In our music, each ragini has its special scale in which some notes are absent and some are added, and the sequence of them is different in different raginis. The idea of India in my mind has its different raginis, presenting different aspects.
During my absence in the West, my idea of India had its own special grouping of notes, and consequently the vision had its own special emotional value. When, in my travels, I was communicating with you, I had not the least notion that your India and mine were vastly different at that moment. I came to be aware of this fact, when, at Aden, a number of Indian newspapers of different dates came into my hands. I felt for the first time in these fourteen months, that I would have to make another attempt at adjustment between my aspiration and my country.
But misgivings come to my mind as to whether any proper adjustment will be possible. I hate constant conflicts and bickerings—always to be shouting at the top of my voice in order to make myself heard above the shouts of other parties.
The India, about which I had been dreaming, belongs to the world. The India which I shall reach shortly, belongs tremendously to itself. But which of these must I serve?
Months ago, while sitting each day at my window in a New York Hotel, my heart had been aching morning after morning for the time of my return—the day that should bring me back to the arms of Mother India. But to-day my heart is sad—like this dark heaving sea, under the rainy sky. I have been wondering in my own mind, during the last few days, whether it was not my mission to remain in Europe at least another year, where I was asked to stay. But it is too late now. From this time forward, I must make the effort to train my attitude of mind to a condition for which I am not yet ready.
There is an idealism, which is a form of egotism egregiously self-assertive. The confidence which one has in one’s own ideas may not arise from an unmixed love of truth. It may be a subtle form of bigotry of self. There is an idealism, ready to kill freedom in others, in order to find freedom for its own plan.
I feel, at times, afraid lest such a tyranny of idealism should ever take possession of my own mind. For it would mean that my faith in truth had grown weaker than my faith in myself. Pride of self insidiously creeps into our schemes for ameliorating the conditions of our fellow human beings; and when failure occurs, we are hurt because the schemes are our schemes.
Egotism of this kind is blindly oblivious of other peoples’ missions in life. It tries to impose one vast monotony of taste upon individuals who have temperament and capacities fit for other kinds of work. It is like the tyranny of conscription which compels teachers to dig and poets to kill their fellowmen. This, being against God’s own purpose, is terribly wasteful. In fact, all tyrants in idealism try to usurp the rights of Providence for their own purposes.
The gloom of sadness, which has been brooding over my mind for the last few days, must be the shadow of my own egotism, whose flame of hope is dimmed by a fear. For some months, I was feeling sure that everybody would think my thoughts and carry on my work. But this confidence in me and in my plan has suddenly found a check and I am apprehensive.
No, this is wrong for me, and it is also a source of wrong for others. Let me be glad because a great idea, with all its beauty and truth, has alighted upon my mind. I alone am responsible for carrying out its commands. It has its own wings of freedom to bear it to its own goal; and its call is music and not an injunction. There is no failure for truth—failure is only for me—and what does that matter?
Henceforth, I shall have the chance of talking with you face to face. Yet distance has its own significance, and letters have their power of speech, which tongues do not possess. And therefore, when we meet, some part of our thoughts will remain unuttered for the want of a great medium of space and silence between us. *