"Does she yet live?" I stopped for one last question to my uncle.
"Of course she is alive!" He was not slow to interpret the desperation
in my face. But I scarcely believed him.
When we reached our Calcutta home, it was only to confront the
stunning mystery of death. I collapsed into an almost lifeless
state. Years passed before any reconciliation entered my heart.
Storming the very gates of heaven, my cries at last summoned the
Divine Mother. Her words brought final healing to my suppurating
wounds:
"It is I who have watched over thee, life after life, in the
tenderness of many mothers! See in My gaze the two black eyes, the
lost beautiful eyes, thou seekest!"
Father and I returned to Bareilly soon after the crematory
rites for the well-beloved. Early every morning I made a pathetic
memorial--pilgrimage to a large SHEOLI tree which shaded the
smooth, green-gold lawn before our bungalow. In poetical moments,
I thought that the white SHEOLI flowers were strewing themselves
with a willing devotion over the grassy altar. Mingling tears with
the dew, I often observed a strange other-worldly light emerging
from the dawn. Intense pangs of longing for God assailed me. I felt
powerfully drawn to the Himalayas.
One of my cousins, fresh from a period of travel in the holy hills,
visited us in Bareilly. I listened eagerly to his tales about the
high mountain abode of yogis and swamis. {FN2-1}
"Let us run away to the Himalayas.
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