In 1960, when she was in her late twenties, the poet Joanne Kyger (1934 – 2017) joined Gary Snyder in Japan. From there, the two traveled to India, together with Allen Ginsberg and Peter Orlovsky, where they met the Dalai Lama. Below are the entries from Kyger’s journal, written in India in 1962.
January 4
Travelling all night on train. Awake. Meeting Ceylonese fellow who has had enough of Ceylon, excellent English. The inability of old people to change – he’s a fisherman now-but is going to Australia where relatives are – to be a farmer. “I really like that kind of work.” Exceedingly good honest feel about him – not handsome – clean fresh white clothes, tall scar on his forhead.
Cross onto ferry. Strike tomorrow. On ferry at 6. It leaves at noon. At Danaushkodi, wait from three until ten when enormously packed train leaves. In through window, with American from Pennsylvania and Swiss with cowboy hat. Sleeping on floor next to missionary lady all night. Gary loses flash light from side pocket of rucksack.
January 5
Madurai: arrived 5 o’clock, with James Long and Swiss fellow, Ernst, checked into railway retiring room, washed clothes and hair and into bed at 6:30. Room with polished stone floor, one bed, surprisingly clean. Bathtub full of black soot dirt. Rose at to o’clock, ate breakfast, really lunch in restaurant next door. The waiter left the pot of coffee on the counter. Not having had any yet, Gary went up and got it. We drank the whole pot. Strong, in tiny cups. Realized later probably only one cup each was quota.
January 6, 1962
Last night entering sleeping 3rd class car tremendous argument ensued over seats between Southern Indian gentleman and woman who were sitting in our seats. They left, and argument continued between another man who took up their side and the former man – shouting the length of the carriage at each other. Slept until 4 o’clock on upper shelf on Gary’s sleeping bag. Three levels to a side. Off train at 4:30 at Villupuram and transferred to train to Pondicherry. Two raggedy gypsies, one old, one a child wrapped in blankets, get off on wrong side and cross tracks.
Pondicherry at 6:30, registered. Breakfast at eating hall, met Beverly Siegerman, young, earnest looking in front of breakfast line ahead of us. She takes us to Parc-a-charbon boarding house on the sea. We have a small room, wood beds, meals, 12 rps a day. A visit to their large library Lunch, rest in the afternoon and asleep by six o’clock. Gary goes to dinner by himself.
January 7, 1962
Up at 5:15 to see The Mother – stand on balcony.
Sethna, editor of MOTHER INDIA and Beverly visit from 9-10. Sunbathing and reading The Mother in the afternoon. Beverly visits again with Cambodian Bhikku Dharma Thila and we talk in sea house with cement tables.
Meditation last night consisted of middle aged men in blue shorts and white shirts making a ridiculous spectacle walking up and down doing exercises. Young men and girls also in uniforms. Lights go off. People rise and face map of Mother India. Seated again, organ music creaks out played (recorded) by the Mother for 15 minutes. Last 10 minutes or so in silence then dinner Curds, vegetables and rice.
I feel constantly to be on the brink – not of understanding – a much bigger feeling begun on that day when I saw the clouds break while on the train to Kadoma (grey and sun) and thought I am me, here, now – or more felt a sense of it. And the religiousness of India seems to bring it out more.
January 8, 1962. Monday
Rise 5:30. The Mother on the balcony. She is in different colors this morning with white 1920’s veil around her head. Yesterday a green one. Everyone looking up watching her face for 15 minutes – enough to make anyone feel strange. She first gazes slowly all over everyone, then focuses in the distance over their heads for 10 minutes or less. Then gazes with a smile (false teeth?) over everyone then backs away. Then to breakfast. The french style building with tile floors, long windows, high ceilings, white walls, bright flowers climbing and growing outside.
Food is big roll and bread slices, bananas, cocoa or curds. I took curds and ground everything up into it – bread, bananas, sugar. American from Boston stops to talk loudly, blonde hair, has been here since 1952 on island the Mother gave me. An unpleasant sort of egocentric, does sculpture. In 1910 The Mother first took management of the Ashram into her hands. She first came to Pondicherry in 1914 with her husband, and left in 1915. Sri Aurobindo died December 5. 1950.
Long visit with Beverly Siegerman at her house. She tells about life in India and the young Indian who was a God she fell in love with in London and was going to marry – one of the reasons she came to India. She later married someone else. Was with Bhodan for almost 2 years. Here at the ashram for 3 years. Mr. Birla sends her money, the little ashram doesn’t provide.
January 10
Sethna visits with Beverly for two hours discussing Sri Aurobindo’s philosophy. On November 24, 1926, the over mind descended and was planted firmly into Sri Aurobindo. In 1938 he and The Mother brought down the supermind but were unable to fix it permanently here. In 1956 it descended permanently. The Mother brought it down while she was in the play yard at night meditation. It will work itself out in future evolution to make matter as perfect as the spirit has become under intense meditation. Man will become like an angel here, deathless and not subject to the frailties the human body is now subject to.
January 11, 1962. Thursday
Rise at 4:30 for Tiruvannamalai – good bus. One pack under seat, one on top of bus. Leaves 5:30. The bus stops. Something has splatted onto the window bars a few seats back of us. A few clumps of dirt have hit the back of my head. Conductor climbs off and lifts with stick a piece of rotting meat off the bars, picked up while passing a tree.
Arrive 10:30. And walked to Osbornes, who had been expecting us later in the evening. House covered with bright bougainvillaca. Dry arid countryside with stone hill rising due south. The real heart of India.
They are followers of Sri Ramana Maharshi, whose doctrine is similar to the Zen method, Who am I. Who is it that asks those questions. Preaches loss of ego. They think The Mother a nut who possibly practices black magic of occult type. And Aurobindo very confused in his thinking. Have disdain for the Pondicherry ashram.
But use the same kind of blind enthusiasm for Maharshi as the Pondicherry people do for The Mother and Aurobindo. The Brahmin School boys sit in front of the Samadhi of Maharshi chanting the Vedas – 5 young boys. Their front heads shaved and stripes of ash across their foreheads and arms. Dot of vermillion in the center of their brow. Very rhythmic, almost syncopated chanting. Bored, they squirm around and stare, scratching themselves while they chant.
January 12, 1962 Friday
Gary and I after Tamil breakfast at ashram of sweet milk coffee, two cups in brass containers and a sour rice cake, tasting like slightly soured cream of wheat eaten with a chili powder and a little ghee in it.
Walked up hill behind to where Maharshi meditated in the twenties to a cave house, a spring came out when he was there from the side of the hill.
Lunch at the ashram with the Osbornes on mats of leaves sewed together. He is so tall and white and English with false teeth and the peculiar pomposity of Englishmen. She is Czech, kind of erratic and volatile, over generous.
Curry and ghee and sauce. And buttermilk in bowl. After a rest on the roof under bougainvillea, we circumambulate Arunachala, the hill, barefoot, from 3:30 to 7:30. Stopping on the way back at the main temple. An enormous construction. In the moonlight feeding the holy elephant hananas in the inner courtyard. He has white ash stripes across his forehead and a vermillion mark. If you give him a coin he will bless you with his trunk – tapping it on your head. It all feels like a movie set.
A wide dry flat plain around the hill – the heart of India – with tall thin palm trees and many old and ruined shrines and temples. Nothing good enough for rubbing. The stone too rough.
January 13, 1962
A horse cart takes us to the RR for a bus at 5:30. She presses last minute gifts of tomatoes, guavas, sliced brown bread and ghee. A letter of introduction. Bus leaves 7:00. First stop toilet is a straw walled area where one goes anywhere on the ground. My shoe covered. Beggar, second stop, gives me a jolt. No legs, he pulls himself up the aisle. I give him 5 cents. Gary having to step over him at the door gave him a cents. Madras: entering by bus. Wide clean streets, fancy modern shops in one section.
Room in RR Retiring Room, to Ruppees, perfectly enormous. Bathroom, with hot running water – for a short time. Ate Bombay style meal with chappaties in a restaurant. Very good on open roof.
At Higgenbotham Book Store: a copy of Howl among Indian art books, Kerouac’s Scripture of Golden Eternity in books on geography of India next to pamphlet on fruit crops.
Sunday, January 14, 1963
South Indian New Year. Gary went out and bought a bucket of curds. We mixed the old Pondicherry bread into the curds with bananas and some Gandhi sugar we bought at the Khadi place last night. Matron of the Retiring Room, fat and mindful, can speak many Indian languages. Wants to go to Japan to teach English. Everything closed today.
10:50. At Indian coffee and restaurant house, having a cup of South Indian coffee. Which is sweet with milk – much like cocoa – not a strong coffee taste. But all very reviving just the same. Just ordered another cup each.
Piles of shit along the road after every one’s morning relief. Stepped in two piles. And what is the disease you can get from it?
Miss Gita Sharma’s place a lovely apartment above the Children’s Garden School – which the family founded. The father an Indian scholar of Hinduism and art etc. Mother a German, teaches German at University here. Two sisters dress Indian style and look it. Miss Gita Sharma always dresses western style with western features. Works at German consulate. Reserved but friendly. Tea of many goodies and exceedingly friendly conversation. German couple come later – he a very large man with hands like hams, big nose. She very blonde and pregnant. They had come 3 weeks ago from Germany all the way in a Volkswagon.
Dance concert by two Maharaja’s daughters. One very much better than the other. Ankle bracelets of bells, ornaments in the hair, flowers, vermillion painted fingers, spot on the palm and painted feet.
Upon entering the concert:
Sandalwood cream on the hand
Rose water shaken on the hand
n’ sugar crystal to put in the mouth.
Later Swiss fellow joins the party. He has been in Katmandu and Nepal for several years. And asks Gary what he thinks of the Dharma Bums. He had just read it and it seemed pretty incredible to him. “They don’t know what they’re doing.” Gary played dumb.
January 15, 1962. Monday
Gary out at 5:45 for curds and bread. A tray of coffee, one pitcher of coffee syrup and another of hot milk. Two cups each. And a big bunch of bananas, dates, curds and the last of the Pondicherry bread.
8:10 bus station. To Mahabalipuram Gypsy children selling beads persistently. Begging under our window. Real raggamuffins, black straggly unwashed hair, strings of beads around their necks, little waist skirts that cover nothing. But handsome faces.
Just found we have gotten on the wrong company’s bus to Mahabalipuram and will not leave until 8:30. The state transport left 7:45. We have been here since 7:25. I begin to get panicky over wasted time. Another wait from 10:15 to 11:45 in a town with a temple. Arrived Mahabalipuram 13:30. But from then on things looked better. The town arranged neatly with signs pointing to different stone carved areas. Some of them half-finished.
Arjuna’s Penance carved into side wall best bit. Lunch of vegetarian curry. And sea temple on a point protruding into the ocean, badly weathered. On the short route State bus trip back, met two American girls who are missionaries in the Deradun area. Loquacious and friendly. But marvelously stupid. One had seen the Theosophical Society exhibit of Jesus together with other Hindu deities and the Buddha etc. She was shocked and thought it terribly confusing – why only Jesus is telling the truth. He said, I am the Truth. Is everyone calling him a liar!
State fair finished only in spots. Many shabby booths. The American exhibition an example of shining efficiency, neatness and glamour. Germany also with a beautiful Milk exhibit.
Bought a string of jade beads. The salesman insisted they were jade. I thought maybe some other stone – they were only 8 rupees. He was insulted when I suggested it. At home the string breaks. I think they are really glass.
January 17, 1962
Yesterday unable to decide on a sari. Piles of them on the counter.
Boarding train early at Madras find all the sleeping bunks in the compartment already taken. Later three shift to another compartment, so only four in our section for the whole night. Our seat facing wall and john. I above, Gary below, good night’s sleep. Later today, 4 other hood types move in and we have 8 in a thirteen man compartment. Everyone gets sleeping space.
Then crowded for an hour or so when people push on. We move later to back of the compartment after hoodlum types leave. We lock the doors against intruders. And one by one everyone gets off until at night there are only three of us in the compartment – doors bolted and the night windows down. It is necessary to get reservations a week in advance or more for trains from Madras to Calcutta.
January 18, 1962
Arrive Bhubaneswar at 7: 30. A really poor dirty dry area. Drive in pedicab to our lodging – a state tourist house. The station master did the inevitable haggling over price and we paid only so n.p. The rooms with twin beds, sink, shower, cold water, cement floor. The whole tourist structure only a year old looking five. Cold and bare inside with a nasty attempt at looking efficient and Western.
Walked over to the rajani temple the closest – at 10 o’clock, after doing the necessary laundry. It is a sweet cathedral, the lines graceful. Situated alone in the middle of flat dry fields. Much carving of dryads and nymphs. Not a soul around. Then over to the Parasumeswara temple, the oldest and smallest. In the inner sanctum, a white shining lingam. In the gloom, powerful smell and eerie rush – inhabited by bats.
Caught the bus to the Jain caves at 13:45 and the bus back to the old town at 2. the caves on two hills khandagiri, Udaiyagiri. True caves. Even boulders hollowed out to live in like dog houses. In the old town we walk around the Lingaraji temple. The biggest and most imposing in Bhubaneswar. Only Hindus and Buddhists allowed inside. No white skin. Gary is trying to see if his letter from Daitoku-ji will get him inside. We meet a journalist who writes for a local paper. He helps us buy bread from a dirty shop where everyone seems to suffer from elephantiasis. Two small loaves in a jar. He then asks us to help him get to America. And leaves his address. We must write him and give him information. After we move on, two small boys tell us we must go to the police station because they have our light meter, which we left at the caves. Gary identifies it endlessly and gives the man who found it five rupees. Some millionaire I said and walked on home myself. At our lodg ing, my cold feels worse. It began in Madras. We cook bread and corned mutton on stove of bricks and canned heat which Gary improvised. And tea on our canteen kettle. The tea a free sample from the agricultural fair in Madras. After the food I got stomach cramps and felt nauseous, chilled, then perspired. I was delirious for several hours. One hour’s sleep passed like half a minute. The sense of space changed. Everything was very close or very far away. Everything startled me. Gary gave me some antibiotic pills, and went to the dining hall for an inferior curry dinner. After chanting a dharani.
January 19, 1962. Friday
At six in the morning I feel better. Cold dried up. Heat more tea, bananas, ghee, jam crackers for breakfast. To the old temple, Parasumeswara to make rubbings. Wearing slacks for the first time. When not carrying a pack, it’s sure to make the Indians stare. Two hours bus ride to Konarak. Worth the terrible poor sterility of the rest of the area. Minutely carved areas. Climbing up steep stairs to circumambulate the top of the temple, the height began to frighten me and Gary led me part way back. An old Punjabi gentleman with white beard, firm calloused hands helped me the rest of the way. Also a sickly looking local with pot belly and unpleasant demeanor who wanted more than the 15 rp I could give him for helping me down to steps.
Walked with packs from rest house to RR. 8: 10 now, having waited since 7:15 for a curry dinner with egg we ordered. Crows gather by hundreds in near by tree. Train to Calcutta comes 9:21. A bit chilly. The train when it comes is packed. We all squat on the floor.
The large perfect squares
where mud
has been dug away
the center crown.
January 20, 1961. Saturday
Calcutta. Arrived 8 o’clock. Two narrow facing seats. Try to sleep slung between them. We don’t have change. An Indian pays for our tea.
The Sikh taxi driver takes us away past Mahabodhi society. We walked back. Gary angry. The Ceylonese Bhikku in charge: who is she. She’s my wife. Well who is she. What does she do. Letters from everyone. Allen not to meet us until February 18th.
Men squat when they pee.
January 21, 1962. Sunday
Gary stays in room to study and plan. I take a trolly down-town, wander around, everything closed. Back to food shopping, big pile of tomatoes for 25 rp. A bunch of white, orange and red flowers – probably over charged. Then back down to get some milk cheese where we bought it yester day, as np worth. And at a sweet shop for a big pot of sweet dessert curds. Almost 9 rupees worth. We can’t find the plain curds of Madras – here in plain unglazed terracotta pot I use to arrange flowers in. They use these cups as throw aways – for tea, sweets, etc. Laundry all afternoon. Water schedule as follows: off 9:30 on 13 – 1 off until 3:30 (comes on downstairs) on about 8 – 8:30 upstairs Curry dinner out. Gary reading and planning all day. The Bhikku’s at the Mahabodhi ask Gary if his wife is an artist. Now I feel! should write poetry in front of them.
January 22, 1961
Bought red sandals.
January 23, 1961
Dinner with Budda deva Bose and family. Spending night at son-in-law’s empty flat.
January 24, 1962, Wednesday
Left Calcutta in thick dirty smog via bus – the conductor fussing about our packs. Reserved and class seats. Slept on floor in sleeping bag on newspapers en route. Floor full of dirt. Cinders in my hair. The conductor looks down.
January 25, 1961. Thursday
Beginning our 4th week in India. One month since we disembarked on December 18, in Colombo. Hot then. Now chilly enough to worry me, wearing all our clothes.
Got off train in Gaya 6 a.m. Gary chilled and angry because I am wearing his parka, my clothes too fancy to get dirty on a train trip. Here we catch our first glimpse of Tibetans camped around. A pedicab driver, magnificently mild mannered in comparison to the others, leisurely and blandly takes us a mile away to the bus to Bodh Gaya – pointing to the wrong bus when we ask him which one. The bus then goes back to the RR station and picks up a troupe of yellow robed Burmese monks. Here I discover the excellent sunglasses I bought in Singapore have been squashed and broken during the night.
Groves of trees with clean swept ground beneath, herd of cows sent through. Pigs with long bristled backs.
Mahabodhi Society rest house. Head monk, to whom we present letter of introduction from Mr. Devapriya Valisinha, general secretary or head of Mahabodhi Society in Calcutta. He’s got an almost coal black head and saffron robe and orange shawl and is sitting on cot sunning himself in the yard. His disciple who is 20 years older welcomes us. His English is excellent and amusing. We are given the big hall to stay, e’ occupy a comer. I sponge off the tables and chairs many times – they are black. Straw mats on the floor to sleep on. You can have a dance in here the older monk says. He used to be a civil servant in Ceylon.
Climbing in sleeping bags we sleep until y o’clock – having done the usual laundry before – and hanging it on the roof. The whole town infested with Tibetans and their prayer wheels – more of them than Indians – next door a Tibetan monastery. They all carry a strong odor of Yak butter. Big Mukluks on their feet. I smell of ghee. Purchased potatoes, an onion, chilies, eggplant, tomatoes. Gary makes a stove out of bricks and we cook a stew. Everyone gathering around to watch. Two big hot round loaves of Tibetan bread arrive Like cart wheels of cheese. 50 rp each.
At night the Tibetan monks chanting in front of the Pipul tree, hundreds of small round oil lamps lit in rows behind them.
An encampment arrives of Tibetans at midnight. Us alone, doors bolted in the big hall
January 31, 1962
Nalanda ruins. Temple site No. 2. Rubbings, gardener gave me a red rose as I left the new University for the ruins of the old. I am always afraid they want money, and are not truly giving
Marichi: one face of three is that of boar
holds a needle and piece of string
in first pair of her hands – 8 arms
goad and noose vajra bow and arrow flower
Circle and pigs
pigs at Bodh Gaya – going into town.
pigs in the Buddha’s grove
wild boar at hell
hell poem of boar and tapestry
February 1, 1961. Thursday
Yesterday. Bhikku Ghosananda and Nagasaki san accompanied us to four o’clock bus. The German Bhikku with his newly shaved head came later. He looks old and intellectual and mouth full of smart teeth and bent and he’s only 21. Ghosananda wanted to pay us for the food we ate – the bill 14.30 – and came over insisting with the money in piece of folded paper and he looked like he was going to slip it in Gary’s bag when our back was turned. He left a pile of peyra this morning when I was away making rubbings. Peyra, the brown sugar candy.
Attack of stomach cramps and diarrhea on the bus. Gary climbed on top to the packs and got pills out. And after a scary time it went away. He told me about all the meals at the logging camp. I asking precise and exact details until we came to Patna. Went directly to Dak Bungalow for room, and then across street for Indian special vegetable meal. English menu. No sweat. To bed. Dreams about angrily breaking up Sam Dabney’s engagement party.
Today tried to change Nepalese visa so we could fly. Way out to deserted looking run down eerie courtyard and building where Nepal representative said he couldn’t change it. Back to old secretariat for re-entry permit and post office which took until 6.
Mr Maharathi, who is teaching bamboo craft was not at home at 3, but Ceylon girl we met at Bodh Gaya turns out to live there. Mr. Uetsugi came at 6:30 and took us to dance school. Bottle of rum for Rs 4.50. A sip before bed.
February 2, 1962. Friday
Nice breakfast across the street at the Jai Hind Hotel where we have been taking our meals. This morning in the back room where I can look back and see an old man in the kitchen making tri-cornered pastries. For me: a poached eggs, 2 pieces of heavy rich toast – a samosa and Kachuri – (2 different kinds of pastries) pot of tea. About Rs 1.25 each. All packed and ready for 1 o’clock ferry, waiting for Mr. Uetsugi to take us to the museum and shopping – as he volunteered to. Already to minutes late.
Lunch with Indian beer with Mr. Uetsugi. Indian beer light and strong – a bottle each. Big lunch on Veranda. Many plate of food but without chilies because his Japanese palate must be suited. The Khadi shop not visited there being no time. Short stop at Dak Bungalow to pick up belongings and I changed to slacks and black corduroy sneakers… my travling costume.
And left on 3 o’clock ferry. Up Ganges. Our first encounter with it. Third class deck spread with interesting handsome-faced Indians. 30 minute ride on open ferry to train until nine o’clock to Muzaffarpor. I give a tiny girl who is crying on her sister’s lap a banana for her mouth. They are riding free, with their mother, dirty. That’s a good plan says a fine looking Indian next to me. He has very close cropped hair with tiny strand left uncut at top. Tweed jacket and white cloth. Even handsome features.
February 3, 1962
Train left Raxaul at 6:15 to cross Nepali border. We arrived station at 4:30. Slept until 5:45 n’ to train. English man with beard jumped out and helped us with customs man who was not, as the time was limited, going to let us go.
Trip by bus through the mountains. Eleven in the morning to 7:45 at Katmandu. This is the day the world is to end. Way up in the clear air of the Himalayas. The Englishman getting more bull shitty and talkative.
Night in rat infested Himalayan Hotel.
February 5, 1962
“Whatever has become of Harold Dull… My Boyhood in Seattle. I bought his White rabbit book. He is a fine poet, you see he probably doesn’t know people think of him. But he has a following. One doesn’t have to give material contributions. It can ruin a man like the Kahn money killed Hart Crane.”
– Wendell Metzger who came up into our room in Paras Hotel. He’s a writer and had been at Gary’s poetry reading in San Francisco.
February 6, 1962
Visit to School Master and then pagoda. Many people, in cluding School Master have pockmarked face. Dead monkey on road. We have bicycles. Gary says the monkey has been shot. Brown with red face.
Tibetan beggar child drags his hands across the sleeve of my yellow coat, leaving an enormous patch of black grease.
Katmandu. Monday
Shawl around my neck
the light dim in this room
here in Nepal
the fire fading under my dinner
all the objects cold
my husband away in a restaurant
I poached eggs by ordering a teapot of hot water and putting the eggs in that – wrapping the sleeping bag around it as a tea cozy.
The lama calls e’ calls for a gold cup to spit in.
February 10, 1962
Banaras
Fine RR veg and non-veg restaurant. Big pot black coffee with a eggs and a toast. Flew out from Katmandu with Metzger, train from Patna to Banaras. Staying in RR room. I get sick for two days.
February 13, 1961
Sammath. Arrived last night. Now at Mahabodhi Society full of Tibetans.
February 14, 1962
Met Carolyn Wilson the other day, American girl who was living in Kyoto. We bought spirit lamp to cook over.
Masala dosa onion dosa
sadha dosa rava dosa
Food at South Indian restaurant in Banaras where we eat and have become fond.
White clad man who said he was a beggar following us for the hour we waited for the bus back to Sarnath and up onto the bus until one of the passengers had him put off. He did not look like a beggar. He looked insane.
Shopping and sightseeing all day. The burning ghats.
February 16, 1962
Spent night at Bave’s Boodhan place. Molasses and porridge for breakfast. Excavating across the street. Near Krishnamurti’s college.
February 18, 1963
Six o’clock bus to Khajuraho, arrive 11:30. Stay at Government place. Food high. Otherwise lodging clean and cheap and resort-like.
February 20, 1963
11:30 a.m. Jhansi. Location of John Master’s novel, Night Runners of Bengal which we got from the English boys in Katmandu. Cage of monkeys next to us on the platform where we sit. And a khol round eyed child with silver bangles on the ankles and wrists hangs about with an engaging smile but disappears with her father just as we are going to take her picture.
Bus left at 7:45 from Circuit House where it was flagged down. Padded seats on bus like Greyhound. Arrived Harpalput – a tiny station at 11:00 p.m. where they opened the first and second class ladies room and Gary and I slept in our sleeping bags on the couches until 4:30. He insisted we were committed to buying and class tickets since they had opened it specially for us – and he told me he had actually “bought” and class to Jhansi -they cost 6 rupees and then 3rd class from Jhansi to Gwalior, letting me rage and fuss for awhile until he said he’d gotten third class all the way. “But I’m not going to use my white face for privileges any more.”
The boots of Madya Pradesh country men have big curling toes and pointed flap in back. Shoe shine man looking in depressed manner at my black corduroy tennis shoes and Gary’s canvas hiking boots.
Lots of big pieces of mutton in last night’s curry dinner. I get on second class ladies compartment. Gary refuses anything but third, where he forces himself in. Two freshly and beautifully dressed girls in starched sari and punjabi outfit in compartment make me feel so grubby Disembarking I don’t see Gary and think he hasn’t been able to get on.
After freshening up and checking baggage we take a putt putt to Gwalior Gate. Walk up tall hill to museum (former palace) and big fort castle. All empty and hollow and echoing. Lower chamber with big rings for prisoners. And then over to two Hindu temples: mother and daughter-in-law. Carved in Khajuraho style. Photographing them hastily. The day is beginning to end. Gary has his boots on and doesn’t want to take them off to go inside. The sides of the fort falling steeply away. A natural hill, Children gath ering around asking for bakshish.
And then hurrying to the road, down, to see the big lain statues carved in the rock face of the fort. So feet his feet in a pool, a water fall across his face. Koo-koo cross-eyed dopey expressions. And walk back into town stopping at Southern Indian restaurant. Many houses painted with colorful pictures on the front. Dinner, catch train to Agra, 11:40. Crowded. The vestibule with luggage
A man lets me sit on the edge of the bedroll he has spread out. I try to sleep with my head across my pack, covered with my shawl. A lively and talkative Indian who I kept watching because of his laugh came out with us and talked to Gary all hours in the men’s waiting room, giving him his photograph with an extravagant inscription on the back.
February 21
Arrived last night at three. Slept until 7 in the waiting room. Cycle rickshaw to Taj Mahal.
9:15. Stop for a cup of tea within view
of main red and white gate.
Perfectly kept gardens, green, beds of flowers, trees. I had not imagined it would be so exquisite. Stone work on the tomb. River runs behind. And to the Red Fort with marble chambers and hidden mosques and thrones. View of the Taj from its windows. Moat around it.
Back by train to Mathura at 4:30. A whole ladies 3rd class car, 75 seats to ourselves. We lock all the doors, arrive in a few hours. Spend the night in a big retiring room.
February 22
Everything closed for elections. A rickshaw man takes us to the museum by mistake and when he finally finds the tourist information office he won’t take the agreed price shouting outside and creating a terrible fuss and takes times as much to go away. I’d like to slug him. The man there gets out of bed, the office officially closed, and tells us since he feels an instinctive friendliness (gushiness) for us he will help us.
Museum has excellent sculpture, two good Buddhas. One with clear smile. Gary says the reason we came to Mathura is because the women’s female organs are displayed lucidly and prominantly in the sculpture.
Walk through the streets, dirty, plagued by guides. Turtles on the river banks. Holy Hindu town. It stinks.
Detective stops and writes down passport information for over a quarter of an hour while we sit in store front. Then tells us to come to police station to get our alien registration fixed up. His English is insufficient for understanding. We shout at him so he will understand better. Gary takes his detective number and we refuse to go saying we have a train to catch, etc. and many other things. Two drags in a day. We catch a crowded train to Delhi. Taxi to Birla Mandir. Eventually they give us an empty upstairs kitchen to sleep in, spreading bags on floor. Me sulky and exhausted.
February 23
Walking down the hall to the bath in the morning I look through the window and see a bearded fellow in bed and a Time magazine. Gary and I go and ask him for any junk literature he may have and borrow his Time. He is with another fellow artist, handsome with silver and black hair and beard. Tom Leary and Bob Downs. The latter knew Lee Dabney. Took census with McClure. Won SF Museum County Modern Art first prize in 1960. Was in Ceylon trying to sail a boat to India which ran aground. Suitcase full of orderly little object d’arts and Persian miniatures. Met them for dinner at a Southern Indian place and exchanged more names.
Went out for mail to American Express and found Ginsberg and Peter already in Delhi four days waiting for us. Checking their room at the Jain Dharmashala in great haste and excitement. They are out for day. Waiting all afternoon at Birla Temple for room. Letter to manager:
Attention Manager:
You informed us this morning that a room would be available for us at 2 o’clock this afternoon. We have been waiting for you since then. We spent the entire morning and the sum of some rupees going to the American Embassy and obtaining the letter you requested us to bring to you. An additional annoyance was the fact that you directed us to the wrong bus to take there and it was necessary for us to take a taxi in order to find our way. We find that the necessity of having a room and a proper place to rest after our long and tiring journey to New Delhi is too pressing, and we are unable to waste any more of our energies waiting for your presence. We are therefore leaving. (Letter never sent.)
Allen and Peter arrive 10:30 after I have washed my hair. They just took morphine. They slept all night in sleeping bag covers on the floor, since it was too late to leave. Wild and unkempt. Long hair.
February 24
Still voting in India. The Khadi shop closed. Riding into Old Delhi in horse carts and back. Having big ice cream fruit glop. Narrow jewelers alley of Delhi, checking for Lapis Lazuli for Ruri chan.
By myself. 6:30. Lighhtning. Thunder. No rain. Hot water for coffee on spirit lamp. Thick slices of bread and peanut butter. Fresh sweet rolls with bits of candied fruit, this morning, and butter. The rest off to an Indian music con cert. A man is taking a vow of silence. He is being serenaded on the eve of his vow. (Baba loves me like he should)
Ginsberg showed me a letter from Kerouac that makes you laugh all the way through. He never makes a typing error.
February 25
Sightseeing drive with Kushwant Singh and his daughter. Ginsberg told him I wanted beer because I’d been hollering about it for days. Embarrassing.
Singh is big heart oxford type Sikh with hair. Handsome apartment with many shelves books. And then tea with Juliet someone’s parents who is Barney Rosset’s secretary. Grove publishes Singh. The parents, who had been visiting a son in Bombay brought an edgy American couple living for business in India. Blonde high forehead and nasal way of wise cracking in a tone from the side of his mouth. Singh gives us a gin drink before we leave. His wife comes in from walking the dog. Dynamic and brilliant face, hearty manner, like she is someone. More handsome than beautiful.
February 28
Second wedding anniversary. I gave Gary a shawl from Khadi shop and key ring and he presented me with gold hoop earrings. Allen and Peter by at nine in the morning. Gary and I still packing until 10. Leaving bundle of goods to pick up on way back through Delhi. Wait for the Bhikku to take our things. Finally persuaded manager to give us locker, us taking the responsibility.
After 2 aspirin for bad burpy indigestion and malaria pill, I broke out into allergic reaction-itchy palms, red blotches on face and arms. Gary bought antihistimine pills when taxi stopped at Jain rest house and picked up newly fringed shawl from Sikh tailors. Five rupees, but the fringe long and quite elaborate.
Then to bus which left right after we arrived. Gossip on bus with Allen about literary scene and Jack’s wives and Burrough’s wife. Arrived Rishikesh at 8:30. Darshan going on with the master. He is laying on his back in a big camel – hair coat. Cut out cardboard pictures of him in cases all around the room. Some American girls in saris come out. We all sleep in one room. Gary and I with cots – Allen and Peter on their air mattresses on the floor. They make a fearful noise all night when they turn over, tidal waves.
March 1
Rishikesh! Much mail. After early morning fight with Gary, back to bed. Knocked over pail of water. Washed my hair and bathed and washed clothes in stream coming through the woods. The stream from a spring and emptying into the Ganges. A young boy comes by with sheep carried around his neck over his shoulders. Is he whistling to get my attention?
Shivananda from his padded chair directs them to put flower wreath around my neck. And gives us each envelope with Rs 5 in it.
March 2, 1962.
Moved across the Ganges to Swarg Ashram. Two rooms, for Peter & Allen, Gary L. Afternoon walk down to sand and rock point of Ganges – white glittering sand. A few orange robes spread on rocks to dry. Everyone strips to undershorts, launders and bathes in the river.
Sadhus sitting in meditation, red eyes, matted hair up by the bridge. How can they sit so still says Allen. Gary changes last of my color film exposing by accident last pictures. Losing the following:
1. Portrait of Gary with wet hair, Allen behind in the Ganges.
2. Peter swimming, Allen & Gary bathing.
3. Gary meditating in sand, Allen standing on tall rock in background.
4. Allen, Peter, Gary sitting on bathing steps on Shivananda’s side of river.
5. View from lodging across to other side of river from hill where we spent the first night at Rishikesh.
6. Gary in front of Agra Fort Pearl Mosque.
March 3, 1963
Made Indian style tea on spirit burner-milk, tea, sugar, boiled together for us all. And rolls with jam and peanut butter. Studying maps. Always windy in the early morning here. And today cloudy and cool. Bird hops through the window looking for crumbs.
Reading Allen’s article from Second Coming. “When the mode of music changes, the walls of the city shake.”
Afternoon all of us on roof on hill. Ganges and small mountains behind us, on the Shivananda side. Swami Sri Lingam doing yoga asanas for us. The eyes, the mouth, being exercised. Great red meaty mouth.
Gary insists I eat yogurt and spills it over my mouth and sleeping bag. Leaves the cup outside and a dog eats it. A car comes through the bars at night and knocks over a pail of it, comes back to lap it up.
Cows and bulls outside the door, one pins Allen to the gate. Peter pets them.
Chapter II from some book by Tim Leary at Harvard Uni versity Center for Research in Personality, who turns everyone onto mushroom pills. Pages peppered with words like: sweet loving guy, sweet new therapy, fine loving afternoon. He says he loves the poets but from the way he writes about them he turns them into unattractive foolish asses, drops just enough phrases through the mouths of others to show how he feels – no baths, big phone bill. Not very bright. Probably wants to write or be spiritual in big way-and envies Burroughs, Ginsberg – who he basically hates – covering it up with gooey admiration. Allen Ginsberg, Zen master politician. Constantly harps on the poorer physical aspects of Allen – thin, glasses, white, stooped shoulders. Hung, like me, on doing good.”
March 4, 1962.
The rest into Hardwar to see the beginning of Kumbh Mela. Terrific wind. Gloomy. Fuzzing of time. I could step back into Brentano’s stock room.
Reading Kim all day between bouts of laundry. A grey heavy wind dries the clothes on the porch. Lugging buckets from the faucets at the pumps. Soaking the clothes for yo minutes in the room and back to rinse and bringing back a fresh bucket for new laundry soaking. Sleeping bag liners, shawl, Gary’s parka, and on.
Fruit salad when they return. I wear English man’s long red sweater. Allen makes Peter in the next room.
March 6, 1962
Climbed the hill, Nealcant, behind the ashram, until noon to view Himalayas. One or two ice covered peaks. Some nearer foothills with snow. Green hills, farmer’s house and land terraced down the side. They look like Nepali Hill folk.
March 7
In Hardwar, walking up n’down. The picture seller pulls the old beggar man’s beard when he tries to help, and slaps his face.
March 8
Traveling all night by train to Bareilly. At dawn, breakfast with two eggs. First non-vegetarian meal in two weeks. And on train and bus to Almora.
Crossing the river Ganges yesterday in morning boat with Jaipur peasants, they singing. The air and hills clear, river fast moving o’ muddy. Almost naked ascetic in Hardwar Block printed Ram Ram cloth.
It’s better to be a good man, than to be a yogi.
Four bridegrooms on the way. All young like adolescents. Bright umbrellas held over their heads, cheeks painted, beads hanging in front of their faces and tall bright colored hats, paper tinsel.
At the train station early, the bagpipe band of well trained and uniformed bandmen playing near a large beflagged tent set with cups and saucers waiting for a wedding party to arrive from Delhi.
Bus from Kuldani to Almora. Wreck after Raniket, government jeep has gone over the side of a cliff. A civilian riding illegally comes on back with us in the bus. His mouth and eye puffed and bloody. Everyone collects his baggage dirty laundry. Broken suitcase. Peter gives first aid to soldier. His wrist broken. Head bloody. A truck takes him on to Raniket. Four or five people puking out the bus window all the way, including the little bridegroom, his father beside him. Sharp curves. Shining white mountain tops.
March 14
Fever, brings cold. Made stew in and out of bed. Peter and Allen turn on with Morphine before dinner and no appetite. Peter has also taken Opium at to o’clock, before going to find his 12 rupee roast chicken was stewed in curry. He washed it off in the restaurant kitchen.
The next morning after buying Tibetan rug and hairy blanket we took the bus on to Kaumuni government rest lodge on ridge facing Trisul and surrounding ranges. Bask in sun all day facing the mountains, bundled all over, reading Gandhi’s autobiography.
The chokidar makes us dinner. Kerosene lamps, fire-places. Each room, a rupees a night. This morning on the way to Naini Tal, Peter and Allen sing rock and roll, blues.
Naini Tal has a lake, surrounded by high mountains, is a resort town with fancy Indians with transistor radios on trays and tweed jackets.
March 16, 17
Delhi, Birla Dharmashala. Shopping. For presents and statues.
March 18
New Delhi. Same as they are today?
Lahore Gate: 11:05 totally different
Mogul period in painting
Persian tiles Surely it was a different
race
Portraits of large heavy
emperors o hooked nose
the last king of Delhi, 1837-57
Zinat Mahal, wife of Bahadur Shah. Her gown and his coat
They did not match the people of the day.
Totally another race of picture cards. The red
hind quarters of the horse he rides.
7 ladies with gold wings lying
on a hillside below him. King of Golkunda.
Toilet box. wooden
with mirrors
later Mogul times..all
the towers, the hair of
my head
everything picked of its jewels
March 21
On train to Jaipur. Today is Holi, the colored water and dye throw. With Indian Khadi shirts on. Big coach for 70 people. Reserved 3rd. We’re the only people occupying the coach at the beginning. The doors locked and windows down as protection against the stones, dirt, and colored water throwing.
Allen and Gary with their Khadi tops stained with color. Peter has a delapidated red tee shirt n’ Khadi pants n’ I in white shirt n’ black skirt remain untouched.
Dry plains go by the window. My nose still stuffed. But the bleeding stopped yesterday.
On the 19th, Allen and Peter went to real low down opium den and then Allen wrote a long letter to some Maharaja asking him to entertain us in a princely manner.
That night Gary and I had beer and nuts on Tibetan rug and! dressed in my silk pants, finery and new cornelian beads.
March 24
The palace at Amber, the elephants. A bad glass of water.
March 25
Dance Recital. Miss Balasaraswathi
Rain and wind flaps
the Indian spread tent
The main pole begins to tumble.
The boys rush to hold it up, and she continues.
March 26, 27
Delhi. Met a young American at the Annapuma outdoor restaurant. Allen and Peter found him in front of the P.O. And he had met up with Helmut Krug in Amritsar, 3 weeks ago or so. Helmut entering from Pakistan since he couldn’t get a year visa from Ceylon. A dream about Helmut 3 nights ago. Romantic. And I try to tell him to go to the Krishnamurti Institute in Banaras. Really I must tell him to go to Tiruvannamali.
Meet up with Corso’s old girl, Hope Savage. She comes with us to train, talking in high nervous southern accent, after Chinese dinner. Leave for Pathankot 11:25.
March 28, 29, 30, 31, April 1
Visited the Dalai Lama. Allen asks him if he wants to take L.S.D. Climbed and spent the night on a mountain. Smoked opium. Went to a fair in the mountains. Everyone vomited the opium except me and had carbon monoxide poisoning.
April 5
Sanchi
Up early to the second stupa where I made 6 rubbings of the railing, Gary and Allen and Peter coming down the hill at 10:15. The hot plains, brown, yellow. Orange blossomed trees, black stems. Arriving here on the 3rd.
Picked up our luggage from the RR rooms, changing clothes. The train coming in at 11:30 full of Mecca bound pilgrims. A cat in the window last night. A small female, said Gary. Later I set some food out for it. It’s mews sounded hungry, but it got frightened away by an oncoming train. I worried about it. Arriving in Jalgaon at 9: 30. Four of us into a 1 bed RR retiring room.
Hot and black from the train. Fried eggs and toast for dinner. Gary brings mine to the room. Allen and Peter make it on their bed. Weird squishy sounds. and later much thrashing about. I ask Gary to rub my back. He in a tense mood also, roughly scratches my sunburn. I fling my hand down hitting his balls by accident. The first time I have seen this happen to a man. He doubles up and rolls off to the floor where he stayed until morning.
April 6
Early 6:30 bus, arriving at Fardapur 8:30 and breakfast. 10 o’clock bus to Ajanta. The caves and paintings all day in dry grey heat. Back by 5:30. Washed hair – the wet permanent waves like a shiva ascetic says Allen. The orange gin with a lime. Drinks before dinner discussing poetry. And the Burrough’s views undertaking to change his mind from the channel of language and to use other language patterns and other channels, as medium of thought. Similarity to Wittgenstein and Gertrude Stein. Allen says Burroughs influenced by and interested in both. Kerosene lamps. Veg etable curry dinner with a good kind of eggplant, triangle chapaties.
April 7
Up early leaving a rupee tip for an astonished sweeper and nothing for the harassed and busy chokidar.
All our luggage left with a government check stand under a tree at Ajanta.
Met 3 American girls with a tour. Going to school in Lucknow. Gary shouts at the guide leader when he asks people to move away from his group. We have every right to be here. We have paid our admission. Trembly anger, loud voiced argument.
Allen and Peter go down and swim in pool at cliffs, 2:30 express tourist bus to Aurangabad.
Gary carries the big carry-all on top of his pack behind his neck. A tremendous weight. Staying in the government rest house. A chamber pot to sit on. Constant stomach disorders since before Dharamshala.
April 8
Guided tour bus to Ellora. A young affected guide with an umbrella furled speaks in English but mostly Hindi, constantly urging us to hurry hurry. Completely exhausted, dragging my self through the Buddhist, Brahmin and Jain temples. All of them were painted.
Lunch stop where there is no food to buy.
The Hinayana Buddhas of the Ajanta caves so unrelent ingly religious. Puritanical and heavy. No grace at all. Whereas Sanchi had such life. And Ellora (Mahayana) where the Buddhas have a bit more grace – but somehow the caves are over all depressing.
Aurangabad’s tomb, a simple plot of ground, covered and surrounded by the English in 1911 with a carved marble screen. Aurangabad, a great and fervent iconoclast sent men out to smash the noses of the Buddhas at Ellora.
Gary leaning, a high tiny speck from the tower at Daultabad Fort.
Come down.
Then chipmunk approaches
n’ then runs away. Rats under the toilet pans.
at Ellora
The flower
fort.
Now this path
the grey lumps, Buddhas
Pattern following
the trident of shiva as
electricity. The
black Ethiopian. The
sheep following. Indian
men tweak each
other on the ear. Their
loud voices, flapping
their hands their English
another course, about emotion
Swimming
up stream against the current
Breaking against a
law, the muscles on my
shoulders always tense.
Pulling down all the Hindu
gods, pulling down the
green foliage with her
hand, the bough
brings a Buddha. The
large round breasts of
the woman I envy.
Gary’s black cardigan, the one I mended and mended, because it was charcoal grey, for him to get married in, he left on purpose in the Sanchi RR room, holes in the sleeves too thin to be mended, the hot weather at last allowing him to discard it. The station attendant came after us with it. Peter gave it to an old man seated begging at the end of the platform, under a tree. He immediately put it on, examining himself in it. His upper body formerly naked.
Going through the subterranean passageway at the Daultabad Fort, the guide leading the way in close black darkness on either side. Extinguishes his torch. Gary brings out his flashlight. The guide relights the torch. We proceed, squeak of bats.
Occasionally we see a transvestite. A hard face of a man with make up and long hair drawn back in a knot, dressed in a sari.
April 10. Aurangabad
The rest have gone back to Ellora caves for the day. It’s a depressing place, I stay here. Laundry going in the big silver handled bowl in the bath, the water off at eleven.
Williams, besides the Tapestry, also Kora in Hell. Which I thought for year was a war poem, Korea e Hell and wouldn’t look at it. I keep resolving to write to him. He must have bad tempers n’ have narrow moments, but seems to be a great great man, the most human, showing his vulnerability.
From a letter of Ferlingetti’s to Ginsberg”…hope Gary is still there by then. (Your meeting seems to be known all over the US, in the bookstore circuit, that is. Everybody saying Allen got to India to meet Gary yet? Like some kind of International sorcerer swamis’ conjunction on Feb 4th maybe…)”
Something about Ginsberg that’s stubborn unyeilding n’ unattractive, a giant inflated ego part that really believes he’s god n’ untouchable n’ good. & other part, which has no relation with the hard part at all, not touching it, two separate halves as it were, is terribly wobbley and unsure. I said I wouldn’t want to hear the reading of Howl twice on his record, n’ he looked as if the floor had dropped away.
Against the background of India all our personal reactions, n’ the emotions in our rooms on trains, the level of feelings for n’ against each other & the hangups. Peter always takes too much of a drug like opium, n’ then is sick the next day when we have to go somewhere.
Allen keeps talking about Meditating, while he is on drugs. That is the only time, he says that he can sit still long enough to “meditate.” I am sure he does not know the experience or control of actual meditation, at least the way the Buddhists refer to it.
His big hangup is that he wants quick enlightenment, he won’t sit or train for it, maybe the way Howl brought him quick fame. His body is a nervous wreck, he gulps his food. When he lays on his back his fingers tap nervously. Peter still gobbles his food down without waiting for anybody else to be served. But up at Triun, I gave him his bowl of stew first and he started eating before anyone else even sat down. He looked sort of guilty, and didn’t insist so quick for a second helping. Don’t they know it’s not cool to grab food like that. Gary seems to be free from all those sorts of manifestations of greed. I keep it under control, barely, but only because! think of manners n’ control.
“…I’ll return to the states, take an apartment where with turning hair and more tentative soul, arrange my possessions, type up my notes al discharge them for pos terities, place my statues in order – one Japanese scroll of medium quality, one Korean print of an awakening Roshi, several cheap Nepalese tantric small figures, Tara, Avalokiteshvara, the 1000 armed Destroyer of Death, Ganesha with a red belly button, Hanuman pious e praying, Krishna fluting, Shiva whirling his arms a) dancing, Kali with a necklace of skulls on Shiva’s belly astride – an orange wool Tibetan blanket, a few Amazon clothes o pipes, a Mexican basket, a straw hat and whatever other Persian type miniature I select – and that’s the accomplishment of a life of searching and travel wherever I can go on earth.”
A.G. Jaipur March 25? on Morphia.
Dream of Peter’s after March 25 sometime…. “I look at Joann – by silent eye contact of minds we fix past sex intimacy feeling – I then start to think about Gary: is that why he always stays close to her – if so then that seems like a compromise on his part – the unwritten law between them whereby Joann says: Stay around me or I’ll sleep with someone else – Gary: OK. will do.”
Auerhahn putting out Lamantia’s Destroyed Works, an omnibus of Wiener’s this spring. Last book was Dark Brown of McClure with Fuck Ode and A Garland.
From a letter of Anselm Hollo to Ginsberg… “You say you met up with Gary Snyder – he was one of the first new American poets I picked up on five or six years ago – “Riprap” -later his Myths – great clarity n’ humor n’ strength, an un-solemn sage is how I see him in what I’ve seen of his writings – “Nordice” or something, too, Fian friends of mine dig him. Is he back in Kyoto now? or back to US?”
Vicious, unnecessarily vicious article in ‘Time’ about Ginsberg, Beats n’ poetry.
April 9
Yesterday we bicycled to Aurangabad caves, easy ride across land that looks like Morocco says Allen. Dry brown desert like land, palm trees, the bluffs in the distance with caves. The first group with a pool or pit at the top, square hole in the rock next to the cave entrance, clear to the bottom and then under rock for seven feet. Allen n’ Peter undress n’ go in n’ then Gary too. I stick my legs in. The second group of caves a mile away across a trail. A fine group of sculptures in good condition inside the Buddha chamber, dancing girls and women musicians. Outside big mother hipped, n’ full breasted Tara figures either side of the door. A tiny swallow has fallen out of his nest, the mother darts anxiously around it, it’s too young to fly. Gary, concerned, places it in a more protected niche of rock. Downhill bicycle back, stopping at an ice cream parlor for 1 1/2 bowls of nut ice cream each and an orange drink.
Every night dinner served on the veranda where it’s cool. I always take the leftover chappaties to eat the next day with peanut butter and jam. Peter has an omlette since the opium he smoked locked up in the bathroom last night made him sick. Gary n’ I both on hard narrow bed under dusty heavy cotton mosquito net.
April 11. 1961.
Letter to Nemi April 10, 1962.
Hello Dear Nemi, Yass I got your letter before I left Japan and I bought you a lovely green sari which I will send you later from Japan. Please send me all your paintings in return. I cannot stand the Indian mentality, they are very 1930’s and vile n’ bad tempered beyond BElief. Allen Ginsberg said he would like to hit his walking stick over the heads of some dirty little boys who were hanging around staring at us in a bus stall the other day. I have reviled them beyond words but unfortunately they don’t understand fuck al get your shiteating asshole hands off my luggage n’ things like that. Actually the heat now makes one more foul. And when they’re not trying to shine your shoes as you walk along or stuff a baby in your face through a train window or trample you to death trying to get a train seat before you, they are acting unbearable hoipoloi and asking you what part of the ‘States’ you’re from, and telling you how screwingly SPIRItual they all are, and how they have two transistor radios in their family.
Nemi I do hope my humah was not so heavy handed in my last letter that you misinterpreted my zealous social and political goals. Do not worry. I still hate everybody.
Peter Orlofsky locks himself in the bathroom all night and smokes opium and then vomits all the next morning so we travel slowly.
We met the Dalai Lama last week right after he had been talking with the King of Sikkim, the one who is going to marry an American college girl. The Dal is 27 and lounged on a velvet couch like a gawky adolescent in red robes. I was trying very hard to say witty things to him through the interpreter, but Allen Ginsberg kept hogging the conversation by discribing his experiments on drugs and asking the Dalai Lama if he would like to take some magic mushroom pills and were his drug experiences of a religious nature until Gary said really Allen the inside of your mind is just as boring and just the same as everyone else’s is it necessary to go on, and that little trauma was eased over by Gary and the Dalai talking guru to guru like about which positions to take when doing meditation and how to breathe and what to do with your hands, yes yes that’s right says the Dalai Lama. And then Allen Ginsberg says to him how many hours do you meditate a day, and he says me? Why I never meditate, I don’t have to. Then Ginsberg is very happy because he wants to get instantly enlightened and can’t stand sitting down or discipline of the body. He always gobbles down his food before anyone else has started. He came to India to find a spiritual teacher. But I think he actually believes he knows it all, but just wishes he Felt better about it.
How is that veterinarian you were going out with. Has his wife had kittens yet/har har. I do think the masses stink, really I do Nemi, don’t worry. We are leaving India immediately just as soon as we make ourselves unpopular with some rich girl Allen Ginsberg knows in Bombay who has an air conditioned apartment. If you could just see us, our appearance. I try to keep body and gentility together but it is getting spiritless since I have had to wear the same black dress for the last three months (I wear it all day n’ stay up half the night laundering it. I have discovered, by the way, that ironing is not really necessary, you just tell everyone that you just got up from a nap.) But Allen Ginsberg is running around in an unwashed white Indian (grey pajama outfit with flapping arms n’ legs, or else very short shorts from Israel, and a Greek shirt and red nylon socks. He is balding on top, his curling hair down his neck. But if you think His hair is long, you should see Peter Orlofsky whose hair actually falls over his face to his nose in front (but that’s all right because he can take drugs behind it easier) and down to his shoulders in back n ’a tee shirt, that doesn’t quite cover 7 inches of his stomach in front and some tennis shoes full of holes without any shoe laces. The Indians for their own perverse reasons seem to adore him. Gary persists in wearing one gold earring Whenever I see any other American tourists I am so embarrassed I could die. You see I am thoroughly middle class at heart and alll want to do is learn how to play bridge. Don Allen took all my poems for his next anthology, then later on asked Gary to ask me to send him a short biography, and absolutely no word to me. He’s a Grove Press editor. If someone doesn’t get famous out of my acquaintances my life will be just wrecked because all that bawdiness for no purpose. If I don’t write a short pure jewel of a novel or get some poems published I’m going to Poison someone.
Actually I’ve sent nothing out because my typing is so poor after working all those years with hangovers at Brentano’s. There’s no booze in India. I haven’t had a drink for 4 months now… I dearly hope Time magazine pays no attention to us until I am in the foreground with my smart published novel and nifty green silk toreodor pants and all my jewelry from the Tibetan market. I weight 119 lbs n’ have crows feet at the corners of my lovely beatnik eyes. I am going to try those face recipes for rose petals you sent, very soon. Before its too late. The thing is, I am sounding rather bitter because its been years since I’ve been able to get any wild martini attention. All I do is stand around in this black drip dry dress in India.
You’ll have to figure out how to wear the sari yourself, or you can make it into a dress or something. Tell me how you’ve arranged the studio. Have you painted it flat white yet? I am too repelled by the Indian to ask how to drape a sari. Actually the country itself and the things in it are quite lovely oh hell hell. I hope Dave B. doesn’t take all of the price of your paintings in commission. Write SOON. Love Joanne.
Sleeping in third class sleeping car, going on the way to Dharamshala, a young couple get on late. He looks western and snappy, curly hair, tailored slacks, shirt. She with sari and coat. They climb on one narrow board berth together. He takes off his shoes. His socks are one big hole. They work for the movies, says Allen the next morning positively.
April 12, 1962 Bombay
After breakfast with our hostess Radhika Jayakar, Gary and I bought a dozen bananas, a loaf of bread, a tin of sardines and a small fruit cake. Our bed last night with clean sheets and pillows all laid out, three together and one by itself. Gary and I way down at the end of the three. Krishnamurti had this room before us when he was staying in Bombay. To Juhu Beach to meet Neal Hunter Swimming, lunch, with all of us in little hut, big parothas and fish curry. More swimming and making sand castles. Meanwhile some one steals 55 ruppees from Gary’s wallet, his watch and knife and earring, a key chain and handkerchief. And Neal’s camera from his rucksack.
Then we turned on. Guess you’ll be taking injections next said the southern boy with Neal, who didn’t. I became very silly and happy. Allen depressed, thinking about Elise Cohen who committed suicide in the letter yesterday. Neal looked astonished and puzzled. Gary like a dumb monkey. We moved into Neal’s palm leaf hut when the sand started blowing. Great crowded time.
Neal and the southern boy left to hitchhike to Poona. After first bus trip back we discovered we had left the canteen and Gary and I took taxi back. Gary and Neal teary at parting Dinner. A cat in the restaurant eats crumbs from the floor. Liver curry.
April 13
Home all day reading, resting. Long talk with Mrs. Jayakar in afternoon: Zen and Krishnamurti. By car to see festivities of Rama’s birthday with Radika. I’m tired of India.
April 14
Morris Friedman says when I criticize Gandhi’s history that I am like an ant shouting at a mountain. I sputter and almost say, but that he’s the ant e) I’m the mountain. Overwhelm ing reaction against Ginsberg chokes and suffocates me and I am forced to leave the room. Think of flinging myself full length on the bathroom floor. Walk the streets to the ocean. Like I am washed all over with Santa Barbara again, the smell. Trying to calm myself, The difficulty is EGo. And if 1 give up, I’ll walk into the ocean and swallow it into myself.
Chattur Lal calls and they go off for a jam session. I am not connecting somehow. The words are not precise, not muse. The tapestry book here. Not a key to lead me on, not a passageway that begins to turn. Nothing to send me on, it always stops.
I dreamt The Mother died.
Allen uses my big pink comb.
I keep washing it. His hair is dirty. So disorderly, disbodied.
Fixing him with one steady horrible glare. In our room at Radika’s. She’s brought in phonograph and listening with the rest. And refusing her offer of something to drink, persistently. But what about me?
April 16
Shopping at Khadi shop and met a couple from Kansas who’d stayed in Kyoto and asked me when I told them I lived in Japan, “Do you know Gary Snyder?” John Chappell told them. They ate with him. Bought Gary silk-cotton punjab shirt and sandlewood shirt studs. He left for concert dressed in that and new sandals and Indian bag, alone. Peter and Allen forgot and arrived later.
April 17
To Karla Caves. The others arrived home at 2: 30 from concert and up at 6: 30 for train out. Hot climb. We must force our way into train on the way back, Gary ramming himself. ‘Go away go away,’ calls the man at the door.
April 18
Reading on roof top of poems in the evening. Over 100 people. The Arabian ocean on the left, Bombay. Peter first, overloud and brash. Gary, cool. Allen confession of his soul. Hope Savage there suspecting people thought she was a spy.
April 21, 1962. Saturday
Our boat, the Cambodge leaves Bombay.
Radika, Hope Savage, Allen and Peter all down in a taxi to see us off. Left luggage at Customs, Then tea cakes.
Customs so easy. Lots of wine for dinner. India has exhausted me.
April 22, 1962. Sunday
Easter.
Sitting in the afternoon with Gary on bench on deck in the sun. The morning spent in conversation with German – young blonde fellow with pink arms and receding chin who hiked with rucksack on his back with family from East Germany. An old chinese tea cup with him. He’s going to study at university in Japan about porcelain. Evening movie in French, wide screen, color, of Charles II in England. Ann Blyth has no bosom: G.