"Mother," I said in Bengali, "for over twenty-five years I have
thought eagerly of this very pilgrimage! I heard about your sacred
life from Sthiti Lal Nundy Babu."
She nodded in acknowledgment. "Yes, my good neighbor in Nawabganj."
"During those years I have crossed the oceans, but I never forgot
my early plan to someday see you. The sublime drama that you are
here playing so inconspicuously should be blazoned before a world
that has long forgotten the inner food divine."
The saint lifted her eyes for a minute, smiling with serene interest.
"Baba (honored father) knows best," she answered meekly.
I was happy that she had taken no offense; one never knows how
great yogis or yoginis will react to the thought of publicity. They
shun it, as a rule, wishing to pursue in silence the profound soul
research. An inner sanction comes to them when the proper time
arrives to display their lives openly for the benefit of seeking
minds.
"Mother," I went on, "please forgive me, then, for burdening you
with many questions. Kindly answer only those that please you; I
shall understand your silence, also."
She spread her hands in a gracious gesture. "I am glad to reply,
insofar as an insignificant person like myself can give satisfactory
answers."
"Oh, no, not insignificant!" I protested sincerely. "You are a
great soul."
"I am the humble servant of all." She added quaintly, "I love to
cook and feed people.
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