Extract
from a Letter to His Brother1Sri Aurobindo
Autobiographical Notes
and Other Writings of Historical Interest
Part Two. Letters of Historical Interest
1. Letters on Personal, Practical and Political Matters (1890–1926)
Family Letters, 1890–1919
Extract
from a Letter to His Brother1
Only a short while ago I had a letter from you – I cannot lay my hands on the passage, but I remember it contained an unreserved condemnation of Hindu legend as trivial and insipid, a mass of crude and monstrous conceptions, a [lumber-room]2 of Hindu banalities. The main point of your indictment was that it had nothing in it simple, natural, passionate and human, that the characters were lifeless patterns of moral excellence.
I have been so long accustomed to regard your taste and judgment as sure and final that it is with some distrust I find myself differing from you. Will you permit me then to enter into some slight defence of what you have so emphatically condemned and explain why I venture to dedicate a poem on a Hindu subject, written in the Hindu spirit and constructed on Hindu principles of taste, style and management, to you who regard all these things as anathema maranatha? I am not attempting to convince you, only to justify, or at least define my own standpoint; perhaps also a little to reassure myself in the line of poetical art I have chosen.
The impression that Hindu Myth has made on you, is its
inevitable aspect to a taste nourished on the pure dew and honey of Hellenic
tradition; for the strong Greek sense of symmetry and finite beauty is in
conflict with the very spirit of Hinduism, which is a vast attempt of the human
intellect to surround the universe with itself, an immense measuring of itself
with the infinite and amorphous. Hellenism must necessarily see in the greater
part of Hindu imaginations and thoughts a mass of crude fancies equally removed
from the ideal and the real. But when it condemns all Hindu legend without
distinction, I believe it is acting from an instinct which is its defect,– the
necessary defect of its fine quality. For in order to preserve a pure, sensitive
and severe standard of taste and critical judgment, it is compelled to be
intolerant; to insist, that is, on its own limits and rule out all that exceeds
them, as monstrous and unbeautiful. It rejects that 
flexible sympathy based on curiosity of temperament, which attempts to project
itself into differing types as it meets them and so pass on through
ever-widening artistic experiences to its destined perfection. And it rejects it
because such catholicity would break the fine mould into which its own
temperament is cast. This is well; yet is there room in art and criticism for
that other, less fine but more many-sided, which makes possible new elements and
strong departures. Often as the romantic temperament stumbles and creates broken
and unsure work, sometimes it scores one of those signal triumphs which subject
new art forms to the service of poetry or open up new horizons to poetical
experience. What judgment would such a temperament, seeking its good where it
can find it, but not grossly indiscriminating, not ignobly satisfied, pronounce
on the Hindu legends?
I would carefully distinguish between two types of
myth, the religious-philosophical allegory and the genuine secular legend. The
former is beyond the pale of profitable argument. Created by the allegorical and
symbolising spirit of mediaeval Hinduism, the religious myths are a type of
poetry addressed to a peculiar mental constitution, and the sudden shock of the
bizarre which repels occidental imagination the moment it comes in contact with
Puranic literature, reveals to us where the line lies that must eternally divide
East from West. The difference is one of root-temperament and therefore
unbridgeable. There is the mental composition which has no facet towards
imaginative religion, and if it accepts religion at all, requires it to be
plain, precise and dogmatic; to such these allegories must always seem false in
art and barren in significance. And there is the mental composition in which a
strong metaphysical bent towards religion combines with an imaginative tendency
seeking symbol both as an atmosphere around religion, which would otherwise
dwell on too breathless mountaintops, and as a safeguard against the spirit of
dogma. These find in Hindu allegory a perpetual delight and refreshment; they
believe it to be powerful and penetrating, sometimes with an epical daring of
idea and an inspiration of searching appropriateness which not unoften dissolves
into a strange and curious beauty. The strangeness permeating these 
legends is a vital part of themselves, and to eliminate the bizarre
in them – bizarre to European notion, for to us they seem striking and natural –
would be to emasculate them of the most characteristic part of their strength.
Let us leave this type aside then as beyond the field of fruitful discussion.
There remain the secular legends; and it is true that a great number of them are intolerably puerile and grotesque. My point is that the puerility is no essential part of them but lies in their presentment, and that presentment again is characteristic of the Hindu spirit not in its best and most self-realising epochs. They were written in an age of decline, and their present form is the result of a literary accident. The Mahabharata of Vyasa, originally an epic of 24,000 verses, afterwards enlarged by a redacting poet, was finally submerged in a vast mass of inferior accretions, the work often of a tasteless age and unskilful hands. It is in this surface mass that the majority of the Hindu legends have floated down to our century. So preserved, it is not surprising that the old simple beauty of the ancient tales should have come to us marred and disfigured, as well as debased by association with later inventions which have no kernel of sweetness. And yet very simple and beautiful, in their peculiar Hindu type, were these old legends with infinite possibilities of sweetness and feeling, and in the hands of great artists have blossomed into dramas and epics of the most delicate tenderness or the most noble sublimity. One who glances at the dead and clumsy narrative of the Shacountala legend in the Mahabharata and reads after it Kalidasa’s masterpiece in which delicate dramatic art and gracious tenderness of feeling reach their climax, at once perceives how they vary with the hands which touch them.
But you are right. The Hindu myth has not the warm
passionate life of the Greek. The Hindu mind was too austere and idealistic to
be sufficiently sensitive to the rich poetical colouring inherent in crime and
sin and overpowering passion; an Oedipus or an Agamemnon stands therefore
outside the line of its creative faculty. Yet it had in revenge a power which
you will perhaps think no compensation at all, but which to a certain class of
minds, of whom I confess myself one, seems of a very 
real and distinct value. Inferior in warmth and colour and quick life and the
savour of earth to the Greek, they had a superior spiritual loveliness and
exaltation; not clothing the surface of the earth with imperishable beauty, they
search deeper into the white-hot core of things and in their cyclic orbit of
thought curve downward round the most hidden fountains of existence and upward
over the highest, almost invisible arches of ideal possibility. Let me touch the
subject a little more precisely. The difference between the Greek and Hindu
temperaments was that one was vital, the other supra-vital; the one physical,
the other metaphysical; the one sentient of sunlight as its natural atmosphere
and the bound of its joyous activity, the other regarding it as a golden veil
which hid from it beautiful and wonderful things for which it panted.3 The Greek aimed at limit and finite perfection, because he
felt vividly all our bounded existence; the Hindu mind, ranging into the
infinite tended to the enormous and moved habitually in the sublime. This is
poetically a dangerous tendency; finite beauty, symmetry and form are always
lovely, and Greek legend, even when touched by inferior poets, must always keep
something of its light and bloom and human grace or of its tragic human force.
But the infinite is not for all hands to meddle with; it submits only to the
compulsion of the mighty, and at the touch of an inferior mind recoils over the
boundary of the sublime into the grotesque. Hence the enormous difference of
level between different legends or the same legend in different hands,– the
sublimity or tenderness of the best, the banality of the worst, with little that
is mediocre and intermediate shading the contrast away. To take with a reverent
hand the old myths and cleanse them of soiling accretions, till they shine with
some of the antique strength, simplicity and solemn depth of beautiful meaning,
is an ambition which Hindu poets 
of today may
and do worthily cherish. To accomplish a similar duty in a foreign tongue is a
more perilous endeavour.
I have attempted in the following narrative to bring one of our old legends before the English public in a more attractive garb than could be cast over them by mere translation or by the too obvious handling of writers like Sir Edwin Arnold; – preserving its inner spirit and Hindu features, yet rejecting no device that might smooth away the sense of roughness and the bizarre which always haunts what is unfamiliar, and win for it the suffrages of a culture to which our mythological conventions are unknown and our canons of taste unacceptable. The attempt is necessarily beset with difficulties and pitfalls. If you think I have even in part succeeded, I shall be indeed gratified; if otherwise, I shall at least have the consolation of having failed where failure was more probable than success.
The story of Ruaru is told in the very latest
accretion-layer of the Mahabharata, in a bald and puerile narrative without
force, beauty or insight. Yet it is among the most significant and powerful in
idea of our legends; for it is rather an idea than a tale. Bhrigou, the
grandfather of Ruaru, is almost the most august and venerable name in Vedic
literature. Set there at the very threshold of Aryan history, he looms dim but
large out of the mists of an incalculable antiquity, while around him move great
shadows of unborn peoples and a tradition of huge half-discernible movements and
vague but colossal revolutions. In later story his issue form one of the most
sacred clans of Rishies, and Purshurama, the destroyer of princes, was of his
offspring. By the Titaness Puloma this mighty seer and patriarch, himself one of
the mind-children of Brahma had a son Chyavan – who inherited even from the womb
his father’s personality, greatness and ascetic energy. Chyavan too became an
instructor and former of historic minds and a father of civilization; Ayus was
among his pupils, the child of Pururavas by Urvasie and founder of the Lunar or
Ilian dynasty whose princes after the great civil wars of the Mahabharata became
Emperors of India. Chyavan’s son Pramati, by an Apsara or nymph of paradise,
begot a son named Ruaru, of whom this story is told. This Ruaru, later, 
became a great Rishi like his fathers, but in his youth he was
engrossed with his love for a beautiful girl whom he had made his wife, the
daughter of the Gundhurva King, Chitroruth, by the sky-nymph Menaca; an earlier
sister therefore of Shacountala. Their joy of union was not yet old when
Priyumvada perished, like Eurydice, by the fangs of a snake. Ruaru inconsolable
for her loss, wandered miserable among the forests that had been the shelter and
witnesses of their loves, consuming the universe with his grief, until the Gods
took pity on him and promised him his wife back, if he sacrificed for her half
his life. To this Ruaru gladly assented and, the price paid, was reunited with
his love.
Such is the story, divested of the subsequent puerile developments by which it is linked on to the Mahabharata. If we compare it with the kindred tale of Eurydice, the distinction I have sought to draw between the Hindu and Greek mythopoetic faculty, justifies itself with great force and clearness. The incidents of Orpheus’ descent into Hades, his conquering Death and Hell by his music and harping his love back to the sunlight, and the tragic loss of her at the moment of success through a too natural and beautiful human weakness, has infinite fancy, pathos, trembling human emotion. The Hindu tale, barren of this subtlety and variety is bare of incident and wanting in tragedy. It is merely a bare idea for a tale. Yet what an idea it supplies! How deep and searching is that thought of half the living man’s life demanded as the inexorable price for the restoration of his dead! How it seems to knock at the very doors of human destiny, and give us a gust of air from worlds beyond our own suggesting illimitable and unfathomable thoughts of our potentialities and limitations.
I have ventured in this poem to combine, as far as
might be, the two temperaments, the Greek pathetic and the Hindu mystic; yet I
have carefully preserved the essence of the Hindu spirit and the Hindu
mythological features. The essential idea of these Hindu legends, aiming, as
they do, straight and sheer at the sublime and ideal, gives the writer no option
but to attempt epic tone and form,– I speak of course of those which are not merely beautiful stories of domestic life. In the choice of an
epic setting I had the alternative of entirely Hellenising the myth or adopting
the method of Hindu Epic. I have preferred the course which I fear, will least
recommend itself to you. The true subject of Hindu epic is always a struggle
between two ideal forces universal and opposing, while the human and divine
actors, the Supreme Triad excepted, are pawns moved to and fro by immense
world-impulses which they express but cannot consciously guide. It is perhaps
the Olympian ideal in life struggling with the Titanic ideal, and then we have a
Ramaian. Or it may be the imperial ideal in government and society marshalling
the forces of order, self-subjection, self-effacement, justice, equality,
against the aristocratic ideal, with self-will, violence, independence,
self-assertion, feudal loyalty, the sway of the sword and the right of the
stronger at its back; this is the key of the Mahabharata. Or it is again, as in
the tale of Savitrie, the passion of a single woman in its dreadful silence and
strength pitted against Death, the divorcer of souls. Even in a purely domestic
tale like the Romance of Nul, the central idea is that of the Spirit of
Degeneracy, the genius of the Iron age, overpowered by a steadfast conjugal
love. Similarly, in this story of Ruaru and Priyumvada the great Spirits who
preside over Love and Death, Cama and Yama, are the real actors and give its
name to the poem.
The second essential feature of the Hindu epic model is
one which you have selected for especial condemnation and yet I have chosen to
adhere to it in its entirety. The characters of Hindu legend are, you say,
lifeless patterns of moral excellence. Let me again distinguish. The greater
figures of our epics are ideals, but ideals of wickedness as well as virtue and
also of mixed characters which are not precisely either vicious or virtuous.
They are, that is to say, ideal presentments of character-types. This also
arises from the tendency of the Hindu creative mind to look behind the actors at
tendencies, inspirations, ideals. Yet are these great figures, are Rama, Sita,
Savitrie, merely patterns of moral excellence? I who have read their tale in the
swift and mighty language of Valmekie and Vyasa and thrilled with their joys and their sorrows, cannot persuade myself that it is so.
Surely Savitrie that strong silent heart, with her powerful and subtly-indicated
personality, has both life and charm; surely Rama puts too much divine fire into
all he does to be a dead thing,– Sita is too gracious and sweet, too full of
human lovingness and lovableness, of womanly weakness and womanly strength!
Ruaru and Priyumvada are also types and ideals; love in them, such is the idea,
finds not only its crowning exaltation but that perfect idea of itself of
which every existing love is a partial and not quite successful manifestation.
Ideal love is a triune energy, neither a mere sensual impulse, nor mere
emotional nor mere spiritual. These may exist, but they are not love. By itself
the sensual is only an animal need, the emotional a passing mood, the spiritual
a religious aspiration which has lost its way. Yet all these are necessary
elements of the highest passion. Sense impulse is as necessary to it as the warm
earth-matter at its root to the tree, emotion as the air which consents with its
life, spiritual aspiration as the light and the rain from heaven which prevent
it from withering. My conception being an ideal struggle between love and death,
two things are needed to give it poetical form, an adequate picture of love and
adequate image of Death. The love pictured must be on the ideal plane, and touch
therefore the farthest limit of strength in each of its three directions. The
sensual must be emphasised to give it firm root and basis, the emotional to
impart to it life, the spiritual to prolong it into infinite permanence. And if
at their limits of extension the three meet and harmonise, if they are not
triple but triune, then is that love a perfect love and the picture of it a
perfect picture. Such at least is the conception of the poem; whether I have
contrived even faintly to execute it, do you judge.
But when Hindu canons of taste, principles of epic
writing and types of thought and character are assimilated there are still
serious difficulties in Englishing a Hindu legend. There is the danger of
raising around the subject a jungle of uncouth words and unfamiliar allusions
impenetrable to English readers. Those who have hitherto made the attempt, have
succumbed to the passion for “local colour” or for a liberal peppering of
Sanscrit words all over their verses, thus
forming a constant stumbling-block and a source of irritation to the reader.
Only so much local colour is admissible as comes naturally and unforced by the
very nature of the subject; and for the introduction of a foreign word into
poetry the one valid excuse is the entire absence of a fairly corresponding word
or phrase in the language itself. Yet a too frequent resort to this plea shows
either a laziness in invention or an unseasonable learning. There are very few
Sanscrit words or ideas, not of the technical kind, which do not admit of being
approximately conveyed in English by direct rendering or by a little management,
or, at the worst, by coining a word which, if not precisely significant of the
original, will create some kindred association in the mind of an English reader.
A slight inexactness is better than a laborious pedantry. I have therefore
striven to avoid all that would be unnecessarily local and pedantic, even to the
extent of occasionally using a Greek expression such as Hades for the lord of
the underworld. I believe such uses to be legitimate, since they bring the poem
nearer home to the imagination of the reader. On the other hand, there are some
words one is loth to part with. I have myself been unable or unwilling to
sacrifice such Indianisms as Rishi; Naga, for the snake-gods who inhabit the
nether-world; Uswuttha, for the sacred fig-tree; chompuc (but this has been made
familiar by Shelley’s exquisite lyric); coil or Kokil, for the Indian cuckoo;
and names like Dhurma (Law, Religion, Rule of Nature) and Critanta, the ender,
for Yama, the Indian Hades. These, I think, are not more than a fairly patient
reader may bear with. Mythological allusions, the indispensable setting of a
Hindu legend, have been introduced sparingly, and all but one or two will
explain themselves to a reader of sympathetic intelligence and some experience
in poetry.
Yet are they, in some number, indispensable. The
surroundings and epic machinery must necessarily be the ordinary Hindu
surroundings and machinery. Properly treated, I do not think these are wanting
in power and beauty of poetic suggestion. Ruaru, the grandson of Bhrigou, takes
us back to the very beginnings of Aryan civilisation when our race dwelt and
warred 
and sang within the frontier of the five
rivers, Iravatie, Chundrobhaga, Shotodrou, Bitosta and Bipasha, and our Bengal
was but a mother of wild beasts, clothed in the sombre mystery of virgin forests
and gigantic rivers and with no human inhabitants save a few savage tribes, the
scattered beginnings of nations. Accordingly the story is set in times when
earth was yet new to her children, and the race was being created by princes
like Pururavas and patriarchal sages or Rishies like Bhrigou, Brihuspati,
Gautama. The Rishi was in that age the head of the human world. He was at once
sage, poet, priest, scientist, prophet, educator, scholar and legislator. He
composed a song, and it became one of the sacred hymns of the people; he emerged
from rapt communion with God to utter some puissant sentence, which in after
ages became the germ of mighty philosophies; he conducted a sacrifice, and kings
and peoples rose on its seven flaming tongues to wealth and greatness; he
formulated an observant aphorism, and it was made the foundation of some future
science, ethical, practical or physical; he gave a decision in a dispute and his
verdict was seed of a great code or legislative theory. In Himalayan forests or
by the confluence of great rivers he lived as the centre of a patriarchal family
whose link was thought-interchange and not blood-relationship, bright-eyed
children of sages, heroic striplings, earnest pursuers of knowledge, destined to
become themselves great Rishies or renowned leaders of thought and action. He
himself was the master of all learning and all arts and all sciences. The
Rishies won their knowledge by meditation working through inspiration to
intuition. Austere concentration of the faculties stilled the waywardness of the
reason and set free for its work the inner, unerring vision which is above
reason, as reason is itself above sight; this again worked by intuitive flashes,
one inspired stroke of insight quivering out close upon the other, till the
whole formed a logical chain; yet a logic not coldly thought out nor the logic
of argument but the logic of continuous and consistent inspiration. Those who
sought the Eternal through physical austerities, such as the dwelling between
five fires (one fire on each side and the noonday sun overhead) or lying for days on a bed of swordpoints, or Yoga processes based on an advanced
physical science, belonged to a later day. The Rishies were inspired thinkers,
not working through deductive reason or any physical process of sense-subdual.
The energy of their personalities was colossal; wrestling in fierce meditation
with God, they had become masters of incalculable spiritual energies, so that
their anger could blast peoples and even the world was in danger when they
opened their lips to utter a curse. This energy was by the principle of heredity
transmitted, at least in the form of a latent and educable force, to their
offspring. Afterwards as the vigour of the race exhausted itself, the inner fire
dwindled and waned. But at first even the unborn child was divine. When Chyavan
was in the womb, a Titan to whom his mother Puloma had been betrothed before she
was given to Bhrigou, attempted to carry off his lost love in the absence of the
Rishi. It is told that the child in the womb felt the affront and issued from
his mother burning with such a fire of inherited divinity that the Titan
ravisher fell blasted by the wrath of an infant. For the Rishies were not
passionless. They were prone to anger and swift to love. In their pride of life
and genius they indulged their yearnings for beauty, wedding the daughters of
Titans or mingling with nymphs of Paradise in the august solitudes of hills and
forests. From these were born those ancient and sacred clans of a prehistoric
antiquity, Barghoves, Barhaspaths, Gautamas, Kasyapas, into which the
descendants of the Aryan are to this day divided. Thus has India deified the
great men who gave her civilisation.
On earth the Rishies, in heaven the Gods. These were
great and shining beings who preserved the established cosmos against the
Asuras, or Titans, spirits of disorder between whom and the Hindu Olympians
there was ever warfare. Yet their hostility did not preclude occasional unions.
Sachi herself, the Queen of Heaven, was a Titaness, daughter of the Asura,
Puloman; Yayati, ally of the Gods, took to himself a Daitya maiden Surmishtha,
child of imperial Vrishopurvan (for the Asuras or Daityas, on the
[terrestrial]4 plane, signified the
adversaries of Aryan civilisation), and
Bhrigou’s wife, Puloma, was of the Titan blood. Chief of the Gods were Indra,
King and Thunderer, who came down when men sacrificed and drank the Soma wine of
the offering; Vaiou, the Wind; Agni, who is Hutaashon, devourer of the
sacrifice, the spiritual energy of Fire; Varouna, the prince of the seas;
Critanta, Death, the ender, who was called also Yama (Government) or Dhurma
(Law) because from him are all order and stability, whether material or moral.
And there were subtler presences; Cama, also named Modon or Monmuth, the God of
desire, who rode on the parrot and carried five flowery arrows and a bow-string
of linked honey-bees; his wife, Ruthie, the golden-limbed spirit of delight;
Saruswatie, the Hindu Muse, who is also Vach or Word, the primal goddess – she
is the unexpressed idea of existence which by her expression takes visible form
and being; for the word is prior to and more real, because more spiritual, than
the thing it expresses; she is the daughter of Brahma and has inherited the
creative power of her father, the wife of Vishnou and shares the preservative
energy of her husband; Vasuqie, also, and Seshanaga, the great serpent with his
hosts, whose name means finiteness and who represents Time and Space; he upholds
the world on his hundred colossal hoods and is the couch of the Supreme who is
Existence. There were also the angels who were a little less than the Gods;
Yukshas, the Faery attendants of Kuvere, lord of wealth, who protect hoards and
treasures and dwell in Ullaca, the city of beauty,
the hills of mist
Golden, the dwelling place of Faery kings,
And mansions by unearthly moonlight kissed: –
For one dwells there whose brow with the young moon
Lightens as with a marvellous amethyst –
Ullaca, city of beauty, where no thought enters but
that of love, no age but that of youth, no season but that of flowers. Then
there are the Gundhurvas, beautiful, brave and melodious beings, the artists,
musicians, poets and shining warriors of heaven; Kinnaries, Centauresses of sky
and hill with voices of Siren melody; Opsaras, sky-nymphs, children of Ocean,
who dwell in Heaven, its songstresses and
daughters of joy, and who often mingle in love with mortals. Nor must we forget
our own mother, Ganges, the triple and mystic river, who is Mundaqinie, Ganges
of the Gods, in heaven, Bhagirathie or Jahnavie, Ganges of men, on earth, and
Boithorinie or coiling Bhogavatie, Ganges of the dead, in Patala, the grey
under-world and kingdom of serpents, and in the sombre dominions of Yama.
Saraswatie, namesake and shadow of the Muse, preceded her in her sacredness; but
the banks of those once pure waters have long passed to the barbarian and been
denounced as unclean and uninhabitable to our race, while the deity has passed
to that other mysterious underground stream which joins Ganges and Yamouna in
their tryst at Proyaga.
Are there not here sufficient features of poetical promise, sufficient materials of beauty for the artist to weave into immortal visions? I would gladly think that there are, that I am not cheating myself with delusions when I seem to find in this yet untrodden path,
via . . . qua me quoque possim
Tollere humo victorque virum volitare per ora.
Granted, you will say, but still Quorsum haec putida
tendunt? or how does it explain the dedication to me of a style of work at
entire variance with my own tastes and preferences? But the value of a gift
depends on the spirit of the giver rather than on its own suitability to the
recipient. Will you accept this poem as part-payment of a deep intellectual debt
I have been long owing to you? Unknown to yourself, you taught and encouraged me
from my childhood to be a poet. From your sun my farthing rush-light was
kindled, and it was in your path that I long strove to guide my uncertain and
faltering footsteps. If I have now in the inevitable development of an
independent temperament in independent surroundings departed from your guidance
and entered into a path, perhaps thornier and more rugged, but my own, it does
not lessen the obligation of that first light and example. It is my hope that in
the enduring fame which your calmer and more luminous genius must one day bring you, on a distant verge of the skies and lower plane of
planetary existence, some ray of my name may survive and it be thought no injury
to your memory that the first considerable effort of my powers was dedicated to
you.
1 1899–1900. Sri Aurobindo made a typed copy of these pages from a letter written to his second brother Manmohan (1869–1924). His intention was to use them as an introduction to his poem Love and Death, written in 1899. At the top of the transcript he typed “To my Brother”. This apparently was meant to be the dedication of the poem and not the salutation of the letter. When he was preparing Love and Death for publication in 1920, he dropped both the dedication and the introduction. The first of the two Latin quotations, from Virgil’s Georgics (3.8–9), may be translated: “A path . . . by which I too may lift me from the dust, and float triumphant through the mouths of men”. The second, from Horace’s Satires (2.7.21, with a change in the mood of the verb), means “whither does such wretched stuff tend”.
2 MS (typed) lumber-loom
3 O fostering Sun, who hast hidden the face of Truth with thy golden shield, displace that splendid veil from the vision of the righteous man, O Sun.{{1}}O fosterer, O solitary traveller, O Sun, O Master of Death, O child of God, dissipate thy beams, gather inward thy light; so shall I behold that splendour, thy goodliest form of all. For the Spirit who is there and there, He am I.{{3}}The Isha Upanishad.
4 MS (typed) territorial