There in the country
I felt with joy, through all my blindness, that I was restored to the
arms of my mother. I had left my village birthplace for Calcutta when I
was eight years old. Since then ten years had passed away, and in the
great city the memory of my village home had grown dim. As long as I
had eyesight, Calcutta with its busy life screened from view the memory
of my early days. But when I lost my eyesight I knew for the first time
that Calcutta allured only the eyes: it could not fill the mind. And
now, in my blindness, the scenes of my childhood shone out once more,
like stars that appear one by one in the evening sky at the end of the
day.
It was the beginning of November when we left Calcutta for Harsingpur.
The place was new to me, but the scents and sounds of the countryside
pressed round and embraced me. The morning breeze coming fresh from the
newly ploughed land, the sweet and tender smell of the flowering
mustard, the shepherd-boy's flute sounding in the distance, even the
creaking noise of the bullock-cart, as it groaned over the broken
village road, filled my world with delight.
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