tripping along with a soft, clinging garment following her movements.
While I am living here the Padma, for me, is a real live person, so you must not mind my talking about her at some length, nor run away with the idea that all this news about her is not worth putting into a letter. These, in fact, are the only personal paragraphs I am in a position to communicate from here.
What a difference of outlook comes upon one in the course of the day that separates this place from Calcutta. What, there, seems only sentimental or rhapsodical is so true here. . . .
I really cannot dance any more before the foot lights of the stage called the Calcutta public. I want to go on with my life's work in the clear daylight of this seclusion and leisure. There is no chance of recovering any peace of mind till one is back behind the scenes and has washed off one's paint. There is so much that is not pure gold, but only useless tinsel, in this editing of the Sadhanā magazine, this philanthropic activity, this bustle and worry of Calcutta life.
If only I could go on with my work, in the fullness of joy, under this open sky, this spreading peace, then something worth doing might get done.
