A Journal of Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwavidyalaya

For, when father having been engaged in
consigning oblations to the fire from dawn
to a bit more than one hour and a half
of the sunrise got up drenched with
perspiration, he would straight make for
the small mat made of sacrificial grass
to sit on. This was his repose.
At this very time while he was
supervising the students’ study of initiation
in the Vedas, the sweat of strain dried
up. What whould I call it more than sponging
of sweat strings with the hands of Saraswati?
I was the son of such a father—learned,
virtuous, and doing what was enjoined—
myself a congenital gossip, vagabond,
woolgathering fellow, and wanderer. When
I had run away from home, I induced
and enticed a good many striplings of
my village to follow me. They did not
stick to me till the end, still I had earned
a bad name in the village. In the dialect
of Magadh an ox shorn of tail is dubbed
‘Bund’. There this saying has gained
currency that a ‘Bund’ has not only his
own egress, but also an escape with tether
and other accessories. Thus, they began
nicknaming me ‘Bund’. Subsequently, with
some ritualistic cultivation through the
Sanskrit word ‘Baan’ (arrow) I retrieved
this name. The ‘Bhatt’ was affixed much
later. By the way, my real name was ‘Daksh’
(erudite). Lately, there has been a hightide
of love and respect among the public
towards me. If they so like. they may
turn it to Dakshbhatt. Very skilfully have
I preserved this name elsewhere. I shall
tell its tale now.
My father had eleven brothers. I did
not see all of them. One of my cousins
was called Urupati. In point of age he
was much senior, but he dealt with me
at par. He was a famous logician of the
period. It was he that worsted the Buddhist
mendicant, Vasubhuti in a scriptural debate.
His erudition and character had no little
spell on Maharaja Harshwardhan, who on
a sudden leaned towards the Vedic faith.
None in my family had for me the affection
that they had for Urupati Bhatt. He has
saved me from many a misdeed. I shall
dwell on him in reference at a proper
place. Here this will suffice that when at
fourteen I lost my father—mother had
predeceased him much earlier—this very
Urupatibhatt soaked me with that hearty
concern and affection which was my
mother’s. But I must not start this story
with sobs for my sad luck. I start it with
the advent of my well-being. If at all tales
of misfortune may intrude at times, the
readers of this narrative are called upon
not to think more of them.
A vagrant was I, indeed. From town
to town, from any habitation to any
countryside I bootlessly roamed and
loitered for years. During this aimless
wayfaring what all did I do? I was an
acrobat sometimes, sometimes I showed
the dance of marionettes; at times I
organized a dramatic concert, at times
hoodwinked the habitats by playing a
folksinger. In brief, I left no occupation
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