There was, in that ancient city of Prayag, a young Indian lady, of noble constitution, fearless from hair-parting to toe ring, bent on opening the Congress office, locked and sealed by the British government. (The Congress office, one should not forget, was at that time, our temporary temple). The lady’s name was Indira Priyadarshini—The Moon (Goddess) of Compassionate Presence. The populace had gathered to be on the spot, while this sacred event would occur. When the ritual opening of the portal will happen, eternity would be the shining peace, on the other side of man. For, remember, for us Indians, all men are more than men, and therefore all acts are holy. And Indira Priyadarshini was holy, for she came from a lineage of ancient mould—her father fair and fierce, her mother gentle and saintly, for, had not the people said, she was believed to be a goddess in her past life, who, for a minor misdemeanour, was born again for India to be free. Indira’s husband, Feroze, a young Parsi, who loved the common people, was also going to be at the chowk. There was, in the situation something which portended an excessive event. A rain of flowers may fall on the crowd or the conch of war blow. Were the gods playing a game, who could say?

And Mother Ganga flowed far, far, mingling her triple tresses, there, in the plain below.

I had just come to Allahabad to join this holy army. With open heads of black machine guns before the railway engines, and gagged-mouthed machine guns at the rear, the train moved stealthily, stopping at fearful stations, to finally reach Allahabad from Lucknow, in twenty-two long hours. I was to stay at the station waiting room, second class, for a comrade to find me and fare me, to wheresoever I had to go. Everybody seemed suspicious of everybody else. I waited two days thus, till the said man, in red turban and dark achkan, looking like a high court clerk, found me and took me by filthy lanes, through sudden open gates, passing through kitchen backyards and hugging black walls, we came to a middle-class home, where Feroze Gandhi sat in conference. They were talking of gathering volunteers, and the blowing up of bridges. I had not long ago come up from Sevagram, where Gandhiji had said, to a few of us: ‘This time were it blood—khoon—the British will have to go.’ And thus later came ‘Quit India’ for the British, and for us, the absolute ‘Do or Die’.