picked up in an idle moment.

"The writer's exception shows his complete lack of faith," I thought.
"Poor chap, he has great respect for the midnight oil!"

My promise to Father had been that I would complete my high school
studies. I cannot pretend to diligence. The passing months found me
less frequently in the classroom than in secluded spots along the
Calcutta bathing GHATS. The adjoining crematory grounds, especially
gruesome at night, are considered highly attractive by the yogi.
He who would find the Deathless Essence must not be dismayed by a
few unadorned skulls. Human inadequacy becomes clear in the gloomy
abode of miscellaneous bones. My midnight vigils were thus of a
different nature from the scholar's.

The week of final examinations at the Hindu High School was fast
approaching. This interrogatory period, like the sepulchral haunts,
inspires a well-known terror. My mind was nevertheless at peace.
Braving the ghouls, I was exhuming a knowledge not found in lecture
halls. But it lacked the art of Swami Pranabananda, who easily
appeared in two places at one time. My educational dilemma was
plainly a matter for the Infinite Ingenuity. This was my reasoning,
though to many it seems illogic. The devotee's irrationality springs
from a thousand inexplicable demonstrations of God's instancy in
trouble.

"Hello, Mukunda! I catch hardly a glimpse of you these days!" A
classmate accosted me one afternoon on Gurpar Road.

"Hello, Nantu! My invisibility at school has actually placed me