‘Eat, child, eat something,’ the old woman said, pressing Divya to eat, ‘you will feel better for it. The meat is very soft and tasty and the wine is of an excellent vintage. Feel at home, child; don’t be shy.’

The old woman had been conversing with the elderly man in low tones and in an unintelligible language. Suddenly her voice now grew loud and fretful. She got up in a huff and went grumbling towards the door. The elderly man also got up, and in an attempt to pacify her, took out a gold coin from the waistband of his dhoti and offered it to her.

The old woman pushed his hand away, and the coin rang loudly as it fell to the ground. The man picked up the coin and putting it into her hand again, accompanied her to the door, continuing to utter words of reassurance in the same incomprehensible language. He unlocked the door, and after the old woman stepped out, locked it again, and tucking the key into the waistband of his dhoti he went out through another door.

The boy sat against one of the pillars of the veranda, his arms wrapped round his dark legs, his chin resting on his knees, while continuing to gaze at the two women. Even though Divya was looking away she was acutely conscious of the locked door. She felt imprisoned and helpless.

‘Mistress!’ whispered Dhata into Divya’s ear, leaning close to her, ‘I don’t think we have fallen in with good people.’

‘Whatever it may be,’ Divya replied, heaving a deep sigh, and resting her head on Dhata’s shoulder, ‘there is no way out.’

The beaten earth of the courtyard was plastered with cowdung, and the walls were painted with whitewash tinged with bluestone. From the lamp in the veranda, a dim light fell on the courtyard and the lower part of the walls. The upper parts seemed to blend into the dark sky above. Since their eyes were accustomed to light, the sky looked all the more dark and through the mist, the stars flickered like water at the bottom of a well. Divya and Dhata sat silent for a long time. They had begun to regard themselves as helpless prisoners thrown into a dungeon.

In the troubled state of their minds, the long-familiar stars too began to look strange. For some time Divya gazed at the sky, then resting her chin on her knees, said to herself, ‘Where have I landed? What will become of me now? There was everything for me in the house of my great-grandfather. But there I was looked upon as a sinner who had disgraced the family. I am ready to work as a drudge, a slave, only if I am not regarded as a criminal, as a disgrace to the family. I am about to become a mother. I want to be a good mother.’

In her mind’s eye, Divya saw the palace of her great-grandfather. Moksha, Dhriti Sharma’s wife, had given birth to her first child there and the whole palace was ringing with celebrations; whereas she, for the same reason, was wandering from pillar to post in search of shelter to protect the child in her womb. She let out a deep sigh. Oh heartless Prithusen! The very pregnancy that should have been an occasion for joy and pride, had become a source of ignominy and irredeemable disgrace. She also saw the solemn authoritative face of Rudradhir, and of Marish, the caustic atheist. She remembered the words of praise which Marish had uttered, ‘Your art is only the blossoming of your power of attraction, which is the primeval force of creation in woman.’