Part 9 (2/2)

[Footnote 1: Old sand-banks consolidated by the deposit of a layer of culturable soil.]

There must be some element of pity in the dispensations of Providence, else how did we get our share of it? But it is so difficult to see where it comes in. The lamentations of these hundreds of thousands of unoffending creatures do not seem to get anywhere. The rain pours on as it lists, the river still rises, and no amount of pet.i.tioning seems to have the effect of bringing relief from any quarter. One has to seek consolation by saying that all this is beyond the understanding of man.

And yet, it is so vitally necessary for man to understand that there are such things as pity and justice in the world.

However, this is only sulking. Reason tells us that creation never can be perfectly happy. So long as it is incomplete it must put up with imperfection and sorrow. It can only be perfect when it ceases to be creation, and is G.o.d. Do our prayers dare go so far?

The more we think over it, the oftener we come hack to the starting-point--Why this creation at all? If we cannot make up our minds to object to the thing itself, it is futile complaining about its companion, sorrow.

SHAZADPUR,

_7th July_ 1893.

The flow of village life is not too rapid, neither is it stagnant. Work and rest go together, hand in hand. The ferry crosses to and fro, the pa.s.sers-by with umbrellas up wend their way along the tow-path, women are was.h.i.+ng rice on the split-bamboo trays which they dip in the water, the ryots are coming to the market with bundles of jute on their heads. Two men are chopping away at a log of wood with regular, ringing blows. The village carpenter is repairing an upturned dinghy under a big _aswatha_ tree. A mongrel dog is prowling aimlessly along the ca.n.a.l bank. Some cows are lying there chewing the cud, after a huge meal off the luxuriant gra.s.s, lazily moving their ears backwards and forwards, flicking off flies with their tails, and occasionally giving an impatient toss of their heads when the crows perched on their backs take too much of a liberty.

The monotonous blows of woodcutter's axe or carpenter's mallet, the splas.h.i.+ng of oars, the merry voices of the naked little children at play, the plaintive tune of the ryot's song, the more dominant creaking of the turning oil-mill, all these sounds of activity do not seem out of harmony with murmuring leaves and singing birds, and all combine like moving strains of some grand dream-orchestra, rendering a composition of immense though restrained pathos.

SHAZADPUR,

_10th July 1893._

All I have to say about the discussion that is going on over ”silent poets” is that, though the strength of feeling may be the same in those who are silent as in those who are vocal, that has nothing to do with poetry. Poetry is not a matter of feeling, it is the creation of form.

Ideas take shape by some hidden, subtle skill at work within the poet.

This creative power is the origin of poetry. Perceptions, feelings, or language, are only raw material. One may be gifted with feeling, a second with language, a third with both; but he who has as well a creative genius, alone is a poet.

PATISAR,

_13th August 1893._

Coming through these _beels_[1] to Kaligram, an idea took shape in my mind. Not that the thought was new, but sometimes old ideas strike one with new force.

[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Sometimes a stream pa.s.sing through the flat Bengal country encounters a stretch of low land and spreads out into a sheet of water, called a _beel_, of indefinite extent, ranging from a large pool in the dry season to a sh.o.r.eless expanse during the rains.

Villages consisting of a cl.u.s.ter of huts, built on mounds, stand out here and there like islands, and boats or round, earthen vessels are the only means of getting about from village to village.

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