In the first few moments at the station in Ahmedabad, Dicky had himself felt unwashed and unwholesome, as no man ever made him feel before. His hand went up to his chin. Yes, he had shaved that morning, but realizing it did not help much. It wasn’t the grime of travel that hurt him, but the smear of his recent mental and emotional overturning, the ugliness of all those days in the red room at Bombay, and the sense of failure and loss he lived with constantly since the coming of the letter from Pidge.
“... And the Little Man is actually here in Ahmedabad, and not a myth?” Dicky had asked, as they drew out of the crowd at the station.
“Not only that, but you are to go to the Ashrama now, if you will. He is eager to have you come.”
“His house first?” Dicky asked.
“It is also the house in which I live,” said Nagar.
“You mean you wish to put me up in your quarters?”
“If you would not mind our great simplicity.”
“Thanks, I should like that,” said Dicky, “but I think it would be better for me to follow the usual course of a foreigner and find hotel quarters.”
The Entresden was not crowded and Dicky obtained comfortable quarters in a northeast room where the upholstering was covered in clean tan linen, and the punkahs showed signs of life immediately upon their entrance. Nagar prepared to leave as soon as Dicky sat down in the air crossing between two shaded windows.
“I will come for you this afternoon if you wish to go to the Ashrama to-day,” he said. “It is some distance from the center of the city.”