By asking him to retire, Anshu robbed him of his sleep and rest as much as she lost her own. She had ridiculed his expression of love for her. That gave her the satisfaction of having taken revenge against barbarous men, but hardly had she reached her room, when she was filled with a sense of remorse: Why should I have behaved in that way? Why did I rake up the memory of the beggar woman with her child? Was this the reward for his love and respect for me, for a person who had extended his hand of sympathy, to help and to offer shelter?

At the mere idea of a place in someone’s sheltering arms, Anshu felt a delightful lassitude. To sink into accepting arms capable of giving protection—therein lay the fulfilment of a woman’s life. And the desire for it reawakened in Anshu’s heart the desire to be free from the self-imposed torture of indifference and aversion to the joys of life. ‘Why was I so hostile to him?’ she asked herself. Unable to overcome her sense of remorse, Anshu felt like crying. There was fulfilment for her in acceptance of the sympathy and love in Marish’s heart. In his desire for her lay the possibility of her achievement as a woman. She could provide refuge as well as receive it. ‘Ah, but on a night like this …’ she remembered.

Anshu felt that her body was covered with perspiration. Before her closed eyes appeared the tender Prithusen, the solemn Rudradhir, the matal Vrik, and the scholar Marish, all advancing towards her with outstretched arms, and she thought with disgust, ‘I am a woman, and therefore an object of enjoyment for men. Therein lies my only attraction—an object of enjoyment!’ She tossed about in bed for a long time, persuading herself that she would never again be trapped into the snare, even to seek shelter.

But her thoughts did not cede. ‘Why should I have an aversion for worldly things? Like Devi Ratnaprabha and Mallika, I too should dedicate myself to the service of art and make that the aim of my life. Instead of thinking of protection and pleasing a man, I should become self-reliant. There is nothing to regret. Whatever happened to me was what had to happen.’

Anshumala did not stir out of her room for the next two days, pleading sickness. Ratnaprabha knew that the girl was upset and had been suffering in silence. She went and sat by her bedside for a while. Putting her hand on Anshu’s head, Ratnaprabha thought, ‘It may be that the grief concealed in her heart has found an outlet now. Perhaps, she will be able to breathe more freely once the load of sorrow is lifted from her mind.’

The usually loquacious Marish, too, had become quiet and moody.

Some days later, torrential rains again made the road to Ratnaprabha’s palace impassable. Profiting from this enforced leisure, Ratnaprabha sat on a mattress in the veranda, reclining against a cushion. Feeling a need for company, she sent for Anshu and Marish. They sat together for a while, drinking wine, when the conversation drifted to the Lokayata philosophy of materialism. Ratnaprabha asked Marish, ‘If death is the ultimate end of life, and if there is no hope of another birth in this or in the next world, then how can one feel enthusiastic about the present? This life, then, can only be regarded as an accidental occurrence, without cause and without effect, which may or may not occur as a real event.’