preaching the message of Hinduism throughout the world. He spent eleven months in
Porbandar and especially enjoyed the company of the Prime Minister, Pandit Sankar
Pandurang, a great Sanskrit scholar who was engaged in the translation of the Vedas.
Impressed by the Swami's intellectuality and originality, the pandit said: 'Swamiji, I am
afraid you cannot do much in this country. Few will appreciate you here. You ought to
go to the West, where people will understand you and your work. Surely you can give
to the Western people your enlightening interpretation of Hinduism.'
The Swami was pleased to hear these words, which coincided with something he had
been feeling within. The Prime Minister encouraged the Swami to continue his study
of the French language since it might be useful to him in his future work.
During this period the Swami was extremely restless. He felt within him a boundless
energy seeking channels for expression. The regeneration of India was uppermost in
his mind. A reawakened India could, in her turn, help the world at large. The sight of
the pettiness, jealousy, disunion, ignorance, and poverty among the Hindus filled his
mind with great anguish. But he had no patience with the Westernized reformers, who
had lost their contact with the soul of the country. He thoroughly disapproved of their
method of social, religious, and political reform through imitation of the West. He
wanted the Hindus to cultivate self-confidence. Appreciation of India's spiritual culture
by the prosperous and powerful West, he thought, might give the Hindus confidence in
their own heritage. He prayed to the Lord for guidance. He became friendly with the
Hindu Maharajas who ruled over one-fifth of the country and whose influence was
great over millions of people. Through them he wanted to introduce social reforms,
improved methods of education, and other measures for the physical and cultural
benefit of the people. The Swami felt that in this way his dream of India's regeneration
would be realized with comparative ease.
After spending a few days in Baroda, the Swami came to Khandwa in Central India.
Here he dropped the first hint of his willingness to participate in the Parliament of
Religions to be held shortly in Chicago. He had heard of this Parliament either in
Junagad or Porbandar.
After visiting Bombay, Poona, and Kolhapur, the Swami arrived at Belgaum. In
Bombay he had accidentally met Swami Abhedananda and in the course of a talk had
said to him, 'Brother, such a great power has grown within me that sometimes I feel
that my whole body will burst.'
All through this wandering life he exchanged ideas with people in all stations and
stages of life and impressed everyone with his earnestness, eloquence, gentleness, and
vast knowledge of India and Western culture. Many of the ideas he expressed at this
time were later repeated in his public lectures in America and India. But the thought
nearest to his heart concerned the poor and ignorant villagers, victims of social
injustice: how to improve the sanitary condition of the villages, introduce scientific
methods of agriculture, and procure pure water for daily drinking; how to free the
peasants from their illiteracy and ignorance, how to give back to them their lost
confidence. Problems like these tormented him day and night. He remembered vividly