Plant life is only a shadow, a reflection, of human life. I’d written an essay about this in a Bengali periodical. It didn’t take me more than an hour to write the essay. To establish a fraction of this has taken years, many years. To create the simplest substance and form requires great effort, perseverance, hard work, many many workshops and factories. But the mind is disobedient to boundaries. Thought can travel through heaven, earth, and hell in the blink of a moment. In an instant, concocted truths and falsehoods create new kingdoms, and if anyone obstructs the establishment of those kingdoms, then with the might of the mind and the help of the imaginary 218,700 warriors of the akshauhini armies of the Mahabharata and fiery arrows, the opposition is destroyed and a dictatorship is established.

But the customs of the workplace, of action, and the customs of the world of action are different – at every step there’s an obstacle. I tried to govern my own life, but couldn’t, with all my life’s effort, and despite knowing this, the desire to assign others’ duties while forgetting one’s own never leaves. Giving up the more difficult path for what is easy and accessible, that which can be exhausted by speaking, desire naturally flows in that direction. Thought and action, what a difference there is between the two! The pace of action is even slower than the pace of a snail. The mind does not like to move along the difficult path of the kingdom of action. There is no lack of signposts, but where are the travellers on this path? In this bazaar of earthly existence, “everyone is a seller here, there are no buyers.”

Everyone wants to see Baṅgajananī, the mother of Bengal, on a high throne, but needless to say, if we only persecute each other without hardship to ourselves to find ways, nothing will bear fruit. For this it is essential for the children of Bengal to have a sense of self-respect; we forget this often. We only discuss others and the journeys they ought to make. Some have lamented that a few of Bengal’s accomplished offspring have forsaken a noble path for trivial fame. Suffering from the same illusion, a few Bengali scientists could not resist the temptation of publishing their discoveries in foreign languages. If all these theories had been published only in the Bengali language, foreigners would have been forced to come to this country and learn Bangla from the attraction to invaluable truth; the West would have bowed its head to the East.

Speaking about the publication of scientific articles in English, it would suffice to say that whatever discoveries of mine have recently been established abroad were initially published in my mother tongue, and the experiments demonstrated before this country’s general public. But such is my misfortune, I’ve not been able to gain recognition from the esteemed individuals of this country for a long time. When even the swadeshi universities of our country do not see any imprint of foreign influence, they become sceptical about the value of its truth. When these theories discovered in Bengal, written in Bangla, were rejected by Bengali scholars – nothing short of a tragedy – it is unreasonable to hope that foreigners would come to this country to search for precious gems amid garbage abandoned at the bottom of a river.

Only now have I come to understand that behind every barrier lies some intention. I have come to realize that the establishment of truth depends on adversity, for truth is weakened by the indulgence of favorable conditions. If scientific truth cannot be triumphantly brought through all the enemy territories like a sacrificial horse in an Aśvamedha Yajna, then the yajna ritual will not be considered complete. That is why I do not consider it my duty to take pride in pursuing truth in life; my goal is to help it conquer. A vast battlefield of scientific truth is spreading in the Western world today. Just as Bengalis had a notorious reputation on the battlefield once, Indians were often criticized in the field of science. Despite my repeated efforts to combat this, I’ve been defeated. I’d thought that my sadhana, my pursuit, would only result in failure in this life. But even amid deep despair, I’ve not accepted the disgrace of defeat. I crossed the Mediterranean for the third time and have, by the grace of the Almighty, achieved significant success. If I have gained victory laurels in this long journey, then I dedicate them to the feet of the goddess of this desh, this country, Desalakshmi. It is true that a few foreigners have tried to understand the immortal theories of our ancestors with great difficulty. However, I do not see any signs that the West has bowed its head to the East in the present age. Greek and European civilizations owe much to ancient Egyptian civilization, yet the descendants of Egyptian peasants are despised today. O descendants of the composers of the Vedas and the Upanishads, O farmers of India, where is your place today?

O, Alnaskara, will your daydreams never end? Your goods are only gilt and glass. You thought you would sell them as gold and diamonds, and you have trampled the goddess of fortune by thinking you are rich with your illusory wealth! Have you already forgotten the ridicule by spectators within a few days? What are you saying? Your ancestors were wealthy; they used to frolic in flying chariots! Fool! Then how did you lose that wealth? Look around. The white mountains you see in the distance are made of human skeletons. These are the skeletons of those whom you consider barbarians. Look, those who climb the stairs made of bones are rising to the summit of the mountain and, with a leap into the void, are extending their dominion into the azure sky. Who you considered to be the flock of eagles disappeared behind the clouds. Astonished, you gaze upward. Suddenly, a thunderbolt descends from the kingdom of clouds and shatters the world around you. Where will you seek refuge? There is no salvation, no escape, even if you enter the cave. You have to get out of that place because of the poisonous fumes.

In this entanglement of words we have spread a net, and you are trapped in it. You’ll have to cut that net and come out. Do not bring your mother to the assembly without good reason. Her true place is in the temple of the heart; the sacrifice of life is necessary in order to worship her.

Excerpted with permission from The Man Who Made Plants Write: Essays by Jagadish Chandra Bose, translated from the Bengali by Sumana Roy, HarperCollins India.

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