9

Dearest Mother,

forgive this long silence—it must be all of ten days since I last wrote. Well, anyhow, I now have something really exciting to write about, a piece of stop-press headline news—at approximately six a.m. this morning, Oliver became a swami!

Actually, of course, this process of becoming a swami consists of several ceremonies which take place over a period of days. For instance, the candidate for sannyas has first to be invested with the sacred thread, to signify that he has become a member of the caste of the Brahmins, which is the highest of all the castes. You might say that it’s rather like being knighted or raised to the peerage, and the idea behind it is that if you’re going to renounce earthly rank and fame you ought first to have something really worthwhile to renounce! There is also a beautiful ritual in which the candidate lays his former self to rest—thereby becoming a pure disembodied spirit—as a prelude to assuming his new monastic identity. I have carefully written down the name Oliver will have as a swami, but it’s in a notebook in my bag, and I find I have forgotten it—the name, I mean! These Sanskrit names all sound rather alike to English ears, as they all end with the suffix -ananda, which means ‘bliss’—in a spiritual sense, of course.

Later in the morning, Oliver and his newly-made fellow-swamis had to go out into the surrounding district and beg alms, just as Hindu monks have done for thousands of years. But in modern times—in this Order at any rate—the swamis only have to beg during their first three days. It’s more of a symbolic thing really. I was in the Mahanta’s room, saying goodbye to him, when Oliver returned with the food he had been given. He offered some of it to the Mahanta, and then he offered me some, which I thought was very touching. I felt that Oliver did this to make it clear that he wasn’t disowning me or excluding me from his new life—and of course that applied equally to you and Penny.

He wasn’t able to come with me to the airport, but we had a short walk in the grounds before I left. As we walked, people kept running forward and bending to touch his feet, which were bare, in token of their reverence! It was really beautiful, the way Olly took this. He smiled shyly and raised his hands palm to palm, touching them to his forehead with a bashful deprecatory gesture. He looked even taller than usual, among all the little Bengalis, wonderfully handsome and every inch a holy man, with the long flame-coloured robe falling to his feet. You would have been proud of him I know, and happy to see how well he seems suited to his new role in life. I was so proud to walk beside him and know that everybody knew he was my brother.

Incidentally, the Mahanta told me that a monk, when he takes his final vows, gains liberation for his entire family—so you and Penny and the Children, and even I, need never worry about the health of our souls again, thanks to Olly! I shall try not to take unfair advantage of this immunity—though I must admit, it creates a temptation!

Am writing this on the plane to Singapore. We shall be there in another hour.

Ever lovingly,

Paddy

 

Did Oliver die? No and Yes. I see now I was silly to expect some melodramatic transformation. Now I understand that the dying and being reborn are a gradual process. Nevertheless, since this morning, the process has truly begun and that’s all that matters. I feel absolutely confident—sooner or later, through Swami’s grace, Oliver will die.

Sannyas is far more than taking vows; it’s entering into freedom. While I was out begging with the others this morning, I felt utterly free—as I hope to become increasingly—from the burden of being Oliver. So, for the first time, there were no barriers between us, I wasn’t an alien, and the others seemed to understand this, we kept smiling and laughing for no special reason. I’m not saying this in self-pity but in amazement—up to today I’d lived my life without once knowing what it really meant, to be happy.

I love the begging. We have to do it barefoot. Mahanta Maharaj told me I could wear sandals if I wanted to, but of course I didn’t. My feet hurt a bit, but I’m glad I didn’t toughen them up beforehand, because the slight discomfort keeps reminding me of the significance of what I’m doing.

You don’t beg primarily for yourself, but for the Mahanta as head guru and the senior swamis of the Order. Remembering this made it easier to accept the alms in the right spirit—whole families bowing down with such simple devotion. You mustn’t even say to yourself, I’m not worthy. You mustn’t take it personally at all. I brought back what I’d been given, a mess of runny tepid food in the fold of my cloth, and offered it to Maharaj and the rest of them. Patrick gallantly ate some, though I could see he nearly gagged on it!

When he left for the airport we were quite formal with each other and shook hands and murmured some conventional leave-taking phrases. But that didn’t matter because we’d already had this other wonderful moment together which I shall remember always.

It was when we all came trooping out of the Temple at the end of the sannyas ceremony. That was like returning from the dead—I felt a sort of dazed joyful strangeness. A small crowd was waiting for us to appear, and Patrick was among them. My heart jumped when I saw him, I was so pleased. I’d never dreamed he would trouble to get up that early.

Everybody was watching us, to see how we’d behave. And of course I couldn’t help being just a little bit embarrassed and self-conscious, standing there confronting him in my brand-new gerua. He came towards me smiling, with his camera-case slung around his neck. As he walked he took the camera out of it, and when he was within a few feet of me he stopped and quickly snapped off half a dozen pictures. I felt foolish, but I realized that he had to do this, to show the Family.

Then Patrick put his camera away and suddenly without any warning he dropped to his knees and took the dust of my feet and bowed down before me! He must have been rehearsing this, he did it so smoothly and neatly. In the midst of my astonishment, I was aware of a strong favourable reaction from the audience. Once again, Patrick’s instinct had been absolutely correct, he had done the dramatically perfect thing! So then I hastily grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him to his feet and hugged him. I did this to cover an uncontrollable attack of giggles—I was shaking with it, and as I held him I felt him beginning to laugh, too. His lips just touched my ear in a sort of kiss and he whispered, ‘Well Olly, you’ve really gone and torn it now!’ And I whispered back, ‘Looks like I’m stuck with it, doesn’t it?’

At that moment I seemed to stand outside myself and see the two of us, and Swami, and the onlookers, all involved in this tremendous joke. I felt Swami’s presence with us so intensely that I was afraid I would begin sobbing with joy and tell Patrick everything. So I pushed him away from me and stepped back. The others took this as a sign that it was now all right for them to approach us. And everybody was smiling and murmuring, as much as to say how charming it was of Patrick to play this scene according to our local Hindu rules, and how very right and proper it was that we two brothers should love each other.