“Alright then, I’ll be ready in just half an hour,” said the elder girl, disappearing inside. The younger one immediately followed her, but paused at the door, turned back for a moment, and with a sly grin said, “My sister says half an hour just for the sake of conversation, but rest assured, we’ll be ready in an hour at the very least.” She stuck her tongue out at me in mockery, and as I made to stand up, she darted into the kitchen on one foot.

Not even a week had passed when our exam results were announced. Our private tutor, beaming with joy and surprise, congratulated me heartily, embracing me with a wide smile as he told me I had passed with a second class. I expressed my gratitude with all due humility, served him a little tea and some snacks, and sent him off. He left in high spirits. “Will I see you again?” he asked. “Certainly,” I replied. “Your job isn’t done yet. You’ll have to help me get admitted to the university, and even after that, you’ll have to guide me for a while until I find my footing.” “Sure, sure!” he laughed, and took his leave.

Upon arriving in Edinburgh, I learned that there was an Indian Association in the city, and visited it on my very first day. However, I didn’t go again for some time. Recently, I took Raju along and went there once more. Raju advised me to become a member, and I agreed. The Association seemed quite a substantial establishment. There were about 100 to 150 members, hailing from all corners of our country. Every day, students would come here—either on their way to the university, or in the evenings after classes, or during breaks between lectures—to sit and chat, read books from the library, or peruse newspapers. Among them, there were about thirty to thirty-five Telugu fellows alone. With so many of our own people around...

Until recently, it seems, they were never members here. This whole business, like a passing craze, suddenly inspired all our Telugu folks with the urge to come here and study at least once in their lives, and so quite a few have managed to make their way here. For passing the time, this library is the only option—there are no other arrangements for games or music or any such amusements. However, from time to time, they do organize lectures by inviting people from our country, from their country, by great poets and scholars.

Once, in this very manner, they invited a gentleman who had served as a district collector in our country, and later as a member of some revenue board, and who had retired from service. They had him deliver a lecture. For some reason, nobody liked his speech. He still seemed unable to let go of the notion that he was a collector, that he was superior to ordinary mortals, a sense of status and self-importance that should have been shed upon retirement, but which he clearly could not relinquish. He failed to realize that here, his status and his former grandeur held no sway, that here everyone was equal, and that among those present, some might, within a few months or a couple of years, attain positions as high or even higher than the ones he had held. It was rather unfortunate that he could not grasp this. After finishing his speech, he seemed to realize that he had failed to win over the audience. The vote of thanks at the end was performed with the barest formality. When he left, only the president, the secretary, and one other person from our association shook his hand and accompanied him as far as the taxi.

So that’s how that went. About a month later, from our country, a great poetess by the name of Mrs. Sarojini Devi came to our association and gave a lecture. I had never heard of her before, though I was told she was such a renowned poetess, and that she had written many books not in our language, mind you, but in English. Her deep, resonant voice, her manner of lecturing, and above all, the poetry she recited—all these captivated us completely. For nearly two hours, we sat as silent as stone statues, not a whisper or a rustle to be heard, listening and delighting in her words.

After the meeting, Sarojini Devi came up to each one of us, shook our hands, asked where we were from, what we were studying, and so on, all the while laughing, tossing out witty remarks, and spent another half hour with us.

Barrister Parvateesam

As we were about to leave after spending some time, all the young men there too came out onto the street, helped the lady into the car, and sent her off with thunderous applause and shouts of victory.

After that, once, the famous Irish poet W. B. Yeats visited. He delivered a lecture for about forty-five minutes on modern poetic forms and also read out some of his own compositions. What he said, the way he said it, and the uniqueness of his poetry—how much of it was understood by the audience, I cannot say, but we listened to his lecture with great attention. He spoke of many profound matters. We all came away with the impression that he was indeed a great poet.

Some time later, another curious meeting took place. Dr. Ananda Coomaraswamy, a distinguished gentleman—though not exactly from our country, but a resident of Ceylon—came with his wife and delivered a lecture on Indian painting, sculpture, and the finer aspects of art. The amusing part was that he brought with him a little box-like device called a "magic lantern." He had a small screen set up right there in the hall, and as he placed each glass plate into the device, images began to appear on the screen, just like in a picture house—various paintings and sculptures came to life before