Luxury was a thing almost unknown in the days of my infancy. The standard of living was then， as a whole， much more simple than it is now. Apart from that， the children of our household were entirely free from the fuss of being too much looked after. The fact is that， while the process of looking after may be an occasional treat for the guardians， to the children it is always an unmitigated nuisance.
　　We used to be under the rule of the servants. To save themselves trouble they had almost suppressed our right of free movement. But the freedom of not being petted made up even for the harshness of this bondage， for our minds were left clear of the toils of constant coddling， pampering and dressing-up.
　　Our food had nothing to do with delicacies. A list of our articles of clothing would only invite the modern boy’s scorn. On no pretext did we wear socks or shoes till we had passed our tenth year. In the cold weather a second cotton tunic over the first one sufficed. It never entered our heads to consider ourselves illoff for that reason. It was only when old Niyamat， the tailor， would forget to put a pocket into one of our tunics that we complained， for no boy has yet been born so poor as not to have the wherewithal to stuff his pockets； nor， by a merciful dispensation of providence， is there much difference between the wealth of boys of rich and of poor parentage. We used to have a pair of slippers each， but not always where we had our feet. Our habit of kicking the slippers on ahead， and catching them up again， made them work none the less hard， through effectually defeating at every step the reason of their being.
　　Our elders were in every way at a great distance from us， in their dress and food， living and doing， conversation and amusement. We caught glimpses of these， but they were beyond our reach. Elders have become cheap to modern children； they are too readily accessible， and so are all objects of desire. Nothing ever came so easily to us. Many a trivial thing was for us a rarity， and we lived mostly in the hope of attaining， when we were old enough， the things which the distant future held in trust for us. The result was that what little we did get we enjoyed to the utmost； from skin to core nothing was thrown away. The modern child of a well-to-do family nibbles at only half the things he gets； the greater part of his world is wasted on him. 　　Our days were spent in the servants’ quarters in the south-east corner of the outer apartments. One of our servants was Shyam， a dark chubby boy with curly locks， hailing from the District of Khulna. He would put me into a selected spot and， tracing a chalk line all round， warn me with solemn face and uplifted finger of the perils of transgressing this ring. Whether the threatened danger was material or spiritual I never fully understood， but a great fear used to possess me. I had read in the Ramayana of the tribulations of Sita for having left the ring drawn by Lakshman， so it was not possible for me to be sceptical of its potency.
　　Just below the window of this room was a tank with a flight of masonry steps leading down into the water； on its west bank， along the garden wall， an immense banyan tree； to the south a fringe of cocoanut palms. Ringed round as I was near this window I would spend the whole day peering through the drawn Venetian shutters， gazing and gazing on this scene as on a picture book. From early morning our neighbours would drop in one by one to have their bath. I knew the time for each one to arrive. I was familiar with the peculiarities of each one’s toilet. One would stop up his ears with his fingers as he took his regulation number of dips， after which he would depart. Another would not venture on a complete immersion but be content with only squeezing his wet towel repeatedly over his head. A third would carefully drive the surface impurities away from him with a rapid play of his arms， and then on a sudden impulse take his plunge. There was one who jumped in from the top steps without any preliminaries at all. Another would walk slowly in， step by step， muttering his morning prayers the while. One was always in a hurry， hastening home as soon as he was through with his dip. Another was in no sort of hurry at all， taking his bath leisurely， followed with a good rubdown， and a change from wet bathing clothes into clean ones， including a careful adjustment of the folds of his waist cloth， ending with a turn or two in the outer① garden， and the gathering of flowers， with which he would finally saunter slowly homewards， radiating the cool comfort of his refreshed body， as he went. This would go on till it was past noon. Then the bathing places would be deserted and become silent. Only the ducks remained， paddling about after water snails， or busy preening their feathers， the live-long day.
　　When solitude thus reigned over the water， my whole attention would be drawn to the shadows under the banyan tree. Some of its aerial roots， creeping down along its trunk， had formed a dark complication of coils at its base. It seemed as if into this mysterious region the laws of the universe had not found entrance； as if some old-world dream-land had escaped the divine vigilance and lingered on into the light of modern day. Whom I used to see there， and what those beings did， it is not possible to express in intelligible language. It was about this banyan tree that I wrote later ： 　　With tangled roots hanging down from your branches， O ancient banyan tree，
　　You stand still day and night， like an ascetic at his penances，
　　Do you ever remember the child whose fancy played with your shadows？
　　Alas！ That banyan tree is no more， nor the piece of water which served to mirror the majestic forest-lord！ Many of those who used to bathe there have also followed into oblivion the shade of the banyan tree. And that boy， grown older， is counting the alternations of light and darkness which penetrate the complexities with which the roots he has thrown off on all sides have encircled him.
　　Going out of the house was forbidden to us， in fact we had not even the freedom of all its parts. We perforce took our peeps at nature from behind the barriers. Beyond my reach there was this limitless thing called the Outside， of which flashes and sounds and scents used momentarily to come and touch me through its interstices. It seemed to want to play with me through the bars with so many gestures. But it was free and I was bound——there was no way of meeting. So the attraction was all the stronger. The chalk line has been wiped away today， but the confining ring is still there. The distant is just as distant， the outside is still beyond me；and I am reminded of the poem I wrote when I was older：
　　The tame bird was in a cage， the free bird was in the forest，
　　They met when the time came， it was a decree of fate.
　　The free bird cries， "O my love， let us fly to wood."
　　The cage bird whispers， "Come hither， let us both live in the cage."
　　Says the free bird， "Among bars， where is there room to spread one’s wings？"
　　"Alas，" cries the cage bird， "I should not know where to sit perched in the sky."
　　The parapets of our terraced roofs were higher than my head. When I had grown taller； when the tyranny of the servants had relaxed； when， with the coming of a newly married bride into the house， I had achieved some recognition as a companion of her leisure， then did I sometimes come up to the terrace in the middle of the day. By that time everybody in the house would have finished their meal； there would be an interval in the business of the household； over the inner apartments would rest the quiet of the midday siesta； the wet bathing clothes would be hanging over the parapets to dry； the crows would be picking at the leavings thrown on the refuse heap at the corner of the yard； in the solitude of that interval the caged bird would， through the gaps in the parapet， commune bill to bill with the free bird！