Swami Vivekananda disembarked in Bombay and
immediately entrained for Calcutta, arriving at the Belur
Math late in the evening of December 9, 1900. The Swami
had not informed anybody of his return. The gate of the
monastery was locked for the night. He heard the dinner
bell, and in his eagerness to join the monks at their meal,
scaled the gate. There was great rejoicing over his homecoming.
At the Math Swami Vivekananda was told about
the passing away of his beloved disciple Mr. Sevier at
Mayavati in the Himalayas. This was the sad news of which he
had had a presentiment in Egypt. He was greatly
distressed, and on December 11 wrote to Miss MacLeod: 'Thus
two great Englishmen (The other was Mr.
Goodwin.) gave up their lives for us — us,
the Hindus. This is martyrdom, if anything is.' Again he
wrote to her on December 26: 'He was cremated on the bank
of the river that flows by his ashrama, a
la Hindu, covered with garlands, the brahmins carrying the
body and the
boys chanting the Vedas. The cause has already two martyrs.
It makes me love dear England and its heroic breed.
The Mother is watering the plant of future India with the
best blood of England. Glory unto Her!'
The Swami stayed at the Math for eighteen days
and left for Mayavati to see Mrs. Sevier. The distance from the
railroad station to the monastery at Mayavati was
sixty-five miles. The Swami did not give the inmates
sufficient time to arrange for his comfortable transportation.
He left the railroad station in a hurry in the
company of Shivananda and Sadananda. The winter of that year
was particularly severe in the Himalayas; there was a
heavy snowfall on the way, and in his present state of health
he could hardly walk. He reached the monastery,
however, on January 3, 1901.
The meeting with Mrs. Sevier stirred his emotions.
He was delighted, however, to see the magnificent view of
the eternal snow and also the progress of the work. Because
of the heavy winter, he was forced to stay indoors most of
the time. It was a glorious occasion for the members of
the ashrama. The Swami's conversation was inspiring.
He spoke of the devotion of his Western disciples to his
cause, and in this connexion particularly mentioned the name
of Mr. Sevier. He also emphasized the necessity of loyalty
to the work undertaken, loyalty to the leader, and loyalty
to the organization. But the leader, the Swami said,
must command respect and obedience by his character.
While at Mayavati, in spite of a suffocating attack of asthma,
he was busy with his huge correspondence and wrote
three articles for the magazine Prabuddha
Bharata. The least physical effort exhausted him. One day he
exclaimed,
'My body is done for!'
The Advaita Ashrama at Mayavati had been
founded, as may be remembered, with a view to enabling
its members to develop their spiritual life through the
practice of the non-dualistic discipline. All forms of ritual
and worship were strictly excluded. But some of the members,
accustomed to rituals, had set apart a room as the
shrine, where a picture of Sri Ramakrishna was installed
and worshipped daily. One morning the Swami chanced
to enter this room while the worship was going on. He
said nothing at that time, but in the evening severely
reprimanded the inmates for violating the rules of
the monastery. As he did not want to hurt their feelings
too much, he did not ask them to discontinue the worship,
but it was stopped by the members themselves.
One of them, however, whose heart was set
on dualistic worship, asked the advice of the Holy
Mother. She wrote: 'Sri Ramakrishna was all Advaita and
preached Advaita. Why should you not follow Advaita? All
his disciples are Advaitins.'
After his return to the Belur Math, the Swami said
in the course of a conversation: 'I thought of having one
centre at least from which the external worship of Sri
Ramakrishna would be excluded. But I found that the Old Man
had already established himself even there. Well! Well!'
The above incident should not indicate any lack
of respect in Swami Vivekananda for Sri Ramakrishna
or dualistic worship. During the last few years of his life
he showed a passionate love for the Master. Following
his return to the Belur Math he arranged, as will be
seen presently, the birthday festival of Sri Ramakrishna and
the worship of the Divine Mother, according to
traditional rituals.
The Swami's real nature was that of a lover of
God, though he appeared outwardly as a philosopher. But in
all his teachings, both in India and abroad, he had
emphasized the non-dualistic philosophy. For Ultimate Reality, in the
Hindu spiritual tradition, is non-dual. Dualism is a
stage on the way to non-dualism. Through non-dualism
alone, in the opinion of the Swami, can the different
dualistic concepts of the Personal God be harmonized. Without
the foundation of the non-dualistic Absolute, dualism
breeds fanaticism, exclusiveness, and dangerous emotionalism.
He saw both in India and abroad a caricature of dualism
in the worship conducted in the temples, churches, and
other places of worship.
In India the Swami found that non-dualism
had degenerated into mere dry intellectual speculation. And
so he wanted to restore non-dualism to its pristine purity.
With that end in view he had established the Advaita Ashrama
at Mayavati, overlooking the gorgeous eternal snow of
the Himalayas, where the mind naturally soars to the
contemplation of the Infinite, and there he had banned all
vestiges of dualistic worship. In the future, the Swami believed,
all religions would receive a new orientation from the
non-dualistic doctrine and spread goodwill among men.
On his way to Mayavati Swami Vivekananda
had heard the melancholy news of the passing away of the
Raja of Khetri, his faithful disciple, who had borne the
financial burden of his first trip to America. The Raja had
undertaken the repairing of a high tower of the Emperor Akbar's
tomb near Agra, and one day, while inspecting the work,
had missed his footing, fallen several feet, and died.
'Thus', wrote the Swami to Mary Hale, 'we sometimes come
to grief on account of our zeal for antiquity. Take care,
Mary, don't be too zealous about your piece of Indian
antiquity.'
(Referring to himself.)
'So you see', the Swami wrote to Mary again, 'things
are gloomy with me just now and my own health is
wretched. Yet I am sure to bob up soon and am waiting for the
next turn.'
The Swami left Mayavati on January 18, and
travelled four days on slippery slopes, partly through snow,
before reaching the railroad station. He arrived at the Belur
Math on January 24.
Swami Vivekananda had been in his monastery
for seven weeks when pressing invitations for a lecture
trip began to pour in from East Bengal. His mother,
furthermore, had expressed an earnest desire to visit the
holy places situated in that part of India. On January 26 he
wrote to Mrs. Ole Bull: 'I am going to take my mother
on pilgrimage....This is the one great wish of a Hindu
widow. I have brought only misery to my people all my life. I
am trying to fulfil this one wish of hers.'
On March 18, in the company of a large party of
his sannyasin disciples, the Swami left for Dacca, the chief
city of East Bengal, and arrived the next day. He was in
poor health, suffering from both asthma and diabetes.
During an asthmatic attack, when the pain was acute, he said
half dreamily: 'What does it matter! I have given them
enough for fifteen hundred years.' But he had hardly any
rest. People besieged him day and night for instruction. In
Dacca he delivered two public lectures and also visited the
house of Nag Mahashay, where he was entertained by the
saint's wife.
Next he proceeded to Chandranath, a holy place
near Chittagong, and to sacred Kamakhya in Assam. While
in Assam he spent several days at Shillong in order to recover
his health, and there met Sir Henry Cotton, the
chief Government official and a friend of the Indians in
their national aspiration. The two exchanged many ideas,
and at Sir Henry's request the Government physician
looked after the Swami's health.
Vivekananda returned to the Belur Monastery in
the second week of May. Concerning the impressions of
his trip, he said that a certain part of Assam was
endowed with incomparable natural beauty. The people of
East Bengal were more sturdy, active, and resolute than
those of West Bengal. But in religious views they were
rather conservative and even fanatical. He had found that
some of the gullible people believed in
pseudo-Incarnations, several of whom were living at that time in Dacca
itself. The Swami had exhorted the people to cultivate
manliness and the faculty of reasoning. To a sentimental young
man of Dacca he had said: 'My boy, take my advice;
develop your muscles and brain by eating good food and by
healthy exercise, and then you will be able to think for
yourself. Without nourishing food your brain seems to
have weakened a little.' On another occasion, in a public
meeting, he had declared, referring to youth who had very
little physical stamina, 'You will be nearer to Heaven
through football than through the study of the Gita.'
The brother disciples and his own disciples were
much concerned about the Swami's health, which was going
from bad to worse. The damp climate of Bengal did not suit
him at all; it aggravated his asthma, and further, he was
very, very tired. He was earnestly requested to lead a quiet
life, and to satisfy his friends the Swami lived in the
monastery for about seven months in comparative retirement. They
tried to entertain him with light talk. But he could not
be dissuaded from giving instruction to his disciples
whenever the occasion arose.
He loved his room on the second storey, in the
southeast corner of the monastery building, to which he
joyfully returned from his trips to the West or other parts of
India. This large room with four windows and three doors
served as both study and bedroom. In the corner to the right
of the entrance door stood a mirror about five feet high,
and near this, a rack with his ochre clothes. In the middle of
the room was an iron bedstead with a spring mattress,
which had been given to him by one of his Western disciples.
But he seldom used it; for he preferred to sleep on a small
couch placed by its side. A writing-table with letters,
manuscripts, pen, ink, paper, and blotting-pad, a call-bell, some
flowers in a metal vase, a photograph of the Master, a
deer-skin which he used at the time of meditation, and a small
table with a tea-set completed the furnishings.
Here he wrote, gave instruction to his disciples
and brother monks, received friends, communed with God
in meditation, and sometimes ate his meals. And it was
in this room that he ultimately entered into the final
ecstasy from which he never returned to ordinary
consciousness. The room has been preserved as it was while the
Swami was in his physical body, everything in it being kept as
on the last day of his life, the calendar on the wall
reading July 4, 1902.
On December 19, 1900, he wrote to an
American disciple: 'Verily I am a bird of passage. Gay and busy
Paris, grim old Constantinople, sparkling little Athens,
and pyramidal Cairo are left behind, and here I am writing in
my room on the Ganga, in the Math. It is so quiet and
still! The broad river is dancing in the bright sunshine, only
now and then an occasional cargo boat breaking the silence
with the splashing of the waves. It is the cold season here,
but the middle of the day is warm and bright every day. It
is like the winter of southern California. Everything is
green and gold, and the grass is like velvet, yet the air is cold
and crisp and delightful.'
After the Swami's return from East Bengal he
lived a relaxed life in the monastery, surrounded by his
pet animals: the dog Bagha, the she-goat Hansi, an
antelope, a stork, several cows and sheep and ducks and geese,
and a kid called Matru who was adorned with a collar of
little bells, and with whom the Swami ran and played like
a child. The animals adored him, Matru, the little kid,
who had been — so he pretended — a relation of his in a
previous existence, slept in his room. When it died he grieved
like a child and said to a disciple: 'How strange!
Whomsoever I love dies early.' Before milking Hansi for his tea,
he always asked her permission. Bagha who took part in
the Hindu ceremonies, went to bathe in the Ganga with
the devotees on sacred occasions, as for instance when
the gongs and conchs announced the end of an eclipse.
He was, in a sense, the leader of the group of animals at
the Math. After his death he was given a burial in the
grounds of the monastery.
Referring to his pet animals he wrote to an
American disciple on September 7, 1901: 'The rains have come
down in right earnest, and it is a deluge — pouring,
pouring, pouring, night and day. The river is rising, flooding
the banks; the ponds and tanks have overflowed. I have just
now returned from lending a hand in cutting a deep
drain to take off the water from the Math grounds. The
rainwater stands at places some feet deep. My huge stork is full
of glee and so are the ducks and geese. My tame
antelope fled from the Math and gave us some days of anxiety
in finding him out. One of my ducks unfortunately
died yesterday. She had been gasping for breath more than
a week. One of my waggish old monks says, "Sir, it is no
use living in the Kaliyuga, when ducks catch cold from
damp and rain, and frogs sneeze!" One of the geese had
her plumes falling off. Knowing no other method of
treatment, I left her some minutes in a tub of water mixed with
mild carbolic, so that it might either kill or heal — and she is
all right now.'
Thus Swami Vivekananda tried to lead a carefree
life at the monastery, sometimes going about the grounds
clad in his loin-cloth, sometimes supervising the
cooking arrangements and himself preparing some delicacies
for the inmates, and sometimes joining his disciples
and brother monks in the singing of devotional music. At
other times he imparted spiritual instruction to the visitors,
or engaged in deep thought whenever his inner spirit
was stirred up, occupied himself with serious study in his
room, or explained to the members of the Math the
intricate passages of the scriptures and unfolded to them his
scheme of future work.
Though his body was wearing away day by day,
his mind was luminous. At times his eyes assumed a
far-away look, showing how tired he was of the world. One day
he said, 'For one thing we may be grateful: this life is
not eternal.'
The illness did not show any sign of abatement,
but that did not dampen his spirit to work. When urged to
rest, he said to a disciple: 'My son, there is no rest for me.
That which Sri Ramakrishna called "Kali" took possession
of my body and soul three or four days before his
passing away. That makes me work and work and never lets
me keep still or look to my personal comfort.' Then he told
the disciple how the Master, before his passing away,
had transmitted his spiritual power to him.
(See)
During the later part of 1901 the Swami observed
all the religious festivals at the Math. The Divine Mother
was worshipped in strict orthodox fashion during the
Durga-puja, Lakshmi-puja and Kali-puja. On the occasion of
the Durga-puja the poor were given a sumptuous feast.
Thus the Swami demonstrated the efficacy of religious rituals
in the development of the spiritual life. In February 1902
the birth anniversary of Sri Ramakrishna was celebrated at
the Belur Math, and over thirty thousand devotees gathered
for the occasion. But the Swami was feverish. He was
confined to his room by the swelling of his legs. From the
windows he watched the dancing and the music of the devotees.
To the disciple who was attending him the Swami
said: 'He who has realized the Atman becomes a storehouse
of great power. From him as the centre a spiritual
force emanates, working within a certain radius; people
who come within this circle become inspired with his ideas
and are overwhelmed by them. Thus without much
religious striving they derive benefit from the spiritual
experience of an illumined person. This is called grace.'
'Blessed are those,' the Swami continued, 'who
have seen Sri Ramakrishna. All of you, too, will get his
vision. When you have come here, you are very near to
him. Nobody has been able to understand him who came
on earth as Sri Ramakrishna. Even his own nearest
devotees have no real clue to it. Only some have a little inkling of
it. All will understand in time.'
It is said that the spot immediately beneath a lamp
is dark. And so it was that the orthodox people of
the neighbouring villages hardly understood the ideas
and ideals of the Belur Math. The monks there did not in
all respects lead the life of orthodox sannyasins. Devotees
from abroad frequented the monastery. In matters of food
and dress the inmates were liberal. Thus they became the
butt of criticism. The villagers invented scandals about
them and the passengers on the boats passing along the
Ganga would point out the monastery with an accusing finger.
When the Swami heard all this he said: 'That is
good. It is a law of nature. That is the way with all founders
of religion. Without persecution superior ideas cannot
penetrate into the heart of society.'
But the criticism of the neighbours in time gave
place to pride in having in their midst so many saintly souls.
Many distinguished Indians used to visit the
Swami at this time. With some of them he discussed the idea
of founding a Vedic Institution for the promotion of
the ancient Aryan culture and the knowledge of Sanskrit.
This was one of the Swami's favourite thoughts, on which
he dwelt even on the last day of his life on earth.
Towards the end of 1901 two learned Buddhists
from Japan came to the Belur Math to induce the Swami to attend
a Congress of Religions that was being contemplated
in Japan at that time. One of them was the famous artist
and art critic Okakura, and the other Oda, the head priest of
a Buddhist temple. The Swami became particularly fond
of Okakura and said, 'We are two brothers who meet
again, having come from the ends of the earth.' Though
pressed by the visitors, he could not accept the invitation to go
to Japan, partly because of his failing health and partly
because he was sceptical that the Japanese would
appreciate the monastic ideal of the Non-dualistic Vedanta. In a
letter to a Western lady written in June 1902, the Swami
made the following interesting observation about the
connexion between the monastic ideal and fidelity in married life:
In my opinion, a race must first cultivate a great respect for motherhood, through the sanctification and inviolability of marriage, before it can attain to the ideal of perfect chastity. The Roman Catholics and the Hindus, holding marriage sacred and inviolate, have produced great chaste men and women of immense power. To the Arab, marriage is a contract or a forceful possession, to be dissolved at will, and we do not find there the development of the idea of the virgin of the brahmacharin. Modern Buddhism — having fallen among races who had not yet come up to the evolution of marriage — has made a travesty of monasticism. So until there is developed in Japan a great and sacred ideal about marriage (apart from mutual attraction and love), I do not see how there can be great monks and nuns. As you have come to see that the glory of life is chastity, so my eyes also have been opened to the necessity of this great sanctification for the vast majority, in order that a few lifelong chaste powers may be produced.
The Swami used to say that absolute loyalty
and devotion between husbands and wives for three
successive generations find their expression in the birth of an
ideal monk.
Okakura earnestly requested the Swami to
accompany him on a visit to Bodh-Gaya, where Buddha had
attained illumination. Taking advantage of several weeks'
respite from his ailment, the Swami accepted the invitation.
He also desired to see Varanasi. The
trip lasted through
January and February 1902, and was a fitting end to all
his wanderings. He arrived at Bodh-Gaya on the morning
of his last birthday and was received with genuine
courtesy and hospitality by the orthodox Hindu monk in charge
of the temple. This and the similar respect and affection
shown by the priests in Varanasi proved the extent of his
influence over men's hearts. It may be remembered that
Bodh-Gaya had been the first of the holy places he had visited
during Sri Ramakrishna's lifetime. And some years later, when
he was still an unknown monk, he had said farewell
to Varanasi with the words: 'Till that day when I fall on
society like a thunderbolt I shall visit this place no more.'
In Varanasi the Swami was offered a sum of money
by a Maharaja to establish a monastery there. He accepted
the offer and, on his return to Calcutta, sent Swami
Shivananda to organize the work. Even before Swami
Vivekananda's visit to Varanasi, several young men, under the
Swami's inspiration, had started a small organization for the
purpose of providing destitute pilgrims with food, shelter, and
medical aid. Delighted with their unselfish spirit, the Swami
said to them: 'You have the true spirit, my boys, and you
will always have my love and blessings! Go on bravely;
never mind your poverty. Money will come. A great thing will
grow out of it, surpassing your fondest hopes.' The Swami
wrote the appeal which was published with the first report of
the 'Ramakrishna Home of Service,' as the institution came
to be called. In later years it became the premier institution
of its kind started by the Ramakrishna Mission.
The Swami returned from Varanasi. But hardly
had he arrived at Belur when his illness showed signs
of aggravation in the damp air of Bengal. During the last
year and a half of his life he was, off and on, under the
strict supervision of his physicians. Diabetes took the form
of dropsy. His feet swelled and certain parts of his
body became hypersensitive. He could hardly close his eyes
in sleep. A native physician made him follow a very
strict regime: he had to avoid water and salt. For
twenty-one days he did not allow a drop of water to pass through
his throat. To a disciple he said: 'The body is only a tool of
the mind. What the mind dictates the body will have to
obey. Now I do not even think of water. I do not miss it at all....
I see I can do anything.'
Though his body was subjected to a
devitalizing illness, his mind retained its usual vigour. During
this period he was seen reading the newly
published Encyclopaedia Britannica. One of his
householder disciples
remarked that it was difficult to master these twenty-five volumes
in one life. But the Swami had already finished ten
volumes and was busy reading the eleventh. He told the disciple to
ask him any question from the ten volumes he had
read, and to the latter's utter amazement the Swami not
only displayed his knowledge of many technical subjects
but even quoted the language of the book here and there.
He explained to the disciple that there was nothing
miraculous about it. A man who observed strict chastity in
thought and action, he declared, could develop the retentive
power of the mind and reproduce exactly what he had heard
or read but once, even years before.
The regeneration of India was the ever recurring
theme of the Swami's thought. Two of the projects dear to his
heart were the establishment of a Vedic College and a
convent for women. The latter was to be started on the bank of
the Ganga under the direction of the Holy Mother and was
to be completely separated from the Belur Monastery.
The teachers trained in the convent were to take charge of
the education of Indian women along national lines.
But the Swami's heart always went out in
sympathy for the poor and neglected masses. During the later part
of 1901 a number of Santhal labourers were engaged
in levelling the grounds about the monastery. They were
poor and outside the pale of society. The Swami felt an
especial joy in talking to them, and listened to the accounts of
their misery with great compassion. One day he arranged a
feast for them and served them with delicacies that they
had never before tasted. Then, when the meal was finished,
the Swami said to them: 'You are Narayanas. Today I
have entertained the Lord Himself by feeding you.'
He said to a disciple: 'I actually saw God in them.
How guileless they are!' Afterwards he said, addressing
the inmates of the Belur Math:
'See how simple-hearted these poor, illiterate people are! Will you be able to relieve their miseries to some extent at least? Otherwise of what use is our wearing the ochre robe of the sannyasin? To be able to sacrifice everything for the good of others is real monasticism. Sometimes I think within myself: "What is the good of building monasteries and so forth? Why not sell them and distribute the money among the poor, indigent Narayanas? What homes should we care for, we who have made the tree our shelter? Alas! How can we have the heart to put a morsel into our mouths, when our countrymen have not enough wherewith to feed or clothe themselves?...Mother, shall there be no redress for them?" One of the purposes of my going out to preach religion to the West, as you know, was to see if I could find any means of providing for the people of my country. Seeing their poverty and distress, I think sometimes: "Let us throw away all the paraphernalia of worship — blowing the conch and ringing the bell and waving the lights before the image....Let us throw away all pride of learning and study of the scriptures and all spiritual disciplines for the attainment of personal liberation. Let us go from village to village, devoting ourselves to the service of the poor. Let us, through the force of our character and spirituality and our austere living, convince the rich about their duties to the masses, and get money and the means wherewith to serve the poor and the distressed....Alas! Nobody in our country thinks for the low, the poor, the miserable! Those who are the backbone of the nation, whose labour produces food, those whose one day's absence from work raises a cry of general distress in the city — where is the man in our country who sympathizes with them, who shares in their joys and sorrows? Look how, for want of sympathy on the part of the Hindus, thousands of pariahs are becoming Christians in the Madras Presidency! Don't think that it is merely the pinch of hunger that drives them to embrace Christianity. It is simply because they do not get your sympathy. You are continually telling them: "Don't touch me." "Don't touch this or that!" Is here any fellow-feeling or sense of dharma left in the country? There is only "Don't-touchism" now! Kick out all such degrading usages! How I wish to abolish the barriers of "Don't-touchism" and go out and bring together one and all, crying: "Come, all ye that are poor and destitute, fallen and downtrodden! We are one in the name of Ramakrishna!" Unless they are elevated, the Great Mother India will never awake! What are we good for if we cannot provide facilities for their food and clothing? Alas, they are ignorant of the ways of the world and hence fail to eke out a living though labouring hard day and night for it. Gather all your forces together to remove the veil from their eyes. What I see clear as daylight is that the same Brahman, the same Sakti, is in them as in me! Only there is a difference in the degree of manifestation — that is all. Have you ever seen a country in the whole history of the world rise unless there was a uniform circulation of the national blood all over the body? Know for certain that not much can be done with that body one limb of which is paralysed, even though the other limbs are healthy.'
One of the lay disciples pointed out the difficulty of establishing unity and harmony among the diverse sects in India. Vivekananda replied with irritation:
'Don't come here any more if you think any task too difficult. Through the grace of the Lord, everything becomes easy of achievement. Your duty is to serve the poor and the distressed without distinction of caste and creed. What business have you to consider the fruits of your action? Your duty is to go on working, and everything will set itself right in time, and work by itself. My method of work is to construct, and not to destroy that which is already existing....You are all intelligent boys and profess to be my disciples — tell me what you have done. Couldn't you give away one life for the sake of others? Let the reading of Vedanta and the practice of meditation and the like be left for the next life! Let this body go in the service of others — and then I shall know you have not come to me in vain!'
A little later he said:
'After so much tapasya, austerity, I have known that the highest truth is this: "He is present in all beings. These are all the manifested forms of Him. There is no other God to seek for! He alone is worshipping God, who serves all beings."'
In this exhortation is found Vivekananda's
message in all its vividness. These words are addressed to India
and the Western world alike. The west, too, has its pariahs.
He who exploits another man, near or distant, offends
God and will pay for it sooner or later. All men are sons of
the same God, all bear within them the same God. He
who wishes to serve must serve man — and in the first
instance, man in the humblest, poorest, most degraded form.
Only by breaking down the barriers between man and man
can one usher in the kingdom of heaven on earth.
There were moments when Vivekananda felt
gloomy. His body was wasting away, and only a few young men
came forward to help him in his work. He wanted more
of them who, fired with indomitable faith in God and
in themselves, would renounce everything for the welfare
of others. He used to say that with a dozen such people
he could divert into a new channel the whole
thought-current of the country. Disregarding his physical suffering,
he constantly inspired his disciples to cultivate this new faith.
Thus we see him, one day, seated on a canvas cot
under the mango tree in the courtyard of the
monastery. Sannyasins and brahmacharins about him were busy
doing their daily duties. One was sweeping the courtyard with
a big broom. Swami Premananda, after his bath, was
climbing the steps to the shrine. Suddenly Swami
Vivekananda's eyes became radiant. Shaking with emotion, he said to
a disciple:
'Where will you go to seek Brahman? He is
immanent in all beings. Here, here is the visible Brahman! Shame
on those who, neglecting the visible Brahman, set their
minds on other things! Here is the visible Brahman before you
as tangible as a fruit in one's hand! Can't you see?
Here — here — is Brahman!'
These words struck those around him with a kind
of electric shock. For a quarter of an hour they remained
glued to the spot, as if petrified. The broom in the hand of
the sweeper stopped. Premananda fell into a trance.
Everyone experienced an indescribable peace. At last the Swami
said to Premananda, 'Now go to worship.'
The brother disciples tried to restrain the
Swami's activities, especially instruction to visitors and seekers.
But he was unyielding. 'Look here!' he said to them one
day. 'What good is this body? Let it go in helping others. Did
not the Master preach until the very end? And shall I
not do the same? I do not care a straw if the body goes.
You cannot imagine how happy I am when I find earnest
seekers after truth to talk to. In the work of waking up Atman
in my fellow men I shall gladly die again and again!'
Till the very end the Swami remained the great
leader of the monastery, guiding with a firm hand the details
of its daily life, in spite of his own suffering. He insisted
upon thorough cleanliness and examined the beds to see
that they were aired and properly taken care of. He drew up
a weekly time-table and saw that it was
scrupulously observed. The classes on the Vedas and the Puranas
were held daily, he himself conducting them when his
health permitted. He discouraged too much ritualism in
the chapel. He warned the monks against
exaggerated sentimentalism and narrow sectarianism.
But the leader kept a stern watch on the practice
of daily meditation on the part of the inmates of
the monastery. The bell sounded at fixed hours for meals,
study, discussion, and meditation. About three months before
his death he made it a rule that at four o'clock in the
morning a hand-bell should be rung from room to room to
awaken the monks. Within half an hour all should be gathered
in the chapel to meditate. But he was always before them.
He got up at three and went to the chapel, where he sat
facing the north, meditating motionless for more than two
hours. No one was allowed to leave his seat before the Swami
set the example. As he got up, he chanted softly, 'Siva!
Siva!' Bowing to the image of Sri Ramakrishna, he would
go downstairs and pace the courtyard, singing a song
about the Divine Mother or Siva. Naturally his presence in the
chapel created an intense spiritual atmosphere.
Swami Brahmananda said: 'Ah! One at once becomes absorbed
if one sits for meditation in company with Naren! I do
not feel this when I sit alone.'
Once, after an absence of several days on account
of illness, he entered the chapel and found only two
monks there. He became annoyed; in order to discipline
the absentees he forbade them to eat their meals at
the monastery. They had to go out and beg their food. He
did not spare anyone, even a beloved brother disciple for
whom he cherished the highest respect and who happened to
be absent from the chapel that morning.
Another day, he found a brother disciple,
Swami Shivananda, in bed at the hour of meditation. He said
to the latter 'Brother! I know you do not need
meditation. You have already realized the highest goal through
the grace of Sri Ramakrishna. But you should daily
meditate with the youngsters in order to set an example to them.'
From that day on, Shivananda, whether ill or
well, always communed with God during the early hours of
the morning. In his old age, when it became
physically impossible for him to go to the chapel, he used to sit on
his bed for meditation.
But the Swami, preoccupied as he was with
the training of his Indian disciples, never forgot his
Western ones. Their welfare, too, was always in his thought
and prayer.
To Miss MacLeod he wrote on June 14, 1901:
Well, Joe, keep health and spirits
up....Gloire et honneur await you — and mukti. The
natural ambition
of woman is, through marriage, to climb up
leaning upon a man; but those days are gone. You shall
be great without the help of any man, just as you
are, plain, dear Joe — our Joe, everlasting Joe....
We have seen enough of this life not to care
for any of its bubbles, have we not, Joe? For months I
have been practising to drive away all sentiments;
therefore I stop here, and good-bye just now. It was
ordained by Mother that we should work together; it has
been already for the good of many; it shall be for the
good of many more. So let it be. It is useless planning
useless high flights; Mother will find her own
way...rest assured.
To Mary Hale, on August 27, 1901 he wrote with his usual wit:
I would that my health were what you
expected — at least to be able to write you a long letter. It is
getting worse, in fact, every day — and so many
complications and botherations without that, I have ceased to
notice it at all.
I wish you all joy in your lovely
Suisse chalet — splendid health, good appetite, and
a light study
of Swiss or other antiquities just to liven things up a
bit. I am so glad that you are breathing the free air of
the mountains, but sorry that Sam is not in the best
of health. Well, there is no anxiety about it; he
has naturally such a fine physique.
'Woman's moods and man's luck — the
gods themselves do not know, not to speak of men.'
My instincts may be very feminine — but what I am
exercised with just this moment is that you get a
little bit of manliness about you. Oh! Mary, your
brain, health, beauty, everything, is going to waste just
for the lack of that one essential — assertion of
individuality. Your haughtiness, spirit, etc. are all
nonsense — only mockery. You are at best a boarding-school
girl — no backbone! no backbone!
Alas! this lifelong leading-string business !
This is very harsh, very brutal — but I can't help it. I
love you, Mary — sincerely, genuinely. I can't cheat you
with namby-pamby sugar candies. Nor do they ever
come to me.
Then again, I am a dying man; I have no time
to fool in. Wake up, girl! I expect now from you letters
of the right slashing order. Give it right straight — I
need a good deal of rousing....
I am in a sense a retired man. I don't keep
much note of what is going on about the Movement.
Then the Movement is getting bigger and it is
impossible for one man to know all about it minutely. I now
do nothing except try to eat and sleep and nurse my
body the rest of the time.
Good-bye, dear Mary. Hope we shall meet
again somewhere in this life — but meeting or no meeting,
I remain ever your loving brother, Vivekananda.
To his beloved disciple Nivedita he wrote on
February 12, 1902: 'May all powers come unto you! May
Mother Herself be your hands and mind! It is immense
power — irresistible — that I pray for you, and, if possible, along
with it infinite peace....
'If there was any truth in Sri Ramakrishna, may
He take you into His leading, even as He did me, nay,
a thousand times more!'
And again, to Miss MacLeod: 'I can't, even
in imagination, pay the immense debt of gratitude I owe
you. Wherever you are you never forget my welfare; and
there, you are the only one that bears all my burdens, all my
brutal outbursts....'
The sun, enveloped in a golden radiance, was fast
descending to the horizon. The last two months of the
Swami's life on earth had been full of events foreshadowing
the approaching end. Yet few had thought the end so near.
Soon after his return from Varanasi the Swami
greatly desired to see his sannyasin disciples and he wrote to
them to come to the Belur Math, even if only for a short
time. 'Many of his disciples from distant parts of the world,'
writes Sister Nivedita, 'gathered round the Swami. Ill as he
looked, there was none probably who suspected how near the
end had come. Yet visits were paid and farewells exchanged
that it had needed voyages half round the world to make.'
More and more the Swami was seen to free
himself from all responsibilities, leaving the work to other
hands. 'How often,' he said, 'does a man ruin his disciples
by remaining always with them ! When men are once
trained, it is essential that their leader leave them, for without
his absence they cannot develop themselves.' 'Plants,' he
had said some time before, 'always remain small under a
big tree.' Yet the near and dear ones thought that he
would certainly live three or four years more.
He refused to express any opinion on the question
of the day. 'I can no more enter into outside affairs,' he said; 'I
am already on the way.' On another occasion he said:
'You may be right; but I cannot enter any more into these
matters. I am going down into death.' News of the world met
with but a far-away rejoinder from him.
On May 15, 1902, he wrote to Miss MacLeod,
perhaps for the last time: 'I am somewhat better, but of course
far from what I expected. A great idea of quiet has come
upon me. I am going to retire for good — no more work for me.
If possible, I will revert to my old days of begging. All
blessings attend you, Joe; you have been a good angel to me.'
But it was difficult for him to give up what had
been dearer to him than his life: the work. On the last
Sunday before the end he said to one of his disciples: 'You
know the work is always my weak point. When I think
that might come to an end, I am all undone.' He
could easily
withdraw from weakness and attachment, but the work still
retained its power to move him.
Sri Ramakrishna and the Divine Mother
preoccupied his mind. He acted as if he were the child of the Mother
or the boy playing at the feet of Sri Ramakrishna at
Dakshineswar. He said, 'A great tapasya and meditation has
come upon me, and I am making ready for death.'
His disciples and spiritual brothers were worried
to see his contemplative mood. They remembered the
words of Sri Ramakrishna that Naren, after his mission
was completed, would merge for ever into samadhi, and
that he would refuse to live in his physical body if he
realized who he was. A brother monk asked him one day,
quite casually, 'Do you know yet who you are?' The
unexpected reply, 'Yes, I now know!' awed into silence
everyone present. No further question was asked. All remembered
the story of the great nirvikalpa samadhi of Naren's
youth, and how, when it was over, Sri Ramakrishna had said:
'Now the Mother has shown you everything. But this
realization, like the jewel locked in a box, will be hidden away
from you and kept in my custody. I will keep the key with
me. Only after you have fulfilled your mission on this
earth will the box be unlocked, and you will know everything
as you have known now.'
They also remembered that in the cave of
Amarnath, in the summer of 1898, he had received the grace of
Siva — not to die till he himself should will to do so. He was
looking death in the face unafraid as it drew near.
Everything about the Swami in these days
was deliberate and significant, yet none could apprehend
its true import. People were deceived by his outer
cheerfulness. From the beginning of June he appeared to
be regaining his health.
One day, about a week before the end, he bade
a disciple bring him the Bengali almanac. He was
seen several times on subsequent days studying the
book intently, as if he was undecided about something he
wanted to know. After the passing away, the brother monks
and disciples realized that he had been debating about the
day when he should throw away the mortal body.
Ramakrishna, too, had consulted the almanac before his death.
Three days before the mahasamadhi,
Vivekananda pointed out to Swami Premananda a particular spot on
the monastery grounds where he wished his body to
be cremated.
On Wednesday the Swami fasted, following
the orthodox rule: it was the eleventh day of the moon. Sister
Nivedita came to the monastery to ask him some
questions about her school; but he was not interested and
referred her to some other Swamis. He insisted, however, on
serving Nivedita the morning meal. To quote the Sister's words:
Each dish, as it was offered — boiled seeds of
the jack-fruit, boiled potatoes, plain rice, and
ice-cold milk — formed the subject of playful chat; and
finally, to end the meal, he himself poured the water over
her hands, and dried them with a towel.
'It is I who should do these things for
you, Swamiji! Not you for me!' was the protest
naturally offered. But his answer was startling in its
solemnity — 'Jesus washed the feet of his disciples!'
Something checked the answer, 'But that was
the last time!' as it rose to the lips, and the words
remained unuttered. This was well. For here also, the time
had come.
There was nothing sad or grave about the
Swami during these days. Efforts were made not to tire
him. Conversations were kept as light as possible, touching
only upon the pet animals that surrounded him, his
garden experiments, books, and absent friends. But all the
while one was conscious of a luminous presence of which
the Swami's bodily form seemed only a shadow or
symbol. The members of the monastery had never felt so
strongly as now, before him, that they stood in the presence of
an infinite light; yet none was prepared to see the end so
soon, least of all on that Friday, July the Fourth, on which
he appeared so much stronger and healthier than he had
been for years.
On the supreme day, Friday, he rose very early.
Going to the chapel, alone, he shut the windows and bolted
the doors, contrary to his habit, and meditated for three
hours. Descending the stairs of the shrine, he sang a beautiful
song about Kali:
Is Kali, my Mother, really black?
The Naked One, though black She seems,
Lights the Lotus of the heart.
Men call Her black, but yet my mind
Will not believe that She is so:
Now She is white, now red, now blue;
Now She appears as yellow, too.
I hardly know who Mother is,
Though I have pondered all my life:
Now Purusha, now Prakriti,
And now the Void, She seems to be.
To meditate on all these things
Confounds poor Kamalakanta's wits.
Then he said, almost in a whisper: 'If there
were another Vivekananda, then he would have
understood what this Vivekananda has done! And yet — how
many Vivekanandas shall be born in time!'
He expressed the desire to worship Mother Kali at
the Math the following day, and asked two of his disciples
to procure all the necessary articles for the ceremony.
Next he asked the disciple Suddhananda to read a passage
from the Yajurveda with the commentary of a
well-known expositor. The Swami said that he did not agree with
the commentator and exhorted the disciple to give a
new interpretation of the Vedic texts.
He partook of the noon meal with great relish,
in company with the members of the Math, though
usually, at that time, he ate alone in his room because of his
illness. Immediately afterwards, full of life and humour, he
gave lessons to the brahmacharins for three hours on
Sanskrit grammar. In the afternoon he took a walk for about
two miles with Swami Premananda and discussed his plan
to start a Vedic College in the monastery.
'What will be the good of studying the
Vedas?' Premananda asked.
'It will kill superstition,' Swami Vivekananda said.
On his return the Swami inquired very
tenderly concerning every member of the monastery. Then he
conversed for a long time with his companions on the rise
and fall of nations. 'India is immortal,' he said, 'if she
persists in her search for God. But if she goes in for politics
and social conflict, she will die.'
At seven o'clock in the evening the bell rang
for worship in the chapel. The Swami went to his room
and told the disciple who attended him that none was to
come to him until called for. He spent an hour in meditation
and telling his beads, then called the disciple and asked him
to open all the windows and fan his head. He lay down
quietly on his bed and the attendant thought that he was
either sleeping or meditating.
At the end of an hour his hands trembled a little
and he breathed once very deeply. There was a silence for
a minute or two, and again he breathed in the same
manner. His eyes became fixed in the centre of his
eyebrows, his face assumed a divine expression, and eternal
silence fell.
'There was,' said a brother disciple of the Swami,
'a little blood in his nostrils, about his mouth, and in his
eyes.' According to the Yoga scriptures, the life-breath of an
illumined yogi passes out through the opening on the top
of the head, causing the blood to flow in the nostrils and
the mouth.
The great ecstasy took place at ten minutes past
nine. Swami Vivekananda passed away at the age of
thirty-nine years, five months, and twenty-four days, thus
fulfilling his own prophecy: 'I shall not live to be forty years old.'
The brother disciples thought that he might have
fallen into samadhi, and chanted the Master's name to bring
back his consciousness. But he remained on his back motionless.
Physicians were sent for and the body was
thoroughly examined. In the doctor's opinion life was only
suspended; artificial respiration was tried. At midnight,
however, Swami Vivekananda was pronounced dead, the
cause, according to medical science, having been apoplexy
or sudden failure of the heart. But the monks were
convinced that their leader had voluntarily cast off his body
in samadhi, as predicted by Sri Ramakrishna.
In the morning people poured in from all
quarters. Nivedita sat by the body and fanned it till it was
brought down at 2 p.m. to the porch leading to the courtyard.
It was covered with ochre robes and decorated with
flowers. Incense was burnt and a religious service was
performed with lights, conch-shells, and bells. The brother monks
and disciples took their final leave and the procession
started, moving slowly through the courtyard and across the
lawn, till it reached the vilva tree near the spot where the
Swami himself had desired his body to be cremated.
The funeral pyre was built and the body
was consigned to the flames kindled with sandalwood.
Across the Ganga, on the other bank, Ramakrishna had
been cremated sixteen years before.
Nivedita began to weep like a child, rolling on
the ground. Suddenly the wind blew into her lap a piece
of the ochre robe from the pyre, and she received it as
a blessing. It was dusk when the flames subsided. The
sacred relics were gathered and the pyre was washed with
the water of the Ganga. The place is now marked by a
temple, the table of the altar standing on the very spot where
the Swami's body rested in the flames.
Gloom and desolation fell upon the monastery.
The monks prayed in the depths of their hearts: 'O Lord!
Thy will be done!' But deep beneath their grief all felt that
this was not the end. The words of the leader, uttered
long before his death, rang in their ears:
'It may be that I shall find it good to get outside
my body — to cast it off like a worn-out garment. But I
shall not cease to work. I shall inspire men everywhere,
until the world shall know that it is one with God.'
And: 'May I be born again and again, and
suffer thousands of miseries, so that I may worship the only
God that exists, the only God I believe in, the sum total of all
souls.'
For centuries to come people everywhere will
be inspired by Swami Vivekananda's message: O man!
first realize that you are one with
Brahman — aham Brahmasmi — and then realize that
the whole
universe is verily the
same Brahman — sarvam khalvidam Brahma.