C. R. DAS
With the death of C. R. Das one of the greatest Bengalis of our time has passed into the Beyond. A fortnight ago none could have divined that he was so near the end, and yet Fate had decreed it so. Indisposed he undoubtedly has been for some time, but there were no alarming symptoms—there was no foreboding of the catastrophe which has overwhelmed Bengal with such tragic suddenness.
The hand that so deftly guided the political destiny of Bengal is, alas, now no-more to guide her; to lead her to the fondly wished-for goal—Self-Government. His death is a national calamity; for, quite irrespective of caste and creed—all feel that a shattering blow has been dealt at India’s aspirations—a hopeless void created—beautiful Hind suddenly bereft of her crowning glory! And if this is the case in the sphere of politics—no less keen and acute is the sense of loss in the social sphere. All feel his death as a personal loss—an irreparable loss. For did he not add sunlight to day-light, hush strife, bring peace, emphasise the necessity of charity and good-will?
And if any proof of the universality of this feeling was needed—it was abundantly supplied in the funeral procession—the last tribute to the memory of the great dead—which threaded its melancholy way to the ghat on that momentous June morning. It was a moving sight—a sight such as Calcutta or any other city in India, within living memory, has not seen. All Bengal turned out to pay her homage—to mourn a national calamity. Cold and irresponsive must be the heart which was not stirred at that solemn spectacle! A people’s grief! A people’s tears! What honour can be greater? What offering more acceptable? The grief of man was shared by the sunless, cloud-covered sky, and the prevailing gloom of Calcutta was the proof of the all-pervading sorrow of the day.
