M@ilbox, p.8
M@ilbox, page 8
sweeper, whom he likes to hug, that is Fraternity, not show business.
Real politics!
Safety, Conformity, Solidarity. Don't you see, my dear heart, we're
post-modernists, and despite our ennui we will be able to film the constant yawns of our offspring with our credit-enabled camcorder.
Kev
From:
Date: Sat 17/3/23 :26
To:
Cc:
Subject: Conversation in the cave
We are caught in the black monsoon. We are bogged down in red mud
from the wheels to our boots, and the bottoms of our trousers are heavy with clay and water.
The car is once again at a halt, and the rain is falling in huge, heavy, hot drops. We're stuck here and the driver has gone off in a light rickshaw to find a tractor to drag us out of the slimy rut which has brought us to a standstill. The rain hammered down incessantly on the roof of the Ambassador in a constant clatter. The hot humid air, already saturated, could not absorb the humidity of our sighs, which deposited a mist of droplets trickling down the windscreen and the windows. Legs out-stretched, we chatted to kill the time, in the close, mud-bound Ambassador, encircled by water falling and running in colourful torrents.
"We are in the cave shelter protecting us from the hostile elements, just like our long-gone ancestors who would wait for the return of the sun before going back to the hunt."
"We are prisoners, in a locked cell, a cramped humid cell, and we are waiting out our sentence."
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"The cave protects us from Nature. Our rear covered by a rocky wall, we watch the outside and the wild beasts, we await the return of the hunters."
"The cell cocoons us and reassures us about the outside which is in constant change. Protected by our walls, we peer through the mist and see only the surfaces of things which change in the external limitless society which we do not wish to know better."
"In front of the cave, the fire makes a beacon and keeps the wolves away; it marks the entrance to the controlled territory, the small piece of nature over which we have control."
"The cell is closed, but who holds the key? Are we locked in from the inside, or will the guard come and execute us? We depend on the outside for our subsistence, we are forced to endanger ourselves to prolong our existence and eat."
"The hunters, our brothers, want only to enter, or else we are here and that questions their judgement, when will they themselves be able to eat?
Will they kill the old and the sick? Should we show ourselves to be help-ful and, as do the monkeys on the rock, show our arses to those who are stronger them us?"
"Do we compromise? Will we go as far as to compromise ourselves?
Should we agree to commend the absurd spectacle, as others do, should we listen to the background music, watch the televised crypto-pornographic entertainment, that is to say pornographic in that everyone
knows who will fuck whom, but without it being said, under the pretext of entertainment, of a game, of a holiday, under the pretext of boredom and "Yeah, so what?"
"And should we revere the self-proclaimed avatars, those fleeting stars rising from some reality show or other; swiftly adulated, swiftly forgotten, and so soon old and dead? Indian avatars are principles. Human
principles linked to our nature and our Nature. No principles back there, only substitutes, poor and pro-temp replacements obliged to gesticulate exaggeratedly for us to remember they exist, obliged to make love noisily in public to raise a little interest, obliged to get together and to split up, to remain immature lovers, since human investment is not of this time."
"Western strength lies in this violence, an ambiguity swept away by the hustle of life. In churches, promises are made which can not be kept, we declare our equality and fraternity and we reject the old, we
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transform the words so as not to touch what repels us; the blind become the 'visually handicapped'."
"In India, the Christians are no less strange! During Mass, in Pondich-ery, in front of the priest preaching the equality of men before God stand the assembly of Indian Christians, in clear rows, the Brahmans in the front, then, following the Hindu order of the purity of the castes, the warriors, merchants, peasants, untouchables; each in their row, listening to the exemplary life of the carpenter's son. The principle remains."
"It sickens me; castes can not be justified. What a disgusting idea to think that your birth determines your place and your marriage for the whole of your life, as this as surely as the fact of your genes being transmitted to your children and your whole descent. It sickens me; but once again, is that not the luck of the draw and in Europe are we not born, at random, in a slum or in a mansion? Are the slum-born children any
more likely than the untouchables to marry above them?"
"The difference is that the rich silently despise the poor in their street.
Here, in India, since you were born in a lower caste and you keep your place and rank, the Brahmans respects you and perhaps even envy your strength and bearing. There is on the one hand the fact of saying things and assuming them, opposed to the other which dissimulates them to escape them, and are things changed by not being shown?"
"Yes, no doubt they are, but without that being able to create new possibilities. India, however, is a fount of possibles. You are in a cell, a caste, a trade, and in this cell you have total freedom. And this prison is mobile, moving through society; and an untouchable becomes Prime Minister, and an Italian Christian, the wife of Rajiv Gandhi, presides Indian great political party."
"My grandmother, born in California in 1908, was a devout disciple of Jiddu Krishnamurti. Do you know of this irreverent messiah? He was
born Indian and Brahmans and, at the age of thirteen, the Theosophical Society of Madras saw in him the future teacher of the world, the long-awaited messiah. This international society, whose Madras-based
headquarters influenced the whole world, brought him up in this objective and in this belief. Each Indian caste has one day tried to destroy the supremacy of the priests and the unjust caste system: Buddha the Warrior, Gandhi the Merchant.
It's a long story. Just before Rama, Vishnu's previous avatar, the
Parashurama destroyed twenty one generations of the warrior caste because they were unkind to the priests! The Telugu Brahman promoted to 68
the role of teacher of the people would go even further. Around him, donations and funds allowed the Order of the Star to flourish. My grandmother, and all those from everywhere in the world, from Europe,
America, Russia, confidently awaited the coming of the divine child.
Great was the crisis, the uncertainty, the fear of being without, the fear that God would abandon America, or worse, had already done so.
The Messiah! Of course not. All of them, listening attentively to their wireless sets learned from Krishnamurti in person that not only was he not the Messiah, but that one shouldn't believe everything one heard, be it about faith, God or gods. He said "Truth is a pathless land". Not content with demolishing their hopes and abandoning his ex-future dis-
ciples, he said he would never be a guru for anyone, and that each and everyone should find his own path to the truth and to meaning. He dissolved his order, gave back the goods and property entrusted to him, and left to pursue his own thoughts, for the remainder of his long life, alone, taking the time to answer fundamental questions, refusing to
transform those answers into a divine truth. A perfect example of education without servitude: "the god of a mediocre mind is a mediocre god."
"I don't know if Timothy Leary ever met Krishnamurti. Certain encounters would have been good to make."
"The great ocean in which all can be dissolved, that's what this country is. But as the salt transforms the taste of water, making nonsense from purity, so the invaders transform the taste of India, without really changing either the nature or the extent of its indifference."
"I am reassured by that, by the indifference. Since that allows me to be here without worrying about the image of myself I give to others whose opinion means nothing to me. Who was it said: "Try to live in harmony with those ideas we do not support."
"Seth bought me a single ticket to India. Do you think he knew I wouldn't buy a return, and that I would become like you, like Undine, like Puck?"
"No, I don't think so. By making this choice he merely left you the initi-ative of deciding upon your return. Had you had this ticket, would you have considered the possibility of staying?"
"What about you – have you never left?"
"Yes, several times, to several places, but I leave less and less frequently. Sometimes I get cravings: I need an American barbeque with
those sickly sauces. I need that technology which I find fascinating. I 69
need to know what new machine has been invented and what I can do armed with this in order to create new things and pursue my quest."
"So you're becoming Indian – defiant but non-opposing."
The driver tapped on the window and we stepped out into the road. A
rusty soviet tractor dragged us out of our conversation.
From:
Date : Sat 17/3/23 :26
To:
Cc:
Subject: Seth
Do you have any idea where my given name – Seth – comes from?
No? I am named for an Egyptian god, not a very nice one, moreover,
who fulfilled the same trouble-making role as Shiva. Some believe he formed the inspiration for the westernised devil. Or rather a daemon, in fact, an agent of upheaval, since things must undergo upheaval before becoming fecund.
We will perhaps meet again in Benares where you will some arrive
with your valiant knight. In the city – humanity's oldest still-inhabited city. Hey, why was it built? For American or Chilean reasons? For war or trade? Or why not, for life? Normal paradox because the devil died
there, crushed by Lord Ganesha. The most presentable avatar in western mystique was crushed by the most amusing of Hindu avatars. Oh, the
irony of it!
I am not bitter. But I'm getting weary of trying to enlighten a shadow.
Seth
From:
Date : Sat 17/3/23 :26
To:
Cc :
Subject: Re : Avatar
Seth, I came for you. Whatever you have become, you will always
have my affection and my gratitude.
We are now travelling by night train and I am sharing my compart-
ment with Arthur who can hardly fit in lengthwise. A red bedecked and bedevilled baggage handler threw us in the train with neither indication 70
nor information as to its destination. We're huddled together for warmth as it's cold and I don't know how to modify the air conditioning.
A sort of Carpathian vampire chucked a couple of sheets in through a crack in the door. The compartment is grey, the remains of someone's vomit decorate one corner. We eat a few biscuits.
We talked about Puck's gifts, the three horns he put on my forearm, of Undine's gift, my wave. He said he also wanted to make a contribution to my illustrations. I held out my arm. From around his bull-like neck he withdrew a gold medallion, heated it with his lighter and quickly
slapped it onto my arm. A clear leaf-shaped burn appeared above
Undine's wave.
"It's a Ginkgo leaf. The Ginkgo inhabited the Earth way before man was even a species. We find its fossilised remains all over the planet.
When the meteorite which destroyed the dinosaurs ravaged the Earth,
most species of Ginkgo were also exterminated. After a life-long quest, a botanist found a specimen in a single valley in China. Extracted from its valley, the tree exerted its powers of attraction, as the flower attracts the bee, firstly on the Koreans, then the Japanese and finally the Europeans.
Today it has conquered the whole planet once again, all the cities in the world, all the public gardens and is now more widespread than during the time of its splendour. During the first springtime after Hiroshima, the Ginkgo planted in the gardens of a burned out temple grew a few
new tender green leaves. I admire the man who succeeded in that particular quest, transforming our species into a bee for that tree."
Seth, wait a while for me, will you?
Kev
Goodbye
From:
Date : Sat 17/3/23 :26
To:
Cc :
Subject: Re: Re: Sorry
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We're also making our way up to Benares. This morning, I helped Viviane to untie Muirdun who was stretched out on the bed covered in clothes pegs – she hadn't been able to undo the wet knots.
It almost made us miss the plane, but we managed to catch it in ex-
tremis: me, Viviane, Muirdun and all the paraphernalia belonging to our endearing little couple.
I am extremely excited at the prospect of seeing the Ganges again and the ritual baths with all those men from all over India, meditative and almost naked.
We've booked into a small guesthouse on the Assi Ghat, quite far from the centre, near the boats and the river.
Birgit, whom you already met at Puck's, will no doubt be there with
him. She has something to tell us.
You'll recognise her by her giant Celtic tattoo.
I don't know your friend Seth very well, but I hope you'll find him
there.
Undine
From:
Date : Sat 17/3/23 :26
To:
Cc:
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Sorry
So this is where everything is lit up and the fires are reflected in the water.
The station is far away. I hope you'll have more luck with the airport. I miss you.
I walked around a little with Arthur. Not a brilliant idea since he attracts attention, firstly because he is so good-looking, and secondly because he is so tall, and we are often invited to chat, or to stand for a photo with a recently bereaved family here for the incineration.
The crowd put us on edge and we took a boat which was leaking
everywhere. Here, finally, everything takes water.
So we slowly made our way between the bodies immerged in the wa-
ter, at the foot of the wide steps overlooked by dilapidated housing and shelters for the widowed.
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The funeral pyres burn the corpses rolled in brightly-coloured cloths, whereas further down, a young man puts back on his jeans after taking a ritual bath.
There is no fussing here, no obsequiousness, death has its place among the living, enjoying their clothing and benevolent company, in
distracted, inward-looking rituals, which the Brahmans explain through the example of their own bodies.
And everywhere, smiles of white enamel or smooth toothless mouths,
offered to the city and to oneself.
The Ganges is a mystery for the senses. Millions of people are dis-
persed along its length, from its sources to this city, and yet there reigns no fetid odour, and bathers leave its waters – potentially guilty of every corruption – cleansed, in the glory of good health.
The Ganges, sacred, at the heart of prayer, is also the public bath and wash house; only a few centimetres away from the ceremonial, the pro-fane is welcomed among the sacred, since the sacred is tangible and
must not be extracted from the world.
We are the only ones in the guesthouse. The bedrooms have no win-
dows and we eat our meals under the protective but oppressive supervi-sion of the family, in their green saris.
We saw Puck on the Meer Ghat. He was wearing a heretical, cow-skin,
"horn-muffler" hat, and was discussing manifestly consternating ceremonies with the Brahmans if their alarmed expressions were anything to go by.
On one side of the river, Benares, Kashi, Varanasi and millions of
people; on the other a desert of bare sand.
Everywhere people are preparing for the Holi festival of colours. It is a festival which is surely an avatar of our carnival, where the aim is to be hidden behind the clouds of coloured powder which the revellers toss into the air.
Everywhere, bags overflow with green, fuchsia, red or yellow
powders which, mixed with water from the Ganges and poured into
plastic pistons, provide ammunition to decorate the revellers.
Some have already started to paint each other and to drink, they laugh and call out to each other, carousing from group to circle, from circle to band of joyous revellers, and from there into vaster companies.
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A young boy pounces on us with a handful of powder, but having un-derestimated the altitude of Arthur, has second thoughts, and races off giggling at the trick he could have played.
My dear friend, don't set foot here in your white dress.
I saw little sealed copper pots, soldered to enclose a little river water, which the pilgrims buy and we do plastic virgin Marys from Lourdes.
There was one of these little pots in Seth's coffin when it was opened after the journey.
Others offer sugar, fruits, hair and also, Undine, sex. Here you can venerate your god, since the sexual offering, rarefied since the arrival of the Victorian conquerors, is perfectly well accepted by these gods here.
The last time I walked for as long was in New York during the period in which my fascination was held by urban mechanics. The Brahmans in-stall their divine paraphernalia on little wooden benches: a little copper pot, a small dish of coloured powder, and self-satisfaction in abundance.
They will tell those of lesser castes what to think about life, and justify the injustice of the castes. They sit cross-legged, gesticulating.
The Spirit is no more here, than there, at other religious goings-on. The families arrive and sit down opposite the holy man. I suppose they question him before pouring a little milk on the phallus that is Shiva's. What on earth can he say to these poor people? That they must be patient until they are reincarnated better, and that if they are so wretched it's merely because of the lives they led before? Resort to faith can sometimes be frightening. I am no less surprised than on previous days that these rot-ting fruits, these perspiring bodies, the oily river water don't stink more than they do. It is hot and humid.
