First Light (54 page)

‘Everyone does Your Majesty. She's a foolish girl and doesn't deserve your patronage. Shall I send for someone else?'

‘No. My mood is spoiled. Why do Calcutta people have such twisted minds? There's no warmth in them; no trust, no spontaneity. I'm sick to death of this artificial city. Let's get out of here. The doctor advised me to go to Darjeeling or Kurseong. I'll do that. I'll spend a whole month among the trees and mountains.' Then, his voice faltering like a pampered child's, he added, ‘But who will sing to me there Mahim?'

‘There's no dearth of singing girls in Calcutta Maharaj. We'll take one with us.'

‘No', the king waved the proposal away with an imperious hand. ‘No more women. Go to Jorasanko to Robi Babu and tell him that I would be delighted if he agreed to accompany us to Darjeeling. To hell with the girl! I'm glad she disappeared. Now I can hear Robi Babu's singing to my heart's content.'

Swami Vivekananda was in a fix. Fame and popularity have their side effects and he found himself hopelessly embroiled in the latter. When it became evident that the young ascetic had the power to draw crowds, the go-getting Americans lost no time in making a few dollars out of it. A Chicago firm named Sleighton Lysium Bureau approached him with an offer. They would organize tours to various towns and cities of the United States where he could address the gatherings and make known his message. All the arrangements would be made by the company and all the expenses paid. The money garnered through sales of tickets and donations would be shared equally by the speaker and the organizing firm. The contract would be for three years. Vivekananda thought it an excellent proposal. After all he had come to America with the objective of disseminating Hindu philosophy. There was no sense in going back with his mission unaccomplished. And if a third party took on all the organizational responsibility, what could be better? Vivekananda signed the agreement with alacrity. But soon second thoughts came creeping in.

Was it morally correct for a sanyasi to receive money for spreading the word of God? He had had no time to consult with anyone before signing the agreement. He knew no one in America. And he had lost contact with his fellow disciples in India many of whom had heard of Swami Vivekananda but did not know that the conquering hero of America was their own Naren. The question tortured him till he eased his conscience by telling himself that America was not India. If had been perfectly possible for him to beg for a meal and spend the night under a tree in India. If he tried it here he would be taken for a vagrant and clamped in jail. He needed money to keep himself in this cold and hostile country. He had to book himself into a hotel wherever he went and it had to be a big hotel. The managers of smaller, cheaper places were racist in their attitudes and wouldn't take in coloured
people. Apart from that he needed money to fulfil his dream of opening charitable institutions in his own country. He had come to America not to enjoy her splendours or win fame for himself. He had come to earn money, a lot of it, and take it back to India.

But, within a couple of months, Vivekananda realized that he had made a mistake. What began as a joyous interaction gradually became a painful drudgery. His managers drove him relentlessly from city to city; from forum to forum, making him speak for hours on end till he was ready to drop down with fatigue. From Chicago to Madison, Minneapolis, Iowa City and Memphis and back again to Chicago. Then to Detroit, Ohio Ada and Bay City of Michigan and from there to several cities of the South—it went on and on. Vivekananda went spinning like a top till he thought he would die of cold and weariness. He had tremendous life force but his constitution was weak and he fell ill from time to time. But there was no respite for him. Sick or well he had to honour his commitments. He was given money, of course. He received as much as nine hundred dollars from one day's work in Detroit. But soon he became aware that he wasn't getting his full share. He was becoming a controversial figure and supporters and detractors were flocking to his meetings. At one place tickets worth two thousand five hundred dollars were sold but he was given only two hundred. He realized that the company was lining its pockets at his expense but he didn't know what to do about it. He had signed a contract for three years. If he broke it he would have to return every cent he had received and that was not possible. So the grind went on, getting more and more excruciating day by day.

Vivekananda also found himself out of tune with the American mind set. They attended his meetings in thousands but, barring a few, most of them came out of curiosity; in the same spirit as they would come to see a rare, exotic animal in a zoo. He found it impossible to relate to them or tell them anything worthwhile. ‘Hey Mr Kanand!' they would call out to him. ‘Don't bore us with all that philosophy stuff. Tell us about the strange customs practised in your country. We've heard that mothers throw their babies to the crocodiles. Is that true?'

‘Well!' Vivekananda answered on one occasion, mustering up a smile with difficulty, if my mother had done so I wouldn't be
standing here before you.'

‘Boys are not thrown,' another voice was heard, ‘Only girls—' Vivekananda's lips twitched. ‘That may be because crocodiles love female flesh. It's softer and sweeter.' Then, as if worrying over a fine point, he added, ‘If all girl children are thrown to the crocodiles I wonder how males take birth. Perhaps one of you can enlighten me.'

‘You're evading the question,' an angry voice came from the audience. ‘But even if you deny female infanticide you cannot deny the custom of Suttee. Widows are burned with their husbands in your country. We know that for a fact.'

‘I admit it—up to a point,' Vivekananda conceded. ‘The burning of widows is punishable by law now, but at one time it was widely prevalent. But let me tell you that in most cases it was voluntary. Force was used but only occasionally. Now I have a question for you. You must have heard of Joan of Arc who was accused of being a witch? She was burned at the stake not so long ago. In France.' He looked enquiringly but no one had heard of Joan of Arc. ‘In Christian Europe during the Middle Ages,' Vivekananda continued, ‘thousands of women were branded as witches and burned to death. You haven't heard of them either?' A ripple passed over the assembly as people whispered to one another. ‘Blind faith and superstition have been the bane of all religions at some time or the other,' Vivekananda's voice grew louder and more sonorous. ‘The people of the West have, very conveniently, forgotten their own past. An Englishman will never ask a Frenchman about Joan of Arc. But the moment he sees an Indian he'll make it a point to remind him of the custom of Suttee. Why is that?'

What Vivekananda felt worst about was the fact that such questions came not only from crude, uneducated miners and factory workers. Wherever he went, be it to an elite club, a church meeting or an university seminar, someone or the other was bound to fling these accusations at him. These pin pricks notwithstanding, Vivekananda's following was rapidly growing in number. Of all the Indians who had come to speak at the Parliament of Religions, he had become the most famous. He was speaking everywhere and being quoted every day in newspapers and journals. The extent of his success gradually became a thorn
in the side of his fellow Indians. Pratapchandra Majumdar, who had been so kind to him, turned into his bitterest enemy. Launching a slander campaign against the young ascetic he spread the word that Vivekananda was a fake and a fraud; that he had neither been invited by the organizers of the Conference nor been sent out as a representative of the Hindus. He was a trumped up charlatan who was hogging the limelight by unfair means. Back home in India, he gave statements to all the newspapers that, cloaked in the garb of an ascetic, Vivekananda was living a life of sin and perversion. He was not only smoking and drinking—he was eating beef and pork and cohabiting with American women. Some of this news trickled into Vivekananda's ears from time to time but he shrugged it off. Only when he thought of his mother and how these reports would affect her, his heart was saddened and despair, at the state of the world, filled his soul.

However, fortunately for Vivekananda, his contract with the Sleighton Lysium Company was terminated within four months of signing it. This came about through the intervention of some powerful people he had drawn into his orbit. He had to pay a heavy price for it though. Every cent that he had saved went into his release. Yet he welcomed it. He was physically worn out with all the travelling he had to do and mentally, too, he was exhausted. Besides, the question of where he was to stay was not so acute anymore. Many of the men and women he met were only too happy to keep him in their houses. One of these was the ex-Senator Mr Palmer, an extremely wealthy man who owned a ranch where he bred the finest race horses and Jersey cows. He was about sixty years old and a man of strong appetites who loved eating and drinking and making merry with his friends. He had heard Vivekananda speak at a church meeting and, much impressed with the originality of his ideas, had invited him to his ranch where he commenced showing him off to his friends at one party after another. At one of these gatherings a journalist accosted Mr Palmer with the question, ‘Have you converted to Hinduism, Mr Palmer?'

‘If I have,' Palmer replied in a clipped accent, ‘Do you have a problem?'

‘No no. Why should I have a problem? I've heard you're
migrating to India. Is that true?'

‘I might if I feel like it.'

‘What will you do with your horses? And your cows? You're so attached to them—'

‘I'll take them with me to India. Who can stop me?'

Next morning the newspapers carried a report that Mr Palmer had embraced Hinduism and was leaving for India shortly. He was taking his horses and cows with him but on one condition. His horses would be used only for pulling the chariot of Juggernaut and his cows would be venerated as
Go Mata
according to Hindu tenets.

Among the others who took an interest in Vivekananda was a wealthy widow called Olé Bull. She had a large house in Cambridge in the outskirts of Boston where she held several soirées every year at which all the intellectuals of the city were invited. Olé Bull's parties had a distinctive character. There was lavish eating and drinking but the conversation was not confined to gossip and small talk. Serious discussions were held on the state of the world; on politics, literature, the arts and religion, and she often invited a speaker to address the gathering. Having discovered Vivekananda she lost no time in bringing him home and introducing him to her friends. In doing this she was following a fashion she had picked up on her European travels. European women of the wealthy upper classes were no longer content with running households and entertaining their husbands' friends. They kept themselves abreast of the latest developments in the fields of art, music, religion and literature and acted as sponsors to young aspirants.

Bessy Sturges and Josephine Macleod were two sisters who also fell under the spell of the Indian yogi. Born of wealthy parents, they enjoyed a privileged position in the highest rungs of American society. But they were much more than pretty socialites. They had been well educated and, having lived in France for a number of years, were cultured and artistic in consequence. Bessy had been widowed some years ago and was now engaged to a prosperous corn merchant of New York named Francis Leggett. Josephine, named after Napoleon's beautiful wife, was still a spinster and beleaguered by suitors. Vivacious and charming, she attracted attention wherever she went and,
though she had formed attachments from time to time, not one had lasted. For the present she seemed quite content to pass her days visiting art galleries and exhibitions and attending theatres, concerts and lectures by well-known speakers.

One day Bessy and Joe were persuaded by their friend Dora to accompany her to New York to hear a lecture by an Indian yogi called Vivekananda. The name meant nothing to them nor did they have an inkling of what Hinduism was all about. Nevertheless they went and took their places in a dingy little hired hall big enough to accomodate about fifty people. The fifteen or twenty chairs that lined the walls were occupied so the girls were forced to sit on their haunches on the bare floor. But to their surprise, the hall started filling so rapidly that within a few minutes there was no room to insert a pin, and the audience started spilling out on the verandas and stairs and even stood about in the street below. Presently the speaker came in and took his place at the lectern. He was a man of medium height with a thickset somewhat portly figure in a bizarre costume consisting of a bright orange silk robe and turban. He stood with his arms folded across his chest and his eyes, beneath a noble brow, looked straight into the eyes of his audience.

Joe felt a roll of thunder pass through her soul. The holy man's dark, unflinching gaze held hers, commanding; compelling. At that moment she knew, as sure as she lived and breathed, that this was the man she had waited for all her life. And when he started speaking she listened to him, all her senses alert—the blood flooding and receding by turns in her cheeks. His words fell on her heart and it cried out with every beat, ‘True! True! Every word this man is saying is true. Follow him and he will lead you on the path of Truth.' When the lecture was over Joe rose, trembling, to her feet. Her mind was in a whirl. She hadn't exchanged a word with the strange man. Why, then, did she feel that he held her soul in his hands? These peculiar feelings persisted even after she reached home and for days afterwards.

Now Joe started attending Vivekananda's lectures whenever she could. Bessy, though not quite so keen, accompanied her wherever she went. Vivekananda noted their presence and one day, after six or seven meetings, he came forward and asked pleasantly, ‘Are you two sisters?' On Bessy's nodding in the
affirmative, he added, ‘Do you come from far?'

‘From Dobb's Ferry,' Bessy replied. ‘A village by the bank of the Hudson river thirty miles from here.'

‘Wonderful!' Vivekananda exclaimed genuinely impressed. ‘That's a long way off.'

This was the first exchange—that too with Bessy. But Joe's chance to speak to Vivekananda came within a few days. One evening, while dining with Francis Leggett at the Waldorf Hotel, the two sisters kept fidgeting and glancing at their watches. On Leggett's enquiring if they had another appointment they answered that they had intended to attend a lecture and were getting delayed. Mr Leggett called for the bill and, after paying it, asked if he could come along. The girls were only too delighted and the three of them set off together. But by the time they reached the hall there was no place to sit. Bessy and Joe were worried. What was Francis Leggett thinking of them? Being dragged away from the bright lights of Waldorf Hotel and brought to a dark, poky room in which he had to stand for over an hour listening to a lecture on Hinduism was surely not his idea of a pleasant evening. They kept stealing sidelong glances at his face trying to gauge his mood. Was he bored? Was he getting irritated? They needn't have worried. Leggett listened to the entire lecture then, pushing his way through the crowd, said to the speaker, ‘I would be extremely grateful if you came and had dinner with me one night. I would like to introduce you to some of my friends.'