The Modern Review/Volume 29/Number 5/The Way to Get It Done
THE WAY TO GET IT DONE
By Rabindranath Tagore
(Specially translated for the Modern Review)
This paper was read by the author in 1905-6 and, like the “Swadeshi Samaj” translated for our last number, it is remarkably apposite to the present situation. Ed, M R
The river may think that it divides a country, but it really brings one part nearer another by carrying commerce and keeping open a permanent way. In a disunited country foreign domination is just such a unifying agency, and it is as the instrument of divine providence for this purpose that British Rule in India has been touched with glory. This process of unification will go on even if England does not like it.
History has shown that no permanent good can be gained by one set of men at the expense of another. Only in a harmonious development is to be found that permanent force of coherence which we call Dharma. If the harmony be destroyed, so is the dharma and — Dharma eva hato hanti — if the dharma be destroyed, it destroys in turn. Britain has been made great by her Empire. If now she tries to keep India weak, her greatness cannot last, but will topple over of itself,— the weakness of a disarmed, effete and starving India will be the ruin of the British Empire.
Few have the gift of taking a broad comprehensive view of politics, especially when greed stands in the way. If any system of political exploitation should fix its ambition on the permanence of India’s connexion, then such a system is bound to overlook the very factors essential for such connexion. A permanent connexion is against the law of Nature. Even the tree has to yield up its fruit, and any artificial attempt to prolong its hold can only result in a shortening of its natural term.
To make a subjugated country weak, to keep it distracted in disunity, to prevent the natural growth of its powers by refusing to allow their exercise, and thus to reduce it to lifelessness,—this is England’s policy of the day when world-entrancing flowers have ceased to bloom in her literature and only thorny politics flourish in overwhelming luxuriance, when pity has ceased to well up for the weak, the unfortunate, the downtrodden, when only the expansion of dominion is accounted greatness, when deeds of daring have given way to aggressive exploitation, and the selfish cult of patriotism has usurped the place of religion.
Whether this state of things in England is unfortunate for us in India, or otherwise, will depend upon ourselves. A clearer vision of Truth is to be obtained in the day of tribulation, and without the vision of Truth there is no hope for any people. God has been visiting us with suffering in order to bring it home to us that we cannot gain by petitioning what it is our own duty to earn, and that expenditure of words is mere waste where service alone will do. So long as these simple truths are not realised by us, sorrow on sorrow, contumely on contumely, will be our lot.
We must first of all understand one thing clearly. If moved by some secret, underlying apprehension, the Government should choose to put obstacles in the way of our growing unity, to protest is worse than useless. Can we contrive any form of words clever enough to give them the assurance that we desire for ever to be under the British Empire as our summum bonum? And are they of such infantile innocence as to believe it? All we can say — and it will be clear enough even if we do not say it — is, that we have use for the British connexion only so long as we are unable to evolve a secure and lasting union among the differing elements which exist within India,—and no further.
Such being the case, if the Englishman looking to his own selfish interests—selfish albeit glorified with the name of Empire — should say that it is high time for him to set about consolidating his position by refusing to allow us to be united, then what reply have we to give him except in the shape of the purest of platitudes? If when the woodman is about to ply his axe, the tree should cry, “Stay, else I lose my branch,” and the woodcutter should reply “I know, I am here because I want it!”—is there any room for further argument?
But we have learnt that in Parliament they debate one party replies to the other party and the winning paity rejoices in its victory. So we cannot get rid of the idea that success in debate is final. We forget the difference. There the two parties are the right and left hands of the same body, and are both nourished by the same power. Is it the same here? Are our powers and those of the Government derived from the same source? Do we get the same shower of fruit when we shake the same tree? Please do not look into your text books in answering this question. It will be of no avail to know what Mill has said, and Herbert Spencer has said, and Seeley has said. The book of the country lies open before us, and the true answer is there.
To put it briefly, it is for the master to call the tune, and we are not the master. But the lover of argument will not be silenced. Do we not pay so many crores of taxes, and is not the power of Government based on our money? Why not ask for an account to be rendered? But why, oh why does not the cow brandish her horns and ask for an account of the milk that has gone to fatten the plump young hopefuls of her lord and owner?
The simple truth is that methods must vary with circumstances. If the British Prime Minister wants to get some concession out of the French Government, he does not try to get the better of the French President in argument, nor does he preach to him high moral doctrine,—he makes some diplomatic move, and for that reason expert diplomats are permanently employed. There is a story that once upon a time when England was friendly with Germany, an English Duke left his seat at dinner to hand a table napkin to the Kaiser — this, it appears, largely advanced his cause. There was also a day when the Englishman had to bow and scrape at the durbar of the great Moghul, smilingly and with infinite patience to put up with repulses, spend any amount of money and toil in gratifying his satellites, in order to gain his object. This sort of thing is inevitable if concessions have to be won from adverse hands.
And yet in this impotent country of ours, what possesses us to think that constitutional agitation will serve with our all-powerful Government? Agitation may raise butter from milk, but not if the milk be in the dairy and the agitation at home. Granted that we are only asking for rights and not favours,—yet when the rights are barred by limitation, that means the same old begging from the man in possession. Our Government is not a machine,—it is run by creatures of flesh and blood, with a good dash of passion in their composition, who have by no means come here purged of all earthly weaknesses. So, to put them in the wrong is not the way to make them mend their ways.
We never pause to consider the nature of our circumstances, of the object of our desires, and the means and methods best fitted thereto. Just as victory is the sole end of war, so is success in gaining the object the end of politics. But even if we admit this in words, we fail to realise it in action. That is why our political meetings are conducted like a debating club, as if the Government is a rival school-boy whom to silence is to defeat! But as men may die under the most scientific treatment, so have we failed of our object in spite of the most splendid oratory.
May I make a personal confession? For my part, I do not worry myself overmuch about what the Government does, or does not, do for us I count it silly to be a-tremble every time there is a rumbling in the clouds. First of all, a thunderbolt may or may not fall, secondly, we are not asked to assist in the counsels of the thunderbolt factory, nor will our supplications determine its course, and lastly, if the thunderbolt is at all to be diverted that cannot be done by making a counter-demonstration of feebler thundering, but only by using the proper scientific appliances. The lightning conductor does not fall from the skies, like the lightning itself; it has to be manufactured patiently, laboriously and skilfully down below, by our own efforts.
It is no use fretting against the laws of nature. The winged ant may complain about the inequity of its getting burnt, but if it flies into the flame, the inevitable will nevertheless happen. So, instead of wasting time over a discussion of the equities, it is better to keep the fire at a respectful distance. The Englishman is determined to maintain his hold upon India at any cost, so that whenever he finds anything working loose he is bound to hammer in a nail or two, promptly and vigorously, in order to fix it firmly again. Merely because we can speak good English or chop subtle logic, he is not likely to give up this very business-like habit of his. And whatever else we may or may not do about it, it is futile to lose our temper.
One thing we should always remember,—how very small we figure in the Englishman’s eyes. He rules us from a remote corner of his vast political arena. All his attention and skill are absorbed in steering through the rocks of the European waters and in keeping together his colonies. We who inhabit a fringe of his unwieldy empire,—our likes and dislikes, our effusions and tantrums, alike leave him cold. Hence the soporific power of Indian debates in Parliament.
The Englishman passes through this country like flowing water, he carries no memory of value away with him, his heart strikes no root in its soil. He works with the prospect of furlough in his mind, and even for his amusements he looks to his compatriots alone. His acquaintance with our language is confined to the depositions of witnesses and with our literature to translations in the Government Gazette. How little of his view we subtend we are apt to forget and so are every now and then taken by surprise at his callousness towards us. When we blurt out our feelings, he in turn, naturally considers such expression an exaggeration, which sometimes provokes irritation and sometimes only a smile.
I am not saying all this by way of formulating a charge against the Englishman, but merely to point to the facts as they are, and naturally must be. How can the high and mighty have a vision keen enough to discern in detail the agonies, however heart-rending, the losses however vital, of what is so very small? So what seems to us of immense moment is negligible to his perceptions. When we rage and fume over the partition of this little province of ours, or of some problem concerning this petty municipality of ours, or this education or literature of ours, we are astounded at not getting results proportionate to our outcry. We forget that the Englishman is not of us, but over us, and if ever we should reach the olympian heights where he dwells, only then could we know at what a distance we are and how ridiculously diminutive we look.
It is because we appeared so small to him that Lord Curzon asked with naive surprise why we were so absurdly unable to appreciate the glory of being merged in the British Empire. Just think of it! To be compared with Australia, Canada, and the rest, for whose imperial embrace the Britisher is pining, at whose window he sings such moving serenades, for whose sake he is even willing to allow the price of his daily bread to mount up! Could his lordship have been serious? But whatever Lord Curzon may have felt when making this extravagant suggestion, our feelings were much the same as those of the lamb ceremonially invited, along with the guests, to join the feast! So are we called to glory within the British Empire. There, if tropical areas are to be brought under cultivation, it shall be our function to furnish cheap indentured labour, it shall be our right to supply funds for expeditions against poor, inoffensive Tibet, and if there be a rising of the oppressed in Somaliland, it shall be our privilege to die in its suppression. Only thus can both big and small participate in a common glory.
But, as I say, that is a natural law over which it is no use making our eyes either red or moist. In all that we do, it is enough to bear in mind what the natural law is. If we appeal to the Englishman on the ground of lofty morality and say “Rise superior to the level of ordinary humanity and subordinate the interests of your country to those of India!” suppose he retorts “Look here, we’ll listen to your preaching later on, but will you first have the goodness to come down to our very ordinary level, and place the interests of your country before your own selfish ones, if you cannot give up your life, at least give up your money, your comforts, anything at all, for your country? Are we to do everything for you and you nothing for yourselves?” What are we to say to that? What after all are we doing, what are we giving? If we had only kept ourselves acquainted with our country, that would have been something,—but so lazy are we, we know next to nothing about her. The foreigner writes our history, we translate it, the foreigner discovers our grammar, we cram it! If we want to know what there is next door, we have to look into Hunter. We gather no facts first hand,—neither about men, nor commerce, nor even agriculture. And yet, with such crass indifference on our own part, we are not ashamed to prate about the duties of others towards our country. Is it any wonder that our empty preaching should be so utterly futile? The Government is at least doing something and has some responsibility. We are doing nothing and have none. Can there be any real interchange of counsels between two such parties? And so it happens that on the one hand we get up agitations and hold indignation meetings and vociferate to our heart’s content and then, the very next day, swallow the most unpalatable humiliations so completely that no doctor, even, has to be called in!
I do hope that my readers will tell me that I am uttering the stalest truisms. The truths—that we must look after our own interests, carry on our own work, wipe away our own shame, earn our own welfare, do everything ourselves—are certainly not new. And I shall glory in any censure that may be passed on me because of their triteness. What I dread is lest any one should accuse me of advocating something new-fangled, for then must I confess ignorance of the art of proving self-evident things. It is the sign of a critical condition indeed, if the simple should appear difficult and old truths come as a surprise, or rouse honest indignation!
However, I have wandered of nights on the vast sandbanks of the Padma, and I know how, in the darkness, land and water appear as one, how the straightest of paths seem so confused and difficult to find, and when in the morning light dawns, one feels astonished how such mistakes could have been made. I am living in the hope that when our morning comes, we shall discover the true path and retrace our steps.
Moreover, I am sure that all of us are not wandering in the same darkness. There are many enthusiastic young fellows whom I know, who are willing to spend more than words in the service of their country. Their difficulty is, they do not know what to do about it, where to go for advice, what service is to be rendered and to whom, to spend oneself without method and without organisation would be mere waste. If there had been some centre of our shakti, where all could unite, where thinkers could contribute their ideas, and workers their efforts, then there the generous would find a repository for their gifts. Our education, our literature, our arts and crafts, and all our good works would range themselves round such centre and help to create in all its richness the commonwealth which our patriotism is in search of.
I have not the least doubt in my mind that the rebuffs which we are meeting from the outside are intended by Providence to help this centre of our shakti to become manifest within the nation, our petitions are being thrown back to us in order that we may turn our faces towards such centre, and the pessimism which is spreading amongst the feckless, workless critics of the government is due not to the smart of any particular insult, or the hopelessness of any particular concession, but to the growing insistence of an inward quest for this centre.
If we can establish such centre in our midst, our persuasions and arguments may be addressed to it and will then acquire meaning and become real work. To this centre we can pay our tnbute, to it we can devote our time and energy. It will be the means of evoking and giving full play to our intellect, our capacity for sacrifice and all that is great and deep in us. To it shall we give and from it shall we receive our truest wealth.
If our education, our sanitation, our industries and commerce radiate from such a centre, then we shall not, off and on, be kept running after orators to get up public meetings to protest against some wrong, to ventilate some grievance. These sudden awakenings and outcries, by fits and starts, followed by a relapse into the silence of somnolence, is getting to be ludicrous. We can hardly talk about it seriously any more, not even to ourselves. The only way to put a stop to this farce is to take upon ourselves the whole duty of our national progress.
Let no one think that I am advocating a policy of sullen aloofness. That would only be another form of sulking, which may have its place in a lover’s quarrel, but not here. What I say is the reverse. I am for courteous, diplomatic relations with the Government. In courtesy there is freedom. A relationship which is forced on us is but a form of slavery and cannot last. Free relations may mature into friendship later on.
Some of us seem to think that if only we could get all we are asking for from the government, a state of effusive friendliness would be sure to arise. But that is contrary to experience. Where can one find the end to begging on the one hand and granting of favours on the other? As our shastras put it, you cannot quench a flame by pouring oil thereon. The more the beggar gets, the more does he want and the less is he satisfied. Where getting depends, not on the earning of the recipient, but on the generosity of the giver, it is twice accurst,— it spoils both him that takes and him that gives.
But where the relationship is one of give and take on both sides, of an exchange of benefits, there amicable arrangements are always possible, and the gain to both is real. This can only be brought about if we establish our power on a foundation of good works. Mutual concessions between two powers are graceful as well as permanent, pleasing and honorable to both parties. That is why I say that, in order to get from the Government what is due from it to the country, up to the last farthing, the only way is to render in our turn the services which our country may expect from us ourselves, likewise to the last farthing. We may demand only by the measure of what we do give.
Here it may be asked, what if the Government should use its forces to hinder our rendering true service to the country? That, of course, is possible. Where interests are adverse such attempts are only to be expected. But that is no reason for our giving it up as a bad job. We should remember that it is not an easy matter to obstruct a person who is honestly engaged in doing his duty. Moreover we must not confuse such obstruction with the arbitrary withdrawal of favours. Take for instance the matter of self-government. We are crying ourselves hoarse because what Lord Ripon wanted to give, some other Lord took away. Shame on us for attaching such value to what others can give and others can take away. It was only our folly which led us to call such a thing by the name of self-government.
And yet self-government lies at our very door, waiting for us. No one has tried, nor is it possible for any one even if he does try, to deprive us of it. We can do everything we like for our villages—for their education, then sanitation, the improvement of their communications,—if only we make up our minds to set to work, if only we can act in unison. For this work we do not need the sanction of a government badge. But what if we cannot make up our minds? What if we will not be united? Then are there not ropes and stones enough for us to go and drown ourselves?
I repeat that our education is the thing which we should first of all take into our own hands. The doubter will ask, what if we do — who will then provide us with lucrative posts? That, also, we shall do ourselves. If the work of the country be in our own hands, where is the difficulty in remunerating those who do it? He who provides the employment is bound to be the master,— it cannot be otherwise. And in assessing our wages the foreign master will naturally not be neglectful of his own pocket. All the more reason, therefore, why the whole field of work, including education as an essential part, should be under our own control. We complain of the want of opportunity for acquiring technical knowledge. But we know to our cost that, if the master be an outsider, he will take particular care not to allow us any real opportunity.
I know my critics will say that the matter now begins to sound difficult. I do not hesitate to admit it. If it had not been difficult, it would not have been worth doing. If someone wants to go a-voyaging on a petition-paper boat in quest of the golden fleece, a certain class of patriots may be attracted by this fairy-tale proposition, but I would not recommend anyone to risk real national Capital in the venture. It is difficult to build a dike, and easy to get up a constitutional agitation asking the waters to recede,—but the latter is not a way out of the difficulty. To get something ultra cheap makes one feel extra clever, and when the cheap thing collapses under the strain of work, it is comforting to put the blame on some one else, but in spite of all these consolations the fact remains that the work fails to get done.
To consider all responsibilities as being light in one’s own case and heavy in the case of others, is not a good moral code. When sitting in judgment on the behaviour of the British towards ourselves, it is well to take note of the difficulties in their way and their human weaknesses. But when searching out our own lapses, there must be no invention of excuses or palliations, no lowering of the standard on grounds of expediency. And so I say, the rousing of indignation against the British Government may be an easy political method, but it will not serve to lead us to our goal. Rather, the cheap pleasure of giving tit for tat, of dealing shrewd blows, will detract from the efficient pursuit of our own path of duty. When a litigant is worked up into a state of frenzy, he thinks nothing of staking and losing his all. If anger be the basis of our political activities, the excitement itself tends to become the end in view, rather than the object to be achieved. Side issues assume an exaggerated importance, and all gravity of thought and action is lost. Such excitement is not an exercise of strength, but a display of weakness.
We must give up all such pettiness and found our political work on the broad basis of love of country,—not on dislike of, or dependence upon others. This dislike and this dependence may seem to be opposite states of mind, but they are really twin branches of the same tree of impotence. Because we decided that our salvation lay in making demands, dislike was born of our disappointment. We then jumped to the conclusion that this feeling of ours was Patriotism,—gaining at one stroke profound consolation and an elevating pride!
Just think for a moment of the mother from whom the care of her child is taken away and entrusted to another? Why is she inconsolable? Because of her exceeding love. The same anxiety to do our best for our country by our own efforts may alone be called Patriotism,—not the cleverness of shifting that duty on to the foreigner, which is not true cleverness either, for the duty does not get done.
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