"An Oriental
teacher who will dare the Western airs," I thought, "must be hardy
beyond the trials of any Himalayan cold!"
One early morning I began to pray, with an adamant determination
to continue, to even die praying, until I heard the voice of God.
I wanted His blessing and assurance that I would not lose myself
in the fogs of modern utilitarianism. My heart was set to go to
America, but even more strongly was it resolved to hear the solace
of divine permission.
I prayed and prayed, muffling my sobs. No answer came. My silent
petition increased in excruciating crescendo until, at noon, I had
reached a zenith; my brain could no longer withstand the pressure
of my agonies. If I cried once more with an increased depth of my
inner passion, I felt as though my brain would split. At that moment
there came a knock outside the vestibule adjoining the Gurpar Road
room in which I was sitting. Opening the door, I saw a young man
in the scanty garb of a renunciate. He came in, closed the door
behind him and, refusing my request to sit down, indicated with a
gesture that he wished to talk to me while standing.
"He must be Babaji!" I thought, dazed, because the man before me
had the features of a younger Lahiri Mahasaya.
He answered my thought. "Yes, I am Babaji." He spoke melodiously
in Hindi. "Our Heavenly Father has heard your prayer. He commands
me to tell you: Follow the behests of your guru and go to America.
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