My Life

My Life - Oswald Mosleythe poet himself was in America, and I never met him, but his family and assistantswere there in full strength. The study of agriculture by day mingled agreeably in theevening with philosophic discussion. Indians were present who had graduated atOxford, the Sorbonne and Heidelberg, in fact, at practically every university ofEurope; European languages were fluently spoken. The discussions, sitting crossleggedunder a huge tree, chiefly touched Sanskrit, and were conducted in English bya Swedish professor called Konnor, who had come specially for the purpose. Afterdark, philosophy would yield to music and dancing. Musical instruments of fourthousand-years-olddesign were played with a strangely haunting, plaintive appeal tofar-away memories. Then came the young women of the Tagore family to dance,among them some of the most beautiful I have ever seen. Their faces, with perfectGreek features, were whiter than the Europeans', white as fine ivory, their figuressinuous perfection as they swayed to the rhythm of the age-old dance. There was nopurdah among them, but we never saw them except on these occasions.I met most of the Indian politicians in due course; Jinnah the Moslem leader, whoseemed to me an able but cold and cynical lawyer: his long life dedicated to his causelater belied my judgment. Das, the early Congress leader, another lawyer withoutmuch regard for Hindu customs—he earned enormous sums, ate meat and drankalcohol—seemed sincere and forceful in his political views. In the Nehru family I metthe distinguished father, Moltilal, but not the more famous son who later becamePrime Minister. He was probably serving his long novitiate in British jails; anapparently indispensable preliminary to high office in the Commonwealth. These menwere highly intelligent, and also reasonable. It should surely have been possible toarrange any necessary transition in due order, without the final panic-strickenevacuation which caused so much bloodshed and left so much bitterness, even if wehad not the strength first to solve the economic question which is the real problem inIndia, the looming tragedy behind all the chatter and posture of the demagogues, bothBritish and Indian.This is not the place to discuss the present political and economic problems of India;they must either be solved from within, or else from without under the overwhelmingpressure of material disaster. A truly Indian solution would require another Akbar, anextraordinary genius of thought and action of the supreme Caesarean category. Akbarhad all the great qualities, the capacity for the most seductive persuasion linked to areluctant ability for ruthless action when all else failed, the extremes of gentlesensitivity within the steel framework of statesmanship. His relations—as so oftenhappens— separated and exaggerated all the qualities which in him found suchexquisite harmony. The execrable Auraungzeb expressed his Moslem faith by cuttingoff the heads of Hindu monuments in the same wanton spirit of childish, viciousfanatacism which moved some early Christians to strike the heads from what theyconsidered the pagan idols of classic Greece. The heavy paw of the ignorant, bigotedclown in not confined to one continent, the loutery is everywhere, always.The other extreme in this same family was Shah Jehan, who created the Fort at Delhi,an abode of enchantment. Situated on top of a hill, it was surrounded by a wallroughly a mile long. Over the door the Shah had inscribed in Persian: 'If there be aparadise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here,' in reiterative ecstacy. He spent hisdays in a pool containing forty niches in which he and thirty-nine wives sat neck-deepin warm water while over them were sprayed forty different scents, one for each;106 of 424