Through Amar's suggestion of a divine test, my heart steadied
itself. We refreshed ourselves with famous Burdwan sweetmeats,
SITABHOG (food for the goddess) and MOTICHUR (nuggets of sweet
pearl). In a few hours, we entrained for Hardwar, via Bareilly.
Changing trains at Moghul Serai, we discussed a vital matter as we
waited on the platform.

"Amar, we may soon be closely questioned by railroad officials.
I am not underrating my brother's ingenuity! No matter what the
outcome, I will not speak untruth."

"All I ask of you, Mukunda, is to keep still. Don't laugh or grin
while I am talking."

At this moment, a European station agent accosted me. He waved a
telegram whose import I immediately grasped.

"Are you running away from home in anger?"

"No!" I was glad his choice of words permitted me to make emphatic
reply. Not anger but "divinest melancholy" was responsible, I knew,
for my unconventional behavior.

The official then turned to Amar. The duel of wits that followed
hardly permitted me to maintain the counseled stoic gravity.

"Where is the third boy?" The man injected a full ring of authority
into his voice. "Come on; speak the truth!"

"Sir, I notice you are wearing eyeglasses. Can't you see that