Though Master made no remark to me, I glanced at him from time to
time during my address, and thought I detected a pleased twinkle
in his eyes.
Then came a talk before the alumni of Serampore College. As I gazed
upon my old classmates, and as they gazed on their own "Mad Monk,"
tears of joy showed unashamedly. My silver-tongued professor of
philosophy, Dr. Ghoshal, came forward to greet me, all our past
misunderstandings dissolved by the alchemist Time.
A Winter Solstice Festival was celebrated at the end of December
in the Serampore hermitage. As always, Sri Yukteswar's disciples
gathered from far and near. Devotional SANKIRTANS, solos in the
nectar-sweet voice of Kristo-da, a feast served by young disciples,
Master's profoundly moving discourse under the stars in the thronged
courtyard of the ashram-memories, memories! Joyous festivals of
years long past! Tonight, however, there was to be a new feature.
"Yogananda, please address the assemblage-in English." Master's
eyes were twinkling as he made this doubly unusual request; was he
thinking of the shipboard predicament that had preceded my first
lecture in English? I told the story to my audience of brother
disciples, ending with a fervent tribute to our guru.
"His omnipresent guidance was with me not alone on the ocean
steamer," I concluded, "but daily throughout my fifteen years in
the vast and hospitable land of America."
After the guests had departed, Sri Yukteswar called me to the same
bedroom where-once only, after a festival of my early years-I had
been permitted to sleep on his wooden bed.
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