Was there already conflict in my mind between the turbulent and elemental forces of nature, over which I could have no control, and my own emotions? There was turmoil within me. I knew I was attracted to that young man swimming out to sea. I would come to this particular place to see him every day. But I knew I should not submit to the temptations of the flesh. The white horse stepped onto the shore; was it not meant for me to ride that white horse? Could I not ask the young man to accompany me? But then, the garland of white jasmines, like a marriage garland, was flung round the neck of Christ and the sensual flesh was stilled by this gesture. The young man had turned away from me. He had rejected the flesh. He had made his choice. I had seen him as Eros. I knew then that the temptation and allure of the flesh was something I would have to relinquish for the moment. What then was I to do? Soon afterwards a message reached me. I was summoned to Germany to work among young Germans, to rehabilitate them. I was to prepare to go first to the University of Heidelberg for a course in German. That was a sign for me. For the moment I must forget the young man and the white horse. Where would I meet them again? At what stage of my life?

Prayers, Dreams and Visions

I remember the mystical dreams of my childhood. I was then five years old. I was lying on the white sands of my village in the North when suddenly the goddess Saraswathi appeared, a towering figure descending from the skies. Wide-eyed I watched her as she floated down in my direction. In her hands she bore silvery shafts of rain which glittered as they caught the light. She alighted on my chest but I did not feel her weight. I felt tiny spears of moisture grazing my skin. I ran inside the house to tell my grandfather. He would interpret this strange dream-vision for me.

‘Why didn’t you open your mouth?’ he said. ‘You should have allowed her to spit into it and imbue your utterance with mystical powers, inspire you to write poetry. Remember that woman poet into whose mouth the goddess spat? Ever afterwards every word she uttered was poetry.’