‘Please hear me, citizens, men and women of the caste families and others. I would request Acharya Rudradhir, the highest legal authority on matters relating to religion and social conduct, to give his ruling on this subject.’

Everyone turned towards Acharya Rudradhir, the Chairman of the Council.

The Acharya remained silent.

Waiting for his words, the vast concourse of people also held a breathless silence. The swords, drawn from their scabbards, hung motionless in the air.

With his head bowed in deep thought, the Acharya said in a faint voice, ‘The laws of the caste religion are binding for all time; past, present and future.’

For a few moments, Divya stared at the Acharya, trying to grasp the meaning of his statement. Then, in a gesture of silent submission, she bowed her head and said, ‘So be it!’

She stepped down from the dais and began to walk out. People drew aside to make way for her, just as water parts before the prow of a boat. With her head erect, without looking to either side, she passed through the audience.

Homeless once again, Divya walked along the highways of Sagal in her costume of a celestial handmaiden. A large crowd, unable to restrain their curiosity, followed her at some distance. She did not turn round to see who was in the crowd. She walked on, like the swan queen leading a bevy of swans.

She went out of the city gate. The sun had set. The full moon of the month of Phalgun had risen above the horizon; its early, faint light mingled with the last vestiges of dusk. Divya looked at the road leading towards the eastern horizon. Heaving a tired sigh, she turned her eyes towards the inn, which stood outside the city gate. For a few moments, she stood undecided; then with firm steps, walked towards the inn.

Travellers arriving at the city gate after it had closed for the night usually spent the night at the inn. Likewise, those who desired to begin their journey before dawn would also come to the inn in the evening and spend the night there.

Divya went in. She crossed the courtyard, and stepping across the veranda, sat down in a dark, unlit room. The curious multitude followed her. Gradually, the courtyard began to fill, and to hum like a beehive. When they found no room in the courtyard, the crowd gathered in the doorway and along the boundary wall. Drawn by curiosity, outrage or sympathy, and eager for excitement, they were debating among themselves the future of the dethroned court dancer.

The guard in charge of the inn, vexed and fuming, kept shouting to the people to clear the path and the courtyard for the travellers, but no one paid any attention to him. It was no longer possible even to shut the inn gates.

A bhikshu drew near the crowd and called in a loud voice, ‘Citizens, permit me to go to the unhappy woman oppressed by society. Let me go to the dethroned court dancer. Pray, let me go to her. I have come to bestow on her some peace in her suffering.’ The bhikshu’s words were lost in the tumult.