“Sir, is it necessary to prove God? Isn’t He performing miracles in everything, everywhere?” “Yes, but we too should manifest some of His infinite creative variety.” “How long did it take to master your art?” “Twelve years.” “For manufacturing scents by astral means! It seems, my honored saint, you have been wasting a dozen years for fragrances which you can obtain with a few rupees from a florist’s shop.” “Perfumes fade with flowers.” “Perfumes fade with death. Why should I desire that which pleases the body only?” “Mr. Philosopher, you please my mind. Now, stretch forth your right hand.” He made a gesture of blessing. I was a few feet away from Gandha Baba; no one else was near enough to contact my body. I extended my hand, which the yogi did not touch. “What perfume do you want?” “Rose.” “Be it so.” To my great surprise, the charming fragrance of rose was wafted strongly from the center of my palm. I smilingly took a large white scentless flower from a near-by vase. “Can this odorless blossom be permeated with jasmine?” “Be it so.” A jasmine fragrance instantly shot from the petals. I thanked the wonder-worker and seated myself by one of his students. He informed me that Gandha Baba, whose proper name was Vishudhananda, had learned many astonishing yoga secrets from a master in Tibet. The Tibetan yogi, I was assured, had attained the age of over a thousand years. “His disciple Gandha Baba does not always perform his perfume-feats in the simple verbal manner you have just witnessed.” The student spoke with obvious pride in his master. “His procedure differs widely, to accord with diversity in temperaments. He is marvelous! Many members of the Calcutta intelligentsia are among his followers.” I inwardly resolved not to add myself to their number. A guru too literally “marvelous” was not to my liking. With polite thanks to Gandha Baba, I departed. Sauntering home, I reflected on the three varied encounters the day had brought forth. My sister Uma met me as I entered our Gurpar Road door. “You are getting quite stylish, using perfumes!” Without a word, I motioned her to smell my hand. “What an attractive rose fragrance! It is unusually strong!” Thinking it was “strongly unusual,” I silently placed the astrally scented blossom under her nostrils. “Oh, I love jasmine!” She seized the flower. A ludicrous bafflement passed over her face as she repeatedly sniffed the odor of jasmine from a type of flower she well knew to be scentless. Her reactions disarmed my suspicion that Gandha Baba had induced an auto-suggestive state whereby I alone could detect the fragrances. Later I heard from a friend, Alakananda, that the “Perfume Saint” had a power which I wish were possessed by the starving millions of Asia and, today, of Europe as well.