I Tried Sannyas

 

NOT once, not twice, but thrice, – three times did I have the urge to take to the life of an ascetic, sannyasa. But whether it was the bad luck of asceticism or out of my own good luck, I had to give up the idea .on all the three occasions, though each time it happened in a different way.

This was how it came about the first time. I had just come out of jail. What was I to do next? Go back to the ordinary life, read as before in college, pass examinations, get a job? But all that was now out of the question. I prayed that such things be erased from the tablet of my fate, sirasi ma likha, ma likha, ma likha. But before I could come to any final decision as to the future, I had to do something at least to while away the time. So I gave my parents and relatives to understand that I would be continuing my studies and so be on the look-out for a suitable college – for any and every college would not dare to admit me, a live bomb-maker just out of prison.

After going about a bit, I came to Calcutta and put up with a friend at his Mess. One day, I felt a sudden inspiration. It had to be on that very day: on that very day I must renounce the world, make the Great Departure, there was to be no return. I decided to try the Belur Math first. If they took me in, so much the better. They had a good library too, I had heard. In case they refused, well, one would see. It was about four in the afternoon when I left the Mess. I had of course been to the Math before, and to Dakshineshwar as well, but always by river in a country-boat. I had since been told there was a railway-station at Belur. I thought the 

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Math must be somewhere near the station, so I should go by train this time. With exactly two and a half annas in my pocket, I left for the Howrah station, bought a ticket for Belur and kept the change, a pice or two. On alighting at the station I was told the Math was quite a distance from there, a couple of miles at least. I had to set out on foot and finally arrived at the Math. A few inmates – Sannyasis – sat on a bench in the verandah. They asked me about the object of my visit. I blurted out straightaway, "I have come to stay here. I wish to take up the spiritual life, the life of sannyasa." "In that case," they said, "you had better consult the authority in charge." This authority was Sarat Maharaj. He received me in his room and bade me sit by him. He listened to all I had to say. Then he spoke to me in a most unassuming and affectionate tone and explained a number of things.

He asked me, "What precisely do you want to come here for ?"

I said, “This is a sacred spot dedicated to the memory of Swami Vivekananda. I have a deep attraction for Swamiji, and I want to follow his idea1.”

"To have an attraction for Swamiji," he said, "is a very good thing. But it is not enough. It is easy enough, especially for Indian youths, to adore him and do him worship. What is more difficult is to know and understand his Master, Sri Ramakrishna. And he who does not know and understand Sri Ramakrishna cannot know and understand Swami Vivekananda wel1. In any case, you will agree that anyone cannot be admitted to the Math just like that. You pay us a few visits, let us get to know each other better, then perhaps we might decide something."

"But I have no intention of going back," I said. "On that I am determined."

Debabrata Basu and Sachin Sen had already joined the Ramakrishna Mission before I came. Both of them had been with me in Alipore Jail among the accused in the Bomb case. 

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Let me here in parenthesis note a few things about Debabrata Basu. He had been a contemporary of Barin, U pen and Hrishikesh and was among the leaders of our group. He was one of the writers. Indeed, it was he and Upen who gave a characteristic stamp to Yugantar by their writings. His was the mind of a meditative thinker. His thought was wide in its range, rich in knowledge, he had insight and inner experience. And all this he could combine with a fine sense of humour which did not, however, as in the case of others always explode in laughter. Nor did his appearance belie his mental stature; he was akara-sadrsa-prajña, a tall figure of a man. One would often find him seated in a meditative pose, gathered silently within. When he came back to his waking self he would sometimes impart to those around him something of the knowledge he had gained in the world of thought or of his experiences in the inner worlds. He had a sister, Sudhira, who was also well-known to us, for in spite of her being a woman she too had shared in her brother's work as a revolutionary. On his joining the Ramakrishna Mission, Debabrata Basu was given the name of Prajnananda. He has written a book in Bengali, Bharater Sadhana (The Spiritual Heritage of India), which is well-known to select circles.

I had to bring up the names of Debabrata and Sachin for I thought – I had also been told something to this effect  – that the Math might feel a little nervous or perhaps even get into trouble with the police because of my connection with the Bomb case. But Sarat Maharaj gave me finally to understand that he could not accept me as an inmate. So I had to leave.

Now, what was I to do next? I decided to start off straight along the Grand Trunk Road, the road of the Mughals, which they say would take one as far as Agra and Delhi. So, on to the march now, never to return. I could very well repeat the words of the poet, 

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"Thou hast found a shelter for everyone,

O Shankara, O Lord of the Worlds,

But to me thou hast assigned the road alone."

 

Or the words of Christ,

 

"The foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nest but the son of man hath not where to lay his head."

 

So I trudged along. The township was passed, human habitations grew thin and the meadows stretched wider or both sides of the road. But what was this coming all on a sudden? It started drizzling. I had no umbrella, there were no houses to offer me shelter, only the shades of wayside trees. I began to get drenched and the rain damped my body and the inner spirit too along with it. I now said to myself, "Hang it all, but what is the point in this useless suffering? Is this spiritual discipline? And is it essential to that discipline to get oneself drenched in the rain out in this wilderness?" The answer came, "No, it is not at all essential. Can't you recall Sri Krishna's words, 'He who afflicts his body afflicts me too who dwell in that body'? Now then?" Well, I thought I should now turn back. If my resolution was not a sound resolution, there could be no harm in going back on it. So I turned back.

But turn hack how? There was not enough money to pay for the train fare. In any case, it would be easier to take a country-boat, from the place where I had reached, – so I gathered from enquiries. I came to the riverside. It was already getting on to eight and the last of the ferry boats was about to leave. I ran for it and jumped in. And we crossed over to Calcutta. As I prepared to get down, the boatman said, "Your fare, please?" I rummaged my pockets and found there the two pice left. I offered them to the man. But he said, "Not two pice but four, the fare is one anna." "But I have nothing more." "That I don't know, you have 

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to pay the full fare." "But I have told you I have nothing more, how can I pay?" "I don't know about that." "All right, I can give you my pair of slippers." "No, they won't do. If you give me the chuddar you have on, I might consider," It was a good shawl I had on, and I said, "No, my dear fellow, that I am not going to part with." "But you will have to."

Our exchanges were well on the way to a dispute, when a gentleman suddenly appeared up on the river bank – it was a steep bank and the water had receded far down at the ebb tide – and he asked me, "What is the matter?" I told him all that had happened. "Oh, is that all? Here, you fellow," he said, "here is your fare." He gave him an anna. I thanked him profusely, asked him for his address, but he went his way without another word.

I too started on my way home and finally came back to my room at the Mess. My friend was waiting for me to come before he sat down to dinner. I simply said, "Sorry, I have been late, going about here and there." I did not give him the faintest hint of the drama I had just been through, how from a near-tragedy I had landed into high comedy.

That was "my first attempt at sannyasa. Now about the next chance.

I have told you earlier that on our release from j ail, so long as we were in Calcutta, Bejoy and I used to call on Sri Aurobindo regularly every afternoon at the residence of his uncle at Sanjivani office. After a long deliberation and discussion the two of us finally decided that we should now set out on a career of wandering ascetics. I did not tell Bejoy of my earlier experiment. But Up en had once told me while we had been in jail that in order to be able to love one's country, one must know it and see it with one's own eyes by journeying through it a little. Our sadhus and wandering ascetics too have a custom of going the round of India, and visiting the four corners of the land. Hence, on to the march again, caraiveti. Bejoy procured the necessary equipment:

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that is, the blanket and the lota or water-pot. The date of departure was fixed, only the itinerary remained. "But before we start," he said, "we must inform Sri Aurobindo and obtain his blessings. And then we leave,"

So, one afternoon, in the course of one of our regular visits, we told him of our plan. He kept quiet for a while, then he said, "Well, you might wait for a few days." I was a little surprised, for I had thought that he would endorse our scheme without any hesitation. Anyhow, we had to wait for a few days. He said to us one day, "You wanted to go on a tour of the country, didn't you? Well, you come with me, I shall take you on a tour." We were taken aback and were delighted at the same time. He was to leave for Assam on a political mission, first to a Provincial Conference to be held at a place called Jalsuka in the Sylhet area, and thence to the other areas of Assam on a tour.

This provided me with a fresh opportunity to see once again the beauty of old Bengal, the land of the rivers, from a new angle of vision this time. Water, water everywhere, so much water you do not see at any other place, an endless sheet of water spread out below, matching the vast expanse of the sky above. From Goalando we went by steamer to Narayangunge along the Padma and the Sitalaksha, thence to the Meghna; one who has not seen the Meghna cannot imagine what it is really like – it was, as it were, the living Goddess of the water, Jaleshwari – and next, the mighty Dhaleshwari and on to the Surma. We travelled by river steamer for days on end without a break and we moved about by country-boat. The rains had come. The low-lying tracts – they call them Howr – which at other times are just dry lowlands were now all submerged under water. As far as the eyes could reach, there was a vast expanse of water clear and still. Only at places here and there one could see jutting out of its midst a few houses or a village. One day, in the twilight of the evening, land and river took on a rosy hue in the crimson glow of the setting sun as we sailed along by a 

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slow-moving boat. Sri Aurobindo was there and two or three other leaders. I was so powerfully moved by the scene that – the child that I was – I felt an irresistible desire to burst forth there and then into song:

 

"In front the clouds glow, over the setting sun.

Row on thy boat, for now it is too late to cross.

The golden land is half-seen through the gloam:

Wouldst thou then take thy boat to the other shore?"

 

Somehow with difficulty I contained myself and sat in quiet contemplation.

Out on tour, Sri Aurobindo used to address meetings, meet people when he was free and give them instructions and advice. Most of those who came to his meetings did not understand English, they were common village-folk. But they came in crowds all the same, men, women and children, just to hear him speak and have his darshan. When he stood up to address a gathering, a pin-drop silence prevailed. His audience must surely have felt a vibration of something behind the spoken word. It is not that he confined himself to political matters alone. There were many who knew that he was a, Yogi and- spiritual guide and they sought his help in these matters too. I have myself seen as I spent whole nights with him in the same room, at Jalsuka, how he would sit up practically the whole night and go to bed only for a short while in the early hours of the morning.

We toured the country for about ten or twelve days and then we came back. On our return, Sri Aurobindo made us an offer: we were to have a home at the Shyampukur premises of Karmayogin and Dharma. I have already told you about that.

The story of my third and last attempt at sannyasa can be briefly told. The scene was here in Pondicherry and the time immediately before the final arrival of the Mother. Five of us lived here as permanent inmates then, not counting Sri Aurobindo of course.

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We were indeed well on the way to sannyasa in that life of Brahmacharya and single blessedness. The first time it had been myself, my own self or soul, who rejected sannyasa. The second time the veto was pronounced by the Supreme Soul, the Lord – Sri Aurobindo himself. And the third time it was the Supreme Prakriti, the Universal Mother who it seems scented the danger and hastened as if personally to intervene and. bar that way of escape for ever, by piling up against us the heaven-kissing thorny hedge of wedlock. Three of us got caught in this manner, although the other two did find a way of escape. 

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