631 words
New Delhi
Summer Solstice
21 June 1974
My dear young comrade,
Don’t be cross with me for not writing: I am ill; have been suffering from dysentery for weeks. My lonely little room is a pig-sty. I haven’t the strength to clean it. As soon as I get up my head whizzes around and my legs are as though they were made of cotton wool. To pick up a cup is a burden to me, so weak I have become. I walk two footsteps and have to sit or lie down, feeling fainting. For days I have taken nothing but water. (I could remain all day in water, as the buffaloes do, in the Indian countryside, when the poor things can.)
It is so hot (above fifty centigrade). The air the fan moves above me is burning. My bed is burning hot. Any object I touch is burning hot. The whole land is just crying for the rains (they generally come, in the Delhi region, end of June).
I do thank you for your kind present (of $50). It is a boon! For not only am I not paid during the holidays, but I just cannot do the one or two translations I took on. I can’t keep my mind on anything. As I said, my head is just whizzing around.
The service of my poor cats — my three and the strays — is utterly difficult. I have to drag myself out of the house to get milk for them, and pet food or whatever I can give them. I have to request passersby on the street to help me along. But I must. I undertook to help these creatures, so I am responsible for their welfare.
My book is at a stand-still. As I could not send the 1,100 rupees he wants for the work already done — it is about 600 German marks — he is not sending me any further proofs. I had some of the money but had to use it to live on, only having one pupil just now, and not having been paid yet (two months!) for the last translations I did for the tourist office. (The new one I have not done yet, as I just can’t concentrate on anything.)
Today I forced myself to take a little boiled rice (someone gave it to me; I have not the strength to cook). I am feeling a little less giddy. Still I feel as though emptied of all my substance. Maybe I am slowly dying! Were it not for the book, ????? to see printed, and also for the creatures that depend on me, I should be glad to die. (What a relief!)
You speak of going to Munich. I am giving you a letter of introduction for Frau Burwitz (Himmler’s daughter) and another one for Olga von Barényi, the writer who was tortured by the Communists in Prague, 1945, and underwent the ordeal (her whole back was burnt) without speaking (although she knew the information they were trying to get out of her).
“Munich” in my present state of utter weakness seems to me like a beautiful memory from some former life. I envy you going there.
But do forgive me. I can write no more. To hold my pen is a burden.
With my most sincere thanks and the everlasting greeting of the faithful,
Savitri Dêvi Mukherji
Did you get the little souvenir I sent you — ages ago — for your birthday? It should have reached you by now — unless something odd happened.
Thanks also for your card. I am so glad you are now “on your own” and wish you every success. Your name associated with “[Omitted — ed.]” and others looks quite “respectable” by post-war standards. You have the sense of practical realities, a good thing. You will “get on.” I am glad.