Chapter 77 7

Not boasting that our phrasing is good poetry, but it serves to convey the tones. It was in the wild joy of this revolutionary activity that the two musicals were written, so that they danced joyfully to every beat, whether it was technically correct or not, whether the tune was native or foreign. of. Bengali readers have repeatedly worried about my opinion and literary form, but it is strange that my audacity to wreak havoc with my preferred musical views has not aroused outrage; on the contrary, those who come to listen go back happily.Several of Mr. Axel's songs, as well as the rewritten series of Vihari Shakravati's "Auspicious Poems", find their place in "The Genius of Valmiki".

I'm always in the lead role in the performances of these musicals.From a very young age, I loved acting and firmly believed that I had acting talent.I think I proved that my beliefs are not unfounded.I only ever played the part of Mr. Alec in a farce written by my brother Jotirendra.So these few times were really my first attempts at acting.I was young and nothing could tire or disturb my voice. In my home at that time, a waterfall of music flowed down day and night, all the time, and its sprayed mist reflected in our hearts all the scales of rainbow colors.Afterwards, our newborn energy strikes new paths in every direction with the freshness of youth, propelled by its pure curiosity.We felt like we were able to try and experiment with everything and nothing was impossible without success.We write, we sing, we act, we pour ourselves out in every direction.

That's how I passed my twenties. My brother Jotirendra was a driver of the force that made our lives so triumphant.He is completely fearless.Once, when I was very little and never ridden, he let me gallop beside him on a horse, and he had no apprehensions about his inexperienced riding companion.When I was the same age, we were both in Seleda (the headquarters of our estate), and there was word that a tiger was found there, and he took me out hunting.I didn't carry a gun - if I had one, it would be more dangerous to me than a tiger.We took off our shoes at the edge of the jungle and crawled in barefoot.At last we crawled into a part of the bamboo forest stripped of its spiky twigs, where I managed to crouch behind my brother until he shot the tiger; If it was on me, I couldn't even fight back with my shoes.

That's how my brother gave me complete freedom in the face of all dangers, both internal and external, and no custom or custom could restrain him, so he was able to relieve my timidity and cowardice. In cases where I shut myself up in my own heart, as I said above, I wrote some poems, collected together under the title Wilderness of the Heart, in a collection of my works edited by Mr. Muhaida .One of them was originally in the "Morning Song Collection", and there are a few lines: Its intertwined branches dance in the dark like a baby. I'm lost in its depths. Taking the meaning from this poem, I gave this group of poems this name.

Many poems written in my life without intercourse with the outside world, in the meditations of my own heart, in the guises of my imagination in uncaused emotions, aimless wanderings, are not included in this only a few of the songs originally published in the Evening Songbook have found their place in The Wilderness of the Heart. My brother Jotirendra and his wife went on a long trip, and their house on the third floor, facing the roof terrace, was vacant.I took possession of these rooms and verandah, and lived quietly.So alone, I don't know how I slipped out of the poetic abyss I fell into.Perhaps because I was cut off from the people I wanted to please, whose penchant for poetry took the form of a model into which I put my thoughts, I was now naturally freed from the genres they imposed on me.

I started writing on slates.It also helps with my liberation.The manuscript I scribbled on seemed to require a rather high degree of poetic thinking, and I had to arouse this poetic thinking by comparing myself with others.But the slate clearly fits my mood at this time.It seems to say: "Don't be afraid, write whatever you want, and it will be wiped off!" After I had written a poem or two in this way, I felt a great joy welling up in my heart.my heart says: "The poems I wrote are finally my own!" Don't take this as my pride.I was rather proud of what I had written before, for I must give them all the admiration.But I refuse to call them self-actualization and self-satisfaction.Parents take joy in their firstborn, not because they are proud of his looks, but because he is their own.They might be honored if he turned out to be an extraordinary kid - but it was different.

In the first wave of this joy, I disregarded the constraints of the rhythmic form, and like a spring, instead of going straight, it ran in a zigzag at will, so did my poems.I used to think it was a sin, but now I feel very calm. Freedom first destroys the law, and then makes the law, putting freedom under real self-control. The only audience for these irregular poems of mine was Mr. Axel, who was surprised and delighted when he first heard me read them to him, and in his admiration my way of freedom widened again. Vihari Shakravati's poems use a three-beat rhythm.This three-beat time creates a rounded effect, not flat like two-beats.

It flows freely, it dances to the jingle of anklets.There was a time when I really liked this rhyme.It's not like walking but like riding a bicycle.I'm used to this way of going.In "Evening Songs," I accidentally broke the habit.Nor am I bound by any other kind.I feel completely free.I neither thought nor feared reprimand. The strength I found in writing freed from the shackles of tradition made me find that I was always searching for what I had before in impossible places.A lack of self-confidence prevented me from returning to myself.I feel like I wake up from a dream of chains and find that I am not chained.I jumped and played extraordinarily, just to prove that I was indeed able to move freely.

For me, this is one of the most memorable periods in my poetry career.As poetry my Evening Songbooks may not be of much value, in fact, that is, they are crude enough.These poems have no fixed form in rhythm, language or thought.The only good thing about them is that for the first time I was free to write what I really wanted to say.Even if these works are of little value, the pleasure is valuable. 31 An Essay on Music When I was about to study law, my father called me back from England.Some friends were concerned about my career dropout and urged him to send me out again.This led me to another journey to England, this time accompanied by a relative.But my fate resolutely rebelled against the call to study law, so I didn't even go to England this time, and for some reason we had to land at Madras and turn back to Calcutta.The reason is by no means as important as the effect, because the joke was not meant for me, so I won't mention it here.Both times I tried to get into the Lakshmi altar, I was turned back in this way.But I hope the gods of law at least look at me with approval, for I add nothing to the pile of papers in the lawyer's library.

My father was on the Mussoorie hills at that time, and I ran to him in great fear. But he didn't look angry at all, on the contrary he looked very happy.He must have seen the blessing of heaven on my return. On the first night of my trip, I was invited by the Bethune Society to read a paper in the auditorium of the medical school.This is my first public reading.Reverend Ke M. Banerjee was the chairman.The topic is music.Putting the instrumental music aside, I have attempted to clarify the vocal music.The main ultimate goal is to better express what the words and phrases want to express.My thesis is very short.I sang and acted throughout to illustrate my theme.I think the chairman praised me before the meeting, the God of Wealth. —The translator must be the moving effect of my youthful voice, and the sincerity and variety of the effort.But today I must say frankly that what I expressed that night with such zeal was wrong.

Vocal art has its own special functions and characteristics.When this art is accidentally placed on words, the words as the medium of the melody must not take too much advantage of this opportunity to replace the melody.The wealth of the melody itself is great, why should it wait for the words?It was after the mere words had failed that the song began.Its power rests in the realm of the ineffable, it speaks to us what words cannot. So the lighter the burden of words on the song, the better.In Hindustani classical genre, words are unimportant.Let the tune move people as you like.When the melodic form is allowed to develop freely, vocal music reaches its fullness, raising our consciousness to its own wondrous level.But in Bengal, where words insist on their own prominence, our native song, unable to develop its full musical capacity, is content to be its sister, the handmaiden of the poetic art. From the old Vishnu poets to Mr. Nidu's poems, it is all from the background to play its charm.But as in our country, where the wife rules her husband by expressing her dependence, so our music, though performing only the duties of a servant, ultimately rules over the song. When I write songs, I often feel this way, humming to myself the following lines: Please whisper to me and only to me. I found that the words themselves had no way of going where the tone would carry it.The melody told me the secret I've been pleading to know, mingled with the green mysteries of the woodland moor, contemplated in the silent whiteness of a moonlit night, from the infinite blue beyond the horizon What peeps out from behind the veil--is a gracious secret of earth, sky, and water. When I was very young, I heard a verse of a song: A stranger? This line of poetry painted so many beautiful pictures in my heart that it still haunts my heart.One day I sat down to write the lyrics to my homemade tune, and with this piece of my mind full, humming to my tune, I wrote the lyrics: Your hometown is on the other side of the sea. Without the tune, I don't know what the following poems would be like; but the charm of the tune showed me the demeanor of the foreigner. It is she who has come and gone, says my soul, a messenger to this world from beyond the mysterious sea.We catch glimpses of her every now and then on dewy autumn mornings, on fragrant spring nights, in the deepest recesses of our hearts—sometimes we lift our heads to heaven and hear her sing.As I have said, the melody made me drift to the door of the stranger of this enchanted world, and therefore the following words are dedicated to her. Much later on a street in Bolpur a begging singer sang as he walked: How this strange bird flew into the cage and flew out again! Ah, if only I could catch it, I'd lock its feet with love! I found out that this singer is saying the same thing.The strange bird, inside the cage, sometimes longs for unfettered, unknowable, outside, whispering news.The heart also wants to hug itself tightly forever, but it can't.Who else but the tune can tell us the comings and goings of this strange bird? That's why I'm always reluctant to publish my lyrics, because there must be no soul in them. When I returned home from the start of my second trip to England, my brother Jotirendra and my sister-in-law were staying at a riverside villa in Chandernagar.I'll go over there and live with them. It's the Ganges again!And those indescribable days and nights, dizzy with joy and sorrowful with longing, are in tune with the smoldering river that runs along the thick banks of the jungle.This Bengali sky full of sunshine, this south wind, this flowing river, this rightful and solemn laziness, this vast leisure stretching from horizon to horizon, from green field to blue sky, these are to me like food for Like hunger and thirst.It really feels like home here, and I feel a mother's caress in these things. It wasn't that long ago, and time has brought about many changes.Our little nest by the river, which lay under the surrounding green shade, has now been replaced by many factories, raising their heads everywhere like poisonous snakes, and belching black smoke.In the midday heat of modern life, when even our mental siestas are reduced to a minimum, the bullish impatience that invades every sphere of life may make life better, and I don't think it is is one of the good ones. The beautiful days I spent by the river are like many lotus flowers offered on the holy spring, flowing down one by one.There were some rainy afternoons that I spent in a real frenzy.I sang ancient Vishnu poems to my own tunes, accompanied by myself on the organ.Some afternoons we paddled the boat.I sang, and Jotirendra's brother played the violin.Starting from "Purawi", we changed our music with the setting sun in the west, and we saw that when we sang "Behaja" ②, the western sky opened the gate of the golden toy factory Closed, the moon rose from the forest tops in the east. Then we paddled back to the riverside stone steps of the villa and sat on the mats spread out on the balcony facing the river.A silvery stillness hung over the water and sky at this time, the river was hardly a boat, the treetops on the banks were a deep shadow, and the moonlight shone on the melting river. The villa we live in is called "Molan Garden". A set of stone steps leads from the water's edge to a long and wide balcony, which becomes a part of the house.The structure of the house is not neat and not on one plane.Some rooms have to go through several stairs to get up ①②Indian classical music often changes with the seasons or different times of the day. "Purawi" is the movement of twilight, and "Behaja" is the movement of twilight. — Go to the translator.The living room overlooking the stone steps by the river has glass windows with colorful pictures. There is a picture of a swing hanging from a branch half-hidden in dense leaves. Between the light and shadow of the square lattice of the gazebo, two people are playing on the swing; Men and women in festive attire ascended and descended these steps in the palace of the palace.When the sun shines on the windows, these pictures are dazzling, and seem to fill the atmosphere of the riverside with leisure music. An ancient, long-forgotten feast seemed to express itself in the bright wordless words, and the joy of the swingers' love made the riverside woods and their everlasting story Come alive. The tallest room in this house is a round pavilion with windows on all sides.I use it as a room for writing poems.From here only the surrounding treetops and the vast sky can be seen. I was then busy writing Evening Songbook, and about this room I wrote: Poetry, I built my house for you! At this time, the criticisms given to me by literary critics were a poet with a broken rhyme and a stutter.Everything about my work is considered obscure.Although I didn't pay much attention to these words at the time, the criticism was not entirely unfounded. My poems do lack the true backbone of words.Where did I get the necessary materials in my early claustrophobia? But there is one thing I refuse to admit.Behind the vagueness of reproaching me, there is an implied prick that these poems are posturing for effect's sake.A fortunate man with good eyesight is apt to laugh at a youth who wears spectacles, as if he wore them for decoration.A little reaction to the poor thing's maladies was permissible, and it would be too bad to attack the young man for pretending not to see. The haze is not outside the universe—it represents only a stage in creation; leaving out all poetry that is not clear will not bring us to the truth of literature.If any aspect of humanity is truly represented, it is worth preserving—it can only be cast aside if it is not.There comes a time in a man's life when his emotions are filled with painful, vague desires which cannot be expressed.Poetry that endeavors to express such sentiments cannot be regarded as unwarranted—at worst it may be worthless; but it need not be so.The evil is not in what is shown, but in failure to be shown. Human beings have dual natures.The inner man behind the stream of thoughts, feelings, and events we know very little; and even then, as a fact of the course of life, this inner man cannot be discarded.When the external life cannot be harmonized with the internal life, the occupant inside will be hurt, and his pain will appear on the external consciousness in a form that cannot be named or described, and the cry of pain is more like a silent crying instead of words that have precise meaning. The melancholy and anguish I sought to express in the Evening Songbook took root in the depths of my being.Just as one's dormant consciousness, wrestling with a nightmare, struggles to wake up, so the sunken inner self struggles to free itself from its intricacies into the void.These songs are the history of that struggle.Poetry, like all creations, has an opposition of forces.If the divergence is too great, or the unity is too dense, I think there will be no poetry.When disharmonious pain expresses its determination by trying to find harmony, poetry becomes music unrestrainedly like blowing a flute. When the Evening Songbooks were born, they were not celebrated with drumbeats, but they were not short of admirers.I have mentioned this story in another article, that is, at the wedding of the eldest daughter of Mr. Ramesh Chandra Dutt, Mr. Benjim stood by the door, and the host welcomed her with a wreath as usual.When I went up, Mr. Benjim enthusiastically put the wreath around my neck and said, "Give him this wreath, Ramish; haven't you read his Evening Songbook?" I was amply rewarded with the air of Mr. Benjim's opinion of some of them when Mr. Turt said he had not seen them. "Evening Songs" has won for me a friend, whose admiration stimulates and guides the sprouts of my fledgling endeavors like the rays of the sun.This friend is Mr. Prajanad Singh.Before that, "Broken Heart" completely disappointed him with me.I got him back with the Evening Songbook.Those who knew him knew that he was a skilled helmsman in the seven seas of literature.In almost all languages, Indian or foreign literature, big or small, he has often traveled.Talk to him and you will get a glimpse of the remotest places in the world of thought.This is of greatest value to me. He can speak his literary views with the fullest confidence, because he does not rely on his helpless inclinations to influence his likes and dislikes.His authoritative critique has helped me inexhaustibly.I read to him all the poems I wrote. If there is no timely rain of recognition and appreciation from him, then it is difficult for me to say whether my early cultivation can achieve that kind of harvest. ① Indian fairy tales and folk tales say that there are seven seas and thirteen rivers in the world. ——Translator I also wrote some prose when I was at the riverside. I didn't have any fixed topic or plan, but I just wrote it in a childish mood.When spring comes in my heart, flashy fantasies of five colors appear and fly around in my heart, which I usually don't pay attention to.In those days when I was leisurely, maybe it was a moment of pleasure to collect the fantasies that came to my heart.Or it is the other side of my liberated self, which is to stand up and decide to write whatever I want; it is not my purpose to write, as long as the person who writes it is me, that alone satisfies me.I later published these essays under the title of "Miscellaneous Topics", but they died together with the first edition, and did not receive new life in the second edition. At this time, I remember that I also started my first novel called "The Young Lady Market". After we had lived by the river for a few days, my brother Chotirendra took up residence in a house near the museum on Suda Street in Calcutta.I still live with him.While I was writing the novel and the Evening Songbook in this house, a great revolution took place in me. One day, late in the afternoon, I was walking on the roof deck of our Chora Sankoh house.The afterglow of the sunset and the pale dusk combined together, and the scenery seemed to give me a special and wonderful charm in the coming night.Even the adjoining walls shine beautifully.Lifting the lid on the mundane in this everyday world, I wondered, is there some magic in Twilight that makes it so?Never! I could see at once that it was the effect of night falling on my heart, its light and shadow obliterating "I".When "I" is running in the glare of the day, all I know and feel are mixed with it and hidden by it.Now that "I" is put in the background, I can see the real aspect of the world.This aspect is extraordinary, it is full of beauty and joy. After this experience, I have experimented many times with the effect of deliberately suppressing my "I" and seeing the world only as a visitor, and my efforts will always be rewarded with a special pleasure.I remember also trying to explain to a relative how to see the world as it really is, and how our own sensory burden is subsequently lightened after the illusion; however, I believe my explanation was unsuccessful. Then I got another enlightenment, which lasted throughout my life. From our house on Suda Street, we could see the end of the street and the trees on the Liberty School campus across the way.One morning I happened to stand on the balcony and look over there.The sun is rising over the dense leaves on these trees.As I gazed on, suddenly a curtain seemed to fall from my eyes, and I found the world bathed in wondrous radiance, with waves of beauty and joy overflowing all around.This brilliance immediately penetrated the layers of melancholy and desolation accumulated in my heart, and filled my heart with the light of the universe. The song "The Awakening of the Waterfall" I wrote on this day is like a real waterfall.The poem was finished, but the curtain did not fall on the happy side of the universe, and since then there was not a person or a thing in the world that seemed ordinary to me.On the second or third day, something amazing happened. There was a weirdo who used to come to me and he had a habit of asking all kinds of stupid questions.One day he asked me, "Sir, have you ever seen God with your own eyes?" When I admitted that I hadn't, he said flatly that he had.I asked him: "What do you see?" he answered. "He writhes and trembles before my eyes." It is easy to imagine that we are not happy to have mysterious discussions with such people on weekdays.And I was concentrating on writing at the time.But because he is a heartless person, I don't want to hurt his sensitive heart, so I try to tolerate him as much as possible. This time, when he visited me one afternoon, I was genuinely glad to see him and welcomed him warmly.His mantle of eccentricity and stupidity seemed to have come off.The one I greet with joy is the real one.I don't think he is inferior to me, and we are closely linked.When I saw him, I felt no boredom, no sense of wasting my time, but a heart full of joy, a sense of peeling off the thin paper of unreality which had caused me to suffer unnecessarily. And unexplainable unhappiness and pain. When I stood on the verandah, every passerby, whoever they were, seemed strangely wonderful to me in their gait, figure, and appearance—they were waves on the cosmic sea, passing by me.Since I was a child I have only seen with my eyes, now I am starting to see with all my consciousness.I cannot take as an insignificant sight the sight of two smiling youths, one with an arm around the other's shoulder, going down at a leisurely pace; In the deepest part, from there, countless splashes of laughter splashed all over the world. I had never before noticed that the movement of limbs and features always accompanies the smallest movement of man; the variety of this movement which is now seen all around me at all times fascinates me.But I don't look at them separately, but see them as a greater, amazingly beautiful, going on simultaneously in the human world, in everyone's home, in the midst of their various desires and activities. part of the dance. Friends laughing together, a mother caressing her baby, a cow touching and licking another cow, the immensity behind these scenes came to me with an almost painful gratitude. heart. During this period I wrote: Let the crowds of the world come rushing in and say hello to each other—that's not poetic hyperbole.In fact, I don't have the strength to express everything I feel. I passed some days in this blissful period of ecstasy, after which my brother wanted to go to Darjeeling.I thought, this is even better. On the top of the vast Himalayas, I can see more deeply what I saw on Suda Street; in any case, I have to see how the Himalayas are, and I can express myself to my new vision. But the small house on Suda Street triumphed.As I went up the hill I looked around and felt at once that I had lost my new vision.My sin must be that I imagine I can get more truth from outside.However high the king of the hill may be, there is nothing in his gift to bestow on me; and the Giver, who can in the narrowest alley, in a moment, bestow an eternity The phantom of the universe. Walking right in the fir forest, I sat by the waterfall, bathed in the spring, I gazed at the splendor of Kimchenjunga through the cloudless sky, but what I thought I might see here, I didn't see arrive.I gradually got to know it, but ① one of the peaks of the Himalayas. —The translator never sees it again.While I was admiring the treasure, the lid snapped shut, and I could only stare at the closed box.But, for the sake of the craftsmanship, I wouldn't treat it as an empty box. My "Morning Songs" has come to an end, and its last echoes die with the "Echoes" I wrote in Darjeeling.This was evidently a puzzling thing, so two friends wagered on trying to figure out its true meaning.My only consolation is that when they came to me for an answer, I was equally unable to explain the riddle, and neither of them lost money.What a pity!Gone are the days when I wrote poems like and those extremely plain and simple. But do we write poetry to explain anything?Feeling something in my heart, I wanted to find a poetic form outside.Therefore, after listening to a poem, anyone said that he did not understand, I feel very embarrassed.If someone smells a flower and says he does not understand, the answer to him is: there is nothing understandable in it, it is just a fragrance.If he insists: I know this, but what's the point?At that time we could only change the subject, or, to put it more mysteriously, say that the fragrance is the shape in which the joy of the universe appears in the flower. The most difficult thing is that the words have meaning.So the poet has to twist words around in rhyme and verse so that the meaning can be somewhat contained and the emotion allowed a chance to express itself. Emotional vocalization is not a statement of fundamental truth, nor is it a scientific fact, nor is it a useful moral lesson.Like a tear or a smile, a poem is only a picture of something within.If science and philosophy can take anything from poetry, let it be, but poetry does not exist for this.If you catch a fish while crossing the boat, you're lucky, but that doesn't make the ferry a fishing boat.You can't blame the boatman either, if he doesn't fish for a living. "The Echo" was written long ago, so it escapes notice, and no one now asks me to account for its meaning.But whatever its other advantages or disadvantages, I can affirm to the reader that I have not intended to present a mystery, or cunningly convey a profound lesson.The fact is, a desire arose in me, which, for lack of any other name, I called the thing I desired "Echo." As the springs in the depths of the poetry of the universe flow outward, their echoes are reflected in our hearts from the faces of our beloved, and other beautiful things around us.I think it must be the echo of what we love, and not what it happens to reflect; for what we despise today is tomorrow what demands all our love. I have seen the world only from the illusion of the outside world, for so long, that I cannot see the universal aspect of joy.Suddenly, from the depths of my being, a light found its way out and radiated out, illuminating the entire universe for me.At that time, the universe no longer looked like a bunch of things, but became a whole before my eyes.It seemed to me that this experience told me that the flow of the song that springs from the heart of the universe spreads over time and space and echoes like waves of joy to the source. It is a joy for the artist to send his song out of the overflowing heart.The joy was doubled when the song wafted back and made him a listener.If, when the work of the great poet returns to him like a tide of joy in this way, we let it flow through our consciousness, and we immediately and ineffably grasp the end to which this tide flows.As we feel, our loves flow onward; and our "Is" move from their moorings, and flow gladly to its infinite goal, the fountain of pleasure.This is the meaning of the longing aroused in our hearts when we see "beauty". The spring that flows from the infinite to the finite—is the Truth, the Good; it has laws and has fixed forms.Its echoes back to the infinite are "beauty" and "joy," elusive and thus captivating for us.This is what I tried in "Echo" with a metaphor or a poem, and it is not surprising that the result is unclear, because then the attempt itself is unclear. Let me copy here a passage from a letter I wrote on "Morning Songs" when I was a little older. It is a state of mind that belongs to a special period.When the mind starts to wake up, it stretches out its arms to embrace the whole world, like a baby with teeth who thinks that everything in the world exists for his mouth.Gradually he understands what he really wants and what he doesn't want.Then his hazy projectile shrunk, received heat, and gave off heat. From wanting the whole world, to gaining nothing.When the desire is concentrated, when all one's abilities are concentrated on any one thing, then the gate of infinity can be seen. The "Morning Songs" are the first emanations of the "I" in me, and they certainly lack any sign of this concentration. But the all-pervading joy of this first outflow has the effect of leading us to recognize this "special."When the lake overflows, it seeks a river for outlet.In this respect, the eternal subsequent love is narrower than the first love.The direction of its activities is more definite, and it wants to achieve comprehensiveness from its various parts, thus pushing it toward infinity.What it finally achieves is no longer the former, ever-expanding expansion of the mind's own inner happiness, but a melting in the infinite reality outside itself, and thus obtains all the truth it itself desires. In Mr. Muhaida's version, "Morning Song Collection" was published in a group of poems under the title of "Appearance".Because there I can find the first news of my journey from "The Wilderness of the Heart" to the empty world.From then on, this pilgrimage heart, bit by bit, part by part, under various moods and states, got acquainted with the world.最后在掠过所有无数永远变幻的无常的渡口台阶，它将要达到无限——不是不确定的可能的含糊，而是真理的圆满的完成。 在我很小的时候，我就享受到和“自然”独对的亲密的神交。园里的每一棵枣柳树，从我看来都有其独特的性格。到现在我还清楚地记得，当我从师范学校回家的时候，我看见我们屋顶凉台的天边，蓝灰色的载满雨点的浓云堆积起来，最深的喜悦立刻就充满了我的心。 每天早晨一睁开眼，欢乐的新醒的世界，总像是我的游伴似的来找我和它一同出去；极其热诚的中午的天空，在漫长寂静的午憩时间的看守下，常常怂恿我从工作中逃开，跑到它的仙窟的幽静中去；夜的黑暗常把通向它的幻影道路之门打开，把我带过七海十三江，经过一切可能和不可能的经历，一直进到它的奇境里去。 然后有一天，我的饥渴的心灵，在青春的黎明中开始叫着要求食粮的时候，一道栅栏在这出戏的内面和外面竖立起了。我的整个人在我痛苦的心的周围，不住地旋绕着，在自己里面造成一个漩涡，它的意识禁闭在这漩涡里。 内界和外界的失调，起源于心灵在饥饿之下的过度的要求，和把我固有的神交的权利禁制了的结果，我在《晚歌集》中哀叹出来了。在《晨歌集》中，我庆祝了栅栏上的一扇门的忽然开启，我不知道是受了什么震动，通过这扇门我又见到了那个久违的人，这人本是旧识，只因被生生地拆开，现在我对他的认识显得更深刻更圆满了。 这样，我生命中的第一本书，就以合了又分，分了再合的几章为终结。或者说，到了终结这句话是不真实的，同样的题目还要在更坏的麻烦的更精细的解决中继续下去，而得到更大的结论。每个人来到这里都不过是写完生命的一本书，这本书在它不同阶段的历程中，在不断加长的辐射线上变成螺旋形的。所以，猛一看每一个断片似乎都不相同，其实它们是又转回到同一的起头的中心里去。 在《晚歌集》时期写的散文，在提过的《杂题》书名之下发表了。和《晨歌集》同时写的散文，是在《讨论》的书名下发表的。这两本散文特点的区别，可以为我那时心中变换的性质作一个很好的索引。 就在这时候，我哥哥乔提任德拉想把一切有名的文人拉在一起，成立一个文学院，来编纂孟加拉语言的有权威性的技术名词，促进语言的生长也是它的目的——这样，和近代的文学院所做的工作就只有很少的差别了。 拉真德拉尔·密特拉博士热诚地接受了关于这个学院的意见，他还做了这个历史短暂的学院的院长。当我去请微德雅萨迦先生来参加的时候，他听我解释了这学院的目的，和准备邀请的名单以后，说：“我对你的劝告是，不要把我们放进去——你们和这些大头在一起什么事也做不成；他们永远不会彼此同意的。”他就以这理由来拒绝加入。班吉姆先生作了会员，但是我不能说他对这工作有多大的兴趣。 简单地说，这学院存在一天，拉真德拉尔·密特拉独力担当了一切。他从地理名词开始，稿单是拉真德拉尔博士自己编出来的，又印出在会员中传阅征求意见。我们也想把每一个外国国名，按照它的发音，把它翻成孟加拉文。 微德雅萨迦先生的预言应验了。叫大头们去办事是做不到的。这学院在萌芽以后不久就枯萎了。但是拉真德拉尔·密特拉是一个全面的专家，他本人就是一个学院。因为有了亲炙他的权利，我在这件事上的劳动得到了过份的报酬。我会见过许多当代的孟加拉文人，但是没有人留下过像他这样光辉的印象。 我常到他的玛尼克塔拉街监狱法庭的办公室去看他。我总是早晨去，看见他正忙着研究，因为青年人没有顾虑，我总是毫不犹疑地去打搅他。但是我从来没有看到他为此而稍为生气。他一看见我就立刻把工作放在一边，开始和我谈话。 大家都知道他有点重听，因此他很少有让我发问的机会。他总提出一些广泛的题目滔滔不绝地谈着，就是这种谈话的魅力把我引到他那里去。跟任何人谈话也得不到这样丰富的、在许多不同的题目上可供参考的意见。我总是入迷地听着。 我记得他是教科书委员会的委员，每一本送来审查的书他都读过，用铅笔作了注解。有的时候他就挑出一本书来，作为特别的讨论孟加拉语言结构，或是普通讨论语言的文件，这对我有最大的好处。很少的题目是他所没有研究过的，他所研究过的题目，他都能清楚地说明。 如果我们没有依靠那些我们想找的其他的学院会员，而把一切工作都交给拉真德拉尔博士的话，现在的文学院一定会发现，它现在所忙着的一切工作，还不如他一个人所做的那么多。 拉真德拉尔·密特拉博士不但是一位渊博的学者，他还有一个鲜明的性格，从他焕发的容光里透露了出来。在公共生活上他是充满了火力，他也能和蔼地和缓下来对我这么一个年轻人谈着最艰深的题目，而没有一点傲慢的口气。我甚至于充分利用他的谦逊，从他那里为《婆罗蒂》拿到一篇稿子《阎王的狗》。对于别位和他同时的大人物，我就不敢冒昧去祈求，就是我去了，我也得不到和他一样的反应。