By The Body Of The Earth or The Sannyasin

The Return of Things

From dawn, I waited for her near the small sanctuary, our meeting place. The sea was as still as a lake; the dunes were floating over the darkness. But my heart was not at peace; I was making plans, I willed, I did not will; I was no longer borne by the current, I had “to do” something. In fact, everything had started the day I had put that tilak on her forehead, as if I had touched a tiny spring there which had changed the whole course of things; and I wonder if these trivialities which seem to set in motion consequences disproportionate to their size are not traces of the past that one stumbles upon inadvertently and which suddenly awaken a whole lost history, like the stray stone which leads to the ruins of El Amarna. But we do not believe in signs, we do-not believe in the lost ruins of our private Egypts, and-we go hither and thither like puppets taken by surprise. And I also was going without knowing, I wanted to “do” something, but what? I had wanted to “do” something for Björn as well, I had “saved” him in that Japanese Hospital, I had “freed” him from that Tantric, and each time I had zigzagged straight into the trap. Oh! we are really marionettes—and what else was I going to do?... I could not very well stay in this village and beg from door to door?... Or marry a girl like Batcha one day and become a sculptor like Bhaskar-Nath? ... And then procreate a lot of little Nils, all white, who would start all over again.—Ah! no.

And that “no” was as irreducible as stone; I could see myself again in that forest of Gul Mohur trees, running like a hunted animal, lashed by the rain, stung by the sand, and that carpet of red flowers: freedom, freedom, the Laurelbank, and no nonsence!... And no matter what plan or detour I made, I always arrived at that same hard inexorable point which seemed to cry out no and yes at the same time, freedom, freedom... As if the purest force and the most implacable enemy were hidden in the same box. Until the end I will never cease to wonder about this total ambivalence: when one touches the supreme password, the devil raises his head immediately, as if our most powerful ideal conceals our most powerful enemy also. That is the knot of hardness—it is the union of the two. And sometimes everything gives way, one is borne by the current, there is no longer any hardness anywhere; it is another force which does not arouse opposites. Then everything begins again on a higher level. And it is always the same thing, in all forms, behind all faces, in all beings, the same little induration that returns again and again, more powerful and more tenacious from cycle to cycle, as if it had inherited all the force of past truths. And perhaps it was the residue of the cycles, a kind of white dross—for it is not obscure, not dark, on the contrary; it is a point of intense light, but hard. The supreme hardness of good. Destiny is perhaps only the moment of dissolution of the dross? And in that rising, emerald dawn, I remembered the story of Batcha: of her supreme god who forgot his wealth and went begging from door to door, blessing the gods and the devils in the same box!

She arrived in the midst of the sound of conch-shells and gongs. She was so slender on that big beach, in her long pomegranate-coloured skirt; she advanced slowly, clasping her tray of offerings in her arms with the gravity of a priestess. My heart leapt, I ran towards her; everything was swept away, simple, smooth like the beach. She did not say anything, she just looked at me. For a moment I thought I was in front of Mohini with her tray of offerings in her arms, that same immobile look in the midst of the rose pottery. Then she mounted the steps of the little sanctuary and disappeared. I would have liked to follow her, to be with her, to burn incense with her, I don't know, do as she did, enter into her world; and everything was so clear that morning, the faintest sound of a conch-shell resounded against the dunes, the chanting ran over the beach like a great wave of bronze; I too, would have liked to offer some flowers, make a gesture, any gesture, merge into the rite, let myself be carried on the great wave, find the thread again—simply worship, for nothing, as one breathes.

I closed my eyes to find her again; I knew how... she had taught me; it was enough to lean forward a little, silently, as one leans over a river, and flow gently into her. I tried... I came up against Björn: he was there, his eyes haggard, showing me something that terrified him; I pushed him aside... I fell upon Mohini. She said nothing, she had big, vacant eyes, she was looking straight ahead of her, standing on a rock. I pushed her aside also. And I could not find Batcha, everything was blurred by those shadows. Then the Sannyasi sprang up suddenly, his staff in his hand, his arms extended like a cross, he wanted to block my path... Here, there was a blank. I forgot. And each time, it was like a wave enveloping me with a grasping, sticky, gluey world, from which I had to extricate myself, as if each being represented a special prison, a more or less dark actinia which was swallowing me: I was advancing towards Batcha as with a machete in a jungle.

Then everything became very calm; I began to descend, to plunge into something very sweet and soft, as if I were going to pass into another, but deeper expanse. And they were not at all paths with which I was familiar; it was not the great blue-hued expanse where one meets the whole world, it was more intimate, of another colour, of another quality, as yet indefinable; and it was not “that” either, up there, immense and white, luminous, where everything is free, where there are no more questions, no more people. It was something else, another degree of “that”, all enveloped and warm. And it began to take on a faintly rose blush, oh! it was so exquisitely smooth,—and Batcha was leading me gently, I could almost feel her cool little hand; it was like slipping into a well of tenderness, I was on the brink of something... And then, brutally, the Sannyasi sprang up like a flame, caught me by the arm, drew me upwards.

I opened my eyes. The beach was like a torrent of light. There was a cavalcade of dark clouds to the south-east.

If I could have rejoined Batcha at that moment, if only I had been able to follow the tiny strip of path she had wanted to show me, it is probable that none of what took place later would have happened... I know my words seem enigmatic, but I am going step by step into the miraculous forest and each time I skim the secret a little more—little glints of secret. That morning I almost touched the secret: a law which could completely change the course of human lives if only we could understand it—it has taken me twenty years to undersand—penal servitude, a virgin forest and a few despairs. But I have descended so deeply into the misfortune of men that the light was given to me one day, as a grace, a pure grace, and I saw this: all outer roads seem to be doubled by an inner road, and the obstacles, the obscurities, the accidents that we have not overcome on the inner road come back to us on the outer road, but a road infinitely harder, longer and more relentless, because it swallows up a whole life for one, single little experience which one day makes us say “ah!”—that is all. A very tiny ah! of surprise. In fact, we are the representations of a drama enacted within and one single victory on the invisible roads can gain a whole life or even several.

And perhaps there is not only one degree of representation on a small inner road but several degrees which fit into each other like a series of concentric circles, on roads which become longer and longer, harder and harder and much more obscure as one goes farther away from the centre; and every time one can pass over to a more inner circle, to a more and more correct, truer and purer representation of the eternal multi-degreed drama, one gains the power not only to live better and to see better, but to modify the law of the outer degrees and to refashion the whole of life according to the new vision—for, to see more truly is to live more truly—until the day when, having reached perhaps the eternal centre, we can illuminate this Matter with a divine look and make the most external world an untravestied representation of the eternal Joy which conceived it.

And that small strip of road which I did not follow that morning, it took me years to cover and a great agony.

—Oh! Batcha, there you are...

—An'mona! An'mona!

She shook out her skirt, threw her arms up in the air, pirouetted and dropped to the, ground with a burst of laughter. Then she pulled her skirt carefully over her toe-tips and leaned against a column of the peristyle.

—You are not angry?

—Angry?

She opened her eyes very wide; she had such enormous eyes, that child, like the offering-bearers of the Nile. She had the antiquity of beings who live in their soul,—and their smile.

—What do you think, that I am angry with myself?

She looked at me, I winced—every time, I winced—as if I were afraid.

—Björn is dead.

—Yes.

So she knew.

—Balu has been ill since yesterday. He has a fever; he was delirious the whole night, he cried out...

What?

She hesitated a moment. She became serious.

—Things... He wanted to open a door. There was a door that had to be opened. And he was looking for his sabre, to open the door. And then he could not find his sabre, so he was weeping.

—And then?

—Nothing.

—Yes, speak.

She shook her head. There was nothing to be gotten out of her.

—I was nearby, Batcha, and I did not even know that his door was locked... Oh Batcha! you know why he left? He used to prostrate himself here before the sun, “how beautiful life is!...” I no longer know, Batcha, I no longer understand anything.

She leaned towards me.

—What is it you no longer understand?

—Nothing, what to do.

—But you are with me, so...?

She pointed to the beach: one had only to play, it was simple.

—I no longer know, Batcha. Sometimes, I. think I understand, it's wide open, it's vast; and then I open my eyes and I no longer understand anything, I strike against things, I make mistakes... Batcha, where is the secret, there's something I don't understand; I have found only half the secret. Batcha, I have made a mistake; there's something missing!

She looked at me intensely, and I do not know what she understood, but Batcha always understood, she was never mistaken.

—Have you had any breakfast this morning

I was taken aback.

—Yes... no.

—Ah! you see, it's yes and then it's no. But you must know; you will fall ill if you go on like that.

She jumped to another subject.

—Yesterday, the birds arrived on the lagoon. The birds come straight onto the lagoon from far, far away, over there, and they make their nests on the lagoon, without mistake.

—But I am not a bird!

—You come from far away also, straight, so then?

—But...

The birds do not say “but”... Les oiseaux ne disent pas mais.

—But what must I do?

She heaved a sigh.

—But you are doing something! What are you doing here, tell me?

—I wonder.

She smiled, and there was a kind of tenderness in her eyes:

—You have not yet arrived on the lagoon. The waters of the lagoon are shining. Perhaps you have come to be born on the lagoon!

—Oh Batcha! you are talking nonsense.

She stretched out her arm and pointed to the clouds far away in the south-east.

—And the clouds, do they talk nonsense?... They let fall their drops and there you are, it's the rain... et puis voilà, c'est la pluie.

She laid her cheek on her knees.

I do not say “but”
I am the drop which falls
I am the spring which flows...

Her plait was touching the ground—she was so beautiful that morning!

I gather the cloud drops
I go with the rhythm
I listen to the sound within...

—But look, Batcha...

And I sing while there is yet time

—... All that is very pretty, but one can't be expected to spend one's whole life like that, on a beach, looking at the clouds! I am no longer a child!

—No?... One can't? How silly you are! One does not remain “like that”: one travels. Do you at least know how to travel?... I know some countries, you know some countries, we are travelling together.

She raised her head suddenly.

—Toujours ensemble, toujours ensemble... Always together, always together. Together here, there and in all the worlds!

She said that so forcefully, looking straight into my eyes, as if she were challenging me, like Bhaskar-Nath. Then she laughed.

—You are Mr. Nothing-at-all, so what can you do!

And she began to sing such a pretty song. I would like to be able to repeat every word of that singing tongue, it was so simple, so limpid, a kind of flowing obviousness. And all my questions did not exist any more.

Over the dunes from here
Over the dunes from there
Our steps go together
Our isles are travellers
Then the wind
Over the great sands of the world
Blows my song away
Blows my images away
But I am forever,
I leave, still I am
With other eyes
And other faces
And I look
On the isles over here
On the isles over there
At the rose cowries on a white little beach
At the pretty wave that flows from life to life
At the beautiful never-ending story

Everything was so simple with Batcha, almost eternal. There was nothing to do, nothing to find! It was there, and all was found for us. We were two children on the steps of that small temple, and we were walking up above as well, on sands of light, on an island which never dies, and it was like that, always like that, infinitely like that, without reason, without cause, without ever an accident, like a game. And perhaps it was enough to allow the image from above to flow into the one below. Then every gesture became right and life flowed like a fountain.

—Batcha, sometimes I have the impression that life goes far, far back, with the sound of conch-shells and gongs, like your song, and one has always been, always been, and one will still be and for always; that life goes far, far in front also, that we shall always be, also, in other bodies—bodies of light, changing and colourful bodies, always more beautiful,—and that life slowly brings to us our dreams like these birds... But it is far away in front. Oh Batcha! we are in a sorry plight.

—Why sorry?

—There are still too many nasty things inside.

She gave a start.

—Oh Nil! you destroy everything!

She said this in such a heart-broken tone. And it was a fact that from that very moment, everything took a wrong turn, like on the day I had put that tilak on her forehead.

—You invoke the nasty things.

—No indeed! I don't invoke them, they are there. Last night... Again I had a horrible dream. I saw that man again near a fire, you know that man... And then I was wandering in a forest, I was frantically seeking someone... I don't know who it was—but it was “her”. It returns again And again—someone I am seeking desperately as if I had lost my life. Perhaps it is the memory of the past?

—Well, I see pretty things. It is perhaps the memory of the future!

She looked surprised for a moment.

—It was a road on the sea, a long, long road; you know, as when the moon rises, it makes a path on the sea, like that, almost rose, and it moves like little fish. I felt so nice, it was so pleasant! And you were there also, but behind. You were moving very slowly. And then we arrived in a country I did not know. From then on, I don't remember any longer, there were many things, but at one moment, there seemed to be two roads...

She remained awhile with upturned nose.

—On the left it went far away, into the distance, and there was a mountain over there, the colour of... gerua, you know, orange. The road was also orange. I turned to the right and there was a big park, very green, with peacocks everywhere, many peacocks of all sorts of colours: blues, whites, one golden, completely golden, and I was showing them to you, I was saying: Come, come, look how pretty they are, they are crying “victory”! But you did not hear, you looked preoccupied. Ah! yes, and then there was a zebra! Only one zebra with black stripes, and also a great rock which plunged into the sea...

Her face suddenly became clouded.

—No; I saw an ugly thing also.

—What?

—Nothing.

—But tell me!

It was useless, she was as stubborn as a mule.

—But Batcha, I must do something, musn't I, I am not going to stay here for the rest of my life just listening to songs, no?

—No?

She looked perplexed for a moment.

—You are big, you could be a school-master

—What!

She looked disconcerted, almost panicky suddenly.

—You aren't going away, are you?

—Don't be silly!

—Then what do you want?

—...

—But what's the matter with you, Nil, it seems very dark around you. What's the matter, what did you do in that hospital? Somebody has changed you. Did they hurt you?

—No, of course not!

—Then why do I get knocks? This morning also, I got a knock, look.

She pulled up her skirt a little and showed me her ankle. She looked nervously to the right and left. There was a glittering heat haze over the whole beach; the air seemed dense with heat.

—Come Nil, let's go home, the monsoon is coming.

—Home, where? I have no home.

She looked at me, dumbfounded.

—But what's the matter with you, Nil? You are the son of the house; Appa said so!

—Are you afraid of the rain?

She remained motionless for an instant, her hands joined together between her knees as if she were trying to calm herself.

—I don't know Nil... I love the rain very much, I dance in the rain, but today... I don't know, I'm not at peace.

Then she cried out:

—Nil, you are not going away?

—But, look here Batcha, didn't I say no!

—Come, let's go home.

The sea was perfectly smooth like a sheet of mercury. There was not a bird in the sky.

—Let's go home, I tell you, it's going to be too late.. il va être trop tard.

—...

—Nil, you are no longer the same. You are hard, you are completely closed, something is surrounding you.

—Why? Because I don't want to be a school-master?

She became pale as if I had slapped her.

—Oh! Nil...

Then she gave up. She did not struggle any more. She opened her hands on her knees.

—You see, she said softly pointing to the beach, when I called you in my dream, it was a light like that.

—What dream?

—Here, the first day, when you came out of the temple: you became smaller and smaller and the sand was shining like water...

She looked so defenceless—I was ashamed. And I could not understand why I was so exasperated. Things seemed to clash everywhere.

Then a gust of wind swept over the beach; the sea became leaden.

—But what's the matter, Batcha? What did I do, why are things clashing?

She said no more; she simply looked at me, her hands clasped between her knees, and her look sank deeper and deeper into my heart, so luminous, so clear, almost unbearably sweet—and the deeper it entered, the more it became knotted inside, as if, right in the depths, there were something which refused, which said no—no to what? I don't know. It was I-do-not-want. A point of absolute rebellion.

—All the same, you don't want me to settle down here as a school-master, do you? And then what? Make little children on the beach...

—Oh! Nil...

Tears rolled down her cheeks. I felt absurd; I was like an angry beast.

—It's not that, Nil, not that... pas ҫa, Nil, pas ҫa, there is something else...

She was stammering; she was like a poor wounded bird pressed against that pillar.

—I want to be free, you understand.

—Free, she murmured without understanding.

And there was such a sadness in that look. I almost yielded, almost took her in my arms and pressed her against my heart. For one second I hesitated. And then it was too late. I saw her eyes widen; she became as white as a corpse, she was looking at something behind me. I turned around.

—Hey, boy...

He was standing there against the dunes, his staff in his hand, his flame-coloured robe, his teeth shining as though he were about to laugh again. And then that mahogany-coloured skin standing out against that blinding mist.

—Let's be on our way, it's time... En route, c'est l'heure.

He raised his head defiantly, then turned his back and went away towards the dunes. I got up like a tin-man. For an instant, my eyes lingered on that pale little face which was looking at me with a kind of stupefaction, on those widened eyes, on that red tilak in the middle of her forehead. Everything broke over me like a tempest; Bhaskar-Nath was dinning into my ears: “It is as you will”. But what could I will! There was nothing to will: it was all willed, decided in advance. I was caught, swept along by a force greater than my own, calm, imperturbable, which rolled things along like a straw and cast off lives with a shrug of the shoulder, like a coat one takes off. He had said “it's time” and it was time. It was evident. That is all.

I took the path through the dunes behind him. The sand shone like a sea. Little crabs ran about in all directions. And suddenly, I cried out with pain. I turned around. I saw two eyes flaming with anger and Batcha running over the dunes, her red skirt clutched in her hands. She had pinched my arm till it turned red, just like a little girl.

Then the monsoon broke, gigantic, thundering, hot like a sulphur-bath.

And everything vanished behind a veil.