First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  However, fortunately for Vivekananda, his contract with the Sleighton Lysium Company was terminated within four months of signing it. This came about through the intervention of some powerful people he had drawn into his orbit. He had to pay a heavy price for it though. Every cent that he had saved went into his release. Yet he welcomed it. He was physically worn out with all the travelling he had to do and mentally, too, he was exhausted. Besides, the question of where he was to stay was not so acute anymore. Many of the men and women he met were only too happy to keep him in their houses. One of these was the ex-Senator Mr Palmer, an extremely wealthy man who owned a ranch where he bred the finest race horses and Jersey cows. He was about sixty years old and a man of strong appetites who loved eating and drinking and making merry with his friends. He had heard Vivekananda speak at a church meeting and, much impressed with the originality of his ideas, had invited him to his ranch where he commenced showing him off to his friends at one party after another. At one of these gatherings a journalist accosted Mr Palmer with the question, ‘Have you converted to Hinduism, Mr Palmer?’

  ‘If I have,’ Palmer replied in a clipped accent, ‘Do you have a problem?’

  ‘No no. Why should I have a problem? I’ve heard you’re migrating to India. Is that true?’

  ‘I might if I feel like it.’

  ‘What will you do with your horses? And your cows? You’re so attached to them—’

  ‘I’ll take them with me to India. Who can stop me?’

  Next morning the newspapers carried a report that Mr Palmer had embraced Hinduism and was leaving for India shortly. He was taking his horses and cows with him but on one condition. His horses would be used only for pulling the chariot of Juggernaut and his cows would be venerated as Go Mata according to Hindu tenets.

  Among the others who took an interest in Vivekananda was a wealthy widow called Olé Bull. She had a large house in Cambridge in the outskirts of Boston where she held several soirées every year at which all the intellectuals of the city were invited. Olé Bull’s parties had a distinctive character. There was lavish eating and drinking but the conversation was not confined to gossip and small talk. Serious discussions were held on the state of the world; on politics, literature, the arts and religion, and she often invited a speaker to address the gathering. Having discovered Vivekananda she lost no time in bringing him home and introducing him to her friends. In doing this she was following a fashion she had picked up on her European travels. European women of the wealthy upper classes were no longer content with running households and entertaining their husbands’ friends. They kept themselves abreast of the latest developments in the fields of art, music, religion and literature and acted as sponsors to young aspirants.

  Bessy Sturges and Josephine Macleod were two sisters who also fell under the spell of the Indian yogi. Born of wealthy parents, they enjoyed a privileged position in the highest rungs of American society. But they were much more than pretty socialites. They had been well educated and, having lived in France for a number of years, were cultured and artistic in consequence. Bessy had been widowed some years ago and was now engaged to a prosperous corn merchant of New York named Francis Leggett. Josephine, named after Napoleon’s beautiful wife, was still a spinster and beleaguered by suitors. Vivacious and charming, she attracted attention wherever she went and, though she had formed attachments from time to time, not one had lasted. For the present she seemed quite content to pass her days visiting art galleries and exhibitions and attending theatres, concerts and lectures by well-known speakers.

  One day Bessy and Joe were persuaded by their friend Dora to accompany her to New York to hear a lecture by an Indian yogi called Vivekananda. The name meant nothing to them nor did they have an inkling of what Hinduism was all about. Nevertheless they went and took their places in a dingy little hired hall big enough to accomodate about fifty people. The fifteen or twenty chairs that lined the walls were occupied so the girls were forced to sit on their haunches on the bare floor. But to their surprise, the hall started filling so rapidly that within a few minutes there was no room to insert a pin, and the audience started spilling out on the verandas and stairs and even stood about in the street below. Presently the speaker came in and took his place at the lectern. He was a man of medium height with a thickset somewhat portly figure in a bizarre costume consisting of a bright orange silk robe and turban. He stood with his arms folded across his chest and his eyes, beneath a noble brow, looked straight into the eyes of his audience.

  Joe felt a roll of thunder pass through her soul. The holy man’s dark, unflinching gaze held hers, commanding; compelling. At that moment she knew, as sure as she lived and breathed, that this was the man she had waited for all her life. And when he started speaking she listened to him, all her senses alert—the blood flooding and receding by turns in her cheeks. His words fell on her heart and it cried out with every beat, ‘True! True! Every word this man is saying is true. Follow him and he will lead you on the path of Truth.’ When the lecture was over Joe rose, trembling, to her feet. Her mind was in a whirl. She hadn’t exchanged a word with the strange man. Why, then, did she feel that he held her soul in his hands? These peculiar feelings persisted even after she reached home and for days afterwards.

  Now Joe started attending Vivekananda’s lectures whenever she could. Bessy, though not quite so keen, accompanied her wherever she went. Vivekananda noted their presence and one day, after six or seven meetings, he came forward and asked pleasantly, ‘Are you two sisters?’ On Bessy’s nodding in the affirmative, he added, ‘Do you come from far?’

  ‘From Dobb’s Ferry,’ Bessy replied. ‘A village by the bank of the Hudson river thirty miles from here.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Vivekananda exclaimed genuinely impressed. ‘That’s a long way off.’

  This was the first exchange—that too with Bessy. But Joe’s chance to speak to Vivekananda came within a few days. One evening, while dining with Francis Leggett at the Waldorf Hotel, the two sisters kept fidgeting and glancing at their watches. On Leggett’s enquiring if they had another appointment they answered that they had intended to attend a lecture and were getting delayed. Mr Leggett called for the bill and, after paying it, asked if he could come along. The girls were only too delighted and the three of them set off together. But by the time they reached the hall there was no place to sit. Bessy and Joe were worried. What was Francis Leggett thinking of them? Being dragged away from the bright lights of Waldorf Hotel and brought to a dark, poky room in which he had to stand for over an hour listening to a lecture on Hinduism was surely not his idea of a pleasant evening. They kept stealing sidelong glances at his face trying to gauge his mood. Was he bored? Was he getting irritated? They needn’t have worried. Leggett listened to the entire lecture then, pushing his way through the crowd, said to the speaker, ‘I would be extremely grateful if you came and had dinner with me one night. I would like to introduce you to some of my friends.’

  The friends turned out to be only two in number—his fiancée and her sister. But the evening was a great success. The wall of reserve broke down on both sides. Joe and Bessy chatted animatedly and Vivekananda proved himself as charming and witty a dinner companion as he was a powerful speaker.

  After a week or so Leggett invited Vivekananda to spend a few days in his country house in New Hampshire. It went by the modest name of Fishing Tent but was, in reality, a large, two-storeyed wooden bungalow overlooking a beautiful blue lake and surrounded by acres of woods and meadows. Vivekananda was charmed with the place. He spent hours swimming in the crystal waters of the lake and rowing to and fro in a small boat. Occasionally he took long walks in the woods with Bessy and Joe.

  The evenings were spent in reading portions of his Sanskrit texts aloud to his friends. Joe loved the sound of the words though their meanings eluded her. Something deep down in her responded to this ancient language, the sounds plucking at her heart as though it were a stringed instrument.

  One morn
ing Vivekananda had a strange experience. It happened just before breakfast. ‘Joe,’ he had said to her, ‘I’m sitting out in the garden under the pine tree. Call me as soon as breakfast is ready.’ Then, shaking his head at her in mock severity, he had added, ‘It had better be a good one.’ Then, leaning against the trunk of a giant pine that grew in a sunny corner of the garden, he had read the Gita for a while. Suddenly something came upon him. He shut his eyes and started murmuring to himself. ‘What am I doing in this country? I’ve come all the way from my native land; crossing seas and rivers and mountain ranges. But for what? I’m telling the people of America about our religion and philosophy. But do my words mean anything to anyone? Are they making a dent anywhere? I wanted to help my countrymen; to find a way of removing their miseries. But what have I done about it? Do I even remember them? I’m on the wrong path. Yes, without a doubt, I’m on the wrong path. My place is with my own people; in my own country. I’ve a new mission before me. It is not enough to feed the hungry and clothe the naked. The fetters that bind their souls are sharper, more cruel than hunger. I must teach my people to rise; burst their bonds and demand their right to live …’

  A few minutes later Joe came out into the garden to call Vivekananda. But reaching the pine tree she got a shock. He sat, still as a figure of stone, eyes closed, not a muscle twitching in his face or form. The book he had been reading lay on the ground, open and awry, as though it had fallen from his hands. Terrified, Joe ran back to the house crying distractedly, ‘Francis! Bessy! Swamiji’s dead. He’s gone from us. Gone!’ The three ran back to where Vivekananda sat. ‘Shall I shake him to see if there is any sign of life?’ Francis asked. Suddenly Joe remembered something Vivekananda had told her—about a state called bhav samadhi that holy men experienced from time to time. It was a state in which the motions of the body, even the circulation, were temporarily suspended and the yogi became a living soul. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘No. Don’t touch him. He’s in bhav samadhi.’

  She was right. After a few minutes Vivekananda’s eyelids fluttered. His lips parted. ‘Who am I?’ he murmured, ‘Where am I?’ Then, opening his eyes, he saw the three anxious faces bending over his. ‘Why do you look at me like that?’ he asked, ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Swamiji! Swamiji!’ Joe burst out weeping. ‘You frightened us so. We thought … we thought—’

  ‘I’m sorry Joe,’ Vivekananda rose to his feet. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ Then resuming his usual, teasing manner with her, he added smiling, ‘Be assured of one thing. I shan’t go away leaving this body in your country. What about breakfast? Isn’t it ready yet? I’m starving.’

  Chapter XIII

  Maharaja Birchandra Manikya was gravely ill. Following Mahendralal Sarkar’s advice he had journeyed to Kurseong with a small retinue which included the poet Rabindranath Thakur and his eldest son Rathi. Though winter was quite a long way off it was very, very cold. Rain and hail fell incessantly and a dense fog shut out the sun for the better part of the day. It was impossible to step out. But, inside, the house was made warm and cozy with log fires blazing in every room exuding the fresh sweet smell of resin and pine cones. The Maharaja had never been happier in his life. He spent his mornings and evenings in the company of the young poet, listening to him reciting his verses and singing his songs. From time to time they discussed the details of the volume of Vaishnav padavalis they planned to bring out together. Rabindra, on his part, had found in the king his most ardent and intelligent admirer and was thrilled to spend time in his company. But, unfortunately, the good time didn’t last very long. The king’s health started deteriorating in the damp mountain air and clammy fogs of Kurseong. He caught a severe chill which spread to his lungs and, one afternoon, in the middle of an animated discussion on the machinery which would be required for the new printing press, he fainted.

  A local doctor was called in who revived him somewhat but he was so weakened by the infection that it was no longer expedient to keep him in Kurseong. The group returned to Calcutta. The best doctors were sent for and with their combined efforts, together with his tremendous life force and will to survive, the sick king gradually came out of the valley of death. Kumar Radhakishor begged him to return to Tripura but Birchandra was not ready to do that. Instead, he sent for Kumar Samarendra.

  While in Kurseong Rabindra had recited portions of his novel Rajarshi and his play Bisarjan. The king, deeply moved by this story set in his kingdom, had begged the poet to put up a performance. ‘You stage so many plays in the mansion of Jorasanko. Can you not do Bisarjan?’ he had asked wistfully. Looking on the pale, puffy countenance and dark ringed eyes Rabindra made up his mind. Bisarjan had been performed once and could easily be revived. There was a permanent stage in the courtyard of the house. His nephews Aban and Gagan were good painters and could take care of the backdrop. Bibi would play the harmonium. There was no one to touch Bibi with a harmonium. She had magic in her fingers. Rabindra set a date and rehearsals began in right earnest.

  But while the players were rehearsing, Birchandra, who was the chief guest, was also getting ready to play his part. He wanted to make on impressive entry into the famed house of the Thakurs, and to that intent, was determined not to lean on the shoulders of his bodyguards or display any sign of weakness—physical or mental. He sent for an elegant walking stick of finely carved rosewood with an ivory handle and started practising walking without help. On the evening of the performance he arrived at Jorasanko well before the prescribed time and, instead of taking his place with the audience, walked into the green room where he commenced an inspection of the costumes. He had sent Mahim over, a few days ago, to apprise Rabindra of the kind of dresses worn by Tripura royals during the period in which the play was set. Now, even at the last moment, he made minor changes in the costumes of Nakshatra Rai and Gobinda Manikya. Authenticity had to be maintained at all cost for the audience would be a distinguished one. And for some reason, unknown even to him, he felt responsible for the success of the play. ‘Where is Robi Babu?’ he asked after a while.

  ‘Why!’ A member of the cast exclaimed. ‘Here he is—standing right beside you.’

  Birchandra turned his head and got the surprise of his life. Rabindra, as Raghupati, was unrecognizable in his dark red dhuti and wig of tangled locks. His eyebrows had been darkened heavily with kajal and met, fierce and strong, above a pair of blood flecked eyes. Under the namabali, flung carelessly across his shoulders, his broad, bare chest gleamed as though carved from a block of white marble. Rabindra smiled and his eyes twinkled. He had been standing by the king all this while but the latter hadn’t even glanced at him.

  The play caught the imagination of the audience right from the first scene. They looked on, amazed, at the transformation of the sensitive poet with his liquid eyes and gentle voice into the ruthless, scheming Raghupati. And, indeed, it was a fact that Rabindra underwent a metamorphosis every time he stood on a stage. He forgot himself and took on the persona of the character he was enacting, be it fictitious or historical.

  In the third scene, in which Raghupati is alone in the forest addressing the idol of Kali, Rabindra got so carried away that he lost all sense of time and place. According to the story Raghupati, incensed with the goddess for her demand and acceptance of human sacrifice, lifts the idol in his hands and flings it into the waters of the Gomati. But, since it was not possible to show that on stage, a rope was tied to the base of the statue the end of which was in Aban’s hands. As per the stage directions Rabindra would pretend to lift the image; the lights would go out and the statue would be pulled into the wings. But Rabindra got so excited while shouting his lines:

  ‘Bloodthirsty demoness

  Return thy prey

  Dost thou have ears to hear?’

  that he actually picked up the heavy block of stone in his hands and was about to hurl it into the wings when the sight of Bibi sitting there with her harmonium, brought him to his senses. Another moment and she would have been crushed to
death. Rabindra trembled from head to foot. Sweat ran down his limbs. Finally, with a tremendous effort, he put down the stone image. The audience shouted ‘Bravo! Bravo! A superb performance,’ and the entire auditorium rang with applause.

  At the end of the play Maharaja Birchandra Manikya presented a gold mohur apiece to each of the players. Then, without lingering any further, he hurried to his carriage and seated himself. Mahim ran after him and peered curiously into his face. It looked sullen and angry. Back home, Mahim’s enthusiastic appreciation of the play was cut short by a imperious wave of the royal hand. ‘Shut up!’ The king snapped, then giving full vent to his ill humour, he shouted, ‘Why is everything so much better in Calcutta? Why can’t we do what they do? What’s wrong with us?’

  Taken aback by this attack, Mahim stuttered, ‘But … there’s no tradition of theatre in Tripura. Calcutta—’

  ‘Why didn’t you start a tradition you fool?’ Birchandra thundered. ‘Haven’t you received an education? Can’t you see what’s lacking in your country’s culture? Get out of my sight. I can’t bear to breathe the same air as you.’ But, though ordered to get out, Mahim couldn’t. It would be unseemly. He stood quietly, his head bowed in humility, ready to receive whatever further chastisement the king thought fit to mete out to him. Insult after insult was hurled at the bowed head, then, his anger spent, Birchandra muttered moodily, ‘Make all the arrangements for going back to Tripura. I wish to leave in a day or two. We’ll start a theatre in Agartala, in my palace courtyard, and put up one play after another. We’ll begin with Bisarjan. Now, who do you think should act in it?’