In the bottom of my heart there was a devout wish to substitute
myself for that fortunate wood-gatherer of seven years old. The
night was resonant with the patter of rain. The earthen lamp by
my bedside was burning low. My grandmother's voice droned on as she
told the story. And all these things served to create in a corner of my
credulous heart the belief that I had been gathering sticks in the dawn
of some indefinite time in the kingdom of some unknown king, and in a
moment garlands had been exchanged between me and the princess,
beautiful as the Goddess of Grace. She had a gold band on her hair and
gold earrings in her ears. She bad a necklace and bracelets of gold,
and a golden waist-chain round her waist, and a pair of golden anklets
tinkled above her feet.

If my grandmother were an author how many explanations she would have to
offer for this little story! First of all, every one would ask why the
king remained twelve years in the forest? Secondly, why should the
king's daughter remain unmarried all that while? This would be regarded
as absurd.

Even if she could have got so far without a quarrel, still there would
have been a great hue and cry about the marriage itself. First, it
never happened. Secondly, how could there be a marriage between a
princess of the Warrior Caste and a boy of the priestly Brahman Caste?
Her readers would have imagined at once that the writer was preaching
against our social customs in an underhand way. And they would write
letters to the papers.

So I pray with all my heart that my grandmother may be born a
grandmother again, and not through some cursed fate take birth as her
luckless grandson.