The day has come at last when my ill-starred life has to reveal
its destitution in a long-drawn series of exposures. This
penury, all unexpected, has taken its seat in the heart where
plenitude seemed to reign. The fees which I paid to delusion for
just nine years of my youth have now to be returned with interest
to Truth till the end of my days.
What is the use of straining to keep up my pride? What harm if I
confess that I have something lacking in me? Possibly it is that
unreasoning forcefulness which women love to find in men. But is
strength mere display of muscularity? Must strength have no
scruples in treading the weak underfoot?
But why all these arguments? Worthiness cannot be earned merely
by disputing about it. And I am unworthy, unworthy, unworthy.
What if I am unworthy? The true value of love is this, that it
can ever bless the unworthy with its own prodigality. For the
worthy there are many rewards on God's earth, but God has
specially reserved love for the unworthy.
Up till now Bimala was my home-made Bimala, the product of the
confined space and the daily routine of small duties.
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