I am ready: but first must tread into dust every
sprout of sin and shame that has sprung from the soil
of our life. A daughter’s infamy stains
her mother’s honour. That black shame shall
feed glowing fire to-night, and raise a true wife’s
memorial over the ashes of my daughter.
Mother, if by force you unite me in death with one
who was not my husband, then will you bring a curse
upon yourself for desecrating the shrine of the Eternal
Lord of Death.
Soldiers, light the fire; surround the woman!
Father!
Do not fear. Alas, my child, that you should
ever have to call your father to save you from your
mother’s hands!
Father!
Come to me, my darling child! Mere vanity are
these man-made laws, splashing like spray against
the rock of heaven’s ordinance. Bring your
son to me, and we will live together, my daughter.
A father’s love, like God’s rain, does
not judge but is poured forth from an abounding source.
Where would you go? Turn back!—Soldiers,
stand firm in your loyalty to your master Jivaji!
do your last sacred duty by him!
Father!
Free her, soldiers! She is my daughter.
She is the widow of our master.
Her husband, though a Mussulman, was staunch in his
own faith.
Soldiers, keep this old man under control!
I defy you, mother!—You, soldiers, I defy!—for
through death and love I win to freedom.
30
A painter was selling pictures at the fair; followed
by servants, there passed the son of a minister who
in youth had cheated this painter’s father so
that he had died of a broken heart.
The boy lingered before the pictures and chose one
for himself. The painter flung a cloth over it
and said he would not sell it.
After this the boy pined heart-sick till his father
came and offered a large price. But the painter
kept the picture unsold on his shop-wall and grimly
sat before it, saying to himself, “This is my
revenge.”
The sole form this painter’s worship took was
to trace an image of his god every morning.
