tell you broadly what I feel. I am only human. I am covetous.
I would have good things for my country. If I am obliged, I
would snatch them and filch them. I have anger. I would be
angry for my country's sake. If necessary, I would smite and
slay to avenge her insults. I have my desire to be fascinated,
and fascination must be supplied to me in bodily shape by my
country. She must have some visible symbol casting its spell
upon my mind. I would make my country a Person, and call her
Mother, Goddess, Durga--for whom I would redden the earth with
sacrificial offerings. I am human, not divine."

Sandip Babu leapt to his feet with uplifted arms and shouted
"Hurrah!"--The next moment he corrected himself and cried:
"__Bande Mataram__."

A shadow of pain passed over the face of my husband. He said to
me in a very gentle voice: "Neither am I divine: I am human. And
therefore I dare not permit the evil which is in me to be
exaggerated into an image of my country--never, never!"

Sandip Babu cried out: "See, Nikhil, how in the heart of a woman
Truth takes flesh and blood. Woman knows how to be cruel: her
virulence is like a blind storm. It is beautifully fearful. In
man it is ugly, because it harbours in its centre the gnawing
worms of reason and thought. I tell you, Nikhil, it is our women
who will save the country. This is not the time for nice
scruples. We must be unswervingly, unreasoningly brutal. We
must sin. We must give our women red sandal paste with which to
anoint and enthrone our sin. Don't you remember what the poet
says: