In such a state of mind (or being) I went to visit Jawaharlal Nehru. He was in the Black Forest in Germany, at some pension (imagine the Bodhisattva at a pension!)—his wife was dangerously ill, and the British government had freed him. A pilgrimage to the Black Forest then had all the wondersomeness of a Hsuan Tsang visiting Kapilavastu:

To the south of the city [of Kapilavastu] is a grove of nyagrodha trees in which is a stupa built by Asoka-raja. This is a place where Sakya Tathagata, having returned to his country after enlightenment, met his father and preached the law . . . Suddhodana-raja ordered his subjects to prepare the way by watering and sweeping it, and to adorn the road with incense and flowers; and then, accompanied by his officers of State, he proceeded 40 li beyond the city, and there drew up the chariot to await his arrival. Then the Tathagata with a great multitude advanced; the eight vajrapanis surrounded him as an escort, the four heavenly kings went before him . . . The bhikkhu priests in order walked behind; Buddha by himself, as the full moon among the stars, stood in the midst; his supreme spiritual presence shook the three worlds, the brightness of his person exceeded that of the seven lights; and thus traversing the air he approached his native country. The king and ministers having reverenced him, again returned to the kingdom, and they located themselves in this nyagrodha grove.2

Staying with some friends in Alsace, at the medieval town of Mulhouse, I wrote to Jawaharlal. He said to come by the small train that crossed the border, and at Badenweiler station to walk up the hill (I still remember his saying, ‘Why take such a marathon walk?’) or preferably take a taxi. He also said to bring some Evian bottles for his wife.

So, clad in light autumnal clothes, perforated summer shoes, a vague overcoat, I set out on my pilgrimage—the three Evian bottles my offerings. And a book my companion.

It was, however, a misty forgotten day; my sun seemed unwilling to show even his hemisphere; and after all the Hitlerian smiles and stamps of the frontier police, I landed at the small Badenweiler station. It was all so well organized—I mean the Hitlerite state—that, like a Mara, there stood a liveried guide who would himself take me to the top and to the great Indian leader Nehru.

‘Oh, yes,’ said he, ‘we Germans are just like you. India is a great land. We have great respect for your leader Gandhi. We would never do to you what the British have done. Those horrible British, the bane of mankind. They’ve taken away our colonies. The Fuehrer, etc., etc.’