First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  ‘I didn’t sleep a wink,’ Vivekananda replied. ‘I am in a fever of impatience to reach Amarnath. I doubt if I shall be able to eat or sleep till I do.’ Then throwing her a searching glance, he said, ‘Listen Margot! I’m here for a reason. Look ahead of you—’ Following the pointing finger Nivedita saw that the path was sloping down to a valley through which a river ran—now frozen over into a sheet of ice and snow. People were crossing it in twos and threes, slipping over the smooth surface, losing their balance and falling … Some were crawling across the surface on bare hands and knees. ‘Look at that old woman Margot,’ Vivekananda said, ‘She’s crossing over barefoot. I wish you to do the same. It will be hard for you, I know. You’ve never walked barefoot in your life. But I want you to rise above your Western upbringing; to do what the others are doing. Can you?’ Nivedita stooped to unlace her shoes then, pulling them off her feet, she threw them down the slope. ‘I’ll never wear shoes again,’ she said softly. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Vivekananda said, ‘Only for this stretch … I want you to prove to everyone who cast aspersions on you that you can do what every Indian can.’ Gesturing to a porter to pick up the discarded shoes Vivekananda walked rapidly ahead with Nivedita by his side.

  Setting foot on the frozen water Nivedita’s heart sang within her. She remembered her childhood when she had run and skated over ice and snow and played games with the other children. Vivekananda had a stick to support him. She had nothing. Stretching her arms out like a ballet dancer she walked gracefully, step by step, till she reached the other side. ‘You were very good,’ Vivekananda exclaimed in surprise, ‘but your feet must be numb with cold.’

  ‘We all walked barefoot a few centuries ago,’ Nivedita answered.

  At the end of the day the weary pilgrims set up their tents in Wabjan, twelve thousand feet above sea level. Exhausted to the bone though she was, Nivedita’s concern was entirely for Vivekananda. The climbing had been really tough and there was a good deal more to come. Could he withstand it? Though he wouldn’t admit it, he was a sick man and needed constant attendance and care. But he was giving her no opportunity of looking after him.

  Vivekananda didn’t come to her that night nor the next morning. Nivedita got her things together and set off with the others, her heart heavy and resentful. Why was he avoiding her? What had she done? After walking a few hundred yards she heard a commotion at the front of the line. Hurrying to the spot she found that a river, its water as pure and clear as crystal, was flowing down the side of the mountain and a number of men were bathing in it. Others were standing on the bank taking off their clothes in preparation for plunging in. Among them was Vivekananda. Nivedita ran to his side and grabbed his arm. ‘What are you thinking of?’ she cried. ‘The water is as cold as ice. Can’t you see how the people are shivering? You’ll catch your death!’ Vivekananda disengaged his arm from the clutching fingers and said solemnly, ‘I will do what I must. Don’t forget that I’m a Hindu ascetic. Now leave me and go ahead with the others.’ Then, seeing her hesitate, he commanded her in a stern voice: ‘Obey me Margot! Walk on with the other women. It isn’t proper for you to stand here where men are bathing. Don’t worry. I shan’t come to any harm.’

  Half an hour later a ragged little urchin came running up to Nivedita. ‘A sadhuji has asked you to wait for him. He’s coming up the mountain.’ Nivedita leaned against a boulder and waited. What sadhuji wanted to see her? Could she dare to hope it was Vivekananda?

  It was. In a few moments he came striding up, dripping from head to foot, yet smiling and swinging his lathi with jaunty movements. The upper half of his body was bare and the lower wrapped in a soaking dhuti. ‘Look Margot!’ he cried, ‘I’ve bathed in the river and I’m still alive. In fact I’m feeling better than ever. What I’d really like now is a chillum of tobacco.’

  ‘Change into dry clothes at once,’ Nivedita almost screamed at him.

  ‘All in good time,’ he answered pleasantly. ‘Yesterday’s climb was over sharp rocks and thorny briars. And you insisted on doing it barefoot. Let me have a look at your feet. They must be badly cut …’

  ‘They’re alright,’ Nivedita said trying to hide them. But Vivekananda wouldn’t let her. He forced her to sit down, then, taking her tender white feet in his hands, he examined them closely. They were torn and bleeding. ‘I’m getting a horse or duli for you,’ he said putting them down. ‘You can’t walk on those feet.’

  ‘I can,’ Nivedita protested, ‘They don’t hurt me a bit.’ But Vivekananda dismissed her plea with a wave of his hand. ‘That’s nonsense,’ he said smiling. Then, fixing his fiery dark eyes on her dewy blue ones, he said gently, ‘You don’t have to do what I do Margot. I’m a sanyasi. You’re not. Why do you torture yourself?’

  Nivedita’s feet were bandaged and her shoes strapped on under Vivekananda’s supervision. Then a horse was procured for her which she rode for the rest of the day. It was a wonderful ride. The air was strong and bracing and as deliciously cold as among the hills of her native land. The flowers that grew in the valleys and slopes were familiar too. She saw banks of Michaelmas daisies covering the hills with their delicate purple, shell pink anemones in sheltered clefts forget-me-nots peeping out of emerald moss, dove grey columbine with silky petals, lilies of the valley and wild roses in profusion. She sniffed the scented air drawing deep breaths of ecstasy. The sense of exile that had been torturing her all these days crumbled and fell away and her heart felt as light as a feather. And every time she thought of those warm comforting hands on her cold, lacerated feet (and she thought of them often) the most wonderful sensations washed over her. She felt she had come home at last.

  Towards evening the line of pilgrims drew to a weary halt and, selecting a mountain slope, transformed it into a township of tents. It was the night of Rakhi Purnima—the last night of their climb upwards. They would set off again at midnight so as to reach Amarnath at dawn. There would be little sleep for anyone tonight. Nivedita made up her mind. She wouldn’t wait for Vivekananda to come to her. She would seek him out herself and they would walk this final stretch and have their first view of Amarnath together.

  After a wash and meal she set out on her search—a wraith-like figure in her white gown. She peered from tent to tent till she came upon him sitting with a group of sadhus in a circle. In the centre, an elderly ascetic, with long matted hair and grizzled beard, was singing a Vedic hymn in a monotonous drone. The air was thick with smoke rising from the incense burning in a thurible. There was no way of getting to Vivekananda. The doorway of the tent was jammed with human bodies and he sat at the far end. He looked weary to the bone. His face was as white as paper and his eyes sunk in pools of shadow. Nivedita could see that, despite the haze and the distance at which she stood. But she could do nothing for him. Sighing in resignation, she came away.

  There were no horses for the last lap of the journey which was such a steep climb that only human feet could negotiate it and that too after exercising the utmost caution. Nivedita’s feet were still sore and hurting but she walked rapidly ahead her eyes darting this way and that for a glimpse of Vivekananda. But he wasn’t at the front of the file either and Nivedita was forced to walk on keeping pace with the others.

  The path wound upwards dramatically over slippery snow-covered rocks for about two thousand feet. This was the most dangerous part of the journey. It was easy to lose one’s footing and be thrown down the precipice thousands of feet below. Several accidents took place each year most of them fatal.

  After inching their way painfully over steep rocks and jagged cliffs for several hours the pilgrims beheld a sight that sent a shout of jubilation through their lines. Before them lay a stretch of level ground covered with a blanket of fresh fallen snow which glimmered like a ghostly sea of silver under the fading moon. On the other side the eastern sky was paling with the first grey light of dawn. Singing and ullulating the frenzied pilgrims ran across—slipping over the snow, falling and reaching out to one another. The perils
of the journey lay behind them. Amarnath was less than a mile away.

  Nivedita tried to stand aside and let the others pass. She wanted to wait for Vivekananda. But the crowd washed over her in joyous tumult and carried her along on its waves. On and on she went, propelled by the force of faith behind her, feet flying, her ears deafened by cries of Hara Hara Bom Bom till she was washed ashore at the mouth of the cave of Amarnath. Was this the merging she had envisaged and yearned for? If it was, why did it leave her so restless and dissatisfied?

  Nivedita entered the cave along with the others. It was huge and filled to overflowing with men and women singing, shouting, laughing, rolling over the ground and sobbing with joy in front of the shining pillar of ice that was the phallus of Shiva. Nivedita stood on one side her back pressing against a rock. She felt a sense of anti-climax. Was this all there was to see at the end of such a long, hard perilous journey? Water dripping from a crack in the roof and solidifying into a column of ice? What was so wonderful about it? She had expected … she didn’t know what she had expected. But the reality was far from overwhelming. She had hoped that the collective faith of the people around her would touch a chord in her soul; would set it quivering with ecstasy. But nothing like that happened. Dismayed, she looked on the phenomenon with lacklustre eyes.

  Vivekananda came in after a while. He had bathed in the river and his dripping body was naked except for the flimsy bit of saffron that covered his genitals. His eyes were stark and staring and his feet unsteady as he ran towards the linga. Flinging himself, face downwards, he knocked his head on the ground several times. Then, rising, he stood with his eyes closed and his head bowed over folded hands. His lips moved in a silent chant. After a few minutes, it seemed to Nivedita that his body was swaying from side to side. Afraid that he would fall, she made a rush towards him, but stopped herself just in time. She remembered that he was a Hindu and a sadhu and she a woman; a Christian woman. She couldn’t pollute him with her touch in this holy place.

  But Vivekananda didn’t fall. He gathered himself together with a supreme effort and walked out of the tent reeling and stumbling. Nivedita followed him. ‘Do you feel unwell?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Shall I send for Shahid-ul-lah? There might be a doctor among the pilgrims—’ Vivekananda turned his large, bloodshot eyes upon her face, ‘I saw Him!’ he cried in a wondering voice. ‘He revealed himself before me! Do you hear me Margot? The great Mahadev—first and supreme among the gods of the pantheon—stood before me in a cloud of blinding light …’ Nivedita looked down at her feet. She was embarrassed and didn’t know how to respond.

  The return journey was much easier. Crossing the Hathyar lake they reached Pahalgaon on the afternoon of the following day. Joe and Olé, who had missed them sorely, were standing by the Lider waiting for them. After a wash Vivekananda and Nivedita sat down to their first hot meal after nearly a week. Tucking into freshly made chapatis and vegetables and washing them down with great gulps of smoking tea, Vivekananda gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘A cigar is all I need now to make life perfect,’ he said. Lighting one, he pulled deeply on it. Joe and Olé, consumed with curiosity, pressed him for an account of all that had taken place. ‘I’ve had the most awesome experience of my life Joe,’ Vivekananda said, ‘The sight of the linga set my pulses racing. My heart trembled like a leaf. I shut my eyes. The light was unbearable. Then I felt something pulling at me; pulling me out of myself. I felt as though I was floating in space. I was frightened and ran out of the cave. But in my heart I knew that the great God Shiva, Destroyer and Preserver, was drawing me to Him …’

  After hearing Vivekananda’s account Joe turned to Nivedita. ‘What was your experience Margaret?’ Nivedita blushed. ‘To tell you the truth,’ she began, throwing a nervous glance at her guru, ‘I enjoyed the journey very much. The scenery is spectacular. But inside the cave, I felt nothing—nothing at all. And I saw nothing that, in my eyes, appeared to be a miracle. The famed linga was only a trick of nature. I’m sure there are dozens of such ice pillars in the caves of Europe. I couldn’t see what there was in it worthy of veneration.’

  ‘The eyes of your mind are shut like a newborn’s,’ Vivekananda said, ‘And your soul sleeps within you. That is why you saw nothing and felt nothing.’

  ‘I admit it,’ Nivedita confessed humbly. ‘I’m raw, ignorant—not ready yet for a spiritual experience. But if you had helped me just a little; if you had sent only a tiny spark of the great fire that lit your soul I could have—’

  ‘You talk like a child Margot,’ Vivekananda cut her short. Then, looking at Joe, he said, ‘She understands nothing. Yet the great pilgrimage she undertook will not go waste. She’ll receive its fruits when she awakens—older and wiser.’

  Chapter XXIX

  The incarceration of Balgangadhar Tilak sent shock waves not only through the country but across the seas to Great Britain. The killers of Rand and Ayerst had been caught and hanged. Not a shred of evidence had come to light connecting Tilak with the crime. The English intelligentsia was disturbed and angry. Why was Her Majesty’s government in India following a policy of such brutal repression particularly against a highly educated, distinguished leader of the people like Tilak? What was his crime? That he had criticized the inhuman behaviour of the Plague Control officials in his newspaper? What, then, was the meaning of the term freedom of expression? Max Mueller, acting as their mouthpiece, appealed to Queen Victoria to give orders to release her distinguished Indian subject without delay.

  With Tilak’s release the others, held without evidence, in the Rand and Ayerst murder case were set free one by one. Thus, over a year after being forcefully taken from the dharmashala in Sitavaldi, Bharat found himself standing outside the prison gates. His money and belongings were returned to him and he was given, in addition, a sum of one hundred and twenty rupees as wages for his labour in the oil mills. In all these months Bharat hadn’t shaved or cut his hair. It stood out from his head, now, in a vast tangled thatch and was the breeding ground of thousands of lice. Some of them had travelled south and lodged themselves in his beard. Bharat couldn’t sleep at night for the constant activity in his head and face. Sometimes, finding the itching unbearable, he scratched so viciously with his broken fingernails that blood ran down his scalp and chin.

  Bharat’s first action, on walking out of the prison gates, was to enter a barber’s shop and shave the whole mass off. His head felt light and delightfully free and, with this new-found freedom, the old compulsion to wander about as a roaming sadhu dropped from him. Looking into the barber’s mirror he saw a clean shaved head, fair healthy cheeks and a neat profile. He decided to become a gentleman and get himself a new lease of life. But where would he go? Calcutta was barred to him. So was Puri with its unhappy memories. Here, in Poona too, he had had a bad experience. Suddenly he thought of Patna. He had been there once and had liked the city. He decided to go to Patna.

  He bought himself a full suit of Western clothes and shoes to go with it. Booking himself into a hotel, he bathed, changed out of his filthy saffron and wore his new clothes. Then he ate a lavish meal, went to the station and boarded a train to Patna.

  Taking his seat in a second class compartment Bharat looked curiously about him. The young man sitting in a corner by the window drew his attention. Not for his looks, that was certain. He was of medium height and his body spare and frail in its loosely fitting English suit. A scattering of pockmarks on a face without beauty or distinction rendered it plainer than ever. What compelled Bharat’s attention were his strange ways. He had six or seven books open before him from which he read haphazardly between puffs from a cigarette. He smoked incessantly and was extremely clumsy in his movements. He was constantly dropping something or the other—a book, his spectacles, his cigarette. And if anyone came forward to help him pick them up, he shrank into his corner and cried ‘No, No’ as though in extreme distress. Bharat wondered if he was an Anglo-Indian. Whenever he spoke it was in the language of the rulers. Bharat heard him a
sk a peanut vendor for an anna’s worth of peanuts in English.

  Presently the young man rose from his seat dropping a book and a handkerchief at the same time. As he stooped to pick them up Bharat saw that his purse was halfway out of his pocket. ‘Mind your purse,’ he warned. The young man straightened himself and pushed the purse deeper into his pocket. ‘Thanks,’ he said and walked swaying down the aisle. Curious to see what he was reading Bharat moved to his corner. And then he got a shock. The book nearest to him was Bankimchandra’s Krishna Kantér Will. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. A wave of nostalgia swept over him. He hadn’t read Bankimchandra in so many years!

  The young man returned a few minutes later. He had washed his face and was wiping it with a large handkerchief. ‘Can I borrow this book for a couple of hours?’ Bharat asked him in Bengali, ‘What?’ It seemed the young man didn’t understand Bengali. Bharat was puzzled. He was reading a Bengali book but couldn’t speak or understand the language! How was that possible? He repeated his request in English and the young man agreed instantly. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, then went on to add, ‘Going far?’

  ‘Up to Patna.’

  The young man put out his hand and shook Bharat’s. ‘I am A. Ghosh. Coming from Baroda and going to Deoghar.’

  ‘My name is Bharat Kumar Singha,’ Bharat said in Bengali, ‘I’m coming from Poona. You don’t look a Bengali but you have to be one with a name like Ghosh.’ His travelling companion frowned.

  ‘Say that again,’ he said. Bharat obliged, whereupon he answered ‘Yes—Bengali by birth.’ Then, opening his cigarette case, he offered Bharat its contents. Bharat helped himself and said in English, ‘You read Bengali fiction. That too Bankimchandra. Yet you can’t speak Bengali?’ A. Ghosh smiled. ‘I can,’ he said with charming candour. ‘But I make many mistakes. And I can’t understand it when spoken to, unless each word is enunciated slowly and properly.’ He, then, proceeded to tell Bharat about himself. His full name was Aurobindo Ghosh. He taught in a college in Baroda and was the Gaekwad’s private secretary. He was going to Deoghar to see his maternal grandfather who was old and ailing.