The other day, on an inauspicious[1] Thursday afternoon, I sallied forth from my room at the call of these same sounds. There was a man on guard in the passage. I walked on without so much as glancing at him, but as I approached the door he put himself in my way saying: 'Not that way, sir.'
'Not that way! Why?'
'The Rani Mother is there.'
'Oh, very well. Tell your Rani Mother that Sandip Babu wants to see her.'
'That cannot be, sir. It is against orders.'
I felt highly indignant. 'I order you!' I said in a raised voice. 'Go and announce me.'
The fellow was somewhat taken aback at my attitude. In the meantime I had neared the door. I was on the point of reaching it, when he followed after me and took me by the arm saying: 'No, sir, you must not.'
What! To be touched by a flunkey! I snatched away my arm and gave the man a sounding blow. At this moment Bee came out of the room to find the man about to insult me.
I shall never forget the picture of her wrath! That Bee is beautiful is a discovery of my own. Most of our people would see nothing in her. Her tall, slim figure these boors would call 'lanky'. But it is just this lithesomeness of hers that I admire,—like an up-leaping fountain of life, coming direct out of the depths of the Creator's heart.
- ↑ According to the Hindu calendar.—Tr.
