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鈥淪till, let my tyrants know that
I am not doomed to wear
Year after year in gloom and desolate despair;
A messenger or hope comes every night to me,
And offers for short life eternal liberty.鈥�
鈥揈MILY BRONTE

It was some three or four years before Lokamanya Tilak鈥檚 lamentable demise. There was that in the scene which caused the event to remain photographically lined on the tablets of my mind when a yesterday had faded from its page.

I was an undergraduate in Allahabad, and our bungalow was only ten or fifteen minutes鈥� walk from the railway station, and the night was lovely鈥�

鈥淟ook how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of pure gold鈥�

and there was a spirit abroad that made men鈥檚 pulses beat faster than ever before, and, to cut a long story short, I wended my footsteps, like several others, to where the 鈥渟tormy petrel鈥� of Indian politics (as he was called) was expected from distant Bombay.

A Long Vigil

In those days the Bombay Mail used to reach Allahabad at very unearthly hour. But what was an unearthly hour to those who are uplifted in heart and who sense great things in the womb of time?

When I reached the station I saw a veritable sea of humanity and was informed that the train was two or three hours behind scchedule and that the entrance to the platform was strictly prohibited. That fetched a deep sigh from us (as how should it have failed to do). But, though we seemed to be down, we were quite definitely not out.

The Lokamanya鈥檚 was a name to conjure with, and the whole night was before us. So we resolved to be in and around the station until we were rewarded withhis glorious darshan. Some of us sat down on the road itself and 鈥渇leeted the time carelessly as they did in the Golden Age.鈥�

It was, in a manner of speaking, an endurance test between the Bombay Mail and ourselves. I never had much faith in the Bombay Mail, my affection having been monopolised by the trains that arrived from Calcutta. Another factor was that I was (as I still am) a rasagoola fan and that, for that reason alone, would have preferred Calcutta to any other city or township in the heavens above, the earth below, or the waters underneath the earth.

An Endurance Test

So far as I was concerned the Bombay Mail won hands down. I waited at the station until three in the morning: there was no Bombay Mail within sight or hearing. Regretfully I retraced my steps homewards and resigned myself to sleep鈥撯�渢ired nature鈥檚 sweet restorer.鈥� That had been my only chance of feasting my eyes on my greatest Indian political hero: and hard as I tried, I missed it鈥揻or no ascertainable fault of mine.

The Lokamanya, I repeat, was my greatest Indian political hero. For all that I used to call myself a 鈥淟iberal鈥濃�搃n those days, I mean, when there was 鈥渁n Indian National Liberal Federation鈥� 鈥� I have, throughout my life, in the deepest sense of the word, been an 鈥淓xtremist.鈥� The Congress (new style) has never been my particular cup of coffee. The Liberals, the much-maligned Liberals, had at least been honest; they had never pretended that their homely cucumbers were resplendent pumpkins.

Nurtured in the Liberal Creed

It is true that I was nurtured in that creed鈥撯�渟uckled in that creed outworn鈥�, as some, doubtless, would have put it. My father was a staunch Liberal鈥揳nd died a staunch Liberal. He was a plain, outspoken man, and never could stomach the Congress鈥檚 adroit performances on the political trapeze.

He was such a staunch Liberal, indeed, that he would not have had the slightest compunction in putting me on short commons if he had any reason to suspect that I was on the point of deviating from the straight and narrow path of the Liberal doctrine. (That, however, did not dissuade me from deviating, now and then, from that straight and narrow path.)

Blend of Extremism and Practicality

What prompted me to venerate the Lokatnanya was the peculiar blend of extremism and practicality in him. He had his head in the clouds, to be sure, but his feet, as certainly, were planted on the too, too solid earth. He had鈥揾eaven knows鈥揺nough metaphysics in his capacious, in his magnoperative, brain: enough metaphysics and to spare. But he disdained to display all his portable wares in the market-place and refused to subscribe to the philosophy of 鈥渢he cart and the trumpet鈥� in George Bernard Shah鈥檚 memorable phrase.

He had his share of human foibles, but tickling the ears of the groundlings was, definitely, not one of them. A well-marked intellectual reserve separated him from his fellowmen. The fire of patriotism burned in him fiercely: but his spirit was too lofty to exploit it for his own private ends. In other words, he did not cheapen patriotism鈥搕he noblest impulse of 鈥渢he poor, bare, forked animal鈥� that is known as man. That was left to his successors!

An Aristocrat of Aristocrats

In the realm of the mind he was an aristocrat of aristocrats. That study of his on the Rigveda is an unforgettable monument to his erudition. It would be idle for me to pretend that I am the fittest person to comment on it. I have鈥揑 am not denying it鈥搒ome appreciable interest in religion and philosophy. But evidently, that, by itself, does not render me competent to sit in judgment on such 鈥渟eminal鈥� works as his 鈥�Arctic home in the Vedas.鈥� They are meant for more informed and refined minds than my own.

I can, however, do the next best thing: namely, to stand to attention and to salute it. Has it not been declared that 鈥渨e must needs love the Highest when we see it?鈥� I know dozens and dozens of persons who do not, if only to save their (immortal) souls. But a mere flotsam and jetsam on the vast ocean of life though I am. I have, I trust, a sufficient grasp of the things that genuinely matter to make unfeigned obeisance to the Lokamanya鈥檚 gigantic intellect.

Not 鈥淒eep Calling Unto Deep鈥�

I am not suggesting that it is a case of 鈥渄eep calling unto deep.鈥� I am content to put it no higher than that all spirit is mutually attractive and that, as such, the vital spark in me is attracted to the vital spark in the celebrated author of the Arctic home in the Vedas.

Tilak鈥檚 range of mind and sweep of imagination were wonderful, were awe-inspiring. India needs such sons and daughters and not merely those whose whole stock-in-trade is endless and tiresome personal aggrandizement. His finest epitaph should be Robert Browning鈥檚 on his 鈥淕rammarian鈥�:

鈥淎ll ye highfliers of the feathered race,
Swallows and curfews!
Here鈥檚 the top-peak: the multitude below
Live, for they can, there;
This man decided not to Live but Know鈥�
Bury this man there.鈥�
An Avowed Extremist

I have confessed that what prompted me to venerate the Lokamanya was his peculiar blend of extremism and practicality. He was, let us not forget, an avowed Extremist and was one of those who helped to break up the Surat session of the Congress in 1907 when, for the first time in the history of that organisation, pandemonium reigned supreme, and the assembled delegates indulged in 鈥渄irect action鈥� by hurling whatever came in handy at one another.

He figured prominently, again, at the Lucknow session of the Congress in 1916, which was the last session to be held under the aegis of the old 鈥淢oderates.鈥�

Some sort of rapprochement did take place between the two divergent wings, but it broke down shortly after, and the Congress came under the sole management of the 鈥淓xtremists鈥�: the 鈥淢oderates鈥�, meanwhile, rechristening themselves as the 鈥淟iberals鈥� and devising their own forum, 鈥淭he Indian National Liberal Federation.鈥�

But the Lokamanya himself was not to live to give the Congress the direction it so sorely needed at his hands, passing away as he did on August 1, 1920, while in Bombay.

The Supreme Tragedy of Indian Politics

That, in my considered opinion, was the supreme tragedy of Indian politics. He passed away just at the moment when his services to the country were in greatest demand. It could ill-afford to dispense with them. He had put in a protracted spell in the Mandalay prison, and it was but meet that he should have been allowed to be in our midst, guiding our faltering footsteps to our cherished goal of complete independence, as only he could have done. But the gods willed otherwise.

There was a double tragedy in his passing away at that precise moment. I am thoroughly convinced that Indian politics would have had a far different orientation had he been able to outwit 鈥渢he abhorred shears鈥� that 鈥渟lit鈥� the lives of celebrities and of non-celebrities alike. Was it not he who coined the pregnant phrase, 鈥渞esponsive co-operation?鈥� He knew鈥搉one better鈥搘hen to snatch eagerly at the opportunities that were offered to him and when, like Achilles, 鈥渢o sulk in his tent鈥� and to be 鈥渃alculatingly indiscreet.鈥�

Above all, it was not his line to cut off his nose to spite his face. He was always clear in his own mind about what it was that he desiderated, and could be relied upon to stick through thick and thin to that carefully-thought-out position.

A Born General

He was that rares avis in terris, a born general, a born leader of men. In retrospect, it seems to me that his highest claim to our gratitude must be that he steered clear of the common human frailties and hewed close to old polonios鈥檚 hallowed advice:

鈥�...to thine own self be true.
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.鈥�