Bona knows that I have kept my promise—now it is his turn to keep his. Receiving a letter from Ma, my excitement grew even more. Ma writes, “We went to see Chandalika. After the dance ended, when we went to pay our respects to the Poet, he said—‘Amrita can no longer see any of this—where have you sent her, Sudha?’” Ma also wrote, “I feel that when he sees us, his heart aches for you.”

Receiving this letter, I wrote to him again, asking him to come. I usually do not write to him often, because I know he cannot help but reply, and amidst all his work, among a thousand gatherings with a thousand people, why should I add to his burdens? But now I write, I write such letters that he feels I am utterly awash in a tide of joy.

From the moment his visit is decided until he actually arrives, the two or three months in between are like waves swelling in that tide. Among the few Bengali families scattered on these hills and the nearby ones, everyone is astonished. Now, many relatives wish to come and stay at my house, but I do not want a crowd at this time.

We are redecorating the house once again—polishing, scrubbing, tending to the flower beds, mowing the lawn, painting the pots, changing the curtains—I have arranged everything—‘I have prepared the golden temple with a lotus seat’—my solitude’s languor has vanished somewhere, the waterfall that used to torment me with its incessant splashing has changed its tune, now it murmurs gently, and the cicadas that used to drill into my head day and night with their shrill, relentless chorus have suddenly become a melodious symphony! The wind that used to sigh through the silver fir leaves, bringing the forest’s long breath, now plays like a golden harp—‘Come, come into my heart, O beloved of my soul.’

From 1938 to 1940, these three years are like light-years—or years of darkness—in my life. I am not writing here about that time—only marking the flow of my inner life. I have understood the relativity of time in many ways during these three years—when he comes, or leaves and comes again, there is no break in this time—it is a seamless period, or, in the midst of my lifelong yearning, an immortal cup held steady, giving my insignificant life immense value.

He enjoys this domesticity. I rise in the last hours of night to prepare—when he sits facing east at dawn for an hour and a half, I sit by his chair—thus my day begins, and ends when I tuck him into bed, cover him with a sheet, and fix the mosquito net. His presence in the house is like an unending royal sacrifice—though this place is so secluded, suddenly at ten or eleven in the morning, a carload of people will arrive, having found their way here—there is no way to send word in advance, for there is no telephone here.