By The Body Of The Earth or The Sannyasin

Even if I Die

I believe I shall never cease to question those minute points, those mere little seconds which suddenly change the balance of things and sometimes the course of a whole life. The scales tilt a little to the left, imperceptibly, and it is done with, they will tilt more and more to the left. And if one watches them tilt, they will tilt ten times faster, as if the thought made all the weight. That day, I wondered what the difference would be without thought. Perhaps, that was what picked up the tragedy, as a radio picks up a wave? But what is it that makes us pick up that wave rather than another?... Björn was sitting on a mat near the window, in the little room of Meenakshi Lodge and he was going to take his first mouthful of rice; he put down his hand abruptly and said in a flat tone, staring straight ahead: “Why eat?” And that was all. From that moment he ate no more. He accepted only the tea that Balu brought him morning and evening and spent whole days looking at the ceiling of his monk-cell without speaking. He had become completely indifferent, he did not reply if I tried to talk to him and looked at Balu as if he were looking through him.

—He does not love me, it's himself he loves, Balu said to me.

And his eyes were full of tears.

Ten times I came back to that moment when Björn looked at the funeral-pyre on the lagoon: “That's where I'm going,” and a moment before, he had not even been thinking of it. It had simply come; he had caught something which was passing, looked at the picture and it was done. One may say that that second only crystallised... but crystallised what? And the second when I had left Mohini on that promontory crystallised what? Had the scales always been tilting to the left, simply, or was it only “waves which pass”, those little imperceptible breezes which vibrate, black like a snake's tongue or golden like a shower of pollen, sapphire blue, sometimes white, scintillating like diamond flashes, or like will-o'-the-wisps from another planet? And it came (or did not come) according to a mysterious correspondence with the colour of our inner landscape. Everything happens as if we were constantly attracting the circumstances or the accidents (perhaps the beings, too) corresponding to our inner degree, our soul-frequency, our landscape of darkness or of beauty... And suddenly, I seemed to perceive how. I had been able to sail ten thousand kilometres to that invisible beacon on a little white beach, drawn by a child with rose cowries. But Björn also had sailed ten thousand kilometres to this island and it was death he had encountered.

—Bah! a mere nothing...

I didn't even know whether he was addressing me; he was stretched out on a bath-towel and was looking at the wall in front of him. These were his first words in three days.

—...A mere nothing one burns to the sound of clarionets.

—You're mad!

He saw the picture... I too. I was torn between anger and pain.

—No, not a mere nothing Björn, an enormous thing one burns. A huge corpse which fills your whole head.

He started, closed his eyes. Then he turned back towards the wall without a word. I was wrong, yes, now he would continue to the bitter end, to justify himself, to justify that absurd second when he had stopped eating—he was not eager to die, oh no! but he had started, so he would continue, that was all. And if I had pitied him, he would have turned, to the wall just the same and have continued to the end, to justify my pain. In any case, there had to be a corpse, as big as possible because the other did not want to die, the absurd little thing which believed itself to be Björn.

He turned back to me and looked at me with a mixture of of hate and suffering.

—What do you want me to do, Nil? Even if I wanted, I have no more money to go away. And then there's Nisha... I'm trapped like a rat.

He struck the ground with his fist.

—There is nothing left, Nil. I see nothing in front of me, there is no path, it is as though the path had vanished... Before, there was a path. Do you know where it is, this path, you who are so clear?

I did not know what to reply. I knelt down beside him.

—Björn...

I looked at him, that Björn who wanted to die and I was overwhelmed by all that human pity which can do nothing, which knows nothing, that immense pity which simply looks on, oh! one day, in the depths of my being—I do not know where or when—I looked once and for all at that procession of the dead under a burning sky and I swore that it would never be—never again.

Then I cut the moorings. And instantly I felt lifted above myself, looking down on. that monk-cell, on Björn, on those bodies, on that island, and saw with an almost heart-rending clarity the fantastic futility of those little fellows, there in a cell to the north of the village, on a piece of island sailing at some ninety thousand kilometres an hour round a sun, in the Bay of Bengal, on a great blue sea strewn with stars, somewhere between Mars and Venus, destruction and love, its two sisters... And then what?... We die and others come—who will remember? what does it matter? We last less than a stone, less than a crow. Oh! I saw that so clearly one day, on a station platform and I left that pilgrim there on the platform, in front of a street-fountain which crumbled down. What does a pilgrim matter, or what he thinks and feels, who will remember? No one, not even he himself... So I forgot to look at the name of the paths, the name of the islands, of the stations, I have even forgotten the name of that pilgrim, and I have ceased to look at those paths which went no further than a look, even ceased to look at that look which went no further than itself, and when I had forgotten everything, the path shone everywhere and my seconds lasted the life of a bird.

Yes, but the misery is always there, underneath.

—Björn...

Nothing came out. I thought I heard the Sannyasi's voice: “A formidable wall... as thick as a sheet of rice-paper.” But I did not feel like laughing.

The days passed, I did not know what to do. He had become alarmingly thin, he had attacks of vomiting. And the monsoon still did not come.

The monsoon did not come.

—And what if I became mad? he said to me one morning.

I looked at him without a word. That too had entered, was chosen, accepted. It was part of the picture. There was nothing to do but to wait for the second when he would make a queer gesture, and he would continue his gesture simply because he had begun it. Where is the madman who has not chosen his madness—chosen deliberately—one fine day? Oh! I know how it happens. Is there a single illness, a single accident, that we have not chosen one fine day, simply because it was passing in the air? But what click inside had responded, where did the tragedy begin, the minute little thing which caught the wave—that wave and no other? “One opens up paths”... Perhaps one had simply to cut the contact, rise above, into another room, another wave? We have death-chambers, agony-chambers, desire-packed lofts, cellars full of atrocious beasts—intimate hypogeums, execrable sanctuaries which keep all their accumulated sorcery like a dark womb of perdition. But there is also the clear room. We must change rooms, we must open up the pretty path!

—Björn!

He opened one eye.

—Stop thinking about it!

He did not move. His eyes remained obstinately fixed on the ceiling.

A noise like a cavalcade resounded in the corridor.

Balu rushed into the cell, a thermos-flask in his hand, his lock of hair tousled.

—He is there, a man from your country, don't listen to him, Björn! Don't listen to him, he is going to hurt you.

Björn straightened up. Balu knocked down the thermos-flask, which broke into splinters. The tea ran all over the place.

—From my country?

A fellow entered. Impeccable white trousers, loosened neck-tie, sweat-drenched shirt.

—It's hot in your country...

Björn clutched the wall, he was as white as a sheet.

—I see...

The man looked around the monk-cell with an air of disgust.

—A friend of yours wrote to me—excuse me, let me introduce myself: Hans Petersen, attaché at the Norwegian Consulate. A certain Guruji...

Björn looked like a cornered animal. Balu was standing beside him, his fists clenched, ready to pounce on the man at the slightest movement.

—He said you were in grave danger, ill, without money, a Norwegian, that it was necessary...

I distinctly heard Björn swear: “Swine, he has betrayed me.”

—We have to repatriate you. I have come to fetch you.

There was a deathlike silence. I saw. Björn's heart beating between his ribs as if it would burst. Beads of sweat formed on his lips.

Then with a brusque movement he straightened up against the wall, his fists on his hips.

—I'm staying.

The man gave a sudden start.

—But look... after all you're not going to remain in this hovel!

He glanced at me.

—This... This country of savages. I shall advance you the whole cost of the journey; I shall have you treated free of charge by our doctor.

—I'm staying, Björn repeated quietly.

—It's my duty to watch over you. If need be...

—If need be?

Björn stood straight against the wall, his face was transfigured—yes, it was Prince Björn.

—But what are you doing here?

—You cannot understand.

—I understand that you are a sick man and I want to bring you back to your common sense, back home.

—Common sense?

I saw Björn clench his fists.

—I mean, the normal life. In a normal country.

—I don't want your normal country.

—But, I say...

—I don't want your life, I don't want your common sense, I don't want...

Balu went and pressed himself against Björn and put his hand on his shoulder.

—I don't want your normal prison.

—Really? First of all you need treatment. And what are you seeking here?

Björn closed his eyes for a moment. I saw the man lean forward.

—I no longer know...

He took Balu's hand.

—I no longer know. But I do know that I don't want your world any more. I want another life, a truer life, a truer world; and even if I die here, even if it's a dream, even if I am mad, I believe more in my dream than in your civilised barbarism.

The man turned red. Then I went and stood on the other side of Björn. He looked at the three of us.

—I can use pressure, you know... I can get you expelled, repatriated officially.

—Go away.

—But...

—Get out!

The man pulled his jacket tight over his chest, and turned to go out.

—I shall make my report.

His leather heels clicked in the corridor.

Björn slipped to the ground. He was stammering, beating his fist:

—Even if I die, even if I die, even if I die... Même si je meurs...

Yet I thought that Björn would be saved.

Everything was arranged as if by chance. At Meenakshi's that morning, two pilgrims spoke of a “Japanese Hospital” fifty miles away on the mainland. My plan was made; I was going to take Björn away. The vicious circle had to be broken, it was simple—or so I thought. Moreover those Japanese were supposed to effect “nature cures”; exactly what would be needed. A train was leaving at 9h 30.

But... what about Batcha?