First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  In England Vivekananda’s reception was even better. Within weeks of his arrival, the numbers that flocked to his meetings proliferated to such a great extent that he was forced to seek out a bigger place. In this he received immense help from Mrs Müller and Mr Sturdy. Not only did they make all the arrangements, they even alerted the Press and saw to it that he got a fair degree of coverage in newspapers and journals. The Press was more than favourable. One newspaper carried the report that the English hadn’t heard a better speaker than the Indian ascetic after Ram Mohan Roy and Keshabchandra Sen.

  Vivekananda had started out with one discourse a day held in the form of a class each morning. Then, on growing public demand, he began addressing large gatherings, every evening, from some well-known forum. These evening lectures were on a variety of subjects—religion, history, philosophy, even current affairs. They were never planned or prepared in advance. The moment Swamiji stood on the podium words poured out of him as spontaneously as rippling water from a mountain stream. And he didn’t hesitate to speak his mind. The same venom with which he had criticized the consumerism of the Americans was now spewed out on the British for their policy of ‘divide and rule’ in India. In his flame-coloured silk robe, held at the waist with a cummerbund, his glowing, vibrant face and deep, passionate voice, he held his audiences in thrall. They stared at him entranced. Many declared that they saw in his face and form an uncanny resemblance to Gautam Buddha.

  The morning sessions were mostly attended by women from different walks of life and different sections of society. Teachers and nurses rubbed shoulders with wealthy widows, housewives and divorcees. From the highest to the lowest they were bound by common needs. Some came for a dash of excitement and variety in otherwise boring, humdrum lives. Others found an escape from loneliness and stress in the presence of the Swami which, though temporary, gave them strength to go on. Most of them were regular visitors at Vivekananda’s meetings yet one of them drew his attention as no one else did. The moment he stepped into the hall his eyes skimmed over the sea of faces coming to rest, at last, on the face of the one he sought. She was a young woman and her name was Margaret Noble.

  Margaret was thirty years old and the daughter of an Irish clergyman. Her father had died when she was only ten, following which event she had moved with her mother and siblings to the home of her maternal grandparents. Here she had received an education but very little love and affection and had been constrained to earn her living and take charge of her family from the age of seventeen. Love had come to her drab, lonely existence soon after she had taken up a post as a teacher. She had met a young man from Wales, a handsome, charming engineer, and they had had a lot in common. But just as their friendship started flowering into love, the youth died, suddenly, of a single day’s illness leaving the young Margaret shattered and disconsolate. Unable to bear her life in a place so full of memories Margaret had left her native habitat in the suburbs of London and come to the great city.

  Margaret was a good teacher and the children loved her. She loved them too and it was only in their midst that she could find solace. She felt this to be her true vocation—this moulding of young minds. But, as the months passed, she discovered other qualities in herself. She had ideas, interesting and original, and the ability to implement them. People took her seriously and were influenced by her. She decided to put these qualities to use by opening a school of her own—a new kind of school. Unlike other institutions there would be no common curriculum and no capital punishment. Each child had differing needs and aspirations and different talents. It was necessary to study each child’s psyche and help him to find his moorings; to take care of his needs and find an outlet for his talents.

  Once in London, however, Margaret got caught up in other things as well. London was not only the capital city of England. It was the heart of a vast empire on which the sun never set. A truly cosmopolitan city it was full of clubs and associations which hummed with activity from dawn till dusk. Margaret got quickly absorbed in the life around her. She became a member of the elite Sesame Club and later its secretary. She organized lectures and symposia, took an active part in discussions and also started contributing to newspapers and journals. It was thus that she met Bernard Shaw, Aldous Huxley and many other literary giants.

  Living her full and busy life Margaret got over her heartbreak quite quickly and, within a few months, had formed a new attachment. The young man was a fellow member of the Sesame Club and his past was not unlike hers except for the fact that his beloved had not been snatched away from him by death but had moved away of her own volition. The two drifted towards each other, their common suffering creating a bond between them. But as soon as Margaret began dreaming of wedded bliss the blow fell. The young man disappeared without a word to her. A few days later Margaret learned the truth. His old love had sent for him and he had hastened to obey her summons. What was more, they were married already and on their honeymoon.

  This blow was even harder to bear than the last. In a state of shock, and reluctant to face her friends and acquaintances, Margaret fled from London and took refuge with her friend Miss Collins in the town of Halifax. Miss Collins welcomed her to her house and soothed and comforted her. But it was not for long. After her initial breakdown Margaret took herself firmly in hand and, within a few days, announced her plan of returning to London. She was missing her school and the children. Back in London she threw herself into her work. While in this frame of mind she first came in contact with Vivekananda.

  One day Margaret received an invitation from Lady Isabel Ferguson to attend a discourse by Swami Vivekananda in the drawing room of her house in the West End area of London. Margaret had never heard of Vivekananda and knew very little about India. Yet she felt a bond of sympathy with the country. Like her own country, Ireland, India lay under the domination of the British.

  It was a chill damp evening of late November. Swami Vivekananda sat with his back to a roaring fire in Lady Ferguson’s drawing-room, his audience facing him in a semi-circle. There were about sixteen people in the room—all scientific minded, enlightened intellectuals without a trace of blind faith. Yet there was pin drop silence as the Swami carried on his discourse. From time to time he recited Sanskrit mantras which no one understood. But the alien sounds, pronounced in the deep, sonorous voice, fell like music on the ears.

  Margaret sat in a corner by the window, shrouded in winter twilight. The lamps had not been lit and the room was dark except for the glow that came from the fire. Gazing at the speaker for a long while, Margaret had a strange and wonderful experience. She felt as though her soul had left her body and gone winging across half the world to a little Indian village. She saw herself standing by a well beside a giant banyan tree. Beneath the tree, irradiated by the last rays of the setting sun, an ascetic in an orange robe sat murmuring verses in a strange, exotic tongue …

  The spell broke in a few moments. The discourse ended and the company rose to their feet. Over tea the guests muttered comments and exchanged their views in whispers. It was generally felt that the Indian yogi hadn’t said anything that could be deemed original or significant. Margaret thought so too. She left the house without exchanging a word with Vivekananda.

  Yet, through the week, his face kept coming before her eyes—a bright, golden face with large, dark eyes burning with power and passion yet wonderfully innocent and child like. She wondered why she thought of Baby Jesus in Mother Mary’s arms every time she saw that face in her mind’s eye. She shook her head impatiently but couldn’t dispel the illusion. It kept coming back …

  Margaret decided to go to another lecture and test him out once more. Though he hadn’t removed her doubts or answered any of the questions that plagued her he had held her attention all the time he was speaking. There was no doubt that he was a learned man. He had touched on a variety of subjects with the confidence of sure knowledge. Margaret scanned the newspapers and, having found a date and venue that suited her, went to hear Vivekananda on
ce again. Once again she was disappointed. It was a good speech, scholarly and analytical, but what was there in it for her? Back home, she suddenly remembered that she had sat speechless all the time he was speaking, her eyes fixed on his face. The memory made her blush but she hastened to tell herself that that was because of his outstanding personality. And his voice, even in remembrance, sent a thrill down her spine.

  The next thing Margaret did was to get hold of his address and write him a letter. And, to her delight, she received an answer long before she expected it. It was a warm, friendly letter and it filled her with a sense of well being. He didn’t know her yet he had addressed her as though she was an old friend. He had consoled her with the advice that purity, patience and perseverance would enable her to overcome all the obstacles that stood in the way of her happiness. ‘With all my love,’ he had ended, ‘Yours Vivekananda.’ Margaret was amazed. She had been distinctly cold to him. She had attended two of his lectures but had neither wished him nor uttered a word of praise. Yet he had sent her his love.

  After that Margaret started going to all his discourses even though she wasn’t at all sure of what she was receiving from them. Her education had given her rational views and she was atheistic by temperament. Her father and grandfather had been clergymen but she disliked the Roman Catholic Church with its narrow prejudices and ostentatious rituals. She wasn’t impressed by Hinduism either. She attended Vivekananda’s lectures but not in a spirit of acceptance. Vivekananda never complained. He accepted her non-acceptance and welcomed her to his meetings. Perhaps he heard, in this young woman’s vehement denial of faith, an echo of his own—not so long ago. He had doubted Ramkrishna; even hated and despised him. He had raved and ranted against him. But he hadn’t been able to keep away. Margaret was going through a similar experience. She rejected Vivekananda’s doctrines but couldn’t stay away from him.

  There was something about him that set her wondering. In all his discourses he never once touched on the negative aspects of the human race. To hear him one would think that his vocabulary did not contain the word Sin. He appealed, always, to the highest and noblest in human nature and his confidence in his fellowmen was phenomenal. Of late he had been speaking a great deal on the value of sacrifice. ‘The world needs men and women,’ he had said once, ‘who can find the courage to leave their homes and come out into the streets with the slogan, “I know no other than God. And God dwells within my fellowmen.” Who is ready to abandon his own small family and seek a larger one? To nurture and cherish; to serve and to comfort …?’

  These words fell like blows from a hammer on Margaret’s heart. She had wanted a husband and children, a small family of her own, but they had eluded her. She had no desire for them now. She would answer Swamiji’s call. She would walk in his footsteps and seek out a larger world.

  Chapter XVIII

  Ardhendushekhar Mustafi had been removed from the post of director of Emerald and was, in consequence, left without a job. He had sold off all his medals along with his wife’s jewellery to pay the creditors, who had hounded him like a pack of wolves, and was now penniless as well. Fortunately, his son was grown up now and in a position to support his parents.

  Ardhendushekhar hated sitting at home all day. He found it boring and stifling. Having nothing else to do, he found a novel way of passing his time. He walked aimlessly in the streets from dawn till dusk stopping here and there as the fancy took him. He would sit for hours under a tree on the bank of the Ganga or look on interestedly as a snake charmer played his pipe to the dance of a hooded cobra. Or he would even take sides in a street brawl. But he never went anywhere near a theatre. Ever since he had left Emerald he kept away from everything and everyone connected with the acting profession. But there was one habit, picked up during his heydays of acting and directing, that he couldn’t give up. And that was drinking. He had to have at least three bottles of whisky a day. And it had to be a local brew. He wouldn’t drink Scotch if it was offered to him on a silver platter. He had told his friends that he had no desire to be cremated with sandalwood and incense and made them promise to pour some bottles of liquor on his corpse before setting it alight. Only then, he declared, would his soul find peace and wing its way straight to heaven.

  One morning, Ardhendushekhar sat at a table in Piru’s Hotel when a couple of young men sidled up to him with an effusive, ‘Namaskar Guru! What great good fortune is ours that—’

  ‘I’m no one’s guru,’ Ardhendushekhar snapped, turning his face away. He recognized the boys. They were Byomkesh and Neeladhwaj—bit actors without looks or talent who spent their time drifting like river moss from one bank to another in search of roles. They had worked for some months in Emerald. Byomkesh, he had heard, had tried to worm his way into Nayanmoni’s heart but she had sent him packing.

  Turning his back on the pair Ardhendushekhar fell hungrily on the two boiled eggs a waiter set before him. They were duck’s eggs—huge and soft and emitting clouds of fragrant steam. But it took more than a mild snub to subdue the enthusiasm of the two yokels. ‘Do you know what we did the other day Guru?’ they continued, unabashed. ‘We went to Girish Babu and said to him, “You must do something about the jumped-up fop that’s taken possession of Emerald. He’s getting too big for his shoes. Why don’t you and Mustafi Moshai get together and kick him out?” “Don’t talk to me of Ardhendu,” Girish Babu brushed us away as though we were flies. “He’s finished. Even God cannot resurrect him.”’ Ardhendu threw a burning glance in the direction of the two boors and attacked his eggs with renewed vigour. ‘Girish Babu is jealous of you,’ Byomkesh tried again. ‘He can’t bear the thought of your popularity. He’s an old horse who can’t pull the cart any more. You’re young and the public wants you.’ Ardhendushekhar finished the eggs and rose to his feet. ‘I pity you two,’ he said clicking his tongue sadly at them. ‘You’ve learned nothing. Nothing at all. Not even the basic courtesy of looking the other way when someone is eating. You think I don’t know what you’re like? You come toadying up to me trying to set me against Girish. And you do exactly the same with him. Oré haramzada! If Girish is jealous of me he’s paying me the compliment of my life! He wouldn’t stoop to envying you, would he? But let me tell you this. If I die today, he’ll weep more than any of you. And if, God forbid, he goes before me I’ll be shattered with grief.’

  Byomkesh and Neeladhwaj looked at one another then, their faces crumpling with disappointment, they abandoned the game. ‘Save us Guru,’ they cried, hurling themselves at Ardhendushekhar’s feet. ‘We’ve been without roles for two months now. Our families are starving. We are the dust of your feet. Take us with you wherever you go. It you’re not teaming up with Girish Ghosh you must be joining Classic and—’ Ardhendushekhar withdrew his feet in alarm. ‘Arré arré! What is this?’ he cried. ‘You’re in a hotel—not in a playhouse. Who told you I’m joining Classic?’

  ‘Everyone in the line is saying so. “Do you think Classic will let Saheb Mustafi fade away into oblivion?” they say. “They’ll drag him out of his hideout and reinstate him as director with full honours.”’ Ardhendushekhar smiled wryly. Far from reinstating him with full honours, the new proprietor of Emerald, renamed Classic, hadn’t even sent a feeler. The young man had dismissed all the old members of the troupe—actors and actresses as well as technicians. Why would he bother with the old director? ‘You may be the dust of my feet,’ he said jocularly, ‘But if anyone wants me they’ll have to bow their heads humbly before me and wash my feet clean of all impurities before I condescend to go with them. Now stir your behinds and get going. I’m sick of the sight of you.’ Ardhendushekhar brushed past them and came and stood on the street. His pretended nonchalance, notwithstanding, their words had set his senses tingling with pain and humiliation. No one had sent for him. No one wanted him. And he had no money with which to start something of his own. He was now numbered among the has-beens.

  Once an actor—always an actor! Although he had lost his audience Ardhend
ushekhar couldn’t rid himself of the urge to act. He walked about the city streets singing snatches of song and muttering whole pages of dialogue as he went along. And he always had a bottle with him. From time to time he would take it out of his pocket and, refreshing himself with a swig, start his mutterings all over again.

  One night he fell asleep under a tree by the river. He was woken, at crack of dawn, by the loud whistle of a ship casting anchor a few yards away from where he lay. He sat up with a jerk and stretched his cramped limbs till the joints, jammed with hours of inactivity, crackled into life. ‘Aah!’ he cried in a tone of mingled pain and pleasure. ‘Aah!’ a voice echoed a little distance away. Ardhendushekhar glanced in the direction of the sound and saw a man lying on the ground, further up the bank. He looked at Ardhendushekhar out of beady black eyes and winked knowingly.

  ‘Patityodharini Gange Ma go!’ Ardhendu sang.

  ‘Ma go Ma go,’ the man took up the refrain in a voice surprisingly deep and musical.

  ‘Who are you?’ Ardhendu asked curiously. ‘Another bit of discarded material from the acting profession?’

  ‘Byomkali Kalkatta wali!’ the man called out in a booming voice. Ardhendu Shekhar had realized, by now, that the man was a lunatic. He had always had a soft corner for those who lived at the periphery and his heart went out to this one. ‘Sing with me,’ he commanded. ‘Let me see how good you are.’ Then, kneeling on the ground, a hand at one ear like a professional baiji, he burst into song:

  ‘Hum bara saab hai duniya mé

  None can be compared hamara saat