First Light (77 page)

‘No Margot,' Vivekananda shook his head. ‘I've given . . . whatever I had to give. I have nothing left. It's time I went.'

‘You have a great deal more to give!' Nivedita cried passionately. ‘Who else but you—?' Her voice choked on a sob and tears poured down her face.

‘Sometimes it becomes necessary to cut down a large tree to enable the smaller ones to grow.' Swamiji smiled at her. ‘I have to make room for you,'

Swamiji woke up the next morning feeling as though he had never been ill in his life. Swinging his legs down the side of his bed he was surprised to find that the swelling had disappeared. He walked over to the window and felt no pain. And, strangest of all, it seemed to him that his vision had improved. Everything looked brighter and clearer. He washed and changed, then, proceeding to the puja room, he sat down to his
jap
and meditation. Three hours passed. Then a sensation, long forgotten, stirred in his belly. He realized he was hungry; prodigiously hungry. ‘I haven't eaten well in months,' he thought, ‘That's why I feel so weak and tired.' He made up his mind. He would eat a good meal that day. All the things he loved.
Ilish
! His soul craved the delicate fish. He could see it in his mind's eye—thick, rich wedges nestling in oil and spices. Rising, he went to the door. ‘Byaja!
Oré o
Byaja!' he
called. A young disciple named Brajen came running up the stairs. ‘Tell them in the kitchen to send for some Ilish. I've a mind to eat some today—in a rich
jhal.
I'd like some fried too and some in a sweet and sour sauce.

Vivekananda fell hungrily on the food as soon as it was served. Pouring the fried fish along with its oil on the smoking rice on his thala he looked around. ‘Get me some green chillies,' he ordered. When they arrived he crushed a couple between his fingers and, mixing them with the rice, ate big handfuls with noises of relish. When the last course, the sweet and sour fish was served he licked his fingers over it and remarked, ‘Yesterday's fast has left me terribly hungry. I've never enjoyed a meal so much.'

After he had eaten he sat for a while talking to some visitors who had come to the math. Then, it being the hour for meditation and prayer, he decided to go back to his room. ‘I feel very well to day Byaja!' he told the boy as he helped him up the stairs. ‘There's hardly any pain and my limbs feel wonderfully light.' But, on reaching his room, he exclaimed, ‘Why is it so hot in here? And so stuffy! Is there a storm brewing outside?'

‘No, Swamiji. The sky is clear without a trace of cloud.'

‘But I feel very hot and stifled.' Looking at Swamiji, Brajen was alarmed. His face was beaded over with sweat and he was breathing with difficulty. ‘Open all the windows,' Vivekananda commanded collapsing on the bed, ‘And fan me for a while.' Brajen hastened to obey. But, despite the strong breeze that blew in from the window, Vivekananda cried, ‘This heat is killing me! Fan me harder Byaja. I'm sizzling all over.' He turned over on his side. His hands trembled a little and a cry escaped his lips—a cry like that of a child in his sleep. His head slid from the pillow and fell on the edge of the bed. Brajen leaned over his guru in alarm. Was anything wrong? Was Swamiji trying to say something? Was he hungry? There was some cold milk in the room. Should he give him a few sips? ‘Swamiji!' he called out frightened. Now Vivekananda turned over and lay on his back. A deep sigh escaped him, then all was still.

Brajen kept calling him, over and over again, for the next two minutes. Then, bringing the lantern close to his face he got a shock. Swamiji's eyes were open but the pupils had moved to the extreme ends and stood transfixed at the bridge of his nose.

Brajen peered hard but could detect no rise and fall of the chest or abdomen. Running out of the room, like one possessed, he howled out his news to the inmates of the math. Now everyone came crowding into the room and leaned anxiously over the still figure. The older disciples exchanged glances. Was it a
bhav samadhi
? Or a
maha samadhi
? Some of the younger ones burst into tears. Others, more in control, bustled about making the necessary arrangements. The doctor was sent for from Barahnagar and a messenger was despatched to Balaram Bosu's house in Bagbazar where Brahmananda was spending the night. Nivedita lived only a few houses away but no one thought of informing her.

The news reached her the following morning. Snatching up a shawl she ran out of the house, just as she was, hailed a carriage and came to Belur. Swamiji's room was crammed with people weeping, chanting the name of Ramkrishna, and talking in agitated whispers. They made way for her as she walked in softly, on bare feet, and came to where her guru lay. Kneeling on the floor by the side of his bed she gazed, dry eyed, into his face. It looked just as she had seen it the day before. Only the eyes were as red as hibiscus and runnels of blood had run down the nose and mouth. Calling for some cottonwool she wiped the blood tenderly away.

Around two o'clock in the afternoon someone said to her, ‘You must rise now. It is time. . . .' Nivedita moved away without a word. It was a hot day but she felt the bitter chill of desolation. Fingers of ice seemed to clutch at her heart, rendering it numb, as she watched the disciples bathe Swamiji in gangajal and put new saffron robes on him. Then they carried him, laden with garlands, to a sandalwood pyre set up under a huge bel tree in front of the math. Nivedita looked on as the sanyasis chanted mantras and placed their guru's belongings, one by one, on the pyre. Among them was the shawl he had worn on the day he had come to see her. ‘Can I have that?' she asked Saradananda on an impulse. Then, seeing his surprised look, she added, ‘As a keepsake, I mean.'

‘Well,' Saradananda dithered a little. ‘As a rule everything a sanyasi has used in his earthly life is supposed to burn with him. But if you're very keen—'

‘No. No.' Nivedita interrupted hastily. ‘There's no need to break the rule.'

The pyre was lit and the flames, fed by streams of pure ghee, rose to the sky. Nivedita had never seen a cremation before. Now she sat, hour after hour, watching the man she loved burn to ashes. The cold feeling around her heart intensified. She noticed that no one was talking to ber. No one had offered her any consolation. She was an outsider already . . .

The hours went by. The sun changed from a white hot blur to a ball of fire that matched the colour of the flames that were still licking the body. Suddenly Nivedita felt something touch her hand. Startled, she glanced down at it. A piece of the shawl she had wanted as a keepsake had come flying from the pyre towards her.

Rabindra was hard at work on his novel
Chokhér Bali
fifty-three chapters of which had already appeared in serial form. It had an unusual plot; a strange love triangle with two men, one married one single, both in love with a mysterious widow called Binodini. The novel had proved quite popular. Rabindra received letters, after every instalment, from readers anxious to find out how it was going to end. Rabindra wasn't sure of what he wanted to do. Should he kill off Binodini? That was the simplest, neatest resolution. Mahendra could go back to his gentle, lovely wife Asha. And Bihari! Rabindra's hackles rose at the thought. Why should the poor girl die? She was a widow and she wanted love and physical fulfillment. Was that a crime? Widow remarriage was prevalent in many parts of the world. Even here, in India, Vidyasagar Moshai had had a law passed . . .

A servant entered the room and placed three letters on the table. Rabindra turned them over in his hands. One was from Shilaidaha, one from England and one, addressed in Rathi's handwriting, from Shantiniketan. He slit open the envelope with the foreign markings first. It was, as he had guessed, from his son-in-law Satyen. He had married his second daughter Renuka to the young man and sent him to America to study homeopathy, buying his ticket and undertaking to meet all his expenses till such time as he was able to earn his own living. Rabindranth had a high opinion of homeopathy as a form of treatment and it was gaining quite a measure of popularity in the elitist circles of Calcutta. But Satyen had disappointed him sorely. He had not even reached America. He had broken journey in England en route, and had been living in London for the past year studying homeopathy—or so he said. And now he was writing to his father-in-law for money to buy a ticket back to India. He couldn't abide England anymore, he wrote. He hated the climate and the people were too cold and formal. His studies, too, had ceased to interest him. He was desperately homesick for his own country
and wanted to return immediately. Rabindra's heart sank as he read the letter. He had been sending Satyen ten pounds every month for the past year plus something extra, now and then, for clothes, sightseeing and entertaining his friends. All that money was wasted! A ticket from London to Calcutta cost seventy-five pounds. From where, in his present financial state, would he find the money? Anger and resentment stirred within him. But he quelled them with his usual self-control. He wouldn't do anything that might hurt his daughter. Renu was only eleven years old and very sickly. She had been suffering from a slow fever and fits of coughing for several months now . . .

He sighed and opened the letter from Shilaidaha. Bad news again. Nayeb Moshai had written that the estates were in a bad way. Virtually no rent was coming in. His presence was urgently required. But the third letter took Rabindra's breath away. His face turned pale with shock. Whatever he had anticipated, it hadn't been this. Mrinalini was ill; very ill. He couldn't understand it. She was a strong healthy woman and had never been ill in her life. She was pregnant, of course. But that, surely, was a natural condition. She had given birth to five children without turning a hair . . .

Next day a man arrived from Shantiniketan and gave him the details. A few days ago a Munsef Babu of Bolpur had invited Mrinalini and her children over for a meal. It had been raining heavily and a lot of mud and slush had collected outside the house. Stepping out, on her way back, Mrinalini had slipped and fallen and was suffering from severe stomach cramps ever since. Her condition was so bad that she couldn't move from her bed. Another cause for worry was that she was eating virtually nothing. She had no appetite and felt nauseous all the time. Rabindra was extremely distressed by the news. But he had so much work in Calcutta that it it was impossible for him to rush to his wife's bedside. He did the next best thing. He sent a message along with some medicines, through the man, to Mrinalini.

But Mrinalini's condition did not improve. She lay on her bed, day after day, not murmuring a word of complaint for the simple reason that there was no one in the house to hear her. An old aunt of hers had taken charge of the kitchen and, thanks to her, the children were getting their meals on time. But she was too old and
feeble to nurse the patient as well. Reports kept coming in of Mrinalini's deteriorating condition owing, as Rabindanath realized well enough, to the lack of adequate treatment and care. He decided to bring her back to Calcutta and see that she received proper medical attention. But who would go for her? He was up to his neck in work. An anthology of his complete poems was coming out, volume by volume. Though Mohitchandra Sen was the official editor Rabindranath had insisted on arranging the order of the poems himself and writing the introduction. At length, unable to go himself, he asked Mrinalini's brother Nagen to bring his sister over to Calcutta. Rathi was to come too.

But Mrinalini was not at all happy at the though of leaving Shantiniketan. Humble, though it was, her home here was the only one she had ever known. Jorasanko, with its size and splendour, awed and intimidated her. Besides, there were too many people there with too many demands and expectations. Here she was her own mistress and could run her household and look after her children in her own way. But, broken in health as she now was, she didn't have the strength to protest. Tears of weakness poured down her face as she was carried into the train and laid down on her berth.

Lying in her compartment Mrinalini saw the world, familiar to her from her childhood, rush past. Fields of golden stubble; orchards of mango and jackfruit; swaying palms and bamboo clumps; children playing and old men peacefully smoking their hookahs in tiny villages. . .Suddenly Rathi cried out excitedly, ‘Ma! Ma! Look at all the lotus.
Ogo
Ma! There are thousands!' Mrinalini raised herself on an elbow. A small pond, in the middle of a deserted meadow, had turned into a sheet of green and gold—the yellow buds and blooms pushing their delicate heads proudly out of a nest of leaves. Her wan lips smiled and her eyes, dimmed with tears and sunk in their sockets, gazed with eager longing. Somehow she knew it was for the last time. She would never see the scenes of her childhood again.

Rabindra was not in the house when the party arrived at Jorasanko. He was out attending an important meeting with his publisher. But he came into his wife's room the moment he returned in the evening, hot and exhausted with the efforts of the day. His heart thumped heavily as he looked on her face. All the
blood had drained away and death stared at him out of her eyes.

Mrinalini smiled up at her husband. ‘You're soaked through with perspiration,' she said. ‘Go change into something else.' But Rabindra didn't move from her side. Picking up the fan that lay by his wife's pillow he started waving it over her wasted form. ‘It's been very hot in Calcutta for the last two days,' he said. ‘Is it as bad as this in Shantiniketan?'

‘One doesn't feel the heat so much there,' Mrinalini answered. ‘Besides the evenings are always pleasant with cool breezes blowing. I hear Satyen is returning. Is that true?'

‘Yes. I've sent him the money for the ticket. He should be arriving soon.'

‘That's good news. It's time we arranged their
Phool Sajya
ceremony. Renu is almost eleven and a half.'

Rabindra nodded, though his mind was troubled, Renu had attained puberty a few months ago and was ready, according to the elders, for cohabitation with her husband. But she was so frail and weak! Besides, the ceremony would cost money.

‘Send for Beli and Sarat from Mungher,' Mrinalini begged. ‘I haven't seen them for so long.' A joyful note crept into her voice. ‘The whole family will be together again.'

‘Everything you wish for will be done.'

Rabindra made all the arrangements for the
Phool Sajya
ceremony but couldn't stay for it. The Raja of Nator was going to Shantiniketan and Rabindra had to accompany him. The Raja was a family friend and had helped Rabindra out, in many ways, in the past. Mrinalini was loath to let him go. She wanted her family together, she cried repeatedly, but Rabindra was not in a position to humour her. He went to Shantiniketan and stayed on there even after the Raja's return. There was so much to do; so many problems to attend to. Besides, the thought of returning to a house full of relatives was an uninspiring one. He didn't worry about Mrinalini. Beli had arrived. She would look after her mother.

Mrinalini's condition worsened every day. Her square, sturdy healthy body wasted away till it was reduced to a handful of bones. She suffered from incessant pain in the lower abdomen and no doctor could diagnose what was happening within her. The pain was so sharp, at times, that it woke her from her sleep.

She would sit up shuddering—runnels of sweat streaming down her face and neck.

Satyen had returned from England and was living in Jorasanko. Rabindra had never seen anyone as selfish and self-centered as his second son-in-law. Not sparing a thought for his ailing wife and dying mother-in-law he spent all his time devising new pleasures for himself. Not content with the hundred and fifty rupees a month his father-in-law was giving him, he constantly demanded more and sulked if he didn't get it instantly. Of late he had started pestering Rabindranath for two thousand rupees to open a dispensary. Rabindra realized that he had made a mistake in his choice of a son-in-law. He couldn't bear to look on his daughter's face. She was only a child. But her husband's harassment of her father did not escape her notice. His helplessness and humiliation burned in her heart. In her misery she turned away from everyone. She lay in bed, her face to the wall, coughing incessantly. Of late, bits of blood had started appearing in her sputum.

Her husband came nowhere near her but her father did—often. And, at such times, though her face was turned away she recognized the touch of his hand on her head and burst into a fit of sobbing—her little bird body quivering on the sheets. Rabindra's heart was wrenched with pain. What could he say to her? What consolation could he give? She was his flesh and blood. And she was suffering! Though only a child she was enduring the pain and humiliation of being a woman. And he, her father, sat watching helplessly. It was too, too cruel!

But, despite the fact that there were two serious patients in the house, Rabindra was away from it most of the time. Jagadish Bose had returned from England and was being feted and lionized Felicitations were showered on him and parties given in his honour. And everywhere he went Rabindra was invited too. Rabindra found himself in a quandary. His best friend insisted on his presence by his side in this most glorious phase of his life. But Rabindra had so many problems. His wife and daughter were critically ill. His eldest daughter, his only support, had gone back to her husband's home. Rathi, just coming into manhood, had taken to wandering all over the city. He needed a pair of sharp eyes watching him and a strong guiding hand. The younger boy
Shomi was a total contrast to his brother—quiet and introverted to the point of being a recluse. He moped about in dark corners of the stairs and attics reading one book after another. Reading was a good habit but moping wasn't. He needed to be brought out of himself . . . And the baby Meera! His heart turned over in pity every time he thought of Meera. She was at an age when she desperately needed a mother's love. But her mother didn't even look up when she came into the room. Rabindra had seen the child standing at the door for hours together gazing longingly at her sick mother, then walking softly away.

One evening Rabindra came into his wife's room. ‘Why do you keep your eyes open all the time?' he asked, taking her hand in his warm, strong clasp. ‘If you kept them shut you might be able to sleep.' Mrinalini raised her eyes to her husband's face. Tears gathered in them and rolled slowly down her cheeks. ‘Why did you send Shomi to Shantiniketan?' she asked in a broken whisper as her husband wiped her tears tenderly away. ‘You never even told me.'

‘He was lonely here. He needed the company of children his own age.'

‘He has never stayed away from me. Who'll look after him there?'

‘He'll stay in the ashram with the other boys. He'll eat, sleep and study as they do—'

‘I'm going away. I'll never see Shomi again.'

‘You mustn't say such things. You'll get well soon. Try and get some sleep.'

Mrinalini turned over on the other side and Rabindranath left the room. He returned at nine o'clock and came to her again. Mrinalini lay exactly as he had left her, lying on her side, her eyes open and staring. The nurse he had engaged for her sat on a stool by the side of her bed fanning her with a palm leaf fan. Rabindra took it from her and gestured to her to leave the room. ‘It's very hot isn't it?' he asked his wife brightly. ‘Unujsual for November! Do you suppose we'll have no winter at all this year?' There was no reply. Once again the tears oozed out, slowly and painfully, out of her eyes. ‘Have you had anything to eat?' he probed. ‘Would you like some hot milk?' Mrinalini fixed her eyes, sunk in deep pools of shadow, on her husband's bright, dark ones but did
not speak. ‘She's hurt because I sent Shomi away without telling her,' Rabindra thought. ‘I'll send for Shomi,' he said in an attempt to mollify her. ‘It is you who are pining away for him. He isn't homesick at all. Besides children have to grow up and leave their parents some day or the other. We must stop clinging to them.' He waited, eagerly, for some response but none came. Rabindra was puzzled. Perhaps her hurt and anger was deeper than he had assumed. ‘
Ogo
!' he abandoned his superior tone and spoke in a chastened voice. ‘I know you have several grievances against me and I don't blame you. I have many faults. I haven't been a good husband to you. I haven't given you the time and attention you deserved. But things will be different from now I promise. Only get well soon and I'll never leave your side again.' But Mrinalini neither moved nor spoke. Only the tears fell, thick and fast, on her pillow. Now Rabindranath was truly alarmed. ‘Rathi!' he cried out in panic. ‘Come and sit with your mother.' Rathi came running in. ‘Ma! Ma!' he called out to her again and again. But Mrinalini didn't respond to even her son's call. Now everyone knew the truth. Mrinalini had lost her speech.