ABSTRACT
IF there is any one thing to which I longingly look forward it is the Puja holidays. And the reason is simple. It is only during that fortnight that I recover my forfeited freedom: freedom to do what I please; to go where I please; in short, to follow my bent, entirely uninterrupted and uninterfered with. No one who has not been yoked to stern duties, or to the demands of an exacting profession, can realize or appreciate the joy of this regained freedom. During this serene interval there is complete cessation of dull routine work and strain; there is a salutary change of surroundings; there is unbroken leisure to renew old acquaintances, or to do homage to old masters. During this charming armistice law recedes into the background, and art and letters assert their sway. I love this temporary freedom, and all the more as its duration is so brief, and all too soon is its end. During the last six years we have made six successive pilgrimages to that home of gaiety—that seat of the Bengal Government—which is known as Darjeeling. Without being ungrateful for its many kindnesses in the past, we decided to visit another shrine of pleasure this year, and our choice fell on Simla. And Simla, undoubtedly, is the greater of the two shrines, for whereas one is provincial, the other is imperial in its tone and bearing. To Simla, then, we turned our steps. But, oh dear, when we reached Allahabad, there were dismal rumours afloat of floods and landslips; of transhipments; of possible halts on the way; of all manner of distressing perils—real and imaginary. But, like true pilgrims, bent on reaching our destination and turning a deaf ear to these terrifying rumours, we went our way. The only thing we noticed was that the train ran with extreme caution, and that we were held up, now and then, along our route. But safely we reached our destination, though ten hours behind time. Instead of arriving in daylight, we reached Simla at night. But this was not without its compensating advantage; for we saw the lights of Simla—shimmering in the distance—gorgeous in their splendour. They seemed like so many fairy lamps suspended in the heavens, and lit up specially for some notable banquet of the gods. Very charming and impressive was the scene, and we felt absolutely spell-bound by it. Night soon slipped away, and when the sun rose, illumining the sky with its golden tinge, and shedding its light on the sombre hills, our sense of pleasure knew no limits. And how lovely Simla looked, bathed in sunshine and aglow with joy! It seemed to me a little paradise, free from the carping cares and petty vexations of life—a spot where humanity realized and acted upon the advice of the immortal Horace:—
“If thou art wise, then strain the wine. The span of life
is brief.
So prune thy far out-reaching hopes—the while we speak
has run
One niggard minute: clutch to-day, and trust no
morrow’s Sun.”
