Sri Yukteswar glanced at me meekly.
"What is your question?" Master looked about the room as though he
were seeking escape.
"Guruji, I came to you as a high-school youth; now I am a grown
man, even with a gray hair or two. Though you have showered me with
silent affection from the first hour to this, do you realize that
once only, on the day of meeting, have you ever said, 'I love you'?"
I looked at him pleadingly.
Master lowered his gaze. "Yogananda, must I bring out into the cold
realms of speech the warm sentiments best guarded by the wordless
heart?"
"Guruji, I know you love me, but my mortal ears ache to hear you
say so."
"Be it as you wish. During my married life I often yearned for a
son, to train in the yogic path. But when you came into my life,
I was content; in you I have found my son." Two clear teardrops
stood in Sri Yukteswar's eyes. "Yogananda, I love you always."
"Your answer is my passport to heaven." I felt a weight lift from
my heart, dissolved forever at his words. Often had I wondered at
his silence. Realizing that he was unemotional and self-contained,
yet sometimes I feared I had been unsuccessful in fully satisfying
him. His was a strange nature, never utterly to be known; a nature
deep and still, unfathomable to the outer world, whose values he
had long transcended.
A few days later, when I spoke before a huge audience at Albert
Hall in Calcutta, Sri Yukteswar consented to sit beside me on the
platform, with the Maharaja of Santosh and the Mayor of Calcutta.
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