This paper has three basic objectives: First, to call attention to two little-known autobiographical sketches written by Sanskrit pandits in late nineteenth-century Bengal; second, to suggest something about the style and content of these documents; and third, to briefly suggest how we might see in these sketches two different responses to the profound socio-economic changes that took place in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Bengal.1 Very briefly, these two responses represent contrasting modes of what might be called 'intentional self-construction' and 'nostalgic recollection'--modes I would like to evoke using the images of the milestone and the grindstone, respectively. I shall explain what I mean by these terms as we proceed.

The first of the two autobiographical sketches was written by the renowned social reformer, educator, and author, PanditIsvaracandra Vidyasagar. Vidyasagar was born in 1820 and for half a century he was to be one of the most prominent figures among Calcutta's intelligentsia. In fact, his life is simply too rich and multi-faceted to summarize here. Suffice it to say that even today his name is a household word in Bengal, where he is credited not only with setting new standards of Bengali prose diction, but more profoundly with exemplifying the ideals of broad-minded rationalism, humanist compassion, and uncompromising personal integrity. As a reformer he is remembered for spear-heading campaigns in support of Hindu widow marriage and against high-caste polygamy, the first of which won the legislative approval of the British in 1856. As an educator he is remembered not only as the first Principal of the Government Sanskrit College--an institution he did much to reform--but also as the author of a great many children's school books. Vidyasagar is a man whose legacy is as enduring as it is complex. When he died in 1891, Vidyasagar left behind an apparently unfinished manuscript of his autobiography. That same year his son published the manuscript under the title, Vidyasagar-carit (svaracit), or "The Autobiography of Vidyasagar."2 The piece is remarkable in at least three respects. To begin with, the autobiography is little more than a sketch of Vidyasagar's childhood; in fact, it only takes us as far as his eighth year--long before he received the title by which he is now so widely known. Secondly, the piece seems more concerned to dwell on the history and legacy of Vidyasagar's forebears than it does to explore his own childhood. Finally, when Vidyasagar does reflect on his childhood it is not to recall what it was like growing up in the village; rather he seems most interested in sketching the circumstances surrounding his coming to Calcutta to study. I shall return to this below.

The second autobiographical sketch was written by Pandit Girisacandra Vidyaratna, a friend and colleague of Vidyasagar. Unlike Vidyasagar, Girisacandra--who lived from 1822 to 1903--was never widely known. While he also worked at the Government Sanskrit College and assisted Vidyasagar in his career as a publisher, Girisacandra seems neither to have been drawn into the vortex of reform debate nor to have been driven to earn a reputation as an author. Nevertheless, in 1892 he was urged by his son, PanditHariscandra Kabiratna, to write down the story of his life.3 Girisacandra complied with the request, but only in part. He composed a brief chapter on his childhood, but would go no further. When his son pressed him for more, Girisacandra replied: "I will not write about that; if it seems necessary, you write it." At first, his son claims he was unable to understand such thinking. Then he admits that it dawned on him what his father was saying; as Hariscandra tells us, "By writing of his adult life and latter years my father would have been violating the spirit of Manu's great injunction that one should not boast after doing a good deed [that is, na dattva parikartayet; Manu 4.236]. This explains why my father had no desire to narrate the remainder of his life."4

Like Vidyasagar, then, Girisacandra gives us only the briefest of memoires that brings us no further than his twentieth year. A second similarity to Vidyasagar's autobiography may be noticed in the fact that both men devote a great deal of attention their Brahman forebears. But finally--and for me most interestingly--while Vidyasagar's memories seem to be driven by the sense of his discovery in Calcutta of a bright and promising future, Girisacandra's memories seem continually to coil back around his village origins. This lends to Girisacandra's work a profound sense of loss, which contrasts markedly with the hopeful tone of Vidyasagar's sketch.

I am fascinated by these dynamics of memory, especially by what appears to be a contrast between self-construction and nostalgia. In the time remaining, I would like to explore two examples of the way this contrast is manifested. Each case should give us some sense as well for how these pandits viewed the socio-economic changes taking place around them.

My first example has to do with the way each pandittreats the subject of his Brahman ancestry. Once again we are initially struck by the similarities in their stories, since both men belonged to the highest ranks of Kulin Brahman society, and both used their stories to evoke the glory of their ancestors.5 However, having said this, we must say that the reasoning behind such evocations appears to be quite different in each case. Vidyasagar's goal was to demonstrate in an indirect fashion the bona fides of his ancestors as Brahmans and scholars, because this amounted to a demonstration of his own authenticity as a Brahman. The logic of such a strategy becomes clear when we recall that during much of his life Vidyasagar was engaged in bitter polemics with other Brahmans, who frequently called his credentials into question. The ability to establish his wisdom and integrity as a Brahman would have answered such charges, thereby bolstering his status as a reformer.6

Girisacandra, by contrast, recalls the world of his ancestors not so much to justify his status as to satisfy an emotional need to dwell upon the losses suffered by his community--losses inflicted by natural disaster and the disruptive forces of colonial rule. Thus, in Girisacandra's work we are transported back to the world of his ancestors to revel, as it were, in its humble accents. However, our revelry has a bittersweet quality, because we must recognize with Girisacandra that his ancestor's world has passed away. Thus despite their similar social status and personal histories, we find that each man tells his story in a unique mode. If Vidyasagar's sketch amounts to a case of 'intentional self-construction,' then Girisacandra's represents one of 'nostalgic recollection.'

For another example of the way this contrast becomes apparent, we may again select a theme that on the surface appears to unite the two sketches: the theme of the transition from rural to urban life. Not surprisingly, both men recount the circumstances that brought them from their village homes to Calcutta--a migration fraught with physical, emotional, and economic challenges. Once again, the stories are very similar. Both men were eldest sons in families with strong traditions of Sanskrit learning.7 Both were brought to the colonial metropolis at the age of eight by fathers who had high hopes--if few concrete plans--or their boys' futures. In both cases, too, life in the city meant daily struggle and genuine hardship for father and son alike. The city was crowded and dirty. Just staying healthy was a challenge, let alone finding a place to live and a job to support themselves and their distant families. The final significant similarity is that both boys were able to gain admission to the then new Sanskrit College (established by the British in 1824). For both young men this educational opportunity--made possible by meager scholarships--promised future employment and prosperity.

However, once again we notice important differences in the way Vidyasagar and Girisacandra viewed this period of transition and change. Stylistically, Vidyasagar's autobiography moves along with the force of progressive motion. There is to his work, if not a purely linear structure, certainly a more linear 'feel' or quality; readers have little doubt they are travelling from a troubled present toward a promising future. Even though the boy experiences significant hardships along the way, one senses that the future holds hope. One concrete way this message is conveyed is through a vignette about some milestones.

I have in mind the story of Vidyasagar's first trip to the city, when the eight-year old boy travelled with his father and village schoolmaster. As they walked the last stretch of the journey, the boy noticed the milestones by the side of the road. Curious about what he called the 'English' numerals, he bragged to his father and teacher that he would learn them. His father helped him with each new number as they came to a new milestone. But then, to test the boy, his father deliberately let a milestone go by unnoticed. When the next marker appeared he asked his son to read the number. The boy read it correctly, thereby proving he had in fact learned the numbers and was not just following a rote sequence. The way Vidyasagar concludes this vignette leaves us in little doubt that he saw it as proof of the sort of ingenuity and intellect that would lead him to success in later life. He tells us his schoolmaster took him by the chin and said,

"Well done, young man, well done." He blessed me repeatedly and then said to my father, "Sir, you should see to it that Isvar gets an education. Provided he survives, he may become a man." And when I saw how pleased they all were with my examination, I was equally delighted.8

That Vidyasagar saw this an important proof of the his prospects is suggested by the fact that he tells us his father told the same story to his friends in the city. They naturally urged him to send the boy to one of the city's best schools.9

I call this the 'milestone' effect, and it may be contrasted with the 'grindstone' effect one finds in Girisacandra's story. The grindstone I have in mind is called vasanavasa in Bengali. It is a small stone slab that is used daily to prepare spices. As a kitchen item, it is closely connected to the practical and symbolic core of the village home. It is a suitable emblem for Girisacandra's narrative precisely because his sketch continually spirals back to his hearth and home. Stylistically, this lends to Girisacandra's work a disjointed character. Descriptions of urban and village life, marriage customs and village events, seem to get tangled up in confusing ways, and leaps in chronology are not always clear. At one level this simply confirms that Girisacandra was not a prose stylist like Vidyasagar. However, there may be another reason for this apparent confusion.

Perhaps the twists and involutions of Girisacandra's narrative are a function of his nostalgia. It is as if whenever he finds his life taking him away from his rural home, he returns to reflect upon, or bask in, the rhythms of village life. Why else should he spend so much time in his memoires--at least one quarter of the work--describing the rituals of cooking, the layout of his family's kitchen, and his young wife's skill at household chores? We could say that he had the historian's eye for detail. However, we might also simply say that these are the things he remembers most fondly. These seemingly mundane realia are in fact symbolic of his deepest sense of identity. Ronald Inden and Ralph Nicholas have pointed out the symbolic importance of the kitchen as the focus for preserving the identity of the Bengali family.10 Here, in the cooking and exchanging of food, are enacted and reinforced the ties that bind the family together. Seen from this perspective, Girisacandra's spiralling returns to his village home serve to remind us of an important--if increasingly attenuated--dimension of his life.

This interpretation helps us make sense of some other differences between the two autobiographies. For instance, Vidyasagar tells us that among his father's few possessions while living in the city were a brass plate and water-pot (thala and ghati). When money ran out and his father was hard-pressed to feed himself from day to day, he had been tempted to try selling the plate to make money. In the end he was unable to do so, because no shopkeeper would buy such items from a Bengali, for fear that he would be charged by the police with accepting stolen property. However, we may presume that had Vidyasagar's father been successful in selling the plate, the water pot would have soon followed--despite its greater ritual significance. By contrast, Girisacandra (who was certainly no better off financially) lived in fear that his water pot (ghati) might be stolen while he was off at school. For him the water pot was not simply a utensil, it was a symbolic link with his family and his past.

We notice a similar pattern with respect to the authors's memories of marriage. Vidyasagar never mentions his marriage. Girisacandra, on the other hand, not only describes the arrangements for his wedding, but also offers a loving portrait of his industrious and clever wife. When he describes how hard it was to be away from her in Calcutta, we sense the emotional impact of the socio-economic changes that forced them to live apart:

Every week or so I would get home for a day and on those days she would race through her housework in order to come to bed with me. Unbeknownst to us the night would give way to morning as we stayed up talking. The next day she could hardly carry out her chores for want of rest. My mother would scold my wife severely for this and my wife would be greatly ashamed. Saddened by her separation from her husband and scolded by her mother-in- law, she struggled through the days.

For my part, I would rise early and walk the twelve miles to Calcutta. What with my sorrow over leaving my wife and the effort of walking, it was a difficult trip. As soon as I reached Calcutta I would wash the dust from my feet and light the cooking fire. If the wood was dry cooking went quickly. But if it was moist I would sit there in the smoke crying, longing to be with my wife. Thinking it was the smoke that made me cry, my relations never grasped the real reason . . . As soon as one vacation was over, my wife and I both passed our days wondering, "When will the next vacation be?"11

We can hardly fail to be moved by the trials of a separation imposed on the young couple by the demands of surviving in the colonial world. Indeed, the contrast between the lonely child in Calcutta trying to cook with damp firewood and the husband reunited with his wife in the village, serves to heighten our sense of the family hearth as the symbolic center of Girisacandra's life.

Such pathos is augmented by the fact that Girisacandra chooses to conclude his reminiscences with the event of his father's death. Not only was the family too poor for Girisacandra to arrange for anything but the humblest of funerals, his father's death also served to be the final blow severing him from the village. Shortly thereafter he arranged to bring his immediate family to the city to live, thereby irreversibly changing the texture of their lives. Writing at the age of seventy and in poor health, Girisacandra looked back on his village origins and all he could say was, "Now . . . I am deprived of such pleasures."12

By way of contrast, as Vidyasagar's memoires wind to a close we witness his father debating whether to send the boy to an English-medium college or the Sanskrit College. In the very last sentence we learn that it is to be the latter. Considering how centrally the Sanskrit College was to figure in his later career this news comes to us pregnant with expectation and hope. Even though this is the end of the narrative, the narrator's silence is thus not one of defeat; rather, we can almost hear Vidyasagar drawing a deep breath as if to launch into the narration of his subsequent career. In Vidyasagar's eyes, his father's decision was thus one of those significant milestones that served to chart his trajectory toward success.

On that memorable first trip to the city, when he first spotted the milestones beside the road, the young Vidyasagar had asked his father why someone had buried grindstones in the dirt. Here, in other words, was a boy whose experience thus far extended no further than the village hearth. However, the boy's father had been to the city and knew what these stones were. Once Vidyasagar learned from his father that these were not grindstones but milestones, his life was forever changed. He took that new knowledge and ran with it, using it to create a career out of the disjunctions of colonial upheaval.13 For Girisacandra, on the other hand, a grindstone was always a grindstone. Even after his life, too, had been changed by the urban, colonial milieu, the symbolic pull of the grindstone continued to shape his memories of village life.

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