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Kanai's shout was simultaneous with my own. "Dare you bring your blasphemies into this sacred ashram?" But Master stood protectingly in front of his abuser. "Don't get excited over nothing. This man is only doing his rightful duty." The officer, dazed at his varying reception, respectfully offered a word of apology and sped away.
One of the men addressed the ashram hostess. "At the last moment their plans went awry; they send deep regrets. But we have brought two other guests. As soon as we met on the train, I felt drawn to them as devotees of Lord Krishna." "Good-by, young friends." Our two acquaintances walked to the door. "We shall meet again, if God be willing." "You are welcome here."
The Mahatma was already seated under the arcade of the ashram porch, across the courtyard from his study. About twenty-five barefooted SATYAGRAHIS were squatting before brass cups and plates. The Mahatma ate CHAPATIS, boiled beets, some raw vegetables, and oranges. On the side of his plate was a large lump of very bitter NEEM leaves, a notable blood cleanser.
Spending one night as guests of the ashram, our party set out the following afternoon for Calcutta. Riding over a bridge of the Jumna River, we enjoyed a magnificent view of the skyline of Brindaban just as the sun set fire to the sky-a veritable furnace of Vulcan in color, reflected below us in the still waters. The Jumna beach is hallowed by memories of the child Sri Krishna.
"Later a Ganges flood washed away the hermitage and cobras alike. My disciples then helped me to build this Brindaban ashram." Keshabananda shook his head. "In those high spiritual altitudes," he said, "wild beasts seldom molest the yogis. Once in the jungle I encountered a tiger face-to-face. At my sudden ejaculation, the animal was transfixed as though turned to stone."
My friend and I made for the shelter of a lordly cadamba tree at the ashram gate. Sharp words followed; once again Jitendra was beset with misgivings. "A fine mess you have got me into! Our luncheon was only accidental good fortune! How can we see the sights of this city, without a single pice between us? And how on earth are you going to take me back to Ananta's?"
"The ashram residents are wholly at your disposal; please call on them for any service." With characteristic courtesy, the Mahatma handed me this hastily-written note as Mr. Desai led our party from the writing room toward the guest house. Our guide led us through orchards and flowering fields to a tile-roofed building with latticed windows.
Consigning our luggage to a bullock cart, we entered an open motor car with Mr. Desai and his companions, Babasaheb Deshmukh and Dr. Pingale. A short drive over the muddy country roads brought us to MAGANVADI, the ashram of India's political saint. Mr. Desai led us at once to the writing room where, cross-legged, sat Mahatma Gandhi.
In how many strange cities, in my later life of ceaseless travel, did occasion arise to prove the serviceability of this lesson in a Benares hermitage! The sole treasure which had accompanied me from Calcutta was the SADHU'S silver amulet bequeathed to me by Mother. Guarding it for years, I now had it carefully hidden in my ashram room.
Perhaps it was to dispel doubts about his own authenticity that Atmananda proceeded to poke fun at himself. He personally assisted in the baking of several LARGE rye breads at the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. A devotee of Sri Ramana Maharshi and baseball, the Swami actually is a good guy. He doesn't claim to be any better than the rest of us. But he's happy. So maybe happiness can be learned?
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