Stories of Bengalee Life

Front matter

STORIES

OF

BENGALEE LIFE

A Pseudonym

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

A Pseudonym, Chapter 1

A PSEUDONYM

CHAPTER I

AFTER many struggles with the Press, I succeeded in getting out the holiday number of the Light of Bengal before the Durga Puja. I was giving instructions to the manager as to the despatch of the journal when Satish appeared in English costume, smoking a cigarette. He said, "Come to Darjeeling."

Satish was the friend of my boyhood. We studied in the same class, sat together, worked together. The Master used to call us Castor and Pollux.

Having matriculated, we came to the College at Calcutta; but from that time our lives began to diverge. Satish tried in every way to adopt the manners of Europeans; while I became devoted to my mother-tongue. Satish jeered at me for constantly reading and writing Bengali; while I lost no opportunity of having a fling at him for imitating Europeans. Later Satish went to England and returned a barrister, having completely adopted English ways.

We were no longer, as in boyhood, one soul and spirit. Satish had become changed. He no longer confided all his thoughts to me. Nevertheless we were excellent friends. He said—"Come to Darjeeling."

"When do you go?"—I asked.

"To-day."

"Goodness! Where is the time?"

Satish opened his watch, and holding his cigarette between his teeth, said—"It is only ten; the train goes at four. Six hours—360 minutes. Heaps and heaps of time."

"My good fellow"—I replied—"you have become a sahib. Can I, a black man, emulate your speedy way of doing things? By the time I have bathed and dined it will be twelve o'clock. Then some little rest—"

"Nonsense! I will not take your excuses."

"If you wanted to go to Darjeeling, why did you not tell me two days ago?"

"It was only this morning that I received the invitation from Dr. Sen."

"What!"—I exclaimed in astonishment—"Is Dr. Sen at Darjeeling with his family—and his daughter?"

"Certainly"—and he laughed a little.

That Dr. Sen's learned daughter Nirmala had captivated my friend was an open secret. I said—"How terrible! Must we wait till four o'clock? Is there no earlier train?" Satish, also sighing like an actor, said—"No." I sang—

"From her dear presence how can I stay, Counting the moments and hours away?"

Although I have never been in love with a woman myself, I am pretty familiar with the affair. To have suggested even a day's delay to Satish would have been like trying to preach the tiger into vegetarianism; so I resolved to go. Hastly collecting my things we set out by the four o'clock train.

A Pseudonym, Chapter 2

CHAPTER II

While the train slowed into Darjeeling Railway Station, I perceived Dr. Sen with his wife and daughter standing on the platform. At the sight of a Bengali maiden wearing shoes and stockings, and standing openly on a public platform, my gall rose. I have seen many Brahmo ladies in my time, and I even know one or two of them, so that these fashions are not altogether new to me. Nevertheless, to meet thus Satish's future wife and future mother-in-law was a fresh blow to me. I am much in favour of the education of women, but doing away with the zenana custom is a thing I cannot endure the thought of. I have just published an article in my paper on the subject, and was at that very moment framing in my brain fresh matter for future articles in a similar strain. Some very hard, sharp words were arranging themselves in my head, but in a short time they were all dispersed.

Alighting from the train, Satish presented me to his friends. Having never been introduced to ladies of that type, I knew not what was called for in the position, and, unable to say a word, I stood like a fool at the end of the platform near some shrubs.

Presently Nirmala approached me and said, with a smile—"Manmatha Babu, I read your paper regularly"—and seemed as if she would have said more, but did not. Nirmala's mother said—"When will the Puja number of The Light of Bengal appear, Manmatha Babu?"

"The Puja number is alreay, out"—I said.

Mrs. Sen looked at Nirmala, and asked—"Have you received it?"

"Not yet."

"Excuse me"—I said—"there has not been time for your copy to arrive yet. It was issued only yesterday, and we cannot despatch all the copies in one day.

Nirmala said—"Oh, my copy goes first to Dacca, and then is sent on here. Have you not a copy with you, Manmatha Babu?"

My editor soul was delighted at Nirmala's interest in The Light of Bengal, and I answered quickly—"Oh yes, I have copies. I will send one to you to-morrow."

"Don't trouble about it, send it when quite convenient"—replied Nirmala.

Mrs. Sen said—"Manmatha Babu, we shall be glad to have you with us at tea to-morrow afternoon"—and with the usual polite farewells they departed.

I went towards the Sanatorium, thinking that such is the influence of education and habit that even a Bengali maiden can talk to a strange gentleman in a free and easy manner, without the least embarrassment. At night, resting my wearied body on my bed, I revolved many thoughts on social matters. What would be the ultimate result of these new manners and customs we were importing with education from Europe? But before my reflections travelled far I had fallen asleep.

A Pseudonym, Chapter 3

CHAPTER III

As I drank my tea the next morning, I reviewed the events of the previous day. I could not regard this free mingling of the sexes except as a danger to social morality. So I resolved not to go to this tea. Why should I act against my own beliefs? I would send The Light of Bengal by a servant, or it might be Satish would be coming in, and I could send it by him. But Satish was such an ass that he did not come. I suppose he could not leave his Nirmala. I began to picture their courting in my mind, and felt highly entertained.

When I had finished lunch it struck me that it might be a breach of manners not to go to this tea. As I had accepted the invitation, I was bound to go. If it was opposed to my convictions, I ought to have declined at the time. I must go to-day, and be careful in the future not to accept any further invitations. So in the afternoon I prepared to go. I was rather careful about my toilet. I told myself that if it were a gathering of men only there would be no need of being particular, but in women's society a certain smartness was necessary.

I have often been at Darjeeling; all its streets were well known to me. I arrived at the house just ten minutes before four o'clock. The hour fixed was four. I thought—"These people hold by English ways. If I go in before the time they would probably think me a barbarian." So I walked about a little, and sent in my card precisely at four.

I was warmly welcomed by all. Nirmala looked very beautiful today. When I had seen her at the station, wearing an English cape and shoes, I did not like her appearance. Now I saw her in red velvet shoes of Indian make, an orange-coloured sari draped in the new fashion, her plentiful hair gathered into a knot, and adorned with a hill rose of a yellow colour. Nirmala looked very handsome indeed.

At first I did not see Satish and resolved, when I met him alone, to let off a few jokes about the worshipful red feet of his divinity. He soon after came in. When tea was over, and some time had been spent in conversation, we set out in company for a walk.

When I took my leave, Mrs. Sen said—"Manmatha Babu, if you will join us again at tea to-morrow, we can afterwards go out for a walk together."

It occurred to me that now was the time clearly to decline the invitation. Should I give the true reason for my objection thereto? Should I not take this opportunity to bring home to her the deep sociological truth underlying the idea? But again I thought—"What is it for an invitation? 'If you come.' Could that be called an invitation?"

Disturbed with this inward debate, I could not frame any answer, and on their part they were giving the farewell salute.

A Pseudonym, Chapter 4

CHAPTER IV

At ten o'clock next morning Satish came in. When I asked how he could tear himself away from Nirmala, he said—"She is so taken up with that wretched paper of yours, The Mirror of Bengal—or The Light of Bengal, whatever you call it, you gave her, that I came away in a rage."

I was delighted. Was Nirmala's love for literature so great? I thought if Nirmala wrote herself, I would not mind printing the article in The Light of Bengal, after necessary corrections.

Satish had much to relate about her. The happiness of these two young lovers renewed the youth in my mind also. Satish said—"Now I am going. I just looked in to see if the rooms suited you. We shall meet at tea time. You are coming, I hope?"

"At tea time? No; not to-day. Mrs. Sen did not invite me."

"Of course she did; I heard her."

"In what way? She only said, 'If you come."

"Exactly; that was an invitation. Must one present oneself at your door with the garment round one's neck, as invitations are prescribed in the Shastras? What an old fogey you are."

"You don't say so! But I am hardly at liberty to come to-day. Would it be thought dreadfully impolite if I did not come? I am not very well acquainted with your English etiquette and that sort of rubbish."

Satish said, gravely—"It would be extremely impolite."

At this I felt very angry with myself. I ought to have said to Mrs. Sen—"I shall not be able to come to-morrow, as I shall be busy." Instead of that I had debated whether this invitation were or were not in proper form, hence this predicament.

Satish said, laughingly—"Oh, it is not so terribly impolite as all that; you need not be so troubled. If you apologise next time you meet, it will pass. But why should you not come? Do, there's a good fellow."

I was not anxious to give the true reason to Satish at that moment. "There is some important work"—I said.

"Important work can be done to-morrow. To-day you must come. At least, try to come." And he disappeared.

I said to myself—"You may say what you like; I won't go any more."

But as time went on I began to feel very lonely. Also, I was eager to discover what Nirmala thought of that number of The Light of Bengal, especially of that article of mine, "The Ideal Woman's Life." Had I not written it for the benefit of the new women of the class of Nirmala? I must know how that article had affected her views, so I decided to go.

A Pseudonym, Chapter 5

When I arrived, there was no one in the drawing-room. But presently Nirmala came, and, saluting me with a smile, said—"I am so glad to see you. We had given up all hope of your coming. Father, mother, and Satish Babu are all gone to see the garden. Satish Babu said you would not come to-day; you were too busy. Some new writing, I expect?"

"Yes—no, I had work that I thought"—

"I understand. May I ask, Manmatha Babu, how many hours a day you give to The Light of Bengal?"

"Nearly all my time. I exist for its sake."

"That must be delicious. I wish I could devote myself to literature, day and night, in that way. But is it not very rash to confess that to you?"

"Why so?"

"From what you say in that article of yours, 'The Ideal woman's Life,' it seems that you think that home is the woman's proper sphere; that, to forget herself entirely in the service of others in the domestic circle, is woman's true existence."

"You must, then, have read the article?"

"Read it! Certainly. I have finished the whole of the magazine. Last night I fell asleep reading it in bed. I awoke to see the candle burnt quite down, and flickering with so great a flare that at first I was much alarmed."

"Ah! it is fortunate nothing caught fire."

"If through my reading that journal my curtains had caught fire and I had been burnt to death—the announcement of the event in the different newspapers would have been a fine advertisement for your Light of Bengal."

At first I could think of no suitable reply to this speech; a sort of metaphor was buzzing in my brain, that, like the wax of the candle of which she spoke, this educated maiden was tender and delicate, and bright like its flame. I gave a meaningless laugh, and at length said—"Since you are so fond of Bengali literature, why do you not write yourself?"

"If I wrote, who would read? In the first place, who would print it?"

I had a suspicion that Nirmala did write in secret, but I had not the courage to ask. The discussion turned upon the short story. I said that the present custom of giving a short story each month was a cause of great embarrassment to an editor at times owing to the dearth of good tales of this kind.

Nirmala said—"I have a friend who writes short stories. I have one by me now; will you look at it?"

Had I anticipated this disaster, I would not have introduced the topic of the short story at all. In the drudgery of editorial duties it fell to my lot to read many stories by novices. But I had come now to the hills for a month's holiday. However, there was no escape, so I said—"I will look at whatever you give me."

"You must give me your real opinion of it."

"I will do so."

"You must not keep anything back, because the writer is my friend."

"If you are really anxious to hear it, I will give you my genuine opinion."

Nirmala immediately went to fetch the story. A few minutes later she placed in my hands a bundle of beautifully executed manuscript on ruled foolscap, with half margins, fastened at the corner with crimson silk. At first sight I exclaimed—"A new writer?"

"Yes; but how do you know?"

"New writers nearly always take great pains in preparing their manuscript. The handwriting of authors of established reputation is usually illegible."

As I said this, I turned to the last page in search of the name as is usual with editors. There was none. I glanced through the page to see if the lovers ended their lives by poison. New authors seldom permit their heroes or heroines to survive. But I saw that these here were allowed to live, so I became rather hopeful. A doubt arose whether Nirmala herself might not be the writer. Many shy writers present their first efforts as written by a friend. I said—"I will take this home to-day, and let you know to-morrow what I think of it."

That it was written by Nirmala was extremely probable. The words in which I should express my opinion were already cut and dried. I had to do this sort of work, giving an opinion on a friends literary efforts—most days of my life.

The phrases were there; you had but to distribute them: "Very readable in certain parts" "with practice he may become an excellent writer," &c., &c.

One after another, all the members of the family came in. When tea was over, we sat about chatting. There was no further talk af a walk.

A Pseudonym, Chapter 6

CHAPTER VI

On reaching home I read the story. I saw I had made a great mistake. It was no maiden effort, the composition was that of a practised writer. The diction was vigorous, but restrained. Again, it was not written by Nirmala. One has not been an editor so long for nothing. I was not even at a loss to name the writer. It was by Gouri Kanta Ray. I had never met him, but had heard that he lived out towards Dacca. I had read many of his writings. He was one of the best writers of the younger generation, yet there were many defects in his writing. These were due to his youth, and would be rectified by time.

The next day I gave a good report of it to Nirmala. In one or two places I pointed out faults, but accorded much praise. "Is the writer very young?"—I asked.

"Yes; a little older than I am."

"He is a great friend of yours, I think?"

"It is so."

I did not like this. Why should a "great friendship" exist between a young woman and a young man?

I asked—"Can we have one or two of his writings?"

"Why? Do you find them very tempting?"

"I confess I do."

"Well, I will look out one or two. But not this one."

"Have you many of his writings by you?"

"Yes, I have many. Whenever he finishes a new one he sends it to me to read."

I thought—"This is not at all right. So great an intimacy!" Aloud I said—"You are, then, his principal reader?"

"At least, I am his first reader. I fancy no one admires his writings more than I do."

"May I not hear his name?"

Nirmala reflected a little, and then said—"Gouri Kanta Ray"—and as she spoke, her cheeks became crimson.

I felt sorry for Satish.

Then we began to discuss Gouri Kanta's published writings, and I said that we had received his newly-published novel "Nandarani" for review.

During several days after this I discussed Gouri Kanta's writings very freely with Nirmala. She simply worshipped him. An inexplicable feeling of hostility arose in my mind against this man.

A Pseudonym, Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII

Satish had not yet asked for the hand of Nirmala from her parents. When he should do so, it was pretty certain he would be accepted as a husband for her. It was my firm belief that Dr. Sen was as anxious to become his father-in-law as Satish was to become Dr. Sen's son-in-law. This had become clear to me during these few days. But this affair of Gouri Kanta caused me much uneasiness. I could not understand this close friendship. The affair showed itself thus to me: Satish and Nirmala married. Nirmala strongly devoted to Bengali literature; Satish furious at its very name. Meanwhile, Gouri Kanta Ray, a brilliant writer, had chosen Nirmala of all the women in the world, to be his literary confidante. And Nirmala was strongly attracted by him. This was like an unknown seed—Who could tell what kind of tree might not grow out of it?

I would not suffer this to come about. I would clear my friend's married life from thorns. The temple for the worship of Gouri Kanta that Nirmala had consecreted in her mind, I would reduce to ashes by thunderbolts of criticism. I would show that there were writers among the new men even more brilliant than Gouri Kanta. I would expose Gouri Kanta's errors in language and in granmar. Going through ancient and modern Western literature, I would show the same ideas as those expressed by Gouri Kanta. Side by side I would print extracts proclaiming him a thief in the face of the world, and thus by constant reiteration, I would give birth to the conviction in Nirmala's mind that her god was nothing better than a clay idol stuffed with straw. I had sacrificed everything for The Light of Bengal. My Critical Mace was the dread of every writer, great and small. Now, by the aid of this mace I would accomplish an act of friendship. Once a doubt arose whether this would not be a breach of my editorial duties, but aided by my inclination, I easily succeeded in putting my conscience to sleep.

Thus resolving, I wrote a terribly sharp review of "Nandarani," pulling it to pieces, and sent it to Calcutta to appear in the October number of my journal.

In due time the order proofs arrived. Upon them, in various places, I sharpened the sting of criticism. On that afternoon Satish came in. Seeing "Nandarani" on my table, he took it up. I said hastily—don't touch it, it is only a Bengali book."

"You have been so occupied with this wretched book lately that you have not been to see us for a week. Whenever I come here I find you at work on this book; so I have come to carry it off."

"I have been reviewing the work. You can take it away now, as I have finished."

"The review is finished?"

"Yes; I despatched the order proofs by post some minutes ago." Seeing Satish concerning himself with Bengali literature, I asked myself, "What can have happened?"

Satish, looking at me, began to smile.

"What is it?"—I asked.

I am going to tell you a secret about myself. I have only been waiting to do so until that review should appear in your paper."

Supremely astonished, I said—"A review of Nandarani! What connexion is there between that and any secret about yourself?"

“A very close connexion. I am Gouri Kanta Ray."

It was as if I had fallen from the skies.

“You!!!"

"Yes—I—don't you see? Sati means Gouri, and ish means Kanta."

I repeated "You!" and while speaking I rang the bell to call a servant. When he came, I bade him bring a telegraph form. Satish told me that when he was in England he used to sit in the British Museum reading all the good Bengali works with great attention. Then he studied and practised original composition. He was waiting to tell me this until a review of his first long novel should appear in The Light of Bengal, lest, knowing it beforehand, I should be biassed by friendship in reviewing the work.

The servant brought the telegraph form. I telegraphed to the manager that I had dispatched the order proof by post, but that it was not to be printed. In place of it I told him to put in another article.

THE END

Glossary

GLOSSARY

Alwan, a woollen sheet used as a wrapper.

Amla, a ministerial officer.

Aswin, the sixth Hindu month, September-October.

Baburchi, a Mahomedan cook.

Bael, the wood-apple.

Bande Mataram, the opening words of a patriotic song, meaning—I offer my obeisance to the Motherland.

Bara Babu, the eldest son; used in connection with a firm or an office, the head ministerial officer.

Benami, assumed name.

Bilati, foreign or English.

Brahmo, a religious sect of advanced ideas who worship one God and do not shut up their women.

Bou Didi, the wife of an elder brother or cousin.

Budmash, a rogue, rascal.

Bundook, a gun.

Bygun, the fruit of the egg plant; the brinjal.

Chapkan, a long flowing coat.

Chelum, a small earthen bowl which is filled with tobacco and lighted with charcoal cakes.

Chota Hazri, the morning tea and toast.

Chowkidar, a police watchman.

Chudder, a sheet for draping the upper portion of the body.

Chuprassi, a peon or orderly.

Cowri, a shell representing the smallest money value.

Cutcherry, a court house or office.

Dai, a maid servant.

Dak, post.

Dak Bungalow, a rest house for travellers.

Daroga, a Sub-Inspector of Police.

Deodar, a cedar tree.

Deshi, country made.

Dharmawatar, Incarnation of Justice.

Dhoti, a cloth for draping the lower part of the body.

Durbar, a levee held by a high official.

Durga, a Hindu goddess.

Durry, a cotton carpet.

Ejlash, a raised platform where a judicial officer sits.

Ek dum, all at once.

Ekka, a two wheeled bamboo cart, drawn by a pony.

Feringhi, a European.

Ghailla, a pitcher.

Gharibparwar, Supporter of the poor.

Ghat, a bathing or landing place on the bank of a river.

Ghee, clarified butter.

Ghurra, same as ghailla.

Goor, treacle.

Gowala, a dairyman.

Hajat, a lock up for undertrial prisoners.

Handi, an earthen pot used for cooking or as a receptacle of food.

Haram, forbidden, unclean.

Hookah, the pipe etc., in which tobacco is smoked.

Hukum, order.

Hulla, tumult.

Huzoor, Your Honor.

Jemadar, Head constable.

Jhow, the tamarisk tree.

Kachowri, a kind of pastry filled with bruised pulse.

Kala admi, black man.

Kartal, small cymbals made of brass.

Kaviraj, a Bengalee physician, practising the Hindu system of medicine.

Khalassi, a station porter.

Khansama, a house steward.

Khas camera, private chamber.

Khitmadgar, a table servant.

Khodawand, master, lord.

Khoka, baby.

Kothi, house.

Kotwali, the chief police station in a towrn.

Krishna, a Hindu God, the tenth incarnation of Vishnu.

Kulin, in Bengal, a class of Brahmans who take precedence of all other Brahmans.

Kurta, a kind of tunic.

Lakh, a hundred thousands.

Lathi, a bambooo club.

Loochi, a soft thin flour cake fried in Ghee.

Lota, a small water pot made of brass or bell-metal.

Maidan, a plain.

Maro, shoot.

Mem Saheb, a European lady.

Modi, a grocer.

Mofussil, the country as distinguished from the town.

Mohonbhog, a sweet meat made of semolina, Ghee and sugar.

Mridang, a small drum.

Muktear, an attorney.

Narayan, an epithet of Vishnu.

Pan, a betel leaf.

Poori, same as loochee.

Pucca, sure, settled, literally ripe.

Puggri, a turban.

Puja, worship.

Puranic, from the Purans or sacred poems of Hindu mythology.

Rai Bahadur, a tittle bestowed by Government as a reward for public service.

Rajah, a tittle bestowed by Government to big Zemindars.

Sahib, a European.

Salaam, the Indian mode of salutation.

Samity, association.

Sannyasi, a mendicant.

Sari, a long piece of cloth worn by Hindu women.

Savitri, a mythological character typifying wifely devotion and fidelity.

Sawan, the fourth Hindu month, July-August.

Seer, a weight of one killogramme, just over 2lbs.

Shamla, a shawl-turban.

Shastra, the Hindu scriptures.

Sooji, semolina.

Soor, a hog.

Sradh, the funeral rites of Hindus.

Sudder, the district head quarters.

Swadeshi, literally "own country" a movement for the encouragement of indigenous industries.

Thali, a flat plate of brass or bell metal.

Thana, a public station.

Toba, the Mussulman cry of abjuration.

Tonga, a light two wheeled cart to seat four.

Tulsi, sweet basil, the sacred plant of the Hindus.

Zemindar, a landed proprietor.

His Release

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

His Release, Chapter 1

HIS RELEASE

I

BABU Nagendra Nath was on a visit to his father-in-law in Calcutta during the Christmas holidays. He was a Deputy Magistrate in Eastern Bengal and Assam, recently transferred to the sudder station of Faridsing district. When leaving his last station he left his wife and children with his father-in-law, and has now availed himself of the holidays to fetch them to Faridsing.

Calcutta, during the present Christmas, was full of bustle and enthusiasm. The Indian National Congress was to hold its sittings shortly. The Industrial Exhibition had already opened.

Nagendra Babu's father-in-law, a retired Subordinate Judge, lived at Bhowanipur. He had three sons;—the eldest was a vakil of the High Court; the second, an assistant in a Government office; the youngest did not do anything in particular,—he was frequently seen delivering speeches at public meetings.

Nagendra Babu was twenty-seven and has been a Deputy Magistrate for five years. His University career was a brilliant one, he having topped the list of successful M.A.'s of his year.

It was the day before the opening of the Congress. The Deputy, after a comfortable morning tea, was sitting in the inner apartments, chatting with his brothers- and his sisters-in-law.

Girindra Nath, his brother-in-law, enquired—"Is there any unrest at Faridsing now?"

"No,—I haven't seen any."

Little Indumati, his sister-in-law, asked—"How is Swadeshi getting on there?"

"Fairly well,—though it is nothing like what I used to read in the papers before going there."

Satyendra, his brother-in-law, observed—"That's only natural. The enthusiasm of early days never lasts. What we saw here in Calcutta at the beginning—"

Nagendra Babu interrupted him, saying,—"Faridsing is much ahead of your Calcutta in that respect. You dare not buy a piece of Manchester dhoti there openly. You find the school-boys patrolling the streets with lathies on their shoulders"

"Are they the National School boys?"—enquired the brother-in-law who was the public speaker.

"Yes, most of them. There are boys from other schools also."

"Don't the teachers try to stop it?"

"Oh, they have given it up."

"And the Police?"

"The boys care precious little for the Police. In my rambles through the bazars, I have often heard them saying to the Police—'Look here Mr. Constable, I am picketting'—and the Constable grins."

This caused a burst of laughter. Satyendra Nath said—"Do you intend, Nagendra Babu, to send your little boy to the National School when you arrive there?"

"Heavens!—That would be as much as my job was worth"—said Nagendra Babu with a smile.

"But supposing you didn't risk your job,—would you do it?"

"Oh, certainly."

"Then why continue in such a service?"—chimed in Girindra Nath.

"One must live."

"You have completed your terms of legal study. Why not pass the examination and start practice as a vakil at the High Court?"

"Oh dear! Do you think I am fit to pass examinations at my age?"

Indumati, pouting her little lips, said—"You are not willing to give up serving the Feringhees the real reason. Let us know please, are you in favour of Swadeshi or against it?"

"In favour, without question. Yesterday I brought from the bazar about fifty rupees worth of Swadeshi clothes to take to Faridsing,—you saw them."

"Aren't Swadeshi clothes available there?"

"Yes they are,—but the prices are rather high."

Satyendra, smiling sarcastically, said—"Don't you understand, Indu, he daren't patronise Swadeshi there lest the Sahibs should come to know of it."