‘Devi, when an undeserving person becomes ambitious, he crosses all bounds of decency. There is hardly a walk of life in Madra today in which disorder and insolence are not rampant. Whose honour is safe today? What institution is without blemish today? Devi, the greedy eyes of a Sudra weighs even the sacrificial horse and the sacred cow in terms of the value of their hide. Can justice and the well-being of the people ever be safe in such hands?’

‘Art demands a well-ordered mind,’ Mallika said, trying to suppress her agitation. ‘But is there in Sagal anybody with a well-ordered mind? The high-caste gentry, the real connoisseurs of art, harassed and frightened, have withdrawn from society and are living in seclusion. Arya, in Sagal today it is the rule of jackals, and the lions, bewildered and confused, have withdrawn into their dens. The newly acquired wealth and power have gone to the heads of the low-born and they have all turned into debauchees. What appreciation can such as they have for the subtleties of art?

‘And those who are disgusted with such dissipation and regard indulgence as the root cause of all wickedness, are no better either. They tend to seek refuge in Nirvana, hoping that they will attain peace in detachment. They get solace only in the call of the tonsured monks who invite them to join the Buddhist fold. In times of such confusion and disorder, how can art flourish?’

Finding confirmation of his views in the words of Mallika, the Acharya maintained his solemn demeanour. ‘The well-being of society demands that this should be stopped. Devi, both the here and the hereafter are at stake. In Madra the offerings for religious sacrifice are being eaten up by the swine. The gods, enraged over this sinful behaviour, have cursed us. Devi, it has become imperative to rid Madra of this sinfulness.’

‘But, Acharya, what can men do if such is the will of the gods, if fate wills it so?’ Mallika replied in a disheartened voice. ‘You have seen the times when Goddess Saraswati was worshipped with such veneration in this temple of art. It was blessed by her. And now, when the goddess has turned her face away, how desolate and harsh it has become!’

‘The fire-tongued Brahmin is the representative of the divine on earth,’ the Acharya said sharply. ‘He represents the invincible might of the gods. The Kshatriya is his right arm. All goes awry if, instead of walking on his feet, a man is made to walk on his hands. With his legs and feet up in the air, the head and the arms have to bear the strain. It is the bounden duty of the people to install the Brahmin in the seat of power. Devi, I seek your cooperation for the establishment of a righteous order.’

‘You have only to command me, Arya,’ Mallika said humbly. The twin reflections of the oil lamp shone brightly in her eyes.

Gazing intently into her eyes, the Acharya asked, ‘Do you promise, Devi?’