As I was sternly reminding
my stomach that man does not live by bread alone, Ram Gopal approached
me.
"I see you are famished; food will be ready soon."
A fire was kindled under a clay oven on the patio; rice and DHAL
were quickly served on large banana leaves. My host courteously
refused my aid in all cooking chores. "The guest is God," a Hindu
proverb, has commanded devout observance from time immemorial. In
my later world travels, I was charmed to see that a similar respect
for visitors is manifested in rural sections of many countries.
The city dweller finds the keen edge of hospitality blunted by
superabundance of strange faces.
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?"
"Dear one, I would be glad to convey the divine contact, but it
is not my place to do so." The saint looked at me with half-closed
eyes. "Your master will bestow that experience shortly. Your body
is not tuned just yet. As a small lamp cannot withstand excessive
electrical voltage, so your nerves are unready for the cosmic
current. If I gave you the infinite ecstasy right now, you would
burn as if every cell were on fire.
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