Chapter 72 2

When I thread the words together, by my tender will, I find that they become a payel poem. I felt that my vision of the glory of poetry was gone.So until now, when poor "Poetry" is being mistreated, I feel as offended as I am thinking of the thief.Several times I was moved to the point of pity, but I couldn't control the irritated hand that was itching to attack him.Rarely have thieves suffered so much, nor have they been abused by so many people. After the first feeling of awe is overcome, nothing can turn ① a three-meter rhythm. ——Translator I pulled it back.I tried to beg one of our estate administrators to send me a copy on blue paper.I personally drew the uneven lines with a pencil, and wrote verses on them in huge childish scribbles.

Like a young deer grinding around with its young horns, so I go around troubling people with my budding poetry.In addition, my elder brother① who was a little older than me was very proud of my poem reciting, so he looked for people everywhere in the house to ask me to chant poems. I remember the two of us coming out of the real estate office downstairs one day, and after we had triumphantly conquered the administrator, we met the editor of The Nation, Nabagopa Mith, just walking in the door.My brother quickly grabbed him and said, "Look, Mr. Nabagopa, would you like to listen to the new poem written by the rabbi?" I immediately began to chant.

My work cannot yet be compiled into a collection of poems.I am a poet who can carry all the masterpieces in his pocket.I am an author, printer and distributor; my sixth brother, as a propagandist, is my only colleague.I wrote several poems about the lotus, and recited them to Mr. Nabagopa on the stairs with a voice as high as my passion. "Well written!" he said, smiling, "but what is a dwirepha?" I can't remember where I got that word.Common nouns also rhyme in the same way.But in the whole poem, I place the most hope on this one word.This word undoubtedly moved our administrators quite a lot.But strangely Mr. Nabagopa did not give in to this - on the contrary he smiled!I'm sure he must not be an ordinary person.I never sang poems to him again.I am already compared to the ancient word ①② that is no longer used at that time, that is, bee. —The translator The author was the youngest of seven brothers.This refers to his sixth brother.

I've grown up a lot, but I'm still nowhere near experimenting with what does and doesn't gain understanding among my audience.No matter how Mr. Nabagopa smiled, the word dwirepha, like a bee drunk on honey, stuck in place. A teacher from a normal school also taught in our home.His body is thin, his description is dry, and his voice is sharp.He is like a stick.He teaches from six to nine-thirty in the morning.The textbooks we read to him ranged from general literature and science in Bengali to the narrative poem "Yunyin Yasha Was Killed". My third brother is very enthusiastic about all kinds of knowledge we learn.So we learn more at home than required at school.

We got up before dawn, donned loincloths, and fought a set or two with a blind boxer.Immediately, he put on his coat again on his dusty body, and began to study literature, arithmetic, geography and history.When we came back from school, the drawing and gymnastics teachers were already waiting at home.In the evening Mr. Agor came to teach us English.We don't finish school until after nine o'clock. On Sunday mornings we had singing lessons with Vishnu.At that time, almost every Sunday, Siddhartha Dutta came to give us physics experiments.I am very interested in the latter subject.I clearly remember when he put a bit of sawdust in the water and put it in the bottle on the fire, and showed us how the lightened hot water went up, how the cold water went down, and finally how it began to boil again. Filled with the emotion of wonder.I also feel very proud of the day when I know that water is a part of milk, and that milk will thicken after being boiled, because the water turns into air and flies away.Sunday wouldn't be like a Sunday if Mr. Siddhanath hadn't come.

There was also an hour of lectures on the human skeleton by a student of Campbell Medical School.So we have a rack of skeletons and skeletons linked together with wire hanging in our classroom.Finally, some time Mr. Tavarana will teach us Sanskrit grammar by rote.I dare not say whether it is the name of the bone or the "scripture" of the grammarian that grinds the jaws more.I think the latter is far ahead. When our Bengali had improved considerably, we began to read English.Mr. Agor, our English teacher, teaches at the medical school during the day and teaches us at night. Books tell us that the discovery of fire is one of the greatest discoveries of mankind.I don't want to refute this.But I can't help but think how happy the birds are that their parents can't keep their lights on at night.They are in language class in the morning, and you must have noticed how happy they are when they recite.Of course we should not forget that they do not need to learn English!

The medical student, our teacher, was in such good health that not even the combined desire and zeal of his three students could keep him from missing a day.Only once did he lie down for a day with a broken head, and that was when a chair was thrown at him in a medical school fight between an Indian student and a Eurasian student.It was a regrettable incident; but we do not always regard it as personal suffering, and his recovery to health seemed to us unnecessarily rapid. It's night.The heavy rain fell like a spearhead.The water in our alley is knee-deep. The water in the pond had come up into the garden, and the bushy tops of the Bell-trees were above the water.Our whole body and mind burst into revelry on a pleasant rainy evening, just as a drunken flower emits its fragrant ears.It was only a few minutes before our teacher was supposed to come.But not necessarily... We sat on the balcony and looked into the alley, watching pitifully.Suddenly, our hearts were beating wildly as if we were fainting.That familiar black umbrella, in such weather, turned around the street corner unrelentingly!Not someone else?Certainly not!There may be men as tenacious as he in the wide world, but he will never be found in our alleys.

In general, recalling his teaching period, we cannot say that Mr. Agor is a cruel person.He didn't discipline us with a whip.Even his reprimand was not to the extent of scolding.But no matter what personal advantages he has, and his teaching time is in the evening, the subject he teaches is English!I am sure that to any Bengali child even an angel would seem like a true emissary of Hades if he would light a gloomy lamp to teach the child English after a dreary day at school. I remember very well that one day our teacher, wishing to impress us with the loveliness of the English language, read to us with great enthusiasm a few lines from an English book—we could not tell whether it was poetry or prose, and the effect was astonishing. Big surprise.

We laughed so disrespectfully that he had to send us all out of school that night.He must have realized that his defense was not easy—it would take years of debate before we declared our agreement. Mr. Agor sometimes brings the cool breeze of outside knowledge into our boring classroom.One day he took out a paper bag from his pocket and said, "Today I will show you a wonderful thing created by the Creator." As he spoke, he opened the paper bag and took out a part of the human body's vocal organs, explaining it. The wonder of its structure. I still remember the shock he gave me at that time.I used to always feel that the whole person was speaking—I never imagined that the speaking movement could be seen in such a split way.However wonderful the structure of a part may be, it is not as good as the whole.I didn't think about it that much at the time, but that was the reason for my consternation.Maybe Mr. can't see this truth, but if he uses this method to explain this topic, the students will not have an enthusiastic response.

Another time he took us to the dissection room at the medical school.The corpse of an old woman lay stretched out on the table.This didn't scare me, but a severed human leg on the ground made me extremely uncomfortable.To look at a person in fragments seemed to me so horrible, so absurd, that for days I could not get rid of the impression of those dark, meaningless legs. After reading Parry Sarkar's first and second English readers, we turned to McCullac's readers.At the end of the day we were weary and longed to go to the inner court, and this thick, dark book, full of difficult words, was very unobtrusive, because in those days Saraswati Mother's love is not very prominent.Children's books weren't filled with pictures like they are now.Moreover, at the door of each text, there is a team of sentinels of new characters, the letters are separated, and the accent marks that are forbidden to pass are like aimed bullets, blocking the way for the childish heart to enter. The team attacked, but couldn't get in at all.

Our teacher used to mention the grades of his other bright students to make us look like we were out of comparison.We felt rather ashamed and disliked the good students, but this did not dispel the gloom that hung over the black book. Heaven has mercy on the world, and drops a hypnotic potion on all dull things. We began to read English, and soon began to doze off.Sprinkling water in the eyes or running in the hallway can help, but it won't last.If our eldest brother happened to pass by here and caught a glimpse of our drowsiness, we would be released that night.Our drowsiness was completely cured in no time. ①The goddess of learning. ——Translator Once, when dengue fever was prevalent in Calcutta, part of our extended family fled to Mr. Chadu's riverside villa.We are among those who went. This is my first trip.The banks of the Ganges received me into its arms like a friend from my previous life.In front of the servant's house was a guava grove; sitting on the verandah under the shade, gazing at the water flowing through the trees, my day was done.I wake up every morning feeling like every day is a new letter with a gold border, some news I have never heard before, waiting for me to open it.And, lest I lose a single speck, I had a quick wash and ran out to a chair. The tide of the Ganges ebbs and flows every day; many different ships sail in different ways; the shadows move from west to east; on the edge of the broken shadows on the opposite bank golden blood of life pours into the bosom of the pierced night sky .Some days the sky has been overcast since early morning; the woods on the opposite bank are darkened; shadows move across the river.Then suddenly the rushing rain came and blotted out the horizon; the pale shadows on the other bank bid farewell with tears; I feel myself emerging from the belly of walls and beams and stairs, born outside.At the beginning of intercourse with all things, the petty habits and the filthy veils are dropped from the world.I am convinced that there is no difference between the cane syrup with which I dip my pancakes for breakfast and the elixir of immortality that Indra drank in heaven; for immortality is not in the wine, but in the person who tastes it, so those who seek it ①The god of thunder and rain in Indian mythology. ——Translators can’t be found anymore. Behind the house there is a fenced ground with a pond, with steps leading from the bath to the water's edge.There is a big South China Sea apple tree beside the platform, surrounded by various fruit trees that grow very densely, and the pond rests comfortably in the shade of the shade.The veiled beauty of this secluded little inner garden has an extremely strange charm for me, so different from the vast expanse of the river bank ahead.It's like the bride in this home.In the stillness of her siesta, lying on the flower mattress she embroidered herself, she whispered the secrets in her heart.I spent many noon hours alone under the apple tree in the South China Sea, dreaming of the terrifying kingdom of Hades deep in the pond. I am very curious to see rural Bengal.Its huts, its thatched arbors, its alleys and baths, its amusements and meetings, its fields and markets, and all its life as I see it in my imagination, Has great attraction to me.A village like this is just outside our courtyard walls, but we are not allowed to go.We came out, but not free.We were in a cage, but now we are on a branch, but still on a chain. One morning, our two elders went for a walk in the village.I could no longer restrain my eagerness, and while no one was watching, I slipped out and followed them at a distance.As I walked down shaded lanes lined by dense, thorny Seola hedges, and by a pond full of green weeds, I absorbed picture after picture in ecstasy.I also remember the naked man, taking his late bath in the pool, brushing his teeth with a chewed twig.My elders suddenly found me following behind.They cursed, "Go, go, go back!" They felt very embarrassed because I was barefoot, and I didn't wear a scarf or a kind of broadleaf tree on my gown. —Translator coat, I didn't wear the clothes I went out with; as if it was my fault!I never had socks and much clothing, so not only did I go back disappointed that day, but I couldn't fill my lack and get permission to go out any day.But although the "outside world" is shut up from behind, the Ganges ahead frees me from all bondage, and my mind is ready to board a boat and sail happily away to the unnamed place on the map. place to go. This was forty years ago, and I have not set foot in the frangipani-shaded villa garden since then.The house and the trees must still be there, but I know they won't be the same—for how can I get any fresh feeling out of them now? We went back to the house in Chora Sango in the city.My days are like many mouthfuls of rice, swallowed by the open mouth of the normal school. The manuscript on the blue paper soon became full, like a worm's nest, with all kinds of grid-like slashes and characters with different strokes.The eager oppression of the little writer soon crumpled its pages; and later the margins frayed, curled up like claws, as if to grasp the work within, until at last, flowing into an unknown Into the River of Forgetfulness, its pages swept away by merciful forgetfulness.At any rate, it escaped the pain of walking down the aisle of the printing house, and need not be afraid to be born again in this valley of sorrow. I cannot say that I am a passive witness to the promotion of me as a poet.Although Mr. Satkari is not the teacher of our class, he likes me very much.He has written a book on natural history--I hope no biting humorist will try to find out in it why he likes me.One day he called me to ask: "I heard you write poetry, don't you?" I didn't hide the fact.From then on, he often asked me to complete a quatrain, and add my own writing after the two sentences he gave me. Our principal, Mr. Govent, is a very dark and dumpy man.He wore a black suit, kept the ledger, and sat in an office on the second floor.We are all afraid of him because he is the judge with the stick.Once, I ran into his room because I was avoiding some violent classmates.Those who persecuted me were five or six older children.Apart from tears - I have no other witnesses.I won the case, and since then, Mr. Govent has left a tender corner of me in his heart. One day, during recess, he asked me to go to his room, and I went tremblingly.As soon as I came in front of him, he immediately asked me: "Don't you write poetry?" I admitted without hesitation.He asked me to write a poem about what kind of moral lesson I forgot.His pupils could only be grateful for the modesty and kindness with which such a request from him implied.When I handed the finished poem to him the next day, he took me to the top class and made me stand in front of the students.He ordered: "Let's recite!" I recited aloud. The only good thing about this poem of moral lessons is that it was lost shortly afterwards.Its instructive effect on the class was far from encouraging—it aroused no feeling of respect for the author.Most people say that this poem is by no means my own work.Another said he could produce the original I had plagiarized, but no one insisted; and for those who would rather believe, the process of proof was troublesome.Finally, there has been a frightful increase in the number of people who seek poetic titles; and the methods they use do not follow the path of moral progress. It is not surprising that young people write poetry nowadays.The glory of poetry is gone.I remember at that time how the few women who wrote poetry were regarded as miracles of heaven.Now people are suspicious if they hear that young women can't write poetry.Poetry sprouts in the children of today long before they reach the highest classes in Bengali; so that no modern Mr. Govent will heed the poetic talents I preach. At this point I had an audience I would never find again.He has an infinite capacity for liking everything, which makes him quite unfit to be a reviewer of any monthly review.The old man was like an overripe mango Alfonso--not a trace of sourness or rudeness in his nature.His kind, clean-shaven face formed a perfect circle with his bald head; his mouth was toothless; and his large, bright eyes shone with a perpetually cheerful gleam. When he spoke in a soft, deep voice, his mouth, eyes, and hands spoke too.He was a scholar of ancient Persian and knew not a word of English.His constant companions are a hookah and a siddhar on his lap; from his throat flows the incessant voice of singing. Mr Sri Ganda did not have to wait for a formal introduction, for no one could resist the natural plea of ​​his kind heart. Once he took us to a big British photo studio to have our pictures taken.There he touched the boss with candid facts in a patchwork of Hindi and Bengali. He said he was a poor man but wanted to take this photo so badly. The boss smiled and reduced the price for him.Such a counter-offer did not seem so inappropriate in that British shop of cheap prices, but Mr. Sriyuda was so naive, so indifferent to any possibility of getting angry.Sometimes he took us to the home of a European missionary.There, too, with his playing and singing, with his caresses for the preacher's little daughter, and his admiration for the missionary's wife's booted feet, he would enliven the assembly as never before.Other people would be disgusted by such ridiculous things, but his frank innocence was popular with everyone, and he absorbed everyone into his cheerfulness. Mr Sri Ganda has never known rudeness and arrogance.At one point, we hired a singer who was a bit famous.When he was very drunk, he used bad words to make fun of Mr Sri Ganda's singing.Mr. Sri Ganda always endured it quietly, not wanting to fight back at all.When finally this man's continued brutality got him fired, Mr Sri Ganda immediately came to speak for him."It wasn't his fault, it was the wine," he insisted. He couldn't bear to see anyone suffer, and he couldn't even hear about pain.So whenever the students wanted to distress him, they would read a passage of "The Exile of Sita" by Vidaya Sagar, and he would be very sad, and he would stretch out his hands in protest, begging them not to continue reading. The old man was good friends with my father, brother and us.He seems to be the same age as each of us.As every stone makes the water dance to and fro, so the smallest stimulus is enough to make him ecstasy.I once wrote an ode that satirizes the trials and tribulations of this world.Mr Sri Ganda thought my father would be overjoyed at this perfect jewel-like ode. With boundless enthusiasm, he volunteered to show my father the song.Fortunately, I was not around at that time, and I heard later that my father found it very funny that the worries of the world would move his youngest son to the point of writing poetry so early.I am sure that Mr. Govent, the principal, would have written for me Nuvidaya Sagar (1829-1891), a Bengali writer, on such a serious subject. power, and redouble his respect. In singing, I am Mr. Sri Ganda's favorite student.He taught me to sing a song: "I'm No Longer Going to Waraja," and took me to everyone's house to sing it to them.When I sang, he played the Siddha to accompany me, and when I sang the chorus lines, he joined in and sang repeatedly, smiling and nodding to everyone, as if to make them appreciate it more enthusiastically. He was an ardent admirer of my father.He weaves a carol into his tune, "For He Is the Heart of Our Hearts."When he sang to my father, Mr. Sri Ganda jumped up from his seat excitedly, played the Siddhar vigorously, sang "Because He is the Heart of Our Hearts", and then waved his hands in front of my father , change the lyrics to "Because you are the heart of our hearts". When the old man came to visit my father for the last time, my father was bedridden in his villa by the Chinsula River. Mr. Sri Ganda was caught by the last illness, unable to move about by himself, and had to lift his eyelids to see.In this case, he came to Chinsula from his abode, Birboom, beckoned by his daughter.With difficulty he squeezed a little dust off my father's feet and went back to Chinsula where he was lodged, where he breathed his last a few days later.Later I heard from his daughter that he sang the hymn "Lord, How Sweet is Your Mercy" into his eternal youth. At this time, in school, we are the next class in the highest class.At home, I ① the playground of Lord Krishna. ——The Bengali lessons of the translators are much deeper than those taught in the class.We finished reading Akshay Datta's general physics, and also finished reading the epic poem "Yunyin Yasha Was Killed".We read natural science without incorporating anything natural, so our knowledge of the subject is correspondingly bookish.The time we spend on it is, in fact, a complete waste; a greater waste to my soul than doing nothing at all.Reading the song "Yunyin Yasha Was Killed" was not a happy thing for us either. The best things don't taste bad if thrown on your head.Using a narrative poem to teach language is like using a sword to shave a beard—a wronged sword can't hurt your chin.A poem should be taught from the standpoint of feeling; making it a "grammar-cum-dictionary" is no attempt to mediate with the gods of learning. Our normal school career came to an abrupt end; there was a story to it. A teacher at our school wanted to borrow a copy of my grandfather's life by Mithras from our library.My nephew and classmate, Satir, barely mustered up the courage to volunteer to mention it to my father.After he came to the conclusion that it was difficult to impress my father with ordinary Bengali script, he made up a set of carefully structured and accurate archaic sentences. My father must have felt that our Bengali study had gone too far and was in danger of going too far.So the next morning, as usual, with our desks on the south verandah and the blackboard on the wall, we were summoned upstairs to my father's room while we waited for Mr. Neil Kamal to come to class. go.He said, "You don't have to read Bengali anymore." Our hearts danced with this joy. Mr. Neil Kamal was waiting downstairs. Our books were spread out on the table. He must have wanted us to read "The Killing of Yunyin Yasha" again. But on one's death bed, all the routines of everyday life seem unreal, and for a moment everything, from the teacher to the nails on the wall to hang the blackboard, seems to us like a fantasy.Our only difficulty was how to convey the news to Mr Neil Kamal with the proper decorum.Finally we stammered this out, when the geometric pattern on the blackboard stared at us in surprise, and the blank verse of "Yansha was Killed by Yunyin" stared blankly at the side. Our teacher's parting words were: "Because of duty, I may be a little harsher on you at times—don't take that to heart. Later you will know the value of what I have taught you." Of course I know the value.It is because we learn in our own language that our hearts come alive.Learning should try to follow the rules of the diet.When the taste begins with the first mouthful, the appetite is stimulated to function before the stomach is full, and the gastric juices are fully utilized.This is not the case when Bangladeshi children learn in English.The first bite has the potential to unscrew two rows of teeth - like a real earthquake in the mouth!By the time he discovers that the food is not made of stone but digestible candy, half his doomed life is over.When a person is choking on pinyin and grammar, and muttering with spittle splashing, his stomach is still hungry, and when he finally tastes the taste, his appetite is gone.If the whole mind is not at work from the beginning, all its powers will not be developed at the end.When people around us were calling for learning English, my third brother bravely insisted on studying our Bengali language class. To his spirit in heaven, I offer my thanks and reverence. We left Normal School and went to Bengal Secondary School, a mixed Eurasian school.We feel that we have grown up and have more dignity—at least to the first level of freedom.In fact, the only progress we learn here is freedom.What we learn here, we don't understand at all, we don't study hard, we don't study and no one cares.The students there were annoying, but not obnoxious--and that was a great consolation.They wrote the character "Donkey" on their palms, and said "Okay!" while slapping the word "Donkey" on our backs.They stabbed us in the ribs from behind and looked away as if nothing had happened.They dabbed rotten bananas on our heads and slipped away.But it's like stepping out of mud and onto rock - we're worried but not defiled. This school has one great advantage for me.No one here holds out the slightest hope that kids like us will make academic progress.It's a small school with little money, so we have one of the biggest advantages in the eyes of the school authorities - we pay our fees on time.This keeps Latin grammar from getting in the way, and the gravest mistakes from hurting our backs.This is by no means out of pity on us - the school authorities have made sense to the gentlemen! However, although the school is harmless, it is a school after all.The classroom was grimly dull, and the walls guarded us like policemen.A house is like a pigeon coop, not like a man's dwelling.There is no ornament, no picture, not a speck of color, not a single attempt to appeal to the mind of a child.In fact, there is complete indifference to the likes and dislikes that form a large part of a child's psyche.We stepped into the school gate and walked into the narrow quadrangle, and we all became depressed—playing truant became our long-term game. In this matter we have found an accomplice.My sixth brother has a Persian teacher.We always call him Munch. He was a skinny, middle-aged man, as though a black parchment had been draped over his skeleton, holding no flesh.His Persian might not be bad, and his knowledge of English was passable, but none of his ambitions lay in that.He believed that his skill with the stick was comparable only to his singing.He was always standing in the middle of our yard in the sun, and did a wonderful antic with a stick—his own shadow as his adversary.Nor do I need to say that his shadow never outmaneuvered him, and at the end he always gave a cry, and with a triumphant smile, struck the shadow on the head, and the shadow fell submissively at his feet.His singing, nasal and dissonant, sounded like moans and whimpers from the underworld.Terrible mix.Vishnu, our singing teacher, would sometimes taunt him by saying, "Look, Munshi, the way you sing makes us vomit the bread out of our mouths!" To which his only reply was a contemptuous smile. . This shows that Munch is well received; in fact, as long as we want, we can force him to write to us and go to school to ask for leave whenever we want.The school authorities never read these letters carefully. They know that from the perspective of the effect of education, it makes no difference whether we go to school or not. Now I have set up a school myself, where children do all kinds of naughtiness, because children must be naughty--and the teachers are always unrelenting.When some of us, because of their conduct, are unduly haunted by apprehension, arouse a determined resolution to punish, many of my own school-day offenses line up before me and smile at me. I can see clearly now that this mistake was judging children by adult standards. ①Bengali means secretary. —Translator, forget that a child is as fast and flowing as water; therefore, in this case, any imperfection need not cause a fuss, because the speed of the torrent itself is the best correction.Whenever there is stagnation, danger will come.So first of all it is the teacher, not the student, to watch out for wrong behavior. There is a dining room in this school which is adapted to the needs of the caste of Bengali children.That's where we made friends with our classmates.They were all older than we were, and one of them should be said at length. His specialty was magic, and he even published a small book on magic, with his name plus the title of professor on the cover.I've never seen a student's name in print, so I have a lot of respect for him - as a professor of magic.How dare I believe that there is room for suspicious events in the printed word?Is it a small thing to be able to write down one's own words with indelible ink?Unmasked and unashamed, standing before the world in the face of the world—how can we doubt such sublime self-confidence?I remember once, I got the typeface of my name from a printing house. When I ink it and print it on the paper, what a memorable thing it is when I find my name printed. We often ask this classmate and writer friend to ride in our carriage, so that we have contacts.He is also good at acting.With his help, we set up a stage on the boxing practice field, and propped up colored paper on the bamboo frame.The staunch opposition from upstairs prevented the possibility of performing on this stage. But then a comedy of misunderstandings was staged without a stage.The playwright has already introduced to the readers in this book, he is none other than my nephew Satya.You see how calm and quiet he is now, and you will be amazed when you hear the tricks he has created. The events I am about to relate occurred some years later, when I was about twelve or thirteen years old.Our conjurer friend spoke of strange properties of many things, and I was very curious to see them for myself.But the materials he referred to were very rare and came from far away, and we had no hope of obtaining them except by enlisting the help of Sinbad the Seaman. Once the professor accidentally dropped an item that was easily obtained.Who would believe that a seed, soaked and dried twenty-one times in the sap of a cactus, would germinate and blossom within an hour?I decided to experiment, and at the same time did not dare to doubt the argument of a professor whose name was printed in a book. I asked our gardener to prepare me a copious amount of milky sap, and one Sunday afternoon, in the corner of our roof lanai, our secret place, I began experimenting with mango pits.I am preoccupied with soaking and drying the pits, and drying and soaking--but the big readers probably won't be waiting to inquire about the results of my experiments.At the same time, I didn't know that Satya was in another corner, and within an hour, the mysterious flowers and trees created by himself took root and sprouted.Later, it also bears strange fruit. 从做实验那天以后，我渐渐觉得教授有点躲着我，他不肯和我坐在马车的同一边，而且仿佛总在和他对我的腼腆作斗争。 有一天，他忽然提议大家都轮流地从教室的凳子上跳下去。他说他要观察不同的跳跃形式。这种科学的好奇对于一位魔术教授并不是怪事。个个都跳了，我也跳了。他摇着头低低地哼了一声。无论我们怎么追问，他也不肯说出一点什么来。 又一天，他告诉我们，说他有几个好朋友想同我们来往，请我们和他一同到他们家里去。我们的监护人没有异议，我们就去了。那间屋子里的一群人仿佛非常喜欢问问题。他们表示迫切地希望听我唱歌。我唱了一两支歌。我那时还是个孩子，决不会像牛一样吼叫。他们一致认为，“这声音真是甜柔。” 当点心端到我们面前的时候，他们环坐在周围看着我们吃。我生来就很腼腆，和生人在一起很不自然；而且在我们的仆人艾思瓦看管时期所得来的习惯，使我永远成为一个食欲不旺的人。他们似乎都得到了我的胃口很娇弱的印象。 在这出喜剧的第五幕，我接到教授写给我的几封奇怪的亲热的信，把整个情况揭露出来了。让台幕在这里落下吧。 我终于在萨提亚那里听到，在我用芒果种子试验魔术的时候，他说得使教授相信我是一个女孩，监护人把我扮成男装，为的使我可以出去多受教育，因此我原是一个女扮男装的人。对那些对想象的科学好奇的人们，我应该解释一下，据说女孩子在跳跃的时候，左脚总是先往前去的。在教授的试验中，我就是这样跳的。那时我决没有体会到这是多么错误的一步啊。 我生下来不久，父亲就常在外面旅行。所以说我小时候不认得他一点也不是夸张。他有时忽然回家，带来一些我喜欢同他们交朋友的外地仆人。有一次，他带回一个叫做里努的年轻的旁遮普仆人。他从我们所得到的热烈欢迎，几乎不在兰季特·辛格①之下。不但因为他是外地人，而且他是老牌的旁遮普人——他怎能不把我们的心偷走了呢？ 我们对于整个旁遮普民族，就像对《摩诃婆罗多》诗中的毗摩和阿周那②一样尊敬。他们是武士；如果有时他们战败了，那很明显地是他敌人的过失。我们家里有一个从旁遮普来的里努，是很光荣的事情。 我嫂子有一只装在玻璃框里的小军舰，机关一开，它就应和着八音匣的叮当声，在绸制的海波上摇晃。我恳切地请求把这军舰借给我，让我去给我所爱慕的里努看看，来显示它的奇巧。 像我们那样整年关在家里，任何异乡风味的事物，对我都有特殊的魅力。这是我敬爱里努的原因之一。也为了这个原因，那个穿着绣花长袍来卖玫瑰油和香膏的犹太人，迦卜拉尔，也会引起我那么大的兴趣。还有那穿着蒙满灰尘的宽大裤子、带着行囊和包袱的高大的喀布尔人，在我幼稚的心中，也留下一种恐惧的魅惑。 无论如何，当父亲回来的时候，我们能在他周围走来走去，能够和他的仆人在一起就很满足了。我们并没有直接走到他的身边。 有一次，当父亲在喜马拉雅山的时候，英国政府拿来吓人的老妖怪，俄国的侵略，变成人们惶乱的话题。有些好意①②毗摩和阿周那都是《摩诃婆罗多》中般度王的儿子，二人均无比英勇。——译者兰季特·辛格（１７８０—１８３９），旁遮普名王，有“旁遮普之狮”之称。 的太太们，对我母亲把这逼近的危险，在想象的情况中扩大了一番。我们怎能晓得俄罗斯人会从哪一条西藏通路，忽然像毁灭的慧星一样闪击进来呢？