My Guru and His Disciple

by Christopher Isherwood

  Then we were shown a documentary film of the procession which inaugurated the Vivekananda centenary celebrations, last winter—a straggling confusion of military cadets, banners, floats, cows, musicians, political speakers. Vivekananda appeared again and again—as a giant photograph, as a cardboard cutout borne aloft, as a plaster statue on a truck; absurd and yet imposing. And this all the students understood and applauded.

  December 29. Swami, George, and I have moved into Calcutta. During the sitting of the Parliament of Religions, we are to stay at the International House of the Ramakrishna Institute of Culture, because it is much nearer to the place where the Parliament is being held. The International House is grand and well planned, but its floors are grimy with fallen dirt, like floors in New York.

  That day, a Dr. Roy, whom we had just met, offered to get us a negative of one of the photographs taken on August 16, 1886, showing Ramakrishna’s corpse lying on a cot, surrounded by his disciples, before being carried to the cremation ghat. Prema and I had already seen this and wanted to publish it in Ramakrishna and His Disciples.

  Hitherto, the Math had been against displaying any of these photographs of the corpse, feeling that this would be in bad taste. When one of them was included among the illustrations to The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, its lower third had been cut off, so that only the mourners were visible, gazing down at what you couldn’t see.

  We objected to this censorship because it suggested that something repulsive had had to be concealed—which was not true. The corpse certainly hasn’t been prettified and posed, as it would have been by Western morticians. It lies openmouthed, showing its teeth, looking totally discarded. But the general effect isn’t shocking, merely a simple statement of the fact of death. Swami agreed with our point of view, adding that many representations of the crucified Christ with his bleeding wounds are repulsive, yet they are shown openly in churches. Thanks to Swami’s persuasiveness, we got the Math’s permission to publish.

  * * *

  The inaugural session of the Parliament of Religions began at 3:30 p.m. and went on for three hours. Not one of the speakers bothered to project his voice; they droned through their written addresses as if they were saying mass. There was an audience of about eight thousand people and I doubt if eight hundred of them really understood English. They sat there with—no, one can’t call it patience—with animal passivity.

  I got a rosette to wear, to show that I was a delegate of the Parliament; orange, with blue and purple ribbons, enclosing a soulful portrait of Swamiji which is inscribed: “Every soul is potentially divine.”

  Then I went on with Swami to the Star Theatre, where Girish Ghosh used to act in and direct his own plays. Swami wanted me to see the old paintings of Ramakrishna and Girish which still hang there, backstage. The backstage part of the theatre is probably very much as they knew it; the rest has been modernized.

  A performance was about to begin. Actors and actresses paused to bow to the paintings before going on stage. We went out front and watched the play for a while. I would gladly have stayed longer, if Swami hadn’t wanted to get back to the Institute of Culture. Without understanding a word, I felt I could never tire of the actors’ intonations and gestures, their delight in their own vitality. Bengalis seem born for the drama. I felt I was getting glimpses of the kind of fun Ramakrishna and Girish had together, during one of Girish’s drunken visits.

  As night falls, a hideous smoky fog closes down—from all the charcoal pots on the streets and the soft coal fires in the houses. In my room, even though it is air-conditioned, I began to wonder seriously if I shouldn’t be choked in my sleep.

  December 30. Swami didn’t sleep much. He complains of the smoke but won’t go back to the Math. Looking out the window at dawn, I saw bent figures in wispy smoke-colored garments moving silently about like emanations of the smoke, as they lit fires to create more smoke.

  At the Parliament, Prema spoke on “Vivekananda through the eyes of an American,” very well. Here he is obliged to wear the white robe of the brahmachari, which turns him into a (to me) disconcertingly austere figure who seems older than the Prema I know. We laughed about this, later.

  When it was my turn to speak, I tried to pretend to myself that the whole audience could understand me. And I found myself instinctively working to strengthen this illusion by using the great keynote names over and over again—Ramakrishna, Vivekananda, Brahmananda, and even Gandhi. These produced automatic applause, as I had known they would. I began my speech by saying that I wished them to regard me as an Englishman, not an American—thus offering them a tribute to Vivekananda by a descendant of their oppressors.

  One of the youngest swamis accompanied me back to the Institute, having fiercely repelled the journalists and bossed a way through the crowd for me, to the car. He was bubbling with indignation because the interpreter who was there to render the gist of our speeches into Bengali hadn’t done so but had made comments of his own. The swami added that many people in the audience did understand English and that they would certainly have booed the interpreter if they hadn’t been intimidated by the pictures of Ramakrishna and Vivekananda which hung behind the platform. These turned the hall into a sacred place, in which you had to behave yourself.

  December 31. Just before going to bed, I started to get the gripes. I shivered a lot and couldn’t sleep all night. Lying awake in the dark, I was swept by gusts of furious resentment—against India, against the senior swamis of the Math (not the younger ones), against Swami himself, even. I resolved to tell him that I refuse, ever again, to appear in the temple or anywhere else and talk about God.

  Part of this resolve is quite valid. I do honestly think that, when I give these God lectures, it is Sunday Religion in the worst sense. As long as I quite unashamedly get drunk, have promiscuous sex, and write books like A Single Man, I simply cannot appear before people as a sort of lay monk. Whenever I do, my life becomes divided and untruthful—or rather, the only truth left is in my drunkenness, my sex, and my art. (There are, of course, dozens of audiences which would be ready to accept the drink, sex, and art. To these I could also talk about God without falseness. They might be embarrassed but they would listen. Such audiences are not to be found within the Vedanta Society, however.)

  This morning, a party of us went out to Narendrapur, where the Ramakrishna Mission has a huge project, a sort of Boys Town which includes schools, clinics, and a farm. It is impressively efficient. We have been told that the government favors the Mission because it is one of the very few social-service agencies in which there is no graft.

  The hot sun made me feel sick, but it was lovely to be out in the clean country air. I came back to the Institute and lay down. One of the swamis soon appeared at my door, wanting me to take on a chore—probably to unsnarl the English in which some of the delegates’ speeches are written; I have done this a couple of times already. I would perhaps have said yes if he had asked me nicely, but he prodded me so peremptorily that I acted dazed-sick until he went away frustrated.

  January 1, 1964. A good omen. The first person to visit my room was a young brahmachari named Sashi Kanto. He had come to wish me a happy new year. He says his name means “Moon Beauty” or “Husband of the Moon.” He is from somewhere near Bombay—a big boy, bulky and yet graceful in his cocoon of white muslin. The cropped hair and the little topknot which he wears as a brahmachari suit the charm of his long sensitive nose and dark soft velvet eyes. He seems incapable of anything but love. Such languishing looks, delicate hand touches, and flashing glances are only possible for the absolutely innocent. Every day, he washes Swami’s and George’s gerua robes, regarding the opportunity to do them this service as a great grace.

  I am still resolved to tell Swami that I won’t give any more religious talks after I leave India. But I’ll offer to give two talks about this trip, one in Hollywood and one at the Montecito convent, and also two readings on other Sundays before he returns to California.

  Dr. Biswas, who
is the son-in-law of Swami’s sister, came to give me a checkup. While he was examining me, I asked—to make conversation: “Are you in general practice, Doctor?” “No,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I specialize in leprosy.” His hands were touching my skin as he said this. It was silly of me, but I felt an involuntary recoil and had to cover it by expressing great interest. He said there is a lot of leprosy still around and no law compels lepers to report for treatment; many are ashamed to do this. People of all classes get it—usually during childhood, from lepers who are nursing them.

  After lunch today, Swami told a lady, one of the Swiss delegates, to stop wearing hats. She had on a weird contraption, like a slipped turban. She explained that she wore hats at the meetings out of respect for our holy surroundings. Swami answered that that was merely an idea of St. Paul’s; it doesn’t apply in India. He advised her to wear gerua on her head if she felt she had to wear something. But later she appeared hatless, with a ribbon around her hair, and looked very nice.

  I have been given another badge; the same design, but this one has the motto: “Mother, make me a man.”

  This afternoon, I presided at a session of the Parliament; each of us has to assume the office of president once. My speech was chiefly about Girish Ghosh and the ways in which I identify myself with him. One sentence was, approximately: “I wouldn’t dare to claim to have one quarter of Girish’s devotion, I would not even claim to have half as much artistic talent as Girish had—or half his capacity for drinking.” This did not get a laugh. Nor did they laugh when I told the story about one of the swamis in San Francisco being asked: “Swami, how is it possible that these ladies who have been your disciples for many years are all such awful people?” To which the Swami replied, “If they had not come to Ramakrishna, they would all be murderesses.”

  Just as I reached the end of my speech, I was handed a piece of paper with the message: “Continue for fifteen minutes.” This was because they had just realized that the next speaker wasn’t going to show up. I ignored it and stopped, irritated by their thick-skinned bossiness.

  January 2. Last night, when I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, a young swami appeared whom I’ve been seeing quite a lot of—the same one who was angry with the interpreter. He is a dramatically handsome boy, with almost black eyes, very dark skin, tigerish white teeth. He had decided to come and talk to me, whether I liked it or not. So we talked for more than three hours.

  He began by telling me about his relations with a senior swami whose personal attendant he had been. His eyes blazed with remembered passion and also with satisfaction at his own hypersensitivity, as he described how—after waiting on this swami faithfully and faultlessly for months—he made one little slip, forgot to get some medicine the swami had ordered. Next day, he was told that the swami had been very annoyed. So he became furious and went into the swami’s presence spoiling for a fight. But the swami somehow conveyed to him by a glance how much he loved him. So all was well. This motif of a loverlike need for reassurance kept recurring in our conversation. You are equally ready to leave your guru and the monastery forever or to fall at his feet in tears. Such scenes could obviously become as necessary to one as playing Russian roulette. They would have to be repeated continually.

  His family consisted of freethinking intellectuals. They would all have been horrified to hear that he had made up his mind to be a monk. He became converted by reading the works of Vivekananda, and decided to join the monastery in Madras.

  He left home without telling anybody, in the middle of the night. He thought he had planned everything perfectly in advance, but there was a last-minute hitch. He very nearly missed his train because, at that late hour, he had great difficulty in finding anyone to carry his suitcase to the station for him. It was unthinkable for this upper-class boy to carry his own suitcase in public—even though he was on his way to a place where he would renounce his class, his family, and all his possessions! He quite saw, now, how funny this was.

  He delights in being a swami. In what other station in life, he asks, would a young man be treated with such respect by his elders? Famous men and women actually take the dust of your feet! I find such silliness endearing. How wonderful to be so innocent! He told me encouragingly that I shall become far better known for my book on Ramakrishna than for any of my novels. Incidentally, he thinks that Romain Rolland’s book on Ramakrishna is supreme; all I can hope for is to be second best.

  This morning, Swami, George, and I drove to Brahmananda’s birthplace, Sikra Kulingram. It is a tiny village out on the flat paddy fields of the Ganges delta, enclosed by large lush trees. A shrine has been built on the actual spot—as nearly as could be determined—where Brahmananda was born. And there is a guesthouse, where we were to stay the night.

  During the drive I felt awful—partly upset stomach and headache but chiefly mere rage, expressing itself in that battle cry of the ego, They shan’t push me around!

  When we arrived, we were told that George and I would have to share a room in the guesthouse. Did I resent this? No, I’m certain I didn’t. I immediately said that I had a headache and wanted to lie down. What the ego really wanted was time to figure out what to say to Swami. It knew it was going to make some kind of a scene, and this needed to be rehearsed.

  As soon as I had finished rehearsing, I got up again and began walking around, feeling better already. It was quite warm, with a brilliant blue sky. The leaves were flashingly green. Dark smiling children sat among them, half hidden in the shadows.

  I found Swami talking to one of the other swamis—one whom I temporarily hate, as my chief pusher-around. I took Swami aside and told him I was feeling sick and wanted to have the car take me back to Belur Math at once. Swami seemed bewildered. He said gently yes, of course, but wouldn’t I have lunch first? His bewilderment frustrated me for a moment. I had expected that he would cue me into my scene by asking some leading question. I should have remembered that that isn’t his way. I had to go on under my own steam, feeling myself beginning to lose pressure already.

  “Swami—it isn’t just that I’m sick. I feel awful about everything … I’ve made up my mind: I can’t ever talk about God and Religion in public again. It’s impossible. I’ve been feeling like this for a long time … I suppose I’ve wanted to spare your feelings, but that’s not right, either. Why shouldn’t I tell you how I really feel? After all, you are my guru. You have to be responsible for me, anyway … It’s the same thing, really, that I used to think when I was living at the Center, in the old days: the Ramakrishna Math is coming between me and God. I can’t belong to any kind of institution—because I’m not respectable—”

  At this, Swami laughed, more bewildered than ever: “But, Chris, how can you say that? You’re almost too good. You are so frank, so good, you never tell any lie.”

  “I can’t stand up on Sundays in nice clothes and talk about God. I feel like a prostitute. I’ve felt like that after all of these meetings of the Parliament, whenever I’ve spoken … I knew this would happen. I should never have agreed to come to India. After I’d promised you I’d come, I used to wake up every morning and dread it—”

  “Oh, Chris, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you—”

  “You know, the first time I prostrated before you, that was a great moment in my life. It really meant something tremendous to me, to want to bow down before another human being … And, here, I’ve been making pranams to everybody—even to people I’ve quite a low opinion of. And that takes all the significance out of doing it—”

  This was outrageously disingenuous, because the pranams I referred to were only playacting, anyway. I couldn’t have said it if Swami had been able to look into my eyes. But he wasn’t. I was wearing sunglasses.

  All this time, we were walking up and down in the sunshine, along a path between the ranks of bushes, with George somewhere in the middle distance and the swamis on the porch of the guesthouse, and the hidden children watching. It seemed to me that they all kne
w a drama was being enacted.

  Swami looked at me with hurt eyes. He said, “I don’t want to lose you, Chris.” His utter dismay was enough to break my heart. And yet I knew that he, too, had begun to playact—to call my bluff. He knew perfectly well it was unthinkable that I should leave him under any circumstances. I told him so. He went on looking dismayed.

  I felt guilty, but not very. There had been some truth of feeling in my outburst, even if it was negative feeling. I knew that it was far better to have spoken than not to have spoken.

  The other swamis took the news that I was going back to the Math with slightly cynical impassivity. George gave me a strangely understanding grin.

  We had a silent embarrassed lunch at which I ate only rice. Then the driver took me back to Calcutta in a cloud of red dust. Having had its tantrum, my ego relaxed. India seemed suddenly charming. I felt no impatience when our car was stalled behind trucks full of vegetables in the village of De Ganga, where there was a roadside market. I almost loved the dark-skinned countrypeople, shouting at each other in angry voices without anger. And I was so happy to get back to my room at the Math guesthouse.

  When I told Prema everything that had happened, he was amused but showed no surprise. His lack of surprise made me suspect that he may have been through a similar scene with Swami, himself.

  January 3. Went to the Cultural Institute; Swami was lying in bed there, with a cough, very rumpled and sad. He had become sick at Sikra Kulingram. The country dust was officially blamed for this, but I had a strong impression—later confirmed by Prema—that I was responsible. Swami is quite capable of getting sick in order to work on someone’s feelings; though I doubt if he realizes this about himself—it is purely instinctive behavior. All I could do was to be extra-solicitous and, at the same time, remain absolutely firm in my decision.