One afternoon Kanai, a young hermitage resident, met Dijen and me
at the door with disappointing news.
"Master is not here; he was summoned to Calcutta by an urgent note."
The following day I received a post card from my guru. "I shall
leave Calcutta Wednesday morning," he had written. "You and Dijen
meet the nine o'clock train at Serampore station."
About eight-thirty on Wednesday morning, a telepathic message from
Sri Yukteswar flashed insistently to my mind: "I am delayed; don't
meet the nine o'clock train."
I conveyed the latest instructions to Dijen, who was already dressed
for departure.
"You and your intuition!" My friend's voice was edged in scorn. "I
prefer to trust Master's written word."
I shrugged my shoulders and seated myself with quiet finality.
Muttering angrily, Dijen made for the door and closed it noisily
behind him.
As the room was rather dark, I moved nearer to the window overlooking
the street. The scant sunlight suddenly increased to an intense
brilliancy in which the iron-barred window completely vanished.
Against this dazzling background appeared the clearly materialized
figure of Sri Yukteswar!
Bewildered to the point of shock, I rose from my chair and knelt
before him. With my customary gesture of respectful greeting at
my guru's feet, I touched his shoes. These were a pair familiar to
me, of orange-dyed canvas, soled with rope. His ocher swami cloth
brushed against me; I distinctly felt not only the texture of his
robe, but also the gritty surface of the shoes, and the pressure of
his toes within them.
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