Yogananda, tell all!"
Gone was the sorrow of parting. The pity and grief for his death,
long robber of my peace, now fled in stark shame. Bliss poured
forth like a fountain through endless, newly opened soul-pores.
Anciently clogged with disuse, they now widened in purity at the
driving flood of ecstasy. Subconscious thoughts and feelings of my
past incarnations shed their karmic taints, lustrously renewed by
Sri Yukteswar's divine visit.
In this chapter of my autobiography I have obeyed my guru's behest
and spread the glad tiding, though it confound once more an incurious
generation. Groveling, man knows well; despair is seldom alien;
yet these are perversities, no part of man's true lot. The day he
wills, he is set on the path to freedom. Too long has he hearkened
to the dank pessimism of his "dust-thou-art" counselors, heedless
of the unconquerable soul.
I was not the only one privileged to behold the Resurrected Guru.
One of Sri Yukteswar's chelas was an aged woman, affectionately
known as MA (Mother), whose home was close to the Puri hermitage.
Master had often stopped to chat with her during his morning walk.
On the evening of March 16, 1936, Ma arrived at the ashram and
asked to see her guru.
"Why, Master died a week ago!" Swami Sebananda, now in charge of
the Puri hermitage, looked at her sadly.
"That's impossible!" She smiled a little. "Perhaps you are just
trying to protect the guru from insistent visitors?"
"No.
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