My Guru & His Disciple (31 page)

I have been given another badge; the same design, but this one has the motto: “Mother, make me a man.”

This afternoon, I presided at a session of the Parliament; each of us has to assume the office of president once. My speech was chiefly about Girish Ghosh and the ways in which I identify myself with him. One sentence was, approximately: “I wouldn't dare to claim to have one quarter of Girish's devotion, I would not even claim to have half as much artistic talent as Girish had—or half his capacity for drinking.” This did
not
get a laugh. Nor did they laugh when I told the story about one of the swamis in San Francisco being asked: “Swami, how is it possible that these ladies who have been your disciples for many years are all such awful people?” To which the Swami replied, “If they had not come to Ramakrishna, they would all be murderesses.”

Just as I reached the end of my speech, I was handed a piece of paper with the message: “Continue for fifteen minutes.” This was because they had just realized that the next speaker wasn't going to show up. I ignored it and stopped, irritated by their thick-skinned bossiness.

January 2. Last night, when I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, a young swami appeared whom I've been seeing quite a lot of—the same one who was angry with the interpreter. He is a dramatically handsome boy, with almost black eyes, very dark skin, tigerish white teeth. He had decided to come and talk to me, whether I liked it or not. So we talked for more than three hours.

He began by telling me about his relations with a senior swami whose personal attendant he had been. His eyes blazed with remembered passion and also with satisfaction at his own hypersensitivity, as he described how—after waiting on this swami faithfully and faultlessly for months—he made one little slip, forgot to get some medicine the swami had ordered. Next day, he was told that the swami had been very annoyed. So he became furious and went into the swami's presence spoiling for a fight. But the swami somehow conveyed to him by a glance how much he loved him. So all was well. This motif of a loverlike need for reassurance kept recurring in our conversation. You are equally ready to leave your guru and the monastery forever or to fall at his feet in tears. Such scenes could obviously become as necessary to one as playing Russian roulette. They would have to be repeated continually.

His family consisted of freethinking intellectuals. They would all have been horrified to hear that he had made up his mind to be a monk. He became converted by reading the works of Vivekananda, and decided to join the monastery in Madras.

He left home without telling anybody, in the middle of the night. He thought he had planned everything perfectly in advance, but there was a last-minute hitch. He very nearly missed his train because, at that late hour, he had great difficulty in finding anyone to carry his suitcase to the station for him. It was unthinkable for this upper-class boy to carry his own suitcase in public—even though he was on his way to a place where he would renounce his class, his family, and all his possessions! He quite saw, now, how funny this was.

He delights in being a swami. In what other station in life, he asks, would a young man be treated with such respect by his elders? Famous men and women actually take the dust of your feet! I find such silliness endearing. How wonderful to be so innocent! He told me encouragingly that I shall become far better known for my book on Ramakrishna than for any of my novels. Incidentally, he thinks that Romain Rolland's book on Ramakrishna is supreme; all I can hope for is to be second best.

This morning, Swami, George, and I drove to Brahmananda's birthplace, Sikra Kulingram. It is a tiny village out on the flat paddy fields of the Ganges delta, enclosed by large lush trees. A shrine has been built on the actual spot—as nearly as could be determined—where Brahmananda was born. And there is a guesthouse, where we were to stay the night.

During the drive I felt awful—partly upset stomach and headache but chiefly mere rage, expressing itself in that battle cry of the ego,
They shan't push me around!

When we arrived, we were told that George and I would have to share a room in the guesthouse. Did I resent this? No, I'm certain I didn't. I immediately said that I had a headache and wanted to lie down. What the ego really wanted was time to figure out what to say to Swami. It knew it was going to make some kind of a scene, and this needed to be rehearsed.

As soon as I had finished rehearsing, I got up again and began walking around, feeling better already. It was quite warm, with a brilliant blue sky. The leaves were flashingly green. Dark smiling children sat among them, half hidden in the shadows.

I found Swami talking to one of the other swamis—one whom I temporarily hate, as my chief pusher-around. I took Swami aside and told him I was feeling sick and wanted to have the car take me back to Belur Math at once. Swami seemed bewildered. He said gently yes, of course, but wouldn't I have lunch first? His bewilderment frustrated me for a moment. I had expected that he would cue me into my scene by asking some leading question. I should have remembered that that isn't his way. I had to go on under my own steam, feeling myself beginning to lose pressure already.

“Swami—it isn't just that I'm sick. I feel awful about everything … I've made up my mind: I can't ever talk about God and Religion in public again. It's impossible. I've been feeling like this for a long time … I suppose I've wanted to spare your feelings, but that's not right, either. Why shouldn't I tell you how I really feel? After all, you are my guru. You have to be responsible for me, anyway … It's the same thing, really, that I used to think when I was living at the Center, in the old days: the Ramakrishna Math is coming between me and God. I can't belong to any kind of institution—because I'm not respectable—”

At this, Swami laughed, more bewildered than ever: “But, Chris, how can you say that? You're almost too good. You are so frank, so good, you never tell any lie.”

“I can't stand up on Sundays in nice clothes and talk about God. I feel like a prostitute. I've felt like that after all of these meetings of the Parliament, whenever I've spoken … I knew this would happen. I should never have agreed to come to India. After I'd promised you I'd come, I used to wake up every morning and dread it—”

“Oh, Chris, I'm
sorry
. I shouldn't have asked you—”

“You know, the first time I prostrated before you, that was a great moment in my life. It really meant something tremendous to me, to want to bow down before another human being … And, here, I've been making pranams to everybody—even to people I've quite a low opinion of. And that takes all the significance out of doing it—”

This was outrageously disingenuous, because the pranams I referred to were only playacting, anyway. I couldn't have said it if Swami had been able to look into my eyes. But he wasn't. I was wearing sunglasses.

All this time, we were walking up and down in the sunshine, along a path between the ranks of bushes, with George somewhere in the middle distance and the swamis on the porch of the guesthouse, and the hidden children watching. It seemed to me that they all knew a drama was being enacted.

Swami looked at me with hurt eyes. He said, “I don't want to lose you, Chris.” His utter dismay was enough to break my heart. And yet I knew that he, too, had begun to playact—to call my bluff. He knew perfectly well it was unthinkable that I should leave him under any circumstances. I told him so. He went on looking dismayed.

I felt guilty, but not very. There had been some truth of feeling in my outburst, even if it was negative feeling. I knew that it was far better to have spoken than not to have spoken.

The other swamis took the news that I was going back to the Math with slightly cynical impassivity. George gave me a strangely understanding grin.

We had a silent embarrassed lunch at which I ate only rice. Then the driver took me back to Calcutta in a cloud of red dust. Having had its tantrum, my ego relaxed. India seemed suddenly charming. I felt no impatience when our car was stalled behind trucks full of vegetables in the village of De Ganga, where there was a roadside market. I almost loved the dark-skinned countrypeople, shouting at each other in angry voices without anger. And I was so happy to get back to my room at the Math guesthouse.

When I told Prema everything that had happened, he was amused but showed no surprise. His lack of surprise made me suspect that he may have been through a similar scene with Swami, himself.

January 3. Went to the Cultural Institute; Swami was lying in bed there, with a cough, very rumpled and sad. He had become sick at Sikra Kulingram. The country dust was officially blamed for this, but I had a strong impression—later confirmed by Prema—that I was responsible. Swami is quite capable of getting sick in order to work on someone's feelings; though I doubt if he realizes this about himself—it is purely instinctive behavior. All I could do was to be extra-solicitous and, at the same time, remain absolutely firm in my decision.

Of course, by making this decision, I have blackmailed myself into carrying out my duties with twice as much zeal, as long as I am here. Since Swami was sick, I had to represent him at an official tea party for about fifty culture enthusiasts. After tea, the swami in charge made all of them shush and then asked me questions, which I had to answer in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone. He tried hard to maneuver me into saying that I disapprove of the dirtiness of modern literature. I politely avoided doing so.

January 4. Today Prema and Arup got their heads shaved, in preparation for sannyas. Now they are in a dilemma; they hate exposing their baldness, yet they would like to get their skulls suntanned, to be less conspicuous. The shaven Bengali monks, with their brown skins, look perfectly natural.

Prema tells me he feels this shaving was a crossing of the Rubicon; now he is one hundred percent committed. He and Arup have already been issued their gerua robes, neatly folded, ready to be put on at the prescribed moment, during the sannyas ritual.

Preparations for the Vivekananda birthday celebration are now nearly complete. There is an arch over the entrance gate, tented entrances to the shrines, hung with glass chandeliers, and a pavilion containing all the books about Vivekananda in every language.

To Javadpur University, to give a question-and-answer talk to the students. This I enjoyed because I didn't have to be holy. They wanted to hear a lot about Huxley. The professor who introduced me is writing a book on Yeats. He and his wife had reproductions of Van Gogh and Rouault in their apartment, and a copy of Burroughs's Naked Lunch.

At supper, Prema and Arup were eating as much as they could, because their fast begins tomorrow morning. Prema says that no one should take sannyas until the ego has been “smashed.” He feels that his conflicts with some of the nuns at the Hollywood Center were really blessings—a form of disciplining by Mother Kali.

January 5. Until today, I've had diarrhea, but this morning's stool is thicker. I feel nothing but the dull senseless urge to get the hell out of here. Such is my longing for escape that I'm not even nervous about the flight; a sinister sign. Masturbated this morning, not because I really wanted to, just out of meanness. I'm mean and sullen.

This afternoon, Swami moved back into his room at the Math. He has a swelling on the side of his face which he is trying to reduce with hot compresses.

January 6. A terrific wailing and drumming of instruments burst forth at about 4:30 a.m., announcing the Big Day. Prema calls this “snake-charming music.”

Found Swami concerned about his face. He told Prema, “I want to leave the body in India,” so Prema is worried. Arup fell asleep—which is strictly against the rules, during the sannyas fast—and dreamed of pork chops.

The Math grounds were crowded all day. Thousands of devotees were fed from leaf plates. Loudspeakers shouted. Kirtan singers wailed. A line of people waited on the staircase to bow down in Swamiji's room. Nikhilananda was in a very good humor at breakfast this morning. He said, “This is the country of self-destruction.”

In the afternoon there was a meeting at which Swami presided and spoke, despite his ill health. I spoke, too. When we got back to Swami's room, he held out his hand and asked me to massage it. I did my best, telling him that I'd never massaged a hand before. He answered gaily, “Why can't you do something for Swami you never did before?”

He was in his “baby” mood. He kept dozing off but wanted us to stay in the room with him. Was he perhaps in a high spiritual state and giving us the privilege of serving the “It” which had taken him over? In that building, with Vivekananda and Brahmananda so powerfully present, this explanation didn't seem farfetched.

January 7. Woke with a sore throat to the noise of snake-charming music over the loudspeakers. But this poor old snake couldn't rise. However, I did get up at 7:30 and went out to look for the newly made swamis. I found Arup first. He is now Swami Anamananda; Anama means the Nameless One. He looks marvelous in his gerua; the color brings out the blueness of his eyes and the paleness of his skin. He was embarrassed but delighted when I prostrated. Then some other people ran up to him and bowed down. He raised his hand in blessing, so benevolently, like the ancient abbot of a monastery, and murmured, “Bless you.”

I walked with him, and presently Prema came by, in a group of other new swamis on their way to beg alms. (You have to do this for three days after taking sannyas; but it's no big problem because there are pious families which have notified the Math in advance that they are ready to feed you, so you know just where to go.)