<html>

<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=windows-1252">
<title>MURARIPUKUR—</title>
</head>

<body>

<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center"><b>
<u>MURARIPUKUR—(1)</u></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">At 
last I made up my mind finally to take the plunge, that I must now join the 
Manicktolla Gardens in Muraripukur. That meant goodbye to College, goodbye to 
the ordinary life.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25pt" align="justify">
A little while ago, Prafulla Chakravarti had come and joined. Both of us 
belonged to Rungpore, both were of nearly the same age, and intimate friends. 
This too pushed me to my decision.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25pt" align="justify">
I had already taken a vow about a year ago, in front of a picture of Kali at a 
secret ceremony at dead of night, a vow written out in blood drawn from the 
chest, that I should dedicate my life to the whole-hearted service of the 
Motherland. With me there was a companion, and also a local leader who had read 
out the oath. This leader became a Sannyasin later on and rose to be the head of 
a <i>Math;</i> he has since given up his body, so I have heard. My companion of that 
day is still alive; he did not give up the world and in fact became a very 
successful man; at present he is enjoying his rest in retirement.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25pt" align="justify">
I lived in a students&#39; Mess, one that had acquired quite a name. Among the 
inmates were Atul Gupta, Charu Bhattacharya (late of the Visvabharati), and a 
little before my time there was Naresh Chandra Sengupta. In my first year of 
College, Atul Gupta was in his fourth year, Charu Bhattacharya in his fifth and 
Naresh Sengupta had just passed out. I happened once to set foot in the room he 
used to occupy and there I found scattered about the floor a few pages torn out 
of a notebook which read very much like love letters. This seemed to me a little 
strange, but later I. realised these were some pages from the manuscript of one 
of his novels.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25pt" align="justify">
This decision to choose my path came while I was in my Fourth Year. That I would 
definitely join the Gardens was conveyed to Barin by Prafulla. He had already 
told </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25pt" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page - 6</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;him about my antecedents, so one day I received a call— Barin would see me, as 
if at an interview for a post. Escorted by Prafulla, I arrived at his residence 
in Gopimohan Dutt Lane at Goabagan. This place acquired some renown during the 
Alipore case as a den of the terrorists. Next to the house there was a gymnasium 
for the young men of the neighbourhood where wrestling and boxing and all kinds 
of dangerous martial exercises were practised.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
This happened to be my first meeting with Barin. He received me with great 
kindness and had me seated next to him. I cannot now recall the details of the 
conversation we had, but perhaps there was nothing much to remember. One thing 
however I distinctly remember. He asked me if I had read the Gita. I said I had 
read it in parts. He handed me a copy and asked me to read aloud. I began 
reciting <i>&quot;Dharmakshetre Kurukshetre...&quot;</i> in a pure and undiluted Bengali style. 
He stopped me and cried out, &quot;That won&#39;t do. One doesn&#39;t read Sanskrit here in 
the Bengali style. Listen, read like this.&quot; He gave a recital in the Hindi 
style, that is, with the pronunciation current in the other parts of India.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
That was my first lesson in Sanskrit pronounced in the Sanskrit way. Later I 
have heard the correct Sanskrit accent so often from Sri Aurobindo himself. I 
have heard him recite from the Veda, from the Upanishads, from the Gita. Today, 
I too do not read Sanskrit in the Bengali way, even when reading from an article 
in Bengali.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">It 
was settled that I would join the Gardens and stay there. But I did not give up 
my rooms at the Mess. My books and papers and furniture<sup>;</sup>—a bedstead 
and the table-lamp, for there was no electric light in those days—were all left 
in charge of my room-mate, and I paid only an occasional visit. I attended 
College as well, but at infrequent intervals. College studies could no longer 
interest me.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">It 
was about this time that I hovered around the newly founded National College in 
Calcutta for a short while. My aims were a little &quot;dubious&quot;. At the Gardens, 
there </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page - 7</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;used to be discussions about the bomb, so an idea came to my head: could not 
the National College offer an opportunity to study the subject? I thought of 
reading Chemistry and by joining the Chemistry practical learn the principles 
of explosives. At that time the Superintendent (or perhaps Principal) was Satish 
Chandra Mukeiji, Founder-President of the Dawn Society. I had met him several 
years ago in the rooms of the Society.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Let me then narrate this earlier story in the present connection. I had just 
come to Calcutta and joined the First Year. Atul Gupta took me to a meeting of 
the Dawn Society. Benoy Sarkar was there, Radha Kumud Mukerji too was there, I 
think—not his younger brother Radha Kamal who became one of my class-fellows in 
the Third Year after he had passed the F.A. examination from Berhampore. Here is 
a sketch of one of the Society&#39;s meetings. Satish Mukeiji took the chair. We 
were about twenty or thirty young men in all. He read out a verse from the Gita: 
<i>yad yad vibh<font face="Times New Roman">&#363;</font>timat sattvam, 
<font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>r<font face="Times New Roman">&#299;</font>mad-<font face="Times New Roman">&#363;</font>rjitameva v<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>
</i>and gave a short explanation 
in a few words. Then we formed ourselves into small groups of four or five. We 
were to discuss what is meant by &quot;<i><font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>r<font face="Times New Roman">&#299;</font>man&quot;</i> and 
<i>&quot;vibh<font face="Times New Roman">&#363;</font>tim<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>n&quot;</i>, where is the 
difference between the two, what do we understand by <i>&quot;<font face="Times New Roman">&#363;</font>rjita&quot; 
</i>? Each group was 
to discuss separately, each member was to say what he had to say, and finally 
all of us were to write out in the form of an essay our respective viewpoints. 
The essays would then be submitted to the chairman for his consideration and 
judgment. I sat absolutely dumb in that first session, an ignoramus among the 
learned, like a goose in the midst of swans. (I must have been about fourteen at 
that time.) But I did not feel quite at ease in that atmosphere, I had an 
impression it was all fine talk and dry debate, purely academic, one would say. Satish Chandra had no doubt wanted to use this as a means of forming the 
character and not merely as an intellectual training, a way of moulding the 
life, something that had been missing in our college education. I do not know to 
what extent he succeeded in actual fact.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page - 8</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
This was about the middle of 1904. It was three years later, about the middle of 
1907, that I met Satish Chandra again. He could not have remembered about me, 
nor did I remind him. He asked me, &quot;You are a student of literature and 
philosophy. Why do you want to read Science? &quot;I have read physics and chemistry 
for my F.A. (that is Intermediate). I have a special attraction for those 
subjects, that is why.&quot; However, the matter did not proceed very far, for I was 
getting more and more engrossed in the life at the Gardens.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Almost about the same period, I had thought of another childish plan, again in 
connection with the making of a bomb: the thing had so got into my head. I was a 
student of the Calcutta Presidency College where the great Jaga-dish Chandra was 
professor at the time. Here was the idea and it was approved by my leaders—could 
I not join his laboratory, as some kind of an assistant? Then one could carry on 
research and experiments on bombs. But how to get hold of him? I thought of 
Sister Nivedita. She was a great friend of Jagadish Bose and it was easy to 
catch hold of Nivedita, for she was one among our circle of acquaintances. But 
the occasion did not arise for this line of advance, for things had been moving 
fast at the Gardens.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Let me say a few words about our life there. But may I preface it with an 
amusing incident? I have said that my attendance at College had been getting 
more and more irregular. This attracted the notice of some of my class-fellows. 
One day, I found one of their representatives arriving &quot;on deputation&quot; to meet 
me at the Mess. He began questioning me as an intimate friend and well-wisher 
with a show of great kindness and affection. &quot;Tell me,&quot; he said, &quot;what has been 
the matter with you? What makes you keep away from College? Has there been a 
mishap somewhere? You have been such a good student and so regular in your 
attendance, what could have come over you all on a sudden?&quot; I could guess what 
he must have been suspecting: surely it had something to do with my morals—<i>chercher 
la femme</i>! Was that the case here? Comp-laints</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page - 9</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">and 
entreaties having failed, he finally sought to console and encourage me with 
these words, &quot;Don&#39;t you worry. If Calcutta does not suit you, let us leave the 
place and go somewhere else. The two of us could stay together, and if we worked 
hard for, say, three or four months, we would get ready for the examination 
without fail. Our absence from College would make no difference.&quot; To this I 
replied in a grave tone, &quot;Very well, I shall think it over.&quot; Lest there should 
be similar attacks in the future, I practically gave up the Mess.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">One 
would not say that life at the Gardens had settled down to a definite routine 
yet, for we had just begun. There were about a dozen or fourteen of us in all. 
There were occasional visitors from outside who would come for a short stay and 
then go back to their work. Naren Gos-wami had come like that for a couple of 
days, so had Bha-vabhushan who later became a Sannyasin. We began with readings 
from the Gita and this became almost a fixed routine where everybody took part. 
Even the local Inspector of Police expressed a desire to join in these readings 
with us Brahmacharins. But he had to pay dearly for that. He did not realise 
that these were no ordinary lessons in the Gita but served as a fagade for our 
preparations for the bomb. For this he was, as we heard, later dismissed from 
the service. The poor fellow had wanted to acquire a bit of spiritual merit 
which seemed to turn against him.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">A 
beginning however was made to introduce some kind of discipline and organisation. 
It was decided that the entire group should be formed into two sections, one 
&quot;civil&quot;, the other &quot;military&quot;. The &quot;military&quot; section was to include the active 
members and the others were to serve as auxiliaries. The idea originally was to 
build up an armed force, a regular army in fact, with its full complement of 
weapons and equipment and trained by regular drills. The &quot;civil&quot; side was to 
deal with external work like journalism, propaganda and recruitment. The 
<i>Yugantar</i>, and later the <i>Navashakti</i>, became our publicity organs. I was not much 
attracted by this &quot;civil&quot; side; I wanted to become one of </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page - 10</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
the &quot;military&quot; men. Prafulla who was one of those dreamy, &quot;introvert&quot;, 
intellectual types and a good writer and speaker took up the &quot;civil&quot; work. They 
used to say with a touch of humour, no doubt, that he was the Mazzini and I was 
his Garibaldi. But no provision had yet been made to give this &quot;Garibaldi the 
necessary training in military drill or the use of weapons. So, I had to begin 
with the science of warfare rather than its art. Barin was at that time writing 
his series on The Principles of Modern Warfare for the<i> Yugantar</i>. I too began my 
study of the subject. I started going to the Imperial Library (now the National 
Library) in Calcutta for my studies and research. Where could I begin? Well, it 
was a book called <i>The Art of War</i> by the German military expert, Glausewitz, a 
book where the very first sentence ran like this, &quot;The object of warfare is to 
destroy the enemy and finish with him.&quot; I am not sure how this helped me add to 
my knowledge of warfare or my skill in the art of fighting.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
During my last days in College, I used to study Mazzini in place of <i>King John or 
The Faerie Queene.</i> One day I suddenly discovered that they had removed my Mazzini from the shelves of the library, and even the 
<i>Life and Death of Socrates</i> 
by Plato had disappeared. These books were no doubt supposed to turn the heads 
of our Indian students!</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
About this time, I had been several times to my home town Rungpore. There at the 
local Library, I discovered a fine book on the history of Secret Societies. The 
book gave the story of how subject nations aspiring for freedom began their work 
in secret. In it the story of Ireland and Russia had been given a good deal of 
space. The secret societies in Russia had a system which was rather distinctive. 
It should have been taken over by us, so I have heard Sri Aurobindo say. They 
would divide the underground workers into little groups of not more than five. 
No group could know the others, only those belonging to a particular group would 
know its own members. Each group had a leader, who alone would know his 
immediate superior</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page -11</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;placed 
in charge of only four or five of such little groups. Similarly, the leader of 
the higher group would have dealings with the one next higher in rank who would 
be in charge of the bigger groups, and so on, right to the, topmost man. Such a 
system was necessary, for in case someone got caught, that could not implicate&#39; 
the entire organisation but only a handful of his acquaintances. One of the main 
instruments in the hands of the police or the government for detecting a 
conspiracy is the confession extracted from the persons caught, whether by 
torture, through temptations, from sheer bravado, or by whatever other means. 
Under that system, no one could know anybody except the few members, of his own 
group with whom he came into immediate contact through his work, nor could he 
know anything about the general plan of work; he had to carry out only the part 
assigned to him.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">At 
the Rungpore Library I came across another book, namely, Gibbon&#39;s famous <i>Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire.</i> I ran through the lengthy volumes from end to end 
with tremendous enthusiasm and added a great deal to my learning and knowledge. 
I had a hope that the book might throw some light as to how to bring about the 
&quot;decline and fall&quot; of the British rule in India. I regret much help did not come 
that way.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
Now, to come back to the Gardens and our organisational system. Nothing could be 
arranged by way of an armed force, for our work itself took another turn. A 
military organisation was now to give place to a terrorist organisation. In the 
earlier stages, we did not have much faith in terrorist methods, for, as we had 
seen about Russia, this path led only to mutual assassinations, murder and 
revenge seemed to follow in an endless succession, leading to no final issue. 
That is why we had decided on the military solution. To that end, our efforts 
had been directed towards forming a new military force on the one hand and on 
the other towards sowing the seeds of revolt among the British Indian troops. I 
remember about a military police force stationed at Rungpore where the 
commandant had </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page - 12</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
been won over to a large extent, although I could not say how it would have 
turned out at the end.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">In 
the event, it was none of these methods that brought us independence. Indian 
independence has come in another way, the inscrutable way of Providence.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">As 
I was saying, we gave up militarism and turned towards the terrorist methods. 
There had awakened in the country a keen demand and aspiration: must we bear in 
silence and give no answer to this tyranny and oppression that seemed to go on 
increasing day by day? So, we started getting ready for a fitting reply. It 
brought in the first place a greater courage to the general public, though it 
remained doubtful if it helped relieve the oppression. And secondly, it gave 
some satisfaction to men. Thus we directed our efforts to shooting at the 
Lieutenant Governor, derailing his train, and assassinating tyrants in the 
official ranks. Governor Andrew Fraser, the District Magistrates Allen and 
Kingsford, Mayor Tardivel of Chandernagore, these became the targets of the 
terrorists. The members of the Manicktolla Garden group were directly connected 
with these activities. But there is one thing to be noticed about these attempts 
that at least in the earlier stages almost all of them failed, with only one or 
two exceptions.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
One of the activities of the Gardens, apart from the attempts to manufacture 
bombs, had been to procure and distribute guns and rifles and pistols. Purchase, 
theft and loot were the three methods of procurement. In this manner one might 
gather materials for terrorist purposes, but it could hardly meet the needs of 
an armed force. At the Gardens there was some shooting practice too, with 
pistols. The trunk of a mango tree had been riddled with bullets— the police 
could very easily find that out later. This reminds me of Prafulla Chaki. He 
used to say taking a revolver in his hand, &quot;I for one am not going to live on if 
they get hold of me. I shall neither be tortured by the police nor will I let 
their baits to confess tempt me. Look, this is the way I am going to finish 
myself.&quot; He would then open wide his mouth, push in the revolver muzzle and 
press the trigger with</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-13</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;his 
fingers, adding, &quot;This is the one sure way. In the other methods, one merely 
wounds oneself, very often with no serious danger to life. But it is much more 
risky to live on after getting wounded, isn&#39;t it?&quot; Prafulla committed suicide 
after the Muzzaffarpur bomb affair in exactly the way he had rehearsed—I should 
not say &quot;suicide&quot;, for it was really an act of martyrdom.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
Now let me come out with some of my own exploits. I did not, as I have said, 
want to be one of the law-abiding &quot;civilians&quot;; my aim was to be a &quot;military&quot; man 
with his law of the bomb. But first I must prove my mettle in that line. So, 
they set me a test. I was to carry a pistol and deliver it to a gentleman in 
Jalpaiguri. You seem to laugh at this instance of my &quot;military&quot; ability. But 
perhaps you cannot now imagine what it meant in those days to carry a real 
pistol. The police had its secret agents all over the place always on the 
look-out for victims. If you happened to be a young man, if you dressed in a 
manner even slighdy out of the ordinary, if there was anything the least 
suspicious about your movements that might attract attention, it was enough. If 
the police came and searched you and found a lethal weapon like a revolver in 
your possession, you would get at least seven years—of that you might rest 
assured. Nevertheless, I managed to carry the weapon in a perfectly easy and 
natural manner all the way to North Bengal and reached it to the address given. 
This was the way in which they used to distribute weapons for future use to the 
different centres at various places.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
Now that I had passed the first test almost without effort, there came a second 
hurdle to cross. Will you be shocked to hear that I was to join a gang of 
dacoits and take part in a real dacoity? &quot;Very well,&quot; I said to myself, for 
everything is fair in love and war—although I did feel somewhat uncomfortable 
even without my knowing it, for there was something about the whole affair that 
was not palatable to me. But this had been decided upon as one of our methods of 
collecting funds, for the moneys that came from gifts were not sufficient, and 
people rather shied of making gifts for the</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-14</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;work 
of such secret societies. So we had to fix on loot. The mail runner was to be 
waylaid and his bags looted, somewhat far away in a place in the Khulna 
district. We left in a body and put up with a friend. There we had to spend a 
couple of days arranging to stitch up the bags, for the money had to be carried 
back in bags, you see. But for some reason or other, the plan fell through and I 
for one heaved a sigh, of relief. However there was one thing I had gained out 
of all this. It was a glimpse I could have of the river Kapotakshi, no longer 
limpid like the &quot;pigeon&#39;s eye&quot; though, for it was all cluttered up with weeds—on 
whose banks stood the birthplace of Michael Madhusudan and the mango grove where 
he used to play about as a child. I did feel as if the breath of his poetry 
still lingered about the atmosphere.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
The household arrangements at our Gardens were of the most simple, natural and 
unpretentious sort, the aim being to avoid all unnecessary complications and 
save our time and labour. The cooking was done perhaps only once a day and 
almost every day it was <i>khichri.</i> For the second meal, something readymade bought 
from the market was found enough. We did the cooking ourselves and washed the 
dishes. The dishes and utensils were not of brass, they were all earthenware 
vessels, I believe. And the washing was done in the waters of the pond. What 
kind of pond it was could only be described by a Kalidasa, but perhaps some 
idea, could be had from Bankimchandra&#39;s description of the Bhima tank: &quot;the dark 
shades of the palms dancing to the rhythms of the dark waters&quot; and so on... . 
That is to say, it had more of weeds and mud than water, not to speak of the 
fish and the frogs and other animal species, including a fair complement of 
serpents and things. But to us it seemed good enough and we used to take our 
dips there with great glee. In fact I had my first lessons in swimming in that 
very pool. There were actually two pools and not one. and it would be difficult 
to decide which was the more &quot;untouchable&quot; of the two. The gardens around were 
in an equally poor condition. They were no gardens at all, for all was primitive 
jungle, a tangle of shrubs and trees and creepers, with all </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-15</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
sorts of insects and reptile roaming within. And the house where we were 
supposed to live was in ruins.<sup>1</sup></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
But in spite of all, the place was absolutely quiet and silent, a reason being 
that it was practically outside th^ city limits. The life we lived in such 
surroundings could be compared with that of nomads. The strange thing is that 
despite such irregular habits, or rather the habitual irregularities of our life 
there, we never fell ill. The abundance of vitality and the enthusiasm and joy 
kept at bay all attacks of disease. It was very similar to the kind of life we 
lived here in Pondicherry during the first few years. Motilal when he saw us 
then exclaimed in utter surprise, &quot;What! Is this the way you live? And you keep 
him (Sri Aurobindo) too like this?&quot; Perhaps some day I may give you a picture of 
that life of ours, that life of utter freedom which looked so rustic in the eyes 
of &quot;civilised&quot; people.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Let me end this story today with something nice and sweet. It was during my stay 
at the Gardens that I had my first meeting and interview with Sri Aurobindo. 
Barin had asked me to go and see him, saying that Sri Aurobindo would be coming 
to see the Gardens and that I should fetch him. Manicktolla was in those days at 
the far end of North Calcutta and Sri Aurobindo lived with Raja Subodh Mullick 
near Wellington Square in the South Calcutta area. I went by tram and it was 
about four in the afternoon when I reached there. I asked the doorman at the 
gate to send word to Mr. Ghose—this was how he used to be called in those days 
at the place—saying that I had come from Barin of the Manicktolla Gardens. As I 
sat waiting in one of the rooms downstairs, Sri Aurobindo came down, stood near 
me and gave me an inquiring look. I said, in Bengali, &quot;Barin has sent me. Would 
it be possible for you to come to the Gardens</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify"><sup>
<font size="2">1</font></sup><font size="2"> I have been there once later. It 
was no longer the old Gardens but a ploughed field. There was no trace of the 
jungle left, it had all been dug up. The pools too had been drained and filled 
and the house razed to the ground. The British authorities had dug up every inch 
of the area to see if any weapons might have been kept hidden anywhere. I have 
found in the case of the Yugantar office also which stood next to the Medical 
College that it too had been pulled down and there was only a little plot of 
open ground left in its place</font>.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-16</font></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
with me now?&quot; He answered very slowly, pausing on each syllable separately—it 
seemed he had not yet got used to speaking Bengali—and said, &quot;Go and tell Barin, 
I have not yet had my lunch. It will not be possible to go today.&quot; So, that was 
that. I did not say a word, did my namask<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>ra and came away. This was my first 
happy meeting with him, my first <i>dar<font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>han</i> and interview.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-17</font></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center"><b>
Ill</b></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center"><b>
MURARIPUKUR (2)</b></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
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 <i>Yugantar</i> newspaper.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
As we took up these revolutionary activities, we discovered that it was not easy 
to carry on this kind of secret work unless there was, common in the country as 
a whole, a keen desire 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, 
<i>Bandemataram</i>, 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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. 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 <i>Ygantar</i> gave</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;its 
initiation of fire for nearly a couple of years. It was only after the <i>Yugantar</i> 
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 <i>Yugantar</i> 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 
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 <i>Bandemataram</i>. A paper 
named <i>Nava-shakti</i> 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
<i>Yugantar</i> could continue in and through Navashakti. The house was built more or 
less on the pattern of the one we had later at Shyamapukur. There were two 
flats. The one in front was used as the <i>Navashakti</i> office; Sri Aurobindo 
occupied the other with his wife, Mrinalini.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
A word about Manoranjan Guhathakurta will not be out 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-19</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">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 Deo-ghar, 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 <i>s<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>dhana.</i> His wife in particular was known for her
<i>s<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>dhana.</i> 
In his eyes the service of the country was an occasion and a means for the 
service of God. But his saintliness or <i>s<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>dhana</i> did not stand in the way of his 
strength of character. In him there was a fine blend of strength and sweetness.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Manoranjan&#39;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 &quot;Bandemataram&quot; as the police beat him mercilessly. He fell down wounded 
and covered with blood but he did not cease his &quot;Bandemataram&quot;. This raised a 
furious storm of protest throughout the country, which gave an opening to the 
terrorists too.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 &quot;Barisal of glorious virtue&quot;, we could not help 
adding with a little sting, &quot;thanks to those beatings&quot;.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
I have said that Sri Aurobindo came to occupy with Mrinalini a portion of the 
house in Grey Street. It was</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-20</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;here 
that they arrested him later. The <i>Navashakti</i> 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 Dakshi-neswara 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!</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 arrest along with us. In piteous tones 
they implored the policemen, &quot;We are innocent, sirs; we came here only for a 
morning stroll&quot;. The poor innocents!</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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. &quot;Who are you? 
What do you do here?&quot; the voices said. We did our best to give evasive replies. 
&quot;Very well, then, we come again tomorrow morning and will know more about it.&quot; 
With these words, the strangers seemed to make their exit. Were these warning 
voices? In spite of our dull wits, we could</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-21</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;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 anything 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&#39;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&#39;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 however burn up everything. A 
number of names were still left intact and with the help of these clues, the 
police subsequently searched a number of other places and made several arrests. 
Had I been able to make good my escape then, it would not have been difficult 
for the police to trace me through my address; there was the Imperial Library 
card issued in my name and it gave the address of my Calcutta Mess, 44/3 
Harrison Road.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">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,</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-21</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
there was a clatter and a creaking of boots. Suddenly out of the dark silence, a 
conversation arose:</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px">
&quot;You are under arrest. Your name?&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px">
&quot;Barindra Kumar Ghose.&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px">
&quot;Arabinda Ghose?&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px">
&quot;No, Barindra Kumar Ghose.&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px" align="justify">
&quot;Well, we&#39;ll see.&quot; </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
The next thing I knew was a hand clapping on my shoulders. 
&quot;Come,&quot; said a voice.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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&#39;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 to 
find a shelter or go under cover, it may not even be desirable. Then one throws 
off one&#39;s masks, one comes out in the open and acts in the way so vividly 
described in these lines of Rabindranath:</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px" align="justify">
There began a scramble</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px" align="justify">As 
to who should be the first to give up his life;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px" align="justify">
That was the only hurry.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">Or 
else, the way the Light Brigade of England acted at Balaclava in the Crimean 
War:</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px" align="justify">
Into the jaws of Death,</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px" align="justify">
Into the mouth of Hell,</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px" align="justify">
Rode the six hundred.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
The Japanese soldiers too in one of their encounters with</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-23</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
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&#39; 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 &quot;keep oneself alive at any cost, for the good of the country and 
all&quot;, or live by the bourgeois doctrine that one should always save oneself 
anyhow, even by the sacrifice of one&#39;s wife,<i> <font face="Times New Roman">
&#257;</font>tm<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>nam satatam rakset darairapi 
dh<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>nairapi</i>.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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&#39;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 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-24</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
he did he would frankly acknowledge and say without hesitation, &quot;Yes, 
it is I who have done it&quot;. 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&#39;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. &quot;We live to fight another day&quot;: 
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 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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, &quot;Follow us&quot;. But follow where? I somehow had the 
feeling that here was the end—&quot;Remember, O soul, the day of the Great 
Departure.&quot; 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</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-25</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;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 Lai 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, &quot;Now there will be no more of that 
harassment by the police. You will find it quite comfortable here.&quot; 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.</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="center">
<font size="2">page-26</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<b>DEOGHAR</b></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
The <i>dramatis personae</i> were (1) Barindra Kumar Ghose, (2) Ullaskar Dutt, (3) 
Prafulla Kumar Chakravarti, (4) Bibhuti Bhushan Sarkar, and (5) Nolini Kanta 
Gupta.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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. &quot;All is ready,&quot; he said, &quot;now there is going to be a real test. We 
have to demonstrate with a live bomb in action.&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 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 <i>mantra</i> of the Upanishad:</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:50px" align="justify">
<i>tilesu tailam dadhaniva sarpir</i></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:50px" align="justify">
<i><font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>pah srotahsu aranisu c<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>gnih</i></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:50px" align="justify">
<i>evam <font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>tma<font face="Times New Roman"> &#257;</font>tmani grhyate<font face="Times New Roman">&#768;</font> sau</i></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:50px" align="justify">
<i>satyena enam tapas<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font> yo nupasyati.&nbsp;,</i></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&quot;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 <i>tapasya.&quot;</i></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Who could say at that hour that this was a place of the manufacture of bombs? It 
would not have been far out to call it an Ashram, &quot;the abode of quiet joy&quot;, in 
the Kalidasian phrase, <i>s<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>nta-rasspadam-<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>sramam-idam.</i></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 another method, it would come inevitably and in a peaceful way, there 
would be no need for bloodshed. We got disgusted and smiled at him with 
incredulity and even 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 &quot;a tale told by 
an idiot&quot;. We were no Vaishnava devotees. We were Tantriks, worshippers of Kali. 
Our chosen deity was the Goddess of Death incarnate, with her garland of skulls. 
Ours was the heroes&#39; worship of strength. We had long been singing the proud 
refrain:</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-28</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:50px" align="justify">
Have the hero-sons,
&nbsp;O men, </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:50px" align="justify">
Adorned the Mother&#39;s forehead </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:50px" align="justify">
With the blood-red 
mark?</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
There was also a time when we had been proclaiming loudly </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
at meetings and 
shouting to the four quarters:</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Counting the beads and doing austerities,</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
All your yoga and prayers and worship,</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Oblations and sacrifice and honouring the image of gods,—</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Nothing of this will now avail in the least.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Make of the arrow&#39;s sheath and the sword thy cult,</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
For the olden days are no more.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
India will not be saved, it cannot,</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Through the worship of the gods.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Unsheath now the sword,</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
For these demons are not as of yore.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Lele Maharaj threatened us with another warning, &quot;If you do not give up this, 
you will not only not succeed but are bound to meet with danger, if not 
catastrophe.&quot; How true his prophecy was we all know from the concrete evidence 
of what came to pass.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
However, we did not confine our studies to religious books alone, we had with us 
some secular literature as well. It was precisely at this period that a 
collection of Matthew Arnold&#39;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:</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:50px" align="justify">
Strew on her roses, roses,</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:50px" align="justify">
And never a spray of yew!</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
The simplicity of feeling, the deep pathos, the fine felicity of rhythm in these 
lines had stirred my young heart too a great</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-29</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
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. ,</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
All this is however quite beside the point. Let me come </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
back to the story.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
The bomb was ready, I said, a real live bomb. It was mainly Ullaskar&#39;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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">We 
broke through the thickets and chose a spot right on top of the hill. There we 
came across a huge boulder rising 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</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-30</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;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, &quot;Successful, successful!&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
But how is this? What is this? What a gruesome spectacle! Prafulla lay limp on 
Ullas&#39;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, &quot;It&#39;s all over, there is not a hope.&quot; The body lay motionless, showed no 
signs of life. The eyes were closed, the face looked serene.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 hands: it might have caught fire and exploded 
even by that slight swing. That it did not was my sheer good luck.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 a cremation by lighting a fire in the 
bush? But that might attract people and the news might spread in the 
neighboring villages. Barin said, &quot;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 battlefield, this is our first casualty.&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">So 
far, our eyes had all been riveted on the corpse. And now, suddenly, someone 
cried, &quot;Ullas too has been wounded.&quot; 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, &quot;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</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-31</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;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.&quot; There was a special doctor, 
the renowned Indu Mallick, so far as I remember, who looked after us terrorists.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">We 
started down the hill, with not a word on our lips, our throats all choked with 
emotion, our minds stunned. The picture of the English poet came to mind: &quot;Not a 
drum was heard, not a funeral note...&quot; I once blurted out with a suppressed 
feeling, &quot;We were five when we came, only four are now returning.&quot; Barin gave me 
a rebuke, &quot;No sentimentality, please.&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 a sign of decomposition, on this the third 
day. We came back just as we had gone, leaving the body as it was.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">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 godown at the back of the shop. What happened 
to them afterwards I do not know.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-32</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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, &quot;All that is sheer myth. Prafulla is 
really dead&quot;.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Let me end this Deoghar episode with a little picture that still sticks in my 
memory. Within about a mile from our 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&#39;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&#39;s Kothi, the 
Lady&#39;s House. Everybody called Sri Aurobindo&#39;s mother a Memsahib, the 
Fashionable Lady. 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
The holy legend of sacred Deoghar would not be complete if I were not to mention 
in this context the name of Sri Aurobindo&#39;s maternal grandfather, Rishi 
Rajnarayan, who is 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—it may have been a bed of flowers once—now a white mansion 
where no one lived, left lonely as a dream.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-33</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<b><font size="4">v</font></b></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<b>SHYAMPUKUR</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">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 <i>Sanjivani</i> 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
About this time, he went out on a tour for a short while in the Assam area in 
connection with political work and he took the two of us along. I shall speak 
about that on another occasion. On return from the 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. &quot;Then get hold of an English newspaper tomorrow,&quot; he said, &quot;pick out 
some of the important items of news, write them out in Bengali and bring them to 
me. I shall see.&quot; 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 <i>Dharma.</i> 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 often 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 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">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</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Sri Aurobindo used to come here every afternoon from his uncle&#39;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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">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 
Majum-dar, Biren Ghosh and Saurin Bose (a brother-in-law of Sri Aurobindo) who 
came with us to Pondicherry and stayed here many long years. A frequent visitor 
was Ganen Tagore 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 <i>s<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>dhana</i>? 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 <i>s<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>dhana.</i> Does a fish living in water know that it has 
learnt to swim?&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">By 
giving me that work of editing the news he made me slowly grow into a journalist 
underwriter. 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 &quot;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.&quot; He corrected the first 
phrase to &quot;At a particular stage in our past.&quot; This my first article</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-35</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;was 
published in the 11th issue of <i>Dharma</i> 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Now we started collecting a few books. At the very outset he suggested two 
tides: <i>Carlyle&#39;s French Revolution and Green&#39;s History of the English People,</i> 
perhaps in consideration of our taste for history and revolution. Arrangements 
soon came to be made, all 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 protege 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 water from taps in place of holy Ganges water brought from 
the river by a carrier; he even accepted to eat sweets obtained from the market 
instead of living entirely 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">It 
was here at Shyampukur itself that Suresh Chandra had his first inspiration for 
poetry.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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, &quot;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 Moliere&#39;s 
Works.&quot; I started right away with </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-36</font></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
a play from this volume, <i>L&#39; Avare.</i> At several 
places in the margins he wrote out in his own hand the English equivalents for 
my convenience. I still possess that volume with the marginal notes in his 
handwriting.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Sri Aurobindo himself began about this time his study of the Tamil language, 
with a Tamil gentleman who used to come to the <i>Karmayogin</i> office. A rather 
amusing incident has been narrated in this connection by Suresh Chakravarti. You 
should read Suresh Chakravarti&#39;s account along with mine in order to get a more 
complete picture of our life at Shyampukur. His Reminiscences (in Bengali) have 
just 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 Nad one day and make that his permanent home.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">It 
is said that through this kind of writing are brought down spirits or bodiless 
entities. The Western savant may say that all this is a play of the subconscient 
mind as the waking mind then abdicates. But that is a matter for argument. Let 
me here describe what actually happened. Sri Aurobindo showed 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 </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-37</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">that he was Bankimchandra. 
The talks were in English. He had used a word, &quot;obfuscated&quot;, and as none of us 
knew the meaning of this unusual word we asked him the meaning. His reply was, 
&quot;In our days we knew better English than you do.&quot; Another day, somebody else 
appeared and immediately announced himself in a terrible voice, &quot;I am Dan ton! 
Terror! Red Terror!&quot; He went on discoursing on the need and utility of all that 
bloodshed of the French Revolution. Another who came introduced himself thus, &quot;I 
am Theramenes.&quot; 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Who are these beings? Or, what are they? Do supra-physical 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 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&#39;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&#39;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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">In 
many cases it is not the true soul of a dead person that comes; what comes is 
some portion of him, some fragments</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-38</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">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 beings 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 g^tes 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">As 
a record of one of his experiments along this line, Sri Aurobindo himself has 
said or rather left in writing something that ve all know. The book entitled 
Yogic <i>S<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>dhan </i>was written entirely in this manner through his hand by somebody 
else. 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 Bifen (Birendranath Dattagupta). 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. Satish 
himself absconded. Afterwards he came to us in Pondicherry and stayed here for 
some time, perhaps for a year or so. We christened him &quot;Junior</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-39</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
Sinner&quot;—as he was, as it were, a younger brother to us. But he developed into a 
<i>m<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>y<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>vadin</i> (illusionist) and finally left us as he could not reconcile himself to 
our viewpoint. Afterwards he became a <i>s<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>nnyasin.</i> He has an ashram and receives 
an allowance from Bengal Government as a political sufferer.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Our life in Shyampukur went on in its regular course, when, one evening as we 
gathered for our usual stance, 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, &quot;Come, let us move out just now.&quot; 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, 
accompanied by Ramchandra, Biren 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
The story of this sudden exit or disappearance of Sri Aurobindo has appeared in 
several versions, with many distortions and not without a touch of colour. For 
instance, someone has said that it was on Nivedita&#39;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&#39;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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 carry on 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 </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-40</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
permanent residents in that house. Of these three, Suresh Chakravarti, at Ganen Tagore&#39;s instance, disappeared among the Tagore family, in 
the house of Gaganendranath Tagore. Bejoy removed to a friend&#39;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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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, Kumeru.<sup>2</sup> Perhaps I shall tell you about that romantic 
episode in more detail later if there is luck. I spent a couple of months there, 
enjoying all kinds of delicious dishes and 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
1 If &quot;Sumeru&quot; could stand for the North Pole, surely &quot;Kumeru&quot; has a
claim on the South. - Translator</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-41</font></p><hr>
<p align="center"><b>V I</b></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<b>PONDICHERRY (1)</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">
Sri Aurobindo came to Pondicherry<sup>1</sup> and took shelter here. We might 
say of course from another point of view that it was he who gave shelter to 
Pondicherry within his own consciousness. But why this city in particular? There 
is indeed the usual view that he retired into French territory to escape the 
wrath of the British bureaucracy. But actually, all he wanted was to find a 
quiet spot where he might give himself to his own work undisturbed.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
The place was so quiet that we can hardly imagine now what it was really like. 
It was not quiet, it was actually dead; they used to call it a dead city. There 
was hardly any traffic, particularly in the area where we lived, and after dusk 
there was not a soul stirring. It is no wonder they said &quot;Sri Aurobindo has 
fixed upon a cemetery for his sadhana.&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">It 
was a cemetery indeed. Whilst the Indian nationalist movement had been flooding 
the whole country, nothing of that regenerating flood could find an entry here, 
except for one or two individuals who had felt a touch. It was like a backwater 
of the sea, a stagnant pool by the shore. There was here no such thing as a 
public life or a youth movement or any kind of collective effort, or an 
experiment in educational reform—there was no sign whatsoever of an awakening to 
life.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">A 
cemetery it was no doubt, but one with its full complement of ghouls.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">In 
the first rank of these ghouls were the ruffian bands. Such creatures can appear 
only in a highly tamasic environment. For, the greater the depth of inertia the 
more is the need for keen rajasic excitement followed immediately by the silence 
of sleep. Pondicherry of those days had a still more notorious reputation for 
its cheap wine-shops and its rowdy tipsies. Of this type of ghouls there was a 
regular invasion from outside every week-end.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="left">
1 in 1910</p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
The ruffian bands—known locally as bands in French —were a peculiar 
institution now almost broken up. The French regime in Pondicherry was supposed 
to be in theory a reign of liberty, equality and fraternity. But in actual fact, 
it was the feudalism of pre-Revolution France that held sway here. Or perhaps it 
was something worse, namely, the arbitrary rule of three or four high officials 
and rich men of ill-gotten means. The bands were in their pay and they were 
there to do their bidding; the police had neither the will nor the power to 
intervene. On certain occasions, during the campaigns for political elections, 
complete anarchy seemed to reign in Pondicherry, while rioting and murder 
continued for days on end and blood flowed freely. People would not dare stir 
out of their houses, especially after dark. We were not openly involved in 
politics, but some of our friends were. And Sri Aurobindo would sometimes send 
out some of us to meet them, even after nightfall and on purpose.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
The local people marvelled at our dauntless courage.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">*</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">* *</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">These ruffian bands—these ghouls I was going to say— had turned against us too 
on more than one occasion. Let me explain in a little more detail.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Soon after Sri Aurobindo came, he realised that a firm seat must be established 
here, an unshakable foundation for his <i>s<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>dhana</i> and
<i>siddhi,</i> for the path and the 
goal. He was to build up on the ever-shifting sands of the shore a firm and 
strong edifice, a Temple of God. Have we not read in the Puranas and other 
scriptures that whenever and wherever a sage or a Rishi sat down to his 
meditation and sadhana, there rushed upon him at once a host of evil spirits to 
break up his work? They seemed to have a special liking for Rishi&#39;s flesh.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Those who tried most to stop Sri Aurobindo from settling down and were ever on 
the alert to move him from his seat were the British authorities. The British 
Government in India could never accept that Sri Aurobindo had come away to 
French territory for carrying on his yoga. Religion and </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-43</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
spirituality, these to 
them were a mere subterfuge. They thought they knew what Sri Aurobindo was—the 
one most dangerous man in all India, the source of all the trouble. Pondicherry 
was the place from where were supplied the necessary instructions and advice and 
perhaps even the pistols and other weapons. Here was the brain-centre of the 
Indian independence movement. That Sri Aurobindo had been the mainspring of 
Indian independence they had been told by their life-instinct, although the 
superficial sense in which they understood it was not obviously the whole truth.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">At 
one time, they made up their minds that Sri Aurobindo should be kidnapped in a 
car with the help of one of the chiefs of the local &quot;bandes&quot;. We had to patrol 
all night the house in which Sri Aurobindo lived, lest there should be a sudden 
attack. I gather the ringleader behind this move showed repentance later and 
said that to act against a holy man and yogi was a great sin and that a curse 
might fall on the evildoer himself.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Nevertheless, force having failed they now tried fraud. An attempt was made to 
frame a trumped-up charge at law. Some of the local &quot;ghouls&quot; were made to help 
forge the documents—some photographs and maps and charts along with a few 
letters—which were to prove that we had been engaged in a conspiracy for dacoity 
and murder. The papers were left in a well in the compound of one of our men, 
then they were &quot;discovered&quot; after a search by the police. The French police had 
even entered Sri Aurobindo&#39;s residence for a search. But when their Chief found 
there were Latin and Greek books lying about on his desk, he was so taken aback 
that he could only blurt out, &quot;II sait du latin, il sait du grec!&quot; —&quot;He knows 
Latin, he knows Greek!&quot;—and then he left with all his men. How could a man who 
knew Latin and Greek ever commit any mischief?</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">In 
fact, the French Government had not been against us, indeed they helped us as 
far as they could. We were looked upon as their guests and as political 
refugees, it was a matter of honour for them to give us their protection. And 
where</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-44</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; " align="justify">&nbsp;it is a question of honour, the French as a race are willing to risk 
anything: they still fight duels in France on a point of honour. But at the same 
time, they had their friendship, the <i>entente cordiale</i>, with Britain to maintain, 
and it is this that got them into a dilemma.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; " align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; " align="center">
<font face="Arial Unicode MS" size="5">&#8258;</font></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">In 
addition to force and fraud, the British Government did not hesitate to make use 
of temptation as well. They sent word to Sri Aurobindo which they followed up by 
a messenger, to say that if he were to return to British India, they would not 
mind. They would indeed be happy to provide him with a nice bungalow in the 
quiet surroundings of a hill station, Darjeeling, where he could live in 
complete freedom and devote himself to his spiritual practices without let or 
hindrance. Needless to add, this was an ointment spread out to catch a fly and 
Sri Aurobindo refused the invitation with a &quot;No, thank you.&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
Afterwards came a more serious attack, perhaps the one most fraught with danger. 
The First World War was on. India had been seething with discontent and things 
were not going too well abroad on the European front. The British Government now 
brought pressure on the French: they must do something drastic about their 
political refugees. Either they should hand them over to the British, or else 
let them be deported out of India. The French Government accordingly proposed 
that they would find room for us in Algeria. There we could live in peace; they 
would see to our passage so that we need have no worry on that score. If on the 
other hand we were to refuse this offer, there might be danger: the British 
authorities might be allowed to seize us forcibly.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">I 
can recall very well that scene. Sri Aurobindo was seated in his room in what 
was later called &quot;Guest House&quot;, Rue Francois Martin. We too had come. Two or 
three of the Tamil nationalist leaders who had sought refuge in Pondicherry came 
in and told Sri Aurobindo about the Algeria </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-45</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">offer and also gave a hint that they 
were agreeable. Sri Aurobindo paused a little and then he said, in a quiet clear 
tone, &quot;I do not budge from here.&quot; To them this came as a bolt from the blue; 
they had never expected anything like this. In Algeria there would be freedom 
and peace, whereas here we lived in constant danger and uncertainty. But now 
they were helpless. Sri Aurobindo had spoken and they could hardly act 
otherwise. They had no alternative but to accept the decision, though with a 
heavy heart.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
The story of Danton comes to mind: Danton the leader of the French Revolution. 
For a long time he had been on the crest of the wave of revolution, a leader 
revered by all. The wheel of his fortune was now on the downward turn and 
another party, the extremists, had reached the crest. Orders were out for his 
arrest, which meant the guillotine. His friends rushed to him to give advice. 
&quot;Flee, Danton, flee,&quot; they said, &quot;there is yet time, flee.&quot; Danton was unmoved 
and he replied in a calm and quiet manner. &quot;That cannot be,&quot; he said. &quot;On 
n&#39;emporte pas le pays a lasemelle de ses souliers&quot;—&quot;You cannot carry the country 
on the heels of your shoes.&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
The Ashram has of course been subjected to fresh attacks later, and to some of 
these many of you have been witness. But by then the Ashram had its foundations 
well laid and the edifice had risen high. But in the days of which I have been 
speaking there was no such thing as a foundation yet. Today the Ashram stands 
like a banyan tree with head erect and branches spread all over; its body is 
solid and immovable, the roots go deep and strong and firm., An attack may 
dislodge or even break a few leaves and branches, but nothing more serious can 
happen. But in those days there was a possibility that the whole tree might get 
uprooted and such attempts too were there. The whole endeavour then was to find 
a standing-room. Sri Aurobindo wanted, as the Vedic Rishis before him had done, 
to find a footing where there was none, <i>apade pada-dhatave.</i></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-46</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">In 
those days there was in the College de France in Pondicherry a French professor 
named Jouveau Dubreuil—later on he became quite a well-known name—who had been 
engaged in research in ancient history and archaeology. We knew him quite well. 
He was at that time working on the early history of Pondicherry. From a study of 
the ancient documents and inscriptions he discovered that the city of 
Pondicherry, which I have called a city of the dead, had at one time been known 
as a city of the Veda, veda-puri. That is to say, it had a centre of Vedic 
learning. And this Vedic college, our professor found from ancient maps and 
other clues, was located exactly on the spot where the main building of our 
Ashram now stands.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
According to ancient tradition, the Rishi Agastya came to the South to spread 
the Vedic lore and the Aryan discipline. His seems to have been the first 
project for the infusion of Aryan culture into the Dravidian civilization. Many 
of you may here recall the lines of Hemchandra the Bengali poet:</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Arise, O Mountain, arise,</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Agastya has returned;</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">A 
new sign has been floated,</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
There&#39;s a racing flood of Light;</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
And lo, the sky holds a new splendor of the Sun</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Hold this light, O Mountain,</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
That it spread a new Dawn over the land;</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
May it hold the new Knowledge,</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
May it acquire a new life;</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
May a new Dream come to us all.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Raise, O Mountain, your blue dragon-mass.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
The legend goes that as Agastya journeyed South, the Vindhya mountains bent low 
to give him passage, and that they have remained low ever since and would 
continue in that posture until the Rishi came back. In connection with this 
story about the Vedic Rishi Agastya, one is almost automatically reminded of the 
endeavour of Sri Aurobindo. Like Agastya he journeyed South and set up a 
permanent seat</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-47</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;here to emanate a new Light—he was even known in these parts as Uttara Yogi, the Yogi of the North. In his lines of work and sadhana too we find 
a strange affinity with Agastya&#39;s effort, at least in one respect. Agastya had 
been for years driving deep into the earth, in the abyss of the subconscient, 
for he nourished both the worlds, earth and heaven; he along with his companion 
Lopamudra had been striving for victory here upon earth itself, in their batde 
and the sacrifice with its hundred fiery tongues, j<i>ay<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>vedatra
<font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>atan<font face="Times New Roman">&#299;</font>tham<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>jim, 
yat samya<font face="Times New Roman">ñ</font>c<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font> mithunavabhyaj<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>va;</i> for the effort that had the protection of the 
gods could never fail, <i>na mrs<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font> <font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>r<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>ntam yadavanti dev<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>h</i>. To carry the effort of 
the Vedic Rishis to a greater fulfillment, to make the victory complete in a 
hundred, nay, in a thousand ways, <i><font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>atan<font face="Times New Roman">&#299;</font>tham,</i></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
<i>sahasran<font face="Times New Roman">&#299;</font>tham,</i>—this precisely was Sri Aurobindo&#39;s aim.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font face="Arial Unicode MS" size="5">&#8258;</font></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Sri Aurobindo was in Pondicherry for forty years. The first few years were spent 
in establishing a seat: he had to select a suitable spot and make a permanent 
abode where he could work undisturbed. This point about selecting a &quot;seat&quot; 
occurs in the story of all great spiritual aspirants and in all the disciplines. 
The Tantriks had need of their &quot;seat of five skulls&quot;,<i> pa<font face="Times New Roman">ñ</font>camund<font face="Times New Roman">&#299;</font></i>. 
Ramakrishna had his <i>pa<font face="Times New Roman">ñ</font>cavat<font face="Times New Roman">&#299;</font></i> the 
grove of five banyans. But why this insistence on five? Perhaps the number stood 
for the five main elements in man and the five worlds that constitute the 
universe,—what the Upani-shads term body, life, mind, supermind and spirit. The 
Vedas too speak of <i>pa<font face="Times New Roman">ñ</font>caksiti</i>, the five abodes, <i>
pa<font face="Times New Roman">ñ</font>cakrsti,</i> the 
five fields of culture, <i>p<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>ncajana</i>, the five births or worlds. 
Sri Krishna&#39;s conch of <i>pa<font face="Times New Roman">ñ</font>cajanya</i> may well occur to the mind. Lord Buddha too 
when he took his seat under the Bodhi tree is supposed to have said, &quot;I do not 
rise from this seat until my aim is attained, even though the body dry up or 
fall&quot; (:<i>ih<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>sane
<font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>usyatu me <font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>ar</i><font face="Times New Roman"><i>&#299;</i></font><i>ram</i>).</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
The site once chosen and the seat established, Sri Aurobindo had now to prepare 
the ground. There were, as</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-48</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">I 
have said, shifting sands all around symbolising a changing world where all is 
in a state of flux, <i>yat ki<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>ca jagaty<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>m jagat.</i> All that had to be cleared and 
firm ground reached. He spent many long years, even as Agastya had done, in this 
spade-work. For he was to erect a huge edifice, a Temple dedicated to God. He 
had once dreamed of a Temple for Bhawani, Bhawani Mandir, where he would install 
Mother India. Now too he desired the same thing, a Temple for Bhawani, a 
Temple-city in fact.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
That needed a solid, firm and immovable foundation. For this he had to dig into 
the farthest abyss, to fix, one might say, the &quot;five supporting pillars&quot;. All 
this he did single-handed during the first four years, from 1910 to 1914. Then 
the Mother came. And although that was for a short time, it was then that the 
plans were clearly laid for the thing that was to be and the shape it was to 
take,—this New Creation of theirs.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
The work of building the foundation took him till 1920. From 1920 to 1926 he 
worked with the Mother in giving it strength, testing it and making it fit and 
adequate for carrying the future load. In 1926 there began the construction of 
the superstructure, and along with that proceeded the work of installing the 
presiding Deity. This work of installation took twelve years to complete and the 
next twelve were given to making it permanent. His task done, Sri Aurobindo 
stepped aside, for a new task, for taking up another line of work. But to this 
foundation he lent the entire strength of his bare back, that his work and new 
creation should stand
immortal and with its head erect.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font face="Arial Unicode MS" size="5">&#8258;</font></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
All that Sri Aurobindo had wanted to do with his body was to install permanently 
in an earthly form the Mother Divine. This Temple we call the Ashram has grown 
through the Power and Influence of her physical Presence, in order that she may 
manifest anew. The Divine Mother of the worlds has installed herself here. In 
the golden Temple </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-49</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
the living Goddess is manifest with all her Powers of 
realisation. She has herself taken charge of the Work now. And the power of her 
Grace is working towards the goal that the entire earth and the race of men grow 
into a living manifestation of Herself.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-50</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<b>VII</b></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<b>PONDICHERRY (2)</b></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">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 
&quot;spy&quot; 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 <i>spa<font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>a </i>in the old Vedic language. The Vedic Rishi 
describes Indra as sending out these<i> spa<font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>a</i> 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 backdoor and under cover of 
darkness after nightfall.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">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 
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 
&quot;Dupleix&quot; and had presented himself before the doctor for the medical 
examination. The fun of it</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">was that the doctor had no suspicion as to whom he 
was going to examine, although he did exclaim on hearing Sri Aurobindo&#39;s accent, 
&quot;You seem to speak English very well!&quot; to which Sri Aurobindo replied, &quot;Yes, I 
was in England for some time.&quot; Some time 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 &quot;Sacra&quot; (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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
The British Indian police set up a regular station here, with a rented house and 
several permanent men. They were of course plainclothes 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 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 records, 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Nevertheless, something rather awesome did happen once. We had by then shifted 
to the present Guest House. There were two new arrivals. One was a relative.of 
Bejoy&#39;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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
One day, this Birendra suddenly shaved his head. Moni </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="left">
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-52</font>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
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, &quot;Do 
you know who I am? You may not believe it, but I am a spy, a spy of the British 
police. I can&#39;t keep it to myself any longer. I must speak out, I must make the 
confession before you.&quot; With this he fell at Sri Aurobindo&#39;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—<i>m<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>y<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>, nu matibhramo 
nu</i>—Biren started, again, &quot;Oh, you do not believe me? Then let me show you.&quot; He 
entered the next room, opened his trunk, drew out a hundred rupee note and 
showed it to us. &quot;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....&quot; No words came to our lips, all 
of us kept silent and still.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
During the Great War, Bejoy had his spell of bad luck.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-53</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
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&#39;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&#39;<i>s dar<font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>an</i> 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 <i>dar<font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>an.</i></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 informally ascertained from the Governor that he did not 
consider it advisable to leave here, for the intentions of the 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 <i>s<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>dhana</i> alone, and so on. But Sri 
Aurobindo had serious doubts. Bejoy however was a headstrong 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</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-54</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
only a year&#39;s custody in jail; this time it was not so easy.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 &quot;good-conduct&quot; certificate. Or else he must 
produce a letter to the same effect signed by five gendered 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 
Chettiar (in whose house Sri Aurobindo had put up on arrival), (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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
&nbsp;<font size="2">page-55</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
whom I brought the message was called Shanmugabhelu; I forget the name of the 
Chandernagore Genevan. 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 Shanmu-gabhelu must 
have shocked those of you who know Tamil! 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. &quot;Sommes-nous des 
citoyens fran^ais, ou non?&quot;—&quot;Are we French citizens, or are we not?&quot;—he shouted. 
This was a plaint addressed to the French authorities, a petition and protest: 
&quot;Where exactly do we stand here in the matter of rights?&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 joined 
us again at the end of his career; in his early days he had been our playmate. 
Gradually, they formed a group of Sri Aurobindo&#39;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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 &quot;L&#39;Id£e Nouvelle&quot;.<sup>4</sup> Already, in her Paris days, a 
similar group had been formed around her, a group that came to be</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
1 We publish after this article a notice relating to the Society called &quot;L&#39;Idee<br>
Nouvelle&quot;, which originally appeared in the first number of the Arya, in August<br>
1914. - Editor.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
&nbsp;<font size="2">page-56</font></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;known as the Cosmique, a record of whose proceedings has appeared in part in the Mother&#39;s 
Words of Long Ago <i>(Paroles d&#39;Autrefois)</i>. Here, in Pondicherry, she started 
building up an intimate circle of initiates simultaneously with the publication 
of th<i>e Arya</i>.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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&#39;s <i>dar<font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>an</i>. 
But the<i> dar<font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>an</i>.orian 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 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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&#39;s vigilant eye. </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
&nbsp;<font size="2">page-57</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
The Swamiji, our Amarendra, came here to obtain Sri Aurobindo&#39;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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
That was the end of Swami Kaivalyananda. He had had his nirvana and his place 
was taken by Amarendra Chatteiji. 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?</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">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&#39; 
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, &quot;Payable when able.&quot; 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">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 </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">&nbsp;<font size="2">page-58</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">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 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, &quot;all here is shining with light&quot;, <i>sarvamidam vibh<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>ti.
</i>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 candle-stick, 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</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">&nbsp;<font size="2">page-59</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">&nbsp;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!-</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">We 
were able to purchase some French books at a very cheap rate, not more than two 
annas 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 secondhand 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Gradually, a few books in Sanskrit and Bengali too were added to our stock, 
through purchase and gifts. As the number 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 &quot;almirahs&quot; came later. I do not 
think there were any &quot;almirahs&quot; at all so long as we were in the Guest House. 
They came after the Mother&#39;s arrival, when we shifted with our books to the 
Library House. That is why it came to be called the Library House.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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: <i>meen moon anna</i> (fish 
three annas)—it was lucky meen in Tamil is the same as in Bengali—<i>ille</i>, then 
<i>nal 
anna</i> (if not, then four annas), the Tamil equivalent of &quot;if&quot; or &quot;then&quot; being 
beyond the range of our knowledge. Today we have practically one </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
&nbsp;<font size="2">page-60</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
servant per 
head, thanks to the boundless grace of the Mother. Sri Aurobindo used to smile 
and make the comment, &quot;We have as many servants as there are sadhaks here.&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">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 <i>dal </i>(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&#39;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&#39;s arrival, by which time our numbers had grown 
to ten or twelve. There was a cook who had something rather special about him: 
he had been to Paris and made quite a name there on account of certain powers of 
foreseeing the future and other forms of occult vision which he possessed. The 
Mother had these powers tested in the presence of some of us. He 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 him, &quot;What do you see? Do you see anything about anybody present 
here?&quot; and so on. He gave truly remarkable answers on several occasions. And yet 
he had had no sort of formal education, he 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
&nbsp;<font size="2">page-61</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">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<sub>?</sub> 
we used to have pudding 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">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 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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&#39;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 </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-62</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
took up Greek, I began 
straightway with Euripides&#39; <i>Medea,</i> and my second book was Sophocles&#39; 
<i>Antigone</i>. I 
began a translation of <i>Antigone</i> 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&#39;s Aeneid, 
and Italian with Dante. I have already told you about my French, there I started 
with Moliere.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">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 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 <i>medias res,</i> 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<i> <font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>dik<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>nda</i> and 
<i>Genesis,</i> and then develop the theme gradually, as is done 
in the Rama-yana, 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.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
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 he 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 
&quot;Guru&quot; and &quot;Ashram&quot; in relation to himself, for there was hardly a place in his 
work of new creation for the old traditional associations</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="center">
<font size="2">page-63</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;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&#39;s Master, what was real courtesy. Sri Aurobindo 
once said to us, perhaps with a tinge of regret, &quot;I have tried to stoop as low 
as I can, and yet you do not reach me.&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">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:.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px" align="justify">
<b><i>sakheti matv<font face="Times New Roman">&#257; </font>prasabham yaduktam </i></b> </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:50px" align="justify">
<b><i>he Kr<font face="Times New Roman">&#61477;</font>s<font face="Times New Roman">&#61477;</font>n<font face="Times New Roman">&#61477;</font>a he y<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>dava he sakheti </i></b> </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px" align="justify">
<b><i>aj<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>nat<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font> 
mahim<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>nam tavedam</i></b></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:50px" align="justify">
<b><i>may<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font> pram<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>d<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>t 
pranayena v<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>pi.</i></b></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px" align="justify">
<b><i>yaccavahasarthamasatkrtosi</i></b></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:50px" align="justify">
<b><i>vih<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>ra-<font face="Times New Roman">&#347;</font>ayy<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>sana- 
bhojanesu </i></b> </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:25px" align="justify">
<b><i>eko&#39;thav<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>pyacyuta tvat-samaksam</i></b></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; margin-left:50px" align="justify">
<b><i>tat ks<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>maye tv<font face="Times New Roman">&#257;</font>m-aham-aprameyam&nbsp;&nbsp; </i></b></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&quot;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.&quot;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">page-64</font></p>

</body>

</html>
