en Was My Paradise 14

The Ganges 54

Satya 64

Singing to My Father 82

The Himalayas 94

The Servant-Maids in the Verandah 106

My Eldest Brother 120

Moonlight 180

The Ganges Again 208

Karwar Beach 236

My Brother Jyotirindra 256

PART I

MY REMINISCENCES

(1)

I know not who paints the pictures on memory's canvas; but whoever he
may be, what he is painting are pictures; by which I mean that he is not
there with his brush simply to make a faithful copy of all that is
happening. He takes in and leaves out according to his taste. He makes
many a big thing small and small thing big. He has no compunction in
putting into the background that which was to the fore, or bringing to
the front that which was behind. In short he is painting pictures, and
not writing history.

Thus, over Life's outward aspect passes the series of events, and within
is being painted a set of pictures. The two correspond but are not one.

We do not get the leisure to view thoroughly this studio within us.
Portions of it now and then catch our eye, but the greater part remains
out of sight in the darkness. Why the ever-busy painter is painting;
when he will have done; for what gallery his pictures are destined--who
can tell?

Some years ago, on being questioned as to the events of my past life, I
had occasion to pry into this picture-chamber. I had thought to be
content with selecting some few materials for my Life's story. I then
discovered, as I opened the door, that Life's memories are not Life's
history, but the original work of an unseen Artist. The variegated
colours scattered about are not reflections of outside lights, but
belong to the painter himself, and come passion-tinged from his heart;
thereby unfitting the record on the canvas for use as evidence in a
court of law.

But though the attempt to gather precise history from memory's
storehouse may be fruitless, there is a fascination in looking over the
pictures, a fascination which cast its spell on me.

The road over which