# Anandamath (Aurobindo)/Part 1/Chapter 10

SILENTLY in the moonlit night the two crossed the open country. Mohendra was silent, sorrowful, full of pride, but also a little curious.
Suddenly Bhavananda's whole aspect changed. No longer was he the ascetic, serious of aspect, calm of mood; no longer the skilful fighter, the heroic figure of the man who had beheaded the English captain with the sweep of a sword; no longer had he that aspect with which even now he had proudly rebuked Mohendra. It was as if the sight of that beauty of plain and forest, river and numerous streams, all the moonlit peaceful earth, had stirred his heart with a great gladness; it was as if Ocean were laughing in the moonbeams. Bhavananda became smiling, eloquent, courteous of speech. He grew very eager to talk and made many efforts to open a conversation, but Mohendra would not speak. Then Bhavananda, having no other resource, began to sing to himself.
"Mother, I bow to thee!
Rich with thy hurrying streams,
Bright with thy orchard gleams,
Cool with thy winds of delight,
Dark fields waving, Mother of might,
Mother free!"
The song astonished Mohendra and he could understand nothing of it. Who might be this richly watered, richly fruited Mother, cool with delightful winds and dark with the harvests? "What Mother?" he asked.
Bhavananda without any answer continued his song.
"Glory of moonlight dreams Over thy beaches and lordly streams;
Clad in thy blossoming trees,
Mother, giver of ease,
Laughing low and sweet!
Mother, I kiss thy feet,
Speaker sweet and low!
Mother, to thee I bow."
Mohendra said, "That is the country, it is not the Mother."
Bhavananda replied, "We recognize no other Mother. 'Mother and Motherland is more than heaven itself.' We say the motherland is our mother. We have neither mother nor father nor brother nor friend, wife nor son nor house nor home. We have her alone, the richly-watered, richly-fruited, cool with delightful winds, rich with harvests—"
Then Mohendra understood and said, "Sing it again." Bhavananda sang once more.
Mother, I bow to thee!
Rich with thy hurrying streams,
Bright with thy orchard gleams,
Cool with thy winds of delight,
Dark fields waving, Mother of might,
Mother free.
Glory of moonlight dreams Over thy beaches and lordly streams;
Clad in thy blossoming trees,
Mother, giver of ease,
Laughing low and sweet!
Mother, I kiss thy feet,
Speaker sweet and low!
Mother, to thee I bow.
Who hath said thou art weak in thy lands,
When the swords flash out in seventy million hands And seventy million voices roar Thy dreadful name from shore to shore?
With many strengths who art mighty and stored,
To thee I call, Mother and Lord!
Thou who savest, arise and save!
To her I cry who ever her foemen drave Back from plain and sea And shook herself free.
Thou art wisdom, thou art law,
Thou our heart, our soul, our breath,
Thou the love divine, the awe In our hearts that conquers death.
Thine the strength that nerves the arm,
Thine the beauty, thine the charm.
Every image made divine In our temples is but thine.
Thou art Durga, Lady and Queen,
With her hands that strike and her swords of sheen,
Thou art Lakshmi lotus-throned,
And the Muse a hundred-toned.
Pure and perfect, without peer,
Mother, lend thine ear.
Rich with thy hurrying streams,
Bright with thy orchard gleams,
Dark of hue, O candid-fair In thy soul, with jewelled hair And thy glorious smile divine,
Loveliest of all earthly lands,
Showering wealth from well-stored hands!
Mother, mother mine!
Mother sweet, I bow to thee,
Mother great and free!
Mohendra saw the robber as he sang shedding tears. In wonder he asked, "Who are you?"
Bhavananda replied, "We are the Children."
"What is meant by the Children?" asked Mohendra. "Whose children are you?"
Bhavananda replied, "The children of the Mother."
"Good;" said Mohendra, "do the children worship their mother with theft and looting? What kind of filial piety is that?"
"We do not thieve and loot," answered Bhavananda.
"Why, just now you plundered the carts."
"Is that theft and looting? Whose money did we plunder?"
"Why, the ruler's."
"The ruler's! What right has he to the money, that he should take it?"
"It is his royal share of the wealth of the country."
"Who rules and does not protect his kingdom, is he a ruler at all?"
"I see you will be blown one day from the cannon's mouth by the sepoys."
"I have seen your rascal sepoys more than once: I dealt with some today too."
"Oh, that was not a real experience of them; one day you will get it."
"Suppose it is so, a man can only die once."
"But what profit is there in going out of one's way to die?"
"Mohendra Singha," said Bhavananda, "I had a kind of idea that you were a man worth the name, but now I see you are what all the rest of them are, merely the death of ghee and milk. Look you, the snake crawls on the ground and is the lowest of living things, but put your foot on the snake's neck and even he will rise with lifted hood. Can nothing overthrow your patience then? Look at all the countries you know, Magadh, Mithila, Kashi, Kanchi, Delhi, Cashmere, in what other country do men from starvation eat grass? eat thorns? eat the earth white ants have gathered? eat the creepers of the forest? where else are men forced to eat dogs and jackals, yes, even the bodies of the dead? where else can men have no ease of heart because of fear for the money in their chests, the household gods on their sacred seats, the young women in their homes, the unborn children in the women's wombs? Ay, here they rip open the womb and tear out the child. In every country the relation with the ruler is that of protector and protected, but what protection do our Mussulman rulers give us? Our religion is destroyed, our caste defiled, our honour polluted, our family honour shamed and now our very lives are going the same way. Unless we drive out these vice-besodden longbeards, the Hinduism of the Hindu is doomed."
"How will you drive them out?" asked Mohendra.
"By blows."
"You will drive them out single-handed? With one slap, I suppose."
The robber sang:
"Who hath said thou art weak in thy lands,
When the swords flash out in seventy million hands And seventy million voices roar Thy dreadful name from shore to shore?"
"But" said Mohendra, "I see you are alone."
"Why, just now you saw two hundred men."
"Are they all Children?"
"They are all Children."
"How many more are there of them?"
"Thousands like these, and by degrees there will be yet more!"
"Even if there were ten or twenty thousand, will you be able with that number to take the throne from the Mussulman?"
"What army had the English at Plassey?"
"Can Englishmen and Bengalis be compared?"
"Why not? What does physical strength matter? Greater physical strength will not make the bullet fly farther."
"Then," asked Mohendra, "why is there such a difference between an Englishman and a Mussulman?"
"Take this first;" said Bhavananda, "an Englishman will not run away even from the certainty of death. A Mussulman runs as soon as he perspires and roams in search of a glass of sherbet. Next take this, that the Englishman has tenacity; if he takes up a thing, he carries it through. "Don't care" is a Mussulman's motto. He is giving his life for a hire, and yet the soldiers don't get their pay. Then the last thing is courage. A cannon ball can fall only in one place, not in ten; so there is no necessity for two hundred men to run from one cannon ball. But one cannon ball will send a Mussulman with his whole clan running, while a whole clan of cannon balls will not put even a solitary Englishman to flight."
"Have you all these virtues?" asked Mohendra.
"No," said Bhavananda, "but virtues don't fall from the nearest tree. You have to practise them."
"Do you practise them?"
"Do you not see we are sannyasins? It is for this practice that we have made renunciation. When our work is done, when our training is complete, we shall again become householders. We also have wives and daughters."
"You have abandoned all those ties, but have you been able to overcome Maya?"
"The Children are not allowed to speak falsely and I will not make a lying boast to you. Who has the strength to conquer Maya? When a man says, 'I have conquered Maya', either he never had any feeling or he is making a vain boast. We have not conquered Maya, we are only keeping our vow. Will you be one of the Children?"
"Until I get news of my wife and daughter, I cannot say anything."
"Come then, you shall see your wife and child."
The two went on their way; and Bhavananda began again to sing Bande Mataram.
Mohendra had a good voice and was a little proficient in singing and fond of it; therefore he joined in the song, and found that as he sang the tears came into his eyes. Then Mohendra said, "If I have not to abandon my wife and daughter, then initiate me into this vow."
"Whoever" answered Bhavananda, "takes this vow, must abandon wife and child. If you take this vow, you cannot be allowed to meet your wife and daughter. Suitable arrangements will be made for their protection, but until the vow is crowned with success, to look upon their faces is forbidden."
"I will not take your vow," answered Mohendra.