First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  Chapter XXIV

  The first glimmer of grey had started paling the inky darkness of a winter night when a great ship inched its way into the estuary, the strong beams of its searchlight cutting a path over the black water. The passengers were in their bunks, fast asleep. Only one young woman stood on the deck gripping the rail with both hands. It was the end of January. The fog lay thick over the Ganga and the air, though not as cold as in her native habitat, had a decided nip in it. She shivered under her shawl, not so much with cold as with apprehension. She had severed all her links with England and come out to India. But would her new country accept her?

  After Swamiji’s return to India he had written to Margaret from time to time giving her his news. She had learned, from those short dry missives, that the Ramkrishna Mission had been established and that work was in progress. But, to her bitter disappointment, Swamiji had dissuaded her from coming to Calcutta in every letter. She was to stay in England, he wrote, and try to raise funds for the Mission. Margaret had felt let down, more so because he had allowed the two Americans, Olé Bull and Joe Macleod to join him. They had donated a lot of money and were keen to see how it was being spent. But whereas their intention was to spend only some months in the mysterious country they had heard of so much, Margaret wanted to pass the rest of her life in it. ‘Why can’t I go out to India?’ she thought resentfully. ‘With him by my side I could do anything I could achieve the impossible. Without him everything seems so meaningless.’ She conveyed her feelings to Mr Sturdy who wrote to Vivekananda that he was making arrangements for Margaret’s journey out to India since she had resolved not to stay in England any longer. Now Swamiji softened his stand and wrote her a letter:

  My dear Miss Noble,

  A letter from Sturdy reached me yesterday, informing me that you are determined to come to India …

  Let me tell you frankly that I am now convinced that you have a great future in the work for India. What was wanted was not a man, but a woman; a real lioness, to work for the Indians, women specially.

  India cannot yet produce great women, she must borrow them from other nations …

  Yet the difficulties are many. You cannot form any idea of the misery, the superstition, and the slavery that are here. You will be in the midst of a mass of half-naked men and women with quaint ideas of caste and isolation, shunning the white skin through fear or hatred and hated by them intensely. On the other hand, you will be looked upon by the white as a crank, and every one of your movements will be watched with suspicion.

  Then the climate is fearfully hot; our winter in most places being like your summer … Not one European comfort is to be had in places out of the cities.

  You must think well before you plunge in, and after work, if you fail in this or get disgusted, on my part I promise you, I will stand by you unto death whether you work for India or not, whether you give up Vedanta or remain in it. ‘The tusks of the elephant come out, but never go back;’ so are the words of a man never retracted …

  I will stand by you unto death. Whenever she thought of that sentence a tremor of ecstasy passed over her frame. What more could she want? Now, with doubt and fear gnawing at her, she took hold of those words, repeating them over and over again like a mantra.

  The ship glided into the harbour even as dawn broke over the horizon casting a dim orange glow over the rows of faces on the bank. Margaret scanned them eagerly. Would she find the one she sought? Surely he wouldn’t come for her himself! He would send one of his disciples … Suddenly a thought occurred to her making her heart leap with joy. ‘But no one else knows me! He’ll come. He’ll have to.’ Her eyes darted from this face to that as she pushed her way through the crowd. Then she heard a soft, deep voice call from behind her, ‘Margot!’ Margaret spun around and got a shock. It was Vivekananda, but how he had changed! No wonder her eyes had passed over him and moved on. A saffron dhuti, folded in two, was wrapped around his middle like a lungi. The upper part of his body was bare. Only a thick wrapper covered his back and chest. His head was shaved and the shock of hair covering his cheeks and chin was flecked with gray. Margaret bent down to touch his feet but he moved back quickly. ‘Come,’ he said gravely, ‘The carriage is waiting.’ Margaret felt a cold chill around her heart. He was seeing her after such a long time. And he hadn’t even a smile for her.

  Sitting in the carriage by his side she threw a surreptitious glance at his face. He was looking so old and ill! How old was he? She made a quick calculation. He was three years older than her. That made him thirty-four … But he looked close to fifty! ‘I’ve aged, haven’t I?’ Vivekananda asked her as though he could read her thoughts. A smile flickered over his mouth but did not touch his large, sombre eyes. ‘Don’t you like my beard?’ he continued cheerfully, ‘I started growing it last year when I went to Darjeeling.’ Margaret shook her head. Her lips quivered and she felt close to tears.

  Some months after Vivekananda had returned to India the doctors told him that he was suffering from diabetes. A strict regimen was prescribed. He was to give up rice and potatoes, eat a lot of meat, drink very little water and keep his mind cool and undisturbed. Since this last was not possible in Calcutta, with the work of the Mission swelling day by day and more and more people coming to see him, he had taken the advice of friends and moved to Darjeeling. The solitude and cool mountain air had revived him somewhat and he had felt much better. But the moment he came back to Calcutta the symptoms returned. This time he shrugged them off. How long could he sit among the mountains twiddling his thumbs. He had work to do.

  Passing the maidan, the carriage clattered down the Esplanade and stopped outside an English hotel. ‘I’ve made arrangements for your stay here for the present,’ Vivekananda told Margaret. ‘You’ll have to adapt to the real India sooner or later but it needn’t be from today. In the meantime, start learning Bengali. A tutor will come to you from tomorrow.’ Leaving her at the entrance of the hotel he stepped into the carriage and drove away.

  Margaret bathed, ate and slept for most of the day. Then, towards evening, she walked out of the hotel and stood outside it surveying the scene before her. She was surprised at what she saw. She had expected heat, dust, black faces and filthy smells. But the streets here were wide and clean with tall trees on either side. The people walking in them and passing by in carriages were mostly white like herself. There were a few natives but they weren’t dark and ugly. Their skins glowed a rich golden brown and they were elegantly attired in silks and velvets. The city, she thought, was exactly like London. A little distance away, between Fort William and a row of splendid mansions, she could see the great maidan of Calcutta which, with its shady trees, stretches of water and winding walks, reminded her of Hyde Park.

  Several days passed. There was no sign of Vivekananda or even a word from him. Margaret’s heart swelled with rebellious feelings. Had she come out to India to spend all her time mooning about in an English hotel. She was learning Bengali, it was true, but that didn’t satisfy her. She wanted to be near Swamiji and help him in his work.

  After the math in Alambazar had been destroyed by an earthquake, Vivekananda had decided to establish a new one in Belur. Taking a house on rent for the present, he was looking around for suitable land in the area. Living so far away from Calcutta, he had no opportunity of keeping in touch with Margaret. However, one day, on a visit to Balaram Bosu of Bagbazar, he sent for her. That day Margaret saw, for the first time, how the common folk lived. There was no sign of planning anywhere. Dark, ill-ventilated houses, some with mud walls and tin roofs, stood higgledy piggledy in a network of narrow lanes and alleys. Oxen roamed about freely rubbing shoulders with humans and pi-dogs fought and snarled over the garbage that rose in foul smelling heaps in street corners. Margaret’s heart sank at the sight but she pulled herself, firmly, together. She had come out to India to serve; to improve the quality of the lives of the people. And she had come prepared …

  Entering Balaram Bosu’s house she saw Vivekanand
a lying on a wooden bedstead in the middle of the room smoking tobacco from a long pipe. Raising his eyes at her entry, he pointed to a chair and said gravely, ‘Sit down.’ He puffed at his pipe for a few minutes without speaking. Margaret could hold herself in no longer. ‘When shall I begin teaching school?’—the question burst out of her. Swamiji laid aside his albola and turned to look at her. He saw a tall, trim, erect figure with gold brown hair and deep blue eyes wearing a neatly cut cream silk suit and sturdy English shoes. She looked so alien, so out of place in her present environment that he found it difficult to talk to her.

  ‘In due course of time,’ he said at last. ‘Where’s the hurry?’ Margaret felt deeply hurt. He was so cold and detached! So different from the handsome, brilliant, high-spirited young man she had idolized so much! Her eyes clouded and her palms turned cold with apprehension. Had she made a mistake in leaving everything and everyone she knew and coming out to this strange country? Was she chasing a mirage? She knew that men and women did not interact freely with each other in this country. Besides she was a foreigner and he a Hindu ascetic. Why, then, had he written the words I will stand by you unto death? What did they mean?

  Joe Macleod and Olé Bull arrived a few days later. Turning down Vivekananda’s offer of putting them up in an European hotel, flatly and firmly, the doughty Americans drove straight from the harbour to the house that Vivekananda had rented in Belur. They were charmed with the place. Set among green lawns and flowering trees, the house was large and airy with many windows out of which the Ganga could be seen in all its majesty. It was the month of February and the breeze that blew from the river was soft and mellow. ‘I must show you the land that I have chosen for the math,’ Swamiji said that evening as the three sat in the garden sipping their tea. ‘What land?’ Joe cried, astonished. ‘We don’t need more land. This is a lovely bit of property. Why don’t we build the math here?’ Vivekananda shook his head. ‘I like to think big Joe,’ he said quietly. ‘The math I envisage will be large enough to accommodate up to a hundred disciples and keep them in comfort. And on feast days, such as the birth anniversary of my guru, thousands of men, women and children will attend the celebrations and partake of prasad. Belur Math! The name will be on everyone’s lips. People will flock to it as to a place of pilgrimage. I see all this in my mind’s eye Joe.’

  The tide being out, it was not possible to go by boat so the party had to walk half a mile through tall grass and thorn bushes.

  The women stepped gingerly forward, fearful not only of the burrs that scratched their arms and stuck to their skirts but of the snakes that might be lurking underfoot. Presently they came to a wooden bridge spanning a canal. Actually, it was hardly a bridge. It was only the stout trunk of a palm tree flung carelessly across from this bank to that. ‘Tck! Tck!’ Swamiji clicked his tongue in helplessness. ‘Can you two ladies walk across it?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Why not?’ Joe answered, putting a neatly shod foot on the tottering trunk. It was coated with mud and slime and was quite slippery in places but Joe stretched out her arms like a professional rope walker and negotiated it with short quick steps. Olé Bull was obliged to follow and she did so, her feet not as swift and sure as Joe’s but steady. Vivekananda burst out laughing, well pleased with his protegees. ‘You Americans are indomitable!’ he said. ‘You don’t give up.’

  But even Vivekananda hadn’t a clue to how indomitable American women could be once they had made up their minds.

  In the middle of the land that Vivekananda had chosen for the math was a small tumbledown house with a leaking roof, broken windows and dust lying thick on everything. There was a garden around it but it had been neglected for years and was wild and tangled. ‘Mrs Bull and I could stay here,’ Joe exclaimed as soon as they reached their destination. ‘Are you mad?’ Vivekananda laughed away her suggestion. ‘It has been abandoned for years and it is falling to pieces.’

  ‘We could repair it.’ Joe glanced at Olé she said these words and the older woman nodded her head in affirmation. Vivekananda stared at them in dismay. He had seen their homes in Boston and New York and knew how they lived. ‘It’s easier said than done,’ he thought.

  But the two women proved him wrong. They fell to, with a vengeance from the very next day. An army of workmen took over the house and, under their guidance, stripped the roof of its rotten tiles and tore down termite-ridden woodwork putting up fresh material in their places. They replaced the glass in the windows, painted and papered the walls and polished the wooden floor. The palm trunk across the canal was thrown away and a strong, stout wooden bridge was put up in its place. Next the ladies took on the garden. They hired a couple of gardeners and, with their help the grass was cut, the trees trimmed and pruned and flower beds dug and planted. Then, after all the workmen had left, Joe and Olé did up the inside with stuff they had bought from the Calcutta bazars—mahogany furniture, curtains, carpets, pictures, plate and silver. And, under their skillful hands, the dilapidated tenement in an obscure village of Bengal became a neat and charming cottage that could have stood in Dorset or Kent.

  ‘I can see that you have fallen in love with Bengal,’ Vivekananda said to the two women on the day of the house warming. ‘So I’ve decided to give you Bengali names. Joe is full of life and vitality. So I shall name her Jaya. And you—,’ he said turning to Ole, ‘You remind me of my mother. She is like you, calm and patient and loving. I’ll call you Dheeramata.’ A couple of days later, when the ladies had settled down in their new home, Vivekananda asked them if they would allow another young woman to live with them. ‘She’s an Irish girl,’ he told them, ‘much younger than you. But she has insisted on coming out here to help me in my work.’ Joe and Olé assented readily. Now Vivekananda sent for Margaret and gave her the news. ‘You’ll like it there Margot,’ he told her, ‘Mrs Bull is a good and kind woman who spreads love wherever she goes. You’ll come under it too—you’ll see.’ Margaret heaved a sigh of relief. She felt she had come home at last.

  Margaret fell in love with Belur right from the first day. The air was pure and fresh and the surroundings green as rain-washed emerald. Birds of different hues flocked and twittered in the branches of the many trees in the garden. From the back of the house a flight of steps led straight to the river. Often, when she had nothing to do, she would sit on the steps watching the boats pass up and down. Sometimes she could hear snatches of song in an eerie alien tongue.

  But best of all was the fact that here she saw Swamiji everyday. He came in the morning before sunrise and shook them all awake. Then they had breakfast together under a huge mango tree, laden with blossom, that stood in the middle of the garden. They laughed and chatted and teased each other just like the old days. Sometimes he would give them lessons in Indian history.

  Sometimes he regaled them with tales from the Ramayan and Mahabharat. One day, in the middle of one such story, he fixed his dark, unflinching eyes on Margaret’s clear, blue ones and said, ‘I wish to give you a Bengali name Margot. From this day I shall call you Nivedita. Do you know what that means? It means one who has dedicated herself.’

  Chapter XXV

  Radha’s eyes have lost their light

  Her heart is wrung with pain

  Lonesome is the path she treads

  Through storm and pelting rain …

  Every time she saw Nayanmoni these days Kusumkumari sang these lines smiling and dimpling wickedly. The other girls laughed. Everyone had noticed a change in her. She was not the old Nayanmoni any more. She mooned about like a lovesick maiden. But no one had a clue to the object of her affections.

  After her separation with Bharat, Bhumisuta, or Nayanmoni, had turned her back on the other sex. Like Meera Bai of ancient legend she had taken a vow. She would devote herself to Sri Krishna and he would be the only man in her life. Whenever she felt disturbed or unhappy she would stand before the image of Krishna, in her room, and pour out her woes to him in song and dance.

  But, of late, a strange thi
ng was happening. When she sat, eyes closed, before her Krishna she saw—not his dark, smiling, childlike face but that of a man in his prime; a face so brilliantly beautiful that it could evoke a god’s envy. She gazed upon that face as if a trance. It was as perfect as an image carved in ivory. Masses of silky black hair waved down to the smooth column of his neck and covered his cheeks and chin. Deep, dark eyes looked into hers holding them with penetrating power. Then, before her swimming senses, the vision faded and changed. It became the full figure of a man, dressed like a prince, in a gold-embroidered achkan. His frame was tall and powerful but his hands were like a woman’s—long and sensitive with tapering fingers. And his voice, when he called her by her name, was as deep and sweet as the chords of a veena. He was a man among men!

  It didn’t take Nayanmoni a split second to identify him. He was the poet Rabindranath. She had seen him, first, at a rehearsal of Raja o Rani at Classic Theatre and been thrilled by his touch. After that she had seen him twice—once at another rehearsal and once among the audience. There was nothing unusual about remembering a famous personality. Then why did Nayanmoni feel as though her world had come crashing down? Strange new sensations were overwhelming her; sensations she had never experienced before. In fact, she didn’t even know they existed. Her Krishna was receding into the shadows and someone else, a man she barely knew, was taking hold of her mind and senses. Nayanmoni trembled with an unknown fear. Why was this happening to her?