“Is not his money yours as well?”
“Ah, no!” she said, her wounded pride
hurt afresh.
“If not,” I cried, “neither is it
his, but his country’s, whom he has deprived
of it, in her time of need!”
“But how am Ito get it?” she repeated.
“Get it you shall and must. You know best
how. You must get it for Her to whom it rightfully
belongs. __Bande Mataram__! These are the magic
words which will open the door of his iron safe, break
through the walls of his strong-room, and confound
the hearts of those who are disloyal to its call.
Say __Bande Mataram__, Bee!”
“__Bande Mataram__!”
Sandip’s Story
We are men, we are kings, we must have our tribute.
Ever since we have come upon the Earth we have been
plundering her; and the more we claimed, the more
she submitted. From primeval days have we men
been plucking fruits, cutting down trees, digging up
the soil, killing beast, bird and fish. From
the bottom of the sea, from underneath the ground,
from the very jaws of death, it has all been grabbing
and grabbing and grabbing—no strong-box
in Nature’s store-room has been respected or
left unrifled. The one delight of this Earth
is to fulfil the claims of those who are men.
She has been made fertile and beautiful and complete
through her endless sacrifices to them. But for
this, she would be lost in the wilderness, not knowing
herself, the doors of her heart shut, her diamonds
and pearls never seeing the light.
Likewise, by sheer force of our claims, we men have
opened up all the latent possibilities of women.
In the process of surrendering themselves to us,
they have ever gained their true greatness.
Because they had to bring all the diamonds of their
happiness and the pearls of their sorrow into our royal
treasury, they have found their true wealth.
So for men to accept is truly to give: for women
to give is truly to gain.
The demand I have just made from Bimala, however,
is indeed a large one! At first I felt scruples;
for is it not the habit of man’s mind to be
in purposeless conflict with itself? I thought
I had imposed too hard a task. My first impulse
was to call her back, and tell her I would rather
not make her life wretched by dragging her into all
these troubles. I forgot, for the moment, that
it was the mission of man to be aggressive, to make
woman’s existence fruitful by stirring up disquiet
in the depth of her passivity, to make the whole world
blessed by churning up the immeasurable abyss of suffering!
This is why man’s hands are so strong, his
grip so firm. Bimala had been longing with all
her heart that I, Sandip, should demand of her some
great sacrifice— should call her to her
death. How else could she be happy? Had
she not waited all these weary years only for an opportunity
to weep out her heart—so satiated was she
with the monotony of her placid happiness? And
therefore, at the very sight of me, her heart’s
horizon darkened with the rain clouds of her impending
days of anguish. If I pity her and save her from
her sorrows, what then was the purpose of my being
born a man?
