CHAPTER XXX.
MATILALL AT BENARES: HOME AGAIN.
A GOOD disposition is created by good advice and good associations: to some it comes early in life, to others later; and from lack of it in early youth great harm happens. As a fire, when it has once caught hold of a jungle, blazes furiously, destroying everything in its path, or as a wind, when it has once got up with any force, on a sudden increases in violence, and hurls down in its course large trees and buildings, so an evil disposition, when it has once been formed in childhood, gradually assumes fearful proportions, if roused into activity by the natural passions of the blood. Bad examples of this are constantly seen; but examples may also be seen of persons long given over to evil thoughts and evil ways becoming virtuous all of a sudden, quite late in life. A conversion like this may have its origin either in good advice or in good companionship. However, it occasionally happens that people come suddenly to their right mind; it may be by chance, it may be by an accident, it may be by a mere word. Such conversions, however, are very rare.
When Matilall returned home from Jessore in despair, he said to his companion: “It is evidently not my destiny to be rich: it is idle therefore for me to seek further for wealth. I am now going to travel for a time in the North-West: will any of you accompany me?” The darling of Fortune may call all men his friends: when a man has wealth he has no need to summon any one to his presence: numbers will crowd to him uninvited, but a poor man finds it very hard to get companions. All those who had been in attendance upon Matilall had made a show of friendship for him because of the amusement and profit they had derived; but, as a matter of fact, they had not a particle of real affection for him. As soon as they saw that his means were exhausted, and that he was hampered on all sides by debt, and that, far from being any longer able to maintain his old style of living, he could hardly keep himself, they began to ask themselves what possible benefit they could derive from keeping on friendly terms with him,— far better drop his acquaintance altogether[74]! When Matilall put that question to them then, he saw at once that none of them would give him any answer. They all hummed and hawed, and pleaded all sorts of excuses. Matilall was very angry at their behaviour, and said: “Adversity is the real test of friendship: at last, after all this time, I have got to know your real character: however, go to your respective homes,— I am about to proceed on my journey.” His companions replied: “Oh, sir! do not be angry with us: nay, go on in advance, we will follow you as soon as we have settled all our affairs.”
Matilall, paying no heed to what they said, proceeded on his way on foot, and being hospitably entertained, at some of the places on the road, and begging his way at others, he reached Benares in three months. Having fallen into this pitiable condition, the course of his mind began to be changed, from his long solitary meditations. Temples, once built at great expense, ghâts, and buildings of all kinds, all sooner or later begin to crumble away: sooner or later some vigorous old tree, whose great branches spread far and wide, is seen to decay: rivers, mountains, valleys, none continue long the same. Indeed, time brings change and decay, to all alike. Everything is transient; all is vanity. Man, too, is subject to disease, old age, separation from friends, sorrow and troubles of every kind; and in this world, passion, pride, and pleasure are all but as drops of water. Such were Matilall’s meditations, as day after day he made the circuit of Benares, sitting, when evening came, in some quiet spot on the banks of the Ganges, and meditating again and again on the unreality of the body, and the reality of the soul, and on his own character and conduct. By such a course of reflection, the evil passions within him became dwarfed[75], and he was roused in consequence to a sense of his former conduct and his present evil condition. As his mind took this direction, there sprang up within him a feeling of self-contempt, and, accompanying that self-contempt, deep remorse. He was always asking himself this question, “How can I attain salvation? When I remember all the evil I have committed, my heart burns within me like a forest on fire.” Absorbed in such thoughts, paying no attention to food or clothing, he went wandering about like one demented.
Some time had been spent by him thus, when one day he chanced to see an old man sitting deep in meditation, under a tree, glancing at one moment at a book, and at the next shutting his eyes, and meditating. To look at the man one would at once imagine him to be a very learned person, and one, too, who had attained to perfect knowledge and complete subjection of mind. The mere sight of his face would arouse a feeling of reverence in the mind. Matilall at once approached him, and, after making a most profound salutation[76], remained standing before him. After a while, the old man looked intently at Matilall, and said, “Ah, my child, from your appearance I should imagine that you belong to a good family; but why are you so sorrowful?” This gentle address gave Matilall confidence, and he acquainted the old man with the whole story of his life, concealing nothing. “Sir,” he said, “I perceive you to be a very learned man: now, and from henceforth, I am your humble servant: pray give me some good advice.” The old man replied, “I see that you are hungry: we will postpone our conversation till you have had some food and rest.” That day was spent in hospitality. The old man was pleased at the sight of Matilall’s simplicity and straightforwardness. It is a characteristic of human nature that there cannot be any frank interchange of thought amongst men where they receive no mutual gratification from each other’s society; but where there is this mutual gratification, then the thoughts of each man’s heart are revealed in quick succession. Moreover, when one man displays frankness, the other, unless he is exceedingly insincere, can never manifest insincerity. The old man was a very worthy person; pleased at Matilall’s frankness and sincerity, he began to love him as a son, and, at a later period, he expounded to him his own notions about the Supreme Being. He often used to say to him:— “My son, to worship the Almighty with all our powers, with faith, affection, and love, is the main object of all virtue: meditate always on this, and practise it in thought, and word, and deed: when this advice has taken firm root the course of your mind will be changed, and the practice of other virtues will naturally follow; but to have a constant and uniform love of the Almighty, in thought, word, and deed, is no easy thing; for, in this world, such enemies as passion, envy, avarice, and lust, put extraordinary obstacles in the way, and therefore there is every need for concentration of thought and steadfastness.” Matilall, after receiving this advice, engaged every day in meditation on the Almighty, and in prayer, and endeavoured to examine into all his faults, and to correct them. As a consequence of a long-continued course of action like this, faith and devotion towards the Lord of the Universe sprang up in his mind. The honour due to good companions is beyond the power of words to express: pre-eminent amongst the virtuous stood Matilall’s instructor; was it then in any way astonishing that Matilall’s mind should have so changed from association with such a man? A feeling of brotherly kindness towards all men developed itself in the mind of Matilall as one consequence of his very great faith in God, and then, in quick succession, a feeling of affection for his parents, and for his wife, and a desire to alleviate the sorrows of others, and to confer benefits upon others, grew in intensity. To see or hear anything opposed to truth and sincerity made him intensely unhappy. He would often tell the old man the thoughts that were passing in his mind, and his former history; and he would sometimes say in a mournful tone, “Oh, my teacher! I am very wicked: when I think of what my behaviour has been towards my father, my mother, my brother, my sister, and others, I sometimes think that no place can be found for me even in hell.” The old man would console him by saying, “My child, devote yourself to virtue at any cost: men are constantly sinning in thought, in word, and in deed: our only hope of salvation is the mercy of Him who is all mercy: the man who displays heartfelt grief for his sins, and who is sincerely zealous for the purification of his soul, can never be destroyed.” Matilall would listen attentively, and meditate with bowed head upon all he heard. Sometimes he would exclaim, “My mother, my step-mother, or my sister, my brother, my wife, where are they all? My mind is exceedingly anxious on their account.”
It was a day at the commencement of the autumn season; the time was the early dawn. Who can give Expression to the amazing beauty of Brindabun? Palms and trees of every kind flourished everywhere in abundance; thousands of birds were singing in every variety of note, perched on their branches. The waves of the Jumna, as if in merry play, embraced its banks. The boys and girls of Brindabun, in arbours and in the roads, were playing their sitars, and singing as they played. The night had come to an end, and all the temples, now that the hour for waving the lamps before the shrines had come, resounded with the hoarse murmur of tens of thousands of conch shells, and with the clanging of innumerable bells, shoals of tortoises played around the Kashighat: hundreds of thousands of monkeys were leaping and jumping about on the trees, now curling their tails, now stretching them out, and now and again plunging headlong down with hideous grimaces, and carrying off some poor people’s stores of food. Hundreds of pilgrims were wandering about the different groves, and as they gazed on the different objects of interest, were talking about the sports of Sri Krishna. As the sun grew hot, the earth got baked with the heat; it became irksome to walk about any longer on foot, and the majority of the pilgrims sat about under the shade of the trees, and rested.
Matilall’s mother had been wandering about holding her daughter by the hand; soon overcome with fatigue, she lay down in a quiet spot with her head in her daughter’s lap. The girl fanned and cooled her wearied mother with the border of her sari. The mother, feeling at length somewhat refreshed, said to her, “Pramada, my child, take a little rest yourself. Now I will sit up awhile.” “Now that your fatigue is removed, mother,” said the girl, “mine also has gone: continue lying down, and I will shampoo your feet.” Tears rose in the mother’s eyes as she heard her daughter’s affectionate address, and she said, “My child, the mere sight of your face has revived me. How many must be the sins that I committed in my other births, or why should I be experiencing this grief? It is no pain to me that I should myself be dying of starvation: my great sorrow is that I have not the wherewithal to give you even a morsel of food: the world is too small to contain such sorrow as mine. My two sons, where are they? I know not what has become of them. My daughter-in-law, how is she? Why did I display such anger? Matilall struck me, he actually struck me, his mother! My soul, too, is in constant anxiety on Ramlall’s account, as well as on Matilall’s.” The girl, wiping away her mother’s tears, tried to console her; after a while, her mother went to sleep, and the girl, seeing her asleep, sat perfectly motionless, gently fanning her: though mosquitoes and gadflies settled on her person, and annoyed her with their bites, she moved not for fear of interrupting her mother’s sleep. A marvellous thing is the love and endurance of women? Herein are they far superior to men. The girl’s mother dreamt in her sleep that a youth clothed in yellow came near her, and said, “Lady, weep no more! You are virtuous: you have warded off sorrow from many of the afflicted poor: you have never done anything but good to any: all will soon be well with you: you will find your two sons and be happy again.” The sorrowful woman started out of her sleep, and, on opening her eyes, saw only her daughter near her; without speaking a word to her she took her by the hand, and they returned in great trouble to their hut of leaves. The mother and daughter were constantly conversing together: one day the mother said to her daughter, “My child, my mind is very restless: I cannot help thinking that I ought to return home.” Not seeing her way to that, the girl replied, “But mother, we have amongst our stock of supplies but one or two cloths, and a brass drinking vessel: what can we get by the sale of these? Remain here quietly for a few days, while I earn something as a cook, or as a maid-servant somewhere, and then we shall have got something together to defray the expenses of our journey.” The girl’s mother at these words sighed heavily, and remained motionless: she could restrain her tears no longer: seeing her distressed, the girl was distressed also.
As luck would have it, a resident of Mathura, who lived near them, and who was constantly doing them small kindnesses, came up at that moment: seeing them in such sorrow, she first consoled them, and then listened to their story: the woman of Mathura, sorrowing in their sorrow, said to them, “Ladies, what shall I say? I have no money myself I should like to alleviate your distress by giving you all I possess: let me now tell you of a plan you had better adopt: I have heard that a Bengali Babu has come to live at Mathura, who has amassed a fortune in service, and by making advances to agriculturists: I have heard, too, that he is very kind and liberal: if you go to him, and ask for your travelling expenses, you will certainly get them.” As the two distressed women could see no other resource open to them, they agreed to adopt the plan proposed; so they took their leave of the woman of Mathura, and reached Mathura in about two days.