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The effulgence faded; nothing remained before me but the barred window and a pale stream of sunlight. I remained in a half-stupor of confusion, questioning whether I had not been the victim of a hallucination. A crestfallen Dijen soon entered the room. "Master was not on the nine o'clock train, nor even the nine-thirty." My friend made his announcement with a slightly apologetic air.
"I prefer to trust Master's written word." I shrugged my shoulders and seated myself with quiet finality. Muttering angrily, Dijen made for the door and closed it noisily behind him. As the room was rather dark, I moved nearer to the window overlooking the street. The scant sunlight suddenly increased to an intense brilliancy in which the iron-barred window completely vanished.
After we had escorted our guru to his hermitage, my friend and I proceeded toward Serampore College. Dijen halted in the street, indignation streaming from his every pore. "So! Master sent me a message! Yet you concealed it! I demand an explanation!" "Can I help it if your mental mirror oscillates with such restlessness that you cannot register our guru's instructions?" I retorted.
"It calms the dualistic turmoil by a divine inner certainty." That evening Dijen accompanied me to the hermitage. In Master's presence my friend received such spiritual peace that he was soon a constant visitor. The trivial preoccupations of daily life are not enough for man; wisdom too is a native hunger.
"You and Dijen meet the nine o'clock train at Serampore station." About eight-thirty on Wednesday morning, a telepathic message from Sri Yukteswar flashed insistently to my mind: "I am delayed; don't meet the nine o'clock train." I conveyed the latest instructions to Dijen, who was already dressed for departure. "You and your intuition!" My friend's voice was edged in scorn.
"Come then; I know he will arrive at ten o'clock." I took Dijen's hand and rushed him forcibly along with me, heedless of his protests. In about ten minutes we entered the station, where the train was already puffing to a halt. "The whole train is filled with the light of Master's aura! He is there!" I exclaimed joyfully. "You dream so?" Dijen laughed mockingly. "Let us wait here."
I felt the materialistic, twentieth-century world slipping from me; was I back in the ancient days when Jesus appeared before Peter on the sea? As Sri Yukteswar, a modern Yogi-Christ, reached the spot where Dijen and I were speechlessly rooted, Master smiled at my friend and remarked: "I sent you a message too, but you were unable to grasp it." Dijen was silent, but glared at me suspiciously.
"The account I have just heard of our guru's powers," Dijen said, "makes me feel that any university in the world is only a kindergarten." "Father, I want to invite Master and four friends to accompany me to the Himalayan foothills during my summer vacation. May I have six train passes to Kashmir and enough money to cover our travel expenses?" As I had expected, Father laughed heartily.
We would often see Sri Yukteswar standing on his second-floor balcony, welcoming our approach with a smile. One afternoon Kanai, a young hermitage resident, met Dijen and me at the door with disappointing news. "Master is not here; he was summoned to Calcutta by an urgent note." The following day I received a post card from my guru. "I shall leave Calcutta Wednesday morning," he had written.
Yet a torturing surmise sometimes haunts me: may not untapped soul possibilities exist? Is man not missing his real destiny if he fails to explore them?" These remarks of Dijen Babu, my roommate at the PANTHI boardinghouse, were called forth by my invitation that he meet my guru. "Sri Yukteswarji will initiate you into KRIYA YOGA," I replied.
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