The Other Side of the Coin: Hidden Fatigue in Saints’ Lives

Introduction

Writing a life is never a simple task. The autobiographer risks the charge of egotism, while the biographer must judge another human being with incomplete knowledge. Between devotion and criticism, biography often becomes something else altogether: a narrative shaped as much by reverence as by historical truth. When the lives being written are those of saints and reformers, the temptation to turn history into hagiography becomes even stronger.

While drafting the first version of my autobiography, I often remind myself of a difficulty inherent in writing about one’s own life. The very act of narrating one’s story requires repeated use of “I,” “me,” and “my,” which easily invites accusations of self-importance. As the great scholar Pandurang Vaman Kane observed, an autobiographer who speaks frankly about himself may be accused either of egotism or of exhibitionism.¹

Yet biography is not free from its own problems. The biographer must judge a life, select what is significant, and inevitably shape the narrative according to his own perspective. As writer Elisabeth Elliot once remarked, writing a biography is an “awesome burden,” because every biography becomes a judgment not only upon the subject but also upon the writer and the world surrounding that life.²

These reflections came to mind while reading Biography as History: Indian Perspectives edited by Vijaya Ramaswamy and Yogesh Sharma. The essays in this volume remind us that biography is not merely storytelling; it is a historical method that reflects the cultural assumptions of its time.³

Biography, Autobiography, and the Indian Context

Modern readers often assume that biography and autobiography are Western imports into India. Yet the history of life-writing is far more complex. Scholars note that Indian traditions preserved lives through court narratives, religious biographies, and guru traditions long before modern historiography.⁴

At the same time, the Sanskrit intellectual tradition often avoided detailed personal narratives about its scholars. As noted in the translator’s introduction to The Last Brahmin, the tradition preserved the names of teachers and thinkers but rarely recorded sustained accounts of their lives, almost as if biography itself were deliberately erased.⁵

Because of this background, modern biographies of saints and reformers often slip easily into hagiography—celebratory narratives that highlight miracles and moral perfection rather than historical complexity. As historian Ranjeeta Dutta observes, even modern biographies that claim to be objective frequently draw upon earlier hagiographic traditions, blurring the boundary between history and devotional memory.⁶

The Question Raised by the Ramaswamy Volume

The essays in Biography as History illuminate precisely this tension. They show how life narratives can reveal broader social realities—caste conflict, political struggles, and intellectual debates—while at the same time concealing uncomfortable aspects of their subjects’ lives.

This problem becomes especially visible in the biographies of spiritual leaders.

Literary scholar Udaya Kumar, discussing the life of Narayana Guru, raises a penetrating question:

“What do these reverential biographies exclude?”⁷

The question is significant. Many biographies of saints carefully record their teachings and achievements but remain silent about moments of disappointment, conflict, or exhaustion.

When Saints Grow Tired

The life of Narayana Guru offers an interesting example. In 1926 he left Shivagiri Ashram and travelled to Tamil Nadu and later to Ceylon reportedly in a state of deep discontent. Yet reverential narratives rarely explore the reasons behind this discontent.

A similar human dimension appears in the later life of Swami Vivekananda. The world remembers the heroic monk who electrified the Parliament of Religions in Chicago. Yet his letters reveal moments of deep weariness.

Writing to Josephine MacLeod, he confessed:

“Work is always difficult. Pray for me, Joe, that my work ceases forever… Shiva! O Shiva! Carry my boat to the other shore.”⁸

Elsewhere he wrote:

“After all, I am only the boy who used to sit and listen to Ramakrishna… That is my true nature; work and activity are superimpositions.”⁹

In a letter to Sister Nivedita he even declared:

“I retire for good and devote the rest of my life to myself.”¹⁰

These words reveal a dimension often hidden in heroic biographies: the inner fatigue that sometimes accompanies a life of intense public mission.

Even Mahatma Gandhi, after years of political struggle, occasionally expressed a longing to withdraw from public life for deeper spiritual reflection.

Historians’ Caution

Several historians contributing to the Ramaswamy volume warn against turning biography into uncritical admiration.

Historian Aparna Basu argues that biographies should illuminate broader social issues rather than merely celebrate individuals.¹¹
Similarly, B. R. Nanda insists that sympathy for one’s subject must be balanced with historical accuracy.¹² Historian S. Muthaiah adds a pragmatic observation: even hagiographic writings may retain value if they preserve reliable facts—“facts sacred, comment free.”¹³

A Personal Reflection

Reading these reflections inevitably turns my thoughts inward.

After more than fifty years of active life with many responsibilities and struggles, I sometimes feel that the remaining years should be lived more quietly. This does not arise from frustration or fatigue but from recognizing a deeper need of life itself.

Like many seekers before me, I feel drawn toward a more inward existence—living quietly in my ashram, spending time in reflection, prayer, and solitude.

The Bhagavad Gita expresses this paradox beautifully:

“He who sees inaction in action and action in inaction is wise among humans; he alone is truly disciplined and accomplishes all work.” (Bhagavad Gita 4:18)

Conclusion

Biographies often present saints as tireless figures of moral strength. Yet if we read carefully—between the lines of letters, journeys, and silences—we sometimes discover another side of the coin: moments of fatigue, doubt, and longing for withdrawal.

Far from diminishing their greatness, these glimpses make their lives more human and therefore more meaningful.

Perhaps the lesson is simple: we should not swallow saints whole. Instead, we should look carefully at the human lives behind the legends.

Footnotes

1. Pandurang Vaman Kane, History of Dharmasastra, Epilogue, vol. V.
2. Elisabeth Elliot, Who Shall Ascend: The Life of R. Kenneth Strachan of Costa Rica (New York: Harper & Row, 1968), xi.
3. Biography as History: Indian Perspectives, ed. Vijaya Ramaswamy and Yogesh Sharma (New Delhi: Orient BlackSwan, 2009).
4. Andrew J. Nicholson, Unifying Hinduism (Permanent Black, 2011), 145.
5. Rani Siva Sankara Sarma, The Last Brahmin, trans. D. Venkat Rao (Permanent Black, 2012), 5–7.
6. Ranjeeta Dutta, From Hagiographies to Biographies (Oxford University Press, 2014), 23–24.
7. Udaya Kumar, essay in Ramaswamy and Sharma, Biography as History, 77.
8. Swami Vivekananda, letter to Josephine MacLeod, cited in Amiya P. Sen, Swami Vivekananda, 100.
9. Ibid.
10. Ibid., 101.
11. Aparna Basu, in Ramaswamy and Sharma, 271.
12. B. R. Nanda, in Ramaswamy and Sharma, 250–251.
13. S. Muthaiah, in Ramaswamy and Sharma, 254.