‘You may not remember,’ Mahim coughed delicately. ‘But, at the time we talk of, His Majesty your father, was about to marry his youngest queen. There was some talk of Bharat’s over reaching himself—how I do not know. Anyway, the Maharaja found his presence offensive. It is believed that you engineered the killing to please your father.’
‘That’s nonsense. I was against the match myself because it gave more power to the Manipuris. Besides, I knew nothing of Bharat or of his creating difficulties for my father. I was hardly aware of him. Tell me, Mahim. Is the Shashibushan Singha who writes in Bangabashi the same person as our Master Moshai?’
‘I’m quite certain it is. He often writes of Tripura.’
‘A terrible thought has just occurred to me. Suppose he writes of the incident and attributes the blame to me? My reputation will be ruined. I’ll have to seek him out and clear my name at once.’
A week later Radhakishor left for Calcutta. The first thing he did upon his arrival, was to send a message to Jorasanko. But the messenger returned with the news that Rabindra Babu was enjoying a holiday with his family in Shilaidaha and no one knew when he would return. Next Radhakishor sought out Shashibushan Singha. Shashibushan had changed a great deal from the slender, handsome young man who had tutored the princes of Tripura. He had put on weight and could almost be called portly. His hair, powdered with silver, had receded from his noble forehead till it assumed the form of a fringe around a shining dome. He had had a nasty fall from a train, in Chandannagar station, a couple of years ago and had injured his knee cap. He had walked with a limp ever since and that too with the help of a shark-headed cane. His personality had changed, too, with the change in his appearance. The fierce idealism and passionate love that had characterized him were spent and there was nothing left of him other than the prosperous gentleman and good husband and father that he was. He thought of Bhumisuta sometimes and was filled with wonder. What was it about her that had driven him, as it had, to the border of insanity? And Bharat—poor Bharat! He pitied the boy. All Bharat had ever had in this world was Bhumisuta’s love. And Shashibushan had snatched it away. He hadn’t won it for himself but he hadn’t let Bharat enjoy it either. If he had only been more patient; more controlled, Bharat wouldn’t have been lost to him. And Bhumisuta wouldn’t have drifted away; wouldn’t have been reduced to earning a living by dancing on a stage. He knew that the actress Nayanmoni was Bhumisuta. He had seen her several times.
When Mahim came to Chandannagar with the message that Radhakishor wished to see him, Shashibhushan laughed and answered, ‘I was Maharaja Birchandra Manikya’s servant and would have rushed over at his command. But the present king was my pupil. It’s not possible for me to bow before him and pay homage.’
‘You needn’t bow before him,’ Mahim said. ‘Maharaja Radhakishor Manikya doesn’t care for formal courtesies. He won’t expect it of you.’
‘He’s the king and there’s a certain protocol which should be maintained. In any case, what does he want of me?’
‘You were in the service of the kings of Tripura. He would like to give you a pension.’
‘Pensions are for those who retire from service. I resigned—voluntarily. Tell the king that I don’t qualify for a pension. Besides, I’m quite contented with what I have—which isn’t too little. I live quite well as you can see.’
When Mahim took this message to the king, the latter said, ‘If Master Moshai won’t come to me I’ll go to him myself.’ And he insisted on having his way despite Mahim’s pointing out that kings didn’t go to people’s houses uninvited. However, the shrewd and intelligent Mahim managed to effect a meeting between the two without compromising the dignity of either. He knew that Shashibushan was in the habit of visiting the offices of Bangabashi quite regularly. One evening he accosted him in the street outside and said, ‘The Maharaja is waiting for you in his carriage.’ Shashibhushan was taken aback. Before he could react, he had the strange experience of beholding the king of an independent realm step down from his carriage and walk towards him. Folding his hands humbly before his erstwhile mentor Radhakishor greeted him, ‘Namaskar Master Moshai!’
‘Jai to the Maharaj!’ Shashibhushan was forced to respond, ‘I hope all goes well with you.’ At this point, Mahim, who was standing close to them, suggested, ‘Why don’t we sit in the carriage and talk?’ Shashibhushan hesitated a little before complying with the request. ‘I have a train to catch,’ he muttered. ‘I must get back to Chandanngar.’ Leading him to the royal carriage Radhakishor assured him, ‘I’ll take you to the station myself. We can talk on the way.’
As soon as the carriage started moving Mahim cleared his throat importantly and said, ‘The Maharaja wishes to ask you a question. May I put it to you on his behalf?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Many years ago, when the old king was alive, you and I had a conversation regarding the disappearance of one of the king’s sons—a boy named Bharat. You had said that, in your belief, the crown prince had hired assassins to murder the boy, then bury him in the jungle. What you said was in confidence and I’ve kept it a secret all these years. But over a week ago I told the Maharaja about it, about your suspicions I mean—’
‘You must believe me Master Moshai,’ Radhakishor leaned forward in earnest supplication. ‘I know nothing at all of the matter. You’ve known me from childhood. Do you really think me capable of such an act?’ Shashibhushan frowned. ‘When did we have this conversation?’ he asked Mahim.
‘When the old Maharaja had just moved into his house in Circular Road.’
‘There was a reason for what I said.’ A smile flickered over Shashibhushan’s ageing face. Turning to Radhakishor he said, ‘I never held you guilty of the crime. You are sensitive by nature; incapable of an act of violence. As a matter of fact Bharat was not killed. He was alive and in Calcutta, under my care, when I told Mahim what I did. It was done to protect him. He was still in grave danger.’
‘But why did you take the crown prince’s name?’ Mahim asked. ‘And how would that protect Bharat?’
‘I wanted you to repeat the story to everyone you met. If his enemies knew Bharat was dead they would stop looking for him. As to why I took Radhakishor’s name—it was done to lend credibility to the killing. Radhakishor had control over the police. It was easiest for him.’
‘Bharat is alive!’ Radhakishor exclaimed.
‘Yes I found him, by a miraculous chance, and brought him with me to Calcutta.’
‘I’m so glad he is alive. Bharat is my brother. I’ll take him back to Tripura and give him his due.’
Shashibhushan shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘I’ve no idea where he is. You see, he disappeared from Calcutta, one night, exactly as he had from Agartala. He was hurt and offended at something I had said. I doubt if I’ll ever see him again.’
Chapter XXXI
In England and America, Vivekananda had advocated the Vedantas as containing the true spirit of Hinduism, carefully avoiding mention of Tantric rites, idol worship and other forms of devotion also included in its vast plethora. But, over the last few years, he had become a self-confessed Shaivite and muttered the words ‘Shiba! Shiba!’ in moments of emotion. On his return from Amarnath, however, he changed his allegiance to Shakti—the female principle of Creation—and now he cried ‘Ma! Ma!’ at every step. One night, in a strange frenzy, he wrote a poem entitled ‘Kali: The Mother’—a terrifying poem in which the goddess was portrayed as a ruthless killer dancing a strange dance between orgies of slaughter. This Mother Power who scattered ‘plagues and sorrows’ and destroyed the world ‘with every shaking step’ was unrecognizable from the ordinary human perception of Kali, endorsed by seers like Ramprasad and Ramkrishna, as a dark, tender mother who rained blessings on her children from eyes that held oceans of mercy; who smiled on them and drew them to her breast; shared their games and became one with them.
Soon after writing this poem Vivekananda felt a strong urge to meet his own moth
er. As soon as the news of his arrival reached her, the old lady came running out to meet him. Drawing him into the house she covered her famous son’s face with kisses and cried, ‘You don’t look well at all Bilé. You work too hard and don’t eat enough. I’m sure of it.’
‘The doctors have advised me to control my diet Ma. I’ve given up salt and sugar.’
‘But why?’ His mother cried out in wonder. ‘How can anyone live without those things? You used to love wedges of Ilish spiced with green chillies and mustard. I’ll cook some, today, with my own hands and serve it to you, piping hot, with a mound of rice. You’ll eat it, won’t you?’
Vivekananda smiled and nodded. He didn’t tell her that his heart was badly damaged and he had to be very careful. The doctors had told him that his organs had gone into a shock the moment he had plunged his body, steaming and quivering with the rigours of the strenuous climb, into the icy waters of the river at Amarnath. His heart had stopped and he could have dropped down dead that very moment. But the body has a way of recovering itself and his heart had started beating again of its own. But not without some consequences. The muscles had slackened and it was, now, hanging an inch longer than it should. It was a very dangerous condition. There was no question of improvement. It could only deteriorate.
‘Shall I tell you something Bilé?’ His mother smiled up at him. ‘You were only a baby then and very, very sick. I went to the temple at Kalighat and begged Ma Kali to spare your life. I swore a solemn oath. I said that, if you recovered, I would bring you to her and you would roll in the dust at her feet. You did recover but, somehow or the other, I forgot about the oath. Sometimes I think all my sufferings are owing to that sin. Your ill health too … Come with me to Kalighat and help me redeem my pledge. Will you?’
Vivekananda hesitated. He had no objection to gratifying his mother’s desire. But would he be allowed to enter the temple at Kalighat? Dakshineshwar, where his guru had lived and preached; where his own spirit had opened its petals, grudgingly, one by one, was barred to him. His offence? That, inspite of being a sanyasi, he had crossed the black water, lived in the land of the mlechhas and eaten forbidden flesh. And, instead of undergoing penance on his return, he was still surrounding himself with mlechhas and even taking them to holy places. Such brazen, blasphemous behaviour was not to be borne! Mathur Babu’s son had forbidden his entry within the temple precincts.
Though considerably apprehensive Vivekananda took a chance. He went to Kalighat with his mother and, to his surprise, was welcomed as an honoured visitor. Purifying himself by bathing in the Adi Ganga, he rolled on the floor of the chatal thrice and, thus, he redeemed his mother’s pledge. Then, taking seven rounds of the temple, he prostrated himself before the goddess.
The pledge was redeemed but his health did not improve. He suffered from palpitations which were so severe at times that he felt his chest would burst and his heart leap out of it. Then, when the palpitations stopped, he felt weak and lethargic and could barely move his limbs. But his will was as strong and indomitable as ever. When he strode about, supervising the multifarious activities he had set in motion, no one could guess that what he yearned for most was to lie down and sleep. Not even Nivedita.
One day Vivekananda said to her, ‘I’m making all the arrangements Margot. I wish you to give a public lecture on the worship of Kali.’
‘I?’ Nivedita cried, taken aback. ‘What do I know of Kali?’ ‘Read the Shastras and find out.’
‘I can’t read Sanskrit.’
‘Saradananda will teach you. I give you a month in which to prepare yourself.’
‘What can I say that the educated elite of Calcutta does not know already?’
‘The lecture, though ostensibly for all, will be directed at the Brahmos and Christians. They have no knowledge of the complex philosophy behind the worship of Kali. You’ll point out the significance—’
‘I’m sure you or one of your brother disciples will do a much better job.’
‘No. It has to come from you.’
Vivekananda smiled slyly to himself as he said this. The proselytizing Christians and high-nosed Brahmos would get the shock of their lives to hear an educated, enlightened white woman, born of the ruling race, speak in praise of Kali. It would be a slap on their faces.
Albert Hall was rented for an evening and leaflets distributed which read: ‘Miss Margaret E Noble (Sister Nivedita), a lady eminently knowledgeable in Western Science and Philosophy, will speak on the subject of Kali worship. We invite the intellectual elite of the city to attend in large numbers.’ Poor Nivedita was left with no choice but to prepare herself for her ordeal. She took lessons in Sanskrit and the Shastras from Saradananda and, whenever she got the opportunity, she bombarded Swamiji with questions, taking down the answers in a little notebook.
‘I believe in Brahma,’ Swamiji said to her one day. ‘And the pantheon of gods and goddesses. It may sound paradoxical. But that’s how it is.’
‘Yet, at one time, you rejected Kali.’
‘Yes. I hated everything and everyone associated with her. I fought her for over six years. But I lost the battle and surrendered. There was no other way for me. My guru had dedicated me to her service, you see.’
Nivedita sat silent for a few minutes. ‘Swamiji,’ she said at last, a flush rising in her cheeks. ‘You had the great, good fortune of being guided by Ramkrishna Paramhansa. Yet you denied Kali. Why are you surprised, then, that the Brahmos do the same?’
‘You are right. I shouldn’t be surprised. But the truth is that I surrendered first and realized the greatness of Ramkrishna afterwards. I used to look upon him as a foolish, whimsical child. But the moment I accepted Kali my eyes were opened to the truth and his greatness was revealed.’
‘I still don’t understand. Why did you have to accept Her? What was it that broke your resistance?’
‘I can’t tell you that. It’s a secret that I’ll carry, till my death. Suffice it to say that it was a very difficult time for me. My father had just died. We had no money. My brothers and sisters were starving. Ma Kali saw how vulnerable I had become. “Catch the rascal now,” she said to herself, “It’s a good time.” And, sure enough, she did. I tried to fight her but, as I said, I lost. She took me, in her triumph, and made me her slave.’
On the thirteenth of February, Albert Hall was filled to overflowing well before six o’clock—the time scheduled for Nivedita’s lecture. Nivedita had sent personal notes of invitation to the eminent Brahmos of Calcutta and many of them were present. Rabindranath, having no desire to listen to an eulogy on Kali, avoided attending with a flimsy excuse. But Satyendranath was there with his niece Sarala. His daughter Indira has wanted to come, too, but she was to be wed in a few days and it wasn’t proper for her to leave the house. Just before the lecture was to begin a great clattering of boots was heard and Dr Mahendralal Sarkar came pushing his way up the hall. It was packed but someone recognized him and offered him his seat. He lowered his bulk into it without demur and stared belligerently at Nivedita who sat on the dais. A strange man sat beside her. He was to preside and introduce her to the audience. Swamiji was not to be seen anywhere. Nivedita looked very beautiful in a gown of milk white satin with an elaborately embroidered Kashmiri shawl across her shoulders. Her eyes were bright and eager in a face radiating with the vitality of youth. After a few preliminary remarks she began: ‘… The impact of our own religion upon a fresh consciousness is often a helpful thing to ourselves.
‘… This causes us to examine the grounds of our own creed and the meaning of it, and its demands on us … The Semite, dreaming of God in the moment of highest rapture, called him “Our Father,” and the European, striving to add the true complement to God as the child, saw bending over Him that Glorified Maiden whom he knew as “Our Lady”.
‘But in India the conception of woman is simpler, more personal, more complete. For India, there is only one relationship that makes the home—that makes sanctity—that enters into every fib
re of the being, and it is not Fatherhood. What wonder, then, that in India God’s tenderest name is that of Mother?
‘… And of this symbol you have made three forms—Durga, Jagaddhatri and Kali.
‘In Durga we have, indeed an element of queenhood, but it is the power of the Queen, not her privilege.
‘… In Jagaddhatri, we have some development of the notion of protection. But it is before Kali—the terrible one, … Kali surrounded by forms of death and destruction that the soul hushes itself at last, and utters that one word “Mother”.’
‘What’s all this?’ An angry voice rose from the assembly. ‘What’s going on here? An English madam is exhorting us to worship Kali and we’re listening to her like sheep! Miss Noble, I was under the impression that you were in this country to further the cause of women’s education. But that seems to be far from your thoughts. We’ve been moving towards the light, slowly and painfully. But you seem intent on pushing us back into the dark.’
‘Dr Sarkar,’ Nivedita smiled benignly on the old man. ‘I’m only expounding the principles behind the worship of Kali. I haven’t finished yet …’
‘Damn your principles! What do you know of Hinduism?
You’ve been here less than a year and all you’ve done during that time is sniff around here and there and pick up jargon. Does that make you an expert on a religion as ancient as ours? Do you have even the faintest knowledge of its history; its evolution; its vastness; its catholicity? Besides, don’t you realize that your exhortations are sending the wrong signals? I don’t need to tell you that the worst social offenders are found among Kali worshippers. The temples are dens of iniquity, crammed with thieves, drunks, gamblers, murderers—’
‘A good thing may be put to wrong use at times. But that doesn’t take away from its essential goodness. Weeds crop up more easily in a garden than flowering plants. But one doesn’t destroy the garden because of them. If the essential philosophy behind Kali worship is properly understood—’
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