"Come then; I know he will arrive at ten o'clock." I took Dijen's
hand and rushed him forcibly along with me, heedless of his protests.
In about ten minutes we entered the station, where the train was
already puffing to a halt.
"The whole train is filled with the light of Master's aura! He is
there!" I exclaimed joyfully.
"You dream so?" Dijen laughed mockingly.
"Let us wait here." I told my friend details of the way in which our
guru would approach us. As I finished my description, Sri Yukteswar
came into view, wearing the same clothes I had seen a short time
earlier. He walked slowly in the wake of a small lad bearing a
silver jug.
For a moment a wave of cold fear passed through me, at the
unprecedented strangeness of my experience. I felt the materialistic,
twentieth-century world slipping from me; was I back in the ancient
days when Jesus appeared before Peter on the sea?
As Sri Yukteswar, a modern Yogi-Christ, reached the spot where
Dijen and I were speechlessly rooted, Master smiled at my friend
and remarked:
"I sent you a message too, but you were unable to grasp it."
Dijen was silent, but glared at me suspiciously. After we
had escorted our guru to his hermitage, my friend and I proceeded
toward Serampore College. Dijen halted in the street, indignation
streaming from his every pore.
"So! Master sent me a message! Yet you concealed it! I demand an
explanation!"
"Can I help it if your mental mirror oscillates with such restlessness
that you cannot register our guru's instructions?" I retorted.
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