the door ajar. He could see us. At once came the call, in a deep voice: ‘Satish!’
Satish was back inside, all in a flurry.
‘Who is that?’ inquired the Swami.
‘Srivilas, a great friend of mine,’ Satish reported.
During these years I had managed to make a name for myself in our little world. A learned Englishman had remarked, on hearing one of my English speeches: ‘The man has a wonderful.’ But let that be. Why add to the number of my enemies? Suffice it to say that, from the students up to the students’ grandparents, the reputation had travelled round that I was a rampaging atheist who could bestride the English language and race her over the hurdles at breakneck speed in the most marvellous manner.
I somehow felt that the Swami was pleased to have me here. He sent for me. I merely hinted at the usual salutation as I entered his room,—that is to say, my joined hands were uplifted, but my head was not lowered.
This did not escape the Swami. ‘Here, Satish!’ he ordered. ‘Fill me that pipe of mine.’
Satish set to work. But as he lit the tinder,
