Brahmananda was sitting in the veranda adjoining Swamiji’s room when Nivedita came to him. The door was ajar and she could see Swamiji’s bed and the window at which he had stood, looking out on the Ganga, when walking down the stairs had become too painful for him. It was raining and the river was shrouded in a fine mist. Nivedita waited for Brahmananda to speak. Then, nothing forthcoming, she murmured gently, ‘Don’t you have anything to say to me?’
‘Sister!’ Brahmananda cleared his throat pompously and returned question for question, ‘Do you love our math? Does the welfare of the Ramkrishna Mission mean anything to you?’ Nivedita’s blue eyes widened in shock. What sort of a question was this? The Mission was Swamiji’s ideal; his dream. Hadn’t she worked by his side and helped to build it up? Had she not given it all she had? Her country? Her own people and culture? Her personal life? ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this Nivedita,’ Brahmananda continued. ‘Your association with the math and Mission must end. Your presence here is a threat to us.’
‘A threat!’ Nivedita echoed. ‘What kind of threat?’
‘You’ve changed your ideals. You’ve entered politics. We can’t afford to have anything to do with you anymore. However,’ and now he cleared his throat and spoke quickly, almost as though he had rehearsed the lines so often that he had them by heart, ‘The money you have raised for the Mission by your personal efforts is legitimately ours. Cheques and drafts are still coming in. You have no right to them. You must deposit them here, as and when they come, without delay. And you must make an announcement in the newspapers to the effect that you have severed all your connections with Belur Math.’
A wave of anger and self-pity swept over Nivedita. ‘No!’ she wanted to cry out, ‘I’ll do no such thing. I have as much right to be here as you. I’ve lost him whom I adored and revered. I feel his presence here. How can you deprive me of that comfort?’ But she said nothing. Brahmananda glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Her face was as white as a sheet and her eyes glittered like blue ice. Brahmananda felt uneasy, even a little guilty. He tried to soften the blow. ‘Our personal relations,’ he said, ‘will remain the same of course.’ Nivedita rose and ran down the stairs and out of the house regardless of the driving rain in her face and the mud and slush under her bare feet.
Cut off from the math Nivedita was faced with a real problem. How could she live on in this country? She had enjoyed a certain position as Swamiji’s disciple. People had come forward to help her and she had never had to worry about where she would live and where her next meal was to come from. But now she was truly destitute. She considered going back to England and rejected the idea instantly. By doing so she would be admitting defeat. She would live on here. She would find a means of doing so.
One morning, a few days later, a young man came to see her. He was an Englishman, very tall and thin, and in his face Nivedita detected a curious blend of intelligence and humility. Nivedita hadn’t seen such a face in many years. ‘My name is Samuel K. Ratcliffe,’ he said, with a disarming smile. ‘I arrived from London a few days ago.’
‘I’m just about to have my breakfast,’ Nivedita said. ‘Why don’t you join me? We’ll talk as we eat.’
Over breakfast Ratcliffe told her that he was a journalist by profession and had come out to India as Associate Editor of The Statesman. He had heard her speak at a tea party and been impressed not only by her knowledge of the country but by her attitude to Indians. His fellow Englishmen, he told her, never wearied of pointing out the shortcomings of the natives. If they were to be believed, all Indians were liars and cheats, oppressive to their women and their religion was an abomination. ‘But in your speech,’ his face lit up at the memory, ‘you spoke of a glorious past and a wonderful heritage. I felt as though another world had revealed itself before my eyes. I decided, then, that I would request you to write for my newspaper. Will you do so?’
‘I? Write in your paper?’ Nivedita stared in disbelief.
‘Yes. We need insights such as yours Besides your language has force. I’ve read some of your articles.’
The offer came as a windfall for Nivedita. A column in a prestigious paper like The Statesman would bring in a regular income and solve the problem of her livelihood. Besides she would enjoy the experience of sharing her thoughts with thousands of readers. She smiled into the eager face opposite hers. She liked the young man very much.
Her immediate worries taken care of, Nivedita turned all her energies into her chosen task—that of preparing the ground for the independence of the country. Taking Okakura with her she went from forum to forum trying to enthuse the public into accepting his proposals. Calcutta was full of secret societies and Nivedita was in touch with them all. The members of Pramath Mitra’s Anushilan Samiti were an enthusiastic lot and ready to jump into the fray. Jatin Bandopadhyay’s boys, charged with Nivedita’s speeches, were prepared to lay down their lives for the country. Nivedita had heard that these societies were being financed by rich and important men who preferred to remain incognito. One had even offered a reward of a thousand rupees to every young man who was successful in killing a British officer. But one person she felt unsure of was Sarala Ghoshal. Her aakhra was the first one to be established in Calcutta. The boys were taught bodybuilding, fencing with lathis and sword fighting. But to what purpose? It seemed to Nivedita that they did not have a goal in sight. Or, if they did, it was blurred and indistinct.
Another factor that disturbed Nivedita was Okakura’s own attitude. He had proceeded on a tour of the other states of India and returned a changed man. He wasn’t open with her anymore. Nivedita got a distinct feeling that he was keeping a great deal back from her. Whenever she asked him what preparations for revolution were going on in the other states he had the same answer, every time. ‘There are piles of dry tinder lying everywhere. The country will go up in flames the moment the fire is kindled. But Bengal must provide the spark.’ Nivedita couldn’t help feeling that these were just words; fine words without meaning or substance. She, herself, was so eager; so keen. She had given a thousand rupees, out of her meagre savings, to Okakura just before he had proceeded on the tour. And she was working so hard—she was wearing herself to the bone! But he seemed content to drink his brandy, smoke his expensive cigars and discuss Art with Gaganendra and Abanindra while waiting for the spark that would set the country ablaze.
Nivedita noticed another thing about him. He was too partial to the society of women. He visited Sarala Ghoshal’s house often and, once there, refused to budge for hours. Sarala’s house was always full of guests with many beautiful women among them. Okakura had an obvious fascination for a friend of Sarala’s called Priyamvada. But, of late, Nivedita had seen him throwing wistful glances at another visitor—an actress called Nayanmoni.
One evening Nivedita came to Okakura’s house in Chowringhee to work on the manuscript of Ideals of the East. It was a large and well appointed one for Okakura had expensive habits and liked to live in style. Nivedita found him reclining in an easy chair sipping brandy. Between his fingers was a glowing cigar. He motioned her into a chair opposite him. Then, as she read out her corrections, he listened to her, nodding solemnly from time to time. Presently he put down his cigar and rose from his chair. Coming up to her he put his hands on her shoulders and tried to draw her towards him. Nivedita sprang to her feet and wrenched herself free. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ she cried.
‘I … I …’ Okakura stammered, taken aback by her vehemence. ‘My intentions are honourable.’
‘You touched me!’ Nivedita asked in a wondering voice, moving further away from him. ‘How did you dare to do such a thing?’
‘You … you looked so beautiful with the evening light falling on your face. As pure and serene as a goddess. Will you marry me Miss Noble?’ he sank to his knees before her and added, ‘I beg your hand in all humility.’
Nivedita’s eyes blazed with fury. What was the man saying? Didn’t he know who she was? She was Vivekan
anda’s Nivedita! How could he imagine that she, who had known a man of Vivekananda’s stature, could ever turn to another? Scenes from the past flashed before her eyes. She had been so young and Swamiji so brilliant and handsome! She had loved him with all the power and passion and irrationality of youth. She had wanted him not only as guru and mentor but as a woman wanted the man she loved! ‘Can we not live as man and woman?’ she had asked him once pushing aside all shame and modesty in her desperation. Living with a woman did not stand in the way of Sri Ramkrishna’s search for the divine. The words had welled up in her heart but not reached her lips. Swamiji had gazed on her face for a long while. Then, as though he had heard the words, unspoken though they were, he had held her eyes with his own dark sombre ones and said, ‘I cannot do what my guru did Margot. I am not Ramkishna.’
Nivedita had tried to argue the point but Vivekananda had stood firm. ‘Our people won’t understand it Margot. Such a thing is not possible here.’ He had looked away as he spoke and the colour had flooded and receded, by turns, in his face and neck. It was after this exchange that Swamiji had initiated her and made her take the vows of chastity. She was a brahmacharini now.
Nivedita looked at Okakura with hatred in her eyes. ‘You wish to marry me?’ she asked. ‘How many wives do you mean to collect in this country? Do you suppose I haven’t noticed the fond glances you bestow on Priyamvada and the actress Nayanmoni? I also happen to know that you proposed marriage to Sarala Ghoshal and that she turned you down. Are you here, in this country, to help spark off a revolution? Or are you here to make love?’ Okakura took a step towards her and tried to speak but she waved her hand at him in dismissal and continued. ‘Your promises of Japan and Korea coming to our aid were false, were they not Mr Okakura? You came to this poor country and enjoyed her hospitality. You were feted and lionized. And all the time … all the time—,’ Nivedita’s voice choked on a sob and she fought for control. ‘Even your grand design of unification of the Asian nations! What will it lead to, if achieved? To the supremacy of Japan, is it not? I see everything so clearly now. I’ve been blind …blind.’ Nivedita rushed out of the room pausing only once to turn and say, over her shoulder, ‘You’ll never see me again.’
Her words were prophetic. A few days later Okakura abandoned all his efforts in India and went back to his own country.
Chapter XXXIX
Aurobindo Ghosh sat every morning poring over his books. The object of his study was his mother tongue and he pursued it with such a degree of fastidiousness and asked so many questions that his tutor Dinendra Kumar Roy felt ready to scream with exasperation at times. Reading aloud from Deenabandhu Mitra’s Lilavati, that morning, Aurobindo raised his eyes to his tutor’s. ‘What is piriti?’ he asked. Dinendranath had anticipated the question. ‘It is an emotion,’ he explained, ‘that has to be experienced to be understood. You’ll know what it is when it hits you,’
‘Hits me!’ Aurobindo echoed, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Get yourself a wife and you’ll know what I mean’.
‘Not a bad idea.’ Aurobindo answered calmly, considering the suggestion. It didn’t even occur to him to blush from outraged modesty or wax indignant at Dinendranath Kumar’s impertinence. Barin, who sat in a corner of the veranda a little distance away from them, burst out laughing. Putting down the book he had been reading, he rose from his chair and walked up to his brother. ‘I know just the girl for you Sejda,’ he said conversationally. ‘She’s the daughter of one of Baba’s friends. A beautiful girl and very well educated. And coming from a Brahmo family she’s very smart and free. She can—’
‘Chho!’ Aurobindo dismissed his brother’s proposal contemptuously. ‘I can’t stand Brahmo girls. All the ones I’ve seen wear shoes and stockings, play the piano out of tune and speak of love in affected voices.’
‘But …but,’ Barin was taken aback. ‘We’re Brahmos.’ ‘Baba was a Brahmo but I’m not,’ Aurobindo announced firmly. ‘I don’t want an English-speaking or piano-playing bride. What I would really like is a traditional Hindu girl—the kind one finds in Bankimchandra’s novels. Hindu women are soft, gentle and kind. They love their husbands with an unswerving loyalty and devotion.’ Barin and Dinendra burst out laughing at Aurobindo’s naiveté. ‘Those are imaginary women,’ Dinendra pointed out, ‘characters from books.’
‘Do you mean to tell me that such women don’t exist?’ ‘Even if they do they’re not for you,’ Barin enlightened his brother. ‘No traditional Hindu will accept you as a son-in-law. You’re born of a Brahmo family, for one thing, and you’ve lived in England for years and years, for another. You’re a mlechha in the eyes of the ordinary Hindu.’
‘I can do penance and return to the fold—can’t I Rai Moshai?’ ‘It is possible,’ Dinendra returned guardedly. ‘But the process is long and difficult. It will mean partaking of cowdung.’
‘So what? I’ll eat cowdung if I have to and become a Hindu. And I’ll find myself a wife like Bhramar.’
The talk veered around the subject of marriage for a while. Presently a stranger walked in unannounced. The three men looked on curiously. No one was surprised at this intrusion for Aurobindo kept open house and friends and neighbours walked in and out as they pleased. The man, they noted, was tall and burly and bursting with muscles. ‘I’ve come to you with a lot of hope,’ the stranger began, addressing Aurobindo directly, ‘I need your help.’
‘Who are you? Where do you come from?’ Dinendra asked. ‘My name is Jatindranath Bandopadhyay and I come from an obscure village in Bengal. I have wanted to be a soldier from early childhood. I have travelled all over the country in search of a job—without success. Do you know why? Because I’m a Bengali. The sahebs distrust Bengalis. So do the native rajas.’
‘That’s common knowledge and doesn’t surprise us. What does is your aspiration. You are the first Bengali I have met who has cherished a lifelong desire to become a soldier. Why is it so?’
‘I’m a strong lathyal and can take on ten men at a time. I can fence swords and wrestle with champions.’ He whipped off his shirt in a flash and revealed a deep wound on the chest. ‘This was made by a tiger. I encountered him in the jungles of Ayodhya and fought him with my bare hands. But he couldn’t get the better of me and had to run away.’
Aurobindo looked at him appraisingly. ‘I didn’t know Bengal could produce men like you,’ he said. ‘I’m truly glad to meet you and I shall recommend you to Madhav Rao. In the meantime—’ he coughed delicately, ‘Do you have a place to stay?’
‘I eat here and there and sleep under the stars.’
‘Stay here,’ Aurobindo said impulsively. Then raising his voice he called out to the servant. ‘Oré! Give the Babu some oil and a gamchha.’ Turning to his guest he said, ‘The midday meal is ready. We’ll eat as soon as you’ve had your bath.’
The evenings were very quiet in Aurobindo’s house because that was the time he devoted to his writing. While in England he wrote poetry and, like other English poets, he frequented pubs, wore his hair long and discussed art and literature in coffee houses. But oyer the years he realized that, no matter how well he wrote, he would never be one of them. ‘What do you know of such things?’ the eyes of his contemporaries told him. ‘The intellectual must be free and you belong to a subject race. You haven’t known freedom in hundreds of years.’ The Irish were under British domination too but they commanded respect. They were fighting for their independence. Indians hadn’t shown a trace of resistance. It seemed as though they were perfectly content to remain a nation of slaves.
That evening Aurobindo came home from college, had a wash and a cup of tea and sat down to his writing as usual. But, for some reason, he couldn’t concentrate. Scenes from the past kept flashing before his eyes. His mind was distracted and restless and he sat for hours the pen idle in his hands. Presently he rose and came to the room where Dinendra, Barin and Jatin were playing cards and talking in hushed voices from fear of disturbing him. ‘Barin,’ he said sternly
. ‘Do you mean to spend the rest of your life idling your time away in gossip and cards?’ All three looked up startled. Aurobindo had never spoken to Barin in that tone before. ‘No …no’ Barin stammered in reply. ‘I had a tea shop in Patna. I can open another if I get some money.’
‘Well I shan’t give you any. Not for a tea shop—I mean. I don’t want my brother to be a shopkeeper all his life.’
‘What else can I do?’ Barin scratched his head in embarrassment. ‘I haven’t received much education and—’
‘You can work for the country.’
‘You mean open a Swadeshi shop?’ Barin’s face brightened. ‘No, I didn’t mean that. Can’t you think of anything other than shops? Working for the country means ridding her of the foreigner.’
‘How can I do that?’ Barin stared at his brother in dismay. ‘Are you ready to go to Calcutta Barin?’
‘Of course. But what am I to do there?’
‘Scout around and get a band of boys together. Strong, healthy, well-educated boys from good families. Then arrange to train them in the martial arts. Be sure to preserve the utmost secrecy. Societies of this kind are found in the north and south of India. Shall Bengal lag behind?’
‘Collecting a group of young men and training them should not be difficult,’ Dinendra said. ‘But to what purpose? What is your goal?’
‘To free India from foreign rule.’
‘Is that so easy?’
‘There are thousands of sepoys in the Indian Army who are ready to fight their masters at the call of the country. There are thousands of Adivasis in the mountains and forests who are skilled fighters even if their weapons are primitive. They are like heaps of dry leaves waiting for the spark that will set off a mighty conflagration. And you’ll be providing that spark.’
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