Relief or Redemption
The burden of man, the burden of the great soul — it
knows no bounds.
Rabindranath once wrote in his essay The Religion of Man: “Man feels, within and without, that he exists in the Infinite. It is only through conscious and deliberate union with that Infinite that he comes to know himself in truth. In communion with the outer world lies his growth; in communion with the inner world, his fulfillment.”
That immense burden — the burden of being human — is what gives rise to the act of relief. When a lion in the forest attacks a deer, rarely do the other deer rush to save the one under assault. But civilized man alone will run to help another man in distress. Perhaps this is the one profound distinction that sets humankind apart from the rest of creation.
And yet, even this distinction is slowly eroding. There is a Sanskrit proverb: Chakravart Parivartante — everything comes full circle. Primitive instincts, long suppressed, resurface anew. One writer even imagined the man of the future as a return to primitive nakedness. In his vision of the thirty-first century, at the zenith of mechanical civilization, man lives in a grotesque mechanized cave, his entire body covered with hair. He fights with ancient weapons, dwells in tribal clusters, wages war as in prehistory. Looking at that picture, one felt he had imagined the future of man with chilling accuracy — and with sound reason. It was no child’s fancy of science-fiction, but rather a grim suggestion that the great cycle of human civilization had come full circle. The modern man’s cruelty, his unnatural and inhuman instincts, almost seem to justify this possibility.
Recently a survey named a gentleman called Bill Gates the greatest donor in the world. By measure of sheer quantity, vast sums flow from him to voluntary organizations. It is said that his earnings are five hundred dollars per second — in Indian currency, nearly twenty-five thousand rupees.
And yet, beside this wealthy titan of philanthropy, let me recall the humble figure of Sukumar Chakraborty of Haren Mitra Lane. Sukumar works at a lathe machine factory, earning eighteen hundred rupees a month. Though forty-five, poverty has kept him unmarried. He bears alone the burden of an aged mother and an unemployed brother. And yet, in the midst of his meager life, Sukumar has made two great donations in three years: ten rupees to flood relief, and twenty-five rupees to aid the families of war martyrs. Gentle reader, compare these proportions — the ratio of Sukumar’s donation to his income, and that of Bill Gates. Judge for yourself: who is the greater philanthropist?
In our country, high-ranking officers of commercial houses often earn more per month than an average Swede. Yet Sweden’s per capita income is a hundred times that of India’s. If averages rule statistics in income, why should they not apply to philanthropy? By that reckoning, Sukumar’s donation far outweighs that of Bill Gates. And here arises the deeper question: the very glory of donation itself. The gulf between titular charity and human charity — and the danger that gulf conceals.
Man, being the most intelligent creature, is also capable of the strangest hypocrisies. His intelligence, many say, deserves to be called cunning. There are those who give not out of compassion but out of the vanity of display. Their donations are instruments of social prestige, of economic gain.
Let me illustrate. Long ago, I saw a photograph of Mother Teresa with a relative of mine — a businessman. At first I could not fathom why she had agreed to such a picture. Later I learnt that he had donated fifty thousand rupees to the Missionaries of Charity, and in return managed to have his family photograph taken with her. The purpose was not compassion, but to flaunt his connection before his circle, to elevate his stature. In today’s world, such subtle business instincts often lurk behind philanthropy.
When Pakistan, after the Gujarat earthquake, offered to send aid to India, it too was diplomacy wrapped in charity. When the youth wing of the Communist Party donated one lakh rupees, or when ministers surrendered a day’s salary for relief, it was the glitter of newspaper headlines they sought. Is it not absurd that a leader, whose daily expense to the exchequer runs into lakhs, donates a day’s pay and has it trumpeted across the press? A party that spends lakhs for a single rally — is its donation of a lakh to relief anything but farce?
Thus, in our country, relief has become a spectacle.
Compared to these self-advertised charities of so-called democratic parties, I would rather respect the quiet work of the RSS or Bharat Sevashram Sangha. In Gujarat, the RSS leapt into relief work without fanfare — truly praiseworthy. And yet, those who shout their own names in the name of relief will not allow praise for the genuine workers. On Doordarshan I saw residents of Bhuj praising the RSS, only for the telecast to be abruptly cut. Strange! Can truth be smothered thus? To acknowledge what is good, loudly and without fear — that is the true duty of man. For he who truly saves is not merely a reliever (trata) but a redeemer (paritrata). His charity is not mere relief, but redemption.
Meanwhile, the so-called First World looks upon the disaster of the Third World with curiosity and profit. After the earthquake, BBC and CNN were quick to criticize India’s relief system. These very nations come to trade here, to extract profit, but in our hour of need they are absent. For centuries they looted this land — exploitation became their second nature. They know too well that our parties and communities are too busy fighting each other, leaving their corporations to do business unchallenged. Now, a lakh of Indians perish in an earthquake, and the multinationals stand afar, offering token tarpaulin sheets, a few bananas, and loans from foreign banks at high interest. The newspapers shout of crores pouring in from abroad — but nowhere do they mention the debt we must repay, or the conditions attached: no new taxes on foreign companies.
It is like the arrogant elder brother who, when the younger is in distress, gives a handful of rice out of mere shame. Our media, instead of probing, spends its energy glorifying such foreign “relief.”
But those who labored silently, selflessly — the so-called “fascist” RSS volunteers in khaki shorts, the nameless Muslim youths who left their families to serve, the unknown non-resident Indians whose donations swelled government funds, the monks of Bharat Sevashram Sangha and the Ramakrishna Mission who risked their lives — only they were seen by the suffering masses.
As the false benefactors vanished, these monks carried on true redemption, quietly, tirelessly. While politicians boasted, humble men like Sukumar Chakraborty dropped unnoticed coins into the relief box, until the monks themselves were surprised at how full it grew. Those orange-robed men bore the offerings faithfully to the homeless, the hungry, the desolate beneath the open sky.
But here too arises a doubt: those who rattle the tins from door to door in the name of relief — are they all genuine? Or will those funds be diverted into election campaigns, the donated clothes resold on footpaths? Hence let us speak plainly: give not to political parties, but to the Ramakrishna Mission, to the Bharat Sevashram Sangha — so that your charity reaches the right hands.
When Swami Sanjib Maharaj of the Sevashram returned from Gujarat, I asked him: “Maharaj, amid such risk, with no food, no supplies, four months among ruins and suffering — what did you feel?”
He told me a tale. Four days after the quake, he and his volunteers, starving, exhausted, still searched the rubble for survivors. Through brick and stone they found only corpses. Then, past midnight, they heard a faint cry — the cry of a child. With lanterns and great caution, they dug on. After much effort, they found beneath the rubble a mother, long dead, her six-month-old baby still alive in her arms. The mother had clung to life for a day or two, shielding her child. Carefully they lifted the infant and placed her in the Swami’s arms. As he told me this, tears welled in his eyes. “That night,” he said, “when I held that child to my breast, I felt the greatest joy of my life — a joy beyond words.” The baby girl still lives, safe in a Sevashram home.
Hearing this story, I felt deeply: in the darkness of disaster, only man can hold the lamp for another man. And that lamp we call humanity.
For within man lies a burden — the burden of responsibility. In bearing it, he knows himself, and knows the truth of the world. In that truth lies his growth, his fulfillment. To feel responsibility for the afflicted, not out of vanity or display, not out of apathy either, but out of compassion and solidarity — this alone is man’s true duty.
Only man can redeem man.
Rabindranath once wrote in his essay The Religion of Man: “Man feels, within and without, that he exists in the Infinite. It is only through conscious and deliberate union with that Infinite that he comes to know himself in truth. In communion with the outer world lies his growth; in communion with the inner world, his fulfillment.”
That immense burden — the burden of being human — is what gives rise to the act of relief. When a lion in the forest attacks a deer, rarely do the other deer rush to save the one under assault. But civilized man alone will run to help another man in distress. Perhaps this is the one profound distinction that sets humankind apart from the rest of creation.
And yet, even this distinction is slowly eroding. There is a Sanskrit proverb: Chakravart Parivartante — everything comes full circle. Primitive instincts, long suppressed, resurface anew. One writer even imagined the man of the future as a return to primitive nakedness. In his vision of the thirty-first century, at the zenith of mechanical civilization, man lives in a grotesque mechanized cave, his entire body covered with hair. He fights with ancient weapons, dwells in tribal clusters, wages war as in prehistory. Looking at that picture, one felt he had imagined the future of man with chilling accuracy — and with sound reason. It was no child’s fancy of science-fiction, but rather a grim suggestion that the great cycle of human civilization had come full circle. The modern man’s cruelty, his unnatural and inhuman instincts, almost seem to justify this possibility.
Recently a survey named a gentleman called Bill Gates the greatest donor in the world. By measure of sheer quantity, vast sums flow from him to voluntary organizations. It is said that his earnings are five hundred dollars per second — in Indian currency, nearly twenty-five thousand rupees.
And yet, beside this wealthy titan of philanthropy, let me recall the humble figure of Sukumar Chakraborty of Haren Mitra Lane. Sukumar works at a lathe machine factory, earning eighteen hundred rupees a month. Though forty-five, poverty has kept him unmarried. He bears alone the burden of an aged mother and an unemployed brother. And yet, in the midst of his meager life, Sukumar has made two great donations in three years: ten rupees to flood relief, and twenty-five rupees to aid the families of war martyrs. Gentle reader, compare these proportions — the ratio of Sukumar’s donation to his income, and that of Bill Gates. Judge for yourself: who is the greater philanthropist?
In our country, high-ranking officers of commercial houses often earn more per month than an average Swede. Yet Sweden’s per capita income is a hundred times that of India’s. If averages rule statistics in income, why should they not apply to philanthropy? By that reckoning, Sukumar’s donation far outweighs that of Bill Gates. And here arises the deeper question: the very glory of donation itself. The gulf between titular charity and human charity — and the danger that gulf conceals.
Man, being the most intelligent creature, is also capable of the strangest hypocrisies. His intelligence, many say, deserves to be called cunning. There are those who give not out of compassion but out of the vanity of display. Their donations are instruments of social prestige, of economic gain.
Let me illustrate. Long ago, I saw a photograph of Mother Teresa with a relative of mine — a businessman. At first I could not fathom why she had agreed to such a picture. Later I learnt that he had donated fifty thousand rupees to the Missionaries of Charity, and in return managed to have his family photograph taken with her. The purpose was not compassion, but to flaunt his connection before his circle, to elevate his stature. In today’s world, such subtle business instincts often lurk behind philanthropy.
When Pakistan, after the Gujarat earthquake, offered to send aid to India, it too was diplomacy wrapped in charity. When the youth wing of the Communist Party donated one lakh rupees, or when ministers surrendered a day’s salary for relief, it was the glitter of newspaper headlines they sought. Is it not absurd that a leader, whose daily expense to the exchequer runs into lakhs, donates a day’s pay and has it trumpeted across the press? A party that spends lakhs for a single rally — is its donation of a lakh to relief anything but farce?
Thus, in our country, relief has become a spectacle.
Compared to these self-advertised charities of so-called democratic parties, I would rather respect the quiet work of the RSS or Bharat Sevashram Sangha. In Gujarat, the RSS leapt into relief work without fanfare — truly praiseworthy. And yet, those who shout their own names in the name of relief will not allow praise for the genuine workers. On Doordarshan I saw residents of Bhuj praising the RSS, only for the telecast to be abruptly cut. Strange! Can truth be smothered thus? To acknowledge what is good, loudly and without fear — that is the true duty of man. For he who truly saves is not merely a reliever (trata) but a redeemer (paritrata). His charity is not mere relief, but redemption.
Meanwhile, the so-called First World looks upon the disaster of the Third World with curiosity and profit. After the earthquake, BBC and CNN were quick to criticize India’s relief system. These very nations come to trade here, to extract profit, but in our hour of need they are absent. For centuries they looted this land — exploitation became their second nature. They know too well that our parties and communities are too busy fighting each other, leaving their corporations to do business unchallenged. Now, a lakh of Indians perish in an earthquake, and the multinationals stand afar, offering token tarpaulin sheets, a few bananas, and loans from foreign banks at high interest. The newspapers shout of crores pouring in from abroad — but nowhere do they mention the debt we must repay, or the conditions attached: no new taxes on foreign companies.
It is like the arrogant elder brother who, when the younger is in distress, gives a handful of rice out of mere shame. Our media, instead of probing, spends its energy glorifying such foreign “relief.”
But those who labored silently, selflessly — the so-called “fascist” RSS volunteers in khaki shorts, the nameless Muslim youths who left their families to serve, the unknown non-resident Indians whose donations swelled government funds, the monks of Bharat Sevashram Sangha and the Ramakrishna Mission who risked their lives — only they were seen by the suffering masses.
As the false benefactors vanished, these monks carried on true redemption, quietly, tirelessly. While politicians boasted, humble men like Sukumar Chakraborty dropped unnoticed coins into the relief box, until the monks themselves were surprised at how full it grew. Those orange-robed men bore the offerings faithfully to the homeless, the hungry, the desolate beneath the open sky.
But here too arises a doubt: those who rattle the tins from door to door in the name of relief — are they all genuine? Or will those funds be diverted into election campaigns, the donated clothes resold on footpaths? Hence let us speak plainly: give not to political parties, but to the Ramakrishna Mission, to the Bharat Sevashram Sangha — so that your charity reaches the right hands.
When Swami Sanjib Maharaj of the Sevashram returned from Gujarat, I asked him: “Maharaj, amid such risk, with no food, no supplies, four months among ruins and suffering — what did you feel?”
He told me a tale. Four days after the quake, he and his volunteers, starving, exhausted, still searched the rubble for survivors. Through brick and stone they found only corpses. Then, past midnight, they heard a faint cry — the cry of a child. With lanterns and great caution, they dug on. After much effort, they found beneath the rubble a mother, long dead, her six-month-old baby still alive in her arms. The mother had clung to life for a day or two, shielding her child. Carefully they lifted the infant and placed her in the Swami’s arms. As he told me this, tears welled in his eyes. “That night,” he said, “when I held that child to my breast, I felt the greatest joy of my life — a joy beyond words.” The baby girl still lives, safe in a Sevashram home.
Hearing this story, I felt deeply: in the darkness of disaster, only man can hold the lamp for another man. And that lamp we call humanity.
For within man lies a burden — the burden of responsibility. In bearing it, he knows himself, and knows the truth of the world. In that truth lies his growth, his fulfillment. To feel responsibility for the afflicted, not out of vanity or display, not out of apathy either, but out of compassion and solidarity — this alone is man’s true duty.
Only man can redeem man.
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