First Light (69 page)

‘There's always a first time for everything. And I've come here ready to do what everyone else is doing.'

‘Look at your shoes,' Vivekananda laughed sarcastically, ‘with their tapering heels and delicate laces. Do you intend to walk over ice and snow in them?'

‘No,' Nivedita answered coolly. ‘I shall walk barefoot like the rest of you.'

Now Joe Macleod, who was in the habit of indulging every whim of the younger girl's, came to her defence. ‘Swamiji,' she said, ‘Don't forget that you were seriously ill not so long ago. If
you
can undetake this arduous climb why can't Margaret? She's young and healthy. Besides, you need someone to look after you.'

‘Sanyasis don't need anyone to look after them.' Vivekananda answered sullenly.

‘Vivekananda ji.' Sheikh Shahid-ul-lah, the government official who had been entrusted with the welfare of the pilgrims,
stepped forward. He was a young man of about thirty-four and very smart and handsome. He could speak fluent English and had become quite friendly with the ladies. ‘Why are you trying to prevent the memsahib from going with us? I give you my word that she'll have no difficulty whatsoever. I'll look after her safety and comfort myself.'

‘You're taking her responsibility then?'

‘Of course.'

‘Very well,' Vivekananda turned to Nivedita and said solemnly. ‘You may come with us but don't depend on me to look after you. I shall be on my own. You'll see me rarely and, that too, for short intervals. If you need anything you must ask Shahid-ul-lah.'

Nivedita smiled. The tears brimming over from her wide blue eyes made her face look like a flower with dewdrops clinging to the petals. Joe passed her a handkerchief. ‘Wipe your eyes Margaret,' she said. ‘You've won.'

The party started off at dawn the following day. There were about three thousand pilgrims under the leadership of Shahid-ul-lah and his minions. A large number of porters followed bringing up the luggage. Vivekananda and Nivedita walked at the rear of the group for a while then, suddenly, Nivedita discovered that he had left her. Looking up she saw him on a mountain ledge in the centre of a group of sadhus flailing his arms in the air and crying out
Hara Hara Bom Bom
! in unison with the others. Nivedita pulled her woollen shawl closer over her slim shoulders. The air was turning chilly and a light drizzle, driven this way and that by gusts of wind, was falling. Nivedita's porter walked behind her holding an umbrella over her head. Ahead of her the other pilgrims walked on, careless of the cold and rain, skipping over puddles and laughing at each other when they slipped and fell. Nivedita craned her neck to catch a glimpse of Vivekananda. He had recently recovered from a serious illness and caught cold easily. But the throng of pilgrims had swallowed him up and he was lost to her.

The first day's walking drew to a halt at a place called Chandanbari. The rain had increased into a steady downpour and the wind was piercing. There was no sign of Vivekananda but Shahid-ul-lah came bustling over to where Nivedita stood with
her porters. ‘Miss Noble,' he said, leading her away higher up the slope ‘You'll be more comfortable at a distance from the others. They're a noisy lot.' Then, under his expert guidance, her tents were pitched, her luggage stowed away, and all made cozy within. Nivedita shed her wet things, put on a warm dressing gown and waited. Wouldn't Swamiji come to her? Not even on this first day? Resentment rose in her gentle heart. She was being treated like an outcaste; a leper. Swamiji was avoiding her and Shahid-ul-lah had taken care to keep her separated from the rest of the pilgrims. How could she ever get to know anything about this ancient land which was to be her own if she was to be kept forever apart? She wanted to merge; to be assimilated in this vast sea of people . . .

Nivedita opened some of the bags of food they had brought along. Joe had packed immense quantities of
chiré, khoi
and molasses and every variety of fresh and dry fruit available in the bazar for them to eat on the journey. Filling a huge satchel with the best of them Nivedita handed it to a porter with instructions to carry it for her. Then, donning a mackintosh, she picked up a large brass bowl and climbed down the hill to the first tent. It was occupied by a highly revered sadhu, chief of his sect, with many disciples. Tiptoeing inside, she found him sprawled on a bed against masses of pillows. The other, lesser ones, sat around him in a ring. Two little boys in saffron crouched on their haunches on either side massaging his legs and thigh, naked to the groin, with hot oil. Another rubbed his fingertips on his damp scalp. The sadhu looked up as she entered and recoiled involuntarily. But Nivedita knelt humbly before him and touching her forehead to the ground, placed the bowl, heaped with fruit, at his feet. The old man's eyes glittered at the sight and slowly, reluctantly, he placed a hand on her head.

Nivedita went thus, from tent to tent, till she had visited a dozen holy men and received their blessings. Gradually word spread that the memsahib was no irreverent, irreligious alien. She was as devout as she was beautiful and had come on this pilgrimage to Amarnath in a spirit of true faith and respect for the Hindu dharma.

But, back in her tent, Nivedita was overwhelmed with loneliness and despair. Would he never come? It was only the first
day. Miles of territory lay ahead of her. Would she have to traverse them alone? Suddenlyalmost as though she had willed his presence, Vivekananda stood in the room. He had his
japmala
in his hand and his lips were moving in prayer. Calling out to one of the porters he pointed to a gap in the tent and said, ‘Pull the ends together and bind them tightly. A cold wind is coming in. And don't forget to put a hot water bottle in memsahib's bed.' Then, turning to her, he said briefly, ‘It's been a tiring day for you. Have something to eat and go to sleep early. We leave this place at dawn.' He hurried away as quickly as he had come.

Nivedita had hoped that Swamiji would come to her, once more, just before they left. Hence she delayed the packing up of her luggage and the pulling down of her tent till Shahid-ul-lah came striding up the mountain. ‘Why Miss Noble!' he cried, surprised. ‘You're not packed yet. Is anything wrong?' Nivedita turned her face away to hide her tears. ‘Have you had breakfast?' Shahid-ul-lah probed. ‘You won't get the time, you know, once we start moving.' Nivedita shook her head. She didn't need any breakfast. Shahid-ul-lah got everything packed in a jiffy and Nivedita took up the journey once more.

It was a lovely morning. The sky, washed clean by yesterday's rain, was a clear unflawed blue and the sun shone, dazzling bright, on the snow peaks. Along the narrow mountain path the pilgrims walked, the line winding and unwinding over slopes and valleys, like a giant snake. Nivedita walked in the rear her heart heaving and her eyes downcast. Suddenly she heard a voice call out to her, deep and resonant as a roll of thunder, ‘Margot!' Startled, she looked up to find Vivekananda leaning against a boulder and smiling down on her. ‘Good morning Margot,' he said pleasantly. ‘Did you sleep well?'

‘Yes,' Nivedita murmured softly, ‘Did you?'

‘I didn't sleep a wink,' Vivekananda replied. ‘I am in a fever of impatience to reach Amarnath. I doubt if I shall be able to eat or sleep till I do.' Then throwing her a searching glance, he said, ‘Listen Margot! I'm here for a reason. Look ahead of you—' Following the pointing finger Nivedita saw that the path was sloping down to a valley through which a river ran—now frozen over into a sheet of ice and snow. People were crossing it in twos and threes, slipping over the smooth surface, losing their balance
and falling . . . Some were crawling across the surface on bare hands and knees. ‘Look at that old woman Margot,' Vivekananda said, ‘She's crossing over barefoot. I wish you to do the same. It will be hard for you, I know. You've never walked barefoot in your life. But I want you to rise above your Western upbringing; to do what the others are doing. Can you?' Nivedita stooped to unlace her shoes then, pulling them off her feet, she threw them down the slope. ‘I'll never wear shoes again,' she said softly. ‘I didn't mean that,' Vivekananda said, ‘Only for this stretch . . . I want you to prove to everyone who cast aspersions on you that you can do what every Indian can.' Gesturing to a porter to pick up the discarded shoes Vivekananda walked rapidly ahead with Nivedita by his side.

Setting foot on the frozen water Nivedita's heart sang within her. She remembered her childhood when she had run and skated over ice and snow and played games with the other children. Vivekananda had a stick to support him. She had nothing. Stretching her arms out like a ballet dancer she walked gracefully, step by step, till she reached the other side. ‘You were very good,' Vivekananda exclaimed in surprise, ‘but your feet must be numb with cold.'

‘We all walked barefoot a few centuries ago,' Nivedita answered.

At the end of the day the weary pilgrims set up their tents in Wabjan, twelve thousand feet above sea level. Exhausted to the bone though she was, Nivedita's concern was entirely for Vivekananda. The climbing had been really tough and there was a good deal more to come. Could he withstand it? Though he wouldn't admit it, he was a sick man and needed constant attendance and care. But he was giving her no opportunity of looking after him.

Vivekananda didn't come to her that night nor the next morning. Nivedita got her things together and set off with the others, her heart heavy and resentful. Why was he avoiding her? What had she done? After walking a few hundred yards she heard a commotion at the front of the line. Hurrying to the spot she found that a river, its water as pure and clear as crystal, was flowing down the side of the mountain and a number of men were bathing in it. Others were standing on the bank taking off their
clothes in preparation for plunging in. Among them was Vivekananda. Nivedita ran to his side and grabbed his arm. ‘What are you thinking of?' she cried. ‘The water is as cold as ice. Can't you see how the people are shivering? You'll catch your death!' Vivekananda disengaged his arm from the clutching fingers and said solemnly, ‘I will do what I must. Don't forget that I'm a Hindu ascetic. Now leave me and go ahead with the others.' Then, seeing her hesitate, he commanded her in a stern voice:
‘Obey me Margot! Walk on with the other women. It isn't proper for you to stand here where men are bathing. Don't worry. I shan't come to any harm.'

Half an hour later a ragged little urchin came running up to Nivedita. ‘A sadhuji has asked you to wait for him. He's coming up the mountain.' Nivedita leaned against a boulder and waited. What sadhuji wanted to see her? Could she dare to hope it was Vivekananda?

It was. In a few moments he came striding up, dripping from head to foot, yet smiling and swinging his lathi with jaunty movements. The upper half of his body was bare and the lower wrapped in a soaking dhuti. ‘Look Margot!' he cried, ‘I've bathed in the river and I'm still alive. In fact I'm feeling better than ever. What I'd really like now is a chillum of tobacco.'

‘Change into dry clothes at once,' Nivedita almost screamed at him.

‘All in good time,' he answered pleasantly. ‘Yesterday's climb was over sharp rocks and thorny briars. And you insisted on doing it barefoot. Let me have a look at your feet. They must be badly cut . . .'

‘They're alright,' Nivedita said trying to hide them. But Vivekananda wouldn't let her. He forced her to sit down, then, taking her tender white feet in his hands, he examined them closely. They were torn and bleeding. ‘I'm getting a horse or
duli
for you,' he said putting them down. ‘You can't walk on those feet.'

‘I can,' Nivedita protested, ‘They don't hurt me a bit.' But Vivekananda dismissed her plea with a wave of his hand. ‘That's nonsense,' he said smiling. Then, fixing his fiery dark eyes on her dewy blue ones, he said gently, ‘You don't have to do what I do Margot. I'm a sanyasi. You're not. Why do you torture yourself?'

Nivedita's feet were bandaged and her shoes strapped on under Vivekananda's supervision. Then a horse was procured for her which she rode for the rest of the day. It was a wonderful ride. The air was strong and bracing and as deliciously cold as among the hills of her native land. The flowers that grew in the valleys and slopes were familiar too. She saw banks of Michaelmas daisies covering the hills with their delicate purple, shell pink anemones in sheltered clefts forget-me-nots peeping out of emerald moss, dove grey columbine with silky petals, lilies of the valley and wild roses in profusion. She sniffed the scented air drawing deep breaths of ecstasy. The sense of exile that had been torturing her all these days crumbled and fell away and her heart felt as light as a feather. And every time she thought of those warm comforting hands on her cold, lacerated feet (and she thought of them often) the most wonderful sensations washed over her. She felt she had come home at last.

Towards evening the line of pilgrims drew to a weary halt and, selecting a mountain slope, transformed it into a township of tents. It was the night of Rakhi Purnima—the last night of their climb upwards. They would set off again at midnight so as to reach Amarnath at dawn. There would be little sleep for anyone tonight. Nivedita made up her mind. She wouldn't wait for Vivekananda to come to her. She would seek him out herself and they would walk this final stretch and have their first view of Amarnath together.

After a wash and meal she set out on her search—a wraith-like figure in her white gown. She peered from tent to tent till she came upon him sitting with a group of sadhus in a circle. In the centre, an elderly ascetic, with long matted hair and grizzled beard, was singing a Vedic hymn in a monotonous drone. The air was thick with smoke rising from the incense burning in a thurible. There was no way of getting to Vivekananda. The doorway of the tent was jammed with human bodies and he sat at the far end. He looked weary to the bone. His face was as white as paper and his eyes sunk in pools of shadow. Nivedita could see that, despite the haze and the distance at which she stood. But she could do nothing for him. Sighing in resignation, she came away.