He tosses a splash of light here, and it reflects
red; He waves the brush again and it blends gradually into orange
and gold; then with a piercing thrust He stabs the clouds with a
streak of purple that leaves a ringlet or fringe of red oozing out
of the wound in the clouds; and so, on and on, He plays, night and
morning alike, ever-changing, ever-new, ever-fresh; no patterns,
no duplicates, no colors just the same. The beauty of the Indian
change in day to night is beyond compare elsewhere; often the sky
looks as if God had taken all the colors in His kit and given them
one mighty kaleidoscopic toss into the heavens.
"I must relate the splendor of a twilight visit to the huge
Krishnaraja Sagar Dam, {FN41-2} constructed twelve miles outside
of Mysore. Yoganandaji and I boarded a small bus and, with a small
boy as official cranker or battery substitute, started off over a
smooth dirt road, just as the sun was setting on the horizon and
squashing like an overripe tomato.
"Our journey led past the omnipresent square rice fields, through
a line of comforting banyan trees, in between a grove of towering
coconut palms, with vegetation nearly as thick as in a jungle,
and finally, approaching the crest of a hill, we came face-to-face
with an immense artificial lake, reflecting the stars and fringe
of palms and other trees, surrounded by lovely terraced gardens
and a row of electric lights on the brink of the dam-and below
it our eyes met a dazzling spectacle of colored beams playing on
geyserlike fountains, like so many streams of brilliant ink pouring
forth-gorgeously blue waterfalls, arresting red cataracts, green
and yellow sprays, elephants spouting water, a miniature of the
Chicago World's Fair, and yet modernly outstanding in this ancient
land of paddy fields and simple people, who have given us such a
loving welcome that I fear it will take more than my strength to
bring Yoganandaji back to America.
Pages:
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507