by Frank Kusy
The final proof of the pudding, however, came when I tried to leave India and the Immigration Officer at Delhi airport checked my passport. I knew I was three days over my visa period, and so, after he did a mental count of the time I had spent in India, did he.
‘I really don’t think you should still be in this country,’ he looked up to say with a wry smile. ‘Why are you still here?’
I chanted with all my life in my head for a satisfactory answer. I did not want to locked up or be sent back into town to get an extension visa.
‘Because I like it so much,’ I said glibly, returning his smile. ‘I just can’t tear myself away!’
He laughed, and let me through.
As I plunged into my marathon session of chanting, a strange series of realisations began to circulate within me. I realised, for instance, that I had not felt passion about anything for a very long time. Yes, I enjoyed India, it had unlocked my inner child, but – apart from the single occasion at Sarnath – I had not felt sentimental, excited or enthusiastic about anything in this country. It had left my emotions stone cold and stirred in me no pity, shame, compassion or fear. Why was this? What would I have to do to learn to ‘feel’ again?
And then there was Anna. She had been the main casualty of my inability to feel. I had written to her in India to call off our relationship because of it. But she had been far stronger and wiser than I had given her credit for. Instead of being angry or caving in to my cruel rebuff, she had written back: ‘Relationship karma can only be solved by being in one. Isolation is bad for you, Frank. You need confrontation and challenge.’
She was right of course. I had been alone in my head and my heart for too long. I really needed to change that. And the fact that she had come out fighting for our relationship – and had the courage to reprimand me for not fighting for it also – really impressed me. So much so, that I had written back to ask her to marry me.
On the fourth night of my tozo, I woke from a terrible dream. In it, I was sitting at Anna’s feet, feeling miserably alone because she was preoccupied with money and house concerns – and all I could think about was my book. The void in my heart was so painful I could hardly breathe. I looked up at her and tried to speak, but things between us had got so bad that the words choked in my throat. All thoughts of marriage, and of confrontation and challenge, were forgotten as we sat there in a silent, stagnant stalemate of mutual resentment.
The following day, disturbed by this vision, I had the most important realisation of my entire tozo: that if I wanted to kill two birds with one stone – get my book published and give Anna and I one last chance to succeed as a couple – we would have go on Tozan together.
‘What’s Tozan?’ I had asked Dick Causton a few days earlier. ‘I was speaking to Naveena Reddi in Delhi back in January and she said she’d been on one and it had totally transformed her life. Unfortunately, it was a very quick meeting and she hadn’t had time to tell me more.’
‘It is a personal pilgrimage to see the Dai-Gohonzon – the original gohonzon inscribed by Nichiren Daishonin – at the foot of Mt Fuji in Japan,’ Dick replied. ‘I’m going on one myself soon, as it happens, and taking just 25 members from the U.K. with me. You should chant about coming along!’
I hadn’t been sure at the time – the cost was horrendously expensive – but then Anna and Brenda dropped in to support me in my long chant and in a short break from it I found myself giving them an urgent ultimatum. ‘You two got me into this practice,’ I told them, ‘and you’re my two closest friends. I’m going on Tozan and I really think you should come with me!’
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
*
The last hour of the last day of my epic tozo gave me the proof I needed.
‘I hear you’re writing a book about India,’ whispered a friend of mine, Sue Trenchard, as I paused for a sip of water. ‘My husband’s a publisher. Let’s talk afterwards – he may look at your stuff for you.’
That whole last hour passed very slowly – I was excited about something again!
It’s strange, how every writer thinks they’re a genius and the world should bend down and pay homage to their golden words. That was my mindset when I sent off my precious diary to Dave, Sue’s husband. Even as I put a postage stamp on the envelope, I was anticipating him writing me a big, fat royalty cheque.
My enthusiasm lasted as long as it took for Dave to read it and come back with a verdict.
‘Well,’ he said slowly. ‘I liked it very much, there’s loads of good stuff there, but it’s not publishable in its present state.’
I was crestfallen. ‘Why not?’
‘Well, for one thing, it’s too long. About half of it would have to go. For another, while you have some beautiful passages about how much you love India, there are lots of not so beautiful passages about how much you don’t. I found that quite alienating.’
‘But that’s the thing about India,’ I protested. ‘It’s a love-hate thing. Some days you love it, some days you hate it – especially if you’re travelling at baseline level and are ousting a squatter who’s sleeping in your reserved train bunk bed. I’ve met lots of travellers who love and hate it both at the same time. It’s almost commonplace.’
I could feel Dave bridle at the other end of the telephone. ‘It may be commonplace for you,’ he said rather snippily. ‘But for anyone who hasn’t been there – and that’s going to account for about 99 per cent of your readership – the days of jewelled Rajahs, richly caparisoned elephants and John Company are still not over. Oh, I know, you say your book is about the “real” India, but most folk who pick up a book about India will be expecting The Far Pavilions and Gunga Din. I’m not sure what they’re going to make of an unsanitised, shoestring, “warts and all” version of it!’
‘They’re going to love it, of course,’ I thought, but then decided to change my tack.
‘So what exactly do you like about my book, then?’
‘Well, I like what you write about cows and children. Here, let me read you this bit:
‘As I popped the first cigarette of the day into my mouth, I reflected that since I’ve got back to India from Nepal, I’ve seen a lot more about it that I like. The cows wandering about in the streets outside now appear amiable and companionable souls rather than just a public nuisance. They seem to have a hidden reservoir of patience and good humour, possibly because everybody here gently shoves out of the way all the time with a tolerant smile or joke. They also seem to keep the streets clear of rubbish by eating a remarkable amount of it. Also, the people I see here and in Nepal really do seem to care for each other more than I originally gave them credit for. Many a time, especially in Nepal, I’d see a woman bend over his sister or child and patiently and methodically start picking the lice out of their hair. It is in fact the children who get a really good deal here. Such a lot of fuss is made over them! Yesterday, from my lodge roof, I saw two proud fathers colliding down a narrow alleyway, recognising each other, then embracing and smothering with kisses each other’s child, before embracing each other!’
‘Yes, concluded Dave. ‘The cows and children are good. Everyone likes reading about cows and children.’
But then I did as he suggested and cut the book in half and it was still too long to meet a publisher’s criteria. And, sad to say, all but a few of my cows and children met their deaths at the hands of a red pencil.
I had to take Dave’s intervention as a good sign, however. I would never have made my work half readable without him. And although he couldn’t publish it himself – he only took on aviation or sports books – he did put me on to The Writers and Artists Yearbook which gave me a list of names to write to.
October 14th 1985 was a momentous day for me. Having selected 42 publishers and agents who would be the lucky recipients of my masterpiece diary, I packaged it up and popped it off in the post. Then I hopped on a plane to Japan, spending every penny I had, and made ready to pray to the main temple there that m
y gamble would succeed.
Chapter 17
Going Japanese
If India was intense and harrowing, and Trets was intense and enlightening, Japan was just intense. No sooner had Dick and Anna and Brenda and the rest of our English party stepped off the plane – after a gruelling 24 hour flight – than we were greeted by a dozen or so laughing and chattering Japanese lady members. They were so overcome at our arrival that they were weeping with happiness.
‘What’s going on here?’ I asked Dick nervously. ‘Do they think we’re film stars or something?’
‘No,’ he laughed. ‘They’re just happy to see us. Some of them, probably all of them, have chanted months for us to make it safely today!’
I scratched my head in puzzlement. I wasn’t sure I’d even cross Clapham Common to see any of them if they dropped in on the U.K. And I certainly wouldn’t be bowing up and down and showering them with gifts.
The gift giving was something else. I complimented one lady on a pretty gold brooch she was wearing. She plucked it off her dress and insisted I had it (it ended up being pinned to Anna). Then another Japanese girl tore off her sweater and gave it to one of our girls. This was the cue for a sudden, frantic session of exchanging gifts – liturgy books, beads, ties, clothes and postcards began flying back and forth, and everybody began crying and embracing with the emotion of it all.
Except me.
I looked at Dick. Even he was moved to tears by this joyful and wholehearted welcome. Why wasn’t I? Half an hour on Japanese soil and I had already been confronted by my crippling lack of social ease. All I could think, as I backed away from the sobbing throng, was: ‘Blimey, I’m getting out of here before they start exchanging underpants!’
The next day was even more intense. Incredibly sleep deprived from our long flight and having grabbed just a few hours rest at the luxury Miyako Hotel in Tokyo we were shoved onto a bus to the Head Temple at Taiseki-ji and then rolled out for the delectation of flag-waving, weeping, singing and cheering crowds. They couldn’t get enough of us, and I wanted to go home. ‘This is ridiculous,’ I thought to myself as people began climbing over each other to touch us or shake our hands. ‘If I have to bow and say “Konnichi-wa!” one more time, I’m going to scream.’
My lacklustre response to all this hysterical joy was not lost on Anna. ‘Don’t look so bloody miserable!’ she scolded me. ‘You can at least pretend to be enjoying yourself!’
‘You should know me by now,’ I groaned back at her. ‘I just can’t handle extreme emotion, it leaves me cold. Besides, I’ve only had five hours sleep in three days. I want to go back to bed.’
‘You want to wake up and see what’s going on all around you,’ was Anna’s final comment before being whisked away by a family who wanted to adopt her. ‘This is kosen rufu in action. This is how the world is going to be when everyone is happy.’
This observation depressed me enormously. Did I really want to live in a world where everyone was this happy? All of a sudden, I began to long for my cold, quiet little flat in Clapham where my happiest moment was finding another 50 pence coin for the gas meter.
I thought that the punishment might end, or at least begin to fade, when we entered the long, spartan sobos or accommodation blocks inside the temple grounds. But no, hardly had we eaten and settled down on some of the hundreds of 6 x 3 foot sleeping areas on the rush-matted floor than we were told there would be a special ‘ushitora’ gongyo at two o’clock in the morning. Two o’clock in the morning? They had to be joking! I waited until about midnight, then snuck behind a table and snoozed away fitfully until dawn.
The next day we trooped, in various stages of exhaustion, up to the Head Temple. Constructed in 1972, this majestic, futuristic structure compelled even my admiration. ‘It’s the single most important point in the universe,’ Dick informed us. ‘And it has the largest unsupported roof in the world too.’
Entering the vast inner auditorium, looking around at thousands of other invited guests, I could well believe him. I had never been in such a massive hall! Though to my disappointment our English party was placed right at the back of it and the words ‘restricted view’ came to mind. ‘Damn,’ I thought. ‘All this time I’ve been chanting to see the Dai-Gohonzon up close and personal, and I get the complete opposite.’ But then four places right at the front suddenly became vacant, and me and three others were moved all the way up to them. What an unexpected stroke of luck!
I would like to say that when the doors of the large butsudan were flung open, and the gold lettering on black background Dai-Gohonzon came into view, I felt the earth move and choirs of heavenly angels burst into song. But no, I felt nothing. Nothing at all. ‘I really must challenge this lack of feeling!’ I began to berate myself. ‘Until I regain some feeling, some passion, for life, I will always be standing aloof, apart from the real world and real relationships!’
But then I paused in my panic. ‘Don’t be a fool!’ a more rational voice rose up. ‘This is just a box with a carved wooden mandala inside. It is not a god or a worry doll. You’ve got just a few short minutes to report to it and to make fresh determinations for the future. Don’t waste them!’
Then a massive bell sounded and the roar of 6000 people chanting in joyous unison rolled over me like a tidal wave. Pulled along by the sheer mass power and resonance of it, I felt every nerve in my body tingling. ‘Wow,’ I thought, tracking back to my Catholic roots, ‘this is like super-charged Gregorian chanting or a command performance of St Matthew’s Passion!’
I looked at the gohonzon anew, and with a calm, confident respect. ‘Okay,’ I told myself as the chanting reached a crescendo and the vast hall reverberated with the sound, ‘the time for idle introspection is over. I’m going to make my determinations now – about my book, about Anna, about changing my whole life for the better.’ Then I switched my mind off and went with the flow.
The first thing I did afterwards was buy a bell. There was a small, bustling market just below the temple which sold all sorts of chanting paraphernalia – books, beads, incense...and yes, bells. ‘Ooh, that’s a nice bell,’ I congratulated myself as I chose a particularly attractive one. ‘That’ll go nice on the mantelpiece.’
Little did I know how a small 3 x 4 inch metal bell was going to change my life. Seconds later, Anna chanced across me in the market, spotted my new purchase, and attacked me with a curt: ‘So, I see you’ve made your mind up, then!’
I looked at her in confusion. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘We’ve already got a bell back home’, she snapped angrily. ‘You don’t want to chant with me, or live with me, anymore, do you? Why else would you want to buy one of your own?’
My mouth opened to say: ‘I only bought it on a whim, as an ornament – I had no intention of using it,’ but then snapped shut again. My Buddha nature had just shown me what I had been pushing down for months – ever since the day I moved in with Anna, in fact. All this time we had been chanting only to her gohonzon. Mine was stuck away in a drawer somewhere, and I was secretly resenting it.
I looked at Anna sadly. ‘I hadn’t made my mind up about us – honestly, I hadn’t. But now that I think about it, maybe I have...’
. *
It was only later on that day, when the bullet train turned up to take us all onto Hiroshima, that I gauged the full extent of Anna’s anger and disappointment. A slight pressure at the base of my spine – a whisper of a hesitant hand – made me jump and turn around.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ I accused her. ‘I could have fallen under that train!’
Her eyes told me everything. ‘That was the general idea,’ they were saying.
On the bullet train, rather shaken by Anna’s murderous impulses, I wanted to talk things through with her. But she was already discussing it with Dick Causton. She told him I had become so wrapped up in my book that I had threatened to stop chanting if the Dai-Gohonzon didn’t get me a publisher. He told her that I was pursuing a ver
y arrogant course, but perhaps pushing me under a train was not the best way of telling me. He also suggested that she trying living with me ‘separately’ for a while, in order that if we must part it should be as friends.
Anna wasn’t sure she could do that.
I guess it was Hiroshima that really turned things round for me. Though it did not start well. Going for a wander out of my hotel – marvelling as I did so at the evident wealth and prosperity of this busy, green and modern city which 40 years ago was just a heap of radioactive rubble – I managed to get myself lost.
‘This is a fine kettle of fish,’ I thought as I trudged down yet another crowded, anonymous street. ‘I have no idea of where I am, everybody I ask for help doesn’t speak English, and I haven’t even got the fare for a cab ride.’
Just then, I spotted ‘Big Boys’ pachinko palace. It was the only place in the entire street that had an English sign above the door. But if I thought anyone inside would have a smattering of my language, I was to be disappointed. Instead, I was invited with a wave of the hand to join the rows and rows of Japanese businessmen who were sitting in their best suits in front of pinball machines. None of them looked up as I joined them – they were all riveted to the activity of hundreds of little steel balls spinning round in front of their eyes. And soon, having deposited my few Japanese coins into one of the machines, so was I. ‘Pleeease let me win!’ I prayed to the universe. ‘If I don’t win, I’ll miss Rocky II on TV tonight!’