He rose then in the gathering darkness and guided me to an inner
room. As we ate mangoes and almond sweetmeats, he unobtrusively
wove into his conversation an intimate knowledge of my nature. I
was awe-struck at the grandeur of his wisdom, exquisitely blended
with an innate humility.

"Do not grieve for your amulet. It has served its purpose." Like
a divine mirror, my guru apparently had caught a reflection of my
whole life.

"The living reality of your presence, Master, is joy beyond any
symbol."

"It is time for a change, inasmuch as you are unhappily situated
in the hermitage."

I had made no references to my life; they now seemed superfluous!
By his natural, unemphatic manner, I understood that he wished no
astonished ejaculations at his clairvoyance.

"You should go back to Calcutta. Why exclude relatives from your
love of humanity?"

His suggestion dismayed me. My family was predicting my return,
though I had been unresponsive to many pleas by letter. "Let the
young bird fly in the metaphysical skies," Ananta had remarked.
"His wings will tire in the heavy atmosphere. We shall yet see him
swoop toward home, fold his pinions, and humbly rest in our family
nest." This discouraging simile fresh in my mind, I was determined
to do no "swooping" in the direction of Calcutta.