Chapter 73 3

My mother was really alarmed, and perhaps the rest of the family did not share her concerns; so, after despair of sympathy for grown-ups, she came to me for childish support.She asked, "Would you please write a letter to your father and report to him that the Russians are coming to invade?" This letter, carrying mother's worrying news, was the first letter I wrote to my father.I have no idea how a letter should begin or end.I went to find Mahananda, he is the clerk in charge of the property.The specifications of all the titles in the letter are undoubtedly correct, but emotionally they cannot escape the stale atmosphere that is inseparable from the written documents governing the property.

I got a letter back.My father told me not to be afraid; if the Russians came, he would drive them away himself.This confident reassurance, which seemed to have no effect on alleviating my mother's apprehensions, did liberate me from my father's strangeness. From then on, I had to write a letter to my father every day, so I went to trouble Mahananda every day.He couldn't stand my entanglement, so he drew up a letter and asked me to copy it.But I didn't know that postage was required to send the letter. I always thought that as long as I put the letter in Mahananda's hands, it would arrive, and there was no need to worry about it.I don't need to say, because Mahananda is much older than me, and the letters never reached the top of the Himalayas.

After the father was away for a long time, but only returned for a few days, the whole family carried the weight of him at home.We would see the grown-ups put on their robes at a certain time, and enter his room with a stiff gait and a serious attitude, and whoever was chewing on the "ban" would spit it out first. .Everyone is careful.Mother personally supervised the cooking, so that every dish was to taste.Old Canu, the staff man, in his white uniform and crested turban, stood guard at Father's door, always warning us not to make noise on the verandah in front of his house while Father was napping.We will walk by lightly, speak in low voices, and dare not peep into the house.

There was a festival, and my father came back to perform a ceremony for the three of us to bestow the holy thread. With the help of Mr. Vadantavajishi, he collected some old rituals from the Vedas for salutation.For several days we were learning to recite selected lines from the Upanishads with the correct pronunciation, and my father arranged for us to sit in the scripture hall with Mr. Bicharam under the name of "Brahma Dharma".In the end we shaved our heads, put on gold earrings, and we three little Brahmins had a three-day devotional in a place on the third floor. It was great fun.The earrings gave us a handy handle when we picked each other's ears.In one room we found a small drum; we took it out and stood on the verandah, and we beat it when we saw any servant pass by.This made him look up, and immediately turned his eyes back and quickly retracted.All in all, we cannot say that these three days of spiritual practice were spent in ascetic meditation.

But I believe boys like us were not uncommon among hermits of old.If it is said in the ancient scriptures, ten or eleven-year-old Sheraputta or Sherangarapo ③ spent the entire childhood to worship and recite mandala sutras.For this, we don't have to force ourselves to believe without doubt; because ①②③ in "Shakundala", there are two apprentices of Shakundala's adoptive father Ganpo. It is considered a sin for non-Brahmins to glance at the recipient before the holy thread ceremony is completed. The so-called holy thread is a white thread, which can only be hung by people of high caste.

For "Boys By Nature" this book is older and truer than the scriptures. After we became officially Brahmins, I enjoyed reciting the Gayatri,* and I was always absorbed in thinking about it.It is by no means a scripture that I could fully understand at that age.I remember very well what an effort I was making, first asking for the help of "Earth, Sky, and Heaven" to expand my self-realization. How I feel or think is hard to say, but it is certain that understanding words is not the most important function of human understanding. The main purpose of teaching is not to explain the meaning of words, but to knock on the door of the heart.If you ask a child what is awakened in him by the knock at the door, he may say something very foolish.Because what happened in his heart was much bigger than what he could express in words.Those who pin their hopes on college examinations as a test of educational effectiveness do not appreciate this fact.

I can recall many things that I do not understand, but which touch me deeply. Once we were on the balcony of the villa by the river, my elder brother saw the thick clouds, so he recited a few verses from Kalidasa's "The Cloud Messenger" aloud.I don't know and don't need to know a single Sanskrit word. His high-pitched chant and sonorous syllables have moved me enough. Also, before I could understand English properly, I got a copy of "Antique Shop" with lots of illustrations.I read the whole book, although I don't understand nine out of ten of the characters.But with a tenth of a dim understanding, I spun a colored thread and threaded the illustration.Any university examiner would give me a big zero, but for the method of reading, it doesn't justify me being hollow to zero.

① A poem in the Rig Veda.Every Brahmin must recite it during morning and evening prayers. ——Translator Another time I accompanied my father on a trip on the Ganges.Among the books he brought with him was an old Fort William edition of Victory's "Shepherd's Song".It's in Bengali. The verses are not printed separately, but are kept together like prose.I didn't know any Sanskrit at that time, but because I knew Bengali, I was familiar with some words. I forgot how many times I read "The Shepherd Boy's Song", but I still remember this sentence: It spreads a vague aura of beauty in my heart.

The Sanskrit script spoken in "The Lonely Village" was good enough for me. I will have to find out the intricate rhythm of the sky myself, because in the clumsy prose printing of this book, no poetic stanzas can be discerned.This discovery gave me great pleasure.Of course, I didn't fully understand the meaning of Shengtian, and I dare not even say that I understood a part of it.But the sound of the words and the light rhythm filled my heart with wonderful pictures of beauty.It made me copy the whole book and keep it for my own appreciation. The same thing happened when I was a little older and read Kalidasa's "The Birth of the God of War".This verse moved me greatly, and my feeling came from those few words. "The breeze shakes the leaves of the Himalayan cedar with the obscene spray of the holy mandakini." These two lines make me want to taste the beauty of the whole poem.A teacher later explained the bottom two lines to me, and the breeze again "blew the peacock feathers off the head of the eager deer hunter."The final image is like that ① the part of the Ganges in the sky. ——The inability of the translator disappointed me.If I used my own imagination to make up those few sentences, it might be much stronger.

Anyone who thinks back on his own childhood will agree that his greatest achievement is not how much he "knew".Our bards know this truth well.Hence there is always a great deal of ear-filling Sanskrit and esoteric words in their raps, which are meant only for suggestion, without regard to the full comprehension of their unsophisticated listeners. The value of this suggestion cannot be underestimated even by those who measure education by material gain or loss.These people insist on adding up the accounts to figure out exactly how much worthwhile lessons they teach.But children, and those who have not had much education, live in a primitive paradise where one can acquire knowledge without having to fully understand every step.Only after this Paradise is lost comes the bad day when everything must be understood.The way that leads to knowledge without going through the dreadful journey of understanding is a broad way.If this road is blocked, the sea and the high mountains will not be reached, although the world's markets will go on as usual.

So, as I said earlier, although I couldn't appreciate the full meaning of Gayatri at that age, there was something in me that didn't have to be understood.I think of the day when I sat on the cement floor in the corner of our classroom, meditating on this verse, and my eyes filled with tears.I do not know why these tears were shed; to a stern judge I might give some interpretation which has nothing to do with the Gayatri.This fact shows that what is going on in the innermost recesses of consciousness is not always known to those who live outside. 14 After traveling with my father, my bald head gave me a huge annoyance.Whatever Eurasian children's predilection for things related to the divine cow, their respect for Brahmans is notoriously lacking.So, among other missiles, our bald heads are bound to be hit with jeers.While I was worrying about this possibility, I was called up one day to my father's room upstairs.He asked me if I would like to go to the Himalayas with him.Leave Bengal High School and go to the Himalayas!Do I like it?Ah, I can tear the sky apart with cheers, and that may give some idea of ​​how much I like it. On the day we left home, my father, according to his custom, called the family together in the scripture hall for a religious ceremony.After I picked up the dust from the elder's feet, I followed my father into the car.This is the first time in my life that I have a new set of clothes.The style and color of the clothes were chosen by the father himself.A flat gold velvet hat completed my whole outfit.Holding the hat in my hand, I was worried that it would not work well on my bald head.As soon as I got in the car, my father made sure I put on my hat, so I had to.As soon as his face is turned away, I take it off.Every time I see his eyes, the hat just has to snap back to where it should be. My father is very serious and strict about everything he handles and orders.He dislikes ambiguity, or indecision, and never tolerates sloppiness or accommodation.He has a well-defined law to regulate him and others. ①Indian customs, picking up a little dirt from the elders' feet and touching their foreheads is a courtesy to elders. - The relationship between translators.In this regard, his commonality is different from that of his fellow countrymen.For others, it doesn't matter much if they are wrong, but we must be cautious and fearful when dealing with him.He doesn't care about doing too much or too little, what he cares about is the failure to meet the standard. My father often made a very detailed picture of what he had to do.When he was unable to attend any festive gathering, he figured out where everything should be placed, what the responsibilities of each person in the house should be, where the guests should sit; there was nothing that he could not think of.When the festival was over, he let each one report to him separately, so that he himself could put together a complete impression.So when I traveled with him, though there was no reason why he should prevent me from playing to my heart's content, in other matters there was no latitude in the strict rules of conduct which he had laid down for me. We first stop in Bolpur for a few days.Satya and his parents had been here not long ago.No self-respecting nineteenth-century baby would believe the travel tales he tells us when he returns.But we are different. We don't have the opportunity to learn how to draw the line between the possible and the impossible.The Mahabharata and Ramayana that we have studied did not give us any clues.There were no illustrated children's books to guide us.The strict laws that govern us in the world are learned only by breaking them. Satir told us that, unless one is very skilled, getting on a train is an extremely dangerous business—a little slip and it's all over.And everyone must hold on to their seats with all their strength, otherwise the huge shock when driving will throw people to nowhere.So when we got to the train station, I was really terrified.We got into the car so easily, and I always felt that the worst was bound to come.I was sadly disappointed when at last we set off ridiculously well and without any danger at all. The train gallops down; the wide fields, the distant green trees and the villages lying quietly under the shade of the trees pass by like a river of pictures, and disappear like countless mirages.It was night when we reached Bolpur.I got on the sedan chair and closed my eyes.I wanted to preserve the whole wondrous scene, that it might be unveiled again in the morning light, before my waking eyes. I am afraid that the freshness of experience will be spoiled by an imperfect glimpse in the twilight of evening. When I got up in the morning and went outside, I trembled with joy.The person who came before me told me that Bolpur has a characteristic that cannot be found in the whole world, that is, on the small road from the main house to the lower house, although there is nothing covering the head, people walk When passing by, a ray of sunshine and a drop of rain can't touch it.I went to look for the path, but perhaps my readers will not be surprised that I have not found it till now. I grew up in the city and never saw a rice field. We read stories about shepherd boys, and on the canvas of my imagination, I also painted a lovely portrait of a shepherd boy. I heard from Satya that the house in Bolpur is surrounded by mature rice fields, and playing games with the shepherd boy in the rice fields is a must-do every day. Pulling rice, cooking rice, and eating are the characteristics of this game.I look back longingly, but where are the rice fields in this bare wasteland?Maybe there are a few shepherd boys in some places, but the question is who can tell them apart from other children! Before long I lost what I couldn't see - what I saw was good enough.There are no servants here, and the only circle that encloses me is the blue line drawn on the horizon by the goddess of silence.I can roam freely in it. Though I was but a child, my father never forbade me from roaming. In the sunken places in the sand, the rain plowed deep furrows, carving out small mountains filled with red sand and stones of various shapes, and small rivers ran through the middle, showing the terrain of the Lilliputian.From this district I collected many strange shaped stones, which I carried back to my father in my coat pocket.He never despised my labor, on the contrary he aroused enthusiasm. "How beautiful!" he exclaimed. "Where did you get these?" "There are many more over there, tens of thousands!" I said hurriedly, "I can bring back so many every day." He said: "That's great, why not use these stones to decorate my hill?" We had thought of digging a small pond in the garden, but because the groundwater was too shallow, we gave up, never finished, and the soil we dug up piled up into a hill.Father used to sit on the top of this hill and say his morning prayers.There he sat, and the sun rose across from him to the edge of the rolling fields on the eastern horizon.He just asked me to decorate the hill. When I left Bolpur, I was very sad because I couldn't take the stones I had collected with me.What is harder for me to appreciate is that I don't have an absolute right to claim intimacy with things just because I put them together.If fate had granted my sincere prayer, and allowed me to carry these stones with me forever, I would not be so bold to laugh at this matter today. In one canyon, I saw a depression filled with spring water flowing like a small river, and small fish playing in the water, competing to swim upstream. I told my father, "I found a wonderful spring, can we use it for bathing and drinking?" "That's it." He agreed, as pleased as I was, and gave orders to go there to fetch daily water from now on. I never tire of roaming among the small valleys, hoping to discover something that no one has ever seen.I am the Livingstone of this undiscovered land turned upside down by a telescope.Everything here, the dwarf willow tree, the wild plum tree, and the dwarf rose apple tree from the South China Sea, are in harmony with this small mountain range and the small river and small fish I found. Perhaps to train me to be cautious, my father gave me a little change, let me manage it, and told me to keep accounts.He also put me in charge of opening his gold watch.In cultivating my sense of responsibility, he did not think of the danger of destruction.When we went for a walk in the morning, he asked me to give money to beggars I met along the way.But in the end I could never give him a correct ledger and at one point I figured out more balance than he handed me. "I really must ask you to be my accountant," said the father, "and the money will increase when it comes to you!" I opened his watch with indefatigable enthusiasm, and it was soon on its way to the watch shop in Calcutta. I also thought about how my father made me manage the estate, and I had to hand over the accounts to him on the first two days of each month.Because of his failing eyesight, I had to read him the number of each item first, and if he had doubts about a point, he asked for details. If I tried to cover it up, or withhold items I didn't think he would be happy with, I would eventually be found out.Therefore, at the beginning of each month, I am always very nervous for a few days. As I have said before, my father had the habit of keeping everything clear in his mind—whether it was the figures in the ledger, the arrangements for festivals, or the additions and removals of properties.He has never seen the newly built scripture hall in Bolpur, but he has asked every person who has been to Bolpur and visited him carefully, so he is familiar with every detail of the scripture hall.He has a great memory, and once he gets hold of a fact, it can never be escaped. In his "Bhagavad Gita", my father once ticked off his favorite verses.He asked me to copy these sentences for him together with the translation.At home I was an insignificant child, but here I feel the honor of my position when such important things are entrusted to me. By this time I had thrown away the blue manuscript and got a bound Leete-style diary.Now I take care that my poetry does not lack outward dignity, not only for the sake of writing poetry, but also for the sake of being a poet in my own imagination.So when I was writing poetry in Bolpur, I liked to climb under a willow tree, which seemed to me to be a really poetic way of writing.In this way, under the scorching sun, on the hard stone ground without turf, I wrote a battle song about "The Defeat of King Priseppi".Although this poem is extremely rich in the spirit of war, it cannot escape an early death.This bound diary of Li Te also took the path of her sister's blue manuscript, without leaving an address. We left Bolpur, making small stops along the way in Sahibganj, Dinapur, Allahabad and Kanpur before finally stopping in Amritsar. There is one event on the road that will forever be etched in my memory.The train stopped at a large station.The ticket inspector came to cut the ticket. He looked at me curiously, as if he had some doubts and refused to speak out.He walked away for a while, and brought back another companion. The two hesitated at the door for a long time, and then left again.At last the stationmaster himself came.He is one of the famous episodes in the Indian epic "Mahabharata". ——The translator saw my half-price ticket, and then asked: "Is this child under twelve?" "No." My father said. I was only eleven years old, but I looked older than I really was. "You must pay the full price for him," said the station master. The father's eyes flashed with anger, and without saying a word, he just took out a note from the box and handed it to the station master.When they got the balance back, the father threw the money back to them with contempt.The Station Master stood aside, ashamed at the exposure of his base suspicions. The Golden Temple in Amritsar came back to my heart like a dream.Several mornings I accompanied my father to the Sikh Guru Darbar in the middle of the lake.There are continuous repentance in the temple.My father sat among the worshipers, and sometimes joined in the singing of praises, and when they found out that there were strangers attending the service, they gave a warm welcome, and when we returned, we were always laden with rock sugar and other candy offerings. One day my father invited a member of the chanting team to come to our place to sing hymns.Perhaps this man was overjoyed at the reward, and it turned out that there were so many bands of singers coming to invade us—so we had to hold on to the defense.When they found out they couldn't get into our house, the singers intercepted us in the street.When we go for a walk in the morning, there is often a dombra hanging across one shoulder. Seeing this, we are like birds seeing the muzzle of a hunter.Really, we become very vigilant, and hearing the sound of dombula from a distance will scare us away. During Singh's reign, a copper roof covered with gold leaf was added to the temple, so it was called the "Golden Temple". —The translator is not going to be put in a hunting bag at all. At night, my father would sit on the veranda facing the garden, and I would be called to sing to him.The moon rises, and its light shines through the trees on the verandah floor; I sing in Behaga: My father bowed his head and folded his hands and listened attentively. I still remember this night scene until now. I once said that my father was amused when he heard Mr. Sri Ganda talk about my debut song of praise to God.I remember how I was compensated afterwards.One of the several carols I wrote on a winter moon festival is: By then my father was bedridden in Chinsula, and he called me and my brother Jyoti.He asked my brother to accompany him with the accordion, and asked me to sing all the carols I wrote one by one, and some of them had to be sung twice.When I had finished singing, he said: "If the king of this country knew the language and could appreciate its literature, he would have rewarded poets. Since this is not the case, I think it must be my job." And he handed me a check . My father brought with him several Peter Parley books from which he taught me.He started with the biography of Benjimin Franklin.He thought that reading this book was like reading a novel, both interesting and positive.It wasn't long before we started that he found out he was wrong.Franklin was too transactional.The morality of his narrow interest relationship aroused his father's disgust. In some matters, my father was very impatient with Franklin's worldly prudence, and he often couldn't help berating him with violent words. Before this, I had no contact with Sanskrit except memorizing a few articles of burning grammar.My father asked me to start reading the second volume of the Sanskrit Reader right away, and asked me to learn the changes of the endings by myself while reading.My deep knowledge of Bengali has helped me a lot. ①My father also encouraged me to start practicing writing in Sanskrit.I used the words I learned from Sanskrit textbooks to form exaggerated compound sentences, with many loud M and N sounds, forming a fairy language mixed like a demon, but my father never laughed at my recklessness. At the same time, I also read Proctor's "General Literature". After my father explained it to me in a simple language, I wrote it down in Bengali. Among the books my father brought, Gibbing's ten-volume "History of Rome" caught my attention the most.These books seem to be very boring.I thought, "As a child, I had no choice but to read a lot of books. But a grown-up is free to read or not, so why bother?" We lived in Amritsar for a month, and in mid-April, we set out for Mount Dalhousie.In the last few days in Amritsar, it seemed like it would never end. The call of the Himalayas to me was too strong. When we went up the mountain on the hillside, the high platform-like hillside was illuminated by the brilliance of the spring rice flowers in full bloom.Every morning we eat bread and milk. Most of the literary words in Bengali come directly from Sanskrit. ——Translator body, before sunset, rest at the next station.My eyes don't rest all day, lest I miss something.Turning into a gorge on the mountain road, the forest is deep and the trees are dense, and the clear spring flows out under the shade of the trees, just like the little daughter in the hermitage, playing at the feet of the white-haired hermit who is thinking, and murmuring from the dark moss-covered rocks walk by.When I got here, the bearer put down his mountain bag and took a rest. My hungry heart called out, why don't we stop here forever? This is the most advantageous place to witness for the first time: at that time, the mind does not know that there will be many such scenes to emerge.When the computer knows this, it immediately cuts back on the expenditure of attention.Only when it believes that something is really rare does the mind cease to be stingy in valuation.So in the streets of Calcutta I sometimes considered myself a stranger, and it was only on this assumption that I found so much to see, only because we did not pay the full worth of our attention, Just lost it.It's the real hunger to see that drives people to travel. My father gave me the small box containing the cash for safekeeping.He had no reason to regard me as a suitable person for keeping the box containing a considerable amount of travel expenses.He would have felt much safer if he had placed it in the hands of his servant Kishore.So I can only imagine that he was trying to cultivate my sense of responsibility.One day when we arrived at a post-house I was reprimanded for forgetting to hand the box to my father, and leaving it on the table. Every time we got off at a stop, my father asked the chairs to be moved outside the post house, and we just sat there.In the twilight, the stars shone wonderfully from the clear mountain air. My father pointed out the constellations to me, or gave me astronomy lessons. The house we lived in in Bakruta was on the top of the highest mountain. Although it was almost May, it was still bitterly cold here, and the snow and ice on the shady side of the hillside had not yet melted. Even here, my father had no qualms about allowing me to roam as I wished. Not far below our house, there is a cliff covered with lush Himalayan cedars.I always go alone into the woods, with a stick with an iron head, and the tall images of this majestic forest stand so many giants--what a wonderful life they have lived through so many centuries!And the children who came just a few days ago were able to play around them without hindrance.I went into the shadows of the forest, and it seemed to me to feel the presence of an ogre, to hold a frozen primordial lizard, whose scales were like grids of light and shadow on the moldy leaf floor. My house is at one end of the house.I lay in bed, and through the uncurtained window I could see distant snowy peaks, glinting dimly in the starlight.Sometimes, I don't know what time it is, I will see my father wearing a red shawl in a haze, holding a lamp in his hand, and gently walking to the balcony with glass windows where he sits and prays.After another sleep, before it was dark, I found him pushing me awake by my bed.This is the designated time for reciting Sanskrit ending changes.What an uncomfortable cold awakening from my cozy and warm blanket! The sun came up, my father drank milk with me after morning prayers, and I stood next to him while he recited the Upanishads and prayed to the gods. Then we'll go for a walk.But how can I keep up with him?Many people older than me can't catch up with him!Therefore, I stopped chasing after a while, and climbed home from the path on the side of the mountain. After my father came back, I read English for an hour.After ten o'clock I took a cold bath; without my father's permission, I couldn't even ask a servant to fill me with a pot of hot water.To encourage my courage, my father often told me how when he was young he took unbearably cold showers. Another austerity is to drink milk.Father loves milk very much and can drink it in large quantities.I don't know if I didn't inherit this containment ability, or because of the unfavorable environment I mentioned before, my penchant for milk is sadly lacking.Unfortunately we were always drinking milk together, so I had to beg the servants for mercy, thank them for their kindness (or frailty), and in acknowledgment of their kindness, more than half my milk cup has been filled with foam since then! After lunch, I started to do my homework again.This is really not something that flesh and blood can bear.My angry "sleep in the morning" would come back with vengeance, and I'd fall sleepy.But when my father took pity on my plight and let me go, my drowsiness disappeared immediately.Later, hi!ran to the mountains. I ran from peak to peak with a stick, and my father didn't object.I realized that my father had never hindered our autonomy in his life.There were times when my words and deeds did not suit his taste and judgment, and he could stop me with just one word, but he would rather wait for my self-made reminder.He is not content with our docile acceptance of right rules; he wants us to love truth with all our hearts, knowing that obedience without love is vain.He also knows that if the truth is lost, it can still be found, but reluctantly or blindly accepting the truth from outside actually blocks the way to enter. When I was very young, I had dreamed of traveling in an ox cart along the Dakan Road to Peshawar.No one else supported the plan, and some vehemently opposed it as an unrealistic requirement.But when I suggested it to my dad, he was convinced it was a brilliant plan - the train journey was in name only!From this point of view he also related to me his own daring wanderings on foot and on horseback, without saying a word about the discomfort or danger. Another time when I was assigned as the secretary of the Primitive Vendu, I ran to my father’s house on Park Street and told him that I disapproved of the fact that Brahmins refused people of other castes to participate in sacraments.He didn't hesitate to allow me to modify the rules, if I could.When I had authority, I found that I lacked power.I can discover the imperfect, but I cannot create the perfect!Where is the person who can cooperate with me?Where is my power to attract people who can cooperate?Is there a way I can rebuild where I broke? Until there are co-operators, any form is better than no form--this, I feel, must be my father's view of the existing order, but he never fails to discourage me by pointing out the difficulties. Just as he allowed me to roam freely on the hills, so he let me choose my own path in the search for truth.He did not hesitate at the danger of me doing wrong, nor did he terrify me at the possibility of misery.He lifts up a standard, not a training stick. I often mentioned our family to my father.Whenever I received a letter from anyone in my family, I showed it to my father right away.I really believe that I have thus been the medium of many situations that he has not had from others.My father also showed me the letters my brothers had written to him. This is his way of teaching me how to write to him, because he never underestimated the importance of formality and etiquette. The work of his station tied him by the neck.My father asked me to explain his emotions.I explained it according to my experience, but he thought another explanation was more suitable.My excessive self-confidence made me insist on arguing with him to the end. Others might silence me with scolding, but my father patiently listened to my reasons and then tried to explain his point of view to me. My father sometimes told me funny stories too.He had many jokes about the dandy boys of his time.At that time, there were some young men whose skin was so delicate that even the embroidered lace on the fine linen of Dhaka was too rough.So they tore off the lace when they wore linen, which was at one time the most fashionable thing to do. The first time I heard a story from my father that I thought was very interesting, there was a milk seller who was suspected of mixing water in the milk.The more people his customers sent to see him milked, the weaker his milk became, until at last the customer came to him himself for an explanation, and the milkman declared that if every watchman had to be satisfied, then His milk had to be used to raise fish. After a few months of this with my father, my father sent me home with his servant, Kishore. The chains of the strict system which bound me were snapped as soon as I left home.Back home I've grown in power.在我身上说，因为我近在咫尺就想不到我；现在因为我曾不在眼前；我就又回到视界里来了。 我在回家的路上，就预先尝到了受人尊敬的滋味。我这样地带着仆人独自旅行，言谈举止之间洋溢着健康和愉快，再加上那顶引人注目的平金小帽，所有我在车上遇到的英国人，都很恭维我。 当我到家的时候，不但是旅行归来，而且是从下房的流放，回到我内院的应有的地位上去。当内院的家人聚集在母亲房里的时候，现在也有了我的一个很高的座位。我们家里那位最年轻的新娘子也把感情和关心，倾注在我的身上。 在幼稚时期，妇女们的爱护是不由自主的，就像必需品中的空气和水一样，只管接受，不必有自动的还报；而正在成长的孩子，却显出急于从妇女们关切的罗网中解放出来的渴望。但是那不幸的东西，在他应得的时期中，这种关切却被剥夺掉，那可真成了叫化子了。 这曾是我的痛苦。因此，在下房长大之后，忽然进到妇女们丰富的情感之中，我决不能不深深地意识到这份情感。 在内院离我还很遥远的日子里，它是我想象里的乐土。内院，从外面看去是个草地，对于我却是一切自由之家。学校和老师都不在那里；而且我似乎感到任何人都不必做它所不愿做的事情。它的幽深的悠闲有点神秘的意味；大家在玩，做她想做的事情，自己做什么事也不必去汇报。我的小妹妹尤其是这样，对于她，虽然她也和我们一起上尼尔卡玛尔先生的课，而无论她功课做得好坏，他却不动声色。而且在十点钟的时候，我们必须赶紧吃过早饭，准备上学，她呢，却甩着小辫，洋洋地走进里面去，把我们逗得心都乱了。 当那位新娘子，挂着金项链，来到我们家里，内院的神秘更加深沉了。她，从外面来的，又变成我们家的人，她本来是生人，而又是自己人，这对我有奇异的吸引力——我热望和她交朋友，但在我千方百计靠她近点的时候，我的小妹就把我推开，一面说：“你们男孩子在这里做什么？——快到外面去吧。”失望加上受辱，我就赶快逃走了。从她们房子的玻璃门外面，我们能看到一切新奇的玩意儿——陶瓷和玻璃做的——颜色装潢都十分鲜艳。我们是被认为连摸一下都不配的，我们也更鼓不起勇气去请求拿一件来玩玩。无论如何，那些都是稀罕奇妙的东西，对于我们男孩子们，给内院又染上一层魅力。 受过多次的拒绝，我和内院疏远了。对于我，内院和外界一样，都是接触不到的。因此我所得到的内院的印象，都像图画一样。