Chapter Thirty Three

Bhabananda went not to the monastery, but entered into the depths of a forest. In one part of that jungle were the ruins of an ancient mansion. Upon the broken bricks creepers and thorny shrubs had grown thick and dense. There numberless serpents made their dwelling. Among the ruined chambers there was one less broken and more clean than the rest; thither Bhabananda repaired and sat down upon it. Sitting thus, Bhabananda began to meditate.

The night was wrapped in heavy gloom. That forest withal was vast, utterly void of man, exceeding dense, its trees and creepers impenetrable, forbidding even to the going and coming of wild beasts. Wide, empty, dark, impenetrable, silent! And of sound—only afar the roar of the tiger, or the dreadful cry of some other beast in its hunger, its terror or its boasting; now and again the wing-beat of some great bird, now and again the swift rush of beasts pursuing and pursued, of slayer and of slain.

In that solitude, in that darkness, upon the ruined mansion, alone sat Bhabananda. For him at that hour it was as though there were no world at all, or as though all the world were made only of the matter of fear. At that moment Bhabananda, his hand upon his brow, was meditating—motionless, scarce breathing, untouched by fear, sunk in the deepest of thoughts. Within his heart he was saying, "What must come to pass shall surely come to pass. As a little elephant beside the waves of Bhagirathi, I have been swept away upon the current of the senses—this is my sorrow. In one moment may the body be destroyed—the destruction of the body is the destruction of the senses—and have I become the bondsman of those senses? Death is better for me. Apostate from righteousness? Fie! I will die!" Even at that moment an owl made a deep cry above his head.

Then Bhabananda began to speak with an open voice: "What sound was that? It seemed to fall upon mine ear that Yama calleth me. I know not who hath made the sound, who hath called me, who hath given me ordinance, who hath bidden me die! O blessed Eternal One! Thou art made of sound, but the meaning of thy voice I cannot fathom. Give my mind unto righteousness; turn me back from sin. In righteousness—O master, my guru!—let my mind ever abide!"

Then from the midst of that fearful forest there came a human voice, exceeding sweet yet grave, piercing to the very heart; some one said, "In righteousness shall thy mind abide—I give thee my blessing."

A shiver of awe ran through Bhabananda's frame. "What is this? This is the voice of the master! Maharaj, where art thou? At such an hour show thyself to thy servant!"

But none showed himself—none made reply. Bhabananda called again and again—he had no answer. He searched on this side and on that—nowhere was any one.

When in the brightening of the night the morning sun arose and shone back from the dark green mass of leaves upon the head of the great forest, then Bhabananda came back unto the monastery. Into his ear there entered—"Hare Murare! Hare Murare!" He knew it—it was Satyananda's voice. He understood that the Master had returned.