First Light (75 page)

No living creature can go on working indefinitely. He needs a rest, from time to time, following which he is infused with new strength and energy. Could this be true of inanimate objects as well? Jagadishchandra Bose had thrown all his energies into establishing, as scientific truth, this fantastic, monstrously incredible theory.

The idea had come to him while working in his laboratory one night. He had made an instrument which consisted of a receiver poised over a plate of steel, its fine needle-like point almost touching the polished metal. When electric currents were passed through it the receiver vibrated. After working with the instrument for several hours he noticed that the vibrations were losing their intensity. Leaving it alone for some time he tried again. The vibrations had regained their strength. His brow furrowed in thought. Could it be possible that the instrument had become weary and had needed a rest? Jagadish conducted the test several times and came up with the same result. That which is proven becomes an established truth. Jagadish set about proving his theory with the help of graphs and sketches.

Jagadish Bose's article was published in the prestigious journal
The Englishman
and the discovery hailed as a watershed event in the history of physics. The reactions of the scientists were mixed as was to be expected. There were some who claimed that the Bose Effect ranked next in importance to Farraday's discovery and predicted that it would have far reaching consequences in the world of trade and industry. Others dismissed it as the pretensions of a quack and declared that it didn't fall within the purview of physics at all.

But the carping of the critics notwithstanding, Jagadish Bose was invited to pursue his research in the famous Davy Farraday Laboratory of the Royal Institution in London. Jagadish jumped at the offer and, taking a couple of years leave from his post in the Department of Education, boarded the ship to England spending
all his savings on the ticket. He had no fears for the future for his friends had assured him that they would raise a sum of two lakhs of rupees from the rich elite of Calcutta and send it out to him. But after he had left the country their resolution melted away. No one seemed ready to take the initiative and start the collection. Jagadish was a very worried man. Where would he find funds to pursue his research? He had been carried away by false promises. Even Swami Vivekananda, one of those who had expressed their admiration and pride in his achievement, hadn't given a thought to his practical difficulties.

Jagadish could have found himself a job in England quite easily. He received several excellent offers. But if he joined an institution as a paid employee he would have to surrender his rights to independent research. On the other hand, how long would he be able to keep himself together in this cold, alien country? He told himself that he would have to succumb sooner or later so it might as well be sooner. But his great friend, the poet Rabindranath, urged him not to lose heart. ‘Don't take a job,' he begged in every letter. ‘I'm trying to raise money for your research.'

Though scion of a wealthy family Rabindra had little money of his own. He knew many rich people but the only man he could think of approaching for his friend's support was Radhakishor Manikya of Tripura. He had taken Radhakishor to Presidency College to hear Jagadish speak about his new discovery and the former had been extremely impressed. Now, hearing about Jagadishchandra's financial difficulties from Rabindranath, Radhakishor gave him a sum of ten thousand rupees to send to his friend. But his own financial situation was precarious. The new palace at Naya Haveli had cost so much money that his treasury was nearly empty. In addition, his eldest son was to be wed shortly and his ministers were at their wits end trying to scrape together a sum sufficient to meet the expenses. They expressed their disapproval, quite audibly, in the king's presence. ‘Robi Babu is a rich man,' they grumbled. ‘The Thakurs have vast estates. Why doesn't he finance his friend's research himself? Why should the wealth of Tripura go out of the country?' Radhakishor smiled and told them that, if they were short of money, they should cut down on the number of ornaments that
were to be given to the new princess. ‘If Jagadishchandra can achieve what he has set out to do,' he said, ‘he will bring back a jewel for Mother India which we can all wear proudly on our bosoms.'

The barbed remarks of the Tripura officials reached. Rabindra's ears, as they were meant to, and saddened him. It was true that his father was a man of wealth but he, himself, was only a paid employee of the estate. He received three hundred rupees a month on which he had to support himself, his wife and five children. He had tried to improve his financial position by starting an independent business. But it had been a disastrous failure and he was, even now, repaying the loan of forty thousand rupees he had taken from a Marwari moneylender with interest. Though under severe financial stress himself, he had never asked Radhakishor for a paisa.

Rabindra had taken on another responsibility that was draining him financially and emotionally. He had opened a school in Shantiniketan; a
brahmacharyashram
for boys on the lines of the educational ideals of Vedic India. It had been his nephew Balendra's idea and had been put into execution under his active supervision. After Balendra's tragic and untimely death some years ago, the work had come to a standstill. But a few months back Rabindra had taken up the project once again and had thrown himself heart and soul into it as was his nature. One part of him, the practical part, questioned the wisdom of undertaking this venture. ‘You're a poet,' it said, ‘Writing poetry is your vocation—one you enjoy and are good at. Why do you meddle with something you know nothing about? Leave educating the younger generation to the educationists.'

‘I would be happy to do so,' the poet in him answered firmly, ‘if I had faith in their methods. But, as I see it, the educationists are producing a nation of clerks with the mentality of slaves. If I don't step in, the ancient wisdom of our forefathers will die out and be lost to us.'

‘This is a vast country,' the invisible questioner probed, ‘with millions of people. In how many can you infuse the old ideals?'

‘In as many as I can, with my limited means,' the other part replied promptly. ‘I have twelve students at present. I can bring the number up to twenty at the most.'

Debendranath Thakur, now eighty-five years old, heard of his youngest son's resolve and endorsed it wholeheartedly. He even offered to lend his support by sanctioning two hundred rupees a month from the estate and drew up a deed to the effect. But the expenses far exceeded that amount. It being a residential school, Rabindra had to make living arrangements for both tutors and pupils. He had to pay the former salaries which, though meagre when compared to those paid in the schools of Calcutta, were a constant worry, for the school had no income. No fees were charged from the boys—not even for board and lodging.

The boys had to follow a strict routine. Rising at a quarter past five their first task was to make their own beds and sweep the floors of their rooms. Then, after easing themselves in the fields, they bathed in the Bhubandanga canal and came back to the ashram where they gathered around a tree and recited Sanskrit shlokas. Upasana over, they were given a breakfast of halwa following which they were made to dig the land for half an hour. Lessons began after another round of Upasana with teachers and students praying together. The morning lessons ended at ten o'clock leaving the boys free to pursue their own interests till the noon meal. It was not a time to laze or play games, however. Some practised on the harmonium and sang. Others read books or painted pictures. The noon meal was a simple one—rice, a bowl of dal and a mound of stewed vegetables. That was all. Caste distinctions were observed strictly during the meal—the Brahmin boys sitting apart from the others. After they had eaten the boys had to wash their own utensils and wipe down the floor. Lessons recommenced at half past twelve and went on till four with a fifteen minutes recess at three. The boys played games till sundown after which they were given a light supper and sent to bed.

The school started off well enough but it didn't take Rabindra long to realize that he had bitten off more than he could chew. With Debendranath's two hundred rupees he was just about able to pay the salaries of the teachers. But there were so many other expenses. He was building a new house—the old one, built by Balendra, being too small to accommodate them all. He had been reduced to selling some of his wife's jewellery and felt reluctant to ask her for more. But the bill for the wooden frames and tiles of
the new house was awaiting payment. Where would he find the money? Mrinalini sensed her husband's predicament and asked him what the matter was, over and over again. Rabindra evaded her questions for as long as he could, then answered with a kind of desperation, ‘The wooden frames and tiles for the new house are ready. But they won't make the delivery till I've paid the bill.' Mrinalini said nothing. Putting down the bowl of barley water she held in her hands she proceeded to pull off the solid shark-headed gold bangles she wore on her wrists. ‘No, no!' Rabindra protested. ‘Not those. They were my mother's. You should keep them for your eldest daughter-in-law.'

‘Rathi's wife will have jewellery enough if Fate wills it,' Mrinalini answered calmly putting the gold in his hands. ‘Sell them and settle your bills.'

‘But you have no more bangles. Your wrists are bare.'

‘I saw some very pretty glass bangles at the fair yesterday. I'll buy a dozen and adorn my wrists.'

‘I'm truly grateful to you,' Rabindra said humbly. ‘Everyone calls me an impractical fool. But you, you've given me your support in every way. I'll never ask for your jewellery again. I promise you that. It's for the last time.'

Mrinalini turned her face aside to hide a smile. Her famous husband was so caught up in his big schemes that he spared no time or thought for his own family. There were so many expenses and so little money. Being an excellent housewife she managed to keep the household going on whatever little he gave her. But there were times . . . Mrinalini sighed. This was not the first time she was parting with her jewellery and it wouldn't be the last.

It was a charmed night with a full moon enveloping the ashram in a web of beams as soft and clinging as a piece of muslin. The inmates of the house were fast asleep. Only Rabindra sat writing far into the night. He had promised Sarala an article on ancient Indian literature and was working on it with complete absorption. Suddenly, on an impulse, he rose and walked out to the veranda. Breathing in great gulps of the warm, sweet air laden with the scent of
Juin,
he was struck by a sudden thought. He hadn't written a love poem in years! Ever since Bibi's wedding . . . He wondered why. Had love forsaken him? He tried to recall Natun Bouthan's face but the image that came before his eyes was
dim and blurred as though floating under ripples of green water. He broke into a sweat at the thought that he was losing her. ‘No, no!' his mind shrieked out in panic ‘I can't let that happen to me. I must write of love. Love is the only thing worth living for. Whatever else I do—that must come first.' He went back to the room and sat down at the table with fresh resolve. Before taking up the pen, he drew his watch out of his pocket to check the time. It was a gold watch gifted to him by one of his relations when he married Mrinalini. He pressed a little button at the side and the lid sprang up revealing the letter engraved on the inside. Gazing on that first letter of his name he forgot to look at the time. He forgot that he had sat down to write a love poem. Other thoughts crowded into his mind. Mrinalini was ill. He was sure of it. He had seen her lying down at the oddest of hours. But when he asked her what was wrong she said she felt perfectly well . . . The salaries of the teachers were due. He would have to pay them soon or lose his credibility. He hadn't been able to raise the money yet. He wouldn't, he couldn't ask Mrinalini for any more jewels. He would sell his watch instead.

It was the month of Chaitra and a storm was imminent. The sky loomed, dark and menacing, over the Padma which stretched out like a sea on either side of the steamer that floated slowly on its surface. Swami Vivekananda stood on the deck gazing on the vast body of water. He had never seen such a magnificient sight in his life. It was his first visit to East Bengal and he was entranced by the beauty of her rivers.

The sheet of shining water was dotted with fishing boats a few of which flitted, lightly as moths, around the steamer. It was the season of Ilish—the fish dear to the Bengali heart and palate; for Ilish not only made several delectable dishes—it was a thing of beauty. Swami Vivekananda looked on interestedly as the fishermen dragged in their nets heavy with the leaping, struggling fish. They are the river's jewels,' he thought whimsically, ‘They shine against the dark water like pieces of silver.' Calling out to one of the disciples he said, ‘Go buy some Ilish from the fishermen, Kanai. We'll have a nice spicy
jhol
with our rice tonight. And some wedges fried crisp in their own fat.'

‘But . . . but,' the boy hesitated. Ilish is very oily. It will make you ill.'

‘It won't. Besides, that's my concern—not yours. You go to Sareng Saheb and ask him to buy a basketful. They'll fleece us if we go to them ourselves.'

Kanai did as he was told then came back and reported, ‘They've agreed to give us the fish at an anna a piece. Each one is between one and a half and two seers. I think three or four should be enough for us.' But Vivekananda shook his head. ‘Buy a whole rupee's worth. We'll invite the sareng and the mallas. After all, we're on this boat together.' While the fish was being dressed in the ship's kitchen, Vivekananda had another idea. ‘Look for some
puin
greens,' he commanded Kanai. ‘They make a wonderful
chacchari
with Ilish heads. Tell the sareng to stop the boat at one of the villages by the bank.'

An hour later Vivekananda sat puffing thoughtfully at his
albola
when Kanai appeared before him. Behind him stood a man with an enormous basket piled high with
puin
—the leaves and stems thick and glossy and swollen with rain. He had also procured some excellent rice—long grained and fragrant. Vivekananda nodded to show his approval. There would be a good meal that night on the boat and he would serve everyone with his own hands.

Reaching Narayanganj the party stepped into the train that was to take them to Dhaka. Swamiji's visit to East Bengal had been undertaken with a purpose. His mother had expressed a desire to visit Langalbandha on the bank of the Brahmaputra and had urged him to take her there. Unlike other sanyasis Vivekananda had not broken his links with his family. He supported his mother and a widowed sister out of the fifty dollars sent to him, every month, by Joe Macleod. Though not well at all he had come all the way from Calcutta at her wish. His mother was old and this was the first request she had ever made to him. Langalbandha was a great pilgrimage! It was said that Parasuram had bathed at Langalbandha on Budhashtami and cleansed himself of the sin of matricide. It was a strange coincidence that a
grihi
mother had expressed a desire to take a dip in the same spot with her sanyasi son.

Stepping down from the carriage, at the
deuri
of the mansion where he was to stay with his party, the first question he asked was, ‘Has my mother arrived?'

‘She'll be arriving the day after tomorrow,' he was told. ‘Brahmananda is bringing her.' Vivekananda was relieved. Brahmananda was the Chairman of the Board of Trustees of the Ramkrishna Mission and a reliable worker.

Brahmananda brought the old lady, her daughter and a few other women on the day scheduled, after which Vivekananda hired a boat large enough to accommodate them all and started on his journey. East Bengal had a maze of rivers melting into one another. The party sailed down the Burhi Ganga which joined the Sheetalaksha at Narayanganj, then down the Sheetalaksha to the Dhaleswari river whose waters flowed into the Brahmaputra. Water! Sheets of golden water dotted with tiny islands of the purest emerald! Vivekananda's sick, weary heart felt soothed at
the sight and his eyes closed in ecstasy. But on reaching Langalbandha on Budhashtami he got a rude shock. The place was crawling with pilgrims cooking, eating, quarelling with one another, urinating and defecating. A sea of heads bobbed up and down in the water which had been churned into a sickly, lurid yellow. Ashes from the cooking fires, leftover food, faeces and vomit were littered so thickly on the bank that it was difficult to find a place to put down one's foot. Vivekananda was horrified. Cholera would break out here any moment. Calling the members of his entourage together he cautioned them against drinking the river water which, being holy, was being drunk freely and carried away in pots and bottles by the pilgrims. ‘There's a tubewell there,' he said, pointing a finger, ‘Pump up some water when you're thirsty. And try to get to the middle of the river before you take a dip. The water is cleaner there.'

‘
Oré
Bilé!' his mother cried out in fear. ‘I don't know how to swim. I'll drown.'

‘I'll take you with me. I'm a strong swimmer. Don't you recall my swimming days at Hedo Lake?'

Holding his mother by the hand Vivekananda led her gently onwards. Suddenly the old lady burst into tears. ‘Why Ma!' Vivekananda exclaimed. ‘What is the matter? Have you stepped on a thorn?'

‘No Baba! I weep from happiness. I never thought you would hold my hand again. I thought you were lost to me.'

‘But why? I've left your house but I haven't let go of you. No, not for a moment.'

Vivekananda led his mother to a patch of clean water and, holding her gently by the shoulders, helped her to take a few dips. Then, equally carefully, he led her back to the bank. Returning to the middle of the river he swam for a while. But he couldn't carry on the exercise for long. He tired easily these days. His breath was hard and short and his limbs felt as heavy as lead.

Vivekananda had made another trip to America mainly to collect money for the Mission but also to try and cure his ailments. But both efforts had drawn a blank. Josephine had done all she could. She had called in the famous specialist Dr Hellmann and Vivekananda had been treated by him for several months. Dr Hellmann had told him that his heart and kidneys were
considerably damaged but had held out hopes of a cure. But, after all those months of treatment, Vivekananda was not feeling any better. In fact his condition was worsening day by day.

The party did not tarry at the place of pilgrimage but set out on the return journey as soon as the bathing was over. ‘Tell me the truth,' Swamiji asked sternly as soon as they had taken their places in the boat, ‘Have any of you drunk the river water?' All of them shook their heads and hastened to assure him that they hadn't. Swamiji turned his face away and smiled. ‘I took a few sips when none of you were looking,' he said sheepishly. ‘People say it's holy water and cures all diseases. I drank some in the hope that it would cure my asthma.'

There's a saying that a husking pedal will hull rice even in heaven. Though on a holiday Swami Vivekananda was being forced to give discourses, meet streams of people and answer their queries even here in Dhaka. Sometimes he was so weary of it all that he was tempted to go back to Belur. One afternoon, after a prolonged discourse and question answer session, Vivekananda came into the inner apartments for a bath and meal. Feeling warm and sticky he decided to stand on the balcony for a few minutes and let some fresh air play over his body. A phaeton stood in the street below with a crowd of people around it. Some of his disciples could be spotted among them and some of the servants of the house. They were talking in agitated voices and one of them was waving a stick. Curious to find out what the matter was, Vivekananda sent for Kanai. ‘What's going on there Kanai?'

‘Nothing,' Kanai answered shortly. Vivekananda saw that his ears were red with embarrassment.

‘Has someone come to see me?'

‘It's of no consequence. You go back to your room.'

At that moment a face appeared at the window of the phaeton. Vivekananda could see it clearly. It was a girl's face, very pretty but heavily painted with rouge on the cheeks, surma in the eyes and brows darkened with kajal. It didn't take Vivekananda a second to identify her profession. She was a nautch girl. He understood, too, the reason for the commotion outside and Kanai's embarrassment. ‘Send her in to me,' Vivekananda commanded and turned to go into the house.

A few minutes later two women entered the room. One was
middle-aged and stout with a face darkened and coarsened by the ravages of time. The other was the young woman whose face he had seen at the window of the phaeton. Now, as she stood before him, he saw that she was very young, about seventeen, and a ravishing beauty. Even though it was mid afternoon she was dressed as though for a mujra in a blue spangled sari, sequined jacket and heavy ornaments set with pearls and diamonds. They touched their foreheads to the ground at Vivekananda's feet, then the older woman took up her tale. ‘Sadhu Maharaj,' she said. ‘We are poor, defenceless women in need of your help. This is my daughter. Though no one would realize it, looking at her, she's very, very sick. She suffers from acute asthmatic attacks and is in such agony at times that she rolls on the ground and weeps. Save her Maharaj. We have come to you from very far with a lot of hope.' Vivekananda burst out laughing. ‘You've come to me!' he exclaimed. ‘But I'm the wrong person. I attempt, not very successfully, to cure the ills of the mind. But of those of the body I know nothing. I'm not a doctor.'

‘Everyone says you're the greatest sadhu living,' the woman persisted. ‘Read a mantra over my child's head and release her from her agony.'

‘If there was such a mantra I would read it for myself. I'm a victim to asthma too and, like your daughter, suffer agonies when the attack comes.'

Now the woman burst out weeping—harsh, racking sobs rasping their way out of a chest congealed with years of repressed grief. ‘You're testing me, my Lord!' she cried knocking her head at Vivekananda's feet. ‘But I'm unworthy of it. I'm a lowly woman led astray in my youth by the wiles of a man and abandoned thereafter—'

‘I'm not testing you Ma. Sadhus are humans just like the rest of you. If they had the power of bestowing life and health they would be immortal themselves, wouldn't they?'

But the woman continued to weep and plead then, seeing that Vivekananda only shook his head sorrowfully, she said, ‘Touch my daughter and give her your blessing. That will be mantra enough for her.' Suddenly the girl rose to her feet and pulled her mother up by the hand. ‘Come away Ma,' she said. ‘We're wasting his time. We are fallen women—despised by all who see
us. He won't touch me.' Vivekananda smiled. Stretching out his hand he placed it on the girl's head. ‘If, by blessing you, I can soothe your pain away I do so with all my heart. Now you must do something for me. If you find a doctor or a sadhu or anybody who can cure your asthma be sure to let me know. I suffer such terrible agonies! I would be grateful for some relief.'