an inspiriting
prelude. With our personal prowess let loose thereafter, victory should
by no means be out of reach. And, as the picture of this wonderfully
simple strategy waxed vivid in my imagination, the victory of my side
became assured beyond doubt.

While work had not yet come into my life I always found it easy to
devise short cuts to achievement; since I have been working I find that
what is hard is hard indeed, and what is difficult remains difficult.
This, of course, is less comforting; but nowhere near so bad as the
discomfort of trying to take shortcuts.

When at length a year of that class had passed, we were examined in
Bengali by Pandit Madhusudan Vachaspati. I got the largest number of
marks of all the boys. The teacher complained to the school authorities
that there had been favouritism in my case. So I was examined a second
time, with the superintendent of the school seated beside the examiner.
This time, also, I got a top place.

(6) _Versification_

I could not have been more than eight years old at the time. Jyoti, a
son of a niece of my father's, was considerably older than I. He had
just gained an entrance into English literature, and would recite
Hamlet's soliloquy with great gusto. Why he should have taken it into
his head to get a child, as I was, to write poetry I cannot tell. One
afternoon he sent for me to his room, and asked me to try and make up a
verse; after which he explained to me the construction of the _payar_
metre of fourteen syllables.

I had up to then only seen poems in printed books--no mistakes penned
through, no sign to the eye of doubt or trouble or any human weakness. I
could not have dared even to imagine that any effort of mine could
produce such poetry.

One day a thief had been caught in our house. Overpowered by curiosity,
yet in fear and trembling, I ventured to the spot to take a peep at him.
I found he was just an ordinary man! And when he was somewhat roughly
handled by our door-keeper I felt a great pity. I had a similar
experience with poetry.

When, after stringing together a few words at my own sweet will, I found
them turned into a _payar_ verse I felt I had no illusions left about
the glories of poetising. So when poor Poetry is mishandled, even now I
feel as unhappy as I did about the thief. Many a time have I been moved
to pity and yet been unable to restrain impatient hands itching for the
assault. Thieves have scarcely suffered so much,