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

stayed together with the members of their families for a couple of days, and, in some
cases, for weeks together. I got the permission at the end of eight years. I could obtain it
after much worry and effort and with great difficulty. At last my younger brother and my
wife started from Bombay for Calcutta when they received a wire that the permission was
withdrawn. It was a cruel joke indeed. When one wrote to the Government of Bombay, it
directed him to enquire at Port Blair. If the Commissioner of Port Blair was approached
on the subject, he referred us to the Government of India. If one wrote to the Government
of India, it wrote back to say that the final decision rested with the Government of
Bombay. Things went on like this till 1918-19, when at last we met each other. I met
them in the prison, and in the presence of the prison-superintendent, and also within the
hearing of the Marathi-knowing warder concealed behind, so that they may discover from
our conversation if we were hatching up a new plot, conspirators as we were by the
nature of our imprisonment. I met them after eight years,—my wife, my brother and
his wife. I was glad to see him hale and hearty. We talked to each other for an hour and a
half full of joy and with the abandonment of a marriage festival. We suppressed for the
time being all the dark memories of the past, thoughts of the rueful present, and fears for
the unknown future. We dwelt on the immediate before us, and, as if care-free, gave
ourselves up to the delight of the moment. But why did not my elder brother's wife come
along with them? She had borne the heaviest burden of work in our political activities
and in the never-failing dangers of those activities. With what superb courage and an
amount of patience had she faced them all! She was my childhood's companion, she was
a loving mother to me in my adolescence, she was my trusted coworker in all political
planning and execution, and for seven long years I was pining to see her. Why did she not
come? Her eyes had closed on the scene, as I was to learn soon; they had closed after a
long vigil with the lighted lamp of her love constantly kept burning. The lamp had
flickered, the light had failed, the vigil was over, and she had gone to her Maker; hopes
deferred had not only made the heart sick but had broken it. Burning in the sacrificial fire
of the country's liberation, and of her own separation from one dearest to her heart, she
was at last reduced to ashes, and had expired. The wire, that she was permitted to visit her
husband in the Andamans, from the kind Government at Delhi, had come a day too late!
The story was told me by my younger brother, and I swallowed it, without a word,
like bitter poison. The world is always changing; what is today, tomorrow is not. Those
who are united are bound to be separated at some time, sooner or later. God was kind to
keep us together so long, and myself am entering on the decline of life. From the drama
of life, one character after another must depart. They are bound to make their exit from
the stage of this world. Are they mounting up to appear on the stage of the next world?
Who knows? Each one to his faith. My elder brother believes in life after death and in
rebirth. According to his faith, the soul of his dear and departed wife was hovering over
this family reunion in the prison of the Andamans, and it must have heard us all. A man
like me may not have that faith and for me the chapter has ended here. A woman fighting
bravely for the freedom of her Motherland, dies on the battlefield and is said to go
straight to heaven. What does it mean? It means that she is freed from all cares, all
struggles, all pining, that she finds peace. She is extinguished — like the flame of fire,
disappears, vanishes completely. She goes beyond the pale of sorrow and joy. She attains
salvation. On any ground we ought not to weep for her. The sorrow is our own for we can