Chapter 74 4

After nine o'clock at night, I went to sleep after Mr. Agor's class. A dimly flickering lantern hung in the long, venetian-curtained passage leading from the inner and outer courtyards.At the turning point at the end of the passage, there are four or five floors of stairs, where the light cannot reach. After descending the stairs, I walked to the corridor of the first entrance courtyard. A pillar-like moonlight slanted from the eastern sky to the west corner of the corridor. , and the rest are hidden in darkness.In this square of light, the maidservants sat together with their legs stretched close together, twisting waste cotton into wicks, and talking in low voices about their domestic affairs in the country.Many such pictures are unforgettablely imprinted in my memory.

After dinner we washed our hands and feet in the veranda before lying down on the big bed; and one of our nurses, Tinkari or Shankari, came and sat by our heads and sang to us how a prince A story of wandering in the wilderness.After the story was finished, the room fell silent, I faced the wall and stared at the peeling place on the gray wall, black and white were blurred in the twilight; I fancied many strange images from it, and fell asleep at the same time .Sometimes in the middle of the night, in my twilight, I heard Swarub, who watched the night, shouting when he was patrolling the corridor.

Afterwards, a new order came, when I received the long-awaited overflowing care from the strange dreams I had imagined inside; I can't help but feel dizzy when the compensation is given to me. The little traveler is full of travel stories, and with each retelling, the narrative becomes more and more disjointed, so that it does not correspond to the facts.Unfortunately!As with everything else, the story becomes old, and the storyteller's honor is tarnished; so he must add new renderings to keep it ever fresh. After returning from the mountains, I was the keynote speaker at my mother's evening fair.The temptation to become famous in her own mother's eyes was as irresistible as the fame came easily.When I was in normal school, I read for the first time in a textbook that the sun is hundreds of times larger than the earth, and I immediately told my mother this fact.This is to prove that there is something great about this seemingly small person.I also sometimes recited to her verses from the Bengali grammar book that I used as examples when talking about composition or rhetoric.Now at her evening meetings I give bits and pieces of astronomy gleaned from Proctor's books.

Kishori, a servant of his father, was a member of the Dasarati Ballad Choir. When we were on the hill together, he used to say to me, "Oh, little brother, if we had you on our rap team, we'd have a really good show." His words opened up to me a picture of a tantalizing wanderlust.Be a little traveling musician, go around, talk and sing.I have learned many songs in his program, and the demand for these songs is much greater than my speech about the photosphere of the sun and the many moons of Jupiter. But my success that most resonated with my mother was that at that time the inner court could only be satisfied with the Bengali translation of Kridivas' Ramayana, while I read with my father the Sanskrit of the great sage Valmiki The original text of the rhyme.When I told her about it, she was overjoyed and said, "Read me some passages of this Rama ① servants call their masters and mistresses father and mother, and their children brothers and sisters."—Translator Yana, read it!"

Unfortunately!My reading of Valmiki's Ramayana was limited to a small selection from a Sanskrit text, and even this I could not quite handle, and after reviewing it, I found that my memory had deceived me, and many of the passages I thought I had What I remember has become blurred.But I did not have the guts to say "I forgot" while the earnest mother waited to boast of her son's prodigies; so in the sentences I recited Valmiki's attempt and my interpretation diverged greatly.The good and sage spirit in heaven would have forgiven the audacity of the glorious boy who begged for his mother's reward, but the Sultan of Madhu, the proud destroyer, would not have forgiven.

My mother was overwhelmed with emotion at my extraordinary publicity, and she wanted everyone to share in her admiration.She said, "You must give this recitation to Viking Dula." I thought to myself, "There's no escape!" I gave every reason I could think of to escape, but my mother refused to listen, and she called my brother Du Viking, who welcomed him as soon as he arrived Say: "Listen to the rabbi reading the Ramayana of Valmiki; how well he reads it!" Recitation was necessary, but Madhu Sultan mercifully spared me, using only a little of his power to lower pride.

My brother must have been called while he was busy writing himself.He didn't want to hear my recitation of the burning text translated into Bengali. I had just read a few verses and he just said "very good" and walked away. After I was promoted to the inner courtyard, I found it more difficult to resume school life.I used all means of evasion to escape Bengal Secondary School.Then they reluctantly sent me to St. Chevre's, with no better results. ① Another title of the Hindu god Vishnu, which means the person who killed the proud demon Madu. —Translator My brothers were completely disappointed in me after their short-term efforts—they stopped even scolding me.One day my eldest sister said:

"We all hoped the rabbi would grow up and he let us down terribly. I felt my value in society dropped significantly.But I couldn't make up my mind to be chained to the endless torture of the school mill.This school mill, forever separated from all life and beauty, is like a hateful cruel amalgam of hospital and prison. There is a precious memory in Saint-Chevre that I still remember fresh and pure in my heart-the teachers at the school.They're not all the best.Especially the teachers in our class, I can't say whether I respect them spiritually.They are not at all superior to the kinds of teaching machines that teachers use.That's it, this educational machine is ruthlessly powerful, coupled with the external form of religion's stone mill, the young heart is truly crushed dry.It was this machine-driven millstone education that we got at Saint-Chevre.But, as I said, I retain a memory that raised my impression of the teacher to an ideal level.

This is the memory of Father Depini Renda.He didn't have much contact with us—if I remember correctly, he only represented one teacher in our class for a short time.He is Spanish and seems to have a bit of a stutter when speaking English. Perhaps for this reason, the students did not pay much attention to what he said.It seemed to me that he was offended by the briefness of the students, but he endured it meekly day by day.For some reason, my heart always goes to him in sympathy.His face was not pretty, but his features held a strange attraction for me.Whenever I looked at him, his mind seemed to be in prayer, and a deep stillness filled him both inside and out.

We had half an hour to imitate the copybook; that was the time I spent absent-mindedly, pen in hand, wandering about with my thoughts.One day Father Depini Renda supervised the class.He paced up and down behind our chairs.He must have seen that I have not written.He stopped suddenly by my chair.He bent down and gently put his hand on my shoulder and asked softly: "Are you uncomfortable, Tagore?" This is just a simple question, but it is a sentence I will never forget. I don't know what impression other students have of him, but I feel that there is a great soul in him. To this day, this memory seems to give me a passport to enter the quiet temple of God.

There was also an old priest whom all the students loved.He is Father Henry.He teaches upper classes; therefore I don't know him very well. But I remember one thing about him. He can speak Bengali.Once he asked Nirada, a student in his class, what was the etymology of his name.Poor Nirada, who had never cared much about himself—especially about his name, never bothered, so he was not at all prepared to answer the question.But among the many esoteric and unknown words in the dictionary, being overwhelmed by one's own name is as comical as being run over by one's own carriage, so Nirada replied without shame: " Ni means no, rode means sunlight; therefore nirode means to make the sunlight disappear!" Mr. Gan, the son of Mr. Wadang Dawa Gish, is our tutor now.When he found that the school subjects failed to hold my attention, he considered it hopeless, and abandoned the attempt, and pursued another course.He ① Nirada means "cloud" in Sanskrit.It is combination of nira (water) da (giver). Take me to read "The Birth of the God of War" by Kalidasa, and translate it for me.He also read Macbeth to me, first explaining the text in Bengali, and shutting me up in the classroom until I had translated all I read that day into Bengali verse. In this way he made me read the whole script.Fortunately, I lost this translation, so I also lightened the burden of homework. Mr. Ram Salvasor's responsibility is to promote the progress of our Sanskrit language.He similarly abandoned the fruitless practice of teaching grammar to his reluctant pupils, and instead read Shakuntala with me.One day he thought of giving my translation of "Macbeth" to Mr. Vidyasagar and took me to his home. Rajkrishna Mukherjee was visiting at his house and sat with him. My heart beat violently when I entered the book-strewn study of the great teacher; his quiet countenance did not restore my courage.However, this is the first time in my life that I have such a famous audience, and I have a strong desire to be famous.When I go back, I believe there is some reason to be excited.As for Mr. Rajkrishna, he contented himself with exhorting me to be careful to use language and rhythm in the part of the witch character that differs from that used in ordinary characters. In my boyhood, the amount of Bengali literature was small, and I think I may have read everything that was readable and unreadable at the time.Children's literature hadn't yet developed to the point where it had its own special genre - but I'm sure it didn't do me any harm. The liquid that now percolates in the elixir of literature is given to young people, taking into account only their childish parts, and not treating them as adults.Children ① Mukherjee (1845-1886), an Indian poet and critic who wrote in Bengali. —The translator's book should contain some things they can understand and some things they can't understand. When we were young, I read all the books on both extremes that I could get my hands on; what we could understand and what we couldn't understand were kept active in our hearts.This is how the world is reflected in the child's consciousness.What the child understands becomes the child's own, and what is beyond his understanding brings him a step forward. When the "satirical literature" of the contemporary Pandu Midra came out, I was at an age that was not suitable for reading.I have a family member who is looking at a copy, but no matter how much I beg, she won't lend it to me.She always keeps the book locked away. The more I couldn't get it, the more I wanted to read it. I made up my mind that I must and will definitely read this book. One afternoon she was playing cards.Her set of keys is fastened to the end of a sari and slung over her shoulder.I never cared about playing poker, in fact I hated playing poker.But my actions that day did not lead to this, and I simply watched with great enthusiasm.Finally, when I was nervous about the reconciliation, I seized this opportunity to untie the knot that tied the key.I couldn't do my hands and feet well, and I was nervous and hurried, so I was caught by her.The owner of the sari and the key smiled and pulled the sari down, put the key on his lap, and continued playing. Then I suddenly came up with a clever plan.My family likes to eat "ban", so I hurried to get "ban" and put it in front of her.This caused her to drop the key on the ground when she stood up to spit out the "class" dregs, and she put it on her shoulder again.This time I stole it, the prisoner escaped, and the book was read!The owner of the book tried to scold me, but her efforts were unsuccessful, and we both laughed. ① Dai Napandu Midra (1829-1874), Bengali playwright. —The translator, Dr. Rajdral Midella, has edited a monthly magazine of essays with pictures. On my third brother's bookshelf, there is a full-year bound volume.I managed to get this bound volume, and I can still recall the pleasure of reading the newspaper repeatedly.This is how many a holiday noon is spent, lying on my back in bed with this boxy book on my chest, reading about a narwhal, or the strange verdict of ancient Qazi, or Krishnakuma in love. Why do we not have such a magazine now?We have articles on philosophy and science on the one hand, and dull stories and travelogues on the other, but we don't have the kind of unassuming magazines that ordinary people can comfortably read-like the British "Chenbo" or "Casol" Or The Strand--these are the ones that can provide the common reader with a simple and satisfying homely meal, and are of the greatest use to the greatest number of people. In my boyhood I also read another monthly called The Fool's Friend.I found a few books in my elder brother's study room, and I sat on the threshold of his study room, facing the small corner of the south balcony, and read desperately day after day.It was in the pages of this magazine that I first made friends with the poems of Vihariral, Chakravati.Of all the poems I read at the time, his poems moved me the most. The innocent and lively flute melody of his lyric poems awakened the music of the fields and forests in me. In these pages, I have also contributed a lot to the translation of "Paul and Virginie" ①②③④French writer Bernardin de Saint-Pierre (1737-1814), which describes a pair of innocent young men and women. love story. ——Translator Chakravati (1835-1874), Bengali poet. Islamic judge. Rajindral Midra (1824-1891), Indian historian. Many tears.The wonderful sea, the jujube willow forest on the coast swayed by the breeze, and the goats jumping and playing on the hillside outside the forest-all of these created a fresh and happy mirage on the roof terrace in Calcutta.what!And the pursuit of love between the little Bengali reader and the little Virginie wrapped in a flower scarf in the forest path of the deserted island! Then came Benjam①'s "Bangladesh View", which swept the hearts of Bangladeshis like a storm. Waiting for the publication of next month's publication is already bitter enough, and the grown-ups at home have to read it before it's their turn. I see, this is simply unbearable! Now anyone who wants to can swallow Chandrashekel or The Poison Tree in one gulp.But the process of longing and anticipating month after month, between the long interruptions, the concentrated joy of reading each short paragraph, recalling the stories of each issue repeatedly in my heart, while watching and waiting for the next issue : the mixture of satisfaction and unsatisfied longing, burning curiosity and its consolation; no one can taste these prolonged pleasures of reading the original. I am also very interested in the periodical of ancient poetry edited by Salada Miter and Akshay Sakar.Our elders were subscribers to this publication, but none of them were regular readers, so it was not difficult for me to get it.Vidjapati's eccentric and erroneous Mathiri appealed to me all the more because of its incomprehensibility.I tried not to read the editor's notes, but to explore his feelings. I extracted all the difficult words and their contexts that appeared many times in my notebook, and wrote them down according to my understanding. grammatical features. ①Banjim (1838-1894), a famous Indian writer. ——Translator One of the great advantages I enjoyed in my youth was the literary and artistic atmosphere that permeated my family.I remember when I was a kid, I used to lean on the railing of the verandah where I could see the separate building with the living room house.Every night these living rooms are brightly lit.The gorgeous carriage has been pulled under the porch, and the guests are constantly coming and going.I can't say what kind of assembly was there, I just stared out of the darkness at the rows of lit windows.Although the partition space is not large, the gap between my children's world and these bright lights is very wide. My cousin Canandra has just received a play written by Mr. Takaratana to be performed in our house.His passion for literature and fine arts knew no bounds.He was the central figure in that group.They were forever consciously trying to bring in from all sides what we now see as the Renaissance.Nationalism, prominent in costume, literature, music, art, and theater, awakened in and around him.He is an intensive scholar in the history of various countries. He has begun to write some historical research in Bengali, but he has not finished it.He translated and published the Sanskrit drama "Urivashi", and many famous carols are written by him.In the creation of patriotic poetry, he can be said to be a guide for us.This was back when the Hindu Association was an annual organization, and there they used to sing his song "I'm Ashamed to Sing the Glory of India." Cousin Canandra died in his prime when I was very young.But ①②A patriot organization in India. Takaratna (1822-1886), a famous Bengali playwright. No one who saw him once could never forget his handsome, tall and stately features. He has an irresistible social influence.He can draw people around him and bond them forever; as long as his strong magnetism is there, there will never be a problem of separation.He is one of those peculiar types of men in our country, who are easily known in their families and villages by his personal appeal.In any country with a large political, social, or business group, such a person would naturally be the national leader.The power to organize many into a united body depends on a peculiar genius.This kind of genius has been wasted in our country, and it is a pity that it is a waste, I think, like plucking stars from the sky to use as matches. I remember better his younger brother, my cousin Gunandra.He also always filled the family with his personality.His magnanimous and benevolent heart embraced relatives, friends, guests and family members without discrimination.Whether it is on his wide south balcony, on the grass by the spring, or on the fishing platform by the pool, he is always presiding over an uninvited party, like the embodiment of "graciousness".His broad appreciation of art and intellect gave him a perpetual glow of enthusiasm. He was always an eager patron of any novel idea in festivals, games, plays, or other entertainment, and with his help it would come to fruition. At that time, we were too young to participate in those activities, but the waves of excitement and vitality they promoted rushed to knock on the door of our curious hearts.I remember once a satirical play my older brother wrote was rehearsed in a cousin's living room.From our side, leaning on the railing of the verandah, we can hear the laughter and funny singing mixed in the open window opposite, and we can sometimes see the famous painters Gaganandara and Abba Nindra's father. —A wonderful burlesque by the translator Kesha Mahgenta.We don't know exactly what is sung, but we always hope to know one day. I remember one insignificant incident which won me the special favor of my cousin Gunendra.I've never had an award, except once for good conduct.Among the three of us, my nephew Satir was the one who did the best work.Once he did well in the exam and got a bonus.When we got home, I jumped out of the carriage to tell my cousin who was in the garden the important news.I ran up to him and shouted, "Satir has won the award." He smiled and pulled me to his knees, and asked, "Have you won the award?" I said, "No. It's not me, it's Satir has won the prize." My heartfelt joy at Satir's excellent results seemed to have particularly touched my cousin.He turned to his friend and talked about it, thinking it was a nice feature.I remember very well that I was really baffled, because I didn't feel my feelings from this point.It doesn't do me any good to get this award because I didn't get it.There is no harm in giving gifts to children, but they should not be paid for it.It is not healthy to make a child shy. After lunch, Cousin Gunandra came to our house to deal with real estate affairs.The office of our elders is a kind of club.There, chatting and laughing and dealing with affairs are freely mixed together.My cousin often leans on the bench, and I always find a chance to get close to him. He often told me stories from Indian history.I remember my astonishment when I heard that Clive, after establishing the British rule in India, had returned home and committed suicide.On the one hand, a new history has been written; on the other hand, a chapter of tragedy is hidden in the mysterious darkness of the human heart.On the surface that ① Cliff (1725-1774), the British colonialists who conquered India. ——How can there be that painful failure in the success of the translator?The story weighed heavily on my heart all day. Sometimes Cousin Gunendra must know what I have in my pocket.With slight encouragement, my manuscript was brought out without shame.I need not say that my cousin was not a severe critic; in fact, what he expressed would serve as excellent publicity.But when the childishness in my poems got too rash, he couldn't help laughing. One day, in a poem called "Mother India," the only rhyme I could think of at the end of a line was the word "car," and I had to pull the cart in, though Not a shadow of a car-passable road—a rhyming insistence that refuses to yield to any excuses of pure reason. Cousin Gunendra's laughing gale had blown the car back onto the road where no car could have come, and it was never heard from again. My elder brother was already busy writing his masterpiece "Sleepwalking".His cushions are placed on the south balcony, and a low table is placed in front of him.Cousin Gunendra came every morning to sit for a while.His vast capacity for appreciation urges the germination of poetry like a spring breeze.The eldest brother recited what he had written after a while, and his loud laughter at the illusion he had created made the verandah vibrate. The elder brother wrote much more than he used in the final draft. The inspiration of his poems is so rich, like the small flowers of over-prosperous mangoes, laying a blanket in the shade of mango trees in spring, "Sleepwalking" The torn manuscript paper was also scattered all over the house.If someone keeps these manuscript papers, they can really be used as a basket of flowers to decorate our Bengali literature today. Overhearing at the door, peeping in the corner, I have fully shared in this feast of poetry, it is so rich, so abundant.At that time the elder brother was at the height of his brilliance; and from his pen poured forth the incessant torrent, forming a torrent of poetic imagination, rhyme, and phrase, filling its banks with joyous triumphant songs.Can we fully understand "Sleepwalking"?But do we have to know it all at the time to appreciate it?We may not have access to the treasures of the ocean's depths - what good would we have if we did? —but how joyously our life's blood rushes through every vein under their shock at our revelry on the shore! The more I think about this period, the more I realize that we don't have anything called Mujlis anymore.In our childhood we saw this dying glory of the close sociality that characterized the previous generation.Neighborhood affection was so strong in those days that Mujalis was a need, and those who contributed socially were greatly welcomed.People now visit each other only for business, or as a social obligation, rather than gathering in the Mujalis fashion.They don't have the time, nor the same intimacy among them! What intercourse we had seen before, what mirth was made in the house and on the verandah by the tumult of talk and fits of laughter!Our ancestors' talent for being the center of groups and gatherings, for initiating and maintaining lively and interesting chatter, is now lost.People still came and went, but the same houses and lanais looked empty and deserted. In those days, everything from utensils to banquets was designed to be enjoyed by the many.So no matter how luxurious and exquisite these things are, there is no hint of arrogance.These appendages have increased in number since then, but they have become ruthless and have no understanding of the Bengali, which means uninvited informal gatherings, which can make the high and the low alike. — The Art of the Translator Feeling At Home.Those who are naked and ragged cannot rely solely on the charm of smiling faces, but must have permission to use or occupy them.The people we want to be close to today when we build a house or design furniture have their own society and its wide range of hospitality.Our trouble is that we throw away what we have, but we have no means of rebuilding something new on European standards, and as a result our family life is lonely.We still meet for business and political purposes, but never just to meet each other.We no longer conjure up opportunities to bring people together just for the love of our fellow man.I cannot conceive of anything uglier than social stinginess; and when I recall the hearty laughter of these people, who relieved us of our worldly burdens, they seemed guests from another world up. In my youth I had a friend whose assistance in my literary advances is invaluable.Axel Chaudhuri is a classmate of my fifth brother.He is a master of English literature, he is not only extremely interested in English literature, but also very proficient.On the one hand, he has the same fondness for our old Bengali authors and Vishnupa poets.He had read hundreds of poems by unknown Bengali poets, and he chanted them aloud, regardless of tune, effect, or disapproval from his listeners.There is no reason outside or inside him that can prevent him from clapping loudly to his music. The table or a book closest to him can be beaten vigorously by his nimble fingers to help him The audience cheered. He is also the kind of person who can extract joy from everything with infinite power.He is always ready to absorb the slightest bit of goodness from everything, and at the same time sings his excessive paeans.He had a remarkable genius for writing good lyric poems and songs very quickly, but he didn't claim to be an author.He never paid attention to the piles of manuscript paper which he had penciled and thrown about.His talent is abundant, but he is so indifferent to his prolificacy. When one of his long poems was published in The Grand View of Bengal, it was very popular. I heard many people singing his poems, but they didn't know that he wrote them. A sincere interest in literature is much more valuable than erudition, and it was Axel Chowdhuli's enthusiasm for appreciation that awakened my own appreciation of literature.He was equally generous with friendship and literary criticism.Among strangers, he is like a fish out of water, but among friends, differences in intelligence and age do not affect him.With our kids, he is just a kid.When he came out of the grown-ups' Mujalis late at night, I left him and dragged him into the study.There he sat at our desk with an undiminished kindness that made him the soul and center of our little assembly.On many such occasions I have heard him gaily expound some English poetry, engage in admiring discussions, critical explorations, or passionate debates, or generous praises of my readings of my own. . My fifth brother, Joti Rendra, is one of the main assistants in my literary and emotional training.He is an enthusiastic person himself and loves to arouse enthusiasm in others. He did not let the difference of age ① hinder the free communication between us intellectually and emotionally.No one else dared to give me the much appreciated liberty he gave me; many even blamed him.His friendship made it possible for me to get rid of my shyness.I was almost twelve years apart when I was young. ——Translator The oppressed soul in infancy needs friendship just like the hot summer longs for Yunni. Had my chains not been severed so abruptly, I might have been crippled for life.Those in power never tire of citing the possibility of liberty being abused as a reason not to grant it, but without that possibility liberty is not really liberty.The way to learn to use a thing rightly is by using it wrongly.For myself at least, I can really say that any little defect that springs from my freedom always leads me on the way to correct it.I have never been able to make what others grabbed my physical or mental ears and forced me to swallow into my own. Except for what I was allowed to take freely, all I got was pain and nothing. something else. Brother Qiao Tirendra unreservedly let me learn in my own way. Only since then has my nature prepared to stretch out its needles, and at the same time to blossom.My experience has made me less afraid of evil than of tyrannical efforts to do good.I have an utter horror of punishing police, political or moral. The resulting slavery is the worst cancer that afflicts mankind. At this time, my brother sat next to the piano every day, concentrating on creating new tunes.A shower of melodies gushed out from under his jumping fingers like a fountain. Mr. Axel and I, sitting on either side, were busy composing songs for the new key after the key was made for the sake of memorization.This is how I did my apprenticeship in poetry. At the same time as we grew into teenagers, our family cultivated a large number of ① notation methods were not used at that time, and one of the most popular notation methods now was invented by the author's elder brother later. ——Translator music is here.This gives me a kind of cheapness, which allows me to absorb the music into my whole body and mind without effort.It's also not cheap, it just doesn't give me the skills and proficiency that can only be obtained step by step.Therefore, for the so-called mastery in music, I did not get it. Since my return from the Himalayas, I have gained more and more freedom. The control of the servants is over; I have loosened the shackles of school life in many ways;After taking me through "The Birth of the God of War", Mr. Gan talked about two or three other books in a rambling manner, and then left to practice law.Then came a Mr. Praja.The first day he asked me to translate "The Life of Reverend Wakefield".I found that I didn't dislike the book; but when it encouraged him to make more elaborate plans for the progress of my studies, I simply slipped away. As I have already said, the grown-ups in the family were disappointed in me.Neither I nor they have much hope for my future.So I was free to concentrate on filling my manuscript.A work thus filled cannot be better than hoped for.There is nothing in my heart but a puff of steam, a blister of steam that bubbles around idle fantasies, swells and sinks aimlessly and meaninglessly.No form develops, only a turmoil of movement, a bubble blows up, deflates, blows up again.Any tiny thing in it is not my own, but has been borrowed from other poets.What belongs to me is only the irritability, boiling and tension in my heart.Movement is born, and the balance of forces has not yet matured, of course there can only be blind confusion. My sister-in-law① is a person who is extremely fond of literature.她读书并不是为①即作者家里的新娘，上面提过的作者五哥的妻子。 ——译者着消磨光阴，她所读过的孟加拉文的书籍充满了她的整个心灵。在她的文学企业中我是个合股者。她是《梦游记》的热烈爱慕者。我也是，尤其是因为我是在这创造的气氛中长大的，它的美和我心的每一条纤维交织在一起，幸而我完全没有力量来模仿这首诗，所以我从来不敢有一点这样的企图。 《梦游记》可以说是像一座寓言的超绝的宫殿，里面有数不清的厅堂、内室、甬道、角落或壁龛里摆满了设计奇妙、艺术精巧的雕刻和图画；在周围的地面上，布满了花畦、亭榭、流泉和荫凉幽静的处所。不但富有诗意和幻想，而语言和表现上的丰富多彩也是卓越的。这不是一件小事，这股创造力能把那样壮丽的、具备着一切艺术细节的结构表现出来，这也许就是我从不敢去仿造的原因。 这时候，微哈里拉尔·查克拉瓦蒂的叫做《吉祥诗》的组诗，在《雅利安哲学》上发表了。我的嫂子大大地被这诗的柔美所感动。其中的大部分她都会背诵。她常请这位诗人到我们家里来，还亲手替他绣过一个靠垫。这就给了我一个和诗人交朋友的机会。他渐渐地很喜欢我，我开始在一天的早、午、晚任何时间随便跑到他家里去。他的心和他的体格一样地宽大，一个幻想的圆光，像一个诗的星群，总在围绕着他，这仿佛是他的更真实的造像。他永远充满着真诚的艺术的喜悦，无论什么时候我去看他，我都在这气氛中呼吸到我的一份。我常碰见他坐在三层楼上的小屋里，在正午炎热之中，爬在荫凉的洋灰地上写诗。我不过是一个孩子，而他对我的欢迎永远是那样真诚而热烈，使我在接近他的时候，永不感到尴尬。那时候，包围在他的灵感之中，忘却了周围的一切，他就会对我朗诵他所写的诗或是唱出所作的歌曲。并不是他的声音里有歌唱的天才，但也不是完全无腔无调，人们会得到他写诗的用意。当他闭上眼睛，放出他的洪亮深沉的声音的时候，声音的表情弥补了表演的缺憾。我似乎还能听到他唱着他自制的歌曲。我有时也为他的歌词作曲，唱给他听。 他是瓦尔米基和迦梨陀娑的热诚爱慕者。我记得有一次，在他用全副声音朗诵着迦梨娑陀的描写喜马拉雅山的诗以后，他说：“在这里面一连串的长Ａ音，不是偶然的事，诗人有意地从Ｄｅｖaｔｍａ到Ｎａｇａｄｈｉｒaｊａ，一直把这声音重复下去，来帮助他表达出喜马拉雅山辉煌的广阔。”