‘No, Dara, you seem to be quite well versed in the art of dancing. There is no doubt about that.’ Ratnaprabha suddenly recalled Dara’s words on the day of their fateful first meeting. ‘Didn’t you say that day on the river, that you knew dancing, that you would like to become a dancer?’

Upon Ratnaprabha’s insistence, Dara had to push aside her embarrassment. She shyly made her way to the dance floor. As the veena and the mridang started playing, her reluctance slowly disappeared and she began to move to the rhythm. From her very first steps, Rohit, the aged instrumentalist, sensed her abilities. He varied the tempo; now brisk, now slow. Dara followed his lead with smooth and graceful footwork, as she gave herself up to the music. Feeling the rhythm flow through her body, she performed the most intricate footwork flawlessly and with such spirit that old Rohit found it difficult to keep up with her. His forehead was covered with drops of perspiration. The spectators watched the performance spellbound.

Devi Ratnaprabha, with her finger on her chin, sat transfixed.

Dara finished the dance, then came and stood before her mistress and bowed to her. Ratnaprabha rose from her seat, and taking the jewelled necklace from her own neck, put it around Dara’s and then swept her into her arms. ‘Nowhere else, except in Sagal, Magadh and in Taxila, is such artistic perfection to be seen,’ she said. ‘My friend, such a level of art is not attained without the dedicated counsel of a teacher and the blessings of the Goddess Saraswati. You have something of the style of Devi Mallika, my own teacher, in you. Tell me, truly, where and how did you get this priceless training?’

Bowing her head in humility, Dara replied in a voice tremulous with gratitude, ‘I am also beholden to that very lady, the favoured devotee of Saraswati.’

Ratnaprabha had already been kindly disposed towards Dara. Now, discovering her great talent and her secret, she became deeply attached to her. She even gave Dara a new name: Anshumala.

With the change in her name, Divya’s world changed once more. Once again she began to glide, like a young swan, free-spirited on the current of gaiety and luxury, in a stream of music and dance. But no droplet from this torrent could penetrate the wall of sorrow that surrounded her.

The smiles and charm she radiated around her were in the nature of an obligation towards her art. As soon as she was away from the public, she would withdraw within herself and become indifferent to everything around her; just as a young swan shakes its wings to shed every drop of the water over which it has moved. The wall of agonizing memories that enclosed her mind was impenetrable. The loss of little Shakul overwhelmed her.

The connoisseurs of art waxed ecstatic over Anshumala’s charm, her amazing skill and grace as a dancer. After a performance, precious gifts would pile up before Ratnaprabha’s seat. Anshumala had no eyes for these tributes. Her conscience would eat into her thinking about the hungry innocent eyes of her baby son, Shakul. Her pain would translate itself into exquisite rendering of songs of sorrow, and the audience, not knowing the truth, experienced it as true and brilliant artistry. Such feelings as she could express in her dance performances had never been seen before.