We wish to thank Matt Koehl of the NEW ORDER for preserving these letters, photocopying them for the Archive, and giving us permission to publish them.
—R. G. Fowler
27 April 1977
The day before yesterday was Rudolf Hess’s birthday—his 83rd (was born in 1894, if my memory does not fail).
I chose that day to send you, registered, by air mail, a copy of the book I wrote, in French this time (to comply with the desire of our French comrades, who had told me: “Why don’t you for once write in our tongue?”) from 1968 or 69 to 1971. I have been working hard—as hard a possible—all these years to finance the printing of that book—Sourvenirs et réflexions d’une Aryenne, Memories and Thoughts of an Aryan Woman—which cost some $2,350 in US money (and I suppose that is cheap compared to US rates). One or two sympathizers sent me $100 or $200 now and then. The rest I earned myself, through private lessons. A private lesson is paid here—when one gets one at that price!—20 rupees—some $2.50 (or a little more or a little less according to the exchange rates). From the school where I teach French I get—when there are no holidays; during long Summer holidays, Christmas and Easter holidays, and our local holidays of one or two days I am not paid at all, being “locally recruited staff” (not “sent from France”)—I get, I say, some 200 to 250 rupees a month, that makes some $20 or a little more (save during holidays, like now, from May to August).
That is why I could not, all these months, send any contributions to the Cause I love. Now the book is out—at last (after six years’ struggle!). I am sending you a copy and shall, as my contribution (the $88 one you mention) send you more—although the postage is very costly, I can soon send you a package of 9 books, and more, later, when the cheaper edition of 3,000—this edition was only of 100—is ready. Surely you know people interested in our philosophy who can understand French. (There is one at least, Herr Zündel, in Toronto, Canada, but I lost his address. Could you check it up?) There must be more in the USA. There is, in the book, an allusion to a letter written to me by Commander Rockwell on the necessity of being “realistic” in connection with appeal to the public (sorry, I cannot find the exact page).
The book, as you will see, is absolutely outspoken—no concessions whatsoever to values which are not ours—for it is not for the masses but for the few (as the dedication shows). By this you see, although I seldom write to you, I am not inactive in my lonely little corner far away. At my age—I shall be 72 on the 30th of September, and with one eye that can hardly see (after the operation I had for “glaucoma” on 9 October 1976)—I can hardly do anything else.
I used to be able to exchange views with my late husband, when he would come and spend a few days in Delhi. (There are allusions to him also in my book.) Now, this is all over: he passed away, here, on 21 March 1977, the Vernal Equinox, from “heatstroke.” I miss the sight of him standing—or sitting when he no longer could stand—at the open door of my tiny flat (one room, and a small space at the entrance) and after the reciting of the twelve main names of the Sun, and of the old Aryan greeting of Him—in Sanskrit—his chanting of whole passages of the Bhagavad-Gita, the book of Aryan philosophy—preaching not “non-violence,” but violence in absolute detachment, and in the “interest of the universe” (not of the two-legged mammal including all his varieties!) which the élite among us should study. He wished to die. “Better die than get born after 1945,” he used to say. And his one other wish was not to get born again, but merge into “cosmic consciousness.”
Personally, I wouldn’t mind being born again—again being sixteen, again being twenty, and thirty! But surely I dread being fifteen months old—and two years, and three—again. I can remember very far into my past, can clearly see myself in my perambulator (which my mother gave away when I was less than two), can remember the flat in which my parents lived until I was one and a half, the furniture, the two windows on the front of the flat, from which a rubber ball escaped my hold, once, and from which I desperately called it back: “You come, come, come!”
I spoke only English, my mother’s tongue, until I was five or six. Children pick up other languages by playing with other children of the place where they live—but I never played with other children—until practically forced to in school. I did not like them. Found them “silly,” and their games of no interest. I should not like to go through that very beginning of life again, especially not to be born in a family in which people did not love animals—we always had a cat. I probably inherited from my father my love of all felines. Nor in a family in which they would force me to eat meat—as I have seen other people—not my own parents, thank goodness!!—do to their children. I was allowed to refuse all food cooked with meat from the very beginning because it “put me off.”
Differences with my father started during the First World War—I being “on the German side” (because King Constantine of Greece was said to be) and also because of the awful behavior of the Allies to Greece—the blockade ten months long, the bombardment of Athens—to force her into the war on their side. My father was for Venizelos, on the contrary.
But this letter is getting out of proportion. Forgive me if it bores you and tell me when you received my book that I might send more (if you can use them).
With the best of wishes,
Savitri Devi Mukherji
PS: Why don’t you write to me C 23 South Extension II, New Delhi, 110069 instead of at the school [Alliance Française].