"Dick, halt!" My sudden request brought a jolting protest from the
Ford. "That overburdened mango tree is fairly shouting an invitation!"
The five of us dashed like children to the mango-strewn earth; the
tree had benevolently shed its fruits as they had ripened.
"Full many a mango is born to lie unseen," I paraphrased, "and
waste its sweetness on the stony ground."
"Nothing like this in America, Swamiji, eh?" laughed Sailesh
Mazumdar, one of my Bengali students.
"No," I admitted, covered with mango juice and contentment. "How
I have missed this fruit in the West! A Hindu's heaven without
mangoes is inconceivable!"
I picked up a rock and downed a proud beauty hidden on the highest
limb.
"Dick," I asked between bites of ambrosia, warm with the tropical
sun, "are all the cameras in the car?"
"Yes, sir; in the baggage compartment."
"If Giri Bala proves to be a true saint, I want to write about her
in the West. A Hindu YOGINI with such inspiring powers should not
live and die unknown-like most of these mangoes."
Half an hour later I was still strolling in the sylvan peace.
"Sir," Mr. Wright remarked, "we should reach Giri Bala before the
sun sets, to have enough light for photographs." He added with a
grin, "The Westerners are a skeptical lot; we can't expect them to
believe in the lady without any pictures!"
This bit of wisdom was indisputable; I turned my back on temptation
and reentered the car.
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