Chapter 78 8

But when he was on his way, his enemies in the town council or university senate were terribly afraid of him. In those days, Kristu Das Parr was the smooth statesman and Rajendraal Mithra was the brave warrior. For the purposes of the Asia Society's publications and studies, he had to hire some Sanskrit gentlemen to do some mechanical work for him. I remember that this incident gave an opportunity to those who were jealous of him and petty slanderers to say that the work was done by Mr Sanskrit and that Rajendraal fraudulently stole all the honor.Even today, we often find that these tools claim a large part of the achievement for themselves, and treat the person who uses the tools as a mere decorative figurehead.If a poor pen has a heart, it must lament, because it gets all the ink, and the author gets all the glory!

It is strange that this outstanding man did not acquire the common sense of his countrymen even after his death.One of the reasons may be that the whole country is mourning Videyasakya, who died not long after him, and has no intention to pay attention to other deceased.There is also a reason that his major contribution was outside the confines of Bengali literature and that he failed to enter the hearts of the people. Our meeting in Suda Street will automatically move to Karwar on the west coast in the future.Karwar is the capital of Kanara district, in the south of Mumbai province.It is the region of Mount Malaya in Sanskrit literature, producing cardamom and sandalwood trees.My second brother was a judge there at the time.

This small seaport surrounded by mountains is so remote that it doesn't feel like a seaport.Its crescent-shaped shore stretches out its arms towards the boundless sea, like the figure of a longing man, striving to embrace the infinite.This vast sandy bank, bordered by a lace fringe of casuarina groves, is broken at one end by the Calanadi River, which flows into the sea through valleys lined with mountains. I remember, on a moonlit night, we went up the river in a small boat.We stopped at the foot of an ancient hill fort in Shivaji, went ashore, and entered the extremely clean yard of a farmer's house.Moonlight shining on the top of the outer wall, I, Shivaji (1630-1680), the leader of the Maratha Federation, once ruled the entire Maratha region on the west coast of India.

—The translators sat and ate what they brought.When we came back, we let the boat go down the river.The night fell over the solid mountains and woods, and the quiet waters of the small Calanadi River were filled with the charm of moonlight.It took us a long time to reach the mouth of the river, so instead of returning by sea, we got off the boat and walked home from the sandy shore.By this time the night was deep, the sea was calm, and even the ever-sorrowful whisper of the casuarina tree was silent.The shadows of the trees hang motionless on the edge of the vast sandy shore, and a circle of gray-blue mountains on the horizon sleeps peacefully under the sky.

Through this deep silence of boundless whiteness, the few of us walked together with our own shadow without saying a word.By the time we got home, my sleep had faded into deeper realms.The poem I wrote that night was entangled with the night on that distant shore.I don't know how it will infect the reader if the memory that is entwined with it is separated.This doubt prevented me from including it in the collection of my poems published by Mr. Mojita.I trust that its presence in my memoirs will not be considered inappropriate. Let the earth let go of me, let it free me from its dusty barriers.

O stars, please look at me from afar, though you are intoxicated by the moonlight, let the horizon spread its wings around me, silently. No singing, no voice, no sound, no touch; no sleep, no wakefulness, ①The following is supplementary translation by Feng Jinxin. Let the earth let go of me, let it free me from its dusty barriers. Only the moonlight, in a trance, shines on the sky and on me. The world, I feel, is like a ship carrying countless pilgrims, disappearing into the distant blue sky. Its sailor's song grows weaker in the air, and then I myself dwindle to a dot and sink into the arms of endless night.

It's worth pointing out here that just because something was written while feeling overwhelmed, it doesn't have to be good.Rather, what was confided at that time was abundant emotion.Just as it is impossible for a writer to be completely free from the feelings he expresses, so it is impossible for a poet to be too intimate with them to produce the truest poetry.Memory is the paintbrush that best paints true poetry.Intimacy has an overly compulsive flavor to the affections, and the imagination cannot have full freedom unless it is freed from its influence. This is true not only of poetry, but of all art. The artist's mind must be detached to a certain extent, and we must allow the "creator" in man to have complete self-control.If subject matter prevails over creation, the result is nothing but a reproduction of the event, not a reflection of it by the artist's mind.

I wrote "Nature's Revenge" in Karvar, which is an opera.The protagonist is a monk who strives to overcome his "nature" by cutting off all shackles of desire and love, so as to achieve true and profound self-knowledge.But a little girl recalls him from his intercourse with the infinite, and throws him into the chains of human love.The monk returns knowing that greatness lies in smallness, that infinity lies within the limits of form, and that eternal freedom of the soul resides in love.Only in the light of love does the finite dissolve into the infinite. The beaches of Karwar are certainly the right place to captivate us by teaching us that natural beauty is not a mirage of fantasy but reflects infinite joy.Where the universe expresses itself in the charm of its laws, it is not surprising that we should overlook its infinity; , Is there still room for debate?

Nature leads the monk through the path of the heart to the infinite that crowns the finite.In Nature's Revenge, on the one hand the wanderer and the villager, who is content with the mediocrity of self-made mediocrity, and knows nothing else, and on the other the monk, busy abandoning everything and himself to the imaginary infinity of his imagination.The hermit meets the patriarch when love builds a flying bridge between the two, and the apparent mediocrity of the finite and the seeming emptiness of the infinite disappear simultaneously. Except in a slightly different form, it is the story of my own experience, and of the enchanting light that shone into the caverns of my seclusion and brought me back more fully to my oneness with nature. "Nature's Revenge" may be regarded as the prelude to all my subsequent literary works; or rather, this is a theme that all my works have elaborated-the infinite joy within the finite.

I wrote a few songs for Nature's Revenge while on the boat back from Karwar.I was filled with great joy as I sat on the deck and sang and wrote the first song: Mother, give us your baby, and we'll take him to the pasture. The sun came up, the buds opened, and the shepherd boys went to the pasture; they would have no sunshine, no flowers, and their games in the pasture would be dull.In the midst of all this, they want their Krishna to be with them.They want to see the lovely image of the Great God carefully dressed; they come out so early in the morning to play happily with him in the forests, fields, mountains, and valleys, not to admire him from afar, nor to see his majesty. Faxiang.They have very, very little equipment.A plain yellow shirt and a garland of wildflowers were all the decoration they wanted.For where joy reigns all, to seek it desperately, or under extravagant ritual, means to lose it.

Soon after I returned from Karwar, I got married.I was twenty-two at the time. "Painting and Song" is the title of a collection of poems, most of which were written during this period. At that time we lived in a house with a garden on the Lower Ring Road.There is a big Busti in the south.I used to sit near the window and watch this densely populated settlement.I love watching how they work, play, rest and their various awkward situations. To me, it's all like a living story. ①② Residential areas for servants, craftsmen, etc.Row upon row of simple huts in the area, there are paths leading to the road. ——The translator refers to Krishna, the incarnation of the Hindu god Vishnu. ——Translator At that time, I had a rich visual imagination.I surround the individual pictures with the splendor of my imagination and the joy of my heart; and each picture is colored with its own pathos.To separate each painting individually like this is as much fun as painting it, and both are products of the longing to see with the mind what the eyes see and with the eyes what the mind thinks. If I were a painter with a brush, no doubt I would endeavor to record forever the visions and creations of that period when my mind was most active.But the paintbrush is not a tool I can command.All I have are words and rhyme, and I haven't learned to write a masterpiece with them, the paint often goes out of bounds.But, like a young man who uses a paintbox for the first time, I paint all day with the colorful fantasies of my newborn youth.If I look at these paintings now with the eyes of my twenty-two years old, even though the pictures are rough and the tones are blurred, I can still see some characteristics of them. As I said, the first book that started my literary career ended when I finished The Morning Song.The same theme continues now in a different form.I am convinced that the first many pages of this book are of no value.In the process of arranging new beginnings, many things have to be carefully considered, like superfluous preambles.If they were leaves, they would fall in time.Unfortunately, when the pages are no longer needed, they remain firmly glued together.It is characteristic of these poems to pay close attention to even the smallest things. "Paintings and Songs" seizes every opportunity to express their importance, depicting them with visceral emotion. Or, rather, not yet, when the heartstrings are in harmony with the universe, the song of the universe can evoke its resonance every moment.Just because the music comes from the heart, nothing is trivial in the eyes of the writer.Everything my eyes see finds a response in my heart.Just as children can play with sand, stones, shells, or anything within their reach (for they have the spirit of play in their hearts), so we can know the harp of the universe when our hearts are filled with the song of youth. Stretch its strings of various tones in every direction. Things that are close at hand can accompany us like other things, and there is no need to look far away. Between "Painting and Song" and "Sharp and Flat", a children's magazine called "Junior and Children" was published suddenly. Its activity period is not long, like an annual plant.My second sister-in-law thinks the kids need an illustrated magazine.What she meant was that the young people in the family wanted to write manuscripts for it, but she felt that this was not enough, so she became its editor herself, asking me to help and write more manuscripts. After one or two issues of Children and Children came out, I went to visit Mr. Rajnaren in Deogul.The train was crowded when I came back, and I could only find a berth with an uncovered lamp, so I couldn't sleep.I think I just took the opportunity to come up with a story for Children and Teens.No matter how hard I tried to catch it, it eluded me, but sleep came to my rescue.I saw in a dream that the stone steps of a temple were covered with the blood of sacrifices—a little girl stood there with her father, and the girl asked her father in a pitiful voice: "Daddy, what is this, why is there blood everywhere?" ?” The father, who was already moved in his heart, deliberately pretended to be rude so that she would not ask her any more.I wake up feeling like I've got my story.I have many such stories and works derived from dreams.I put this dream episode into the chronicle of King Gobinda Manikov of Tipela, and I used it as a short story, "The Sage King," which was serialized in Children and Children. Those days were free and carefree.In particular there is no rush to express through my life or work. On the road of life, I have not yet joined the group of travelers, but only a spectator watching from my roadside window.I have seen many rushing about their business.From time to time in spring, autumn, and rainy seasons, they automatically come in to spend time with me. But I don't just deal with seasons.There are all kinds of queer people who drift away from their moorings like ships, and sometimes come into my little house.Some of them tried to use my inexperience to devise special ways to achieve their own ends.In fact, they didn't need to go to such pains to deceive me.At that time I was new to the world, my own needs were few, and I was not yet wise enough to distinguish good faith from bad faith.I've often thought that I'm subsidizing my tuition to college students who pay as much for their tuition as for books they haven't read. Once a young man with long hair sent me a letter from his imaginary sister asking me to protect her brother who was abused by his stepmother, who was as fictional as she was.This brother is a real person, and obviously that is enough.But to me, that sister's letter is as unnecessary as finding a sharpshooter to shoot a flightless bird. Another young man came to me and said that he had been studying to be a BA, but that he was now insane and could not take the exam.I worry about him, but knowing nothing about medicine or any science, I don't know how to advise him.But he went on to say that he had seen my wife in a previous life as his mother in a dream, and that if he could drink some of the water my wife's feet touched, he would be healed. "Perhaps you don't believe in such things," he said with a smile at last.I said, it doesn't matter if I believe it or not, as long as he thinks he will be cured, he can drink whatever he wants.After I finished I gave him a small bottle of water that I said was touched by my wife's feet.He said he felt better.Due to the natural laws of evolution, he developed from water to solid food.Then he took up residence in a corner of my house, and began to hold a smoke party with his friends, until I had to flee from the smoky air.He undoubtedly gradually proved that his mind may be diseased, but it is certainly not weak. There were many tests after this incident while I was still trusting my children from previous lives.My reputation must have spread, because I got a letter from "the daughter" later, but this time I politely but firmly put the brakes on. Throughout this period, my friendship with Mr Srish Chandra Mazumda matured rapidly.He and Monsieur Priya used to come to my little room every night, and we discussed literature and music till late at night.Sometimes the whole day goes like this.The fact is that I have not yet molded and cultivated myself into a firm and definite personality, and therefore my life flies by like an autumn cloud. That's when I came to know Mr. Benjim.It had been a long time since I first saw him.At that time, the old classmates of the University of Calcutta held an annual meeting, and Mr. Chandranath was the main character of the annual meeting.Maybe he was holding out a hope that at some point in the future I would qualify to be a member; anyway, he wanted me to read a poem at the annual meeting.Mr. Chandranath was very young at the time.I remember him translating a martial German poem into English to read it to us himself that day.The warrior-poet's ode to his intimate saber, which may sometimes be a favorite poem of his, can convince the reader that even Mr. Chandranath had his youth; and, indeed, those times were unusual. Whilst wandering through the crowded crowd of the annual meeting of college students, I was immediately surprised to see a distinctive figure who would have been noticed in any crowd.There was a startling radiance to his tall, fair features, and I couldn't help but want to know him eagerly—he was the only one whose name I wanted to know that day.I was even more surprised when I found out that he was Mr. Benjim.It seemed to me a very strange coincidence that his appearance was as remarkable as his work.His pointed aquiline nose, his pursed lips, and his piercing eyes all indicated that he had infinite power.The way he stood above the crowd, with his arms folded, and walked as if no one else was there—made me even more surprised at him.Not only does he resemble an intellectual giant, but he also bears the stamp of a true prince on his forehead. A small incident that occurred at this meeting has been deeply imprinted in my heart.A pandit recites his own poems in Sanskrit in a room and explains them to the audience in Bengali.There is an allusion that is not quite rude, but a little vulgar.While the Pandit explained it, Mr. Benjim, covering his face with his hands, hurried out of the room.I was standing by the door, and I can still see him crouching and retreating. I often wanted to see him after this meeting, but never got the chance.Finally one day, when he was a deputy judge in Howrah, I ventured to visit him.We met and I tried my best to talk decently.But when I got home, I somehow felt very ashamed, as if I went to see him without being invited and introduced, like a young man who was not polite and abrupt. Later, when I was a few years older, I acquired the status of the youngest contemporary writer; but what position I would occupy in terms of my achievements was not yet determined.The prestige I have gained is mixed with many problems, and even has a lot of appeasement and tolerance.It was then fashionable in Bengal to give every literati a status similar to that of a writer in the West.So, this is the Bengal theory, that is Emerson, and so on.Some people call me the Shelley of Bengal.This is an insult to Shelley, and it may well make me a laughing stock. My accepted nickname is The Big Tongue Poet.My achievements are small, my knowledge of life poor, and in my verse and prose sentiment outweighs content.Therefore, there is nothing in poetry that people can boldly praise.My dress and manner were equally abnormal.I have long hair, maybe I just want to look like a standard poet.In short, I acted erratically and couldn't fit into everyday life like a normal person. At this time Mr. Akshay Sarkar had begun to publish the monthly "New Life", to which I sometimes contributed.Mr. Benjam had just closed the Bengal View, which he edited, and was busy with religious discussions, for which he began publishing the monthly Missionary.I also wrote a song or two to it and a treatise in which I raved about the Vishnupa lyric. I'm starting to see Mr. Benjim more often now.He lived on the same street as Barbarney Dodd at the time.Yes, I see him often, but we don't talk much. Back then I was the age of listening instead of talking.I fervently hope that we can have a discussion.But my sense of lack of confidence overwhelmed my drive to talk.A few times Mr Sanjib was there, reclining on the pillow.It pleased me to see him, for he was a kind man.He loves to talk and it's a pleasure to listen to him.Those who have read his prose must have noticed that his prose is as cheerful and light as running water, as is his very lively conversation.Few have the gift of conversation, and still fewer have the art of putting it into words. This was the time when Pandit Sashadar became famous.I first heard about him from Mr. Benjim.If I remember correctly, he was also introduced to you by Mr. Benjim.Orthodox Hindus want to borrow the power of Western science to ①Mr. Benjim's younger brother. —The translator's bizarre attempt to restore the prestige of Hinduism soon spread throughout the country.Theosophy had earlier laid the groundwork for this movement.Mr. Benjim never fully joined the sect.In his articles explaining the teachings of Hinduism published in The Preacher, there is no sign of Sashadar - this is impossible. At this moment I came out from my corner of my seclusion, as can be seen from the manuscript I wrote for this controversy.Some of them are satires, some are farces, and some are letters to newspapers.In this way, I descended from the field of emotions to the arena, and began to fight directly and seriously. In the heat of the fight, I had the misfortune to run afoul of Mr. Benjim.The course of this conflict is recorded in the "Preacher" and "Bharati" at that time, and there is no need to repeat it here.When the quarrel was ended, Mr. Benjim wrote me a letter, which I unfortunately lost.Had the letter been shown here, the reader would have seen how magnanimously Mr. Benjim has pulled the thorn out of this unfortunate episode. Lured by a newspaper advertisement, my brother Jotirendra went to the auction house one afternoon and came back to tell us that he had bought a hulk for seven thousand rupees; room, it is a perfect ship. My brother must have thought that it is a great shame that our compatriots can only use tongue and pen, but they don't even have a steamship company.As I said before, he tried to make matches for the country, but there was no abrasive material to make them strike.He also tried to get the power loom to work, but after all his painstaking efforts the loom produced only a small, rustic towel and stopped.Now he wants to see Indian steamers on the water, so he buys an empty old hulk, which is fitted out in a certain time, not only with engines and cabins added, but also with his loss and bankruptcy . But we should remember that all the loss and suffering incurred by his efforts rested on him alone, while the experience gained was left to the nation.It is these uncalculating, unmanageable characters who fill the commercial gardens of the country with their activities. Though the tide ebbs as fast as it rises, it leaves fertile silt that nourishes the land.When harvest time came, no one thought about the pioneers.But those who, while alive, willingly staked their all to lose, do not pay attention to this yet another lost loss after death. On the one hand was the European Steamship Company, and on the other was the elder brother Jotirendra alone; the residents of Khulna and Barisal still remember how horribly this war of merchant fleets had grown.Under the pressure of competition, the number of ships increased one by one, and the losses became larger and larger, while the income gradually decreased. Finally, it became uneconomical to even print a ticket.The golden age of steamship traffic between Khulna and Barisal came about.Passengers not only did not need to pay for the boat ride, but also enjoyed Grati for free, and a volunteer army was formed. They held flags and sang patriotic songs, and the passengers marched to the Indian Steamship Company in procession.Thus, while there was no shortage of passengers, other shortages were rapidly increasing. Patriotic enthusiasm can never affect mathematics; when the flames of fanaticism are burning higher and higher to the tune of patriotic songs, three times three is always nine in the loss column of the balance sheet. ① A dessert. —Translators who do not manage are often haunted by the misfortune that they themselves are as easily seen as an open book, but never learn to understand the qualities of others.To understand this weakness of their own will cost them a lifetime and all their resources.Experience, therefore, never affords them an opportunity of benefit.When the passengers had free refreshments and the staff showed no signs of starvation, the brother's biggest payoff was still bankruptcy, but he took it bravely and calmly. The daily victory and defeat reports from the battlefield keep us in a state of extreme excitement. Finally one day news came that the ship "Swadesh" hit the Howrah Bridge and sank.This last loss was so far beyond what the brother's property could bear, that there was no other recourse but to cease the operation. Then the Grim Reaper appeared in our home.I've never had a face-to-face encounter with death before.I was very young when my mother died.She was so ill that we don't even know when she became terminally ill.She has been living in a room with us, and she sleeps in a bed alone.Later, during her illness, she was asked to take a boat trip on the river. When she came back, a room was prepared for her on the third floor of the inner courtyard. We slept soundly downstairs in our room the night she died. I can't tell when our old nanny came crying and saying, "Oh my little ones, you're all over!" My sister-in-law scolded her and took her away from us Startled suddenly in the middle of the night.Her words woke me from a deep sleep and I felt my heart sink but didn't understand what was going on.When we were told she had died in the morning, I hadn't understood what her death meant to me. When we went out into the hallway, we saw my mother laid out on a bed in the courtyard.There was no horror of death in her face.The impression of Death in the light of that morning was as lovely as a peaceful, peaceful sleep.The disparity between life and death is not yet clearly understood. It wasn't until her body was carried out of the gate and we followed the procession to the crematorium that I thought that my mother would never come back through the gate and go about the housework as usual, and I felt a pang of grief.As the day wore on and we were walking down our alley from the crematorium, I looked up at my father's room on the third floor of our house.He still sits and prays in the front porch. The youngest sister-in-law in the family took care of us motherless little ones.She took care of our food, clothing, and all our other needs herself, and was often near us so that we might not feel too strongly the loss.One of the properties of life is the power to heal the irreparable loss and to forget the irreparable.And it is strongest early in life, so that no blow hurts too deeply, and no wound remains forever.So the first shadow of death that falls on our heads leaves no darkness behind; it just comes and goes quietly like a shadow. Later in my life, at the beginning of spring, I would tie a handful of half-opened jasmine flowers into the corner of my turban and roam about like a wildcat.At this time, when my forehead touched the soft round buds that gradually tapered at the top, I recalled the touch of my mother's fingers, and I clearly realized that the tenderness that lingered on those lovely fingertips was just like Like the pure jasmine bud that blooms every day, whether we know it or not, this tenderness has no measure on earth. At the age of twenty-four, I had an unforgettable acquaintance with Death.Its blows grew heavier with each death. The chain of tears is also continuously extended. The briskness of childhood life can slip away from the greatest misfortune, but it is not so easy for adults to escape misfortune. My heart can only fully bear the blow of that day. It had not occurred to me that there would be a gap in the unbroken ranks of life's joys and sorrows. So I can't see the future, and I accept that the present life is my everything.I was completely overwhelmed when Death came suddenly, revealing a gap in its seemingly perfect structure for a split second.Everything around me: the trees, the running water, the sun, the moon, and the stars, are still as real as before; but the one who really exists, who is connected in every way with my life and body and mind, is more real to me. , but disappeared like a dream in the blink of an eye.How incomprehensible and contradictory it all seemed to me as I looked around me! How on earth can I reconcile this existence with disappearance? Though the hours passed, the terrible darkness that the gap revealed to me continued to fascinate me day and night.From time to time I come back and stand there gazing at it, wondering what is left where it left.We cannot convince ourselves of the void; that which does not exist is not real; and that which is false does not exist.So our efforts to find something where we can't see something will never stop. Like a young plant surrounded by darkness groping its way to the light, so I tried to reach out to the light of affirmation when death suddenly threw the darkness of negation around my soul.In the Dark Stops Us from Finding the Way Out of the Black ① Refers to the death of the author's fifth sister-in-law, Gadenpari Devi.The author respects and loves her very much, because after the author's mother died, she took care of everything about him. ——When the translator is dark, what kind of grief can compare with it? But in the midst of this unbearable sorrow, sparks of joy seemed to flicker in me from time to time, which surprised me in a way.That life is not something solid and permanent is itself a sad news, which lightens my heavy heart.We are not prisoners forever locked in the solid stone walls of life, and this idea is always the first to appear in the torrent of pleasure without knowing it.I had to let go of what I had—a sense of loss that gnawed at me, but when I also looked at it in terms of the liberation I had, I felt at peace. The pervasive pressure of human existence keeps itself steady with the balance of life and death, so that it does not overwhelm us, the terrible weight of the irresistible life force is not something we have to bear-this truth is like a wonderful revelation from heaven that day. Suddenly appeared in my mind. Because of my indifference to the attraction of human life, the beauty of nature has a deeper meaning for me.Death has given me the ability to see things rightly in relation to each other, and to understand how the world is in its utter beauty.So when I saw the painting of the universe with death as the background, I felt its charm. At this time, my strange disease of thought and action broke out again.It amuses me to be asked to submit to the fashion of the time, as if they were serious and innocent important things.I can't take it seriously.I don't have the burden of stopping to consider what other people might think of me.I often put on a coarse sheet and a pair of slippers when I went to bookstores frequented by the upper class.I always slept on the third-floor balcony, whether it was hot or cold or raining.There, the stars and I can gaze at each other without losing the time to welcome the dawn. This situation and any ascetic thoughts switch.It was more of a holiday frenzy, liberated from the trivial school rules by discovering that the life of a teacher with a cane was not real.If we woke up on a clear morning and felt that the force of gravity had diminished just a little, would we still be walking on the road with restraint?Wouldn't we change it and jump from a multi-storey building?Or, when you come across a monument, fly over it without the trouble of going around it?Such was the fact that I could no longer cling to the usual procedure of custom, once the burdens of worldly life were no longer in the way of my legs. In the darkness of night, I was groping alone on the balcony, like a blind man trying to find a pattern or mark on the black stone door of death.When dawn fell on my tented bed and woke me up and opened my eyes, I felt the clouds around me lift; It unfolded in front of me, as if it had become new, very beautiful. According to the Hindu almanac, each year is ruled by a certain star.So I have found that in every stage of life, a certain period of time has special importance.When I look back on my childhood, I remember the rainy days most.The rain, driven by the wind, flooded the lanai floor.The row of doors leading to the house was shut.Perry, the old kitchen maid, was coming back from the market. Her vegetable basket was full of vegetables, and she was drenched in the rain as she struggled through the mud.I'd be ecstatic to run up and down the lanai for no reason. Something also came back to my mind: at school, our class was taught in a colonnade with mats as an outer partition; the thick clouds had been gathering continuously since the afternoon, and by now they had piled up and covered the sky.When we looked up, the raindrops poured down densely; from time to time there was rumbling thunder; it seemed that a mad woman was tearing the sky open with her lightning nails.The mat wall trembled under the gusts of wind, as if it was about to be blown down by the wind. We could hardly read because of the darkness.Monsieur told us to close the books, and we kept swinging our drooping legs, while the storm roared for us with joy; and my heart immediately crossed the distant and boundless wilderness, the wilderness that the prince in the fairy tale walks. I still remember the late night of Slavan.The sound of the pattering rain, groping its way into the gaps of my sleep, creates in it a joyous tranquility deeper than the deepest sound sleep.And when I woke up from time to time, I prayed: In the morning, I will still see the rain continue, our alley is flooded, and the water soaks to the last step of the bathing pool. But at the age I've just told you about, it's definitely Autumn that's on the throne.Can see its life unfold in the clear and bright leisure of Aswin Moon②.从外面带露的鲜绿中柔和地以射出来的溶金般的秋阳下，我在凉台上来回踱着，用乔吉亚调写了一首歌： 秋天的白昼渐渐过去，家里的钟敲了十二下，中午，调式变了，我心里仍充满了音乐，没有空闲想到工作或责任；我于是唱道：①②印度历六月，相当于九、十月之间，这时孟加拉开始放长假。——译者印度历五月，相当于七、八月之间，是雨季的顶点。 闲的游戏？ 下午，我躺在铺在我小屋子里地上的白漆布上，拿着一本画册想画画，——决不是努力寻求画的灵感，只是想画点什么消遣而已。最重要的部分都留在我的心里了，没有一笔画在纸上。这时，晴朗的秋日下午透过加尔各答这间小屋的四壁，仿佛它是一只酒杯，在里面斟满金色的醇酒。 不知什么原因，我在那段时间所有的日子里所看到的，仿佛都是透过这秋天的苍穹，这秋天的阳光——为农民催熟庄稼那样催熟我的诗歌的秋天；以灿烂的光辉装满我悠闲的谷仓的秋天；以莫名其妙的欢乐写成诗歌或故事，使我的无忧无虑的心得以溢满的秋天。 在童年时期的雨季和青年时期的秋季这二者之间，我看到的巨大区别在于，前者是把我密密地包围起来的外界的自然，以它的众多的剧团，以它的五光十色的扮相，以它的混合曲不断地给我欢乐；而在秋天明朗的阳光下发生的欢乐，是在人的本身。乌云和日光的嬉戏被放到幕后，苦乐的低语却占有了心田。是我们的凝视将沉思的色彩给予秋空的蔚蓝，是人类的思慕将伤心给予微风的气息。 我的诗歌这时到达人类的居处。在这里不拘礼节的来往是不被允许的。门后有门，室内有室。有多少次我们只是看一眼窗内的灯光就回来了，只有宫内的管乐声在我的耳中萦绕！ 心必须以心相待，愿望只能和愿望达成协议，要经过许多曲折的障碍，合作才能实现。生活的喷泉冲进这些障碍时，在笑与泪中溅得泡沫四溢，欢舞旋转着流过我们不知其流向的一个个漩涡。 《升号与降号》是人类在居处前街上唱的一首小夜曲，是请求入场的恳求，是那座神秘房子里的一块地方。 我希望居住在永生的人类生活中。 这是个人对宇宙生活的祈祷。 我第二次动身去英国的时候，在船上认识了阿苏托什·乔德胡里。他刚获得加尔各答大学文学硕士学位，目前是去英国加入律师界。我们只是从加尔各答到马德拉斯的几天内一起在船上，但十分清楚，友谊的深厚并不有赖于相识的久长。在这短短的几天里，他心地的纯朴吸引了我，使以前我们从未相识的空隙似乎被我们的友谊永远填补起来了。 阿苏托什从英国回来时，成了我们中间的一个①。他直到那时还没有时间或机会突破他的职业用以包围他的一切障碍。所以他还没有完全陷在里面。他的当事人的钱包尚未充分松开捆着他们金币的绳子。阿苏托什还是一个从各种文学园地里热心采集蜂蜜的人。那时渗透他的身心的文学风气一①指他娶了作者的侄女普拉蒂巴。——译者点没有图书馆里的摩洛哥山羊皮的霉味，而是有一种来自海外的不知名的异国植物的芬芳。在他的邀请下，我于春季在那些遥远的森林里度过许多欢乐的时光。 他特别喜爱法国文学的风味。我那时已在写后来出版时名为《升号与降号》的诗，阿苏托什能够辨认我的许多诗歌和他知道的法国古诗的相似之处。他认为，所有这些诗歌中的共同要素是人世生活的欢乐对诗人的吸引，而这一点在它们的每一首诗歌中都有不同的表现。 进入这一更广大的人生未能实现的愿望是它们的全部基调。 阿苏托什说，“我一定要替你安排这些诗的出版事宜，”因此这任务就委托给了他。他认为以“这个世界是甜柔的”开头的那首诗是全组的主音，所以把它放在这本书的最前面。 阿苏托什可能是很对的。在我的童年，我被限制在家庭里，我只能用我的心从内院屋顶凉台围墙的孔隙里贪婪地凝视外面的丰富多彩的自然景色。在我的青年时期，人类世界同样对我产生强烈的吸引力。我那时也是它的一个旁观者，只是从路边向它看望。我的心好似站在河边，热烈地挥舞着手，向那朝着对岸破浪前进的船夫呼喊，因为生命渴望走上生活的旅程。 有人说，我的特别孤立的社会环境是阻止我进入人世生活中心的栅栏，这是不正确的。 我看不出我同胞中那些毕生处于社会活动激流里的人，能比我有更多的生活亲切感。我国的生活有它的高堤，有它的阶梯，在它的黑水中有古树的浓荫，而在它高高的树枝中，杜鹃唱着令人陶醉的古老的歌，然而它仍是一片死水。哪里是它的激流？哪里是它的波涛？什么时候大海的高潮才汹涌地冲来？ 那时我是否曾从我们胡同对面的邻居那里听到凯歌的回声呢，就是那河水随之涨落，一浪又一浪地穿过石墙朝着大海流去的凯歌的回声？No!我的孤独生活之所以令人苦闷，就是因为没有人请我到庆祝人生节日的地方去。 倘若人在与世隔绝的情况下浑浑噩噩地过着逸乐懒散的日子，他会感到无比沮丧，因为这样他就会完全丧失社交生活。我痛苦地竭力想摆脱的就是这种沮丧。我的心拒绝响应那些日子的政治运动的廉价兴奋剂，它们仿佛缺少民族意识的一切力量，由于它们对国家的完全无知，对祖国的真诚服务极端漠视。我为自己的无比急躁、为对自己及自己周围一切无法忍受的不满感到苦恼。我对自己说，我倒很希望成为一个阿拉伯的贝都因人！ 在世界的其他地方对狂欢的自由生活的运转和喧闹从未停止的时候，我们却像求乞的少女站在外面眼巴巴地看着。我们什么时候才有所需的金钱把自己打扮一番前去参加呢？在一个分裂的精神处于绝对优势、无数的小圈子把人们分开的国家里，这种对更为广国的人世生活的渴望必然无法得到满足。 我在青年时期对人世也怀着这样一种思慕，正像我在童年时站在仆人用粉笔画的圆圈里向往外面的自然界一样。它显得多么珍贵，多么遥远，多么难以到达啊！但如果我们不能跟它接触，如果没有风能从它那里吹来，没有水能从它那里流来，如果那里没有路可以让旅人自由来往，那么在我们四周堆积起来的死亡的东西绝对无法清除，反而会愈堆愈高，直到把一切生命都闷死。 在雨季，只有乌云和大雨。在秋季，天空中却有光和影的游戏，但这并不能完全吸引人，因为田地里还有五谷丰收的希望。我的诗歌生涯也是如此，当雨季占优势的时候，我只有像狂风暴雨般袭来的毫无实际内容的幻想：我的语调是模糊的，我的诗句是狂热的。但在我的秋季的《升号与降号》里，不但空中有云的影响的游戏，也能看到五谷破土生长。于是，在与现实世界的交往中，言语和韵律都企图达到明确和形式的变化多端。 就这样我的另一本书结束了。内外亲疏结合在一起的日子日益接近我的生活。我生命的旅程现在得通过人类的居处完成。因此，我在旅途中遇到的善恶悲欢，不能像绘画似的可以任人轻快地欣赏，什么样的成败得失、不和与一致正在那里发生啊！ 我无力展示和表现那最好的艺术，我生活的“向导”就是愉快地用它领着我跨越生活的一切障碍、敌视和曲折，向着实现它的最深的意义前进的。如果我不能说清这一企图的所有神秘性，那不论我想表示什么，无非是每一步都误入歧途。分析肖像只能得到它的尘土，不能得到艺术家的欢乐。 就这样，我把我的读者陪到内殿的门前，请允许我在此向他们告别。 （《回忆录》与金克木译的《我的童年》合为《回忆录：附〈我的童年〉》，人民文学出版社１９８８年４月出版。）