Marish, without raising his eyes, quietly accepted the wine and gulped it down like a bowl of medicine. He turned his eyes towards the curtain of driving rain, which seemed to fill the gap between heaven and earth.

‘Several years ago,’ Marish said, his eyes still turned away, ‘at the time of the death of the Chief Justice, I had occasion to hear some stray mention of you. It was said that the Chief Justice’s great-granddaughter had died of some serious ailment. There was suspicion of suicide … And I find you here, under a different name. Am I dreaming now, or was I dreaming then?’

Hearing something like a stifled sob, he turned to look at Anshu. Her face was covered by her stole. ‘This subject has pained you. I’ll say nothing more about it,’ Marish said sympathetically.

Struggling to control herself, Anshu said humbly, ‘Arya, separation from dear ones does cause pain. The grandsire was the only person I could turn to.’

‘Of course, separation causes great sorrow, but, lady, death is the law of life. The Chief Justice’s death caused much sorrow to the people of Sagal. For more than a hundred years he had been the pride of Sagal, the very soul and spirit of justice. His sacred memory will continue to be a source of pride. When the light of his life was extinguished, Sagal was plunged in gloom. But, gentle lady, such sorrow too falls to the lot of fortunate people, just as anxiety for the health of one’s children contains within itself the joy of being a father or mother.’ Marish and Anshu were silent for some time.

Ratnaprabha returned with the slave-girl, carrying a lamp. Finding Marish and Anshu sitting in silence in the dark, she tried to lighten the mood, and said jocularly, ‘Those gifted ones who can read each other’s thoughts without uttering a word, have no need to go on sitting in the dark at such a late hour.’

When neither of them gave any answer, Ratnaprabha touched Anshu on the shoulder and said, ‘Get up, my dear, it is already late. Arrangements have been made for the guest in the guest house. He must be tired after the long day’s journey.’

The memories of the past were like a nightmare to Anshu; bringing back so much horror and pain. And the future was a void. She did not think about the past any more, for there was hardly a time in it which did not move her to tears. She found herself unable to think of happiness. What was happiness? A rich family, a loving husband, beautiful children? She had had her chances for all of these and lost them, and in consequence found only pain. She remembered the words of the Buddhist monk, Cheebuk. He had been right when he said, ‘Joy and sorrow cling to each other. Pain comes only when one desires happiness. There is much more pain in the world than there is happiness. When the world is so full of sorrow, how can anyone escape it?’ Anshu had gone through so much that she had become indifferent to pain and happiness alike. By making herself insensitive to feeling and by accepting her situation with resignation, she had attained a certain peace of mind. Her physical activities were mechanical and devoid of any purpose. Her mind, no doubt, could respond, could think, but it stopped prompting her to act, to take an initiative, to strive or to construct. She had become fixed in the tendency to withdraw from life, a detached observer who could see only futility on all sides.