‘This time it will be me,’ she said, knocking at the door. ‘Let the Brahmin have coffee in bed. He won’t become an animal in the next life for breaking such minor rules. And you say women in my condition are auspicious,’ she added, ‘so you will have auspicious coffee, my brother-in-law,’ and she closed the door behind herself.
As before, I divided my time between the Rue de Richelieu and the Sorbonne. Catherine took me every morning to the Bibliothèque Nationale, and she insisted, for the first few days, that I come back for lunch, driving to fetch me every day. But she soon realized this arrangement could not last very long, so she gave me sandwiches and I used to go and have a chocolate in a quiet café nearby. There were always such interesting people about the place, and seeing them day after day I got to know their faces, their specializations. One was researching in Assyriology— into Sumerian texts concerning kingship and grammar, among the bilinguals from Assurbanipals library. Another was copying patterns of Central Asian dress, especially women’s dresses, to prove his thesis that Nestorian Christianity was purely of Buddhist origin, for the women had no crosses on their dresses; in fact, to this day they wear a cross resembling the Buddhist swastika. These scholars would talk of their work and I of mine, but strange to say, nobody could help another. Research is always like a man lost in a desert. You can only see stars wheresoever you look. You will always find a star somewhere, and following it through dust and jungle you certainly will come to a kingdom, where you are sure to find a prince, and he has many daughters to marry. If you do the right thing in the right way — that is, if you show your originality by talking of your astronomy starting from your particular star, which is always unique, in position, coloration, and behaviour — you can show an altogether different pattern for the whole round sky. It all depends on where you start. And there is always a princess to wed you eventually.
My star, my unique star, was the theory that somewhere in the land between Persia, Turkey and Bulgaria — maybe in the valley of the Euphrates, or maybe a little higher up in Asia Minor, so full of the traces of almost every human civilization — I was certain to find a direct proof of India’s link with the Cathar heresy. I studied many texts, and was led mainly by that sort of intuition one develops in research, where almost by just looking at a book (when mind and body are in the best of states), one looks and says, ‘In this book, in this large and lusty tome, perhaps in the second part of it — no, towards the middle of the third part, will be my precise reference.’ And almost always you hit on the right information. I had gathered much information in this manner and Georges made fun of me, saying such power of divination must, no doubt, come from my yogic practices:
‘You should announce your perceptive capacities on a board at the door of the Bibliotheque Nationale: “Research through clairvoyance. Twelve lessons, and all mysteries will be solved.” It would be a new job. Nobody has undertaken it so far.’
Whether all others had this intuition or not — and many research-workers I talked to seemed to possess it to an even greater degree than I did — my finds were important. I looked into the history of the Druzes, that mysterious sect of Arabs who belong both to the Christian and the Muslim fold, and yet have their own priests and their own secret books, which none dare examine. I had however found, first through the works of Gobineau — that extraordinary, if eccentric, imperial scholar — and later in Count Sailly de Mollinfort, whose works on Arab history are a masterpiece of erudition, precision and insight, that there were indeed references to India and Indian wisdom in the Druze texts, ‘d’une nature métaphysique,’ he wrote, ‘qui nous laissent croire, que le Bulgarism, l’hérésie Vaudoise, plus tard et plus purement le mouvement Cathare, sont probablement d’une origine directement Hindoue, et pas comme pense Max Müller, un lointain écho des idées partho-boudhiste.’ I read all of Sailly on the Druzes, and Morganston, and Wellenby. The latter is a much better scholar than one thinks, despite his unscholarly use of language (‘I have no doubt that’, or ‘it is silly to think’, and such unacademic language is not permissible in scholarly writing). But after all he was a soldier and an administrator first, though it was he that discovered the Amharic text on Alexander’s campaign in India, and edited it so admirably. Well, Wellenby was of much help to me. And then Massignon, with his deep learning and his immense devotion to India.
My thesis made quick progress. But I had to go to the Bodleian for further references to Wellenby; Garraud, in his study of the messianic tradition among the Semites, speaks of some very important manuscripts there. It was also a good pretext, I thought, after nearly a month and half chez Catherine and Georges, to leave them. So I went over to England.
I arrived during those beautiful days in the spring of 1953 when the whole country was getting ready to receive guests from abroad. England had now a lovely young queen and she was going to be crowned. Even the trees and the earth seemed to have helped the English, so mild and kind the winter was, and so splendid; and soon had spring ushered itself in, bringing bunches of red and yellow and mauve of irises to the great parks. The Londoner looked better dressed and he seemed never to have been more courteous. Everybody who came was going to be the guest of England, and English men and women felt a very personal responsibility for their own behaviour. There was much less drunkenness in the streets and much better taste in the women’s clothes, which were British in style and not cheap Dior or Fath. I was happy to see the English thus, in this new mood. There was no triumphant arrogance with them — as in the days of their Imperial grandeur — they were more centred in themselves, more sure and more elevated. True, they did not have a clear conscience about Africa, but how relieved they seemed to have ‘washed their hands of India’. I laughed and said to myself, ‘They have grown more Brahminical.’
Oxford was kind and docile, as she ever is, but seemed to have less vitality and purity in the air than Cambridge. Perhaps I had seen Cambridge through Savithri — and was now trying to see Oxford through my own eyes. Anand was at Balliol, but I did not go and see him.
I soon returned to London, where I had very good news. Cooks gave me a letter from Savithri. I always went into Green Park to open her letters; leaning against a tree — there was one spacious plane opposite the gate, not far from the 14 bus-stop that I liked particularly — I rubbed my hands against its trunk, to feel its freshness, and read Savithri’s letter. It said that she was coming over to England for the Coronation with her father. Her father felt he had been so loyal to the British that he had to be with them when they were crowning their queen.
‘He feels it a part of his loyalty to himself. The Government of India, of course, has ignored him. He has been sent on no missions, even his privy purse has been reduced. “How can you fight with minor officials, lack-manner idiots I would not employ as clerks. Such thorough incompetence!” he explodes. He will be happy to be back among his Lord Sahibs. It is sad to see an active man like Father grow old. Even though Surajpur was a mall State, with a population of only a hundred thousand, he still did a lot of things. There were at least the elephant and the horses to look after. Then there were such picturesque family quarrels among his nobles and subjects, which he alone could disentangle, knowing all about every single important family, for four, five, or even six generations. And when he had had enough of that, he had his tiger-shooting. He enjoyed these enormously. Now they cost too much; besides, who is there left in India to enjoy them? I have been trying to persuade him to go south, on pilgrimage, and visit some sages. The north is finished. It will soon be like Notting Hill Gate. Your south still has so much beauty, wisdom and purity. Father says he will go to England first, and on his return will make a pilgrimage from Kailas to Kanyakumari. I know he will not do it. But still, I wish Father could find peace somewhere. He would look fresh as a bridegroom if Nehru called him and said, “Will you be our Ambassador in Tokyo? In Washington?” London, he says, will go to some khadiwala, eating paan in Buckingham Palace, and spitting on the floor. Father exaggerates a great deal, but India is not particularly an exalting place today… You are my India, and to see you will be my exaltation. Besides, I want Father to meet you, to know you. Maybe you could give him something he seeks. Think of me sometimes. S.’