‘It clears the head and relieves the pain.’
‘That’s nonsense. I’ve never heard of snuff relieving, pain. Why don’t you take some proper medicine? What kind of pain is it?’
‘I feel an acute throbbing in the centre of my forehead—just between the brows. And sometimes I see a flame flickering in that spot. Have you ever experienced anything like that Brajen?’
‘No. You’d better see a doctor. It could be something serious.’ Suddenly the rain came down in a torrent drowning his words. Brajendra whipped open his umbrella and, holding it over his companion’s head, said briskly, ‘Come Naren. Let me take you home.’
‘I’m not going home.’
‘Let’s go together, then, wherever you are going. We’ll part company the moment you want it.’
But the rain came on faster and fiercer as the two boys crossed the park and came on to the street. The umbrella tilted backwards in the strong wind and started fluttering like a flag above their heads. At length, thoroughly drenched and unable to combat the wind and water, the two boys took refuge under the portico of a large mansion. As Naren prepared to draw out another pinch of snuff, Brajendra said suddenly ‘Naren! Kishorichand tells me that you’re a frequent visitor at the temple of Dakshineswar; that you hang around Ramkrishna Thakur and have long conversations with him. Is that true?’ There was no reply. ‘From the prayer halls of the Brahmos,’ Brajen murmured, ‘to the temple of Kali is a long way! I’ve heard that Ramkrishna Thakur goes into a trance every now and then. You know who told me that? Our Principal, Mr Hasty. While teaching the poem “The Excursion” he was telling the boys about reverie and trance. “When a man’s senses,” he explained, “are suffused and overwhelmed by some phenomena, earthly or unearthly, to a point beyond his control, he goes into a trance. It happened to Wordsworth. It happens to Ramkrishna—a priest in the temple of Kali in Dakshineswar. If you boys wish to see the state with your own eyes, go to Dakshineswar.” Mr Hasty believes in Ramkrishna. But quite a few others think he is a fake. You’ve been there several times. What do you think of him?’
‘What do I think of him?’ Naren turned his large eyes, burning with a strange passion, upon his friend. ‘I don’t know,’ he said simply. ‘I don’t understand.’ He shut his eyes for a few moments brooding on the subject, then said. ‘Certain religious beliefs and customs have entrenched themselves in our culture for centuries! Can we wipe them out in an instant? And even if we could would it not create a terrible void? A vast chasm under our feet? With what would we fill it? Tell me Brajen, how would we bear the loss?’
‘I see the drift of your argument Naren. And I understand your dilemma. You’ve read the Western philosophers—Descartes, Hume and Herbert Spencer—and have been influenced by them. But deep down within you is a core of Hindu fundamentalism that will not let you rest. What you’re looking for is a God who walks the earth.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘No. Logic and Reason are my watch words. There’s no room in my philosophy for faith. I don’t need a God. But you’re being driven by the question “Is there such a Being? Can we see Him?” That’s true—isn’t it?’
Naren was silent. He did not tell his friend that once, unable to control the curiosity that burned so fiercely within him, he had gone to Debendranath Thakur and asked him, ‘Have you seen God?’ But, Maharshi though he was, he had evaded the question. ‘Your eyes are those of an ascetic’s,’ he had said. ‘Abandon all else and give yourself over to Him. With prayer and meditation you will experience him some day.’
Afraid of exposing his weakness, Naren dashed out in the rain. ‘Let’s go,’ he called out to Brajen. ‘This blasted rain won’t stop in a hurry. And I’m dying for a whiff of tobacco.’ He started running down the street Brajen coming after him with his umbrella. As he ran he thought of the meetings he had had with Ramkrishna. The first time had been at Surendranath Mitra’s house where he had been invited to sing before a gathering of disciples. It had been very hot and stuffy in the room and Naren had barely glanced at the slight dark figure in a coarse dhuti and uduni. He had sung a couple of songs, then slipped away. Then, last month, his kinsman Ramchandra Datta had invited him to Dakshineswar. ‘Bilé,’ he had said, ‘I can see how harrassed you are with all the matchmaking going on in the house. Why don’t you come with me to Dakshineswar? It’s very pleasant there. The temple stands right on the bank of the Ganga.” Naren had agreed. He had taken a couple of friends and journeyed by boat to Dakshineswar. They had been charmed with the place—the wide flight of steps rising from the river; the river itself, vast and turbulent; the chatal with its many temples. And then they had entered a little room in the north-west corner of the courtyard where Ramkrishna sat with his disciples. ‘Thakur!’ Ramchandra had introduced the boy to his guru with the words. ‘This is my nephew Naren. He sings well.’ As soon as they heard this the people assembled there clamoured to hear a song. Naren had no objection to obliging them. Raising his voice he sang not one but two songs. As he sang his eyes fell on Ramkrishna. Something queer had happened to the man. His eyes were open but his limbs were absolutely still. Not a muscle twitched. Not an eyelash flickered. He remained like that, in suspended animation, till the end of the song, then, suddenly came to life. Springing up, he caught Naren by the hand and dragged him out of the room to another empty room next to it. ‘Oré’ he cried bursting into tears. ‘Why did you take so long in coming to me? I’ve waited such long days and nights. All these men around me with their worldly talk! I cannot hear them anymore. I’m sick to the heart. But what do you care?’ Then, bringing his face close to Naren’s, he muttered, ‘I know you my Lord! You are an ancient Rishi. You are my Narayan in human form.’ Naren was quite frightened. The than was mad, he thought. Stark, raving mad! What if he jumped on him and bit off a hunk of his flesh? He took a step backwards. ‘Stay where you are,’ Ramkrishna commanded. ‘Wait here till I return.’ He went out of the door and returned a few minutes later with a thala in his hand. It was piled high with sandesh, masses of pale yellow butter and palm candy crystals. ‘Eat,’ he commanded.
‘All of it?’ Naren exclaimed. ‘How can I eat so much? I’ll share it with my friends?’
‘No. They’ll be served later. I want to see you eat in my presence.’
Naren felt acutely uncomfortable as he stuffed handfuls of butter and sandesh into his mouth. Ramkrishna stood before him with folded hands all the time he ate, his eyes fixed solemnly on his face. When the last morsel had been swallowed Ramkrishna said, ‘Promise me you’ll come again. Very soon. Don’t bring anyone else. I want to see you alone.’
These thoughts went round and round in Naren’s head as he ran down the street into Ramtanu Bosu Lane and entered his grandmother’s house. His own home being too noisy and crowded for quiet study, a room had been kept for him in this old mansion. It was outside the main house, in a sort of dome, and here Naren read his books, practised his music and chatted with his friends. It was a small room but it contained all the basic essentials of living. A canvas cot with a soiled pillow on it stood in a corner. A clock ticked away on one wall. A tanpura and an esraj hung from hooks on another. There were books everywhere—on the bed, on the mat on the floor and the window sill.
Naren shed his wet clothes, wiped his head with a gamchha and wrapped a dry dhuti around him. Then, ducking his head under the string that held his few dhutis and pirans, he stood before a niche in the wall. Inside it was a hookah, a mass of coconut fibre and an earthen platter with some lumps of tobacco gul and a matchbox.
Naren had lit his hookah and taken a few puffs by the time Brajendranath arrived. He felt calmer now and readier to continue the conversation. ‘Brajen,’ he said passing the hookah to his friend. ‘You wanted to know what I thought of Ramkrishna. I’ll tell you. I asked him if he had seen God. And he answered that he had. He had seen God with his own eyes as clearly as he saw me standing before him.’
‘Did you believe him?’ Brajen gave a short laugh.
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br /> ‘I didn’t,’ Naren answered, hesitating a little. ‘Yet, somehow, I’m sure he wasn’t lying. What he claimed was the simple truth as far as he was concerned. The man is half mad but he is not a charlatan. I’m convinced of it. Whenever I’m with him I experience something I can’t explain—even to myself. I keep racking my brains to find out what it is but the answer eludes me.’ Naren’s eyes clouded over and his voice shook with emotion as, having decided to open his heart to Brajendra, he recalled the strange sensations that he had experienced on his third visit to Ramkrishna. He hadn’t wanted to go, he said. He had made up his mind he wouldn’t. But he had promised and something, someone, seemed to be pushing him from within to redeem his promise. Finally, unable to bear the tension, he had decided to go and get it over with. It would be for the last time, he had told himself. He would tell the man politely but firmly that their worlds were different and he, Naren, had other things to do.
Flushed with his new resolve Naren had set off for Dakshineswar walking at a brisk pace. But his idea of the distance from Shimle was far from accurate. In consequence he was completely exhausted by the time he reached the temple complex and entered Ramkrishna’s room. He found him alone, sitting on his bed, apparently lost in his own thoughts. But his eyes lit up with pleasure the moment he saw Naren. ‘Come sit by me,’ he said, patting the space next to him. Then, when Naren had obeyed, he fixed his strange, sad eyes on his face and, muttering something below his breath, he raised his right leg and planted it on the boy’s shoulder. Naren was frightened. He tried to move away; to throw it off but he was trapped between the wall and the leg—as heavy as stone and as implacable as death. Naren felt the blood rush to his head. Everything around him—the room, the bed, the man himself seemed to be dissolving in a mist. The walls of the room were spinning round and round, slowly at first then, gaining momentum, faster and then incredibly fast. He was being lifted out of himself into a vast expanse, a sea of emptiness which he knew was death. He would reach it soon, very soon now. ‘Ogo!’ he cried out in terrible fear. ‘What are you doing to me? My mother will weep. My father—’ A cackle of mad laughter came to his ears. Then the weight was lifted and he could breathe again. The spinning slowed down, stopped and the walls became themselves again. Naren felt a hand on his chest. It was soothing; gentle. A voice murmured in his ear, ‘Enough for now. There’s plenty of time.’ Naren stared in wonder at the smiling eyes that gazed with infinite tenderness into his but before he could speak a word, the moment was lost. The room started filling up with disciples and he rose and walked away.
Once home, Naren was filled with self loathing. He told himself that he had been conned, hypnotized. That was all there was to it. He had become the victim of a cheap trick that jugglers perform in the streets everyday. He hated himself because he had succumbed. Was he—the strong, brilliant, fiercely independent Naren Datta, that weak and culpable? He decided that he would go back again and expose the man for the low juggler that he was.
And he would go riding in a carriage this time. He had been fatigued by the long walk and become an easy target. This time it would be different.
On that fourth occasion Naren took a hackney cab and, when he dismounted at Dakshineswar, he felt strong and purposeful with his mind firm and his senses alert. As soon as he entered the room Ramkrishna rose from among his disciples and, putting an arm around Naren’s shoulder, he said, ‘Let’s go for a walk.’ Then leading him out of the room, he took him to a garden that stood within a stone’s throw of the temple complex. After walking in silence for a few minutes Ramkrishna said suddenly, ‘Do you know what I told Keshab?’ Then, looking deep into Naren’s eyes, he continued, ‘You must know that the Brahmos believe that God is an abstraction. That we can’t see him or feel him. But what I told Keshab was this: “To know God is to enter a sea of bliss. It is like floating on a vast expanse of water with neither beginning nor end. But when true faith is breathed upon these waters they congeal and turn into ice—solid, tangible. And when that happens we see God. Faith is like frosty breath; knowledge like the rising sun. When the sun of knowledge rises the ice melts and—”’
‘Fine words,’ Naren interrupted drily, ‘but they mean nothing and prove nothing.’
‘But I’ve seen—’
‘You were hallucinating.’
‘You may say what you like. But you came to me. You had to come. I haven’t waited so long in vain.’ His voice trailed away and before Naren’s amazed eyes Ramkrishna went into a trance. He stood as motionless as stone, one hand up in the air with the fingers twirled. It lasted only a few seconds, then leaning forward, he touched Naren’s brow. In an instant the world went dark and Naren fell down in a dead faint.
‘I don’t know how long I lay like that,’ Naren concluded his story. ‘But when I came to I found him bending over me. He said he had spoken to me as I lay unconscious. He had asked me a number of questions and I had answered. And for the last month—’
‘Mesmerism!’ Brajen cried excitedly. ‘Haven’t you heard of Mesmer Saheb? He used to put his patients to sleep and then draw them out as they slept.’
‘Do you think that I, Narendranath Datta, could be mesmerized or hypnotized by an illiterate Brahmin? Am I sick? Am I a weakling? Besides, this happened a month ago. And I still haven’t recovered. I feel different. I am different. There is a fierce throbbing in my head day and night and a flickering light before my eyes. Then, sometimes, a mist rolls over them obscuring my vision. I was knocking my head on the rails this afternoon because I couldn’t see them.’
‘You’re overwrought,’ Brajen said soothingly. ‘Your brain is fevered. Forget about Ramkrishna. Sing a song instead.’
‘I’m in no mood for singing.’
But Brajen would not leave without hearing a song. After a little coaxing Naren plucked his tanpura off the wall and adjusting the strings, commenced singing in his fine strong voice
‘É ki é sundar shobha
Ki mukha héri é
Aaji mor gharé ailo hridaya nath
Prem utsa uthila aaji’*
A faint rustle of garments could be heard as Naren sang. And, though it was quite dark by now, the two boys could discern a woman’s shape on the veranda of the house opposite. Naren’s nostrils flared in annoyance. Stopping in the middle of his song, he rose and shut the window with a bang. ‘The harlot is upto her tricks again,’ he muttered between clenched teeth. ‘She won’t leave me alone for a minute.’ Then, turning to Brajen, he declared, ‘I’m hungry. I’m going home.’
Over the next few weeks Naren made a desperate effort to forget his recent experiences and go back to his old life. He threw himself heart and soul into his studies poring over his books till late into the night. Then, thoroughly exhausted, he refreshed himself with singing or playing the esraj. He also took to visiting the akhara once again and practising his wrestling. Reports from Dakshineswar reached his ears from time to time. It was said that Ramkrishna was missing him so much that he wept like a heart broken child day and night. His disciples had seen him wandering about the chatal one night, stark naked, with his dhuti rolled up under one arm, crying ‘Naren! Naren! Oh! Why doesn’t he come?’ But Naren hardened his heart and would not go to Dakshineswar.
One night a strange thing happened. It was past midnight and, weary with long hours of study, Naren was singing his favourite compositions by the young poet Robi Thakur. He had taken the precaution of shutting the window even though the room was steaming hot and the sweat poured from his limbs. Suddenly the door burst open and the young widow who lived in the house opposite, stood in the room. She looked wild and dishevelled. Her hair streamed down her back and over her heaving bosom and her eyes burned with lust. Naren’s eyes blazed with fury. ‘The bitch!’ he thought angrily. ‘How dare she take such a liberty with me?’ Harsh words rose to his lips. But, looking on her face, as white as jasmine petals and as tender, his anger vanished. She was young; very young. And she was a helpless victim of her natural instincts. Vid
yasagar had had a law passed in favour of widow remarriage. But Hindu society hadn’t endorsed it. A few widows had been saved. But what about the rest? They continued to live lives of acute deprivation. Scorned and despised for their widowed state, they were, nevertheless, taken advantage of by unscrupulous men from their own kin. The girl before him had evidently had a taste of sex. And now she wanted more. Could she be blamed for seeking fulfillment of a desire that was perfectly natural? Naren left his seat and, kneeling before the girl, placed his hands on her feet. ‘Ma!’ he cried, ‘I’m your son. You’re my mother.’ The girl trembled and looked wildly around her. Then, covering her face with her hands, she fled from the room.
After this incident Naren left his grandmother’s house and settled down in the house in Shimle. He started going to the Brahmo prayer meetings once again.
One day, as he sat singing with the others in the prayer hall, Ramkrishna came bustling in. The members looked up amazed at the little man in his soiled dhuti pulled up to his knees and wondered who he was. ‘Who? What?’ Voices cried out in alarm. Someone said ‘Why! this is the Kali sadhu from Dakshineswar!
Who has invited him here?’ The Acharya frowned and glared at him but Ramkrishna had neither eyes nor ears for any other than the one he sought. ‘Naren! Naren!’ he cried and pushed and elbowed his way through the agitated assembly causing a loud uproar. Some of the members rushed forward to grab him and throw him out. They shouted, pushed and jostled and stamped one another’s feet. And in the middle of it all Ramkrishna went into a trance. Quick as a flash Naren jumped into the fray. Elbowing everyone aside with crude force, he picked up the slight body and ran out into the street. Putting him down, he asked sternly, ‘Why did you come here? What if they had harmed you?’
‘I miss you too much,’ Ramkrishna said simply. ‘My heart twists with pain and I can’t bear it.’
‘I’m taking you back to Dakshineswar. You mustn’t come here again.’
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