The Home and the World by Rabindranath Tagore (elon musk reading list TXT) 📕

with their very idealism they have made golden fetters of women

to wind round their body and mind. If men had not that

extraordinary faculty of entangling themselves in meshes of their

own contriving, nothing could have kept them bound. But as for

you women, you have desired to conceive reality with body and

soul. You have given birth to reality. You have suckled reality

at your breasts."

Bee was well read for a woman, and would not easily give in to my

arguments. "If that were true," she objected, "men would not

have found women attractive."

"Women realize the danger," I replied. "They know that men love

delusions, so they give them full measure by borrowing their own

phrases. They know that man, the drunkard, values intoxication

more than food, and so they try to pass themselves off as an

intoxicant. As a matter of fact, but for the sake of man, woman

has no need for any make-believe."

"Why, then, are you troubling to destroy the illusion?"

"For freedom. I want the country to be free. I want human

relations to be free."

According to the Hindu calendar [Trans.].

The son-in-law is the pet of a Hindu household.

A Vaishnava poet (Sanskrit) whose lyrics of the adoration of

the Divinity serve as well to express all shades of human passion

[Trans.].

III

I was aware that it is unsafe suddenly to awake a sleep-walker.

But I am so impetuous by nature, a halting gait does not suit me.

I knew I was overbold that day. I knew that the first shock of

such ideas is apt to be almost intolerable. But with women it is

always audacity that wins.

Just as we were getting on nicely, who should walk in but

Nikhil's old tutor Chandranath Babu. The world would have been

not half a bad place to live in but for these schoolmasters, who

make one want to quit in disgust. The Nikhil type wants to keep

the world always a school. This incarnation of a school turned

up that afternoon at the psychological moment.

We all remain schoolboys in some corner of our hearts, and I,

even I, felt somewhat pulled up. As for poor Bee, she at once

took her place solemnly, like the topmost girl of the class on

the front bench. All of a sudden she seemed to remember that she

had to face her examination.

Some people are so like eternal pointsmen lying in wait by the

line, to shunt one's train of thought from one rail to another.

Chandranath Babu had no sooner come in than he cast about for

some excuse to retire, mumbling: "I beg your pardon, I..."

Before he could finish, Bee went up to him and made a profound

obeisance, saying: "Pray do not leave us, sir. Will you not take

a seat?" She looked like a drowning person clutching at him for

support--the little coward!

But possibly I was mistaken. It is quite likely that there was a

touch of womanly wile in it. She wanted, perhaps, to raise her

value in my eyes. She might have been pointedly saying to me:

"Please don't imagine for a moment that I am entirely overcome by

you. My respect for Chandranath Babu is even greater."

Well, indulge in your respect by all means! Schoolmasters thrive

on it. But not being one of them, I have no use for that empty

compliment.

Chandranath Babu began to talk about Swadeshi. I thought

I would let him go on with his monologues. There is nothing like

letting an old man talk himself out. It makes him feel that he

is winding up the world, forgetting all the while how far away

the real world is from his wagging tongue.

But even my worst enemy would not accuse me of patience. And

when Chandranath Babu went on to say: "If we expect to gather

fruit where we have sown no seed, then we ..." I had to

interrupt him.

"Who wants fruit?" I cried. "We go by the Author of the Gita

who says that we are concerned only with the doing, not with the

fruit of our deeds."

"What is it then that you do want?" asked Chandranath Babu.

"Thorns!" I exclaimed, "which cost nothing to plant."

"Thorns do not obstruct others only," he replied. "They have a

way of hurting one's own feet."

"That is all right for a copy-book," I retorted. "But the real

thing is that we have this burning at heart. Now we have only to

cultivate thorns for other's soles; afterwards when they hurt us

we shall find leisure to repent. But why be frightened even of

that? When at last we have to die it will be time enough to get

cold. While we are on fire let us seethe and boil."

Chandranath Babu smiled. "Seethe by all means," he said, "but do

not mistake it for work, or heroism. Nations which have got on

in the world have done so by action, not by ebullition. Those

who have always lain in dread of work, when with a start they

awake to their sorry plight, they look to short-cuts and scamping

for their deliverance."

I was girding up my loins to deliver a crushing reply, when

Nikhil came back. Chandranath Babu rose, and looking towards

Bee, said: "Let me go now, my little mother, I have some work to

attend to."

As he left, I showed Nikhil the book in my hand. "I was telling

Queen Bee about this book," I said.

Ninety-nine per cent of people have to be deluded with lies, but

it is easier to delude this perpetual pupil of the schoolmaster

with the truth. He is best cheated openly. So, in playing with

him, the simplest course was to lay my cards on the table.

Nikhil read the title on the cover, but said nothing. "These

writers," I continued, "are busy with their brooms, sweeping away

the dust of epithets with which men have covered up this world of

ours. So, as I was saying, I wish you would read it."

"I have read it," said Nikhil.

"Well, what do you say?"

"It is all very well for those who really care to think, but

poison for those who shirk thought."

"What do you mean?"

"Those who preach 'Equal Rights of Property' should not be

thieves. For, if they are, they would be preaching lies. When

passion is in the ascendant, this kind of book is not rightly

understood."

"Passion," I replied, "is the street lamp which guides us. To

call it untrue is as hopeless as to expect to see better by

plucking out our natural eyes."

Nikhil was visibly growing excited. "I accept the truth of

passion," he said, "only when I recognize the truth of restraint.

By pressing what we want to see right into our eyes we only

injure them: we do not see. So does the violence of passion,

which would leave no space between the mind and its object,

defeat its purpose."

"It is simply your intellectual foppery," I replied, "which makes

you indulge in moral delicacy, ignoring the savage side of truth.

This merely helps you to mystify things, and so you fail to do

your work with any degree of strength."

"The intrusion of strength," said Nikhil impatiently, "where

strength is out of place, does not help you in your work ... But

why are we arguing about these things? Vain arguments only brush

off the fresh bloom of truth."

I wanted Bee to join in the discussion, but she had not said a

word up to now. Could I have given her too rude a shock, leaving

her assailed with doubts and wanting to learn her lesson afresh

from the schoolmaster? Still, a thorough shaking-up is

essential. One must begin by realizing that things supposed to

be unshakeable can be shaken.

"I am glad I had this talk with you," I said to Nikhil, "for I

was on the point of lending this book to Queen Bee to read."

"What harm?" said Nikhil. "If I could read the book, why not

Bimala too? All I want to say is, that in Europe people look at

everything from the viewpoint of science. But man is neither

mere physiology, nor biology, nor psychology, nor even sociology.

For God's sake don't forget that. Man is infinitely more than

the natural science of himself. You laugh at me, calling me the

schoolmaster's pupil, but that is what you are, not I. You want

to find the truth of man from your science teachers, and not from

your own inner being."

"But why all this excitement?" I mocked.

"Because I see you are bent on insulting man and making him

petty."

"Where on earth do you see all that?"

"In the air, in my outraged feelings. You would go on wounding

the great, the unselfish, the beautiful in man."

"What mad idea is this of yours?"

Nikhil suddenly stood up. "I tell you plainly, Sandip," he said,

"man may be wounded unto death, but he will not die. This is the

reason why I am ready to suffer all, knowing all, with eyes

open."

With these words he hurriedly left the room.

I was staring blankly at his retreating figure, when the sound of

a book, falling from the table, made me turn to find Bee

following him with quick, nervous steps, making a detour to avoid

passing too near me.

A curious creature, that Nikhil! He feels the danger threatening

his home, and yet why does he not turn me out? I know, he is

waiting for Bimal to give him the cue. If Bimal tells him that

their mating has been a misfit, he will bow his head and admit

that it may have been a blunder! He has not the strength of mind

to understand that to acknowledge a mistake is the greatest of

all mistakes. He is a typical example of how ideas make for

weakness. I have not seen another like him--so whimsical a

product of nature! He would hardly do as a character in a novel

or drama, to say nothing of real life.

And Bee? I am afraid her dream-life is over from today. She has

at length understood the nature of the current which is bearing

her along. Now she must either advance or retreat, open-eyed.

The chances are she will now advance a step, and then retreat a

step. But that does not disturb me. When one is on fire, this

rushing to and fro makes the blaze all the fiercer. The fright

she has got will only fan her passion.

Perhaps I had better not say much to her, but simply select some

modern books for her to read. Let her gradually come to the

conviction that to acknowledge and respect passion as the supreme

reality, is to be modern--not to be ashamed of it, not to glorify

restraint. If she finds shelter in some such word as "modern",

she will find strength.

Be that as it may, I must see this out to the end of the Fifth

Act. I cannot, unfortunately, boast of being merely a spectator,

seated in the royal box, applauding now and again. There is a

wrench at my heart, a pang in every nerve. When I have put out

the light and am in my bed, little