1994-1208 Short Prose by Rosalyn Anne Tildesley, Yamunanagar

I remember one day in India, in a rural place, in the foothills of the Himalaya's, along the side of the River Yamuna.

We worshipped in great pendals covered in enormous cotton sheets.
We all sat, more than six hundred.
The Indian cotton fabric keeping the sun from beating down upon on our heads.

I saw the Paramchaitanya creep in through a gap, in the corner of one of the cotton sides.

She came in and gently blew all the large heads of the hundreds of flowers, just as a spring breeze blows across the Mother Earth.