Subhas Chandra Bose - An Indian Pilgrim

The NetaJi Publishing Society has great pleasure in presenting to the public the unfinished utobiography of`Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose. Netaji wanted to give his autobiography, when completed, the title "An Indian Pilgrim". That is how

his autobiography derives the name. "An Indian Pilgrim" takes the reader from Netajis parentage, birth and early childhood to his Cambridge daysand what days !when a youngman of 24 had to make up his mind either to take a path, strewn with roses, which promised nothing but ease, luxury and official honour, or a path, strewn with thorns, inviting one to selfless suffering and sacrifice and promising nothing more than blood, sweat and tears. The result of the struggle is known to the world. But only handful have had the privilege to know the different phases of that struggle. Perhaps it was not in 1921 but a decade earlier that the battle within had been won and lost. Perhaps even earlier! That is a poser which we leave to the readers. But one thing is certain that the Rashtrapati and the Rebel President, the Desh Gaurab and the Netaji, the creator of the First Government of the Free India and the beloved leader of the Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Christians and Parsees, had been moulded between 1897 and 1921. This is the period covered by "An Indian Pilgrim". It is the masterly analysis of a Humanitarian, a

It is the earnest desire of the Netaji Publishing Society to place before the public all the writings and speeches, political and autobiographical, of Netaji. A perusal of the yet unpublished materials at present at its disposal makes ones head whirl. One is forced into deeper thoughts at every step. The various facets of the struggle between the spiritual urge or the call of the Himalayas and the cause of the suffering humanity; the nature of dreams Netaji used to have and their analysis by him and various other things make fascinating reading indeed, and they shall be made available to the public at the earliest opportunity. But many letters, articles, etc. written by Netaji are in the hands of the public. We would appeal to all to place them at the disposal of the Netaji Publishing Society so that they may run a thread through the scattered gems and return them to the world in the form of the most priceless ornament. We hope that all those who possess such materials shall rise above personal and private motives.

In conclusion, we would like to thank Shri Sudhir Chandra Roy Chowdhury (Mayor of Calcutta), Shri J.P. Mitter, Barat-Law, Shri Naresh Nath Mukherjee, Mr. M. V. Gough~Govia (Deputy Mayor) and Shri Madhusudan Dey of Messrs Thacker, Spink & Co., Ltd., for their kind assistance.

SHAH NAWAZ KHAN.SARDUL SINGH
CAVEESHAR.LAKSHMI SEHGAL.MAHBOOB AHMED.DHANRAJ SHARMA.BIRENDRA N. DuTT.BELA MITRA.KALYAN KUMAR BOSS

My father, Janakinath Bose, had migrated to Orissa in the eighties of the last century and had settled down at Cuttack as a lawyer. There I was born on Saturday, the 23rd January, 1897. My father was descended from the Boses of Mahinagar, while my mother, Prabhabati (or rather Prabhavati) belonged to the family of the Dutts of Hatkhola. I was the sixth son and the ninth child of my parents.

In these days of rapid communication, a nights journey by train southwards along the eastern coast takes one from Calcutta to Cuttack and on the way there is neither adventure nor romance. But things were not quite the same sixty years ago. One had to go either by cart and encounter thieves and robbers on the road, or by sea and brave the wrath of the winds and the waves. Since it was safer to trust in God than in brother man, it was more common to travel by boat. Sea-going vessels would carry passengers up to Chandbali where transhipmcnt would take place and from Chandbali steamers would get to Cuttack through a number of rivers and canals. The description I used to hear from my mother since childhood of the rolling and pitching and the accompanying discomfort during the voyage would leave no desire in me to undergo such an experience. At a time when distances were long and journey by no means safe, my father must have had plenty of pluck to leave his village home and go far away in search of a career. Fortune favours the brave evenin civil life and, by the time I was born, my father had already made a position for himself and was almost at the top of the legal profession in his new domicile.

Though a comparatively small town with a population in the neighbourhood of 20,000, Cuttack1 had an importance of its own owing to a variety of factors. It had an unbroken tradition since the days of the early Hindu Kings of Kalinga. It was dc facto capital of Orissa which could boast of such a famous place of pilgrimage as Puri (or Jagannath) and such glorious artrclics as those of Konarak, Bhuvaneswar, and Udaigiri. It was the headquarters not only for the British administration in Orissa, but also for the numerous ruling chiefs in that province. Altogether, Cuttack afforded a healthy environment for a growing child, and it had some of the virtues of both city and country life.

Ours was not a rich, but what might be regarded as a wellto-do, middle-class family. Naturally, I had no personal experience of what want and poverty meant and had no occasion to develop those traits of selfishness, greed, and

1 Cuttack, under the Government of India Act, 1935, is the capital of the new province of Orissa. Formerly, till 1905, along with Bihar, it was a part of the Presidency of Bengal. Between 1905 and 1911 when Bengal was partitioned, West Bengal, Bihar and Orissa formed one province, while East Bengal and Assam formed another. After 1911 and till quite recently, Bihar and Orissa together formed one province. West and East Bengal have, since 1911, been re~united, while Assam and the Bengali speaking districts of Sylhct and Cachar have been constituted into a separate province.

the rest which are sometimes the unwelcome heritage of indigent circumstances in ones early life. At the same time, there was not that luxury and lavishness in our home which has been the ruin of so many promising but pampered young souls or has helped to foster a supereilious, highbrow mentality in them. In fact, considering their worldly means, my parents alwayserredand, I daresay, rightly tooon the side of simplicity in the upbringing of their children.

The earliest recollection I have of myself is that I used to feel like a thoroughly insignificant being. My parents awed me to a degree. My father usually had a cloak of reserve round him and kept his children at a distance. What with his professional work and what with his public duties, he did not have much time for his family. The time he could spare was naturally divided among his numerous sons and daughters. The youngest child did, of course, come in for an extra dose of fondling, but an addition to the family would soon rob it of its title to special favour. And for the grownups it was difficult to discern whom father loved more, so strictly impartial he appeared to be, whatever his inner feelings might have been. And my mother? Though she was more humane and it was not impossible at times to detect her bias, she was also held in awe by most of her children. No doubt she ruled the roost and, where family affairs were concerned, hers was usually the last word. She had a strong will, and, when one added to that a keen sense of reality and sound common-sense, it is easy to understand how she could dominate the domestic scene. In spite of all the respect I cherished for my parents since my early years, I did yearn for a more intimate contact with them and could not help envying those children who were lucky enough to be on friendly terms with their parents. This desire presumably arose out of a sensitive and emotional temperament.