Srikanta
the trees and vegetation, the climate—everything appeared alien to me. My whole nature longed day and night to flee from the oppressive exile which had become my portion.
Nowhere could I hear at even-fall the sound of the religious songs and music that can be heard in any village in Bengal; the music of the gongs and bells at the evening service in the temples was not as solemn and melodious as ours; and the blowing of conches in the twilight by the women of these parts was not half so pleasing as in my native land. What attraction, I asked myself, led people to live here? If I had not seen these villages, I often thought, I should perhaps never have appreciated the sweetness and the romance of our village life in Bengal. Our drinking-water was foul, our climate malarious, our systems ruined by disease, our wealth and substance wasted by litigation, our villages teeming with faction; and yet there was in it all a charm, a satisfying quality, which I began to be dimly conscious of, without being aware in what exactly the quality consisted.
Next day we struck our tent and started on our journey. Our Sadhu Baba and his retinue began to advance as quickly as possible towards the seat of Bharadwaj Muni's penances. But either because the Baba wanted an easy journey or because the holy ascetic had divined my inner longings, we did not camp within twenty miles of Patna. That my mind did harbour secret desires I cannot deny. 'No harm will be done,' I thought. 'I am an old sinner: a few days' association with holy people will purify my heart.' We camped this time towards twilight at a village called Chhota Baghia, a place some sixteen miles from the nearest railway-station. At this village I made the
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