Anshu’s aloofness merely heightened the ardour of her admirers. They showered presents on her in the hope of ingratiating themselves. But that did not work either, and soon her indifference began to turn them off.

Rumours spread in the town, that she was no courtesan but a mere performing doll; that she was more like a marionette who went through the motions of ritual dances before the image of a god than a real dancer; that her alluring smiles and bewitching glances were mere formal gestures of art and carried no genuine feeling for anyone. She had nothing inside her and, therefore, she could give out anything. She was devoid of that warmth which is the essential quality of a desirable woman. She was only a jointed puppet whose strings were pulled by Ratnaprabha.

Such comments would reach the ears of Devi Ratnaprabha, and she herself would observe the behaviour that led to the rumours. She would worry about Anshu’s depression and become anxious about her future. Neither could she say anything directly to Anshu for fear of hurting her feelings, nor could she remain silent.

She even called in Prithvi, the well-known tantrik, to exercise his skills to find out what was ailing Anshu, but to no effect. Hesitantly, she broached the subject with Anshu one day. ‘Death comes to us all, one day or the other,’ she said. ‘Why go on this way, with a half-dead, half-alive existence? Is it proper to ignore the wishes of those from whom we receive the means of subsistence? People come to us to forget their sorrows. If we too offer them sadness and dejection, then what can they expect from us? Art without purpose is like a beautifully coloured artificial fruit, which can give no real satisfaction. Why offend the feelings of those who offer their love in the hope of receiving the same in return? Love is nothing but regard given active expression. You wanted once to become a courtesan in order to be a free woman. You must have faith in and respect for your vocation. It’s a duty one owes to one’s profession …’ There was so much more that Ratnaprabha wanted to say but she could find no words for it.

Anshu joined her hands and said in the subdued tones of a supplicant, her eyes brimming with tears, ‘Mistress, you have purchased this body of mine. My mind is not under my control. You have shown me nothing but the greatest kindness. I wish to submit my mind also to your bidding. I am most grateful.’

Seeing that her advice, however well-meaning, had troubled Anshu, Ratnaprabha did not return to the subject. Had Marish been there, she thought, he would probably have brought Anshu around with his arguments and lifted her out of her despondency. She would have listened to him with attention, and very likely, changed her outlook. Ratnaprabha often thought about Marish, but now she felt she needed him as an adviser.

Marish was in the habit of arriving unexpectedly, like some bird landing for a rest on its migratory flight. When he wearied of Sagal, he would proceed to Magadh by way of Shursen; spurned in Magadh he would again return to Shursen; and when Shursen palled on him, he would again set out for Sagal.