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Updated: May 7, 2025
The following morning I sought out Behari Pundit, my Sanskrit professor at Scottish Church College. "Sir, you have told me of your friendship with a great disciple of Lahiri Mahasaya. Please give me his address." "You mean Ram Gopal Muzumdar. I call him the 'sleepless saint. He is always awake in an ecstatic consciousness. His home is at Ranbajpur, near Tarakeswar."
And when my furlough is over and I return to these shores, the whole troop will be at the Apollo Bunder, waiting to welcome back their old master and eat his salt again. Gopal, the Gowlee, haunts me in my dreams, complaining that he has been left out in the cold.
The moonlight was too faint to supply any reassurance; I stumbled on for two hours. Welcome clang of a cowbell! My repeated shouts eventually brought a peasant to my side. "I am looking for Ram Gopal Babu." "No such person lives in our village." The man's tone was surly. "You are probably a lying detective."
The marts of men seemed remotely dim as I squatted by the yogi in the isolation of the tiny jungle village. The cottage room was mysterious with a mellow light. Ram Gopal arranged some torn blankets on the floor for my bed, and seated himself on a straw mat. Overwhelmed by his spiritual magnetism, I ventured a request. "Sir, why don't you grant me a SAMADHI?"
He saw the curtain before the door of the tent slightly lifted, and that it was Morar Gopal who had attempted to draw his attention by coughing discreetly. He called to the loyal fellow to come in, and thanked him, not condescendingly, as a master recognises the cleverness of his servant, but as one friend thanks another.
"Yes, because no one troubled himself to tell you the truth; but I can assure you that Gopál's liabilities are something awful, and it is quite possible that he may have to take insolvency proceedings." "You don't say so! What shall I do? If Gopál becomes bankrupt, I shall be utterly ruined." "Well, I cannot advise you fully," replied Rámanáth Babu, "but forewarned is forearmed.
However that may be, practice is more than theory, and I stipulate for milk for all purposes from the lowest lota that is, milk which is warranted to yield butter. If it will not stand that test, I reject it. Gopal wonders at my extravagance, but consents. The milk is good and the butter from it plentiful.
"Can I hit it without killing Blake?" I thought in an agony of uncertainty, but the hazard followed quick upon the thought, and bang, bang, went my two barrels. At the same time the Sikh dafadar, Gopal Singh, with all the characteristic bravery of this magnificent race, ran in and beat the animal about the head with the butt-end of Blake's shot-gun, which he was carrying at the time.
He met his Indian boy, evidently in great excitement, in front of his tent. "When we start to-morrow we shall leave the tent with everything in it," said Heideck. "You will ride my horse and I shall take yours." Morar Gopal was a Hindu from the south, almost as black as a nigger, a small, agile little man, weighing scarcely eight stone.
All at once came a heavy knocking at the door, and Morar Gopal, who had been looking for Heideck everywhere in the hotel, entreated his master to make his escape as quickly as possible. The German officer was fully convinced that he had now to exchange one danger for a peril perhaps even greater. But there was no time for delay or consideration. "We are in the midst of a fire, Mrs.
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