Sometimes it amuses me to observe the struggle for supremacy that is going on between the different persons within me. In the present condition of India, when the call is sure to come to me to take some part, in some manner or other, in some political affairs, the Poet at once feels nervous, thinking that his claims are likely to be ignored, simply because he is the most useless member in the confederacy of my personality. He fully anticipates that argument against him, and takes special pains to glorify his deficiency even before any complaint has been submitted by anybody on this point. He has proudly begun to assert: “I belong to the great brotherhood of the supremely Useless. I am the cupbearer of the Gods. I share the common privilege with all divinities to be misunderstood. My purpose is to reveal Purposelessness to the children of the Immortal. I have nothing to do with committee meetings or laying of foundation stones for structures that stand against the passage of time and are sure to be trampled to dust. I am to ply the ferry boat that keeps open the traffic between this shore and the shore of Paradise—this is our King’s mail-boat for the communication of messages, and not for carrying cargo to the markets.”
I say to him: “Yes, I fully agree with you; but, at the same time, take my warning, that your mail-boat may have to be commandeered for other urgent purposes, wholly unconnected with the Celestial Postal Department.” His cheeks grow pale; his eyes become bemisted; his frail body shivers like a cypress at the first breath of winter, and he says to me: “Do I deserve to be treated like this? Have you lost all your love for me, that you can talk of putting me under martial law? Did you not drink your first cup of Amrita from my hand, and has not the Citizenship of the Sphere of Music been conferred upon you through my persuasion?”
I sit dumb, and muse and sigh, when sheaves of newspaper-cuttings are poured upon my table, and a leer is spread upon the face of the Practical man; he winks at the Patriotic man sitting solemnly by his side; and the man who is Good, thinks it his painful duty to oppose the Poet, whom he is ready to treat with some indulgence within proper limits. As for me, who am the President of this Panchayat, I have my deepest sentiment of tenderness for this Poet, possibly because he is so utterly good-for-nothing and always the first to be ignored in the time of emergency.
The timid Poet, avoiding the observation of the Practical and the Good comes to my side and whispers: “Sir, you are not a man made for the time of emergency—but for the time that transcends it on all sides.”
The rascal knows well how to flatter and generally wins his case with me—especially when others are too cocksure of the result of their appeal; and I jump up from my judgment seat, and, holding the Poet by the hand, dance a jig dance and sing: “I shall join you, Comrade, and be drunk and gloriously useless.” Ah, my evil luck! I know why the chairmen of meetings hate me, newspaper editors revile me, the virile call me effeminate! So I try to take my shelter among children, who have the gift of being glad with things and men that have no value. *