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But not every encounter with him, I quickly learned, was a party. One morning Atmananda emerged from his cottage in Stony Brook carrying a thick stack of posters. Bluejays, doves, sparrows, and chickadees flocked around a feeder. Sal, Paul, my brother, and I stood nearby. Atmananda approached, but the little birds remained. "Ellaow," he said in a Cockney accent. "Ellaow," we echoed.
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