Divya took Prithusen’s hand and placed it on her cheek. She said in a pleading voice, ‘Why don’t you go and speak to my great-grandfather, dear? He is as much worried about the dreadful consequences of the war as you are. He saw with his own eyes the devastation of Madra at the hands of King Milinda and he took a vow that he would rather die than live to see that holocaust again. He can do a lot. Neither the Commander-in-Chief nor the Acharya can afford to disregard his opinion.’

Gazing deeply into Divya’s eyes in the darkness, Prithusen said, ‘Dearest, even now, if I am given a chance, I can block the way of the barbarian, Kendras. I am sure I can. But what can I do if I have no support?’

Divya took Prithusen’s hand in hers and insisted, ‘You must go and meet great-grandfather. You must. Just go once and you’ll see. I’ll speak to him myself. I must go now, my love, it’s getting late … the attendant is waiting.’

Paying little attention to the groom waiting for him at the main gate of Mallika’s palace, Prithusen set off on foot towards his own house. He left the main street and took to the weavers’ lane. The lane was almost deserted. But for a glimmer of light here and there it was dark on all sides. The lane, paved with flagstones, rang with hoofbeats as the groom led the horse behind his master. Prithusen walked on, lost in thought.

From the narrow weavers’ lane he came to the comparatively broader blacksmiths’ lane. It was late at night and most of the shops were closed. The lane was almost deserted. Dim lights could be seen, however, in a few shops from which came a strong reek of cheap liquor. Here and there meat and other foodstuffs were being roasted. At one place there was more light and the sound of many voices. Hearing the clop of horses’ hoofs, the knot of people turned towards Prithusen. As their eyes fell on his clothes, they became confused and a hush fell on them. Being the centre of attention, Prithusen came to himself with a start. He realized that here too people were talking about war.

Prithusen moved on, and after a little while removed his turban and gave it to the groom, telling him to return home, taking the horse with him. He then covered himself with his uttariya and went on alone. Only a close look at his jewelled earrings, swinging under his curly hair, revealed that he belonged to the upper class.

At the end of the blacksmiths’ lane he came to the prostitutes’ square. Light fell from the terraces of the houses of the prostitutes on the group of people standing below. Some boys and girls went about selling garlands and flowers, shouting loudly that the garlands were just the thing for lovers and amorous men. One boy, in a shrill, loud voice, was inviting bystanders to taste soft roasted meat. An old woman stood in front of a wine shop, holding onto a drunkard’s shirt and demanding money. A large number of people gathered around, laughing at her.