A feverish yearning to see him and be with him possessed Nayanmoni. But he lived in a world so far removed from hers that even to think of it was absurd. She knew that well enough. She did the next best thing. She tried to reach out to him through his books. She bought up as many titles as she could find and started reading till late into the night. She enjoyed the stories and some of the novels but of the poetry she understood very little. Yet she went through them doggedly, line by line, till the sense started coming to her in flashes:
I would shatter the enclosing walls
And reveal the secret yearning of my heart
But only the words find release
The pain lies buried in bruised heaps
Why? This was exactly how she felt! How every woman felt when in the throes of a hopeless love! How did the poet know what lay in a woman’s heart? The ecstasy; the pain; the terrible desolation!
Nayanmoni felt restless and disturbed. Her mind was in a whirl. She had adjusted to her misfortunes and had accepted her new role in life. She had been willing to live it out alone with only her art to sustain her. But now, a desperate loneliness swept over her. She was young and beautiful and had so much to give! But the one she wanted to give all she had was not ready to receive her offerings. With every poem she read her blood leaped up in response. The words seemed to touch her as physically as if the poet had caressed her with his long, beautifully moulded fingers. Every time a verse moved her particularly she was overwhelmed with the same sensations she had experienced when Rabindranath had taken her face in his hands and guided her during the rehearsal of Raja o Rani. Aching with unfulfilled desire, day after day, a strange lethargy overtook her. She lost interest in the theatre; in the people around her and even in her day-to-day routine. She continued with her rehearsals and performances and carried them out commendably through sheer force of habit. But everyone could see that her mind was elsewhere.
One evening, on her way to a rehearsal, it seemed to her that the carriage was taking much longer than the usual time to reach the theatre. She pushed up the shutter and peered out of the chinks to see how far she had reached. To her surprise she found that the street she was passing was a strange one. She had never seen it before. Opening the window she tried to call out to the syce but her voice was lost in the clatter of the galloping horses. A puzzled frown appeared on her forehead. There was no need to panic. She knew that. The syce was old and trustworthy. But the question remained. Where was he taking her? Had Amar Datta fixed another venue for the rehearsal?
Half an hour later the carriage stopped outside the high iron gates of a splendid mansion. The dance master of Classic, Nepa Bose, came hurrying forward to receive her.
‘Ah! Nayanmoni,’ he cried, stretching out his hands in a welcome gesture quite unusual for him. His attire was unusual too. In place of his usual dhuti and banian he wore a bright red shirt over yellow pyjamas. A tall fez sat atop his black curls. His mouth was full of paan and his eyes were bright with kajal. Nayanmoni’s brows came together. Ignoring his outstretched hand she stepped out of the carriage and asked sharply, ‘What place is this?’
‘This is Maniktala. You are in Kalu Babu’s garden house.’ ‘Aren’t we rehearsing tonight?’
‘Of course we are. Kalu Babu has decided to hold it here.’ ‘Where are the others?’
‘I don’t know about the others. Kalu Babu ordered me to receive you at the gate and bring you to him.’
Nepa Bose led Nayanmoni up the gravel path that ran through the garden to the portico of the house. As they stepped into a wide hall blazing with lamps, the crimson velvet curtain of one of the doors was pushed aside with a white hand loaded with rings, and Amar Datta stood in the room. Nayanmoni stared at him. She had never seen him in such a dishevelled state before. His satin vest was crumpled and his hair fell untidily over his face and neck. As he walked towards her she noticed that his gait was unsteady and he held a bottle in his hand.
‘Who else is coming?’ Nayanmoni asked sternly. ‘Why have you sent for me before the others?’
‘There are no others.’ Amar collapsed on one of the sofas. ‘Today’s rehearsal is only with you.’
‘What do you mean? What play—?’
‘It’s a dance rehearsal. We’ll decide on the play later.’ ‘That’s absurd,’ Nayanmoni looked at Nepa Bose. ‘I must know my character first. How will I express myself in the dance otherwise? I’m afraid it’s impossible for me—’
‘Ei!’ Amar Datta shouted suddenly. Turning a pair of fiery, red eyes on her he said, ‘How dare you look at him when I’m talking to you? I’m the master. I order you to dance.’
‘You’re not my master and I’m not accustomed to taking orders,’ Nayanmoni’s jaw hardened and she went on, ‘I’m not obliged to dance for your entertainment as per the terms of my contract.’
‘Why do you keep throwing your contract in my face every time I ask you to do something? Are you working for a jute mill? Don’t you know that in the performing arts the director’s wish is the last word? You’re an impertinent wench and deserve to be punished. I’ve a good mind to make you dance naked.’
Nayanmoni gave a short laugh expressing her utter contempt of him and his power over her. Amar Datta was taken aback. Not knowing how else to control her, he said with a sulky edge to his voice, ‘You’ll have to obey me Nayan. If the others can—why can’t you?’
‘What others?’
‘Why Kusum, Bhushan, Khemi, Bina, Rani—all the girls. They all come at my command and pleasure me.’
‘You’re drunk Amar Babu,’ Nayanmoni said gently but firmly. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m leaving now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
‘Ahaha!’ Nepa hurried forward in an effort to mediate.
‘Where’s the harm in dancing a few steps when the master … er … Kalu Babu wishes it so much? Do the swan dance you perform so well and—’
Nayanmoni did not condescend to answer him. Her eyes burned into his with such a strange light that he stepped back hastily. But those wonderfully expressive eyes tailed to quell Amar Datta. He rose from the sofa and advanced menacingly towards her. Grabbing her by the hand he said roughly, ‘I’m not drunk and I am your master. You’ll dance if I command you.’
‘Let go of my hand Amar Babu,’ Nayanmoni said coldly without a trace of fear. ‘I don’t allow anyone to touch me without permission. I’ve sworn an oath—’
‘What oath?’
‘I’ve sworn to kill the man who dares to do so.’
Now Amar Datta was truly flummoxed. He dropped her hand and, turning to Nepa Bose, muttered rebelliously: ‘She’s sworn to kill … who does she think she is? Maharani Victoria? She’s only a common slut and look at the airs she gives me! I’m the master and she won’t obey me.’ Then, suddenly, something completely unforeseen happened. Sobbing loudly he fell to his knees and tried to clutch her feet with both hands. Nayanmoni stepped back in surprise at which he lost his balance and fell, face forward, to the ground. But the shock of his fall failed to sober him. He rolled all over the floor like a spoiled child, whimpering and crying incoherently, ‘Just the swan dance … please Nayan … I’m the master … no, no I’m not the master … how dare you humiliate me? Just this once … please Nayan … I’ll never ask you again.’ Nayanmoni burst out laughing. So did Nepa Bose. ‘Ki go!’ the latter winked at Nayanmoni. ‘The man’s turned lunatic—as you can see. Will you indulge him just this once?’
Nayanmoni shook her head and walked out of the room. Reaching home she bathed for a long time scrubbing her body rigorously with a gamchha as though she was trying to cleanse it of the impurities that clung to it in her encounter with Amar Datta. Then, seating herself before the image of Krishna, she shut her eyes and murmured—not a prayer but a verse from a poem:
I’ve surrendered life and soul.
And kept for myself only my shame Guarding it in secret through night and day From the rude glance of prying eyes
‘I can’t get an
ywhere near Rabindra Babu,’ she thought suddenly. ‘But I can write him a letter. Yes—that is what I’ll do. I’ll write to him.’
Chapter XXVI
It seemed as though Vivekananda’s sojourn in the West had spoiled him for his own country. It was a strange thing but after his four years in the temperate zone his body had lost its ability to cope with the heat and humidity of tropical Bengal. He suffered from continual bouts of fever and dysentery getting a brief respite only when he escaped to the hills. But the moment he returned to Calcutta his troubles started all over again.
A few months after Margaret’s arrival Vivekananda’s health declined so sharply that he had to leave the city and go to Darjeeling on the advice of his doctors. He felt better in the cool mountain air but he couldn’t stay there for long. On hearing the news that plague had broken out in Calcutta, Vivekananda hastened back. He felt responsible for the three women who had travelled across half the globe to come to him. He had to see that they were safe. Besides, this was the time to plunge into the work of the Mission in right earnest.
Vivekananda began organizing relief work as soon as he reached Calcutta. His disciples formed groups and moved from slum to slum nursing the sick, burning the dead and teaching the unafflicted how to protect themselves from the dreaded contagion. This was the first time that such a programme was undertaken in the city and many were puzzled by it. Hindus, though hospitable by nature, had no concept of organized service. They wouldn’t turn a hungry man from their door but if they saw someone dying in the street they would pass him by without a qualm. They believed that it was his Karma that had brought him to this pass. It was no one’s fault and no one’s responsibility. Besides, it was but right that he atone for the sins of a previous birth. People were horrified at the sight of sadhus moving from hovel to hovel and touching low-caste men and women; even corpses. Sadhus were holy men and commanded reverence. Their only obligation to the society that nurtured them was to bless ordinary householders and propitiate the gods on their behalf. Some of Vivekananda’s brother disciples had misgivings too. As ascetics they had surrendered the lay world and embraced the spiritual. How could doctoring the sick and feeding the poor lead to the advancement of the spirit to which they were committed and which could be achieved only through prayer and meditation? Besides, wasn’t it the responsibility of the Government to provide relief from natural disasters? And where would the newly founded Ramkrishna Mission find the funds? Vivekananda tried to answer these questions as patiently as he could but sometimes he lost his temper. ‘Give your souls a rest for the present and look around you,’ he cried in a burst of irritation. ‘People are dying in thousands. As for funds, I’ll sell the land in Belur if the need arises. What will I do with a math if I can’t help my fellow men?’
Fortunately for him, the pestilence disappeared from the city as suddenly as it had come and he could keep the land. But the grinding work and sleepless nights took their toll of him. He became so weak that the doctors were alarmed and ordered him to leave Calcutta immediately. This time he decided to go, not to Darjeeling but to distant Almora where Mr and Mrs Sevier had taken a house. The three white women, eager to see more of India, clamoured to go with him. So did some of his disciples.
Thus it was quite a large party that set off from Calcutta to Kathgodam by train. Then, after enjoying a day’s hospitality in the Raja of Khetri’s mansion in Nainital, they started the climb to Almora on horseback. Vivekananda, who was feeling better already, had meant to leave early in the morning but an unseasonal shower delayed them by several hours. In consequence, they were nowhere near their destination when the sun sank behind the mountains and dusk enveloped them like a shrouding mist.
Nivedita, who was seeing the Himalayas for the first time, gazed on them entranced. She had never seen a more magnificent sight. In the falling twilight, the majestic peaks loomed before her eyes higher than any peaks she had ever seen—the snow on them rose flushed by the last traces of lingering daylight. Above their heads, out of a violet sky, two stars glimmered, soft and lustrous as wave washed pearls. Nivedita reigned in her horse and waited for Vivekananda to come up to her. The moment she saw him she exclaimed joyfully, ‘What great good fortune is mine that you have brought me here! I’m so happy! So happy! It seems to me as though we are travellers together on an endless path …’
‘It seems to me,’ Vivekananda cut in dryly, putting a rude end to Nivedita’s romantic effusions, ‘that we won’t reach Almora tonight. We’d better start looking for shelter.’
‘I don’t mind if we don’t find any. I’d like to ride among the hills all night.’
Vivekananda stared straight ahead of him and said gravely, ‘You’re lagging behind. Go on ahead and join the other ladies.’
‘Why?’ Nivedita fixed her wide innocent blue eyes on his face. ‘I like being with you.’
‘This is not Europe Margot. In India you must follow Indian ways.’
‘I’m trying my best to do so. Surely you can see that? And why do you call me Margot? I’m Nivedita.’
Vivekananda sighed, ‘You’re still British at heart,’ he said. ‘The flag of Britain is your flag.’
Nivedita’s lips parted. She was about to speak; to protest. But she controlled herself. Ever since she had come out to India she had noticed a change in Vivekananda’s manner to her. She wondered why he was so tense and withdrawn with her and so free and relaxed with Joe and Olé. When they were all together he was almost the man she had known in her own country. But, when alone with her, he was curt and invariably critical of her conduct. If she went to him with a query, when he sat alone, he grew quite irritated: ‘Go ask Swarupananda,’ he said brusquely, ‘He’s your tutor—not I.’ It was obvious to Nivedita that he was avoiding her. At such times the hot tears rose to her eyes and her heart swelled with indignation. Had she come out to India only to learn Bengali? Didn’t he realize that she had come out of her desperate need of him? That her heart was where he was?
One morning, as Vivekananda sat in Mrs Sevier’s drawing room expounding the doctrine of Moksha to his followers, Nivedita asked in all innocence: ‘Why are Hindus so keen on attaining Moksha? They practise so many austerities; spend years in meditation and worship only to escape rebirth and achieve personal release. But why? Life is so beautiful. And to live is to be useful. Isn’t it better to be reborn, over and over again, and use your lives to serve your fellow men?’ Vivekananda turned quite livid at her audacity in questioning the worth of a Hindu spiritual concept. ‘You’ve understood nothing of Moksha,’ he burst out angrily, ‘or you wouldn’t have said what you did. You Europeans can only understand the linear; the progressive; the material. And your eagerness to serve humanity is aimed at feeding your own egos. Learn to conquer your base instincts first—then talk of spiritual matters.’ The Americans looked at him with shocked eyes. The rebuke was so harsh and the fault such a minor one! What did he want of the girl, they wondered. Did he expect her to surrender her Western identity; wipe out the conditioning of centuries simply because she had come out to India?
That afternoon Joe Macleod found Nivedita lying on her bed sobbing bitterly. Placing her hand on her back, the older woman said gently, ‘Something is making you unhappy Margaret. Would you like to tell me about it?’
‘I’ve burnt my boats Joe!’ Margaret raised a tear streaked face from her pillow. ‘I have nothing to go back to.’
‘Why do you have to go back?’
‘Because there’s nothing for me here. I left everything and came out to him. But he hates and despises me.’
‘That’s not true Margaret. He’s your guru. He’s trying to mould you into a better human being. That is why he is harsh with you at times.’
‘I don’t mind that. I can endure every punishment he thinks fit to heap on me. What I can’t endure is being kept at a distance. His indifference is breaking my heart Joe! How can I live on, here, after you two have left?’
‘We’re not going. Not for a long, long time
,’ Joe passed her fingers tenderly through the girl’s golden brown hair. ‘Don’t lose heart. All will be well.’ Then, after a moment’s silence, she added, ‘Don’t make the mistake of judging him as you would any other. He’s no ordinary man. You must remember that.’
‘I know. I know.’ Margaret cried clinging to Joe. ‘And I’m trying. Believe me, I truly am trying.’
That evening Joe had a private talk with Vivekananda. ‘Swamiji,’ she addressed him with her usual directness. ‘Why are you torturing the poor girl so?’ Vivekananda was startled. ‘What do you mean?’ he cried. ‘Torturing what girl?’
‘The Irish girl—Margaret.’
‘She came of her own will. I had warned her that she would have to face numerous problems. In this country—’
‘I’m not talking of those problems. Margaret showed me a letter you wrote to her when she was in England. There was a sentence in it: ‘I will stand by you unto death whether you work for India or not, whether you give up Vedanta or remain within it. You wrote those words didn’t you?’
At this a deathly pallor spread over Vivekananda’s countenance and the light went out of his eyes.
‘Didn’t you?’ Joe prompted gently.’
‘Yes,’ Vivekananda answered in a hoarse whisper, ‘I did.’ ‘Those words are her only prop. You must understand that. We are a Western people; conditioned for centuries by the material. Physical renunciation is not easy for us. You must be patient.’
That evening, when the whole party set off for a walk, Vivekananda left the others and come up to Nivedita. He walked beside her, in silence, for a few minutes. Then, turning to face her, he asked abruptly, ‘What do you want of me?’
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