When in Goa, in 1892, standing firm, absorbed in meditation, with his eyes fixed on the Mandovi’s flow, he said, “My destiny tells me I shall not return to this land in this lifetime.”
October 30, 1892. Winter had just begun. A buggy moved along Campo de Manuel (today’s Campal) Street and halted at a quiet bend on the Mandovi Riverbank. A radiant young monk, calm yet intense, stepped out of the buggy. Two dignitaries accompanied him and respectfully led him to the edge of the river. Across the water, over the island of Diwadi, the rising sun cast a soft, golden veil over the slow flow of the Mandovi. In the riverbed, anchored Indian vessels, such as galbats and fatemaris, unloaded goods, while Arab dhows with folded sails offered frankincense and baskets of dates from Hadramaut, Yemen, for sale. This scene evoked memories of an older, civilisational river.
“Swamiji,” one of the dignitaries from Margao accompanying him said, “This is our river Mandovi — the mother of Panjim, our Cidade de Goa.” A crowd gathered at a distance from the scene. No one dared approach. The nearby Portuguese military barracks imposed an unspoken restraint. Swami Vivekananda stood silently, gazing out at the river for a long time. His face was filled with emotion. When he spoke, his voice was low, but firm. “Brothers,” he said, “this is not merely a river. This is the soul of the Gomantbhoomi. You can only see the present. I see its past — and I see its future as well.”
A man stepped forward hesitantly and lifted his cap. “Swamiji, if you can see the future of this river, tell me — I earn my living here by fishing and setting nets. Will there be abundance in the days to come?” Swamiji smiled gently. “Brother, before you ask about fish, ask about the fate of the river itself.” Before he could say more, one of the dignitaries urged him to move on, citing a long schedule. However, Swamiji stood firm, absorbed in meditation, with his eyes fixed on the Mandovi’s flow. “My destiny tells me I shall not return to this land in this lifetime,” he said slowly. “Let me therefore remember this moment — this place where I stand today. This is my first and last visit. I bow to you, O Mother Mandovi.”
He folded his hands in prayer and bowed his head in reverence. “O Mother,” he continued, “Your children ask me of your future. In your flow, I see the flow of history. I see joy and sorrow together, and good and evil intertwined. I see people struggling for life, drowning, and crying for help. I hear their helpless cries.” The audience listened in silence. “I see great structures rising above you,” Swamiji went on, “and I see them collapsing suddenly into your waters, a whole bridge crashing. I see dazzling lights that blind the night. I see reverence performed upstream — lamps waved in worship — while filth is poured into you below. I see contradictions that weaken the soul of a society.” He paused to catch his breath as he spoke.
By this time, a large crowd had gathered. News had spread through the town market that a Bengali monk dressed in a flowing robe was speaking to people on the banks of the Mandovi. “What more do you see, Swamiji?” someone asked. “My inner eye now sees floating platforms,” Swamiji said gravely. “I see hundreds of gamblers throwing dice endlessly. Money changes hands in a frenzy. Intoxication is mistaken for freedom. Pleasure is confused with progress. Scenes I thought I would witness only in distant lands — yet I see them here, upon your waters. “The unease in the crowd deepened. “Is this what your children will accept in the name of prosperity?” he asked. “I see Mother Mandovi stripped of dignity, like Draupadi in the court of gamblers. Dice were cast in ancient times, brothers, and every civilisation that glorified gambling paid a heavy price. Will you allow your river to become a stage for moral surrender? “Fear spread through the gathering. “She tells me,” Swamiji continued, “that she will endure silently for a while. However, when her patience is exhausted, she strikes back. She will give rise to afflictions that have never been seen before. She reclaims what is hers. She will rise not as a gentle mother but as Durga, Jagdamba, and Bhadrakali. Those who profane her will find no refuge from her wrath. “One man gathered the courage to ask, “Swamiji, we already suffer under subjugation.” What greater punishment could there be? “Swami Vivekananda looked at him steadily and said: “The greatest punishment,” he said, “Is when free people choose greed and degradation willingly — when they defend it, profit from it, and grow numb to its consequences. To tolerate moral decay in the name of livelihood or revenue is the deepest form of slavery.
“Once again, he bowed to the Mandovi. The sun had risen high. Swami Vivekananda rose, smiled gently, and turned towards the buggy. A small child ran forward and offered him a flower. Swamiji lifted the child high in his arms. The crowd burst into chants: “Swami Vivekanandaji ki Jai!” The buggy moved away. And I awoke suddenly. It was a dream. However, I am unsure because our dreams combine the past, present, and future in a complex manner. Indeed, Swamiji toured North Goa and visited Panjim during his week-long stay in Margao. Yet on this 163rd birth anniversary of Swami Vivekananda, standing today on the same riverbank amid public indignation against floating casinos on the Mandovi, I see the dream refuse to fade away. Some warnings are not prophetic. They are mirrors held up to societies that must decide whether to listen or gamble with their future.
(Nandkumar M Kamat, who has a doctorate in microbiology, is a scientist and science writer)
