मेरा आजीवन कारावास / माझी जन्मठेप (स्वातंत्र्यवीर सावरकर - काले पानी का ऐतिहासिक संस्मरण)

reminded me of the Father in Heaven for whose prayer and adoration it was reared on that solitary island. But that deep concentration, that solemn all-embracing silence, and that exhilaration of solitude became too much for my enfeebled body and my shattered nerves. My desolate heart could not bear them. After I had come to myself, my head would begin to ache, I felt their strain upon my brain and my nerves, and I felt weaker than before. Hence even this exhilaration I could not have. I was reminded in these moments of Lord Buddha. Recovering from the memorable fast, he had fainted, and he had to regain the lost strength of his body, and his power of concentrated thought and meditation. He had to eat whatever nourished his body like butter, sugarcandy, rice, milk and sugar boiled together, and whatever he got on the way. What then of a person like me! In the depressed state of mind and body, reading, thinking, concentration, meditation—all were out of court. Serious work was denied me by my failing health; while the prison-hardships denied to me the calmness of mind as well. Without a friend, without play and without the opportunity of a stroll, the prison had become a nightmare. I could look at the hens of the doctor in the opposite compound. I could watch the birds flying and I could hear the mosquitoes humming. That was my relief, that was my recreation in this prison. Yes, speaking of birds, I am reminded of bulbuls, the Indian nightingales, in the Andamans. Their melody was a real joy to my heart. They are very beautiful birds indeed. Tiny, well-proportioned, and alert. How playful and how sweet is their music, how quick their movements. Swarms of them hovered over the heaps of coconut fruit and swooped down upon them. They picked and ate the pieces to their fill. They continuously chirped round and about our chawls. The bulbuls entertained me when there was nothing else to entertain. I could even know their language and that of the jay or maina. The ten to fifteen notes of the maina I could clearly follow. So soon as the note fell upon my ears, I at once recognised it. The notes were different for different moods. A simple note; a note of hide and seek; a note of deep yearning; a note of alarm and fear; a note of deep happiness and peace; a note of passionate love; of motherly love and affection; of invita- tion to the mate; of ultimatums; and last of fierce fight and finale—I had learnt and mastered them all. They were regular like words of human speech. I could not teach them my language but they taught me theirs, Prisoners, were not allowed to cage a bird as their companion. It was an offence. Or else I could have kept them in my room. I would have taught them songs of patriotism. And then! Why, other prisoners would have directed enquirers to my room as the great Shankaracharya was directed to the house of the learned Mandan Mishra, by pointing it as a house that had in its window a parrot and a maina discussing Vedanta! If a bulbul came in search of my cell, the prisoners would have guided it by saying, "Behold the room at the bar of which the maina and bulbul sing their songs of patriotism and freedom, and know that it is the cell of the revolutionary Savarkar." The crows were my familiar friends. A Mussulman prisoner kept a crow secretly with my connivance. But within a few days I found that it was the food of the Burmese. For the Burmese and the Mussulmans in that prison, being non-vegetarians, often killed crows to make a meal of them. They cooked his flesh on the fire in the factories and ate