"They are ghosts, as in haunted houses, and they give you shivers down the spine ... if they can, and you no longer know what you are up to. One must not accept that. One must kick them out vigorously. It is very sticky and insidious, but may the devil take them! Mother is stronger than all their dirty tricks — otherwise, I would have been dead long ago. So courage and clarity — and peace. Peace and clarity. And it all dissolves like miasmas from a marsh.

... Take heart. We are seeing the end of it — the end is always difficult. The Asura struggles like a dying man. He tries all that he can before dying. But he will not succeed."

Dear Micheline,

These last days were like a fury in the "subtle" worlds — in fact since March 30 or 31, with a "peak" on April 4, when one of our white pigeons died, attacked by blackbirds, chased and ... drowned in the septic tank! This is the nauseating sign of M. & Co. I don't want to go into details. And the other night, rain and a hail storm, with hailstones even on Sujata's bed through the holes in the roof — we are repairing. But the force that attacked this house and has been continuing to attack it for ten days or so, is strangely "focused," like a baleful beam. Yes, "they" must indeed understand the importance of this place and that if we manage to establish a solid base here, it's their end. Hence the fury. Everyone here feels or "sees" it. But it is almost charming compared to Pondicherry: we have some free air to breathe, the body is light, without this millstone around our necks and that kind of physical suffocation I used to feel.

So, of course, the attack was simultaneously launched on Land's End (I had felt it for several days and I was as if worried about this place). "By chance," on Friday, the 7^th evening, as we were coming back from our walk through the forest and the tea plantations below Land's End, we heard a lorry coming into Land's End: they loaded huge tree-trunks. I loosened the driver's tongue: three trees cut. At this stage, I still thought that it was limited and that the owner wanted to earn a few thousand rupees for his everyday expenses, but... first you can imagine how heartbreaking it is, those people should be publicly whipped, it is really the reign of the Shudras⁴ for whom nothing matters but money and they devastate the earth, everywhere. But the next morning, "by chance," we saw half a dozen woodcutters coming out of the forest and crossing the meadow in front of Harwood — why did they go that way, right before our eyes? Truly the Grace looks after everything. I questioned those workers: they were going to cut all the trees of Land's End! Land's End's timber had been sold to a wheeler-dealer for 8,500 rupees. We rushed to Land's End with Roger to see the damage: three big trees had already been cut, plus seven medium-sized ones. More than sixty-year-old trees, gigantic eucalyptus trees.... Oh, if you could see that hole in the little wood of Land's End, those torn stumps.... Then I grabbed the dealer by the throat and offered him 13,000 rupees in cash for all the wood that he had bought for 8,500 rupees — and not one more tree cut. We dismissed the woodcutters. There only remained the corpses of two trees that they could not load into their lorry the day before. Then we took on that loathesome owner (meanwhile, Sujata and I had sent you a telegram): an obvious blackmail to oblige us to buy his property for one lakh⁵ rupees, which is fabulous, as the repair work amounts to more than 50,000 rupees — the house is not worth more than 60,000 rupees. But the house stripped of its forest is out of the question and I would not wish to enter this devastation. Living trees, so beautiful, which took so much time and love to grow, and then bang, for 8,500 rupees. I shall not dwell on the horrible discussion with this individual and above all his witch of a wife: two days of negotiations — rapacity, hearts of stone. Sujata was there like Kali. (...)

Without Land's End, it was the ruin of our plans. We needed these two houses to shelter our team, plus the machine and the installations. Harwood was of no use without Land's End, we would have had to leave India. If this didn't work out, it would have been a sign for me that there was nothing to do but to leave India and create our centre elsewhere. (...) Well, there is a grace called Micheline. In the meantime, I had phoned to Delhi, but it was difficult for them to buy two houses one after the other. I was ashamed to knock on doors in this way and it was with sadness that Sujata sent you a telegram. We had never asked for money in our life. Oh, among the attacks of this last fortnight, all my old formation of Sannyasi came back: I who dream to live half-naked in a lonely hut, without seeing anybody, I was faced with this crazy house (Harwood) under repair, with a thousand domestic problems, and was about to buy a second crazy house, even crazier. If I was not certain that Mother was leading me and that She has a plan here, all this would be mad and more than mad for any sensible person. For four years I have not ceased taking insane decisions without knowing why or where I am going, or whether I am right or wrong. That is how things are. So the Sannyasi in all that is put to a severe test. You know, one slams the door and goes off to the forest, so lightly — but there is Mother's Work, I cannot just drop everything. So I continue. Then there is Micheline and I sent a telegram to Micheline. All the same, Sujata and I embrace you with gratitude — but for you, once more, the Work would have been endangered or stopped.

... I intend to get on with my real work right away, this second volume of the Agenda. I forget to tell you that I have received such an enthusiastic letter from C.P.N. Singh⁶ regarding the marvellous machine. There will be no difficulty for the import license. The most difficult is the custom's duty exemption: Kireet and C.P.N. are moving heaven and earth, but the political climate here is very uncertain, not to say chaotic. C.P.N. is under C.B.I. (the secret Indian police) surveillance, which does not make things easier. We expect Indira to be arrested before long — if it happens, it will be the signal of a big upheaval. But I think Mother weighs all her steps and nothing will happen before all the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle are exactly in place, our centre included.

One last thing is worrying me. Following Andre Moris-set's registered letter, X told me very frankly that it had sown a kind of uneasiness, to say the least, among all our friends in Paris: reactions of confusion, almost of panic. One must understand once and for all that those people's action is coupled with an occult action very recognisable by those who know a little or are a little sensitive: their letters, their acts are invariably accompanied by a vibration of fear. Such is the power of these people. That is how they reign over the Ashram. Around all their acts, there is a kind of muted threat, gluey and insidious, which has no human origin and makes up all its "occult" force. Fear, threat and blackmail are the instruments of the Asura. For four years now, I continually see this vibration playing on all sides and doing its damage. When Barun + Counouma wrote to Laffont, it literally created panic and confusion in the whole publishing house: they stopped the printing of the first volume of the Agenda, then took it up again, then stopped it again, as if they no longer knew what they were doing. Tantrics know perfectly well how to handle this dirty, very effective little vibration. Confusion and fear are its immediate effects. When they write letters, their letters relay this vibration. So really, one must not fall into this trap at the first opportunity. One must look at things coolly and call Mother. Theirs is exactly the power of ghosts. They are ghosts, as in haunted houses, and they give you shivers down the spine ... if they can, and you no longer know what you are up to. One must not accept that. One must kick them out vigorously. It is very sticky and insidious, but may the devil take them! Mother is stronger than all their dirty tricks — otherwise, I would have been dead long ago. So courage and clarity — and peace. Peace and clarity. And it all dissolves like miasmas from a marsh.

... Take heart. We are seeing the end of it — the end is always difficult. The Asura struggles like a dying man. He tries all that he can before dying. But he will not succeed.

With you

very deeply

with my heart full of gratitude

Satprem

Mother shoves our noses into Matter pitilessly and in every detail. Probably it is right where the game is being played out!

 http://www.aurobindo.ru/workings/satprem/carnets_of_an_apocalypse_0002_e.htm

 Golden Krishna(Krishan Kali?)

May 15. 1973. in the afternoon¹⁰

“Krishna in Gold”

A vision of Sujata’s

A place similar to the Playground. A few people, here and there, are talking or going about.

I am standing somewhere in the middle of the ground, in front of Mother’s door.

From the main gate enters a vehicle — half-cart half-cab — drawn by two bullocks. It comes to a stop a few feet away from me. The driver makes the bullocks kneel down. Out steps a gentleman. The cart is driven away.

The gendeman is dressed in white, Indian-fashion (dhoti, punjabi). He is round-faced and fair-skinned. Reminds me of a Zamindar [landlord] from the North. In fact he is the new proprietor¹¹ coming to take possession.

The doors behind me are locked. He has the keys.

But he is not supposed to open one particular room: the one I thought was Mother’s. But he goes straight there and unlocks that door.

He enters. I too, as if I had the right to do so.

We weave our way to the bottom of this room. I have a vague impression of a small window on the end wall. And in the left corner, is a richly decorated high throne. Seated in it is a Divinity.

He is quite small on that huge throne (about two feet or so).

He is made of solid gold.

At his feet are signs and objects of worship.

As we approach him, a sort of intense prayer or aspiration takes hold of me. We stand in front looking at him — my whole being is one intense prayer or invocation. The Divinity comes alive. He smiles slightly, then steps down.

He barely reaches my breast and seems to me like a little boy of eight or ten.

The three of us come out of the room. The scene has changed. Now it is countryside. A vast, unlimited expanse stretches in front. A few plots are cultivated, but most of the land is untended.

We walk. We walk on a narrow ridge by the side of a cultivated rice-field, which is to the right of us. It is green. I am nearest to it. The gentleman is the farthest. The Divinity is between us. He has a funny walk. He is so heavy (being made of solid gold) that he seems to lurch from side to side. I feel concerned and hold his arm to help him. I feel a tenderness also as for a child.

Then I turn my face toward him to reassure him. But instead of me looking down it is he who looks down on me! I am really astonished to see how tall he has grown during this short walk of but a few steps! Now it is I who hardly reach his shoulder. He seems to have grown to a lad of 13 or 14.

As I look up, he looks down at me and smiles. Ohh, what a smile! Utterly sweet and full of mischief. It contained a world: “You see, I am quite all right. Now you will see what fun we’ll have!”

We walk on. To our left, sitting cross-legged, head bent, is M. [a disciple very learned in Sanskrit texts]. As we advance, I think, “What a pity, we shall pass right in front of him, but he would not even know who passed by!” But as we near, he raises his head and sees. I feel glad for M.

We walk on. Now the scenes change fast. We meet more and more people. Trees. Roads. Still more people. Wherever we go there is trouble, disturbance, confusion. As if the Godhead were sowing disruption everywhere. The Zamindar gets annoyed. He had brought out the Divinity to show people what a fine fellow he was! Everybody should have great respect for him, obey him, for is he not the Proprietor? But the God had just the opposite effect! He should no longer be abroad. He must be put back where he belonged, and relocked.

So we return to the sanctuary. This time I remain outside. The Zamindar takes the God inside. And tries to shut the door.

But the Godhead will not be shut in.

I can see the gold God growing, growing.

The ceiling falls in. The god’s head and chest go through the ceiling. He tears down the walls and throws bricks everywhere. The Zamindar has disappeared under the debris.

The gold God grows. Taller and mightier. And will brook no resistance. With His mighty hands, He pulls down the walls of His old sanctuary.

When I woke up, I called Him “Krishna in gold.”¹²

(Mother’s Agenda XIII, May 15, 1973)