The
Tibetan yogi, I was assured, had attained the age of over a thousand
years.
"His disciple Gandha Baba does not always perform his perfume-feats
in the simple verbal manner you have just witnessed." The student
spoke with obvious pride in his master. "His procedure differs
widely, to accord with diversity in temperaments. He is marvelous!
Many members of the Calcutta intelligentsia are among his followers."
I inwardly resolved not to add myself to their number. A guru too
literally "marvelous" was not to my liking. With polite thanks to
Gandha Baba, I departed. Sauntering home, I reflected on the three
varied encounters the day had brought forth.
My sister Uma met me as I entered our Gurpar Road door.
"You are getting quite stylish, using perfumes!"
Without a word, I motioned her to smell my hand.
"What an attractive rose fragrance! It is unusually strong!"
Thinking it was "strongly unusual," I silently placed the astrally
scented blossom under her nostrils.
"Oh, I love jasmine!" She seized the flower. A ludicrous bafflement
passed over her face as she repeatedly sniffed the odor of jasmine
from a type of flower she well knew to be scentless. Her reactions
disarmed my suspicion that Gandha Baba had induced an auto-suggestive
state whereby I alone could detect the fragrances.
Later I heard from a friend, Alakananda, that the "Perfume Saint"
had a power which I wish were possessed by the starving millions
of Asia and, today, of Europe as well.
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