The Home and the World - Rabindranath Tagore (books to read in your 30s .txt) 📗

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truth. This was understood in our country in the old days, and

so they had the courage to declare that for those of little

understanding untruth is the truth. For them, who can truly

believe their country to be a goddess, her image will do duty for

the truth. With our nature and our traditions we are unable to

realize our country as she is, but we can easily bring ourselves

to believe in her image. Those who want to do real work must not

ignore this fact.

Nikhil only got excited. "Because you have lost the power of

walking in the path of truth's attainment," he cried, "you keep

waiting for some miraculous boon to drop from the skies! That is

why when your service to the country has fallen centuries into

arrears all you can think of is, to make of it an image and

stretch out your hands in expectation of gratuitous favours."

"We want to perform the impossible," I said. "So our country

needs must be made into a god."

"You mean you have no heart for possible tasks," replied Nikhil.

"Whatever is already there is to be left undisturbed; yet there

must be a supernatural result:"

"Look here, Nikhil," I said at length, thoroughly exasperated.

"The things you have been saying are good enough as moral

lessons. These ideas have served their purpose, as milk for

babes, at one stage of man's evolution, but will no longer do,

now that man has cut his teeth.

"Do we not see before our very eyes how things, of which we never

even dreamt of sowing the seed, are sprouting up on every side?

By what power? That of the deity in our country who is becoming

manifest. It is for the genius of the age to give that deity its

image. Genius does not argue, it creates. I only give form to

what the country imagines.

"I will spread it abroad that the goddess has vouchsafed me a

dream. I will tell the Brahmins that they have been appointed

her priests, and that their downfall has been due to their

dereliction of duty in not seeing to the proper performance of

her worship. Do you say I shall be uttering lies? No, say I, it

is the truth--nay more, the truth which the country has so long

been waiting to learn from my lips. If only I could get the

opportunity to deliver my message, you would see the stupendous

result."

"What I am afraid of," said Nikhil, "is, that my lifetime is

limited and the result you speak of is not the final result. It

will have after-effects which may not be immediately apparent."

"I only seek the result," said I, "which belongs to today."

"The result I seek," answered Nikhil, "belongs to all time."

Nikhil may have had his share of Bengal's greatest gift--

imagination, but he has allowed it to be overshadowed and nearly

killed by an exotic conscientiousness. Just look at the worship

of Durga which Bengal has carried to such heights. That is one

of her greatest achievements. I can swear that Durga is a

political goddess and was conceived as the image of the

Shakti of patriotism in the days when Bengal was praying

to be delivered from Mussulman domination. What other province

of India has succeeded in giving such wonderful visual expression

to the ideal of its quest?

Nothing betrayed Nikhil's loss of the divine gift of imagination

more conclusively than his reply to me. "During the Mussulman

domination," he said, "the Maratha and the Sikh asked for fruit

from the arms which they themselves took up. The Bengali

contented himself with placing weapons in the hands of his

goddess and muttering incantations to her; and as his country did

not really happen to be a goddess the only fruit he got was the

lopped-off heads of the goats and buffaloes of the sacrifice.

The day that we seek the good of the country along the path of

righteousness, He who is greater than our country will grant us

true fruition."

The unfortunate part of it is that Nikhil's words sound so fine

when put down on paper. My words, however, are not meant to be

scribbled on paper, but to be scored into the heart of the

country. The Pandit records his Treatise on Agriculture in

printer's ink; but the cultivator at the point of his plough

impresses his endeavour deep in the soil.

X

When I next saw Bimala I pitched my key high without further ado.

"Have we been able," I began, "to believe with all our heart in

the god for whose worship we have been born all these millions of

years, until he actually made himself visible to us?

"How often have I told you," I continued, "that had I not seen

you I never would have known all my country as One. I know not

yet whether you rightly understand me. The gods are invisible

only in their heaven--on earth they show themselves to mortal

men."

Bimala looked at me in a strange kind of way as she gravely

replied: "Indeed I understand you, Sandip." This was the first

time she called me plain Sandip.

"Krishna," I continued, "whom Arjuna ordinarily knew only as the

driver of his chariot, had also His universal aspect, of which,

too, Arjuna had a vision one day, and that day he saw the Truth.

I have seen your Universal Aspect in my country. The Ganges and

the Brahmaputra are the chains of gold that wind round and round

your neck; in the woodland fringes on the distant banks of the

dark waters of the river, I have seen your collyrium-darkened

eyelashes; the changeful sheen of your sari moves for me

in the play of light and shade amongst the swaying shoots of

green corn; and the blazing summer heat, which makes the whole

sky lie gasping like a red-tongued lion in the desert, is nothing

but your cruel radiance.

"Since the goddess has vouchsafed her presence to her votary in

such wonderful guise, it is for me to proclaim her worship

throughout our land, and then shall the country gain new life.

'Your image make we in temple after temple.' [20] But this our

people have not yet fully realized. So I would call on them in

your name and offer for their worship an image from which none

shall be able to withhold belief. Oh give me this boon, this

power."

Bimala's eyelids drooped and she became rigid in her seat like a

figure of stone. Had I continued she would have gone off into a

trance. When I ceased speaking she opened wide her eyes, and

murmured with fixed gaze, as though still dazed: "O Traveller in

the path of Destruction! Who is there that can stay your

progress? Do I not see that none shall stand in the way of your

desires? Kings shall lay their crowns at your feet; the wealthy

shall hasten to throw open their treasure for your acceptance;

those who have nothing else shall beg to be allowed to offer

their lives. O my king, my god! What you have seen in me I know

not, but I have seen the immensity of your grandeur in my heart.

Who am I, what am I, in its presence? Ah, the awful power of

Devastation! Never shall I truly live till it kills me utterly!

I can bear it no longer, my heart is breaking!"

Bimala slid down from her seat and fell at my feet, which she

clasped, and then she sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

This is hypnotism indeed--the charm which can subdue the world!

No materials, no weapons--but just the delusion of irresistible

suggestion. Who says "Truth shall Triumph"? [21] Delusion

shall win in the end. The Bengali understood this when he

conceived the image of the ten-handed goddess astride her lion,

and spread her worship in the land. Bengal must now create a new

image to enchant and conquer the world. Bande Mataram!

I gently lifted Bimala back into her chair, and lest reaction

should set in, I began again without losing time: "Queen! The

Divine Mother has laid on me the duty of establishing her worship

in the land. But, alas, I am poor!"

Bimala was still flushed, her eyes clouded, her accents thick, as

she replied: "You poor? Is not all that each one has yours?

What are my caskets full of jewellery for? Drag away from me all

my gold and gems for your worship. I have no use for them!"

Once before Bimala had offered up her ornaments. I am not

usually in the habit of drawing lines, but I felt I had to draw

the line there. [22] I know why I feel this hesitation. It is

for man to give ornaments to woman; to take them from her wounds

his manliness.

But I must forget myself. Am I taking them? They are for the

Divine Mother, to be poured in worship at her feet. Oh, but it

must be a grand ceremony of worship such as the country has never

beheld before. It must be a landmark in our history. It shall

be my supreme legacy to the Nation. Ignorant men worship gods.

I, Sandip, shall create them.

But all this is a far cry. What about the urgent immediate? At

least three thousand is indispensably necessary--five thousand

would do roundly and nicely. But how on earth am I to mention

money after the high flight we have just taken? And yet time is

precious!

I crushed all hesitation under foot as I jumped up and made my

plunge: "Queen! Our purse is empty, our work about to stop!"

Bimala winced. I could see she was thinking of that impossible

fifty thousand rupees. What a load she must have been carrying

within her bosom, struggling under it, perhaps, through sleepless

nights! What else had she with which to express her loving

worship? Debarred from offering her heart at my feet, she

hankers to make this sum of money, so hopelessly large for her,

the bearer of her imprisoned feelings. The thought of what she

must have gone through gives me a twinge of pain; for she is now

wholly mine. The wrench of plucking up the plant by the roots is

over. It is now only careful tending and nurture that is needed.

"Queen!" said I, "that fifty thousand rupees is not particularly

wanted just now. I calculate that, for the present, five

thousand or even three will serve."

The relief made her heart rebound. "I shall fetch you five

thousand," she said in tones which seemed like an outburst of

song--the song which Radhika of the Vaishnava lyrics sang:

/*

For my lover will I bind in my hair

The flower which has no equal in the three worlds!

*/

--it is the same tune, the same song: five thousand will I bring!

That flower will I bind in my hair!

The narrow restraint of the flute brings out this quality of

song. I must not allow the pressure of too much greed to flatten

out the reed, for then, as I fear, music will give place to the

questions "Why?" "What is the use of so much?" "How am I to get

it?"--not a word of which will rhyme with what Radhika sang! So,

as I was saying, illusion alone is real--it is the flute itself;

while truth is