and I had not the influence to get work in a private one. After a good deal of thought I decided that I would write books.
If you make holes in a bamboo tube, it will no longer hold either oil or water, in fact its power of receptivity is lost; but if you blow through it, then, without any expenditure it may produce music. I felt quite sure that the man who is not useful can be ornamental, and he who is not productive in other fields can at least produce literature. Encouraged by this thought, I wrote a farce. People said it was good, and it was even acted on the stage.
Once having tasted of fame, I found myself unable to stop pursuing it farther. Days and days together I went on writing farces with an agony of determination.
Probha would come with her smile, and remind me gently: ‘Father, it is time for you to take your bath.’
And I would growl out at her: ‘Go away, go away; can’t you see that I am busy now? Don’t vex me.’
The poor child would leave me, unnoticed, with a face dark like a lamp whose light has been suddenly blown out.
