I have gone far away from there; now it is so crowded here, so much jostling. I hardly get a chance to write. My life as a writer has lost its way, so I pick up whatever work comes before me. Just as I have had to endure criticism and insult, I have also received much honor and respect. Altogether, my life is not playing some discordant, jarring tune anymore.

In 1953, I left my children in Kolkata and went traveling in Europe with my husband. In all those fifteen long years before, Mircea had not once crossed my mind. Or rather, not in a way that was worth remembering. Perhaps sometimes I thought, if such an unpleasant incident had not happened, my life would have remained pure. I consoled myself—could the guilt of such a trivial childhood event still touch me today?

In Europe, I met Hiranyan. He was my father's student, now living abroad after marrying there. I saw him at a gathering and at first did not recognize him at all—he had become a complete sahib. Suddenly, he asked me, "Do you remember your Euclid?" I wondered what could be the meaning of such a strange question. Seeing me silent, he said himself, "He has dedicated a book to you."

"I’m glad to hear that. How many children do you have?" With that, the conversation ended. It left not the slightest mark on my mind. We were whirling through Europe like a spinning top. In Paris, we met a professor and his wife—his name was Nicolai Stanenku. Where or how we had met them, I can no longer recall—I only see a large drawing room, sparsely furnished. The professor and his wife had invited us for tea; they were exiles from their homeland. They were from Mircea’s country. Paris was filled with refugees from their land—they spoke of their humiliation. The sorrows of exile are many. I listened to tales of human suffering in war-crazed Europe. As I listened, I wondered what had become of Mircea. Should I ask? Then again, I thought, what does it matter to me, whether he lives or dies. Yet, I do not wish for his death; somewhere in my heart, I still hope that in this vast world, someday, somewhere, I will meet him again—and on that day, I will be able to ask him why he deceived me so.

Part of me still doubts this whole matter, and asks: was it really deception? What could he have done, when Father drove him away? Could that tormented face as he left have been a lie? But from the other, darker side of my mind, where distrust has taken root, the answer comes: these Europeans are cunning hunters, it is their way. Could not a letter have reached me somehow? If it had, I would have done whatever was necessary. Then another answer comes: if it was all a deception, why did he wander through mountains and forests, why endure such hardship?