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Gora’s mind was then steeped in an exalted feeling — he was not seeing Sucharita as a particular individual; he was seeing her as an embodiment of a truth. The feminine nature of India was made manifest before him in the form of Sucharita. She had appeared for the purpose of rendering India’s homes sweet and sacred through purity, beauty, and love. She was the Lakshmi who nurtures India’s children, tends the sick, consoles the afflicted, and bestows upon even the most insignificant the dignity of love’s recognition; she who has not forsaken or despised even our most wretched in times of suffering and ruin; she who, though herself worthy of our worship, has steadfastly worshipped even the most unworthy among us; she whose two skilled and beautiful hands are pledged to our service, and whose eternally patient and forgiving love we have received as an imperishable gift from God — it was a manifestation of this very Lakshmi that Gora beheld seated beside his mother in the flesh, and he was filled with a deep and abiding joy. It seemed to him: we have never truly looked upon this Lakshmi, we have always thrust her to the furthest behind — and there is no greater sign of our ruin than this. To Gora it then appeared that she was the country itself — enthroned upon a lotus in the innermost heart of all India, in the sanctuary of its very life, and we are her servants. In the suffering of the land it is she who is dishonoured, and it is because we remain indifferent to that dishonour that our manhood stands shamed today.

Gora was astonished at himself. He had not known, until now, how incomplete his comprehension of India had been during all those years when the women of India remained beyond the reach of his experience. When woman had been so utterly shadowy a presence to Gora, there had been something wanting in his sense of duty towards his country — as though there was strength, but no life breathed into it; as though there were muscles, but no nerves. In one moment Gora understood that the more we have distanced and diminished our knowledge of women, the more our own manhood has withered and died.

And so when Gora said to Sucharita “you have come,” it did not issue from his lips as a mere customary form of greeting — within that salutation was contained a joy and a wonder newly come into his life.

Some traces of his imprisonment remained upon Gora’s body. He had grown considerably thinner than before. Having felt neither respect nor appetite for the prison’s food, he had eaten almost nothing throughout that month. His bright and fair complexion had also grown somewhat more wan. His hair, having been cropped very close, made the leanness of his face all the more apparent.

It was precisely this emaciation of Gora’s body that stirred in Sucharita’s heart a particularly poignant reverence. She felt an impulse to prostrate herself and take the dust of Gora’s feet. He appeared to her like a pure and brilliant flame from which the smoke and charred wood of ordinary combustion had entirely vanished. A wave of devotion mingled with compassion trembled within Sucharita’s breast, and no words came to her lips.

Anandamayee said, “It is only now that I understand, Gora, what happiness a daughter of my own would have given me! In those days you were away, the solace that Sucharita gave me — how can I begin to describe it! We had no acquaintance with her family before this. But in times of sorrow, one comes to know many great and beautiful things in this world — I have understood this time that sorrow too has its dignity. We suffer because we do not always know in how many places God has hidden our consolation. My dear, you are embarrassed — but how can I help speaking before you of how much happiness you gave me in my difficult days!”

Gora looked at Sucharita’s abashed face with a glance full of deep gratitude, then said to Anandamayee, “Mother, she came in your day of sorrow to share your grief, and today in your day of joy she has come again to increase your happiness — it is those with generous hearts who bestow such disinterested friendship.”

Binoy, seeing Sucharita’s discomfiture, said, “Didi, a thief, once caught, is punished from all sides. Today you have been caught out before everyone here, and you are suffering the consequences. Where will you run now? I have known you for a long time, but I have disclosed nothing to anyone — I have sat quietly — knowing in my heart that nothing stays hidden for long.”

Anandamayee laughed and said, “You sit quietly, do you! You, of all people! Since the day she has known you, she has not tired of singing your praises.”

Binoy said, “Take note, Didi! Here is proof that I am a man who appreciates merit and that I am not ungrateful.”

Sucharita said, “That speaks only of your own virtue.”

Binoy said, “Evidence of my virtues, however, you will not find from me. Should you wish for such evidence, you must come to Mother — you will be astounded. Even I am astonished when I hear what she says about me. If Mother were to write my biography, I would gladly consent to die early in order to make it possible.”

Anandamayee said, “Just listen to what this boy says!”

Gora said, “Binoy, your parents named you well.”

Binoy said, “I imagine they expected no other virtue from me, and so invoked the virtue of humility as the sole quality they could depend upon — otherwise I should have been made a laughing-stock in the world.”

In this manner the awkwardness of the initial meeting passed away.

At the time of taking leave, Sucharita said to Binoy, “Will you not come to our part of the city one day?”

Sucharita invited Binoy; she could not bring herself to invite Gora. Gora did not quite grasp her true meaning, but something within him felt a pang. That Binoy could so easily make himself at home among people, while Gora could not — this was something for which Gora had never before felt the least regret. Today, for the first time, he felt this deficiency in his own nature as a deficiency.