First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Ardhendushekhar woke up the next morning with a pounding head and aching limbs. To relieve himself of the fatigue of a sleepless night he rubbed his limbs with oil and had an early bath. Then, sitting on the veranda, he puffed at his albola thoughtfully. Around ten o’ clock he rose and got ready to go out. After many months he took pains with his appearance. He shaved carefully and donned a finely puckered dhuti and silk banian. Then, swinging his stick jauntily, he walked out of his house and came to Gangamoni’s. Ganga came running out of her room, on hearing of his arrival, and greeted him with a radiant smile. Kneeling on the ground she lowered her head to his feet then, rising, she said with a roguish twinkle in her eye, ‘Ki go Saheb Debata! What brings you to this hapless woman’s door after all these days?’ Ardhendushekhar chucked her under the chin and grinned, ‘I missed you sorely Hadu. I’ve been yearning for a glimpse of your moon-like face for s-o-o long.’ Gangamoni’s eyes flashed the way they used to, twenty years ago, when she was slim and pretty and did romantic parts. She laid a finger on the dimple that still flickered in her fat chin and tossed her head coquettishly. ‘What a slick liar you are! Yearning for a glimpse of a hippopotamus like me indeed! On the contrary, Moshai, I’ve sent for you at least four or five times. You’re never at home. Where do you hang around all day?’

  ‘In the samsan ghat.’

  ‘What!’ Gangamoni was startled, ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to go there sooner or later. I thought I would start acclimatizing myself.’

  ‘Everyone has to go there at one time or another. But people wait till the call comes. You were always a strange one …’

  ‘Don’t scold Hadu. Say something sweet like you used to when your lips were as full and red as bimba berries and honey dripped from them.’

  ‘Don’t forget what you were like then. As handsome and foppish as a newly wrought Kartik! Not the scarecrow you are now.’

  ‘Why did you send for me? Is the old love welling up again in your bosom?’

  ‘Of course. Not only welling up. It’s hissing and foaming like boiling milk. Now answer my question, Saheb Babu. What sort of a man are you? Why did you make our Nayan sign a bond saying she won’t join any other board? Amar Datta of Classic came to see her. Ah! What a fine figure of a man he is! As handsome as a prince and so polished and charming of manner! The silly girl refused even to meet him.’

  ‘Send for her. I wish to have a word with Nayan.’

  ‘Look Saheb Babu. I have no idea of the figure mentioned in the bond. But whatever it is, I’ll make a shift to pay it. I love the girl and won’t see her ruined.’

  ‘Death be on you woman!’ Ardhendu Shekhar snapped. ‘Can’t you stop wagging your tongue for a moment and go call the wench? I said I wanted to see her.’

  At this Gangamoni huffed and puffed her way to Nayanmoni’s room and gave her the news. Nayanmoni was sitting on the floor facing her Krishna. But she rose instantly and plucking a bundle off the top shelf of her cupboard she ran down the stairs and stood before her old mentor. Ardhendu Shekhar’s eyes ran up and down her form appraisingly. She was twenty-seven years old and a radiant beauty.

  ‘How are you Nayan?’ Ardhendushekhar said.

  ‘I am well.’

  ‘What is this I hear about an oath you took?’ Ardhendu Shekhar came straight to the point, ‘I remember nothing about it.’

  Nayanmoni looked down at her feet. ‘It happened long ago,’ she said. ‘You were training me for a dance sequence when you said, “I’m taking such pains with you Nayan. But you’ll leave me and go away the moment someone offers you more money.” I touched your feet, then, and swore never to leave you.’

  ‘I must have been drunk when I spoke those words. You shouldn’t have taken them seriously.’

  ‘I always take everything seriously.’

  Ardhendu Shekhar looked down on the bowed head for a long moment. ‘I release you from your oath,’ he said at last. ‘Go wherever you wish and be happy.’ Then, sighing a little, he added, ‘If I ever get the chance to scrape a troupe together again, I’ll send for you. Come back to me then.’

  Nayanmoni nodded. Then, kneeling on the ground, she placed the bundle she had brought at his feet. ‘What’s this?’ Ardhendu Shekhar stepped back in alarm. ‘It’s the money you gave me,’ Nayanmoni said softly. ‘I’ve spent very little. My needs are few.’

  ‘No! No,’ Ardhendushekhar nearly screamed the words, ‘Ardhendu Shekhar Mustafi may have sunk low. But not so low that he’ll take back the wages he paid an employee. Have no fears for me Nayan. People say I’m old but I’m not that old. There’s magic in my bones yet. I’ll spring back—never fear. And then—you’ll get the surprise of your life.’ Ardhendu Shekhar turned his face away. His eyes, to his own surprise, had filled with tears.

  Chapter XIX

  Vivekananda returned to India four years after he had left it. He had been a wandering sadhu, obscure and penniless, when he first set his sights on the West. Hardly anyone noted his absence from the country or bothered to keep track of what he was doing out of it. But when he returned he was showered with all the glory of a conquering hero.

  Stepping ashore at Colombo, he got his first shock being totally unprepared for the welcome that awaited him. A sea of heads stretched as far as the eye could see and thousands of voices shouted slogans in his name. From the capital he travelled to other places on the island—to Anuradhapur, Kandy and Jaffna. And wherever he went, his reception was overwhelming. He looked superbly handsome and triumphant in his orange robe and turban and his voice, when he addressed the crowds that flocked to see him, had the depth and passion of a lion’s. But, within himself, he felt his strength ebbing. He was tired, horribly tired. And there was something else; some sickness he could not identify. His breath was coming in gasps, after a little exertion, and his limbs trembled with exhaustion. Mr and Mrs Sevier, who had accompanied him on his voyage to India, were alarmed. At this rate, they felt, Swamiji would have a breakdown any moment. So, they hired a ship and slipped him quietly out of Ceylon and away from the teeming multitudes. The Indian coastline lay within fifty miles of Jaffna. It was a matter of a few hours.

  Swami Vivekananda’s next halt was the small port town of Pamban. But even here he got little respite. The King of Ramnad was at the harbour with his retinue, awaiting the man who had returned to his native shores after conquering the West. To Vivekananda’s embarrassment, the king led him to a carriage pulled by four horses while he, himself, walked alongside it. A vast crowd followed shouting ‘Jai Vivekananda! Jai Swamiji!’ After a while the raja felt that even this did not express the reverence he felt for the great swami sufficiently. Ordering the horses to be unhitched he commenced pulling the carriage himself. Others joined him and, for the first time in his life, Vivekananda was drawn by humans instead of animals. Vivekananda hated exhibitionism of this kind and tried to protest but his voice was drowned in the waves of frenzy and adulation that filled the air.

  Entering the temple of Shiva in Rameswar he remembered the last time he was here. No one knew him then. No one had deigned to cast a glance at the weary, travel-stained sanyasi who had sat for hours on the steps of this very temple. That had been only four years ago. Now crowds were following him everywhere and people were shoving and pushing each other only for a glimpse of him.

  Addressing the congregation in the temple courtyard Vivekananda’s message to the people of India was startling. No Indian ascetic had ever spoken such words before. True religion, he said, could not be contained in ritual and idol worship. True religion was the religion of Man and lay in selfless service to the poor, the weak, the sick and the downtrodden. He who beheld Shiva in the hungry and the naked was the true worshipper of Shiva—not he who sat before a stone image chanting mantras.

  From Rameswar to Madurai; from Trichinopoly to Kumbhakonam—everywhere he went he preached the doctrine of service to one’s fellow men. But the innumerable meetings and irregular hours started taking their toll of him.
Added to these was the inclement weather, the polluted air and fetid water of the south. He contracted a severe cold and cough and various ailments of the stomach. He felt sick and worn out but he wouldn’t admit it and continued with his hectic schedule. And, more and more, his discourses were turning away from religion and focussing on other issues. ‘Let us put an end to all rituals sanctified by tradition,’ he cried, addressing a congregation in Madras. ‘Let our next fifty years be dedicated to the worship of our great Mother India. The lesser gods can wait for the present. They are sleeping, now, in any case. Our countrymen are our waking gods.’

  From Madras Vivekananda boarded a ship and travelled to Calcutta. Stepping into it Mrs Sevier was amazed to find the deck piled with green coconuts so high that it appeared to be a mountain. She wondered if the ship was carrying cargo as well as passengers. Then someone told her that they had been left by the people of the city. Word had spread that Swamiji had been advised by the doctors to drink coconut water in place of ordinary water—the water of tender coconuts being good for the stomach. Four days later the ship docked at Khidirpur. A special reception committee, set up by the Maharaja of Dwarbhanga, met him and escorted him by train to Sealdah the next day. As the train chugged its way slowly into the station the air rang with a tremendous cry and the platform shook under the feet of thousands of people pushing, jostling and treading on one another’s toes in order to catch a glimpse of the man who had left the country as ordinary Naren Datta and returned as the internationally acclaimed Swami Vivekananda. Not all the people in the crowd had come in a spirit of respect. Many were only curious onlookers and still others had come only to carp and criticize. ‘Look how low our countrymen have sunk,’ one whispered to another, his lips curled in contempt. ‘They are grovelling at this man’s feet simply because a few sahebs and mems have lionized him. Who had ever heard his name before he left the country?’

  ‘I’ve heard he’s from a Kayastha family of Shimle,’ the other said, turning up his nose disdainfully, ‘Since when have Kayasthas been allowed to don the robes of a swami? Hai! Hai! We’re tolling the death knell of Hinduism.’

  ‘The man is not a Hindu anymore,’ the other commented. ‘He has crossed the black water and set foot on foreign soil. And he’s eaten forbidden flesh and slept with firinghee women. Chhi! Chhi! Chhi! What is the world coming to?’

  But the supporters of Vivekananda outnumbered his detractors by far. Here, as in Pamban, the young men unhitched the horses from the carriage in which he was to travel and proceeded to pull it themselves. An English band marched ahead of the carriage, playing lively Scottish tunes while a party of Kirtaniyas, singing to the clash of cymbals, brought up the rear. The road over which the procession went was decorated, every few yards, with colourful gates hung with garlands of roses and marigolds. The carriage first stopped outside Ripon College where a great crowd had assembled to welcome the returning hero, then went on to Pasupati Basu’s house in Bagbazar where an afternoon meal awaited him. Despite his exhaustion Vivekananda did not stop to rest after the meal. He went straight on to Alambazar, to the math where his co-disciples of the old days resided.

  But the reunion, after four years of separation, was not as warm and affectionate as it might have been—at first. They had all been Ramkrishna’s disciples. They had all left their homes in answer to their guru’s call. They had banded together in the face of criticism from friends and families and suffered untold deprivations. They had all remained exactly where they were. Except one—he had crossed over to the other half of the sphere and won fame, acclaim and thousands of followers. Most of Vivekananda’s brothers in religion felt awkward and alienated from him. Some couldn’t suppress a twinge of envy; others were indignant on their guru’s behalf. Naren, from what they had heard, had projected only himself during his sojourn in the West. He hadn’t spoken a word about Ramkrishna.

  Vivekananda looked at his erstwhile companions, standing stiff and silent and unsure of how to react, and decided to take the initiative. ‘Why are you huddling together in a knot as if you’re afraid of me?’ he asked smiling. ‘Have I changed in any way? Am I wearing a coat and hat and talking in English? Oré I’m still one of you. I’m your old Naren.’ Then, thumping Latu Maharaj on the back, he cried, ‘Kiré Leto! Why is your face all crumpled up like a fried brinjal? The rest of you is nice and plump.’ At this Latu put out a hand and stroked Vivekananda’s back and chest lovingly. ‘You haven’t changed at all Naren,’ he said. ‘Yet we hear such reports of you. You travel from place to place in Bilet and America and knock the sahebs and mems over with your lectures. So many people come to hear you that the audience spills out into the streets. “Who but Naren could achieve such distinction?” I tell everybody. “He’s the one Thakur picked out from among us for his special blessing.”’

  At these words the tears rose in Vivekananda’s eyes. ‘Leto,’ he said softly, ‘Your hand on my breast makes me feel whole again. I’ve missed you all so much … so much.’ His voice trailed away. Then, dashing the tears away, he became his old cocky self.

  ‘Won’t you offer me a hookah?’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m sick to death of cigars.’ Someone hurried forward with a hookah. Now Vivekananda seated himself crosslegged on the floor exactly the way he used to, his back resting against the wall, and took a deep pull. ‘Ahh!’ he breathed in satisfaction as the smoke curled into his lungs. ‘There’s nothing like sitting with old friends. I haven’t felt so good in years.’ Now his co-disciples came forward and sat around him in a circle. ‘Naren,’ Shibananda asked, ‘I hear you’ve established many centres in America for disseminating the message of the Vedantas. Is that true?’

  ‘I’ll tell you about that later. Let’s talk about old times. Ha re Tarak! Do you still feed the jackals? I remember how you used stand at a window in the house in Barahnagar and call out into the night, “Bhonda! Bhonda!” A baby jackal used to come slinking through the woods crying “Ghon! Ghon!’ and you used to throw him pieces of ruti.’ Vivekananda’s imitation of both Tarak and the jackal was so lifelike that everybody burst out laughing. The stiffness went out of Vivekananda’s old friends and they started warming towards him. No one slept that night. They huddled together as they used to in the past, exchanging news and reminiscing till dawn.

  A few days later Vivekananda was invited to the royal palace of Shobhabazar by Raja Radhakanta Deb. Here, under a vast structure set up in the palace chatal, five thousand people were gathered to felicitate him—many important personages of the city among them. No one had heard Vivekananda speak before but they had all received glowing reports of the power and passion of his rhetoric and were eager to hear him. But he began on the mildest of notes: ‘I stand before you today—not as a sanyasi or a religious preacher. Look on me as one of your own boys who was born and spent his life in this great city. Janani janma bhumischa swargadapi gariashi. Who can forget these words?’ This was the first of many meetings and many addresses the delivering of which became more and more strenuous everyday.

  But, despite the hectic pace of his life, Vivekananda’s dream of establishing a mission which would be engaged in selfless service, did not fade. The country was in a worse state now than ever before. He realized that on his return. Famine after famine were ravaging the land and people were dying like flies. Added to that was the plague which, originating in Surat, was spreading on a killer wave across the land. Any moment, now, and it would engulf the whole country. There was work to be done; a great deal of work. But before plunging in he had to find workers, sensitize them and band them together.

  One day Girish Ghosh came to see him. Vivekananda rose and embraced his old friend tenderly. ‘On which board are you working GC?’ he asked, ‘You move so fast that it is difficult to keep track.’

  ‘I stick with those who can hold me,’ Girish Ghosh replied with a smile. ‘I’m back with Star at present. But let’s not talk about me. Tell me about your exploits in the land of the sahebs. I hear you’ve even changed your name. But I’ll te
ll you straight away that I refuse to call you Vivekananda. It sounds too distant and formal. I shall continue to call you Naren.’

  ‘Certainly. Call me whatever you wish. What are you writing these days? I’ll never forget your Bilwamangal. Is it running anywhere? I should like to see it again.’

  ‘That can be arranged. But you don’t look well at all Naren. You’re only thirty-four and there are white streaks in your hair and rings under your eyes. You were such a handsome man only four years ago.’

  ‘People talk of my fame and success abroad. They don’t realize how hard I had to work. I drove myself so relentlessly that at times I felt the blood bursting out of my veins into my head and heart!’

  ‘Hmph! I can see that well enough.’

  ‘You’re just the same as ever. Plump and comfortable like a well-fed hen. Are you still chasing the wenches? Or have you grown too old for that? And what about Ma Kali’s prasad? How many glasses do you put away each night?’ Vivekananda dug an elbow in his friend’s ribs, then called out to the servant, ‘Oré! Bring in a hookah.’

  ‘You haven’t given up your hookah I see. And you speak the same language.’

  ‘I am the same person. I have to be flippant at times or I’ll die of boredom.’

  Now Girish hemmed and hawed a little. Then, taking a desperate plunge, he said, ‘I wish to ask you a question Naren. The other day, at Raja Radhakanta Deb’s meeting, you spoke for quite a long time about our guru Sri Ramkrishna. Yet, in England and America, you didn’t even mention his name. He’s the avatar of the present age. But no one has heard of him except here in Bengal.’

  Vivekananda was silent for a while. Then he said somewhat ruefully. ‘It isn’t true that I didn’t mention him at all in my lectures abroad. I have talked about him in small groups and to my special friends. My disciples have all been initiated in the name of Sri Ramkrishna Paramhansa Deb. But I avoided extolling him as an avatar in the larger gatherings. That, I felt, would have an adverse effect. The people of the West don’t want a new religion or a new avatar. Their own Christ is avatar enough for them. They live in an age of science and can respond only to the logical and rational. And that’s what I did. I appealed to their reason and logic and won them over.’