Kapilavastu is wheresoever we are. When the earth is being tilled and the worms spilt under the benumbing mountain sun, the Bodhisattva seated under the lone rose-apple tree feels such compassion flow down the valley to all that sorrows, the very sun stops—he does not move lest the shadow of the tree protect not him who was to show the noble eightfold path. India is every bit of land where we are aware of the worms, were the worms Hitlerite. One walks on the edge of history with care, lest a gesture, a word, indeed an uneven breath, may mean heresy of spirit. The compassion of India flowed into our silence, and for a moment the earth seemed reassured of itself.

The Bodhisattva walks and the trees would bend in homage:

Advancing in this glory, the future Buddha in one night passed through three kingdoms, and at the end of thirty leagues he came to the river named Anoma.6

At the bank it was curious to see his passport . . . he had a British passport. It never occurred to one that one was ever British. (Later in Paris once, Panditji, meeting some friends-of-India-looking woman, said, with a nervous, ironic twitch, ‘Do I look a slave? Who said I’m not free?’ There was no place for friendly tears. It was rather a demand for recognition. India, who could ever bind her?)

‘Why don’t you give me some of your hair?’ He laughed at the disorderly strands hanging around my head. They badly needed a barber’s care.

‘Take all you want,’ I said in true offering.

‘But how will it stick?’ He laughed again.

‘Oh, I suppose the miracle can always happen. In India . . .’

‘So, you’re married?’ he interjected, following his own thought.

‘Yes, Panditji; you see only half of me,’ I whispered hesitantly. ‘I wish you could meet my wife. She is French. I’ve taken her to India, you know.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘She’s so Indian.’ I seemed to be apologetic.

‘Well, my cousin is married to a Hungarian. And why not?’

I was reassured.

‘Romain Rolland spoke to me about you,’ he said after a long silence as we were walking back to the pension. I still remember the sun was completely unaware of himself and the trees stood inordinately still. They seemed aching for a breath, a touch, an efflorescence of the noncontingential. Everything seeks its own death and discovery, for suchness alone is meaning.

‘Oh, did he?’ I mumbled from nowhere.

‘Yes, and he said you knew your France well.’

‘I suppose it’s because I recognize my India so deeply, Panditji. With Indian eyes all is meaning.’

‘Do you always speak like this?’

‘I always speak to the tree,’ I answered. I did not mention the Bodhisattva.

Yatra vetya vanaspate devanam guhya namani

Tatra havyani gamaya

O Tree, there where thou knowest the secret names of the gods make rich our offerings7