‘So where does a woman’s fulfilment exist in this state of dependence?’ Anshu asked vehemently. ‘In man’s enjoyment and use of her? Just as a bowl is useful to drink from when a man is thirsty? Arya, a woman is independent only as long as she can do without a man’s protection. A prostitute is the only independent woman for that very reason.’ Her breathing quickened and she turned her eyes towards Marish who was still looking at the clouds.

‘How does the freedom of a courtesan–dancer give her fulfilment?’ Marish asked in a calm, serious voice. ‘What does she obtain through her freedom? What has Devi Ratnaprabha gained? If a respectable housewife is an object of some man’s enjoyment, then a prostitute, a courtesan–dancer, is an instrument for the satisfaction of the entire community. She feeds the desires in the community and in return receives only money, which is nothing but a means of acquiring material satisfaction. What else, besides this? A prostitute is only a medium for rousing desire, but her own desire in consequence remains unfulfilled. Her art is useful insofar as it serves as a means of satisfying the desire of others, but what does she gain herself? She is the fuel in the sacrificial fire of desire. She herself is deprived of the benefits of self-fulfilment. Her independence is enjoyed by the community, but not by herself. All that she receives is deprivation.’

With bowed head, Anshu listened to his dispassionate but forceful words. Her resolve not to yield or be swayed was crumbling under the impact of his persuasive and apparently logical arguments, just as the sandy bank of a river crumbles under the force of a powerful current. She felt as though she was about to fall into the outstretched arms of Marish, ones that seemed to offer protection. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she made no attempt to wipe them for fear of revealing her feelings. And since her head was bowed, she did not know whether Marish was looking at her or at the clouds.

Suddenly, a light appeared in the veranda. Lamp in hand, Dagdha, the maidservant was coming towards them. ‘The mistress is waiting for the Arya and the Devi to come to dinner,’ she said. Anshu, who was losing her foothold in the powerful current, found something to hold onto.

Marish had, on numerous occasions, enjoyed the hospitality of Ratnaprabha’s palace, but had never stayed on for so long. Time would hang heavy on him if he had to remain silent and inactive, and he was not the type who could contemplate the shimmering leaves of the trees for any length of time. He now took to sculpting an image out of a piece of rock in the palace garden, under the bakul tree by the side of the ornamental pond. In the hot sun of the month of Bhadrapad, with perspiration streaming down his face, or in pouring rain, soaked to the skin, he was seen with mallet and chisel at the rock, trying to liberate from the mass of stone the image he had conceived in his mind.