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104 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1954



‘Well, and what if we gave in to our troubles at every step! We would be pitiable creatures indeed to be so weak, for is not man’s spirit given to him to rise above his misfortunes? As for our wants, they are many and unfilled, for who is so rich or compassionate to supply them? Want is our companion from birth to death, familiar as the seasons of the earth, varying only in degree. What profit to bewail that which has always been and cannot change?’Rukmani was a survivor; she knew the secret of life was to endure—patiently, quietly, lovingly.
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,- Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
And Hope without an object cannot live.
NOT IN THE TOWN, WHERE ALL THAT WAS NATURAL HAD LONG BEEN SACRIFICED, but on its outskirts, one could still see the passing of the seasons. For in the town there were the crowds, and streets battened down upon the earth, and the filth that men had put upon it; and one walked with care for what might lie beneath one's feet or threaten from before or behind; and in this preoccupation forgot to look at the sun or the stars, or even to observe they had changed their setting in the sky: and knew nothing of the passage of time save in dry frenzy, by looking at a clock. But for us, who lived by the green, quiet fields, perilously close though these were to the town, nature still gave its muted message. Each passing day, each week, each month, left its sign, clear and unmistakable.One asks: even after sending rockets to the moon and Mars, has anything changed in India for the peasant? Reading about the spate of farmer suicides every year, one thinks not...