Today we are going to Calcutta. If one keeps on accumulating happiness and sorrow, the burden grows heavy. For sitting still is an illusion, hoarding is an illusion. That I am the master of this house is a fabricated thing—the truth is that I am a traveler on the path of life. Therefore, the master of the house will be wounded again and again—until the final blow comes: death. The union between you and me is a union on the journey—as long as we walk the same path together. That much is good—as long as it lasts; but if we try to draw it out further, union becomes bondage. That bondage remains behind today—now I have stepped out—whatever glances meet, whatever hands touch in passing, that alone is good. And after that? After that lies the path of the infinite world, the rush of endless life—how much can you deprive me of, beloved? If I listen with my ears, I can hear the flute playing ahead; through all the cracks of separation, the fountain of its sweetness pours down. Because Lakshmi’s vessel of nectar is inexhaustible, she sometimes breaks our little pots, making us weep and laugh. I will not go to gather the broken pieces; I will carry my unfulfilled longing in my heart and move forward.

Mejoranididi came and said, “Thakurpo, what does it mean that you’re packing all your books into trunks and loading them onto a bullock cart to be taken away?”

I replied, “It means I still haven’t been able to detach myself from those books.”

It is only because a little attachment remains that I survive. But does that mean you won’t return here anymore?

I’ll come and go, but I won’t be able to stay as before.

Is that really so? Then come with me, let me show you how many things I’m still attached to.—Saying this, she took me by the hand and pulled me along.

When we entered her room, I saw all sorts of boxes and bundles, big and small. She opened one box and showed me, “Look, Thakurpo, these are my betel-nut arrangements. I’ve ground up the kewa and catechu and stored them in bottles—see, each tin contains a different spice. Here are playing cards, I haven’t forgotten even the tens and twenty-fives; if I can’t find you all, I’ll gather others to play with. This comb is your own swadeshi comb, and this—”

“But what is all this, Mejorani? Why have you packed everything into boxes?”

“Because I’m going to Calcutta with you all.”

“What are you saying?”

“Don’t worry, brother, don’t worry, I won’t intrude on your company—”

I will not go, nor will I quarrel with Chhoto Rani. Since I must die, it is better to seek refuge in the land by the banks of the Ganga while there is still time—when I think of being cremated under that bare banyan tree of yours, the very thought fills me with revulsion for death. That is why