भारतीय इतिहास के ६ स्वर्णिम पृष्ठ (वीर सावरकर - विदेशी आक्रान्ताओं पर विजय गाथा)

Take any letter or any life or even History itself, it is more or less a book of mere statistics of so many births and so many deaths, so many weddings and so many mournings, so much colour and so much shade. So, while there is a brief respite, a passing ray of joy, a single touch of the spring, let us not forget the hardship of the winter or foolishly depend upon and get addiction to these wines of spring, while they are dancing in the cup. No, No, our, ...of those who are born in India in this age ...our constant companion is winter and not spring! Let us not forget that our life is a vast Sahara, unbearable and still to be borne, sandy, burning. And while we are keeping to the path of duty that passes through this parched desert, if the grace of God places in our path such an ‘oasis’ as this, with which we have been recently blent, then let us not forget that it is an accident, an art of grace; and without haste and rest, must continue our way on this holy pilgrimage of life. Let us pray in all humility as the old saints prayed: ‘Give unto us what thou wilt and when thou wilt and how much thou wilt! And also take away from us what thou wilt and how much thou wilt.’ After all, the fine ideal for a young man is not to acquire but to sacrifice, not to rear but ‘the garden that sheds all its flowers for the garland of the Gods and thus is in blossom for ever.’ How is my dear Mai getting on? What a silly idea that I could forget my only sister! I may as well get angry and cease to speak with myself. While the day lasts, try to save something and invest in some safe form in the name of dear Shanta or dear Ranjan for we can never tell when winter may come again!! Nothing could match the ideal constancy of affection of our dear MadameCama. Even the war has not made her forget you! Thus, it is that many a time the blood is not thicker than choice and there are affections, which noble hearts alone can know, of which neither the lack of blood nor of interest can cool and which growing up in an ideal land flourish and are nursed on forces so subtle that the every day and matter of fact world fails to see or comprehend. How are also my beloved Mai (Yamuna) and Vahinis, getting on? My love to them all. How is dear Balu? When I saw him in the Bombay jail he seemed so upright and so loving a boy! Now he must be quite a respectable gentleman? And so also Anna. I expected him to be a clever and able youth and shall be very glad to know how far my guess has been correct. I wish I could know everything about all my brothers, including dear Dattu and Nana and what they do. But it is not and cannot be owing to my forgetting them as my dear Yamuna seems to think, but for other reasons, which she can well