A fortnight ago my beloved brought me a quaint book. Entitled Autobiography of a Yogi, it was written by Paramahansa Yogananda, one of the foremost early proponents of yoga in America. His photograph struck me as familiar at once, suggesting that I must have seen it before. Hardbound in fake leather, the smallish book boasts almost five-hundred pages. First published in 1946 by the Philosophical Library in New York, it was recently republished by the Wilco Publishing House in Mumbai. The year of the new publication is nowhere to be found, but the last year I discovered in a caption under a photographic plate is 2005. So, it must be at most two years old. My beloved said she was not sure about her acquisition, but she felt kind of sorry for the book, which she found in a crowded Zagreb bookstore. Unmistakably Indian, it looked forlorn on the shelf. According to the caption, the last photographic plate shows the author an hour before his death in 1952. Born as Mukunda Lal Ghosh to a comfortable Bengali family in 1892, he is smiling peacefully. But why am I going on and on about my beloved’s impromptu gift? Because it happened to arrive just in time to help me tidy up my life once again. Perhaps for the last time, too.