Among the Not So Great

Haradhan-Da

The man is great, and he alone,
Who serves a greatness not his own,
For neither praise nor pelf:
Content to know and be unknown:
Whole in himself.

Owen Meredith (A Great Man)

Anyone entering the Ashram Courtyard couldn’t miss Haradhanda — not only because he was there almost all the time the Ashram Gate was open, but more because the sheer physical presence of the man was striking; so were his doings and his ways. We kids looked at him with curiosity, awe and some caution.

Haradhan-da, like Manibhai, was big — bigger. He was of impressive proportions, tall and broad, a midriff to match, that lent dignity without detracting from the whole. A great head adorned by a beard long but not too thick. Calm eyes with a gleam in them. A large nose. A larger forehead, with a 1/2 rupee-size vermilion mark (kumkum), that merged into a great bald head, itself fringed with sparse shoulder-length hair. The attire was simple. Just-below-knees length dhoti, coarse and not too white. A chudder of the same material and colour as the dhoti was usually thrown over one shoulder and under the other arm and round the chest. This was enough to compel anyone to pause in mid-step and take note. But there was more. A string hung around his neck. What hung on to the string, hidden by the chudder? When perchance the chudder slipped, if alert you may catch a glimpse of a large folding knife. He wore thick “khadams” — wooden sandals — which must have seen decades of service. His footprints were deeply etched into them. The wood was polished to a glossy sheen by wear. No one saw him change those for new ones. He carried a kuja of water every day from the Ashram to his room. The kuja was an ordinary one, but bore his mark. It also shone like polished granite by constant, careful and long, long use. This too I have not seen him change. The lid must have broken and was replaced by half a coconut shell — as polished as the kuja. He used an umbrella when needed. Not the usual “Stag” brand nor the new-fangled midget spring-loaded folding one. What he carried was a bit more awkward but more effective — alas we don’t see the like any more. It was a large dome-like affair made of palm leaves and bamboo strips, no closing or opening, always open. The handle too was bamboo. (We see pictures of our ancients, like Vamana Avatar, using this model.) He looked all of a Tantric of a couple of centuries back, who had stepped into our lives. He was a tantric in his previous life and he continued to be so this time — a worshipper of the Mother. Small wonder the awe and caution he inspired in us. Later the feelings were deeper — of respect and wonder.

Haradhan-da first came for a short visit long, long ago, in 1916. He hailed from Chandernagore (then a French colony). I heard he first went to meet Sri Aurobindo in our “Guest House”. He saw the Master washing his face at the tap (outside, near the backstairs). Haradhan-da stood by, reverent, quiet. Sri Aurobindo, when he had finished washing, just glanced up and softly said, “Would you make me a cup of coffee?”

Haradhan-da was a soldier in the First World War (1914-1918). He fought in France. He stopped a bullet with his belly. It got embedded there. As often happens, things most needed are not found and this was not the best of times to complain — a dirty war was on. This time there was no anaesthetic available — so he was just laid flat and the bullet dug out! Such were his guts. Taken prisoner, he was being shipped off to some POW camp. He jumped overboard when the ship was some distance off the coast of Algeria and swam ashore. (Must have landed with a fish in his mouth as any Bengali worth his salt would.) Later he wrote a book on war strategy in Bengali — “Lodayer Notoon Kayeda” (New Strategies of War).

He finally came and settled here at the end of 1930 — actually on 30th December 1930. I first set eyes on him in the Ashram Courtyard. He loomed large on the scene. His work? He boiled water for the Mother and Sri Aurobindo. (The boiler still stands, retired — a happy relic of the past.) It’s in the little room where flowers, and dhoop etc. are kept by Vishwabani-di in front of the Cashier’s office. He moved around in the courtyard cleaning, sweeping, keeping an eye on the Fruit Room (erstwhile Pujalal-ji’s room). He was there to guide and help people and regulate the flow of ‘Q’s, (daily Blessings, Darshan Days etc. as Rajkumar with his hordes does now on Darshan Days). He did not speak much. He didn’t need to. He usually took the flower that the Mother gave at the head of the ‘Q’ and then stood at the turning in front of Bula-da’s room. (Mansukh is the present occupant.) He stood, hands in ‘namaskar’ and just waved you to your place in the ‘Q’. He stood until the Mother got up and went upstairs. He was the sole barrier and guide. No chalk lines or ropes.

Rarely did I see him flare up. Once a visitor, a galling type, wanted to beat the system, would not pay heed to his guidance. Haradhanda had to raise his voice and his eyes took on an ominous glint. The man shrivelled down to size, so did many near by. A mantle of hush settled over the area.

One of his jobs was a strange one. Don’t know why he did it. Never thought of asking him. He would espy an insect, spider, centipede etc. and ‘bang’ his palm would go down on it. He would then carefully wrap his handiwork in a leaf and tuck it in the fold of his dhoti at the waist. Later he would offer it up at a nest of black ants. Why — is anybody’s guess.

The last of his duties was to accompany the body of any ashramite who passed away to the burning-ghat. Relatives and friends may return after some time, but Haradhan-da would stay back till the burning was well over half-way through. He probably saw to it that the ghat attendants were not tempted to remove some of the fuel to resell for the next funeral. Be that as it may, he would come back much later and if he happened to meet any of the departed’s relatives or friends, he would do a ‘namaskar’ and say with some solemnity “Bhalo Pudeche” — “He burned well.” I received this information after my uncle’s cremation.

Haradhan-da lived many years here. He lived where Biren-da (masseur, ex-boxer) now lives, i.e. groundfloor of the Archives building. Yet in all those years he had seen and walked just two or three streets of Pondy — rue François Martin and rue d’Orléans (Manakula Vinayagar Street). His unchanging path was: Home to Dining Room (François Martin). D.R. to Ashram via the Ganapathy Temple (rue d’Orléans). He got off his khadams and made obeisance in front of the temple. Got on to his khadams and off to the Ashram. Then, back home via François Martin at night. Of course the road leading to the burning-ghat was known to him. He also walked through the Park when time permitted, to tell stories to some children who played there— Kiran Kumari (Jiji), Sujata Nahar. And, just once, I think, he had been to the Beach road.

1950 — The Second World War was over in 1945. The world had hardly caught back its breath, the Korean War was on. This meant people’s ears were itching for news. A radio would ease the itch. But who had one? Not one of the 700-800 Ashramites of that time could boast of possessing one. We didn’t even know enough to think of having one of these gadgets. It was out of reach for most. Haradhanda was one of the few who listened to a radio — Where? When? Pavitra-da’s room had a radio — maybe there. He would repeat the news to those who wanted to hear. My uncle (Pantulu — who appears later as an ‘Among the Not So Great’) being old but interested, sent my brother and me news-gathering to Haradhan-da every night. We usually sat in the corner where Vishwabani-di distributes flowers and dhoop for the Samadhi (this was Haradhan-da’s work before her). There is a little platform, Haradhan-da sat up, we two down. He would settle down comfortably and start with, “This is what the radio said,” and repeat that as closely as possible to the radio announcement. Then, “This is what I made out of it” and proceed to give his views and interpretation. We went home and regorged all this.

Once, after this “double news” he told us a story — an adventure he had gone through. He was known to be fearless. He had roamed the Sunderbans. In those days the forests were thick, teeming with animals. I will let him narrate: “One day a friend of mine came along, toting a gun and an ambition. He asked me to take him to the Sunderbans, to bag a tiger. So we went. We dug a pit about 5 feet deep, 4 or 5 feet across. We got into it and stood back to back, he with his gun, I with a thick, strong lathi (stick) — waiting, watchful. Soon enough a tiger appeared, as luck would have it, on the side the friend was facing. That “father of the gun” promptly fainted to the floor of the pit taking the gun along with him. I had just time enough to look round to see the tiger make a leap. I ducked, and the tiger landed, fortunately, a pair of paws on either side of the pit. I was most upset with the friend and the tiger. Having the lathi in my hand, I did the obvious — gave a mighty upward shove under the tiger. The tiger was thrown away some distance, recovered, and started pacing to and fro.” I suppose he wouldn’t let a dinner go cheaply. The tiger must have been greatly taken aback, never having been treated so inhumanly and from such an angle.

Haradhan-da continued: “I was trying to keep the tiger at a distance, keeping both eyes on him and swinging my lathi to match his pacing. At the same time I was trying to rouse my friend with my foot, hoping he would pick up some courage and his gun and end this stalemate. This was not to be. Fortunately the tiger decided to quit.”

The tiger must have learned that all men are not equal and decided to seek an easier meal elsewhere.

I heard long back, but could get no recent corroboration, that Haradhan-da helped the Mother in giving significances to flowers (what help and how much I couldn’t find out). But it is true that he never threw away a flower given by the Mother. He dried and kept the flowers. It seems there was a heap of them under his cot.

He fed crows in the afternoons from his window. They would alight on the window sill and pick up the bread crumbs. Sometimes a street urchin too may get a piece of bread. One day Parul (Capt.), under the able tutelage of Chitra Jauhar, stretched out her hand without showing the rest of herself and got a piece of bread. Next Chitra did the same. To her dismay her hand was caught. A struggle ensued. Chitra got away, but the game was up. Haradhan-da had seen her. He caught Chitra’s hand and not Parul’s — why? Not that he was kind to one and not to the other — no — Chitra forgot to remove her wristwatch. Those days beggars could not afford wrist-watches.

A visitor once asked Haradhan-da, “Who is the foremost sadhak here?” Haradhan-da tried to sidestep, but the man was persistent. Finally Haradhan-da took him aside and in a stage whisper told him, “First you, then I,” and left him more puzzled than enlightened.

In the earlier days a young aspirant on his first day or so here was reading a newspaper in the Reading Room (now the Fruit Room). He was a bit overawed to suddenly find this big Tantric-looking man beside him. More so when Haradhan-da, for it was he, spoke to him and ended with some advice. He said to the young man: “You have come to live under the Mother’s wings. She will give you many opportunities to ask, and have anything. Things useful and even of luxury. Refuse all. Ask only for a leaf of Tulasi (Devotion).” The young man has, inevitably, grown older. But the imparted wisdom stood him well and is still fresh in his mind. The young man was none other than our Ravindra-ji.

Time passed, and Time knows no great, no small, no good or bad. All are sooner or later taken up. I don’t know exactly how or when Haradhan-da took ill, nor what the illness was. I went to attend on Kavi Nishikanto — (Kobi a great and interesting man if ever there was one) — in the General Hospital. (Jipmer was not yet in existence.) There I found Haradhan-da in the next bed. He was already too far gone. He was not speaking — probably could not. His bed and he had to be cleaned every now and then. Kobi jokingly remarked: “Oré Batti, Hitler o erokom treatment payeni” (Batti, even Hitler didn’t get such treatment). Soon after, Haradhan-da left us. The Ashram Courtyard was suddenly empty — for a while. Time blunted memories. New events and new people quickly filled in the empty spaces. Yet one may verily say, “Where or when another like him?”

Haradhan-da’s life and work seem slow and spent within a small circle. Would you judge him as rigid, uninterested or uninteresting? The times were different. Life flowed slowly, between banks. These men were different. They never knew what it is to be “bored”. They minded their own business at hand. The future for them was the next day or the next “yuga”. Maybe they looked inward and found many untrod ways.

Let us not judge at all. Rather let us, sometimes, light a small lamp in the shadows of the Past and pay homage to the likes of him who preceded us. They build the steps we climb later — maybe to add one more of our own.