Another local consequence of the trial was a Hindu-Moslem entente. Loud protestations of amity were exchanged by prominent citizens, and there went with them a genuine desire for a good understanding. Aziz, when he was at the hospital one day, received a visit from rather a sympathetic figure: Mr. Das. The magistrate sought two favours from him: a remedy for shingles and a poem for his brother-in-law’s new monthly magazine. He accorded both.

“My dear Das, why, when you tried to send me to prison, should I try to send Mr. Bhattacharya a poem? Eh? That is naturally entirely a joke. I will write him the best I can, but I thought your magazine was for Hindus.”

“It is not for Hindus, but Indians generally,” he said timidly.

“There is no such person in existence as the general Indian.”

“There was not, but there may be when you have written a poem. You are our hero; the whole city is behind you, irrespective of creed.”

“I know, but will it last?”

“I fear not,” said Das, who had much mental clearness. “And for that reason, if I may say so, do not introduce too many Persian expressions into the poem, and not too much about the bulbul.”

“Half a sec,” said Aziz, biting his pencil. He was writing out a prescription. “Here you are. . . . Is not this better than a poem?”

“Happy the man who can compose both.”

“You are full of compliments to-day.”

“I know you bear me a grudge for trying that case,” said the other, stretching out his hand impulsively. “You are so kind and friendly, but always I detect irony beneath your manner.”

“No, no, what nonsense!” protested Aziz. They shook hands, in a half-embrace that typified the entente. Between people of distant climes there is always the possibility of romance, but the various branches of Indians know too much about each other to surmount the unknowable easily. The approach is prosaic. “Excellent,” said Aziz, patting a stout shoulder and thinking, “I wish they did not remind me of cow-dung”; Das thought, “Some Moslems are very violent.” They smiled wistfully, each spying the thought in the other’s heart, and Das, the more articulate, said: “Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth.”

“Oh, well, about this poem—how did you hear I sometimes scribbled?” he asked, much pleased, and a good deal moved—for literature had always been a solace to him, something that the ugliness of facts could not spoil.

“Professor Godbole often mentioned it, before his departure for Mau.”

“How did he hear?”

“He too was a poet; do you not divine each other?”

Flattered by the invitation, he got to work that evening. The feel of the pen between his fingers generated bulbuls at once. His poem was again about the decay of Islam and the brevity of love; as sad and sweet as he could contrive, but not nourished by personal experience, and of no interest to these excellent Hindus. Feeling dissatisfied, he rushed to the other extreme, and wrote a satire, which was too libellous to print. He could only express pathos or venom, though most of his life had no concern with either. He loved poetry—science was merely an acquisition, which he laid aside when unobserved like his European dress—and this evening he longed to compose a new song which should be acclaimed by multitudes and even sung in the fields. In what language shall it be written? And what shall it announce? He vowed to see more of Indians who were not Mohammedans, and never to look backward. It is the only healthy course. Of what help, in this latitude and hour, are the glories of Cordova and Samarcand? They have gone, and while we lament them the English occupy Delhi and exclude us from East Africa. Islam itself, though true, throws cross-lights over the path to freedom. The song of the future must transcend creed.

The poem for Mr. Bhattacharya never got written, but it had an effect. It led him towards the vague and bulky figure of a mother-land. He was without natural affection for the land of his birth, but the Marabar Hills drove him to it. Half closing his eyes, he attempted to love India. She must imitate Japan. Not until she is a nation will her sons be treated with respect. He grew harder and less approachable. The English, whom he had laughed at or ignored, persecuted him everywhere; they had even thrown nets over his dreams. “My great mistake has been taking our rulers as a joke,” he said to Hamidullah next day; who replied with a sigh: “It is far the wisest way to take them, but not possible in the long run. Sooner or later a disaster such as yours occurs, and reveals their secret thoughts about our character. If God himself descended from heaven into their club and said you were innocent, they would disbelieve him. Now you see why Mahmoud Ali and self waste so much time over intrigues and associate with creatures like Ram Chand.”

“I cannot endure committees. I shall go right away.”

“Where to? Turtons and Burtons, all are the same.”

“But not in an Indian state.”

“I believe the Politicals are obliged to have better manners. It amounts to no more.”

“I do want to get away from British India, even to a poor job. I think I could write poetry there. I wish I had lived in Babur’s time and fought and written for him. Gone, gone, and not even any use to say ‘Gone, gone,’ for it weakens us while we say it. We need a king, Hamidullah; it would make our lives easier. As it is, we must try to appreciate these quaint Hindus. My notion now is to try for some post as doctor in one of their states.”

“Oh, that is going much too far.”

“It is not going as far as Mr. Ram Chand.”

“But the money, the money—they will never pay an adequate salary, those savage Rajahs.”

“I shall never be rich anywhere, it is outside my character.”

“If you had been sensible and made Miss Quested pay——”

“I chose not to. Discussion of the past is useless,” he said, with sudden sharpness of tone. “I have allowed her to keep her fortune and buy herself a husband in England, for which it will be very necessary. Don’t mention the matter again.”

“Very well, but your life must continue a poor man’s; no holidays in Kashmir for you yet, you must stick to your profession and rise to a highly paid post, not retire to a jungle-state and write poems. Educate your children, read the latest scientific periodicals, compel European doctors to respect you. Accept the consequences of your own actions like a man.”

Aziz winked at him slowly and said: “We are not in the law courts. There are many ways of being a man; mine is to express what is deepest in my heart.”

“To such a remark there is certainly no reply,” said Hamidullah, moved. Recovering himself and smiling, he said: “Have you heard this naughty rumour that Mohammed Latif has got hold of?”

“Which?”

“When Miss Quested stopped in the College, Fielding used to visit her . . . rather too late in the evening, the servants say.”

“A pleasant change for her if he did,” said Aziz, making a curious face.

“But you understand my meaning?”

The young man winked again and said: “Just! Still, your meaning doesn’t help me out of my difficulties. I am determined to leave Chandrapore. The problem is, for where? I am determined to write poetry. The problem is, about what? You give me no assistance.” Then, surprising both Hamidullah and himself, he had an explosion of nerves. “But who does give me assistance? No one is my friend. All are traitors, even my own children. I have had enough of friends.”

“I was going to suggest we go behind the purdah, but your three treacherous children are there, so you will not want to.”

“I am sorry, it is ever since I was in prison my temper is strange; take me, forgive me.”

“Nureddin’s mother is visiting my wife now. That is all right, I think.”

“They come before me separately, but not so far together. You had better prepare them for the united shock of my face.”

“No, let us surprise them without warning, far too much nonsense still goes on among our ladies. They pretended at the time of your trial they would give up purdah; indeed, those of them who can write composed a document to that effect, and now it ends in humbug. You know how deeply they all respect Fielding, but not one of them has seen him. My wife says she will, but always when he calls there is some excuse—she is not feeling well, she is ashamed of the room, she has no nice sweets to offer him, only Elephants’ Ears, and if I say Elephants’ Ears are Mr. Fielding’s favourite sweet, she replies that he will know how badly hers are made, so she cannot see him on their account. For fifteen years, my dear boy, have I argued with my begum, for fifteen years, and never gained a point, yet the missionaries inform us our women are down-trodden. If you want a subject for a poem, take this: The Indian lady as she is and not as she is supposed to be.”