There is a story told in the East of two fakirs who had spent years in seclusion studying yoga, having learned extraordinary feats of physical and mental control and mastery of their minds and bodies.  Standing on the banks of the Ganges they fell into one another's company, and in the course of their conversation one of them happened to imply that he had developed the ability to do more miraculous things than most, probably including his companion.

The other fakir, a bit older and perhaps a bit wiser, rebuked him gently, wondering whether he might not be carried away by a moment's boastfulness.  But his newfound friend bristled with pride and volunteered to demonstrate what he could do.

The older man agreed to this.  "Go ahead," he said.

The younger proceeded, "See the man across the river?  I will make appear on a piece of paper in the his hand the name of a friend whom he has long forgotten."

The older man smiled, "Is that really the sort of thing you do?  That's nothing."

The younger fakir replied, now with some heat, "Oh, really!  That's nothing?  Well, please tell me, what sort of miraculous feats do you accomplish?

The first fakir looked at him calmly and his eyes twinkled, "I eat when I'm hungry and drink when I'm thirsty."