of India, the city of his birth. The steamer docked at Budge Budge, and the Swami and
his party arrived by train in Calcutta on February 19, 1897. The reception was
magnificent, with an enthusiastic crowd at the railroad station, triumphal arches, the
unharnessed carriage drawn by students, and a huge procession with music and
religious songs. A princely residence on the bank of the Ganga was placed at the
Swami's disposal.
On February 28, 1897, he was given a public reception. Raja Benoy Krishna Deb
presided, and five thousand people jammed the meeting. As usual, the Swami asked
the people to go back to the perennial philosophy of the Upanishads. He also paid a
touching tribute to Ramakrishna, 'my teacher, my master, my hero, my ideal, my God
in life.' 'If there has been anything achieved by me,' he said with deep feeling, 'by
thoughts or words or deeds, if from my lips has ever fallen one word that has ever
helped anyone in the world, I lay no claim to it; it was his. But if there have been
curses falling from my lips, if there has been hatred coming out of me, it is all mine,
and not his. All that has been weak has been mine; all that has been life-giving,
strengthening, pure, and holy has been his inspiration, his words, and he himself. Yes,
my friends, the world has yet to know that man.' A few days after, he gave another
public lecture on 'Vedanta in All Its Phases.'
Shortly after the Swami's arrival in Calcutta the anniversary of Sri Ramakrishna's birth
was celebrated at Dakshineswar. Accompanied by his brother disciples, the Swami
joined the festival. He walked barefoot in the holy grounds. Deep emotions were
stirred up as he visited the temples, the Master's room, the Panchavati, and other spots
associated with the memory of Sri Ramakrishna. The place was a sea of human heads.
The Swami said to Girish, a beloved disciple of the Master, 'Well, what a difference
between those days and these!'
'I know,' replied Girish, 'but I have the desire to see more.'
For a little while the Swami spent his days at the palatial house on the river; nights,
however, he spent with his spiritual brothers at the Alambazar monastery. He had
hardly any rest. People streamed in at all times to pay him their respects or to hear his
exposition of Vedanta, or just to see him. There were also people who came to argue
with him on scriptural matters and to test his knowledge.
But the Swami's heart was with the educated, unmarried youths whom he could train
for his future work. He longed to infuse into their hearts some of his own burning
enthusiasm. He wanted them to become the preachers of his 'man-making religion.'
The Swami deplored the physical weakness of Indian youths, denounced their early
marriage, and reproached them for their lack of faith in themselves and in their national
ideals.
One day a young man complained to the Swami that he could not make progress in
spiritual life. He had worshipped images, following the advice of one teacher, and had
tried to make his mind void according to the instruction of another, but all had been