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Shelidah,
11th May: 1893.
It has cleared up to-day after yesterday's heavy rain. A few straggling clouds, separated from the main body, are loitering near the horizon, whitened by the sunshine, looking innocent of any attempt at a downpour. But the gods should be included in the set of persons, unfit to be trusted, against whom Chanakya[1] has warned us.
It is a beautiful morning, the sky bright and clear, not a ripple on the river, yesterday's rain-drops sparkling on the grass of the sloping banks. Nature, altogether, seems invested with the dignity of a white-robed goddess.
There is a curious silence this morning. For some reason or other there are no boats about, no one occupies the bathing place, the manager and his staff have come and gone early.
As I, too, sit silent with responsive ear, I seem to hear a faint, but insistent, ringing harmony, to the accompaniment of which the sun-illumined sky streams in and fills my being, colouring all my thoughts and feelings with a golden blue.
- ↑ Author (Sanskrit) of a well-known set of witty aphorisms.
