Perhaps it was at this time that I began to write my poems. Poems of birds, of the elements, of the spiritual life. The golden heron stood over me, the silvery fish. I was the carp. His bony beak snapped and jerked to trap me. Even the white-plumaged stork. They were all predators. Lines, phrases from my poetry flashed through my mind. I saw myself as the fish with its instinctual beauty, the carp with ‘its lovely eyes and head.’ Somewhere I had translated the woman image into that of a fish—merging with the natural world and yet so vulnerable. The predator always ready to snap the wriggling trout with his cloven beak. I was always the fish, caught in those avid beaks, my tender flesh jabbed at, wounded. How strong those beaks were. How could I escape being trapped? In Christ alone I would find the heart of the gentle dove. Peace. Tranquillity. But then the cyclone would engulf me. Storm images would stampede through my mind:

‘Whirlwind. The wild rampage. The gale. Rain. Trees torn. Leaves scattered in a violent rage.’

My imagination was inundated with poetry. The turmoil of my passions would start up time and time again.

It was that mystical vision of the goddess which gave me the idea that poetry would leap from my lips. I was thirsty for those pure shafts of rain which she held in her hands and which moistened my parched tongue. My grandfather encouraged me. He too had gone in search of the mystical experience. He had suddenly left his family and disappeared for years and years. He had wandered everywhere. A pilgrim? A swami? When he returned after his years of wandering his appearance had altered. His hair was long. He was dressed in the robes of a sadhu. He had come back to his family. Perhaps now he was at peace with himself. He had lived in the foothills of the Himalayas. The mountains were peaceful, he said, with their silent snows. Your thoughts could reach into pure space like those mountain peaks. Always allow good vibrations to emanate from you, he would say. The good within you will never attract evil forces. One night he had found himself in a wild and lonely place. He slept beneath a tree. When he woke up he found a cobra coiled under his hand. It had not harmed him. He was filled with pure feelings. There was no hatred or animosity towards any living creature after that. He taught me all the mystic sayings of the Vedanta. Every morning I would recite those holy stanzas. I was overwhelmed. My prayers were being answered. I too had spiritual powers now. I prayed for a woman who had not been able to carry a child. She conceived and gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. The parents named her ‘Sweetness.’ My prayers had been answered.