He had tried, but did not receive official permission. There was a story he often told—when he was in England, a high-ranking Russian official would invite him to dinners. Father had understood that the man had some purpose. Finally, one day, the Russian official requested that Father connect him with Indian revolutionaries—because they wished to help India in her struggle for independence. In response, Father told him that he would indeed make the introductions, if the Russian could tell him: after we drive out the English with your help, with whose help shall we drive you out? Needless to say, the Russian official could not give a satisfactory answer. Father would tell this story with great pride, for he had no involvement in any kind of political activity. The pure pursuit of knowledge was the sole purpose of his life.

Rabindranath had returned to the country almost eight or nine years ago. I had seen him there once or twice, but never had the chance to speak with him. Whenever I went, I went with Father, or someone else was present. When the dance festival 'Nabin' was staged in Kolkata, I visited Jorasanko twice. Still, nothing was said. After returning from Rishikesh, I wrote him a letter. I cannot at all recall what I wrote in that letter. But I had given a hint of my mental state. I did not dare to write openly, and I was also ashamed. I did not dare because, if Father wished to see the reply, he would find out—

Here, let me say a little about Father’s relationship with the Poet. Father had read Rabindranath’s poetry thoroughly, and was adept at interpreting it. His attraction to the Poet was deep and intense, yet the two of them were completely opposite in character. For this reason, Father also had a fair amount of criticism for the Poet—and, on the other hand, the Poet was not particularly favorable toward Father either. In such a situation, my predicament is easy to imagine. Father knew I could reach the Poet easily. The Poet was kindly disposed toward me. So whenever I wrote a letter, Father wanted to insert his own message into it; my letter would cease to be my own. This was another pain for me. I had suffered this since childhood. Father would dictate, I would write the letter, then Father would correct its spelling, refine its language, insert his own ideas—only then would the letter be sent, and when a reply came, Father would critique it—how could I endure such captivity? The Poet once laughed and said to me, “When you write to me, if you write simply what comes to your heart instead of philosophy, it would be better.” I know that even if there are a few spelling mistakes, he would not mind. The freedom that his other admirers have, I do not. I cannot even go to him if I wish.

This time, without showing anyone, I wrote him a letter.