First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  After spending a week in Srinagar, Dwarika took a boat to Anantnag. Kashmir was set high on the mountains but it had innumerable valleys through which rivers and their tributaries ran incessantly turning the kingdom into a web of silver. From one stretch of water to another they floated, without a care, till they reached Pahalgaon—a tiny village by the bank of the Lider. Though small and obscure Pahalgaon was crowded with tourists for it was from here that the trek to Amarnath commenced. Sravani Purnima, the night on which the Shiva linga in the cave at Amarnath would manifest itself in all its glory, was only a few days away. There weren’t enough inns and resthouses to accommodate the large number of pilgrims that poured in here from the rest of India during this season, so tent owners did a brisk business. A structure of canvas and bamboo could be hired on a small payment and put up anywhere. By the time Dwarika and Basantamanjari reached Pahalgaon the mountain slopes were already dotted with tents of varying shapes and sizes.

  Choosing one for himself Dwarika joined the rest of the throng. Till now he had had no plans of journeying to Amarnath. It was an arduous, dangerous climb and all Dwarika had wanted to do was to indulge his senses and enjoy himself. But the sight of so many men and women, bent on the same mission, fired him with an enthusiasm he had never felt for anything religious before. He decided to join them and see the famed Shiva linga of ice and snow with his own eyes.

  As for Basantamanjari—she had never been happier in her life. That night she crept out of her tent and, running down the slope, came and stood by the river. She gazed upon the scene entranced. Never had her eyes beheld such beauty. The waxing moon was pouring a stream of liquid silver over the black water filling every nook and cranny as though the river were a granary. The soft lapping of the water over the smooth cobbles made music in her ears. And, from over the mountains, a wild sweet breeze blew over her caressing her limbs and lifting the strands of her hair. She felt her soul deepen and expand; grow rich …

  The sound of Dwarika’s footsteps walking rapidly towards her brought her back to reality. ‘You must have been worried about me,’ he cried then went on to explain. ‘Something rather nasty has happened. A sadhu has appeared from somewhere with four white wenches in tow. He insists on taking them to Amarnath. Do you remember the women we saw on the boat? They are the ones. The man is not only no ascetic—he’s a dirty scoundrel. One isn’t enough for him. He must have four to warm his bed. The other sadhus here are up in arms. They have declared that they won’t allow their shrine to be polluted by the presence of mlechha Christians. But the pipe-puffing montebank insists on having his own way.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘No. I heard all this from our group leader Yusuf. The Naga sadhus are threatening to attack the charlatan. You know how murderous they can get. Their trishuls—’

  ‘Ogo! Stop them. Stop them. No one must touch the young sanyasi. He’s no charlatan.’

  Dwarika stared at her for a few moments then asked softly, ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘No,’ Basantamanjari shook her head slowly from side to side with a lingering movement. ‘I know nothing of him. But, just for a second, I saw the two of you together. You stood facing each other. The sanyasis’s hand was on your shoulder and you were talking …’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You didn’t see anything. You imagined it. I don’t know any sanyasi. Unless, of course, it’s Bharat—’

  ‘It isn’t him.’ Basantamanjari’s voice was strangely insistent. She wasn’t looking at Dwarika. Her face was turned away and her eyes were fixed on a spot beyond the hills as though she saw something there. ‘I’ve seen your friend Bharat. This man is another. I’ve never seen him in my life.’

  ‘You’ve never seen him! Yet you see him!’ Dwarika broke out impatiently. ‘Are you in a delirium that you talk such nonsense?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Basantamanjari turned to him waving her white hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I only know that you must go to him. He needs your support. He’s waiting for it. Ogo! Don’t delay. Go quickly.’ She clutched his hands as she spoke and shook them with feverish insistence. Some of her urgency communicated itself to Dwarika. He gazed wonderingly at her for a long moment. He couldn’t find it in his heart to reject her appeal. Disengaging her hands, hot and dry and light as fallen leaves, he walked back the way he had come.

  Pushing his way through the crowd Dwarika reached the spot the new sadhu had chosen for himself. In the light of the two mashals that were planted on the ground Dwarika saw bundles of bamboo, canvas and rope lying unopened on the ground. The men who had come to erect the tents stood helplessly by. From time to time they cast fearful glances at the group of Naga sadhus who stood a few yards away daring them to do their work. These Naga sadhus were terrifying in their nakedness and the malevolence in their fanatical eyes. But the new sanyasi and his followers didn’t look perturbed in the least. The women were chatting together in low voices. A little distance away from them the sanyasi walked up and down the bank as calmly as though he was taking his usual after dinner walk. Approaching him Dwarika saw that he was quite young, fair for an Indian, and extremely handsome in his robe of orange silk and black cap. It surprised him, for some reason. He hadn’t expected him to look quite like that. And even more surprising was the fact that he was singing to himself in a low voice. Dwarika recognized the song. It was a composition by the bard of Halisahar, Ram Prasad, addressed to the goddess Kali. The man was a Bengali In a flash Dwarika knew who he Was. ‘Naren Datta!’ he exclaimed. The man stopped his singing and turned to look at him. ‘My name is Dwarika Lahiri,’ Dwarika said coming forward. ‘You’re Naren Datta of Shimlé, aren’t you? I’ve heard you sing at the Brahmo Mandir in Calcutta. I recognized you by your voice. Don’t you remember me?’ Vivekananda smiled and shook his head regretfully. He didn’t remember Dwarika. ‘We were in Presidency College together,’ Dwarika tried again, ‘But only for a while. Then you left—’ Vivekananda continued to smile and shake his head. ‘I am sorry for what is happening here Naren,’ Dwarika continued. ‘But I shouldn’t be calling you Naren. You’re a great man; a holy man now—’ Vivekananda came forward and put a hand on Dwarika’s shoulder. ‘Never mind that my friend,’ he said. ‘Call me Naren if you wish. I haven’t heard anyone utter that name for so long now. It brings back memories; many memories …’ The voice trailed away. Dwarika trembled—not at the thought that he had received the touch of the great Swami Vivekananda but at the recollection that Basantamanjari had seen this scene in her mind’s eye.

  Now Vivekananda led Dwarika to the place where the ladies stood together and introduced them one by one. ‘Why do the sanyasis find our presence offensive?’ the lady named Jaya asked him. ‘Is it because we are women?’

  ‘It isn’t that,’ Dwarika answered her, his face red and embarrassed. Then, leaning over, he whispered in Vivekananda’s ear, ‘It’s because they are Christians.’

  ‘But that’s absurd!’ Vivekananda dismissed his theory with a laugh. ‘This place is crawling with Muslims. If a Hindu shrine isn’t defiled by the presence of Muslims why should it be by Christians?’

  ‘The Muslims are local people they have imbibed a great, deal of the Hindu faith over generations. They believe in Amarnath. The ladies with you are aliens. It’s not the same thing.’

  ‘I’ve brought them all the way from Calcutta. I can’t send them back.’

  ‘What is the alternative? A confrontation with the other sadhus! Would you really like that Naren?’

  ‘Hmph!’ Vivekananda grunted and fell silent. He took up the subject again after a few moments. ‘I accept the fact that they shouldn’t be allowed inside a Hindu temple,’ he said, ‘But why are the sadhus objecting to their staying here? This place is no temple. It’s an ordinary village. The kingdom of Kashmir has Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists and Zoroastrians. What’s wrong with Christians?’

  Even as he spoke a violent ululating was heard and a group of Naga sanyasis came striding up to where they stood. At the sight of
their naked ash-smeared bodies, wild tangled hair and evil-looking tridents Dwarika’s heart missed a beat. He glanced nervously at his companion. Vivekananda’s face was calm and unlined. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest and waited till the leader of the group stepped forward and stood before him.

  ‘Pranam Maharaj!’ Vivekananda bowed his head over folded hands in humble greeting.

  The sadhu’s eyes pierced malevolently into the young man’s. Then they softened. ‘You’re a true yogi,’ he said. ‘I can see the holy light shining out of your eyes. You desire to break the old and build anew. That, in itself, is a good, a worthy endeavour. But while pursuing a cause you mustn’t lose respect for the sentiments of others. The sadhus here do not wish to stay in close proximity to the mlechha women you have brought along. Why not remove them elsewhere? You can easily put up your tents higher on the slope. There’s no dearth of space.’

  Vivekananda was silent for a while. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll pitch my tents on the top of the mountain. But I wish to take my guests with me to Amarnath. You must allow me to do so.’

  ‘I will. And I’ll stay close to you all through the journey. Instruct these women to treat the sadhus with deference and respect. That will ease the situation.’

  ‘I will Maharaj.’

  However, on further consideration, Vivekananda decided to leave the women behind. They were very keen on going but Vivekananda pointed out the difficulties they would have to face—the long hours of rough climbing over rocks and briars, the lack of even the most basic amenities, the inclement weather and the fear of wild animals. It wasn’t like going mountaineering in Switzerland, he explained, where all the comforts they were used to were provided along the way. Hindus believed that the greater one’s sufferings on the path to a pilgrim spot, the sweeter the fruits. He was able to convince the other three but Nivedita stood firm. She would go where he was going. She had left her country, she said, to make India her home. Why couldn’t she undertake what other Indians did? Vivekananda was in a fix. It was one thing taking four women along with him. The other pilgrims would look on them as a team. But travelling with one woman, and that too a young and beautiful one, was foolish. It would give rise to unnecessary rumour and speculation. Vivekananda knew that the other sadhus had not forgiven him and were waiting to catch him in a misdemeanour. But Nivedita brushed his arguments aside and advanced some of her own. She was here to gather experience; to merge into the mainstream of Indian life. What better opportunity would she get than joining these thousands of men and women, all bent on the same mission? And who cared what people thought anyway? She didn’t. Did he? At this point Vivekananda lost his temper. ‘Even if I don’t,’ he cried irritably, ‘It isn’t the only consideration. There’s a practical side which you are overlooking. You’ll have to climb fourteen to fifteen thousand feet. Have you even seen a mountain that high?’

  ‘There’s always a first time for everything. And I’ve come here ready to do what everyone else is doing.’

  ‘Look at your shoes,’ Vivekananda laughed sarcastically, ‘with their tapering heels and delicate laces. Do you intend to walk over ice and snow in them?’

  ‘No,’ Nivedita answered coolly. ‘I shall walk barefoot like the rest of you.’

  Now Joe Macleod, who was in the habit of indulging every whim of the younger girl’s, came to her defence. ‘Swamiji,’ she said, ‘Don’t forget that you were seriously ill not so long ago. If you can undetake this arduous climb why can’t Margaret? She’s young and healthy. Besides, you need someone to look after you.’

  ‘Sanyasis don’t need anyone to look after them.’ Vivekananda answered sullenly.

  ‘Vivekananda ji.’ Sheikh Shahid-ul-lah, the government official who had been entrusted with the welfare of the pilgrims, stepped forward. He was a young man of about thirty-four and very smart and handsome. He could speak fluent English and had become quite friendly with the ladies. ‘Why are you trying to prevent the memsahib from going with us? I give you my word that she’ll have no difficulty whatsoever. I’ll look after her safety and comfort myself.’

  ‘You’re taking her responsibility then?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Very well,’ Vivekananda turned to Nivedita and said solemnly. ‘You may come with us but don’t depend on me to look after you. I shall be on my own. You’ll see me rarely and, that too, for short intervals. If you need anything you must ask Shahid-ul-lah.’

  Nivedita smiled. The tears brimming over from her wide blue eyes made her face look like a flower with dewdrops clinging to the petals. Joe passed her a handkerchief. ‘Wipe your eyes Margaret,’ she said. ‘You’ve won.’

  The party started off at dawn the following day. There were about three thousand pilgrims under the leadership of Shahid-ul-lah and his minions. A large number of porters followed bringing up the luggage. Vivekananda and Nivedita walked at the rear of the group for a while then, suddenly, Nivedita discovered that he had left her. Looking up she saw him on a mountain ledge in the centre of a group of sadhus flailing his arms in the air and crying out Hara Hara Bom Bom! in unison with the others. Nivedita pulled her woollen shawl closer over her slim shoulders. The air was turning chilly and a light drizzle, driven this way and that by gusts of wind, was falling. Nivedita’s porter walked behind her holding an umbrella over her head. Ahead of her the other pilgrims walked on, careless of the cold and rain, skipping over puddles and laughing at each other when they slipped and fell. Nivedita craned her neck to catch a glimpse of Vivekananda. He had recently recovered from a serious illness and caught cold easily. But the throng of pilgrims had swallowed him up and he was lost to her.

  The first day’s walking drew to a halt at a place called Chandanbari. The rain had increased into a steady downpour and the wind was piercing. There was no sign of Vivekananda but Shahid-ul-lah came bustling over to where Nivedita stood with her porters. ‘Miss Noble,’ he said, leading her away higher up the slope ‘You’ll be more comfortable at a distance from the others. They’re a noisy lot.’ Then, under his expert guidance, her tents were pitched, her luggage stowed away, and all made cozy within. Nivedita shed her wet things, put on a warm dressing gown and waited. Wouldn’t Swamiji come to her? Not even on this first day? Resentment rose in her gentle heart. She was being treated like an outcaste; a leper. Swamiji was avoiding her and Shahid-ul-lah had taken care to keep her separated from the rest of the pilgrims. How could she ever get to know anything about this ancient land which was to be her own if she was to be kept forever apart? She wanted to merge; to be assimilated in this vast sea of people …

  Nivedita opened some of the bags of food they had brought along. Joe had packed immense quantities of chiré, khoi and molasses and every variety of fresh and dry fruit available in the bazar for them to eat on the journey. Filling a huge satchel with the best of them Nivedita handed it to a porter with instructions to carry it for her. Then, donning a mackintosh, she picked up a large brass bowl and climbed down the hill to the first tent. It was occupied by a highly revered sadhu, chief of his sect, with many disciples. Tiptoeing inside, she found him sprawled on a bed against masses of pillows. The other, lesser ones, sat around him in a ring. Two little boys in saffron crouched on their haunches on either side massaging his legs and thigh, naked to the groin, with hot oil. Another rubbed his fingertips on his damp scalp. The sadhu looked up as she entered and recoiled involuntarily. But Nivedita knelt humbly before him and touching her forehead to the ground, placed the bowl, heaped with fruit, at his feet. The old man’s eyes glittered at the sight and slowly, reluctantly, he placed a hand on her head.

  Nivedita went thus, from tent to tent, till she had visited a dozen holy men and received their blessings. Gradually word spread that the memsahib was no irreverent, irreligious alien. She was as devout as she was beautiful and had come on this pilgrimage to Amarnath in a spirit of true faith and respect for the Hindu dharma.

  But, back in her tent, Nivedita was overwhelmed with lo
neliness and despair. Would he never come? It was only the first day. Miles of territory lay ahead of her. Would she have to traverse them alone? Suddenlyalmost as though she had willed his presence, Vivekananda stood in the room. He had his japmala in his hand and his lips were moving in prayer. Calling out to one of the porters he pointed to a gap in the tent and said, ‘Pull the ends together and bind them tightly. A cold wind is coming in. And don’t forget to put a hot water bottle in memsahib’s bed.’ Then, turning to her, he said briefly, ‘It’s been a tiring day for you. Have something to eat and go to sleep early. We leave this place at dawn.’ He hurried away as quickly as he had come.

  Nivedita had hoped that Swamiji would come to her, once more, just before they left. Hence she delayed the packing up of her luggage and the pulling down of her tent till Shahid-ul-lah came striding up the mountain. ‘Why Miss Noble!’ he cried, surprised. ‘You’re not packed yet. Is anything wrong?’ Nivedita turned her face away to hide her tears. ‘Have you had breakfast?’ Shahid-ul-lah probed. ‘You won’t get the time, you know, once we start moving.’ Nivedita shook her head. She didn’t need any breakfast. Shahid-ul-lah got everything packed in a jiffy and Nivedita took up the journey once more.

  It was a lovely morning. The sky, washed clean by yesterday’s rain, was a clear unflawed blue and the sun shone, dazzling bright, on the snow peaks. Along the narrow mountain path the pilgrims walked, the line winding and unwinding over slopes and valleys, like a giant snake. Nivedita walked in the rear her heart heaving and her eyes downcast. Suddenly she heard a voice call out to her, deep and resonant as a roll of thunder, ‘Margot!’ Startled, she looked up to find Vivekananda leaning against a boulder and smiling down on her. ‘Good morning Margot,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nivedita murmured softly, ‘Did you?’