First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Chapter XXXVI

  Swami Vivekananda had sent Nivedita on a tour of Europe and America, ostensibly to disseminate the message of the Vedantas but really to collect money for the Mission. Away from the country Nivedita saw the true India for the first time. Never in her actual sojourn in the country had she empathized, the way she now did, with the millions of human beings who lived lives of poverty, ignorance and subservience under an alien rule. She saw, clearer than ever before, that her work could not remain confined to doling out lessons to fifteen or twenty girls in a schoolroom situated in a bylane of Calcutta. The first task before anyone who loved the country and was witness to her humiliation, was to rid her of the foreign yoke. But how was it to be done? As far as she could see there was only one man in India who had the ability to draw the masses together and enthuse them to fight for freedom. And that was Swami Vivekananda. He knew the country as no one else did. The native rajas were his friends and wouldn’t hesitate to take up arms against the rulers at his bidding. One of Nivedita’s favourite fantasies was the sight of her beloved Swamiji standing in the midst of a mammoth congregation shouting slogans of freedom. And, drawn by the power of his tremendous personality, men, women and children were rushing towards him like clouds of moths flying straight towards a flame; like giant waves rolling and crashing in a mad race towards the shore.

  But that, as Nivedita knew very well, was not to be. Her guru was an ascetic who had given up the world in an effort to enrich his soul and reach the Divine. He would not take on the job of rousing the rabble. And he would not enter into any confrontation with anybody no matter how noble the cause.

  While in America Nivedita had heard of Okakura—the great academician and philosopher of Japan. Joe Macleod had told her that Okakura cherished a dream of drawing all the peoples of Asia together under one banner and creating a vast Asian race that could overpower the European. As soon as India launched on her struggle for freedom Japan, Korea and some other countries would join her and help her win her independence from the British. Okakura was already in India on his mission. He was meeting people and pledging support on behalf of his own and several other countries of the East—not moral support alone but military and financial as well. Nivedita was overjoyed on hearing the news and decided to hurry back to India and throw herself into the struggle.

  Okakura was to meet the important people of Calcutta at a great reception thrown for him by Olé Bull. Among the guests were Ashutosh Chowdhury, Pramatha Mitra, Bipin Pal, Chittaranjan Das, Sakharam Ganesh Deoskar, Subodh Mullick and Rabindranath Thakur. Okakura, as befitted his status as chief guest, sat in the centre of the gathering with Olé Bull on one side and Nivedita on the other. He wore a black silk kimono, embroidered with the five petalled flower which was his family crest, thin stockings of Japanese cloth and grass slippers on his feet. His complexion was unusually florid for a Japanese and the lids fell, heavy and languid, over his eyes. He had a small moustache. It being a warm evening, he fanned himself constantly with a fan painted in shades of red and yellow. Okakura sat leaning back on his chair—his attitude one of complete ease. Nivedita, who had taken upon herself the task of introducing him to the assembly, was doing most of the talking. She was telling the guests about Okakura’s book Ideals of the East the manuscript of which she was editing; of the extent of the research the writer had done on the cultural traditions of the various Asian countries and of the similarities that he had found. The congregation noted, not without surprise, that Nivedita was not even touching on the subject of the spiritual. She was spending hour after hour singing the Japanese gentleman’s praises.

  Sitting in his room in Belur, Swami Vivekananda heard about Nivedita’s latest craze and felt disturbed and angry. Independence! He snorted in disgust. Was it a piece of candy in a child’s hand that could be snatched away upon a moment’s whim? Who didn’t know or admit that living under a foreign rule was humiliating? Hadn’t he, Vivekananda himself, spoken against it? Hadn’t he exhorted the youth of India to strike back? To sacrifice their lives for the sake of the country? Freedom was desirable and the nation should start preparing for a struggle even unto death. But was the leadership for it to come from a Japanese gentleman and an Irish lady? Vivekananda had no opinion of Okakura. The man had immersed himself in the pleasures of the flesh. And, according to Vivekananda, no great goal could possibly be reached without abstinence and sacrifice.

  About a month and a half ago Nivedita had come to see him. She wanted his permission to visit the ashram at Mayawati with Okakura. ‘You’ve just returned from a long trip abroad,’ Swamiji said with a calmness that belied his true feelings, ‘You haven’t even settled down yet. Your school needs your attention. This is hardly the time to go off again.’

  ‘We need a place where we can be alone,’ Nivedita replied. ‘We have a lot to discuss. The work we have undertaken—’

  ‘I have heard of it. But let me tell you Margot—you’re chasing a mirage. Educating the women of this land is far more real. And that is what you should be doing.’

  Nivedita was peeved by the tone of his voice. But she neither contradicted him nor expressed her resentment. Lowering her eyes to the floor she murmured, ‘The most important task before me now is to launch a movement for the independence of the country.’

  ‘No one denies the value of independence. But, before stirring up the masses, it is important to educate them first. The people of this country are still living in the dark ages. They are ignorant and backward and teeming with superstitions. They’re not ready for independence.’

  ‘Thoughts of this kind only weaken the resolve. This is the time to strike. To fell the English with a tremendous blow.’

  ‘You talk like a child Margot. Put an end to all this nonsense and get back to your work. And stop associating with Okakura. The man’s worthless.’

  Nivedita was speechless with shock. How could Swamiji have used such a term of abuse for a great man like Okakura? And why? Was it … could it … be envy? But how was that possible? Her guru was the greatest of all living men! Such base emotions couldn’t come anywhere near him. Yet … Nivedita suddenly remembered that he had spoken in similarly derogatory tones about Jagadishchandra Bose. Nivedita had been eulogizing the scientist and outlining his achievements when Swamiji had shut her up with the words, ‘The man is a grihi! Bound by earthly temptations and desires! Tell him, since he is so close to you, that in order to attain greatness he must learn the value of abstinence and austerity. You needn’t concern yourself with Jagadish any further.’

  Now, seeing her standing silent but implacable, Swamiji went on, ‘You say you wish to initiate a struggle for freedom. How easy do you think it is going to be? The British are the most powerful race on the earth today. With what will you vanquish them? Do you have bombs? Cannon? Money?’

  ‘Japan will give them to us. Korea is willing to help. And many other countries of Asia! All we need to do is unify the people and enthuse them.’

  ‘Is this a dream?’ Swamiji burst into a peal of mocking laughter. ‘A vision or a fantasy?’

  ‘Nogu has assured me—’ There was pain in Nivedita’s voice. Pain and bewilderment.

  ‘Nogu!’ Vivekananda’s brows came together. ‘Who is Nogu?’ ‘Count Okakura is called Nogu by his family and friends.’ Now Vivekananda could hold himself in no longer. ‘You go too far Margot,’ he thundered, his face flaming. ‘I’ve heard you call Jagadish Bose Khoka to his face. Khoka!’ he mimicked her accent cruelly. ‘Do you know what that means. It means baby boy. Is he a baby boy? It is typical of the contempt with which the white-skinned Westerner treats the Oriental! Would you have dared to address the great men of your land by their pet names—Harry, Larry or Gary?’

  Nivedita’s face took on a deathly pallor. Swamiji was accusing her of holding the people she loved in contempt; of riding roughshod on their sentiments. What could be further from the truth? ‘You call me a white-skinned Westerner,’ she said after a while, desperately trying to control the
quivering of her lips, ‘Who knows, better than you, that I’m a daughter of India? You have dedicated me to her service. That is why I am Nivedita.’

  ‘No. I haven’t dedicated you to the service of any country. You’re a disciple of my guru Sri Ramkrishna Paramhansa; a daughter of Sri Sri Ma. I brought you here to serve humanity; to follow in the footsteps of the great Gautam Buddha.’

  ‘I haven’t strayed from the path of service. Is not freeing the enslaved service to humanity?’

  ‘Listen Margot. It is time you got a few things clear. We are ascetics committed to serve God and man. Politics is not for us. If one of us gets involved in any activity banned by law the whole Mission will be threatened. You have two options before you. To stay with the order and obey its rules, or leave it and follow your own inclinations.’

  Nivedita remained standing in silence, her eyes on her feet. ‘You must sever your connections with the math,’ Vivekananda went on inexorably. ‘We don’t want the eyes of the police on us.’ Now the still, bowed figure stirred into life. Nivedita stooped and, touching her mentor’s feet, walked out of the math. Then, a few days later, she left for Mayawati accompanied by Okakura.

  Vivekananda was shocked on hearing the news. He hadn’t expected it. But, strangely enough, this act of blatant disobedience on the part of his favourite disciple did not anger him. What he felt was a sense of loss. Nivedita had left him. She wouldn’t come back. Not because she didn’t want to but because he had forbidden her. He felt somewhat ashamed of himself. He had been too harsh with the girl. Harsh and intolerant! He thought of going to see her in her house in Bagbazar. But he felt too weak; too tired. The thought of crossing the Ganga frightened him. He rarely moved from his room these days. The effort of negotiating the stairs left him breathless and exhausted.

  Yet, one morning, on seeing his disciple Sarat preparing to leave for Calcutta in the boat that belonged to the math he called out from his window, ‘Wait Sarat! I’m coming with you.’ Then, wrapping a shawl around his bare back and chest he came striding down the stairs, out of the math and stepped inside the boat. Sarat stared at him in astonishment. ‘You’re not well at all,’ he cried. ‘Tell me’what there is to do and I’ll—’ But Swamiji had already ensconced himself comfortably on one of the planks. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said smiling. ‘Just take me to the ghat at Bagbazar and drop me off.’ Then, reaching his destination, Vivekananda leaped out of the boat waving Sarat back into his seat with an imperious hand. ‘You don’t have to come with me,’ he said before striding off in the direction of Bose Para Lane.

  Nivedita had just taken a bath and was standing before a mirror combing her hair when she heard a rustle at the door and turned around startled. Seeing her mentor in the doorway she stood transfixed her hand lifted halfway to her head. ‘There was no one downstairs,’ Vivekananda said casually. ‘So I came up.’ Nivedita came slowly out of her trance.

  ‘My Lord!’ she murmured.

  ‘How are you Margot?’

  Nivedita pushed a chair towards him. ‘Please sit,’ she said softly. ‘I will,’ he replied. ‘But not for long. I have to get back to the math.’ Vivekananda did not sit for more than a few minutes. The effort had been too much for him and he could feel the spasms coming. Soon he would be too breathless to speak and that would alarm Nivedita. ‘Come to the math,’ he said, rising to his feet adding with a kind of desperate urgency, ‘As soon as you can.’

  One morning, a few days later, Nivedita came to Belur. She looked very beautiful in a flowing dress of white silk and rudraksha beads around her neck. Prostrating herself on the ground she touched her head to Vivekananda’s feet. ‘You came only because I asked you,’ Vivekananda said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Not because you wanted to.’

  ‘Why do you say that? I would have come immediately on my return from Mayawati. But you were away.’

  ‘That is true. I went to Bara Jagulia for a week. My disciple Mrinalini Bosu had been urging me to come to her for a long time. I thought the change would do me good. But I came back feeling worse than ever.’ Then, as if suddenly remembering his obligations as a host, he rose to his feet. ‘You’ve come a long way,’ he said. ‘You must be hungry. Just sit quietly in this chair like a good girl while I cook you some breakfast.’ He bustled off in the direction of the kitchen and returned, half an hour later, with a smoking thala in one hand. In the other he held a stone tumbler of iced milk. Nivedita saw that the thala contained a mound of rice, some boiled potatoes and a small heap of jackfruit seeds—steamed, peeled and sprinkled with salt and mustard oil.

  ‘Won’t you eat with me?’ she asked timidly.

  ‘Today is Ekadasi. A fast day for me—as you know.’

  After Nivedita had eaten he insisted on washing her hands and wiping them. He did it meticulously drawing the clean, white towel lovingly over each finger. Nivedita blushed with embarrassment. ‘What are you doing?’ she cried, trying to pull back her hand. ‘It is I who should be serving you.’ Swamiji had been laughing and singing snatches of song all this while. But, on hearing these words, his face turned grave and sombre. ‘Jesus washed the feet of his disciples,’ he almost murmured the words. His eyes, looking into hers, had a strange expression—one she couldn’t fathom. ‘That was on his last day on this earth,’ she thought to herself and her heart sank at the thought. ‘Swamiji!’ she asked brightly, struggling to push back the tears that pricked her eyelids. ‘You remember what Joe Macleod said to you when you told her you wouldn’t live beyond forty? She said you were created in the image of Gautam Buddha and that his best work was done between forty and eighty. You have a long way to go yet.’

  ‘No Margot,’ Vivekananda shook his head. ‘I’ve given … whatever I had to give. I have nothing left. It’s time I went.’

  ‘You have a great deal more to give!’ Nivedita cried passionately. ‘Who else but you—?’ Her voice choked on a sob and tears poured down her face.

  ‘Sometimes it becomes necessary to cut down a large tree to enable the smaller ones to grow.’ Swamiji smiled at her. ‘I have to make room for you,’

  Swamiji woke up the next morning feeling as though he had never been ill in his life. Swinging his legs down the side of his bed he was surprised to find that the swelling had disappeared. He walked over to the window and felt no pain. And, strangest of all, it seemed to him that his vision had improved. Everything looked brighter and clearer. He washed and changed, then, proceeding to the puja room, he sat down to his jap and meditation. Three hours passed. Then a sensation, long forgotten, stirred in his belly. He realized he was hungry; prodigiously hungry. ‘I haven’t eaten well in months,’ he thought, ‘That’s why I feel so weak and tired.’ He made up his mind. He would eat a good meal that day. All the things he loved. Ilish! His soul craved the delicate fish. He could see it in his mind’s eye—thick, rich wedges nestling in oil and spices. Rising, he went to the door. ‘Byaja! Oré o Byaja!’ he called. A young disciple named Brajen came running up the stairs. ‘Tell them in the kitchen to send for some Ilish. I’ve a mind to eat some today—in a rich jhal. I’d like some fried too and some in a sweet and sour sauce.

  Vivekananda fell hungrily on the food as soon as it was served. Pouring the fried fish along with its oil on the smoking rice on his thala he looked around. ‘Get me some green chillies,’ he ordered. When they arrived he crushed a couple between his fingers and, mixing them with the rice, ate big handfuls with noises of relish. When the last course, the sweet and sour fish was served he licked his fingers over it and remarked, ‘Yesterday’s fast has left me terribly hungry. I’ve never enjoyed a meal so much.’

  After he had eaten he sat for a while talking to some visitors who had come to the math. Then, it being the hour for meditation and prayer, he decided to go back to his room. ‘I feel very well to day Byaja!’ he told the boy as he helped him up the stairs. ‘There’s hardly any pain and my limbs feel wonderfully light.’ But, on reaching his room, he exclaimed, ‘Why is it so hot in here? And so
stuffy! Is there a storm brewing outside?’

  ‘No, Swamiji. The sky is clear without a trace of cloud.’

  ‘But I feel very hot and stifled.’ Looking at Swamiji, Brajen was alarmed. His face was beaded over with sweat and he was breathing with difficulty. ‘Open all the windows,’ Vivekananda commanded collapsing on the bed, ‘And fan me for a while.’ Brajen hastened to obey. But, despite the strong breeze that blew in from the window, Vivekananda cried, ‘This heat is killing me! Fan me harder Byaja. I’m sizzling all over.’ He turned over on his side. His hands trembled a little and a cry escaped his lips—a cry like that of a child in his sleep. His head slid from the pillow and fell on the edge of the bed. Brajen leaned over his guru in alarm. Was anything wrong? Was Swamiji trying to say something? Was he hungry? There was some cold milk in the room. Should he give him a few sips? ‘Swamiji!’ he called out frightened. Now Vivekananda turned over and lay on his back. A deep sigh escaped him, then all was still.

  Brajen kept calling him, over and over again, for the next two minutes. Then, bringing the lantern close to his face he got a shock. Swamiji’s eyes were open but the pupils had moved to the extreme ends and stood transfixed at the bridge of his nose.

  Brajen peered hard but could detect no rise and fall of the chest or abdomen. Running out of the room, like one possessed, he howled out his news to the inmates of the math. Now everyone came crowding into the room and leaned anxiously over the still figure. The older disciples exchanged glances. Was it a bhav samadhi? Or a maha samadhi? Some of the younger ones burst into tears. Others, more in control, bustled about making the necessary arrangements. The doctor was sent for from Barahnagar and a messenger was despatched to Balaram Bosu’s house in Bagbazar where Brahmananda was spending the night. Nivedita lived only a few houses away but no one thought of informing her.