At Cape Comorin the Swami became as excited as
a child. He rushed to the temple to worship the
Divine Mother. He prostrated himself before the Virgin
Goddess.1
As he came out and looked at the sea his eyes fell on
a rock. Swimming to the islet through shark-infested
waters, he sat on a stone. His heart thumped with emotion.
His great journey from the snow-capped Himalayas to
the 'Land's End' was completed. He had travelled the
whole length of the Indian subcontinent, his beloved
motherland, which, together with his earthly mother, was 'superior
to heaven itself.'
Sitting on the stone, he recalled what he had seen
with his own eyes: the pitiable condition of the Indian
masses, victims of the unscrupulous whims of their
rulers, landlords, and priests. The tyranny of caste had
sapped their last drop of blood. In most of the so-called
leaders who shouted from the housetops for the liberation of
the people, he had seen selfishness personified. And now
he asked himself what his duty was in this situation.
Should he regard the world as a dream and go into solitude
to commune with God? He had tried this several times,
but without success. He remembered that, as a sannyasin, he
had taken the vow to dedicate himself to the service
of God; but this God, he was convinced, was revealed
through humanity. And his own service to this God must
begin, therefore, with the humanity of India. 'May I be born
again and again,' he exclaimed, 'and suffer a thousand
miseries, if only I may worship the only God in whom I believe,
the sum total of all souls, and above all, my God the
wicked, my God the afflicted, my God the poor of all races!'
Through austerity and self-control the Swami
had conserved great spiritual power. His mind had been
filled with the wisdom of the East and the West. He had
received in abundance Sri Ramakrishna's blessings. He also had
had many spiritual experiences of his own. He must use all
of these assets, he concluded, for the service of God in man.
But what was to be the way?
The clear-eyed prophet saw that religion was
the backbone of the Indian nation. India would rise through
a renewal and restoration of that highest spiritual
consciousness which had made her, at all times, the cradle of
nations and the cradle of faith. He totally disagreed with
foreign critics and their Indian disciples who held that religion
was the cause of India's downfall. The Swami blamed,
rather, the falsehood, superstition, and hypocrisy that were
practised in the name of religion. He himself had
discovered that the knowledge of God's presence in man was
the source of man's strength and wisdom. He was
determined to awaken this sleeping divinity. He knew that the
Indian culture had been created and sustained by the twin
ideals of renunciation and service, which formed the core
of Hinduism. And he believed that if the national life
could be intensified through these channels, everything else
would take care of itself. The workers for
India's regeneration must renounce selfishness, jealousy,
greed, and lust for power, and they must dedicate themselves
to the service of the poor, the illiterate, the hungry, and
the sick, seeing in them the tangible manifestations of
the Godhead. People required education, food, health, and
the knowledge of science and technology to raise their
standard of living. The attempt to teach metaphysics to
empty stomachs was sheer madness. The masses everywhere
were leading the life of animals on account of ignorance
and poverty; therefore these conditions should be removed.
But where would the Swami find the fellow
workers to help him in this gigantic task?
He wanted whole-time servants of God;
workers without worldly ties or vested interests. And he
wanted them by thousands. His eyes fell upon the numerous
monks who had renounced the world in search of God. But
alas, in present-day India most of these led unproductive
lives. He would have to infuse a new spirit into them, and
they in their turn would have to dedicate themselves to
the service of the people. He hit upon a plan, which he
revealed later in a letter to a friend. 'Suppose,' the Swami
wrote, 'some disinterested sannyasins, bent on doing good
to others, went from village to village,
disseminating education and seeking in various ways to better
the condition of all, down to the untouchable, through
oral teaching and by means of maps, magic lanterns,
globes, and other accessories — would that not bring forth good
in time? All these plans I cannot write out in this brief
letter. The long and short of it is that if the mountain does
not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain. The
poor are too poor to go to schools; they will gain
nothing by reading poetry and all that sort of thing. We, as a
nation, have lost our individuality. We have to give back to
the nation its lost individuality and raise the masses.'
Verily, the Swami, at Kanyakumari, was the
patriot and prophet in one. There he became, as he declared
later to a Western disciple, 'a condensed India.'
But where were the resources to come from, to
help him realize his great vision?
He himself was a sannyasin, a penniless beggar.
The rich of the country talked big and did nothing. His
admirers were poor. Suddenly a heroic thought entered his
mind: he must approach the outside world and appeal to
its conscience. But he was too proud to act like a beggar.
He wanted to tell the West that the health of India and
the sickness of India were the concern of the whole world.
If India sank, the whole world would sink with her. For
the outside world, in turn, needed India, her knowledge of
the Soul and of God, her spiritual heritage, her ideal of
genuine freedom through detachment and renunciation; it
needed these in order to extricate itself from the sharp claws of
the monster of materialism.
Then to the Swami, brooding alone and in silence
on that point of rock off the tip of India, the vision came;
there flashed before his mind the new continent of America,
a land of optimism, great wealth, and unstinted
generosity. He saw America as a country of unlimited
opportunities, where people's minds were free from the encumbrance
of castes or classes. He would give the receptive
Americans the ancient wisdom of India and bring back to
his motherland, in exchange, the knowledge of science and
technology. If he succeeded in his mission to America,
he would not only enhance India's prestige in the
Occident, but create a new confidence among his own people.
He recalled the earnest requests of his friends to represent
India in the forthcoming Parliament of Religions in Chicago.
And in particular, he remembered the words of the friends
in Kathiawar who had been the first to encourage him to
go to the West: 'Go and take it by storm, and then return!'
He swam back to the continent of India and
started northwards again, by the eastern coast.
It may be mentioned here that during the Swami's
trip across the country, just described, there had taken
place may incidents that strengthened his faith in God,
intensified his sympathy for the so-called lower classes, and
broadened his general outlook on life and social conventions.
Several times, when he had had nothing to eat,
food had come to him unsought, from unexpected quarters.
The benefactors had told him that they were directed by
God. Then, one day, it had occurred to the Swami that he had
no right to lead the life of a wandering monk, begging his
food from door to door, and thus depriving the poor of a
few morsels which they could otherwise share with
their families. Forthwith he entered a deep forest and
walked the whole day without eating a grain of food. At
nightfall he sat down under a tree, footsore and hungry, and
waited to see what would happen next. Presently he saw a
tiger approaching. 'Oh,' he said, 'this is right; both of us
are hungry. As this body of mine could not be of any service
to my fellow men, let it at least give some satisfaction to
this hungry animal.' He sat there calmly, but the tiger for
some reason or other changed its mind and went off in another
direction. The Swami spent the whole night in the
forest, meditating on God's inscrutable ways. In the morning
he felt a new surge of power.
During his wanderings in the Himalayas, he was
once the guest of a Tibetan family and was scandalized to
see that polyandry was practised by its members; six
brothers sharing a common wife. To the Swami's protest, the
eldest brother replied that a Tibetan would consider it
selfishness to enjoy a good thing all by himself and not share it
with his brothers. After deep thought the Swami realized
the relativity of ethics. He saw that many so-called good
and evil practices had their roots in the traditions of
society. One might argue for or against almost anything.
The conventions of a particular society should be judged by
its own standards. After that experience, the Swami
was reluctant to condemn hastily the traditions of any
social group.
One day Swamiji was sharing a railway
compartment with two Englishmen, who took him for an illiterate
beggar and began to crack jokes in English at his expense. At
the next station they were astonished to hear him talking
with the station-master in perfect English. Embarrassed,
they asked him why he had not protested against their
rude words. With a smile, the Swami replied, 'Friends, this
is not the first time that I have seen fools.' The
Englishmen became angry and wanted a fight. But looking at
the Swami's strong body, they thought that discretion was
the better part of valour, and apologized.
In a certain place in Rajputana, the Swami was
busy for three days and nights by people seeking
religious instruction. Nobody cared about his food or rest. After they
left, a poor man belonging to a low caste offered him,
with great hesitation, some uncooked food, since he, being
an untouchable, was afraid to give him a prepared meal.
The Swami, however, persuaded the kind-hearted man
to prepare the meal for him and ate it with relish.
Shedding tears of gratitude, the Swami said to himself,
'Thousands of such good people live in huts, and we despise them
as untouchables!'
In Central India he had to pass many hard
days without food or shelter, and it was during this time that
he lived with a family of outcaste sweepers and
discovered the many priceless spiritual virtues of those people,
who cowered at the feet of society. Their misery choked
him and he sobbed: 'Oh, my country! Oh, my country!'
To resume the story of Swamiji's wandering life:
From Cape Comorin he walked most of the way to
Madras, stopping at Ramnad and Pondicherry. His fame
had already spread to the premier city of South India, and
he was greeted by a group of enthusiastic young men.
In Madras he publicly announced his intention of going
to America. His devotees here collected funds for the
trip, and it was through them that he later started his
Indian work in an organized form.
Here, in Madras, he poured his whole soul into
the discussion of religion, philosophy, science, literature,
and history. He would blaze up at people who, for lack of
time or zeal, did not practise meditation. 'What!' he
thundered at a listener. 'Those giants of old, the ancient rishis,
who never walked but strode, standing by whose side
you would shrivel into a moth — they, sir, had time
for meditation and devotions, and you have none!'
To a scoffer he said: 'How dare you criticize
your venerable forefathers in such a fashion? A little
learning has muddled your brain. Have you tested the wisdom
of the rishis? Have you even as much as read the Vedas?
There is a challenge thrown by the rishis. If you dare oppose
them, take it up.'
At Hyderabad, the capital of the Nizam's State,
he gave his first public lecture, the subject being 'My
Mission to the West.' The audience was impressed and the
Swami was pleased to see that he could hold his own in this
new field of activity.
When the devotees in Madras brought him the
money for his voyage to America, he refused to accept it and
asked them to distribute it among the poor. How was he to
know that the Lord wanted him to go to America? Perhaps
he was being carried away by his own ambition. He began
to pray intensely for divine guidance. Again money
was offered to him by some of his wealthy friends, and
again he refused. He said to his disciples: 'If it is the
Mother's wish that I should go to the West, then let us collect
money from the people. It is for them that I am going to the
West — for the people and the poor!'
The Swami one day had a symbolic dream, in
which he saw Sri Ramakrishna walking into the water of
the ocean and beckoning him to follow. He also heard
the authoritative word 'Go!' In response to a letter
that he had written to Sarada Devi, the Holy Mother, she
gave him her blessings for the fulfilment of his desire,
knowing that it was Ramakrishna's wish that he should
undertake the journey to America. And now, at last, he felt sure
of his call.
When everything was arranged for the
departure, there suddenly arrived in Madras the private secretary
of Swamiji's disciple the Raja of Khetri, bearing the
happy news of the birth of a royal son. The Swami was
earnestly desired to bless the heir apparent. He consented, and
the Raja was overjoyed to see him.
At Khetri an incident occurred that the Swami
remembered all his life. He was invited by the Maharaja to
a musical entertainment in which a nautch-girl was to
sing, and he refused to come, since he was a monk and not
permitted to enjoy secular pleasures. The singer was hurt
and sang in a strain of lamentation. Her words reached
the Swami's ears:
Look not, O Lord, upon my sins!
Is not Same-sightedness Thy name?
One piece of iron is used
Inside the holy shrine,
Another for the knife
Held in the butcher's hand;
Yet both of these are turned to gold
When touched by the philosophers' stone.
Sacred the Jamuna's water,
Foul the water in the ditch;
Yet both alike are sanctified
Once they have joined the Ganga's stream.
So, Lord, look not upon my sins!
Is not Same-sightedness Thy name?
The Swami was deeply moved. This girl,
whom society condemned as impure, had taught him a
great lesson: Brahman, the Ever Pure, Ever Free, and Ever
Illumined, is the essence of all beings. Before God there
is no distinction of good and evil, pure and impure.
Such pairs of opposites become manifest only when the
light of Brahman is obscured by maya. A sannyasin ought
to look at all things from the standpoint of Brahman.
He should not condemn anything, even a so-called
impure person.
The Swami then joined the party and with tears in
his eyes said to the girl: 'Mother, I am guilty. I was about
to show you disrespect by refusing to come to this room.
But your song awakened my consciousness.'
The Swami assumed at the Raja's request the name
of Vivekananda, and the Raja accompanied him as far
as Jaipur when he departed for Bombay. On his way
to Bombay the Swami stopped at the Abu Road station
and met Brahmananda and Turiyananda. He told them
about his going to America. The two brother disciples
were greatly excited. He explained to them the reason for
his going: it was India's suffering. 'I travelled,' he said,
'all over India. But alas, it was agony to me, my brothers,
to see with my own eyes the terrible poverty of the
masses, and I could not restrain my tears! It is now my firm
conviction that to preach religion amongst them, without
first trying to remove their poverty and suffering, is futile.
It is for this reason — to find means for the salvation of
the poor of India — that I am going to America.'
Addressing Turiyananda, he said, 'Brother, I
cannot understand your so-called religion.' His face was red
with his rising blood. Shaking with emotion, he placed his
hand on his heart, and said: 'But my heart has grown much,
much larger, and I have learnt to feel. Believe me, I feel it very
sadly.' He was choked, and then fell silent. Tears
rolled down his cheeks.
Many years later Turiyananda said, while
describing the incident: 'You can imagine what went through my
mind when I heard these pathetic words and saw the
majestic sadness of Swamiji. "Were not these," I thought, "the
very words and feelings of Buddha?"' And he remembered
that long ago Naren had visited Bodh-Gaya and in
deep meditation had felt the presence of Buddha.
Another scene of the same nature, though it
occurred much later, may be recounted here. Swami
Turiyananda called on his illustrious brother disciple, after the
latter's triumphant return from America, at the Calcutta home
of Balaram Bose, and found him pacing the veranda
alone. Deep in thought, he did not notice Turiyananda's
presence. He began to hum under his breath a celebrated song
of Mirabai, and tears welled up in his eyes. He stopped
and leaned against the balustrade, and hid his face in his
palms. He sang in an anguished voice, repeating several
times: 'Oh, nobody understands my sorrow!' And again:
'Only he who suffers knows the depth of my sorrow!' The
whole atmosphere became heavy with sadness. The voice
pierced Swami Turiyananda's heart like an arrow; but he could
not understand the cause of Vivekananda's suffering. Then
he suddenly realized that it was a tremendous
universal sympathy with the suffering and oppressed
everywhere that often made him shed tears of burning blood; and
of these the world would never know.
The Swami arrived in Bombay accompanied by
the private secretary to the Raja of Khetri, the Prince
having provided him with a robe of orange silk, an ochre turban,
a handsome purse, and a first-class ticket on the
S.S. 'Peninsular' of the Peninsular and Orient Company,
which would be sailing on May 31, 1893. The Raja had
also bestowed on him the name by which he was to
become famous and which was destined to raise India in
the estimation of the world.
The ship steamed out of the harbour on the
appointed day, and one can visualize the Swami standing on its
deck, leaning against the rail and gazing at the fast
fading landscape of his beloved motherland. What a multitude
of pictures must have raced, at that time, through his
mind: the image of Sri Ramakrishna, the Holy Mother, and
the brother disciples, either living at the Baranagore
monastery or wandering through the plains and hills of India! What
a burden of memories this lad of twenty-nine was
carrying! The legacy of his noble parents, the blessings of his
Master, the wisdom learnt from the Hindu scriptures,
the knowledge of the West, his own spiritual
experiences, India's past greatness, her present sorrow, and the
dream of her future glory, the hopes and aspirations of the
millions of India's brown men toiling in their brown fields
under the scorching tropical sun, the devotional stories of
the Puranas, the dizzy heights of Buddhist philosophy,
the transcendental truths of Vedanta, the subtleties of
the Indian philosophical systems, the soul-stirring songs of
the Indian poets and mystics, the stone-carvings and
the frescoes of the Ellora and Ajanta caves, the heroic tales
of the Rajput and Mahratta fighters, the hymns of the
South Indian Alwars, the snow peaks of the towering
Himalayas, the murmuring music of the Ganga — all these and
many such thoughts fused together to create in the Swami's mind
the image of Mother India, a universe in miniature,
whose history and society were the vivid demonstration of
her philosophical doctrine of unity in diversity. And could
India have sent a son worthier than Vivekananda to
represent her in the Parliament of Religions — a son who had
learnt his spiritual lessons at the feet of a man whose very
life was a Parliament of Religions — a son whose heart was
big enough to embrace the whole of humanity and to feel
for all in its universal compassion?
Soon the Swami adjusted himself to the new life
on board the ship — a life completely different from that of
a wandering monk. He found it a great nuisance to look
after his suitcases, trunk, valise, and wardrobe. His orange
robe aroused the curiosity of many fellow passengers,
who, however, were soon impressed by his serious nature
and deep scholarship. The vessel ploughed through the
blue sea, pausing at various ports on the way, and the
Swami enjoyed the voyage with the happy excitement of a
child, devouring eagerly all he saw.
In Colombo he visited the monasteries of
the Hinayana Buddhists. On the way to Singapore he
was shown the favourite haunts of the Malay pirates,
whose descendants now, as the Swami wrote to an Indian
friend, under the 'leviathan guns of modern turreted
battleships, have been forced to look about for more
peaceful pursuits.' He had his first glimpse of China in the
busy port of Hongkong, where hundreds of junks and
dinghies moved about, each with the wife of its boatman at
the helm, for a whole family lived in each floating craft.
The traveller was amused to notice the Chinese babies,
most of whom were tied to the backs of their mothers, while
the latter were busy either pushing heavy loads
or jumping with agility from one craft to another. And
there was a rush of boats and steam launches coming in
and going out.
'Baby John,' the Swami wrote humorously to the
same friend, 'is every moment in danger of having his little
head pulverized, pigtail and all, but he does not care a fig.
The busy life seems to have no charm for him, and he is
quite content to learn the anatomy of a bit of rice-cake given
to him by the madly busy mother. The Chinese child is
quite a little philosopher and calmly goes to work at the age
when your Indian boy can hardly crawl on all fours. He has
learnt the philosophy of necessity too well, from his
extreme poverty.'
At Canton, in a Buddhist monastery, the Swami
was received with respect as a great yogi from India. He saw
in China, and later in Japan, many temples with
manuscripts written in the ancient Bengali script. This made him
realize the extent of the influence of India outside her own
borders and strengthened his conviction about the spiritual
unity of Asia.
Next the boat reached Japan, and the Swami
visited Yokohama, Osaka, Kyoto, and Tokyo. The broad
streets, the cage-like little houses, the pine-covered hills, and
the gardens with shrubs, grass-plots, artificial pools, and
small bridges impressed him with the innate artistic nature
of the Japanese people. On the other hand, the
thoroughly organized Japanese army equipped with guns made
in Japan, the expanding navy, the merchant marine, and
the industrial factories revealed to him the scientific skill of
a newly awakened Asiatic nation. But he was told that the
Japanese regarded India as the 'dreamland of
everything noble and great.'
His thoughts always returned to India and her
people. He wrote to a disciple in Madras: 'Come out and be
men! India wants the sacrifice of at least a thousand of her
young men — men, mind you, and not brutes. How many
men — unselfish and thorough-going men — is Madras ready
to supply, who will struggle unto death to bring about a
new state of things — sympathy for the poor, bread for
hungry mouths, enlightenment for the people at large, who
have been brought to the level of beasts by the tyranny of
your forefathers?'
From Yokohama he crossed the Pacific Ocean
and arrived in Vancouver, British Columbia. Next he
travelled by train to Chicago, the destination of his journey and
the meeting-place of the Parliament of Religions.
The first sight of Chicago, the third largest city of
the New Continent, the great civic queen of the Middle
West, enthroned on the shore of Lake Michigan, with its
teeming population and strange way of life — a mixture of
the refinement of the Eastern coast and the crudities of
the backwoods — must have bewildered, excited, and
terrified the young visitor from India. Swami Vivekananda
walked through the spacious grounds of the World's Fair and
was speechless with amazement. He marvelled at what
the Americans had achieved through hard work, friendly
co-operation with one another, and the application of
scientific knowledge. Not too many years before, Chicago
had consisted of only a few fishermen's huts, and now at
the magic touch of human ingenuity, it was turned into
a fairyland. Never before had the Swami seen such an
accumulation of wealth, power, and inventive genius in
a nation. In the fair-grounds he attracted people's
notice. Lads ran after him, fascinated by his orange robe
and turban. Shopkeepers and porters regarded him as
a Maharaja from India and tried to impose upon him.
On the Swami's part, his first feeling was one of
unbounded admiration. But a bitter disillusionment was to come.
Soon after his arrival in Chicago, he went one day
to the information bureau of the Exposition to ask about
the forthcoming Parliament of Religions. He was told that
it had been put off until the first week of September (it
was then only the end of July) and that no one
without credentials from a bona fide organization would
be accepted as a delegate. He was told also that it was
then too late for him to be registered as a delegate. All this
had been unexpected by the Swami; for not one of his
friends in India — the enthusiastic devotees of Madras, the Raja
of Khetri, the Raja of Ramnad, and the Maharaja of
Mysore, the Ministers of the native states, and the disciples
who had arranged his trip to America — had taken the
trouble to make any inquiries concerning the details of
the Parliament. No one had known what were to be the
dates of the meetings or the conditions of admission. Nor
had the Swami brought with him any letter of authority from
a religious organization. All had felt that the young
monk would need no letter of authorization, his personality
being testimonial enough.
'The Swami himself,' as his Irish disciple,
Sister Nivedita, wrote some years later, 'was as simple in the
ways of the world as his disciples, and when he was once
sure that he was divinely called to make this attempt, he could
see no difficulties in the way. Nothing could have been
more typical of the lack of organizedness of Hinduism itself
than this going forth of its representative unannounced,
and without formal credentials, to enter the strongly
guarded door of the world's wealth and power.'
In the meantime, the purse that the Swami had
carried from India was dwindling; for things were much
more expensive in America than he or his friends had
thought. He did not have enough to maintain him in Chicago
until September. In a frantic mood he asked help from
the Theosophical Society, which professed warm friendship
for India. He was told that he would have to subscribe to
the creed of the Society; but this he refused to do because
he did not believe in most of the Theosophical
doctrines. Thereupon the leader declined to give him any help.
The Swami became desperate and cabled to his friends
in Madras for money.
Finally, however, someone advised him to go
to Boston, where the cost of living was cheaper, and in
the train his picturesque dress, no less than his
regal appearance, attracted a wealthy lady who resided in
the suburbs of the city. She cordially invited him to be her
guest, and he accepted, to save his dwindling purse. He
was lodged at 'Breezy Meadows,' in Metcalf,
Massachusetts, and his hostess, Miss Kate Sanborn, was delighted
to display to her inquisitive friends this strange curiosity
from the Far East. The Swami met a number of people, most
of whom annoyed him by asking queer questions
regarding Hinduism and the social customs of India, about
which they had read in the tracts of Christian missionaries
and sensational writers. However, there came to him a few
serious-minded people, and among these were
Mrs. Johnson, the lady superintendent of a women's prison,
and J.H. Wright, a professor of Greek at Harvard
University. On the invitation of the superintendent, he visited
the prison and was impressed by the humanitarian attitude
of its workers towards the inmates. At once there came to
his mind the sad plight of the masses of India and he wrote
to a friend on August 20, 1893:
How benevolently the inmates are treated,
how they are reformed and sent back as useful
members of society — how grand, how beautiful, you must
see to believe! And oh, how my heart ached to think
of what we think of poor, the low, in India. They have
no chance, no escape, no way to climb up. They sink
lower and lower every day, they feel the blows
showered upon them by a cruel society, and they do not
know whence the blows come. They have forgotten that
they too are men. And the result is slavery. … Ah,
tyrants! You do not know that the obverse is tyranny and
the reverse, slavery.
Swami Vivekananda had no friends in this
foreign land, yet he did not lose faith. For had not a kind
Providence looked after him during the uncertain days of
his wandering life? He wrote in the same letter: 'I am
here amongst the children of the Son of Mary, and the Lord
Jesus will help me.'
The Swami was encouraged by Professor Wright
to represent Hinduism in the Parliament of Religions,
since that was the only way he could be introduced to the
nation at large. When he announced, however, that he had no
credentials, the professor replied, 'To ask you, Swami,
for your credentials is like asking the sun about its right
to shine.' He wrote about the Swami to a number of
important people connected with the Parliament, especially to
the chairman of the committee on selection of delegates,
who was one of his friends, and said, 'Here is a man
more learned than all our learned professors put
together.' Professor Wright bought the Swami railroad ticket
for Chicago.
The train bearing Vivekananda to Chicago arrived
late in the evening, and he had mislaid, unfortunately,
the address of the committee in charge of the delegates.
He did not know where to turn for help, and no one
bothered to give information to this foreigner of strange
appearance. Moreover the station was located in a part of the
city inhabited mostly by Germans, who could hardly
under stand his language. He knew he was stranded there,
and looking around saw a huge empty wagon in the
railroad freight-yard. In this he spent the night without food or
a bed.
In the morning he woke up 'smelling fresh water,'
to quote his own words, and he walked along the
fashionable Lake Shore Drive, which was lined with the mansions
of the wealthy, asking people the way to the
Parliament grounds. But he was met with indifference. Hungry
and weary, he knocked at several doors for food and was
rudely treated by the servants. His soiled clothes and
unshaven face gave him the appearance of a tramp. Besides, he
had forgotten that he was in a land that knew thousands
of ways of earning the 'almighty dollar,' but was
unfamiliar with Franciscan poverty or the ways of religious
vagabonds. He sat down exhausted on the sidewalk and
was noticed from an opposite window. The mistress of the
house sent for him and asked the Swami if he was a delegate
to the Parliament of Religions. He told her of his
difficulties. The lady, Mrs. George W. Hale, a society woman of
Chicago, gave him breakfast and looked after his needs. When
he had rested, she accompanied him to the offices of
the Parliament and presented him to Dr. J.H. Barrows, the
President of the Parliament, who was one of her personal
friends. The Swami was thereupon cordially accepted as a
representative of Hinduism and lodged in the house of Mr.
and Mrs. John B. Lyons. Mr. and Mrs. Hale and their
children as well as the Lyons, became his lifelong friends. Once
again the Swami had been strengthened in his conviction
that the Lord was guiding his footsteps, and he prayed
incessantly to be a worthy instrument of His will.