He descended the stairway from the second floor and smiled
at me inquiringly. I hardly knew how to frame my question, at once
pertinent and impertinent.
"Please tell me, sir, if you and your wife have been expecting a
child for about six months?"
"Yes, it is so." Seeing that I was a swami, a renunciate attired
in the traditional orange cloth, he added politely, "Pray inform
me how you know my affairs."
When he heard about Kashi and the promise I had given, the astonished
man believed my story.
"A male child of fair complexion will be born to you," I told him.
"He will have a broad face, with a cowlick atop his forehead. His
disposition will be notably spiritual." I felt certain that the
coming child would bear these resemblances to Kashi.
Later I visited the child, whose parents had given him his old name
of Kashi. Even in infancy he was strikingly similar in appearance
to my dear Ranchi student. The child showed me an instantaneous
affection; the attraction of the past awoke with redoubled intensity.
Years later the teen-age boy wrote me, during my stay in America.
He explained his deep longing to follow the path of a renunciate.
I directed him to a Himalayan master who, to this day, guides the
reborn Kashi.
{FN28-1} The will, projected from the point between the eyebrows,
is known by yogis as the broadcasting apparatus of thought. When the
feeling is calmly concentrated on the heart, it acts as a mental
radio, and can receive the messages of others from far or near.
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