First Light (39 page)

On Sunday morning a man called Rakhal Mukherjee came to see him from Bagbazar. The man was a pukka saheb and he started berating the disciples the moment he entered the room. The soup they were feeding their guru had no strength in it, he said. Chicken broth was what he needed. Ramkrishna shrank a little from the idea of eating the unholy fowl. ‘I have nothing against it personally,' he said his voice faltering, ‘Our religion forbids it and . . . We'll see about it tomorrow.'

But the same evening, while chatting with his disciples, he gave an agonized cry, ‘I burn! I burn!' he shrieked, ‘My lungs are on fire. Is this the end?
Ma go
!
Is this the end?' Two of his disciples ran to fetch the local doctor who came in a few minutes. All through the examination Ramkrishna tossed and turned in agony, ‘I feel as if boiling water is shooting through my veins. Will I get well doctor?' Then, seeing that the doctor's face was serious and he made no answer he nudged the disciple closest to him and asked in a bewildered voice, ‘Does that mean I won't get well? After so many months of agony they say I'll never get well! I'm not afraid of death. But, can anyone tell me from where the breath of life escapes? And how?'

No one could tell him. The terrible spasms died away in a while and Ramkrishna felt much better. ‘I'm hungry!' he declared
after the doctor had left. ‘I would like to eat some
payesh.
I haven't eaten
payesh
in many months.' But when it was brought to him he couldn't swallow even a spoonful. It trickled out of his mouth and ran all over his chin. ‘My belly is empty,' he said sadly, ‘So empty—it aches. I feel like stuffing it with big handfuls of
bhaat
mixed with
dal
and
alu posto.
But Mahamaya is cruel. She denies me even a few grains.' Sighing, he chanted
Hari Om Tat Sat
and, turning over on his side, fell asleep. Relieved, the disciples went down to have their own meal.

A few hours later Latu came up. Ramkrishna lay on his side exactly as they had left him. But he moaned in his sleep so piteously that Latu ran down to tell the others. As soon as they came into the room Ramkrishna opened his eyes and smiled, ‘I'm hungry,' he said. ‘Won't you give me something to eat?' The disciples looked at one another in dismay. He was finding it impossible to swallow. Even water was being fed to him drop by drop through a wisp of cotton wool. What could they give him? A bowl of rice mush was brought in and, quite amazingly, Ramkrishna was able to eat it without any difficulty. After one bowl—another. ‘Ahh!' he said with a deep sigh of satisfaction. ‘Peace at last! Now I feel well. Truly well!' He lay down and went to sleep once again.

Night came. The household noises ceased as the inmates fell asleep one by one. Only Latu and Shashi kept vigil in the sick man's chamber. It was pitch dark outside. From time to time the baying of jackals broke the silence of the night. A few minutes after one o' clock Latu heard a strange sound—a thin, whirring noise like that of a clockwork toy. It was coming from where the patient lay. Latu jumped up and ran to his guru. Ramkrishna lay in an unnatural position. His body was stiff and twisted sideways and his head was hanging out from the edge of the bed. The sound came from his open mouth. Latu had seen his guru in
bhav samadhi
several times and recognized the symptoms down to the goosebumps that had broken out all over his body.

The disciples crowded into the room a few minutes later. Many of them believed, like Latu, that their guru was in a trance and would return to normal in a while. They moved around the bed chanting mantras and singing kirtan while they waited and waited . . . All except Naren. He sat, motionless, at the foot of the
bed—his guru's feet clasped to his breast. After a while, he placed the feet back on the bed and ran out of the room.

As soon as dawn broke a messenger was despatched to Mahendralal Sarkar. He heard the account carefully but made no comment. His face was impassive and his voice sombre as he explained that he was on his way to a patient in Duff Street and that he would come to Kashipur as soon as he was free.

Mahendralal Sarkar reached Ramkrishna's bedside around one o' clock. He didn't even have to touch the patient. A glance at the face, eyes staring as though he had been loath to lose sight of his beloved world even in death, was enough to apprise him of the truth. The mouth was half open as though he had been trying to speak; to communicate with someone—anyone, till death had overtaken him. Avatar or otherwise he had had no yearning for heaven. It was this world of earth and dust that he had loved.

‘He's been dead for about twelve hours,' Mahendralal Sarkar murmured. Then, addressing the disciples, he said, ‘It was expected. Every effort had been made to save him but cancer is beyond our reach. Stop grieving and start making arrangements for the funeral.' Taking out a ten-rupee note he handed it to one of them with the words, ‘This is a small contribution from me. See that a photograph is taken—of his last journey.'

It was five o' clock by the time the body was brought down. The disciples smeared sandalpaste on the limbs with loving hands and laid their guru reverently on a new bedstead spread with dazzling white sheets. Masses of white flowers were placed at his feet and over his breast.

Not many people knew Ramkrishna. Consequently, the number that wended its way to the burning ghat was pitifully small. The funeral processions of some other sadhus of the city had thousands of mourners whereas Ramkrishna's numbered a hundred and fifty at the most. But, of them, eleven were young men and one, at least, was equal to a million . . .

There were a few distinctive features about the procession. One mourner carried a Hindu trident; another a Buddhist spud. A third had a Christian cross in his hands and a fourth a replica of the crescent moon and star—symbol of Islam. Ramakrishna had preached the concept of
Jata Mat Tata Path
(there are as many ways to God as there are faiths) and, even in this hour of sorrow,
his disciples hadn't forgotten it.

Among the mourners was a small knot of actors and actresses from the Star. Behind them, keeping a studied distance, a solitary figure walked alone. It was a woman wrapped in widow's white. No one saw the tears that rolled silently down her cheeks as she walked and no one heard her sobs. The sound of her weeping mingled with the patter of the rain that fell from the sky as softly and sweetly as flowers on the parched earth below.

Bharat and Irfan sat watching the rain from an upstairs veranda of Dwarika's house in Maniktala. The exams were over and the boys felt relaxed in mind and light of heart. They had the house to themselves. The other inmates had gone home to their parents and Dwarika was out on his nocturnal jaunt. He had coaxed and cajoled them to accompany him but both Bharat and Irfan had stood firm.

It was a pitch black night. The gas lamps had been blown out by the violent gusts of wind and rain that had been sweeping the city for the last few hours. But, right in front of them, a large mansion was ablaze with light. There had been a recent invention called the dynamo by the aid of which one could have the strongest of lights. And these, indeed, were so strong that they dazzled the eyes.

The two boys sat smoking cigarettes and discussing an incident that had taken place in their college only a few days ago. Two eminent professors of the Philosophy department, both Englishmen, had started an argument which had taken such an ugly turn that the Chief Secretary of the Education Department had been forced to intervene. Irfan had seen the whole incident and he was describing it to Bharat. One of the two men, Edgar B
Brown was small in build, mild and gentle of speech and sympathetic to native causes. The other, George O'Connor, was tall and powerfully built with a rich resonant voice which had all the power and passion of a seasoned actor's. Though the latter was more popular with the boys the former was considered the better scholar. Irfan had watched, amazed, as the two men rushed out of the hall arguing in loud voices. He hadn't understood everything they said because the exchange was heated and excited. But he heard O'Connor use the word ‘Scoundrel' several times and saw Brown retaliate by grinding his teeth and muttering ‘Stupid' and ‘Blockhead'. None of the other professors had tried to resolve the quarrel or pacify the two men. John Reed,
the Chief Secretary, had investigated the matter and suspended Brown for fifteen days at the end of which he was to tender a written apology to O'Connor. The principle behind the judgement was that George O'Connor's abuses had been aimed at an absentee individual—a man named Charles Darwin. But Edgar B Brown's had been hurled at his own colleague directly to his face. But who was this Charles Darwin? And why was George O'Connor so incensed against him? Only Irfan knew the truth.

Irfan was a favourite student of Edgar B Brown and visited him often in his house in Bentinck Street. Their association had begun long ago—from the day Irfan had saved the Englishman's life. Brown was the epitome of the proverbial absentminded professor. One day, as he walked down the street, puffing at his pipe and frowning in habitual abstraction, a pair of horses had come galloping by and knocked him down. Irfan saw the old man fall and, quick as a flash, he leaped forward and, picking him up, made a dash for the pavement. A second's mistiming and both would have been trampled under the dancing hooves. Recovering his breath Brown looked Irfan up and down, ‘Why did you risk your life for me young man?' he demanded sternly. ‘Is it because I'm an Englishman?' Irfan was startled at this strange reaction. ‘I saw the horses coming towards you sir and ran to save you.' he answered. ‘I didn't have time to think. Besides, I didn't even recognize you then.' Brown shook his head doubtfully. ‘I don't believe you,' he said, ‘People don't rush to one another's rescue in this country. They prefer to stand by and watch. I'm an Englishman. Do you expect a reward for saving me?'

Irfan was so disgusted by this question that he didn't even bother to answer it. Turning his back on the old man he walked rapidly away. But the professor ran after him and grabbed him by the arm. ‘You've given me my life. Won't you take me to the hospital and get my wounds dressed? I have been badly injured. Look at the blood on my back and shoulders!'

After this incident Brown started inviting Irfan to his house. He lent him books and cooked meals for him. And, despite the vast disparity in age, race and scholarship the two became very good friends. Brown was a philosophy teacher by profession but he took tremendous interest in new science and kept himself informed about all the latest developments. He found in Irfan a
willing and intelligent listener and began sharing all his ideas with him.

That evening, as Bharat and Irfan sat smoking their cigars and listening to the concert of rain, wind and thunder Irfan asked suddenly. ‘Have you heard of Charles Darwin, Bharat?' Bharat frowned, trying to remember. The name was familiar. ‘I seem to have heard it or rather seen it somewhere,' he answered, ‘In
Englishman
perhaps. Why? Is he coming out to India?'

‘Oh no. He died four years ago. He was a scientist.'

‘Why do you talk of him now?'

‘Because he's been on my mind for over a month. If what he says is true then what we've believed in all our lives is false.'

‘What does he say?'

‘Darwin denies the concept of Creation. We all believe that a Supreme Power (Muslims call him Allah, Christians God and Hindus Ishwar) created the world and all things in it. But Darwin says nothing was created. All natural phenomena—from the firmament to the human form—evolved over a period of time.'

‘We don't have to believe everything a scientist says.'

‘But he has given proof. Proof so conclusive that the Western races are facing a serious crisis of faith. Doubt and speculation are rife and men's minds are troubled. Because, you see, for all intents and purposes, Darwin is denouncing the Bible as myth.'

‘Aah!' Bharat exclaimed, startled.

‘According to the Bible God created the earth and firmament out of Chaos. And it took him six days to complete his creation—the last item of which was man. A couple of theologians have, after serious research, calculated the date on which man was created as 23rd October 4004 BC. Brown Sir told me that. We are now in the year 1886 which means man was created exactly five thousand eight hundred and ninety years ago. But we know for a certainty that men walked the earth before that. There were Hindus in India more than six thousand years ago. The Chinese are an even older race. There were people in Arabia and Persia. And even before that there were men living in caves and forests who hunted using stone implements.'

‘Who was this Darwin anyway?'

‘He was an Englishman—a doctor's son. His father sent him to study medicine but he found the subject drab and uninteresting
and left in a few months. His real interest lay in the study of flora and fauna and he had a truly scientific mind. When he was twenty-two he was invited by the British Government to sail on board ship
The Beagle,
which was being sent out on a survey of some islands in the Pacific archipelago. There were many who wondered at the choice. Why was such a young, half-baked scientist being sent out on such an important mission when there were botanists and biologists far more experienced? The reason was that the expedition was to last five years and it was to be a labour of love. The crew was to be paid nothing. What senior scientist would agree to those terms? Anyway, Darwin roamed the islands for five years collecting samples of plants and insects. Then, after extensive research, he wrote a book. I forget the full name which is very long. But it may be summarized as
The Origin of Species.
Brown Sir has lent me the book. Would you like to read it?

‘What is it about?'

‘I couldn't understand all of it. But at the centre of the book is the concept of Evolution. Darwin says that man evolved from a being something like a monkey. It was this that had led to the quarrel between the two professors. O'Connor was so incensed by the thought that his ancestors were monkeys that he called Darwin a scoundrel. And, Brown, who accepts Darwin's theory called O'Connor a blockhead who refuses to keep an open mind.'

‘Galileo was imprisoned for going against the Bible. Giadarno Bruno was burned at the stake. How did Darwin manage to escape unscathed?'

‘The age of the inquisition is over. We are living in a modern age. An age of science. The book raised a storm of controversy, of course. The clergy and the traditionalists heaped abuse on Darwin. But eighty per cent of the world's scientists have accepted the theory of Evolution. So have the enlightened sections of the West. The book is being sold in thousands and the veracity of the Bible is being seriously questioned.'

‘If a scientist propogated the view that the Quran is a myth—what would be his fate?'

‘He would be exterminated. We Muslims lack the scientific approach. We treat a code of laws written nearly two thousand years ago as sacrosanct and morally binding to this day. That is
why our society is so retrogressive. You Hindus are not much better.'

‘Tell me Irfan, why do you agitate yourself over something that is happening in the West, so far from our own present reality? You are being unduly influenced by Brown Salieb.'

‘You may be right. But some of Darwin's ideas have stuck in my head so firmly, that I can't root them out. One of the things he says is that a struggle has been going on from time immemorial and is still going on among all living creatures—a struggle for survival. And only the strongest, the fittest, win. The weak and vulnerable are wiped out. If it weren't so the earth would be teeming with every kind of plant, animal and insect. There would be no room to breathe. Floods, famines, pestilence and disease take toll of some. But how many? Some species die out because they don't have the will or the endurance to stay alive.
The Survival of the Fittest.
That's the key phrase. Does it make sense?'

‘Hmm. It sounds right . . . somehow.'

‘Do you see what that leads to? It shatters our age-old belief that Allah stands guard over us; protects our interests and looks after our welfare like a benign father. If we accept Darwin we have to deny Allah's role in our lives as both creator and nurturer.'

‘Even so why does it upset you?'

‘You don't understand Bharat. I'll have to go back to Murshidabad—to my own people for whom the dictates of the Maulvi are more important than those of the Viceroy. I'll have to read namaaz five times a day and fast during Ramzaan. I won't be able to utter a word of what I think. How shall I endure such a life?'

‘Now let me tell you about myself Irfan. I was born in a Hindu household and I followed Hindu ways of worship till a man I respect above all others taught me otherwise. He was my tutor—Shashibhushan Singha. He told me that the entire pantheon of gods and goddesses were wrought out of the human imagination. They were mere idols of stone and clay and the breath of God did not pass through them. I was so shocked when I first heard this that I felt my head would burst. My whole world seemed to disintegrate. Then, little by little, I started accepting it . . .'

‘Islam, as a religion, is more advanced. Our prophets have taught us that Allah is an abstraction defying description and formation. Don't mind my saying so Bharat, but I've always been amused by the way you Hindus laugh and weep and go into a frenzy over a bundle of straw and clay. It makes me think of little girls playing with dolls.'

‘Not all Hindus worship idols. The worship of an abstract, omnipotent omniscient presence has also gone on for centuries. The Param Brahma of the Brahmos is no different from your Allah or the God of the Christians. The three great religions of the world are agreed that there is one Supreme Power presiding over the universe. But each insists that theirs is the true one. Isn't this amusing too? I haven't read Darwin's book but I agree with him. I believe that even if there is such a power he has nothing to do with man. The problem, Irfan, is that man needs something physical to hold on to. If you—I mean Muslims, Christians and Brahmos—really believe God to be an abstraction why do you sing hymns in his praise, mutter prayers and cry
Allah hu Akhbar
?
Would an abstraction have ears to hear? And speaking of idols—don't Christians have idols too? What are the images of Christ, Mother Mary and the Angels? What about your mosques? There are no figures in mosques—true. But what about the carving and frescoes with their rich inlays of ivory and precious stones? Do you really need all that for the worship of an abstraction? Do you really need to worship Him at all? Wouldn't He know what was in your hearts without your putting it in words?'

‘
Baap ré
!'
Irfan exclaimed. ‘I've never heard you talk like this Bharat.'

‘I don't—usually. But have you considered, Irfan, that innumerable men and women have worshipped God in their innumerable ways through the centuries? Do we really have the right to dismiss their faith as worthless? True faith should command respect—no matter to whom it is addressed. Whenever I see someone wrapt in meditation of his God I bow my head in reverence.' Bharat rose to his feet as he spoke these words adding in a lighter tone, ‘I have to walk home in the rain. Won't you give me something to eat before I go?'

‘Of course,' Irfan rose too. ‘Everything is ready. All I need to
do is warm up . . .'

The two friends proceeded to the kitchen. ‘I hate the thought of going back,' Irfan muttered as he lit the fire. Bharat laughed, ‘It was an evil day for you when you saved Brown Saheb's life,' he teased. ‘From Brown to Darwin! From the frying pan into the fire! But don't distress yourself. You'll forget them both the moment you see your new bride's face. You'll say your namaaz, observe Ramzaan and become one with your family, clan and community. And quite rightly, too. Why should you alienate yourself from all you've held dear all these years? Living in isolation is terrible, Irfan. Particularly in a village—'

Irfan stood up suddenly and took Bharat's hands in his. ‘What if I go mad Bharat?' he asked in a dazed, wondering voice. ‘My head feels as though a storm is raging through it day and night. I see nothing but darkness before me.'