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Updated: May 10, 2025
A person accused of a crime and who asserts his innocence is in some cases acquitted upon solemnly swearing to it, but in others is obliged to undergo a kind of ordeal. A cock's throat is usually cut on the occasion by the guru.
It was a sunny Thursday, I remember, in July, 1914, a few weeks after my graduation from college. On the inner balcony of his Serampore hermitage, Master dipped a new piece of white silk into a dye of ocher, the traditional color of the Swami Order. After the cloth had dried, my guru draped it around me as a renunciate's robe. "Someday you will go to the West, where silk is preferred," he said.
Delicate wreaths and scrolls emerge intricately from marbles, brown and violet. Illumination from the dome falls on the cenotaphs of Emperor Shah-Jahan and Mumtaz Mahall, queen of his realm and his heart. Enough of sight-seeing! I was longing for my guru. Jitendra and I were shortly traveling south by train toward Bengal. "Mukunda, I have not seen my family in months.
"Let it not be supposed," says Mr Sinnett, for it is not his Guru who is now speaking, "that for any adept such a passage can be lightly undertaken.
I have changed my mind; perhaps later I shall visit your master in Serampore." My friend, who may mildly be described as vacillating in temperament, left me in Calcutta. By local train I soon reached Serampore, twelve miles to the north. A throb of wonderment stole over me as I realized that twenty-eight days had elapsed since the Benares meeting with my guru. "You will come to me in four weeks!"
"And thou sayest well, brother!" burst from the soldiers. "Sher Singh Rajah! We will set him on the gaddi, and by the might of the Guru! if the English interfere, we will fight them." Out of the tumult in the ranks a high thin voice rose above the rest. "Back to the zenana, shameless one! Wilt thou disgrace thy lord, as she of Ranjitgarh doth daily?"
It is easy to believe when one sees; there is nothing then to deny. Supersensual truth is deserved and discovered by those who overcome their natural materialistic skepticism. He added gravely, 'Let me go! "I fell entreatingly at his feet. 'Holy guru, I realize my serious error; I humbly ask pardon. It was to create faith in these spiritually blinded minds that I ventured to call you.
Let us have some food ready." "Guruji, no one would come at one o'clock in the morning!" "Stay in bed; you have been working very hard. But I am going to cook." At Sri Yukteswar's resolute tone, I jumped up and followed him to the small daily-used kitchen adjacent to the second-floor inner balcony. Rice and DHAL were soon boiling. My guru smiled affectionately.
The guru looked in wonder upon the young priest and he said, "It is well, my son. Soon thou shalt know that the burden is lifted."
But it was so underexposed that it seemed not a picture of a guru, but rather a mug-shot of a ghost with high cheekbones. It reminded me of one of the experimental images which had emerged from my father's darkroom. "The Transcendental portrays Guru in his highest transcendental consciousness," my brother told me. Atmananda scanned the audience, mostly women in their sixties.
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