Paragraphs and letters about me have begun to appear in the newspapers—I hear that even a satirical rhyme and a caricature are in preparation. The wellspring of mockery has been opened, and with the incessant downpour of countless falsehoods, the entire country seems utterly delighted. They know that in this muddy festival of ridicule, the syringe is in their own hands—while I, a gentleman, walk quietly along one side of the road, with no way to keep my white garment unsoiled.

It is written that in my estate, the common people are all intensely eager for Swadeshi, but only my fear prevents them from doing anything—those few brave souls who wish to use indigenous goods, I, with my landlord’s authority, oppress them according to the rules. Secretly, I am in league with the police, and I correspond covertly with the magistrate; and, according to reliable sources, the newspapers have learned that my efforts to add a self-earned title to my ancestral one will not go unrewarded.

They have written, “Renowned are you, sir, but the people of the country have given you a title of their own—we are aware of that too!”—My name has not been stated explicitly, but from within the vagueness of the outside, it stands out all the more clearly.

Meanwhile, the newspapers are publishing letter after letter, singing the praises of the mother-loving Harishkundu. They write, if only there were more such devoted sons of the Mother in our land, by now even the chimneys of the Manchester factories would be resounding in unison with the tune of Bande Mataram played on the ramshinga.

On the other hand, a letter written in red ink has arrived in my name, reporting which offices of which salt-loyal landlords of Liverpool have been set on fire. It says, from now on, the Lord of Fire will devote himself to this purifying work; arrangements are being made so that those who are not the Mother’s children cannot remain nestled in her lap.

The signature reads, “The humblest dust at the Mother’s feet, Shri Ambikacharan Gupta.”

I know well that all of this is the handiwork of my students here. I called two or three of them and showed them the letter. The B.A., with a grave face, said, “We have also heard that there is a group in the country who are desperate, who will stop at nothing to remove the obstacles to Swadeshi.”

I said, “If even a single person in the country is forced to yield to their unjust violence, then it is the defeat of the entire nation.”

The M.A. in history said, “I cannot quite understand.”

I said, “Our country, from the gods down to the petty officials, has been half-dead with fear. Now, if in the name of freedom, you wish to bring back that same old terror under a new guise, if you wish to plant the flag of your country’s victory upon cowardice through oppression, then those who truly love the country will