stood on the bank of the Hiranya and gazed at the sacred spot where, centuries ago, the
greatest of men, Shri Krishna, had shuffled off His mortal coil. My heart was full
of veneration and shame. Millions have worshipped, and worship today, Shri Krishna as 'God
Him self'. Thousands, in every generation, had gained prestige or made money in His name
or as His representatives on earth. But the nation had fallen low; none dared to
raise his voice to rescue this sacred spot where once His mortal remains had been
consigned to flames.
I left Dehotsarga with bitter
humiliation in my heart.
In 1937, at Pahlgarn in Kashmir, I wrote my novel, Jaya
Somanatha, with my eye 'in fine frenzy rolling! I saw its grandeur as in A.D. 1024. I saw
its ghastly destruction and I visualised its reconstruction under victorious king
Bhimadeva. Reconstruction of Somanatha was then but the nebulous dream of a habitual