The old saint of Kalsi had somebody looking after him: a boy called Chando, a milkman's son, who took the cows out and back, and gave the old man his bath, and brought him his milk.
Chando was not clever, and could not read. He had lost his own mother not long before. He loved that old man the way a puppy loves somebody.
Sometimes in the night the old man would start up and say, Ah, there he comes. And then it would be nothing, and he would sink back.
Listen, child, the old man had told him. One day a prophet will come to this country. When you hear he has come, you go and fall at his feet and you give him a message from me. Say this: one longing sadhu who lived on the bank of the Yamuna, wanting to see your face, has died.
And he told Chando how to know him. His arms hang all the way to his knees. He is tall and slim. His beard is new. And they call him Guru Ji.
One day Chando came in and found the old man's hands and feet had gone cold, right up to the elbows and the knees.
Chando screamed.
The old man opened his eyes and said, in a voice with hardly anything left in it: Ah. He has come.
Chando ran outside. Behind him the voice came again. Ah, he has come. And the rocks along the river threw the words back, so that the whole valley seemed to be saying it.
So Chando ran. Across the west bank of the Yamuna, into the forest, looking everywhere, and there was nothing but water banging on stones.
Then he saw people. Horses tied to trees, somebody watering them, somebody cooking, men sitting about.
A guard saw him and said, Get away from here.
Nobody had ever spoken to Chando like that. He backed off a little, but he would not go, and stood with his eyes fixed.
And he began to be miserable, thinking of the old man dying alone. My mother asked for a light at the end, he thought. He might ask for a light too. Why did I come away?
Then five riders came up from the southwest, four behind and one in front.
Chando's legs started shaking.
The first rider came near, went past, got down, and sat on a cushion the others put out. Chando followed and stood staring at his arms, trying to measure them with his eyes.
He could not tell. The man was sitting.
Oh, when will he stand up, thought Chando.
The rider got up and began washing his hands, and Chando stood like a statue, mouth open, heels off the ground, eyes forgetting to blink. Hands washed. Face washed. A towel brought. Face wiped.
And still the arms had not hung down straight.
Then they did.
And they reached his knees.
Ah! shouted Chando. He has come! And he jumped in the air and clapped.
Then he forgot everything. The guard. His fear. He went straight up to Guru Gobind Singh Ji, knelt, took hold of his right hand, pulled it down against his knee to check, let go, pulled it down and checked again, and said: It is all right. Yes. It is all right.
Then he looked up into his face.
Aren't you? he said. Aren't you the All? Aren't you the All, the All? Aren't you the Almighty? Aren't you Guru Ji Almighty?
Yes. You are. You tell me. Go on, you tell me.
And Guru Gobind Singh Ji stood with his head a little bent and his hand loose in the boy's hands, letting himself be pulled about and measured, his eyes full of love and his face open like a flower.
Then Chando's face fell, and he remembered why he had come.
Please take the message, he said. From the saint of Kalsi. He knew you. He was longing to see your face.
And Chando shut his eyes to get the words exactly right, and said them the way he had been taught: one yearning sadhu who lived on the bank of the river Yamuna, wanting to see you, has died.
Guru Ji went with him.
And the old man, who had worshipped a statue for eighty years waiting for it to look at him, opened his eyes and got his look at last, and said: Thanks, O Lord.