Mâ, the Ancient One of evolution, leads Gringo on adventures through the past & future of the Earth, from the pre-human forest to the forest of tomorrow.
Un 'Livre de la Jungle' à l'envers. Non plus un petit d'homme qui revient à la vie animale, mais un autre petit d'homme dans une tribu sauvage de la forêt amazonienne, qui cherche comment on sort de la Tribu humaine et le passage de 'l'Homme après l'Homme'. C'est la légende de l'évolution et de l'Ancienne de l'évolution, figurée par la 'reine' de la tribu, qui entraîne Gringo à la découverte des aventures passées de la terre - en Egypte, dans l'Atlandide, en pays arctique -, et dans l'aventure de l'avenir de la terre, chaque fois forçant le barrage des défenseurs de la Loi établie, que ce soit celle des anciens initiés, celle de la Tribu amazonienne, celle des spiritualistes ou celle des biologistes du XXième siècle. Car chaque sommet atteint devient l'obstacle du prochain cycle. Successivement, Gringo passe par la 'porte de braise', la 'porte de jade', la 'porte bleu', la 'porte de neige', avant d'arriver à la 'porte noire' du XXIième siècle et à la 'minute nulle' où les hommes disent NON à leur loi suffocante et consentent à ouvrir 'les nouveaux yeux de la terre'. l'auteur évoque ici l'aventure qu'il a vécue dans la forêt vierge de Guyanne à l'âge de vingt-cinq ans, et l'aventure qu'il a vécue auprès de Sri Aurobindo et de Mère dans l'avenir de la terre : toute une courbe, de la forêt pré-humaine à la forêt mystérieuse de demain.
A 'Jungle Book' in reverse. No longer a young boy returning to animal life, but another young boy in a wild tribe of the Amazon rainforest, who seeks to discover how one escapes from the human Tribe and the passage of 'Man after Man.' This is the legend of evolution and of the Ancient One of evolution, represented by the 'queen' of the tribe, who leads Gringo on a journey of discovery through the past adventures of the earth — in Egypt, in Atlantis, in the Arctic lands — and into the adventure of the earth's future, each time forcing through the barrier of the defenders of the established Law, whether that of the ancient initiates, that of the Amazonian Tribe, that of the spiritualists, or that of the biologists of the 20th century. For every summit reached becomes the obstacle of the next cycle. Successively, Gringo passes through the 'gate of embers,' the 'gate of jade,' the 'gate of blue,' the 'gate of snow,' before arriving at the 'black gate' of the 21st century and at 'zero minute,' where men say NO to their suffocating law and consent to open 'the new eyes of the earth.' The author evokes here the adventure he lived in the virgin forest of Guyana at the age of twenty-five, and the adventure he experienced alongside Sri Aurobindo and 'Mother' in the future of the earth: an entire arc, from the pre-human forest to the mysterious forest of tomorrow.
XXVIII
ALL that remained was to wait — for what? No one knew. Gringo was vaguely looking for a bus that was going somewhere.
— What if we got a plane ticket to Honolulu? said Rani.
— And which bus would we take there? Rani was speechless. That was rare.
"If I had a fake nose, at least," thought Gringo, "perhaps I could get used to it?"
— Tell me, little queen — could we set up a booth for real noses?
— What?
He gave up trying to explain. Besides, he would be labeled as an isotope at once and filed under an exotic heading. It was very convenient: everyone had their label on their back — you couldn't make a mistake.
— Next time, said Gringo, I'll be reborn in a kangaroo skin.
She was trying to picture Gringo with a long tail.
— But that's an extinct species, Gringo — you're out of date! Now there are only men.
Then, he thought, the kangaroos were screwed too — there was nothing to be done; we were screwed from all sides. A fake nose was perhaps the best way to breathe.
— They've explained everything, said Gringo. There's nothing more to be done.
— Then go get me an ice cream and let's wait. They waited.
An hour, a year, a century — one doesn't know. From time to time there were coups d'état, but it was all the same — one started again with another top hat.
— I've had my fill, said Gringo.
— Then go get me an ice cream, said Rani. It's hot. And they waited some more on the edge of the curb.
A tide of trousers passed — more trousers, always trousers — a day, an hour, a century: the trousered-men passed. Gringo had taken his cheeks in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees: he looked and looked at those trousers. From time to time, a madman fired into the crowd — but it was all the same; one went on with another pair of trousers.
Then Gringo began to grow uneasy.
— Time is long, he said.
— What use is time? asked Rani.
— Well... to measure.
— Measure what?
— I don't know — trousers, perhaps?
— Then it's no use.
And she rested her elbows on her knees.
— Perhaps we're reaching the end of time? she added pensively.
— No: as long as there are trousers and eyes looking at trousers, they will have to be measured.
— Ah! said Rani. Then let's take off our trousers and close our eyes.
Gringo hesitated still; gray columns rose on a horizon of trousers. The saxophone and cymbals could be heard, along with an energetic trombone, from time to time. "What use is music?" thought Gringo. Things were beginning to get a little confusing.
— But why do they keep on! exclaimed Rani. Suddenly a trouser leaned over him.
— What time is it, Sir, please? Gringo looked to the right, looked to the left, up and down the columns, amid the high wail of the saxophone. He shook his head between his hands:
— My watch has stopped.
— Ah! said the man. Then I'll be late.
And he resumed his place in the columns of trousers. Gringo looked again. And suddenly he felt like weeping — why, one doesn't know. It was heartbreaking — what it tore, one doesn't know. A hole of pain. "Perhaps it's because of my real nose," he thought... "Perhaps that's why they all put a fake nose on their trousers? To hide the grief." Then Gringo stood up — he grabbed a trouser-man by the arm:
— What time is it, Monsieur?
— 17 hours, 22 minutes, 34 seconds.
— Ah! I knew it. Thank you, Monsieur.
He shook his head, looked again at the horizon: "Thirty-five seconds, thirty-six seconds, thirty-seven seconds..." And he wondered why it didn't go the other way: "Thirty-six seconds, thirty-five seconds, thirty-four seconds..." — and at the end it would be over. But no! It always increased: "Thirty-nine seconds, forty seconds, forty-one seconds..." and forever and ever — eons and eons of trouser-time piling up: "Forty-nine seconds, fifty seconds..." Gringo looked right, looked left, looked ahead... Not a bird in sight — trousers and trousers every second, going out there toward what? It was suffocating all at once — what was suffocating, one doesn't know. The suffocation suffocated. "Fifty-one seconds, fifty-two seconds..." The hour was coming — which hour? One doesn't know. The hour of what? There was no hour — no hour, no place, nowhere, never, never — one arrived nowhere by the second. Time was dead! Geography was dead, buses were dead. One was sitting there on the curb, for the eternity of eternities... ah!
Gringo let out a small "ah!" — like a small squeak. Everything went white in his head.
"Ma," he said, just like that, the way one says "blub!" before going under. She was there, smiling.
Gringo blinked.
— What time is it? he asked.
— It is time, said Ma.
— Ah! said Gringo.
— Open your eyes and look.
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