Glimpses of Bengal | Page 6

with streaks of lurid light showing through here and there. The
little boats scurried off into the smaller arm of the river and clung with
their anchors safely to its banks. The reapers took up the cut sheaves on
their heads and hied homewards; the cows followed, and behind them
frisked the calves waving their tails.
Then came an angry roar. Torn-off scraps of cloud hurried up from the
west, like panting messengers of evil tidings. Finally, lightning and
thunder, rain and storm, came on altogether and executed a mad dervish
dance. The bamboo clumps seemed to howl as the raging wind swept
the ground with them, now to the east, now to the west. Over all, the
storm droned like a giant snake-charmer's pipe, and to its rhythm
swayed hundreds and thousands of crested waves, like so many hooded
snakes. The thunder was incessant, as though a whole world was being
pounded to pieces away there behind the clouds.
With my chin resting on the ledge of an open window facing away
from the wind, I allowed my thoughts to take part in this terrible
revelry; they leapt into the open like a pack of schoolboys suddenly set
free. When, however, I got a thorough drenching from the spray of the
rain, I had to shut up the window and my poetising, and retire quietly
into the darkness inside, like a caged bird.

SHAZADPUR.
June 1891.
From the bank to which the boat is tied a kind of scent rises out of the
grass, and the heat of the ground, given off in gasps, actually touches
my body. I feel that the warm, living Earth is breathing upon me, and
that she, also, must feel my breath.
The young shoots of rice are waving in the breeze, and the ducks are in

turn thrusting their heads beneath the water and preening their feathers.
There is no sound save the faint, mournful creaking of the gangway
against the boat, as she imperceptibly swings to and fro in the current.
Not far off there is a ferry. A motley crowd has assembled under the
banyan tree awaiting the boat's return; and as soon as it arrives, they
eagerly scramble in. I enjoy watching this for hours together. It is
market-day in the village on the other bank; that is why the ferry is so
busy. Some carry bundles of hay, some baskets, some sacks; some are
going to the market, others coming from it. Thus, in this silent noonday,
the stream of human activity slowly flows across the river between two
villages.
I sat wondering: Why is there always this deep shade of melancholy
over the fields arid river banks, the sky and the sunshine of our country?
And I came to the conclusion that it is because with us Nature is
obviously the more important thing. The sky is free, the fields limitless;
and the sun merges them into one blazing whole. In the midst of this,
man seems so trivial. He comes and goes, like the ferry-boat, from this
shore to the other; the babbling hum of his talk, the fitful echo of his
song, is heard; the slight movement of his pursuit of his own petty
desires is seen in the world's market-places: but how feeble, how
temporary, how tragically meaningless it all seems amidst the immense
aloofness of the Universe!
The contrast between the beautiful, broad, unalloyed peace of
Nature--calm, passive, silent, unfathomable,--and our own everyday
worries--paltry, sorrow-laden, strife-tormented, puts me beside myself
as I keep staring at the hazy, distant, blue line of trees which fringe the
fields across the river.
Where Nature is ever hidden, and cowers under mist and cloud, snow
and darkness, there man feels himself master; he regards his desires, his
works, as permanent; he wants to perpetuate them, he looks towards
posterity, he raises monuments, he writes biographies; he even goes the
length of erecting tombstones over the dead. So busy is he that he has
not time to consider how many monuments crumble, how often names
are forgotten!

SHAZADPUR.
June 1891.
There was a great, big mast lying on the river bank, and some little
village urchins, with never a scrap of clothing, decided, after a long
consultation, that if it could be rolled along to the accompaniment of a
sufficient amount of vociferous clamour, it would be a new and
altogether satisfactory kind of game. The decision was no sooner come
to than acted upon, with a "Shabash, brothers! All together! Heave ho!"
And at every turn it rolled, there was uproarious laughter.
The demeanour of one girl in the party was very different. She was
playing with the boys for want of other companions, but she clearly
viewed with disfavour these loud and strenuous games. At last she
stepped