demands on me was the easiest way of making me amends. Some kinds of trees are all the better for being pruned: that was the kind of person I seemed to be where Damini was concerned.
Well, the books I ordered were unmitigatedly modern. The author was distinctly less influenced by Manu[1] than by Man himself. The packet was delivered by the postman to the Swami. He raised his eyebrows, as he opened it, and asked: ‘Hullo, Srivilas, what are these for?’
I remained silent.
The Master gingerly turned over some of the pages, as he remarked for my benefit that he had never thought much of the author, having failed to find in his writings the correct spiritual flavour.
‘If you read them carefully, sir, I suddenly blurted out, ‘you will find his writings not to be lacking in the flavour of Truth.’ The fact is, rebellion had been long brewing within me. I was feeling done to death with mystic emotion. I was nauseated with shedding tears over abstract human feelings, to the neglect of living human creatures.
The Master blinked at me curiously before he replied: ‘Very well, my son, carefully read them I will.’ He tucked the books away under the bolster
- ↑ The Hindu law-giver.
