the very idea. Now I had ceased to laugh, What Satish was pursuing was fire indeed, no will-o’-the-wisp. When I realised how its heat was consuming him, the old arguments of Uncle Jagamohan’s school refused to pass my lips. Of what avail would it be to find, with Herbert Spencer, that the mystic sense might have originated in some ghostly superstition, or that its message could be reduced to some logical absurdity? Did we not see how Satish was burning,—his whole being aglow?
Satish was perhaps better off when his days were passing in one round of excitement,—singing, dancing, serving the Master,—the whole of his spiritual effort exhausting itself in the output of the moment. Since he has lapsed into outward quiet, his spirit refuses to be controlled any longer. There is now no question of seeking emotional satisfaction. The inward struggle for realisation is so tremendous within him, that we are afraid to look on his face.
i could remain silent no longer. ‘Satish,’ I suggested, ‘don’t you think it would be better to go to some guru who could show you the way and make your spiritual progress easier?’
This only served to annoy him. ‘Oh, do be
