tugged at my heart-strings. So I leapt in and I joined in the dance.
"They were Mahars, low-castes, filth unspeakable and reeking. I was Dajee, the Mahratta, a high-caste.
"Thus I lost my caste.
"I had lost my farm, my bullock, and my wife. I was a poor man. And how can a poor man feast the many priests? How can a poor man regain his caste?
"I followed my Karma. I bought a piece of red cloth which I tied to a stick. I begged for food, and went with the pilgrims on the road to Phandarpur.
"I shall never forget the first festival—the stifling press of worshipers in the temple, the streams coming up and down the ghats, the frenzy of the bhajan at night, and the image of the languid full moon in the water of the river.
"The pilgrims returned to their own country. But what was I to do? Could I return to the Moffusil?—I had lost my caste.
"So I took stick and bowl and lived on alms. I went to various Vaishnavite shrines. True I was to the worship. Assiduously I repeated the name
