First Light (58 page)

‘You've told everyone!' Basantamanjari murmured in a strange, wondering voice. ‘Everyone—except me.'

‘I wanted to surprise you. I never dreamed—'

‘People will scorn you if you don't marry me now. They'll call you a cheat and a hypocrite. You're afraid of that—aren't you? But I'm afraid too. I'm afraid people will think me a scheming harlot who enticed you into marrying her; a worm from the gutter aspiring to fly to heaven.'

‘Why should we care about what people think? We love each other. That's all that matters. I want you to be my wife and the mother of my children.'

Basantamanjari turned her face to the sky, now dim with twilight. ‘I see nothing written there,' she said in a passionate whisper. Then, turning to Dwarika, she cried, ‘Why don't you understand? I'm a whore. Men don't marry girls like me.'

‘I do and I will. My seed will flower only in your womb. Look into my eyes Basi! Look deep into my soul. Do you not see a fire burning it to ashes, bit by scorching bit? Can't you leap into the
flames to save me? I won't take you in secret. I won't take you out of a sense of guilt. I'll proclaim to the whole world that you are the queen of my home and heart. I want you by my side not only through this life but in all our lives to come.'

It was Swami Vivekananda's second visit to England. On his journey out to the West he had sailed by way of Japan, over the Pacific, and had landed in Vancouver. Then, after winning a good measure of acclaim in America, he had been persuaded by the Macleod sisters to accompany them to Europe. Francis and Bessy had set the date for their wedding and the venue was to be that most elegant and sophisticated of European cities—Paris. A
Hindu ascetic was debarred from participation in wedding celebrations—even of those of his nearest kin. Yet Swamiji came to Paris. Was it because he had found it impossible to shake off the entreaties of his dearest Joe? Or was it because his wanderlust and love of beauty, suppressed for so long, were asserting themselves and he felt irresistibly drawn to the art and architecture of the most civilized city in the world? All this was true but only up to a point. The intention behind his European visit was deeper and more significant. While in America he had taken a decision. His next step would be to spread the message of Hinduism among the English people. France and England were separated by the thinnest strip of water. Once in France it would be the easiest thing in the world to move on to England. He had good friends there who would be only too happy to put him up.

One of them was Henrietta Müller whom he had met in America. Another was ET Sturdy. Sturdy had spent some months in an ashram in Almora and was fascinated by Indian ascetics. Both of them had invited Vivekananda, several times, to be their guest.

At the conclusion of the wedding festivities Vivekananda had left Paris and come to London. He hadn't stayed long but his sojourn, short though it was, had taught him a good deal about the English people. The English, he had discovered, were far less racist than the Americans. He had walked the streets of London without children running after him crying ‘Blackie! Blackie!' It was possible for a coloured person to book himself into any hotel
or walk into any shop. No one looked askance at him or ordered him out. The men and women who came to his lectures took him seriously and heard him out with patience unlike the Americans who were facetious and offensive by turns. The English had far greater exposure to cultures other than their own and were civilized, in consequence. Compared to them Americans were frogs in a well. Interacting with English men and women, in their own country, he marvelled at the difference between them and the ones who came out to India.

That, however, had been a short visit undertaken with a view to test the country and its people's powers of receptivity. This time Vivekananda had come with a purpose. He wished to open some centres from which knowledge of the Vedantas could be disseminated. His English disciples would see to the running of the institutions but who would take the responsibility of delivering the addresses? He, himself, couldn't be in two places at the same time. He took a decision. He would send for some of his fellow disciples from India. Young men like Sarat, Kali Vedanti and Shashi were well versed in Sanskrit and could read and explain the texts. Besides, they also had a smattering of English.

The last few months in America had been very productive. It was obvious to everyone that the mockery and hostility with which Vivekananda's discourses had been received, in the beginning, were considerably diluted by now. More and more people, in search of a spiritual solace their own religion could not give them, were coming to his meetings. His followers were growing in number and a band had emerged, the members of which had declared their intention of devoting their lives to the proliferation of the humanistic ideals of the Vedantas. It was at this juncture that Swamiji had started giving
deeksha
and receiving the people of the West into the Hindu fold. Herr Leon Landsberg and Mary Louis, among the first to be initiated, were renamed Kripananda and Abhayananda and became disciples of Sri Ramkrishna—the same Ramkrishna who had lived out his life as a humble priest in the temple of Dakshineswar, unknown even in his own country, except to a handful of people.

In England Vivekananda's reception was even better. Within weeks of his arrival, the numbers that flocked to his meetings proliferated to such a great extent that he was forced to seek out a
bigger place. In this he received immense help from Mrs Müller and Mr Sturdy. Not only did they make all the arrangements, they even alerted the Press and saw to it that he got a fair degree of coverage in newspapers and journals. The Press was more than favourable. One newspaper carried the report that the English hadn't heard a better speaker than the Indian ascetic after Ram Mohan Roy and Keshabchandra Sen.

Vivekananda had started out with one discourse a day held in the form of a class each morning. Then, on growing public demand, he began addressing large gatherings, every evening, from some well-known forum. These evening lectures were on a variety of subjects—religion, history, philosophy, even current affairs. They were never planned or prepared in advance. The moment Swamiji stood on the podium words poured out of him as spontaneously as rippling water from a mountain stream. And he didn't hesitate to speak his mind. The same venom with which he had criticized the consumerism of the Americans was now spewed out on the British for their policy of ‘divide and rule' in India. In his flame-coloured silk robe, held at the waist with a cummerbund, his glowing, vibrant face and deep, passionate voice, he held his audiences in thrall. They stared at him entranced. Many declared that they saw in his face and form an uncanny resemblance to Gautam Buddha.

The morning sessions were mostly attended by women from different walks of life and different sections of society. Teachers and nurses rubbed shoulders with wealthy widows, housewives and divorcees. From the highest to the lowest they were bound by common needs. Some came for a dash of excitement and variety in otherwise boring, humdrum lives. Others found an escape from loneliness and stress in the presence of the Swami which, though temporary, gave them strength to go on. Most of them were regular visitors at Vivekananda's meetings yet one of them drew his attention as no one else did. The moment he stepped into the hall his eyes skimmed over the sea of faces coming to rest, at last, on the face of the one he sought. She was a young woman and her name was Margaret Noble.

Margaret was thirty years old and the daughter of an Irish clergyman. Her father had died when she was only ten, following which event she had moved with her mother and siblings to the
home of her maternal grandparents. Here she had received an education but very little love and affection and had been constrained to earn her living and take charge of her family from the age of seventeen. Love had come to her drab, lonely existence soon after she had taken up a post as a teacher. She had met a young man from Wales, a handsome, charming engineer, and they had had a lot in common. But just as their friendship started flowering into love, the youth died, suddenly, of a single day's illness leaving the young Margaret shattered and disconsolate. Unable to bear her life in a place so full of memories Margaret had left her native habitat in the suburbs of London and come to the great city.

Margaret was a good teacher and the children loved her. She loved them too and it was only in their midst that she could find solace. She felt this to be her true vocation—this moulding of young minds. But, as the months passed, she discovered other qualities in herself. She had ideas, interesting and original, and the ability to implement them. People took her seriously and were influenced by her. She decided to put these qualities to use by opening a school of her own—a new kind of school. Unlike other institutions there would be no common curriculum and no capital punishment. Each child had differing needs and aspirations and different talents. It was necessary to study each child's psyche and help him to find his moorings; to take care of his needs and find an outlet for his talents.

Once in London, however, Margaret got caught up in other things as well. London was not only the capital city of England. It was the heart of a vast empire on which the sun never set. A truly cosmopolitan city it was full of clubs and associations which hummed with activity from dawn till dusk. Margaret got quickly absorbed in the life around her. She became a member of the elite Sesame Club and later its secretary. She organized lectures and symposia, took an active part in discussions and also started contributing to newspapers and journals. It was thus that she met Bernard Shaw, Aldous Huxley and many other literary giants.

Living her full and busy life Margaret got over her heartbreak quite quickly and, within a few months, had formed a new attachment. The young man was a fellow member of the Sesame Club and his past was not unlike hers except for the fact that his
beloved had not been snatched away from him by death but had moved away of her own volition. The two drifted towards each other, their common suffering creating a bond between them. But as soon as Margaret began dreaming of wedded bliss the blow fell. The young man disappeared without a word to her. A few days later Margaret learned the truth. His old love had sent for him and he had hastened to obey her summons. What was more, they were married already and on their honeymoon.

This blow was even harder to bear than the last. In a state of shock, and reluctant to face her friends and acquaintances, Margaret fled from London and took refuge with her friend Miss Collins in the town of Halifax. Miss Collins welcomed her to her house and soothed and comforted her. But it was not for long. After her initial breakdown Margaret took herself firmly in hand and, within a few days, announced her plan of returning to London. She was missing her school and the children. Back in London she threw herself into her work. While in this frame of mind she first came in contact with Vivekananda.

One day Margaret received an invitation from Lady Isabel Ferguson to attend a discourse by Swami Vivekananda in the drawing room of her house in the West End area of London. Margaret had never heard of Vivekananda and knew very little about India. Yet she felt a bond of sympathy with the country. Like her own country, Ireland, India lay under the domination of the British.

It was a chill damp evening of late November. Swami Vivekananda sat with his back to a roaring fire in Lady Ferguson's drawing-room, his audience facing him in a semi-circle. There were about sixteen people in the room—all scientific minded, enlightened intellectuals without a trace of blind faith. Yet there was pin drop silence as the Swami carried on his discourse. From time to time he recited Sanskrit mantras which no one understood. But the alien sounds, pronounced in the deep, sonorous voice, fell like music on the ears.

Margaret sat in a corner by the window, shrouded in winter twilight. The lamps had not been lit and the room was dark except for the glow that came from the fire. Gazing at the speaker for a long while, Margaret had a strange and wonderful experience. She felt as though her soul had left her body and gone
winging across half the world to a little Indian village. She saw herself standing by a well beside a giant banyan tree. Beneath the tree, irradiated by the last rays of the setting sun, an ascetic in an orange robe sat murmuring verses in a strange, exotic tongue . . .

The spell broke in a few moments. The discourse ended and the company rose to their feet. Over tea the guests muttered comments and exchanged their views in whispers. It was generally felt that the Indian yogi hadn't said anything that could be deemed original or significant. Margaret thought so too. She left the house without exchanging a word with Vivekananda.

Yet, through the week, his face kept coming before her eyes—a bright, golden face with large, dark eyes burning with power and passion yet wonderfully innocent and child like. She wondered why she thought of Baby Jesus in Mother Mary's arms every time she saw that face in her mind's eye. She shook her head impatiently but couldn't dispel the illusion. It kept coming back . . .

Margaret decided to go to another lecture and test him out once more. Though he hadn't removed her doubts or answered any of the questions that plagued her he had held her attention all the time he was speaking. There was no doubt that he was a learned man. He had touched on a variety of subjects with the confidence of sure knowledge. Margaret scanned the newspapers and, having found a date and venue that suited her, went to hear Vivekananda once again. Once again she was disappointed. It was a good speech, scholarly and analytical, but what was there in it for her? Back home, she suddenly remembered that she had sat speechless all the time he was speaking, her eyes fixed on his face. The memory made her blush but she hastened to tell herself that that was because of his outstanding personality. And his voice, even in remembrance, sent a thrill down her spine.

The next thing Margaret did was to get hold of his address and write him a letter. And, to her delight, she received an answer long before she expected it. It was a warm, friendly letter and it filled her with a sense of well being. He didn't know her yet he had addressed her as though she was an old friend. He had consoled her with the advice that purity, patience and perseverance would enable her to overcome all the obstacles that stood in the way of her happiness. ‘With all my love,' he had ended, ‘Yours
Vivekananda.' Margaret was amazed. She had been distinctly cold to him. She had attended two of his lectures but had neither wished him nor uttered a word of praise. Yet he had sent her his love.

After that Margaret started going to all his discourses even though she wasn't at all sure of what she was receiving from them. Her education had given her rational views and she was atheistic by temperament. Her father and grandfather had been clergymen but she disliked the Roman Catholic Church with its narrow prejudices and ostentatious rituals. She wasn't impressed by Hinduism either. She attended Vivekananda's lectures but not in a spirit of acceptance. Vivekananda never complained. He accepted her non-acceptance and welcomed her to his meetings. Perhaps he heard, in this young woman's vehement denial of faith, an echo of his own—not so long ago. He had doubted Ramkrishna; even hated and despised him. He had raved and ranted against him. But he hadn't been able to keep away. Margaret was going through a similar experience. She rejected Vivekananda's doctrines but couldn't stay away from him.