Every year, in the month of Shravan, a Festival of Swings was celebrated in Vrindavan, a suburban district of Mathurapuri. Pleasure-loving men and women assembled there in large numbers from all corners of the land. The common people would go there for entertainment, while the connoisseurs of art would meet for argument and debate on aesthetics. There would be a rich variety of performances: displays of musical virtuosity in the well-tempered voices of experienced singers and the graceful performances of dance by troupes of young trainees. The best artist would be honoured by the audience, and honours would be conferred on the state to which the artist belonged—Magadh, Kuru, Madra, Malla, etc. But for the last three years in succession, ever since Anshu had appeared in Ratnaprabha’s troupe, the honour had been won by Mathurapuri. On account of the Festival of Swings, Anshumala’s fame had spread far and wide.

The festival took place during the rainy season. A large number of devotees of the performing arts flocked to Mathurapuri. Their arrival would cause a rush in Ratnaprabha’s concert hall, so much so that there would not be enough seats. Even a heavy downpour in the evening did not discourage people from attending her concerts. After the month of Shravan, rains continued far into Bhadrapad. Only during the worst of the monsoon rain showers, when the roads became impassable, did Ratnaprabha and Anshumala get some respite.

On one such evening, Ratnaprabha sat alone in the veranda of her house, musing over her life and the future of her friend, Anshu, when suddenly Marish appeared, escorted by a maidservant. Ratnaprabha’s eyes lit up with joy at the sight of her long-awaited friend. It also flashed through her mind, that, very likely, Marish would be able to dispel Anshu’s gloom.

It was raining heavily. Ratnaprabha and Marish sat on the veranda reclining against cushions. The pouring rain looked like a sheet of water before them. In Ratnaprabha’s concert hall, the tambourine and the kettledrum were silent. Across the sky, dark and heavy thunderclouds billowed with rumbling sounds that seemed to parody the silent tambourine and kettledrum. Caressed by a soft breeze, the trees appeared to wave their limbs in imitation of the resting dancers. Ratnaprabha asked the slave-girl, who stood waving the fan behind her, to call Anshu and to bring the wine tray.

At the mention of Anshumala’s name, Marish felt curious, ‘Devi, good luck has brought you a pupil who has spread your fame far and wide. I would certainly like to see her and also to have the pleasure of watching her performance.’

‘I called Anshu because I want you to meet her. But my friend, don’t be disappointed if you find her poor company. Off the stage, she spends all her time wrapped up in her own thoughts; dance and music for her are merely a means of earning a livelihood.’

Marish waited with eager curiosity.

Anshumala came, dressed in an expensive but casual white dress. She wore no ornaments, not even a flower. Sad and listless, she had little consciousness of her charm, only heightened by her careless dressing.