Much
heat was generated among the moral police when some youngsters organised a
Kissing Festival in Kerala. This was of course put down, once again reaffirming
that Indians are uncomfortable with any manifestation of carnality, even with the
innocent kiss. Since the days of the Bhakti movement, the ideal that love
should only be spiritual has left an indelible mark on the Indian imagination. Indeed,
if we think of it, this tendency to forswear bodily contact is exemplified in
our everyday discreet ‘namaste’ salutation.
Our
Prime Minister has declared he is a confirmed celibate having dedicated himself
to the nation, and so were the previous BJP leaders, Atul Behari Vajpayee, and
Dr. Abdul Kalam. As it happens, the earlier saga of the freedom movement is also
replete with asceticism, the relationships of Indian leaders and their female
devotees being markedly spiritual.
Everyone
knows now how the father of the nation battled against his libido having
decided to be celibate at the age of 36. The tall and beautiful Madeleine
Slade, daughter of an English Admiral, was commanded by him to shave off her
golden locks so that she could serve him as Mira Behn without rousing those
feelings in himself that he so deplored. She was of course in love with Mahatma
Gandhi. She was to write: ‘I saw his slight figure sitting on his
cushion on the floor, I felt, a strong sensation of light coming from his
direction, it was a light I felt rather than saw till it exploded behind my
eyes.’ In 1925 she wrote him her first letter. ‘My being is filled with a great joy and a great anguish. The joy of
giving all I have to you and to your people and the anguish of being able to
give so little,’ and signed it as his humble and most devoted servant. Poor Madeleine soon grew
into the role of a sanyasin, though like most women around him she could rarely
suppress jealousy of the others.
Long
before Madeleine’s encounter with Indian leaders, Margaret Noble, an
Irishwoman, met Swami Vivekananda in 1895 in a London aristocratic drawing-room
and was enchanted by his ‘majestic personality,’ in saffron robes and a red
waistband, sitting crosslegged and reciting Sanskrit slokas in a deep sonorous
voice. She was to write later: ‘Suppose he had not come to London that time! Life would have been like
a headless dream, for I always knew that I was waiting for something.... The
arrow has found its place in the bow. But if he had not come! If he had
meditated, on the Himalayan peaks! ... I, for one, had never been here!’ Irresistibly
drawn, she followed him to Calcutta in 1898, when he gave her the name of
Nivedita and made her a Bramacharyin. The Swamiji found her ‘a real lioness—to
work for Indians, women especially. India cannot yet produce great women, she
must borrow them from other nations. Your education, sincerity, purity, immense
love, determination and above all, the Celtic blood make you just the woman
wanted.’ In his
‘blessings’ to her he wrote her a poem:
The mother's heart, the hero's will
The sweetness of the southern breeze,
The sacred charm and strength that dwell
On Aryan altars, flaming, free;
All these be yours and many more
No ancient soul could dream before-
Be thou to India's future son
The mistress, servant, friend in one.
And
Nivedita thought of him as her ‘King,’ and she sublimated her feelings
considering herself to be his spiritual daughter prepared to serve the cause of
India. Her grandfather had fought for Irish independence, while her upbringing
in Church schools had readied her for a life of service and sacrifice. She died
nine years after Vivekananda in 1911 and on her epitaph in Darjeeling are the
simple words: Here reposes Sister Nivedita who gave her all to India.
Nivedita
contributed many articles to a semi-revolutionary journal, Karma Yogin, edited by Sri Aurobindo
Ghosh. In search of him came Mirra Alfassa, born to Sephardic Jewish parents
who has emigrated to France from the Ottoman Empire. She had received an elite
education in the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Paris and mixed easily with great
artists like Rodin and Monet. Both her marriages failed. She went to Africa in
search of esoteric knowledge since she had experienced visions as a teenager.
She remembered one: ‘This music was being
played, and I was up there – I was fourteen – and there were some leaded-glass
windows - white windows, with no designs. I was gazing at one of them, feeling
uplifted by the music, when suddenly through the window came a flash like a
bolt of lightning. Just like lightning. It entered-my eyes were open-it entered
like this, and then I... I had the feeling of becoming vast and all-powerful.
And it lasted for days.’ She sought a spirituality not found in everyday Europe.
Finally she was introduced to Sri Aurobindo, and remembered that years ago she
had dreamt of a dark figure she had called Krishna who had guided her inner
life. She said unlike Judaism where God is depicted as the judge of mankind, in
Hinduism He was its ‘Lover.’ She
returned to Pondicherry in 1920 and was acclaimed by Sri Aurobindo as the spiritual
‘Mother,’ who continued to be
consulted by Indira Gandhi and other leaders over the next five decades.
In
the pantheon of India’s spiritual leaders during the early years of the 20th
century the third name that comes effortlessly to mind is that of Jiddu
Krishnamurti, once anointed by Annie Besant and other Theosophists as the semi-divine
‘World Teacher.’ Rosalind Williams, a
beautiful and vivacious American became a friend and confidante who married
another close associate. By the late 1920s Krishnamurti had discarded the role
thrust upon him by the Theosophists, though he still remained a great teacher
to everyone. According to an account written by Rosalind’s daughter, her
parents became estranged soon after, and Krishnamurti and Rosalind had an
intimate relationship, perhaps an affair, over several years, though they all
lived together almost as a family.
If
here we have a hint that a great Indian guru can have a relationship other than
the normative spiritual one, this acceptance would be strongly advocated by the
beautiful and rich Argentinian writer, Victoria Ocampo, who adored Gurudev
Tagore, twice her age when she met him. He had gone to South America on a tour,
but forgot everything and stayed with her in her stately home in Buenos Aires
for months. Tagore’s biographers insist it was a platonic relationship, though some
of his Purabi poems, acknowledged to
be addressed to her, are of the love ordinary mortals can understand. Though
she never followed him to India, she found ‘the
days are endless since you went away.’ After his death in 1941, she said: ‘I guard everything I learned from him so
that I may live it. So that I may live it as long as my strength permits me.’
She had thrust upon him as one memento of his visit an armchair, and it became the
object of several intimate messages, for once when he was ill and sleepy she
had bent over him and he had held her breast. As Thomas Mann says: ‘Truth demands the hard confession - that thought and spirit
come badly off, in the long run, against nature.’
This
primacy of the platonic even coloured the famous relationship Pandit Nehru had
with Edwina Mountbatten, though with other partners he was known to be very
much a ladies’ man, and she had quite a reputation in England as the centre of
many male admirers, whom her husband gallantly accepted into the household. And
yet Pamela Mountbatten writing about the historic affair insists it was
platonic, and even Edwina is known to have told her husband that ‘it was mostly platonic.’ Quite.
Even
within a marriage, such as between Babasaheb Ambedkar and Sharada Kabir, the
platonic motive seems to predominate, for most of their time together she was
his nurse. She had married him out of deep admiration, and even changed her
name from Sharada to Savita to get rid of the last vestiges of her Saraswat
Brahmin background. She said he loved her for her intelligence. ‘He
may have appeared strict to the outsider, but towards me, he was always very
loving. He almost trained me - he used to show me how to sit, how to talk, even
how to make chapatis! Whenever he took me for important functions, he would
personally pick out which saree I should wear. He would get irritated if
everything didn't go according to his instructions. Yet, he never made me cry
even once in his life.’The idyll ended within eight years
with his death, and she was hounded by some of his followers for having once
been a Brahmin, and even his son accused her of having caused his death!
The
other famous marriages that come to mind were short and gave little happiness
to the women. Netaji Subash Chandra Bose, after escaping from British India,
spent a few years in Germany and Austria, where he secretly married his
secretary Emilie Shenkl. Soon after they had a daughter, he had to leave in
1943 for the Far East to lead the Indian National Army. He never returned.
Emilie was not treated well by the Germans and she was left in obscurity for
many years till Netaji’s brother welcomed her as a family member when he
visited her in Austria. She never visited India. Dr. Kotnis who had gone to
help Mao Zedong during the Long March died like Dr. Bethune, his Canadian
colleague, of overwork, and both are honoured in China, but little is known of
his nurse wife, Guo Qinglan, or their son Yinhua [meaning Indian-Chinese].
The
one great romantic story that lives from that period is about Jinnah and how he
won the heart of Ruttanbhai Petit, the 16 year-old daughter of the rich Sir
Dinshaw Maneckjee Petit. Ruttie as she was known was ‘the flower of Bombay,’ a
veritable fairytale princess with beauty, brains, charm, and talent. Her father
forbade them to meet again, but they were very much in love, and waited till
she reached majority. Sarojini Naidu wrote to Sir Syed’s son, about their
marriage: ‘The child has made far bigger
sacrifices than she realises but Jinnah is worth it, he loves her.’ Ruttie
followed him to London, and they had a daughter, but soon they parted never to
meet again since he was committed to his politics. Within years she was dead of
cancer, and it is reported that the only time anyone saw Jinnah break down in
tears was at her funeral. She had written a last pathetic letter to him. ‘Try and remember me as the flower you had
plucked, and not as the flower you tread upon.’
Not
all was tragic in that famous period, however. Aly Khan, father of the present
Aga Khan, made up for all the spirituality he must have found around him by
having roaring affairs, with the mistress of the Prince of Wales, and with
Churchill’s daughter-in-law, while still being married to Rita Hayworth, the star
of that age. But even he could not match the libido of the earlier Maharajah of
Patiala, Bhupinder Singh, who not only had many maharanis and countless
concubines but is reported to have given Simla its Scandal Point. As Natwar
Singh puts it succintly: ‘Every temptation was
available to him and he resisted none.’ A persistent rumour has Curzon banning him from Simla after
being caught in flagrante delicto with
his daughter. Some historians have doubted the veracity of this rumour, for if
it happened, it would have been around 1905, when he was hardly 14 and Irene,
Curzon’s daughter only 8. But then, in later life, Irene seems to have matched
the young maharajah in raunchiness, so we can only hope that since the child is
the father – and also the mother – of the man/woman, they really gave good
cause for Curzon’s ire. And we may also end this piece in the hope that the
young leaders of India’s next generation will give us a really good fairytale
romance that will be roses, roses, all the way!