Misra again accompanied me. My
youngest brother Bishnu was waiting to greet me at the dock.
"I know Ananta has departed this life," I said to Bishnu, before he
had had time to speak. "Please tell me, and the doctor here, when
Ananta died."
Bishnu named the date, which was the very day that I had bought
the souvenirs in Shanghai.
"Look here!" Dr. Misra ejaculated. "Don't let any word of this
get around! The professors will be adding a year's study of mental
telepathy to the medical course, which is already long enough!"
Father embraced me warmly as I entered our Gurpar Road home. "You
have come," he said tenderly. Two large tears dropped from his
eyes. Ordinarily undemonstrative, he had never before shown me
these signs of affection. Outwardly the grave father, inwardly he
possessed the melting heart of a mother. In all his dealings with
the family, his dual parental role was distinctly manifest.
Soon after Ananta's passing, my younger sister Nalini was brought
back from death's door by a divine healing. Before relating the
story, I will refer to a few phases of her earlier life.
The childhood relationship between Nalini and myself had not been
of the happiest nature. I was very thin; she was thinner still.
Through an unconscious motive or "complex" which psychiatrists will
have no difficulty in identifying, I often used to tease my sister
about her cadaverous appearance. Her retorts were equally permeated
with the callous frankness of extreme youth.
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