Raja Rao - The Serpent and the Rope

‘Can you find one?’ he asked me. Of course I know one. Who could be more helpful to me than good Georges? I often discuss my thesis with him, and I have read him bits of it. He does not say whether it would be suitable or not as a thesis: he is happy at my defence of Catholicism, and finds my logic inescapable. Here and there, however, he has suggested a few corrections. And then, somebody has to translate the whole text into French. I wonder whether Georges would do. Good Georges, of course, agrees. I must give it to him tomorrow.’

‘ 2. 4. 54. I roll and roll in my bed. Not that I am ill; no, I am not so ill. In fact the doctors are very satisfied with the state of my lungs; hardly any complications with my ribs or my chest, they say. I could, in fact, stay in Europe if I cared. But why should I? What is there to do? I think of Saroja. She is not happy, but she is settled. I think of Little Mother going and dipping in the Ganges every morning. And now, this year, with the Kumbha Méla and the sun in Capricorn, she must be very happy. Could I give Little Mother such joy if I were back? What can a poor Professor in Hyderabad do? At best I could take her on a pilgrimage once in two years. There is nobody to go to now: no home, no temple, no city, no climate, no age.

Kashwam koham kutha āyatha ka mē janani ko mē tātah?

Who are you and whose; whence have you come?

‘Wheresoever I am is my country, and I weep into my bed. I am ashamed to say I weep a lot these days. I go to bed reading something, and some thought comes, I know not what— thoughts have no names — or have they? — and I lie on my bed and sob. Sometimes singing some chant of Sankara, I burst into sobs. Grandfather Kittanna used to say that sometimes the longing for God becomes so great, so acute, you weep and that weeping has no name. Do I long for God? God is an object and I cannot long for him. I cannot long for a round, red thing, that one calls God, and he becomes God. It would be like that statue down the road. I asked someone there, “What is this statue, Monsieur?” He was surprised and said, “Why, it’s St Michel!” Since then I have known why this road here is called St Michel and that St Michel kills a dragon. Being a Brahmin I know about Indra and Prajapathi, but not about St Michel or St Denis. I will have to look into the Encyclopédie des religions. And that’s not too helpful either. God, in this Encyclopédie, has sixty-two pages, and they do not illuminate my need.’

‘5.4.54. No, not a God but a guru is what I need. “Oh Lord, my guru, my Lord,” I cried, in the middle of this dreadful winter night. It was last night; the winds of April had arisen, the trees of the Luxembourg were crying till you could hear them like the triple oceans of the goddess at Cape Comorin. “Lord, Lord, my guru, come to me, tell me; give me thy touch, vouch-safe,” I cried, “the vision of Truth. Lord, my Lord.”

‘I do not know where I went, but I was happy there, for it was free and broad like a sunny day and like a single broad white river it was. I had reached Benares — Benares. I had risen from the Ganges, and saw the luminous world, my home. I saw the silvery boat, and the boatman had a face I knew. I knew His face, as one knows one’s face in deep sleep. He called me, and said: “It is so long, so long my son. I have awaited you. Come, we go.” I went, and man, I tell you, my brother, my friend, I will not return. I have gone whence there is no returning. To return you must not be. For if you are, where can you return? Do you, my brother, my friend, need a candle to show the light of the sun? Such a Sun I have seen, it is more splendid than a million suns. It sits on a river bank, it sits as the formless form of Truth; it walks without walking, speaks without talking, moves without gesticulating, shows without naming, reveals what is Known. To such a Truth was I taken, and I became its servant, I kissed the perfume of its Holy Feet, and called myself a disciple.

‘This happened, this happened so long ago — Oh, as long ago as I have known myself be. Ever since being has known itself as being I have Known It. It is the gift that Yagnyavalkya made to Maiteryi, it is the gift Govinda made to Sri Sankara. It is the gift He made to me, my Lord. May I be worthy of the Lord. Lord, my Master! O thou abode of Truth.’

~

I go sometimes to see Catherine and Georges. While Georges corrects my manuscript, and puts it into the acuity, the brilliance of the French language, I often sit by little Vera, and speak to her my truth. For Vera, with her seven months, can understand more of it than I could ever make Georges accept. Truth is to be recognized when told — as the beauty of a flower is recognized. Truth has such a perfume too. When I go into Vera’s room she smiles, and her little eyes know who I am. She sees beyond me.

I am so happy with Vera that even when the maid is there I tell her, ‘Go to a cinema, enjoy yourself. I will look after the baby.’ And sometimes I sent Georges and Catherine away to see a play or go and hear music. They see that I am really happy, and they let me be with their daughter. And when I am alone I sing to Vera — I sing her Sankara and Bhartrhari, and tell her one day she shall know there is somewhere to go. For now I know the name of Him to whom I have to go, though I have always known Him without knowing His name. So to Travancore I will go, I tell Vera, ‘I will go there Vera, and think of you.’

Sometimes so deep is my joy that I dance about the room and sing of the Truth. I show His picture to Vera, for I have a picture now — and have bought his books too — and say, ‘Look, look, Vera, this is He! Can you see Him? It is He, the guru, my Lord.’

It was Georges, good Georges, who had originally taken me to the Rue de Boulainvilliers. ‘There are some Vedantins in Paris, too,’ he said. Would you like to meet them?’ I was happy. I met an Indian who knew me, and knew my family; he talked too much. But the Frenchmen and the Frenchwomen— and one or two English people as well, and an American — they all made a deep impression on me. That had been long before I went down south, soon after leaving London. I had carried His books to the Alps and had read them again and again. They convinced me, but I had to know.

Now, I think I know, but I must go, I must go to Travancore. I have no Benares now, no Ganga, no Jumna; Travancore is my country, Travancore my name. Lord, accept me, vouch that I be where I should. How can I ever, ever tell Georges? Will he understand? Would Madeleine, with her vajras and her chakras understand this simple, this ever-lit Truth? Truth indeed is He, the guru. No, He is beyond definition. He is, and you are not.

Now, when I am singing Sankara, how my eyes fill with tears, and I drop them on Vera. ‘Vera, do you see?’ I say, and cover her cheeks with my tears. I sing to her the Kanarese cradle-song I sang often to Sridhara:

The Swan is swinging the cradle, baby,

Saying ‘I am That’, ‘That I am’, quietly.

She swings it beautifully, baby,

Abandoning actions and hours.

Georges and Catherine went this evening to see Oberon.

‘What gorgeous scenery!’ Catherine said. ‘And how rich and appreciative the audience. But what was true a hundred years ago is true no more. Kings and queens have to talk differently, be different. The President of the Republic was there, and so was Prince George of Greece. But Paradise, Rama, the Paradise of Oberon…?’

‘All you need’s a donkey,’ said Georges, tired.

‘Come, I will make you some nice warm chocolate. Chocolate or coffee, my children?’ said Catherine, very happy.

‘The children being very wise,’ said Georges, ‘they will take chocolate.’