“I see everything in His light.” “How?” “For example, as I see you now.” He was happy that day—“Will you read Whitman with me this evening?” “Oh no, I can never understand such dry writing. I’d rather read Shelley—‘The Sensitive Plant’!” I go and lie down. There is so much to do tomorrow—there’s a meeting in the afternoon. What is the use of remembering things from forty-two years ago! Where is that Mircea now, and where is that Amrita? Even if we met, perhaps we would not recognize each other at all!

Day after day passes by. I cannot keep myself anchored in my present. Again and again, sometimes by day, sometimes by night, I find myself returning to our house in Bhabanipur, in the year 1930.

I do not remember which month it was, the day Mircea Euclid first came to our house—that is, the day I first truly noticed him. My father was a learned man; just six years before, he had been teaching at a small-town college in East Bengal, and then he had come to Calcutta. In this short span, he had already reached the pinnacle of respect in Calcutta’s intellectual circles. Everyone knew him. He was a scholar, and a typical scholar at that. For this reason, many people were afraid of him; his scholarship had an aggressive edge. He could defeat anyone in debate in a short time and make them appear foolish, and he took great pleasure in this game. Yet, despite this, his power of attraction was remarkable. Even those he insulted could not stay away from him. His students were ready to make many sacrifices for him; he loved them too, but his love was not like that of ordinary people. There was no empathy for the other in it. His love was for himself—as he loved me, loved me deeply, but it was as much for himself as for me—look, see what a priceless jewel my daughter is, how beautiful she is, how wonderfully she writes poetry, how well she speaks English—she is my daughter, look, all of you! My father was absorbed in me. But I knew that if I moved even a little against his wishes, he would not hesitate to crush me. What would make me happy was irrelevant to him.

My mother was the complete opposite: my mother was supremely beautiful. In those days, her beauty was almost miraculous, heavenly. My father was very proud of it, but my mother herself was completely unaware—she never took care with her appearance, had no concern for her own comfort, desires, or dislikes. Her only purpose was to make my father happy. And my father kept her fully occupied in that task—especially when he was even slightly ill, he would create such a commotion that my mother lived in constant fear that something dreadful might happen to her husband. My mother loved to read Vaishnava literature, and she would often quote two lines: “The desire to please oneself is