from a bliss, and not a pain, past bearing.

"Think you that your devotion did not touch the Infinite Mercy?
The Motherhood of God, that you have worshiped in forms both human
and divine, could never fail to answer your forsaken cry."

Who was this simple saint, whose least request to the Universal Spirit
met with sweet acquiescence? His role in the world was humble, as
befitted the greatest man of humility I ever knew. In this Amherst
Street house, Master Mahasaya {FN9-1} conducted a small high school
for boys. No words of chastisement passed his lips; no rule and
ferule maintained his discipline. Higher mathematics indeed were
taught in these modest classrooms, and a chemistry of love absent
from the textbooks. He spread his wisdom by spiritual contagion
rather than impermeable precept. Consumed by an unsophisticated
passion for the Divine Mother, the saint no more demanded the
outward forms of respect than a child.

"I am not your guru; he shall come a little later," he told me.
"Through his guidance, your experiences of the Divine in terms of
love and devotion shall be translated into his terms of fathomless
wisdom."

Every late afternoon, I betook myself to Amherst Street. I
sought Master Mahasaya's divine cup, so full that its drops daily
overflowed on my being. Never before had I bowed in utter reverence;
now I felt it an immeasurable privilege even to tread the same
ground which Master Mahasaya sanctified.

"Sir, please wear this champak garland I have fashioned especially