Bearing this sorrow within, thus spoke the king of ascetics. Hearing this, Muktanandji grew exceedingly anxious,
seeing such renunciation, austerity, freedom from attachment, and detachment in him, and, recognizing his utter freedom from worldly desire, feared he might indeed depart.
"I must find some means by which the king of ascetics may be persuaded to stay." Then, with sweet words, Muktanand spoke:
"The appointed time of Vaishakh Sud (the bright half of Vaishakh) will not prove false, Lord; stay until then, I beg you, with folded hands."
"We tell you this, having considered your own body: your form has grown weak through austerity, and the city is far away.
There lies a salt-water inlet of the sea that blocks the way to Bhuj; there is no direct footpath to go there - this is why we say this to you.
Stay now for a while; I shall send a letter, and when its reply comes, we shall all act as Swami directs.
Without his permission, we should not go - so it seems to us." Then Hari said at that moment, "Very well, write the letter to Swami."
Then Muktanandji Maharaj sat down to write the letter:
"Salutations - in the city of Bhuj, dwells Swami Ramanand, the giver of happiness, friend of the humble, purifier of the fallen, beloved in the hearts of devotees,
sacred and pure, mature and powerful, who dispels the anguish of those who take refuge in him. Treasury of grace, abode of compassion, purifier of the fallen, whose purpose is ever complete,
ocean of mercy, compassionate at heart, protector of your own people, master of the helpless, deliverer of the lowly - to you I offer salutation.
You are complete in all the virtues that bring salvation. All the siddhis (perfections) that are spoken of serve at your feet;
pure devotees, in the millions and tens of millions, bow to you with folded hands. By your own will, you have taken human form, Lord, though you are beyond us all.
Such are you, the bringer of happiness to your people; Lord, please read my petition. This letter is written from Loj; by your grace, all here are well.
Please write me news of your own well-being, my very life's support. Now hear, Swami, the other reason for which I write.
A sage has come here from the Kosal region; let me tell you now about him. Every vein in his body is visible, exposed openly.
His renunciation and detachment are extreme; he seems the very embodiment of austerity himself. His name is Nilkanth; he is as detached as Shiva himself,
like a raincloud, the very abode of happiness for all - beholding him, the pride of millions of Kamadevs would be humbled. Wearing the guise of an ascetic, his gaze unblinking,
he remains always established in the state of Brahman. Of generous mind and steady, unwavering nature, he keeps nothing with him at all.
Having passed through his youth, he has come here, wandering through the sacred places. His face is lovely, and upon his head are fine, light-brown, beautiful locks of hair.
He speaks clearly and plainly, and even the scent of a woman causes him distress. He holds no pride or envy, and remembers nothing but the Lord.
He wears worn bark-cloth and a deerskin, and holds a tulsi rosary in his hand. He remains ever engaged in simple, straightforward practice, and teaches the discipline proper to sages.
He holds the attitude of a guru toward us, though his attention remains fixed elsewhere (in meditation). He eats food without relish, and even that only every second or third day;
sometimes only fruit and flowers, sometimes only air and water. Sometimes he accepts unsought food when it comes, and sometimes even lets that go untouched.
Sometimes he eats nothing but chilies and myrobalan alone, salty, sour, pungent, and bitter - all tastes and no taste are the same to him.
He has no fixed time for eating, and remains utterly free of bodily desire. Whatever practices he undertakes, no ordinary embodied being could accomplish them.
Summer, the rainy season, autumn, early winter, deep winter, and spring - in all six seasons, dwelling in the forest is dear to his very mind.
He regards living in a mansion or dwelling as though it were a prison. In summer he sits near a fire; in the rainy season he endures the pouring rain;
in winter he sits in water - his body has withered from this. Where is the play of childhood, and where is the attainment of the state of the perfected (siddhas)?
Seeing such perfection even in his youth, we ourselves felt doubt about it all. In the radiance of his austerity, our own austerity seems eclipsed,
like a lamp before the sun - such is our renunciation compared to his. His account is exactly as I say; he knows the whole art of yoga.
Yet he remains as our disciple, though his practices are boundless. No one can quite fathom him; he seems to have reached the very limit of the scriptures.
He asks even a small question, and the learned are left bewildered by it. In assemblies of debate and counter-debate, he speaks strictly within the bounds of scripture,
so that all the scholars' arguments come to a halt, and their pride does not remain. When someone asks him a question, he resolves it in many ways.
Then doubt arises in the mind: could this be the Lord God himself who has come? When we sit in meditation, wherever our mind wanders,
he beholds it as a witness, with perfect justice (i.e., he sees exactly where our minds go). The arrows of others' harsh words, he endures as though made of thunderbolt (unmoved),
yet, being of such forbearance and great wisdom, he is exceedingly pained by the suffering of others. His gentleness cannot be described by any comparison one could give -
the mustard flower, butter, and the lotus - I think even these have received but a fraction of the gentleness he has. Whatever is called true sadhu-nature, I believe it all resides in him.
Except for you, I have never heard of such virtues elsewhere - I say this truthfully. Beholding his conduct, I believe you have come to test our own steadfastness.
And he himself longs exceedingly for your darshan, Maharaj. We have kept him here, restraining him; if you say so, he shall come there to you.
I have written and conveyed the matter here; as you are pleased, send word back. I have written according to my own understanding; know all of it, wise one.
If there is anything written too little or too much, forgive the fault. Read this with grace, Lord, and have a reply written back as is fitting.
We await it; when the reply comes, our anxiety shall be relieved. Again and again I make this petition, Maharaj, on behalf of this ascetic.
Whatever pleases you shall come to pass; the wisdom of all others shall then give way. Though written briefly, hold it in high regard, Lord; keep your grace upon me."
Thus wrote Muktanand, and all the sadhus read and heard it. The sages said, "Blessed are you, Maharaj; you have written an excellent letter today.
Reading it, the merciful one shall come quickly; the Lord shall take care of us." Then Muktanand spoke thus: "Listen, Nilkanth, chief among sages.
We have written a letter to Swami; you too should write something, I say to you." Hearing Muktanand's words, the ascetic reflected in his mind:
"What shall I write and tell Swami? It is not fitting to tell the all-knowing what he already knows. He knows the very account of one's mind; to everyone he is as clear as the amla in one's palm.
Nothing at all is unknown to him; he knows everything, inside and out. To act cleverly before him would be improper - consider this well in your mind.
I have no such intention myself; I write only because you tell me to." Saying this, he sat apart in solitude, eager to write the letter.
He took a reed pen and paper in hand, placing a writing board upon his knee. He took the pen in his right hand, wishing to write his letter,
and, having first reflected carefully, began to write his auspicious message.
Thus in the Bhaktachintamani, composed by Nishkulanand Muni, disciple of Shri Sahajanand Swami, the establisher of the exclusive path of devotion, ends the forty-first chapter, named "Muktanand Swami Writes a Letter."