A Nation in Making/Chapter 1

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1

My Boyhood and Early Days

I belong to a Kulin Brahmin family which, since the creation of Kulinism by King Ballal Sen, had maintained their purity with proud and inflexible consistency. Neither the allurements of wealth nor the prospects of an easy and comfortable living diverted them from their firm and traditional resolve to uphold the integrity of their status. The rich Brahminical possession of plain living and high thinking gave them a dignity that no wealth could confer.

My grandfather was a Brahmin of the old school, rigid in his orthodoxy. His regular and methodical life, with its old-world sense of ease and contentment, the round of his daily duties, chiefly religious, performed with an exactitude not always associated with the life of the East, gave one a vivid and fascinating picture of what an orthodox home was in the early sixties of the last century. He had, however, given his eldest son, my father, the best kind of English education available at that time.

My father was brought up in the Hindu College, where he greatly distinguished himself, and was a favourite pupil of David Hare, one of the pioneers of English education in Bengal. The memory of David Hare is still adored, though more than two generations have elapsed since his death; and on the first of June every year, the anniversary of his death, the unpretentious monument standing on unconsecrated ground (for orthodox Christianity in those days would not permit his burial within consecrated precincts) is covered with flowers and wreaths by those who never saw him in the flesh, but who enshrine his memory in their grateful hearts. He came out to India as a watch-maker and died as a prince among philanthropists, loved in Hindu homes by their inmates, with whom his relations were friendly, and even cordial. The story is told (and it is a tradition in our family) that he came to see my grandmother, to comfort her in her sorrow, when my father ran away from home to avoid the displeasure of my grandfather for an outrage upon Hindu orthodoxy.

​My father subsequently joined the Medical College, and became the most distinguished Indian medical practitioner of his time. His culture had dispelled from his mind the orthodox ideas fostered by his domestic environment. He belonged to a generation, some of whom had sat at the feet of Derozio, and, like the first converts to a new cult, their alienation from the faith of their fathers was complete and even militant. Peary Chand Mitter, in his life of David Hare, has told us how this group of young alumni of the Hindu College, fresh from their contact with the learning and literature of the West, rejoiced in an open and ostentatious parade of defiance, how they ate forbidden food, and threw the remnants into the houses of their orthodox neighbours. It was with this new spirit that my father was saturated. Thus, in our home, the two conflicting forces of those times met, but in no spirit of antagonism. The predominant influence, however, was that of orthodoxy, represented by my grandfather, for the authority of the head of the family, even in matters of belief, was still paramount.

Nevertheless, an atmosphere of controversy was generated, which stimulated a spirit of research and enquiry. It was amid this conflict of opposing forces that my earliest years were spent, and what was happening in my family was symbolical of the strife and contention between Eastern orthodoxy and Western culture that was going on in every educated home in Bengal. It must not be imagined for one moment that it disturbed our peace, except on rare occasions, for tolerance is ingrained in the Hindu nature; and in those days, so long as we were not interfered with in our religious beliefs or practices, we did not mind what others around us, it might be our own kith and kin, said or did. The present spirit of opposition and intolerance observable among some of our people was unknown; and reverence for the head and the elders of the family was the resounding note of the Hindu household.

My earliest recollections go back to the days when, as a boy of five years, I was sent to a pathsala (indigenous school) to learn Bengalee. The guru mohashoy (teacher) treated me with the consideration due to my Brahminical rank and the fame of my father. But he was a strict disciplinarian and on one occasion he called me mara Brahmin (a sheepish Brahmin), and I refused to go back to the pathsala. I was obdurate and my parents had to yield. I was then sent to a Bengalee school to complete the study of my mother tongue. Here I stayed for a couple of years, and was later admitted into the Parental Academic Institution to learn English. My real ​work as a student now began. This was a school founded mainly with the aid of the benefactions of Captain Doveton of the Nizam's service, and it was attended chiefly by Anglo-Indian boys. When I joined the school I did not know a word of English. I had just finished the alphabet and was crawling through a spelling-book in which I had made very little progress. Thus equipped, I was thrown among boys who spoke nothing but English. My difficulties were great and my position most uncomfortable. But I muddled through somehow; and in a short time managed to speak the language, I presume not very correctly, and without knowing a word of the grammar.

The fact illustrates the truth, which is now recognized, that a language is best learnt through the ear and not with the aid of the grammar and the dictionary. As a matter of fact, I never studied English grammar as thoroughly as is now done by our boys; and when I went up for the Matriculation Examination my grammatical knowledge was confined to Lennie's little book. In these days, and perhaps rightly, a great deal of importance is attached to tutorial instruction and to the personal attention bestowed upon boys by the teachers. Throughout my career in school and college I never had a tutor, and had to depend entirely upon myself in learning two such difficult languages as English and Latin. Occasionally, when the situation seemed hopeless, I had to appeal to my father, who had himself been a teacher. It was hard and uphill work, but it afforded me a lesson in self-help that has been of infinite value to me through life. My career in school and college and in the University was fairly distinguished. I was a prizeman every year. I cannot say that I occupied the highest place, though I was always very near the top; but in the course of a few years, and in the long run, I left behind those boys who had beaten me at the start; and in life I think I have out-distanced every one of my school or college rivals. I presume it is tenacity of purpose that is the crowning quality of life.

My Anglo-Indian and European teachers and professors were throughout very kind to me, and they did not show a particle of racial feeling in their treatment of me. In that temple of learning, in which I passed some of my happiest years, I was never allowed to hear the faintest echo of those racial and sectarian controversies that sometimes distracted the country. From those early days the levelling influence of knowledge was presented to me in a concrete form, which in itself was a part of my education; and when, after ​having taken my B.A. degree, I was about to leave the college, my Principal, Mr. John Sime of the University of St. Andrew's, who afterwards became Director of Public Instruction in the Punjab, strongly urged my father to send me to England to compete for the Indian Civil Service. My father readily assented; and it is due to his honoured memory to state that throughout he was an ever-living source of encouragement and inspiration to me. Great physician that he was, he was an even shrewder judge of men; and in 1853, when I was barely five years old, he drew up a will, a copy of which subsequently fell into my hands, in which he directed that I should be sent to England to complete my education. From the days of my infancy he had formed the idea that education in England would be helpful to me in life. On March 3, 1868, I sailed for England along with my friends, Romesh Chunder Dutt and Behari Lal Gupta.

Before I leave this part of my Reminiscences, relating to my school and college life, it may not perhaps be out of place to refer to a lesson which I learnt then and which I have practised through life with great advantage to myself. I was taught when still quite a boy the need of taking regular and daily exercise. My father took a personal interest in this part of my education, for, being a doctor, he realized that health is the basis of all success in life. We had an akra (Indian gymnasium) in our own house with a palwan (trained Indian gymnast) to teach us the various forms of Indian athletic exercises. We attended the gymnasium daily with the regularity with which we attended our schools; and one of my brothers, Captain Jitendranath Banerjea, who took to his exercises with great ardour, was able to hold his own against almost any athlete, and had the reputation of being the strongest man among the Bengalees. I have often thought of his wonderful physical strength, and it has always struck me that, however much he might have been indebted to the training he had given himself, there must have been a basis, an original fund of physical stamina, to account for it.

For more than three generations early marriage was unknown in our family. My ancestors were not reformers, but rigid orthodox Brahmins; and, strangely enough, it was this orthodoxy which re-acted upon their domestic institutions and prevented early marriage in the family. Coming from one of the highest Kulin families, it was difficult for them to secure suitable husbands for their marriageable daughters from amongst men of the same social ​status, whose number was necessarily limited. They had to wait till the girls grew in years and then they were married. My mother and my grandmother were quite grown-up young ladies when they were married, and, I believe, the same was the case with my great grandmother, whom I saw in my early years when she was over a hundred years of age. In the life history of my family I found the strongest argument against child-marriage, and I was never tired of repeating it when I had an opportunity in my public and private utterances. The members of my family have always enjoyed exceptional health, and I ascribe the fact largely to the absence of child-marriage for generations among them. This was the explanation I gave to Lord Hardinge, at one of the earliest interviews I had with him. He expressed his surprise at my physical alertness, which he thought was quite extraordinary for an Indian of my years. An ounce of fact is worth a ton of theory. I have placed these facts on record in the hope that they may influence the judgment of my countrymen in a matter of vital importance to their well-being. For, after all, the health and physique of a nation is the first condition of national progress.

I have as yet said nothing of the public movements of my youthful days. They did not, indeed, acquire the volume and intensity of those that followed them, for they did not appeal to as wide a public and had not behind them the same measure of public support or approval. The newspaper Press had not then become a power; public speaking on the platform had not come into vogue. The speeches of the great Ram Gopal Ghose were made at public meetings not very largely attended, or at the meetings of the Justices, who then, like the Corporation of to-day, were entrusted with the municipal administration of Calcutta.

It was Keshub Chunder Sen who first made use of the platform for public addresses and revealed the power of oratory over the Indian mind. In the early sixties and seventies of the last century the Brahmo-Samaj movement was a potent and living force, which exercised a profound, though possibly an indirect, influence even over orthodox Hindu society. Its immediate effect was to check the conversions to Christianity that were then taking place. Those who were dissatisfied with the old faith and felt the stirrings of the new spirit created by the eloquence of the great Brahmo leader, found comfort and consolation in the teachings of the new religion. Keshub Chunder Sen, originally a follower of Debendra Nath Tagore, had seceded from the Brahmoism as taught by the ​Maharshi. His was an open breach with the Hindu social system, which Debendra Nath Tagore, following the lead of the great Raja Ram Mohun Roy, sought to reform and adapt to the spirit of the Vedic teachings. Keshub Chunder Sen's addresses created a deep and abiding impression on young minds. They drew large audiences. There was a visible religious awakening. His marvellous oratory, set forth with all the accessories of a sonorous voice, a noble diction and a commanding presence, and inspired by the fervour of a deep and burning conviction, fascinated his hearers. I was often at his meetings and listened with breathless attention and ever-increasing admiration.

Keshub Chunder Sen had an eloquent coadjutor in Protap Chunder Mazumdar. The latter's oratory was of a different type. It was imaginative, picturesque, brimful of wit, but was wanting, compared with that of his great chief, in those resources which appeal to the heart and stir the feelings.

Keshub Chunder Sen was a great organizer, a born leader of men with a penetrating insight into human nature. He was a religious teacher with all the asceticism of the Hindu Vaishnav ingrained in him by his family associations; but he was also a man of affairs, understood the world and knew how to deal with the world. If he had not chosen to be a religious leader, he might, if he had had the opportunities, have been a statesman, occupying a front rank among statesmen. His personality was charming, and in his society his followers found a pleasing companion and a great leader. The indirect effect of Keshub Chunder Sen's teaching was great. It not only broadened and liberalized educated thought in matters social and religious, but it also produced an opposite effect; namely, it strengthened the orthodoxy of the extreme reactionaries. They were alarmed; they retired within their shell and surrounded themselves with a hard incrustation of the most narrow and obsolete prejudices. Hinduism under modern influences has slowly developed a tendency towards liberalism, but any attempt to run it precipitately in the same path creates suspicion and fear, and is apt to check the forward movement.

Associated with the Brahmo movement of the early sixties and seventies of the last century was the temperance movement under the leadership of Peary Churn Sircar. I never had the honour of sitting at the feet of Peary Churn Sircar, but he was one of the greatest teachers of youth that Bengal has produced. A temperance movement for the protection of the young was a real necessity ​at that time. Some of our best men had fallen victims to the curse of drink. It was considered to be an inseparable part of English culture. A man who did not drink was hardly entitled to be called educated. The saintly Raj Narayan Bose tells us in his autobiography (and I have heard the story from his own lips) how one afternoon he went to Ram Gopal Ghose's house, and, meeting other friends there, called for a drink from the servant, the master being away; and how, when Ram Gopal came back from office, he found them all lying on the floor in a state of more or less hopeless inebriety. The youth of Bengal had to be rescued from this terrible vice, and a complete transformation of the opinion of the educated community was an urgent necessity.

No man was better qualified to lead the movement than a teacher of youth so universally respected as Peary Churn Sircar. The outward look and demeanour of the man would, however, produce the impression that he was far more fit to follow than to lead. One so gentle, so quiet, so amiable, seemed to be hopelessly wanting in the sterner qualities of the leader of a great public movement. The result, however, showed that there was the mailed fist concealed under the velvet glove, and that the gentle head master of the Colootola Branch School had been gifted by nature with what are believed to be incompatible qualities, a child-like simplicity and a fascinating amiability, combined with the firmness and strength of a leader of men.

The temperance movement was a great success. We all joined it. We were enthusiastic about it, held meetings and made speeches. Keshub Chunder Sen, Iswar Chunder Vidyasagar and the Reverend C. H. A. Dall, a highly esteemed American missionary of the Unitarian Church, were active promoters of the movement. It made an abiding impression on the young generation, and helped to stem the tide of intemperance, which had assumed ominous proportions.

There was one other public movement that marked the period of my student life and which deserves a passing reference. It was the movement for the re-marriage of Hindu widows, inaugurated by the great Pundit Iswar Chunder Vidyasagar. His is an honoured name in Bengal and will, I think, occupy, next to Raja Ram Mohun Roy, the proudest place in our history. I knew him well and admired his great personality, his wonderful strength of purpose, the breadth and liberality of his views, and his deep and burning sympathy for the helpless and the poor. It was this last ​trait of his character that made him the champion of the Hindu widow. At the time he happened to possess great influence with the Government, and succeeded in passing a law legalizing the remarriage of Hindu widows.

I well remember the stir and agitation which the movement produced and how orthodox Hindus were up in arms against it. Young as I was, I felt an interest in what was going on; and one of the earliest recollections of my boyhood is the sense of grief that I felt at the lot of a Brahmin girl, a neighbour of mine who had just lost her husband, and how strongly I wished her to be re-married. I never could pass her house as a boy without the liveliest emotions. The movement, however, made no impression upon the community at the time. My grandfather was violently opposed to it; my father was as eager in its support. For the time being orthodoxy prevailed; and the champion of the Hindu widows died a disappointed man, like so many of those who were in advance of their age, leaving his message, unfulfilled, to a posterity that may yet do justice to his patriotic endeavours. The progress which the movement has made since his death in 1891 has been slow. A new generation has sprung up, but he has found no successor. The mantle of Elijah has not fallen upon Elisha. The lot of the Hindu widow to-day remains very much the same as it was fifty years ago. There are few to wipe her tears and to remove the enforced widowhood that is her lot. The group of sentimental sympathisers have perhaps increased—shouting at public meetings on the Vidyasagar anniversary day, but leaving unredeemed the message of the great champion of the Hindu widow. 'When will that message be fulfilled?', cried I in the days of my youth. Let me repeat it in the evening of my life.