saint guru chod (1900-1988)

London to Paris

Early in the morning of May 14th, 1940 Chod packed his belongings and headed by taxi for London's Victoria Station. He was lucky to get a ticket all the way to Genoa.

Departing from London was the point of no return. Everything from there would depend on luck. From Genoa his plan was to book his passage on the Nederland Royal Mail Line all the way to Bombay. But he fretted over whether or not he could get there in time to book his passagae. The only thing he knew was that the ship sailed once a fortnight.

London to Paris was an all day journey. As may still be done today, one first went to Dover by rail, and then crossed the English Channel by steamer to Calais, France. From there one reboarded a train bound for Paris...

There would have to be a 20 hour wait in Paris for the next available train to Genova. He was not too put off by the layover, though, because he had an old friend that was living in Paris. With luck he would be at home.

He arrived to Paris at Gare du Nord. It was just about midnight and he phoned his friend immediately.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" said the friend. "I could have met you at the station!"

"There wasn't any time," Chod replied.

"Never mind," said the friend. "But I have to tell you that I'm leaving tomorrow for Italy."

" – Italy!" Chod said. "So am I!"

"Come by taxi. We'll talk when you get here."

Ex-Pats in Paris

The taxi dropped him off on Boulevard Saint-Germain. From there it was a short but exhausting walk as he lugged the awkward and heavy trunk on a shoulder down Rue di Buci, to its intersection with Rue de Seine. From there he headed in the direction of the river to his friend's apartment on the slender Rue Visconti.

The two friends greeted with beaming smiles that come from years of separation. They especially enjoyed talking in their native tongue. When pulling out their tickets they responded with amazement to see that they had booked the same exact train. But his friend had onward booking to Rome.

They had both been among the Siamese elite who with Royal Assistance were sent to study in Europe. While one group of students was sent to England, the other had gone to study in France. Completing their studies, nearly all of them returned to Siam to take up comfortable government appointments.

It was the gifted students from Paris, in fact, who had recently exerted such tremendous influence on the course of modern Siamese political history. So enamored by the philosophy of democratic freedom, they were able to convince certain discontented military leaders of the need for radical political reforms. This led to a 1932 bloodless coup d'état which relieved the absolute power of the King in favor of a constitutional monarchy. Unfortunately, however, these changes led to the swift degeneration of Siamese politics, transforming into a thinly veiled system of dictatorship by military coup.

In lieu of returning to what some then regarded as an intellectually stifling political climate, a few rare Siamese chose to live abroad. And such was the case of the Paris-based compatriot who, since his early years at the esteemed Sorbonne, had come to feel at home among the intellectual circles of his adopted foreign city; and for reasons quite similar to his British-schooled compatriot, took up writing as a means of earning a living.

"So what's going on in Rome?" he asked his host.

"I'm joining a group of international journalists with the prospects of meeting Benito Mussolini. It's an obvious propaganda event. I simply got a call from the Siamese Consular who extended the invitation on Italy's behalf. But hey, you know what? He was even asking if I knew of someone else. There's a vacant invitation. What do you say we call him in the morning? Maybe we can go together! But wait... I haven't even asked you why you're going to Genova."

"To catch a Dutch liner," Chod sighed with frustration. "But I can't find out which days it sails."

"Then we phone the Dutch Embassy, what's the problem? You're looking terribly ill, you know. I think you need some rest. We can finish this discussion in the morning."

Morning Rue de Seine

In thoughtful silence they ambled their way up Rue de Seine until they found a sunny table in view of the open market. Two quick calls had just been placed and the stage was set for the ailing journalist to meet the Italian leader face to face.

"But the Consular warned me," remarked the Paris-resident as they had took their seats in the glistening sun.

"Warned you of what?" said Chod.

"Of the Ducca's tenuous sanity," he said. "And of all the reports of his furtive behaviour, both official and private..." He paused as the waiter brought coffee with croissant. "So no guarantee how it's going to turn out... But no matter what happens on the journalistic front, the consul assures us we'll be treated like diplomats and heaped with all manner of Roman indulgence. You know, la dolce vita. I can hardly wait!"

His listener responded with sombre impassivity. "So where will you be heading after Rome then?" he asked.

"Good question," Chod replied.

"The consul also warned me of that. These gathering clouds of war over Europe."

"Exactly," Chod affirmed, and paused before adding: "How strange that things can appear so clear, yet those with real voices refuse to spell it out. It's as if they imagine it will just go away."

"Do you believe the rumours of Nazi persecution then?"

"Gypsies, Jews, and left-wing intellectuals." Chod remarked with pain.

They paused and took their first sips of coffee. An inscrutable silence followed. Cheerful girls in skirts passed by; the shouts of fish vendors were not far away.

"Hey. By the way," the host chimed in, "you haven't even told me where you're sailing to yet."

"Bombay."

"Bombay?"

"You thought I was returning to Bangkok?" Chod said.

"Well..."

"Listen," said Chod. "Just one week ago the Japanese government aligned themselves with the North-South Axis. And I'll tell you something. The Japanese are even more ambitious than the Germans. Mark my words: They will terrorize the whole of Southeast Asia before this war is finished."

"Siam too?"

"No. The Thais will continue to spare themselves by bowing their heads to the Imperial Army and treating them as honoured guests" spoke Chod.

"My!" said his colleague somewhat jolted. "If not optimistic, yours is certainly a compelling forecast... But perhaps you're right. I mean it really is strange this new mentality gripping the souls of Siam's leadership, and whose sympathies and tastes are unmincingly Fascist. But if I understand you right, you're assuming that neither the Germans nor the Japs will overrun India?"

"Impossible," said Chod. "India is the freest place in the world. It will always be that way. The Moguls ruled it for five hundred years and the shaping of popular Hinduism was the outcome. The British have committed the most heinous crimes there, ravaging the place for its material riches. But they failed in overlooking Her most precious treasure; the jewel of spiritual freedom... And even should opposing armies make incursions, the Himalayan ranges will always offer sanctuary. No. Definitely not. No foreign force will never take India."

"Fine, then, my friend, perhaps you're right. But with your failing health – can you take India?"

"That's the question."

Rome to Genova: A Mussolini of the Mind

...Bidding their adieus at Rome Central Station, the two friends parted company. The ailing reporter now proceeded back northward to Italy's chief port city of Genova. He was counting on getting aboard the Nederland Royal Mail Line, scheduled to arrive the following evening from Algiers....

The previous day's barrage of meetings and engagements had engorged him with a flood of awesome experience, and his mind now found itself drowning in the resonance of grandiose thoughts and quandaries. It was no means merely the pompous backdrop of architectural majesty that rendered the pressman's sentiments reeling: marble palaces of Titan dimension sumptuously decked with treasures of art. Nor the detail paid to the ritual splendour in which the Leader ever sought to enshroud himself. Nor the debonair ranks of uniformed sycophants, each one responding to a higher up's finger snap, descending from the pinnacle seat of power. Indeed, it was the callous embodiment of tyranny itself whose strangely riveting magnetic spell had awed the foreign scribe so profoundly.

"I met Mussolini face to face," Guru Chod recalled to the present writer.

It was from this intense and up close encounter with the virtual designer of the modern fascist state that Chod developed his ideas of the nature and properties of charisma.

Embarking from Genova

He halted one night and two full days at Italy's chief port city of Genoa. He rested in his room at the Hotel Miramara and whimsically explored the often-steep streets and quaint narrow alleyways. He reached outlying places of interest by convenient city tram. He took the cable railway to the top of the Righi for an excellent view of the harbor. He also came to be reminded that Genova was the birthplace of Christopher Columbus.

Early in the evening of May 17th he passed through Italian Immigration. As he walked along the quay to board the ship, he stopped at a kiosk to check the latest headlines: German Troops Invade France.

Once on board he took to his journal, making liberal use of the complimentary companion guide:[1]

After all the passengers had finally boarded ship and the cargoes were stowed into the depths of the hull, a couple of tug boats slowly towed the great Dutch liner away from its berth into the deeper waters of the outer harbor. The waters teemed with those lovely little rowing boats, rowed by a single man while standing.

Setting a south-easterly course for the Strait of Messina the ship sailed unhampered along the mountainous west coast of peninsular Italy... Among the passengers talk was rife on the sudden outbreak of war in Europe... Anxious thoughts refused to let him sleep. He opened his journal and began to write:

The truculent Hitler has proved himself again no match when preying on the fears of bourgeois democracies. It is the Soviets alone who up until now have displayed the will to respond with equal force to this woefully destructive adversary. How much longer can the other nations wait... averting war at the Jew's expense...? Failures to react will only embolden him.

The sleepless voyager found himself on deck with the bright clear moonlit sky above. He enjoyed the feel of warm spring air as it blew across the sea and ruffled his hair.

The Ship's First Officer

The following evening in the dining salon the journalist gained the distinctive privilege of sharing a table with the ship's first officer, an urbane, travel-wise English-Dutch dual national who, like his guest, was a product of the British public school. That was in Christchurch on England's mild southern coast. After some studies in marine biology the officer decided on a maritime career. It was after all an obvious course to follow. His father, born in Amsterdam, had also sailed the high seas. Diligently passing from ship boy to bursar he worked his way up the mariner's ranks. But he eventually re-settled back on land with the pretty young bride he had met while on tour of the Isle of Wight, the maiden's native home. His great turn of fortune came when he secured the mortgage enabling him to purchase the controlling interest of the Royal Line shipping franchise, making him England's sole authorized agent for the mailship's voyages out of South­ampton. By then his lovely offices, Messr. Harden & Co., 21/22 Queen's Terrace, were favorably located in view of Queens Park just a five minute stroll from the railway station.

Yet who could have foreseen that by September of that same year German air raids would bring utter devastation to this town? With his next visit home he would find his father's premises reduced to piles of rubble.

Being by nature a loquacious spirit, the gentlemanly officer would in the weeks to come prove to be an invaluable source of information, both trivial and otherwise.

Between savoury bites of spinach terrine the officer shared some childhood memories of idyllic days in Hampshire County. He also knew something of local history. "Well protected by the Isle of Wight," he said, "the town of Southampton, one of England's oldest, has been a port of major importance since the beginning of the Middle Ages. In the early part of the 12th century it was the place of embarkation for zealous crusaders under patronage of King Richard the Lion-Hearted. The port also thrived commercially in those days. Its trade in English wool for Bordeaux wine was alone enough to keep the town in good financial stead. But its importance declined in the 17th and 18th centuries," he explained. "But then that got reversed with the completion of the London-Southampton Railway in 1840 and the parallel development of steam powered ocean liners."

Proceeding to the diminutive yet artfully prepared dessert dish, the officer peered with considerable intent into the sparkling crystal bowl. "Ah!" he gasped, "What do we have here? It looks like bananas with chopped figs, doesn't it." Bringing silver spoon to expectant mouth, he pondered some moments, before remarking,

"Brilliant! We must have picked these up in Algiers."

"Tasty indeed," the journalist affirmed.

"Indeed!" replied the officer. "But a little bit dainty on the serving, wouldn't you say?"

"Actually my appetite hasn't been all that good lately."

The officer took the man's words to heart. Reaching in the pocket of his formal white dinner jacket, the clean-shaven gentleman withdrew a silver cigarette case, and in favor of his guest asked, "Fancy a postpradinal puff?"

"Why thank you," he smiling reply.

"So you're on your way to India then," the officer vented, blowing out the match which had lit their two cigarettes. "I suppose you're on assignment there?" He spoke in a coaxing, questioning tone.

"I'm a free-lance journalist," the writer replied. "I write wherever I go."

"Writing," remarked the officer sorely. "It must be lonely work. I've never been much of a writer myself. In fact, handling a pen is probably the most stressful part of my duties. But I can manage in four different languages when necessary!... All the same, I'm an avid reader. Plenty of time for that with a job like mine, I assure you!... I'm especially fond of literature," he said. "I like to take my time with a book – you know – to let the resonance of my own inner voice and imaginative landscape participate in the writer's effort. For me, you see, it's not enough just to slip into a state of suspend my disbelief. I mean; the point isn't merely to be taken for a ride... So I really like an author who subtly affirms this is after all only literature, and that the actual point is something more[3]. With all the time people spend reading these days for the sake of apparent mindless diversion, no creative demand is placed on the audiance. It's as if the reader were rudely brushed aside! – But oh..." and he hesitated. "Please don't take this personally. I'm afraid my thoughts have become abstruse. I mean, I'm sure you're a thoroughly engaging writer – a journalist, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's right."

"But what I really want to say is that a writer... – I mean, a writer who's an artist – should never attempt to persuade his audience, but to purify, enlighten and transpose."

Carried adrift on his own stream of thought the officer flicked his lengthy grey ash into the ashtray the two of them shared.

"But that new machine!" He spoke of a sudden, as if picking up the flow of his thought down stream – "That's really going to change our perceptions of the world! You know what I'm talking about, don't you?..." He inclined his head toward the journalist and paused. "I mean the wireless radio. It's certainly proving to be a revolutionary contraption. Oh, and by the way..." He grinnled like a boy." Have you had a chance to hear any of Klatenborn's Crisis Reports?" The journalist's brow was made to rise. "They say his transmissions can be heard across the Atlantic in America. Imagine that!" The officer shook his head. "Let me invite you for a listen. The ship has a splendid radio you know. Just wander across to the officers mess in about an hour – you'll get a cup of coffee. The broadcast begins at nine o'clock sharp. See you there?"

"By all means."

Along the Calabrian Coast

The second night aboard the Royal Mail Ship found the voyager again all alone on the deck in the light of the midnight moon. As the ship sailed closely to the small and nub-like volcanic isle of Strombli, he witnessed the utterly fantastic sight of fiery magma flowing down its steep incandescent slopes.

An owl suddenly appeared out the lonely night sky and came to a perch on the railing near by. It folded its wings and calmly set its gaze towards the coast of Calabria. Then, in a slow and impassive manner, the owl turned its head in favour of the passenger. They looked to each other with empathy. Then the wise owl blinked and returned its gaze toward the coast again, to the beam of the lighthouse of Capo Vaticano. The curious encounter made the scribe recall the ancient belief in bird omens he had read of as a boy in his Illustrated Odyssey. He further reflected that the ship was now approaching 'those treacherous waters known since ancient times for their shifting currents and visible whirlpools: the Scilla and Charybdis of Homer's grand epic.' As the beacon of the lighthouse came nearer to view he was stirred to reflect on the portent of the owl. Could the refugee guru-to-be possibly have imagined as he silently peered from the deck of the ship, that a half-century later his principal disciples would be living on those same bucolic coasts subsisting on crudities of wild fruits and herbs like feral rishis free as the breeze?....Suddenly the owl enacted flight and disappeared into the darkness of night.

The ship soon entered the narrow Messina Strait that separates the toe of peninsular Italy from the myth-bound isle of Sicily. Then the first nudging tints of dawn light appeared to infuse the emergent landscape with rouge. Due to the numbers of ships that converged there, considerable caution was demanded in passing. Eventually the engine room was told to slacken speed to avert collision.

After re-establishing the Mail Ship's bearing the navigator set a new course heading true south. Flickering lights from the old town of Reggio caught the passengers attention. With the aid of a telescope he was able to discern the fishing port's brisk dawn activity. On starboard he gained the breathtaking view of volcanic Mt. Etna, its lofty summit still capped with snow and a stream of smoke billowing up from its crater.

At daybreak the lighthouse of Capo del Armi came into view at the tip of the toe of Italy's boot. The rustic scenery was marvellous there, with rugged houses standing out clearly against steep hillsides rich in spring growth. From there the new easterly course was set towards Crete and the next port of call at Beirut.

On the following day, as the guidebook informed him, the snow topped mountains of Crete could be seen, then the small barren offshore island of Gavado. From there it was nothing but sea and sky for another whole day until the Island of Cyprus appeared on the horizon...then the Lebanese Mountains and the port of Beirut.

The Grotto of the Virgin

Due to a minor mechanical dysfunction the captain announced that the normally scheduled five-hour halt would regrettably be extended to one whole day; the necessary time to complete the repairs and fully insure unhindered sailing for the balance of the voyage.

Checking in with his officer-informant the journalist was told (though "strictly off the record") that the ship's repairs would actually take three days. The officer explained: "The captain's version is a a matter of policy, a discrete form of protocol; a way to avoid depleting morale and keeping the passengers from straying too far from port."

Yet speaking one seasoned traveller to another, the officer suggested that the writer take a jaunt and see a bit of the Holy Land. He offered to provide him with guidebooks and maps. Chod was filled with incredible joy and immediately decided to visit the town of Bethlehem. He began his pilgrimage by hired car, going south along the warm coastal road through Palestine. He stopped in Jerusalem and found a room for night. Then the following morning he drove a little further to the grotto where the Virgin gave birth to the Christ.

Port Said

Soon however he was back aboard the Mail Ship sailing due south for Port Said, Egypt, the actual beginning of the Suez Canal. This is where the ship would begin its slow 160-kilometre journey through the Suez Canal to the Red Sea.

After numerous tours through the world's most vital transit point, the writer still found Port Said full of character. In many ways the town marks the beginning and the end: the vestibule separating Orient from Occident.

'The ship was moored right in front of the Customs Office, and then the passengers slowly filed down the gangway to the rusty pontoon and finally set foot on dry land again.' But as soon as the foreigners pass through customs

there suddenly appeared on the quayage before them a gesticulating committee of turbaned merchants avidly soliciting their new found friends with a polyglot barrage of proverbs and various other suggestions.

the timid Europeans inched their way through an apparent gauntlet of local entrepreneurs dressed in their commodious ankle-length kaftans, and among whom there is sure be found an assortment of conjurers and cigarette factory representatives.

"Well in my view the art lies in defusing such encounters; but always in a way that dignity reigns. But the best thing is knowing how to elude such situations. You get a lot of practice in India. But then I'm also not a European either."

"Ah," said the officer, having overlooked the fact. "I suppose it's a different perspective then?"

"You better believe it."

Dashing to Giza

Again the first officer proved himself to be an unequalled source of pertinent information. He told the pressman of a newly laid rail line that made it now feasible for passengers to see the Great Pyramids and the Sphinx at Giza in just enough time to rejoin the ship at the canal's southern terminus town of Port Tawfiq.

The suggestion struck the writer like a beam of healing light.

"Now, we would hardly encourage our normal clients to strike off on such a risky jaunt," said the officer cringing comically. "So please do keep it to yourself old boy. You know, it's problem enough just letting them loose in the relative tameness of little Port Said. – Oh yes! You'd be shocked at all the horror stories we get from them; stories of being befriended by local acquaintances and then led through the narrow dark lanes of the Arab Quarter. It's basically the case of letting curiosity get the upper hand on prudence, I suppose. Though it has to be admitted that those large standing water pipes do have a certain allurement. Wouldn't you say?"

"I would," said the scribe, "And Egyptian hospitality is as unrefusable as it is impeccable."

"Yes, yes; a man of experience, I'm sure."

"All in the line of research," he said.

"So you can very well imagine, then, the scenario yourself where having once accepted a few cool draws... "

"Well that's really all it takes, isn't it?"

"Depending on the substance smoked, one would think."

"Granted." Chod nodded.

"And you can easily imagine how an unbewitting smoker would drift away dreamily in a well stuffed chair while seated in one of those ghoraz style coffee houses perfectly oblivious to the three loud blasts that are sounded by the ship to announce its launch. Which leaves the captain with no other option than to leave the intoxicated stragglers behind – forsaken lotus eaters fallen to the forgetfulness of their dainty viands." The officer waxed Homerically[4]. "But regarding Giza," he returned with some urgency, "there is just enough time to do it justice. You can survey the environs and get some strong impressions. – But you've got to go quickly! See you tomorrow down south in Port Tawfiq."

The journalist quickly returned to his cabin and then set off down the gangway to the quay. He passed through customs and headed for the train, a five-minute jog from the ship.

Worship of the Sun

Leaving Port Said the sidetrack railway travelled right along the canal heading south. It occasionally passed a ship on the way, which gave a strange impression of a ship that was sailing across a flat sea of sand. Seventy-eight kilometres into the journey they came to the town of Ismaila. From there the train proceeded due west to the town of Zagazig before finally arriving at Cairo Station. The entire 233 kilometre trip taking about 4 hours. From the city of Cairo the final destination was reached by a short tramline.

Immediately arriving at the plateau of Giza, Egypt's most famous pharaonic site, the traveller was struck by the phenomenal size of those four-and-a-half-millennia-old remains and veritable wonders in public works. 'What faith-inspiring conceptions of life,' he mused, 'could possibly have compelled an ancient people to carry so many stones and bricks to its monuments?'

He began to interpret the massive physical scale and arrangement in accordance with the primordial conception of a north-south axis, logistically aligned between the other chief Egyptian theological centres of Onu and Memphis. Onu was established north of Giza. The Greeks knew it as Heliopolis, "City of the Sun." Onu was the Ancient World's leading healing center. It was also the seat of the Royal Cult of Ra (or Re) the Universal Sun God. But in the New Kingdom Period the conception of Ra was supplanted by the emerging priest craft at Thebes. This is when Ra received a re-elaboration along the lines of Amun-Ra. In the later Amarna Period (ca. 1500 BC), King Akenaten achieved a revolution and the cult of Re became overshadowed by the worship of a single god Aten, arguably the world's first monotheistic deity. It is for these reasons that Diffusionist scholars accredit all religions, and monotheism in particular, to have their origins in the worship of the Sun[5].

Health at the fragile edge

Travelling back to rejoin the ship (now well on its way through the canal to Suez) the train again passed through the town of Ismaila on the shores of Lake Timsah. From there it veered south to the town of Suez, then beyond to Port Tawfiq where the canal actually opens to the Gulf of Suez.

With ample stores of water and provisions for the two-week voyage that lied ahead, the Dutch flag vessel recommenced its course sailing South through the turquoise waters of the Gulf. While talking together on the bridge of the ship, the voyager asked his officer-informant why the Red Sea after all rarely looked red?

"Ah!" said the uniformed offiscer smiling broadly, "You won't find that in your complimentary guidebook, will you! Now poets have suggested that the name of these waters comes from the beautiful cast of the sun when silkily reflectant at dusk or dawn. But as a former student of marine biology I assure you that scientists hold another view. And they would have us believe that the redness of the sea is actually caused by the microscopic blooms of a phycoerythrin-rich species of cyanobacteria!"

Images of Europe began to fade and the journalist felt as if a great dark weight had been lifted from his shoulders. After two days at sea, they made a brief call at Jeddah, the gateway port to nearby Mecca; that most cherished pilgrimage in all of Islam; the global hub to where the faithful direct their five times daily prayers. From there they continued their southerly course and entered the narrow Strait of Bab el-Mandeb as the opposing desert coasts of Djibouti and Yemen came clearly into view. With these separated continents situated both but fifteen miles from the passing vessel, the extreme strategic importance of the strait becomes evident.

The ship then entered the Gulf of Aden and the warm blue waters of the Arabian Sea. From there a new easterly course was set that virtually retraced an old East African trade route. There were seven more days of open sea in which temperatures soared. An agonizing dullness beleaguered his mind. He passed time lounging in a shaded deckchair, staring out blankly to the pale blue expanse. He also took rest in his private cabin, jotting down notes in his current logbook. The flight from Europe and the ensuing weeks of transit had pushed his health to a frayed and fragile edge. And having grown quite accustomed to the comforts of Europe, the inevitable harshness that India implied would pose the greatest test his still-young life.

A few days later he lands at Bombay. He steps from the ship to Imperial India and is greeted by swarms of coolies and street kids imploring him for coins and other foreign blessings. He darts through the crowded lanes in a rickshaw and suddenly spots a makeshift newsstand. He immediately tells the driver to stop and calls to the vendor for a Statesman.

"Yes sahib!" the paper-walla shouts.

He was stoical. Those headlines came as no surprise. HITLER TAKES PARIS. GERMAN TROOPS MARCH DOWN CHAMPS-ELYSÉES.