‘Then, the dancer is grateful to you for your charitable attitude.’

‘No, Devi, I am saying this out of love for you,’ Marish replied.

Anshu felt the rush of blood through her veins. The almost full moon of the month of Bhadrapad was playing hide-and-seek in the sky dotted with clouds. In the absence of any human sound, crickets and beetles filled the moist air with their incessant buzz. To Anshu’s ears, however, more piercing than these sounds were the words uttered by Marish. They rang in her ears till they deprived her of any ability to react.

In the wake of her great popularity, Anshu had been pestered by many a lover pleading his suit. She had politely warded all of them off, without paying much attention. Those confessions of love were directed towards the favourite performer of Mathurapuri, the dancer Anshumala. But it was to Divya, not Anshu, that Marish had addressed his words. It was difficult to ignore them, but to respond to them was even more difficult.

Under the moon disporting itself among the clouds, sat Anshu with her head bowed, surrounded by the murmuring plants and trees that were being gently tickled by the wind, and the chirping and buzzing of the rain-happy insects, terrified by Marish’s declaration. In her imagination, she saw Marish coming towards her with outstretched arms, advancing towards her, as once, on a night as bewitching as this, Prithusen had advanced towards her … Anshu shuddered all over as she recalled that terrible night. Its memory brought a bitter taste to her mouth. Her womanly coyness, meant to excite and invite an impetuous lover, turned into a feeling of revenge. Her mind swiftly cleared of its numbness. With it vanished the meekness in her voice.

She said with a derisive smile, ‘The dancer–courtesan Anshumala is ready to entertain any pleasure seeker. Arya, what can I do for you?’

Marish ignored the sarcasm. ‘I am a petitioner, lady, not for any flirtation with the dancer–courtesan, but for the meaningful love of a woman.’

‘But that woman is dead, Arya.’ Looking into Marish’s eyes, just as the moon, emerging from behind a cloud flooded the earth with its bright light, Anshumala said sharply, ‘Does the Arya remember an evening three years ago, at the close of a hot summer day, when the Arya rebuked a beggar woman, with a child in her arms, who was ready to become a prostitute? The Arya said to her then, “Your shelter lies in the cold waters of the Yamuna river.” That very evening, the woman did throw herself into the river, but it cast her out, and she emerged from the water a dancer and a courtesan. What satisfaction will it afford you, Arya, to love that same woman now, when the Arya had such contempt for the would-be prostitute then? The dancer–courtesan Anshumala is none other than Divya, the woman who died that evening.’

Marish stared hard at Anshu, his eyes wide open in amazement, as the light of the moon once again grew dim. For some time Marish sat thus, breathless and unmoving. When he stirred and heaved a sigh, Anshu said humbly, with downcast eyes, ‘It is already late in the night. It would be better if the Arya retired for rest.’