Glimpses of Bengal — Shelidah

_8th May 1893_.

Poetry is a very old love of mine--I must have been engaged to her when I was only Rathi's[1] age.

Long ago the recesses under the old banyan tree beside our tank, the inner gardens, the unknown regions on the ground floor of the house, the whole of the outside world, the nursery rhymes and tales told by the maids, created a wonderful fairyland within me.

It is difficult to give a clear idea of all the vague and mysterious happenings of that period, but this much is certain, that my exchange of garlands[2] with Poetic Fancy was already duly celebrated.

[Footnote 1: Rathi, his son, was then five years old.

] [Footnote 2: The betrothal ceremony.

] I must admit, however, that my betrothed is not an auspicious maiden--whatever else she may bring one, it is not good fortune.

I cannot say she has never given me happiness, but peace of mind with her is out of the question.

The lover whom she favours may get his fill of bliss, but his heart's blood is wrung out under her relentless embrace.

It is not for the unfortunate creature of her choice ever to become a staid and sober householder, comfortably settled down on a social foundation.

Consciously or unconsciously, I may have done many things that were untrue, but I have never uttered anything false in my poetry--that is the sanctuary where the deepest truths of my life find refuge.

SHELIDAH,

_10th May_ 1893. Here come black, swollen masses of cloud; they soak up the golden sunshine from the scene in front of me like great pads of blotting-paper.

Rain must be near, for the breeze feels moist and tearful.

Over there, on the sky-piercing peaks of Simla, you will find it hard to realise exactly what an important event the coming of the clouds is here, or how many are anxiously looking up to the sky, hailing their advent.

I feel a great tenderness for these peasant folk--our ryots--big, helpless, infantile children of Providence, who must have food brought to their very lips, or they are undone.

When the breasts of Mother Earth dry up they are at a loss what to do, and can only cry.

But no sooner is their hunger satisfied than they forget all their past sufferings.

I know not whether the socialistic ideal of a more equal distribution of wealth is attainable, but if not, the dispensation of Providence is indeed cruel, and man a truly unfortunate creature.

For if in this world misery must exist, so be it; but let some little loophole, some glimpse of possibility at least, be left, which may serve to urge the nobler portion of humanity to hope and struggle unceasingly for its alleviation.

They say a terribly hard thing who assert that the division of the world's production to afford each one a mouthful of food, a bit of clothing, is only an Utopian dream.

All these social problems are hard indeed!

Fate has allowed humanity such a pitifully meagre coverlet, that in pulling it over one part of the world, another has to be left bare.

In allaying our poverty we lose our wealth, and with this wealth what a world of grace and beauty and power is lost to us.

But the sun shines forth again, though the clouds are still banked up in the West.

SHELIDAH,

_11th May 1893. _ There is another pleasure for me here.

Sometimes one or other of our simple, devoted, old ryots comes to see me--and their worshipful homage is so unaffected!

How much greater than I are they in the beautiful simplicity and sincerity of their reverence.

What if I am unworthy of their veneration--their feeling loses nothing of its value.

I regard these grown-up children with the same kind of affection that I have for little children--but there is also a difference.

They are more infantile still.

Little children will grow up later on, but these big children never.

A meek and radiantly simple soul shines through their worn and wrinkled, old bodies.

Little children are merely simple, they have not the unquestioning, unwavering devotion of these.

If there be any undercurrent along which the souls of men may have communication with one another, then my sincere blessing will surely reach and serve them.

SHELIDAH,

_16th May_ 1893. I walk about for an hour on the river bank, fresh and clean after my afternoon bath.

Then I get into the new jolly-boat, anchor in mid-stream, and on a bed, spread on the planked over-stern, I lie silently there on my back, in the darkness of the evening.

Little S---- sits beside me and chatters away, and the sky becomes more and more thickly studded with stars.

Each day the thought recurs to me: Shall I be reborn under this star-spangled sky?

Will the peaceful rapture of such wonderful evenings ever again be mine, on this silent Bengal river, in so secluded a corner of the world?

Perhaps not.

The scene may be changed; I may be born with a different mind.

Many such evenings may come, but they may refuse to nestle so trustfully, so lovingly, with such complete abandon, to my breast.

Curiously enough, my greatest fear is lest I should be reborn in Europe!

For there one cannot recline like this with one's whole being laid open to the infinite above--one is liable, I am afraid, to be soundly rated for lying down at all.

I should probably have been hustling strenuously in some factory or bank, or Parliament.

Like the roads there, one's mind has to be stone-metalled for heavy traffic--geometrically laid out, and kept clear and regulated.

I am sure I cannot exactly say why this lazy, dreamy, self-absorbed, sky-filled state of mind seems to me the more desirable.

I feel no whit inferior to the busiest men of the world as I lie here in my jolly-boat.

Rather, had I girded up my loins to be strenuous, I might have seemed ever so feeble compared to those chips of old oaken blocks.

SHELIDAH,

_3rd July 1893. _ All last night the wind howled like a stray dog, and the rain still pours on without a break.

The water from the fields is rushing in numberless, purling streams to the river.

The dripping ryots are crossing the river in the ferryboat, some with their tokas[1] on, others with yam leaves held over their heads.

Big cargo-boats are gliding along, the boatman sitting drenched at his helm, the crew straining at the tow-ropes through the rain.

The birds remain gloomily confined to their nests, but the sons of men fare forth, for in spite of the weather the world's work must go on.

[Footnote 1: Conical hats of straw or of split bamboo.

] Two cowherd lads are grazing their cattle just in front of my boat.

The cows are munching away with great gusto, their noses plunged into the lush grass, their tails incessantly busy flicking off the flies.

The raindrops and the sticks of the cowherd boys fall on their backs with the same unreasonable persistency, and they bear both with equally uncritical resignation, steadily going on with their munch, munch, munch.

These cows have such mild, affectionate, mournful eyes; why, I wonder, should Providence have thought fit to impose all the burden of man's work on the submissive shoulders of these great, gentle beasts?

The river is rising daily.

What I could see yesterday only from the upper deck, I can now see from my cabin windows.

Every morning I awake to find my field of vision growing larger.

Not long since, only the tree-tops near those distant villages used to appear, like dark green clouds.

To-day the whole of the wood is visible.

Land and water are gradually approaching each other like two bashful lovers.

The limit of their shyness has nearly been reached--their arms will soon be round each other's necks.

I shall enjoy my trip along this brimful river at the height of the rains.

I am fidgeting to give the order to cast off.

SHELIDAH,

_4th July_ 1893. A little gleam of sunlight shows this morning.

There was a break in the rains yesterday, but the clouds are banked up so heavily along the skirts of the sky that there is not much hope of the break lasting.

It looks as if a heavy carpet of cloud had been rolled up to one side, and at any moment a fussy breeze may come along and spread it over the whole place again, covering every trace of blue sky and golden sunshine.

What a store of water must have been laid up in the sky this year.

The river has already risen over the low _chur_-lands,[1] threatening to overwhelm all the standing crops.

The wretched ryots, in despair, are cutting and bringing away in boats sheaves of half-ripe rice.

As they pass my boat I hear them bewailing their fate.

It is easy to understand how heart-rending it must be for cultivators to have to cut down their rice on the very eve of its ripening, the only hope left them being that some of the ears may possibly have hardened into grain.

[Footnote 1: Old sand-banks consolidated by the deposit of a layer of culturable soil.

] There must be some element of pity in the dispensations of Providence, else how did we get our share of it?

But it is so difficult to see where it comes in.

The lamentations of these hundreds of thousands of unoffending creatures do not seem to get anywhere.

The rain pours on as it lists, the river still rises, and no amount of petitioning seems to have the effect of bringing relief from any quarter.

One has to seek consolation by saying that all this is beyond the understanding of man.

And yet, it is so vitally necessary for man to understand that there are such things as pity and justice in the world.

However, this is only sulking.

Reason tells us that creation never can be perfectly happy.

So long as it is incomplete it must put up with imperfection and sorrow.

It can only be perfect when it ceases to be creation, and is God.

Do our prayers dare go so far?

The more we think over it, the oftener we come hack to the starting-point--Why this creation at all?

If we cannot make up our minds to object to the thing itself, it is futile complaining about its companion, sorrow.

SHAZADPUR,