downstairs kitchen.

"Mukunda, enough of meditation! You are needed for an errand."

Another day I might have replied impatiently; now I wiped
my tear-swollen face and meekly obeyed the summons. Together Habu
and I set out for a distant market place in the Bengali section of
Benares. The ungentle Indian sun was not yet at zenith as we made
our purchases in the bazaars. We pushed our way through the colorful
medley of housewives, guides, priests, simply-clad widows, dignified
Brahmins, and the ubiquitous holy bulls. Passing an inconspicuous
lane, I turned my head and surveyed the narrow length.

A Christlike man in the ocher robes of a swami stood motionless at
the end of the road. Instantly and anciently familiar he seemed;
my gaze fed hungrily for a trice. Then doubt assailed me.

"You are confusing this wandering monk with someone known to you,"
I thought. "Dreamer, walk on."

After ten minutes, I felt heavy numbness in my feet. As though
turned to stone, they were unable to carry me farther. Laboriously
I turned around; my feet regained normalcy. I faced the opposite
direction; again the curious weight oppressed me.

"The saint is magnetically drawing me to him!" With this thought,
I heaped my parcels into the arms of Habu. He had been observing
my erratic footwork with amazement, and now burst into laughter.

"What ails you? Are you crazy?"