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Updated: May 15, 2025
Pen in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other, on his face a vast, winning, warm-hearted smile! "Welcome!" he scribbled in Hindi; it was a Monday, his weekly day of silence. Though this was our first meeting, we beamed on each other affectionately. In 1925 Mahatma Gandhi had honored the Ranchi school by a visit, and had inscribed in its guest-book a gracious tribute.
"This puts you in touch with the mightier spirits," Lute read. "You shall become one with us, and your name shall be 'Arya, and you shall Conqueror 20, Empire 12, Columbia Mountain 18, Midway 140 and, and that is all. Oh, no! here's a last flourish, Arya, from Kandor that must surely be the Mahatma."
Indian merchants whose interests would seem to be bound up with the maintenance of order and public tranquillity, Bombay Banias and Calcutta Marwaris, have thrown themselves into the "Non-co-operation" movement out of sheer bitterness and loss of confidence in British good faith, boycotting British imported goods and supplying a large part of the funds without which even a Mahatma cannot carry on a prolonged political agitation.
The rank-and-file Vigilantes were standing around yacking at one another, and a smaller group Dad and Sigurd Ngozori and the Reverend Sugitsuma and Oscar and Joe and Corkscrew and Nip and the Mahatma were in a huddle around Dad's editorial table, discussing strategy and tactics. "Well, we'd better get back to the docks before it starts," Corkscrew was saying.
"But why are you laughing, friend Mahatma." "I am not laughing," I said. "In this state, without a body, I have nothing to laugh with. Still you are right, for you see that I should be laughing if I could. Your story of the stout lady and the dogs and the china is very amusing." "Perhaps, friend, but it did not amuse me. Nothing is amusing when one is going to be eaten alive."
The weather had cleared since I had started pedaling west from Walden Pond five days before, but headwinds continued to press both the doggie-carrier and bicycle-trailer as if I were tugging a parachute. Contributing little to the weight of the rig was a book by William Shirer on Mahatma Gandhi. Disillusioned, but not yet ready to live without heroes, I actively sought a replacement for Atmananda.
"Yes," I answered, "I understand. It would be like a man wearing another man's boots." "I don't know anything about boots Mahatma, except that they are hard things with iron on them which kick one out of one's form if one sits too close. Once that happened to me. Well, my form was under a particularly fine turnip that had some dead leaves beneath the green ones.
For to prove to you that you were the sport of a delusion, although your own experience as a mahatma in regard to the secret processes of nature, and the sensations attendant upon subjective conditions, exactly corresponded to those of all other mahatmas, you have, under my tutelage, at various times allowed yourself to fall into trance-conditions, when, owing to occult influences which we have brought to bear, a totally different idea concerning 'nature, man, the origin of the universe, and the destinies toward which its inhabitants are tending, was presented to your sixth sense, which appeared 'absolute truth' at the time, and which would have continued to seem so, had I not had the power of intromitting you through trance-conditions into a totally different set of apparent truths on the same subject, which were no more to be relied upon than the other.
Listen, Mahatma; we have a big forest of flowerpot trees up on a plateau above us. Say we set that on fire. Think you could see it?" "I don't see why not, even in this moonlight. Wait a minute, till I call the other ships." Tom was getting into warm outer garments. Cesário got out the arc torch, and he and Tom and I raced out through the hut and outdoors.
He held these in the hand that was tied up, and in the other, oh, horror! was a dead hare bleeding from its nose. It looked uncommonly like my mother, but whether it were or no I couldn't be quite sure. At least from that day neither my sister nor I ever saw her again. I suppose you haven't met her coming up this big white Road, have you, Mahatma?
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