At this moment my brother entered the room, dressed in fine ivory-colored silk, He had a look in his eyes that was not of this world. But my mind was after another thing. I asked the Blessed One, 'What did the Air-Eater teach you, my Lord?'

'O thou soul of vulgar probing, dost thou not know what I learned from him I can utter only through my living? If the fragrance of my living does not call the soul to suck the honey of eternal bliss, then - but I will tell thee one thing more,' he conceded. "I will tell thee of the last visit I made to him, some time after he had entered his mountain cavern.

'I reached the spot in April. All the hills were dry, every scrap of the earth was parched, almost cracked with the dry heat. When I reached the cavemouth at midday, I was fainting with thirst. I saw him come out, a man old, ah, old as this city of Benares. His hair was like threads of white silk, his eyes were sunken like large lamps in a misty cave. He gave me a drink of water out of a black shell. I drank on and on it seemed that I could never have enough. I had no desire to look at anything. Finally, when I had drained the last long drop, I raised my eyes to see my master; but lo, I beheld only but for a moment his back at the cavernmouth. Then he was gone!

'I knew what it meant I had lost him! I said to myself, "The thirst of thy body took precedence of thy soul's thirstiness." But there was no time to rebuke myself somehow I must attain that man! So I sat down to meditate. I meditated about five hours. Yet no answer from the Air-Eater. Darkness was shutting down upon me. The young bears were linking their

voices together in the upper woods and shook the echoes in all directions. The stars came out and questioned me. Again I plunged myself into meditation and not before the first faint preening of the wings of dawn did I emerge therefrom. Then I felt a cool something resting on my hand. I looked carefully it was the chin of a fawn, dripping with dew. I looked beyond a pair of small ruby eyes glowed near by. As if they caught my glance and took the hint, they disappeared. The fawn, breathed more easily, and raised its chin; I gently stroked its nose and forehead with my hand. Turning my gaze from the deep brotherhood that danced in its eyes, I looked at the stars; they were close and quivered questioningly like the beckoning finger of a man it is a terror-rousing sight: do not let the stars question you!

'Suddenly they stopped those heartbreaking signs and fled. The small Himalayan sparrow set the theme of dawn with two notes. After a pause of several moments he repeated them half a dozen times, then stopped. Like a long call of a flute rose a silver light in the east. Again the bird answered. Again came the flutings of silver light in the east. The fawn, now standing near me almost whistled a cry. That was the signal — now began the cymbal crash of gold all over the sky: color upon color, bird note upon bird note, forest upon forest tore the vestments of night into ribands and shreds of silver, gold, purple, and green. Then like the groaning of drums the bellow of the bison came. It startled me. I looked around and the fawn, scenting fear from my movement, fled; while, like the cool cry from a happy heart, came the chant of the holy man from his cave:

'I am the founder of all life;

I am the many branched emerald tree of Heaven; I am the sanctities, higher than the highest hills,

The jewel of immortality,

The secret in the sun,

And the song of gold in the dross of life.'

"The sky was by now two wings of glowing sapphire, on which flew the sun, the Eagle of Gold.

'I spent nearly three weeks waiting for the holy Air-Eater to come out of his cave. I never saw him. At last one day in deep meditation the secret flashed through my mind.'

Here the Holy One paused. A great light shone in his eyes. The whole room was filled with glory; the man before us was no more a man, but a song not from some other voice but aching in our own throats. Yes, that was the secret: perfect identity of each one of us with all. Alas, hardly had that glorious light broken out when again it vanished.

"Then,' he continued slowly, all the radiance gone from his eyes, "Then I said to myself, "He will not teach me with words; from now on my instructions must come through Silence": and I rose to leave, for I had accomplished my purpose. After I started down the hill I could not help looking back over my shoulder. Behold, he was standing there at the cave-mouth, smiling a tender, inscrutable smile. I said to myself over and over again, "Yes, I know, my instructions will come to me through silence now."

'I never saw the Air-Eater again. The next time I went to his cave, I stopped at the village first and they told me what I suspected: the AirEater had passed onward.'

At this moment the arrival of the doctor, Saravdikari, interrupted the Holy One's discourse. That he had a carbuncle we all knew, but none had been told that the Master was to be operated on that day. The young ladies and their father left the room and I noticed that they bowed very low before the Presence, and with the

ends of their napkins took the dust from his feet. Is there any sight more noble than men and women bending reverently before what they cherish as the highest? In this gesture man attains the acme of his art.

Before the three had left the room two more monks entered with large fans embossed with red and blue semiprecious stones. With these they began to fan the Master.

The doctor, who looked exactly like a bronze Sophocles, began to arrange his weapons on a large sheet of leather which he had spread on the floor. This Sophocles was sombre as well as brown and had very little sense of humor; he laid out his goods with all the unction of a priest poking among his sacred vessels and bells. I whispered to my brother that there must be the manuscripts of tragedy in this man's pocket. He whispered back, 'It is likely he has enough bills there to visit tragedies on many a patient. He is our most prominent surgeon; sometimes they nickname him "the butcher."'

I looked at the Holy One; he had, in the meanwhile closed his eyes like one withdrawing himself into the deeps of his own thought.

The doctor turned to him. 'I must give you an anæsthetic,' he said.

The Master opened his eyes and added gently, 'I don't think that is necessary. One of the disciples will assist you while to the others I shall talk philosophy; that will be my anæsthetic.'

'But you will suffer pain. You may bungle my work,' retorted Sophocles.

'Oh no, doctor; I will not spoil the skill of your instruments of torture. Do begin!'

So they began. Sophocles deftly cut into the carbuncle while the Master described in a quiet even voice the need of Bhakti, Raja, Juana, and Karma Yoga to us. He went on and on with

his ideas as the doctor worked with his scalpel. Yet the Blessed One's tone did not change, nor was there a mark of pain visible anywhere in his face. Once in a while I felt the running and trickling of blood down his back as he paused between sentences, but even that feeling in me was brushed aside by the words coming from his lips.

At last it was over. The wound was completely bandaged. Now the doctor turned to the Master and asked with a smile, 'Did you feel any pain?'

'Why should I, doctor?'

'I felt the temperature not quite normal on that side of your back. Are you sure you felt no pain?'

'How could I? I was absent from that part of the Universe where you were working. I was present in this part where I discussed philosophy.'

Suddenly the doctor glanced at us and remarked, 'When this man dies one of the most astonishing specimens of Hindu religious culture will go with him.'

He bent low, and as the others before him, took the dust from the feet of the Master, then stood up to go. He enjoined his patient to take absolute and perfect rest, then helped the disciple to put the place in order.

I was unable to contain myself any longer. I said to the Blessed One, 'You who are so holy, why do you not heal yourself?'

Here the doctor interposed, but the Holy One said, 'I am able to answer the child.'

'Very well,' said Sophocles. 'I shall wait till you finish answering. Then I will put you to bed.'

'Doctors and Death are absolute,' exclaimed the Holy One. "The reason, my son, why I do not heal myself is that the will here,' he pointed at his heart, 'turned into ashes long ago. I gave my will to the Will of the Universe. Now I spend my time willing the happiness of all. If in the happi

ness of all I incidentally am to be healed, then my friend the doctor is the incident. If not, why should I call my will back from the embrace of the Infinite to do here a little repairing upon myself? No, my son, I would rather not be Holy than stoop to take back a gift to my Beloved!' He turned to the doctor. 'Come, dear friend, you have been very patient with me; put me to bed!' At this, everyone save the doctor and the two monks with fans left the room.

IV

The quest of my brother's face is nothing new. It is the old, the age-old search for the happiness that comes in a flash, but abides with us till death, and which perhaps continues beyond that final event of Life.

Who is our brother? Is he the man we find, or the man we look for? The sages of the Upanishad have answered that our brother is He who wears that One Face dwelling in the thousand faces of all life.

That Face I have never seen, but as time passes, and as the shadow of age falls across my path, I feel more often in my brother's face that Absoluteness of truth as well as of love, though only for the length of time that a mustard seed may sit steady upon the horn of a Shiva bull.

I was thinking of these things a few days later, as I was sitting alone on the porch of the temple. My brother had gone on a short tour of inspection connected with his medical work. Suddenly I saw my sister coming toward me holding a telegram. At first I thought it was from him, but when she handed it to me, I saw that it was from Benares, from the Holy One. It said only one word: 'Come.'

It was not too cryptic to hide from me the final command. Had my brother heard also, I wondered? I

must make ready and go at once. The whole world depended on my reaching Benares without delay.

It was hard to say good-bye to my sister, because she asked for nothing. She said, 'Live long. Abide in serenity wherever thou art. I shall fast until thy journey's end, and that will purify our hearts and may give thee what thou dost desire. Only the hearts that are pure can attain what they need. Farewell, farewell!'

-

Farewell the bugle had been sounded; I must hasten to action.

I took a last look at our temple, a glimpse at Shree Krishna's face. 'Yes, as long as he sits there, the world will go on,' I said to myself. 'If this religion dies, wherever that Krishna statue goes, a new temple will be built to enshrine him. Gods live long and compel the tribute of time. Farewell, farewell!'

I crossed the bridge and drove for the railway station that looks like a palace of crimson.

Next morning I got off at Benares and went immediately to bathe in the Ganges. It did not take long, but the ablution in the holy water was a necessary preliminary to visiting the Holy One.

I found my brother at the entrance to the monastery. After I had taken the dust from his feet, he led me within. The master was lying on his couch, and two monks in yellow were fanning him. Sunlight poured into the room through the open windows. His face was white as a dying man's generally is, and a black beard, of about fifteen days' growth, covered it. His eyes were closed, and his forehead once in a great while contracted momentarily, then grew smooth again with the passing of a paroxysm of pain; but the power was still about him like a garment. He began to speak as if resuming an old familiar conversation.

'My son,' he said, almost in a whisper, 'as to the eye of the sky, the clouds and stars are in it, and yet contain not all of its intangibility. So are the experiences of man.' Then suddenly, in a stronger voice, he commanded me,

'Return to the West! Thy time for peace has not come. Thou wilt commit some errors yet. Only be pure in spirit

- vanity is the worst impurity — and through thy errors thou wilt learn.'

He paused, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, they were clear and keen. He said to me,

'India needs love. The West has given her criticism these many years, therefore give the West love, till she learn to love this land of the Sages. I am quite clear in what I am saying; love her; and she will fulfill her destiny. The West still believes that knowledge will give her God: we think that God can be found by Bliss alone. A decade of intense loving will enable her to accomplish a century of God-realization.'

'But Holy One,' I cried, 'I am most pained and bewildered. What of conversion? Shall I go to the West as a missionary of Brahman? Is ours a missionary religion?'

"Thou of thyself canst convert no one, my son,' he replied, 'for thou art not holy. When a saint converts a man to his eternity the saint takes the burden of the man's sins upon himself. Therefore I say to thee thou mayest not convert, but speak thou of God to any one who has time to waste.'

'Holy One,' I exclaimed in amazed awakening, 'then vicarious atonement is true?'

'Indeed, my son, only saints may convert others, for when you convert a man you yourself become responsible for him. People should not be converted from one religion to another, but from all religions into the Eternal Religion whose name is Viswarupadarsana

- which is to behold one's Own Self as the self of the past, the present, and the future of the Universe.

"That last conversion, that supreme realization — the realization of one's own identity with the existing Allis the goal to which little human conversions point. Desire then to convert the human into the divine, the temporal into the timeless, to convert all men not to one religion, but to the essence of all religions! Go, my son, and ask each man to realize that he himself is God.

'Make thy mistakes like a king, my son, but love with all thy heart. Love - love.' His voice became fainter. 'Go hence now, and look upon thy brother's face!'

He closed his eyes and spoke no

more.

We bowed and touched our foreheads to the floor and walked noiselessly out of the Presence.

V

For three days I did not see the Master again. My heart was heavy. In India when a man dies we say he is about to start upon the great journey

literally he makes the supreme change of habitation. 'I relinquish my hut to enter my palace,' say the dying. But must I, after knowing the splendor of his presence, remain behind in the darkened and empty hut to wait - for how long? I am not able in words to convey the experience of this man. Sick and fragile as he was, the power of his presence charged the very air we breathed until it lived like an organism to bleed at a touch. How many times I had entered his room to find him, "The Lion,' sitting straight on his bed and the people crouched about him on the floor like mice, bowed before his silent power. Once I had been so overcome that seeking where to hide my

face, I had buried it in his shoes which were cool, like stone.

It was the daybreak of my third day in Benares that the Master asked for everyone to be present. Since a hundred people could not be accommodated in his room, we brought him outdoors. He wished to be placed under that mango tree where he had meditated for so many years. A group of disciples and friends surrounded him.

In the open he seemed better, his unshaven face did not look so white. He lifted his eyes and gazed at us slowly; not the least one of us all was hastily passed over. Each one received his message, so far as he could interpret the great glance cast upon him. Then the Holy One spoke:

"The call has come, my children. I must go. No lamentation! I have taken you upon my back; I shall not drop you into the ditch on my way Home; you shall be in His House with me! To be afraid is vile, therefore fear not! Even the ultimate sin cannot touch the fearless.

'Whatever I took from my master, I in turn pass on to you. I leave behind me for you all that he taught. I take nothing with me. All knowledge, all benediction, I lay here at my feet for you; spring from it into the Infinite!'

He ceased, and we saw that he was in great pain.