- Calcutta - Auschwitz
Holes as seen from Calcutta:
Black Holes arose out of pure logical deduction. General Relativity
argued that objects could become so dense that nothing could escape
from them, not even light. Earth would have to be squeezed into
the size of an insane cherry. These dense objects have dense centers,
SO DENSE that matter got pressed out of existence! Where did the
matter go? Was it sucked into another Universe? Another time?
Universe, another time:
I took a bus to Dakineshwar to see THE TEMPLE of the Bengali saint.
I was now on his home turf at last. The air was different here.
The oppressive congestion of Calcutta was gone and I felt a strange
feeling of release. This was the Bengali saint's playfield. It
was impressive. Pilgrims were everywhere. I couldn't go into the
main temple because non-Hindus were considered unclean. But I
could feel Mother. Priests were tossing flowers to her. I walked
barefoot in a trance. Mother had her ways. Ravens, sadhus, beggars,
and burning ashes competed for my attention.
bathed in the ghats. The Hooghly river was peaceful here. Suddenly,
I stumbled into the INNER SANCTUM. The Bengali's saint's room
was now a shrine. I gazed at his bed. The energy was dense, sweet,
I've been in CAL about three days now. It's a nightmare, I know,
but the pollution and noise seem to hide a sweet kinda magic.
There are a lot of intriguing sights here and people on the
whole are very friendly. Just this morning I woke up from a
troubled sleep, and I could hear these singing Sufis just outside
my window. The way they coordinated their hands and faces with
their hauntingly beautiful sounds and tones put me into a deliciously
eat all my meals on the street. It's so ridiculously cheap. What's
for breakfast? Sugar-buttered toast, peanuts, mango and banana
bits, and egg omelets covered with diced onions. How about lunch?
Kebabs on a roll, fried noodles, and steaming white rice, with
Bengali sweets for dessert. Brown sugar dumplings swimming in
honey syrup .... LADY CANDY. Wash it down with sweet-milk tea,
coconut and sugar-cane juice. All for pennies .... oh, how the
sidewalks are teeming with life. My camera is snap, snap, snapping.
Typing clerks, barbers, and shoeshine boys do a roaring business.
One half of the city seems to be selling something to the other
half, and vice versa. It just goes on and on .... people have
to fend for themselves here. The government seems useless. People
who can't afford bicycles become human horses here. It's colorful,
fascinating, horrifying, and shocking. I went to the planetarium,
but it was something of a flop. I could barely hear the narrator's
voice over the crummy sound system. It was that bad, but it was
also a welcome escape from the smog. It's so thick here, it's
amazing. No, frightening. Almost zero visibility and it attacks
you right in the nose and throat, until you start getting a terrible
jams are heavy too. The police try to guide this mess, but it's
a free-forall. I know there's a hidden order here, there must
be. I just haven't found it yet. It's never dull here, it's suicidal
here on the surface, but some weird saving grace keeps things
from collapsing in this wrathful cauldron, this furnace of WHITE
STRESS. The Indians go for the WHITE SOLUTION. Lenin, Queen Victoria,
Ramakrishna, they're all good neighbors. ALL IS ONE. Yes, the
form and the formless is the way the infinite took shape. The
saints understand this well. They love to love us as they laugh
and navigate through this sublime duality. I don't care for the
crowds and the guards in these realms. Their mute mouths tell
me that willpower accomplishes all, and these broken tongues say
that willpower is just a combination of light and dark strands
of energy. NOW THIS: fuse these strands harmoniously and generate
a laser. (Past regrets and future worries dilute the laser.) Concentration
in the present is important. It's about discipline, it's about
faith. This is so impressive: dark life shot through with light.
what scares me about this place. Monastic types aren't welcome.
Arahats can go home! Even the bodhisattvahs have a hell of a
time here. The Messiah is unpopular. No, no it's a different
ball game in CAL. Who wears the lonely crown here? The great
adepts. The MAHASIDDAHS. They are the apocalypse pilots. They
look like rebels without a cause, but they are actually living
Buddhas. They are HIGH STRESS masters of LOW STRESS. They scrunch
and fuse it into glowing balls of light. These maha-lunatics
have found a way to live on the subtle plane as perfect Buddhas
with ordinary bodies within their ordinary societies and within
their old Universe. They can be women as well as men. They can
be great scholars and writers, but often they look pretty ordinary.
They can be kings and queens, or merchants, or farmers. Even
bums! This airplane ride is not ordinary. It is IMMEDIATE. Did
I tell you I got through to my stepmother at the American Consulate?
Well, I did. She told me she'd send me some money. I was able
to make a collect call at last. She told me none of my telegrams
got through. She also couldn't send me much. Only enough to
get to Nepal. She said to call her there. Frankly, I don't trust
her. In these difficult days everything in my mind is just going
BOOM! It's so terrible and hard. Oh, how this year seems to
be releasing such powerful energies.
this part in other languages:
- 02 - 03
contents of this site © Finberg Books 2000-2004 by Michael Arthur