all is over," said the Police Chief "where is the harm if you confess it? Why not show some courage and tell us where you found the pistol?" Kanai grew serious and said in measured tones, "It is the spirit of Khudiram who gave me the revolver." Khudiram had been hanged for his attempt on the life of Kingsford.

Well, let me now explain how the pistols came. They came precisely the way Sri Aurobindo's writings went. When the police found that we were not such ferocious beasts after all, they gave us permission to have a chance sometimes of meeting our friends and relatives. These meetings took place in a room next to the entrance through the main gate of the jail. They erected a partition of iron bars through the middle of the room. On one side of this barrier stood the visitors and friends and we stood on the other: No doubt there were some sentries about, but they did not particularly bother to watch, for on the whole there had grown up an amount of confidence in our good faith. But it wets very easy to pass on anything across this barrier, for with a shawl or heavy chuddar on, one could easily touch the person on the other side of the bars – out of an excess of feeling, one would normally imagine. I remember how my uncle once burst into tears on meeting me in this manner. Anyhow, the pair of revolvers used by Kanai and Satyen had changed hands through the bars in this manner.

I referred just now to our good faith. In fact our laughter and fun, our mirth and play, and our sweet simplicity had astonished them all. We had a Court Inspector, an elderly Muslim gentleman, who would almost burst into tears as he looked on us. "How dare you laugh and play?" he used to say, "you have not the least idea of the terror you have to face. You do not know what kind of life it is in the Andamans.

Page 370

You are not the only ones who read the Gita. I too have gone through the book repeatedly and still read it." For this show of sympathy, the gentleman had to suffer punishment. His promotion was stopped or perhaps he was dismissed from the service. The man who was captain of the English guard used to say, "You are strange specimens. You look so tender and soft, and so simple and sweet in your manner! How could you ever commit such heinous crimes? I have lived in Ireland and have seen the Irish patriots, I have had to deal with them. But they were poles apart from you in their looks and their manner. They were harsh and rude and hard; one could know at once what kind of people they were." Most of us were boys and young men of 16 to 20, except for a few like Barin, Upen and Hrishikesh who were of about the same age, all nearing thirty. But within the very precincts of jail we made them understand how one "softer than the flower", mrduni kusumadapi, could turn into something "harder than diamond", vajradapi kathorani. I refer here to the assassination of our good friend Naren Gosain the approver. That makes another drama.

I have said we used to keep ourselves fully preoccupied with our own discussions, as we sat within our cage in the court-room, and never paid much attention to what was going on outside in court. But if something new or interesting or sensational cropped up, then of course we would just turn round to see. There was something sensational that happentd one day; it concerned myself. They produced an important witness against me; it was the cabin-man at the railway level-crossing near Deoghar, a poor old man. Were he to identify me as the person who had been passing to and fro near his cabin – we had several times been to Dighiriya hill across the railway line – that would prove my complicity in the bomb and get me the Andamans without fail. But who can die whom the gods protect? Our Sudhir-da – I use the title in an honorific sense, for I am actually one month his senior – got suddenly an idea into his head. They

Page 371

had made us line up within the cage for an identification parade. The poor old man was brought in to identify Nolini Gupta. Sudhir-da whispered to me, "You stand in the front line with a quiet nonchalant air. I shall be just behind." Sudhir-da stood behind, with his head down and showed by his fumbling and nervous manner as if he were trying to hide himself. The old man was in a fix; he got so confused that he finally shouted, "That was the man over there, I have seen him." This settled the point. The entire court-room rang with laughter. Norton was flabbergasted, for he had been conducting the case for the prosecution. He was known as "Madras Norton": he had earned quite a name as a formidable, almost ferocious barrister at the High Court in Madras. Through this fiasco the path to my release was made clear.

Now let me conclude this story with a description of the last scene. We had all just sat down to our usual discussions as on any other day, when all on a sudden the court-room seemed to grow silent and still. Chittaranjan's voice rose slowly in a crescendo of measured tones. We all stood up and listened intently attentive in pin-drop silence as Chittaranjan went on speaking, as if divinely inspired and like one god-possessed:

"He stands not only before the bar in this Court but stands before the bar of the High Court of History…. Long after this turmoil, this agitation ceases, long after he is dead and gone, he will be looked upon as the poet of patriotism, as the prophet of nationalism and the lover of humanity. Long after he is dead and gone, his words will be echoed and re-echoed not only in India but across distant seas and lands."

Page 372