Bolpur
Sunday, 22 May 1892
Yesterday in the evening there was tremendous storm and rain; however, that’s not a matter of regret. In fact, good; let the trees and the earth and the grass cover become green and shining and luscious. Let the eyes find rest at the sight. Let the sky be covered from one end to the other with downy, vaporous clouds—let the forests turn dark and shadowy, the unceasing rain make veils with which to cover the horizon’s brides, the woods resonate with the sound of pattering rain on the dense leaves, the still, immense land come alive with the childish restlessness of the sound and variety of the līlā of the many temporary big and small rivulets of water. And that is exactly what has happened. This morning, the sky seemed to be drooping with the weight of the clouds made heavy with water, and, all around, the shadow of the rain has made everything calm … Khoka cannot express himself well, so everything on his mind stays in his mind, and all his enthusiasm works gradually within it, that’s why the lines of his thought cut very deep. Bela talks continuously and so doesn’t find time to think about anything properly—all her energy is spent in her incessant speech. But she’s extremely soft-hearted—she tried her utmost to stop Khoka from killing an ant the other day. I was very surprised to see this—I was like that when I was a child; I couldn’t tolerate even insects and birds being hurt in any way. But I have become so much harder now on growing up. I remember feeling such a wrench of the heart at others’ sorrows in those days. Where does that happen any more? Will Bela too become harder as she grows older? Maybe not—after all, she’s a girl. In the first place, she will never have to do anything cruel by her own hand, besides which, women’s minds have a sort of elasticity: they do not harden with ripeness. If I was as sensitive now to the pain of living things as I was in my childhood, it would become impossible to step out into the world; perhaps I would then be hurt by sorrow and death at every step and keep lamenting and regretting it like Pierre Loti.* That would have been a nuisance! Besides which, if you express your pain about something that most people ordinarily don’t feel any distress about, then other people get very annoyed; they think—this fellow’s trying to be superior. I remember that when my elders did not show pity towards the pitiable, I wanted to be able to say something, but embarrassment would hold me back—what if they thought, ‘Oh, I see this righteous Yudhishthir has come to knock us down a peg!’ It’s most troublesome to have a greater sensitivity than others all around you. The logical and rational thing to do is to hide it at first, and eventually to lessen it. I remember I was once travelling with Jyoti-dada in the carriage when a Brahmin wayfarer stopped us on the road and said, ‘Can you make some place for me in your carriage? I’ll get off on the way.’ Jyoti-dada got very angry and shooed him away. I was dreadfully upset by that incident—as it is the man was a weary traveller, on top of that he was insulted and shamed and had to go away hopelessly. But I found it very embarrassing to show any pity where Jyoti-dada had not—I couldn’t say anything in spite of feeling very troubled, but my admiration for my brother suffered a grievous blow.