I had a vivid dream. I saw a road running through a narrow valley and along it came a baggage train – mules loaded with goods, and a number of fine horses being led and ridden. Some soldiers were guarding it and I recognized the livery of the official Chussan army – Chussan being the country to the south of Sasrar, where we lived. A band of young men appeared from behind some rocks, ambushed the soldiers and put them to flight. The grooms attending the horses also ran away, leaving the baggage train and most of the horses behind. One of the attackers had been killed and their leader, distraught, knelt by the body. This young man had beautiful vibrations, especially from his subtle heart centre. I knew my friends and I had to help him in some way.

I woke up, damp and cold from sleeping in a flimsy tent in the mountains, because we were spending a day or two at the southern end of Sasrar, high up in a small valley surrounded by snow covered peaks. Above us were some pine trees, and our tents were pitched up against the steep mountainside. Our ponies were tethered nearby, happily munching the short grass. This range spread along the north of Chussan and all the life giving rivers flowed from it onto the dry plains below.

I was now eighteen.