Dhata drew Mahadevi’s attention to Divya’s languid and depressed state of mind. Mahadevi felt angry. The girl was of marriageable age, she said, and yet neither the great-grandfather, nor any of the elders were paying any attention to this. She, however, as a remedy to Divya’s distraction assigned a number of tasks to keep her occupied, such as preparing different kinds of dishes in the kitchen, weaving special garlands for the guests, and making pictures and drawings. She also ordered Chhaya to work once again as Divya’s personal attendant and companion.

One day, Divya and Chhaya sat weaving garlands in an arbour in the inner garden of the palace. Before them lay a mixed heap of flowers. Chhaya’s fingers moved nimbly, but her eyes would often rest on Divya’s face. Divya sat on a low stool, her eyes downcast and her fingers hardly moving. Throwing the half-woven garland to Chhaya, Divya let out her suppressed vexation. ‘I can’t do this silly work,’ she said and covered her face with her stole.

For a few seconds Chhaya gazed at Divya’s face, and then said, ‘My lady, the other day I heard Mahadevi say to my mother: “Why don’t the elders pay any attention to Divya’s age? She is depressed because of her youthful desires, like the birds and beasts in season …”’

Divya lowered the stole from her face and said angrily, ‘What a shameless creature you are! Have you no modesty? Aunt Amita must have dismissed you from her service because of such brazenness.’

‘No, my lady,’ said Chhaya, looking boldly into Divya’s eyes, her fingers still working on the garland. ‘Do you know the fault for which mistress Amita dismissed me? That evening, her husband, Arya Vinay was in the room. He asked me to fetch the vessel of kadambini wine. When I brought it to him, he playfully pressed my bosom with his hand. I shrank back. At this, mistress Amita was offended and called me a deceitful hussy; that I was only a maidservant and yet pretended to be modest, like high-born ladies; that I was trying to entice her husband.’

‘Enough!’ Divya said in disgust, turning her face away. But Chhaya continued undaunted; she was the same age as Divya and had been her childhood friend. ‘Mahadevi has instructed Mother that in the evening when Acharya Pravardhan’s son Rudradhir comes, you should attend to him. Mistress Amita was telling Mahadevi that Arya Rudradhir is deeply attracted to Divya.’

‘Keep quiet, you chatterbox!’ exclaimed Divya. Frowning, she rose from the stool and went towards her room. It depressed her to hear such gossip about herself. To quieten her mental turmoil, she lay down on her bed and covered herself with a silken sheet, but Chhaya’s words kept ringing in her ears, ‘Mahadevi has instructed Mother that you should attend to Arya Rudradhir.’

Divya had often attended on young nobles—twice-born Brahmins and Greek youths. She had greeted Rudradhir too, several times. Arid now, guessing the purpose of these instructions, she grew annoyed. Rudradhir’s face and figure appeared before her mind’s eye—his luxuriant hair tied with a red cloth interwoven with gold thread, a red mark on his forehead in the midst of a white, sandalwood crescent, a part of his sacred thread peeping from under his shirt, and sword in hand as he tried to prevent Prithusen from putting a shoulder to Divya’s palanquin. As she lay deep in thought with her eyes closed, Divya’s mind was filled with a sense of fear and revulsion.