One afternoon, when Damini was engaged in practising horticulture in sundry cracked pots on the roof-terrace, Satish came up and asked her point-blank: ‘Why is it you have given up coming over there altogether?’
‘Over where?’
‘To the Master.’
‘Why, what need have you people of me?’
We have no need,—but surely the need is yours.’
‘No, no!’ flung out Damini. ‘Not at all, not at all!’
Taken aback by her heat, Satish gazed at her in silence. Then he mused aloud: ‘Your mind lacks peace. If you would gain peace’
‘Peace from you,—you who are consumed day and night with your excitement,—where have you the peace to give? Leave me alone, I beg and pray you. I was at peace. I would be at peace.’
‘You see but the waves on the surface. If you have the patience to dive deep, you will find all calm there.’
Damini wrung her hands as she cried: ‘I beseech you, for the Lord's sake, don’t insist on my diving downwards. If only you will give up all hope of my conversion, I may yet live.’
