Mallika asked the Acharya to stay for a while. A musical composition was being rehearsed. An aged singer, Mahul, was elaborating on the basic notes of a raga before the young pupils and a few casual listeners. Encouraged by the presence of the Acharya, the singer directed the full force of his voice towards him. ‘A … aa … m … aa … dir … aa … ma … madir.’ He seemed to be singing the one word over and over again.

Old Mahul’s neck was craned upward like that of a camel straining to bite at the leaves of a branch a little beyond his reach. The veins of his neck and temples had swollen from the strain of singing. Drops of perspiration had appeared on his forehead, his eyes were bloodshot and were shedding tears. He stretched the last note as long as he could. Then, filling his lungs again with air, he opened his toothless mouth, reddened with betel juice and fringed with white whiskers, and began to intone the same word a little higher in the octave.

Mahul’s once mellifluous voice had become tremulous with age and was jarring to the ear. But his eyes shone with the satisfaction of having done his best. His trembling fingers, gesticulating in the air, moved to emphasize the subtleties of his modulations. Mallika and one or two other connoisseurs nodded in appreciation. As for the Acharya, the fact that the end of the performance was nowhere in sight was an acute torture.

The old maestro kept at it for nearly an hour. Rudradhir did not know the subtleties of music and after having had to wait for so long, even his curiosity had subsided. After the prelude was over, Mallika and the other connoisseurs exclaimed enthusiastically, ‘Bravo! How wonderful! How delightful!’

Finding the maestro looking intently at him, Acharya Rudradhir also expressed his approbation, ‘Fine! Very fine! Very fine, indeed!’ Encouraged by the appreciation, old Mahul once again filled his old lungs with air, opened his mouth wide and began to sing.

The Acharya felt dismayed and regretted his gesture of courtesy. He was reminded of the grandeur of Devi Mallika’s assemblies in bygone days, when wealthy art lovers, men and women, not finding room to sit in the hall, would crowd the surrounding veranda, when in the midst of a large number of accomplished singers, Mallika would appear like the full moon in a sky full of stars, when the whole of Sagal used to resound with the tinkle of her dancers’ anklets, when it was not necessary to search for the subtle beauties of art, because they would by themselves overwhelm the mind with their effect. And now, Mallika’s assembly hall looked like a garden ravaged by frost and winter winds. In the singer Mahul, the choreographer Udumber, the old dancer Pritha and the musician Padma, there remained some link with the tradition, but the vibrant splendour and vitality of the past had vanished.

The assembly over, the Acharya sat down with Mallika in the veranda, ‘Devi, what has come over your assemblies which were once the glory of Sagal?’ he said ruefully.