Beauty ＆ Pure 22

When I let my eyes rest on the sun-baked scenery or the country folk sheltering under the wayside trees I 
saw only the face of the Maharshi looming up before me. Nothing else registered. 
I was terribly scared that the Maharshi would look in my eyes and see into me. I cursed myself for a fool for coming to this desolate place, with its heat and discomfort. I don’t know what prevented me turning back; perhaps I was afraid to show Osborne what a coward I was.

The nearer we approached the Ashram the more I shrank from meeting the Maharshi. 

It was nearly dusk when we arrived and he had 
already retired, but Osborne went in to see him 
and asked whether he would see me for a few 
moments. 

I entered the hall and saw an elderly man reclining on a couch, who gave the impression of great reserve and a certain shyness. It was not the severe Master or the Guru with the burning eyes that I had expected. Osborne explained who I was, and his replies were, monosyllabic and sometimes in Tamil. With a slow movement of the head he turned to me and held my eyes for a moment. 

His eyes were like empty, bottomless pools and at the same time they worked like magic mirrors, because suddenly I felt at peace as though I had come home after a long journey.