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