Ocean In A Teacup

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This book is a. gift to the library by
Dr. Pasujpuleti Cfapala Krishnayya,

President, Krishnayya' s News
Service and Publications, New Yorfe

' City, as part of a collection of
Vmerican books given in memory oi
Hid Beloved Twin Brothers
Rama (Medical Student) &
Bala Krishnay 1

DSMAN1A ONIVERSITY LIBfcAKT

Call No. 92-V-fcfy Accession JNo.

Author

Title OC-tcu^ l~ ex

This book should be returned on or before the date
last marked below.

OCEAN
in a

TEACUP

THE STORY OF SREE SREE
THAKUR ANUKUL CHANDRA

This book is a gift to the library by
Dr. Pasupuleti Gopala Krishnayya,

President, Krishnayya' s News
Service and Publications, New York

City, as part of a collection of

American books given in memory of

His Beloved Twin Brothers

Rama (Medical Student) &

Bala Krishnayya (Engineer)

OCEAN

in a
TEACUP

THE STORY OF SREE SREE
THAKUR ANUKUL CHANDRA

by
RAY A. HAUSERMAN, JR.

with
CONSTANCE LOVELAND

HARPER & BROTHERS
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

OCEAN IN A TEACUP. Copyright 1962 by Ray A. Hauserman, Jr. Printed
in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may
be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission ex-
cept in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For
information address Harper 6- Brothers, 49 East 33rd Street, New York 16, N.Y.

FIRST EDITION

E-M
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER; 62-11128

CONTENTS

PART ONE The Roots 1

PART TWO The Branches 97

PART THREE The Foliage 205

Picture Section following page 120

Maps viii, 71, 207

OCEAN
in a

TEACUP

THE STORY OF SREE SREE
THAKUR ANUKUL CHANDRA

PART ONE

THE ROOTS

WORLD WAR II was over . . . officially at any rate . . . and a group
of us who had been serving with the ambulance division of the
American Field Service found ourselves waiting in Calcutta for
passage home.

There was a great deal of discussion as to what direction the new
world would take. With the emergence of the United Nations, I
felt generally hopeful. Yet, even before the mass slaughter had
ended, there were unmistakable rumblings of more trouble to come.
Thus with growing uneasiness I witnessed and participated in the
general rejoicing that the war was over.

Shortly before I was due to sail I met an AFS colleague, a brilliant
young philosopher from Harvard, Ed Spencer, who had just re-
turned from a visit to Himaitpur, in East Bengal. There he had met
Anukul Chandra Chakraborty, a Saint called by his devotees "Sree
Sree Thakur'-which meant, Spencer said, "Very Reverend Spiritual
Teacher."

It soon developed that enthusiasm for his discovery had brought
about a great change in my scholarly and conservative friend. He
was glowing. There is no other word to describe it, and that glow
was a wonderful thing to see.

He told us about his visit to Himaitpur and the community called
Satsang Ashram. It consisted of a group of people who were singu-
larly loving, dedicated, and happy. They had learned to live, work,
plan, and worship together in an idyllic state of life with their
Thakur. Ed's great excitement was unusual for one of his normally
quiet and balanced nature.

"Ray, you must meet this manl" he insisted over and over again.

"But there isn't time," I protested. "If I give up my place on this
boat, I may be stuck here for months."

1

"If you miss this opportunity, it can cost you years of fumbling
in the dark . . ." Ed warned.

Since I had learned to respect Ed's insight, intelligence, and
integrity, I took his warning seriously. Before the day was over, I
canceled my steamship passage and set out, in the company of Ed
and a few others, for Himaitpur.

With the exception of two trips back to the United States, in 1948
and 1959, 1 have been with Thakur ever since. I have come to know
him well and to be inspired by his ideas, personality, and activities.
Increasingly, I felt that I needed to know more about his early
life. My curiosity met with generous response. Too generous, as a
matter of fact, for as soon as one picture became clear it was im-
mediately upset and replaced by another. I quickly avoided the
stories of the younger people, which were, I felt, hearsay and thus
complicated my search. I concentrated only on the remembered ex-
periences of those older people who had actually known Thakur
since his early days.

But here again, confusion held full sway. According to the individ-
ual relating the story, Thakur could emerge as a gifted child, or the
victim of an Oedipus complex ... as understood or misunderstood
... as a strong-willed child or an excessively humble one ... as
a scientist, or doctor, or inventor ... as a common-sense prophet or
a mystic.

In fact, the Thakur I heard about and learned to know was as vast
as an ocean. This book contains but a cupful of it, just a sample, to
share with others who do not enjoy my privilege of living on the
shore of that ocean.

i

SLAP!

Anukul Chandra Chakraborty gazed at his mother with wide,
solemn eyes as he searched himself for the cause of her displeasure.

Monmohini Devi was in no hurry to clear up the matter. She kept
her attention on the boiling rice, lifting up a few grains with a
wooden spoon and testing them gingerly with her fingers. When she
was fully satisfied that the morning meal was progressing properly,
she faced her son again.

"Your school shorts are filthy! And new two days ago! How is
this possible?"

So that was it. Anukul slid an exploring hand across the seat of
his shorts. "There was mud in the market place and I fell when
Uncle Hem slapped me."

"So!" The dark eyes flared and pierced him with fearful intensity.
"Hem had to punish you! And in public! How did you invite such
disgrace?"

"I said, 'Good morning, Uncle Hem,' and he hit me."

WHACK!

"I want none of your impertinent tales! Get those shorts off im-
mediately and wash them well!" She turned back to the soot-covered,
mud-brick stove. The matter was ended. He was dismissed.

He lingered in the doorway, waiting for a possible sign that Ma
might change her mind and wish to give him another opportunity to
explain, but her lips were thin this morning. It was clear that her
other worries were too pressing. Reluctantly, he padded across the
open veranda to stare at Father who was still sleeping beneath the
mosquito netting.

Father's mouth was open as if, even in the fresh air, breathing
was difficult. His color had the dark, greenish tinge of sickness. A

need to be useful seized Anukul, and although it was early morning
and the breeze was fresh and cool, he picked up a large fan and
waved it gently back and forth beside the bed, hoping, somewhat
vaguely, that Father would awaken to this act of love and need him
to fetch water, or medicine ... or Ma. Father was in deep sleep,
however, and after some time the boy relinquished the fan and pro-
ceeded to the lawn where Grandma and his two aunts were sorting
and cleaning the fruits and vegetables that would feed the house-
hold this day.

He squatted companionably beside Grandma and looked with
pleasure at the colorful, mouth-watering little heaps. One mango
was of an unusually large size and the color took Anukul's breath
away. He stretched out his hand for it.

SLAP!

"I was only looking!" He nursed the smarting hand to his chest.
"I wasn't going to eat it."

"Oh, no, of course not." Grandma's laugh was without mirth. "No-
body around here eats anything! They just take a peek and . . .
whoops . . . accidentally, everything falls into their stomachs. I
don't know how I am to keep up with such a pack of villains! And
now" the small eyes flashed belligerently toward the bedstead of
her son-in-law "now, if you please, it's special food! Special food
and medicine and doctor's bills getting bigger every day . . . and
not a one of his worthless relatives offering a pice!" Her eyes fas-
tened accusingly on Anukul. "Do you think I grow rupees in my cab-
bage patch? Is that what you think?"

Anukul blushed guiltily and his eyes crept nervously over the
bedstead. There was no motion. Fortunately, Father was still sleep-
ing and had not heard.

Anukul's unmarried aunt sighed. "Men always seem to be so
strong . . . when they're healthy."

"Healthy or unhealthy, men are weaklings!" Old Aunt spat author-
itatively. "They bluster around and flex their muscles and pretend
to know the all of everything; but mark my words, in the end it's
always the women who have to carry the whole burden."

Anukul pondered this information. "It isn't that one is weak and
one is strong," he explained seriously. "They are just two entirely dif-
ferent things . . . like cats and dogs."

SLAP!

"So that's our sermon for today, is it?" Old Aunt hissed. "Men and

women are like animals!" She glared at her mother. "Are you going
to allow this impudence?"

Anukul lost no time in making his appeal. "I didn't say they were
like animals. I said they were different . . . like animals are different."

"It would be well," Grandma intoned sternly, "to know what
you're talking about before you talk. You are a loudmouth, Anukul,
and loudmouths come to no good end. Beware!"

The women pointedly ignored him and continued their work in
silence. Monmohini appeared on the veranda. Her color was high
and she swept her husband, mother, sisters, and small son with a
cold, distant glance before she crossed the courtyard in a stiff-
backed, regal manner and entered the prayer room.

Old Aunt sniffed. "For all her praying, things get no better."

"Hold your tongue," Grandma commanded. "Monmohini's faith is
none of your concern."

This was enough for Anukul; he placed his small hand coaxingly
on Grandma's knee. "Tell it, Grandma. Tell about Hazur."

"Will you stop your everlasting pestering," Old Aunt complained.
"Ma has told you that story until she's sick and tired of it ... and
so is everybody else."

Grandma bristled. "I am not in my dotage yet! When I get sick
and tired of anything, 111 speak for myself!"

"Tell it once more," Anukul pleaded. "Please, Grandma."

The old woman's eyes folded inward until it seemed that only
two bright pinpoints darted in and out of the crisscross wrinkles.
"Only nine she was at the time. A little thing. Not yet a woman.
My brother came to visit me, you see, and he opened up his suit-
case and there was a picture of Hazur Maharaj. Monmohini took one
look at that picture and gave out a cry . . . like a moan, you know
. . . and whist . . ." Dramatically, she held aloft the leafy vegetable
she was inspecting, and opening her fingers, let it fall to the ground.
Anukul gazed at the wilted green with fascination, seeing once more
the limp, lovely form of Ma in her first trance.

"When she opened her eyes," the old woman continued, "the first
thing she said was, 'Ma, take me to him ... I must see Hazur Ma-
haraj/ What could I do? Are we millionaires?" She shrugged her
shoulders helplessly. "But there it was, day and night, night and
day . . . 'Please, Ma, I must see him. Only do this for me and I will
always be dutiful and faithful and uncomplaining. Please, Ma . . .

I will take care of you all the days of your life . . . Only once, let me
see Hazur Maharaj/

"Well, so it was. We went on the journey and many a rupee it
cost. Through cities and countryside. Myl What a trip that was!
And do you know, he knew her right off. 'Come/ he said. Just like
that and looking right at her . . . 'Come/ And he initiated her in his
wisdom and ways, and taught her how to meditate and what she
must do ... all those things . . . and we came home again."

"And little profit the trip was to anyone/' Old Aunt snapped.
"Hazur might at least have brought her a husband who could pro-
vide! Even without a trip or a Saint, I can boast that much!"

The old woman's eyes popped from their wrinkled blankets. "I
am a simple village woman and I know little! But this much I can
tell you. There are many things in this world for those who under-
stand . . . and if you don't understand" her voice dropped ominously
"beware how you speak."

Anukul shivered and lost himself in a deep inner excitement. At
nine it happened! At nine! And he was already ten!

The door of the prayer room opened and Monmohini emerged
and raised her eyes to the morning sun. She was radiant . . . her fea-
tures soft and glowing . . . even the folds of her sari had lost their
stiffness. She floated across the courtyard, passed them, and went
directly to her husband's bed where she stood in an attitude of
prayer.

A great joy engulfed Anukul. Father was going to get well!
Quickly and softly he ran to her side, that he might bask in the
radiating warmth that always surrounded her after prayer.

Four-year-old Khepu toddled across the veranda in his nightshirt,
his tiny fists rubbing sleepy eyes. With a thrilling coo of pleasure,
Monmohini caught him up, and laughing, held him high above her
head.

Anukul gazed at the scene spellbound, his heart throbbing with
wonder and yearning. How marvelous was Ma's smile when she
played with the baby ... if onceonly once he might be the cause
of that special smile.

"Am I to go to the store for the mustard oil by myself?" Grandma
whined shrilly. "Is it not enough that I am being impoverished?
Now I must fetch and carry for everybody else as well!"

The softness left Monmohini's face and she stared at her son with
impatience. "Why must Grandma always have to ask you? Do as

6

she says! Quickly!" She returned to her duties in the kitchen.

Anukul trotted dutifully to Grandma's side and waited in a sub-
dued manner as she unknotted the corner of her sari to get the
money.

"Here." She pressed a pice into his palm. "Don't lose this and
don't spill the oil and don't loiter!"

His hand closed over the coin, but instead of going through the
house and to the street, his feet, of their own accord, started for the
prayer room.

"Here!" Grandma shouted excitedly. "What are you up to now,
villain? Do you know the hour? Get my oil at once or there will be
no food today! I will wash my hands of the lot of you!"

Although Anukul heard, he could not turn. Something stronger
than her voice propelled him to the prayer room. He entered and
closed the door and was at once alone and safe. For no matter what
the tempers outside . . . nobody ever had, or ever would, violate
the prayer room.

Palms together, he bowed respectfully before each image of the
family deities, but it was in front of the stern visage of Hazur Ma-
haraj that he sat, cross-legged upon the floor, and straightened his
back and breathed deeply several times.

"Accept my regards and gratitude," he said gravely. "You have
only to command me. As you wish ... I will do." He waited in a
state of expectancy for some inner or outer voice, but nothing hap-
pened. There was only stillness and the perfume of fresh flowers
placed before each of the family deities.

"Your picture spoke to her," he challenged. "It can speak to me if
you wish it to! I am a true devotee." Again he waited, but there was
nothing. Nothing at all save the chirping of birds and the rustling of
leaves in the Bel tree outside.

His chin trembled with disappointment "Why do they all hit me?"
he pleaded, and despite his efforts tears spilled over his cheeks.
"How can I make Ma see that I am good?"

The rising sun reached the oval window near the roof and the first
tentative rays were instantly followed by a golden, dancing cascade.

He blinked his eyes as the blossoms before the saints jumped into
vivid, glowing colors. And suddenlyhe was sure of it through the
dazzle and shimmer, all the pictures were smilingl

Quickly shifting position, he prostrated himself. "I am good!"
sang his furiously beating heart. "They know I am good!" Almost

immediately he became conscious of the pice in his hand, and
jumping to his feet, he bowed low and ran from the room.

"I am going, Grandma," he cried jubilantly. "I am on my wayl
Watch how fast I bring the oil! You will be happy!"

He was through the house and loping down the road in a flash,
his long arms swinging rhythmically at his sides. Past the stretches
of jungle grass that separated one house from another he ran, past
the bamboo-woven walls and thatched roofs of the mud-floored
cottages that grew closer and closer as he approached the center of
their little village of Himaitpur.

"Hey, Rajah!"

He stopped as Atul, the most devoted of the group who had ac-
cepted Anukul as their leader, shouted from a cottage.

"Come along. We're going to watch the Vulture dock before
school starts."

Anukul stopped and turned. He loved ships and the Vulture was
the very queen of ships. Wrestling with temptation, he broke a leaf
from a bhati plant and chewed it thoughtfully. His stomach cramped
suddenly and his tongue became parched from the bitter leaf. He
spit furiously, trying to clear his mouth.

Atul eyed him nervously. "Dilip says you're going to poison your-
self, tasting everything the way you do."

Anukul chose to ignore the warning and the implied criticism of
Dilip. What a strange plant the bhati was for now his stomach felt
warmly soothed and his mouth was sweeter than before. "I can't go.
I'm on my way for mustard oil."

Atul sighed resignedly. "Well, I'll go with you."

For a short time the boys trotted along in silence.

"I think we ought to kick Dilip out of our group," Atul com-
mented. "He isn't like the rest of us and he doesn't like you."

Anukul stopped short. "He does so like me."

"Then why is he always being sarcastic and making fun of you?"

"Listen," Anukul insisted. "Whom do you want to believe any-
way . . . me or him?"

"You know I always believe you! . . . Ask anybody! It's always
me standing up for you."

"Very well. When I tell you something you have to believe it.
And I tell you Dilip likes me!"

Anukul regarded Atul sternly. "Look, Atul, you always change
your plans for mine. That isn't right. Each person should complete

8

whatever he starts to do. You must go and watch the Vulture dock."

"I don t care about that . . . honest . . ."

"It doesn't matter if you care or don't care!" Anukul cried ex-
citedly. "You have to go anyway because that's what you started to
do," and leaving his friend, Anukul was off. As he sped along the
miracle of the prayer room filled him once more. The remembered
sunshine poured into his feet and he was dancing! The smiles of the
saints put wings to his feet and he was flying! Dancing and flying, he
did not see the crabby old clerk until they collided.

"Good morning, Chitto Babu," he sang as he recovered and pre-
sented the fallen umbrella. "Isn't the breeze lovely today? I trust you
are in good health!"

"I'll good morning your impertinence!" the clerk burst out, flailing
his dusty umbrella. Anukul agilely dodged the blow, danced out of
reach, and was on his way. Strange. He had been so confident that
Chitto Babu would be friendly today ... a pity. He entered the
open grocery shop.

"What do you want?" Panchu Gopal Modak demanded gruffly.

"One pice of mustard oil."

"Where's your bottle?"

Anukul gasped. How could he have forgotten the bottle! And it
had never once occurred to him ... all the way here! He blushed
with shame. "I don't have any."

"No bottle, no mustard oil." Panchu turned to a thin elderly man
and smiled ingratiatingly. "Hari Babu, what is it?"

Anukul was defeated. The bright, golden promise of the prayer
room began to disintegrate. Nothing had changed. He had been
stupid and forgetful as always and everyone would be angry.

In an effort to turn back time, he ran until he felt his lungs would
burst, but as he neared home, he began to slow down and when
he reached it his feet were dragging.

It was then that he first noticed how the branches of the guava tree
outside the wall formed a perfect ladder to the upper-story window
. . . which was the storeroom!

Unobtrusively, he crept along the wall, jumped for the first
branch, and deftly made his way through the foliage to his destina-
tion. A bottle was standing just inside the window and he encoun-
tered no difficulty in snatching it up and making his descent.
Nobody saw him at all! He was saved from punishment and ridicule.

This time Anukul did not fly down the road. He took the short cut

across Grandma's sprawling rice field and on through the bamboo
clumps and banyan trees where snakes and wild boar and even
occasional tigers roamed ... for if the saints be pleased with you,
what is there to fear?

10

THE boys sat cross-legged, each on his own mat, in the one-room
schoolhouse. The rising sun was melting the mist above the river
and the air shimmered before Anukul's eyes. The forbidding master,
Satya Moitra, paced before the class, hitching up his dhoti from
time to time as he droned out the English lesson, "Do unto others
as you would have them do unto you." Suddenly Anukul jerked
erect. Thoughts were flashing through his mind. Wonderful ideas
. . . one after the other. He knew what was wrong now! He could
see it clearly! Oh, how simple it was. He had believed all people
were alike and he had tried to please them the same way he would
please himself. But it wasn't right. People had to be known as they
were before you could please them. He must put himself in their
position . . . feel as they felt . . . then he would know exactly what
to do. Yes, yes, this was it! There was no doubt at all.

"Anukul!"

"Sir?" He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to bring Moitra's stringy
form into focus.

"Well! Can you answer my question or not?"

"No, sir."

"I see." Moitra picked up the heavy pointer, and weighed it in
a leisurely fashion. "Are you quite sure you belong in this class?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I sat for the examination."

"Perhaps there has been some mistake ... or regression." Moitra
strolled closer to him. The long, thin nose was twitching and the
master's head swiveled slowly, favoring the class with its upside-
down smile.

Some students tittered hesitantly.

"Yes. Yes." Moitra's tone became broadly taunting. "I think we
must hold another examination. And I think we should begin at
the beginning. Does the class agree?"

11

This time the boys knew what he wanted; they laughed with
confidence and gave him a few cries of "hear . , . hear."

Moitra closed his eyes for a moment, then, in one motion, opened
them wide and leaned toward Anukul. "How much is one and
one?**

Anukul stared at him, dumfounded.

"ONE and ONE! Are you deaf as well as stupid?"

How strange! He was asking for the very truth that Anukul had
just discovered. "One and one could only be two ones, sir."

"What?" The pointer thudded the floor ominously. "What did you
say?"

Anukul was well aware that he must race to make himself under-
stood before Moitra lost control. The words flew fast. "We've been
making a terrible mistake, sir. Addition supposes that things are
identical, don't you see; and this just isn't so. No two leaves are
alike, or lizards, or people. From the smallest to the biggest, every
single thing in the world is different from every other thing . . ."

WHACK! All the force of Moitra's rage and frustration was be-
hind the blow and Anukul lay on the floor stunned. "Would you
like to be the master, then? Or perhaps this position is too humble
for you? Would the dean of the university be more to your liking?"
He raised the pointer for a second blow when he became conscious
of the boy's inert form.

What new game was this? The blow had not been excessive . . .
had not touched his head. Nevertheless, the pointer came down
peaceably and Moitra took a nervous step backward.

"Sit upl" he commanded.

There was no response. Well ... it was enough anyway. Moitra
had a frightful headache ... it had been nagging him for two
days now. He turned on his heel and strode back to the head of the
class. "You have had your lesson!" he addressed the students
sternly. "Memorize it!" His nervous eyes crawled over the boy once
more, then, carefully, he replaced the pointer and took up his brief
case.

"School is dismissed!" He marched from the room.

The boys milled curiously around Anukul.

"He's gone!" Dilip called. "You can wake up now!"

There was no response from Anukul.

"He's dead!" Atul bawled. "That brute killed him!"

Dilip flung himself down on the floor and pressed his ear to

12

Anukul's chest. After a moment he raised his head. "Stop whimper-
ing, Atul! He's all right. Just passed out." He pulled Anukul's
shoulder over. "Look here. That isn't much of a welt, is it?"

"Moitra should be put in jail,'* Atul wailed. "We ought to get
the policeman."

Dilip was contemptuous. "And get yourself beaten up, stupid?
You know adults stick together."

Most of the students had already fled, some in fear, others to
spread the exciting news. Only Anukul's group remained squatted
around him.

"Tell you what we could do." Dilip's voice was conspiratorial and
the heads drew closer together. "Moitra goes to Pabna town to his
family every weekend. He always comes back around Sunday mid-
night. We could put on masks and trip him up and give him a good
thrashing!"

"No!" Anukul cried suddenly, opening his eyes and sitting up. He
wriggled his shoulder gingerly, testing the injury. "Moitra only
acted according to his rules. The beating was my fault." His smile
felt a little foolish in its hesitant appeal for understanding.

"It made me happy to know about one and one and so I thought
it would make him happy too. But that's wrong. He isn't me and I
should have stopped and thought . . . 'What will make Moitra
happy?' . . . then I would have said the right thing."

"Nonsense!" Dilip snorted rudely. "Maybe saints think that way;
but you're no saint, Anukul Chakraborty!"

Suddenly, Anukul threw back his head and laughed loud and
free. "What are we mad at Moitra for? He has given us a whole
holiday!"

This realization on top of the tension was almost too much. The
boys laughed uncontrollably, doubling up and rolling on the floor in
their glee.

"And just see this!" Anukul chuckled, wiping the laughing tears
from his eyes. "All his days he's going to believe he punished us, be-
cause that's the way life is. No two things are the same to any two
people!"

Dilip jumped to his feet and rolled up his mat. "Let's get down to
the docks and see how the Vulture is coming along."

There was a happy chorus of assent and a general business of
rolling up mats;

"Make my fountain pen first," Montu begged. "I've been carrying

13

the stuff around for four days now and it's always one thing after
another . . ."

"All right/' Anukul dropped his arm over his friend's shoulder.
"Let's* do it outside, though."

They settled around a peepul tree and Montu spread his equip-
ment ... a nib, a bamboo, a cork, and a bottle of ink. Anukul deftly
fitted the cork into the open end of the piece of bamboo and care-
fully worked the nib end of the pen point through the cork. Filling
the tube with ink, he recorked it and handed it to Montu.

"Will it work?"

"Try it. Dip the nib once, to get it started."

The heads closed around Montu's copybook as they watched the
pen work.

"Mine was fine for a month, but then it started leaking," Dilip
observed.

Anukul nodded seriously. "Let me look at it. Do you see the little
hole at the back? It has become too large. We've got to figure out a
way to keep it small."

A yellow-robed monk came down the road and Anukul jumped to
his feet, bowing respectfully. Several of the other boys followed
suit. Not Dilip, however; he lay sprawled on the grass and winked
teasingly. "Bet I know whose house he's headed for. Those babajis
keep lists of those who give good handouts."

Atul moved protectively close to his Rajah. "They go there because
Monmohini Devi used to have trances! She's holy."

"Maybe she's holy," Dilip said, laughing, "but it's her Ma that
gets stuck with passing out all the free food."

"Grandma is pleased to feed holy men," Anukul stated firmly.

"Oh, yes, she's pleased all right. You just ought to be around our
house when she visits . . . you'd hear how pleased she is!"

"Grandma talks like that but she doesn't mean anything."

"Not much!" Dilip taunted. "Just ask her what she means some-
time. She's not bashful when it comes to words."

Eyes blazed. "If you want to know what a person's like, you don't
pay attention to what they say! Watch what they do! Anybody who
watches our house knows Grandma never turned a holy man away
in her life!"

Dilip furrowed his brow. "Hey, you mad at me?"

"No. I'm not mad. But sometimes it seems like everybody talks
and nobody stops to think."

14

"Well, what are we sitting around here for, anyway? Let's get
down to the docks."

"Wait," Anukul said. "Wait." Was it right for him to go? He
squeezed his eyes shut, placed his finger tips to his temples, and
concentrated hard. What would please Ma? What would make her
happy? A sickening wave of consternation swept over him. He
clutched his seat with both hands and his heart sank. "My shorts!
I didn't wash them!"

"Hey, Rajah!" Dilip shouted as the boys started off. "Come onP

"I can't. I just remembered something." Anukul started for home.

He flew past the sweetshop . . . stopped . . . turned . . . and re-
traced his steps like a sleepwalker. Netai Ghose was gossiping with
Hari Babu. "It was a brilliant bargain," Hari Babu was saying.
"Chitto Babu is a very intelligent person indeed!"

Anukul's ears perked up. Chitto Babu? Was it possible that this
wizened, crabby little clerk possessed hidden attributes?

"So." Netai Ghose turned to him. "You have come to pay your
bills?"

"I have no money today. But on Saturday I will earn three pice
and bring them to you. And when my father goes back to work, he
will give me a whole rupee from his pay. It is promised." Anukul's
smile was captivating.

"Yes, yes, yes." Netai Ghose sighed. "And when melons grow on
mango trees, we'll all live like the king of England."

"Will you give me four rashaghollas?"

Netai Ghose favored him with a long, helpless stare, then, without
another word, he turned and dipped four ping-pong-ball-sized
sweets from an iron kettle and put them in a cone made of large
sahl leaves. "No more until Saturday, now. I mean this," he warned,
as he handed them over.

"No, Netai-da. Thank you, Netai-da. May the Supreme Father
smile upon you."

Anukul found a shady spot and sat down to nibble a rashagholla.
Slowly . . . slowly ... to make it last ... to savor every grain of
it. How could anything in the world be so sweetly delicious as a
rashagholla? His mind began to dwell on the amazing news about
Chitto Babu and his unsuspected brilliance. He finished the sweet,
closed his eyes, and gently licked the syrup from his fingers before
placing them against his temples and concentrating on this new
dimension of Chitto's. What would make the clerk smile?

15

After a few moments he arose and walked directly to the magis-
trate's office. He peered through the window and contemplated the
clerk, who was sitting cross-legged before a grimy wooden table, his
thin shoulders hunched up, writing his letters. Taking a deep breath,
Anukul entered the office and sat down facing him.

"You!" Chitto Babu was obviously most unpleasantly surprised.
"What do you want here?"

"I only came to congratulate you. I have just heard Hari Babu
telling all over town what a brilliant bargain you have made/'

"Hrrumph!" Chitto rumbled, but his lips twitched and his
shoulders straightened. Anukul had pleased him! "What does a boy
like you know of such things?"

"Only that you are a renowned and respected man, and I am
sorry I knocked your umbrella into the dust this morning. I would
be grateful if you would accept a rashagholla for your trouble." He
proffered the precious sweets.

This time Chitto smiled broadly and Anukul was struck anew by
the amazing changes that smiles brought to faces.

The little clerk peered into the cone, fingered out a sweet, and
popped it down in two bites. "Very nice." He nodded, and meticu-
lously cleaned his fingers. "Very nice, indeed."

The rashaghollas were finished by the time Anukul approached
his home, and even the sahl leaves were opened and the last crumbs
of sweetness licked away.

Uncle Hem came striding through the gate and stopped short
upon seeing his nephew. "So there you are!" He glowered fiercely.
"I have just informed your Ma and Grandma of your impertinent
behavior toward your elders! It is intolerable!"

This time Anukul could not close his eyes. But there was no need
to, really, for he was gazing directly into Uncle Hem's face, studying
every line of nose and eye and cheek, and the luxurious fall of the
full curly beard, as he sought the inner knowledge of what Uncle
Hem was really like.

"Well!" The fashionable walking stick tapped the ground im-
patiently. "What are you gawking at? What have you to say for
yourself?"

"I was thinking," Anukul said dreamily, "how very handsome you
are. And I was wondering, since you are my uncle, if I might look
like you when I am a man."

Hem's eyes narrowed and he peered at the boy suspiciously.

16

Anukul's face was innocent of guile, his admiration candid and
serious.

"Handsome is as handsome does." But Hem's voice had lost its
edge and his soft, well-cared-for hand stroked the flowing beard
proudly and then, to his own and his nephew's amazement, began
stroking Anukul's curly hair. "Be respectful," he said kindly. "You are
old enough to observe traditions. Especially in public!"

Anukul dropped quickly to his knees and touched his uncle's feet,
in the traditional salute to elders.

Dilip's prediction was correct. The yellow-robed monk had ap-
parently finished his conversations with Ma and Grandma and had
been left in a shady corner of the yard to eat his meal in peace.
Anukul drifted over to him and studied the large brass plate piled
high with rice and lentils and fried vegetables. Grandma had been
generous, as he knew she would be. He sat down a polite but
reasonable talking distance away. There seemed to be an unusual
dignity and humility in this monk's manner, and the bright eyes
cast a hypnotic spell over the boy . . . flashing, a little wildly, as if
the fires in their depths were too ardent to control. He felt suddenly
that this monk knew the answers to all the things which perplexed
and eluded him.

He arose, walked closer to the monk, knelt and touched his feet.
"Babaji, am I the son of the Supreme Father? For in truth there
are times when I know I can do anything and everything."

The monk's eyes flashed over him, but he did not speak. He con-
tinued to eat in silence until the plate was clean, then he opened his
sack and selected a biri (native cigarette). He placed it carefully
between his lips and struck a flint to light it. He inhaled deeply,
closed his mouth, and the smoke came out of his nostrils in two thin
streams.

"You are evil," he said shortly.

Anukul was shocked and frightened. "Oh, no," he protested, "oh,
no . . ."

"All mankind is evil, vain, and selfish. If you would know your-
self, you must think at all times, every minute of the day, 1 am a
sinner!' That is the only way to become humble . . . and only the
humble will find salvation!" He arose, picked up his staff, swung his
pack over his shoulder, and disappeared up the path, exhibiting
every assurance that he knew the way to God.

17

Shaken by the holy man's accusation, Anukul stared at his
clasped hands and fearfully examined his emotions. It was true that
he was not humble. He saw that now. He was proud of inventing
medicine and fountain pens that worked . . . proud of Atul's devotion
. . . proud of being the Rajah of his group . . . proud, even, that the
tempestuous, irresponsible, and popular Dilip had chosen to be a
member of his group rather than of Anil's where it would seem that
he more naturally belonged. Oh, yes, he must be a sinner all right.
There was no doubt about it, and it was a terrifying thing to know.

Monmohini came to the doorway and shaded her eyes with her
hand. "Anukul! Why are you dawdling away the noon hour? Eat
quickly, you are already late for school."

"There isn't any school today."

"No school? How is that?"

"Master dismissed school."

"Why did he do that?"

"I was bad," Anukul stated sadly, and subconsciously his hand
fingered the welt across his shoulder.

Monmohini's eyes narrowed. "Come here!"

He went to her with hanging head; she grasped him roughly and
examined his back.

"What did you do?" she cried, shaking him. "Are you never going
to learn to control yourself?"

"I am selfish." He sobbed. "Bad."

"I asked what you did!"

"I told him there were no two things in this world alike."

Monmohini's brow furrowed. "He hit you for that?"

"Only once. He should have thrashed me. I am vain and evil."

Monmohini placed her hand concernedly upon his forehead.
There was no fever. She peered at him closely. "Eat and be quiet
about it." She sighed, turning away. "Don't disturb Father."

All afternoon Anukul sat beneath Grandma's holy Bel tree beside
the prayer room, his back pressed tightly against its bark in an effort
to gain some comfort as he plumbed his evil depths. When Grandma
returned from a visit to a neighbor, Anukul watched her waddle
across the courtyard, select a spot and sink down in the "three heads
position," which denoted wisdom ... a knee, a head, a knee.

Impulsively, he broke a leaf from a low-hanging branch, and go-
ing to Grandma, he placed it on her knee, sank to the ground, and
touched her feet.

18

She blinked at the leaf and blinked at him . . . but it was too hot
for the exertion of anger. "I have told you never to violate my Bel
tree!"

Anukul hung his head. "I forgot. I am bad."

"Yes you are!" she agreed. "Bad . . . bad . . . bad." She picked up
the leaf, smelled it, and tucked it in her hair. It looked very gay on
Grandma. She wrapped her arms around her knees again and closed
her eyes for a nap.

Gently, Anukul reached forth and caressed her withered cheek
with his finger tips. "You have such beautiful wrinkles, Grandma/*

The eyes popped open. "Villain! How dare you!" They closed
again. "You'll be old too before you know it," she grumbled, "and
your wrinkles will look just like everybody else's."

"No." Anukul sighed. "I am bad and cannot ever be wise as you
are. My wrinkles will be ugly."

This time the eyes opened wide and Grandma regarded him
closely. "Bosh!" she said at length. "You're not that bad."

Quick tears welled up in his eyes. "Oh, I am, Grandma. I am as
bad as there is. I am evil."

"Robbers and murderers are evil," Grandma said sternly. "You
are just plain bad . . . boy bad!"

Tears began to spill and he wiped them away with the back of
his hand.

"Sometimes," the old woman conceded grudgingly, "you are not
even bad at all."

Monmohini Devi came running from the house and knelt beside
her mother. "Reva Devi had a boy! Born an hour ago! And he's go-
ing to look just like her . . . they say his nose has that same flare to
it. Come! Let's go see!" She helped the old woman to her feet and
they hurried across the courtyard. "If Father wants me," Monmohini
called back to Anukul, "111 be at Reva's."

Anukul gazed after them with widening eyes as wonder dawned
within him ... a wonder so deep ... so profound that all the evils
and all his tears were swept aside. Reva Devi had a boy! A boy!
And he would look like her!

He had never actually thought about the matter, but since each
animal came from its own kind, he had assumed that boys came
from men and girls from women. It had seemed so obvious . . .
so reasonable.

But it wasn't true! Women were the creators! Of everybody in the

19

worldl He jumped to his feet, flinging his arms to the sky, his smile
spreading from ear to ear. He was a creation! He, himself! And of all
the children in the whole world, Monmohini Devi had created him!
Anukul Chandra Chakraborty!

He began to run . . . and then to jump . . . higher and higher
and higher. Around the courtyard he spun, around and around,
spurred by a joy so vast ... so dizzying that it had no beginning or
end but simply was . . . was . . . always was.

At length he stopped, sobered, and with the quiet dignity of well-
being went to the house and got a pair of clean shorts, a rough
washcloth, and a small bowl of mustard oil. With this equipment he
proceeded to the river, took off his soiled shorts, and soused them
carefully into the shallow water beside the rock.

Leaving them to soak, he began to cover himself thoroughly with
mustard oil. He did not spare the welt across his shoulder, receiving
pleasure, rather because now all things were pleasurable in the
sharp sting as the mustard oil was rubbed in. He paused often to
marvel at his hand or chest or hip ... at the feet which carried him
about from morning to night. What a wonderful creation a body
was; and this one was his very own, a personal gift from his beloved
Monmohini Devi. He walked into the water and scrubbed his body
inch by inch until it glowed with a cleanliness befitting a woman's
creation.

"Rajah!" Atul cried from the riverbank.

"Come on in," Anukul invited.

"I can't. You come out! Hurry!"

Anukul made his way to the large flat stone and looked at his
shorts. It was only mud, and they were quite clean. A few good
whacks on the rock would finish them. "Did you see the Vulture?"
he called between whacks.

Atul bent over, clasped his arms across his abdomen. "I've been
poisoned! Dilip had some money and we ate fried lentils at the
docks. I'm dying! Make me some mint medicine, Anukul. If Ma finds
out, she'll beat me! Oooooow," he moaned, falling to the ground and
rocking back and forth. "Oooooow. There it is again!"

Anukul ran to his friend and knelt down concernedly. "What
does it feel like? Tell me how it feels?"

"What do you think it feels like? Oooooow. It feels like dying.
Hurry, Rajah, save me!" He coughed and quieted as the pain passed.

20

"There's no spit in my mouth/' he moaned. "I can't swallow." He
held out his tongue.

Like a flash, Anukul experienced again the sensations caused by
the bhati leaf he chewed that morning ... the quick cramp, the dry,
bitter mouth. He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head to dis-
lodge the thought, but the image of the bhati leaf remained firmly
in his mind. "How does it taste?" he asked.

"Horrible!" Atul shuddered. "Like poison."

"All right." Quickly, Anukul pulled on his clean shorts. "You wait
here, and don't worry." He ran toward the house, stopped short, then
turned, and frowningly studied the hunched figure of his friend.
Yes, there it was again. All he could think of was the bhati leaf.
The same thing that produced a symptom might cure it. How
strange!

He carefully selected a bhati leaf, and taking it into the kitchen,
washed it, broke off a small piece, and dropped it into a cup. Using
a pestle, he deftly pounded it into a pulp, and half filling the cup
with water, took a small swallow himself, concentrating deeply. Yes,
there it was. The quick cramp and the dry, bitter mouth ... He
waited a few moments and then smiled broadly. He was right! Just
as he remembered, the saliva began to flow into his mouth, sweet
and plenty, and the cramp was gone.

Monmohini, Grandma, Old Aunt, and Reva Devi's sister-in-law
came into the house, talking excitedly about the new baby, Mon-
mohini poured boiling water into the teapot on the stove. "Did Fa-
ther awaken?"

"No, he is sleeping still."

"That's good," she murmured, reaching for the glasses. "Very
good."

Anukul ran back to Atul and handed him the cup of medicine.

"Is it mint?"

"No, this is better. Drink it quickly, though; it doesn't taste good."

Atul gulped down the liquid, gasped, shuddered, and pulled a
gruesome face. "What was that?"

"Bhati leaf."

Atul's eyes stretched with horror. "Bhati?" The pain came again
and he doubled over, rolling on the ground. "I'm poisoned! I'm
poisoned twice! Get the doctor, Rajah, hurry . . . please hurry!"

"Stop it!" Anukul said sharply. "You're all right, I tell you." He

21

wrestled with his writhing friend, forcing him to sit up. "You're
making the pain worse! Thinkl Think hard as you can . . . right
down to where the pain is."

"Oooooow!"

"Think!" Anukul pleaded. "Tell me where it hurts."

"Everywhere! Oooooow."

"The spot/' Anukul cried. "The exact spot." He placed his hand
gently on the top of Atul's abdomen. "Is it here?"

Atul's face knotted with concentration, then cleared. "It's gone,"
he said simply.

"You see?" Anukul cried excitedly. "You see what I told you?
How's your mouth?"

"It's wet! My mouth is full of spit."

Anukul sat back on his heels, beaming. "Yes," he murmured with
satisfaction. "Yes, that's right."

Suddenly Atul's face darkened. "It's there," he cried. "Oooooow,
it's there again. Get the doctor! Please get the doctor!"

"Where?" Anukul cried. "Where is it now?"

"Hurry . . . hurry . . . hurry. Oooooow." But even before the cry
ended, his face calmed. "It's gone."

"Was it the same place?"

"No . . . no, lower down."

"That's the way it should be." Anukul nodded. "Exactly. Because
the bhati is going down. And it wasn't as bad, either, was it?" He got
to his feet. "Now every pain you have is going to get lower and
easier. Come on, we'll walk. That will help the medicine work
faster."

"I can't walk!"

"Of course you can." Anukul tugged him to his feet. "Stand
straight."

Dubiously, Atul eased himself erect. "It's all right now. But when
it comes, I can't stand it."

"When it comes, you can bend over, if you have to. Come on now,
let's walk."

"All right. But couldn't we walk in the direction of the doctor's
house? Just in case . . ."

22

STRANGELY, Monmohini did not seem to be aware of the enormous
significance of being a creator. But Anukul knew, and as spring
changed to summer and summer to fall, the knowing made a differ-
ence. Not when he was being chastised, of course; at such times he
completely forgot and life seemed to be exactly the same as always.
But no matter how long he forgot, there would come the odd mo-
ment again, in the stillness just before a sunrise or sunset, or in the
first wonder of an opening bud, or winging bird, the moment in
which he remembered and was filled once more with joy beyond
containing.

It was right after such a moment that Anukul noticed an in-
teresting hole in the trunk of a hoary old acacia tree. Without
thinking, he climbed up and reached into the cavity. Sure enough!
Something was there. He grasped it and pulled out his hand and
found himself face to face with a wriggling black snake . . . beady
eyes staring, long red tongue flickering in and out wildly. He re-
garded it cautiously, then gently, gently, he replaced it.

Anukul stared for a moment, jumped down, and then fled, giving
a cry of fear from time to time as he raced for the river and the
road.

Wiry arms, as strong as steel, caught him, and he found himself
panting in the grasp of the long-haired Rama Sahu.

"Here . . . here . . . here," Rama chortled. "What's your hurry?"

"A snake," Anukul cried, pointing behind him. "A snake in the old
acacia tree!"

"Only a snake." Rama teased, "A big boy like you afraid of a
snake?"

"It was right in my hand!" Anukul began to demonstrate, then
broke off and regarded his stubble-faced friend quietly. "Isn't that

23

strange?" he puzzled. "I thought it was a rope and pulled it out and
I wasn't frightened at all. Honestly! I just looked at it and let it go
very carefully and there was no fear. But then I started run-
ning . . ." He stopped and frowned heavily. "That's when it hap-
pened. The exact minute I started to run I became afraid."

Rama laughed and sat down on the grass. "That's the way it is,"
he agreed, and pulling a biri from the corner of his disreputable
dhoti and lighting up, he blew a great cloud of smoke. "I learned
that lesson early, I can tell you! I was younger than you are."

Anukul sat down also, and watched the man smoke. Suddenly his
face lighted up. "I am going to Dacca!" he cried. "Father is going to
see the landowner about his old position and I am going too! On a
boat! All the way on a boat!"

The bold eyes blinked fondly. "We're a lot alike, you and I. A lot
alike."

Anukul was startled. "Oh, no," he protested seriously, "I never
steal."

"You aren't dead yet, either. But I wasn't thinking of that. I meant
the way you figure things out for yourself . . . like fear comes from
running . . . and the way we get excited about the same things . . .
like boats and water."

Such a thought had never once occurred to Anukul, and it was
very disturbing.

"You mustn't steal, Rama-da. It's wicked, and besides, everybody
who gets robbed suspects you. You'll go to jail!"

"Don't worry your head about me." Rama winked broadly. "They
can't get me on suspicion. They have to prove something" he confi-
dently puffed on his biri "and that they'll never do. Besides," he
added virtuously, "I only steal from the rich. It's good for them."

"Grandma isn't rich."

The eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Who said I stole from your
Grandma?"

"I didn't say you did," Anukul said uneasily. "But some robbers
did. Two years ago they took her silver bowl and that was a terrible
loss. It was her Ma's before her."

Rama picked up a stone and shied it neatly over the road and
into the river. "Your Grandma isn't exactly a pauper."

"She has it very hard," the boy protested. "She feeds all the holy
men and all this time Father couldn't contribute she fed us and
bought medicine and paid doctors . . ."

24

Rama shrugged. "She's not so bad ... as that sort go . . ."

They sat in a strained and somewhat embarrassed silence.

Was it possible that they were really alike? Anukul worried.
He became possessed with an urgent and immediate desire to re-
form his friend.

"Don't steal any more . . . please, Rama-da . . ."

"You've always been a sensible boy," Rama reasoned. "Why else
would I waste time on you? Now look at it this way. I have a wife
and three children . . . would I be a good man to let them starve?"

"You could go to work."

Rama guffawed. "Where? Only think now, seriously, even if I
were willing to start at the bottom, who would hire me to clean
their house? Your grandma, maybe?"

Anukul blushed and lowered his eyes. "No," he answered sadly,
realizing that Rama was right . . . that no one would have the thief
in his house.

"Look," he bargained desperately. "Every Saturday I earn two
pice. I will stop eating rashaghollas and bring you the money. And
I'll get fruits and vegetables from the kitchen garden and rice from
the store. Every day I will bring them to you and your family won't
starve. I promise!"

"Ho! Ho! Ho!" Rama roared. "Who's the little thief now, eh? Ho!
Ho! Ho!"

Anukul reddened and bit his lip. How complicated life was.

"No ... no ... no," Rama declined gently. "Eat your rashaghollas,
boy . . . enjoy them. Troubles will come soon enough."

"Let me go with you, then. Only once. Just tonight."

"Are you out of your mind?"

Anukul stared helplessly. He felt he must stay near his friend.
"I only want to see how it is. I want to know if it's safe."

"It's safe enough for an intelligent man. But it's no game for chil-
dren."

"You'll be there to protect me. I'll just watch. I won't cause you
any trouble."

The biri burned Rama's lips and he spat it out and got to his feet.

"Please, Rama-da . . . please."

"Be sensible! Shall I ask your Ma if you can walk with me in the
moonlight? Do you think, perhaps, that she will say, 'Why, how
kind of you to think of Anukul ... I am always delighted to have
him stroll with such fine company'? Not very likely, eh?"

25

Remembering the guava tree ladder to the storeroom, Anukul
pleaded, "I know a way to get out. You have only to whistle softly
in the road as you go by. I will join you/'

Rama received this news with lively interest. "Oh, you can get out,
eh? Well"-- he shrugged indifferently "it pains me to discuss my
profession with a boy who can't understand. I'll make a bargain.
This night I will let you see how it is, if you will never, ever again
pester me with the subject. Agreed?"

That night, Anukul was crouched in the storeroom window when
the soft whistle came; and although a nervous tremor ran over him,
he resolutely climbed into the guava tree and worked his way down.
He kept peering around the corner of the wall until he saw the
shadow that was Rama disappear around the bend. Because al-
though Rama was a friend, he was also a robber, and it was not
prudent to show him the secret way into Grandma's house.

Rama gave a soft grunt when Anukul caught up with him. "So
you really did it? I didn't think you'd dare."

"Where are we going?"

"Ssssh. Be quiet. Follow me." They walked quickly on down the
road toward town. Suddenly Rama stopped, crooked his finger at
Anukul, and indicated that they would slip along the wall of a
cottage to the back. They waded through jungle grass along back
walls until they came to a rather low one.

"Here," Rama said, and crouching behind the wall, pulled Anu-
kul close to him. He leaned on the wall and peered through the
branches of a banyan tree at the house. Anukul, too, raised himself
on tiptoe and peered over the wall.

"Why, this is Chitto Babu's!" he cried in alarm. "He isn't rich!"

"Ssssh!" Rama gripped his shoulder roughly, then relaxed his
hold. "He's been picking up a bit here and there. I keep my ears
open."

"But that's for his sister's wedding. Old Aunt says if he doesn't
get her married this year, she won't have a chance."

"His sister's an old crow." Rama spat contemptuously. "I'll do
some man a favor to take the money."

"How will you get into the house?"

Rama sank down beside the wall and pulled Anukul down also.
He laughed softly. "A man who keeps his eyes open learns things,"
he bragged. "For instance, every night at the same time Chitto
comes through that gate" he pointed down the wall "to go to the

26

toilet. And he always stands with his back to this wall." He laughed
again. "Because he's such a tidy, smug prig, he also goes a good way
into the jungle grass!"

"And you sneak in while the gate's open and rob him?"

"There isn't that much time! No. But when a man is occupied that
way, he isn't apt to hear a slight noise, eh? So, I creep up and blip
him behind the ear and do the job while he's unconscious."

Anukul winced, feeling an actual sharp pain behind his ear. He
bit down on his tongue to keep his teeth from chattering. "Did you
think up this plan?" he asked, hoping that his friend had not.

"No." Rama shrugged. "It's an old trick of the trade."

"What if some other robber did the same to you?"

"Not likely!" He flexed his muscles significantly. "I don't go around
with my eyes closed."

Anukul closed his own eyes and concentrated as hard as he could.
Don't come out, Chitto! Don't come out tonight! Beware, Chitto!

"They could rob you when you're not home, Rama-da. Everybody
suspects you hide things in your house."

"What do I have a wife for? She's been taught to lock up tight."

"Doesn't she have to go to the toilet?"

Rama frowned at him. "Why do you ask such stupid questions?
Everybody goes to the toilet. You know that."

"Then a robber could catch her the same way, couldn't he, if he
knows about this trick?"

"He wouldn't dare!"

"Why not? Her muscles aren't so big!"

"Will you shut up!" Rama ordered. "Do you want to give this
whole show away?"

Again, Anukul tried to send his warning thoughts to Chitto.
"Rama-da," he said timidly, "if somebody did blip your wife, they
wouldn't harm your children, would they?"

"Nobody is going to blip my wife!" Rama hissed. "Now shut up
before somebody hears us and sounds an alarm!"

Anukul considered yelling, but on second thought this seemed a
very dangerous way to save his friend. "If you were the robber," he
whispered, "you wouldn't harm the children, would you?"

"Of course not! Do you take me for some kind of an animal? Sh!"

"But they might cry," Anukul persisted worriedly. "Babies don't
know when to keep quiet. Maybe you wouldn't be able to take the
chance . . . maybe you'd have to harm them . . ."

27

Rama jumped to his feet and strode along the wall.
Anukul ran alongside of him. "Where are we going now?"
"Home!" Rama cried distractedly. "I cannot work with you jab-
bering away like an idiot! Do you think I want to land in jail?"

Anukul was beside himself as the ribbon of water widened be-
tween the paddle-wheeled steamboat and the docks of Himaitpur
village. He jumped up and down behind the rail, waving and shout-
ing frantically to his group who seemed almost as excited as he. And
there was Rama come to see him off! Rama standing tall among the
deckhands, long hair waving in the breeze, arrogant in his ragged-
ness, with one strong arm raised in a farewell salute. Tears of hap-
piness brightened the boy's eyes . . . Don't steal, Rama-da. His lips
formed the prayer soundlessly. Be patient . . . please . . . something
will happen.

Once they were out on the water and moving downstream, the
motion accelerated and Himaitpur village was soon left behind. He
hung on the rail for a while, limp from the excitement and exertion,
and watched the vast stretches of jungle drift by. Before long, how-
ever, he turned his attention to the passengers and was particularly
fascinated by the sprinkling of foreigners, and with one woman
especially, who wore her sari tucked up between her legs like a
man's dhoti . . . how very curious! And she seemed to be perfectly
at ease . . . and to feel nothing amiss in her strange attire. With a
growing sense of adventure, he left the railing and ran off on an ex-
ploratory journey of the boat.

"Father!" he cried excitedly, racing back. "Come and see!"

Shiv Chandra looked up from the document he was studying, re-
moved his glasses, and blinked at his son. "What is it?"

"Only come and look," Anukul begged. "Please, Father. You have
never seen such a thing! It's like a mechanical animal with one
leg . . . marching up and down ... up and down!"

Shiv Chandra was curious, and carefully placing the paper in his
folder, he arose and accompanied the boy.

"That's a piston," he explained. "If you watch closely you will
see that there are joints and elbows almost like your own, which
connect the engine to the paddle wheel and make it go."

It was true! Anukul gazed with growing wonder, and although
Shiv Chandra soon lost interest and returned to his paper work,
Anukul remained for the rest of the trip with his eyes glued to this

28

fabulous arrangement of ordinary materials . . . begrudging even the
few minutes he must spend eating fruit and bread with his father.
He picked up a friendship with the crew members, especially with
the old engineer who seemed to enjoy satisfying the not inconsider-
able curiosity of the boy.

From the first step ashore, the city of Dacca was almost as glori-
ous as the trip had been. Shiv Chandra looked the dock over care-
fully with obvious interest and pleasure. "There have been changes,"
he announced, and pointed his umbrella. "That narrow gauge rail-
way was only talk when I fell ill."

Even as Anukul watched, an engine came puffing down the rails,
and he watched breathlessly as it hooked onto a row of freight
wagons.

"What makes the train move?"

His father smiled. "You should know that. You spent the whole
morning looking at the boat's engine. The same thing that makes
paddle wheels turn will make any wheel turn. In this case, iron
ones."

They went to the home of Father's sister and Anukul made the
acquaintance of his cousins . . . Tara, who was a year older and a
head taller than he, and the little girl, Tina, who left, rather re-
luctantly, the large oil drum and the smaller barley cans with which
she was playing.

While Aunt and Father had tea, the children were served sweet-
cakes on a real English china plate, rimmed in pure gold and cov-
ered with dainty flowers. They sat in a circle, gauging each other
in self-conscious silence as they nibbled their sweets.

Shiv Chandra arose and crossed the veranda. "I am leaving you
now. See that you are obedient. I will return shortly."

Conscious of his manners, Anukul went to him quickly, bowed
down and touched his feet, then returned, a trifle uncertainly, to his
cousins. The cakes had all been eaten and Aunt came and picked up
the plate. She stared at the stiff-backed children for a moment and
smiled kindly.

"You must take Anukul around to see the neighborhood," she sug-
gested to Tara. "But if you go out . . . mind that you watch Tina
closely."

Anukul sat in polite expectancy, waiting for Tara to extend this
invitation. He was disappointed.

"It's too hot," Tara complained, with a quick glance to make sure

29

his Ma had left. "And Tina is a nuisance. It isn't worth it."

Tina arose with elaborate casualness and returned to her cans . . .
rolling them about . . . clanging them together . . . and keeping close
tabs on her audience reaction.

"Did you ever see a steam engine?" Anukul asked.

"Hundreds of times," Tara answered casually.

"Did you ever make one?"

"A steam engine?"

"Yes."

"Are you stupid?" Tara laughed with the assured superiority of a
city child. "Engineers make steam engines!"

"A blacksmith could make one."

"He could not!"

"Yes he could." Anukul smiled engagingly, to let his cousin know
that he was not quarrelsome. "He could make one out of Tina's
cans. We could use the big oil drum for the boiler and the little
ones for wheels, you see. The reason we need a blacksmith is to cut
the vents and make some pistons out of metal strips. I know how
it's done."

"Out of those old cans?" Tara stared incredulously.

"Honest. We use the smaller ones for the wheels and fix up the
oil drum as a boiler and attach wires from the piston to the wheels.
I tell you it will work."

Tara was silent for a while, then got up and went to the cans,
and arranging the two small ones next to each other, placed the oil
drum on top.

Tina knocked the big drum off. "That's mine. Leave it alone or
111 tell Ma."

"Let us have them," Tara wheedled. "Don't you want to see us
build a steam engine?"

"No."

"We only want to borrow them for a minute. You can have
them back."

"No."

"If we take you to Amullya's shop with us, will you? You can
watch him pound the iron and see the sparks fly . . ."

Tina was tempted. "You always call me a baty," she complained.
Tm six years old!"

"We won't call you a baby . . . honest."

30

The little girl capitulated. "But you have to give the cans back,"
she warned; and happily gathering up the equipment, the children
were off to the blacksmith.

"What is all this jabbering?" Amullya, behind his heavy leather
apron, and with his hairy arms akimbo, looked very fierce.

"Please make a steam engine for us. It will work!" the children
chorused. "Try it, Amullya-da, please."

"Look!" Tara arranged the three cans. "You see how it is?"

'The piston would be set through right here," Anukul explained
urgently, "with the wires coming down to the wheels . . . like
this . . ."

Amullya studied the cans thoughtfully, then scratched his head.
"I just made you a windmill the other day, and here you are back
so soon! I have got plenty of work to do." He paused, and then said
flatly, "Moreover, it won't work."

"Oh, it will," Anukul begged. He snatched a large nail from a box
and dropped to the earth floor. "See . . ." and he began rapidly to
sketch an outline of the engine he had studied.

The blacksmith and his cousins squatted around him, and soon a
lively discussion as to the possibilities was taking place.

"I don't know." Amullya was still dubious but intrigued. He
picked up the drum and carried it to his workbench. Encouraged,
the children danced around him.

His eyes squinted at Anukul from behind bushy brows. "Now
where was it you wanted the piston?"

"Just here . . ." Anukul touched the drum.

The blacksmith scratched his head. "I say here." He touched a
spot a few inches away from the one Anukul indicated.

"Yes," Anukul agreed, "perhaps that would be better."

An hour flew by in earnest activity as the man worked, and the
children scrambled about for the bits of pipe and metal and wire
that he called for. Finally, Amullya straightened up and gazed
proudly at his handiwork. "There she is." He beamed, and demon-
strated the pistons manually.

'They're turning!" Tina squealed. "The wheels are turning!"

A great, quiet glow suffused Anukul.

"We need water!" Tara cried excitedly, pushing a bucket at Tina.
"Go out to the trough and get some water!"

The engine was primed and ready to go. With iron tongs Amullya

31

carefully lifted live coals from the forge and placed them under the
oil drum. They stood around, sharing happy, confident smiles as they
waited for the water to boil and create steam.

"Look!" Tara pointed, and they were transfixed by the hesitant
motion of the piston with steam leaking from all sides. The motion
became steady. The wheels were turning!

The children were beside themselves with joy and started to
dance. Amullya stood with his hands on his hips and a faint smile
on his lips.

Suddenly Anukul pushed his cousins. "Get away quick!" he yelled,
and reaching out, grabbed Amullya's apron strings so hard that the
startled blacksmith lost his balance and tumbled backward to the
floor. And just in time, for with a terrifying explosion, the engine
blew up.

They regarded each other stupidly until the shock wore off.

"My cans!" Tina screamed. "Look what you did to my cans!"

There was a loud hissing, for the water had splashed right into the
forge. Amullya grabbed up a poker and ran to save his fire. It was
too late. The sizzling coals were turning black. The damage was
done.

"Will you look at this mess!" he roared at the children. "A whole
afternoon wasted! Does every brat in this neighborhood think my
shop is public property?"

Anukul gazed at him sadly, wondering how it was possible that
he could so quickly forget the shared pleasure and excitement.

"But it did work," he sought to comfort them.

"Out!" Amullya shrilled, brandishing the poker. "Out of my shop
before I thrash the bunch of you!"

It was midnight when Anukul and Shiv Nandan returned to
Himaitpur a few days later. Except for Grandma, the entire house-
hold was at the dock to meet them, and the rejoicing was great when
Father imparted the anxiously awaited news that the landowner
desired his services again. Anukul himself felt very proud and confi-
dent among them now that Father would be contributing his full
share . . .

As soon as he entered the house, Anukul saw the silver bowl,
gleaming on the low wooden bench, filled with golden dates. He
approached it timidly, hardly daring to believe that it had truly
come back.

32

"It's a miracle," Grandma cried excitedly. "I went to the yard this
morning and there it was, sitting on the wall as nice as you please
and all polished up and shining."

"How could it happen so quickly?" Anukul marveled, touching
the polished surface gently with his finger tips.

"It was my Bel tree," Grandma stated proudly. "I planted that
Bel tree when I came here as a bride, and I dedicated it to Durga
the mother Goddess so that this house, and everybody and every-
thing within, would always be protected. Every day since my bowl
was stolen, I have prayed to my tree that it would find its way back
. . . and here it is! And no worse for its absence, either!" She flashed
a quick, triumphant glance at Old Aunt. "I cannot say what the
ways of the Supreme Father are, nor whom he will choose to work
through, nor what is his purpose, nor how long it will take. But if
anyone dares to doubt that honest prayer is answered" she raised
an arm and pointed dramatically "let them behold my silver bowl!"

Anukul went to the kitchen, poured a cup of water, and carried it
to Grandma's Bel tree. "Accept my gratitude," he prayed. "You have
taken Rama-da's hand . . . stay with him always." And spilling the
water in loving libation, he prostrated himself, then sat for a long
time listening to the symphony of the leaves and the tremulous
whisper of motion that was the song of growing things.

33

TIMES were very hard in AnukuTs thirteenth summer. The rice crop
in that year, 1901, had not been good at all, and although Father
contributed his entire salary, Grandma's table showed the strain.
Moreover, the whole village had tightened its belt a notch, and the
ways that a boy could earn a pice were very limited.

Under these circumstances, Anukul discovered that what he had
considered a great fondness for rashaghollas was, in fact, a raging
and seemingly uncontrollable passion.

As his bill grew larger and payments more infrequent, his rela-
tionship with Netai Ghose deteriorated. Lately, the shopkeeper had
become openly insulting, and sent him empty-handed from the shop
more often than he favored him with credit. Yet, with all this, every
afternoon as school let out, Anukul was impelled by a force greater
than he could master, to the sweetshop and the mercy of Netai
Ghose.

On such an afternoon, after bidding his companions good-by,
Anukul scuffed the dust of the road and tried with all his might to
turn his feet in the proper direction . . . away from the sweetshop
and toward home. This was not possible, but the struggle did send
him stumbling into the grass beside the road, where he sank down
and pressed his forehead tightly against his knees.

"I will not go there again," he muttered. "He has turned me away
four days in a row. It's no use." The sweet memory of rashaghollas
rose in his throat; grew and swelled until he could have wept with
pain. He clenched his fists tightly. "He yells so loud everybody
knows! They wait for me ... as if I were an amusementl"

The intolerable longing would not listen. It filled him until he
ached all over, washed him with sickly perspiration.

Afterward, he could not remember getting up or walking down

34

the road. He knew only that he stood, abject and pleading, before
an enraged Netai Chose.

"You dare to show me your face, impudent dogl You think I have
no need for the two rupees you owe me! Two rupees! You take me
for a fool! Get out of here! Bring me my money!"

The scent of the rashaghollas had turned Anukul's legs to rubber.
He could not move them.

In a sudden dark rage, Ghose whipped a towel from about his
waist, snapped it around the culprit's neck, and began twisting. As
Anukul choked and gasped, the violent man shoved him hard with
one hand and pulled the towel with the other. This action sent the
boy spinning from the shop and he landed, sprawling, in the dust
outside.

Ghose stood in the doorway, yelling and shaking his fist; people
stopped in their tracks and ran out of the adjoining shops to enjoy
the spectacle.

Anukul picked himself up, bent his head, and attempted to make
himself as small as possible as he scurried off.

Footsteps ran up behind him and a hand fell on his shoulder. He
turned to face his friend Rama.

"Don't let them get you down, sonny. You've got more in your
little finger than all those heads put together."

Rama was now a dock laborer, but employment had not changed
his appearance, or manners ... or their friendship. Anukul bit his
lip and hung his head.

"Let's show the old skinflint up." Rama unknotted the end of
his dhoti and extracted a pice. "Here, go back with this and see
how fast he changes his tune."

Anukul shook his head, looked away, and exercised every
ounce of self-control to keep from crying.

Rama sighed, "You're right," he agreed. "The hell with them."
He fell into step with the boy, eying him closely. "Men are puny
creatures. It doesn't take much to swell their heads. I was thinking
about that only the other day."

He cast an oblique but concerned glance over his small friend,
trying to determine the extent of his hurt pride.

"You know . . . last week a thin, scrawny character gets off the
boat . . . come to see the magistrate, I expect, and acting for all
the world like he owned the docks himself. Well, I hoist up his suit-
cases, and he reaches out and whacks me . . . not hard, you know,

35

just enough to look important in case anybody was watching . . .
that's the way they are. 'Boy!' he says to me." He laughed and poked
Anukul with his elbow, coaxing a smile. "Imagine that! 'Boy!' Why
I could make three of him easy. 'Boy!' he says. 'Be careful with my
things/ I says, 'Yes, Babu ... of course, Babu . . . Why not?' They
expect it. What does it mean?" He shrugged. "As long as they give
me my two pice, that's all I care. He did that, all right, but the way
he let go of them you'd think they were his own teeth."

They stopped because they had come to the parting of their
ways, but Rama took Anukul's arm gently, staying him. "Now
this is the story, Anukul. The very next day I'm having my noon
meal at the teashop with friends and this same character comes
prancing in. 'Boy!' he calls to Karmokar. 'What do you serve here?'
Well, Karmokar begins telling him, and after every item the guy
pinches up his mouth and says, 'How much?' And so it went until
Karmokar named every damned thing in the shop. And do you
know what that little swelled head orders? A cup of tea! One
miserable cup of tea!" He laughed heartily, and although Anukul's
spirits were too low to follow the story carefully, he managed a
smile for his friend's pleasure.

"The point is, Anukul, that we porters are not rich, but we live
better than that kind, because we are happy. We are, truly. We
work hard and we eat simple but hearty and we don't stint our-
selves or others; and that's the way it should be."

The next afternoon, promptly as school was dismissed, the pain
rose in Anukul's throat and he felt as if a bright, tantalizing thread
had spun itself from Ghose's rashagholla pot to the very center of
his brain, so that he could not see or think of anything else.

He walked to the road with Atul and Dilip but did not hear a
single word they said, and after they parted, he found himself
once more rooted to the ground.

"Perhaps he will give you just one," the bright thread tempted.
Shame mixed with longing made him weak, but the sweet aching
did not recede. "Netai-da was your friend ... he must be sorry for
treating you so," the thread crooned.

He began walking slowly in the direction of the sweetshop. "I
will only walk past," he compromised. "I won't look in, or say any-
thing, I'll just walk past . . . and smell."

After a few steps, however, he found it as impossible to proceed
against the remembered humiliations he had suffered as it was to

36

turn from the desire. He halted, floundering helplessly in this
complex of emotions.

It was then, with a shattering impact of horror, that he real-
ized that this yearning, which he had reluctantly admitted was
passion, was more even than that. It was greed naked, ugly
greed that crawled and sprawled over and through every atom of
him. He cried out sharply and fled back to the schoolhouse . . .
and beyond until he reached the jungle.

In and out of the trees he ran, stumbling over roots and logs,
around and around until he sank down exhausted, panting and
gasping.

But no sooner had his breath calmed and his strength returned,
than the greed, too, became a live thing; and the little thread that
had coaxed him to the rashagholla kettle had now become a
glaring magnet.

He leaped to his feet and began to run again, and almost im-
mediately smashed blindly into a tree. He beat his fists against
the rough bark until his knuckles were bleeding, and he slumped
to the ground again; and was again enveloped by waves of greed.

He writhed on the ground, pulling up handfuls of grass. "Mai"
he cried desperately. "Ma! Ma! MaP He saw her face clearly,
stern and unyielding, and heard her voice, impatient and disap-
pointed, "Will you never learn to control yourself?"

He began to weep and after a long, long time arose, feeling
strangely lightheaded, like a wraith devoid of substance; but never-
theless, he was able to direct his footsteps homeward.

Again at three o'clock the next afternoon, the bright thread at-
tached itself to him. But the greed was weakened, and with great
satisfaction at being master of himself, Anukul left his companions
and started directly for home, jousting successfully along the way
with the insidious temptations, the sudden tugs and pulls that the
thread occasioned.

At Chitto Babu's house, a guava tree reaching high over the wall
caught his attention and he paused in the road, fascinated with the
charming game of hide-and-seek that the shiny luscious fruits were
playing with the afternoon breeze.

It was at this unsuspecting moment that greed caught up with
him, and before his startled gaze, the fruits became rashaghollas
dangling seductively just beyond his reach; again the aching rose
in his throat and his brain kindled to fire.

37

"No!" he cried, beating his head with clenched fists. "No, no,
no!" He ran from the road as fast as he could go, along the side of
Chitto Babu's wall, racing for the privacy of the tall jungle grass
that lay behind it, preparing for the struggle that he knew was
upon him.

"Thief! Thief!" Chitto ran through the gate in the back wall,
brandishing a heavy stick. "I have caught you this time, robber! I
have caught you!"

Surprised, Anukul stopped and turned and Chitto was upon
him, grabbing him roughly by the hair. "Steal my cucumbers, will
you?"

"No, no, Chitto Babu . . . what is it?" Anukul struggled free of
his grasp and ran a short distance into the grass before turning.
"See, I have nothing," he pleaded hastily, turning the pockets of
his shorts, the only garment he wore, inside out. "I wasn't in your
garden."

"Not today you weren't, because I was ready for you!" Chitto cried
excitedly, and swinging the stick, charged at him again.

"You are wrong, Chitto Babu. You are making a mistake," Anukul
called over his shoulder as he ran deeper into the grass. "Believe
me, Chitto Babu!" When he was sure that a safe distance lay be-
tween them, he turned. A panting, winded Chitto came to a
full stop and leaned heavily on his stick as he glowered at the boy.
"For weeks you have been stealing my cucumbers! Robber! You
didn't expect me home at this hour, did you? Well, you are in for
a thrashing now! I have caught you red-handed!"

"You didn't catch me stealing," Anukul protested. "I don't steal."

"What were you sneaking down by my wall for? For my cucum-
bers! But this time I was too smart for you!"

"That isn't true. I wasn't sneaking. I was running."

"Yes!" Chitto yelled excitedly. "Running like the thief you are!"

"No, no, no, Chitto Babu! I was only running by your place. I
only wanted to come out here into the grass."

"Hah!" Chitto shouted contemptuously, and gathering up his
strength, he bore down on Anukul again.

They were at the edge of the jungle now, and not wishing to
enter, Anukul led his pursuer in a wide circle.. It was not long be-
fore the grass behind him stopped swishing, and Anukul stopped
also.

"Please believe me, Chitto Babu," he begged earnestly, and took

38

several cautious steps toward his red-faced, hard-breathing ad-
versary. "I have not been stealing from you. And just look," he
reasoned. "All this time you are chasing me, the garden gate is
wide open and the robber can come and help himself to more of
your cucumbers I"

"A likely story!" Chitto panted, but he turned uneasily toward
his house and his eyes worried the considerable distance to his
wall.

He glowered testily at the boy. "If I catch you around my wall
again, I will not spare you! Understand?" Whipping the grass sug-
gestively with the stick, he strode back to his house.

That night, just as he was at the point of going to sleep, Anukul
had a sudden realization that brought him bolt upright in the
center of his straw mat. The rashaghollas had been completely
swept out of his mindl The shock of Chitto's unjust accusation . . .
the fear of the stick . . . and his urgent desire to convince Chitto
had erased the rashaghollas. Not just for that particular time, but
for the rest of the day!

How amazing! The brain could be strongly occupied with only
one thing at a time. He sat quite still in the darkness as the wonder-
ful possibilities of this realization unfolded within him. When he
had tried not to think of rashaghollas . . . commanded himself not
to think of them . . . well, that was just another way of filling
his head with the same subject. He could see that now. Chitto
had been a lucky accident, but a person was free to choose. The
secret was that one must concentrate on something else . . . some-
thing more desirable . . .

He lay down on the mat and stretched his limbs comfortably.
What a simple thing truth was! And how many questions it an-
swered. Ma, for instance. When he was thinking how much he loved
her, he was happy ... so this was right. But if he began to worry
whether she loved him, he was miserable ... so that was wrong.
Yes. That's how it was. Smiling broadly, he fell immediately into
a deep and untroubled sleep.

39

5

IT WAS also in his thirteenth year that Satya Moitra finally passed
Anukul, together with Atul and Dilip, out of the village school.

"Not that he knows anything," the sharp-featured Brahmin in-
formed Anukul's family as they sat around Grandma's silver bowl
formally sipping tea, "but because he never will learn anything
from me."

Anukul smiled sadly, adding to himself . . . and because of all
the vegetables Grandma sent you . . , and the medicine I make for
your wife.

Monmohini took the news stoically. But Grandma nodded and
beamed proudly while she pressed more tea and sweetcakes on their
guest. But when the teacher had gone, it was Grandma who turned
on him.

"You are no longer a child," she lectured sternly. 'It is time to
stop being different from the others or the high school will not
pass you and nobody will trust you with their affairs. Watch the
other boys. See how it is and do as they do." After a pause, she
added, somewhat irrelevantly, "Only no-goods and holy men can
afford to be different."

Anukul was entered in the high school at Pabna town, four miles
away. He found the classrooms painfully confining, and the subjects
history, geography, mathematics, English grammar and rhetoric-
tedious and often confusing. Nevertheless, he was determined to
please Ma, so with perseverance and discipline, he managed the
necessary concentration. He turned in his lessons promptly and
was passed along from term to term.

The four-mile walk to school, however, was quite another thing;
and no matter how many times he took it, and long after he had
explored all possible routes, he looked forward to each morning

40

or evening journey with undiminished eagerness.

Especially pleasurable were the rare occasions when Atul and
Dilip were either starting late or were detained in Pabna town. For
on these solitary walks, everything he looked at took on new
dimensions of form and color . . . became sharp and distinct . . .
until it seemed that every leaf or blade of grass stood unique and
apart from every other and wonder held him spellbound all along
the way.

Long ago, Monmohini Devi had given him the Mantra (the Holy
Word which she had received from her Spiritual Master, Hazur
Maharaj), and as he grew older, he found himself more and more
often meditating upon this Mantra. He also noticed that he was
repeating it in new tempos and with growing intensity.

One morning, during his second year of high school, Monmohini
answered a knocking at the gate to find the limp form of her son
supported by Dilip and Atul.

"What happened?" she cried in alarm.

"It's nothing," Dilip assured her hastily. "We were just standing
there and he passed out. The sun, I expect."

"At seven o'clock in the morning?" Monmohini reached for
Anukul's wrist and counted his pulse, then placed her hand, wor-
riedly, on his forehead. "Bring him in," she said, leading the way
through the house to the back veranda, and helping them to lay
him on the bed. "Ma," she called, "bring water quickly. Anukul
has fainted."

Atul and Dilip hesitated beside the bed. "We must leave now,"
Dilip began, "but don't worry, please. He'll be all right."

"He's done this before," Atul blurted out, "lots of times."

"What?" Monmohini turned from her ministrations.

Dilip kicked Atul sharply on the shin.

"His Ma ought to know," Atul argued stubbornly, rubbing the
hurt shin on the calf of his other leg. "He acts real funny when he
comes out of it. Something's wrong!"

Monmohini pinned him with her close scrutiny. "What do you
mean . . . funny?"

"It's really nothing at all," Dilip said, and smiled engagingly as
he shouldered his friend out of the way. "He only jumps around a
bit. It's the circulation," he explained importantly. "When he's
passed out it stops, you see, and when it gets going again, he
jumps around a bit ... that's really all it is."

41

"I appreciate your bringing him home." Monmohini placed her
palms together and bowed. "Please take some fruit from the front
table/'

The boys returned the bow.

"It is always a pleasure to be of service, Monmohini Devi," Dilip
said gallantly, "and please don't worry." Nudging Atul before him,
he left the veranda.

Grandma emerged with a basin of water and a towel and the
two women worked in silence . . . Monmohini bathing Anukul's
face and shoulders, Grandma passing the large palm-leaf fan back
and forth.

At length Anukul stirred, sat up, and opened his eyes. The eyes
were so startlingly luminous that both women fell back a step. He
gazed wonderingly from one to the other and then around the
courtyard from bush, to tree, to plant; when he reached the Bel
tree, his eyes seemed to grow even wider and brighter until, with a
cry of joy, he leaped from the bed and ran across the courtyard to
embrace the tree with all his might.

"I told you so," Grandma accused, "For years I have warned you.
Now you see for yourself." She picked up the basin and towel and
shuffled toward the kitchen. "No good will come of this," she mut-
tered darkly.

Monmohini started across the courtyard, but some distance
from the Bel tree she halted to regard her son long and thought-
fully.

Anukul was running his hands gently over the bark, and as she
watched, he stepped back and stretched his arms wide to the
foliage. He spun around two or three times, then dropped to his
knees, his arms still stretched high and wide.

She went to him and knelt down. "Why are you doing this,
Anukul?"

"Tremors of light!" he cried. "Don't you see them? Beautiful,
beautiful tremors of light all melting into 'trees and birds and
people! And they are me ... me ... me, but I can't catch them."
He jumped to his feet and began whirling about the courtyard.
"Oh, beautiful," he sang, "beautiful!"

Monmohini arose, entered the prayer room, and bowed; she re-
mained seated before Hazur Maharaj for a long time; then she
sighed deeply. "I know you designated Sarkar Sahib as your suc-
cessor/' she murmured, "but I have never felt the same for him

42

. . . and I am not sure about this." She prostrated herself and tears
gathered in her eyes. "If only you were here now," she cried, "if
only I were sure/* Hazur Maharaj had been dead for many
years and she quickly regained her self-control and decided to
watch and listen and obey the inner voice when it spoke to her.

When she came from the prayer room, a very subdued Anukul
was waiting for her.

"How do you feel now?" she asked.

"Fine." He blinked his eyes and fell into step beside her. "It
has happened before," he said shyly.

"I know. Atul informed me."

Anukul bit his lip. He had wanted so much to tell her himself,
and had lain awake many nights wondering how to broach the
subject. "It was difficult to explain," he apologized.

"You are going to be late for school, Anukul. Take the road and
don't stop anywhere, for any reason. Do you understand?"

Impulsively, he caught her hand and kissed it twice and then
gazed longingly into her face, but found himself totally unable to
express a single word from his overflowing heart.

A few nights later, Anukul dreamed he saw a great ball of brilliant
light. As he squinted his eyes, trying to adjust his vision, a beauti-
ful half-naked girl stepped from the light . . . long silken hair
flowing seductively half revealing, half concealing the golden
body. Dark oval eyes beckoned him. "I am for you," she whispered,
swaying closer, "for you." The great light seemed to surge through
his body, consuming it in waves of heat and fear. "Ma!" he shouted
convulsively. "Ma! Ma! Ma!"

Monmohini sat up on her mat.

"Ma!" he cried again.

She crossed the room and knelt by his mat, shaking him
brusquely. "Wake up!" she called. "Anukul, wake up!"

Opening his eyes, he clutched her hands tightly and pressed his
head on her knees. Stumbling over the words because he was still
frightened, he told her the story of the vision he had seen.

"If she comes again,'* Monmohini instructed, "don't call me. Re-
peat the Mantra slowly and carefully just as I have taught you.
No harm will come to you."

The following day she sat down and wrote a long, detailed let-
ter to Sarkar Sahib who resided in Gazipur. His answer was prompt
and definite. She was to administer the required vows immediately

43

and initiate her son in the deeper types of concentrated medita-
tion. This she did.

Sarkar Sahib died at almost the same time that Anukul was
initiated, so they never met; therefore, he always considered Mon-
mohini was his Spiritual Master. The profound devotion which he
had always felt for her, combined with this new and deeper experi-
ence, expanded his feeling of love for, and of oneness with, all that
he knew or sensed in his environment.

Under her stern instruction, he worked diligently at his meditation
and the extraconscious experiences were soon brought under con-
trol . . . reserved for the privacy of the prayer room, the roof
of Grandma's house, or the quiet glade he had discovered in the
jungle. The fainting spells ceased entirely.

44

EARLY on a spring morning in 1905, a very confident seventeen-
year-old Anukul started out to take the final matriculation examina-
tion from the high school at Pabna town.

At the crossroads, he was surprised to find only Dilip waiting.
"Where's Atul?" he inquired anxiously.

"Backed out," Dilip grunted. "He's not going."

"He can't back out! That clerk's job in Dacca depends on his
getting a diploma! He's been working night and day for this! What
happened?"

"I don't know." Dilip shrugged nonchalantly. "I stopped by the
cottage and his Ma came to the door and said he wasn't going."

The news was extremely disturbing. "You go on, Dilip. Ill run
down and see what's up."

"You better hurry," Dilip warned. "That exam lasts only three
hours, and ready or not, they take in the papers at one o'clock
. . . sharp."

"I know. I'll take the short cut." Anukul sped down the road to
Atul's cottage.

Atul sat on the step, idly shaking a handful of small stones.

"What's the matter?" Anukul called. "Why aren't you going?"

"Who needs a diploma anyway?" Atul flipped a pebble into the
dust as Anukul drew near.

"You do!" Anukul cried. "How else can you get your job in
Dacca?"

"There are other jobs . . ."

Anukul's worried gaze held his friend's eyes. "What is it, Atul?
Tell me the truth."

Atul hunched his shoulders helplessly. "What is it always? Money!

45

Ma's run herself ragged these past few weeks. All we could raise
was two rupees/'

Anukul took the carefully folded five-rupee note from his own
pocket and pressed it into Atul's hand. "Take this . . . and run. You
need all the time there is."

Atul's eyes brightened with cautious hope. "What about you?"

'Til go get more. You hurry!"

Atul jumped to his feet and embraced his friend wildly. "I'll
pay it back," he vowed. "As soon as I get the position I'll send it
back to you."

"I know!" Anukul cried impatiently. "But hurry! You'll be late
as it is and you've got to pass!"

The pleasure with which he watched Atul leaping through the
jungle grass was quickly mixed with a growing uneasiness. Anukul
walked to the docks and to a certain spot he knew from which
he could sit and watch the river and the waterfront activities while
he faced the full consequences of his impulsive act.

The five rupees had been very hard to come by. Monmohini
had given birth to two more children in the last few years: a boy
and a girl. Although Father worked steadily, his salary was fixed,
and the growing family and rising prices had become a serious
problem. Anukul's five rupees represented a substantial sacrifice by
the family and considerable extra labor on the part of his mother.

But could he have done otherwise? Atul had no father at all,
and his widowed mother struggled to feed six children on a pit-
tance contributed by relatives, whose own rice kettles were far
from full. No. Atul was the head of a family. His responsibilities
were great and his position in Dacca was not a matter for bargain-
ing.

A vision of his mother's face, tired, perspiring from the heat of
the stove while she prepared muri (puffed rice) for sale to raise
the few precious extra rupees, rose before him. It twisted his heart.
He shook his head to get rid of the painful 'picture. He got to his
feet, prepared to go home and face the music.

He found Ma and Grandma on the courtyard lawn, playing
with the babies.

'What are you doing back so soon?" Monmohini cried crossly.
Then, as a new fear dawned, her face became slack. "You can't
have failed already?"

Anukul crossed the lawn and knelt down with them. Badal was

46

lying on his back, pumping chubby legs into the air. Anukul
plucked a blade of grass and tickled his toes, smiling broadly at
his delighted chortles.

The women did not smile, however; they waited tensely, watch-
ing his every move with anxious suspicion.

"I gave the money to Atul," he said softly, unable to look at Ma,
to see the hardening lines of eye and lip that were so painfully
familiar to him.

She gasped and caught up Badal and fondled him nervously.

"Five rupees!" Grandma shouted incredulously. "All of it?"

He nodded miserably and his gaze went timidly pleading, beg-
ging, back and forth between the two women. "His Ma couldn't
raise it and that position he was promised in Dacca requires a
diploma. He has to have work. You know how much the family
needs the money . . ."

Monmohini's arms tightened around the little boy. "And we
don't? Is that how you feel?"

"Eeeeeeeeeeee!" Grandma flung back her gray head and keened to
the heavens, rocking to and fro as if seized with intense pain.
After a few moments, however, she stopped as abruptly as she
had begun. "Five rupees!" she hissed. "Tossed to beggars as if they
were pice!"

"I'll pay it back, Grandma, and more besides! I won't be a burden!
I'm going to work!"

"What can you do? Where can you work? Who would hire you
without even a high school diploma?"

"I'm very strong. I'll work at the docks as a porter."

"Eeeeeeeeeeee!" the old woman keened again, smiting her fore-
head. "Is there never to be an end to the disgrace you heap upon
this house?"

"It's honest work," Anukul reasoned, "and they make much more
than you'd think. Rama supports his family and his in-laws and they
eat well."

"Robbers! Riffraff! Am I to be an object of ridicule in my own
village? Are tongues to wag and fingers to point so that I, and my
sons, and my sons-in-law, and my daughters, and even my grand-
children, cannot walk down the street for shame!"

"No one need know about it," Anukul pleaded. "The dockworkers
stick by themselves . . . who knows them? Besides, I'll wear a
dirty dhoti like the rest of them and tie a cloth around my head.

47

Nobody ever looks at dock porters. Think. You've gone down there
many times to meet Father. Can you remember what a single coolie
looked like? Ill keep my eyes open and dodge anyone who might
know me. You won't be shamed."

She became quiet and her eyes brooded over him speculatively.
"You can earn five rupees this way?"

"More." He sighed with relief. "You'll see." In deference to her
age and position in the family, he touched her feet first, then
timidly touched his mother's and sought her eyes. "Please speak
to me, Ma. Is it all right?"

Monmohini pressed the little boy closer to her breast as if shield-
ing him from some danger. "Why do you seek advice when your
mind is already made up, Anukul?" She sighed wearily. "Do what-
ever you have to do!"

Anukul found the work at the docks exhilarating. His muscles
responded to the heavy trunks as if they had long been hungry
for such exercise, and so afforded him much pleasure as the luggage
was smoothly hoisted aloft.

There was comfort also in the honesty of the crude speech and
simple behavior of his co-workers as contrasted to the insidious
pretensions and vanities of the village people.

Most of all, there was the unexpected joy in renewing his friend-
ship with Rama. Their contacts had been very few since Anukul
started school in Pabna town, but now they were together daily.
And in those times when they were both idle and resting, Anukul
marveled again at the former robber's keen insight, his uncompli-
cated picture of life, and his ability to go directly to the heart of
man's relationship to man. The healthy tiredness with which Anukul
stretched out on his mat at night and the suddenness with which he
fell into a sound sleep were very good and deeply satisfying.

But this employment was only temporary. That had been decided
by the family at the start. Though their opinion was unanimous
that any further outlay for AnukuFs education would be a sheer
waste of money, they could not accept the present situation as a
satisfactory alternative. As the summer wore on, the nagging of
his relatives increased, fueled by their growing fear of exposure.
Even Father, who came from Dacca only once a month, found the
situation painful. Shiv Chandra had long been accustomed to liv-
ing with shame, since of necessity his family must be domiciled

48

with his mother-in-law, rather than abiding in his own house. But
he was very conscious of his Brahmin ancestry and felt keenly
that Anukul's employment was a smudge on its dignity. When,
therefore, in answer to one of his many pleas to relatives, a letter
came offering a new hope, it was welcomed by one and all.

The letter was from a cousin in Naihati, who informed them that
a barrister friend of his, one Ishwar Babu, was quite influential in
the affairs of the new National Medical School in Calcutta. This
college had been established by some patriotic and political-minded
Indians to demonstrate their own ability and their independence
of the British. The cousin went on to say that if, after a personal
inspection, Ishwar Babu found Anukul a worthy candidate, he
could, and would, make it possible for the boy to enroll for his
medical studies without a high school diploma.

The entire family waited anxiously on the day that Anukul con-
sidered this proposition, and when he accepted, the sigh of relief
was all-embracing.

They were quick to offer advice and instructions regarding be-
havior in the big city; and on these matters, Grandma was clearly
the most vocal.

"Observe all renowned men closely," she counseled, "make their
ways your ways and you may yet be successful. All is not lost.
Beware of public eating places. They chop up cows' flesh, mix it
with the lentils, and then tell you it's a foreign vegetable!" And
she gave a goodly number of hair-raising accounts of unwary peo-
ple who had been so ensnared.

"Beware of loose women!" was another injunction the old woman
repeated many times. 'They are the daughters of demons. Once
they drop their evil magic potions into your tea, or touch them to
your skin, you are lost forever. Deeper and deeper and deeper
they will lure you, down the dark road of no returning. Beware!"

There were vague promises of financial help, too, but these were
based on such unrealistic expectations of probable future income
that Anukul could not take them seriously. And this was just as
well.

His cousin met him at the station in Naihati, a vigorously grow-
ing city halfway between Himaitpur and Calcutta, and they pro-
ceeded directly to the home of Ishwar Babu. The whole afternoon
was spent sipping tea and nibbling sweets and exchanging con-

49

sciously polite views on politics, economics, and religion. After this
Anukul was declared to be promising material for a doctor worthy
of India. Then his cousin accompanied him back to the railway
station. Anukul was on his way to Calcutta and a new life in a
strange world.

50

7

ANUKUL arrived at the red brick Sealdah station in Calcutta with
material assets amounting to one and a half rupees, a small tin box
with two changes of clothing, a recommendation to the National
Medical School from Ishwar Babu, and the address of a distant
cousin, Dr. Lahiri, who practiced homeopathic medicine. The
family vaguely hoped that he might give some practical assistance
to the young and struggling medical student.

The first thing Anukul noticed was that the large Sealdah
station sheltered a multitude of homeless people. Whole families
staked their claim by the simple act of laying down a blanket, or
mat, or newspapers. On these islands of private property they ate,
slept, quarreled, or amused themselves, seemingly oblivious of the
hustling hordes of porters and passengers impatiently threading
their precarious way through the maze.

Anukul was quick to take advantage of this free roof, and the
station became his home for several months. He collected dis-
carded but clean newspapers wherever he found them, and these
served as mattress and blankets a poor protection against the
fifty-degree winter temperature which was a new and uncomfortable
experience.

His cousin's estimate of Ishwar Babu's influence seemed to be
well-founded, for Anukul encountered no difficulty in enrolling for
his studies on presentation of the recommendation. Finding em-
ployment proved impossible, however. The burgeoning port city
was a magnet for unskilled labor and for students like Anukul. It
seemed there were fifty applications for every available job that
would not conflict with his classes; so that without relatives or im-
portant connections in the proper places he was not even considered.

51

As a last and desperate hope, he presented himself to his cousin,
Dr. Lahiri. All ideas of material help were quickly dashed, how-
ever, for the cramped living quarters behind the dispensary were
overflowing with family and relatives who depended on the hard-
working, mild-mannered doctor.

Nevertheless, the contact proved to be far more fruitful and
rewarding than the fulfilling of the initial purpose would have been.
The doctor was delighted with this young cousin who instinctively
had been experimenting with the homeopathic system of medicine,
and a companionship based on mutual interest and need developed
quickly. Often, too, the doctor's mother invited Anukul to share
their evening meal, and although he was fully aware of the family
circumstances and careful not to impose on their generosity, it was
a source of comfort when his hunger was extreme.

Anukul would hurry to the dispensary each afternoon after
classes to help the older man compound ointments and medicines
from the various herbal ingredients, taking great pleasure in using
equipment especially designed for this work and in the knowledge
he was gaining. When the supplies were adequate and the doctor
was out on home visits, his considerable library was at Anukul's
disposal; and in this way Anukul's homeopathic studies progressed
simultaneously with his more formal lessons in allopathic medicine.
He found that they were very much interrelated and interdependent
and that knowledge of one was of immense value in the study of
the other.

It was not long before Dr. Lahiri began discussing his patients
in detail with his young cousin. He saw that the boy's thinking
was unusually sound and helped to stimulate and clarify his own,
and that Anukul's new medicines, in many cases, gave amazingly
quick results.

Anukul became a favorite around his railroad-station home also,
and the poor overwhelmed mothers welcomed him eagerly when
he arrived in the evening. Their restless children clustered about
him because he was never impatient. In fact, his pleasure in the
children seemed to be as great as theirs in him as he tirelessly told
them stories, or led them in group singing, or devised games which
would occupy their attention and could be played in the limited
space available. And whenever he felt faint from lack of food, he
gratefully accepted one of the mothers' invitations to share their
meager meals.

52

One night, just as he had arranged his newspapers and prepared
to fall asleep, a train discharged a rush of passengers and Dilip
literally stumbled over him.

"Rajah! What are you doing here in Calcutta!"

Anukul jumped to his feet and the two friends embraced
warmly. "I'm going to the National Medical School."

"Bully!" Dilip said enthusiastically. "That's just bully!"

The first warmth of recognition became a little uneasy. Although
it was less than a year since the friends had parted, Dilip had
changed greatly. He was dressed from head to toe in English clothes
and had acquired a mustache and goatee of foreign cut which gave
his face a strange look.

"How are you doing at law school?"

"It's a bloody bore, old chap." Dilip pulled a wry face, then
winked gaily. "However, by giving the right presents to the right
people, I'll squeeze through." He became conscious of Anukul's
newspaper bed, of the little tin box with books and notebooks piled
neatly on top. His eyes began to flit nervously around the station
in a too obvious effort to ignore these circumstances.

"I'm looking for work," Anukul explained. "Things are very hard
at home."

"Don't I know it." Dilip laughed heartily. "Every month I ex-
pect my allowance to be cut ... so far so good, though." He stared
at the toes of his polished English boots in an effort to hide his
embarrassment. "Look, Anukul, I've been on that bloody train for
four hours. I'm starved. Come and have supper with me. There's
an awfully good restaurant I know about."

"I just had supper." This was not altogether a lie, since he had
accepted a slice of melon from a fellow station dweller a short time
before.

"Force yourself to eat another one." Dilip laughed. "It will give
us a chance to talk."

"But I have a seven o'clock class. I'd better get to sleep."

An awkward silence fell between them. Suddenly Dilip blurted,
"What the hell are we doing? We know each other better than this.
Tonight I'm the Rajah. I command you to eat with me!"

Anukul laughed. "I haven't got a pice."

"I know that." Dilip stooped to take the books from the tin box.
"Come along."

Anukul carefully folded up his newspapers and placed them in

53

his box, and armed with his belongings, the two friends went to
dinner.

Dilip regarded the rosy grape he was about to pop into his
mouth, meditated on it for a moment, and then tossed it playfully
so that it fell into the valley between Shanta's ample and mostly
exposed breasts.

"Oh, you!" Shanta scolded teasingly, and plucking the grape,
placed it in her mouth.

"I have a friend," Dilip mused, falling back against the cushions
and clasping his fingers behind his neck, "a dear, sweet friend
. . . and pure. Yes. I'd be willing to bet my last rupee he is still
pure . . ."

Shanta's eyes shadowed with suspicion. "A student?"

"Yes, a poor, lonely student ... far from home."

Beneath wary eyes, the painted smile waited with polite in-
terest.

"He must be saved." Dilip sighed. "I lie awake nights worrying
how I can save him."

"He is in danger?"

"The greatest danger. He is about to become a religious fanatic."

"That kind?"

"Not at all." Dilip sat up and hugged his knees to his chest.
"That's the whole point ... he most definitely is not that kind! But
the seeds are there ... no doubt about that. Inherited, most likely.
His Ma was always a bit queer." He smiled engagingly at Shanta.
"Now I've decided that there's only one way to save him. He must
be shaken up a bit. Brought down to earth. Made a man among
men." He winked knowingly. "And your house, I think, is the best
there is."

Shanta lowered her eyes. "You know my policy regarding stu-
dents. You are an exception but the rest are rude and troublesome.
This is not that kind of house."

"My friend is not rude. I can promise you there will be no trou-
ble."

"They don't know how to keep quiet. Families are forever hear-
ing rumors and going to the authorities. Then the bribes go up. I
cannot afford this."

"He has no family in Calcutta and I assure you there will be no
trouble. We will simply come here for tea; and it must be a nice

54

one. I will pay for it. And there must be rashaghollas! Don't for-
get that, please. He is very fond of them. Well, then, we'll let
nature . . . and the little French Jenine . . . have their way. I'll
pay the regular rates for you and Jenine, of course."

"Jenine!" Shanta laughed shortly. "How little you know. Several
of my other girls would be better."

"I will leave that to your judgment," Dilip demurred gallantly.
"If the plan succeeds, I also offer a bonus of five rupees."

A spark of genuine interest lighted the almond eyes. "Ten rupees,"
she countered. "I will handle the boy myself."

Dilip was startled at the figure. "Six rupees," he bargained. "I
cannot pay more."

Shanta eyed him closely, trying to determine how important this
prank was to him. "Ten rupees," she said flatly. "I do this unwillingly,
as a personal favor to you. I cannot take less."

Dilip considered the matter for some time, as Shanta waited
calmly.

"It is understood," he capitulated, "that if the plan is not suc-
cessful, there will be no bonus."

"That is understood." Shanta smiled with smug complacency.

"Why so quiet?" Dilip laughed, linking his friend's arm with his
own.

"I really don't know." Anukul gazed about the untidy neighbor-
hood, wondering to himself why the raucous cries of the inhabitants
evoked such a nostalgic tug within him.

"It's not much of a street," Dilip apologized, "but the house is
nice and my friend is adorable, and after all" he nudged Anukul
playfully with his elbow "we're not snobs, are we?"

A foreign woman opened the door for them. She was dressed
in a strange garment, reaching from armpits to knees, and her
blonde hair fell loosely down her back. Palms together, she bowed
politely. "Madame waits for you," she murmured, and led the
way through a large room lavishly strewn with silken pillows of
every hue of the rainbow, and on to a smaller, though no less color-
fully inviting, room beyond.

Two women arose and bowed low to them. The first was an exact
replica of the one they had followed, except that her hair was red.
The second was a somewhat older Indian woman. "This is Jenine,"
Dilip said, indicating the first, then, nodding to the second, "Shanta."

55

The women quickly placed plump, silken pillows for the young
men. Dilip seated himself and watched his friend from the corner
of his eye. Anukul followed suit and regarded the women with
interest. It was puzzling, he thought, how the idea of foreignness
could play on one's feeling of acceptance. Jenine's scarlet lips, her
rouged and powdered cheeks, seemed natural enough ... or at
least all of a piece with being foreign, while the same coloring on
Shanta's pretty oval face produced a disturbing, masklike effect.

Shanta knelt beside him, proffering a brass tray which held an
assortment of sweets, the centerpiece being an exciting pyramid of
rashaghollas. Anukul smiled with pleasure. It had been a long time
since he had enjoyed his favorite treat. But as he reached for the
rashaghollas, Shanta's perfume enveloped him, pressing about him
like a vise until, with a sensation of alarm, he seemed to be strug-
gling against strangulation. "Ma!" some childhood memory cried
within him, and her vision appeared instantly, stern and disap-
proving. He refused the sweets. Dilip's eyebrows shot up in sur-
prise.

"You are a student, I understand?" Shanta murmured.

"Yes. National Medical School," he answered.

"You must be lonely and confused here in our big city," she
sympathized, "but don't worry. You'll get used to us."

Dilip winked, and as if to give instruction, slipped his arm
nonchalantly about Jenine's slim waist, drawing her close. Her long
red hair spilled over his white jacket.

So that's what it was. Anukul drew a deep breath and pulled
himself erect, but he was somewhat at a loss as to what to do next.

Dilip got to his feet, drawing Jenine up with him. "Enjoy your-
self." He laughed. "Remember. In Calcutta, I'm the Rajah. See you
soon."

Shanta sighed as the door closed behind Dilip and the French
girl. "Now we can be comfortable," She laughed softly at the boy's
rigid silence. "You're bashful," she teased. '"Well, don't be. There's
no need." She arose gracefully, and taking a wide mat from a low
shelf, deftly unrolled it upon the polished floor. Anukul watched her
movements, unable to move or speak, or to believe fully that things
were as they seemed. The dark eyes teased him and the little painted
face smiled seductively as she tossed several pillows onto the mat,
and then like a dancer, arranged herself among them, supporting

56

herself on one elbow. "Come,*' she coaxed, "come and rest with

?>
me.

Anukul got to his feet with clumsy haste. "I understood that we
were invited only for a cup of tea. It has been a pleasure. I have
no time. I must leave now, Ma."

The painted mask convulsed and a glare of awesome rage took its
place as she leaped menacingly to her feet. "You dare to insult mel
To say I am old enough to be your Ma!"

Anukul took a step forward, but in the same instant, she scram-
bled past him and locked the door. She leaned her back against it,
laughing with glee as she untied the key from the corner of her
sari and dropped it down into her blouse. "Now!" she cried trium-
phantly. "What will you do?"

The mask she wore now was one of extreme and fascinating
cunning. How many faces this woman had! "Why do you lock me
in?" he asked calmly. "I wish you no harm."

She moved away from the door, head held regally high, body
swaying. "It will cost you ten rupees for the key."

"I have no money." Anukul spread his hands helplessly. "There
has been some dreadful misunderstanding, as you can see. I have
no money at all."

For some time they stared at each other in silence. The painted
face appeared again . . . soft eyes, sweet curve of lips. "You see
how it is," she coaxed. "Your friend wishes you to enjoy yourself
... for this he will pay. Be nice." She crept close, touched his arm
gently. "What harm is there?"

A great sadness filled his heart. He placed his hand gently on
her shoulder and pushed her away. "My friend does not under-
stand me. I cannot stay, Ma."

Her face slackened and several masks jostled for position before
one of abject supplication settled. "My son is in an orphanage. You
understand how it is with such things. There must be money for an
education. Otherwise what chance can such a child expect in this
life? It is for his sake that I must have the rupees."

"But I have no money," Anukul reminded. "Let me go, Ma. I wish
only good for yourself and your son. No loss can result from a
kindness . . ."

Shanta sighed with exasperation and her face became shrewd
and crafty. Dark eyes flickered over him. "If I tell your friend that

57

I have succeeded with you, will you contradict me?"

Anukul gazed at her with such compassionate intentness that her
eyes fell uncomfortably away from him. "I need this money," she
muttered defensively.

"You may say whatever you have to say . . . surely."

"It's a bargain then." Still without looking at him, Shanta unlocked
the door and held it wide.

Dilip had apparently been on guard, for he appeared almost im-
mediately after Anukul left. "Well?" he cried excitedly. "Did it
work?"

Shanta placed the rolled mat on the shelf and turned on him
angrily. "Why do you bring me innocent children still full of their
mother's milk? What manner of person do you think I am?"

Dilip's face fell. "He refused you?"

"I refused him!" she spat. "Please pay for the tea and leave. I am
sick of your stupid games."

Dilip opened his wallet, and with rather ill grace, counted out
the agreed amount and tossed it on the low table. "I knew it should
be Jenine," he grumbled. "I thought so from the first."

"Leave my house!" Shanta ordered. "And don't come back here."

"That suits me just fine!" Dilip glowered. "This is not the only
house in this city . . . nor the best!"

With his hand on the doorknob, however, he paused for a long
time, then turned and smiled at her. "Look, why must there be hard
feelings? So the trick failed? It was all in good sport."

Shanta stared at him in cold silence.

Dilip fingered his wallet anxiously. "I'll split the bonus with
you," he decided, and drawing out a five-rupee note, held it toward
her. "What do you say to that? Are we still friends?"

Shanta made no effort to take the note. He placed it on the table
beside the tea money.

"Farewell, then, until next time." He reached the door and had
it open when once again he found himself hesitating, seemingly un-
able to continue to the front door.

"Oh, what the hell . . ." He re-entered the room, and grinning
sheepishly at his extravagant and unnecessary impulse, he took out
another five-rupee note and placed it with the first. "What the
hell . . ."

Long after he had gone, Shanta continued to stare, with a wonder
that was close to fear, at the two unexpected banknotes.

58

8

ON THE street, Anukul once more found himself experiencing a pang
of nostalgia and he paused with a sense of familiar enjoyment to
listen to the shouts and cries of the people, the general pervasive
noisiness of the slum district. Of course! This was Rama's world
the world that had formed the background for so many of the
former robber's colorful stories. Smiling with the excitement of
adventure, he began to walk deeper into this area rather than head-
ing back for the railroad station.

He walked slowly, as did the woman ahead of him, but for
obviously different reasons. The tired, raggedly clothed woman
held a baby in one arm and carried a rope-tied bundle with her
other hand. A heavy basket sat on her head. A second child, about
eighteen months old, clutched at her sari and stumbled along after
her, whimpering pitifully. "Shut up," the woman chanted auto-
matically about every ten steps.

Anukul quickened his stride and caught up with her. Bowing
politely, he asked, "Would you permit me to carry the little boy,
Ma? He is tired and I am walking the same way you are/'

She stopped and looked him over suspiciously, then sighed. "If
you like," she answered indifferently, and began walking again.

The child went limp in Anukul's arms and he was startled to find
that the small body scorched his chest. "How long has he been in
fever?" he asked anxiously.

The woman stopped again. "Does he have a fever?" She frowned
worriedly. "I thought he was hungry. There was no food today and
we were evicted. We will be at my brother's soon." She sighed
wearily and commenced walking at a slightly quicker pace.

"He is quite ill," Anukul informed her, cradling the child lower

59

in his arms in order to examine him more closely as they moved
along.

"He'll die before he's five, that's sure," the woman stated matter-
of-factly. "All my children do. Nobody knows the ways of the
Supreme Father . . . but perhaps he is merciful.'*

After several blocks, they turned into a narrow alley that opened
onto a small courtyard with a row of one-story mud-brick cottages.
The yard teemed with shouting children and the woman pushed
her way through them, leading Anukul to the very last cottage.

There were several women of different ages in the single room
and they greeted Anukul's companion excitedly, taking a grim sort
of pleasure in hearing all the details of the eviction. They filled the
air with good-natured curses directed impartially at landlords, the
British, and the weather. Only when the woman finally got around
to telling them that her son was sick did they take notice of Anukul.
They clustered around him to peer curiously at the child.

One young woman ran to the room's only piece of furniture, a
narrow mat-covered bench upon which an old man slept. "Wake
up, Grandpa." She shook him roughly and without ceremony. "Wake
up. Rani's son is sick. We need the bed."

The old man sat up, grumbling, and rubbed his red-rimmed
eyes. And the women, all speaking at once, informed him of Rani's
eviction and of the sick child. He got off the bench, stood for a
few moments blinking at the feverish child, and then shuffled across
the room where he sat down with his back to the wall and went
back to sleep.

Holding the child with one arm, Anukul turned the filthy mat
over. It was not much better on the other side, but there seemed
to be no alternative, so he laid the child down gently. "He needs
medicine," Anukul informed the mother. "I'll get it as fast as I can,
but it's some distance from here."

Rani gasped and turned to the oldest woman. "Is there any
money?"

"No! No!" the old woman cried excitedly, pointing to the smoking
stove and the large soot-covered rice kettle. "Everything went for
supper. Everything."

Anukul made his way across the large city to the dispensary with
all possible haste. Dr. Lahiri was very kind about giving him the
needed medicine after listening to a description of the symptoms.
He also gave him a small cotton blanket, worn but clean, to protect

60

the patient from the dirty mat. Anukul was deeply grateful.

He placed the medicine and blanket in his tin box, which he had
left there after classes in order to have tea with Dilip's friend un-
encumbered, and taking up the box and his books, returned to the
unhappy cottage in the heart of the slum district.

The men of the household, one thin, nervous, and sharp featured,
and one squat, heavy muscled, and very dark, had arrived during
Anukul's absence. Now that the men were home, the women were
more retiring. Also there were only four women now, so the rest
must have been neighbors, but their number had been augmented
by a variety of children.

The men watched curiously as Anukul cleansed a small bowl with
boiled water, and filling it about one-third full, carefully added a
few drops from each of three different medicine bottles.

"Do you have a bit of sugar?" Anukul inquired of the child's
mother.

She ran from the house, and standing in the center of the court-
yard, bawled, "Does anyone have sugar? A tiny piece of sugar for
the love of God? My baby is ill! The doctor asks for sugar!"

"Are you a doctor?" the dark man asked Anukul, looking with
suspicion at his cheap rope sandals and coarse cotton dhoti.

"No. I am a student at the Medical School."

The man nodded, satisfied, and squatting down beside Anukul's
tin box, displayed a bold curiosity by leafing through one book
after another.

Rani returned and proudly proffered a lump of sugar. Anukul
broke off a piece and dissolved it in the liquid. "He'll need more
later," he said quickly, lest someone would think he was through
and pop the sugar lump into his own mouth. Rani placed the rest
of the sugar in a cup and set it on a shelf.

Anukul held the child in his arms and pressed the edge of the
bowl to his mouth; but the little boy whimpered and turned his head
aside, rejecting it. He held the small face steady and poured a bit
of the liquid over the child's mouth. After a moment, the whimper-
ing stopped and the small tongue appeared, exploring the parched
lips. Anukul smiled and tried again. This time the child drank with-
out trouble. Taking the clean blanket from his tin box, he spread it
over the dirty mat, and laying the boy on one half, covered him
with the other.

"Why do you wrap him up in this heat?" the dark man demanded.

61

"He needs to perspire. The blanket will help the medicine."

Two little girls entered with armfuls of banana leaves which had
apparently been washed at the corner well, since they trailed water
across the floor. The women quickly arranged the leaves on the
floor ... a row of four for the men, and with a passing nod to
convention, another longer row for the women and children a slight
distance away. The old man arose from the wall and shuffled to his
place. The rest of the family seated themselves. Without ceremony,
Anukul was instructed to sit with the men. The rice was dipped out
onto each leaf and thin lentil soup was spooned over it.

When the meal was over, Anukul returned to his patient and ex-
amined him carefully. He was in deep sleep and Anukul was satis-
fied. "He'll need more medicine in about four hours," he instructed.
"Ill mix it for you now . . . except for the sugar. Put that in just
before he takes it."

"Maybe you can tell me what to do with this." The dark man
held up his leg, exposing a red, dry rash on the inside of his thigh.
"I keep oil on it but the damn thing won't clear up. It itches like the
devil."

Anukul examined the rash closely. "No, oil won't help. It needs
salve. I'll bring you some tomorrow after my classes, when I come
to see the boy."

"Where do you live?" the man asked.

"At Sealdah station."

The man smiled sympathetically. "This place beats that. Why
don't you stay here?"

Surprised, Anukul looked around the small room and at the
rather large number of people.

"This is only for the women and children," the coolie laughed,
following his gaze. "We men have the whole roof to ourselves!"

This invitation was accepted with the same simple ease with
which it was presented, and a new, satisfying, and very busy life
evolved for Anukul.

Word that help and medicine for the sick were available without
fee spread rapidly throughout the area. Before the week was out,
Anukul found himself conducting a mushrooming, and not un-
profitable, medical practice. Even though his patients had very little,
the handfuls of rice, the cabbages, pumpkins, and fruit which were
brought in, piece by piece, became so plentiful that not only did

62

the household of his benefactor eat well, but there was a daily
surplus to distribute in the courtyard.

The choicest of all donations were carefully set aside to trade
with Dr. Lahiri for the ingredients Anukul needed to concoct his
salves, ointments, and medicines. For these ingredients, he also
scoured the city's parks and public gardens. As his practice grew,
however, there never seemed to be enough hours in the day;
Anukul began to teach the older children how to recognize the
needed herbs and plants; and soon they were usefully employed in
exploring the public gardens for him ( and it was suspected, a num-
ber of private gardens as well).

He was appalled by the filthy living conditions in this area of the
city. Patiently, he explained the dangers of bacteria to his patients
and their families, and stressed the necessity for simple cleanliness.
The courtyard in which he lived responded quickly to his presence
and lessons and the dilapidated area took on a new appearance
and dignity. The children complained, of course, at the increased
number of buckets of water that must be carried from the corner
well. But at the same time they constantly brought in their friends,
proudly displayed their clean courtyard, and let them test the
pungent limestone odor of the outdoor privy.

One evening a neighbor woman, who did laundry for English
women, entered the cottage and proudly presented Anukul with two
linen sheets and several snowy white bath towels, explaining that he
must take them on his calls to save the ignorant from bacteria.

He smiled sadly into her flushed, enthusiastic face. "These must
be returned," he explained kindly. "Stolen property cannot help
anyone."

As her face crumpled with disappointment, he added, "It was a
wonderful idea, Ma. And I have a feeling that if you would ask
your mistress for old, worn, or torn linen, she would gladly give it
to you. That would truly be a great help."

A few nights later she was back again, this time with an armful
of worn but clean linen. Doctor Babu had been right, she beamed.
The mistress was very nice when she knew it was for sick people.
The woman bragged a bit about her accomplishment and soon
washerwomen bearing such gifts were not uncommon to the cot-
tage. The men in the neighborhood found the materials somewhere
and built Anukul a fine big cabinet for his growing supplies. It

63

seemed that everyone in the courtyard, old and young, male and
female, was busily engaged in finding things to do that would help
the young student practice his way through medical college.

As in his childhood, Anukul delighted in exploring different ways
to and from school, and the possibilities for this pleasure in the
large city of Calcutta were endless. One evening as he was return-
ing from the dispensary, he heard someone call from a second-story
window, and looking up, saw a woman. "Please wait, Babu," she
called. "I'll be right down." She disappeared before Anukul could
have a good view of her, and emerged a few moments later. She
was dressed in a simple cotton sari, and except for a modest beauty
mark on her forehead, her face was sweet and clean.

"Imagine!" she cried exultantly. "All day long I knew you would
pass today. I felt it even this morning, and about an hour ago the
feeling was so strong that I just sat in the window . . . and here
you are!" She noticed AnukuTs bewildered look. "Can't you rec-
ognize me? I am Shanta."

Anukul smiled, and placing palms together, bowed in greeting.
"How are you, Ma? Do you live here?"

"Yes," she said. "Let's walk along while I tell you. There's so
much, I don't know where to begin, and truly I can't stand still."

They walked a short space in silence and then Shanta began her
story more calmly.

"For ten years I have had a terrible hunger for my own son; when
you spoke like my son . . . well, it unleashed the hunger, do you
understand? I was miserable with longing. I thought of nothing else
all day, and every night I dreamed. I even thought I would write
a letter to the orphanage where I had left my son long ago. I said I
was a Brahmin widow of modest means; that I was lonely and
would be happy to devote my life to helping them care for the chil-
dren because my own were dead. The English like that sort of per-
son, you know. It was bound to succeed. Wasn't that a brilliant
idea?"

Anukul smiled with tender affection, but he shook his head ever
so slightly.

"That's just it!" she cried excitedly. "Exactly. Every time I tried
to write that letter I saw your face! Shaking your head just as you
did now, and I could not write the lie. When this happened day
after day, I grew very angry with you. Finally I sat down and wrote
a letter to the orphanage telling about me, that I wished to reform.

64

I said that since they were Christian ladies, they would surely wish
to assist me in this endeavor by allowing me to work for them.

"Well, as soon as I posted it, my anger went away and I saw what
a very foolish thing I had done. Because I'd given them my name
and address, don't you see, and they would go to the authorities im-
mediately. When the English complain, it is very serious. You know
that. So, there it was, I had ended my dream. But do you know, I
was not frightened. Truly! I just thought, well, there it is, and I
went home and waited for them to come and lock me up. But this
did not happen."

She stopped, clasping Anukul's arm to stay him. "The ladies wrote
me a letter and asked me to come and see them! I did this. I can-
not tell you how it was . . . the moment I stepped in the door, I felt
you everywhere. I have never been so happy ... or so afraid.

"The ladies talked to me of many things ... of my childhood
and how it was I had learned to speak and write English. They
wondered if I might be able to teach this to the children. Me! And
when it was over, they said there was great need for me at this
home. And they welcomed me." She clasped her hands tightly and
stared at the sidewalk. "Can you understand this?"

Anukul gazed at her and a great joy filled him. There was no
trace here of the misused body . . . the assortment of masks. Here,
in this unexpected abode, was woman as she must always be ...
behind the veils, the fagades, the barricades . . . the incorruptible
woman, the creator. "I understand," he answered softly.

She relaxed, smiled and sighed. "It is too much to hope, I am
afraid, that I would know my son ... or he me. He was only a little
baby when I left him and I gave him no name."

"His head may not know," Anukul agreed, "but he will remember
your smile, your touch, your presence, and his heart will feel you
and be comforted. And you" Anukul's eyes were luminous with a
deep inner glow "you will know him surely."

Shanta blinked her eyes rapidly and bit her lower lip. "Perhaps
that would be even harder." Her voice faltered. "With so many
motherless children, it would be difficult not to indulge and favor
him above the rest."

Anukul smiled. "This is a foolish fear. When the shades are drawn
from the window of love, the light shines fully on all who pass by."

65

ON A late June day in 1906, Anukul sat on the school steps and ex-
tracted a letter from his anatomy textbook. There was no need to
open it. Only two days old, it was already limp from much reread-
ing and the astounding information was always the same. A bride
had been found for him! He was to return to Himaitpur in the
month of August for the wedding!

He had known, of course, that such a thing would one day hap-
pen. He was aware that for several years eligible girls from the
proper Brahmin families had been considered seriously enough to
reach the stage of an exchange of horoscopes. Yet the event had,
somehow, always seemed vague, a matter for the future, and the
fact that the right time had finally arrived simply would not pene-
trate to the point of reality.

The bustling, festive atmosphere of his home, when he re-
turned early in August, was paced with an underlying melancholy.
Grandma had died of a stroke shortly after he left for medical
school, and though he had grown mentally accustomed to the loss,
the emotional impact that her absence from the house occasioned
was severe.

On the first evening after his arrival, he performed a loving liba-
tion ceremony beneath her cherished Bel tree. He remembered, and
carefully observed, all the intricacies of the particular traditional
rites in which she had believed and found her comfort. Afterward,
far into the evening, he sat with his back to the tree trunk, and
comforted by the muted night sounds, remembered her.

The twelve-year-old Khepu was very much excited about the
forthcoming wedding and teased Ma constantly. "When you choose
my bride she will be beautiful, won't she, Ma? The most beautiful
girl in all Bengal?"

66

Monmohini brushed the hair from his damp forehead and patted
his cheek indulgently. "She will be good, Khepu. That is more im-
portant."

"But beautiful too," the boy persisted. "Good and beautiful . . .
please, Ma . . . promise."

Monmohini smiled. "We'll see ... we'll try . . ."

"And she must be very rich and have a large dowry!" Khepu
stated decisively, stroking Ma's arm. "For when I am a man all
your bangles must be solid gold!"

"What a dreamer you are," she scolded gently. "As if such things
mattered." But her eyes twinkled and the curve of her lips was
meltingly soft.

Anukul watched the affectionate companionship between Ma
and his brother with a trace of the old childhood ambivalence,
marveling anew at Khepu's bold attitude with her and her easy and
loving acceptance of it. He himself, even as a man about to be
married, was still painfully shy in her presence and most often
awkward as well.

He longed, also, to hear some information about his bride and
lingered with Monmohini at every opportunity, hoping that she
would ignore the old rule that the groom was the last to know any-
thing. She did not seem inclined to do this, however, and Anukul
felt it indelicate to raise the subject himself.

After the ceremony he realized that any prior information would
have been meaningless. What could they have told him? That
Saroshi Devi was five years his junior? That she had a sweet face?
That she was accomplished in cooking, sewing, and singing . . .
was reserved and soft spoken? All these qualities became insignifi-
cant beside the total awe and yearning tenderness that filled him
from the very first glance. He felt both honored and fearful, as if the
Supreme Father had entrusted to his personal care and safekeeping
a most cherished possession.

On the morning that he must return to Calcutta, leaving his bride
to be directed and trained by Monmohini, Saroshi Devi knelt and
touched his feet, asking instructions for the time of his absence.

"Be sweet with Ma," he requested. "Her ways are not always
clear, but know this surely, Ma seeks only the best from each one of
us, and if you obey her patiently, your reward will be great."

With a new sense of responsibility, Anukul drove himself to even

67

greater lengths. He was meticulously careful in preparing his papers
and examinations at school and worked tirelessly, sometimes
throughout the night, caring for the sick of the slum community.

His world of coolies, porters, handymen, charwomen, thieves, al-
coholics, and prostitutes had missed him sorely during the month's
absence; and after his return he was everywhere within the district
surrounded by the grateful and devoted inhabitants. They vied to
carry his books if he were on his way to or from school, and his
tin box, which was now a medical bag, if he were visiting patients.
They sought advice on personal problems or simply wished to hear
him speak to others, or to be in his presence. "A walk with Doctor
Babu," they said, "makes the whole day better."

The entourage often grew into a parade, with people filling up
the street for a block and others calling greetings as they waved
from windows and roofs, and these parades would have continued
across Calcutta to the school if Anukul had not discouraged them.
"I am practicing without a license," he reminded them. "It is not
prudent to attract so much attention." This they understood.

At the end of each term he returned to Himaitpur, and every time
the wonder of Saroshi Devi deepened. She accepted responsibilities
from Monmohini without ostentation, and an intimate and loving
bond between the two women was steadily growing. This was a
great joy for Anukul.

In this way five years went by and Anukul began the examina-
tions that marked the end of this life. He was well prepared for the
final tests, since his years of practice had made him very much con-
scious of the theories involved, and he passed all the written ex-
aminations with ease. On an autumn morning of 1911, he entered
the physiology classroom where the last oral examination was to be
held. The subject was midwifery.

Three professors sat in austere dignity while one of them ex-
plained, "We will each ask you one question. Indicate, please, which
professor you would like to have the first question from."

Anukul stood quite still. Throughout his college years he had
been keenly opposed to the manner in which the curriculum at-
tempted to separate and isolate information; now that he was leav-
ing, it seemed suddenly necessary to call attention to this defect.

"All matters pertaining to midwifery are closely interrelated," he
explained softly. "An adequate answer to any must necessarily an-
swer all. If you will give me all three questions now, I will demon-

68

strate this by answering them with only one reply/'

His three examiners looked at each other in shocked surprise.
Such effrontery! With one accord they rose and left the room.

With a sinking heart, Anukul knew that he had lost his diploma.

A diploma had never been a matter of consequence to the slum
dwellers, however, and his farewell party began early in the morn-
ing and went on until the late evening train time. They had built a
dais for him in the court and covered it with fine mats, bright
shawls, and comfortable pillows; and there he sat in state while the
people of the district streamed in to bid Doctor Babu godspeed.
Platter after platter of the most delectable foods were presented to
him. The pile of gifts was a miniature mountain.

When the gifts, which included such expensive items as jewelry,
a leather suitcase, and embroidered saris for his wife and mother,
first began to arrive, Anukul was deeply touched. Knowing the
desperate need for every available pice among these people, his
first impulse was to decline, to insist that the gifts be taken back
and the many donations returned.

But at the same moment, he was conscious of a new air of con-
fidence about them: that heads were held high and shoulders
straight while their manner exuded the security of well-being. Yes-
terday and tomorrow's poverty had drifted away like a morning
mist. At this time, these were men of substance, and Anukul knew,
with his whole being and for all men, what heretofore had been
only a subconscious knowledge of self: How enriching it is to
give.

10

IN 1911, medical needs in India were many and facilities and doc-
tors, especially in the outlying districts, were practically nonexistent;
so that when Anukul returned to Himaitpur after six years of study
and began to practice medicine without a diploma, there was little
comment, nor, for that matter, any enthusiasm.

Whatever disappointment Monmohini Devi must have had con-
cerning Anukul's failure to secure a diploma, she kept to herself.
She accepted his decision to practice and from the beginning co-
operated, quietly and matter-of-factly, to this end. Grandma's de-
scendants had increased, and the rice field which had been purchased
with her dowry, and was a mark of great affluence at that time con-
tributed very little to the needs of her many children, grandchildren,
and even great-grandchildren.

Also, Khepu was finishing high school at Pabna. He was a good,
steady student, giving trouble to no one, and it was his own and
the family's wish that he continue his education by studying law in
Calcutta. For this, funds would be necessary.

As in his student practice, Anukul found it impossible to fix any
fees; he healed upon request; and it was not unusual for him to
empty his pockets of whatever annas he possessed in order that
the patient's family might provide the prescribed diet. Most of his
patients, after recovering, brought him food rather than money, and
whatever they chose to give was warmly accepted.

In this, too, Monmohini proved compliant, doing the best she
could to barter the growing supplies of rice and vegetables for the
badly needed rupees; and when this was impossible, distributing the
surplus food among the needy with a generous hand.

On November 19 of that year, conch shells were heard in the
cottage and beneath the Bel tree, and Monmohini Devi appeared

70

on the veranda to announce that Saroshi Devi had given birth to a
boy. Shiv Chandra's wrinkled face was wreathed in smiles as his
hope for a grandson in his old age was granted. The boy was named
Amarendra Nath. Joyous in this new gift from the Supreme Father,
Anukul worked with renewed dedication.

N

Railroad Station

In the winter of 1912, as Anukul walked along the road from
Himaitpur to Cossipore, on his way to attend his patients, he met a
Mohammedan of his village, Abu Mia. He was returning from the
market, carrying a basket on his head and a string of fish in his hand.

As Abu Mia nodded deferentially, Anukul inquired, "How was the
business today, Mia Sahib?"

"Not bad," replied Abu.

Anukul seemed to note some vague changes in the familiar fea-
tures of Abu. In order to gain some time to find what they were, he
picked up a conversation. "Why are you so poorly clad? Today the
cold north wind is blowing. You should be more careful."

Abu's reply did not reach Anukul, for he now recognized what
these changes were. His experienced eye observed a set of symp-
toms much like those which required the homeopathic remedy verec-
trum album. Anukul waited a moment to be sure, then he said

71

impulsively, "Please, don't eat those fish. I'm afraid they will make
you sick."

Abu Mia shrugged. "God has created me and one day I must die."
He continued walking on, the basket balanced on his head and the
fish dangling behind him. Anukul watched him uneasily for several
minutes until he disappeared around a bend in the road.

On his way back from Cossipore, Anukul encountered the tall,
bearded, imposing doctor, Kishori Mohan Das, from the town of
Paukshee.

"Good afternoon, Chakraborty Doctor." A sardonic smile accom-
panied this stilted formality. "I see your practice is taking you rather
far afield."

"Good afternoon, Das Doctor," Anukul replied in kind. "Yes, it
seems, unfortunately, that illness knows no boundaries."

"True." Kishori pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment. "How-
ever, we doctors with diplomas have always understood that there
are quite definite boundaries about one's practice . . . and also,
quite definite fees, namely, four rupees per visit." He glanced sig-
nificantly at the cabbage leaves protruding from Anukul's little
bundle. "You must admit that if people have a choice between pay-
ing four rupees or a head of cabbage, problems are bound to arise."

Anukul smiled. "Doctors with diplomas are in no way injured,
since the people who give me a cabbage do not have four rupees."

"Perhaps," Kishori conceded. "All the same, it is a matter that
bears watching. Another matter which no doubt is helpful to your
practice but does nothing for your popularity within the profession
are the rumors. Some of your more enthusiastic patients seem to
believe that no one who comes to you will die, and you know how
people are ... this nonsense is mushrooming out of all proportion
to any doctor's good luck in such matters. Now in all fairness to your
colleagues, I believe that you should either squelch such rumors or
divulge your amazing healing secrets to them."

"Life and death are secrets which lie in the* grace of the Supreme
Father."

Kishori threw back his head and laughed loudly. "You are a
shrewd one, Anukul Doctor. In spite of gossip to the contrary, you
have all your wits about you. Tell me, is there any truth in the story
that you declined the post of resident doctor for the big estate in
Rajshahir

"Yes. That is true/'

72

Kishori gave a low whistle. "At a monthly salary of two hundred
and fifty rupees! Why did you do a thing like that? You must know
that that position is the plum of the district. Everyone hopes for it.
You can't possibly pick up anything better by playing hard to
get . . ."

This time Anukul laughed. "I was not made for boundaries,
Kishori Doctor. I feel I must be available to anyone who seeks help
of any kind. I can live no other way."

Kishori's brow furrowed and his eyes grew speculative. "You are
up to something, that's sure ... but I'm damned if I can figure it
out." He placed his palms together and bowed his head. "Farewell.
And guard your cabbages. The jungles between the villages are be-
coming a honeycomb of thieves. Poaching on another doctor's ter-
ritory is dangerous in more ways than one."

As he neared Himaitpur, Anukul cut down through the jungle and
along the river until he reached a small, windowless, makeshift hut.
He rapped softly on the door. At first there was no response, but
after a second tapping, a thin, tired voice called, "Who is it?"

"It is I, Anukul . . ."

There was another pause, then a stirring inside, and the door
opened. Ananta Nath Roy gazed at his friend with sorrowful dark
eyes.

"I hope I haven't disturbed you, Ananta. I was returning from
Cossipore and thought we might both enjoy the pleasure of a small
chat."

Without a word, Ananta emerged from the shack and settled his
wasted body cross-legged upon the grass. Anukul sat down facing
him and gazed with concern upon the hollow cheeks and protrud-
ing ribs of his friend.

"You are fasting again, Ananta?"

"Yes." A long sigh trembled over the body. "I have mastered three
days now, without difficulty, but it is not enough. Nothing happens.
My sins are too great. I must double the number of fasting days.
This time it will be six."

Anukul smiled sadly. "What sins, Ananta? The entire village bears
testimony to your gentle and loving life among them."

Ananta's large eyes filled with sudden tears. "A man does not
lose his wife and child, his love beyond all love, for no reason. Since
the Supreme Father has taken them away from me, my sins in
former lives must have been very great indeed."

73

"There is justice and reason in all that the Father does," Anukul
agreed softly, "but such reason is not always immediately recog-
nized. Sometimes it is wise to bide patiently until the Father makes
known his plans."

The dark eyes flashed wildly. "Oh, no. Too many lifetimes have I
sniveled for understanding. That is not the wayl The reason for my
suffering is clear. I am a carrier of evil seeds and I alone can burn
them up! In this lifetime, do you hear! I will, I must reach enlight-
enment ... in this lifetime!"

This surge of emotion seemed to exhaust Ananta and for some
time he panted heavily, his eyes boring into Anukul. Anukul waited
quietly for a long time until Ananta's visage became calm again and
his breathing even.

"The village misses you sorely, my friend. Your house is bleak
with emptiness and the children gaze at your locked gate in sorrow.
They cannot understand why their friend and storyteller would
leave them . . ."

"I have nothing more for them." Ananta's lips grew thin. "When
I had a child, how easy it was to love all children . , . but now I
find the sight and sound of them painful beyond enduring." He got
hastily to his feet. "I should be meditating. I have indulged myself
overlong. You understand, Anukul . . ."

Anukul arose and embraced his friend warmly. "Won't you let me
help, Ananta?"

"No one can help." Ananta squirmed free of Anukul's arm. "No
one . . . another time, perhaps . . . you understand . . ." He backed
nervously into the hut and closed the door firmly.

Shortly after Anukul had regained the road, a bearded Moham-
medan ran toward him, shouting and waving his hands. It was Abu
Mia's uncle. "Come quickly, Anukul Doctor," he cried excitedly,
"my nephew is mortally ill!"

"What are his symptoms?" he inquired as they hurried along.

"He returned from the market," the old man recounted, "washed
his feet, and had his wife prepare a fish for him. After he ate, he
got up and began to smoke his water pipe. Then he felt a gurgling
in his stomach. After one bowel movement he felt dizzy and began
to sweat . . r

"Are his hands and feet collapsing?"

"Yes! Yes! It is exactly as you say."

Immediately on arrival at the small cottage he could see Abu

74

Mia doubled up on a thin mat at the farther corner. All the symp-
toms he noted earlier were quite apparent in his features now.
However, in order to leave no scope for mistakes, he carefully ex-
amined his patient and finally administered a dose of verectrum
album. He gave thorough instruction to Abu's uncle about the
proper food, medicine, and treatment. Two days later, Abu Mia
was back at work in the fields, proclaiming Anukul Doctor as a
miracle man to all who would listen.

A new rumor flew around . . . "Doctor Babu even knows what is
wrong with you before you get sick."

Thus the stories spread by word of mouth as Anukul tramped
the dusty roads, across rice fields and through the jungle by day
or night . . . wheedling, coaxing, and quite often affectionately
chiding his patients. "Stupid fool. I told you to keep on taking the
medicine!" Or looking into a kitchen, "You crazy woman. Keep the
kitchen clean and don't eat with dirty hands!" And most often,
"What benefit is there in being cured if you are going to throw away
your health at the first opportunity?"

75

ANUKUL Doctor had a very unprofessional habit. It was the usual
practice for a doctor to visit his patients only when called for. But
when Anukul had the responsibility of a comparatively serious ill-
ness, he was not satisfied merely to examine the patient in the usual
once-a-day routine. In the beginning he felt that such weakness was
unbecoming in a doctor, but finally his reason gave way to his feel-
ings. He would walk along the path in front of his patient's house
with the medical bag in his hand, as if going on a call that way, and
notice whether anybody could see him from there. After some time
he would walk back that way again. If he happened to see anyone
in the house or meet any of the patient's relatives on the street, he
would, in all politeness, inquire about him and ultimately walk into
the house. He was in difficulty if he failed to find any such excuse in
three or four attempts. He would then stand at the crossroad, his
hand ruffling his curly hair and his legs first taking a step this way
and then that way. Ultimately, he would shout out, "Why the hell
should I care what anyone thinks. If I'm worried about him, what's
the harm?" He would walk straight to the house and knock at the
door. Without any comment, he would stride into the sickroom and
start the examination. The relatives were often astonished and em-
barrassed by the doctor's queer behavior. Although they had not
formally called him, when he left they hastened to give him his
fee or something in lieu of it.

But Anukul always refused, saying, "I just happened to pass this
way and came in to be sure that the patient is progressing properly."

The doctor's polite refusal made them feel doubly embarrassed.
Before they could recover enough to thank him, the tall and slim
man would be walking along the narrow village path, musing over
the song he had lately composed.

76

Such unprofessional behavior was heavily criticized by his col-
leagues. He was accused of using underhand means to cheat them
of their patients. He silently listened to them with a smile and went
his way. He then left all pretense of casualness while revisiting his
patients and did it as a matter of course. His patients were pleased
to accept it as an addition to the list of many other idiosyncracies of
this unconventional man.

Harassment by roving bands of desperate and often degenerate
characters who lived by robbery, rape, and pillage had long been an
acute problem in Himaitpur and the neighboring villages.

Anukul met these men often on his trips to and from his many
patients and he never missed the opportunity to try to gain news of
the whereabouts of his old friend Rama, who, with his large house-
hold, had disappeared from Himaitpur as mysteriously as he had
arrived in Anukul's childhood.

This quest was never to be satisfied. If the surly jungle dwellers
had any information, they kept it strictly to themselves. However,
since Anukul most often carried rice and vegetables, given in lieu
of fees, which he always offered quickly and with courtesy to the
robbers before they could take them from him, he was never
molested as he tramped his way through their strongholds.

One winter night in 1913, he was called to dress the wounds of a
householder who had been brutally beaten by robbers. When he
stepped back into the street, his mind was sorely troubled about
the emotional and mental diseases which were far more insidious
and destructive to the purpose and design of the Supreme Father
than were the diseases of a physical nature.

Without premeditation or any conscious plan, Anukul passed
through the village and entered the jungle. After about a half -hour
walk, he spotted flickering tongues of fire through the tree trunks,
and made his way to the clearing.

Six men leaped to their feet as he approached, one drawing a
wicked-looking knife from a sheath at his waist.

"Good evening." Anukul bowed. "Would you permit me to rest
at your fire?" Without waiting for an answer, he sat down and rested
his back against a tree.

"Krishna," the knife holder hissed from the corner of his mouth
without taking his eyes from Anukul, "see if anyone is trailing him."

"The stars are so bright tonight," Anukul began.

"Shut upl" The dark man drew back his hand and the glittering

77

knife was poised for ominous flight. Anukul sat quietly as the men,
taut, eyes and ears alert, waited.

In time the scout returned. "All clear," he announced. "He's alone."

There was a slight relaxation. "Why do you come here?" the dark
man demanded.

"I was walking," Anukul explained. "I love the woods at night.
One feels so near the truth in such a place as this."

The knife was replaced in its sheath, and as if this were a signal,
the men resumed their seats around the fire.

"When a man owns a house," a voice grumbled, "it is easy to
exalt nature."

"Nature's palace has discomforts for the body, that is true,"
Anukul conceded, "but never for the soul. It is the true home of the
Spirit, in which the body, by its very nature, must ever be a hand-
maiden. There are more delights offered in a moment's residence
here than a mere body can assimilate in its lifetime."

Impulsively, Anukul lifted his head and began to sing ... a paean
to the creator of nature. His voice was as clear and vibrant as the
stars toward which it flew. Verse after verse he sang, the words and
melody flowing freely from the inspiration of the moment.

An old thief began slapping his thighs in a sure and steady ryhthm,
slap, slap . . . slap, slap, slap. After a while he began to hum the
melody of Anukul's song to his drumming and one by one other
voices blended in.

Suddenly Anukul jumped to his feet, and arms outspread, seemed
to be shaking from head to foot. There was a startled silence until
the men realized that he was not shivering ... he was dancing. His
entire body was alive and aquiver with a dance that rippled from
his finger tips, swelled at his shoulder, left the head tossing in its
wake; undulated the chest ... a hip ... a knee ... a calf ... a
foot. He was leaves in a breeze . . . grass in a wind.

The old graybeard caught up a wooden bowl and spoon and be-
gan to beat a stronger rhythm, and the humming of the men rose
to a note of applause and encouragement.

Then Anukul became the wind itself, leaping and swirling around
them, pausing to frolic in this corner or that, and after each pause,
leaping ever higher than before . . . straight up ... reaching for the
treetops ... the sky ... teasing a grudging gravity.

The men rose to their feet in excitement, clapping their hands to

78

the old man's drumbeat, their voices swelling as they urged him on
and on.

For more than an hour they were caught up in this dance, and
when it ended, the joyous laughter was long and spontaneous; until
at last they drifted back to their places by the fire, their eyes quiet
and wondering as long-forgotten moments, faces, or voices glim-
mered within.

"You are a musician?" Anukul inquired of the old man.

"I played around with the drums in my youth." The old man nod-
ded, a pleased smile wreathing his wrinkled face.

"You have a sure beat. It was a great pleasure to be guided by it."

"I'm rusty," the old man complained. "Been a long time since I
thought of such things and many a year longer since I saw the Kirtan
danced."

"Was that the Kirtan?" Anukul asked curiously, for although he
had heard of the ancient dance of Bengal he had never witnessed
it.

"Of course it's the Kirtan." The old man was somewhat impatient.
"Don't you even know what you are doing?"

He was quiet for a moment and then began reminiscing. "I was a
boy, maybe ten or eleven, when a holy man passed through our
village." His brow furrowed and he hunched his shoulders help-
lessly. "Who was he? Where did he come from? Where was he go-
ing? Well, I can't remember any of that, but he danced the Kirtan
and that's something I can never forget. It was that dance that made
me want to drum. The drums are very important, you know. The
dance can't be done properly without them. The cymbals, too, of
course, but the drums . . . well, that's the heartbeat. The thing that
holds it all together. The cymbals, now, they're right with the dancer
. . . maybe a jump ahead of him . . . and they spur him on and up
and as far and wide as the drums will allow. But it's the drums that
control things. Without them, a man could explode in the Kirtan."

A few nights later Anukul returned to the clearing and ceremoni-
ously presented the old man with a set of drums and cymbals. The
graybeard accepted them with formal courtesy, and as he tried them
out with professional seriousness, the thin lips beneath his tangled
beard worked with emotion and the pale eyes misted.

Thus, a new life began for Anukul. He compounded herbal rem-

79

edies and healed bodies by day, and danced and sang emotions and
minds into a saner, healthier state at night.

It was soon necessary to find a larger clearing, for the number
who gathered to dance the Kirtan with him grew rapidly to over a
hundred. The dances grew longer, too, as if leaping and swirling
together filled the men with new energies, rather than depleting
those they had. When, after several months had passed in this fash-
ion, Anukul found that the dances went on without him, he was well
pleased; arming himself with new drums and cymbals, he walked
in the opposite direction to organize another band.

By the summer of 1915, Anukul's sanity and sanctity were openly
discussed in all the surrounding villages.

"Anukul Doctor is a Saint," his patients declared.

"He should be confined," the opposition, including rather a large
number of Anukul's relatives, rejoined adding piously, "for his own
safety, of course."

"Leave him alone," said the uncommitted, who held the balance
of power. "Heavenly wisdom or heathenish whim, one thing is cer-
tain: our villages are safer than they have ever been in our time.
Leave him alone!"

Under the impetus of such controversy, it was only a matter of
time before the more brave, or curious, of these villagers began
trailing Anukul into the jungle at night; where, to their utter sur-
prise, they quickly found themselves singing and dancing with rob-
bers and exuding an amazing flow of fellowship.

One of the earliest and most constant attenders of these noc-
turnal dances, however, did not join in. Night after night, hour
after hour, Kishori Doctor prowled the edges of this seemingly mad
circle . . . peering closely at the dancers . . . stroking his beard medi-
tatively, his forehead creased in a puzzled frown. At the end of the
performance, he would invariably indulge in a cryptic remark, such
as, "Anukul Doctor's kidneys were very full, tonight," or "Good
people, let us be charitable and take up a collection to build Anukul
Doctor a privy. You can see how great his need is." Having relieved
himself by such remarks, he would be the first to leave . . . walking
alone through the jungle, whipping off the tops of the grass with
his walking stick. But the next night he was there again, still peer-
ing, frowning, and satiric.

One night Anukul jumped from the circle of dancers and em-

80

braced the scowling Kishori warmly. "Ah, Kishori . . . Kishori . . "
He laughed joyously.

Kishori struggled free of the embrace and backed away. "Don't
do that!" he cried sharply. "You are full of electricity!" He shud-
dered convulsively. "It is not pleasant." He turned and left the
clearing hastily as if fleeing from some danger, and he never ap-
peared at the jungle dances again.

81

ON AN afternoon in October, 1915, Anukul suddenly straightened up
from his work in the dispensary and stood quite still for several mo-
ments. Then tossing down his pestle, he ran to the veranda. "Ma!" he
called, racing past the kitchen. "Come with mel Quickly!"

"Where? What's the matter?" Monmohini looked out of the
kitchen window. She could see Anukul racing across the front yard
toward the street.

She ran from the house and stared for a moment at the retreating
form of her son before picking up the bottom of her sari and fol-
lowing him across the rice field. He led her down to the river's
edge and along it, jumping over obstacles. Making no attempt to
explain the flight, he did not pause until he reached the crude
makeshift hut of Ananta.

Anukul flung himself at the door of this shack, pounding furi-
ously. "Ananta! Ananta! Open the door! I have come!"

No sound came from the room, and running back a few paces,
Anukul lunged at the door with his shoulder just as Monmohini
reached the scene.

There was a dry splintering as the door gaped open, to reveal the
skeleton form of Ananta standing on an upturned ghee can, one end
of his dhoti tied to the crossbeam of the roof, the other fashioned
into a noose around his neck.

Anukul climbed up quickly and untied the noose and Ananta
collapsed, sobbing against him. He sat down upon the ghee can,
holding the wasted body of his friend in his arms as if he were a
child, rocking gently back and forth, crooning, until Ananta re-
gained his composure.

"There was no other way," Ananta explained wearily. "I was al-
most there, spiritually, but my body is done for. It can go no
farther."

82

Without a word, Monmohini stepped up on the ghee can, untied
the dhoti from the crossbeam, and covered him with it.

Ananta looked helplessly from one to the other, begging for un-
derstanding. "I will have to be reincarnated once more," he sighed,
"get myself a new fresh body. Perhaps next time the Supreme Fa-
ther will give me a guru . . ."

"Ah, Ananta, Ananta." Anukul shook his head, and rising, placed
an arm about Ananta's waist to support him. "Come," he instructed
gently as he propelled him from the shack. "Come. It is all over."

Back at the house, Anukul turned his friend over to Monmohini
to be bathed, fed, and rested; and when this was accomplished, he
asked her to instruct Ananta in the methods of worship and medita-
tion which she had taught Anukul so many years before.

Ananta learned the ritual and took the necessary vows, which
made his old friend, Anukul Chandra, his Guru. Thus the gentle,
devoted, and religiously zealous Ananta became AnukuFs first dis-
ciple.

The stories of the jungle dancing and the speculation as to
AnukuFs sanity were raging now, and many of the village people
who were dancers begged Anukul to dance in Himaitpur with the
whole group. "There is no way to tell people," they pleaded. "They
must experience the exultation . . . see for themselves."

Anukul agreed quite willingly, since dancing now had become
as natural a form of motion for him as walking. The village dances
began and grew, sending stories and rumors even farther afield than
had the jungle festivities.

One evening, just as the chanting which preceded the dance be-
gan, an aristocrat named Shyam elbowed his way through the
crowd to AnukuFs side.

"Doctor Babu," he began, bowing slightly, "I have some very im-
portant guests at my house . . . from Calcutta . . . most renowned
men who have expressed a wish to see you dance. Would you honor
us by coming now for dinner and the evening?"

"Of course." Anukul beamed delightedly, and rising to his feet,
called to all around him. "Come! Come! Shyam-da has invited us to
dinner at his house. He wishes us to dance there!"

"No ... No ... No ..." Shyam protested excitedly, but the
cheers and enthusiasm of the dancers drowned him out. "No . . .
No ... No ..." he continued to cry helplessly as he jogged after

83

this frightening multitude surging down the road, dancing and
singing their way to his estate.

In high spirits, twirling in and out of the crowd, pausing to em-
brace now one and now another, Anukul invited everyone they
encountered to come to the party at Shyam-da's estate.

At the home of Debendra Sanyal, a respected villager, he came
to a stop, his head bent to one side as if hearing a voice. He broke
away from the crowd and ran through the gate. "Come!" he sang.
"You have worried too long about these debts. They have been with
you always. Isn't that so? And they will be here a long time more.
Don't let them master you with worry. They are robbersl Live and
love! This is your true birthright!"

Debendra jumped to his feet, and stuffing the scattered papers
into a drawer, locked it after them as if Anukul himself were a
robber.

"How do you know about my debts?" he cried in alarm. "Who
has been gossiping about me?"

"No one is talking." Anukul laughed. "Come see for yourself! Come
with us and be free!" Without quite realizing that he was doing so,
Debendra locked up his house and became one of the growing crowd
of guests bound for Shyam's house.

Some distance ahead of them the tall, arrogant figure of Kishori
Doctor, with arms folded across his chest, silently watched them ap-
proach.

"Kishori-da!" Anukul greeted him warmly, "I have missed you.
Don't frown. Life is joy! It is all so simple. Come! Come with us to
Shyam's!"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Kishori rejoined dryly, and
turning, paced alongside the dancing throng until finally they arrived
at the estate.

"What can I do?" Shyam stood beside Anukul, wringing his hands
in frustration. "How can I feed these people? I am not prepared!"

"Don't worry." Anukul laid a kindly hand on the aristocrat's arm.
"You will be the most generous of hosts, and the people will long
remember it." And at that moment men, whom Anukul had quietly
instructed along the way, began arriving with rice, fruit, and vege-
tables.

The dancing had been going on for several hours. Anukul's body
seemed to have become so light, as if it were suspended in air, the

84

feet never touching the ground. Afterward, many people testified
that a dazzling luster emanated from him. He began to sing in a
voice strange and ethereal and his eyes climbed heavenward.
Abruptly, Anukul fell to the ground unconscious.

Kishori, who had been watching closely from the sidelines, pushed
himself through the crowd, and kneeling, placed his fingers on
Anukul's wrist. His eyebrows flew up in alarm. "There's no pulse!"
he cried, and then angrily shouted at the dancers who had stopped
and were drawing close, "Stand back! Get away from here!" He
pressed his fingers more firmly on the wrist, and tested the chest
area, in an effort to hear Anukul's heartbeat; then he raised one of
Anukul's eyelids. An expression of profound sorrow crossed his face.
"It must have been a heart attack," he murmured.

"All is Supreme Soul!" Anukul's lips parted and their movement
was barely perceptible, yet the tones were clear and vibrant.

Kishori felt for the wrist pulse again, and probed here and there as
his face twisted with bewilderment.

As if answering Kishori's profound confusion, the ringing voice
continued: "Though consciousness be completely immersed in an-
other, yet individual consciousness is not lost."

He recited several scattered words in English and then some-
thing that had the rhythm of verse, but it was spoken in a language
which was not known to any of them. A long silence ensued. Then
Anukul's eyelids fluttered open, and with the help of Kishori, he
raised himself to a sitting position. He asked for water immediately
and many ran to fetch it. He revived rapidly but seemed to have
no memory of, or explanation for, the words he had uttered.

The following day, as Anukul sat in his dispensary studying slides
through a magnifying glass, Kishori appeared and with a slight nod
seated himself before him.

"Are you in need of my services?" asked Anukul, smiling.

"In a way, perhaps. I am always curious about things I do not
understand. And I cannot understand how you managed that trance
last night. You don't, either. I know that. Well, I've decided to get
to the bottom of these things and I hope you might be able to rec-
ommend a guru who has specialized knowledge in this field."

"I cannot think of a guru who specializes in relieving curi-
osity. . . ."

"Well." An embarrassed smile played with the corner of Kishori's
mouth. "There's a little more to it than that, I suppose. As a matter

85

of fact, I've been feeling depressed lately. I have a sensation of
something being locked up in me . . . something that needs expres-
sion. Do you understand?"

"Of course." Anukul closed his eyes for a moment. "In West Ben-
gal there is a renowned guru ... he lives in the city of Murshidabad.
His most devoted disciples, I understand, are intellectual people,"

"That will be fine." Kishori got to his feet quickly, very much
relieved to find a painful situation over and anxious not to press his
luck in the matter. "Accept my gratitude. Perhaps I shall go to see
him."

The dancers soon accustomed themselves to Anukul's trances.
After the first experience, he revived from them with renewed en-
ergy; the dance went on with hardly a pause, the drums and the
cymbals continuing, though softly. The dancers circled around
the limp body in hushed expectancy, waiting for the words and
phrases, the strange languages, which although not understood,
nevertheless impressed them with an electric sense of meaningful-
ness.

A growing number of devoted followers, from his own and sur-
rounding villages, refused to leave him at any time. They sat wait-
ing outside his dispensary as he worked, made the rounds of his
patients with him, and slept in Monmohini's courtyard after the
evening's dancing was finished.

Shiv Chandra viewed his son's devotees with a mixture of awe
and concern. "How are we to feed them?" he worried. "They are
guests in our house . . . they must be fed."

Anukul smiled a little hesitantly at Monmohini and Saroshi and
his smile was accepted and returned by both women.

Monmohini organized the ever-changing household and accumu-
lating responsibilities with her usual stoic efficiency . . . evincing
neither surprise, nor pleasure, nor displeasure.

Saroshi Devi followed her lead. She willingly prepared the vegeta-
bles and rice, cooking and serving from early morning until late at
night.

Anukul himself seemed to be on fire with the love that spontane-
ously expressed itself in his joyous dances and captivating music.
This amazing energy was independent of the usual requirements for
sleep or rest. From time to time, wherever he might be, sitting or
reclining, he would drop into a sound sleep for an hour, often less,

86

and awaken fully rested, ready to resume the strenuous round of
activities.

Several weeks after Kishori's first visit to the dispensary, he re-
turned. "Why did you send me all the way to Murshidabad?" he de-
manded unceremoniously.

"Your journey was not fruitful?" Anukul inquired.

Kishori eyed him sternly for a long moment, then, with a sigh,
seated himself. "I made many inquiries about this Guru. All was
satisfactory and I presented myself to him and requested that he be
my teacher. Do you know what happened?"

"No."

" 'Why do you come to me?' he asked. 'The man who sent you is
your Thakur.' "

"Thakur?" Anukul was puzzled.

"Thakur!" Kishori repeated somewhat impatiently. "Thakur ... a
Guru of exceeding spiritual attainment."

Anukul sat for some time in silence, his brow slightly creased, his
eyes steady. Suddenly he laughed. "Thakur also means a cook," he
reminded Kishori.

"At any rate" Kishori sighed again "while I admit, frankly, that
I do not understand these things, my desire to learn is sincere. I
wish to become your pupil."

Monmohini initiated Kishori Mohan Das and that evening he
joined the singing, dancing throng. "There's something to it," he re-
marked self-consciously the next morning. "The exercise is good for
the system. I feel ten years younger."

Kishori thus became Anukul's second initiate and disciple. The
two doctors worked side by side in the small dispensary and con-
sulted together on the symptoms and diagnoses of their patients'
ailments, ever aware of the dynamic interaction between mental
and physical health and careful to administer to both simultaneously.
Kishori became an enthusiastic advocate of the Kirtan and a zealous
missionary into the distant villages, cities, and jungles where he or-
ganized and led group after group.

Kishori always called Anukul "Thakur," and this title was en-
thusiastically adopted by the large following.
Anukul watched Monmohini closely for some sign of pleasure

87

or displeasure toward the new, and somewhat exalted, mode of
address. There was no hint of either. She accepted and used the
name "Thakur" with an ease that made her seem completely unaware
that a change had taken place.

88

As THE year 1915 drew to a close, AnukuFs trances were attracting
widespread attention. Men of science and newspapermen, ardent
seekers as well as the curious, traveled to Himaitpur from cities
throughout Bengal. Experiments of all kinds were conducted on
him to discover the "trick"; and such crude and primitive methods
as probing the flesh with pins and applying burning coals or heated
metal were not excluded.

Reluctantly, the investigators were forced to an astounding con-
clusion. Anukul seemed to have no heartbeat, no pulse, and no nerve
reaction to applied stimuli during these trances; yet the voice did
issue from this seemingly dead body and the many languages in
which he spoke were authentic. "There is no scientific explanation,"
they generally agreed, "but this is not normal and we believe it is not
good."

One lawyer from the district court of Pabna, Ashutosh Adhikari,
arrived from curiosity, but he was immediately overwhelmed with a
belief that here new spiritual history was in the making. He left his
practice and remained in constant attendance on Anukul. Armed
with notebook and pencils, he faithfully recorded every word of
English or Bengali that was uttered in the trances. A typical entry
reads:

"All is Supreme Soul." "Illusion is the expression of Spirit." "I was
latent in me." "Expand the charity of home." "The whole creation is
you, no doubt, the Spirit. I am the sound of your Spirit." "First
shake your heart . . . the world will shake in due time." "Love and
Name can conquer I." "Give heart to heart and win hearts." "Love is
Heaven and Heaven is love."

Invariably upon reviving, Anukul asked for water and drank it
thirstily. But when the words he had spoken were repeated to him,

he seemed to remember nothing . . . nor did he display much
curiosity concerning the messages, nor seem to attach much signifi-
cance to them.

Adhikari treasured his notes, however, and was constantly mourn-
ing the fact that he was able to capture only two of the many tongues
in which Anukul spoke. As the visitors to Himaitpur increased, this
shortcoming was remedied to some degree and other languages were
recorded and translated. Adhikari's notebooks became famous, were
studied by many scholars of both religious and scientific bent, until
at last they were published and widely distributed in a book en-
titled Puny a Puthi (Holy Book).

Satish Chandra Goswami was a Kula-guru by reason of being a
direct descendant of Adyaita, who in turn was the favorite dis-
ciple of the fourteenth-century Bengali prophet, Chaitanya. Conse-
quently, Goswami-ji was Guru to several thousand disciples.

Since the Kirtan had originally been introduced by Chaitanya, its
revival was a matter of great interest to Goswami-ji. Together with
a small group of his own disciples, he set out for Himaitpur to
investigate.

It was nearing midnight when the group arrived in the village.
But their inquiries as to where Anukul might be found were quickly
satisfied. The gathering was taking place in the courtyard of the
householder Promotha.

The dance was in full swing when Goswami-ji reached the court-
yard, and he stood silently on the outskirts, along with numerous
other investigators, to watch the proceedings.

The Kula-guru was immediately caught up with excitement as the
dancers bounced lightly past him. This was truly the Kirtan! The
dancers, reacting to the cymbal's ching-ching, leaped straight for
the sky, and were drawn back to earth by the drumbeat. This
earth contact served to send them into ever higher and higher
leaps; and their rapt faces were glowing with- ecstasy. It was not
necessary to have Anukul pointed out, for this dancer rose and fell
with a buoyant grace that left the watchers breathless . . . and there
was indeed an aura of light, a vibrating radiance, surrounding him.

An hour after Goswami-ji's arrival, Anukul fell into a trance and
there was an immediate surge of investigators about him. Three doc-
tors knelt at his side, moving their stethoscopes from place to place
about his body. An old Indian in English attire squatted at Anukul's

90

head and gingerly selected one hair at a time, jerking it free of the
scalp as he intently scrutinized the face for some reaction.

A younger man came running with a pan of red-hot glowing
coals, and using tongs, placed one on Anukul's shoulder and two on
his chest. The coals sizzled and the acrid odor of burning flesh arose,
but the form of Anukul remained inert.

Goswami-ji jumped forward and pushed his way through the
circle. He brushed the coals angrily from the inert body. "Are you
animals!" he complained, and turning sternly to the dancers, "Why
have you allowed this!"

"It doesn't harm him," they cried defensively. "You will see for
yourself that nothing can harm him."

"Oh, Goshai, Goshai, you have come." Anukul's trance voice
vibrated with welcome.

Goswami-ji straightened up slowly. "Goshai" was a name used
only by his closest disciples.

"Deoghar is waiting," the rich voice continued. "We will make
haste to Deoghar." The voice broke suddenly into song; the tempo,
although foreign, was clearly a marching rhythm, but the words
were chanted in a language which no one there understood.

"Deoghar is a city near Calcutta," Promotha puzzled. "Why would
he leave us to go there?"

"We will go, too." Voices rose in a chorus. "Wherever Thakur
goes, we will go."

Anukul's strange marching song came to a close; after a pause,
he said in distinct Bengali, "My Lord, let me go now. I am quite
unable to remain any longer." His chest rose and expanded, heaved
for a moment or two, and then fell into the normal breathing rhythm.
Anukul sat up and opened his eyes.

"Ah, Goshai." He smiled, extending his hand to the amazed Kula-
guru. "Would you give me water?"

One of Goswami-ji's disciples quickly brought the water, but
as he was about to proffer it, the Kula-guru intercepted him, and
kneeling, put the glass to Anukul's lips with his own hand.

"Why are you going to Deoghar?" Promotha worried. "Let them
come here if they wish to see you ..."

"Deoghar?" Anukul was puzzled.

"Read to him, Adhikari," several voices cried excitedly.

Adhikari cleared his throat importantly and read the notes he had
just taken. Anukul frowned ever so slightly as he shook his head.

91

Then jumping lightly to his feet, he began dancing once more.

Goswami-ji watched throughout the night as the ecstasy of the
singing, dancing throng became his own. In the morning he retired
in seclusion for several days of prayer and meditation. Then he
returned to Anukul and requested initiation. This was given by
Monmohini and the Kula-guru became Anukul's third disciple.

Upon the advice of Goswami-ji, many of his disciples were
quick to follow his example; and so the first mass initiations took
place, making Anukul, in a very short space of time, the Thakur or
spiritual leader of several hundreds of devotees.

Visitors from nearby towns and villages, who had rushed to see a
modern miracle, constantly pleaded with Anukul to return home
with them. Their belief that contact with Thakur Anukul Chandra
would reduce crime and bring about the sane spirit of well-being
and brotherhood which now pervaded Himaitpur was great and
Anukul agreed to accept their invitations.

He organized a group of dancers and musicians for a three-week
tour which would carry them through many of the towns and vil-
lages around Himaitpur.

Among the dancers chosen for this expedition was one Beru Roy.
Beru was a member of the local anarchist party which was pledged
to overthrow the British Empire. Attracted by the large groups
which surrounded Anukul, Beru had joined in the hope of recruiting
members for his own party. As in the case of so many who were to
follow him, however, it was not long before he was enveloped with
Anukul's love of God and he too danced and sang for joy . . . paying
less and less attention to his duties in the anarchist party.

When Anukul suggested that he join the tour group, Beru was at
first elated. After a few moments, however, his face fell. "I can't do
it/' he mourned. "If I fail to keep my weekly parole appointment
with the police, I will be arrested again/'

Anukul laughed. "The Supreme Father will not reward your ef-
fort to ignite love with punishment. Come along and see if this
. >.
isn t so.

Three weeks later, Beru returned in a state of spiritual intoxica-
tion, declaring loudly and repeatedly to all who would listen that
"any life not absorbed in God is ridiculous!"

In that mood, he stormed the police station and insisted on ex-
plaining his new faith . . . enthusiastically exhorting them to leave

92

their sordid task of hounding men and save themselves by joining
the Kirtan groups.

The result of this action was that the authorities closed the
dossier on terrorist Beru Roy, with the comment, "No longer dan-
gerous. Gone religiously insane . . ."

This short tour proved so successful that inquiries and requests
for further trips began pouring into the village of Himaitpur. Feel-
ing that his followers could manage without him, that indeed it
might be beneficial for them to do so, Anukul Thakur with his three
prime disciples, Ananta, Kishori, and Goshai, began a lengthy
journey. They crossed the great northern branch of the Padma
to Kushtia, dispensing medicine by day and religion by night; then
moved on to another town. Everywhere they were greeted with
spontaneous enthusiasm, and always they left groups of men devoted
to love behind them.

Anukul sang of love ... all kinds of love. His song began with
something near at hand ... a blossom ... a tree ... a bit of earth;
then growing, swelling, ringing with beauty and truth, it followed
the process of evolution, embracing wider and wider circles, until
at length beast, bird, blossom, and man were swept together in one
great rush of Love for the Infinite.

And in these times, when the men of the world had lined up
against each other with the hideous intent and purpose of killing
... or being killed . . . when the senseless monster of wanton
destruction that was World War I reigned supreme, the people were
hungry for love.

Although Anukul constantly pleaded with his new devotees to
stay where they were ... to cultivate the seeds they had received
in themselves, so that they might blossom and spread to others . . .
the numbers about him who could not bear to leave him grew daily
until it seemed that he was borne over mountains and through
valleys on a sea of humanity.

Onward they moved. Through the districts of Jessore and Mymen-
singh, to Puri in Orissa ... to Benares in Uttar Pradesh.

One afternoon in the autumn of 1919, as Anukul and his three
disciples sat gazing at what appeared to be endless wave on wave
of exalted faces, lifted skyward, singing joyously of love, Kishori re-
marked, "It seems a miracle, truly . . . and yet, Thakur, I find myself
wondering sometimes if it will last when you are gone. The inspira-

93

tion of your presence is a steady energy flow ... if only you were
able to go and be everywhere at once . . . and at all times/*

Anukul gazed at his disciple and colleague for a long time in
silence, and those who were near distinctly felt that the two men
shared a profound sadness.

That evening Anukul did not dance, but spoke long and softly
to the disappointed numbers who gathered around him:

"Love caught in a moment of rapture will fly away. If you would
give yourself to Love . . . abide in Love ... it must be drawn care-
fully through your every thought . . . shape your every word with
its free flow . . . determine every act of your body.

"And this must be so whether you are at work or at ease . . .
whether you deal with friend or foe. This is the only way that Love
can be of service to you, and through you to all/'

For three days he talked earnestly in this manner to all who came
to him, and on the fourth day he quietly boarded the train, together
with Ananta, Kishori, and Goshai, for the return to Himaitpur.

Physically, the village had not changed during Anukul's absence.
From the train he watched, with a great sense of pleasure and
comfort, the Padma River flowing serenely through the jungles and
rice fields which intertwined throughout the area. But there were
changes for Anukul . . . both of joy and of sorrow. Saroshi Devi had
borne him a second son, Vivek Ranjan, and he eagerly anticipated
the reunion with his family. His beloved Monmohini, however, was
a widow now, for Shiv Chandra had died the winter before, and the
thought of her suffering filled him with an aching agony.

Although he had not announced his intention to return, word
had reached the village and the people turned out en masse to wel-
come him back.

His devotees had arranged for a mammoth dance that evening.
"It will go on for days," they assured each other as they happily
collected rice and delicacies for the feast that would accompany the
dance.

But in this they were due for disappointment. Anukul did not
dance that night . . . nor ever again. The Kirtan which had swept
him to heights of fame and fortune in Bengal, and seemed about
to expand and spread this fame to all of India as well, was aban-
doned . . . quietly , . . firmly . . . and with only this explanation:

94

"Oft, you who would my devotees be,

With hope for power and riches;

Dont make me your lord and master.

Beware!

If the mastery within awakens not

You have neither master nor center.

Deceiving you shall be deceived."

95

PART TWO

THE BRANCHES

I SAT with Thakur on a knoll overlooking the village. The last peal of
the school bell was still ringing in the air when the happy cries and
calls of children released from their studies reached us. These voices,
muted by distance, evoked a quick nostalgia for my own childhood.
Thakur sat quietly, gazing about him with a meditative air and exud-
ing that strange and comforting peace which I loved so much to
experience. I began pondering the many stories I had collected about
his own childhood.

How was it possible, I puzzled, that this man, even as a small
child, could have lived among people and not been recognized as a
saint. How stupid people were! Blind and deaf to everything of
value. Frittering away whole lifetimes with their petty, personal
concerns. No wonder the world was in such a mess! If a child such
as he had been, could be scolded and cuffed for the very virtues that
set him apart . . . what hope was there? How could Monmohini
ever have been displeased with him?

"Your mother was cruel!" I blurted out . . . immediately shocked
by the sound of my voice in this stillness, and at the words that
had escaped.

Thakur turned his kind, blue eyes on me; they began to widen
and glow until I felt myself hopelessly floundering in their depths.

"The stories they tell me ..." I explained miserably, trying to
squirm my way out. "I mean, some people seem to think that she
preferred your brother Khepu . . . that she never understood . . .
when you were young, that is ..." I gave up ... overwhelmed with
shame and confusion.

Thakur continued to hold me in his gaze for some time. When he
did speak his voice was as calm and soft as always. "People may say
what they like ... or think what they like about my mother. But

97

know this surely. If my mother had not been what she was ... I
would not be what I am."

I caught up a small stick and began aimlessly scratching at the
earth, trying desperately to think of something responsible to say
that would erase my fit of childish temper.

"What is that you are scratching with?" Thakur asked.

I looked down in alarm, fearing that I had unwittingly picked up
and misused something valuable. But it was only a small dry twig.
I held it up so that he might see.

"Where did it come from?" he asked. "From what tree?"

I hunched my shoulders helplessly.

He smiled. "It came from the branch of a fig tree. If you would
know the truth of any phenomenon, Hauserman, never overlook the
source. Cut off . . . isolated, that twig doesn't seem to have much of
a story, does it? But if you can broaden your vision, place it back
on the branch as it were, link it up with that marvelous, miraculous,
life-sustaining network . . . from earth to root to trunk to branch to
twig! Then you will begin to see another story. Isn't that so?"

The idea ... or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, the
motion of the idea . . . had an expanding effect on me as if old
knots which I really had not been aware of were loosening, allow-
ing the peace which I always experienced in Thakur's presence to
reach new levels. I nodded gratefully, unable to find any words to
communicate my feelings.

"Behind the gross there is the fine," Thakur continued kindly, "and
behind the fine, there is the finer. And so it goes until you reach the
source that nourishes all that is with the same generous flow. This
source is Love. See as much as you can, always. In this way your
vision will grow."

I continued to collect and record the stories that were told of
Thakur, even though my notebooks, by their growing number, were
beginning to be something of a problem to me, and the object of a
great deal of amusement and good-natured teasing from my room-
mates.

But I had been tuned to a finer key, and as I listened with my
new ear, I realized that words, even at their best, would never be
more than tiny twigs . . . behind and beyond them stirred the
branch, the tree, the roots ... the miracle.

98

i4

AT FIVE o'clock on the morning after his return to Himaitpur, Thakur
emerged from his room to find the courtyard full of devotees . . .
seated cross-legged, patiently waiting to greet him. His large eyes
studied their expectant faces.

"Why are you all here?" he asked seriously.

A happy expression swept over them. The smiles broadened.

"We are here to attend you!" an ecstatic voice cried. "We have
foregone all our worldly ties in order to serve you."

"Am I so weak as to need a host of personal attendants?" He shook
his head. "The Supreme Father is not pleased with idleness. If you
would serve him, devote your working hours to meaningful activ-
ities."

"We want to serve with love and prayer!" a middle-aged man
protested. "Do you deny the Prophets of all ages who have said,
'Believe in me and all your needs will be granted?"

"The most fertile soil for love is labor," Thakur persisted. "Prayer
without actioais a rootless vanity and will never be effective."

A stocky man whose glossy beard was peppered with gray jumped
to his feet.

"I owned a factory," he cried belligerently. "I have worked all my
life and I have been thrifty. When I discovered you in Jessore . . .
when I experienced divine love dancing the Kirtan ... I was in a
position to sell all I owned and follow you. I am beholden to no
one. There is more than enough money to provide the needs of
myself and those I am responsible for. I have earned the right to
search for God!"

"Money is useful to men," Thakur admonished firmly as his dis-
ciples, Ananta, Kishori, and Goshai, walked through the entrance
to the veranda and stood beside him. "The price of love is labor."

99

The stocky man spluttered helplessly for a moment, then laughed.
"Be reasonable, Thakur. This is a poor village and we followers far
outnumber the other residents. Would you have us take their employ-
ment, their only means of livelihood, away from them? Would the
Supreme Father look kindly on such labor?"

"We will take employment from no one, for there is, everywhere
and always, far more to be done than there are those willing to do
it. We will labor for love and the fruits of our efforts will be in-
creasing love and prosperity for all." Thakur called six men from his
audience by name. "If you would come with me," he explained, "we
will seek labor. Ananta, Kishori, and Goshai will call others. The
rest, who want to work, may wait until we return for you. If you
do not wish to take this path, do whatever you will."

Leading the six chosen men, Thakur proceeded along the road to
town until he reached the cottage of a young widow. On this door
he knocked.

"What is it?" The widow's voice was anxious as she recognized
Thakur and his followers. "I have nothing to give you. I know that
you are holy men, but truly I have nothing."

"We seek only the privilege of working for you."

"But I can't hire you!" She became alarmed. "Don't you under-
stand that I am a widow? I have nothing at all except four small
children and an old mother-in-law who must be fed. And how this
is to be accomplished, I don't know. I worry night and day that we
will starve. I have nothing!"

"We do not seek pay," Thakur assured her, "only the privilege of
working."

The widow fell back a step and studied the men carefully. Every-
one knew this new religion was a little crazy . . . but Thakur had
always been honest and kind . . . and he did cure people for
nothing. She opened the door wider. "My vegetables are choked
with weeds," she complained. "I spend all the time I can with them
but the weeds grow faster than I can get them out. And the back
wall is a shambles so that even the little there is gets stolen."

Thakur took the arms of two of his companions and drew them
forward. "Kesto and Taluqdar will build you a strong wall and see
that your garden thrives."

"I can't pay," she reminded him.

"It is not necessary," he reassured her.

The two men, a former lawyer and a schoolteacher, were as be-

100

wildered as the widow herself, but followed her meekly into the
house. With the remaining four, Thakur started on down the road.
They had gone only a short distance, however, when the widow came
running after them.

"My roof . . ." she began upon reaching them, then conscious of
their surprise, she dropped her eyes and a blush crept over her face.
'It leaks," she stammered uncomfortably. "It is miserable in bad
weather and we can't use the bedroom at all so that we must spend
days and nights together in the kitchen . . . which is small . . . and
that leaks too . . ."

Thakur smiled at her confusion and placed a comforting hand
upon her shoulder. "It will be mended. Whatever you need, it will
be our pleasure to do."

And so it went, this new but welcome madness of Monmohini's
eldest son, begging from door to door for labor.

The wealthy were not excluded, nor for that matter were they shy
of availing themselves of such a windfall. They had long wanted
running water and modern plumbing in their homes, but the village
afforded no men who were skilled in such labor, and importing
artisans as well as materials was considered too expensive.

A group of followers, guided by Thakur, quickly learned what was
necessary for this work and were soon engaged in drilling tube wells
and installing septic tanks for those landowners who were willing
to supply the materials. For this labor, the owners contributed to
Thakur's movement anything they wished to give.

Contributions began to pour in. With all compulsion to pay re-
moved, gratitude rose easily to expression; and most people, taking
another look, found that they were not quite so impoverished as
they had thought. There was always something, however little, that
one could part with.

An accounting system was established and men assigned to it in
order that the flood of gifts, together with the daily offerings made
to Thakur by his followers, might be used and distributed with the
greatest efficiency. Tracts of jungle land, which interspersed the out-
lying cottages and surrounded the village, were very cheap, and
these were bargained for and purchased as soon as sufficient funds
were accumulated. Whenever a man had a free hour or day, he be-
came busily and strenuously engaged in clearing this land.

Needless to say, there was a sharp dropping off among Thakur's
devotees. Men who had followed him without funds trusting that

101

chance, charity, or heavenly benevolence would supply their daily
needs decided, after a few days in Thakur's work brigades, that
their old jobs with fixed hours and wages were not so bad after all;
while disillusioned men of means set off in search of a guru nearer
their heart's desire. In the first days of his return there were over
three thousand devotees in the village. The largest part had followed
him home; others, having heard of his return, had flocked in from the
surrounding towns. But within two months there were slightly less
than five hundred left.

This winnowing of the chaff from the wheat, however, had a very
healthy and stimulating effect on those who remained. They em-
braced the new concept of "labor for love" wholeheartedly, and their
enthusiasm generated its own energy so that each man accomplished
the work of many.

Dreams of electricity, schools, factories, and hospitals, sprouting
like spring flowers in this new and energetic climate, linked them-
selves to the three basic practices which each disciple had accepted
on initiation and which were the basis of Thakur's faith.

The principles themselves grew more meaningful with practice
and were a constant inspiration in achieving the objectives they were
now aimed toward. These principles were:

Jadjon: to exalt others through active service ... or in Thakur's
words,

"To roam midst family, friend, and foe with the mission and
tidings of thy Lord. To serve all in his name with every compassion
to make them proficient for existence."

Istobritty: a daily love offering ... or,

"If the offering is achieved through energetic volition and ability,
it renders one abler and abler, gradually. And makes one rocky in
his stand. It generates an undaunted energy within when others
quiver in the blast."

Jawjon: to meditate on the Mantra every day.

"The word that vibrates in all life, within 'and without, is the
hunger to be united from molecule to man. When that word behaves
into life, blood, and flesh, the word is incarnate. It is the word with
behavior that is the existence of all."

After hovering at their lowest ebb for a few months, the ranks of
Thakur's following began, slowly but steadily, to grow again. Many
could be found sitting in quiet corners at home or in the fields at
dawn, noon, or dusk, engaged in deep meditation.

102

Those villagers who had remained aloof from the song-and-dance
era now found themselves caught up in the dreams of progress. They
marveled at the integrity and industry of Thakur's disciples, and at
the wonders which these men, who had started with nothing at all,
were accomplishing. One by one they too began requesting initia-
tion.

Visitors continued to come, also, and although these were a mere
trickle compared to former days, they were thoughtful and serious
men and many returned later to stay.

One evening two Moslems from the village appeared at Thakur's
cottage. "We have come for initiation," they announced. "We have
watched what you are doing and we believe that your prophet is
greater than Mohammed."

Thakur shook his head. "Don't come to me if you wish to change
your faith. Your Prophet is as dear to me as every other."

"But the teaching of Mohammed has no instructions for building
and doing all these things you do. We need a guru who is concerned
with here and now . . . not yesterday and tomorrow . . ."

"Although prophets must fashion their words according to the age
and conditions of the time in which they appear, yet they all speak
the same truth which is eternal for all men of all times. How is it
possible to love one above another? Ram, Krishna, Buddha, Moham-
med, Christ . . . How can a name change anything? Leave the words
aside if they confuse you. Meditate on the Saint himself . . . the
spirit ... the purpose and emotion of his life. Then you will under-
stand."

The young man's lips thinned sarcastically. "You won't take us.
That's what you're saying, isn't it?"

"If you seek to change your faith, I can be of no help to you."
Thakur smiled suddenly. "Only look," he coaxed. "In a single day
you make many appearances. You begin in a wrinkled nightshirt,
with sleep-filled eyes. You work in your paddy fields and your body
glistens with perspiration and your garments are streaked and spot-
ted with earth. You bathe in the river . . . and you are naked. In
the evening there is a feast ... a wedding perhaps . . . and you array
yourself from head to toe in all the finery that your wife has lovingly
laid out for you. Now suppose that your child were to say quite
seriously, *I love my father only when he goes to weddings'?" He
pondered the two men for several moments. "Don't be distracted by
the garment, brothers. Cleave to the beloved prophet of your birth.

103

For he is your most precious link with the Supreme Father of us all."

The more aggressive of the young men swept Thakur with a
hostile glance as he shrugged his shoulders. "They said you wouldn't
take us I was a fool to think you would/'

"If a Moslem comes to me with sincere desire to love Mohammed
with all his heart ... to serve him with all his being ... I would
receive him with open and joyous heart."

The Moslems withdrew, sullenly and without ceremony. In less
than six weeks they were back again, this time accompanied by
three friends. The same young man who had assumed the role of
spokesman on the first visit did so again.

"We have studied the teachings of Mohammed every night," he
explained after bowing politely, "and we see that you were right and
that he is a true Prophet. We wish to love him completely, although
there are questions that disturb us. We respectfully request that
you become our Guru."

Thakur jumped lightly to his feet and the startled and momen-
tarily embarrassed young man found himself caught up in a tight
and laughing embrace. Each of his companions, in turn, experienced
this spontaneous, electrifying show of affection before Thakur led
them to Monmohini for initiation.

They were the first of many from the Moslem community to make
their way to Thakur's door. As the traffic increased and they began
taking residence beside the Hindus, the walls of social and economic
exclusiveness that had separated the two peoples during all the gen-
erations they had shared the same villages began to disappear.

Missionary work for Thakur's "Labor for Love" movement began
early. During the days of ecstatic song and dance, when followers
sought initiation by the hundreds and thousands, Thakur had
selected men of exceptional ability and sensitivity, and trained them
to administer the vows and rites of initiation. They were called Rit-
wiks and they combined the functions of teacher, preacher, apostle,
and adviser for those who sought to follow Thakur's conception of
life.

One such Ritwik, named Trailakya, who had attached himself to
Thakur during the song-and-dance tour, followed him back to
Himaitpur and remained to become a most enthusiastic devotee.
When it was decided that men were needed to learn how to sink
tube wells and install plumbing, Trailakya had volunteered at once,

104

learned quickly, and developed into one of the most skilled, ener-
getic, and inspired workers.

On an evening as the first year of their return to Himaitpur was
drawing to a close, Trailakya appeared among the group that sur-
rounded Thakur, knelt to touch his Guru's feet, and then began
hesitantly,

"I feel a restlessness that plagues me night and day. I cannot con-
jquer it by myself. I need your help/'

Thakur smiled encouragingly but remained silent, waiting for
Trailakya to continue.

"I have traveled since my youth," Trailakya explained. "There
was nothing to hold me in one place. Habit is strong. Here I have
known more happiness than I ever dreamed possible . . , and yet,
when I am working, or even taking meals with my brothers in this
wonderful fellowship, I seem to see the faces of people everywhere,
in factories, on plantations and farms, and in villages ... for I have
known many. And they seem to cry out with all the misery I have
known and witnessed. I want to carry your message of hope to them.
At night I dream that I am on a train or a boat and hungry people
cluster around me; and I always have food for them ... no matter
how many come. When I awaken, I tell myself this is vanity, for I
have no qualities to make me a leader of men. But every night I
dream again. I know that my work is needed here, and I am proud
to be a part of all that is growing . . . Yet every time the water rises
in a new tube well, the desire to go on a journey rises in me. I have
prayed and meditated but it is no use. I need your help to bottle up
this foolish desire."

Slowly, Thakur shook his head. "My dear Trailakya, can't you see
that all your difficulties arise because the desire is bottled up?
Harken always to your innermost voice. It is the true guide to in-
dividual development. You must go on your journey."

Trailakya's face went blank with surprise for several moments.
Then he prostrated himself before Thakur and remained in this posi-
tion for nearly a half hour. When he arose, his eyes were aglow with
gratitude. "When shall I plan to go?" he asked.

"Tonight," Thakur answered softly. "You have waited overlong."

The Ritwik's face grew very serious. "What shall I tell them? I
am not an educated man. Perhaps if you ... or one of the scholars
. . . would write a speech for me, I could memorize it."

Thakur smiled. "Such a speech would be a pale shadow of your

105

desire. Have no fear that you will lack words. Only accept your
desire as yourself and let it flow freely. Whatever words are needed
will be with you." He arose, and raising his eyes to Heaven, in-
voked a blessing for Trailakya and his work; and all who were
present bowed their heads. "Go in faith and peace. The Supreme
Father will be with you," he said when he had finished.

Trailakya lingered. "There is pain in parting. Suddenly I am afraid,
for I don't know how it will be not to see your face and hear your
voice . . r

"I will never leave you," Thakur promised. "If you have need of
me, only look within. You will find me there as close as your heart-
beat/-
And thus Trailakya, the first missionary of Thakur's Labor for
Love devotees, began a journey that took him through Mymensingh,
Dacca, Noakhali, and Chittagong, leaving a trail of men initiated,
instructed, and devoted to the new way of life. On into Burma he
traveled, and families gathered together in Mandalay, Pagan, Merk-
tila, and Pegu to form communities according to Thakur's teaching.
Many more missionaries were to follow this trail blazer, so that as
the years passed, the subgroups became stable, linked each to the
other by a flow of communication to and from their Guru, Thakur.
At Himaitpur, a community kitchen with space for the stoves, bins,
and tables that were necessary to prepare food in such large quan-
tities, had been established shortly after Thakur's return. In this
kitchen Monmohini worked from sunrise until late at night, or-
ganizing and supervising the work of Saroshi Devi and the village
women who came daily to help. Often throughout the day she would
retire to the veranda with one initiate or another who had come to
her with spiritual or domestic problems. Or she would give them
instruction in deeper forms of meditation ... or perform the initia-
tion rites for new members.

When the kitchen was tidied up after the -evening meal, Saroshi
and the women returned to their homes and families, but Monmo-
hini, seemingly blessed with the same boundless energy as her son,
worked alone far into the night . . . setting things up for the morn-
ing meal, making quantities of chutney or sweet jam when the fruit
ripened, or spicy tomato and cucumber pickles.

Every night during these hours, Thakur found an opportunity to
slip away from his own activities and spend an hour or so with her.

106

He recounted the progress and experiences of the day, talked over
plans which had crystallized and others which were projected.
He always welcomed her advice and often sought it.

They had been talking this night of the new school system and the
problems of the teachers, who had mostly been university professors
and who found the small children overwhelming at times. There had
been a lively discussion in the community before the name Tapovan
had been chosen for the new school, and this subject was mentioned
also.

Monmohini pushed the dough she had been kneading aside, and
rinsing off her hands, sat down on a low bench facing her son.

"It is time that we had a name also," she said quietly. "We are
more than two thousand people now and we occupy more than half
of the village. We are a stable community and we are growing . . .
both in numbers and in territory. It is no longer proper that we be
referred to simply as your people."

Thakur stared at her in amazement. With all his working, with all
the planning and organizing from day to day of that which was
needed and useful, the fact that he was building an intentional com-
munity had never once occurred to him. That such a community ac-
tually existed filled him with wonder.

"Yes," he murmured. "Yes, I suppose we should have a name/'

Monmohini folded her hands in her lap. "The name Satsang oc-
curred to me some time ago, and it stays with me. It reminds me of
my Guru, Hazur Maharaj."

Thakur continued to gaze at her wonderingly. " 'Sat,' " he mused,
"from the Sanskrit root 'sti/ meaning existence. And 'sang,' meaning
a fellowship, a brotherhood ... a company." He arose and walked
slowly over to her, dropped to his knees and touched her feet. "It
shall be Satsang, Ma. The company of lovers of existence, and we
shall be Satsangees."

"It is a good name," Monmohini said, and rising, returned to her
task of kneading dough. "You must give a great deal of attention to
Taluqdar, Anukul. Men who have learned a great deal have a great
deal to unlearn. It is not easy for him."

"Yes," Thakur agreed, "I know."

They fell silent, both thinking of Taluqdar's wife, who made no
secret of her displeasure because she had to leave a modern home
in Calcutta and a circle of friends who considered her husband a
most eminent man. She had followed him unwillingly to this wil-

107

derness where she must raise the children without even plumbing or
running water, and where her scholarly husband set off time and
time again to work in rice fields or build septic tanks in company
with common laborers.

"She'll be all right." Monmohini suddenly broke the silence. 'Tor
despite all her complaining, she loves Taluqdar very sincerely and
this will see her through."

A radiant smile illuminated Thakur's face. These close, and word-
less, communications which he often experienced with Monmohini
never failed to delight him. "Yes," he agreed, "with your love, she'll
be all right."

108

15

As THE organization of life and labor started functioning with in-
creasing smoothness, Thakur turned his attention to the children.
One evening he summoned those among his followers who had
been trained for teaching.

"We must reorganize our school," he began, "for the formal system
of studies as they have evolved and are presented are not always
useful and are sometimes dangerous. Everywhere knowledge is
fragmented . . . each bit isolated from every other, and all severed as
carefully as possible from the only purpose that knowledge can
serve. In order that our children might be truly educated, thought
and study must be reintegrated with action, and the whole con-
sciously directed to serve the Uphold of Existence/'

"Yes, yes," several voices assented. "We must surely add classes
in religion to the curriculum."

Thakur shook his head. "You see how strong is the tendency to
isolate," he pointed out. "I do not speak of new studies. Religion
must be infused into all studies and serve to tie them securely, each
to the other."

Taluqdar frowned. "Certainly such an education is ardently de-
sired. But the idea is very general, and frankly, I find it nebulous.
There seems to be no point at which to begin ... no clear-cut
method that could embrace so much . . ."

"The beginning as well as the end of education is the Uphold of
Existence," Thakur explained patiently. "It is by this Uphold that we
are born, and to nourish it we live. This is a two-way flow, for the
more we nourish the Uphold, the more we are in turn nourished . . .
the greater our service to all, the greater our individual growth. Be
ever conscious, therefore, when teaching our children, that they

109

grasp the purpose of knowledge and quickly translate it into loving
acts."

There was a long and thoughtful interlude as the teachers pon-
dered the new idea.

"I can see how the humanities subjects could be related in this
way/' Taluqdar puzzled, "but my field is mathematics. I simply
cannot see how the multiplication table can be translated into an act
of love . . ."

Thakur smiled broadly. "Only this afternoon I watched a number
of your students busily and happily engaged in building bricks for
the new schoolhouse. Is not the proportion of mud and straw which
they use a matter of mathematics? Or the size and shape of the
brick? Or the number which they make in an hour or a day? And
when the schoolhouse is finished . . . will it not benefit all of us, as
well as many more to come? Only be sure that the child is ever
conscious that knowledge leads to thought, and thought to action,
and that the purpose of all is to serve existence."

Taluqdar was not yet satisfied. "Many of our children are re-
ceiving the benefit of education for the first time. They are overage
for their classes and there is much catching up to do. I hesitate to
introduce new aspects which might be confusing."

"Only try." Thakur's voice coaxed. "You will find that it is the
isolation of ideas from their purpose which breeds confusion. Inte-
gration will surely accelerate the learning process. Be ever mindful
that the child understands the links that bind him to parent and
teacher. Guide him to keep these links bright with thoughts and
acts of love so that the road he must travel is ever clear and straight."

The teachers began through trial and error to reorganize their
instruction along the lines Thakur had indicated. In the beginning
there were frustrating moments, but as the idea of finding some
loving expression in thought and deed for all that was learned took
root, the results were quick to blossom. Love offerings of fruit and
flowers by the children improved their discipline and concern for
parents and teachers, and enthusiasm to learn something new be-
came the rule rather than the exception.

110

i6

IN THE spring of 1920 a cholera epidemic swept the area. Thakur
compounded several herbs which he had been using for a number
of years into a medicine called Aza Munjtt. It proved to have
phenomenal and immediately discernible curative effects; and all
who could be spared became active in gathering, drying, and com-
pounding the herbs for this medicine.

For many weeks Thakur, together with Kishori, worked round the
clock. Those disciples who were not ill themselves followed the
doctors on their endless rounds from cottage to cottage, nursing and
comforting the patients and at the same time making a careful in-
spection to see that the doctors' instructions concerning treatment
and sanitation were carried out.

Gradually, the benefits of Thakur's remedy were extended to
Pabna and Cossipore; and soon requests were reaching Satsang
from all over Bengal for this new and miraculous cure. By the time
the epidemic was over, the community's first pharmaceutical labora-
tory was an established and going concern.

As Satsang began to recover some of its former vitality, Thakur
made one of his rare visits to the Philanthropy Office. "How much
money do we have?" he asked.

The accountant, Satya, beamed with pride. "Almost enough to
buy the property that Promotha offered us. The way orders are
coming in for medicines, we should be able to begin concrete nego-
tiations for the land within the next two months."

Thakur shook his head sympathetically. "The land will have to
wait. Find out how much equipment for putting in tube wells and
septic tanks can be had for the same money and order it imme-
diately. Continue buying more as soon as you are able. All the
houses in Satsang and the rest of Himaitpur must be equipped with

111

sanitary plumbing as quickly as we can accomplish it/'

There was a general rustle of disappointment among the men
present.

"But land values are going up!" Satya pleaded. "Those who own
land see how people keep coming here and are quick to take ad-
vantage. Prices have already risen, and if we wait, they may dou-
ble or triple!"

"Have patience," Thakur admonished. "When the time comes,
even if the costs are doubled, be sure we will have twice as much
money to pay them with." His eyes twinkled a little as he coaxed
his glum followers. "If, through lack of loving concern, our wives
and daughters must walk two miles for well water, can we afford to
scrub our bodies with it? A healthy body is a most precious tool.
Through it, the spirit can move freely to accomplish all that is
needed. We must live in such conditions as will protect and nourish
our health."

"Our good health is already a legend!" Satya cried. "There hasn't
been a single cholera death in all Satsang. I was in Pabna last week
and everyone was talking about this. You are being declared an
Avatar!"

Thakur was firm. "The Supreme Father has been generous.
Would you show your gratitude by ignoring his warning?"

Although there was, understandably, some reluctance at shifting
plans and dreams so abruptly, there was no hesitation; the work of
providing water and plumbing for the community of Satsang pro-
ceeded without delay.

Early in this new endeavor, it became apparent that an invest-
ment in machine tools to rethread pipes and repair and manufac-
ture small parts would, in the long run, be an economy. These were
bought as the work progressed and the Satsang Machine Shop,
modern and well equipped, gradually came into being.

To his devotees, Thakur was a parent, a guide, and a counselor
for matters domestic and economic, as well as their spiritual Guru,
and they brought to his attention all the problems that troubled
them. This he encouraged, giving all questions, however trivial
they might seem, serious consideration.

By open and free exploration and discussion of possibilities,
each devotee was trained to be ever conscious of the integration of
every phase of life and to think, speak, and act to the best of his
ability for the nourishment of the Uphold of Existence.

112

This practice was time consuming, however, especially as the
growing and varied activities of Satsang made increasing demands
on Thakur's attention and required his constant supervision. He
pointed out to his followers that the situations confronting human-
kind were of a general nature and that a solution for one problem
was very often an answer to many. Except for pressing needs, peo-
ple were to save their problems until after the evening meal, at
which time they would gather together and discuss fully with their
Thakur all matters which troubled them.

The new plan proved very satisfactory. People realized, with
surprise, that what they had felt to be their own private burdens
were indeed borne by many others, and that the sharing of trouble
made it at once easier and also increased the possibilities for ad-
justment and resolution. The evening hours spent under the stars
with the day's labor behind them and their beloved Thakur in their
midst, serenely smoking his water pipe and emanating peace be-
came a shared treasure that all looked forward to.

On one such evening, an irate widow, clutching the wrist of her
only child, propelled the unwilling girl through the people sur-
rounding Thakur. When they had prostrated themselves before
him, the widow, bouncing back on her heels, demanded, "Thakur,
speak to this ungrateful child! Tell her that to disobey her mother
is to spit on the garment of the Supreme Father!"

The girl blushed furiously, and with downcast eyes, drew her
sari over her face in shame. Thakur gazed solemnly at the woman
but did not speak.

"I have found her a husband!" the widow cried. "A very fortu-
nate and unexpected match, considering our circumstances, for her
dowry is very small. But she is ridden with vanity and scorns this
good and steady man who is a clerk in Cossipore and who will pro-
vide for both of us. Speak to her!"

"Do you scorn him?" Thakur asked gently.

"I am afraid of him," the girl mumbled behind the shielding sari.

"It is the evil of foreign books!" the mother accused. "She attended
the missionary school. I was against it at the time, but it was my
husband's wish; and since we had not been blessed with a son, I
allowed her to go. Now my husband is dead and I am left with the
whole burden of our mistake. Her head is full of nonsense. She
believes herself above her station!"

"Why are you afraid of him?" Thakur asked the girl.

113

"What I hold dear displeases him. He will not allow it."

"What do you hold dear?"

The sari fell away from an agitated face as the girl clasped her
hands tightly together. "Poetry," she mumbled.

"Is it proper for a woman to write poetry!" the widow shrilled.
"To flount the fancy and high-sounding words she has had the
misfortune to learn in the face of a husband as if she were his su-
perior? She attends to her duties as if she were half asleep! Only
this morning she burned the rice! Is that proper? The husband has
every right to insist that she stop this nonsense once and for all!"

"It was wrong to burn the rice," Thakur agreed.

"I am sorry," the girl apologized, drawing the sari once more over
her blushing face.

"But," Thakur continued, turning his attention to the mother, "if
a family is to be established in that harmony which will nourish the
Uphold of Existence, then a maiden's desires concerning a husband
must be carefully observed. For the admiration which she feels for
her mate, for his accomplishments and his goals, is the source of the
love with which she will nourish her family."

A gasp escaped from the audience. Arranged marriages were
traditionally the sole concern and the prerogative of the parents.
Was it possible that Thakur seriously intended to uproot the old
tradition?

"Where can I find such a husband when she has only a pittance
for her dowry?" the mother cried distractedly. "I have been a widow
for four years! Am I to live out my old age in poverty because of the
whim of an ungrateful child?"

"Woman is the creator," Thakur stated firmly. "It is her nature
to reach. Since her normal desire is to serve her husband and chil-
dren, it is well that such service be rendered with a full and open
heart, and that they need and value all that she has to offer. For in
this service lies her own growth and purpose.

"Man is the gateway through which souk enter this life. If the
man has no need of all that the woman is capable of being, even so
the children entering this world through him will have no need of
her services. In such a family the woman finds her growth stunted,
and the resulting pain and frustration will bring discord and crip-
pling for all. A woman has an instinct regarding her need to serve.
Listen to these insights, encourage her to talk of them freely; and

114

when it is time to choose a husband, consider her growth with every
care/'

"And suppose no such husband ever appears. There are always
more women than men. A woman is lucky to find any kind of a hus-
band today!"

Thakur shook his head. "A marriage bond which is not accepted
with a willing heart can bless no one/'

"And if there is no such husband available," the widow persisted,
"what will her life be then?"

"If such a thing happens she must find those who have need of
all that she is, and she must serve them with the loving-kindness and
unceasing devotion that she would have bestowed upon her own
husband. In this way she will nourish her individual characteristics
and grow accordingly."

"And what about me?" the old woman cried. "What will happen
to me?"

"Have no fear for yourself. Security which must lie in the hand of
another is a beggar's mite at best and you will live in constant fear
that it will be snatched away. True security, strength, and purpose
lie in yourself. If you search for this, your reward will be great."

"And what of the men?" a worried youth called. "If girls are to
be allowed to choose their husbands, what if I become thirty -five or
forty years old and no one has chosen me?"

Thakur smiled suddenly. "Then I believe you must accept the
fact that you are not yet ready to be a husband, and it would be well
to examine yourself for a reason."

"And if a woman has found the true husband of her heart . . .
the true and pure father for her children . . . and if this husband
and father is already married to another . . . what then?"

All heads turned sharply and necks were craned to locate this
disturbingly intense cry. It was Pushpa, a large, angular woman,
unattractive by the standards of the area, who had worked for the
government in Calcutta before joining Satsang. She was sitting at
the very edge of the circle, her arms folded across her breast, dark
eyes fastened on Thakur with bold challenge.

Thakur contemplated her for some time. "This would be a very
serious matter. It would be necessary for the woman to meditate
with long and earnest prayer to make sure that vanity in its many
devious forms was not at the root of her desire."

115

"And if all this were done, and still the answer rings clear and
untarnished throughout her being . . . what then?"

A startled and not altogether friendly murmuring arose from the
gathering. Pushpa's devotion to Thakur, her strict observance of all
his teachings, and her willingness to work untiringly at any labor
to which she was called had won the respect of the community.
Nothing in her behavior had given the slightest hint of this shock-
ing revelation . . . that she had been coveting somebody else's
husband. The anxious eyes of many wives sought their mates; and
the eyes of the men cast wondering and uneasy glances at the un-
gainly woman.

Thakur got to his feet, stretching his hands, palms down in a
gesture that called for peace. "It will be necessary to meditate. An
answer to this problem, in accordance with the Uphold of Existence,
must consider all who may be involved." Turning, he left the be-
wildered group of devotees and headed for the light that shone from
Monmohini's kitchen.

An unusually large number of people were waiting when Thakur
arrived the following evening. They sat close together, a compact
mass. Polygamy was widely propagandized as immoral at that time,
and the interest in Thakur's decision concerning it was great.

An exception to this unbroken sea of heads was the woman
Pushpa. Either in deference or fear a space had been left all around
her, so that she sat, stiff-backed and defiant, a little island unto her-
self. She arose quickly as Thakur took his seat. The crowd opened
up to let her stride through. She prostrated herself before him, then
arising, asked in a clear, only slightly trembling voice, "What is your
answer?"

Thakur contemplated her for some time before replying, "A
woman can become a second wife if and only if-she first obtains
the approval of the man's parents, if alive, and secondly, if she can
secure the willing and positive approval of his present wife."

Pushpa fell to her knees and again prostrated herself as a shocked
and protesting murmur ruffled the gathering. When she arose with
head held high and shoulders straight, the mass parted to let her
through. The anxious eyes of women followed her progress and
dwelt nervously upon their husbands, for no one could know what
man Pushpa had chosen.

The community had not long to speculate. The next afternoon as

116

Taluqdar was returning to his students after the midday meal,
Pushpa stopped him. With radiant face, in proud, loud tones, she
publicly declared her undying love for him and her desire and in-
tention of serving his every need with her entire life. After the
declaration she proceeded with firm, confident step toward his
home.

The bystanders hesitated, torn between following her and assist-
ing the dazed and open-mouthed Taluqdar. Most of them hurried
after the woman.

Taluqdar's wife was in the courtyard, scouring the rice kettle
with coarse sand, when the bevy of neighbors appeared on her ve-
randa. Pushpa strode forward, knelt and touched the astonished
wife's feet, and then declared her love for Taluqdar and begged
permission to marry.

For the harassed wife, who for love of Taluqdar had left a life
of gracious ease and prestige to come to this colony of hard labor
and privation, it was the last straw. She stared incredulously at the
glowing face before her. Suddenly, with a wild scream, she caught
up the clumsy, hated, homemade broom, and brandishing it wildly,
chased Pushpa through the house and through the village streets,
her outraged shouts stopping all work projects along the way as
the villagers came running.

Pushpa finally reached the cottage of a friend and barricaded
herself behind the door. After delivering a few more threats and
banging the locked door with the broom, Taluqdar's wife continued
toward the river until she found her husband. He was surrounded
by his group of students, collecting wild plants for the botany class.
Making herself comfortable a short distance away, she sat through-
out the afternoon guarding her property. And for several days there-
after, much to the amusement of the townspeople, this grim-faced,
broom-armed bodyguard was always to be found a few paces be-
hind the embarrassed schoolteacher.

That week, none of the three principals showed up at the eve-
ning meetings; and Thakur discouraged all discussion of their prob-
lem, admonishing inquisitive devotees, whether truly concerned or
merely curious, to hold their peace on this subject.

Pushpa was the first to break the silence. With drooping shoulders
and eyes red from crying, she approached Thakur one evening,
touched his feet, and begged him to intercede in her favor.

117

Thakur shook his head. "The heart of Taluqdar's wife must be
won by you alone."

"But this is not possible!" she cried tearfully. "The woman is
hysterical. She won't even talk to me!" Her eyes pleaded with the
faces of Thakur's devotees. "Everyone can tell you what a hard life
Taluqdar has! He is a sincere and spiritual man but his wife has
no respect for these things and nags him constantly. When I pass
him on the street I could weep for his unhappiness. Every cell in
my being aches to comfort and serve him. It has been so from the
very first time I saw him. Is it right to allow such a woman the
power to keep us apart ... to rob me of my only happiness?"

"If your devotion, dedication, and service to that wife can win
her approval to let you share her husband," Thakur answered,
"then the happiness you seek is blessed. But the authority and con-
trol remain absolutely in the hand of the first wife."

"Is there no other way?" Pushpa begged bleakly.

Thakur spread his hands. "Only think, Pushpa. Is it possible to
gather happiness from another's agony? Meditate on Taluqdar's
wife ... on her fears and hopes and the struggle which engages her.
She has need of understanding."

"It is useless. I know that she will never share Taluqdar."

"But if your efforts can be truly free of guile ... if they be
dedicated with full heart to the Supreme Father, then I believe you
can win her trust and help her toward peace and tranquillity.
Would not such conditions in the home afford Taluqdar the com-
forts you desire for him? Can one say, 'Only under such and such
conditions can I love'? No, Pushpa, if this were the case then surely
you would not have loved a married man, for such conditions are
not pleasing to you. Love glows and we must serve it according to
its needs and not according to our own personal, limited, and con-
fining desires. If you serve with full and unselfish heart, the growth
and the happiness which ever attend love will be yours. And know
surely that this is the greatest of all rewards."

Pushpa found that without Thakur's support, the conditions as
they existed were beyond her ability to accept, and despite the urg-
ing of her many friends to stay with them ... to have faith and
labor for love . . . she returned to Calcutta and her former position.

The women of Satsang, seeing that no second wife, however
worthy, could be foisted upon them, and further that no shame at-
tached to Taluqdar's wife for her stand, relaxed. Thakur's conditions

118

for polygamy became an interesting subject to discuss ... to test
oneself or to tease another with. But it seemed to be a theory that
was not likely to be practiced actively . . . the human condition
being what it is.

Several weeks after Pushpa had left the community the evening
gathering was once more surprised as the arrogant, stiff-backed
figure of Taluqdar's wife appeared among them. The surprise grew
to a sense of shock as this woman, who with a sharp and caustic
tongue had kept herself aloof from Thakur for nearly two years, now
prostrated herself at his feet.

"I wish to take initiation," she announced.

Thakur's radiant smile ignited a warm, holiday joyousness in all
who were gathered there.

"Ma has been waiting for you," he answered simply.

119

il

KRISHNA PRASANNA BHATTACHARYYA laid aside his magazine, and
sighing, checked his wristwatch. It was time to proceed to the
Palit Laboratories of Calcutta University where he held the dual
responsibilities of professor of physics and assistant to Dr. C. V.
Raman (who a few years later received the 1930 Nobel Prize in
physics ) .

But the lethargy which had been his constant companion of late
held him motionless. He was tired . . . weary of chasing shadows . . .
tired of things and unbearably tired of people. He slumped back
against the cushions and without purpose or expectation his mind
began roving over his life.

From childhood on, he had been driven to probe every mystery to
the core. Long before manhood, his relentless, dissecting mind had
perceived moral dogmas as shopworn imbecility; obedience as a
necessary evil; faith as blindness; and reverence as mere manifesta-
tion of an inferiority complex. Atheism was the only intelligent
answer.

As a young man all his relationships were subjected to the same
cruel test. Friends, enemies, and loves were analyzed out of all
humanness. Life palled. It seemed as if he were encased in a
smooth and glossy veil. The occasional squall of sensuous urge or
whirling blast of seething passion only succeeded in throwing him
ever deeper into a miry tedium of despondence.

In a desperate effort to escape, he became absorbed in research,
determined to fathom the depths of human ignorance. He read
incessantly. All life became thinking, abstracting, imagining a neg-
ative criticism, a positive fault-finding.

Science came to his aid and for some years electrons, protons, the
quanta of Planck, and the relativity theory of Einstein afforded him

120

Rohini Road, the main thoroughfare linking "the new Satsang" at Boral Bungalow with
nearby Deoghar City. Hindu-Moslem riots in 1946 forced Thakur and his thousands of
followers into a mass exodus from Himaitpur to Deoghar. The original Satsang became
a part of Pakistan after the partition in 1947.

Thakur's living quarters at Boral Bungalow, an aluminum-roofed, canvas-walled frame
structure on a cement foundation. Here he eats and sleeps, meets visitors, directs
community affairs, and teaches.

Although most permanent residents cook in their own homes, the community kitchen
serves hundreds of meals daily to transients, visitors, single men and women. Normal
fare for the vegetarian community is an ample serving of rice with lentil soup,

A huge millstone drawn through a circular trough by this team of water buffalo grinds
mortar for Satsang's endless building program.

The carpentry shop turns out building material and furniture to meet community needs
and for sale in Deoghar market.

Kazal, Thakur's youngest son, after
completing medical studies at Calcutta
University, will return to work in Sat-
sang.

Goswami, Thakur's third disciple and
oldest living follower, is 95. Revered
and beloved throughout Satsang, he
assumes responsibility for much of the
practical administration.

The director of Satsang's medical
research laboratory, Birendra Nath
Bhattacharya, a distinguished scien-
tist. Medicine produced in early
Satsang stemmed a cholera epi-
demic; today Bhattacharya experi-
ments with a cure for cancer.

Thakur in 1954.

As Thakur talks with his
followers, secretaries (fore-
ground) record the conver-
sation verbatim. At right is
Sarat Haider, a former uni-
versity professor, whose
white thread identifies him
as a high-caste Hindu;
above him is the author,
Ray Hauserman.

This photograph, and those on the preceding three pages, are by Bimal Sarkar.

Anukul Chandra at the age of 15. A
vigorous, independent youngster, he
had already shown signs of an extra-
ordinary spiritual awareness.

The strongest influence throughout
Anukul's life was that of his mother,
Monmohini Devi. Here she meditates
at the shrine of Hazur Maharaj, her
guru or spiritual guide.

Anukul's birthplace and childhood home in Himaitpur, as it appeared in 1919 whei
he returned here with his followers to found the first ashram, named Satsang ("compaiv
of loveis of existence") .

Anukul as a young and impov-
erished medical student in Cal-
cutta, where he first encountered
the desperate human needs of des-
titute and lawless slum dwellers.

Saroshi Devi was five years
younger than Anukul when they
married in 1907. In addition to
raising her own family, she took
responsibility for meeting many of
the practical needs of the fast-
growing community.

By the time Anukul was 35 he had
become Thakur "spiritual teacher"
-to more than 10,000 devoted fol-
lowers, most of whom lived and
worked in the ashram at Satsang.

Thakur has always preferred to lead or teach others from one of a number of square
wooden platforms posted strategically throughout the ashram. Among those posing with
him for this early group photograph were (left foreground, fiom left) his brothers Khepu
and Badal, his sons Amarendrenath and Vivekranjan. Directly behind Thakur is his
mother; behind her (from left), his first two disciples, Ananta and the bearded Kishori.

In 1923, the medical dispensary at Satsang served Thakur's followers and many others
in the surrounding area. Additional projects were being built or planned: a school, an
electrical supply station, a mechanical workshop, a research laboratory (the World Sci-
ence Center), and others.

A retaining wall was built to shield Satsang from the floodwaters of the Padma (Ganges)
River during the monsoon season. Thakur slept in the small enclosure (center) at night,
spoke with his followers or rested in the frame structure (right) by day.

glimpses of the ultimates of existence in a noncausal nothingness
of whizzing ultra-atoms. Sankara, Hegel, and Kant were his constant
companions.

Yet he was living and life was real. In time, the separation be-
tween him and the world he had pronounced insignificant . . .
the loneliness and isolation of his middle years . . . became as
intolerable as the iconoclastic boredom of his youth had been. He
made efforts to come back, to be one among those around him. He
emerged from his retreats in the laboratory and library, gave and
attended parties, and became a sympathetic listener to all who
showed any inclination to share their hopes and cares with him.
But the gulf remained. His reactions whether of joy, sorrow, or
anxietywere surface postures and fleeting. He felt nothing and in
the emptiness his soul wept in agony. He turned back to religion,
but the old stories caught on the barbs of his mind and were re-
duced to tatters.

A servant entered the room, hesitated uncertainly before the
brooding man, and then bowed,

"Bhattacharyya Babu, the laboratory is on the phone. They wish
to know what delays you . . ."

Bhattacharyya came to with a start. "So late?" he murmured in-
credulously as he checked his watch. "Tell them I leave at once."

The servant retired and Bhattacharyya rose quickly to his feet,
buttoning up his English vest and jacket. His eyes played over the
magazine he had laid aside earlier, and picking it up, he riffled the
pages until he found the article which had started him off on this
self-analysis. Yes, there it was ... a column attributed to a young
yogi in Himaitpur.

The corners of his smile twisted wryly. Bhattacharyya had known
the best of them . . . had traveled great distances to spend time
with Rabindranath, Gandhi, Dayanand, Aurobindo, and many oth-
ers. There had been many hopeful moments, but in the end, the
peace and tranquillity that surrounded these great saints only
served to increase his consciousness of separateness.

His eyes roamed down the column of short paragraphs until he
found the one that had given him pause. "Dharma invites science in
its wake, for to discover the soul one must first perceive those things
which cover it. One begins with the grossall that occupies space
and is called matter, and which is in constant process of combining
and separating from other matter. From the gross one proceeds to

121

the fine. Behind the fine lies the finer and beyond the finer is the
finest. Thus, science is ever the handmaiden to Dharma."

On an impulse, Bhattacharyya opened a penknife and carefully
cut the paragraph from the magazine.

For several weeks this bit of paper remained in his vest pocket.
From time to time he would draw it out and present it to one or
another of his colleagues, scrutinizing the other's face intently as
he read. But when the puzzled face lifted with the words "Where
did you get this?" or "Well ... I wouldn't say that . . ." or "Who
said this?" he quickly retrieved the paragraph and made his excuses.
Strangely, he did not want these words subjected to discussion or
debate. Finally, he made arrangements to be away from work for
a week and wrote a short, rather stilted note to the young Sree Sree
Thakur, stating that he had read the column, found the postulations
interesting, and announcing the day he would arrive for a visit.

As Bhattacharyya stepped ashore at Himaitpur an intense sense
of familiarity with these surroundings engulfed him. Oblivious of
the hubbub of greetings and farewells that swirled around him
as the ferry prepared for its return trip, he stood transfixed, staring at
the vast glassy sheet of water that was the Padma River, and trying
to recall where he had experienced just such a scene in the past.

There was a sudden clack of wooden-soled slippers on the dock
boards and an arm fell gently over his shoulder. He could not after-
ward remember whether there had been any introductions. The
electric presence of this man, together with the welling sensation
within him of being reunited with a dear friend after a long sepa-
ration, instantaneously established his friend as the Saint, Sree
Sree Thakur.

He found himself partaking of a midday meal and then follow-
ing after Thakur and the group surrounding him on a tour of the
ashram through what seemed like a never-ending sea of smiling
faces. Was it possible for so many people of all ages and conditions
of life to be so happy at one time? He inquired of a doctor walking
beside him whether this was a special day and was told that it was
not. They looked over the foundations of the schoolhouse and
watched the children and their teachers at their brickmaking la-
bors. They paused to see the sinking of a tube well and then made
extended tours of the chemical works and the machine shop. Every-
where Thakur encouraged, praised, and corrected; often he gave a

122

hand to the effort . . . sometimes to demonstrate a point he was at-
tempting to make, but more often, it seemed to Bhattacharyya,
simply for the joy of being part of the work.

Bhattacharyya's sense of unreality and puzzlement deepened as
the afternoon lengthened. Never had he seen a man accorded such
absolute adulation, on the one hand, and treated with such easy
familiarity on the other. Even the little children would approach
Thakur solemnly, kneel and touch his feet; then jumping up with all
the high spirits, giggles, and coaxing of the very young, they would
clasp his hand and tug him off to see their latest achievement.

It was late afternoon when Bhattacharyya finally found him-
self alone with this amazing young man. They were returning
through a wooded area after watching the rather exciting business
of felling a tree.

"You must be tired," Thakur said kindly.

Bhattacharyya suddenly realized that they had been on the go
without pause since noon and that he was very tired indeed.

"The guesthouse is not far." Thakur smiled. "I will walk you there
and you can rest before dinner."

Bhattacharyya found himself resisting this idea, with an almost
childish reluctance at leaving this man. Looking around, he saw a
low bamboo platform built around the trunk of a tree. "If you have
the time, perhaps we could rest here for a bit first . . ."

Thakur seemed genuinely delighted with this suggestion and for
a while the two men sat in silence, immersed in the rustling of
leaves and the chirruping of birds.

"Brother, don't you ever like to bow down your head?" Thakur
asked softly.

The spell was broken. Bhattacharyya's mind was instantly keen
and alert, ready for the debate he knew so well.

"Why should I bow before another man?"

Thakur did not rise to the argument; instead, rather surprisingly
he stretched out on the platform and rested his head in Bhat-
tacharyya's lap. "I have a pain," he said. "A blank here in the region
of my heart."

"Why?"

"From the aftereffects of the cinchona injection I had to take
during a fever."

So here it was. Bhattacharyya laughed softly to hide his disap-
pointment. "This afternoon I have been told that you are the Lord

123

... the redeemer of the world ... the world teacher. How can
there be need of injections? Can't you cure yourself?"

Again Thakur seemed disinclined to pursue this subject. After a
space of silence he pointed. "That tree in front of you. Just see ...
it has a scar on it but it grows, and grows upward, with the scar
on its bosom."

Bhattacharyya stared at the tree and miraculously the spell re-
turned. It seemed, strangely, that he had been answered and that
the answer resolved all the turmoil within him so that he was filled
with contentment.

That night, however, when he tried to analyze Thakur's answer,
his doubts returned and he twisted and turned upon his bed, un-
able to sleep. Was it possible that he had been hypnotized? He got
up and sat at the window, smoking his English cigarettes far into
the night. Thakur had, he concluded, an extraordinarily magnetic
personality . . . and he, Bhattacharyya, had been extremely tired
and therefore overwhelmed with first impressions. Well, tomorrow
was another day and this time he would be ready.

As they met again on the following morning, Bhattacharyya re-
marked pointedly, "It is something of a shock to find so much
worldly activity in an ashram . . . one always expects a more
dharmic atmosphere . . ."

Thakur smiled. "Dharma, as I understand, is the science that
elevates our being and becoming. Without activity a man cannot
have dharma."

Bhattacharyya smiled also, albeit a bit wryly. "Dharma and sci-
ence are mutually contradictory. The essence of every religion is a
declaration of war against the material world/'

Thakur was unperturbed. "The essence of every religion, as I
understand it, is that man shall not live by bread alone . . . not that
he must deny bread. No . . . the material world is an integral part of
the experience we are engaged in. To expand consciousness, a man
need break only those chains that bind him* to one part of the
whole."

Fortunately, because Bhattacharyya could think of no rebuttal off-
hand, their conversation was interrupted, and the busy life of the
day commenced.

Before midday Thakur's aura of intimacy, his easy sympathy, and
his glowing smile . . . the unique harmony and freedom in every-
thing he did, together with the indisputable happiness that his

124

devotees found in their labors, had once more overcome Bhatta-
charyya's misgivings.

And so it went; each night the doubts returned to nag at him
and each morning they were swept away. He had meant to spend
only a few days here, but he quickly made arrangements with the
laboratory at Calcutta to delegate his duties for an additional two
weeks. At the end of this time he was sleeping deeply and peacefully
every night, engaging in the ashram activities by day, and experi-
encing all those human emotions that he had so long felt were no
part of his life. He received initiation from Monmohini, and re-
turned to Calcutta as a man reborn.

His enthusiasm was contagious. He repeated for his students and
colleagues the many conversations he had had with Thakur on
atoms and electrons, radium and X-rays ... of the living and non-
living ... of heaven and earth and the integration of all things.

Many physicists and students found their way to Satsang that
year. Most of them came because they could not believe that
Thakur, not being formally educated in the sciences, could have the
knowledge which Bhattacharyya attributed to him. They returned
amazed that Bhattacharyya had not overstated the case, and many
of them became active devotees.

At the end of the school year, Bhattacharyya decided to change
all his previous plans and to join Thakur at Satsang as a permanent
member.

His colleagues were dismayed . . . "You'll have no equipment! A
scientist without a laboratory is useless! What can you do?"

He did not himself know exactly what he would do, but he did
know that he wished to share his life with the amazing people of
Satsang and to learn from the one whom they felt to be the greatest
of all teachers . . . beyond this, the will of the Supreme Father
would decide.

On arrival at Satsang he found two young university students
working with Thakur: Gopal Mukherji, a short, light-skinned youth,
a graduate student in physical chemistry, and Bankim Roy, a physi-
cist with a strongly built body and sparkling eyes.

A week after Bhattacharyya had returned to Satsang, another
disciple of Thakur, Baidyanath, an industrialist from Calcutta, came
to consult the Saint concerning a complex of personal problems.

That evening as everyone gathered around Thakur, he spoke to

125

Bhattacharyya. "Baidyanath can help us to build and equip your
laboratory."

Baidyanath was clearly startled. "I will do what I can, surely."
He bowed with some confusion to the beaming scientist. "But this
is not the most opportune time, for I am in the process of expand-
ing . . . And you know that expansion calls for all the capital being
invested at once with only the hope that it will bear fruit later." He
sighed heavily. "But what can one do? The competition of our day
demands expansion in order to stay in existence at all . . ."

Thakur laughed delightedly. "Baidyanath . . . Baidyanath," he
chided. "When will you overcome your fear of competition? Only
last year you told me that if you met the demands of your workers,
competition would put you out of business . . . but you did meet
the demands and already you are expanding . . . isn't that so?"

"I will do what I can, of course," Baidyanath mumbled. "I only
wanted to explain that I shall not be able to do as much at this time
as I would wish to do."

"Only do what you can with full heart," Thakur agreed. "Bhat-
tacharyya, you and Mukherji and Roy draw up a list of what is
necessary so that Baidyanath can take it back with him tomorrow."

The three men left in eager and animated discussion and returned
within the hour to present the list. Baidyanath's face fell as his eyes
ran over the catalogue of technical and expensive-sounding equip-
ment.

"There is time," Thakur said kindly. "We must build the labora-
tory first . . . and perhaps some of your Calcutta friends might be
inclined to help with this need."

The site for the laboratory was picked out and Thakur entered
into all details of planning and building with such energy and boy-
ish enthusiasm that everyone in the community desired to take part.
Devotees who worked in Himaitpur or Pabna by day even insisted
on erecting flares so that they might make bricks and otherwise
contribute to the effort by night. The air vibrated with talk of elec-
tricity and solar heat ... of new equipment and machinery that
were soon to make higher level scientific research possible.

Baidyanath tried his best to materialize his Guru's desire. He
spread the idea among his friends. The plans were received with
more enthusiasm and active support than he expected. Equipment
began to arrive, and by the time the laboratory building was fin-
ished, almost all the items on Bhattacharyya's list had been secured.

126

The laboratory was named Viswa Bignan Kendra (World Science
Center).

On the day the laboratory was formally opened, Baidyanath took
a few days off from his pressing affairs in Calcutta to return to Sat-
sang, and to share in the projected plans for using this new and
marvelous addition to the community.

127

18

THE knocker sounded a second time, and frowning slightly, the
Reverend Fred Hawkyard, director of the British Christian Mis-
sion at Pabna, paused in his work and waited, pen in hand, for his
wife's footsteps to cross the lower hall. But there were no footsteps
and after a few moments the knocker sounded again. He arose, and
going into the hall, leaned over the banister and called "Emily!
Emily!" There was no answer and he hurried down the stairway,
reaching the door just as the knocker sounded a fourth time.

He opened the door to two barefoot Indian boys, clad in khaki
shorts. "Yes?" he inquired somewhat sternly.

The boys quickly placed their palms together and bowed very
low before him.

"Please, sir," the taller of the two began, "would you be so kind
as to tell us the story of Jesus Christ?"

Hawkyard, having suspected that they were beggars, was very
much taken aback. "Why, that's a very commendable request," he
said heartily, "but the story of Jesus is quite a long one and cannot
be told all in one day . . . and today I am very busy, Suppose you
come to church here at ten o'clock Sunday morning . . . that's the
meetinghouse right next door . . . the teachers will be very happy to
enroll you in our Sunday School and teach you all about Jesus . . ."

The children's faces fell. "Couldn't you tell us a tiny, short story
today?" they pleaded anxiously. "You see, we go to Tapovan School
. . . and we wish to put on a Christmas play . . . and all the students
chose us to come and hear the story, so it would be done right
. . . and the teachers let us out of school to come here . . . and
Satsang is a long distance to walk from . . ."

Hawkyard was surprised. "You don't live here in Pabna?"

128

"Oh, no, sir. We live in Satsang."

The man's brow puckered. "I thought I knew all the hamlets in
this area . . . but I must confess that I cannot place Satsang . . ."

"Satsang is in Himaitpur," the taller boy explained. "It's an
ashram/'

"Himaitpur!" Hawkyard exclaimed, swinging the door wide.
"Why, that's four or five miles . . . and you walked all the way? Do
come in. Come here, right into the parlor, sit down and rest. You
must be tired. Mrs. Hawkyard seems to have stepped out but I'm
sure I can find some milk and biscuits. You walked all that way to
see me?"

After serving the boys, he settled down in an armchair and eyed
them closely. He had placed Satsang now ... a fanatic group of
people who concocted medicines that were supposed to have magic
healing properties.

"Tell me" his voice was curious "what made your school decide
to produce a Christmas play?"

"We want to do it for our Thakur," the short boy responded
eagerly.

"Thakur is our Guru," the taller one explained. "And he loves
Jesus Christ very dearly . . ."

"But if he loves Jesus he must know Jesus . . . won't he help you
with the play?"

"Oh, no!" the boys cried in unison. "We want to make a surprise
for him on the birthday of Jesus . . ."

"How nice." Hawkyard smiled approvingly. "Very nice indeed.
Very thoughtful . . ." His face became perplexed and he spread his
hands helplessly. "I do wish I could help you. Really I do. But a
thing like this needs a great deal of planning ... I simply wouldn't
know where to begin." His face brightened. "You boys speak English
fairly well. Can you translate English into Bengali?"

"A little . . ."

"Well, I do have an English nativity play for school children.
Only last year we talked about doing a Bengali version, but some-
how we never got around to it. Now I see it would be very useful.
However, if the English text would be of any use to you, you would
be very welcome to it."

"Oh, that would be splendid!" The boys jumped to their feet.
"Our teachers translate English very good! They will help us."

129

With many low bows and happy smiles the boys received their
treasure and departed for the long walk back to Himaitpur.

A week after this event, the clergyman entered the parlor to find
his wife busily dusting and polishing the ornaments on the mantel.

"Why don t you let the girl do that?" he asked, slipping his arm
affectionately about her waist.

"The natives are not very good at housekeeping," the good woman
said with a sigh. "They mean well, but they simply won't take the
trouble that nice things require . . "

"How about chucking it and having a holiday with me?"

"You can't be serious, Fred!"

"But I am! We'll take the river boat to Himaitpur. I understand
it's a beautiful little trip . . . and there's a school there that I
simply must see."

"Sometimes you are as impulsive as a schoolboy," Mrs. Hawkyard
scolded. "The Ladies' Aid Society meets here at two o'clock . . .
and good gracious! If you don't stop pestering me, I shan't be ready
to receive them."

"You don't mind if I make the trip alone, then?"

"Of course not. Only do be back in time for dinner. The Reverend
Mr. Butler is bringing that nice young American couple. I think
they're writing a book or something. Anyway, they're most awfully
anxious to talk with you about India."

He found no trouble locating Tapovan School once he arrived
at Himaitpur. There were many willing guides, and indeed, some-
one had run ahead to announce the visitor, for Taluqdar was waiting
on the veranda to greet him.

"I am Reverend Fred Hawkyard from the Christian Mission at
Pabna," he began.

"Of course, of course." Taluqdar's lean features broke into a wide
smile. "We are most appreciative of your help. The play is doing
splendidly. Do come in."

School came to an abrupt halt as the children scampered into
their places to rehearse the play for their honored guest . . . explain-
ing that the costumes and scenery, which their parents were making,
were not yet ready.

Hawkyard was entranced as the play proceeded, The strictly
literal translation did not detract, but seemed rather to add to the

180

charm of the earnest young wise men, Joseph and Mary, shepherds
and angels, who enacted the birth of Christ. As a finale, the entire
audience joined the thespians in a Bengali version of "Silent Night/'
Deeply moved, Hawkyard found himself singing with the rest. He
praised the actors and congratulated the teachers, marveling that
the children had been rehearsing for less than a week.

"You must be anxious to meet our Thakur," Taluqdar murmured.
"Come, I will take you to him."

Hawkyard felt an urgent tugging at his jacket and looked down
into the shining dark eyes of the youngster who had visited him in
Pabna.

"Don't talk of the play," the boy reminded. "It is a deep secret."

"Trust me," Hawkyard laughed, ruffling the lad's hair affection-
ately. "My lips are sealed."

They found Thakur in the machine shop, and after this strange
Saint had cleansed oil smudges from his hands, he walked with
them to a shaded bench.

For more than an hour they discussed theology. Hawkyard was
amazed and strangely affected to hear this dhoti-clad Indian speak
of Christ as the Son of God with a depth and feeling seldom en-
countered among Christians and with a conviction, he was forced
to admit, that was often lacking in his own carefully prepared
sermons.

When he took his leave, Thakur invited him to return soon and
suggested that he might teach the children more about Christ
whenever this might be convenient. Monmohini, who had ap-
proached unobtrusively and had been listening quietly, a little apart,
extended the invitation to Mrs. Hawkyard. The clergyman parted
from them in a warm glow of friendly fellowship.

As Hawkyard took his seat on the river boat he felt a parcel
crumple beneath his weight. He jumped up hurriedly. "I am most
awfully sorry," he apologized, handing the flattened parcel to his
seatmate, an impressive-looking Moslem with a long luxuriant beard.
"I do hope I haven't damaged anything."

"Not at all," the man responded courteously. "It was careless of
me to leave it there."

"The fault was entirely mine," Hawkyard insisted. "I'm afraid
I'm going about in a bit of a daze." He laughed, indicating his
clerical collar. "I've just had the most amazing lesson in Christianity
from a Hindu."

131

The Moslem's eyes twinkled merrily. "You have been with Sree
Sree Thakur?"

"Yes I Do you know him?"

"Very well indeed."

"A most amazing manl"

"Yes."

They were silent for a time.

"You have known this Thakur a long time, you say?"

"Not long," the Moslem said, stroking his beard, "but well."

"Oh, yes. I see. An amazing man!"

"Yes."

Again a silence fell over them.

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Fred Hawkyard, director of
the Christian Mission at Pabna."

The Moslem bowed his head in acknowledgment. "I am Syed
Khaliluddin, Mouluvi of the Islamic community at Pabna."

"You don't say!" Hawkyard cried, and the two men exchanged
the understanding smiles of one clergyman to another.

"A truly amazing man," Hawkyard reiterated after a pause. "You
know, I would go so far as to say Thakur is one of the few true
Christians!"

The Mouluvi's eyes sparkled. "And I would say that he is one of
the few true Mohammedans . . ."

Hawkyard regarded his new friend with open surprise. The ten-
sion between Moslems and Hindus was certainly no secret in India;
the fear and threat of a holy war was ever present. Once more the
silence fell and lengthened until Hawkyard's curiosity could bear
no more.

"How did you happen to meet this Thakur?" he inquired bluntly.

The Mouluvi again stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Unknown to
me, my nephews, who live in Himaitpur, had enrolled in Tap-
ovan School. When my only son visited there for a few days he was
taken with them to their classes. He returned home on fire with
enthusiasm and began agitating at once to be allowed to attend that
wonderful school. Well, you can understand what my position was in
such a matter . . ."

"Yes. I certainly can ... a Mouluvi . . ."

"I came to Himaitpur at once ... to protest ... to lecture some
sense into the Islamic community ... to do battle if necessary . . ."

132

His voice trailed off, and seemingly lost in thought, he stared pen-
sively at the waters of the Padma River.

"What happened?" Hawkyard urged. "How did it go?"

The Mouluvi turned to him. "What happened? But you have just
been with Thakur! Above all things I want my only son to be a true
and devoted disciple of Mohammed. Could I deny him such a
teacher?" His voice dropped back to a conversational tone. "My son
has been at Tapovan for four months now and is doing very well.
His health has always been delicate, but under Thakur's guidance
it is greatly improved. Why, this morning when I arrived I found
him playing ball . . . running and jumping about just like all the
others. Four months ago such a thing would have been impossible!"

This time it was Hawkyard's turn to contemplate the river. What
a strange land India was! Could he ever grasp the secrets of the
mysterious East?

The trip was only the beginning of a long and close friendship
with Thakur and the devotees of Satsang. Mrs. Hawkyard, having
heard an account of the day from her husband, was as eager as he
to explore the dynamics of this amazing community. They accepted
the invitation to teach the Christian doctrine and history and soon
were making regular weekly trips, for they found the children
inspiring to work with. Also, this new experience of honoring all
religions gave them new insights which enriched and broadened
their own work at the mission.

133

i9

IN 1923, the first group of students were deemed ready to take the
required examinations for high school studies. Taluqdar's dark,
sharp features grew gaunt with worry as he drilled the students by
day and by night without letup.

"Why do you drive yourself and the children this way?" Thakur
chided. "There is no need."

"No need?" cried the distracted teacher. "These children will be
competing with students who have had six years of formal educa-
tion! Most of ours have only had three! What if they fail? All of
them?"

"Then they will take the exams again next year."

"They cannot afford to fail!" Taluqdar moaned desperately. "This
is the first test of our experiment with your new system of educa-
tion. Everything depends on it."

"Have no fear, Taluqdar." Thakur placed his arm across the un-
happy teacher's shoulders and squeezed gently. "You have done
your work well. The children have recited for me and I have quizzed
them. I find their knowledge consciously integrated with their ex-
perience and aimed firmly at the Uphold of Existence. Such knowl-
edge will never desert them . . ."

"But the educational system doesn't care anything about integra-
tion and the Uphold! I know it well! The examinations are a bag of
tricks! The questions will be deliberately and cleverly designed to
mislead. Every trap and snare is set for them. Students educated
within the system are prepared for these tricks . . . ours are not."

"You have done your work well," Thakur repeated. "Whatever the
fruits of your labor . . . know that they are good."

"Even if they fail?"

Thakur laughed gently. "What are these examinations? Can the

134

students' failure reduce by one iota the treasure they possess . . .
this gift that you have contributed so much to? Only think, Taluq-
dar."

Early on the morning that the students were to go to Pabna for
the examinations, Taluqdar stalked grimly through the village and
entered the jungle. He was not seen again all day.

Late that afternoon the children returned and clustered excitedly
about Thakur. They were in good humor, assuring him that they
were certain they had passed . . . that the examinations had not been
nearly so hard as they expected, and that some of the questions were
downright childish for people of their age.

Thakur smiled at them. "The examinations were made easier be-
cause your teacher spent every minute with you, placing all his
love, strength, and knowledge at your disposal. He is waiting for
you now . . . beyond the clearing, where we cut the trees for Mitra's
cottage . . . northward toward the clump of bamboo."

The children were surprised and somewhat awed to find their
strict, taciturn teacher in a strangely gentle mood. Their surprise be-
came delight as this reserved man, whose very bearing precluded
any idea of a public show of affection, fondled their bobbing heads
and patted their bare shoulders as they gave an account of the
examinations.

"You have done very well," he agreed. "And if for any reason any
of you did not pass . . . the fault is mine for sending you too soon.
If this should happen do not feel too concerned . . . because next
year we will be ready for them,"

A month later, there was a day of rejoicing for the members of
Satsang, and Tapovan was strung with garlands, for all nine stu-
dents had passed the examinations with flying colors.

It was also in the year 1923, while Thakur was staying in Calcutta
for a while, that C. R. Das, President of the Indian National Con-
gress, came to see him for the first time. With the prominent leaders
of that time, Chittaranjan Das was engaged in the struggle for
liquidation of the British rule in India. He was a close friend of
Gandhi and placed great hopes in the non-co-operation movement
which was gaining a foothold.

Thakur's name, and his genius for organization, had come to the
attention of Das on several occasions. He decided to investigate. He

135

visited a group of Thakur's devotees in Delhi, attended one or two
of their meetings, and made discreet inquiries in the neighborhoods
where they lived. He was very well impressed. The unusual energy
and discipline of these people, coupled with a sincere concern for
and desire to help others, gave them an influence which far exceeded
their numbers. If Thakur as well as people of this caliber could
be persuaded to lend his remarkable talents to the non-co-operation
movement, the independence of India would be assured.

Their first meeting was extremely frustrating for Das.

"Political freedom does not mean to me any hatred of the British,"
Thakur stated firmly. "My work, and the work of those who chose to
make me their Guru, is to establish the integration of each individual
so that he may realize his own unique potential, strive for his own
full development, and thus bless all with the fruit of his labors."

"What good will such men do if we are denied the God-given
right to have our own government?" Das cried.

Thakur shook his head. "What good would your government be
if there were not a dedicated group of such men to guard its integ-
rity? Would you drive away the Hon to bring in the jackals? We
must recoup our social health. For this it is necessary to establish
schools, industry, and the social reforms that elevate our activity
and push our evolution."

"We are fully aware of these shortcomings," Das retorted im-
patiently. "But only after we get rid of the British will programs for
self-betterment be possible . . ."

Thakur spread his hands. "Only look about you . . . everywhere.
There is no end to the work that is possible now. All that is needed
is men with the vision and clear purpose to accomplish it."

The renowned barrister, whose eloquence at the bar saved Sri
Aurobindo when he was charged with treason against the British
Government, always enjoyed ardent discussion. He changed his
tactics. He spoke long and with fervor about man's desire for free-
dom ... of the crippling, spiritual as well as economic, that ensued
from subjugation. "The non-co-operation movement is not based on
hatred for the British," he pointed out again and again. "Quite the
contrary. It is the system that is hated. Non-co-operation is com-
patible in every way with all that you are doing . . ."

Although Thakur listened carefully and with great sympathy, he
remained firm. "Non-co-operation, I feel, is a disease. It can spread
quickly to war against all authority . . . lead to the disintegration of

136

the nation and family ... to anarchy, where man becomes alien even
to himself. No, no ... my work is the integration of man with all
that he can encompass."

On the next day, the people around Thakur were amazed to wit-
ness an abrupt change of behavior in their eminent visitor. Chit-
taranjan Das began to question Thakur on a variety of subjects, and
he listened to all the answers thoughtfully without pressing his own
opinion. Whereas before this he had been oblivious to his surround-
ings, he now became energetically interested in everything. He
stopped people constantly to question them as to what their life
had been before, and what exactly had induced them to follow
Thakur. He was even overheard asking very small children why they
loved their Thakur so.

Late that evening Das approached Thakur. "It is necessary for me
to leave now. I have been greatly interested by all that I have dis-
cussed with you . . . although I must confess that I do not quite
understand . . ."

"Perhaps if you could come to Satsang and stay a few days . . ."
Thakur suggested.

"I can't do that. There is no one to run things while I'm away."

Thakur laughed. "If you are ready to run the country, surely there
is someone you can trust for a few days."

Das joined in the laughter, then grew serious. "I have been amazed
at what I have seen here, and am desirous of learning more. Will you
consent to be my Guru?"

Thakur smiled at him. "Speak to Ma about this."

Das felt rebuffed. He did not expect such reaction to his an-
nouncement. After all, it was quite a victory for Thakur to have
won over, in so short a time, a man of his status. He strolled moodily
across the schoolyard to the community kitchen where he had the
good fortune to find Monmohini alone.

"I have decided to become a follower, Ma," he announced after
the traditional greetings. "Thakur tells me that you take care of the
initiations."

Monmohini gazed at him for such a long period of silence that
Das became acutely discomfited.

"I haven't much time." He glanced nervously at his watch. "I must
leave within the hour and there are several things I would like to
do . . ."

"Why do you wish to take the vows?" Monmohini asked sternly.

137

"Why?" Das's eyes widened in amazement. "Why . . . because I

have found the man that I can truly regard as my spiritual teacher

"If you seek to flatter my son by this action, don't do it. Any
wishes you harbor that you might, by one means or another, bend
him to your bidding are vain."

"Why do you accuse me of such things?" Das found his voice
shaking.

"Because you are a politician and politicians are inclined toward
power. Power misused is the greatest enemy of the spiritual achieve-
ment."

Das looked fully and steadily into Monmohini's eyes. "All my
life," he said quietly, "I have wanted only the welfare of my country-
men. Here I have found something more vital and enduring than I
had ever thought possible. I do not comprehend fully, but I see the
possibilities, and want to be a part of it. I am a proud man and do
not bow my head easily, but once bowed, I do not raise it again. I
say I want initiation!"

Monmohini directed him to a seat, quietly explained the necessary
ritual, and listened as he responded with the required vows.

Thakur's ideology, which so drastically shifted the emphasis away
from immediate emancipation, brought Das into severe conflict
with his colleagues. For two years he struggled to convince his
followers and friends . . . urged that they begin immediately on
however small a scale to establish schools and health centers and
industries, but the energies of his co-workers were concentrated on
achieving freedom from the British and they had neither money nor
time to spare for Das's experiments. The spirit of India embraced
the non-co-operation movement which was growing steadily.

In 1925, C. R. Das resigned from the Congress Party, and he and
some friends who stayed with him founded the Swaraj (Freedom)
Party which was dedicated to work within the framework of the
law, and take the fullest advantage of the limited legislative means
the British Government provided.

The bitter struggle with so many old friends and the breaking of
close ties had taken its toll, however, and Das was a very ill man. As
soon as the new party was organized, he left for a much-needed
vacation in Darjeeling. En route he stopped to visit Thakur. He ar-
rived with high hopes and enthusiastic plans for the new party.

138

"Thakur," he declared happily, 'I'm going to make this village the
brain center of India. I'll bring all the leaders here to meet with
you!"

"Das, Das." Thakur shook his head sadly. "Will such attention
make us more than we are? Come. Stay with us a while. Rest and
regain your health. You are exhausted . . ."

But Das was infused with a nervous tension that would not let
him rest. After a few days he insisted that he must be on his way,
promising that he would come back for a longer stay in the near
future.

He was never to return. Ten days later the Satsangees were sad-
dened by the news that their eminent brother, C. R. Das, had died.
With his death, many of the followers who had felt that Thakur
was on the threshold of wide acceptance and acclaim sighed. Tha-
kur's warnings that there were no short cuts to emergence of the
integrated man in a peaceful, integrated world were all too true.

Shortly thereafter, the news that Mahatma Gandhi was coming
to Satsang filled the ashram and the surrounding villages to over-
flowing. For days before his arrival, people camped on every avail-
able spot of grass, and the huge rice pots in the community kitchen
were kept boiling night and day.

Gandhi wished to meet the Guru whose influence had so pro-
foundly changed the course of his friend C. R. Das's life.

He remained at Satsang for two days, and the conversation of
these two great Saints was followed with breathless attention. The
listeners marveled that while each man spoke with deep conviction
on all the matters of the day, including non-co-operation, neither
attempted by any slightest pressure to sway the other.

When Gandhi left, many of the young men from the district, in-
cluding some devotees, followed him, and Thakur made no move to
dissuade them. Nor was it unusual, in the years that followed, for
Gandhi to advise erring workers to go to Thakur for a period of
adjustment.

139

20

SWARIN settled her two little girls in their beds. They had been
fretful and trying all day, and she was thankful that the long,
miserable week had come to a close. Khogen would be back from
worshiping at the feet of his great Guru tomorrow, and perhaps . . .
just perhaps, the household might settle down.

"I want Amah," whined the six-year-old.

"Amah is sick," Swarin stated crossly. "You know that. She has
to sleep in the kitchen tonight."

"I want to kiss her good-night."

Swarin stiffened. "And get a sore throat yourself? Come now, give
Ma a kiss and go to sleep like a good girl." She leaned forward, but
the child, in a fit of temper, struggled against her.

"I want Amah to tell me a story 1"

"Stop that, do you hear me?" Swarin pushed the child roughly
back against the pillow and jerked the sheet over her. "Fve had
enough of your shameful behavior! Your father is going to hear of
this tomorrow!" She strode to the door, slamming it against the
muffled sobs.

How her head ached! And where was Bhulu? After seven o'clock
. . . and he was not home . . . again. Twice in one week! How dared
he disobey her in this fashion! Anything could happen to a thirteen-
year-old boy roaming the streets at night! She paced nervously about
the upstairs sitting room . . . went to the window and peered at the
street below. There was no sign of him.

It was a clean, pretty street with neat rows of English-style
houses facing each other. For a moment her ill humor left her and
she sat cross-legged upon the wooden chest by the window, gazing
at the street.

140

How happy she had been ten years ago when Khogen got his
first important promotion at the Tata Iron and Steel Company. They
had felt secure enough to invest her dowry in this house which
would give them prestige among friends and business associates,
and where Bhulu could grow up safely . . . belonging to, and as-
sociating with, the very best people. Her lips curved downward.
And now, just when such a neighborhood could be important to
him, the miserable child used every possible ruse to spend as much
time as possible away from it.

She sighed deeply. How pretty she was in those days. Everyone
had remarked on it! Well, that was over now. At thirty the lines were
fast deepening around her eyes and mouth, the skin of her neck
was becoming slack and unsightly. It was the children, of course.
One couldn't expect to have three children and still look like a
maiden. You'd think men would understand this . . . that they would
love you all the more for sacrificing your beauty for their children.
What beasts they were! How selfish!

Khogen was bored with her before their third child was born.
Even now the pain of those unendurably long nights when she had
lain sleepless and weeping, waiting for his return from the endless
card parties, had not healed. Swarin was no fool! A lot more than
cards took place in those days!

She had been suspicious when Khogen first began to talk of a
new religion . . . and with good reason, because joking about old
traditions and superstitions was one of the few pleasures they
shared. But when she realized he was quite serious, she had, with
great will power, adjusted her own attitudes to his and encouraged
him in every way ... for surely a religious man would not be un-
faithful to her. When the time came, she herself had received initia-
tion in order to please Khogen. But although she had tried very
hard she was never able to share her husband's conviction or en-
thusiasm for the new life. In the beginning she had attended the
Satsang gatherings, but the everlasting subject of Sree Sree Thakur
soon grew boring. Morever, it seemed to her that the paradise of
Satsang was always hungering . . . equipment for this and equip-
ment for that . . . there was no end to the taking up of collections.
Khogen's generous contributions on these occasions had not been
pleasant for her and she stopped going to the meetings, keeping her-
self as far away as possible from Thakur's overenergetic devotees.

Swarin was a responsible woman, however, and having taken the

141

vows, she daily performed the exercises of Jadjon, Istobritty, and
Jawjon, even though she had little hope that any rewards would be
gained by this austerity. Of late she had found herself wondering
more and more whether there was really any significant difference
between religion and the card games ... in either case she was al-
ways alone.

There was a clatter on the stairway and Swarin jumped to her
feet as Bhulu entered the room, his jacket slung across one shoulder,
the school cap pushed back from his broad forehead.

"Where have you been!" she cried. "It's nearly eight o'clock!"

Bhulu's eyes widened innocently. "To the soccer game. Last week
you said it would be all right."

Swarin clenched her hands. "That was last week, Bhulu. Couldn't
you have reminded me of it this morning? You know how I worry
about you. Does it mean nothing that I have been absolutely sick
with dread these past two hours? And all so unnecessary! Only a
little consideration on your part could make my life so happy . . ."

"You said it was all right to go," Bhulu mumbled.

Swarin's lips grew thin. "Your dinner was sent back to the kitchen
and Amah is ill. You wash up. I'll bring it to you myself."

"I'm not hungry . . ."

"Not hungry? How can that be possible at this late hour?"

"We ate dates and rashaghollas all afternoon. I'm stuffed."

"I have told you over and over again not to eat such things be-
tween meals!" Swarin cried sharply. "Isn't it enough that you ruin
my health with worry over you . . . now you must destroy your own
as well?"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Bhulu shouted, stamping his
feet peevishly.

The unexpected outburst sobered them both and they stared at
each other a little breathlessly.

"May I please go to my room now?" Bhulu requested uncom-
fortably.

"Yes, go! I cannot bear to look at you in such an ugly mood!" She
turned quickly back to the window, biting her lip as tears spilled
over her cheeks. Bhulu, her firstborn! They had always been so
close. From the moment of his birth he had been her own true love.
Through the lonely years he had been her support and comfort.
How was it possible that such a loving child could simply vanish

142

. . . desert her and leave a stranger in his place . . . No! Nol Such a
thing was not possible. Bhulu did love her. He must!

At length she ceased weeping, dried her eyes, and went softly to
his room. She found him sprawled on a divan, an open book on
his lap.

"Bhulu," she began timidly, "couldn't we have a nice long talk
the way we used to? You never talk to me any more . . . not really
. . . and I've been so lonesome . . ."

Bhulu eyed her suspiciously. "Sure, Ma, what do you want to
talk about?"

"Why, anything that you'd like to talk about. I am always happy
to talk about you . . ."

Bhulu became silent and ill at ease. He laid the book aside and
shifted about on the divan. "I don't know anything to talk about."

"Of course you do, darling." Swarin laughed nervously, finger-
ing the top of his dresser and fondling the silver backs of the Eng-
lish brushes she had given him recently. "Why, the other day when
you brought your little friend home you spent the whole afternoon
with your heads together talking a mile a minute . . . What did you
talk about then?"

"Oh, that" Bhulu shrugged. "It was nothing. You wouldn't be
interested in school things . . ."

"How can you say that? Don't you realize that you are my son?
That your tiniest thought is of great importance to me? That I love
you a thousand times more than any of those boys ever possibly
could . . . ?" Impulsively, she rushed to him, and kneeling, wrapped
her arms about him in a close embrace. She felt his body stiffen . . .
and she noticed something else . . . Abruptly, she stood up, tower-
ing over him. "You have been smoking!" she accused in horrified
tones.

"Me? Smoking?" Bhulu flustered guiltily. "Oh, I know what it is.
The man next to me at the soccor game was smoking cigars . . .
that must be what made you think that. His smoke got all over
me . . ."

"Do you take me for a fool?" Swarin glared at him scornfully. "Is
that the reason you dare behave so shamelessly toward me? I have
kept silent about your disobedience. I have tried to protect you.
But it is no use. Every day you become worse! Now I will have to
tell your father everything!"

143

"I'm not a baby!" Bhulu stormed passionately. "Tell him! Do any-
thing you want! I would rather be beaten than have you hanging
on me all the time . . . spying on me! I am not a child!"

Stunned, Swarin backed away from Bhulu, her breaking heart
shutting out his voice and contorted features. It was true. He hated
her. Why? Why? What had she ever done to deserve such punish-
ment? What was the matter with her? Other women gave far less
of themselves to the service of their families ... yet they were
loved. Other women were often selfish tyrants who kept their fam-
ilies dancing to whatever tune they wished to play . . . and yet
they were respected. What had she ever done that everyone
should scorn her . . . turn away from her ... as if she were a servant
to be tolerated? It wasn't fair!

Khogen returned the following afternoon and Swarin sat in
tightly controlled passivity, listening to his enthusiastic recital of
all that the great Thakur was saying and doing and all the new
things that were happening or about to happen at Satsang. When he
had quite worn himself out, she reported all of her difficulties with
Bhulu.

"Why didn't you tell me of this before now?" Khogen paced the
floor.

"It is not easy for a mother to admit failure. I have been sick
with worry and I have tried in every possible way to win him back
with my love . . . but he has fallen in with bad company. His ears
are deaf to my pleas."

Khogen stopped pacing. "He must go to Satsang. A few months
with Thakur and all this will be forgotten. Oh, you should see the
children there! How polite and considerate they are. How intelli-
gent and loving . . ."

Color flooded back into Swarin's pale cheeks. "Is that your only
answer to me? The one and only answer for everything in life?" she
cried derisively. "If the house were burning down I believe you'd
have to run and ask Thakur whether to pour water on it!"

Khogen was taken aback. "Will you never try to understand me?
What did you want me to suggest?"

"If I knew that, do you think I would humiliate myself by com-
ing to you? I am desperate. I don't know what to do."

"Then it must be Satsang. When you see how he develops you
will understand why I wish it. Until then, please try to trust me.

144

He is my son, too, you know. I can take him tomorrow, since I am
not expected at the office until Monday. There now, smile for me.
Several of the boys here have gone to Satsang. Come out with me
tonight and talk to their parents. When you hear what they say, you
will be at ease."

"It is not easy to get a boy ready to leave home on such short
notice," Swarin complained coldly. "Clothes will have to be washed
and mended. There is no time to spare for gossip."

She received her first letter from Bhulu a week after his arrival
at Satsang and others continued to come at regular intervals. They
were happy letters, bubbling about his new school and friends, ten-
derly concerned about his mother's health and happiness. They
would have been a great joy . . . except that his eulogies of Thakur
became longer and more glowing with each writing. Thakur had
saved Bhulu from bad company as he had saved Khogen . . . but
not for her, only for himself. Swarm's loneliness increased and her
heart felt like a painful leaden lump.

A few months later, Khogen entered his house in high good spir-
its. "You are looking at a free man," he greeted Swarin. "I have just
quit my job."

"You have what?"

"Resigned from Tata's. Severed all ties. Finished. From now on I
work only for Thakur."

"Have you lost your mind completely?" Swarin was aghast.

Khogen laughed. "No, my dearest wife, I have just discovered it.
Look how it is with us. I am not happy in my work. You are not
happy away from Bhulu. Well, all this is over. In Satsang love is
everywhere and there is joy in one's work. Life is very short. We
have wasted too much of our time already. I made arrangements
with your sister to manage the babies and the house for a few days
while we go and find a place to settle down in. It is all taken care
of. We will take the early morning train. I have wired Thakur that
we are coming."

"You are mad. What could you do in a place like that?"

"I will do whatever needs doing. Whatever Thakur wishes me to
do. Over two thousand families are living like that ... in peace and
harmony with each other. When you see Satsang for yourself, you
will know what I say is true."

145

"I will never see that place," Swarin answered coldly. "If you in-
sist on behaving like a schoolboy I cannot prevent it. But I will
never go there."

Khogen sobered. "You don't seem to understand, Swarin. I have
resigned from Tata's. There will be no more income. At Satsang we
work only for our needs . . . not for money . . . You will have to
come with me."

Swarin left the room without answering. Nor did she speak to
him once during the long train ride to Pabna. She sat woodenly, her
drooping sari drawn over her forehead, her hostile eyes staring at the
passing landscape.

Several people had come to the railroad station to meet them but
only one caught Swarin's attention . . . caught her attention and
melted her heart, for Bhulu stood there, healthy and scrubbed, his
sparkling eyes eagerly scanning the train windows. He rushed to-
ward them as they alighted, but stopped short just as he reached her
and gravely dropped to the platform and touched her feet. Then he
arose and handed her the bouquet of flowers he was carrying . . .
and gave her an ecstatic hug. How beautiful he was! How lonely
she had been! Her eyes devoured him hungrily, as his words tum-
bled over each other in his eagerness to share all his adventures
with her. And no longer did he resist her caresses, but seemed ac-
tually to delight in them as he leaned comfortably against her on the
oxcart ride to Satsang.

When they arrived he hugged her quickly again. "I must go now,
Ma. We're in a brickmaking contest with the fifth grade and they're
catching up on us, but I'll see you tonight. Be sure to visit the labo-
ratory. We do experiments there. Bhattacharyya-dada will let you
look through the microscope. Ask him! What you see will amaze
you!"

And then the great man was with them. Swarin could feel the
electric impact of his approach. She kept her eyes glued to the
ground, dreading to see in the flesh this man who had stolen her
husband, her son, and her home.

She was aware that Khogen had prostrated himself, and then had
risen and was speaking. "This is Bhulu's Ma, Thakur. As I said in
my wire, we have come to live here permanently. Tell me what to
do, for I am a free man now and desire only to serve you for the
rest of my life."

There was a very long silence and Swarin held her breath as she

146

waited for the final sentence to be passed on her life.

"You have stopped working at Tata's for yourself," Thakur spoke
quietly. "Now go back there and work for me."

Swarm's eyes opened wide, dwelt for a moment on the amaz-
ingly calm man before them, and then swept to the perplexed
countenance of her husband.

"Are you serious, Thakur?" Khogen stammered helplessly.

"Very serious, Khogen. Your greatest contribution can best be
achieved among the people you know. In your position, there are
many opportunities for you to enlighten the working men. Teach
them to love their labor. To experience it as an integral part of their
own being. To contribute it with free heart to the Supreme Father
and to the blessing of all. You must return immediately before the
confusion over your resignation deepens. Bhulu's Ma can stay here
with Boro Bou if she would like to. I know that Bhulu has been lone-
some for her. Come back in a month, then your wife can return with
you." (Boro Bou, "Great Wife," was Thakur's endearing name for
Saroshi. )

As in a dream, Swarin allowed herself to be guided to the cot-
tage where Thakur's wife was busy washing a stack of banana
leaves that would serve as plates for the evening meal. Her greet-
ing was warm and sisterly as she praised Bhulu and indirectly
Swarin herself for Bhulu's virtues. She spoke of how happy the en-
tire ashram was that Swarin had at last found it possible to favor
them with a visit. And how, even now, the women were preparing
delicacies for the tea they would have shortly and where Swarin
would meet many of the mothers of Bhulu's friends.

"I'm afraid you people may attribute more understanding to me
than I possess," Swarin broke in guiltily, conscious of her hostility
toward Thakur and Satsang and of her great relief that this was not
to be her home after all. "I try to be a good woman and to meditate
on the sacred word . . . but I'm afraid I fail in the holy life far more
often than I succeed. For me such things are very difficult."

"But what can be so difficult?" Boro Ma's face was a study of
candid innocence. "You only need to love one person. After that
everything flows of itself and all becomes very clear."

Swarin sighed. "Yes, I know. Everyone who loves Thakur bears
the same testimony. But you see ... I feel I must be honest about
these things ... I am not able to love Thakur. I've tried. I simply

147

don't feel it. Sometimes," she added hollowly, Tm not too sure that
I even know what love is . . ."

"No, no, no," Boro Ma cut in excitedly, "not Thakur, not the
others. It is yourself you must love to begin with."

"Myself?" Swarin cried, feeling that she must have misunderstood.

"Yes, yes . . . you." Boro Ma's round face bobbed happily. "That
is what Thakur works for always. It is the key."

"Myself?" Swarin repeated incredulously.

"Yes. You see how it is. If you don't love someone, you feel that
others should not do so either. If that one is yourself, then you
push all love away from you. You do not feel worthy."

"Myself?" Swarin murmured dazedly.

"But if you love yourself . . . Ah, then the door is open wide. All
the love in the world can fly in and out of your heart."

"Myself?" Swarin gazed long and searchingly into the happy,
peaceful features of Thakur's wife.

When Khogen came for her a month later, he was met by a
happy, vivacious, and amazingly beautiful wife, anxious to share
with him all the new experiences of herself and their son. Khogen,
too, had many and exciting things to tell. He felt that he was, after
all these years, just beginning to know the working men at the com-
pany. They had always been there, of course, but he had never
really experienced them as individuals before. He had found them
very responsive to learning about Thakur and there were, in fact,
thirty new adherents who now met regularly to discuss the princi-
ples and counsels of Thakur and to follow them actively. Several
of them were planning visits to Satsang. Swarin and Khogen talked
the night away, sitting before the window, arms about each other,
excited by their wonderful new plans for their future.

"How fortunate that we have such a big house." Swarin nestled
her head on Khogen's shoulder. His arm tightened about her. "It
will be so much more convenient for meetings and gatherings than
most of the other houses have been. And it is fortunate, too, that
you make a good salary, because refreshments for such large gath-
erings will take money. You will have to give me more."

"Whatever I make is yours." Khogen ended this old domestic
feud contentedly. "You shall decide how it is to be used."

Early the following morning, Swarin and Khogen went to
Thakur to say good-by.

148

"Khogen looks happy/' Thakur smiled.

"Now I understand what you meant when you spoke of the ideal
marriage/' Khogen's face radiated a joy that dissolved all inhibitions.
"Swarin has borne me three children, but I tell you truly that last
night I knew her for the first time. Today she is my bride."

149

IN THE spring of 1930, Boro Ma's younger sister Sarba Mangala,
who was studying at King Edward College, arrived to spend her
vacation at Satsang. She was a pretty girl, with a lively inquiring
mind, who quickly captured the hearts of the devotees.

One morning shortly after Mangala's arrival, Boro Ma's two
younger children carried the spices, grinders, and bottles to the
roof of the community kitchen so that the women could watch and
enjoy the activity of the ashram without interrupting their work.

"Would you like something else to make you comfortable?" the
older child asked.

"No, no." Boro Ma laughed. "You must hurry to school now. It
is getting late/'

The children went through the ceremony of farewell ... a solemn
touching of the women's feet and then an ecstatic, laughing hug . . .
beginning with Monmohini, in deference to her age and position in
the household, proceeding to Boro Ma, and ending with Mangala.

Mangala was charmed with the grace and ease of the perform-
ance. "What wonderful children you have, sister. I can't understand
it. They are the pets of the whole village . . . everyone favors them
and yet they don't seem to be aware of their position at all. They
are completely unspoiled."

Boro Ma flushed with pleasure.

"They form the chain that Anukul strives for," Monmohini ex-
plained. "Each adores the next oldest and accepts him as adviser,
and so it goes, right up the line to Boro Ma, who in turn adores
Anukul as both Guru and husband. The nourishment from such a
chain is constant and the fruit healthy . . ."

"And Thakur adores his Ma," the beaming Boro Ma deferred
modestly.

150

Monmohini gazed thoughtfully over the village. "My son is a
vessel for love. He is filled by the Supreme Father and in his turn
pours love over us all. Those who are thirsty refresh themselves."

Boro Ma was startled, and then slowly, her face was wreathed
by a happy, surprised smile. Never before had she heard Monmo-
hini publicly praise, or even allude to, those attributes of Thakur
which made him so beloved and revered by others.

For a space of time there was only the crunch-crunch of the little
machines as the women ground their spices.

"Everything here is so strange," Mangala puzzled at length. "I al-
ways got high grades and everybody, including myself, thought I
was very bright . . . but now, after discussing things with Thakur,
I realize that I am just beginning to understand all those things that
I thought I had already learned. It's not altogether comfortable."
She laughed uneasily. "A month ago I thought, In four years 111
have my master's degree and in five, or six at the latest, my doc-
torate. Then all my learning years will be over.' But now it seems
there isn't any end at all. The more I learn, the more conscious I
am of what a tiny little bit I know . . ." She stared into the sun for
a few moments and then blinked her eyes rapidly.

A disciple emerged from the cottage. He had a plump pillow
tucked under his arm and was carrying Thakur's water pipe.

"Oh, look!" Mangala jumped to her feet, shading her eyes with
her hand. "Thakur must be sitting down someplace. I have to go!"
She ran to Boro Ma and threw her arms around her sister's neck.
"We're talking about biology and I have a hundred questions to
ask. I'll work twice as hard this afternoon to make up ..."

"No need." Boro Ma laughed. "This is your vacation. You must
do what pleases you."

The work came to a stop as the two women watched Mangala's
lithe figure sail across the open field in pursuit of the disciple, and
they exchanged tender, rather wistful smiles at the sight of so
much youth and beauty.

For Mangala, the summer passed in a joyous whirl of learning
and doing. But as it neared its end she suddenly grew listless, her
laughter ceased, and she spent long hours in the courtyard staring
into space. Even the antics of the children failed to distract her.

"You are not well," Boro Ma worried. "Why don't you go to
Thakur? He will have some medicine made for you . . ,"

"Nothing can help me."

151

"Whatever it is, Thakur will cure it," Boro Ma persisted anx-
iously. "You have seen for yourself how it is with the others."

Mangala burst into tears. "This has been the happiest time of my
whole life," she sobbed. "I cannot bear to have it end. My heart is
breaking."

"Is that all it is?" Boro Ma circled her sister's waist and hugged
the girl close. "Come now." She dried Mangala's tears as gently as
she would one of the children's. "Let us have tea. And then you
must find Thakur and have a long talk. Only think, Mangala, the
college is not at the end of the world and we will always be here.
Vacation will come again ... I am happy that you love us so well,
and my home will be your home always."

Mangala found Thakur with a group of men behind the machine
shop, discussing some blueprints which were spread out on the
ground. She was about to turn away when he spied her.

She approached hesitantly until she stood before him. Something
in her manner brought the activity to a halt and the men watched
her curiously.

"Thakur" her voice was barely audible "am I such a woman as
would recognize the true husband of her heart when he comes?"

Thakur smiled. "You are such a woman."

"And if I find him, it is my right and duty to win him?"

Thakur studied her closely for some time. "Yes," he answered
slowly.

Mangala drew a long, faltering breath. "Thakur, I beg you with
all my heart to become my husband."

The atmosphere became electric. There was an ominous move-
ment among the men, as if to rush this mad woman from the Saint's
presence.

Thakur stared at her silently for a while. "You know this decision
is not mine to make," he answered gravely. "But if you can win the
true consent of Ma and Boro Ma, then I will be honored to be
your husband."

Mangala dropped quickly to the ground, pressed her burning
forehead on Thakur's foot for a moment, and then sped away from
the astonished group.

"What nonsense!" Monmohini laughed sharply. "This is a delu-
sion, a schoolgirl caprice. You will return to the college and regain
your sanity!"

152

"This is no caprice/' Mangala stated grimly. "As long as I live I
will try to win him. If I cannot bear his child there will be no
children for me." But as she turned toward her stricken sister,
Mangala's eyes filled with tears and her chin trembled. "Can you
still love me?" she begged.

Boro Ma embraced her. "How can you doubt my love?" The
sisters clung to each other, weeping helplessly.

By common consent the women did not return to the subject in
the days that followed, but there was no mistaking Mangala's deter-
mination. In the face of the rising hostility from the villagers, often
expressing itself in open taunt or insult, she remained sweet-tem-
pered. She served Monmohini and Boro Ma from early morning
until late at night . . . cooking and cleaning, scouring the enormous
iron pots, and betweentimes searching for new ways to please.

The news spread quickly from Satsang to the far-reaching groups
of devotees, and before the week was out, worried followers were
arriving at the ashram in an attempt to put a stop to the disturbing
proceedings.

Thakur was firm. He himself remained aloof from the women
and their problem.

"But, Thakur," pleaded the distracted devotees, "suppose your
Ma and wife accept this girl! We can't take that chance!"

"If they give their wholehearted consent, the marriage will take
place."

"You can't be serious! India is in no mood for polygamy! There
is great agitation that the practice be legally outlawed. Let us con-
cern ourselves with individual development, spiritual realization,
scientific research, and education. We cannot afford such a pointless
controversy now."

"I have expressed my beliefs on the principles governing marriage
and children on many occasions and for many years. They are well
known to all. How is it, since these teachings are so distasteful to
you, that you still follow me?"

In desperation, and against Thakur's injunctions, the devotees
sought out Monmohini in the community kitchen.

"Everything depends on you, Ma. This marriage will ruin Thakur
and sweep away overnight all that we have labored to build up.
You must not allow it to happen. Your little world of Satsang is
sheltered and secluded. You don't understand what the outside
world is like. We have already incurred the enmity of powerful

153

forces because of our stand on the non-co-operation movement. If
Thakur takes a second wife we will be destroyed . . . absolutely.
Our people will not stand for this."

Monmohini heard them out, frowning slightly, her arms folded
across her breast. "My son's ideas on these matters are well known,
yet the people choose to follow him . . ."

'Theory is one thing," they argued, "but action of this sort at
this time is suicide! Thakur has half a million followers: people
from all walks of life and political persuasions. It is not possible
for most of them to discuss matters with Thakur personally. They
rely on what they hear . . ."

"Is Satsang a political party, then?" Monmohini enunciated
coldly. "Are my son's teachings to be reduced to opportunistic
slogans? What manner of people seek a guru whose words are
meaningless? It is better if they look elsewhere!"

"But you do not understand the present attitudes in India . . ."

"Leave my kitchen at once!" Monmohini ordered. "And do not
return. I find your presence unhealthy!"

Monmohini sent for Boro Ma and turned the kitchen and the
supervision of the evening meal over to her. "I am going to medi-
tate," she explained. "I shall not want any dinner."

It was early morning when she emerged from the prayer room
and the air shimmered with predawn silver. Monmohini leaned
against the Bel tree, caressing its bark and remembering her own
mother. How had that domineering, sharp-tongued woman, anxious
for her possessions and family prestige, felt when Monmohini, as a
child of nine, begged to be taken halfway across India just to see
a saint? Surely, this must have seemed the most extravagant of child-
ish whims . . . and yet, her mother had parted with the precious
rupees . . . endured the hardships of travel. What had prompted
her? Monmohini sighed. How often the knowledge of the heart
proved a mystery to the intellect!

She left die tree and went directly to the chamber where Man-
gala slept with the children. Gently she shook the girl awake. "You
have my permission, Mangala."

Mangala stared at her for several moments, unable to compre-
hend; then, in a mad rush, she threw her arms around the older
woman. "Do you mean this?" she said. "Is it true? I'm not dream-
ing?"

154

Monmohini pushed the fine hair from the flushed face and kissed
the damp eyelids. "You are awake, my daughter."

"Oh, I can't bear this. I shall die of happiness. But my sister . . .
will she?"

"I cannot tell you that . . . and you must not pressure her. She
loves you very much and the decision is not easy for her . . . only
put yourself in her place . . ."

"I know. Oh, I do know. If only I could make her understand
that her happiness is dear to me also. I will never rob her of what
is hers . . ."

"Boro Ma understands. Only be patient. You are young. Time is
not so important."

But although Boro Ma was affectionate and smiling as always,
the precious last days of Mangala's vacation slipped by and she did
not speak. With heavy heart Mangala began packing for her return
to the university. She was nearly finished when Boro Ma entered
the room.

"How pretty!" Boro Ma smoothed the folds of a blue silk sari.
"We must plan your wedding dress. Taluqdar's wife does beautiful
embroidery and is very artistic in design. Shall we consult her this
afternoon?"

On the night of November 17, 1930, the wedding of Thakur and
Sarba Mangala was celebrated. As the worried devotees had pre-
dicted, the event gave rise to sharp controversy, and in Satsang
ashram as well as in the outside communities, there was a substan-
tial drop in membership. As in that earlier day, however, when
Thakur brought the dancing period to a close, those who remained
were imbued with new strength and energy and the work of integra-
tion proceeded.

After her marriage Mangala continued her attendance at the col-
lege and completed her scientific studies. She found her own place
in the work and the life of the ashram; her quiet dignity and devo-
tion quickly earned for her the appellation "Chotto Ma" (Little
Mother) among the villagers.

Nine years later she gave birth to her only child, a son who was
named Kazal. From the beginning, the contrast of this child's deep,
serious eyes and merry smile enchanted everyone. As he grew
older, teachers and townspeople alike were astounded at his ability

155

to grasp and assimilate knowledge far beyond his years ... at the
loving and patient ingenuity with which he unraveled and settled
the disputes of his playfellows ... at the way children gathered
about him for advice and leadership. And the devotees blessed the
union of Thakur and Sarba Mangala which had given them yet
another saint.

156

22

THE schoolhouse had been enlarged three times by 1932 and its
four long buildings enclosed a pleasantly landscaped courtyard.
Now that several Tapovan students were doing exceptionally well
in the universities, plans for a high school were beginning to ma-
terialize. Hovering over these plans was the wondrous dream of a
university where people from all lands might someday assemble,
and under Thakur's guidance, bring to flower the buds of a bright
new world.

The Satsangees pooled all their resources in their effort to real-
ize their dream. The experience gained in sinking tube wells
helped them to obtain contracts for similar work all over Bengal.
From the profits the workers took just as much as they needed; with
the rest they furnished the mechanical, chemical, and pharmaceuti-
cal works with better and modern equipment. This enabled them to
secure contracts from the railroad companies, which were expand-
ing. Ultimately Satsang had its own printing press, and imported
two Ipswich generators, which provided the electrical power re-
quired by the research laboratories in Viswa Bignan Kendra, and
also supplied electricity to the homes and streets in Satsang. The
Ipswich generators were expensive, however, and did not long meet
the growing need for electricity.

One evening as various ways of generating power were under
discussion, Thakur suggested that a high-voltage discharge passed
through an atomized potassium permanganate solution might cause
an explosion. If this were true, and could be controlled, it might
provide a cheap source of power.

Bankim and Gopal lost no time in setting up and trying this ex-
periment. They carefully constructed a 30 KV transformer which
stepped up the voltage of the Ipswich generators from 220 to 30,000.

157

Then they took a foot-length segment of jointed bamboo, closed at
both ends, wrapped it heavily with wire, and inserted an electrode
at either end. Arrangements were also made to spray the potassium
permanganate solution into the cylinder through a duct in the
center. Then they closed the circuit that was supposed to make
the spark jump across the gap. Nothing happened. They began
anew, for several days repeating the procedure with subtle varia-
tions, but without success.

They decided to consult Thakur again. He listened intently to a
step-by-step recital of all their endeavors. "Perhaps," he responded,
"you should try to make the discharge and the spray come simul-
taneously."

The first trial following this suggestion produced an explosion
that blew the homemade tube to bits. There was great excitement
in the laboratory, but Thakur viewed the results with a grave face.

"We need a cylinder of extraordinary strength to serve our pur-
pose," he stated thoughtfully. "It should also be fitted with a piston."

Gopal left at once for Calcutta, and after a week returned with a
pipe. The scientists gathered around eagerly as he presented his
find to Thakur.

"I could not find any chamber with piston such as you described,
in Calcutta, but this one is made of gun metal. I'm sure it will be
able to stand the blast without breaking. It is the best that they were
able to cast with the equipment available."

Thakur took the foot-long, inch-thick cylinder in his hands, weigh-
ing it thoughtfully. "I think we must wait," he said at length. "I'm
afraid this might not do."

There was a chorus of protest as the men passed the pipe from
hand to hand, assuring themselves and Thakur that it was quite
adequate . . . explaining the composition and characteristics of
gun metal.

"There is nothing to lose by trying" was their general decision.

Thakur shook his head. "If you are determined to go ahead, then
wind it carefully with several layers of wire. It is not strong enough."

The men hurried to the laboratory, but a search of the machine
shop revealed no wire that would serve as adequate reinforcement.
They discussed sending someone to Calcutta for it; but the journey
was long and they were eager to proceed with the experiment which
they felt must surely succeed. They decided that the pipe would
hold, and quieted their doubts by taking extra safety measures in

158

setting up conditions for controlling the execution of their project.

They worked all night, and by the following afternoon the elec-
trodes were fixed in either end, the atomizer made ready to spray
the potassium permanganate solution, and each man went to his
assigned station in the yard of the science laboratory. Bankim
was located some forty yards distant at the transformer control
switch. Gopal, about twenty feet from the pipe, was prepared to
operate the atomizer. On signal they simultaneously closed the
circuit and started the spray.

There was a blinding flash accompanied by an explosion that
shook the entire community and brought people tumbling from
their homes, crying "Earthquake!''

Thakur came running and the people after him. They found
Bankim sitting in the dust, stunned and temporarily blinded. Gopal
lay on the ground unconscious. His clothes had disintegrated and
his body was completely blackened by burns. Thakur sent men
running to collect the leaves of a certain wild herb and gave in-
structions for grinding it into an emollient salve.

Gopal was carried to the dispensary; for several days Thakur did
not leave his side, except for periods of prayer and meditation.

When Gopal regained consciousness he smiled apologetically.
"Germany might have the kind of pipe we need."

Thakur smiled sadly. "Success has made us impatient. For the
present time we will give thanks for the Ipswich generators/'

The ointment was applied to Copal's body constantly for several
months. When the healing was completed there were no visible scars
at all.

Gopal spent the last weeks of his recuperation in Calcutta with
his mother. Not wishing to interrupt the work of his colleagues at
Satsang, he had not informed them of his day of return, so there
was no one to meet him when he reached Pabna. It had been rain-
ing and the streets were wet and muddy. Since he was wearing
English clothes, Gopal sat on a bench to roll up his trouser legs and
remove his shoes and stockings for the walk to Satsang.

A woman approached him with extended palm, begging. He
found several coins in his pocket and gave them to her with a
blessing. Her palm closed over the money but she did not pass on,
and looking up, Gopal saw that she seemed dazed, as if not quite
aware of her surroundings.

"What is it, Ma?" he asked kindly. "Are you in trouble?"

159

"My son died last week," she chanted in a flat monotone. "He is
cremated. Gone forever."

Gopal got to his feet. He noticed that the woman was old and
that she was not accustomed to begging. Her sari was wet and
draggling about her body. "Come, Ma/' He took her arm. "You
have been in the rain and you are tired. Let me walk you to your
home so that you can rest/'

"There is no home," the emotionless voice droned. "I could not
pay rent and so I left."

"But where do you sleep?" Gopal cried in alarm.

"What does it matter. My son died last week. He is gone."

"Come home with me," Gopal urged. "I live in an ashram and
there are many there who will love and care for you."

"It's useless. There will be no work for one as old as I."

Gopal laughed. "At Satsang there is work for everyone. Come
now, we'll find some tea, for it is a long walk."

The rutted four-mile road to Himaitpur had long been a sore
spot for Thakur's devotees. A trying experience at best, in weather
like this it was almost impossible to keep one's footing. Despite all
his efforts to help the woman avoid puddles and support her on the
slippery stretches, she had twice fallen. The Satsangees were more
than willing to build a proper road, since this was their only con-
nection with the railroad station; but the authorities would not al-
low such public work to be done by just anybody . . . and neither
would they attend to it themselves.

When they arrived at Satsang, Gopal took the woman directly to
Thakur. "She has no one," he explained. "Her only son died last
week."

At the mention of her son, the woman was overcome with grief
and could not speak.

Thakur jumped up from the stool on which he was sitting
and threw his arms around her. "Why do you weep, Ma? I am
your son." He held her close until her sobbing stopped. "Go and
bathe." He urged her gently toward Boro Ma. "Then come back
here by me. I need you."

The woman dried her eyes and she smiled. Gopal was struck
anew at how swiftly Thakur's touch healed the suffering. Often
orphans were brought to Satsang and in each case Thakur had
caught the lonely child into his arms, crooning, "You're not alone,
I tell you. I am here and I shall always be with you." Every time

160

Gopal had witnessed this, the crying stopped and that same won-
drous expression of consolation and peace smoothed away the lines
of fear and grief.

Bankim Roy joined Gopal. The two friends, having many things
to discuss after their separation, walked through the village and on
toward the river. Suddenly Gopal halted. "Who can that be?" he
cried, pointing to a sleek, white, luxurious-looking ship lying in the
Padma.

"Oh, that's the Governor of Bengal, Sir John Anderson," Bankim
informed him. "He's making an official tour of the state."

The men stood for a few moments admiring the ship, then Gopal
broke away and ran through the stretch of jungle down to the river-
bank, where he began jumping up and down and waving frantically.
People on the ship waved back to him, but he did not stop. If any-
thing, his actions became even more energetic each time he was
noticed. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he yelled, "I wish to speak
with the Governor!"

"What on earth are you doing?" Bankim ran to his side.

"I'm going to get us a new road to Pabna!" Gopal replied.

Bankim laughed aloud. "It won't work. Sir John will turn you over
to a flunky and he'll turn you back to the local authorities. You know
what the situation is there."

Gopal had attracted curiosity on the ship by this time and the rail
was lined with people. A small launch was put over the side, a
sailor jumped into it, and rowed across to them.

"What is the trouble?" he asked, stepping ashore and mooring the
launch.

"I would like to speak to Sir John," Gopal answered.

The sailor eyed the neatly dressed native quizzically as he drew
a notebook and pencil from his pocket. "The Governor is very busy
right now, but if you'll tell me what your complaint is, I'll see that
it reaches the proper authorities."

Gopal stared at the notebook helplessly, then caught Bankim's
badly suppressed smile of amusement.

"Tell Sir John," he stated firmly, "that I should like to discuss with
him some problems we are having with our photochemical re-
activity experiments."

The sailor's eyes flew open and he stared at the men and the
jungle which surrounded them. "You're some kind of a scientist?"

"I am." Gopal tried a long shot. "I believe Sir John was educated

161

in the sciences. I have a great admiration for him."

The sailor hesitated. "Would you mind writing down that thing
you wanted to talk to him about? I can't promise anything, you un-
derstand. If I wave to you from the ship, it means that the Gov-
ernor is too busy to talk to you."

The friends watched the launch return to the ship and noticed
with satisfaction that it was left in the water after the sailor had
gone aboard. In a few minutes the sailor was back; he climbed
over the side again and began rowing to shore.

"Good Lord, you've got an audience!" Bankim marveled.

"You'll come with me?"

"Not I." Bankim laughed. "You don't need anybody. And frankly,
I feel a bit underdressed for a chat with the Governor."

Sir John greeted Gopal with every courtesy. "I cannot give you
any help with your photochemical reactivity problems," he said,
smiling, "but I was curious to meet you. Are you truly a scientist?"

"I received my graduate training in physical chemistry at Cal-
cutta University," Gopal replied modestly.

"Really! Whatever are you doing in this jungle? Vacationing?"

"Oh, no, sir, I live here." And Gopal briefly described the pur-
pose, organization, and dynamics of Satsang, ending with a very
eloquent account of how contact with Thakur had turned his own
interests from terroristic, anti-British activity into constructive pur-
suits.

Sir John was amazed. "What in the world can a saint have to do
with science?"

"Oh, our Guru is very interested in science. There are several of
us who have chosen to work under Thakur's personal guidance . . .
Doctor Krishna Bhattacharyya is one of us." Gopal dropped the
name carefully. "Perhaps you know him?"

"Krishna Bhattacharyya? The physicist?"

Gopal smiled happily. "Yes, that's the one .' . ."

Sir John's eyes narrowed skeptically. "You say you have a labo-
ratory out in that jungle. Would it be possible for two of my aides
who have scientific backgrounds to visit it now?"

"Of course." Gopal seemed delighted. "Thakur would be most
pleased to welcome them, and my friend is waiting on the river-
bank. He will guide them."

Sir John summoned his aides and gave directions, watching Gopal

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closely as he did so. The intrepid young Indian gave not the slight-
est sign of uneasiness at having his fantastic story verified. The
Governor was perplexed. What game was this fellow playing? Well,
one thing was sure, he wanted something. All Indians did.

Despite his skepticism, Sir John became absorbed in Copal's
lively stories of Thakur and the ashram. He was very much sur-
prised, when his aides returned, to realize that he had been in
animated discussion with the jungle scientist for nearly two hours.

The aides were enthusiastic. "We've never seen such a concen-
tration of technical skill and experience. They have a completely
equipped laboratory with power-driven machinery as good as any
we have seen in Calcutta! We even found a class in differential cal-
culus being held under a banyan tree!"

Sir John pursed his lips as he studied Copal.

"And, Your Excellency," the excited aides continued, "you will
never believe this, but Krishna Bhattacharyya . . . you're familiar
with some of his work . . . well, this is where he lives!"

"I suppose," the Governor addressed Copal, "that such a labora-
tory must take a great amount of money to maintain . . . personnel,
power, equipment, et cetera."

"Yes, sir, a very great sum of money is invested there."

Sir John leaned back in his chair, feeling keenly disappointed
that this amazingly interesting young man had come on such a
trite and ordinary quest. "Why do you feel that the Crown should
concern itself with your monetary problems?"

Copal frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are asking for financial assistance, aren't you?" Sir John
rejoined testily.

"But no! Money has never been a problem at Satsang. Whenever
we are ready for equipment ... or land ... or anything . . . the
money is always there. If it is not, then we find ways to get it. That
is one of the practices here, you see"

"What is it you want, then?" the exasperated Governor cut in.
"You must have come here for something?"

"Oh, yes, sir. The road from Pabna to our ashram is a disgrace.
During the monsoon it is a river of mud, and in the dry season it is
a sea of dust. Visitors have great trouble reaching Thakur. We
would like very much to build a proper road, but the officials won't
permit it. Neither will they repair it themselves. Perhaps, since you

163

are here, it would be possible for you to secure permission for us to
build the road . . ."

Sir John was amazed. This, surely, was the most unbelievable of
all the strange requests that had reached him during the inspection
tour. "That is all you want? Permission to build a road without any
expense to the government?"

"If you could make this possible, we at Satsang would be most
grateful/'

'Til see that you get your road," Sir John said quietly, "and the
government will build it and bear the expense."

He was as good as his word. Six months later a fine, all-purpose
road ran from Pabna to Himaitpur; and the astonished Governor
found himself showered with letters of praise and with handcrafted
gifts from the grateful devotees of Thakur.

Satsang had a new friend. From Government House in Calcutta,
Sir John assisted and encouraged the work of Thakur and the
ashram for the duration of his administration.

164

23

IN 1934 it was necessary for Thakur to spend several days in Cal-
cutta for treatment of an infection in his anklebone.

During this time, Baidyanath begged him to see, and to save, a
dear friend. The friend, Hem Mukherji, was a famous singer-poet,
who early in life had shown great genius in composing poetry.
Hem had taken to drink, however, and this condition had become
so acute that for several years past, he worked only when the money
for liquor ran out. Moreover, his talent had progressively degener-
ated until much of his poetry was meaningless, sophisticated dog-
gerelsince the clubs offering this type of entertainment paid better.

His friends were heartsick. They had tried in every possible way
to encourage him to seek medical or spiritual help, but it was use-
less. All efforts were greeted with an insulting ditty or a scornful
laugh. Hem rationalized that if there were a God, he was a prankster
and life was his joke. He declared that he, personally, intended to
spend the rest of his time dead drunk and advised his friends to do
likewise.

Thakur suggested that Baidyanath bring Hem to see him when-
ever it was convenient.

It was obvious, when Hem arrived on the following afternoon,
that he was in a drinking period. His eyes were bloodshot, there
was an untidy stubble on his face, and his dhoti was soiled. "I am
not fooled!" he announced even before introductions could be made.
"I know there is some trick afoot to reform me. But I was bored
and curious, so I came anyway." Whereupon he sat down with a
thump, crossed his legs and winked mockingly at the unsmiling
audience.

"I, too, was curious/' Thakur smiled. "I have heard a great deal of

165

praise for your singing and have been hoping that you would favor
us with your talent."

Hem scowled. "I am not in the mood today. An artist can't go
around creating at the drop of a hat, you understand . . ."

"That is true/' Thakur turned to a disciple and requested that the
refreshments be served.

The man returned shortly with a large tray on which stood
glasses of fruit juice for the company generally and an opened bot-
tle of whiskey for the guest. Hem's eyes widened with surprise and
a grin spread across his face.

"I do hope the brand is to your taste?" Thakur asked.

"Scotch is fine! Fine!" Hem said, pouring himself a glass and
quaffing it off in two gulps. "Really fine!" He wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand, poured another drink, and set the bottle on the
floor beside him.

He drank several glasses in a very short time; and with a thicken-
ing tongue, he rambled on disjointedly about that jaded harlot whose
name is life.

When his language became abusive, the worried Baidyanath in-
sisted that they must leave and dragged his unwilling friend to his
feet.

Thakur had the cork brought for the bottle and begged Hem to
do him the favor of accepting what was left.

"Thakur, I like you!" Hem clutched the bottle to his breast. "Do
you know that? I really like you! You are the first person Tve met
who did not give me a sermon on the evils of drinking . . ."

"Oh! Why should you stop? But then perhaps you could come
again tomorrow?" Thakur invited. "Since I am confined to this room,
it would be very pleasant for me to have your company."

"I'll do it!" Hem shouted. "You can count on me." It took the
combined efforts of several men to propel the unsteady poet through
the door and down the stairs.

Thakur's outraged disciples lost no time in seeking out the un-
happy Baidyanath and upbraiding him for bringing such a dis-
gusting person into Thakur's presence. They advised him strongly
to keep his obnoxious friend out of sight in the future.

But the next afternoon Hem arrived by himself. Although there
was no doubt that he had been drinking again, his face was shaved
and he wore a clean dhoti. He was in a gay and facetious mood and
began at once to caper about the room. "I have a song for you," he

166

announced, and he clapped his hands and hummed softly until he
was satisfied with the tune:

"Oh, the man who can feel his brothers thirsty
I say is a saint through and through.
If a roll is called, this man will be first . . .
Down the hatch, Thakur; here's to you!"

The group stared at him with horrified disgust, but Thakur
clapped his hands with pleasure and called for refreshments, which
again included the bottle of whiskey for Hem.

On the days that remained, Hem showed up every afternoon. He
seemed to take great delight in the displeasure his presence caused
the devotees and disciples and he teased them constantly, losing no
opportunity to ridicule them in the songs he composed. And each
afternoon he received his bottle of whiskey with exaggerated pomp
and thanks.

When Thakur bid him farewell he was visibly downcast. "I'll miss
you, Thakur." The poet laughed self-consciously. "You know, it's
been a hell of a long time since I gave a damn whether anybody
came or went . . ."

"Why don't you visit us at Satsang," Thakur invited. "Our friends
would be delighted to hear such an artist and I believe you would
enjoy them."

"I might just do that." Hem leered mockingly at the assembled
devotees. "Don't be surprised if you see me there."

Shortly after Thakur and his party returned to Satsang, Hem ar-
rived. Thakur responded with joy, arranged for the poet's accom-
modation, and resumed the afternoon visits with the daily gift of a
bottle of whiskey.

Those nearest to Thakur were alarmed at the poet's arrogance and
deeply disturbed by his complete lack of respect for their Guru.

The villagers generally were displeased when he composed songs
about a "saint with a bottle of grog"; but these occurred only in the
first days and were soon forgotten. Mostly he built his songs around
incidents that occurred during their daily activities, and although
they were lampooned, it was done with grace and good humor and
they enjoyed a good laugh at themselves.

The children adored him, tagging along wherever he went and

167

pleading for a funny song about their pet dog, or the monkeys, or
the King of England trying to find his way out of Buckingham
Palace. Time passed swiftly and Hem's visit lengthened into several
weeks.

Early one morning the Satsangees arrived to find their Guru
seated quietly on the veranda, his usually immaculate clothes
covered with vomit.

He quickly soothed their agitation, assured them that he was not
ill, and that he did not wish to bathe and change but would remain
exactly as he was for a while longer.

The worried disciples seated themselves around him and con-
tinued wondering about the strange situation.

Just before lunchtime the poet, bathed and looking fresh, arrived
on the scene.

He stared at the Saint in horror and then turned angrily on the
disciples. "What are you fools sitting there for? Are you so busy
worshiping Thakur that you can't see he is desperately ill? Send
for the doctor! Get some water immediately! Get clean clothes!"

No one moved. All eyes stared straight ahead. Hem became un-
easy in the stern and forbidding silence, and moved hesitantly to-
ward Thakur. "Are you all right?" he faltered.

"I am fine," Thakur assured him. "But you, my friend, are you
all right now?"

Hem's lips moved stiffly. "Why wouldn't I be all right?" He stared
hypnotically at the soiled clothes.

"You were very, very ill. Don't you remember? You came to me
shortly after I had retired. Are you sure the medicine I gave you
was enough? Shall I mix another dose?"

"I did that?" Hem whispered.

"All this will wash away. It is not important. If you are well again
. . . that is the main thing."

With an anguished sob, Hem stumbled blindly away from the
company.

That afternoon he did not appear for his usual visit and Thakur
sent Ananta to fetch him. He came reluctantly, his feet dragging, his
eyes clinging to the ground.

"You must speak to Taluqdar." Thakur greeted him cheerfully.
"The children wish to add a theater to their school and your pro-
fessional knowledge would be most valuable."

"If they would allow me," Hem mumbled miserably, "I would be

168

grateful for the opportunity to help them build a theater."

"They will be happy with your answer. They also wished me to
ask if perhaps you would write down some of their favorite songs.
They are learning to use the printing press and wish to make a book
of them."

"If they will allow me . . ." Hem's voice broke suddenly and he
dropped to the floor, prostrating himself for the first time.

When he arose, however, there was still a trace of the old ar-
rogance and his eyes swept belligerently over the disciples he had
taunted. Their faces were serene. He met no single expression of
triumph or gloating. No one seemed to be aware that his action was
the slightest degree out of the ordinary. Thakur called for refresh-
ments.

Hem averted his eyes from the bottle. "I don't feel like a drink
today. I think I'll go and talk to Taluqdar about that theater."

"As you like," Thakur agreed pleasantly. "Take the bottle with
you, however. Perhaps you will enjoy it later."

Woodenly, the poet accepted the gift and left. He walked swiftly
down the road and then cut through a piece of jungle until he
reached the river. Making quite sure that there was no one to witness
his action, he threw the hateful bottle as far out in the river as his
strength allowed.

The next afternoon Hem arrived promptly, knelt and touched
Thakur's feet with no sign of embarrassment. "I cannot stay today,"
he announced. "We are drafting plans for the theater. But I wanted
to come and tell you not to waste any more of your money on liquor
for me. I have finished with drinking."

"You have been ill." Thakur took the bottle from the tray and
extended it toward him. "When you have recovered you will proba-
bly feel differently. Save it."

"I will never feel differently," Hem cried. "If I have to take that
bottle, I will smash it."

"Take it," Thakur spoke quietly. "It is yours to do with as you
will."

Hem took the bottle, walked a short distance away, and broke it
neatly on a rock. He carefully picked up the pieces of glass and
deposited them in the ghee can that served as a refuse bin; then he
returned and knelt before the disciple Ananta. "Give me initiation,"
he requested. "I shall try to be worthy of it."

That evening he joined the villagers as they settled around Thakur

to seek guidance for their problems. During one of the silences,
which were common to these evenings as the people stopped to
ponder the words of their Guru, the poet's voice, hauntingly tender,
arose in song.

"Oh, friend beloved, knower of my true desire,

Dweller in the secret regions of my heart.

See how my emptiness is filled with blossoms.

Palpitating every joyous hue,

Breathing a fragrance that sweetens my tears,

Soothing with a lullaby of knowing you,

Pulsing with desire to serve life . . .to serve you."

This was the first of many songs of devotion that poured from
Hem's heart to find their merited place in the growing literature of
the Satsang movement.

170

24

THE once dreary and backward village of Himaitpur had become a
thriving community as laboratories, workshops, industries, homes,
and schools replaced the jungle, and as dirt and disease gave way to
dedication and purpose.

When the high school had been successfully functioning for sev-
eral years, Monmohini, who had long cherished plans for a univer-
sity to preserve forever the teachings of her son, now felt that the
time had come when this dream might be realized.

The rapid expansion of the community had made great inroads
on the available land. The only cleared area, large enough for such
a project as the university, belonged to an absentee owner, Ganesh
Dalai, who wintered on an estate near Pabna. Monmohini ap-
proached him personally with the intention of buying this property.

Dalai was a smug greedy man who had already extracted exorbi-
tant profits from the Satsangees by selling his land a small parcel at
a time when their need was so urgent that they would meet his
price. It was clear from the beginning of his talk with Monmohini
that he had no intention of giving up such a gold mine. When all
the amenities and courtesies had been exchanged and Monmohini
asked him bluntly for a price, he calmly gave her a figure that was
one hundred times the property's appraised value.

Monmohini was aghast, unable for a while to believe that he
could be serious, but further discussion and repeated attempts to
bargain proved fruitless. Dalai was determined to let his land go at
his own excessive valuation.

Monmohini was outraged. She consulted those Satsangees who
were versed in law and had them conduct for her a search of all
relevant laws pertaining to such matters.

At length, their efforts yielded a little known ruling whereby, if

171

the Crown were convinced that the acquisition of certain property
was necessary for the public welfare, it could force the owner of
such property to sell at a fair and reasonable price. With a group of
devotees, who felt as intensely about the university as she herself
did, Monmohini instituted the required legal proceedings in order
to acquire the desired land.

Dalai was not without influence, however, and he knew how to
use money well. The proceedings dragged on and on. Files were
delayed and misplaced. Clerks were dilatory and strangely uncom-
municative. Satsangees seeking information about the case were
shuttled from one office to another and then from one department to
another . . . again and again.

But Monmohini refused to concede defeat, and after more than
two years, her patient persistence was rewarded by a notice that Mr.
A. D. Weston, Director of Industries for Bengal, would visit Himait-
pur to investigate the land acquisition complaint.

He arrived promptly, and after visiting the site and observing with
interest the varied and busy industries of the ashram, was taken to
Monmohini.

She was ready for him. To Weston's surprise, because in his ex-
perience Indian women remained quietly in the background, she
extended her hand for the Western handshake. With calm assurance,
she graciously led him into the room where detailed blueprints for
the university were spread out for his inspection. Here he also found
carefully prepared lists of the costs to be incurred, together with a
summary of the ashram's assets and projected proposals for meeting
these costs. There were engineers and architects and teachers on
hand to supplement the documentary information and to answer any
questions the director might care to ask.

Weston was overwhelmed by the amount of intelligence and
co-ordinated effort that had gone into preparing this project . . .
and by the enthusiasm with which it was presented.

He left them with a very warm promise that he would strongly
recommend that the land be acquired for Satsang.

It was not long before Dalai was informed of Weston's report.
In panic, he adopted new devices and resorted to terroristic methods
of continuing the struggle.

The homes of two of the Satsangees, who had helped instigate
the suit, mysteriously caught fire in the dead of night and burned

172

to the ground. It was a miracle that no one was personally harmed.
Three others, who were also connected with the legal proceedings,
were waylaid by masked goondas and severely beaten.

Monmohini's lips grew thin. "Dalai could find no one in Himaitpur
or the jungles around here to do this work," she stated grimly. "He
has hired thugs who do not know us ... men from across the river."

Calling her teen-age grandson to her side and swearing him to
secrecy, she arranged that they would, by turns, keep an all-night
watch from the roof of the two-story house which afforded a view of
the riverbank.

On the third night their vigil paid off. The grandson rattled the
wooden slats at Monmohini's window excitedly. "Wake up, Grand-
ma! They've come! A whole boatload full . . . and they've got knives
and clubs too!"

Monmohini appeared at once, still adjusting her sari.

"I'll go wake the others," the boy cried.

Monmohini grabbed his arm roughly. "You'll do nothing of the
sort. If you wake the village there'll be a fight and many will get
hurt. You and I can take care of this/'

"They'll kill us! They've got great big knives! Honest, I saw them."

"Why do you talk such nonsense!" Monmohini whispered im-
patiently. "Who would bother to kill an old woman and a little boy?
They only want to scare us. And if you go around alarming the
whole village, their mission will be taken care of for them. Now,
take me to them and just do exactly what I tell you. You'll see. There
will be no trouble."

Reluctantly, the boy padded alongside her until they reached the
thick grove near the river. Monmohini hunted about until she found
two good-sized stones.

"After I've talked to them for a few minutes, you must throw one
of these rocks as far as you can in one direction, then count to ten
slowly and throw the other one in the opposite direction."

The boy took the stones obediently and the two confederates
crept stealthily forward until they were very close to the riverbank.
They heard six men heatedly discussing strategy . . . whether a
certain house should be burned, or whether they should only break
in and give the inmates a sound thrashing.

Monmohini, her white sari floating about her, appeared suddenly
in their midst.

173

"What is it?" a hoarse voice cried in alarm. "Who are you?"

"Put all your knives here," Monmohini pointed dramatically to
the ground beside her.

"What is it you want with us?" the voice growled again. "Who
sent you here?"

Monmohini did not answer, but stood still as a statue, pointing to
the ground. Suddenly there was a disturbance to the east ... a
crackling of underbrush. All heads jerked in that direction. The
atmosphere became tense.

"Throw down your knives and you will not be harmed!"

Someone breathed heavily. "It's only an animal moving in the
brush. This woman is crazy."

There was another thud and a noisy rustling of underbrush to
the west.

"My God, we're ambushed," someone whispered, and unsheathing
a kind of machete, he tossed the knife at the woman's feet. Monmo-
hini did not start or speak. There was a general stir and other knives
of various types dropped onto the first.

"Is that all?" Monmohini questioned sternly. "Because when I do
call out, it will be too late to change your minds . . ."

After some hesitation one more knife was produced. "All right,"
Monmohini directed, "stand back, and together ... in a group." As
they obeyed meekly, Monmohini placed herself firmly between the
men and the knives. Then she called her grandson, who scurried to
her side, and bid him place the knives in their boat.

When the child came running back, one of the stunned men began
to laugh loudly. "Is that the ambush?" he cried. "Is that skinny boy
your only protection?"

"I am my own protection," Monmohini answered with dignity.
"Now, I want to talk to you, gentlemen, and it is cold and damp
down here. Come to the kitchen and have some warm food while
you hear what I have to say to you."

"Is this a trap?" one of the men challenged her threateningly.

"I do not set traps," Monmohini declared virtuously. "If you care
to hear what I have to say, it will profit you." She turned, and
taking her grandson's hand, led the way through the woods. The
puzzled men followed them.

In the kitchen, Monmohini prepared a generous quantity of food
and served these wild and uncouth men with every grace and
courtesy that she habitually extended to the men of her own family.

174

Only when they had finished eating and started lighting up their
bins, did she begin her lecture.

"Did Dalai explain why he wished you to harass us?"

"We don't ask any questions . . . and nobody says we work for
Dalai."

"How shameful!" she scolded. "To burn houses and beat up peo-
ple and not even know why you're doing it! It is certainly time that
you learn. We are trying to build a university here so that anyone
who truly desires knowledge can receive it ... regardless of his sta-
tion in life. What opportunities are there in India for men like you
to earn a better living ... a higher way of life?"

"There are no opportunities," they agreed bitterly.

"And if you go about helping men like Dalai frustrate all our
efforts, what opportunities will there be for your children?"

Monmohini began to talk about the Satsang movement . . . how
the people had willingly pooled their energies and resources to build
a better environment for themselves and their community so that
they might use and develop all the talents with which they were
endowed. Dawn was breaking when the men, armed with a large
burlap sack of food, returned to their boat. They left with many ex-
pressions of gratitude for her hospitality and assurances that they
would enlighten the other jungle dwellers across the river as to the
true state of things in Satsang . . . and that Monmohini need not
worry any further about trouble from their quarter.

Monmohini charged her grandson not to tell Thakur of this in-
cident; and in this he obeyed her. But he did tell a few of his
friends . . . the adventure was much too exciting to bottle up alto-
gether. Soon Thakur heard the news and asked Monmohini if the
boy's story was true.

"That boy is a devil." She sighed. "The only thing to do was to try
and reach their hearts. Thank heaven I seem to have done this."

There were no more forays from across the river, but Monmohini
was not destined to resolve her struggle with Dalai. A few months
later she fell ill and neither Thakur's prayers nor medicines, nor the
specialists brought from Calcutta, were able to help. Day by day the
fever-wracked body grew weaker.

On the evening of May 23, 1937, Thakur came from his mother's
room and stood disconsolately on the veranda.

"You are able to cure everybody else," a woman devotee said
tearfully. "It isn't fair that it should be this way . . ."

175

"I cure no one," Thakur murmured. "The Supreme Father is al-
ways gracious. Let his will be fulfilled through us/' He stumbled as
he turned from her, walked dazedly across the courtyard to Grand-
ma's old Bel tree, and slumped down with his back resting against
its trunk.

For hours the grieving devotees watched him from a distance. He
sat as still as a statue, face lifted to the sky, tears running down his
cheeks.

About midnight, Ananta gently touched his shoulder. "Ma is call-
ing for you, Tliakur."

Thakur arose without speaking and followed Ananta to his
mother's side. He sat down on the floor at the head of her bed and
laid his cheek close to her own. She placed her hand on his head,
the weak fingers gently caressing him. "Anukul, I am happy. You
have fulfilled all my hopes." For a long time they remained motion-
less, then the thin fingers slid from his hair. Monmohini was dead.

For a time it appeared that this tragedy might be greater than
the Saint could bear. He walked about the village aimlessly, seem-
ing neither to see nor hear, and spent long hours beside the river
or beneath the Bel tree. Disciples and devotees who tried to console
him met his eyes and were stabbed with such excruciating agony
that they became dumb in his presence.

But the love that had guided his life had not deserted him.
Slowly, it pushed the numbness aside and the heart of Satsang
throbbed once more.

In Monmohini's room he placed a plaque:

"Mother, my teacher and my guide,
All that I create is yours."

176

25

THE 1930's were tumultuous years for India. Mahatma Gandhi's non-
co-operation program, which had captured the imagination of
people all over the world, was firmly founded in the heart of India,
and it grew into an ever-expanding mass movement. There were
many, however, who felt that this method was too slow, and vio-
lence, both independent and organized, constantly flared. Terror
and counterterror seemed to be spreading everywhere.

One night in January, 1938, a heavily bearded, yellow-robed monk
came to the teashop that stood at the gateway to the Satsang
ashram.

"Can you tell me where to find Sree Sree Thakur?" he inquired of
Ashu, the shopkeeper.

"Oh, you can find him anywhere, tomorrow morning," Ashu
responded. "But you can stay in the guesthouse tonight. It's up the
road about a quarter of a mile/'

"How do I get permission to stay there?" The monk seemed
nervous.

"Oh, there's no permission. The hall lights will be on. So, wherever
a door is open and the room vacant, just make yourself comfort-
able."

The monk purchased a cup of tea but resisted all Ashu's efforts to
draw him into conversation.

On his veranda, seventy yards from the guesthouse, Thakur sat
quietly smoking his water pipe.

A short, stocky devotee, Bholanath Sircar, sat nearby. This former
insurance clerk had embraced the Satsang movement with a pas-
sion and a devotion that were rare, even among dedicated followers.
His joy in serving Thakur was so obvious that by common consent

177

the other disciples always left a few minutes earlier, thereby allow-
ing their zealous brother the privilege of being alone with Thakur
and of tucking in the mosquito netting when Thakur had retired.

"You have many talents, Bholanath." Thakur puffed thoughtfully
on his pipe.

Bholanath became rosy with pleasure.

"But I am afraid that you do not give them all proper exercise.
Your faith and integrity could accomplish a great deal for your fel-
low men. Yet you are a very silent fellow. I believe you should speak
more often in your brothers' behalf."

"But what am I to say?" the confused man murmured. "I only feel
these things, others put such feelings into beautiful words ... if I
spoke to them, they wouldn't even understand what it is that I truly
feel."

"You are wrong." Thakur smiled. "A heart as full as yours will
convince, no matter what words you use. Perhaps you should go to
Calcutta along with legal councilors and plead our land acquisition
cause . . . "

"I have only a high school diploma," Bholanath said. "I am not
capable ... I would fail you . . ."

Suddenly Thakur became taut, and cocked his head to one side as
if he were listening to something outside. "Go over to the guest-
house and see if anyone new has come."

Bholanath got to his feet quickly, smiling with the pleasure of be-
ing useful. It was not in his nature to be curious as to why Thakur
should make such a strange request at this hour of the night. At
the guesthouse he found the yellow-robed monk on the veranda,
nervously smoking a biri.

"Do you know where I can find Thakur?" the monk called out,
even before Bholanath had reached him. "I must speak to him! Im-
mediately!"

There were many such discourteous demands made on Thakur's
time by impatient visitors. Whenever it was possible Bholanath tried
to protect his Guru from them.

"Yes, yes. Of course you'll be able to talk with him. Everyone can.
But it's too late now. You go inside and get some sleep. In the morn-
ing you can talk to him." He waited to see how this suggestion
would be taken, but the monk turned his face away and refused to
reply. Bholanath shrugged and returned to Thakur.

"Who has come?" Thakur asked eagerly.

178

"Just a traveling monk. I told him to go to bed. That he could see
you in the morning."

"Did he say who he was? Where he came from?"

"No, only that he wanted to see you immediately, as they all do.
He is very intense. I'm afraid he wants to argue his own ideas about
God."

Thakur frowned for a moment. "Go back. If he's still awake, tell
him I'll talk to him now."

Bholanath found the monk exactly as he had left him. With the
news that Thakur would speak to him this night, he jumped to his
feet and followed quickly.

"When did you arrive?" Thakur greeted him warmly, as if he had
been awaiting this visit.

The monk was visibly disturbed. He peered at Thakur nervously,
but obeying custom, knelt and touched his feet. "I must speak to
you" his eyes shifted meaningfully over to Bholanath "alone."

Thakur smiled. "Will you leave us, Bholanath? Get some rest. I
will need nothing more tonight."

Bholanath's features immediately registered keen disappointment,
and although he bowed politely to the monk, his eyes were dark and
disapproving.

"Do you know who I am, then?" The voice was agitated.

"You're a Rajput . . . from the warrior clan, aren't you?"

The monk's eyes clouded with fear. "You do know! The authorities
have been here, too!"

"But why would the authorities be interested in a holy man?"

The monk eyed Thakur suspiciously, but the Saint's face radiated
warmth and interest and was free of guile.

"I am Rama Shankar," he said evenly. "The government has
posted a twenty-thousand-rupee reward for my capture . . . dead
or alive. That is why I am disguised." He dropped his face into his
hands and his voice dragged with weariness. "I have been running
and running. There is nowhere left to go . . ."

Thakur nodded impassively. "What have you done?"

"I belonged to a group of patriots . . . pledged to drive the British
from India."

There was a silence. "Was that all?"

"Do you think the British need more than that to hang a man?
Don't you know the times we live in? Help me! You must help
me!"

179

Thakur waited silently and patiently until Shankar became anx-
ious.

"Look, Thakur, you must know how it is with India. The British
aren't going to leave just because we politely ask them to. We will
have to force them . . . drive them outl Sure, we break their laws!
How else can we operate?"

"How did you operate?"

"We did things . . . robbed when we needed money . . ." There
was a long pause as Shankar wrung his hands nervously. "We used
dynamite . . ."

"People were killed?" Thakur asked softly.

"Yes, there were British officials on that train!" Shankar's voice
rose defensively. "Important ones! We had no choice, I tell you. It
was a patriotic mission ... for India!"

"There must have been others on the train also . . ."

"I can't talk about that any more." Shankar pressed his hands to
his forehead. "Anyway, that's all over now. They know all about me.
I'm finished. Help me! I swear to you that you can trust me. You're
my last chance. I'll do anything . . . anything."

Thakur seemed lost in deep thought.

"I took initiation from your Ritwik, Promotha ... in Calcutta . . .
before coming here. You are my Guru." Shankar blackmailed shame-
lessly.

Thakur sighed deeply. "Perhaps I can save you, but it will take a
great deal of courage and faith on your part."

"I will do anything you say."

Thakur was thoughtful. "You say you took initiation, Do you know
and practice the three principles . . . Jadjon, Jawjon, and Istobritty?"

Shankar nodded hastily and his lips parted for reply, but as his
eyes met Thakur's, they fell away. "No," he whispered. "I just took
initiation on the night I left . . . because someone said you could
save me. Promotha knew me as a student. He didn't know about all
the other things I"

'Very well. Begin practicing the principles immediately. Tonight.
If there is anything at all you don't understand, go to Kesto-da
tomorrow. And mind you practice what you learn carefully with a
faithful heart. Now go and rest. Tomorrow I'll tell you what to do
next."

Shankar bowed and returned to the guesthouse, his eyes bright
with tears of relief and gratitude.

180

When he appeared the following morning, his yellow robe seemed
even dirtier in the sunlight and his hair and beard more unkempt.
Thakur asked everyone to leave so that he could speak to the
stranger privately. Shankar knelt submissively at his feet.

"Did you meditate?"

"Yes. I meditated most of the night. I have just come from Kesto-da
. . . and now I understand why the principles are so important. But
I was unable to make a love gift. I have no money . . . nothing."

"You must find at least a flower in the jungle, then, and offer that.
All three principles must be strictly adhered to if my efforts are to
help you. Are you ready to do what I say?"

Shankar leaned forward and touched his Guru's feet in acquies-
cence.

"Then go and take a bath. Shave off your beard. Get a haircut,
and ask Kesto the councilor to give you money for new clothes."

"But I'll be recognized!" he cried in alarm.

Thakur did not speak, and after a moment, Shankar touched his
feet once more. "Forgive me. Be patient, please. It is difficult to
learn to obey so quickly." He arose immediately and left to carry out
Thakur's orders.

It was afternoon when he next appeared and it would have been
difficult indeed to recognize him as the monk. There was a clear-cut
impression of strength and courage in his intelligent eyes, square
jaw, and broad forehead.

Thakur greeted him. "Have you eaten?"

Shankar nodded.

"Then go directly, and alone, to the police station in Pabna and
surrender. Give them a full and detailed confession. Don't change,
omit, or ignore anything . . . right up to the present. Do you under-
stand?"

Shankar was dismayed. His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof ot
his mouth; yet he found himself dumbly nodding his head in
assent.

"It is the only way I can help you." Thakur's voice was tender
with sympathy. "Whatever happens, practice the principles regu-
larly. Meditate, offer whatever love gift you can find each morning,
and miss no opportunity to serve all you meet. Others will feel the
Supreme Father through you. And no harm will come to you."

Shankar searched his Guru's face carefully, then turned dazedly,
and stumbled down the road.

181

Ananta approached and his gaze followed Thakur's. "Will he go?"
he pondered.

"He will go/' Thakur said firmly.

Thakur was right. The political terrorist walked directly from the
ashram to the police station, four miles away, and calmly gave him-
self up.

Central Intelligence received word of the surrender with skepti-
cism, however. Shankar was a dangerous and shrewd terrorist who
had eluded every well-laid plan for his capture. It was hardly likely
that he would behave as the telephoned report described this young
man to be doing. It took several days to confirm his identity. And
when that was done, he was taken by a squad of ten armed police,
with a deputy superintendent in charge, to the state prison in Patna,
Bihar. His confession was filed and preparations were made for a
speedy trial and execution.

Meanwhile, Thakur had immediately gathered for discussion of
the matter those devotees who had legal experience. These men, on
hearing the details, shook their heads. Their authoritatively ex-
pressed opinion was that hope for mercy was ridiculously unrealistic,
and owing to the seriousness of the charges, any interference on
their part would surely invoke an unpleasant aftermath. Those who
tried to help such a proven enemy of the Crown would have plain-
clothes policemen and intelligence people descending on them, as
well as on the ashram, like vultures.

When all comments had subsided, Thakur's eyes dwelt on the de-
voted Bholanath, who, not being an integral part of this legal gath-
ering, sat a little aside . . . ever alert to serve in case there was
something needed.

"Bholanath, you can get Rama Shankar out of jail."

"Me? Me?" cried the startled man. "How could I do that? Why,
I wet my pants if a policeman even looks at me."

"Still I say you can do it. The lawyers are right. It is too late for
legal argument, but it is never too late for a pure heart. The Su-
preme Father will guide and aid you, for Shankar is truly repent-
ant."

It was too much for Bholanath. Silently, he left the distinguished
group, and for the first night in many months he was not on hand to
arrange Thakur's mosquito netting when he retired.

When he appeared in the morning his face was very pale, yet

182

there was about him an air of serenity. "Do you still say that I can
do this thing, Thakur?"

The Saint's voice soared with conviction. "I say you can do it a
thousand times! Only begin and you shall see how it is. Write to
Rama Shankar that you are working in his behalf and then proceed
to Bihar. The seed of the Supreme Father is within you and I shall
be at your side constantly ... as close as your heartbeat. You will
succeed."

Bholanath's repeated onslaughts against British officialdom ul-
timately brought him to the exalted office of Mr. Bruce, Deputy
Inspector General of the Criminal Investigation Department of the
province of Bihar.

Using Christian and Hindu examples, he pleaded his mission of
salvation with such fervent conviction that the officer was puz-
zled. Bruce was a self-made man. He had reached this important
position through intelligence and efficiency. He was not a man to
be fooled. He knew how to handle situations and judge people.

"But what is your interest?" he asked. "You are a Bengalee, and
Rama Shankar is a Bihari. You are a good and religious man, while
Rama Shankar is a criminal. What can such a man be to you?"

"Are we not all sons of the Supreme Father?" Bholanath answered
with candid innocence. "He is something to me because he is some-
thing to my Thakur. Shankar is our younger brother. The temper
of the times has led him onto evil paths, which you must agree are
everywhere present. But Shankar has changed. He is enlightened.
His only wish is to atone for his past by serving the highest ideal in
the future." With refreshing sincerity Bholanath went on to enu-
merate many homely little incidents that gave him absolute faith in
the British sense of justice and mercy.

Bruce was deeply impressed and promised Bholanath to investi-
gate the case. He visited the prison and spoke to the guards and
officials who had personal contact with Rama Shankar. Their re-
ports were propitious. Shankar's humility, the serene yet concerned
manner in which he sought to serve everyone, guards and fellow
prisoners alike, had made a very favorable impression. Other pris-
oners seemed drawn to him like a magnet, and they became more
tractable, losing their surly hostility under his influence. Bholanath
seemed to be right. This prisoner, whom everyone praised, in no way

183

resembled the terrorist of record. Shankar had changed . . . radically
. . . into a new man.

Each afternoon Bholanath appeared in the outer offices of the
CID. He was repeatedly told that Mr. Bruce could not see him
without an appointment, and that his calendar had no openings in
the near future. Yet the persistent devotee sat quietly and unob-
trusively on a bench in the outer office throughout each afternoon,
waiting on the inspector's pleasure.

At length he was called into the inner sanctum. Bruce arose and
seated his guest with every courtesy. "I do believe you, Mr. Sircar.
I have conducted an investigation into Shankar's case and made a
very favorable report of my findings. If it were up to me alone, I
would be strongly inclined to mercy. Unfortunately, I know that my
colleagues would never agree to such a flagrant violation of the
penal code."

"Sir, let me talk to your colleagues." Bholanath's voice trembled
with urgency. "1 must convince them!"

Bruce smiled sadly. "You won't find them as sympathetic and
open-minded as I am . . ."

"Only let me speak to them! Just once!"

"All right," Bruce agreed, fingering the report thoughtfully. "Come
to the Criminal Investigation Club tomorrow evening at seven-
thirty."

Clad in dhoti, collarless shirt, and sandals, Bholanath was at first
refused admittance to the CID Club. After insisting that he did
have an appointment with Mr. Bruce, however, and after the ap-
pointment had been confirmed, an attendant disdainfully conducted
him through the building until they reached a small, heavily car-
peted room where half a dozen men sat around in easy chairs con-
versing and drinking.

Bruce came forward immediately, and taking Bholanath's arm
companionably, presented him to each man in the room. Only one
of the assembled men was an Indian, introduced as a criminal psy-
chologist; and Bholanath was surprised to find that he seemed even
less inclined than the Englishmen to be friendly.

"We are all ready to hear you," Bruce said as the formalities
ended, and with no more ceremony seated himself, leaving Bhola-
nath on his own.

For a moment Bholanath felt he must be drowning. "I come to
plead for Rama Shankar . . ." He was amazed that the voice he

heard was his own, for he seemed to be completely detached from
it. "At this moment you are all greater criminals than he is!"

"Do you realize where you are?" the Indian psychologist hissed.

"Yes, I know where I am. And I shall prove my accusation . . .
inch by inch." Beginning with the man nearest him, he inquired of
each in turn as to his length of service with the police. The replies
varied . . . eight, twelve, six, fifteen, and two years of service.

"And over all these years," the disembodied voice continued, "your
brains have been absorbed in murders, robberies, rapes, kidnapings,
spyings, and so on ... They are filled with the despicable deeds of
thousands of criminals." He turned to the Indian psychologist. "Do
you know what effect all this has had upon your mind?"

The Indian glared at him in disapproving silence.

"No, I see that you do not. But any twelve-year-old boy in Tapo-
van School knows the answer. Every single thing you see, feel, hear,
and think makes an indelible impression on your brain." His voice
dropped to an easy tone of intimacy. "Before I found Sree Sree
Thakur, I worked as an insurance agent. One day while I was mak-
ing a deposit in the bank, I noticed a girl beside me whose low-cut
dress displayed too much of her breasts. I only glanced at her and
then looked away in embarrassment. But do you know the effect
that glance had on me? Six months later I had a nocturnal emission
while dreaming that this same girl was in my arms." He drew a
long, deep breath. "Now all of you have been dealing with ugly
matters day after day, month after month, for all of these years;
and these criminal acts of others are therefore imprinted on your
brain. How could it be otherwise? But Rama Shankar has con-
fessed, with repentance, to his spiritual guide, every deed, thought,
and evil word. His mind and soul are washed clean! His heart is
emptied of all those things."

He backed away, breathing heavily, and swinging his eyes from
face to face like a tiger at bay. "I don't ask you to release him out-
right, sirs. But when he is trying to reform himself so ardently,
prison cannot help him and he cannot help you. Thakur has re-
formed many men of his background. Such cases are a matter of
record in the official files of Bengal . . . and Rama Shankar did
surrender voluntarily . . . and Mr. Bruce's report must convince
you that he is a changed man. Sirs, in the interest of Christian
mercy ... in the interest of justice British justice I plead that
you place Shankar in the hands of his spiritual guide!"

185

He broke off helplessly and stared at the faces before him. They
were noncommittal. A portly Englishman shook his head ever so
slightly. "I must say that this is a most novel appeal . . . But the
miraculous changes you claim this Thakur can bring about are a
bit farfetched . . ."

"Only inquire, sir. Consult your own official records. You will
find that everything I have told you is true. India needs men of
courage and high ideals. This action would be to your interest also.
Although Shankar used his best qualities for wrong causes . . . still,
you must see that he has them. And now that he is a changed man
he will act constructively. Can't you see what a valuable person
he could be? If you would remand him to us, many people would
realize that you are not vindictive; and they would bless you and
work for you. Only let it be tried for a short time. This is my prayer."

Bholanath pressed his palms together and bowed his head . . .
waiting through a long silence for their reply.

"Have you finished your appeal?" Bruce asked kindly.

"Yes, sir, that is all I have to say."

"Then perhaps you would not mind waiting outside while we dis-
cuss what action might be possible under the law."

Bholanath left the room, closing the door softly behind him. His
body was drenched with perspiration and his legs trembled.
"Thakur," he prayed earnestly, "you have carried me to such heights
that I am dizzy with wonder. But now I can do no more. Leave me.
Go to them with all your strength. Enter their minds and hearts,
touch their tongues with your presence so that they will speak with
mercy."

It was nearly an hour later, and Bholanath's prayers were still
continuing, when a weary-looking Mr. Bruce opened the door and
beckoned him inside.

"My colleagues have agreed that we try this experiment for a
short time," Bruce announced crisply. "Arrangements will be made
to deliver Rama Shankar to Satsang Ashram in Himaitpur. He will
be confined to the area of the ashram and will report each Monday,
in your company, to the authorities at Pabna. Six weeks after his
return, a review of the case will be made to determine future ac-
tion."

"Oh, thank you, sir!" Bholanath's face was wreathed in smiles. "I
shall pray every day for your long life and prosperity in this material
worldl The blessings of Thakur will be with you all!"

186

"Now mind," Bruce cautioned, "you will be held responsible for
Shankar's presence. I must warn you that if he escapes, the full
weight of the law will fall on you."

"I accept gladly. Have no fears on this matter. Thakur would not
have sent me to plead for him unless Shankar were truly repentant."

Bruce accompanied him to the door. "I wish I could inspire my
men to work for me as devotedly and eloquently as you work for
your Thakur." He smiled.

"Let them love you, sir. That's the most powerful force there is.
No money can buy it from you, no obstacles can block its course."
The dark eyes flashed and a smile played over the thick lips. "Not
even the penal code!"

When Bholanath returned to Satsang, Thakur embraced and
kissed him enthusiastically. "You see how it is, Bholanath?" He
gazed deeply into the eyes of his loyal devotee. "What talents you
have!"

Three weeks later a thinner, joyous Shankar was delivered into
Satsang's custody. After four successive extensions of his parole, the
authorities were convinced that he had no further need of super-
vision and he was unconditionally released.

Under Thakur's guidance he found a consuming interest and ex-
ceptional aptitude for labor-management problems and became an
active and highly regarded consultant on these matters.

In 1951, the International Labor Organization meeting in London
was surprised and impressed by this strangely poetical but powerful
speech from delegate Rama Shankar of India:

"Where capitalists are not laborious to serve the laborers to make
them efficient, Mammon turns money into mud with sighful glance.
Where labor deceives the capitalists and is not profitable to them,
but negligently usurps the maintenance that makes them fit in
life . . . then Satan with embezzling laughter presents them with a
black necklace and a steel rope to pull them toward vanity."

187

26

TWENTY years after Satsang came into being it had a permanent
population of eight thousand residents. Five hundred Ritwiks were
daily preaching Thakur's message of Being and Becoming through-
out Bengal. The records in the Philanthropy Office listed more than
a quarter million names of those who had taken initiation.

Satsang maintained its own post office, for the incoming mail from
Thakur's vast following averaged several hundred pieces a day. A
staff of five secretaries were kept busy reading these letters, check-
ing the answers with Thakur, and sending his replies.

Devotees sought advice concerning the proper education of their
children, a change of job, business investments, illnesses both
chronic and acute, and a host of other personal problems and needs.
All queries received careful attention and were promptly answered.

Nine pharmacists worked ceaselessly in the large whitewashed
dispensary, compounding the medicines that Thakur ordered to be
sent to his ailing disciples.

One afternoon in April, 1940, Thakur followed, in an absent-
minded manner, the talk around him which concerned the war in
Europe. Suddenly he called Prafulla, head of the secretarial staff,
and instructed him to send a message to all initiates in Burma that
they come to India as soon as possible.

Prafulla wrote the brief notes and then waited, pencil poised, for
some time until he noticed that Thakur had apparently forgotten the
subject.

"Was there something else to tell the Burmese devotees?" he in-
quired politely.

"No. No. That is all. Only waste no time. Send it at once."

The puzzled Prafulla began the work of addressing hundreds of
postcards inscribed with Thakur's strange and unexplained message.

188

The postcards caused consternation among the Burmese initiates.
Meetings were called hastily and nightlong conferences were held
in every family. The vast majority had implicit faith in Thakur; they
accepted the warning and obeyed without question. Within two
months the devotees in Burma had dwindled to a few hundred.
These sent long and detailed letters to Satsang of the hardships in-
volved and requested further information.

The explanation, when it arrived, was as cryptic as the original
message had been. "Thakur said what he understands. Now, he says,
'You do what you think is best/ "

P. R. Bannerjee was one of the men who received the second mes-
sage. He was a prominent lawyer in the High Court and had, over
many years, built up a lucrative legal practice. He lived comfortably,
with his wife and four children, in a twelve-room home in Pegu.
He had carefully avoided political controversy and had many Bur-
mese friends of all persuasions. Thakur's warning, he reasoned,
must surely be proper for initiates whose lives were quite different
from his own . . . but certainly he, Bannerjee, had nothing to fear
from the Burmese.

He was devoted to Thakur, since eight years earlier the Saint's
medicine had cured his daughter of nephritis . . . after the foremost
physicians of Rangoon had given up hope. A man who could per-
form miracles of this nature was not likely to make mistakes . . .
Yet, the second message had said, "You do what you think is best."
As a precautionary measure, Bannerjee sold some property and
placed the ready cash in the bank where it would be available . . .
just in case.

When the Satsang rice crop, which the community cultivated, was
ready for harvest that fall, Thakur suggested that no contracts of
sale were to be negotiated. All rice must be stored for ashram use.
He also advised those devotees in the community and throughout
India who held private plots of rice land, not to sell, but to store
their new crop.

A wave of controversy followed this order. The European war
had skyrocketed the price of rice. Already the speculators were of-
fering the peasants two and three times its former value.

Many of his followers who owned private land could not resist
sharing in their neighbors' prosperity. Even devoted Satsangees felt
that a golden opportunity was slipping through their fingers and

189

pressured Thakur to let them consider selling at least part of their
abundant crop. "Just see," they pointed out. "We would be able to
buy Dalal's land at his own price, since it is clear that nothing will
ever come out of the legal proceedings. Then Ma's dream of a uni-
versity will be realized." But Thakur was firm. Big granaries, look-
ing like giant beehives, continued to spring up in Satsang.

The visions of untold wealth for the landlords and peasants of
Bengal were short lived. By November of the following year, rice
was selling at one hundred rupees a maund ( approximately eighty-
one pounds), and the price was rising daily. The new wealth dis-
appeared faster than it came when they tried to buy food to keep
their families alive. By January, 1942, the Bengalees were selling
furniture, jewelry, and even their children in order to eat.

Faulty distribution and the inflated needs of war had brought
famine to Bengal. Thousands of village people migrated to Calcutta
in the vain hope of finding food. Leaves were eaten along the way
and many trees were stripped bare of bark. In the city men fought
with dogs, cats, and rats for the miserable contents of garbage cans.
Each morning, the carts of the Calcutta Corporation went about
the grim business of gathering dead bodies from streets and door-
ways.

To the Satsang community in Himaitpur, inhabitants from ten
miles' distance came to join the daily rice line. The storerooms,
which had seemed so extravagantly large a few months ago, were
emptied one by one. Rationing was strict and just. But the supplies
did hold out until the next crop was ready for harvest; and no death
from starvation was reported in that area.

"Fight death to death . . ." "Live and help live . . ." "Fulfill and be
fulfilled . . ." These and similar slogans had been shouted at Satsang
meetings for many years, but never with such strength of purpose,
conviction, and understanding as during the horrible famine years.

On January 6, 1942, P. R. Bannerjee slept restlessly. Japan had
rapidly overrun Saigon and Singapore. There were rumors, stoutly
denied by the uneasy authorities but pervasive none the less, that
Burma was in danger.

"Get out! Get out, Bannerjee!" a voice shouted in his ear.

He sat up in bed, wide awake, and turned on the light. His wife
was sleeping soundly beside him. The house was quiet. He crossed
to the open window and peered into the courtyard. All was calm.

190

Only the soft night rustlings ... He had been dreaming! He re-
turned to bed and was about to pull the sheet over him when the
cry came again. "Get out of herel Get out immediately!"

Bannerjee began to tremble. He had never met Thakur, but at
this moment he knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, that the voice
in his ear was that of his spiritual Guru.

Roughly, he shook his wife awake. "Get up! Quickly! Call the
servants, and run to the orchard!"

"What is it?" his wife cried distractedly. "Are we on fire?"

"Do what I say!" he ordered sharply. "And hurry!" He rushed
from the room to the children's quarters, tumbling the older ones
to their feet and bidding them to run to the orchard. He picked
the sleeping four-year-old Kamala up in his arms, and with the ex-
cited children at his heels, ran from the house.

"Follow me!" he cried to his wife and the servants who were
huddled anxiously on the veranda. "Hurry! Hurry! There is no
time!" The group stumbled in haste through the considerable area
of the orchard, the children crying out from time to time as their
tender bare feet met with sticks and stones. At the far side of the
orchard he brought the bewildered company to a halt. "This will
do," he decided, sinking down on the ground and soothing the
whimpering Kamala.

"What is it?" His wife panted. "What is happening?"

"I don't know." Bannerjee mopped his sweating face on his daugh-
ter's nightshirt. "Thakur spoke to me."

"In a dream? You had a dream?"

"It wasn't a dream!" Bannerjee cried impatiently. "I tell you I was
wide awake! He told me to get out . . . get out immediately."

The frightened children complained of cold and their mother
soothed and reassured them.

"He meant get out of Burma," she reasoned in a matter-of-fact
voice. "And he meant tomorrow ... or soon, perhaps ... He didn't
mean for you to jump up that very minute and get the whole house
out of bed . . ."

"I'll ^o for some blankets," twelve-year-old Soilen offered, getting
to his feet.

Bannerjee grabbed his son's arm roughly. "You'll stay right where
you are!" he commanded.

A few moments later the still night was shaken with the thun-
derous roar of airplanes and shortly afterward the ground beneath

191

them shuddered, over and over again, as explosions occurred.

They watched with fascinated horror the weird designs streak-
ing across the sky as the antiaircraft guns answered the attack. And
suddenly ... so unbelievable that they saw but could not under-
stand ... an incendiary bomb scored a direct hit on their house and
the flames shot into the sky.

The attack was brief and bitter. Before morning only the sirens
of fire engines and ambulances were to be heard, along with the
rumblings of tanks and trucks as Burma prepared to defend herself.

Nothing was to be salvaged from the house. The servants were
sent off in search of clothing and returned shortly with ill-fitting
but clean garments and a blanket for Kamala. Bannerjee led his
family through the chaotic streets of Kamayut until they reached
the docks, where the lines of weeping and cursing refugees already
stretched for blocks. Instructing his wife and Soilen to keep the
family together and hold their place in line, he proceeded to the
bank to withdraw all that was left of their family fortune.

When he returned his face was bleak, his manner agitated. The
banks were not open. There was little hope that they would ever
open. The money was most probably being shipped away for safe-
keeping.

Fortunately, Bannerjee's wife wore the traditional ornaments . . .
bangles, gold coins, and gems, the family safeguard against such
crises. The precious bracelets were now to serve an important vital
purpose. Yet, neither the bracelets nor Bannerjee's eloquence was
able to get them passage. Every boat in the harbor was loaded to
capacity, and under the circumstances, no one could predict when
or if another ship would arrive.

"We should have gone when the Ghose family did," Soilen com-
plained sullenly. "They took everything . . . even the children's
bicycles!"

"Hush!" Bannerjee's face was stern. "Thakur saved us last night
and he will see us safely out of Burma. Be grateful! It's good to be
alive."

The family managed to crowd onto a train for Merktila. When
they arrived they encountered several dozen Satsangees who, in one
form or another, asleep or awake, had received telepathic messages.
The entire company proceeded to Mandalay where their numbers
were increased with many more in the same plight.

Pooling their money, they purchased oxen and carts, as much food

192

as they could carry, and joined the thousands of other refugees on
the long route to the Chindwin River.

Daily, the weary columns were strafed and the casualties were
many. Yet, the Satsangees seemed truly to lead a charmed life, for
not one was killed as stories of providential coincidence accumu-
lated.

The refugees had stopped to rest, and Soilen, with a group of
boys, had been sent to wait beneath a bridge which seemed to be
a safe shelter. As he was dropping off to sleep, he saw a grove of
mango trees about fifty yards away and the fruit, although it was
not the season, was rosy and ripe. He pointed this miracle out to
the other boys and together they rushed toward the trees. The fruit
was hard and green ... the color a trick of reflected sunlight . . .
but before they could return, a plane passed over and a bomb re-
duced their recent shelter to rubble.

The refugees suffered constantly from dysentery and beriberi;
and almost daily a grieving family would drop out of line in order
to bury their dead beside the road. Yet, although Thakur's followers
fell ill in large numbers, no grave of theirs marked that long, ardu-
ous, heartbreaking trail.

In May, 1942, they crossed the Chindwin River and arrived safely
in Imphal. Three weeks later a bedraggled, emaciated, joyous P. R.
Bannerjee led one hundred and forty-one families into Pabna.

198

27

AGITATION for Independence intensified during the war years, as
did the British resistance. Leaders of the Indian National Congress,
for one reason or another, languished in jails, and without their in-
spired leadership fanatic and irresponsible elements flourished.
When in 1945 an act of amnesty set them free, they found that the
flames of religious hatred had been fanned to uncontrollable heights.

Many responsible leaders charged that the British Government
maintained paid agitators to keep these fires burning, and in their
efforts to bring the situation back to normal, they did expose a few
of this ilk. But the groups of extremists on both sides were far too
numerous to be laid to any one cause. The situation continued to
worsen. Ugly rumors began to spread that the Muslim League in
Calcutta had proclaimed August 16, 1946, as Direct Action Day . . .
to overpower the Hindus and claim India as a Moslem country.

Dr. Subodh Chakraborty, a Hindu follower of Thakur, lived above
his small dispensary on Mirzapur Street in Calcutta, an area largely
inhabited by Moslems. On the morning of August 16, three Satsan-
gees came to urge the doctor to accompany them to the relative
safety of the Hindu area. Subodh hesitated to do so. He had prac-
ticed here for many years, and because he knew the people so well,
he could not believe that they were capable of senseless violence.
As he was trying to decide, the communal riots began.

Within an hour there was a banging on the door of the dispen-
sary and peering cautiously out of the upstairs window, Subodh
saw a group of Moslems dressed in lungis (men's sarongs). They
were supporting several wounded men.

Quickly handing white aprons to his three visitors, the doctor ran
downstairs and opened the door. The first batch of wounded rioters

194

was shortly followed by others. The three men worked efficiently,
laying the bleeding men on floor mats and washing the wounds in
preparation for treatment by Subodh. The early arrivals were anx-
ious that their compatriots receive medical care and did not ques-
tion the three helping strangers.

About noon, however, thugs marched into the dispensary and
eyed the operations suspiciously. "Who are they?" Subodh was
challenged.

"Who do you mean?" The doctor did not look up from the six-
inch gash he was sewing up on the leg of a rioter.

"The men working with you." The leader of the group pointed
a nasty-looking, bloodstained knife.

"They're my assistants," Subodh commented casually. "Without
them I couldn't manage. Please step back. I can't see to sew up
this wound."

The rough men hung around for some time, glowering at Subodh
and his helpers, who worked steadily, dispatching the bandaged
men who were able to walk and receiving the newcomers with
quiet efficiency. They seemed unaware of the Moslems, and at length
the thugs must have decided that these Hindus were necessary, at
least for the time being, for they went on their way to find new
victims.

The men labored silently, a constant prayer to Thakur running
through their minds. Around midnight there was a lull. The last
casualty had been carried away by friends and for the moment the
four Hindus were alone. Hastily, they disguised themselves as
Moslem beggars and made their way cautiously across Amherst
Street and through alleys until they reached the Hindu area of
Calcutta.

Throughout that horror-ridden day it had seemed that, to a Mos-
lem, the only good Hindu was a dead one. Now, on reaching the
other side, it was even more horrifying to learn that the reverse
scene had been enacted. Moslems in this area, except for four fam-
ilies whom the followers of Thakur had sheltered, had been ruth-
lessly and systematically slaughtered.

A week later, when the military had restored some semblance of
law and order, it was learned that about one hundred and twenty-
five thousand persons had lost their lives in this senseless fight

The fuse which coiled around India like a many-headed serpent
was ignited. Direct action led to reaction, and then to reprisals to

195

that reaction. The disturbances spread from cities to villages to
jungles as communities separated from one another along religious
lines.

The area around Pabna was predominantly Mohammedan, and as
isolated incidents heightened the tension, many Moslem devotees
carried messages of warning to Thakur. "Our influence is waning.
Men from Calcutta are constantly passing through our villages, ex-
citing our people with rumors and distorted accounts of the riots/*
they complained. "We are doing what we can, but we are afraid for
you. Passions make reason impossible."

Despite a violent thunder shower the night before, the morning
of September 10, 1946, dawned bright and clear. As was the cus-
tom, the leaders of the Satsang community had gathered around
Thakur's bedstead to join him in sunrise meditation. When he
relaxed, and his doctor disciple, Piari, had drawn the mosquito net-
ting aside, Sarat Haldar, supervisor of Tapovan School, ap-
proached Thakur. After prostrating himself, he began, "Thakur,
many of the older students come from outside and we find many
problems arising because they lack the background of the ashram
children. We have been wondering if it would be possible for you
to talk to them so that they might understand the Satsang principles
of motivation and study as quickly as possible . . ."

He broke off, for Thakur had risen and did not appear to have
heard him. In a manner of deep, almost trancelike preoccupation,
the Saint made his way through the surprised gathering and pro-
ceeded down the road. The devotees arose quickly to follow, but
there was a strangeness in his gait that kept them at a distance.

In a seemingly aimless rambling, Thakur strolled through the
entire community, stopping often to gaze for a long time at one
achievement after another ... the school, the pharmaceutical lab-
oratory, the printing press, the hospital. Occasionally, his hand
reached out to caress a wall, a machine, or a piece of planed wood
as if it were a small child.

The walk brought him at length to the gate of his grandmother's
house, now occupied by his eldest son and family. The devotees
noticed that he hesitated for several minutes, and when his hand
did reach for the latch, there was a dragging reluctance in the move-
ment.

On the lawn inside the compound his twelve-year-old grandson,

196

Asoke, knelt with his inseparable friend, Saidu, their young, fresh
faces close together as they pored over a book.

Thakur's eyes glistened with sudden tears as they dwelt on the
boys . . . Hindu and Moslem, innocent of the worldly conflict that
might tear them apart and make them mortal enemies. How was it
possible for this dark, blighting shadow of ignorance, this mon-
strosity without substance, to shroud the bright, life-loving souls of
men?

"What are you studying?" he asked.

At the sound of his voice the boys jumped to their feet.

"Anatomy." Asoke caught his grandfather's hand and pressed it
to his cheek. "We're going to be doctors just like you."

"Yes," Saidu said, dropping his arms across Asoke's shoulder.
"When we grow up we will be working in your hospital and every-
body will be cured."

Thakur fondled their heads for a moment before proceeding
through the house to the courtyard.

Excruciating agony of heart distorted his vision. Grandma's Bel
tree, the protection of all that was hers, forever and ever, lay twisted
in ruin, the charred branches strewn in helpless confusion before
the prayer-room door.

"It was struck by lightning last night." His daughter-in-law ap-
proached softly.

"So it has come . . ." Thakur murmured.

"Perhaps it will grow again." The young woman sought to com-
fort him. "We have sent for the gardener."

Thakur left the veranda and made his way to Monmohini's room.
He looked back and found Piari following him. "Find Sushil Bose,"
he instructed. "Bring him here. I need to see him immediately."

When Sushil Chandra Bose, vice-president of Satsang, arrived,
the message was very brief. "We are no longer safe. Go to Deoghar
immediately and rent the largest building that is available. Say
nothing of this to anyone."

Deoghar! The name of the town set Bose's nerves tingling. He
hurried to the ashram library where all the teachings of Thakur were
compiled in bulky volumes. Finding the earliest of these works,
Punya Puthi, which held the sketchy recordings of the song-and-
dance days, Bose dropped to the floor and began a hasty search.
Yes. There it was. "We will go to Deoghar" repeated several times

197

during trance at the estate of Prometha . . . and again several pages
later . . . "Make all haste to Deoghar."

Bose tucked the volume under his arm and went to make arrange-
ments for the journey.

198

28

THROUGHOUT the long trip, Sushil Bose studied all of Thakur's say-
ings. There were twelve incidents when some reference to Deoghar
had been made . . . always during the trance state. On two occa-
sions Thakur had been questioned on this matter when the trance
ended. He replied that he had never been to Deoghar nor did he
know what could have been meant by the messages.

Deoghar! Sushil's mind began a search for all that he had ever
learned or heard about this city. It was situated in the Santhal
Parganas district of Bihar state, lying on the Chota Nagpur Plateau
hundreds of feet above the rich Gangetic plain. An ancient temple
city, its name meaning "The Home of God," Deoghar was a site of
pilgrimage for orthodox Hindus. Its history extended back to the
prehistoric times of Ram Chandra.

High up in the surrounding hills the original inhabitants, called
Paharis, still lived in almost primitive nakedness. They had been
driven to the hills by the more puissant Santhalis, who in their
turn had been crowded into the less habitable regions by the con-
quering Aryans many generations earlier. The three groups which
comprised the district of Santhal Parganas were said to live in a
state of isolated amnesty with one another.

At Calcutta it was necessary to change to a different line for the
two-hundred-mile trip west to Deoghar, and on this last leg of
Sushil's journey, the excitement he had felt earlier progressively
gave way to anxiety. The land became more hilly and eroded, the
villages more poverty ridden. The city itself, when finally reached,
did little to relieve his concern. It was overcrowded, as were all
Indian cities, and although some streets bustled with life and
commerce, the mood was predominantly one of apathy and hope-

199

lessness. With a heavy heart he started his search for Thakur's
accommodations.

On the outskirts of the city, in the southeast corner, he found a
large rambling two-storied structure. The agent told him it was one
hundred years old, and that its original owner was said to have
been a queen of Nepal who maintained this estate to accommodate
her entourage when she came to worship at the Temple of Shiva in
Deoghar.

The estate was now called Boral Bungalow. Its present owner, a
wealthy Bengali, took little interest in it, for the ravages of neglect
and disuse were everywhere evident. The walls were cracked, the
wooden window frames broken, and the surrounding five acres
overgrown with weeds and wild grass on which goats and cows
from neighboring poverty-ridden villages grazed. But it was, without
doubt, the largest vacant building in the area and Sushil rented it
at once.

On September 15, Thakur received word from Sushil that Boral
Bungalow had been leased. He immediately called a meeting of
the ashram leadership and asked them to prepare for evacuation.

"But . . . we have more than five million rupees invested here and
twenty-six years of labor!" Sudhir Das, who operated the power-
house, voiced the general consternation. "Surely, when Independ-
ence comes, times will be different. Let some of us remain, no
matter what the risk, to guard what we have so that it will still be
here when these terrible days are over. If we don't, the Moslems
will destroy everything in their irrational passion/'

There were many similar pleas, and after much discussion and
meditation, it was decided that enough men might remain to op-
erate the community kitchen, the hospital, powerhouse, post of-
fice, and printing office. They would be cautious of the temper
around them and ready to escape at the first sign of danger. The
high school would also continue operating for such boys as chose
to stay with their fathers and for the benefit of the Moslem students.
Except for this skeleton crew, the Hindu Satsangees, including all
women and small children, would proceed to Deoghar.

Word was carried quickly from house to house. Women were in-
structed to prepare themselves and their children for the journey.
They were given strict orders to keep their bedding and clothing
bundles small, for there would be very little room for baggage.

200

Many women were delegated to begin cooking at once enough food
to feed this large company on the way.

Taluqdar was dispatched to Pabna to make discreet arrangements
to charter six buses to be at the ashram at five o'clock the follow-
ing morning.

Thirty-five men and older boys were organized to supervise all
activities, to keep Thakur informed of progress at every stage, and
to see that the entire community was advised of all Thakur's desires
and orders.

Long before sunrise the next morning, the men and high school
boys who were to remain at Satsang were gathered around Thakur
to go over last-minute instructions. They asked him how to conduct
themselves in this tense situation. And Thakur gave each, in turn, a
special message and blessing for his activity and safety.

While the mist still hung over the river, the first contingent of
mothers, sleepy children, baskets of food, and small rolls of bed-
ding were bundled into the buses and driven to the railway station.
Quickly and quietly the buses made trip after trip, until all the
people were assembled safely at the station. There were many tears
among the devotees that morning and Thakur seemed to be every-
where at once . . . comforting and cajoling, directing and organizing.
His serene authority kept the vast migration moving smoothly and
calmly. When the eleven-thirty Amnura passenger train arrived, the
miracle of getting everyone aboard was accomplished. Most of them
had to remain standing and packed in the aisles until they reached
Naihati Junction at six-thirty that evening.

While they disembarked Thakur supervised the distribution of
food, but there was little time to eat or rest, for at seven-thirty they
were shepherded onto a shuttle train to Bandel and another trans-
fer.

On September 17, Thakur led his travel-weary devotees through
the rusted, wrought-iron gates that guarded the estate of Boral
Bungalow.

Although Thakur was now fifty-eight years old, he attacked the
problem of settling his exhausted and downcast followers with such
confidence and enthusiasm that all were infused with new hope and
energy. Within twenty-four hours, the community kitchen was or-
ganized and in operation. Children and adults were busily clearing
the property, and making arrangements for shelter under the trees at

201

night. In a week the small guardhouse at the gate was scrubbed,
whitewashed, and hung with the first lovingly hand-painted sign to
appear . . . SATSANG DISPENSARY.

As the days went by, other vacant houses on Rohini Road which
connected Boral Bungalow with the more populous outskirts of
Deoghar were rented and filled with families. Students scoured
the hills for plants, herbs, and mosses which the doctors and scien-
tists analyzed for possible use.

Progress was slow, however, for the religious tension and riots
continued to increase and each day brought its quota of destitute
refugees seeking a sanctuary. Some of these were followers of
Thakur . . . most of them had only heard that here they would not
be turned away. People slept in the open, and rice pots were kept
boiling constantly. All available funds were needed to keep them
filled.

The devotees found what work they could. Teachers, scientists,
and doctorstogether with their laboring brothers pulled rickshas,
sold peanuts, and did odd jobs around the city. Disciples begged
from door to door and shop to shop in order to provide food for
the ever-growing legion of hungry refugees.

In October, 1946, rioting broke out in Noakhali, a district one
hundred and twenty miles south of Himaitpur, and the Hindu com-
munity found itself completely cordoned off by Moslems. Nolini
Mitra, a resident and devotee of Thakur, managed to slip out
through the rice fields one night and was hidden in a friendly
Moslem's house. Disguised as a Mohammedan peasant, he ultimately
reached the predominantly Hindu town of Chaumohini where res-
cue operations for the destitute Hindus were quickly initiated
and successfully carried out. By the end of October, he arrived at
Boral Bungalow, dirty, unshaven, and accompanied by nearly two
thousand thankful and hungry fellow villagers.

Thakur had also sent an urgent message to Himaitpur that the
students were not to remain any longer and that it would be prudent
for all Hindus to quit the area. The students obeyed the message
promptly. All but a few of Thakur's followers, as well as large num-
bers from the surrounding areas, also took his advice, thus increas-
ing the burgeoning population centered on Boral Bungalow.

When Independence was declared on August 15, 1947, dividing
the country into Pakistan and India, only a few hundred Hindus

202

remained in the Himaitpur area. For most, that day was one of
ecstatic rejoicing. But for the people on the wrong sides of the parti-
tion, it was one of desolate grief. All that they possessed ... the rice
fields, orchards, businesses, and homes . . . which had spelled family
security for many generations . . . was now lost forever. Himaitpur
including the Satsang Ashram was declared a part of Pakistan,
while Deoghar was in India. A company of Pakistani soldiers ar-
rived at Satsang to take over all facilities and equipment . . . and
at least two Satsangees. Sudhir Das was immediately locked up in
the powerhouse and kept under constant guard not because he was
dangerous, but because there was no one else who knew how to
keep the electric power going, and they could take no chance of his
getting away.

Amullya Ghosh, manager of the printing press, was given the
heartbreaking task, under close watch, of supervising the dis-
mantling and packing of the press for shipment to Dacca, the
capital of East Pakistan. When this unhappy work was completed,
Ghosh, together with a band of reluctant recruits who had been
dismantling other ashram equipment, were escorted to the nearest
railroad station and sent to Deoghar.

Sudhir Das, still locked in the powerhouse, placed his life and
trust in Thakur. He practiced meditation religiously, and kept
himself alert and in readiness to seize any opportunity of escape.
Nearly two months passed before he finally caught both his guards
asleep at one time. He climbed out the window and made his way
with stealthy haste through the sleeping village to the river. He
swam across it, and for several days walked by night and hid him-
self in the jungles in the daytime. Exercising extreme caution for
several more days, he eventually eased himself out of enemy ter-
ritory and begged his way to Deoghar.

He lost thirty pounds on the journey and arrived there as a
scrawny beggar with a beard so thick and long that his former
friends and colleagues had difficulty recognizing him.

Not Thakur, however. "You have finally come!" he shouted joy-
fully as Das approached, and ran to meet him with a warm em-
brace. "You are the last! Now we are all well and accounted for!"
His eyes became misty as he stepped back to observe the pitiful
condition of this old friend. "Were you frightened?"

Das's eyes sparkled happily as the massive beard broke apart

203

to reveal a wide grin. "No, Thakur. You knew I was there so I
knew you'd get me out."

"Well, now you are a shopkeeper," Thakur teased. "]ust go and
see what an enterprising family you have." And linking Das's
arm in his own, he led him to the newly erected teashop just out-
side the bungalow. There was a wild cry of thanksgiving as they
entered, and Das found himself wrapped in the arms of his wife and
son.

204

PART THREE

THE FOLIAGE

OF THE two dozen Americans who visited Thakur in Himaitpur
shortly after World War II, only two of us remained there perma-
nently, Ed Spencer and I. Ed was especially interested in Thakur's
educational ideas as manifested in Tapovan School. I too became in-
volved with various ashram projects and problems and with the
propagation of the Satsang movement. Quickly, we became familiar
with the local customs and language Bengali. We were readily
accepted by the community and soon felt that Satsang was our own
family. We witnessed the great massacres during the riots in 1946.
We had our share of pain and frustration during the exodus to
Deoghar, and until the new crops could be reaped the greatest
problem was securing sufficient food for the few thousand refugees
who had sought Thakur's protection.

It was an unbearably hot day in Deoghar and a number of
things had gone wrong. I was in a particularly bad mood when I
entered the room I shared with Ed Spencer and three bachelor
Indians. Ed sat at the window, a book on his lap, a notebook on
the window sill, drafting lessons in English literature for Tap-
ovan School which had managed to make the transition from
Himaitpur to Deoghar with scarcely an interruption.

I walked to the window, glowering over his shoulder. "]ust look
at them! There is hardly room to walk around and still they keep
coming! And what makes it so disgusting is that half of that mob
never said a good word for Thakur in their lives! All they're inter-
ested in is the free food and whatever else they can get out of
us!"

As usual, Ed ignored my tantrum, calmly making his notes as if
I had not spoken. This, I found, was even more irritating than

205

the never-ending flood of freeloaders. I unbuttoned my sweat-
soaked shirt, jerked it from my body, and wadding it into a ball,
threw it across the room. It missed my bunk, hit the wall, and
plopped to the floor.

"There's a limit to how much water you can put in soup, and
how far you can stretch a handful of rice!" I muttered darkly. "I
told that to Thakur tool"

Ed cocked an interested eyebrow, a grin playing with the
corner of his mouth. "You did? What did he say?"

I felt like a small boy caught with his fingers in the jam. "You
know damned well what he said." I crossed the room and stretched
my aching bones out on the hard bed. "No one must be turned
away. Whatever we have, we will share with full heart."

Ed turned to face me. "Cheer up, fellow. Everything passes. It's
only the foliage."

"The what?" I sat up in bed.

"Foliage. That's us. All of us." He made a broad gesture that
included our room with the milling multitudes outside. "I got the
idea watching Thakur. Did you ever notice that wherever he is,
we come swirling around him, and drift to the ground like leaves
in autumn? The foliage changes with the seasons, Ray. Some-
times it's heavy, sometimes light, now one color, now another . . .
teased by breezes . . . swept away by winds." He sighed and
his eyes smiled deeply into mine. "But what a privilege, eh? To be
a leaf on such a tree, for however short a time and no matter what
the season."

206

29

IN THE two years following Independence, the population of the
transplanted Satsang community gradually fell to a manageable
five thousand, since many of the dislocated people found employ-
ment and homes throughout India.

Rohini Road had about fifty homes built along the one-mile
stretch from the railroad crossing to Boral Bungalow. These homes
belonged to wealthy Bengalees who had used them only for win-
ter vacations; during the rest of the year they remained vacant.
The owners seemed delighted to rent them year-round for the sub-
stantial sums they would receive from Satsang's permanent tenancy.
For us they were a godsend. The rooms were large and most of the
pleasant yards were planted with eucalyptus and mango trees. One

207

by one we acquired them, and re-established our printing press,
machine shop, rice mill, Tapovan School, and a variety of small
industries. In one of them, West End House, the community
kitchen was located in the rear, while the remainder of the rooms
were available for guests. The large yard was used as a playground
for little children. A row of small shops sprang up along the street
front: a grocery, a bakery, a confectionery, a handicraft salesroom,
and a teashop. The latter establishment became the evening gather-
ing place for devotees as well as an attraction for the sight-seers
and pilgrims who visited Deoghar.

The estate of Boral Bungalow changed its appearance as building
after building was erected along its enclosing five-foot wall. The
northern area was filled rapidly. The gatehouse dispensary was ex-
tended; next, a garage, a photographic studio, a workshop, and a
long dormitory for the senior Ritwiks. The southern area, which rose
toward a stony hillock, was left untouched, for it offered a natural
sanctuary for solitary meditation. A community vegetable garden
was being cultivated in the eastern section, between the house and
wall.

We also planned to build a small pharmaceutical laboratory, as
well as housing facilities for the doctors and their families. Our
powerhouse was in operation, and electric lights throughout the
five-acre area were planned.

But it was an agonizing step-by-step climb, and it was a com-
mon sight to see a peasant squatting beside the road, sifting the
dry brown earth of Deoghar through his fingers as tears streamed
down his face. He was remembering the rich, fertile, well-watered
land of his ancestors . . . the abundant greenery of Himaitpur.
Variations of this scene could be found in the machine and wood-
working shops, in laboratory, dispensary, and factory; for every-
where people worked with makeshift and inadequate equipment.

Dreams for the future had been founded on the solid base of
accomplishment at Himaitpur; now those visions must be set aside.
A new base must be constructed stone by stone; and for those
older Satsangees who had spent more than twenty years in the
ashram, there seemed little chance that these dreams would be
materialized in their lifetime.

I understood, at least in small part, what they felt. Although I
had only recently found Thakur, my own tears of frustration, bit-

208

terness, and sheer hatred were never far below the surface.

Thakur himself gave no sign nor did he evince the slightest ex-
pression of this sense of loss. From five o'clock in the morning
until well past midnight, he was engaged in planning, instructing,
supervising, and counseling. Over and over again, we could hear his
ringing injunction to a despairing disciple: "We have lost nothing,
I tell you! All that we hadhomes, land, machinery, and buildings
were created by your efficiency and ability. We still have that.
With it we shall build again. And this time it will go faster, for we
have the benefit of our past experience to guide and aid us!"

One afternoon when we had just failed in our fourth attempt to
sink a tube well in the hard, rocky, impossible ground, someone
brought Thakur to view the disaster. After giving thoughtful at-
tention to an account of our efforts . . . and to a barrage of com-
plaints ... he suggested that a pump might be attached to the
main well temporarily and water piped from that source to wherever
it was needed. The suggestion was eagerly accepted, and the men
moved off in a body to examine the main well.

I stayed where I sat, mud-smeared and sweating, as visions of
arrogant Pakistanis seized my mind. How dare they make them-
selves comfortable in our Himaitpur homes . . . equipped with
running water, plumbing, and electricity . . . gorge themselves
on our rice and fruit and vegetables . . . mess around with our
equipment . . . hold their hate-spewing rallies in the flower-bordered
courtyard of Tapovan School! In the beginning there had been talk
of reparations, but these hopes had long since faded. The Pakistanis
seemed to feel that whatever they had lost on one side of the parti-
tion was balanced by the things they had gained on the other. The
matter was closed.

Being alone, I wept unashamedly until I saw that Asoke, his
schoolbooks under his arm, was making his way toward me. Hastily,
I wiped my face with my dirty hands.

The boy peered into the ugly hole of our wasted efforts. "It
didn't work again?"

"No. It won't work here," I answered shortly.

He squatted down on his heels. "I received a letter from Saidu
yesterday."

Despite all Thakur's teachings, any Moslem name produced a
quick and adverse effect on me.

209

"What did he want?" I asked.

Asoke proffered the open letter, painstakingly written in English.

Dear Asoke,

A long time has passed and I have no news of you and all the people.
I hope, by the grace of the Supreme Father, that you are well. The
empty Ashram is mourning and it seems as if she has lost a priceless
jewel. Our Motherland has become restless, losing her children. It seems
as if she is calling to her children, "Oh, my sons, come back to my
bosom!" For she cannot bear the kicks of the foreigners any longer.

But let me not talk about this. What is the use of being sentimental
about what we can't understand? I hope you have not forgotten us.
Though you may forget, but because I cannot forget, I am writing this
letter to you. I hope you will make me happy by giving reply.

How is S. S. Thakur and all the Satsangees? Give my love to them
and to your younger brothers and to all my friends. Let me hear the
news of that country and its people. What more can I write? My heart
is sad.

Your friend,
Saidu,

As I finished reading, Asoke exchanged the letter for another.
"This is my answer. Perhaps you would see if the English is all

right."

His letter gave a detailed description of the new Satsang, of the
city of Deoghar, and of customs that were different and therefore
humorous. It listed the health and activity of Saidu's former friends
and ended with a boyish vow: "We may be apart, yet we are
brothers, and when we grow up we can make things together and
live in peace. The Supreme Father meant us to be together. If we
love and follow him, we will become like that again/'

"Is it all right?" Asoke questioned anxiously as I silently handed
it back.

"It's perfect."

His eyes widened in happy surprise. "Not a single mistake?"

"No mistakes." I got to my feet.

"Your face is dirty." He giggled.

"I know it. I'm going for a good scrubbing . . . inside and out!"

Asoke trotted along beside me. "Nature takes care of the inside,
Ray-da." Seriously, he explained the circulatory system and assured
me that a healthy body could not collect impurities.

I laughed. "Can I make that work for hatred as well?"

"You don't hate anybody!"

210

He was so candid and confident that I felt a twinge of shame.
"I know I don't, really . . . but sometimes it seems that I do/'

"That's only ignorance," the precocious boy comforted me. "Learn
a little more and it will go away."

211

30

TOWABD the end of 1948 I received word that my mother was
coming to India. I must admit that my joy at the prospect of seeing
her again was mixed with a good deal of anxiety. Mother was a
small and energetic woman who had graduated from Johns Hop-
kins School of Nursing and served overseas in World War I. After
becoming widowed, she had returned to college and earned the
master's degree in science which marriage and the raising of four
children had interrupted.

At present, her driving ambition was to see all of her children
safely and securely settled in life. My brothers had finished their
education and were well embarked on promising marriages and
careers, I was the only obstacle to her peace of mind.

Springing from a middle-class Midwestern background, she found
it difficult to understand why I should choose to remain among
foreigners, frittering away my life on odd jobs which she felt could
be handled by any high school boy. Her concern for me was evident
in every letter.

Her letters were not easy to answer. I had given detailed descrip-
tions of my efforts to obtain desperately needed medicines, find
employment for the hopeless refugees, and aid the senior disciples
with the administration of the large community. But it was far more
difficult to explain how each of these activities, to which Thakur
had directed me, inevitably seemed to expose a knot or flaw in my
own attitude or action, thereby creating the opportunity for self-
adjustment. And I did not feel that I had succeeded.

She came by way of New Delhi and lost no opportunity to see
every temple she could manage en route, feeling, I am sure, that
it was the religion of this country which had ensnared me. Many of

212

the temples she visited were in bad repair . . . dirty and strewn
with rubbish. Her own religious convictions were outraged, and as
a nurse she was revolted by such unhygienic conditions.

The cleanliness, order, and industry of Satsang, therefore, were
a welcome relief to her, and her first contacts with Thakur further
eased her anxiety on my behalf. Still, the dirty temples rankled, and
for the first few days we found ourselves bickering about them.

"No honest, respectable religion could endure such filth!" she
challenged.

"Mother, you don't understand!" I cried with exasperation. "This
is not Ohio, for Pete's sake. Indians are not always concerned
about these material matters. You have got to get your mind above
all that!"

That evening I found myself blushing to the roots of my hair
as Mother attacked Thakur before the assembled devotees.

"Thakur, are the temples allowed to go dirty so that minds will
soar above dirt?"

Thakur flashed a quick and somewhat amused glance at me.
"The gross ever reflects the fine." His voice was cryptic. "A slovenly
temple exposes slovenly minds."

"Thank you, Thakur." Mother sat down, satisfied. I got up and
went for a walk.

Just before five o'clock the next morning, I was surprised to find
her up and dressed.

"What on earth did you get up at this hour for?" I asked.

"I am going with you to see Thakur."

"But you 11 be cold!" I protested. "Besides, we'll only be meditating
and then discussing our program for the day . . . these things won't
interest you."

"I want to see exactly how you spend your days." Mother drew
on a heavy sweater and we started off.

The predawn air was crisp as we crossed Rohini Road and en-
tered the ashram. Elongated banana leaves dripped with dew, and
the scent of the eucalyptus trees was invigorating. Carts with creak-
ing wheels, pulled by plodding, bony oxen, moved toward the rice
fields near the Darwa River, where newly cut paddy was waiting
to be carried to the outdoor threshing floors. The men sat in the
carts with sickles across their laps and shawls wrapped tightly about
their heads. The village women in bright-colored saris walked in
stately procession toward the town market, woven baskets filled

213

with cow-dung patties balanced delicately on their heads.

Other silent figures, like Mother and me, converged from all
directions on the veranda of Boral Bungalow. We could see through
the heavy netting the vague outline of Thakur seated in meditation
on his wooden bedstead.

Disciples waited, still as statues, beside his bed until Thakur
moved, then, with quiet efficiency, drew the net aside.

The people, en masse, prostrated themselves, then resumed their
seats and waited, absorbed in the peaceful radiance that emanated
from their Saint's presence.

"Hey, who is that? Satyen-da?" Thakur cried suddenly as he
looked over the heads of the group toward a thin, white-haired,
and very old man. "Come over here by me. And wrap your shawl
tightly. It's really beginning to get cold."

"Thakur, they've come!" A woman jumped excitedly to her feet,
waving two large aluminum pans.
"Oh, fine! Let me see them!"

The woman bustled importantly through the assemblage and
presented the gleaming pans to Thakur.

His eyes glowed with admiration. "Good. Good. Now you can
make parothas that will melt in our mouths!"

Flushed with pleasure and giggling like a girl, the woman tri-
umphantly took the pans away to prepare the butter-toasted bread.
Secretaries arrived and the work of reading letters to Thakur and
transcribing his answers commenced, interrupted from time to time
as Thakur summoned one devotee or another to him, studied the
blueprints, records, or accounts, and gave instructions.

During one pause between letters, his eyes rested on a meditating
youth who was frowning in deep thought. "What is it, Sahay?"

The youth showed no surprise at being addressed. "If God is
good, and the purpose of life is to be good . . . then why did he
create us with the freedom to be otherwise?"

"Because love can never grow out of coercion. It is through the
conflict of good and evil ... the adjustment, and the ability to
place things in proper relation . . . that evolution takes place. The
thrill of divine purpose can emerge only from such a situation,"
The boy nodded, lapsed back into his concentrated meditation,
and Thakur's attention was once more taken up by the letters.

A disciple leaned toward Thakur. "It's seven o'clock," he an-
nounced.

214

The secretaries closed their notebooks as Thakur arose and pre-
pared to enter his room. Just then a widow named Prithi rushed to
his side in great agitation. "Thakur, Bhola has stolen my cabbages
againl This time I have proof! He did it in broad daylight, while I
was at the market yesterday! Am I to be impoverished while that
no-good loafer and his whole family grow fat on my labors?"

Thakur turned to a devotee. "Tell Bhola to come here after I
have eaten my breakfast." He faced the aggrieved woman. "Prithi-
ma, go home and eat and get over your anger. Then come back to
see me/'

From a prayer hall across Rohini Road came the sound of a dis-
ciple calling the people to prayer. The crowd dispersed . . . the
doctors toward the dispensary where the veranda was already filling
with patients. Mother and I walked slowly back home for our own
breakfast.

She was unusually quiet, and I waited anxiously while she ate and
read the news, for some reaction to the morning meeting.

Finally, she laid aside the English edition of the Calcutta news-
paper which a thoughtful devotee had brought her each morning
since her arrival. "Who is this cabbage thief?"

I was disappointed that such a trivial matter had been the one
to get her attention. "Bhola? Oh, he's a hanger-on from Deoghar.
He's always causing trouble. He isn't one of us."

"Then why don't you notify the police and have him kept away
if he doesn't belong here?"

"Mother, you simply don't understand. Satsang is an open city.
Anyone is free to come and go as he wishes. Thakur wouldn't have
it any other way."

"Open to thieves?"

"Open to everybody! Bhola isn't the only one who helps himself.
But Thakur takes care of these things when they come up."

"But how? If this man doesn't belong here, he could simply refuse
to come and answer the charges."

"Oh, he'll come all right."

"Why should he?"

"I don't know why, Mother, but they do. And don't underesti-
mate Thakur. I've seen plenty of men worse than Bhola . . . real
criminals . . . who come here thinking they're getting away with
something and end up being so respectable that even you would
accept them socially."

215

"Finish your breakfast/' Mother instructed. Td like to see this
trial."

"Now, Mother, don't laugh at these people/' I protested nervously.

"Why would I do a thing like that?"

"Well, Prithi and Bhola are not educated . . . they're very poor
and they're not sophisticated."

"Oh, for pity's sake." Mother was impatient. "I'm a small-town
girl myself. You know that."

The contestants were waiting beneath the banyan tree in two
large and separate groups. Prithi, a sharp-eyed woman of forty, had
assembled her witnesses on one side, and Bhola, dirty and bedrag-
gled, but very shrewd in his expression and manner, had lined up his
on the other.

When Thakur arrived, the chorus of accusations and recrimina-
tions grew deafening and unintelligible. He seemed not to notice,
calmly smoked his water pipe, until one by one the adversaries
lapsed into silence.

"Prithi-ma/' he instructed when the silence was complete, "go
and get six of your biggest cabbages and bring them here."

Prithi's face became slack as she stared at him uncomprehend-
ingly.

"Go on. Get them quickly," Thakur insisted. Reluctantly, she
turned to do his bidding.

The surprised Bhola grinned slyly at this unexpected and favor-
able turn of events.

Thakur shook his head reproachfully. "You foolish man. Why do
you create so much trouble?"

"But I did nothing." Bhola simpered ingratiatingly. "Prithi lies
about me all the time. She has a grudge."

"If you are in difficulty, if your family is hungry, come to me,"
Thakur said softly.

"I tell you I didn't touch those cabbages!" Bhola pointed ex-
citedly at his witnesses. "They can tell you where I was . . . every
minute of the day."

"Ah, what a liar he is," the returning Prithi screamed, thumping
a heavy basket of cabbages at Thakur's feet. "My own mother saw
him from the kitchen! He came here empty-handed and he left with
a burlap bag bulging with cabbages! Everybody saw him!" She

216

turned dramatically to her witnesses. "Tell him! Tell Thakur just
what you saw!"

Thakur had leaned over the basket and was admiring the cab-
bages with a great show of amazement. "How beautiful, Prithi-ma.
Why, your expert touch and loving care have made the seeds outdo
themselves! Hey, Bhola! Come here and see! Who else besides
Prithi could grow such vegetables?"

Bhola took a few cautious steps toward the basket and nodded
his head.

"Come closer! Just pick one up. Did you ever see any as big as
this before?"

Gingerly, Bhola weighed a cabbage in one hand. "It's the biggest
I ever saw," he admitted. Prithi's sharp little features softened
grudgingly.

"You know the people of Deoghar, Bhola," Thakur deferred.
"What do you say? How much would such a cabbage sell for?"

Bhola's manner became very businesslike. "Oh, I could get twenty
pice for this one," he bragged. "I got seventeen yesterday and they
were not nearly so good . . ." He broke off abruptly, an expression
of terror writhing his face as he realized that he had been trapped.

"Twenty pice! Where could you get such a price!" Prithi's eyes
grew bright as she calculated her profits.

Thakur began to laugh heartily and the witnesses and onlookers
joined him. After darting several uneasy glances at the Saint, Bhola
joined the chorus, laughing louder than all the rest and slapping his
bare thighs in a clownish manifestation of extreme glee.

Prithi leaped at the thief, shaking him excitedly. "Tell me where
you sold them! Tell me!"

"You see how you need each other!" Thakur cried, his wide smile
embracing them both. "Prithi-ma is much too busy growing vege-
tables and raising children. She doesn't have time for selling and
she doesn't know Deoghar and the best places to sell as you do,
Bhola. But if you came every morning and carried off all that was
ready for the market, what a partnership that would be! In no time
at all you could invest in a cart and be regular business people!"
His eyes dwelt on the widow and his voice coaxed, "What do you
say, Prithi-ma? Give Bhola these cabbages and seal the bargain."

She stared sternly at the sheepish Bhola for several moments.
"Well, pick them up!" she snapped impatiently. "You don't expect
me to carry them home for you, do you?"

217

That evening as Mother prepared to retire, I suddenly obeyed an
impulse to embrace and kiss her good-night. She was as surprised
as I at this long-forgotten childhood habit and for a short time we
were enveloped by an awkward but pleasant shyness.

"All the same, he's going to go on cheating her," Mother said,
breaking the silence.

"What? Who?"

"That thief Bhola," she explained.

I laughed. "For a while, maybe, but don't worry about it. Tha-
kur's in control and it will all work out to everybody's satisfac-
tion . . . and prosperity. It always does."

In the days that followed, Mother was everywhere, talking to
everyone from early morning until late at night. Her questions and
arguments covered all aspects of her very deep faith in Christ and
God. Mostly she was enthusiastically impressed, but there were
times when she was skeptical and her eyes rested on me with the
old worry.

One evening as we sat with the group around Thakur, she arose,
and without preliminaries, asked, "Thakur, a great many of your
followers claim that you are God. Now I want to know what you
say you are?"

The group stirred restlessly, clearly resenting what sounded to
them like an attack upon their Saint. An elderly disciple arose at
once. "I can explain this . . ."

"No, no," Mother cut him off rather rudely, "I've already heard
what all of you had to say. Now I want to know what Thakur says!"

Thakur's face glowed with a wide, boyish smile. Obviously, he
enjoyed both the discomfiture of the group and this American
mother's determination.

"Ma, if they call me God, will it make me more than I am? And
if they call me devil, will it make me any less? As you see me, so
I am."

Mother nodded, satisfied, and sat down. Apparently, she chose
to see him as a son, for in the months that followed, she advised and
questioned this elderly Guru in much the same manner and tone
that she used with my brothers and me. Thakur responded with a
demonstration of filial devotion and affection that exposed my own
inadequate attempts to please, to understand . . . and be under-
stood ... as superficial.

In this three-way relationship, Mother and I grew very close, and

218

our new understanding pervaded every aspect of our lives together.

When her visit was over, she said, "He can't be God. No man
can. But Thakur has loved God so deeply that he has gained many
qualities of God. He's become godlike/'

As the final good-bys were said she wept unashamedly. So did
Thakur. So did I.

After she had returned to America, I received a letter from my
elder brother, a Protestant minister. In it he wrote,

"Mother has grown in understanding and depth during the past
months with you. It is hard to believe. The regard she has for your
Thakur is of such a high order, that someday, if I get the oppor-
tunity, I'll come and talk with him myself."

In the postwar years many Westerners, and particularly Ameri-
cans, came to India . . . searching for peace, a new way of life,
something of value that would keep them steady through this
chaotic period of history. Many of these people found their way
to Thakur, and volumes of letters, expressing their gratitude and
bearing testimony to the change which spiritual awareness had
made in their lives, were added to the Satsang library.

Fred Neff, a rising young American executive, had been sent to
Calcutta by an oil company. His future seemed settled and secure,
but, as he later explained, without much purpose or meaning. He
found Thakur through a friend and began to make regular weekend
visits. At the end of a year, he resigned his position and returned
to New York to enter Union Theological Seminary. His letters speak
eloquently of the peace, satisfaction, and purpose he has found in
his new life.

A Philadelphia bachelor, who had spent most of his adult life
squandering inherited wealth, also found the ashram. At forty he
complained of being empty, life had become tasteless, and a suc-
cession of psychoanalysts had failed to relieve the condition. He
came with the intention of staying for a few days, and spent several
months. As we awaited the plane that would take him back to
America, he turned to me and said thoughtfully, "You know, this
is the first time in my life I'm not afraid ... the first time I ever
believed that love existed . . . outside of a lot of fancy words and
trumped-up acrobatics."

A diplomat's wife returned to Washington, D.C., and wrote
Thakur, "Everyone here is taking Miltown. I am constantly advising

219

them to go and see you . . . the living tranquilizer!"

A basketball coach from a Midwestern junior college wrote that
after practicing meditation under Thakur's guidance an unsus-
pected intuition had developed. His apparently unerring ability to
substitute a man when he was "hot" was giving him a reputation for
being psychic.

And so the letters go. Whereas his Indian followers relate their
thoughts, words, and deeds to the Uphold of Existence, Thakur
explains these theories to Americans in relation to a life lived in
Christ. And many of us have been actually stunned to realize, for
the first time, how feasible, practical, reasonable, and scientific
Christ's pattern for living actually is.

220

3i

MY FIRST meeting with Janardan Mookerjee was far from promising.
He was an extremely handsome Brahmin and a fire-eating Com-
munist. The Communists were a dynamic political force in Calcutta
and they played an active and dominating role in the student body
of the university. They were constantly arguing and debating with
Thakur's followers, whose numbers, while not nearly so large, were
none the less impressive. During one such argument, the Satsangees
were challenged to allow a Communist to confront Thakur in open
debate. The challenge was eagerly accepted and the Communists
had chosen Janardan, a brilliant, dedicated student organizer, to
meet and conquer the Saint.

On meeting me at Deoghar, he inquired, "Well, how do you feel
now that you have traded Christianity for Hinduism?"

"I have traded nothing," I answered shortly. "I was born a Chris-
tian and I'm trying to become a better one. It's as simple as that, and
it feels fine."

He smiled condescendingly. "How many lynchings have you
watched?"

"None."

"Do you deny that they happen?"

I drew a deep breath. "My experience, both at home and abroad,
has shown me that men are capable of horrible cruelty to one an-
other. I hope that someday I will be able, in however small a way,
to help overcome this ignorance."

"What do you think of the Rosenberg executions?"

"And what do you think of the Gates trial in Czechoslovakia?"
I countered hotly, then caught myself. Thakur was constantly
pointing out that no one had the right to criticize another unless he
could first love him; and love for Janardan was certainly not a mat-

221

ter for the immediate future. "What benefit is there in this fault-
finding?" I asked as calmly as I could.

"You're right." His answer was cheerful. It was obvious that he
accepted my tone as capitulation. Turning to his fellow students,
he expressed a wish to tour this ashram, which they had told him
so much about, and the group moved off.

Later that afternoon, after meeting Thakur, he came straight to
the point of argument. "Thakur, I have heard a lot of things about
you, both good and bad. I accepted none of them, but came per-
sonally to make up my own mind."

"That was very wise," Thakur commended.

"I must warn you that I am dedicated to bringing a new and more
equitable society into being and mean to sweep away all the age-
old, prejudiced traditions that are strangling us. Religion is high on
the list of these evils, for it makes a virtue of poverty and suffering
and in this way keeps the masses in subjugation to the exploiters. I
hope that I have not wounded your sentiments; but in these times,
I believe the good of humanity demands that we be completely,
and even cruelly, frank/'

"Yes, yes," Thakur agreed, "honesty is an absolute requisite for
any fruitful exchange. If you can give me assurances that you will
search out and fight every evil, I will be much relieved. For I am
old and it would be a comfort to see the world in such capable and
loving hands. I assure you that I have no other thought than this:
Let you live and be the cause for others to live. Let you grow more
and more and help others to do so also, and with this joy move on
forever."

I left to attend to my administrative duties, feeling a good deal
of satisfaction, I must admit, at the attitude of total, floundering be-
wilderment which the young Communist had exhibited. These were
busy days at Satsang and I was not able to follow the rest of their
dialogues closely. It was clear, however, from firsthand reports I
received, that things were going exactly as we knew they would.
Janardan was losing ground . . . rapidly.

On the fourth day of his visit, I happened to listen in on this in-
teresting bit:

"Your ideas are completely materialistic," Janardan shouted. "The
religion you speak of has no relation to the organized groups that
cause all the trouble. Why don't you just blot out the word 'reli-
gion? Then you'll see that there is little difference between us."

222

"There are quite a number of Communist parties, isn't that so?"
Thakur asked innocently. "Do you know all of them?"

"Well, there's the Communist Party of India," Janardan began,
counting off on his fingers, "the Trotskyites, the Bolsheviks, the
Revolutionary Communist Party." He spread his hands helplessly.
"I can't think of all of them."

"And do you all agree with each other?"

"Of course not! If we did there would be only one party."

"What do you disagree about?"

"The other parties are full of distortions and misrepresentations.
You know how men are! Greedy for power! They take half-truths
and twist them around to serve their own private interests!"

"Then why don't you change the name of your party, lest it be
confused with the others?"

"Why should we do that? We have the true right to the name
because we will establish the true society . . . 'from each according
to his ability, to each according to his needs.' "

Thakur shook his head slowly and sadly, and expectant smiles be-
gan to spread from face to face throughout the group.

"How can you understand this and yet blindly sacrifice the word
'religion? Religion has been the food which nourished the evolu-
tion of man in an unbroken line since the first generation. Igno-
rance, error, and distortion . . . such things cannot soil nor change
the truth. Treasure the word that embodies our reason for being
. . . keep it close to you, always."

Janardan made many trips to Satsang throughout that winter.
I continued to avoid him as much as possible because our personali-
ties clashed at the drop of a pin. I had not been very interested in
his particular case and its development; therefore, when he ar-
rived at the beginning of vacation and announced that he was
spending the summer with us, to make bricks and help with the con-
struction of some buildings we were working on, I was very much
surprised.

About a week later, I was wandering over the low hill in the
corner of the Boral Bungalow estate when I came across him, sit-
ting on top of a flat rock in the cross-legged lotus position and gazing
out over the ashram. I was about to pass quietly by, since we never
disturb each other during meditation, when he spoke.

"Isn't it strange how all that energy down there generates a great
feeling of peace? All the activity I've known before only created

223

nervous tension and a feeling of impatience at getting so little done."
I gazed at the various activities. The people, from this distance,
looked like animated dolls. There was a rhythmic pattern, though,
a sort of pictured song. "They're all conscious of what they're do-
ing," I explained, "and they are working with love."

Janardan sighed. "Life is full of surprises, isn't it. One knows so
much and is yet so blind. All the time I was working for a world
of love and brotherhood, it never once occurred to me to be a brother
... or to love. All that is only possible later, I thought, when Utopia
comes. 'By their deeds shall you know them' . . . didn't your Saint,
Christ, say that?"

"All the prophets said it in one way or another."
"And by their governments you shall know the people," Janardan
paraphrased. "How simple it all is. Governments grow out of the
people. If enough people truly desired brotherhood, if what you
have here could be expanded far enough . . . then the government
would change of its own accord to accommodate their needs and
wishes. Does that make any sense?"

"It does to me, Janardan." I dropped down beside him and we
meditated in silence for more than an hour.

Janardan took initiation and gave up his schooling and political
affiliations in order to devote all his time to converting people, by
example, to the true and enduring brotherhood he had found. We
became fast friends.

224

32

MANY of Thakur's followers were seized, for various periods of
time, with missionary zeal. Small groups were always forming to
carry his teachings throughout India. They preached his principles
with passion and conviction to whatever audience they found, urg-
ing as many as they could convince to apply this higher standard
to all phases of their lives.

Janardan and I together with Ajoy Ganguly, an engineer, and
Chandreshwar Sharma, a schoolteacher, formed one such group
for several years.

Ajoy explained Thakur as one whose technical know-how was di-
rected with clear understanding of know-why. Chandreshwar, an
orthodox Hindu, spoke of him in the terms of the Vedic tradition.
Janardan usually built his talks around his favorite subject, "The
materialistic interpretation of spirit," and I pointed out the co-rela-
tion of Thakur's teachings with those of Christ.

We traveled constantly by train, bullock cart, automobile, or ele-
phant. No village was too small and no opposition too threatening.
We were going to conquer, and time was short.

We were amazingly successful and before long found that large
audiences were assembled and waiting for us whenever we arrived.
This was due in part to the fact that we complemented each other,
for in speaking from our individual convictions, we painted a broad
and varied picture.

Ajoy and Chandreshwar had a great deal of experience in facing
mammoth gatherings, and their talks were rendered with vividness
and polish. Janardan's innate eloquence, now enriched by a deep
and positive faith, inevitably left an audience in a state of emotional
fervor, and what I lacked of these talents was compensated for by
my being an American disciple who spoke to them in colloquial

225

Bengali or Hindi. We are supremely confident that Heaven on
Earth would arrive on schedule. In fact, the growing and enthusi-
astic crowds caused us to revise our estimate of the arrival of the
Kingdom from decades to a matter of years.

Revival meetings are inspiring. They can also easily beguile one
into believing that temporary exaltation is permanent.

I particularly remember a visit we paid to Kaileshwar, a city situ-
ated in Assam on the border of Pakistan, and at that time accessible
from India only by plane or elephant.

Arrangements had been made for us to lodge with a wealthy lum-
ber man, and he proceeded to entertain us in a regal fashion that
included placing six elephants, along with attendants, at our dis-
posal for transportation.

Tens of thousands of eager people, many of whom had journeyed
six days, were on hand for the three-day conference. After each
meeting, the numbers seeking initiation were so large that it was
necessary to perform this ceremony in groups.

We were elated with the response, and so busy with the meetings
and initiations that it was not until the last day that we understood
what we had been hearing, in one form or another since our arrival:
these people were members of the Communist Party . . . and also of
the American Baptist Mission!

When we asked how they had achieved this unusual synthesis,
their answer was charmingly candid. "In these days, who can tell
what will happen? We want to be on the winning side."

While such incidents served the useful purpose of jolting us back
to earth, they did not daunt our enthusiasm. We returned to De-
oghar in high and confident spirits to celebrate Thakur's sixty-fifth
birthday anniversary.

Bengali New Year in March-April and Thakur's birthday in Sep-
tember are the two major holidays of Satsang. Lasting for several
days, they include a program of seminars, lectures, dramas, and ex-
hibitions and enable Thakur's followers from all areas of India to
come in contact with each other. They also serve to clarify and de-
velop individual conceptions of Thakur's ideology, and to find new
ways to apply them practically.

These congregations had continued uninterruptedly through
famine, riot, and the transplantation from Himaitpur. By 1953, they
had grown so large that all available housing facilities in the city of
Deoghar were filled to overflowing.

226

Small entrepeneurs, ricksha proprietors and coolies, retailers and
souvenir shop owners, as well as the priests of the Shiva temple,
looked forward eagerly to these biannual meetings. The influx of
from fifty to one hundred thousand people was a new and welcome
source of revenue to them.

Since we had arrived at Deoghar the day before the formal open-
ing of the birthday celebration, there was no immediate opportunity
for us to discuss the details of our latest trip with Thakur. We did,
however, give him a glowing account of the highlights, and assured
him with great fervor that India was on the verge of becoming a
true brotherhood of love that would shortly command the atten-
tionand conversionof the entire world.

As always he listened with thoughtful attention to our recital,
but when we had finished he made no comment on the trip. "Mrinal
Basu, an excellent singer, has joined our family in your absence,"
he said. "I believe that such a trip would give him pleasure. Why
don't you keep him with you?"

We assented readily, for although we considered our battalion to
be quite perfect as it was, we were anxious to please Thakur and a
good singer was always useful.

"Go and get settled in, then," Thakur instructed, "and take Basu
with you. You will be able to tell him about your activities during
the conference."

Basu proved to be a handsome young man with a beautiful voice,
and we welcomed him warmly. Before long, however, the favorable
first impression had faded away. We found that he had taking as
well as winning ways.

The rush of visitors and the varied program during the days of
celebration gave us little opportunity to meet as a group. When we
did, we discovered that Sharma's pen and Janardan's watch had
both disappeared, and all of us had missed small change which we
were in the habit of leaving on a table.

Using some diplomacy, we confronted Basu with these losses; of
course he denied taking the articles, and immediately thereafter
professed to have missed things of his own.

We watched him closely for a few days and found to our con-
sternation that he was not only a sneak thief, but also lied con-
stantly . . . even about the most trivial things.

Janardan and I decided that this young man did not exhibit the
necessary qualities to be part of our elite army for heaven, and we

227

suggested, not too subtly I'm afraid, that he return to the guest-
house forthwith.

The following morning I returned from my daily trip to the
Deoghar market and was slowly nosing the jeep through the hordes
of people, temporary shops, and rickshas that filled Rohini Road,
when I was hailed by Janardan.

"Hey, Ray! Thakur just told me to go and get Basu and take him
back to our room."

"Basu?" I cried in dismay. "Wait a minute! Don't go yet! I'll talk
with Thakur!"

I parked the jeep beside the teashop, then pushed my way
through the crowds to the veranda of Boral Bungalow. I waited
restlessly for a break in the incessant conversations going on with
Thakur, and when it came, called impetuously, "Thakur, you don't
understand about Basu! He's nothing but a thief and an inveterate
liar! What he needs is a good thrashing and to be sent flying out
of here!"

Thakur's eyes burned at me over the heads of the gathering
around him. "Beat him if you like." His voice was clear and steady.
"But when you do, know you are beating me."

I was drowning in shame and confusion. "I'm sorry, Thakur," I
mumbled miserably. "I'll get him now."

Janardan was waiting for me at the edge of the crowd. "Did you
fix it? What did he say?"

"You better go get Basu and bring him back. I have to get the
jeep and unload it."

We settled Basu comfortably in our room, and saw that our few
valuables were carefully placed under lock and key. Beyond that
we had little inclination to be friendly. Fortunately, the rush of
arranging lodgings and transportation, and of furnishing informa-
tion to our many visitors, allowed us to go our separate ways with-
out seeming too rude.

The next day I received word that Thakur wished to see me.
Janardan had received a similar message, and we met on the way
there. Together, we climbed over the bamboo barricade that dev-
otees had erected around Thakur to furnish a breathing space
between the Saint and his overeager visitors. We sat quietly, feeling
rather important in this privileged enclosure, until Thakur ended his
discussion with a Pandit from Benares.

"Where is Basu?" he asked, turning to us.

228

We shrugged helplessly, making vague gestures toward the mill-
ing crowds.

"When you returned a few days ago you told me how earnestly
you had been preaching to transform the world into a family of
brotherhood and love." He spoke very softly, to give us some pri-
vacy from the people outside the bamboo fence. "Yet you are not
able to tolerate or adjust to one single Basu . . . don't you feel that
is strange?"

"We took him back to our room," Janardan explained quickly.

"There's a limit," I protested. "A certain amount of the survival
of the fittest comes into this."

"Make the unfit fit. Then we will all survive. Each man is a living
universe. You cannot win worlds by losing so much. Any plan, pro-
gram, or movement is a failure to the extent that it ignores or re-
jects a single individual." He smiled suddenly ... a wonderfully
warm, radiant, all-embracing smile. "Go now; find Basu and keep
him safe."

Basu was with us for nearly a year, and when he left to accept a
professional singing job, Janardan and I were genuinely sorry. Not
because our efforts had effected much change in his unfortunate
habits . . . incidents constantly came to our attention . . . but because
this was our first conscious attempt to recognize the essential worth
of a man despite his outer conditioning. It was a valuable lesson
and a warmly remembered experience.

229

33

ONE afternoon, several of us who were sitting on the veranda of
Boral Bungalow watched Pandit Binoda Jha park his Land Rover,
climb out, and start up the curving road toward us. To look at this
unassuming man, dressed in a collarless white shirt, dhoti, and straw
sandals, one would never guess that this senior member of the State
Cabinet in Bihar and the most popular politician in the area was
shortly to become the chief minister of the state.

Thakur immediately dispatched a disciple for tea and sweetcakes,
and then arose and walked down the path to meet the statesman
with an embrace.

The two men had become fast friends shortly after our arrival in
Deoghar, for Jha, too, was a man of the people and he had watched
our progress with an active and sympathetic interest.

As it had been some time since his last visit, we eagerly described
our latest projects and outlined the various works that we were
presently engaged in. A very pleasant afternoon was enjoyed by all.

"What miracles you create," Jha complimented Thakur as the
afternoon came to a close. "And with such ease! I have been work-
ing for weeks, and getting nowhere, on a single very small one."

Thakur's face registered quick concern. "What is your trouble,
Jhar

"Money," Jha replied cryptically, but after a moment he amended
this. "Not money in itself . . . but the people who have it. The gov-
ernment has agreed to match any funds we can raise locally for
education, and by using existing facilities we could get a modest
science college started for one hundred thousand rupees. We need
that college! Deoghar has a population of over one hundred thou-
sand people now. It is shameful to have no opportunities for higher
education for the majority of our children. And India needs scientifi-
cally trained men. Now that we are independent there is a lot of

230

catching up to do. Yet I have spent the entire day visiting our
wealthy citizens and all I gained for my trouble was a lot of far-
fetched, pointless, meandering arguments. They have no need for
the college themselves, of course, since their children are sent to
Calcutta or abroad. But it isn't the money, as such, that makes them
so miserly. It is clear that they are deathly afraid of progress ... of
the threat that mass education will pose for their petty, privileged
positions. It is hopeless to look to them for help." He arose with an
apologetic smile and made ready to leave. "There. I shouldn't bur-
den you with my problems. You have far more than your fair share
already."

That evening as we settled down for the gathering, Thakur sud-
denly addressed his accountant, Noni. "How many sixes go into
fifty thousand?"

Noni took a stone and performed the division on the soft earth.
"Eight thousand, three hundred and thirty-three."

Thakur appealed to his disciples. "Aren't there that many among
us who can give six rupees each so that the talented children of
Deoghar might have a science college?"

Before the evening was over, the machinery of the far-flung Sat-
sang family was set in motion. Within days, Ritwiks throughout
Bengal received detailed letters explaining the purpose of the col-
lege, the need for additional financing, and suggesting a quota for
each area.

Meetings were hastily organized for the fund raising. In the
flower garden of Jageshwar Sumanta of Mindapore, a photograph of
Thakur was placed on a chair that had been covered with a white
cloth, and a hundred and fifty people gathered informally about it.
After prayers and a few songs, Jageshwar arose and read the letter
from Satsang. One by one, men, women, and even children an-
nounced their readiness to give, or pledge, a six-rupee unit.

The moneylender, Hariban Gourwala, did not rise, however. He
had recently become a member of this group. Several months earlier
his married daughter had been seriously injured in giving birth to
her first child and had been given up by the family doctor. Jage-
shwar, whose grocery store was lodged in the same building as
Hariban's pawnshop, had immediately written to Thakur for ad-
vice and medicine and had himself spent several nights at the
young woman's bedside, praying. Recovery was effected, and Hari-
ban, in a rush of gratitude, begged for initiation. But the daily love

231

offering had been a great struggle for bis parsimonious nature; and
since he made this offering of twenty pice each morning, he felt it
to be more than sufficient.

"Why doesn't your Thakur create a miracle when he needs
money?" he complained loudly.

Jageshwar stared at him for some time. "Do you remember when
your house was robbed ten years ago . . . eight thousand and sixty
rupees, I think it was?"

"Of course I remember itl That isn't something a man is likely to
forget!"

"Weir Jageshwar took a deep breath "I am the man who helped
organize that robbery."

"You?" Hariban jumped to his feet, his face slowly turning a dark
purple. "You, a thief!"

The eyes of the two men locked, and for some time they faced
each other in frozen silence. Hariban's eyes dropped first and he
thawed quickly, easing himself back into the camp chair which
groaned under his considerable weight.

"Well" he spread his hand magnanimously "let the past go. You
saved my daughter and I won't press charges. I owe you that."

"Any debt you owe is to Thakur," Jageshwar scolded, "I am an
example of the kind of miracle that he creates . . . and if he did not,
I would have been robbing you instead of praying for your family's
health."

Hariban peeled six rupees from his compact and sizable roll.

On that same evening in a garment factory on Bow Bazaar Street
in Calcutta, a workbench was covered with a white sheet and
Thakur's photograph leaned against two vases of freshly cut flow-
ers. Satyen Mittra, a dignified and very old man, led the congre-
gation of workers in a prayer which Monmohini had taught him
many, many years ago when they were both children. Afterward he
quietly explained the need for a college in Deoghar, and these peo-
ple, who earned only fifty rupees a month, were unanimous in their
affirmative response.

On the Benares estate belonging to Deben Choudhury, a painting
of Thakur, ornately framed, hung above a finely carved altar, and
the fragrance of incense wafted over the well-dressed men and
women gathered there.

232

Deben chanted the traditional Vedic prayers and then read the
letter from Satsang.

"No. I won't do it," Monmotha Mullick stated firmly. "Whatever
Thakur wants for himself or for Satsang, I will give willingly, but
this is too much. Last year it was a T.B. sanatorium in Calcutta, and
a few months ago that public library for the Deoghar municipality.
We cannot be expected to provide for all of India. It is time to have
an understanding."

This speech obviously distressed his wife. "What would have
happened to our relatives at the time of partition if Thakur hadn't
taken them in? We were not Satsangees then!"

"I sent a check to express my gratitude for that," Monmotha ex-
plained virtuously.

"But he didn't ask for the check. He helped everyone who came
. . . without question."

"Yes," Monmotha conceded. "That's the way Thakur works."

"Then why do you question the way he works now?" his wife im-
plored. "Whether the people he helps belong to us or not, it's always
people that the money goes for . . ."

With some reluctance Monmotha pledged twelve rupees for him-
self and his wife.

Several weeks later, Thakur sent a message to Jha to come and
see him when it was convenient. He arrived that afternoon, and as
he sat sipping tea, Bor'da, Thakur's eldest son, presented Jha with
a check for fifty thousand, four hundred and nineteen rupees.

Surprise that such activity had been going on ... the knowledge
of what a vast number of people must have been involved . . . and
astonishment at the size of the check, rendered Jha speechless. He
could only gaze at his benefactor, his eyes brimming with gratitude.

"All our people wanted to see your wish fulfilled," Thakur said
simply.

Within the year the Deoghar Science College was conducting
classes.

Some time after this I was chatting with Thakur and Taluqdar
and happened to mention the efforts that the American Field Serv-
ice had been making to increase international understanding by
student exchanges.

"Walk together, talk together, thus have peace," Thakur quoted

233

a Sanskrit aphorism. "Taluqdar, won't your students give something
to this cause?''

"No, no," I cried, floundering in embarrassment. "I didn't mean
anything like that. The students here are so poor nobody would
expect them to make such a sacrifice!"

"Hauserman . . . Hauserman . . ." Thakur shook his head sadly.
"Haven't you learned yet that giving and evolving go hand in hand
... a far more precious gift than receiving? This is a matter that
involves students. We must give our students a chance to grow."

Stephen Galatti, Director of the AFS, began his thank-you letter
for the two-hundred-and-fifty-rupee check from Satsang students
and teachers as follows: "I have never received so moving a gift."

234

34

IN MAY, 1956, laughter stopped in Satsang, and hearts were seized
with such trembling that the painful pulsations were felt by fol-
lowers throughout India. Thakur had suffered a stroke. His right
side was partially paralyzed.

True, he had had high blood pressure for many years, and there
had been periodic stomach trouble. Also, with the coming of Asian
influenza to India, he was inevitably attacked by it after each con-
ference. But he had always laughingly accepted these conditions
as such minor nuisances that the devotees had continued in their
dream that Thakur was indestructible.

The stroke was different. With an emotion akin to horror, follow-
ers were brought face to face with the realization that their Saint
was encased in a mortal body, and that this body was nearly sixty-
eight years old and subject to all the laws which governed such
things . . . including death itself.

Boro Ma and Bor'da along with the senior disciples and follow-
ers kept the organization running, all work, both in the Satsang
Ashram and in the city of Deoghar, began and ended with a fervent
prayer that Thakur might be spared.

After the first two agonizing weeks, the slender flame of hope that
had been so prayerfully attended began to glow brighter. The
paralysis was leaving ... he was regaining the use of his arm!

The devotees replaced the wooden gate in the inner wall with an
open frame of bamboo so that the people might at least see Thakur.
The gate was forty yards away, so they could not speak to him.
Day after day throughout that long summer, a procession of dev-
otees prostrated themselves before the gate and children held
up bright flowers that might please him. Thakur gazed back at these

235

constant demonstrations of devotion with longing, and oftentimes
tearful, eyes.

As Thakur's recovery progressed, he was allowed to have a few
selected visitors each day.

The period of enforced leisure revived in Thakur his mother's
dream of an international residential university so long unrealized.
It was to be modeled after the ancient center of learning, Nalanda,
at Bihar, and would be named Sandilya University.

In careful detail, Thakur planned for fifty contiguous villages
which would be integrated with, and a part of, the university ad-
ministration. The home of each professor would be built to accom-
modate seven students, so that each student would have the
opportunity to live with, and absorb through close association the
more intimate knowledge of, the professors. This was basic to
Thakur's idea of what he called "teacher-centric education." There
would be sections for every branch of science and art, geared to-
ward establishing the relation of each branch with every other, and
all of them consciously aimed at maintaining the Uphold of Exist-
ence. This scheme would practically demonstrate his definition,
"Where varieties arrive with meaning toward unity . . . that is a
university."

The idea of establishing such a university had never actually
been relinquished, but the 100 million rupees which Monmohinfs
carefully laid plans had called for, had, with the change of locale
and the times, tripled itself. With the great and pressing needs of
the present, the plans had to be set aside for some future, and rather
nebulous, date.

Although the cost now seemed astronomical, there was no word of
dissent. So joyous were the devotees over Thakur's recovery, that
had he suggested that a stairway to the moon might be useful, they
would have begun to lay the foundation without question.

Several miles north of Deoghar there was a vast area of unused
land . . . idle because of its advanced state of erosion and because
it was literally covered with rocks and boulders. The price was
reasonable, however, and fifty contiguous villages would require
considerable territory. Thakur urged that plans be made to begin
purchase of this area. A hasty, preliminary fund-raising campaign
took place and the first parcel of this land became the property of
the future Sandilya University.

So glowing and vivid were Thakur's descriptions of the garden

236

that was to rise from this wilderness, that the devotees were fired
with energy and enthusiasm. Every hour that one could spare with-
out interrupting the regular activities was spent clearing the new
land and gathering rocks of comparable size into neat piles for fu-
ture use in building. A fund was set up with special contributions,
and a tithe from all activities went into it at regular intervals so that
the purchase of land could continue in an orderly manner until
title for the entire project was acquired.

By late fall the bamboo fencing was taken away and Thakur was
again moving freely from one area of the compound to another, ad-
vising, instructing, and supervising his large and active family. The
only concession he made to his illness was to begin the day a little
later and to take longer naps in the afternoon.

"Even with this shortened day," the secretaries pointed out
proudly, "his energy is inexhaustible. It still takes five of us to keep
up with his dictation!"

237

35

IN THE spring of 1958, my mother returned to Satsang. "I was home-
sick," she stated simply, "and when I thought of how badly needed
every pair of hands is here, my life at home seemed wasted. This
time I have come to help, and I plan to stay indefinitely."

Ed Spencer and I had rented a house on Rohini Road, and to our
delight, Mother quickly settled in, assuming responsibility for all
the frustrating details of housekeeping.

She was warmly welcomed home by the Satsangees, and with her
nursing experience, scientific education, and gregarious nature, she
integrated smoothly into a busy and satisfying routine.

I was not able to see a great deal of Mother in the year that fol-
lowed, for we were busy raising money for the Sandilya University
land and I was usually on tour, making the rounds to keep the vari-
ous communities of followers up-to-date on our progress and ac-
quainted with future needs. Whenever I was at the ashram,
however, I always found Mother busy, happy, and overflowing with
enthusiasm for Thakur himself, and for the many ashram activities.

Therefore, when I returned for Thakur's seventieth birthday
anniversary and found that Mother had made arrangements to re-
turn to the States, I was aghast.

She had not been feeling well, she explained. She tired easily and
there were various pains.

"But tell Thakur about this!" I cried. "He can fix you up in no
time!"

"Thakur has too many troubles already," she stated firmly. "I came
here to help . . . not to be a burden."

"For heaven's sake, Mother, you talk as if you expected to be an
invalid! This isn't like you at all!"

But Mother had made up her mind. She felt that she was long

238

overdue for a thorough checkup and she was going back home.

Perhaps it was anxiety over Mother's sudden, and what seemed
to me arbitrary, decision. At any rate, that night at the meeting as
we listened to Baldev Sahay give a stirring testimony of his life with
Thakur, I suddenly noticed that Thakur's eyes rested first on one dis-
ciple and then another with a very strange expression. He's lonely, I
thought. But how could this be? Surely there was never a man so
widely loved . . . and presented with such constant demonstrations
of that love.

I closed my eyes for a moment and then watched him again. Yes.
There it was. That strange look was no trick of light. Thakur's eyes
were hungering from face to face. He was searching.

As I was trying to get my mind settled, I could hear Baldev's
musical voice climb a tone. "If you want Thakur's philosophy, you
can find it in the many volumes in our publishing house here. If
you want to hear stories of miracles and inexplicable accounts of
psychic phenomena, ask any of the people here. They'll tell you
many strange stories. Some may be exaggerated, some lacking in
detail, but there are enough of them to fill a library which can be
checked and cross-checked.

"Most people are lonely today, even in the midst of crowds or in
the security of their homes. All are conscious that every love they
have is conditional. Homes for the aged and public institutions are
full of parents and grandparents who can no longer meet the con-
ditions of these unwritten contracts. But the people you see here
. . . coolies, clerks, teachers, lawyers, doctors, and others . . . they
have caught a glimpse of Thakur ... of a love that has no condi-
tions, no demands, no desires . . . except that it just be. Whether
they are well or ill, whether they ignore or follow, they know Thakur
will never turn his back on them. Some of you may see this as
weakness, but there it is. It is the reason why I, and many who were
lonely as I was lonely, have come to him."

Once more my attention wandered from Baldev and sought
Thakur some twenty yards away, and again I noted the flicker of
loneliness as he anxiously searched the faces around him. What
could it be? What was so rare that Thakur must search for it? For
some time I sat entranced, lost in a complex of wondering.

"A loving man?" Baldev was now engaged in dialogue with those
around him. "Yes, I think so. But what man can read the heart of
another unless he loves him first? And once a man loves, must not

239

his reading be that of a lover? Then what has he found but his
own love?"

A strange thing happened to me. Baldev's melodious voice faded
away and in its place came an answer from some long distant racial
memory to my urgent inner question . . . "Thakur seeks to find a
heart like his ... a love like his ... a soul into which he can pour
his all and be understood. He waits for a love that can endure suf-
fering and heartache, injustice and neglect, but never, never sever
its bond. A love that can serve without hope of return, that can joy-
fully give to others the credit for its own achievement . . . accept the
blame for others' faults. Yes, he seeks for a love like his that can
give and give and give . . . and drink the pain and wine of ever-
growing."

I must have been in trance for several minutes, for when I once
more became conscious of my surroundings, Baldev had finished
speaking and the song of praise to all the Prophets floated in the
clear, star-spangled September sky.

I looked back toward Thakur. His eyes were closed in prayer and
his face was boyish and serene. I closed my eyes as the voices of
many thousands mingled together in a rolling, peaceful, vibrant
prayer.

As the prayer ended I felt Mother shiver beside me and I turned
to her. "Are you cold?" I was surprised because the night was very
warm.

"A little," she admitted.

"Ill go get your sweater."

"No." Mother peered closely at the large face of her wristwatch.
"It's nearly midnight. I think 111 call it a day. You stay."

I insisted on walking her home. When we arrived she expressed
a wish for a cup of hot tea, so I made it for her while she found
a warm shawl. Although we were accommodating twelve people
during the conference, no one was at home and the house seemed
strangely quiet and empty. Mother and I sat on our veranda and
watched the milling crowds on Rohini Road as we sipped our tea.

"Where do they all come from?" she marveled. "Unless you see
such a conference, it's difficult to understand how wide and deep
Thakur's influence goes."

As we sat in silence with our own thoughts, we noticed Goswami,
Thakur's oldest living disciple, pass by our low wall. Since we were
at leisure, he came in to join us. He was an amazing man, over

240

ninety now, yet still spry and active in all the affairs of Satsang. He
declined tea with a chuckle, saying that he was literally awash
with it.

"Is this the sea of humanity that used to gather around Thakur
in the early days?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No, there aren't many here who believe in
the short-cut to Heaven as most of us did in the days of song
and dance, forty years ago. These people have been tested by suf-
fering. They've grown in numbers slowly and steadily . . . through
hardship and persecution. Some have faltered and fallen, but most
have steadily stretched and opened their hearts to follow Thakur
truly. Their lives are slowly adjusting. Their children are farther
along the road, and just as Thakur promised them, they see new
generations begin right where they leave off."

"It's a mass movement, though," I commented. "Just as it was in
the beginning."

"Yes," he agreed, "but now it's made up of people who are really
learning to love, to give and do out of love and feel blessed" he
spread his arms eloquently "Hindus, Moslems, Buddhists, Chris-
tians, and Animists ... all have renewed devotion and understanding
of the faith of their fathers . . . and a positive acceptance of their
brothers' creeds."

He left us to take care of his numerous guests.

We were silent for a while and then Mother spoke again. "Thakur
is getting old. If you want him to found your university and imbue
it with his spirit, you'll all have to double your efforts."

I felt this to be a personal rebuke. "We're working as hard as we
can!" I protested.

"Nonsense!" Mother sighed. "No healthy man ever works as hard
as he can. Unfortunately, this wisdom always seems to come too
late."

Mother left for the States a week later. I believe now that she
must have had a strong intuition concerning her illness, for in De-
cember, 1959, I received word that she had only a few months to
live.

With a grieving heart I returned to America to spend these last
days with her. Before leaving Satsang I asked Thakur for his bless-
ing. His great dark eyes held me firmly in a warm embrace. He
spoke slowly and in English:

241

"Standing in the whirlpool of necessity

That seeks to serve the life of man today,

My prayer, my appeal to the Supreme Father, is

May you be blessed and make all blessed,

Ever stretching your steps toward eternal becoming.

This beggars naked plea is not for you alone
But for every single being in the world.
O, Father the Supreme!
May none in the world of man be deprived
Nor be the cause for others' deprivation.

I have answered to your quest
What I see, what I think, what I know
Is beneficial to our life and growth,
With every blazing outspoken reply,
As far as I conceive.

Do what you think good

For yourself, your family, and your country.

May you be anointed with bliss.

And always do remember:

Wherever good in all respects

Is invoked and imbibed

There, bliss blazed with God resides

With a soothing shower of smile."

242

Set in Linotype Caledonia

Format by Howard Burg

Manufactured by American Book-Stratford Press

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York

This book is a gift to the library by
Dr. Pasupuleti Gopala Krishnayya,

President, Krishnayya' s News
Service and Publications, New York

City, as part of a collection of

American books given in memory of

His Beloved Twin Brothers

Rama (Medical Student) &

Bala Krishnayya, (Engineer)