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Updated: July 26, 2025
I have not come across much of golden pollen in her lotus bank, but have nothing to complain of as regards the profusion of the sweet savour of good-fellowship. The Broken Heart While in England I began another poem, which I went on with during my journey home, and finished after my return. This was published under the name of Bhagna Hriday, The Broken Heart. At the time I thought it very good.
"Abdullah has been giving her the usual remedies." "Why, he is a peasant and knows nothing of medicine. You should not have called him in." "Sir, we are poor folk. Abdullah is very clever and his fee is a mere trifle." "What drugs has he been administering?" "Now you had better return home at once to find out how she is progressing. Let me know if she grows worse and I will send Hriday Doctor.
About this poem of my eighteenth year let me set down here what I wrote in a letter when I was thirty: When I began to write the Bhagna Hriday I was eighteen neither in my childhood nor my youth. This borderland age is not illumined with the direct rays of Truth; its reflection is seen here and there, and the rest is shadow.
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