A Ranade Day

BY T.N. JAGADISAN

Of great men we would fain know everything, down to the most trivial details. We may pretend to be superior to this holy curiosity, but none of us is without it. Before true greatness we bow almost in primitive wonderment. And Ranade is among the truly great. Let us try and live with him for a day.

As Sakti to Siva, Ramabai to Ranade. They were in holy wedlock–a happy instance of happily married life. Ramabai was Ranade’s second wife. When they married there was a yawning gulf of age and educational equipment between the couple. Ranade was a tall, heavy man of thirty-two, already a Judge of the lower court, a highly respected patriot, and, above all, a mature, gifted man of rare elevation and detachment. Ramabai was a short little child of eleven, unlettered and uses to softness at home. The poor, frightened, homesick, little eleven-year-old bride, sundered from her mother for the first time in her life, found herself thrown into a group of domineering, chattering, inquisitive, elderly women. Her father had delivered to her a sort of convocation address and enjoined on her the utmost self-control and endurance. He had exhorted her not to repeat tales to her husband, for malicious whisperings have been the ruin of kingdoms, not to speak of families. The bewildered little girl should have failed to adjust herself to her new environment, had not her lord, with a due sense of her difficulties, lavished on her tenderness and love which leaped all bounds. Ranade taught his wife Marathi and English, much to the annoyance of the older women of the household, who spent their fury on Ramabai in Ranade’s absence. She took great care not to let her husband know her grief. But sometimes he used to notice her tear-stained and pitiful face, and ask her, “Has anyone said anything? I fear you have been crying;” Loth to spoil their truly happy and peaceful hours with unpleasant narrations, she would put him off by evasive replies. Ranade knew the sort of women they had in the family, and Ramabai was comforted by the thought that he knew it all. She has recorded that it was a marvel that, as she climbed the stairs in the evening to their rooms and was in her lord’s presence, all her troubles vanished in an instant. A few quiet and affectionate words from him transformed her into the most happy of women. It is against the background of this growing mutual love and understanding which helped Ranade to endure the lack of harmony in his home, of which he seldom spoke but was always aware, that we should set his daily life, and see the ordered beauty and purposefulness of his activities. He who would pay a tribute to Rishi Ranade must not omit to pay his homage to the Rishipatni.

Ranade rose early in the morning, at three or half past three. He insisted on his wife waking up too at the same hour. Unlike her master, Mrs. Ranade was a heavy sleeper. It was a distress to her to wake up at so early an hour, but the wish of her lord could not be resisted. She lighted the lamp and read with Ranade his favourite poems and hymns. He had a deep power of concentration and could easily lose himself in meditation. He would repeat over and over some lovely poem of Namdev or a hymn of Tukaram, eyes closed, his whole frame swaying to the rhythm, his being alone with God. Sometimes he would clap his hands as he chanted the bhajan. At times his throat would constrict, tears would roll down his cheeks, and, overcome with religious emotion, he would fall silent. Blessed was Ranade’s soul, and marvellous his simple faith.

To Mrs. Ranade the early morning hours were hallowed. In the lovely light of the first streaks of dawn, she beheld her lord’s serene countenance filled with worship, and her own heart overflowed with love and worship of him. When alone, she might be filled with thoughts of him in their human relations; but in those hours of the dawn she was in a spiritual presence and she saw her master almost as a superhuman being. She truly felt God’s presence in him and could worship at the feet of her lord and guru. Mrs. Ranade tells us of a charming experience of hers, when the feeling of the superhuman collapsed before the insurgence of the human. Once, on the point of telling him of her sacred feelings, she lifted her eyes at the very instant he turned his to hers, and in the splendour of that mutual experience she became mute with love and joy.

The early morning hours were not without their lighter side. Ranade had no ear for music, and Ramabai used sometimes to laugh at his attempts at singing the hymns. He bore the teasing pleasantly, but always solemnly assured her that God understood and forgave. Absorbed in his own chanting, he failed to keep the rhyme accurately. He would use a line from one poem, and then a line from another. He would chant stray phrases from memory, as they harmonised with his mood. Sometimes Ramabai would jest with him and say, “You had better collect together all these new poems.” His reply was that he was a simple soul, who knew nothing about tunes and metres. “God, for whom I am singing, knows all about it. He is not going to notice all these other things.” There was a part of Ranade that was always serene and above the stress of life. This godly part of him seems to have had the fullest expression in the early morning hours of his prayer and meditation. All their lives together, says Ramabai, those morning hours made the deepest impression on her.

At about half past five, he left his bed for his early morning ablutions which occupied the half hour till six o’clock. Then he took a little walk and on returning from it, he sat down on a couch in the dining room, and after hearing his wife do a lesson or two he began the day’s work. First he read the daily newspaper very carefully. Sometimes he had the paper read to him by his wife, or a clerk, a devoted disciple like Gokhale. It might be that the newspaper had some praise of Ranade, but he would skip over it. If, however, there was any adverse criticism of his views or conduct, he would read the passage or have it read to him very carefully, quite unperturbed by any harsh statements and trying to see if he could profit by the criticism. It is, however, wrong to think that he made of his study of newspapers an entirely grim occupation. Mrs. Ranade tells us that he used to take an amused interest in gossipy items in the papers about royalty and other high-placed people.

After reading the paper he looked through his and then devoted his attention to some serious study. He had the habit of becoming absorbed in his work, and sitting for long periods writing steadily, with bent head. At half past nine he went for his bath. Then dinner followed, which was no hurried or silent affair. When the cook served, he insisted on his wife eating with him. He was a good eater, and liked very peppery food and plenty of vegetables. Ramabai says it was a pleasure to cook for him. While he relished good food and ate it heartily, he did not ever complain of ill-prepared dishes. If the food was especially well-prepared, then he would jest a little with Aba, his favourite child; for, though they had no children of their own, they made up for the deficiency by bringing up other people’s children. Sometimes he said, “Why, Aba! you are now gulping your vegetable with relish, while last meal you did not take any vegetable, even though there were two kinds.” Aba said, “What vegetable, one was tasteless, the other sour!” Ranade would then laughingly reply, “It won’t do for you to be so very attentive to your palate. A student’s attention should be devoted to other things than to salt and pepper. One should eat without grumbling, whatever one gets. Do you hear me complain?” If a visitor ate with him, he would ply him with questions about the economic conditions of his place and thus derive much information from his guest that he could use in his endless papers and addresses. If a dear friend happened to eat with him, then dinner time would be particularly lively. On one occasion Pandurang Pandit, a very dear friend, was dining with him. Pandit was ill and sad over his personal affairs. He ate next to nothing and Ranade pressed him to take some food. Pandit, desiring to make the company lively, at once said, “Let no one blame me for telling the truth. The kosambari is sour: the vegetables have no taste; the cakes are too greasy; the curry has too little onion in it. So why should I eat?” Ranade picked it up at this point and said, “You forgot to say that the salt has no savour and the pepper has no heat. However, even you can’t blame the cook about the milk. So have some of it.” And so Pandit drank the milk and every one enjoyed the fun. If on any day he had heard some annoying news before dinner, he ate in silence. Silence was his only refuge in anger. In deep anger he would sit in silence and look grieved. Small things did not rouse his anger; but when something serious angered him, it lasted along time. But he would not say a word. His was not the anger of those who shout and swear and forget their temper soon. It was a sort of deep but silent disapproval. Dinner time was, however, almost always merry and noisy. He loved then to indulge in teasing and jesting. I wish to bring this fact to notice, because it has been said that Ranade was always serious and that he wholly lacked a sense of humour. It is true that Ranade was no Dickens as a writer, or A. P. Herbert as a speaker. He was serious, eloquent, transcendentally and tirelessly sublime, but he had a genuine sense of humour in daily life, which, in that context, is only another name for tolerance and understanding and a readiness to please and be pleased. It was not an easy task for him to make his household happy and contented, but he succeeded in making them happy. It was his view that when the members of the family were unhappy, it indicated that the head of the house had somehow failed. Likewise, Ramabai held that if the mistress of the house is an affectionate, devout and actively busy person, all the members of the family will be dutiful and happy and consider their home a heaven on earth.

After dinner Ranade took fresh fruits and nuts and sat chatting for about fifteen minutes with his sister and step-mother whom he treated as his own mother. Then he left for court where he worked from eleven to five, except for the luncheon recess.

Leaving court at five, he had his carriage follow him as he walked two or three miles for exercise. Reaching home at six, he sat conversing with the members of the family or friends who came to see him for half an hour. Then he answered the letters of the day, and he made it a definite habit to reply letters on the very day of their receipt.

On holidays, and occasionally in the afternoons, friends came in large numbers to see Ranade. He questioned them about several things, thereby gathering data for his addresses. Important people of orthodox groups came to him and he always treated them with great respect. In discussing the doings of groups or of persons, he had a way of extolling something of universal value they had done, and inspired them to fresh activities by warm and judicious praise. He took care to plant in people’s minds large ideas of beneficent and high minded activity.

In his camps, too, he had a big crowd to see him in the evenings. Then, after the day’s hard work, he laid aside his pen and record books and sat with his visitors talking. Sometimes he would take the visitors for a walk, but they found it difficult to keep pace with Ranade who was a rapid, steady walker. As he talked with them, he tried to gather many kinds of information. He asked what was the rate of taxation and how the people stood it; which crops yielded the best harvest in the area; how heavy the crop was likely to be; what use the villagers made of their leisure time; what their best trade was and how it prospered; what the chief god of the village was and whether the god had any permanent endowments, whether the villagers, weary with their daily toil, assembled in the evening together for sport and pastime; and whether the schools were well maintained and well-established. Such was his love of the people of the land and such his way of obtaining information day by day from the open books–the living man and women. From even the meanest of the mean he was prepared to derive knowledge and instruction. On one occasion, while he was having his shave in Calcutta, he read aloud to the barber, asking him to pronounce some Bengali words and to explain their meaning. Mrs. Ranade looked in and saw the strange scene. When the barber had gone, she twitted her lord saying, “If anyone asks me to make a list of our gurus, I shall have to top the list with the barber.”

If the evening happened to be one on which he had to deliver a sermon to the Prarthana Samaj, Mrs. Ranade accompanied him to the Samaj, for Ranade liked always to associate his wife with his activities. These meetings were the soul of his life. The Prarthana Samaj held his intense loyalty, and he led the devotions even at short notice though he was ill or over worked. His meetings were so full of spiritual meaning, so devout and so solemn that the listeners felt a benediction. It was as though the whole body directly spoke with God. Ranade’s attitude was one of such serene peace that there was a rare glow in his countenance that compelled the eye and subdued the heart. To the end of his life, his intense devotion and simple humility in worship were the secrets of his power over people and the essence of the influence he wielded, especially in the services at the Samaj.

On his return in the carriage after the service, he would ask Ramabai to give him the substance of what he had lectured. If she did well, he would say, “Then today’s meeting was all right.” If she could not give a good summary, he would say, “Apparently I failed today. I have one rule by which to judge my performances. If you understand it, then it is good. If you don’t, then it is not good, it is too difficult.”

In the earlier hours of the night before supper, Ranade would spend some time examining the students who were educated and fed by him. Then he would read with his wife some book. It might be that they were reading Tara by Meadows Taylor and they had reached the part where Tara’s widowhood is described. Ramabai would be deeply touched and reduced to tears. Ranade would say “Ram Ram” as he always did to, cover up distress. When Ramabai had recovered, they would stop the reading and talk about the sad and pathetic condition of widows generally.

When supper time came, all the family gathered for it. All through supper, he talked and laughed. For half an hour afterwards he sat with, his people, talking and trying to make them happy. Then he did some reading or had something read to him before retiring to sleep.

We have now seen Ranade through the routine of a normal day, but when he was busy with some serious intellectual effort the routine was thoroughly upset. He would undertake some important piece of writing or lecturing work. He would order a huge box of books from the Royal Asiatic Society, outline schedule of work or two or three hours each morning and evening in addition to his usual work, He would be so lost in his work that he became careless of rest, food and exercise. If his wife remonstrated, he would laughingly reply, “All right, woman! You would have me sit idly, waiting for food to be prepared and then eat it, would you?” He would add, “I am a busy man, and when I become absorbed in some effort, I can’t afford to stop until I finish.”

One Sunday afternoon Ranade was writing assiduously, and Ramabai went up to him to ask if she could bring tea. Without raising his eyes he said, “Don’t say a word to me. When I have finished, I will call for you.” After an hour he called his wife to bring the tea. That night he got ill and Ramabai accused him of carelessness. But smilingly he replied, “Don’t be silly. Listen! If it chanced that by a little effort you saved a life, would you not endure a lot of trouble for that purpose?” He explained that in an important case he had a difference with his colleagues, who felt that certain accused should be hanged. While working on that case he did not wish to be interrupted, lest his thought become disorganized and illegal. In spite of the night’s fever he attended the court as usual, and reported that evening, “Well, two men’s lives were spared today.” That was Judge Ranade.

Let us just have a glimpse of one of Ranade’s days. He was only on this side of sixty, but his heart grew increasingly weak and he knew he was a dying man. Before he knew the truth, he had anxious consultations with eminent doctors. Now for him all anxiety was over and he was all calm of mind. He concealed his suffering and displayed a mind at peace with itself. He would not hear of rest, and kept himself occupied. If any one asked how he felt, he said, “Oh! it is about the same, sometimes better, sometimes worse. One’s body is always a nuisance.”

In the last year of his life, in spite of illness, he spent endless hours in boiling down material for an address on Vasishta and Viswamitra which he was to deliver at the Social Conference at Lahore. But when the time for the Conference came, he grew worse and Gokhale decided, on the doctor’s advice, that he was not to go. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow, and the tears were in his eyes as he prepared a telegram to the Committee. His voice trembled as he said, “This is the first time in eighteen years that there has been a break in my attendance.” That is Patriot Ranade.

I would fain dwell on many other incidents in Ranade’s life, but I must stop with the hope and prayer that, though we cannot all of us be heroes in action or leaders of thought, it may be given to us to be influenced in some measure by Ranade’s great personality in some of our deeds and words, as members of our families, or as citizens, or in that wider and universal capacity of humble little children of God.

(Based upon “Himself” (Gates)–an English translation of an abridged version of Ranade’s Autobiography in Marathi.)

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