CHAPTER FIVE

AT SCHOOL (2)

It is strange how your opinion of yourself can be influ- enced by what others think of you. In January, 1909, when I joined the Ravenshaw Collegiate School, Cuttack, a sudden change came over me. Among European and Anglo-Indian boys my parentage had counted for nothing, but among our own people it was different. Further, my knowledge of English was above the ordinary level and that gave me an added estimation in the eyes of my new class-mates. Even the teachers treated me with undue consideration, because they expected me to stand first, and in an Indian school studies, and not sports, brought credit and reward. At the first quarterly examination I did justify the hopes placed in mc. The new atmosphere in which I lived and moved forced me to think better of myself that I was worth something and was not an insignificant creature. It was not a feeling of pride that crept into me but of self—confidence, which till then had been lacking and which is the sine qua non of all success in life. This time it was not the infant class which I joined but the fourth1  class——so I did not have to look up all the time. Boys of the fourth class considered themselves as belonging to one of the higher classes and moved about with an air of importance. So did I. But in one respect I was seriously handicapped in spite of all the other advan- tages I enjoyed. I had read hardly a word of Bengali—my mother—tongue——before I joined ’this school, while the other boys had already reached a high standard. I remem- ber that the first day I had to write an essay on ‘Cow’ (or was it ‘Horse’?), I was made the laughing-stock of all my class—mates. I knew nothing of grammar and precious little of spelling and when the teacher read out my compo- sition to the whole class with running comments, punctu- ated with laughter, flowing in from all sides, I felt humbled to the dust. I had never had this experience before—to be laughed at for deficiency in studies—and on top of it, I had lately developed a species of self-consciousness which had made me ultrasensitive. For weeks and months the Bengali lessons would give me the creeps. But for the time being, however acute the mental torture, there was nothing I could do but put up with the humiliation and secretly resolve to make good. Slowly and steadily I began to gain ground and at the annual examination I had the satisfaction of getting the highest marks in that subject. I enjoyed my new surroundings, the more so as I had longed for the change. At the other school, though I had been there for seven years, I had not left behind any friends. Here it looked as if I would enter into lasting friendship with at least some of my classmates. My friends were not of the sporting type because I did not take kindly to sports and only the drill lessons interested mc. Apart from my own lukewarmness, there was another obstacle to my taking to sports enthusiastically. It was customary for the boys to return home after school—hours, have a light tiffin, and then go out for games. My parents did not like us to do that. Either they thought that sports would interfere with our studies or they did not regard the atmosphere of the playground as congenial to our mental health. Possibly the latter consideration weighed more with them. Be that as it may, the domestic situation was such that if we wanted to go out for games, we had to do it on the sly. Some of my broth- ers and uncles did do so and occasionally, when they were caught, were given a talking-to. But, knowing my parents’ habits, it was generally possible to dodge them, especially as they were in the habit of going out for a drive and walk. If I had had a strong desire like the others, I could easily have joined them at the games. But I did not. Moreover, I was then of a goody-goody nature and was busy devouring ethi- cal verses in Sanskrit. Some of these verses taught that the highest virtue consisted in obeying one’s father -that when one’s father was satisfied all the gods were satisfied2 -—that one’s mother was even greater than one’s father etc., etc. I therefore thought it better not to do what would displease my parents. So I would take to gardening along with those who did not go out for games. We had a fairly big kitchen and flower garden adjoining our house and in company with the gardener we would water and tend the plants or do some digging or help lay out the beds. Gardening I found absorbingly interesting. It served, among other things, to open my eyes to the beauties of nature, about which I shall have something to say later on. Besides gardening, we would also go in for physical exercise and gymnastics for which there were arrangements at home. Looking back on my past life I feel inclined to think that I should not have neglected sports. By doing so, I prob- ably developed precoeity and accentuated my introvert ten- dencies. To ripen too early is not good, either for a tree or for a human being andOne has to pay for it in the long run. There is nothing to beat nature’s law of gradual develop- ment, and however much prodigies may interest us at first they generally fail to fulfil their early promise. For two years life rolled on in much the same way. Among the teachers and students there were both Bengalees and Oriyas and the relations between them were quite cordial. One did not hear in those days--at least we students did not hear-——of any ill-feeling or misunderstanding between the people of the two sister provinces. So far as the members of our family were concerned, we could never think or feel in terms of narrow parochialism or provincial- ism. For that we have to thank our parents. My father had extensive contacts with the people of Orissa, and intimate personal relations with many distinguished Oriya families. His outlook was consequently broad and his sympathies wide and they unconsciously influenced the rest of his fam- ily. I cannot remember ever to have heard from his lips one single disparaging remark about the people of Orissa—or for the matter of that about the people of any other prov- ince. Though he was never effusive in his emotions and was inclined to be reserved, he could endear himself to all those who came into contact with him wherever he happened to be at the time. Such parental influences work unobtrusively and only in later life can the children discover by a process of analysis what helped to mould their character or give their life a definite direction. Of the teachers there was one who left a permanent impression on my youthful mind. That was our headmaster, Babu Beni Madhav Das. The very first day I saw him taking his rounds-—and I was then just over twelve-—I felt what I should now call an irresistible moral appeal in his person- ality. Up till then I had never experienced what it was to respect a man. But for me, to see Beni Madhav Das was to adore him. I was not old enough then to realise what it was that I adored. I could only feel that here was a man who was not an ordinary teacher, who stood apart from, and above, the rest of his tribe. And I secretly said to myself that I wanted an ideal for my life, it should be to emulate him. Talking of an ideal, I am reminded of an expericncc I had when I was at the P.E. School. I was then about ten. Our teacher asked us to write an essay on what we would like to be when we would like to be when we were grown- up. My eldest brother was in the habit of giving us talks on the respective virtues of a judge, magistrate, commissioner, barrister, doctor, engineer, and so forth, and I had picked up odd things from what I had heard him say. I jumbled up as many of these as I still remembered and wound up by say- ing that I would be a magistrate. The teacher remarked that to be a magistrate after being a commissioner would be an anti-climax, but I was too young to understand the status of the different professions and designations. After that I had no occasion to be worried by the thought of what I should aspire to be in later life. I only remember hearing in talks within the family circle that the highest position one could get to was the Indian Civil Service3 The headmaster did not usually give any regular lessons till the boys reached the sec- ond class. So I began to long for the day when I would reach the second class and be entitled to listen to his lectures. That day did arrive4 , but my good fortune did not last long. After a few months orders for his transfer came. However, before he left us he had succeeded in rousing in me a vague per- ception of moral values—an inchoate feeling that in human life moral values should count more than anything else. In other words he had made me feel the truth of what we had read in our Poetry•Book-— “The rank is but the guinea’s stamp The man is the gold for all that.” And it was well that he had, for about this time the usual mental Changes—best described in scientific termi- nology as sex-consciousness——which are incidental to approaching puberty, began to overtake me. I remember vividly the parting scene when headmas- ter Beni Madhav took leave of his devoted and admiring pupils. He entered the class-room visibly moved and, in a voice ringing with emotion, said, “I have nothing more to say but invoke the blessings of God on you .... “ I could not listen any more. Tears rushed to my eyes and I cried out within myself. But a hundred eyes were on the alert and I managed to restrain myself. The classes were then dismissed and the boys began to file off. Passing near his room I sud- denly saw him standing in the verandah watching the boys depart. Our eyes met. The tears which I had managed to restrain within the class-room now began to flow. He saw them and was also moved. I stood paralysed for a moment and he came up to say that we would meet again. This was, I believe, the first time in my life that I had to weep at the time of parting and the first time I realised that only when we are forced to part do we discover how much we love.5 The next day there was a public meeting organized by the staff and students to accord him a farewell. I was one of those who had to speak. How I got through my part I do not know, for internally I was all in tears. I was, however, pain- fully surprised to find that there were many among the staff and the students who did not realise at all what a sorrowful event it was. When the headmaster spoke in reply, his words seemed to pierce through my soul. I could hear only his opening words saying that he had never expected, when he first came to Cuttack, that there would be so much affection in store for him. Then I ceased to listen but continued to gaze at his impassioned countenance, which spoke volumes to me. There was an expression, a glow, therein-which I had seen in the portraits of Keshav Chandra Sen. And no wonder, since he was Keshav Chandra’s ardent disciple and devotee.6 It was now a different school altogether———so dull, uninteresting, and uninspiring——for a light that had hitherto shone there had vanished. But there was no help, the classes had to be attended, the lessons learnt, and the examinations taken. The wheel of life grinds on regard- less of our joys and sorrows. It is interesting how you can sometimes come nearer to a person when you have parted from him. This happened in the present ease. I started a correspondence with Headmaster Beni Madhav which went on for some years. One thing I now learnt from him-how to love nature and be inspired by her, not merely aesthetically, but ethically as well. Following his instructions, I took to what, in the absence of anything better, might be described as a species of nature-worship. I would choose a beauty-spot on the river-bank or on a hill or in a lonely meadow in the,midst of an enchanting sunset-glow, and practise contem- plation. ‘Surrender yourself completely to nature’, he would write, ‘and let nature speak to you through her Protean mask’. This sort of contemplation had given him peace of mind, joy, and strength of will. How far I profited ethically from this effort I cannot say. But it certainly opened my eyes to the hidden and ne- glected beauties of nature and also helped me to concentrate my mind. In the garden, among flowers, sprouting leaves and growing plants, I would find an indescribable joy and I would love to ramble. alone or in the company of friends, amid the wild beauties of nature with which the countryside was so plentifully supplied. I could realise the truth of what the poet had said—— “A primrose by the river’s brim, A yellow primrose is to him. And it is something more.” wordsworth’s poems now had an added significance for me and I would simply revel in the descriptions of natu- ral scenery in Kalidas’s7 poetry and in the Mahabharata8 which, thanks to my Pundit, I could enjoy in the original Sanskrit. I was at this time entering on one of the stormiest periods in my psyehieal life which was to last for five or six years. It was a period of acute mental conflict causing untold suffering and agony, which could not be shared by any friends and was not visible to any outsider. I doubt if a growing boy normally goes through this expericnce——at

  

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