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<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<b>APPENDIX</b></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
<i>[Extracts from Suresh Chandra Chakravarti&#39;s Reminiscences in Bengali Smriti 
Katha bearing on Sri Aurobindo&#39;s life.]</i></p>
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&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">It 
was about two-thirty in the morning. The date was March 30, 1910. There came a 
sound of the whistle from the engine. Then the train began to slow down; it 
became slower and slower and slower, until finally it came to a dead stop after 
giving a jolt backward and a slight push to the front. It was obvious that there 
was no such thing as a vacuum brake on this train. I opened the door of my 
compartment and got down on the platform. This was the railway station at 
Pondicherry. I feel sure that my readers will wonder with wide-open eyes at 
these lines. They will want to know why of all places the railway station at 
Pondicherry and at dead of night? They are familiar with the story of Bengalis 
going to Bombay or Burma, Madras or the Malay Archipelago. Sons of the soil of 
Bengal have even been visiting the island of Ceylon since the days of 
Vijayasinha. But what is this strange thing now?</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">To 
make that clear, I have to explain something of what had gone before. That is 
what I am trying to do.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">It 
all began in the same year of grace, 1910, in the month of February. Perhaps it 
was about the middle of the month, or was it towards the end, about eight 
o&#39;clock one evening, at a house Number 4 on Shyampukur Lane in the Shyam-bazar 
area in Calcutta, in a room upstairs, there sat a mature young man surrounded by 
a certain number of younger people. The older person sat on a small wooden bed— 
that was the only piece of furniture in the room—and of the younger group one or 
two sat on the same bed and the rest sat on the floor. The older person had a 
pencil in his hand and a sheet of paper in front. He had been doing some 
automatic writing and reading it aloud. The youths listened intently as he spoke 
and were bothering with their endless questions the spirits who came presumably 
from the other worlds.</p>
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<font size="2">Page-131</font></p>
<hr>
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This mature young man was named Sri Aurobindo Ghose. The names of the others 
present were Birendranath Ghosh, Saurindranath Basu, Bejoykumar Nag, Hem Sen, 
Nolini-kanta Gupta and Sureshchandra Chakravarti. All of them with the exception 
of Saurin and Suresh had been among the accused in the Alipore Bomb case of 
1908-09. I need not enter here into the details of that case. About the 
beginning of this century, a few of those who had been dreaming of the freedom 
of their motherland were attracted by the idea of terrorism. As a result there 
came to birth in Bengal a secret society with Calcutta as its centre. In course 
of time the police came to know everything about this secret society and in May 
1908 they arrested in Calcutta most of its members. They also came in possession 
of some weapons like live pistols. The trial lasted a whole year and in May 
1909, some were discharged by the court and others were convicted. Three among 
those convicted were sentenced to death; these were Barindra, HemDas and UllasKar. Their death sentences were quashed on appeal and they were given 
transportation for life.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">On 
his release from jail, Sri Aurobindo resumed with full force his work for the 
country and began publishing two weekly journals, <i>Karmayogin</i> in English and 
<i>Dharma</i> in Bengali. But now it seemed a change had come in his manner of writing. 
Formerly, what he used to write for the daily English paper, <i>Bandemataram</i> was 
primarily of a political nature. But in the <i>Karmayogin</i> and <i>Dharma </i>articles one 
felt a deeper strain. It was as if he was now preparing to bring out the inner 
spirit of India, the eternal soul, by penetrating beyond the workaday veil of 
the shallow and superficial politics till then familiar to the anglicised mind. 
The politics now served only as a pretext. One seemed to get from these writings 
a feeble hint of the path he was to traverse in his subsequent days. He seemed 
to be leaving behind the ranks of political leadership and moving towards the 
Ashram of the ancient Indian Rishis, seers of the Self and seers of Truth. This 
change in attitude was obviously necessary both for self-discovery and for a 
clearer understanding of one&#39;s country.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; " align="center">
<font size="2">Page-132</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">Especially is this an essential need in 
India today, not for India alone but for the whole of humanity...</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">In 
this Shyampukur house was situated the <i>Karmayogin</i> and <i>Dharma</i> office... Those of 
us who lived here as permanent residents used to cook our own food. It was all 
vegetarian food, not because that was part of our ideal but because it was the 
easier to cook. Our breakfasts were very regular, since they came from the 
shops; they consisted of fried rice, coconuts and fritters,—we had not yet 
acquired a taste for tea. But about our lunch there reigned a concrete anarchy. 
If we felt the urge, the cooking was done and the lunch was over before it was 
ten. And on the days when we did not feel the urge, we went on idling and 
coaxing each other to the task till it was about three in the afternoon before 
the whole business was done with. Some kind of order was introduced in this 
reign of irregularity only when Hem Sen happened to be present. HemSen was a 
Hathayogin. Perhaps it was his Hatha Yoga that had taught him how not to 
encourage this kind of physical lethargy. It is rather strange that I have no 
recollections about our evening meal. This much however is certain that we did 
not skip this meal, and I do remember about an occasional visit to a hotel and 
treating ourselves to dishes prepared in Western style...</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">At 
this time Sri Aurobindo lived in College Square, at the house of his uncle, Sri 
Krishnakumar Mitra, editor and proprietor of <i>Sanjivani,</i> a Bengali nationalist 
paper. I saw Sri Aurobindo in this house only once and that too for a few 
seconds. Once we were out of funds and I had been deputed to see him on that 
account. The impression I carry of that house and its approaches are those of a 
press and of things connected with a press. I came at about nine in the morning 
and was taken to a room upstairs. I had waited barely a couple of minutes when 
Sri Aurobindo entered by one of the inner doors. He was dressed in a twill shirt 
and <i>dhoti </i>and had chappals on. He put some money into my hands and left without 
saying a word. I do not remember how much it was, perhaps some twenty or 
twenty-five rupees. I came back to Shyampukur with the money.</p>
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<font size="2">Page-133</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
From this College Square house, Sri Aurobindo used to come to Shyampukur Lane 
every day at about four or five in the afternoon. I have said that none of us 
took tea in those days. But we had the tea things ready and when Sri Aurobindo 
came he was served a cup of tea with some <i>luchi</i> and potatoes and <i>halwa</i> obtained 
from a corner shop in Grey Street. He would be busy for sometime with his work 
connected with the papers. Then he would come and chat with us and there was 
automatic writing almost every day...</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
About this period Sri Aurobindo had been studying Tamil. A South Indian 
gentleman used to come to this Shyampukur house and gave him his Tamil lessons 
in one of the office rooms. I remember how one day, after he had finished his 
lesson, he came back and said to us full of glee like a schoolboy of fourteen, 
&quot;Do you know what is Pirentir Nat Tatta-kopta?&quot; We were of course all left 
speechless in our ignorance. Then he explained, &quot;That is Birendranath 
Datta-gupta in Tamil.&quot; Tamil has only the first and the last letters in each of 
the first five groups of Sanskrit consonants and does not seem to recognise in 
its alphabet the existence of the other three, nor does it have the conjunct 
consonants. Hence in Tamil Birendra can be Pirentir, Nath became Nat, Datta 
develops into Tatta. But Gupta need not have become Kopta but for Sri 
Aurobindo&#39;s sense of fun.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">I 
have said earlier that Sri Aurobindo used to come to Shyampukur at about four or 
five in the afternoon. He returned from here to College Square by nine-thirty or 
ten in the evening. We used to see him off at the Grey Street corner where he 
caught the tram... Sometimes he got very late, so late that the trams were not 
available and a carriage had to be hired for him. The horse-drawn carriages had 
not yet disappeared from the Calcutta streets under the law of survival of the 
fittest...</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Now to return to my story. One day, in the month of February, in the year 1910, 
in a room upstairs at No. 4 Shyampukur Lane, at about eight in the evening, Sri 
Aurobindo was doing some automatic writing and reading it </p>
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<font size="2">Page-134</font></p><hr>
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aloud to some of us 
young people. If anyone were to suppose that this being the writing of spirits, 
the thing was entirely serious from the beginning to the end, he would be making 
a mistake. All spirits are not serious people; there were some who loved humour 
and mirth. Hence those s<font face="Times New Roman">é</font>ances were sometimes grave with solemn voices and 
sometimes bubbling with laughter and fun. The spirit-writings were going on at 
full speed when there came into the room our friend and associate Rambabu, 
Ramchandra Majumdar.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">He 
too was a young man, still below thirty, a man with a fair complexion. He wore a 
beard, not carelessly but very well-trimmed. The care he took of his hair and 
the manner in which he dressed suggested always as if he was out for his 
wedding. I do not remember to have ever noticed anything untidy or dirty about 
his dress or hair. He had a scar on his forehead, perhaps a relic of his docile 
childhood. Rambabu was a man of Calcutta and belonged to that particular area 
where we lived. His house was in a lane off Grey Street. He was on the staff of 
<i>Karmayogin</i> and <i>Dharma.</i></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">As 
he entered the room, he informed Sri Aurobindo in a rather anxious voice that 
they had again issued a fresh warrant against him. The information was from a 
reliable source, had been conveyed to him by a high police official. This was 
not something very unexpected. For some time past there had been a rumour that 
the Government would not rest until they had Sri Aurobindo in their grasp again. 
Nevertheless, the whole atmosphere of the room immediately changed as the news 
came. In place of the bubbling mirth there prevailed a deep silence, like sudden 
darkness after a strong illumination. All of us waited with anxious hearts. Sri 
Aurobindo seemed to think for a few seconds. Then he said, &quot;I shall go to 
Chandernagore.&quot; Rambabu said, &quot;Just now?&quot; Sri Aurobindo replied, &quot;Just now this 
very moment.&quot; You need not however suppose that these were the actual words 
used. I am trying merely to convey the manner of their conversation and outline 
the events that followed.</p>
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<font size="2">Page-135</font></p><hr>
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Sri Aurobindo stood up and left the house accompanied by Rambabu. A little 
behind them followed Biren and I came out next and followed the three. We thus 
formed a small procession, not a festive one but a silent procession, with Sri 
Aurobindo and Rambabu at the head, Biren following them from a little behind and 
keeping them within view, and last of all myself a little farther behind Biren 
keeping him in my view. This silent procession of four, apparently disjoined but 
linked together by subtle bonds, went along a northerly route.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">As 
long as Sri Aurobindo remained in that house it used to be watched by the men of 
the CID. Just a few days ago, simply in order to escape the attentions of the 
police officials, our s<font face="Times New Roman">é</font>ances of automatic writing had had to be removed from a 
room overlooking the lane to an inner apartment. But we found that on that 
particular evening, when Sri Aurobindo and Rambabu came out of the house and the 
two of us followed in succession, there was not a trace of any policeman 
anywhere about the house.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">In 
my childhood I had once seen a play entitled <i>Surath Uddhar</i> (The Rescue of 
Surath). Puranjaya Singha, the trusted commander of King Suratha, had been 
thrown into prison as a result of an intrigue. As he was about to be rescued 
from prison, the gods sent the goddess of sleep to close the eyes of the 
sentries. The sentries of course had to yawn half a dozen times and rub their 
eyes and then roll down the stage. Whether in like manner the gods had on this 
occasion sent the goddess of drink to seize the throat of the CID man, or 
whether the man had gone somewhere for some fresh air or anything more solid I 
do not know. Or perhaps the man had been used to temper his sense of duty by his 
cleverness and skill all these days. Sri Aurobindo used to come to this place 
about four or five and leave only after nine in the evening. To cool one&#39;s heels 
in that narrow lane all this length of time was nothing but foolishness; the 
time could be better utilised elsewhere on some other distraction that might 
soothe the heart. So, perhaps he used to leave the place after seeing Sri 
Aurobindo enter the premises about four or five in the afternoon, fully assured 
that everything was all right</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; " align="center">
<font size="2">Page-136</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">and he would return to duty before nine o&#39;clock 
after having had his fill of pleasure. However that be, it was found that on 
that particular occasion the CID man was not present, whatever might be the 
reason. I am rather curious to learn what happened to him at Headquarters after 
that day.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">In 
any case, I do not think that the police could have done much even if they had 
been present. I have said that Rambabu belonged to that area and it was evident 
that he knew every little nook and corner in that locality. With Sri Aurobindo 
he entered an area which to me looked something strange and unthinkable. I was a 
recent arrival in Calcutta and had not yet got over my &quot;provincial&quot; outlook. So 
far I had come across in that city rows of tall buildings proudly flanking the 
spacious streets. But I could not have even dreamed before I entered that area 
that a creature called man who is usually credited with an amount of 
intelligence could have made his dwelling into such a maze. I felt certain that 
this could have had no other object in view than to forestall on that particular 
day a possible pursuit by the CID men. The houses stood huddled together in 
compact line, the lanes appeared in quick succession, there came a turn at every 
step. Not a soul was about and not a sound could be heard at that early hour. 
The radio of course had not yet come, but the gramophones were there and in any 
case, a certain amount of practice in singing had already become a sine qua non 
for securing a husband for the young maid. But no strains of music reached our 
ears from anywhere, either from a gramophone or from the do-re-mi-fa of the 
harmonium. On that solitary path in a locality criss -crossed by so many lanes 
and turns, in that dense silence, it was impossible for the police or for anyone 
doubly more competent than the police to give chase and keep the fugitive within 
sight till the end. That is why I say that even if the CID man had been actually 
present on duty, I do not think he would have achieved much. The only thing he 
would have learnt would be that on that particular evening, Sri Aurobindo on 
coming out of the house had instead of returning home to College Square left for 
an unknown destination through the mazes</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page-137</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">of a particular locality. It may be 
that if the Calcutta CID had on its staff a man like Sherlock Holmes or the 
French Pirot, he might have managed to trace him to Chandernagore with the help 
of that faint clue. And in that, case perhaps this story would not have been 
written.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
But as it happened, we walked on in silence for some fifteen or twenty minutes 
and finally landed at one of the river <i>ghats</i>. As I have said, I was a newcomer 
to Calcutta—it was not yet three months since I arrived—and I was therefore not 
very well acquainted with the city. Hence I cannot say for certain which 
particular <i>ghat </i>it was; it might have been the Bagbazar ghat for all I know. On 
arriving at the<i> ghat,</i> Rambabu hailed one of the boatmen and said, &quot;Hey, would 
you take a fare?&quot; These words of Rambabu and his voice still ring in my ears. 
The conversation that took place next between the boatman and our Rambabu was in 
a low voice. Sri Aurobindo now got into the boat and Biren and I followed. 
Rambabu took his leave. The boat sailed off. As we sailed up the river and 
reached midstream, it was clear that it happened to be a moonlit night. The 
waves danced and sparkled all round in the bright light of the moon. I do not 
know what was the exact phase. Perhaps it was, in the words of Tagore,</p>
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&nbsp;</p>
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&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:75px" align="justify">
&quot;The Eleventh day of the bright phase, </p>
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When the sleepless moon went </p>
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Sailing 
alone on her dream-boat.&quot;</p>
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All else looked so remote now—the police and the city with its spite and 
violence and strife; even the questions that preoccupied us of the country&#39;s 
freedom and bondage became insignificant. We felt as if reborn into the calm 
wide-ness of Nature out of the cramping hold of our man-made civilisation...</p>
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<font size="2">Page-138</font></p>

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