Be sure that both these are the gift of that same uncle of ours.’
‘Whatever you may say,’ I persisted, ‘Uncle could have nothing to do with this kind of pipe-filling, leg-massaging business. Surely this is no picture of freedom.’
‘That,’ argued Satish, ‘was the freedom on shore. There Uncle gave full liberty of action to our limbs. This is freedom on the ocean. Here the confinement of the ship is necessary for our progress. That is why my Master keeps me bound to his service. This massaging is helping me to cross over.’
‘It does not sound so bad,’ I admitted, ‘the way you put it. But, all the same, I have no patience with a man who can thrust out his legs at you like that.’
‘He can do it,’ explained Satish, ‘because he has no need of such service. Had it been for himself, he might have felt ashamed to ask it. The need is mine.’
I realised that the world into which Satish had been transported had no place for me, his particular friend. The person, whom Satish has so effusively embraced, was not Srivilas, but a representative of all humanity,—just an idea.
