Anshu sensed that Marish was waiting for her answer. She looked up, ‘You are right, Arya. But I am frightened. I do not want life’s fulfilment in exchange for the favour of shelter. I may have failed in life, but I have chosen freedom as a courtesan. Arya, that is still my decision.’ She covered her eyes with a corner of her stole.

Marish took a deep breath and waited for a few seconds to steady his voice. ‘I’ve obviously troubled you, lady, but I was hoping to offer you some happiness and perhaps to receive some in return. Now that I know your decision, I shall depart from Mathurapuri today. Pray, accept my good wishes.’

A year and half had elapsed since Marish had left Mathurapuri. Ratnaprabha would often think of him and talk about him. Anshu herself would never refer to his visit. Gradually a change came over her. She came out of her habitual gloom and began to take a more lively interest in her art.

That year, on the occasion of the Festival of Swings in Vrindavan, she presented an original fantasia of dance and music, and named it ‘Saraswati Mallika’ in homage to her guru. The fame and reputation of this superb artiste from Mathurapuri travelled to the farthest corners of the land.

The citizens of Mathurapuri were elated to find that their pride, the concert hall of Ratnaprabha, would continue to be the showpiece of their city, now that the most-prized blossom in the garden of Ratnaprabha’s troupe had opened fully, and its fragrance, in the form of her fame was being spread for all to enjoy. They had only heard of Mallika, who lived in faraway Sagal, as an exquisite exponent of art. Anshumala they could see with their own eyes, and for them it was difficult to imagine artistry more captivating than hers.

Anshumala’s leisure time, which used to be spent in solitary brooding and despondency, was now given to learning and mastering the different styles of dance and music. She made no effort to rid her mind of the memory of Marish. He stayed on in her mind, as did her great-grandfather, Prabuddha Sharma, Dhata and Chhaya; only he seemed a little closer. Sometimes she hoped that he would come again and see that she, at last, had found some source of satisfaction in her life.

One night, at the beginning of winter, Anshumala stepped out of the concert hall after her performance and went towards the bower of malati vines to rest her aching feet. The vines laden with tiny white flowers looked resplendent in the light of the moon. She was still there when a maidservant came to inform her that a foreigner of noble birth was waiting inside, requesting the privilege of meeting her.

It flashed across Anshu’s mind that it might be Marish, but the maidservants knew Marish well. In the empty hall, the caller was sitting alone near an oil lamp. Greeting the caller politely from the veranda, Anshu went up to him. She stopped short and caught her breath, but still managed to utter, ‘I hope you are well, Arya. I hope everyone at home, your relatives, the ladies of the house, are all well. When did you arrive?’