After completing the needful arrangements he
would leave home, revisit the spot where Surja Mukhi had died, and
then resume his wandering life. So long as he should live he would
hide in some corner of the earth.
Such were Nagendra's thoughts as he was borne on in his palanquin; its
doors were open, the night was lightened by the October moon, stars
shone in the sky. The telegraph-wires by the wayside hummed in the
wind; but on that night not even a star could seem beautiful in the
eyes of Nagendra, even the moonlight seemed harsh. All things seemed
to give pain. The earth was cruel. Why should everything that seemed
beautiful in days of happiness seem to-day so ugly? Those long slender
moonbeams by which the heart was wont to be refreshed, why did they
now seem so glaring? The sky is to-day as blue, the clouds as white,
the stars as bright, the wind as playful; the animal creation, as
ever, rove at will. Man is as smiling and joyous, the earth pursues
its endless course, family affairs follow their daily round. The
world's hardness is unendurable. Why did not the earth open and
swallow up Nagendra in his palanquin?
Thus thinking, Nagendra perceived that he was himself to blame for
all.
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