I didn’t say anything; instead, I recounted the details of the meeting that took place in Narsapur, summarizing the speech delivered there. My father listened to everything without uttering so much as a “Hmm” or “Ah,” and then, without a word, got up and went to bed. I went for my meal. As I was eating, my mother said, “Why do you keep running to all these meetings until late in the evening, my boy? You should either focus on your studies, help with the household, or assist your father with the farm work.” I guessed these were my father’s opinions, relayed through her, so I quickly finished my meal and went to bed without saying a word. That night, I lay awake, turning over the day’s events in my mind, recalling every detail, pondering everything, until I didn’t know whether I was awake, asleep, or dreaming—so passed the night.

The whole night went by in a haze of thoughts and dreams, and I couldn’t tell if I had slept or not. By dawn, I got up, finished my morning ablutions, and saw that my father had already bathed and was about to sit down for his prayers. Seeing me, he said, “Ah, you’re up? Listen, go to the fields today.” And from that moment, for the next fifteen days, he kept me so busy with one task after another that I barely had time to catch my breath. From then on, I guessed, the message was clear: I was to give up meetings and gatherings and stay put at home. I said nothing. He sat in silence, chanting his prayers. I sat down for my breakfast, and as soon as I finished, I set off for the fields.

But though my body was in the fields, my mind was nowhere near the work. My head was still back in Narsapur. I sat there, half-heartedly supervising the workers, my thoughts drifting to yesterday’s speeches, the leaders, and the events of the day before. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake it off.

Barely a week had passed in this fashion when one day, Mr. Ravana Rao came by and told me, “Open Chandrapal, a great leader from Bengal, is coming. We need to make grand arrangements for the meeting. There are indications that at least ten thousand people will attend, so unless you come and take charge of the preparations, the meeting will be a disaster.” Hearing this, my throat went dry. Should I go?

To go or not to go? If I went, all the work here would be neglected, and my father would surely be angry. If I didn’t go, poor Mr. Ravanarao, who was waiting for me with so much trust and hope, would be disappointed. Never mind disappointment—if I didn’t go, who else would take care of all the arrangements there with such care? These thoughts kept swirling in my mind. One morning, after entrusting all the farm work to a servant and eating a hearty