‘Devi,’ Marish’s voice grew more excited, ‘is it reasonable and prudent to regard the experience of the palpable world, which all living beings are aware of, as illusory, and to regard the eternal spirit and the individual soul as realities, when they are only the product of some sage’s imagination? Instead of putting blind trust in another man’s word, you should rely upon your own experience and reason. This life alone is real. This world alone is real. Attain whatever you feel you have to, in the lifespan you have before you.’

Ratnaprabha looked at him with wide open eyes. ‘But, Arya,’ she said, doubtfully, ‘this body is transient, and the happiness obtained through it is also transient.’

Marish looked at her through his half-closed eyes, with an ironical smile on his lips. ‘Is the body transient? Devi, do you want immortality? Tell me, of all the things that you see around you, how many remain without change, in shape and form, taste and odour? What we call death is only change. Imagine a situation in which there is never any change in the world. Would such a world have any charm or attraction?’ He looked at her inquisitively.

‘You’re right, Arya,’ Ratnaprabha replied after some reflection. ‘A world without change would not be a happy place to live in.’

‘And man is surely immortal,’ said Marish. ‘His immortality lies in the continuity of the human race, which has gone on for thousands and thousands of years.’

Under Marish’s influence, Ratnaprabha ceased to be preoccupied with immortality and the other world, and began to think about the meaningfulness of the present. Even though she had acquired wealth, she did not consider her life to be meaningful, since she was merely a source of distraction and enjoyment for the community. The life of a high-born housewife held the ultimate attraction for her, but she felt that she had lost the chance of becoming one herself. Who would accept her as a wife? Into whose hands could she entrust herself? Her life, at best, stimulated the desire for life in others.

Even though she had all the gifts to earn a fortune as a courtesan, Anshumala was not vain. She was indifferent towards her own self, but for Ratnaprabha she felt a profound attachment and gratitude. From the very beginning, Ratnaprabha had displayed sympathy and affection for her. And on learning that she was the pupil of Mallika, her own teacher, and that the girl loved her and looked upon her as her saviour, she began to dote on her. Anshumala addressed her as ‘mistress’ while Ratnaprabha called her ‘sister’ or ‘friend’. Already in her forties, Ratnaprabha had come to regard Anshumala not as a rival who challenged her place and position, but rather as a worthy successor who would perpetuate her art and her tradition. Out of a sense of pride, admiration and love, she took to calling her not Anshumala but ‘Anshuprabha’, commingling both their names.

At the appearance of Anshumala in Ratnaprabha’s concert hall the pleasure lovers of Mathurapuri went into ecstasies over her. But Anshumala was not thrilled by such adulation; she remained as distant and unapproachable as before.