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

get a few lessons in dancing as well. We, as usual, entered our first mild
protest against thus dissipating the energy of our youth in light-hearted
pastime when momentous issues hung in balance. The gentleman,
unconvinced but impressed, took our leave promising to continue to call
upon us every now and then.
He was Shriyut V.V.S. Aiyer
In 1910 A.D., somewhere in March, we stood as a prisoner then only very
recently pent up in Brixton—the formidable prison in London. The warder
announced visits. Anxiously, we accompany the file of prisoners to the
visiting yard. We stand behind the bars wondering who could have come to
call on us and thus invited the unpleasant attentions of the London police.
For, to acknowledge our acquaintance from the visitor's box in front of the
prison bars, was a sure step to eventually get behind them. The visitors are
let in. They crowdedly pass past our window. Presently, one dignified figure
enters the box in front of us. It was V.V.S. Aiyer. His beard was loosely
waving on his breast. He was unkempt. He was no longer the neatly dressed
fashionable gentleman. His whole figure was transformed with some great
act of dedication of life. “Oh leader!” he feelingly accosted us, “why you
left Paris at all”! Soothingly, I said: “Friend, what is the use now of
discussing it here. Rightly or not I am here, pent up in this prison-and the
best way now is to see what is to be done next, how to face the present.”
While fully occupied in discussing future plans, the bell rang and the
warders came rushing and shouting unceremoniously: “Time is up.” With a
heavy heart, we looked into each others’ eyes. We knew it would perhaps
be the last time we ever saw each other in this life. Tears rose, Suppressing
them we said: “No! no! We are Hindus. We have read Gita. We must not
weep in the presence of these unsympathetic crowds.” We spoke in Hindi;
curious crowds of English men watched the ‘young Indian rebel ‘ and his
friend. We parted, I watched him till he disappeared and said to my mind:
“Alas! it is well nigh, impossible to see this loving soul again.” For, one of
the two fates was certain to fall to my lot, the gallows or the Andamans, and
neither could hold any prospect before me of seeing my friends again.
This was in 1910 A.D.; fourteen years rolled by, and the impossible
actually happened. Travelling the most dangerous and meandering bypaths
and bylanes and subterenean passages of life so formidably bordering the
realms of death, I met Shriyut Aiyer a couple of months ago. He had
travelled all the distance from Madras to Bombay to enable us to revel a