I RECEIVE MY UNIVERSITY DEGREE
“You ignore your textbook assignments in philosophy. No doubt you
are depending on an unlaborious ‘intuition’ to get you through the
examinations. But unless you apply yourself in a more scholarly
manner, I shall see to it that you don’t pass this course.”
Professor D. C. Ghoshal of Serampore College was addressing me
sternly. If I failed to pass his final written classroom test, I
would be ineligible to take the conclusive examinations. These are
formulated by the faculty of Calcutta University, which numbers
Serampore College among its affiliated branches. A student in Indian
universities who is unsuccessful in one subject in the A.B. finals
must be examined anew in ALL his subjects the following year.
My instructors at Serampore College usually treated me with kindness,
not untinged by an amused tolerance. “Mukunda is a bit over-drunk
with religion.” Thus summing me up, they tactfully spared me the
embarrassment of answering classroom questions; they trusted the
final written tests to eliminate me from the list of A.B. candidates.
The judgment passed by my fellow students was expressed in their
nickname for me-“Mad Monk.”
I took an ingenious step to nullify Professor Ghoshal’s threat to
me of failure in philosophy. When the results of the final tests
were about to be publicly announced, I asked a classmate to accompany
me to the professor’s study.
“Come along; I want a witness,” I told my companion. “I shall be
very much disappointed if I have not succeeded in outwitting the
instructor.”
Professor Ghoshal shook his head after I had inquired what rating
he had given my paper.
“You are not among those who have passed,” he said in triumph. He
hunted through a large pile on his desk. “Your paper isn’t here at
all; you have failed, in any case, through non-appearance at the
examination.”
I chuckled. “Sir, I was there. May I look through the stack myself?”
The professor, nonplused, gave his permission; I quickly found my
paper, where I had carefully omitted any identification mark except
my roll call number. Unwarned by the “red flag” of my name, the
instructor had given a high rating to my answers even though they
were unembellished by textbook quotations. {FN23-1}
Seeing through my trick, he now thundered, “Sheer brazen luck!” He
added hopefully, “You are sure to fail in the A.B. finals.”
For the tests in my other subjects, I received some coaching,
particularly from my dear friend and cousin, Prabhas Chandra
Ghose, {FN23-2} son of my Uncle Sarada. I staggered painfully but
successfully-with the lowest possible passing marks-through all my
final tests.
Now, after four years of college, I was eligible to sit for the
A.B. examinations. Nevertheless, I hardly expected to avail myself
of the privilege. The Serampore College finals were child’s play
compared to the stiff ones which would be set by Calcutta University
for the A.B. degree. My almost daily visits to Sri Yukteswar had
left me little time to enter the college halls. There it was my
presence rather than my absence that brought forth ejaculations of
amazement from my classmates!
My customary routine was to set out on my bicycle about nine-thirty
in the morning. In one hand I would carry an offering for my guru-a
few flowers from the garden of my PANTHI boardinghouse. Greeting
me affably, Master would invite me to lunch. I invariably accepted
with alacrity, glad to banish the thought of college for the day.
After hours with Sri Yukteswar, listening to his incomparable flow of
wisdom, or helping with ashram duties, I would reluctantly depart
around midnight for the PANTHI. Occasionally I stayed all night with
my guru, so happily engrossed in his conversation that I scarcely
noticed when darkness changed into dawn.
One night about eleven o’clock, as I was putting on my shoes
{FN23-3} in preparation for the ride to the boardinghouse, Master
questioned me gravely.
“When do your A.B. examinations start?”
“Five days hence, sir.”
“I hope you are in readiness for them.”
Transfixed with alarm, I held one shoe in the air. “Sir,” I
protested, “you know how my days have been passed with you rather
than with the professors. How can I enact a farce by appearing for
those difficult finals?”
Sri Yukteswar’s eyes were turned piercingly on mine. “You must
appear.” His tone was coldly peremptory. “We should not give cause
for your father and other relatives to criticize your preference
for ashram life. Just promise me that you will be present for the
examinations; answer them the best way you can.”
Uncontrollable tears were coursing down my face. I felt that
Master’s command was unreasonable, and that his interest was, to
say the least, belated.
“I will appear if you wish it,” I said amidst sobs. “But no time
remains for proper preparation.” Under my breath I muttered, “I will
fill up the sheets with your teachings in answer to the questions!”
When I entered the hermitage the following day at my usual hour,
I presented my bouquet with a certain mournful solemnity. Sri
Yukteswar laughed at my woebegone air.
“Mukunda, has the Lord ever failed you, at an examination or
elsewhere?”
“No, sir,” I responded warmly. Grateful memories came in a revivifying
flood.
“Not laziness but burning zeal for God has prevented you from
seeking college honors,” my guru said kindly. After a silence, he
quoted, “‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness;
and all these things shall be added unto you.’” {FN23-4}
For the thousandth time, I felt my burdens lifted in Master’s
presence. When we had finished our early lunch, he suggested that
I return to the PANTHI.
“Does your friend, Romesh Chandra Dutt, still live in your
boardinghouse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get in touch with him; the Lord will inspire him to help you with
the examinations.”
“Very well, sir; but Romesh is unusually busy. He is the honor man
in our class, and carries a heavier course than the others.”
Master waved aside my objections. “Romesh will find time for you.
Now go.”
I bicycled back to the PANTHI. The first person I met in the
boardinghouse compound was the scholarly Romesh. As though his days
were quite free, he obligingly agreed to my diffident request.
“Of course; I am at your service.” He spent several hours of that
afternoon and of succeeding days in coaching me in my various
subjects.
“I believe many questions in English literature will be centered
in the route of Childe Harold,” he told me. “We must get an atlas
at once.”
I hastened to the home of my Uncle Sarada and borrowed an atlas.
Romesh marked the European map at the places visited by Byron’s
romantic traveler.
A few classmates had gathered around to listen to the tutoring.
“Romesh is advising you wrongly,” one of them commented to me at
the end of a session. “Usually only fifty per cent of the questions
are about the books; the other half will involve the authors’
lives.”
When I sat for the examination in English literature the following
day, my first glance at the questions caused tears of gratitude
to pour forth, wetting my paper. The classroom monitor came to my
desk and made a sympathetic inquiry.
“My guru foretold that Romesh would help me,” I explained. “Look;
the very questions dictated to me by Romesh are here on the examination
sheet! Fortunately for me, there are very few questions this year
on English authors, whose lives are wrapped in deep mystery so far
as I am concerned!”
My boardinghouse was in an uproar when I returned. The boys who
had been ridiculing Romesh’s method of coaching looked at me in
awe, almost deafening me with congratulations. During the week of
the examinations, I spent many hours with Romesh, who formulated
questions that he thought were likely to be set by the professors.
Day by day, Romesh’s questions appeared in almost the same form on
the examination sheets.
The news was widely circulated in the college that something resembling
a miracle was occurring, and that success seemed probable for the
absent-minded “Mad Monk.” I made no attempt to hide the facts of the
case. The local professors were powerless to alter the questions,
which had been arranged by Calcutta University.
Thinking over the examination in English literature, I realized
one morning that I had made a serious error. One section of the
questions had been divided into two parts of A or B, and C or D.
Instead of answering one question from each part, I had carelessly
answered both questions in Group I, and had failed to consider
anything in Group II. The best mark I could score in that paper
would be 33, three less than the passing mark of 36. I rushed to
Master and poured out my troubles.
“Sir, I have made an unpardonable blunder. I don’t deserve the
divine blessings through Romesh; I am quite unworthy.”
“Cheer up, Mukunda.” Sri Yukteswar’s tones were light and unconcerned.
He pointed to the blue vault of the heavens. “It is more possible
for the sun and moon to interchange their positions in space than
it is for you to fail in getting your degree!”
I left the hermitage in a more tranquil mood, though it seemed
mathematically inconceivable that I could pass. I looked once or
twice apprehensively into the sky; the Lord of Day appeared to be
securely anchored in his customary orbit!
As I reached the PANTHI, I overheard a classmate’s remark: “I
have just learned that this year, for the first time, the required
passing mark in English literature has been lowered.”
I entered the boy’s room with such speed that he looked up in alarm.
I questioned him eagerly.
“Long-haired monk,” he said laughingly, “why this sudden interest
in scholastic matters? Why cry in the eleventh hour? But it is true
that the passing mark has just been lowered to 33 points.”
A few joyous leaps took me into my own room, where I sank to my
knees and praised the mathematical perfections of my Divine Father.
Every day I thrilled with the consciousness of a spiritual presence
that I clearly felt to be guiding me through Romesh. A significant
incident occurred in connection with the examination in Bengali.
Romesh, who had touched little on that subject, called me back
one morning as I was leaving the boardinghouse on my way to the
examination hall.
“There is Romesh shouting for you,” a classmate said to me impatiently.
“Don’t return; we shall be late at the hall.”
Ignoring the advice, I ran back to the house.
“The Bengali examination is usually easily passed by our Bengali
boys,” Romesh told me. “But I have just had a hunch that this
year the professors have planned to massacre the students by asking
questions from our ancient literature.” My friend then briefly outlined
two stories from the life of Vidyasagar, a renowned philanthropist.
I thanked Romesh and quickly bicycled to the college hall.
The examination sheet in Bengali proved to contain two parts. The
first instruction was: “Write two instances of the charities of
Vidyasagar.” As I transferred to the paper the lore that I had so
recently acquired, I whispered a few words of thanksgiving that
I had heeded Romesh’s last-minute summons. Had I been ignorant of
Vidyasagar’s benefactions to mankind (including ultimately myself),
I could not have passed the Bengali examination. Failing in one
subject, I would have been forced to stand examination anew in all
subjects the following year. Such a prospect was understandably
abhorrent.
The second instruction on the sheet read: “Write an essay in Bengali
on the life of the man who has most inspired you.” Gentle reader,
I need not inform you what man I chose for my theme. As I covered
page after page with praise of my guru, I smiled to realize that
my muttered prediction was coming true: “I will fill up the sheets
with your teachings!”
I had not felt inclined to question Romesh about my course in
philosophy. Trusting my long training under Sri Yukteswar, I safely
disregarded the textbook explanations. The highest mark given to
any of my papers was the one in philosophy. My score in all other
subjects was just barely within the passing mark.
It is a pleasure to record that my unselfish friend Romesh received
his own degree CUM LAUDE.
Father was wreathed in smiles at my graduation. “I hardly thought
you would pass, Mukunda,” he confessed. “You spend so much time
with your guru.” Master had indeed correctly detected the unspoken
criticism of my father.
For years I had been uncertain that I would ever see the day
when an A.B. would follow my name. I seldom use the title without
reflecting that it was a divine gift, conferred on me for reasons
somewhat obscure. Occasionally I hear college men remark that
very little of their crammed knowledge remained with them after
graduation. That admission consoles me a bit for my undoubted
academic deficiencies.
On the day I received my degree from Calcutta University, I knelt
at my guru’s feet and thanked him for all the blessings flowing
from his life into mine.
“Get up, Mukunda,” he said indulgently. “The Lord simply found it
more convenient to make you a graduate than to rearrange the sun
and moon!”
{FN23-1} I must do Professor Ghoshal the justice of admitting
that the strained relationship between us was not due to any fault
of his, but solely to my absences from classes and inattention
in them. Professor Ghoshal was, and is, a remarkable orator with
vast philosophical knowledge. In later years we came to a cordial
understanding..
{FN23-2} Although my cousin and I have the same family name of
Ghosh, Prabhas has accustomed himself to transliterating his name
in English as Ghose; therefore I follow his own spelling here.
{FN23-3} A disciple always removes his shoes in an Indian hermitage.
{FN23-4} MATTHEW 6:33.