THE COLONY
39
ture, whose relevance Satya failed to see. "You mustn't provoke your–
self.
If
anything, you should feel proud," said another, laying his
hand on Satya's arm. "You are a great man! We are with you. We
would willingly be arrested a thousand times. We would go through
the same ordeal forever!" "You are an illustrious man!" said still
another. "A single one of your mistakes is worth more to us than all
the success under the sun. We would rather, a hundred thousand
times, follow you down the path of error, than follow any other man,
even though he had found the right way." "Be calm, be trusting,
have patience, have faith, have hope!" they all cried. "We implore
you, do not grieve, do not despair, do not tire yourself!"
It was clear to him- as it would have been from the comrades'
words, had not etiquette already determined it-that he must
in
no
way refer to his weakness or to his fast. Custom demanded that one
never add to the burden of another's sympathy; thus, while they
spoke courteously and soothingly,
he~
was obliged to assume a rough
and almost vulgar tone with them, to prove himself unworthy of their
solicitude. Then, returning their sympathy, he removed his cap and
offered it to one of the bald comrades as a protection against the sun.
The latter was now bound to humble himself, which he did by fling–
ing the cap back at Satya. And yet what were they that they had to
observe the formalities with one another?
If
he was their leader and
they were his followers, the truth should have been sufficient for them
all. The truth of past failure and of approaching death; the truth
underlying the words of flattery-"we would ... be: arrested a thous–
and times. We would go through the same ordeal . . . ;" "a single
one of your mistakes is worth more than ... success ... ;" "we would
rather follow you [in] error than ... any other man
even though
he
had found the right way." Above all, there was the truth of inner
failure: what love, what charity, what suffering or humility could he
summon within himself to take on, before them, the leader's burden?
The flattery, the courtesy, the words of encouragement and cliches of
hope persisted. No act of life could bear reality.
After they had been speaking for a time, someone proposed that
they sing; the party's song. Weakly, incapable of sustaining the long
notes, they sang the anthem that availed itself of the peculiar syntax
j
of the native language whereby future events could be named in the
present tense. But the song prevailed over them and over their poor,
hoarse voices; it forgave their weakness, and banished their fear. For
music is time and, linked to the native language, it brought the future
before them. In the future, as a moral necessity, there lay ripening
