This had become clear to me during these few days. But this affair of Gouri Kanta caused me much uneasiness. I could not understand this close friendship. The affair showed itself thus to me: Satish and Nirmala married. Nirmala strongly devoted to Bengali literature; Satish furious at its very name. Meanwhile, Gouri Kanta Ray, a brilliant writer, had chosen Nirmala of all the women in the world, to be his literary confidante. And Nirmala was strongly attracted by him. This was like an unknown seed—Who could tell what kind of tree might not grow out of it?
I would not suffer this to come about. I would clear my friend's married life from thorns. The temple for the worship of Gouri Kanta that Nirmala had consecreted in her mind, I would reduce to ashes by thunderbolts of criticism. I would show that there were writers among the new men even more brilliant than Gouri Kanta. I would expose Gouri Kanta's errors in language and in granmar. Going through ancient and modern Western literature, I would show the same ideas as those expressed by Gouri Kanta. Side by side I would print extracts proclaiming him a thief in the face of the world, and thus by constant reiteration, I would give birth to the conviction in Nirmala's mind that her god was nothing better than a clay idol stuffed with straw.
