First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  He began receiving invitations from several royal families of India—from Alwar, Kota, Khetri; from the Nizam of Hyderabad and even the Maharaja of Mysore. After seeing him and hearing him speak many of them expressed their bewilderment at the life he was leading. ‘Swamiji,’ the Raja of Alwar asked him once, ‘You were one of the brightest students of Calcutta University. You could have taken your pick of lucrative jobs. Why do you choose to roam about the country in this manner?’

  ‘Why do you spend your time hunting and shooting like the sahibs instead of looking after your state?’ Naren asked smiling. ‘Why?’ The raja spluttered in astonishment. ‘Well … I can’t say why except … because I enjoy it I suppose.’

  ‘That’s exactly why I wander about like a common fakir. Because I enjoy it.’

  ‘But why the saffron?’

  ‘That’s for self protection. If I went about in a dhuti beggars would ask me for alms. I would have none to give and that would have pained me. Dressed as I am people recognize me for a bhikshu and treat me as one.’

  Some of the royal personages he visited invited him to stay on in their palaces as tutor to their sons. Others offered him expensive presents. But Naren wouldn’t take anything from anyone. ‘You may buy me a ticket to my next destination,’ he would say if pressed too hard. He took only one gift and that was from the Maharaja of Mysore. Picking out a small sandalwood hookah from the array of costly presents set before him, he packed it in his bundle. Smoking was another habit he couldn’t give up.

  From Haridwar to Dwarka; from Trivandrum to Rameswar; from the Himalayas to Kanyakumari—Naren wove back and forth like a shuttle over the vast tapestry that was India. And wherever he went he saw sickness and hunger; illiteracy and superstition; poverty and abuse of power. He realized, little by little, that in this country the pursuit of Faith, Knowledge, Reason and Logic had been abandoned ages ago. The only pursuit left was that of power. The caste system was like an insidious web trapping and choking the life breath out of its members with its poisoned filaments. ‘Hinduism be damned,’ Naren muttered bitterly when what he saw became unbearable, ‘What is the worth of a religion which draws no one to it? Which humiliates and rejects its own followers? True morality lies in feeding the hungry, nursing the sick and bringing comfort to the comfortless.’

  It took Naren four years to tour the whole country. Then, one day, he came to the end of his journey. Reaching Kanyakumari he sat on a rock jutting out of the sea. A vast expanse of blue green water stretched out on all three sides as far as the eye could see. Behind him was India … Covering his face with his hands he wept, deep harsh sobs racking his starved, fatigued body. He had lost the path he had known so far and his peace of mind with it. But there was no other path before him. What would he do now? Where would he go from here? Back to Barahnagar to read the Vedas and sing hymns? No, that was not possible anymore. Having seen the suffering millions of his country he could not turn his back on them. The first task before him was to find food for his fellow men. He could think of their souls and his own afterwards. But how was that to be done? Science was the answer. Scientific knowledge and modern instruments had to be imported from the West and used for growing food for the masses. But no one gave anything for nothing. What could India give in return? Suddenly he got the answer. Weak and enfeebled though she was, India had something the countries of the West had lost. Their religion was under severe stress. Doubt and speculation were rife and despair was setting in, slowly but surely. India had a spiritualism that went back thousands of years; one that had withstood the shocks and tremors of innumerable invasions and still stood firm. Give us food and we’ll give you a philosophy. That could be India’s slogan. The more Naren thought about it the better the idea seemed to him. He would take this message to the West. But how? It was not possible to announce it in the streets. Then, suddenly, an idea struck him so forcefully that he stood up in his excitement. He would go to Chicago where representatives of all the religions of the world were meeting under one banner, and address the people of the West.

  Returning to Madras Naren disclosed his intention to his friend and admirer Perumal Alasinga. Perumal thought the idea an excellent one and got busy organizing the trip without delay. The first thing to do was to raise funds for the journey. Perumal and his friends started a collection but the amounts that came were small and trickled in very slowly. Chicago was an expensive city and a great way off so a good deal of money was needed. Fortunately some of Naren’s royal friends now came forward. All of them contributed generously but the largest donation came from Ajit Singh—the Raja of Khetri.

  Ajit Singh also designed the costume Naren was to wear at the conference and it was he who chose his name. Naren had taken the name of Vivishananda, just before setting out on his travels, but it was such a. mouthful that he, himself, had difficulty pronouncing it. Ajit Singh toned it down to Vivekananda. Thus Naren became Swami Vivekananda.

  One cold frosty morning Naren’s ship docked at the port of Vancouver in Canada. After that it was a three-day journey by train to Chicago. It had seemed an exciting adventure when being planned and executed but every day in this new country made Naren more and more aware of the foolishness of the undertaking. He had thought himself well prepared but, in reality, he was not prepared at all. He didn’t have an invitation to the conference. He didn’t even have letters of introduction from important men in his country. He had come on an impulse and hadn’t even thought of these things. How would he prove to the organizers that he was representing India? Why should they take him at his word? Besides, the stock of money he had brought with him, which had seemed so large in India, was worth very little in this country, and was dwindling at an alarming rate. And worst of all was the news that the conference was a month away. Like a naïve fool he had rushed over without checking the dates. Naren’s heart sank and his limbs started trembling in trepidation. What would he do now? He knew no one here and no one knew him. Where would he live for a whole month and how? Seeking alms was out of the question. In this country begging was a legal offence.

  Naren stood on the pavement of Chicago’s South Wabash Avenue bracing himself against the icy blasts of wind that threatened to sweep him off his feet. That was another point he hadn’t considered—the climate of the country towards which he was headed. He was totally unequipped for the bitter cold in which he found himself. People turned to stare at him as they walked past, much as if they thought him a being from another planet. And, indeed, he presented a strange sight. His orange silk robe fluttered like a banner in the strong wind and he had difficulty keeping his turban in place. His feet in their open sandals were blue with cold.

  As he stood, uncertain, wondering what to do, a group of children ran up to him clapping their hands and crying out some words in a tongue that seemed completely alien to him. Americans spoke English. He knew that. Why, then, didn’t he understand what these children were saying? After a few minutes they got bored with their game and started pelting him with pebbles which they picked up from the street. Now Naren started to walk away from them. The children, delighted at having evoked a reaction, ran after him. Naren ducked his head to avoid the shower of stones that was being aimed at it and ran towards a hotel that stood in a corner of the street.

  Entering it he realized that it would be expensive but Naren was too desperate to consider that now. Chilled to the bone, hungry and exhausted in mind and body, he needed a roof above his head, a hot meal and a warm bed in which to rest his limbs. If he didn’t get them soon he would die of cold and exposure.

  Naren spent three days in the hotel trying to pull himself together and take a decision. Going back to India was out of the question. He didn’t have the money for a ticket. He could have hung around the dockyard begging for a free passage. Anyone else in his position would have done just that. But Naren was made of different mettle. Deeply ingrained in his character was a streak of pride and stubbornness that would not allow him to admit defeat. He had come here with a pu
rpose and he would follow the purpose to its logical end or die in the attempt.

  Ajit Singh had given him a suit of Western clothes to wear on the ship. Naren decided to put aside his ascetic’s orange for a while and don the suit. It would keep him warmer and would make him less conspicuous. Attired thus he started moving about the city trying to study the country and its people. America was a vast country and everything in it was immense. The buildings were like palaces and the roads the longest and widest he had seen. But, to his dismay, he found that the minds of the people were narrow and closed. He had believed Americans to be open and receptive to other cultures. But the openness, he discovered, was confined to one section of society—the scientists and intellectuals. The rest were as bigoted and chauvinistic as their English forebears. Colour was the test of worth even in this country. The coloured races were to be considered inferior to the white; to be despised and treated with contempt. This was an unwritten rule which the majority of Americans followed. Naren had come with such high hopes of this newly discovered land. The reality left him shaken and depressed.

  In his rambles through the streets of Chicago he found out that Boston was a cheaper city in which to live. Naren decided to move there and return to Chicago a day before the conference was scheduled to begin and, with that end in view, he boarded a train to Boston. As luck would have it, the man sitting next to him was an Indian called Lalu Bhai. As they chatted of this and that a lady rose from her corner seat and came up to them. ‘Excuse me gentlemen.’ she said, ‘What country do you come from?’

  ‘From India,’ Naren answered.

  ‘From India!’ the lady echoed. ‘Can Indians speak English?’ ‘Of course. India has many provinces and many languages. But English is spoken everywhere. In fact, even when conversing with one another in our mother tongues, we often fall back on English. Sanskrit is another language of ours, a very old one from which most of our modern languages are derived. It is kin to English too—a kind of aunt or grandmother.’

  The lady didn’t press him further and returned to her seat. But as they were stepping off the train at Boston station she asked him, ‘Where do you plan to stay?’ On being told that he would look for a hotel, she said, ‘Why not come with me to my farmhouse instead? You’ll be quite comfortable there. My friends have never seen an Indian. They would like to meet you.’ Her words fell like music on Naren’s ears. If he accepted her offer he would be saved the trouble of counting cents and worrying about expenses for some time at least. Smiling in agreement he followed her as meekly as a lamb.

  The lady’s name was Katharine Abbott Sandbourne and she was both educated and wealthy. Her circle of friends were curious about her new find and came rushing over to see him. They had many questions to ask about his country, its culture and religion. And they were amazed to find that the strange specimen of humanity who sat on Katharine’s sofa looking like some exotic bird of paradise in his orange silk, had not only read the Bible but many other books besides. He could converse in English as fluently as any Englishman born to the soil. He was witty and amusing as well as knowledgeable but he could also be razor sharp in his criticism—be it of his own country or of the West. Gradually curiosity changed to respect. More and more people invited him to their houses and the Brahmin Sanyasi from India began occupying the centre of attention in upper-class Boston society.

  A member of Katharine Sandbourne’s circle was Henry Wright, a Professor of Greek studies in the University of Harvard. This gentleman, thoroughly impressed by Naren’s scholarship and enlightened outlook, took him to his house for a visit. To his amazement he found that the Indian swami was as liberated in his personal habits as he was in his opinions. He sat with them at their dinner table and ate whatever was served, be it fish, fowl, venison or even beef. It was, indeed, a coming together of two kindred souls. Naren and Henry Wright spent hours discussing Greek and Hindu philosophy, British imperialism, ancient history and a number of other subjects.

  On learning that Naren had come to America to present his views at the Parliament of Religions but would not be able to do so because he had no invitation, Wright urged him not to give up hope. Dr Barrows, the secretary of the Organizing Committee, was a personal friend of his. He would write him a letter requesting him to allow Naren to speak at the conference and also make arrangements for his stay. Wright also took upon himself the task of preparing Naren’s biodata. Handing over all the documents he had prepared, Wright bought Naren a first-class ticket to Chicago and put him on the train.

  Unfortunately all these efforts were wasted—not from any fault of Wright’s. It was entirely owing to Naren’s carelessness. On reaching Chicago he realized that he had only one of the envelopes with him—the one containing his biodata. The letter of introduction to Barrows was missing. It must have dropped out of his pocket on to the floor of the compartment. But the train had left and there was no way of recovering the letter. Naren was so frustrated that he felt like barging his head against the wall. He had, by an amazing stroke of luck, managed to bring his battered boat almost to the shore. Would he lose it now and his life with it? The conference was due to begin in a day or two. There wasn’t time to go back to Harvard and bring another letter. On the other hand, he couldn’t abandon his resolve after so much effort on Wright’s part.

  Coming out of the station he saw that it was raining heavily outside. The air was bitterly cold. The evening was drawing to a close and soon darkness would set in. Naren dashed out in the wind and rain and ran hither and thither trying to find a room in a hotel. But the city was bursting with strangers, newly arrived from other places to attend the conference, and the hotels were full. Unable to secure shelter anywhere Naren returned to the station where, looking around him moodily, he observed a large wooden crate standing abandoned in one corner. He was so cold and exhausted by now that he didn’t even think of the consequences. He climbed into the crate and lay down. It was small for him and he had to lie on one side his legs drawn up to his chest. Fortunately the night passed uneventfully. He wasn’t taken for a vagrant and hauled off to jail. When he rose, the next morning, he had made a resolution. He would go to Dr Barrows and beg for an audience. But from where was he to get the address? He decided to go from door to door and ask the question. Surely someone would know.

  But, as it turned out, no one knew. Naren went from one house to another—huge mansions set in several acres of beautiful gardens around Lake Michigan—the owners of which were the wealthy industrialists of the city. Some told him that they didn’t know; hadn’t even heard of the conference. Others, mistaking him for a lunatic, drove him out like they would a stray dog.

  After many hours of trying Naren gave up the attempt and sat down on the road faint with hunger and exhaustion, his limbs stiff with cold. And then, when all hope was gone, an angel of mercy descended from heaven and saved him from sure death. A lady had been observing him from an upstairs window of a three-storeyed house. Now she opened her door and approaching him, where he sat in the dust, asked an unexpected question. ‘Have you come as a delegate to the Parliament of Religions?’

  Everything was smooth sailing after that. Mrs Hale, for that was her name, took him home with her. After a hot bath, a good meal and rest, Naren was escorted by his benefactress to Dr Barrows’ office. Fortunately, Henry Wright had taken the precaution of sending a letter by post to his friend and all the arrangements had been made already. Naren was given a delegate’s badge and conducted to the quarters he would occupy. Naren’s troubles were over at last …

  Naren had put off speaking for a long time but he couldn’t do so indefinitely. Finally the hour came when he had to take up the task for which he had undertaken such a long journey and so many hazards. He rose and walked towards the rostrum. Pratapchandra had told him to take his guru’s name before he began his speech but the blood was thudding so violently in his heart that his mind went blank. He couldn’t remember a single name—neither Ramkrishna’s nor Ma Kali’s. He looked with glazed eyes
at the sea of human faces in front of him. Beyond them was a statue of white marble; a female figure—her hand stretched out as if in blessing. It must have been the representation of some Greek goddess but, in his overwrought condition, he thought it was the goddess Saraswati newly descended from heaven. ‘Ma Saraswati!’ he murmured ‘Have mercy on me. Unlock my tongue and give me speech.’ Then, taking a deep breath, he began: ‘Sisters and Brothers of America.’

  As an opening sentence this was an unusual one. People started clapping—a few at first. Then more and more joined in till the hall echoed with applause. Naren stood, nonplussed, for a while. Western audiences were generous with their applause—he knew that. But the kind he was getting wasn’t a form of politeness. It seemed to be something else—a frenzied endorsement of his sentiments by a gathering of which the majority were women. Stirred by an emotion he couldn’t explain, even to himself, his fear vanished. His voice rose, strong and clear, and rang like a sonorous bell through the length and breadth of the room:

  ‘I thank you in the name of the most ancient order of monks in the world … I am proud to belong to a religion which has taught the world both tolerance and universal acceptance. We believe not only in universal toleration, but we accept all religions as true … As the different streams having their sources in different places all mingle their water in the sea, so, O Lord, the different paths which men take through different tendencies, various though they appear, crooked or straight, all lead to thee …’

  The applause rose to a crescendo. Like a mighty storm, it washed over the vast hall, in wave after deafening wave. People started leaving their chairs and running towards the rostrum at which he stood. The other speakers stared at one another, dumbfounded. What had the young man said that they hadn’t? They had all, at some point or the other in their discourses, advocated tolerance of other religions. What they didn’t realize was that their discourses had been academic exercises. Naren had had no written text before him. He had spoken from the heart and, in doing so, he had won over the hearts of the Americans. He hadn’t extolled the virtues of his own religion. He had pleaded for a Brotherhood of Man. ‘The boy spoke well,’ one of the organizers whispered to another, ‘but who could have thought he would receive an ovation such as this? If he can keep his head in the right place after today he’s a remarkable young man indeed!’