Three Continents Read Online Free PDF

as I knew, it was the Rawul who had this simple but forceful idea of constituting himself the savior of world civilization. He felt he had excellent credentials, for he belonged to what he claimed to be one of the oldest tribes in the world, with a whole genealogy of primeval mythical figures and historical heroes. Their breeding ground was a mountainous desert state wedged in a corner of northwest India—geographically not very promising, but the Rawul liked to refer to it as the cradle of civilization; and though their glory had long since departed—he wasn’t even entitled to be called the Rawul anymore—he felt it to be an ideal source from which to start the whole thing up again, in a different way and on a different scale. And if he regarded his little kingdom of Dhoka—in which he still had a little palace though no income apart from what he had managed to stow away in foreign bank accounts—as the physical base of the Fourth World, then he himself was the human one: combining in his own person an ancient Oriental title and tradition with a modern Western mind and education. It was strange that such a modest man as the Rawul could have such an exalted notion of himself, but it was almost a sort of selflessness in him. He didn’t want to be a world leader, but he felt he was born to be—chosen by exterior circumstances rather than any value he set upon himself.
    I was ready to concede that he had a right to our house. He was a royal person; and so I guess was the Rani, even if she wasn’t of royal origin. Neither was Crishi: but the three of them, in manner, in appearance, and in expectations, did constitute a sort of royal family with a suggestion of divine rights about them. And perhaps slowly I would have begun, or had already begun, to come around to the idea of makingover our house to their movement. It did seem reasonable that such a house should be put to a purpose rather than just kept for a few people who didn’t even live in it properly. I hadn’t yet made up my mind that this particular purpose—the Fourth World—was what I would have chosen to donate it to; but since Michael had, and even Lindsay, there was no reason for me to hold back. I went to the place—behind the abandoned apple orchard—where I hid whenever I wanted to think something out, and where only Michael knew to find me; but there I overheard a scene that changed my mind again.
    It was between Crishi and one of the followers—Paul, a man older than most of the others, maybe in his thirties. He looked as if he had suffered some bad sickness from which his face and body remained harrowed; he may also have been very poor, for he grabbed at food in the greedy way of someone for whom it hasn’t always been there. He liked to join in on any fun that was going, but again in a rather desperate way, and when he laughed, it half sounded like crying. Actually, he looked like a person who had cried a lot to himself but now was dried up. It was his voice I heard from my hiding place—always unmistakable because of the whine in it, which had risen to a pitch. He was pleading with someone—with Crishi. Crishi’s voice too would normally have been easy to recognize but it was transformed; not so much in itself, it was still pleasant and light, but in its tone and words, which were foul. The other kept saying “But Crishi, why me, why me?” to which Crishi gave no answer but abuse so vile that I at once got up to show myself. I was enraged to hear such words spoken from one human being to another, and in our house, in my secret hiding place! I was separated from them by a clump of blackberry bushes and, just as I parted it to get through, I saw the other man cover his face with his hands and sink slowly along the trunk of a tree to the ground, sobbing “I can’t, I can’t.” “I’ll show you how you can’t, shit hole,” Crishi said and raised