See Notes to Letter No. 50.
Impossible: no power. Will write thro' Bombay.
K. H.
Letter No. 53 (ML-136) Dated March 17, 1882
This is a letter from H.P.B. to Sinnett. Olcott and Bhavani Rao had just left Allahabad for other cities on their tour, and the Sinnetts had invited H.P.B. to visit them. The letter seems primarily concerned with explanations of why she cannot — or does not propose to — accept the invitation.
The letter refers to Deb whose real name was Gwala K. Deb. His mystical name was apparently Dharbagiri Nath. There is considerable mystery connected with the relationship between this chela and a younger one named Babaji, or Bawaji.
Babaji' s real name was S. Krishnamachâri, but he took the name Babaji when he joined the headquarters staff of the Theosophical Society in Bombay between 1880 and 1881. At that time he dropped his original name. At one time, the Mahatma K.H. desired to send two chelas to Sinnett who was then at Simla. K.H. selected one of his pupils, Gwala K. Deb, who (says the author of Damodar) was probably Tibetan, and R. Keshava Pillai, an Inspector of Police at Nellore, who had become a probationary lay chela. However, as Deb was in Tibet undergoing certain occult training and was unable to go in his physical body, Babajee consented to have Deb use his body for the occasion. Deb' s mystical name was Dharbagiri Nath, and it seems that Babajee continued to use that name occasionally after the mystical experience had ended.
When H.P.B. left for Europe the last time, Babajee pleaded to accompany her and take care of her. She finally gave in to him. Later, he turned against her and caused her a great deal of trouble. The Mahatma K.H. wrote: "The little man has failed." Thus "writing finis to the chapter of yet another pupil of the Masters." Babajee was given money to return to India, where he died in obscurity within a few years.
While H.P.B. was in Europe, the Countess Wachtmeister, who was with her while she was writing The Secret Doctrine, wrote a "private and confidential" letter to Sinnett in which she said, "Don't trouble any more about the two Dharbagiri Naths — there are two — but there is also a Mystery. Unfortunately, my tongue is tied. Probably if all were known Babajee would go mad or commit suicide. Dharbagiri Nath is his mystery name, as I suppose it might also be the name of 20 more. . . Babajee is a chela, though not the high one he pretends to be." (See LBS, Letter No. 140).
Rather amazingly, about this time, Sinnett received a letter signed "Dharbagiri Nath" (See LBS, Letter No. 177) in which the writer says, "I do not believe there is anybody who bears the name 'Dharbagiri Nath' except myself, because it is a purely Sanscrit name, which I have not found mentioned in the Puranas or borne in any part of India. The name refers to a secret hill of which nothing is given out — 'the dweller of the hill of Darbha grass.' Darbha is a sacred Indian grass used daily by Brahmans for ceremonies. . ." Whether this letter is from Gwala Deb or from Babajee — or even from someone else — it is not likely that we shall ever know. The situation is complicated, in all probability, by the fact that not all could be said about it.
March 17th.
My dear Mr. Sinnett,
Your invitation read with surprise.
Not "surprise" at myself being invited, but surprise at you inviting me again, just as if you had not had enough of me! Now what good can I be to any one in this world, except to make some stare, others to speculate upon my cleverness as an impostor, and the small minority to eye me with the feeling of wonder generally in store for "monsters" exhibited in museums or aquariums. This is fact; and I had enough proof of it, not to run again my neck into the halter if I can help it. My coming to stop with you even for a few days would be only a source of disappointment to yourself, and one of torture to me.
Now, you must not take these words en mauvaise part. I am simply sincere with you. You are and have been, especially Mrs. Sinnett, for ever so long my best friends here; but it is just because I consider you as such, that I am forced to rather give a momentary than a prolonged annoyance to you; rather a refusal, than an acceptance of the kind invitation. Besides — as a medium of communication between yourself and K.H. (for I suppose you do not invite me pour mes beaux yeux,121 alone?) I am utterly useless now. There is a limit to endurance, there is one to the greatest self-sacrifice. I have worked for them faithfully and unselfishly for years, and the result was that I ruined my health, dishonoured my ancestral name, got reviled by every green-grocer from Oxford Street, and every fishmonger from Hungerford market who had become a C.S.122 and — finally did no good to them, very little to the Society and none at all to either poor Olcott or myself. Believe me, we are better friends with several hundred miles between us than — a few steps. Besides this, Boss says there's a new development hanging over our heads. He and K.H. put their wise heads together and are preparing to work as they tell me. We have but a few months left until November123 and if things are not entirely whitewashed until then and fresh blood poured into the Brotherhood and Occultism — we may just as well go to bed all of us. Personally for myself it is a matter of very little moment, whether it is so or not. My time is also fast approaching when my hour of triumph will strike. Then is it, that I also may prove to those who speculated about me, those who believed as those who disbelieved, that none of them approached within 100 miles of the area of truth. I have suffered hell on earth, but before I leave it I promise myself such a triumph as will make the Ripons and his Roman Catholics, and the Baly's and Bishop Sargeant with their Protestant donkeys — bray as loud as their lungs will bear. Now, do you really think that you know ME, my dear Mr. Sinnett? Do you believe that, because you have fathomed — as you think — my physical crust and brain; that shrewd analyst of human nature though you be — you have ever penetrated even beneath the first cuticles of my Real Self? You would gravely err, if you did. I am held by all of you as untruthful because hitherto I have shown the world only the true exterior Mme. Blavatsky. It is just as if you complained of the falseness of a moss and weed covered, and mud-covered, stony and rugged rock for writing outside "I am not moss covered and mud-plastered; your eyes deceive you for you are unable to see beneath the crust," etc. You must understand the allegory. It is not boasting for I do not say whether inside that unprepossessing rock there is a palatial residence or an humble hut. What I say is this: you do not know me; for whatever there is inside it, is not what you think it is; and — to judge of me therefore, as of one untruthful is the greatest mistake in the world besides being a flagrant injustice. I, (the inner real "I") am in prison and cannot show myself as I am with all the desire I may have to. Why then, should I, because speaking for myself as I am and feel myself to be, why should I be held responsible for the outward jail-door and its appearance, when I have neither built nor yet decorated it?