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Shelidah,
8th May: 1893.
Poetry is a very old love of mine,—I must have been engaged to her when I was only Rathi's age. Ever since then the recesses under the old Banyan tree beside our tank, the inner gardens, the unknown regions on the ground floor of the house, the whole of the outside world, the nursery rhymes and tales told by the maids, went on creating a wonderful fairyland within me. It is difficult to give a clear idea of all the vague and mysterious happenings of that period, but this much is certain, that my exchange of garlands[1] with Poetic Fancy was duly celebrated.
I must admit, however, that my betrothed is not an auspicious maiden,—whatever else she may bring one, it is not good fortune. I cannot say she has never given me happiness, but peace of mind with her is out of the question. The lover whom she favours may get his fill of bliss, but his heart's blood is wrung out under her relentless embrace. It is not for the unfortunate creature of her choice ever to become a staid and sober householder, comfortably settled down on a social foundation. Whether I write for the Sadhanā, or
- ↑ Betrothal ceremony.
