“Y OU IGNORE your textbook assignments in philosophy. No doubt you are depending on an unlaborious ‘intuition’ to get you through the examinations. But unless you apply yourself in a more scholarly manner, I shall see to it that you don’t pass this course.”

Professor D. C. Ghoshal of Serampore College was addressing me sternly. If I failed to pass his final written classroom test, I would be ineligible to take the conclusive examinations. These are formulated by the faculty of Calcutta University, which numbers Serampore College among its affiliated branches. A student in Indian universities who is unsuccessful in one subject in the A.B. finals must be examined anew in all his subjects the following year.

My instructors at Serampore College usually treated me with kindness, not untinged by an amused tolerance. “Mukunda is a bit over-drunk with religion.” Thus summing me up, they tactfully spared me the embarrassment of answering classroom questions; they trusted the final written tests to eliminate me from the list of A.B. candidates. The judgment passed by my fellow students was expressed in their nickname for me-“Mad Monk.”

I took an ingenious step to nullify Professor Ghoshal’s threat to me of failure in philosophy. When the results of the final tests were about to be publicly announced, I asked a classmate to accompany me to the professor’s study.

“Come along; I want a witness,” I told my companion. “I shall be very much disappointed if I have not succeeded in outwitting the instructor.”

Professor Ghoshal shook his head after I had inquired what rating he had given my paper.

“You are not among those who have passed,” he said in triumph. He hunted through a large pile on his desk. “Your paper isn’t here at all; you have failed, in any case, through non-appearance at the examination.”

I chuckled. “Sir, I was there. May I look through the stack myself?”

The professor, nonplused, gave his permission; I quickly found my paper, where I had carefully omitted any identification mark except my roll call number. Unwarned by the “red flag” of my name, the instructor had given a high rating to my answers even though they were unembellished by textbook quotations.

Seeing through my trick, he now thundered, “Sheer brazen luck!” He added hopefully, “You are sure to fail in the A.B. finals.”

For the tests in my other subjects, I received some coaching, particularly from my dear friend and cousin, Prabhas Chandra Ghose, son of my Uncle Sarada. I staggered painfully but successfully—with the lowest possible passing marks—through all my final tests.

Now, after four years of college, I was eligible to sit for the A.B. examinations. Nevertheless, I hardly expected to avail myself of the privilege. The Serampore College finals were child’s play compared to the stiff ones which would be set by Calcutta University for the A.B. degree. My almost daily visits to Sri Yukteswar had left me little time to enter the college halls. There it was my presence rather than