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ences that I had with them. I remember even in those early days of going into deep meditation and trancelike states, like a rock, when I watched the animals at the pond and waited for the yogis to appear and then disappear. It was all very exciting although I did not really understand what I was doing or experiencing. But the feelings from those talks with my grandfather, who was so loving and kind toward me, and watching and meditating near the waterhole, remained clear and fresh in my memory.
Many years later when I was 34 years old, I happened to be in the vicinity where I saw the monk who was carrying the small wooden bucket and who had mysteriously disappeared; and I decided to go to the same place again. I walked to the mountain where I and my three boyhood friends drank milk from the goat, in the hope that I would get some insight into who the monk was and why he appeared to me in the first place. On the mountain, I found the cave where my friends went to sleep and then I walked to a clearing where I first saw the monk and just as before, a man dressed in white cotton clothing, wearing sandals and a cloth hat appeared, carrying a small wooden bucket. I called to him but he did not answer. And as I hurried to catch up to him, he walked faster with his back to me. When I reached a large boulder behind which he had disappeared seconds before me, he was nowhere to be found. The
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