"How perfectly disagreeable, Mr. Brahma," Lord Macaulay said to the Hindoo settled serenely in the reaches of a faded chintz sofa. "Seas of butter, seas of treacle, kings thirty feet high who live for thirty thousand years. That's absurd history, absurd geography, absurd theology, absurd metaphysics. It's useless and perfectly noxious, Mr. Brahma." The Englishman — great scholar, educator, poet, member-of-parliament, essayist, aristocrat and colonial hotshot frowned at his brown-skinned visitor. "Now take the Russians, a hundred years ago they lagged behind even the Punjab and for whom the burning question was whether the world was or was not created on a September thirteen. Today they are almost as good as men in the best circles of London and Paris. The point is, Brahma, learn English. What it did for the Tartar it can do for the Hindoo. Be like the English. Speak like the English. Morals, manners and fancies, English is best. That's the future, old chap." The Hindu took a deep vision-sustaining breath, pushing the air from the coccyx up to the navel and to the heart where a weakening red lotus was refreshened. Thomas Babington Macaulay kicked a log in the fireplace and said, " Look here, Brahma, the stuff you've shown me is useless." He pointed to the manuscript: "Sign of an overheated imagination, I should say. Can't run the world on that stuff. Put this on a top shelf and try again. Cut out the seas of sugarcane juice. Get in a slice of action. Watch the six 'o clock news, old chap. That's what will go. Spilled guts and blood. The lives of the rich with cupidity. Witches in covens and sex, loud and hot. You know, dames and boys. May be even incest, that's a lot in the news." And then he saw the blanching visitor to the door.
Brahma had gone on a roll. Seven continents joined by six oceans lined up in circles was his plan. Salt water, an ocean of wine for the sots, sugar cane juice, milk, even an ocean of butter, yoghurt for the octogenarians. "This will not play in Peoria, Mr. Brahma," said the New York Editor gently to the brown-suited brown man. "Why, what shall I say to Sales? Americans wouldn't care much for an ocean of butter. Say, wouldn't it melt with the sun and all?" Brahma paled visibly. He stuck his sweaty, trembling hands in his trousers. "The bastard's jacking off in my office, in my chair," the Editor thought. But he was a kindly man and simply said: "Don't take it too hard."
Brahma, that extraordinary being, who had lain in a lotus flower on a cosmic ocean took the elevator and got out on Fifth Avenue. He walked down the Avenue not looking at hot dogs or chestnuts or flashers or pretty red-lipped clerks in down coats. His breath came out in little puffs as he walked and, at Bryant Park, he stopped to rest his legs. A junkie came up. "Yoohooo Hindu," the red-eyed lumbering creature whispered in his ear, "want a snort?" Brahma feeling the rage of a reaction welling up let it rise through his spine and then quick as a wink forced an opening through a third eye and directed a jet of fire at the hustler who became a heap of ash.
"Good shot." Sergeant Kelly stepped out from behind the bushes. "Gotcha," he said. "Now we can put the fucking sick-o in the ash can." Brahma then rose and got back on Fifth Avenue and walked till 50th where he turned into a side-door of Saint Patrick's, lit a taper, put a dime in the box for charities and prayed for inspiration. "He wants dames," Brahma addressed the editor mentally. "He shall get a dame. Such a one as he has never seen." Then arose the world-enchanting Mohini.
