Sandip Babu leapt to his feet with uplifted arms and
shouted “Hurrah!”—The next
moment he corrected himself and cried: “__Bande
Mataram__.”
A shadow of pain passed over the face of my husband.
He said to me in a very gentle voice: “Neither
am I divine: I am human. And therefore
I dare not permit the evil which is in me to be exaggerated
into an image of my country—never, never!”
Sandip Babu cried out: “See, Nikhil, how
in the heart of a woman Truth takes flesh and blood.
Woman knows how to be cruel: her virulence is
like a blind storm. It is beautifully fearful.
In man it is ugly, because it harbours in its centre
the gnawing worms of reason and thought. I tell
you, Nikhil, it is our women who will save the country.
This is not the time for nice scruples. We
must be unswervingly, unreasoningly brutal. We
must sin. We must give our women red sandal paste
with which to anoint and enthrone our sin. Don’t
you remember what the poet says:
/*
Come, Sin, O beautiful Sin,
Let thy stinging red kisses pour down
fiery red wine into our
blood.
Sound the trumpet of imperious evil
And cross our forehead with the wreath
of exulting lawlessness,
O Deity of Desecration,
Smear our breasts with the blackest mud
of disrepute,
unashamed.
*/
Down with that righteousness, which cannot smilingly
bring rack and ruin.”
When Sandip Babu, standing with his head high, insulted
at a moment’s impulse all that men have cherished
as their highest, in all countries and in all times,
a shiver went right through my body.
But, with a stamp of his foot, he continued his declamation:
“I can see that you are that beautiful spirit
of fire, which burns the home to ashes and lights
up the larger world with its flame. Give to us
the indomitable courage to go to the bottom of Ruin
itself. Impart grace to all that is baneful.”
It was not clear to whom Sandip Babu addressed his
last appeal. It might have been She whom he worshipped
with his __Bande Mataram__. It might have been
the Womanhood of his country. Or it might have
been its representative, the woman before him.
He would have gone further in the same strain, but
my husband suddenly rose from his seat and touched
him lightly on the shoulder saying: “Sandip,
Chandranath Babu is here.”
I started and turned round, to find an aged gentleman
at the door, calm and dignified, in doubt as to whether
he should come in or retire. His face was touched
with a gentle light like that of the setting sun.
My husband came up to me and whispered: “This
is my master, of whom I have so often told you.
Make your obeisance to him.”
I bent reverently and took the dust of his feet.
He gave me his blessing saying: “May God
protect you always, my little mother.”
I was sorely in need of such a blessing at that moment.
