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<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center"><b>
XI</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>I 
PLAYED FOOTBALL</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">
(1)</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">
Some of you have asked to hear about my performance in football. I have already 
told you something on an earlier occasion. Let us have a little more today.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">I 
have dabbled in football almost since my birth or, to be more exact, from the 
time I barely completed five. My hand was introduced to the pen or chalk and my 
feet touched the ball practically at one and the same time. Would you believe 
it, I had my formal initiation into studies, not once but twice, and on both 
occasions it was performed with due ceremony on a Saraswati Puja day, as has 
been the custom with us. The first time it took place, I was only four years old 
and I cannot now tell you why it had to be at that early age. It may be that I 
had gone into tantrums on seeing somebody else&#39;s initiation and a mock ceremony 
had to be gone through just in order to keep me quiet. But I had to go through 
the ceremony once again at the age of five, for according to the scriptures one 
cannot be properly initiated at the age of four, so the earlier one had to be 
treated as cancelled and a fresh initiation given to make it truly valid. 
Perhaps this double process has had something to do with the solid base and the 
maturity of my learning!</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
But if I was to play football, I must at least get hold of a ball. Here you have 
your footballs by the dozen, as if they were tennis balls. But we had to move 
heaven and earth in those days in order to procure a single ball. Even the older 
boys could seldom boast of more than one, or at the most one and a half—one 
already half-worn and the other a mere half, an old tattered ball with a 
thousand patches like the shoes of Abu Salim in the story. But young people 
never lack devices. We discovered a substitute, the Indian grape-fruit or 
shaddock that looks like a ball. No doubt the touch was hard, but it could be 
reduced to a convenient softness with our</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page-84</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
kicks and blows and poundings with the 
fist. The only trouble was that the thing gave way soon afterwards on receiving 
such treatment. But this particular fruit was no rarity in our part of the 
country. There were any number of trees and it grew in profusion; there were 
several trees in our compound itself.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
Now to announce my first victorious feat. I was then about seven, or eight at 
the most. The older boys were playing and I stood as a spectator, perhaps an 
envious one. They suddenly found themselves short of one player: one of their 
goalkeepers was missing. Someone called to me, &quot;Hey, you there, would you go and 
take your stand at that goal? You will have nothing much to do, simply keep on 
standing.&quot; A nominal goal-keeping in fact, since they had to have a goalkeeper 
in order to play a game. And till the very last moment, the ball did not come to 
our side of the field at all. It was growing fairly dark when one of the 
opponents suddenly came in running and aimed the ball at my goal from a little 
distance. No one had any doubts as to what would happen and they all began to 
shout, &quot;Goal, goal!&quot; for how could a little kid like me manage to stop the ball? 
But the miracle happened: I did stop the ball and took hold of it before it 
could pass into the goal. Our people now cried out, &quot;No, no, no goal!&quot; and what 
a pandemonium followed! They started dancing about with myself caught up in 
their arms. &quot;Bravo, bravo, my dear fellow,&quot; rang the cry all around. For me it 
was like the tiger&#39;s first taste of blood, to use a hunter&#39;s phrase.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Years went by and I grew into an expert player while still in school. I played 
right-out in the forward line and began to get used to that position alone. But 
this gave me the habit of using only one foot, the right, and I became an adept 
of, the single foot. I could not make much use of the left, except as an 
occasional stand-by at need, just as Rajen still does with his right. Do you 
know where I got real good training in the use of my left foot? That was after I 
came here in Pondicherry. And it took me several years to make it perfect. But I 
developed a different style for each of the </p>
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<font size="2">Page-85</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
two feet. The right was used for 
high long shorts, such as corner kicks and overhead passes, and the left was 
reserved for the low powerful drives. It is these left-foot drives that have got 
me most of my goals. In the Pondicherry team there was no place for me as 
right-out, for the boy who played in that position could not play in any other 
position but he played very well as right-out. His name should be recorded here, 
it was Sinnas, Evereste Sinnas; he was an Indian Christian and the name was like 
that. So I was given the right-in position. I played on the right wing, and Moni 
(Suresh Chakravarti) played left-out. The two of us, Moni Chakravarti, or Chakra 
for short, and myself soon acquired quite a name here thanks to our football. 
Our styles were very different, though. Moni&#39;s tactics were simple. Once he got 
possession of the ball—the ball had to be passed on to him for he seldom 
bothered to snatch it for himself—but once he got the ball he was irresistible. 
What a run he could give! He seemed to fly past the touch line and no one could 
catch up with him or stop him till he reached near the corner post. From there 
he would send a high kick which would land the ball right in front of the goal, 
as though it were a corner shot. I would be there to receive it and do the 
needful.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">I 
played a different style. I did not lag far behind Moni in the matter of speed, 
but I was an extremely calm and steady player. Moni raced like a storm without 
caring for anything or anybody, as if it was a matter of life and death. This 
cost him a broken collar-bone more than once and he had serious injuries on his 
face and nose. I too ran fast enough, and carried the ball past my opponents 
whenever I could, but my aim was always to pass on the ball and to receive it 
back. I tried to keep my position, anticipate where the ball was likely to land, 
in what positions our men would be found. A well-known player from Coochbehar 
had once remarked on noticing the easy manner and artistic style of my game, 
&quot;There is a fine individuality about your play; it is calm and steady, neat and 
clean and robust.&quot; Indeed my aim was to play a clean game: none was to</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page-86</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">touch me 
in the legs nor was I to touch my opponent&#39;s body, whatever contacts came must 
come through the ball alone. I had nothing to do with what they call a robust 
game, that was miles apart from my idea of football. That explains why after so 
many years of football, I have never had a fracture or injury except for a 
slight twist to one of my toes. I must however confess that I too have done a 
bit of roughing in my days, but I was forced to it; for in those days, &quot;push him 
down&quot; was the accepted slogan and it was not treated as a foul. But even the 
pushing had its do&#39;s and don&#39;ts; you could not just push your way through as you 
liked.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Moni and I, and with us our club, the Cercle Sportif of Pondicherry, suddenly 
came into the limelight after a particular match. We had a visiting team from 
Vellore. This team was thought to be invincible. They had won all the matches 
they played on their way to Pondicherry. The first time they met with a reverse 
was at our hands; we won by a margin of two goals. They felt humiliated and 
demanded a return match the next day. It was a tense game ending in a draw, so 
we could keep up our prestige. They never expected to meet such a formidable 
team as ours in an obscure spot like Pondicherry—Pondicherry was certainly an 
obscure enough spot from the point of view of football. In our team, four of us 
were what they called &quot;Swadeshi&quot; players—this was the name given to those who 
took asylum here after doing patriotic work. All the four were from Bengal. Moni 
was there and Bejoy—he played centre-half—and Purna-chandra Pakre, a student 
from Chandernagore who pursued his studies here, and myself. This Purnachandra 
had gone one better than the rest of us at least in one respect. He had mastered 
the Tamil language to such a degree that I could find him devouring Tamil novels 
of the &quot;yellow-back&quot; type with complete ease. How many of us here have learned 
even the Tamil alphabet?</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Now to come back to Bengal. When we returned to Bengal after a lapse of four 
years and they saw us play at Rungpore, we were given the name, &quot;Madrasi 
players&quot;, and it was given out that two absolutely formidable &quot;Madrasi </p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page-87</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; " align="justify">
&nbsp;players&quot; had arrived in town. So the Town Club of Rungpore decided that they 
must now be able to annex the Dinajpur Shield, the most coveted trophy in North 
Bengal. A couple of players were &quot;hired&quot; from elsewhere to make the team 
perfectly invincible. And off we went to Dinajpur. The performance of our team 
had already received adequate publicity, for we had beaten Bogra Town by two 
goals. One of these goals had been scored by me and it had brought profuse 
applause. Let me stop and tell you first about that particular feat. I was 
playing right-out. A ball came to me about mid-field, near the touch line. The 
field lay practically open. The half-back, a non-Indian, was a little farther 
away and I could easily pass him by. The full-back rushed at me, but he too was 
by-passed. As there was no point in waiting longer, I aimed a shot at the goal. 
But instead of shooting with the right foot—I was playing right-out you 
remember—I used the left. The goalkeeper was naturally expecting the shot to 
land on his right; instead it went to his left and got us a fine goal, and what 
hurrahs! Needless to add, these things do not happen by previous plan or 
calculations, they come in a matter of moments and automatically. One can of 
course try to reason out later how it all happened. This in the parlance of Yoga 
is what Sri Aurobindo calls an &quot;involved process&quot;.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">To 
come back to the point. It was the last match of the tournament, the final: 
Dinajpur Town Club <i>versus</i> Rungpore Town Club. Everyone felt certain that we 
would be the winners, ours was such a strong team; the only question was: by how 
many goals? We too felt the same way. However, soon after the play began, I 
think it was before half-time in any case, something entirely unexpected came to 
pass. One of the Dinajpur forwards, I cannot now recall his name but he was a 
very good player, finding our side of the field almost empty—we were pressing 
them hard on their side of the field —aimed a shot from beyond the half-boundary 
line, almost near mid-field. Our goalkeeper was caught napping and it was a fine 
score. Everybody was flabbergasted. During the next half-hour or so, we held 
them pressed to their goal</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page-88</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">mouth and went on bombarding them with shots at the 
goal. But each time we shot, the ball struck the post or the crossbar or it hit 
the goalkeeper, it could never be placed inside the goal. It was a regular 
bombing every minute that we kept up, but nothing could happen; it looked as if 
somebody had raised a wall against us. I tried six or seven corner kicks, all of 
them first-class, but to no avail. A Kumartuli player in our team was so 
impressed by my corner kicks that he extended to me an invitation. &quot;Why don&#39;t 
you come and play in Calcutta? What is the point in wasting yourself here in a 
provincial town? You should come and play with us in our team.&quot; I could not 
however accept the invitation; I am going to tell you why. Anyhow, we did not 
manage to equalise that goal and had to accept defeat. I never felt so 
disappointed. We returned to Rungpore with heads down and not a word spoken.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
But do you know what had happened? It was explained to us soon after the match 
by one of their outstanding players, perhaps he was their captain. He actually 
half belonged to our team, for his relatives lived in Rungpore and he himself 
sometimes came and played for the Rungpore team. &quot;This serves you right,&quot; he 
said. &quot;Mother Kali is a living goddess, you see.&quot; With this, he took out a 
half-piece bit from his pocket and went on, &quot;We had been to the Kali temple, we 
made this offering to the goddess and said to her, &#39;Mother, here we have come, 
begging for thy protection; take this half-piece as our modest offering and give 
us the victory this afternoon.&#39; Now, see how she has got us the victory. How 
else could we have stood up against a team such as yours?&quot; So, that was how. We 
had been swelling with pride at our prowess and ability, somewhat in the spirit 
of Duryodhana haughty in the pride of his troops of the divine gift, whereas 
they had been modest like the Pandavas reliant on Sri Krishna. This at least was 
the lesson that came to me.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Let me tell you a story here in this connection. It is not a story, but a thing 
that actually happened. It was the time, at the beginning of the century or even 
earlier, when the</p>
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<font size="2">Page-89</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
youth of Calcutta took to football seriously and 
enthusiastically. And among the pioneers was the same team—of which I spoke just 
now—Kumartuli. This club had at its head as manager and inspirer a gentleman who 
gave his all —money and time and energy—for his organisation. He had the 
ambition to see his boys play and play successfully with the European and 
military teams. It was an ambition. For there was no comparison in those days 
between a team of British soldiers and a team of weakling Indians. The Indians 
at football were almost like new recruits in comparison with the seasoned 
Britons. First of all, the Indians all played bare-footed against eleven pairs 
of high boots. Secondly, the Britons were strong robust beef-eating bodies while 
the Indians were almost airy nothings. Thirdly, the British had a long strenuous 
training behind them: the Indians were newcomers in the field. However, this 
particular Indian team worked and practised with zeal in view of a match with 
the Britishers. The result, of course, was a foregone conclusion. They were 
lucky to get defeated by only a couple of goals.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Now the British team had a generous captain who became interested in the matter 
and undertook to coach and train the Indians. A big tournament came on at about 
that time and this Indian team was pitted against a famous Military team, 
Black watch or something. The manager—the guiding spirit of the Indian team—was, 
as I said, a high-spirited, enthusiastic, ebullient personage—he had only one 
defect, if defect you call it: he was addicted to drinking. That was a fillip to 
increase this enthusiasm and buoyancy and dare-devilry. He used to invite his 
players to feastings and revelry —to inspire them and encourage them. Now the 
day of days approached. And the gentleman was in jitters, terribly nervous: how 
were his boys to face these giants? And a change came upon him. On the previous 
day he refrained from drinking, fasted, adopted <i>mauna</i>, went to Kalighat and 
worshipped Mother Kali.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">On 
the next day the hour struck and the players were about to take the field. The 
team of British soldiers came in</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page-90</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">carriages (there were horse-carriages in those 
days), with music, bugle and drum, singing and shouting, sure of their victory. 
They were giants indeed, each a Hercules, and the Indians were pigmies before 
them. The play started. Just then our manager noticed that at a distance, away 
from the field, under a tree was sitting a Sannyasi. Directly he saw the 
Sannyasi, he ran, ran towards him and sat before him. The Sannyasi asked what 
was the matter. He answered that there was to be a fight with British soldiers, 
our Bengali boys had to be protected, they must win. The Sannyasi enquired 
whether they had guns and cannon and what was the strength of the enemy. He was 
answered that it was not that kind of battle—it was a football game. The 
Sannyasi shook his head and sent him away.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
The gentleman returned and saw that with great effort his boys had managed a 
drawn game and they pulled through till half time. Now the danger was ahead—half 
an hour more. He could not restrain himself and again he rushed to the Sannyasi 
who was still sitting there in the same position, and prayed and entreated him 
saying they were threatened with defeat at the hands of Mlechchhas, their honour 
and prestige were at stake. The Sannyasi asked, &quot;How many killed and wounded?&quot; 
The gentleman explained again it was not like that. It was a football game. The 
Sannyasi asked, &quot;How many on their side?&quot; They were eleven. The Sannyasi then 
asked the gentleman to get eleven bits of stone. These were collected and placed 
before him. The Sannyasi arranged them in a row, and then drew some circles 
around and sprinkled water and uttered something. And then he told the gentleman 
to go away. He returned, the game had already started after the recess. But a 
strange thing he began to notice. He saw one of the soldiers—a giant of a 
fellow—rushing with the ball and nearing the goal and about to shoot into it, 
when suddenly he tumbled down and rolled over and the ball went off somewhere. 
In fact all the mighty heroes were behaving in a curious manner. They were 
running but with difficulty as if with legs tied up. They fumbled, tottered, 
fell down</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page-91</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
&nbsp;moved with great difficulty. Something was restraining and impeding 
them, pulling them back. So the result was a victory for the Indians by two 
goals. You can imagine what they did after this miraculous victory. The 
gentleman manager rushed towards the tree to thank the Sannyasi. But where was 
he? Nothing was there, barring the row of stones.</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">
(2)</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
&nbsp;</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">I 
did not go to play in Calcutta. One of the reasons of course was that I belonged 
permanently to Pondicherry and my trips to Bengal were more in the nature of 
holiday excursions and I did not want to enter into binding commitments. For 
another thing, the atmosphere of Calcutta football was one that I was not likely 
to cherish; we belonged to different worlds as it were.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Let me now tell you about another match, this time in Jalpaiguri. As far as I 
remember, it was a Jalpaiguri Shield Final, Nilphamari <i>versus </i>Purnea. Young 
Samad, the great Mohan Bagan hero, was then playing for the Purnea team and his 
game was already something worth seeing. Nilphamari enjoyed a peculiar kind of 
reputation—whether it was good or bad is for you to judge—they always played a 
good game but they seldom managed to win. The same thing happened this time. You 
will be surprised, four of us brothers were playing on the same side on this 
occasion. I believe one was at the goal, another at the back, the other two in 
the front line. Out of these, my third brother played centre forward. He read 
for his Degree in Calcutta and was a member of the junior Mohan Bagan team. I 
alternated between the out and the in positions at the wing, but he always 
played centre. One of the tricks I performed on this occasion brought tremendous 
applause and much excitement among our spectators. I held the ball and was 
planning to make a run, when one of my opponents came and stood within less than 
a couple of paces in front of me. Both of us stood perfectly still for a moment, 
both manoeuvring for position. Can you guess what I did next? I drove the ball</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page-92</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
past his side, got around him and caught it up again. The poor fellow was left 
behind and completely non-plussed. What a shout of joy rose from the crowds and 
what applause! I was right-out and as I passed along the touch line, stray 
comments reached my ears: &quot;Blackbeard plays very well indeed, doesn&#39;t he?&quot; 
&quot;Carry the ball yourself, blackbeard, do not pass it on&quot;—this because my team 
seldom made good use of my passes. I wore a beard in those days, you know; it 
was something like a French cut. Already, some of my friends had launched a 
campaign against my beard. &quot;That is now wholly out of date in Bengal,&quot; they 
would say. &quot;Shave it off, throw it away.&quot; One of them even went to the extent of 
making me a present of a shaving set. Finally, there was no other go for me but 
to follow the maxim, &quot;Eat to please yourself, but you must please others in what 
you wear.&quot; But Sri Aurobindo did not much appreciate my beardless face; he 
seemed to prefer us to wear a moustache and beard, at least in those days.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">I 
shall end this story of football with an account of my last performance in this 
line. By then I had practically given up and was on the &quot;retired list&quot;. I began 
as an ordinary player, then I was captain for a year, an Inspector of Games (in 
our club) for another year, and finally a retired man. I never played in matches 
any longer. The juniors now took our places. I would however pay an occasional 
visit and play just a little. They once held a six-a-side competition. The final 
was between our team, Cercle Sportif of Pondicherry, and the Missionaries&#39; team, 
Soci<font face="Times New Roman">é</font>t<font face="Times New Roman">é</font> le Nid. For a long time, the two teams had been keen rivals. The 
Missionaries never liked us, as you know, and their supporters naturally took 
their side. The boys of the Cercle Sportif were the enlightened, nationalist 
element in the local population. Now, the play began. One of the conditions of 
the match, laid down in advance, was that if any of the players on either side 
were to get disabled in the course of the game, he could be replaced by another. 
The Sportif boys had arranged among themselves that in case the game did not go 
well and they found themselves giving way, they would get some one &quot;disabled&quot; 
and take me in, as a substitute</p>
<p align="center" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0">
Page-93</font></p>
<hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">That is what happened in fact. Our team lost a 
goal and immediately afterwards one of our boys—he was later the Hon&#39;ble Mr. 
Justice Antoine Tamby, now in retirement—sat down with a thump. He said he had 
got hurt and could not play any more. So they shouted for me. &quot;Roy, where is 
Roy?&quot; I was &quot;Roy&quot; and ready at hand. I entered the field, with my red and white 
uniform, the Mohan Bagan colours. I changed immediately the whole tactics of the 
game. What our boys had been doing was to cluster close around the ball for 
purposes of short passing—all the three or four out of the six were doing that. 
There was to be a centre kick following the goal. I stood with the ball at the 
centre and told the two boys on my right and on my left to keep as far away as 
possible from the centre and to go on making long passes. I sent the ball from 
the centre straight to the right wing. Our outside man was ready. He took the 
ball and passed it back to me at the centre. I was already far ahead, almost 
beyond the half-back. As soon as the goalkeeper saw me rushing with the ball 
towards the goal, he lost his nerve: &quot;Oh, Roy coming!&quot; It was an easy score. 
What an excitement among our boys, what uproarious hurrahs! We won by two goals 
in the end and the cup was ours. After the game was over, how they danced with 
me on their shoulders! Moni led the boys. He too, like me, had given up playing, 
and was on the retired list, acting only as a spectator. Moni was so pleased 
with this performance of mine that he took me straightway to a nearby hotel or 
bar. There was no Ganpatram in those days, alas!</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0; text-indent:25px" align="justify">
Let me conclude this narrative with a few incidental remarks, some reflections 
concerning &quot;style&quot; in games. In my native town in Bengal I had a friend who 
played tennis. Once I made this comment on seeing him play, &quot;There is no grammar 
about his play.&quot; My dictum became a classic among our sporting circles. He used 
to play in what may be described as a &quot;hit and miss&quot; style. Not that he broke 
any of the rules of the game, but there was about his manner something loose and 
slovenly; he had no style or system. But often enough he hacked his way to 
victory by sheer force of vital energy.</p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="center">
<font size="2">Page-94</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">
Bejoy and our Benjamin with his 
leech-like grip— they were the two half-backs in our team—followed exactly the 
same method. In fact, there are two essentials to a good game: grammar and 
style, or grammar and rhythm, to use the terms of ancient rhetoric. In our time, 
grammar was no doubt important in school, but we were never to be bothered by 
any such bugbear in the field of sports, at least as far as our country was 
concerned. In those days, men became champions through sheer genius, that is, by 
virtue of an innate skill. Without any systematic training or practice on 
scientific lines, they developed a skill in the game through an inner urge or 
influence. Perhaps all men of genius are creatures of this type. They say this 
about Napoleon too. He went on winning his victories without end and no one 
could stop his onward march. The old experienced generals of the enemy Powers, 
the Austrians for example, practically gave up trying. On being criticised for 
their failure, they said, &quot;But what on earth can we do? The fellow does not 
observe any of the principles of warfare. How can one fight under such 
conditions? He breaks every rule of battle.&quot; But today we are in an age where 
not untrained skill but close mastery of detail and unfailing practice are the 
things that count. Here in the Ashram, through your games and physical 
exercises, you are being trained to make every posture and movement of all the 
parts of your body orderly, precise and disciplined. You practise day after day, 
month after month, for years on end. We in our days had no knowledge of any such 
thing, we were utterly ignorant and illiterate in this regard. The time has now 
come when man has to make his advance by conscious method, not drag his feet 
along somehow in a blind ignorant way, not rest satisfied with what comes 
automatically. In our country, in ancient times at least, grammar was considered 
important in two fields: in the study of language and in the art of Yoga. The 
rules were extremely strict and there was no end of manuals and glosses. But in 
our ordinary life, in the art of day-to-day living, there grew up an enormous 
amount of slackness and indiscipline, at least during the more recent times.</p>
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<font size="2">Page-95</font></p><hr>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0" align="justify">I 
have just now spoken of two things, grammar and rhythm; style is mainly a matter 
of rhythm but it presumes grammar, for you cannot have a good style without 
taking note of grammar. Grammar is like the skeleton and bony structure in a 
man&#39;s body; without that support and foundation, the body becomes limp like a 
mass of flesh. By grammar I mean the right arrangement of the different limbs. 
Whether it be tennis or cricket or any other game, or even ordinary jumping and 
running, one must know in minute detail and apply in practice the knowledge as 
to how the arms and the chest and the back and the abdomen are to be held, in 
what position the legs should be, down to the smallest fingers and toes. And it 
is not enough that you control the separate movements of the different parts of 
the body, you have to combine all these movements into a single harmonious whole 
and give them a fine well-formed and one-pointed rhythm. This last quality is 
what characterises rhythm or style. It is said that the style is the man. It is 
really something that belongs to the inner man; in a game, it is a quality of 
the inner body-consciousness. It needs a harmony between the consciousness of 
the body and the inner vital being, it implies a natural sense of measure and 
rhythm. In our days, we did not know anything of all this. We did have the gift 
of imagination and feeling, but now is the day of science. You have the great 
good fortune that you can now acquire both these gifts, effect between the two a 
supreme synthesis and harmony and arrive at a higher fulfilment.</p>
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<font size="2">Page-96</font></p>

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