Anshumala bowed her head and said with a polite smile, ‘For the feelings of regard and kind consideration, your humble servant will ever remain beholden. With your blessings, your humble servant is quite content with her present condition.’

Sagal

AFTER A SOJOURN OF SIX YEARS, FOUR MONTHS AND SIX DAYS IN foreign lands, Acharya Pravardhan’s son, Rudradhir, entered the city of Sagal through the eastern gate, on an evening forecast as auspicious by the astrologer. Rudradhir was dressed like an ordinary traveller and was seated on a tired but sturdy horse. He was followed on horseback by Mathura, his slave-attendant.

Rudradhir did not notice much change in the outward appearance of the city. Shops and markets hummed with early evening bustle and activity. Water had been sprinkled on the ground outside the shops to settle the dust. There seemed to be no lack of attractions for the evening’s round of pleasure. Flower sellers, with garlands and bouquets of fresh flowers, were calling out to attract the attention of passers-by. The air was heavy with the scents emanating from the perfume shops. Citizens, gaily dressed and decked with flowers, promenaded in the streets in search of entertainment. The rich, in chariots, palanquins or on horseback, were on their way to the evening’s entertainment to the garden by the lake or to the houses of dancing girls. Here and there, tonsured Buddhist monks were seen in their yellow robes.

Nobody paid any attention to the mounted traveller passing through the crowds, and Rudradhir was content for the moment to go on his way unrecognized.

Just as he was about to leave the main street and turn into the road leading to the Acharya’s palace, Rudradhir heard the sound of a trumpet. Through the crowded main street, an outrider in military uniform was approaching, blowing on a small silvery trumpet. The pedestrians stepped aside and made room for his passage. Behind him, on the shoulders of sixteen bearers, all dressed alike in colourful livery, came a huge palanquin, in which, under a canopy and fan, sat a woman gorgeously dressed, in a sparkling array of precious stones and jewels. She looked like a courtesan. Rudradhir had some trouble in recognizing her through her heavy make-up. On her right rode young Sakrid, son of Kartavir, the noble, while on her left was another youth on horseback, Mahendra by name, son of Okris, the Greek noble.

Rudradhir was baffled. This was surely not Devi Mallika, he thought. Even Ayurveda did not have the power to change an elderly woman into a young one. Who, then, was this new dancer who had graced Sagal and who was receiving so much acclaim from the people, even more than Devi Mallika had ever done?

The sound of loud applause fell on his ears. Rudradhir once again looked back. In the shops, on the balconies of the houses and along the pavement, cries of salutation went up: ‘Long live Mahadevi Seero! Long live Commander-in-Chief Prithusen!’

Rudradhir reined in his horse and stopped. It was Seero! He turned away in disgust. In all the thirty-odd years of his life in Sagal, he had never seen so ostentatious and so tasteless a display. When he had last been in Sagal, the canopy and the plumed fan had been privileges reserved for the exclusive use of the President of the Republic or the Laureate of Art, the Court Dancer, as a mark of honour. What could have happened to produce a change in this time-honoured custom? Had that son of a slave then become the President?