of millions; so in charitable Bengal the rich lawyer of Russa Road was but another charitable man.
The thing that made the Bengali to raise his brother of Bikrampur to the throne of worship is his act of renunciation, his act of sacrificing all, his entire annihilation of Self.
Renunciation is neither a new nor rare act in this country but the age, an age in which diction has turned gold into an adjective to qualify goodness, an age in which a University degree and an advocate’s gown might have made a Sakya Singha pause before He renounced the world, the renunciation of Deshabandhu was superb, wonderful, divine!
In the eyes of the humble inditer of these lines Ramchandra, Buddhadeva, Christ, Mahomed, Sree Chaitanya, Sree Ramkrishna, Vivekananda Swami, though embodied in mortal frame, were not men but Incarnations of Iswar-sakti. They are ever-living beacons to light up men’s path but inimitable as models.
Here is our son of flesh, born in affluence, brought up in luxury, achieving worldly greatness, with gold mohurs in bagfuls thrust in the hood of his gown, rising one holy morning from his bed and declaring himself poor. Here is the scion of a rich family throwing away his gold spoon to put his fingers on a brass platter. Here is Mr. Das changing his Bond-Street clothes for Khaddar. Here is the thousand-a-day Barrister ministering to his wants by counting out copper pice.
He is no man who does not exclaim out “Ahaha” when he sees a person stumble in his walk; but the sight of one leaping down from a terrace forty-five feet high, stops the beating of the hearts of all those who look at it, and the stunned heart bound up to the mouth when that One stands up instantly erect and taller than what he looked when high above on the terrace. This wondrous feat, in these times of scrambling up the greasy post to catch the winning
