On opening this I found the
money, not in currency notes, but in gold rolled up in paper. I
had no time to count out what I wanted. There were twenty rolls,
all of which I took and tied up in a corner of my __sari__.
What a weight it was. The burden of the theft crushed my heart
to the dust. Perhaps notes would have made it seem less like
thieving, but this was all gold.
After I had stolen into my room like a thief, it felt like my own
room no longer. All the most precious rights which I had over it
vanished at the touch of my theft. I began to mutter to myself,
as though telling __mantrams: Bande Mataram, Bande Mataram__,
my Country, my golden Country, all this gold is for you, for none
else!
But in the night the mind is weak. I came back into the bedroom
where my husband was asleep, closing my eyes as I passed through,
and went off to the open terrace beyond, on which I lay prone,
clasping to my breast the end of the __sari__ tied over the
gold. And each one of the rolls gave me a shock of pain.
The silent night stood there with forefinger upraised. I could
not think of my house as separate from my country: I had robbed
my house, I had robbed my country.
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