And now my own tragedy was about to begin — largely as a consequence of my blindness. Not only was I not seeing the contradictions staring me in the face, but I was totally under the influence of the power of seduction stemming from them. Satprem’s bipolar attitude was infinitely more attractive to the child I was than the difficult pursuit of an Absolute Positive standing clear beyond the shadows… Mother was the absolute and irrefutable Goal, but the path to reach her had to encompass all the Satprem-inspired twists and turns. With childish and narrow-minded obstinacy, I turned away from the straight and direct line for an expedient, a seductive stopgap that had all the appeals and credentials, but in fact shielded me from the full Light by enabling me to postpone until some later date my own confrontation with “that.”
Actually, this may be the greatest difficulty associated with the company of personalities such as Satprem. It deprives us of the only hope we have of facing ourselves directly, pure and naked in the light of the Divine. The very attraction we feel for this “Big Brother ahead of us” is akin to being led astray. The hope we invest in him involves the corruption of our own hope. Through cowardice or laziness, we offload on someone else the task that we alone can discharge, which necessarily involves a one-on-one, solitary confrontation with the Divine.
In point of fact, I noticed that being in touch with Satprem was innocuous for no one. It was not the kind of relationship one can store in one’s back pocket like a polished stone and extract from time to time to contemplate and caress with one’s fingers. Once a first contact had taken place (even a remote contact, through words in a book), once a kind of “magic” rapport was established, it’s as if a little independent being took over and began to live its own life inside one — a life that often bordered on obsession. I have known people who traveled uninvited to the Nilgiris Mountains in the hope of catching a glance of Satprem at the bend of the road; others have spent months or years begging for a sign, a look, a letter, a word of approval or recognition. Even today, I know many people who live day after day in the hell of the contradiction of for-or-against-Satprem, frantically piling up on their inner scales the qualities and defects of a personality that keeps escaping them — instead of doing the only sensible thing and sending packing all “personalities,” however spellbinding they may be, and establishing (or re-establishing) a direct line of communication with “that” which is beyond all personalities and all contradictions.
But I am loath to cast the first stone. I have myself done enough spinning round the cage of illusions to blame anyone for doing the same. Only, a passing, and perhaps momentarily necessary, experience ought not to become a life style — a prison. Again, not everyone has been as fortunate as I, and Patrice’s death is a chilling reminder that the power of certain forces cannot be denied or minimized with impunity.
* * *
Toward the end of 1979, as we were strolling along the straight, green lanes of the Indian tea fields, Satprem begun to talk to me about the necessity of publishing the Agenda in English, especially with a view to distribute it in America. At that moment, I felt in me the very same impulse that had pushed me in his direction a few years earlier. I knew Immediately I had to propose myself for this “mission,” take up this new challenge, as if, by doing so, I would open a new phase in the adventure with myself. And I was perfectly right, though I didn’t know what awaited me…
After he had whole-heartedly agreed to my proposal, I felt this new responsibility was in perfect coherence with everything I had already lived in the past few years — in other words, with a feeling beyond personal preferences and apprehensions, as if light-heartedly floating above “myself.” Years later, after the spell was broken between us, Satprem bitterly reproached me for openly claiming that he had “sent” me to America, thus accusing me of not facing my responsibilities in what was clearly, according to him, a decision I had made alone. But this was the time of misunderstandings when inner readings and dreams are replaced by implacable inventories.
In any case, together we had decided that I would sail for New York as soon as possible, with the goal of finding an American publisher for the thirteen Agenda volumes, of which only the first was already translated into English. I left the Nilgiris on a stormy day, the roads submerged under water, leaving behind a part of myself — half dream, half unconsciousness — that I would never find again.
Arriving in New York in January 1980, I found my American friend Roger, who had worked on the English translation of Satprem’s books for quite some time, and together we began to pace New York’s icy avenues in search of the Agenda’s future publisher. Unfortunately, all the publishers we visited were scared stiff at the idea of publishing 6,000 pages from an almost unknown author on a topic — self-transformation aiming at a new physical condition — so thorny. On top of it, that year India was no longer trendy — too bad for us! Reality was staring us in the face: no one in America was ready to embark on such an adventure or to take such formidable financial risks. For the Agenda to see the light in America, we had to publish it ourselves, by our own means and with our own resources. No small challenge.
In this great city awash with fantastic energy, an individual feels like a minuscule point in the midst of a creative activity that never stops. This is neither the deeper familiarity of India’s inner rhythm, nor the natural fluency of Europe’s intimate complicity. I felt totally overwhelmed, and very impressed, by the magnitude of the task which without warning had befallen me. But some grace must have been present because, miraculously, the horizon broadened in a smile. And that smile was Susie.
Resident in New York, a long-time friend of French friends of Satprem’s, she seemed to have always been there, on the other side of the ocean, perhaps awaiting something… She soon understood the stakes and the kind of challenge involved in publishing the Agenda in this “New World,” so receptive to new experiences, but also so ferociously materialistic. It is thanks to her determination and to her family’s material help that the real work was able to start and the first volumes of the Agenda to see the light in America. We got married at New York City Hall and decided to live on Long island, at a reasonable distance from the nuclear reactor called Manhattan!
Thus, the Agenda in English was born and took wings right in the middle of the potato fields of Long island, a few miles from the ocean. Our garage was soon not big enough to contain the boxes of books which overflowed into the basement. We had officially become the Institute for Evolutionary Research, a Not-For-Profit Corporation duly incorporated in the state of New York, and we operated as a Small Press Publisher, which is the typical way in America to enable many unknown authors to be published and distributed through a network of alternative distributing agencies.
A single computer (one of the first PC’s) ran our accounting, invoicing, and dispatching system. We did everything ourselves, from the preparation and even typesetting of the manuscripts, to supplying the books to bookstores and shipping them to individual customers. I was mainly busy translating the books into English — though it was not my native tongue! While the Agenda was mostly translated in India, by other volunteers under Satprem supervision, I was responsible for the translation of his own books, since their publication, alongside the Agenda, seemed to me the best introduction to Mother’s words.
From 1980 to 1992, ten volumes of the Agenda and eight titles by Satprem went very literally through our hands, from conception to delivery. Susie would regularly cram our car full of boxes and take the direction of our small local post office, from where they left for the four corners of the country as well as abroad. It is hard to imagine a bulk of 50,000 books, piled in inadequate spaces, with no lifting gear to move them, and all the juggling to fill and strap and label the boxes… How powerful our dream must have been to permit us to maintain this grueling effort for years!